Kaltenleutgeben, near Vienna,
June 17, ’98. 
Dear Joe,—­You are living your war-days over again in Dave, and it must be a strong pleasure, mixed with a sauce of apprehension—­enough to make it just schmeck, as the Germans say.  Dave will come out with two or three stars on his shoulder-straps if the war holds, and then we shall all be glad it happened.

We started with Bull Run, before.  Dewey and Hobson have introduced an improvement on the game this time.

I have never enjoyed a war-even in written history—­as I am enjoying this one.  For this is the worthiest one that was ever fought, so far as my knowledge goes.  It is a worthy thing to fight for one’s freedom; it is another sight finer to fight for another man’s.  And I think this is the first time it has been done.

Oh, never mind Charley Warner, he would interrupt the raising of Lazarus.  He would say, the will has been probated, the property distributed, it will be a world of trouble to settle the rows—­better leave well enough alone; don’t ever disturb anything, where it’s going to break the soft smooth flow of things and wobble our tranquillity.

Company! (Sh! it happens every day—­and we came out here to be quiet.)

Love to you all. 
                         Mark.

They were spending the summer at Kaltenleutgeben, a pleasant village near Vienna, but apparently not entirely quiet.  Many friends came out from Vienna, including a number of visiting Americans.  Clemens, however, appears to have had considerable time for writing, as we gather from the next to Howells.

To W. D. Howells, in America: 

Kaltenleutgeben, BEI Wien,
Aug. 16, ’98. 
Dear Howells,—­Your letter came yesterday.  It then occurred to me that I might have known (per mental telegraph) that it was due; for a couple of weeks ago when the Weekly came containing that handsome reference to me I was powerfully moved to write you; and my letter went on writing itself while I was at work at my other literature during the day.  But next day my other literature was still urgent—­and so on and so on; so my letter didn’t get put into ink at all.  But I see now, that you were writing, about that time, therefore a part of my stir could have come across the Atlantic per mental telegraph.  In 1876 or ’75 I wrote 40,000 words of a story called “Simon Wheeler” wherein the nub was the preventing of an execution through testimony furnished by mental telegraph from the other side of the globe.  I had a lot of people scattered about the globe who carried in their pockets something like the old mesmerizer-button, made of different metals, and when they wanted to call up each other and have a talk, they “pressed the button” or did something, I don’t remember what, and communication was at once opened.  I didn’t finish the story, though I re-began it in several new ways, and spent altogether 70,000 words on it, then gave it up and threw it aside.