14 W. 10th Jan. 29, ’01.  Dear Joe,—­I’m not expecting anything but kicks for scoffing, and am expecting a diminution of my bread and butter by it, but if Livy will let me I will have my say.  This nation is like all the others that have been spewed upon the earth—­ready to shout for any cause that will tickle its vanity or fill its pocket.  What a hell of a heaven it will be, when they get all these hypocrites assembled there!

I can’t understand it!  You are a public guide and teacher, Joe, and are under a heavy responsibility to men, young and old; if you teach your people—­as you teach me—­to hide their opinions when they believe the flag is being abused and dishonored, lest the utterance do them and a publisher a damage, how do you answer for it to your conscience?  You are sorry for me; in the fair way of give and take, I am willing to be a little sorry for you.

However, I seem to be going counter to my own Private Philosophy—­which Livy won’t allow me to publish—­because it would destroy me.  But I hope to see it in print before I die.  I planned it 15 years ago, and wrote it in ’98.  I’ve often tried to read it to Livy, but she won’t have it; it makes her melancholy.  The truth always has that effect on people.  Would have, anyway, if they ever got hold of a rag of it—­Which they don’t.

You are supposing that I am supposing that I am moved by a Large Patriotism, and that I am distressed because our President has blundered up to his neck in the Philippine mess; and that I am grieved because this great big ignorant nation, which doesn’t know even the A B C facts of the Philippine episode, is in disgrace before the sarcastic world—­drop that idea!  I care nothing for the rest—­I am only distressed and troubled because I am befouled by these things.  That is all.  When I search myself away down deep, I find this out.  Whatever a man feels or thinks or does, there is never any but one reason for it—­and that is a selfish one.

At great inconvenience, and expense of precious time I went to the chief synagogue the other night and talked in the interest of a charity school of poor Jew girls.  I know—­to the finest, shades—­the selfish ends that moved me; but no one else suspects.  I could give you the details if I had time.  You would perceive how true they are.

I’ve written another article; you better hurry down and help Livy squelch it.

She’s out pottering around somewhere, poor housekeeping slave; and Clara
is in the hands of the osteopath, getting the bronchitis pulled and
hauled out of her.  It was a bad attack, and a little disquieting.  It
came day before yesterday, and she hasn’t sat up till this afternoon. 
She is getting along satisfactorily, now. 
                    Lots of love to you all. 
          
                                   Mark