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.