Jean (the youngest daughter) went to Dublin and saw the house and came back charmed with it.  I know the Thayers of old—­manifestly there is no lack of attractions up there.  Mrs. Thayer and I were shipmates in a wild excursion perilously near 40 years ago.

You say you “send with this” the story.  Then it should be here but it isn’t, when I send a thing with another thing, the other thing goes but the thing doesn’t, I find it later—­still on the premises.  Will you look it up now and send it?

Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over the fields,
with the fragrance still upon his spirit.  I am tired of waiting for that
man to get old. 
                         Sincerely yours,
                                             S. L. C.

Mark Twain was in his seventieth year, old neither in mind nor body, but willing to take life more quietly, to refrain from travel and gay events.  A sort of pioneers’ reunion was to be held on the Pacific Coast, and a letter from Robert Fulton, of Reno, Nevada, invited Clemens to attend.  He did not go, but he sent a letter that we may believe was the next best thing to those who heard it read.

To Robert Fulton, in Reno, Nevada: 

         &nb
sp;                                        Inthe mountains,
                                                       May 24, 1905. 
Dear Mr. Fulton,—­I remember, as if it were yesterday, that when I disembarked from the overland stage in front of the Ormsby in Carson City in August, 1861, I was not expecting to be asked to come again.  I was tired, discouraged, white with alkali dust, and did not know anybody; and if you had said then, “Cheer up, desolate stranger, don’t be down-hearted—­pass on, and come again in 1905,” you cannot think how grateful I would have been and how gladly I would have closed the contract.  Although I was not expecting to be invited, I was watching out for it, and was hurt and disappointed when you started to ask me and changed it to, “How soon are you going away?”

But you have made it all right, now, the wound is closed.  And so I thank you sincerely for the invitation; and with you, all Reno, and if I were a few years younger I would accept it, and promptly.  I would go.  I would let somebody else do the oration, but, as for me, I would talk —­just talk.  I would renew my youth; and talk—­and talk—­and talk —­and have the time of my life!  I would march the unforgotten and unforgettable antiques by, and name their names, and give them reverent Hailand-farewell as they passed:  Goodman, McCarthy, Gillis, Curry, Baldwin, Winters, Howard, Nye, Stewart; Neely Johnson, Hal Clayton, North, Root,—­and my brother, upon whom be peace!—­and then the desperadoes, who made life a joy and the “Slaughter-house” a precious possession:  Sam Brown, Farmer Pete, Bill Mayfield, Six-fingered Jake, Jack Williams and the rest of the crimson discipleship—­and so on and so on.  Believe me, I would start a resurrection it would do you more good to look at than the next one will, if you go on the way you are doing now.