09.

DEAR BETSY,--I've been writing "Letters from the Earth," and if you will
come here and see us I will--what? Put the MS in your hands, with the
places to skip marked? No. I won't trust you quite that far. I'll read
messages to you. This book will never be published--in fact it couldn't
be, because it would be felony to soil the mails with it, for it has
much Holy Scripture in it of the kind that... can't properly be read
aloud, except from the pulpit and in family worship. Paine enjoys it,
but Paine is going to be damned one of these days, I suppose.

The autumn splendors passed you by? What a pity. I wish you had been
here. It was beyond words! It was heaven and hell and sunset and
rainbows and the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, and you
couldn't look at it and keep the tears back. All the hosannahing strong
gorgeousnesses have gone back to heaven and hell and the pole, now, but
no matter; if you could look out of my bedroom window at this moment,
you would choke up; and when you got your voice you would say: This
is not real, this is a dream. Such a singing together, and such a
whispering together, and such a snuggling together of cosy soft colors,
and such kissing and caressing, and such pretty blushing when the sun
breaks out and catches those dainty weeds at it--you remember that
weed-garden of mine?--and then--then the far hills sleeping in a dim
blue trance--oh, hearing about it is nothing, you should be here to see
it.

Good! I wish I could go on the platform and read. And I could, if it
could be kept out of the papers. There's a charity-school of 400 young
girls in Boston that I would give my ears to talk to, if I had some
more; but--oh, well, I can't go, and it's no use to grieve about it.

This morning Jean went to town; also Paine; also the butler; also
Katy; also the laundress. The cook and the maid, and the boy and
the roustabout and Jean's coachman are left--just enough to make it
lonesome, because they are around yet never visible. However, the
Harpers are sending Leigh up to play billiards; therefore I shall
survive.

Affectionately,
S. L. CLEMENS.

Early in June that year, Clemens had developed unmistakable symptoms
of heart trouble of a very serious nature. It was angina pectoris,
and while to all appearances he was as well as ever and usually felt
so, he was periodically visited by severe