June 18 Sunday – In Dublin, N.H. Sam wrote to daughter Clara in Norfolk, Conn. It’s raining, dearheart, been raining several hours. The horse is at the door, so I judge Jean is going out driving. Patrick is standing by, superintending. It’s good to look at him—he’s just a dear! Shoves back his cap & scratches his head, just as he used to do ages ago—his way of acknowledging the presence of his superiors.

Those are very cunning portraits in “Life.” It is hard to say which is best, Petrarch, Dante, Emerson or Shakespeare. I’m not quoted, dear—beyond the mute portrait—only the departed supremacies speak there. but didn’t catch her at home.

Cheney Larned is a neighbor of ours. We drove over, yesterday, but didn’t catch her at home.

Ben dear, I don’t like that bronchial weakness; you must get rid of it. Mine is permanent, you mustn’t let yours get so.

I’m appointing you & Jean to arrange & publish my “Letters” some day—I don’t want it done by any outsider. Miss Lyon can do the work, & do it well. There’s plenty Letters here & there & yonder to select from; Twichell has 250, Howells used to have a bushel, Mr. Rogers has some, & so on. Miss Lyon can do the actual work, & take a tenth of the royalty resulting.

I’m reading Suetonius again, oh, good land! This country is not Rome-in-the-days-of-the-early Caesars, but—there are resemblances. And they are increasing. In a hundred years there’ll be a king roosting here. His grandfather is among us now; I’d like to know his name. I already know the monarchy’s ancestor, the same being the Republican Party; after which comes the Labor Party, & after it the Monarchy.

Good-bye you dear ashcat, & love & kisses from / Father [MTP].

Isabel Lyon’s journal: Splendid heat, but rheumatism for me. Teresa rubbed the skin off my back. Mr. Clemens is reading the revision to us as we sit on the piazza. It is so very delightful. This afternoon Mr. Clemens went with Jean to call on Mrs. Learned, but she wasn’t at home.

This is mother’s birthday, 67, and she doesn’t look it, she doesn’t feel it, she doesn’t act it. She said 68, but she’s 67, born in 1838.

This afternoon, late, we had music. I wasn’t feeling very well, but the music was a benediction [MTP TS 66].