London, July 3, ’99 dear Howells,--..... I’ve a lot of things to write you, but it’s no use —I can’t get time for anything these days. I must break off and write a postscript to Canon Wilberforce before I go to bed. This afternoon he left a luncheon-party half an hour ahead of the rest, and carried off my hat (which has Mark Twain in a big hand written in it.) When the rest of us came out there was but one hat that would go on my head—it fitted exactly, too. So wore it away. It had no name in it, but the Canon was the only man who was absent. I wrote him a note at 8 p.m.; saying that for four hours I had not been able to take anything that did not belong to me, nor stretch a fact beyond the frontiers of truth, and my family were getting alarmed. Could he explain my trouble? And now at 8.30 p.m. comes a note from him to say that all the afternoon he has been exhibiting a wonder-compelling mental vivacity and grace of expression, etc., etc., and have I missed a hat? Our letters have crossed. Yours ever mark.
News came of the death
of Robert Ingersoll. Clemens had been always
one of his most ardent
admirers, and a warm personal friend. To
Ingersoll’s niece
he sent a word of heartfelt sympathy.
To Miss Eva Farrell, in New York:
30
Wellington court, Albert gate.
Dear miss Farrell,—Except
my daughter’s, I have not grieved for any death
as I have grieved for his. His was a great and
beautiful spirit, he was a man—all man
from his crown to his foot soles. My reverence
for him was deep and genuine; I prized his affection
for me and returned it with usury.
Sincerely
Yours,
S.
L. Clemens.
Clemens and family decided to spend the summer in Sweden, at Sauna, in order to avail themselves of osteopathic treatment as practised by Heinrick Kellgren. Kellgren’s method, known as the “Swedish movements,” seemed to Mark Twain a wonderful cure for all ailments, and he heralded the discovery far and wide. He wrote to friends far and near advising them to try Kellgren for anything they might happen to have. Whatever its beginning, any letter was likely to close with some mention of the new panacea.
To Rev. J. H. Twichell, traveling in Europe:
Sanna, Sept. 6, ’99. Dear Joe,—I’ve no business in here—I ought to be outside. I shall never see another sunset to begin with it this side of heaven. Venice? land, what a poor interest that is! This is the place to be. I have seen about 60 sunsets here; and a good 40 of them were clear and away beyond anything I had ever imagined before for dainty and exquisite and marvellous beauty and infinite change and variety. America? Italy? The tropics? They have no notion of what a sunset ought to be. And this one—this unspeakable wonder! It discounts all the rest. It brings the tears, it is so unutterably beautiful.