November 13 Saturday — In Redding, Conn. Sam wrote to Elizabeth Wallace.
Dear Betsy— / No, I haven’t read it, but you make me want to read it—hungry to read it, in fact. I am all ready for it. Meantime, I’ve been writing “Letters from the Earth,” & if you will come here & see us I will —— what? Put this MS in your hands, with the places to s'kip marked? No, I won’t trust you quite that far, an I. C. in good standing though you be. I'll read passages 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 prostitutes & Christians like, but which can’t properly be read aloud, except from the pulpit & 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 & hell & sunset & rainbows & the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, & you couldn’t look at it & keep the tears back. All the hosannahing strong gorgeousnesses have gone back to heaven & hell & the pole, now, but no matter; if you could look out at my bedroom window at this moment, you would choke up; & when you got your voice you would say This is not real, this is a dream. Such a singing together, & such a whispering together, & such a snuggling together of cosy soft colors, & such kissing & caressing, & such pretty blushing when the sun breaks out & catches those dainty weeds at it—you remember that weed-garden of mine?—& 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 & 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, & so 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 & the maid, & the boy, & the roustabout 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 / ... [MTP].
Sam’s new guestbook:
| Name | Address | Date | Remarks |
| Major Leigh | New York | Nov. 13-14 |