March 8 Wednesday – Orion Clemens wrote from Hartford to Sam.

My Dear Brother:– / Your very welcome letter contains a great deal of pleasant information.

1. That Livy will soon be well enough to move.

And 2. That we may look for you as a resident of our city. Bliss says he will furnish the information about taxes. I will see him when he comes in and get the figures unless he is going to write you the information himself. He says if you will only write we will take care of your furniture and it shan’t cost you anything. He knows an upper story, new and free of bugs, that can be rented cheap. Besides, we will hunt up any information you want, and do anything else you want done, if you will only write. He is in earnest. He is decidedly worked up about it. He says, put yourself in our place. A new enterprise, in which “Twain” was to be a feature, and so widely advertised. He receives congratulations in New York at the Lotus Club that you and Hay are to write for the paper. Everybody likes it. It starts out booming. Are you going to kick the pail over? Think of yourself as writing for no periodical except the Publisher. “Have you seen Twain’s last?” says one. “It’s in the Publisher.” He goes and buys it because there is no other chance to get it. It gives us prestige. Look how it helps me. I should be an editor with something to edit. This “Publisher” may as well be built up into something large as not. With a great circulation, giving only once a month a taste of “Twain,” to whet people’s appetites for books, it acts as an advertisement, and we have an incentive to “write up” “Twain,” so far as his own efforts leave us anything in that way to do. Under these circumstances, with your pen withdrawn from the Galaxy, and held aloof from small books, and confined to the larger and more elevated description worthy of your mettle, and writing only for us, who publish a paper as a branch of your publisher’s enterprise, you would not be writing too much nor too little, but just exactly enough. Squarely, we must have something from you or we run the risk of going to the dickens. Bliss says he will pay you, but we must have something every number. If you only give us a half column, or even a quarter of a column—a joke or an anecdote, or anything you please—but give us something, so that the people may not brand us as falsifiers, and say we cried “Twain,” “Twain,” when we had no “Twain.” If you don’t feel like writing anything, copy something from your book. Are you going to let the Galaxy have a chapter and give us nothing? If you don’t feel like taking the trouble of copying from the book say we may select something. We shall have time enough if you send some chapters in four or five days, as you proposed. If you prefer it I will hunt out something from my old file of Californians and send it to you to revamp. That paper never had much circulation east.

….

Do not understand that we fail or slacken in sympathy for you. We appreciate the sad fact that you have been sorely tried by an affliction which brought with it the shadow of a gigantic and irreperable sorrow, brought it close enough to chill you to the marrow; we do appreciate your exhaustion, your prostration, and the fearful strain it would be to you to attempt now to write for us. I could not have found it in my heart to insist now on the imposition of the least labor upon you if it had not been for the very serious moment the matter is to us—and even then we only insist so far as to request the privilege of copying a little from your book, or using other compositions without present labor to you.

Bliss wants me to say (he read the preceding except the paragraph in relation to Mollie’s proposition) that he was so much troubled about the prospect of not getting you into our next two numbers that he may have forgotten to express the earnest sympathy he feels for you, and wishes me to convey the expression of it to you. He says he laid awake till 2 o’clock last night thinking of your com[m]unications for the paper, and of the amount of work he had before him between now and the first of April. He says he wrote you about the taxes—that they are 1½ per cent.

Mollie and I go to-night to a children’s party at Blisss—75 invited, and to-morrow at 6 to tea with a fine lady on Elm Street—Mrs. Sargent. She means to have Hodge and his wife also. Hodge is pastor of our church (Presbyterian) and has had us at his house twice to dinner on Sunday—as we have a long walk. Hodge’s wife has translated some Swiss tracts, which have been published by the Dutch Reformed Church. She has a sister married to Colgate of soap celebrity, and the great telegraph inventor, Morse, is her uncle. She says her Uncle Sidney (five years younger than the telegraph inventor is an enthusiastic inventor, but very quiet, says little, and slowly perfects his inventions. For one he has been offered a hundred thousand dollars by the United States. He refused. He has another under way (though I suppose this is confidential) a new motive power designed to cross the Atlantic in 24 hours. Singular coincidence that it should be so near in the line of what I am trying to do—he working at the engine and I at the wheel—and that without my giving her any more of a hint than that I was merely trying to invent something, she should say that her brother was such a lover of inventions, if she should tell him there was an inventor here wanted his advice it would be her best chance to get him here. My love to Livy and the baby, / Your Bro., / Orion [MTPO]. Note: Sam took umbrage at the ideas he should only publish in Bliss’s new newspaper. See his reply Mar. 11. He wrote on env., “Still urging MSS.”

Elisha Bliss also wrote to Sam, letter not extant but referred to in Bliss’ Mar. 15.