This strong interest is natural, for the heroine is my daughter, Susy, whom we lost.It was not intentional--it was a good while before I found it out.
So I am sending you her picture to use--and to reproduce with photographic exactness the unsurpassable expression and all.May you find an artist who has lost an idol!
Take as good care of the picture as you can and restore it to me when Icome.
I hope you will illustrate this tale considerably.Not humorous pictures.No.When they are good (or bad) one's humor gets no chance to play surprises on the reader.A humorous subject illustrated seriously is all right, but a humorous artist is no fit person for such work.You see, the humorous writer pretends to absolute seriousness (when he knows his trade) then for an artist--to step in and give his calculated gravity all away with a funny picture--oh, my land! It gives me the dry gripes just to think of it.It would be just about up to the average comic artist's intellectual level to make a funny picture of the horse kicking the lungs out of a trader.Hang it, the remark is funny--because the horse is not aware of it but the fact is not humorous, it is tragic and it is no subject for a humorous picture.
Could I be allowed to sit in judgment upon the pictures before they are accepted--at least those in which Cathy may figure?
This is not essential.It is but a suggestion, and it is hereby withdrawn, if it would be troublesome or cause delay.
I hope you will reproduce the cat-pile, full page.And save the photo for me in as good condition as possible.When Susy and Clara were little tots those cats had their profoundest worship, and there is no duplicate of this picture.These cats all had thundering names, or inappropriate ones--furnished by the children with my help.One was named Buffalo Bill.
Are you interested in coincidences?
After discovering, about the middle of the book, that Cathy was Susy Clemens, I put her picture with my MS., to be reproduced.After the book was finished it was discovered that Susy had a dim model of Soldier Boy in her arms; I had forgotten all about that toy.
Then I examined the cat-picture and laid it with the MS.for introduction; but it was not until yesterday that I remembered that one of the cats was named Buffalo Bill.
Sincerely yours, MARK.
The reference in this letter to shrinkage of his hand-writing with the increasing intensity of his interest, and the consequent addition of the number of words to the page, recalls another fact, noted by Mr.Duneka, viz.: that because of his terse Anglo-Saxon diction, Mark Twain could put more words on a magazine page than any other writer.It is hardly necessary to add that he got more force into what he put on the page for the same reason.
There was always a run of reporters at Mark Twain's New York home.
His opinion was sought for on every matter of public interest, and whatever happened to him in particular was considered good for at least half a column of copy, with his name as a catch-line at the top.When it was learned that he was to spend the summer in New Hampshire, the reporters had all wanted to find out about it.Now that the summer was ending, they began to want to know how he had liked it, what work he had done and what were his plans for another year.As they frequently applied to his publishers for these details it was finally suggested to him that he write a letter furnishing the required information.His reply, handed to Mr.
Duneka, who was visiting him at the moment, is full of interest.
Mem.for Mr.Duneka:
DUBLIN, Oct.9, 1905.
.....As to the other matters, here are the details.
Yes, I have tried a number of summer homes, here and in Europe together.
Each of these homes had charms of its own; charms and delights of its own, and some of them--even in Europe had comforts.Several of them had conveniences, too.They all had a "view."It is my conviction that there should always be some water in a view--a lake or a river, but not the ocean, if you are down on its level.Ithink that when you are down on its level it seldom inflames you with an ecstasy which you could not get out of a sand-flat.It is like being on board ship, over again; indeed it is worse than that, for there's three months of it.On board ship one tires of the aspects in a couple of days, and quits looking.The same vast circle of heaving humps is spread around you all the time, with you in the centre of it and never gaining an inch on the horizon, so far as you can see; for variety, a flight of flying-fish, mornings; a flock of porpoises throwing summersaults afternoons; a remote whale spouting, Sundays; occasional phosphorescent effects, nights; every other day a streak of black smoke trailing along under the horizon; on the one single red letter day, the illustrious iceberg.I have seen that iceberg thirty-four times in thirty-seven voyages; it is always the same shape, it is always the same size, it always throws up the same old flash when the sun strikes it; you may set it on any New York door-step of a June morning and light it up with a mirror-flash; and I will engage to recognize it.It is artificial, and it is provided and anchored out by the steamer companies.I used to like the sea, but I was young then, and could easily get excited over any kind of monotony, and keep it up till the monotonies ran out, if it was a fortnight.
Last January, when we were beginning to inquire about a home for this summer, I remembered that Abbott Thayer had said, three years before, that the New Hampshire highlands was a good place.He was right--it was a good place.Any place that is good for an artist in paint is good for an artist in morals and ink.Brush is here, too; so is Col.T.W.
