By this time you have got your bearings.  You realize that perhaps there is a little blame on both sides.  You are in the right frame, now.  So you write a letter void of offense, declining.  You mail this one; you pigeon-hole the other.

That is, being old and experienced, you do, but early in your career, you don’t:  you mail the first one.

II

An enthusiast who had a new system of musical notation, wrote to me and suggested that a magazine article from me, contrasting the absurdities of the old system with the simplicities of his new one, would be sure to make a “rousing hit.”  He shouted and shouted over the marvels wrought by his system, and quoted the handsome compliments which had been paid it by famous musical people; but he forgot to tell me what his notation was like, or what its simplicities consisted in.  So I could not have written the article if I had wanted to—­which I didn’t; because I hate strangers with axes to grind.  I wrote him a courteous note explaining how busy I was—­I always explain how busy I am—­and casually drooped this remark: 

“I judge the X-X notation to be a rational mode of representing music, in place of the prevailing fashion, which was the invention of an idiot.”

Next mail he asked permission to print that meaningless remark.  I answered, no—­courteously, but still, no; explaining that I could not afford to be placed in the attitude of trying to influence people with a mere worthless guess.  What a scorcher I got, next mail!  Such irony! such sarcasm, such caustic praise of my superhonorable loyalty to the public!  And withal, such compassion for my stupidity, too, in not being able to understand my own language.  I cannot remember the words of this letter broadside, but there was about a page used up in turning this idea round and round and exposing it in different lights.

Unmailed Answer: 

Dear sir,—­What is the trouble with you?  If it is your viscera, you cannot have them taken out and reorganized a moment too soon.  I mean, if they are inside.  But if you are composed of them, that is another matter.  Is it your brain?  But it could not be your brain.  Possibly it is your skull:  you want to look out for that.  Some people, when they get an idea, it pries the structure apart.  Your system of notation has got in there, and couldn’t find room, without a doubt that is what the trouble is.  Your skull was not made to put ideas in, it was made to throw potatoes at. 
                         Yours Truly.

Mailed Answer: 

Dear sir,—­Come, come—­take a walk; you disturb the children. 
                         Yours Truly.

There was a day, now happily nearly over, when certain newspapers made a practice of inviting men distinguished in any walk of life to give their time and effort without charge to express themselves on some subject of the day, or perhaps they were asked to send their favorite passages in prose or verse, with the reasons why.  Such symposiums were “features” that cost the newspapers only the writing of a number of letters, stationery, and postage.  To one such invitation Mark Twain wrote two replies.  They follow herewith: