Maybe I managed to make myself misunderstood, as to the Osteopathists.  I wanted to know how the men impress you.  As to their Art, I know fairly well about that, and should not value Hartford’s opinion of it; nor a physician’s; nor that of another who proposed to enlighten me out of his ignorance.  Opinions based upon theory, superstition and ignorance are not very precious.

Livy and the others are off for the country for a day or two. 
               Love to you all
                                   mark.

The next letter affords a pleasant variation.  Without doubt it was written on realizing that good nature and enthusiasm had led him into indiscretion.  This was always happening to him, and letters like this are not infrequent, though generally less entertaining.

To Mr. Ann, in London: 

Wellingtoncourt, Feb. 23, ’00.  Dear Mr. Ann,—­Upon sober second thought, it won’t do!—­I withdraw that letter.  Not because I said anything in it which is not true, for I didn’t; but because when I allow my name to be used in forwarding a stock-scheme I am assuming a certain degree of responsibility as toward the investor, and I am not willing to do that.  I have another objection, a purely selfish one:  trading upon my name, whether the enterprise scored a success or a failure would damage me.  I can’t afford that; even the Archbishop of Canterbury couldn’t afford it, and he has more character to spare than I have. (Ah, a happy thought!  If he would sign the letter with me that would change the whole complexion of the thing, of course.  I do not know him, yet I would sign any commercial scheme that he would sign.  As he does not know me, it follows that he would sign anything that I would sign.  This is unassailable logic—­but really that is all that can be said for it.)

No, I withdraw the letter.  This virgin is pure up to date, and is going
to remain so. 
                         Ys sincerely,
                                        S. L. C.

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: 

Wellingtoncourt,
Knightsbridge, Mch. 4, ’00. 
Dear Joe,—­Henry Robinson’s death is a sharp wound to me, and it goes very deep.  I had a strong affection for him, and I think he had for me.  Every Friday, three-fourths of the year for 16 years he was of the billiard-party in our house.  When we come home, how shall we have billiard-nights again—­with no Ned Bunce and no Henry Robinson?  I believe I could not endure that.  We must find another use for that room.  Susy is gone, George is gone, Libby Hamersley, Ned Bunce, Henry Robinson.  The friends are passing, one by one; our house, where such warm blood and such dear blood flowed so freely, is become a cemetery.  But not in any repellent sense.  Our dead are welcome there; their life made it beautiful, their death has hallowed it, we shall have them with us always, and there will be no parting.