curved over his back and munch his food. They come to dinner, 7 p.
m., on the front porch (not invited). They all have the one
name--Blennerhasset, from Burr's friend--and none of them answers to it
except when hungry.

We have been here since June 21st. For a little while we had some warm
days--according to the family's estimate; I was hardly discommoded
myself. Otherwise the weather has been of the sort you are familiar with
in these regions: cool days and cool nights. We have heard of the hot
wave every Wednesday, per the weekly paper--we allow no dailies to
intrude. Last week through visitors also--the only ones we have had--Dr.
Root and John Howells.

We have the daily lake-swim; and all the tribe, servants included (but
not I) do a good deal of boating; sometimes with the guide, sometimes
without him--Jean and Clara are competent with the oars. If we live
another year, I hope we shall spend its summer in this house.

We have taken the Appleton country seat, overlooking the Hudson, at
Riverdale, 25 minutes from the Grand Central Station, for a year,
beginning Oct. 1, with option for another year. We are obliged to be
close to New York for a year or two.

Aug. 3rd. I go yachting a fortnight up north in a 20-knot boat 225 feet
long, with the owner, (Mr. Rogers), Tom Reid, Dr. Rice, Col. A. G. Paine
and one or two others. Judge Howland would go, but can't get away
from engagements; Professor Sloane would go, but is in the grip of an
illness. Come--will you go? If you can manage it, drop a post-card to
me c/o H.H. Rogers, 26 Broadway. I shall be in New York a couple of days
before we sail--July 31 or Aug. 1, perhaps the latter,--and I think I
shall stop at the Hotel Grosvenor, cor. 10th St and 5th ave.

We all send you and the Harmonies lots and gobs of love.

MARK

*****

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

AMPERSAND, N. Y., Aug. 28.

DEAR JOE,--Just a word, to scoff at you, with your extravagant
suggestion that I read the biography of Phillips Brooks--the very
dullest book that has been printed for a century. Joe, ten pages of
Mrs. Cheney's masterly biography of her fathers--no, five pages of
it--contain more meat, more sense, more literature, more brilliancy,
than that whole basketful of drowsy rubbish put together. Why, in that
dead atmosphere even Brooks himself is dull--he wearied me; oh how h