nk it must always lack the
home feeling."

Neither was their landlady, the American wife of an Italian
count, all that could be desired. From a letter to
Twichell, however, we learn that Mark Twain's work was
progressing well.

*****

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

VILLA DI QUARTO,
FLORENCE, Jan. 7, '04.

DEAR JOE,--... I have had a handsome success, in one way, here. I left
New York under a sort of half promise to furnish to the Harper magazines
30,000 words this year. Magazining is difficult work because every third
page represents 2 pages that you have put in the fire; (because you
are nearly sure to start wrong twice) and so when you have finished
an article and are willing to let it go to print it represents only 10
cents a word instead of 30.

But this time I had the curious (and unprecedented) luck to start right
in each case. I turned out 37,000 words in 25 working days; and the
reason I think I started right every time is, that not only have I
approved and accepted the several articles, but the court of last resort
(Livy) has done the same.

On many of the between-days I did some work, but only of an idle and not
necessarily necessary sort, since it will not see print until I am
dead. I shall continue this (an hour per day) but the rest of the year
I expect to put in on a couple of long books (half-completed ones.) No
more magazine-work hanging over my head.

This secluded and silent solitude this clean, soft air and this
enchanting view of Florence, the great valley and the snow-mountains
that frame it are the right conditions for work. They are a persistent
inspiration. To-day is very lovely; when the afternoon arrives there
will be a new picture every hour till dark, and each of them divine--or
progressing from divine to diviner and divinest. On this (second) floor
Clara's room commands the finest; she keeps a window ten feet high wide
open all the time and frames it in. I go in from time to time, every day
and trade sass for a look. The central detail is a distant and stately
snow-hump that rises above and behind blackforested hills, and its
sloping vast buttresses, velvety and sun-polished with purple shadows
between, make the sort of picture we knew that time we walked in
Switzerland in the days of our youth.

I wish I could show your letter to Livy--but she must