r, upon whom be peace!--and then the
desperadoes, who made life a joy and the "Slaughter-house" a precious
possession: Sam Brown, Farmer Pete, Bill Mayfield, Six-fingered Jake,
Jack Williams and the rest of the crimson discipleship--and so on and so
on. Believe me, I would start a resurrection it would do you more good
to look at than the next one will, if you go on the way you are doing
now.

Those were the days! those old ones. They will come no more. Youth will
come no more. They were so full to the brim with the wine of life; there
have been no others like them. It chokes me up to think of them. Would
you like me to come out there and cry? It would not beseem my white
head.

Good-bye. I drink to you all. Have a good time--and take an old man's
blessing.

MARK TWAIN.

A few days later he was writing to H. H. Bancroft, of San Francisco,
who had invited him for a visit in event of his coming to the Coast.
Henry James had just been there for a week and it was hoped that
Howells would soon follow.

*****

To H. H. Bancroft, in San Francisco:

UP IN NEW HAMPSHIRE,
May 27, 1905.

DEAR MR. BANCROFT,--I thank you sincerely for the tempting hospitalities
which you offer me, but I have to deny myself, for my wandering days are
over, and it is my desire and purpose to sit by the fire the rest of
my remnant of life and indulge myself with the pleasure and repose of
work--work uninterrupted and unmarred by duties or excursions.

A man who like me, is going to strike 70 on the 30th of next November
has no business to be flitting around the way Howells does--that
shameless old fictitious butter fly. (But if he comes, don't tell him
I said it, for it would hurt him and I wouldn't brush a flake of powder
from his wing for anything. I only say it in envy of his indestructible
youth, anyway. Howells will be 88 in October.) With thanks again,

Sincerely yours,
S. L. C.

Clemens found that the air of the New Hampshire hills agreed with
him and stimulated him to work. He began an entirely new version of
The Mysterious Stranger, of which he already had a bulky and nearly
finished manuscript, written in Vienna. He wrote several hundred
pages of an extravaganza entitled, Three Thous