have been so wrapped up in it and so dead to anything else, that I

have fallen mighty short in letter-writing. But night before last I

discovered that that day's chapter was a failure, in conception, moral

truth to nature, and execution--enough blemish to impair the excellence

of almost any chapter--and so I must burn up the day's work and do it

all over again. It was plain that I had worked myself out, pumped myself

dry. So I knocked off, and went to playing billiards for a change. I

haven't had an idea or a fancy for two days, now--an excellent time to

write to friends who have plenty of ideas and fancies of their own, and

so will prefer the offerings of the heart before those of the head. Day

after to-morrow I go to a neighboring city to see a five-act-drama of

mine brought out, and suggest amendments in it, and would about as soon

spend a night in the Spanish Inquisition as sit there and be tortured

with all the adverse criticisms I can contrive to imagine the audience

is indulging in. But whether the play be successful or not, I hope I

shall never feel obliged to see it performed a second time. My interest

in my work dies a sudden and violent death when the work is done.

I have invented and patented a pretty good sort of scrap-book (I

think) but I have backed down from letting it be known as mine just

at present--for I can't stand being under discussion on a play and a

scrap-book at the same time!

I shall be away two days, and then return to take our tribe to New York,

where we shall remain five days buying furniture for the new house, and

then go to Hartford and settle solidly down for the winter. After all

312

The Letters Of Mark Twain, Complete