Twains Letters vol 5 1901-1906 | Page 7

Catholic or
Protestant, wouldn't do at all. They wouldn't handle money which I had
soiled, and I wouldn't trust them with it, anyway. They would devote it
to the relief of suffering--I know that-- but the sufferers selected would
be converts. The missionary-utterances exhibit no humane feeling
toward the others, but in place of it a spirit of hate and hostility. And it

is natural; the Bible forbids their presence there, their trade is unlawful,
why shouldn't their characters be of necessity in harmony with--but
never mind, let it go, it irritates me.
Later.... I have been reading Yung Wing's letter again. It may be that he
is over-wrought by his sympathies, but it may not be so. There may be
other reasons why the missionaries are silent about the Shensi-2-year
famine and cannibalism. It may be that there are so few Protestant
converts there that the missionaries are able to take care of them. That
they are not likely to largely concern themselves about Catholic
converts and the others, is quite natural, I think.
That crude way of appealing to this Government for help in a cause
which has no money in it, and no politics, rises before me again in all
its admirable innocence! Doesn't Yung Wing know us yet? However,
he has been absent since '96 or '97. We have gone to hell since then.
Kossuth couldn't raise 30 cents in Congress, now, if he were back with
his moving Magyar-Tale.
I am on the front porch (lower one--main deck) of our little bijou of a
dwelling-house. The lake-edge (Lower Saranac) is so nearly under me
that I can't see the shore, but only the water, small-pored with rain-
splashes--for there is a heavy down-pour. It is charmingly like sitting
snuggled up on a ship's deck with the stretching sea all around--but
very much more satisfactory, for at sea a rain-storm is depressing,
while here of course the effect engendered is just a deep sense of
comfort and contentment. The heavy forest shuts us solidly in on three
sides there are no neighbors. There are beautiful little tan-colored
impudent squirrels about. They take tea, 5 p. m., (not invited) at the
table in the woods where Jean does my typewriting, and one of them
has been brave enough to sit upon Jean's knee with his tail 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. l0th 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