October 15 Sunday – In Dublin, N.H. Sam wrote to daughter Clara at 21 Fifth Ave., N.Y.
Dublin, Sunday,9.30 & 10.30 a.m.
In my bedroom, dear heart, in my bedroom, & drunk again with the autumn foliage. The fact is, I am drunk with it all the time; it began weeks ago, & I have never drawn a sober breath since. The colors that wash the Wide sweep are infinitely tender & subdued & delicate, now. Down the slope of Monadnock there’s a rippled & ruffled landslide of hellfire toned down for Sunday consumption, the aforetime flames all there but the fierce anger all gone—softened down to mottled yellows, every ruffle smitten through with a jet of sunlight, the whole avalanche daintily luminous, exquisitely luminous. The people are lamenting; they say the forest has faded; but it is a mistake to think damage has happened: Nature, that old harlot, has put off her orgy-finery till she falls again next year, that is all; she is as well dressed as ever she was. I called Miss Lyon up stairs to look—the view is not so extensive down stairs. I am going to drive over to the Upton place this afternoon to look closely into the aspects there & see what we are to expect next autumn. You will be right in the musical atmosphere, now— submerged in it, beatified with it, & I am very glad. You will see Mr. Henschel. He must come & see us.
Dear heart, I think there is a framed poem hanging in what is to be my bedroom; it is MS— Oliver Wendell Holmes’s hand; he sent it to me or to your mother when I was 50. If you find it, telephone Mr. Duneka to send up & copy it if he wants to; I think it has never been in print.
I go to Boston next Saturday, 21st , to remain 12 or 14 days, & talk several times to invited gangs—once to women, several times to men—no gate-money permitted, & no newspaper-mention.
There’s to be a birthday-dinner in New York, & I sent down word to invite Quintard, but it can’t be, & I am sorry. Guests all specialists, but not medical. Unless this idea shall be abandoned. This is private to you.
Good-bye, dear, dear, most dear little ashcat. / Father / I have signed the Upton-house lease [MTP]. Note: Sir George Henschel (Isidor Georg Henschel; 1850-1934), composer, conductor, pianist; Dr. Edward Quintard. Peter and Sarah Miller (Duncan) Upton; the Upton house was “two-or three miles” from where Sam had been staying [Oct. 9 to Duneka].
Isabel Lyon’s journal: A little while ago Mr. Clemens rapped on the floor for me and I went up to find him in his dressing gown at the window full of the wonders of the great western view. Bit by bit he described it, appreciated it with his inimitable powers and spoke of the “big land slide of hell fire on Monadnock—toned down for Sunday” for a soft mist is beautifying things today. When I said that the coloring was too strong for me 2 weeks ago, and made me feel as Victor Gillon felt about the autumn colors of the Adirondacks, that it was a case of “Dame Nature over-dressed”, Mr. Clemens said it wasn’t ever too strong for him, he “likes to see the old harlot blaze out in her gaudiest”.
Mr. Pearmain is up stairs now, and its 10:45 a.m. Such a glorious day [MTP TS 107]. Note: Sumner Bass Pearmain; Victor Gillon is not further identified.
Sam dined with Mr. and Mrs. Abbott Thayer and enjoyed pumpkin pie, which gave him indigestion the following day [IVL Journal Oct. 16].
Mary Thacher Higginson (Mrs. Thomas Wentworth Higginson) wrote from Cambridge, Mass. to invite Sam to their home and spend a night after his talk to the Author’s Club at Mrs. J.H. Wright’s in Quincy. “Mrs. Pearmain consents, but we agreed that if you thought it would be easier and more comfortable to return to your quarters at her house on Beacon St., we should understand…” [MTP].
Dublin, Sunday,9.30 & 10.30 a.m.
In my bedroom, dear heart, in my bedroom, & drunk again with the autumn foliage. The fact is, I am drunk with it all the time; it began weeks ago, & I have never drawn a sober breath since. The colors that wash the Wide sweep are infinitely tender & subdued & delicate, now. Down the slope of Monadnock there’s a rippled & ruffled landslide of hellfire toned down for Sunday consumption, the aforetime flames all there but the fierce anger all gone—softened down to mottled yellows, every ruffle smitten through with a jet of sunlight, the whole avalanche daintily luminous, exquisitely luminous. The people are lamenting; they say the forest has faded; but it is a mistake to think damage has happened: Nature, that old harlot, has put off her orgy-finery till she falls again next year, that is all; she is as well dressed as ever she was. I called Miss Lyon up stairs to look—the view is not so extensive down stairs. I am going to drive over to the Upton place this afternoon to look closely into the aspects there & see what we are to expect next autumn. You will be right in the musical atmosphere, now— submerged in it, beatified with it, & I am very glad. You will see Mr. Henschel. He must come & see us.
Dear heart, I think there is a framed poem hanging in what is to be my bedroom; it is MS— Oliver Wendell Holmes’s hand; he sent it to me or to your mother when I was 50. If you find it, telephone Mr. Duneka to send up & copy it if he wants to; I think it has never been in print.
I go to Boston next Saturday, 21st , to remain 12 or 14 days, & talk several times to invited gangs—once to women, several times to men—no gate-money permitted, & no newspaper-mention.
There’s to be a birthday-dinner in New York, & I sent down word to invite Quintard, but it can’t be, & I am sorry. Guests all specialists, but not medical. Unless this idea shall be abandoned. This is private to you.
Good-bye, dear, dear, most dear little ashcat. / Father / I have signed the Upton-house lease [MTP]. Note: Sir George Henschel (Isidor Georg Henschel; 1850-1934), composer, conductor, pianist; Dr. Edward Quintard. Peter and Sarah Miller (Duncan) Upton; the Upton house was “two-or three miles” from where Sam had been staying [Oct. 9 to Duneka].
Isabel Lyon’s journal: A little while ago Mr. Clemens rapped on the floor for me and I went up to find him in his dressing gown at the window full of the wonders of the great western view. Bit by bit he described it, appreciated it with his inimitable powers and spoke of the “big land slide of hell fire on Monadnock—toned down for Sunday” for a soft mist is beautifying things today. When I said that the coloring was too strong for me 2 weeks ago, and made me feel as Victor Gillon felt about the autumn colors of the Adirondacks, that it was a case of “Dame Nature over-dressed”, Mr. Clemens said it wasn’t ever too strong for him, he “likes to see the old harlot blaze out in her gaudiest”.
Mr. Pearmain is up stairs now, and its 10:45 a.m. Such a glorious day [MTP TS 107]. Note: Sumner Bass Pearmain; Victor Gillon is not further identified.
Sam dined with Mr. and Mrs. Abbott Thayer and enjoyed pumpkin pie, which gave him indigestion the following day [IVL Journal Oct. 16].
Mary Thacher Higginson (Mrs. Thomas Wentworth Higginson) wrote from Cambridge, Mass. to invite Sam to their home and spend a night after his talk to the Author’s Club at Mrs. J.H. Wright’s in Quincy. “Mrs. Pearmain consents, but we agreed that if you thought it would be easier and more comfortable to return to your quarters at her house on Beacon St., we should understand…” [MTP].
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