unreadable--like Jane Austin's. No, there is a difference. I could read
his prose on salary, but not Jane's. Jane is entirely impossible. It
seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death.

Another thing: you grant that God and circumstances sinned against Poe,
but you also grant that he sinned against himself--a thing which he
couldn't do and didn't do.

It is lively up here now. I wish you could come.
Yrs ever,
MARK


To W. D. Howells, in New York:

STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT,
3 in the morning, Apl. 17, '09.
[Written with pencil].
My pen has gone dry and the ink is out of reach. Howells, Did you write
me day-before-day before yesterday, or did I dream it? In my mind's eye
I most vividly see your hand-write on a square blue envelop in the
mailpile. I have hunted the house over, but there is no such letter.
Was it an illusion?

I am reading Lowell's letter, and smoking. I woke an hour ago and am
reading to keep from wasting the time. On page 305, vol. I. I have
just margined a note:

"Young friend! I like that! You ought to see him now."