“From the house you can see little but spacious stretches of hay-fields and green turf.....  Yet the massed, brick blocks of London are reachable in three minutes on a horse.  By rail we can be in the heart of London, in Baker Street, in seventeen minutes—­by a smart train in five.”

Mail, however, would seem to have been less prompt.

To the Editor of the Times, in London: 

Sir,—­It has often been claimed that the London postal service was swifter than that of New York, and I have always believed that the claim was justified.  But a doubt has lately sprung up in my mind.  I live eight miles from Printing House Square; the Times leaves that point at 4 o’clock in the morning, by mail, and reaches me at 5 in the afternoon, thus making the trip in thirteen hours.

It is my conviction that in New York we should do it in eleven.

C.
Dollis hill, N. W.

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: 

Dollishill house, Kilburn, N. W.
London, Aug. 12, ’00. 
Dear Joe,—­The Sages Prof.  Fiske and Brander Matthews were out here to tea a week ago and it was a breath of American air to see them.  We furnished them a bright day and comfortable weather—­and they used it all up, in their extravagant American way.  Since then we have sat by coal fires, evenings.

We shall sail for home sometime in October, but shall winter in New York where we can have an osteopath of good repute to continue the work of putting this family in proper condition.

Livy and I dined with the Chief Justice a month ago and he was as well-conditioned as an athlete.

It is all China, now, and my sympathies are with the Chinese.  They have been villainously dealt with by the sceptred thieves of Europe, and I hope they will drive all the foreigners out and keep them out for good.  I only wish it; of course I don’t really expect it.

Why, hang it, it occurs to me that by the time we reach New York you
Twichells will be invading Europe and once more we shall miss the
connection.  This is thoroughly exasperating.  Aren’t we ever going to
meet again? 
                    With no end of love from all of us,
          
                              mark.

P. S. Aug. 18. 
Dear Joe,—­It is 7.30 a. m.  I have been waking very early, lately.  If
it occurs once more, it will be habit; then I will submit and adopt it.

This is our day of mourning.  It is four years since Susy died; it is five years and a month that I saw her alive for the last time-throwing kisses at us from the railway platform when we started West around the world.

Sometimes it is a century; sometimes it was yesterday. 
                    With love
                                   mark.