21 Fifth Avenue, Monday, Nov., 1906.  Dear Mrs. Rogers,—­The billiard table is better than the doctors.  It is driving out the heartburn in a most promising way.  I have a billiardist on the premises, and I walk not less than ten miles every day with the cue in my hand.  And the walking is not the whole of the exercise, nor the most health-giving part of it, I think.  Through the multitude of the positions and attitudes it brings into play every muscle in the body and exercises them all.

The games begin right after luncheon, daily, and continue until midnight, with 2 hours’ intermission for dinner and music.  And so it is 9 hours’ exercise per day, and 10 or 12 on Sunday.  Yesterday and last night it was 12—­and I slept until 8 this morning without waking.  The billiard table, as a Sabbath breaker can beat any coal-breaker in Pennsylvania, and give it 30 in, the game.  If Mr. Rogers will take to daily billiards he can do without doctors and the massageur, I think.

We are really going to build a house on my farm, an hour and a half from
New York.  It is decided.  It is to be built by contract, and is to come
within $25,000. 
                    With love and many thanks. 
                                             S. L. C.

P.S.  Clara is in the sanitarium—­till January 28 when her western concert tour will begin.  She is getting to be a mighty competent singer.  You must know Clara better; she is one of the very finest and completest and most satisfactory characters I have ever met.  Others knew it before, but I have always been busy with other matters.

The “billiardist on the premises” was the writer of these notes, who, earlier in the year, had become his biographer, and, in the course of time, his daily companion and friend.  The farm mentioned was one which he had bought at Redding, Connecticut, where, later, he built the house known as “Stormfield.”

Henry Mills Alden, for nearly forty years editor of Harper’s Magazine, arrived at his seventieth birthday on November 11th that year, and Harper & Brothers had arranged to give him a great dinner in the offices of Franklin Square, where, for half a century, he had been an active force.  Mark Twain, threatened with a cold, and knowing the dinner would be strenuous, did not feel able to attend, so wrote a letter which, if found suitable, could be read at the gathering.

To Mr. Henry Alden: 

Alden,—­dear and ancient friend—­it is a solemn moment.  You have now reached the age of discretion.  You have been a long time arriving.  Many years ago you docked me on an article because the subject was too old; later, you docked me on an article because the subject was too new; later still, you docked me on an article because the subject was betwixt and between.  Once, when I wrote a Letter to Queen Victoria, you did not put it in the respectable part of the Magazine, but interred it in that potter’s field, the Editor’s Drawer.  As a result, she never answered it.  How often we recall, with regret, that Napoleon once shot at a magazine editor and missed him and killed a publisher.  But we remember, with charity, that his intentions were good.