e same letter he refers to some work that he was writing for his
own satisfaction--'Letters from the Earth'; said letters supposed
to have been written by an immortal visitant and addressed to other
immortals in some remote sphere.

I'll read passages to you. This book will never be published
--in fact it couldn't be, because it would be felony... Paine
enjoys it, but Paine is going to be damned one of these days, I
suppose.

I very well remember his writing those 'Letters from the Earth'. He
read them to me from time to time as he wrote them, and they were fairly
overflowing with humor and philosophy and satire concerning the
human race. The immortal visitor pointed out, one after another, the
absurdities of mankind, his ridiculous conception of heaven, and
his special conceit in believing that he was the Creator's pet--the
particular form of life for which all the universe was created. Clemens
allowed his exuberant fancy free rein, being under no restrictions as
to the possibility of print or public offense. He enjoyed them himself,
too, as he read them aloud, and we laughed ourselves weak over his bold
imaginings.

One admissible extract will carry something of the flavor of these
chapters. It is where the celestial correspondent describes man's
religion.

His heaven is like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing,
grotesque. I give you my word it has not a single feature in it
that he actually values. It consists--utterly and entirely--of
diversions which he cares next to nothing about here in the earth,
yet he is quite sure he will like in heaven. Isn't it curious?
Isn't it interesting? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it
is not so. I will give you the details.

Most, men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay
where others are singing if it be continued more than two hours.
Note that.

Only about two men in a hundred can play upon a musical instrument,
and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how. Set that
down.

Many men pray, not many of them like to do it. A few pray long, the
others make a short-cut.

More men go to church than want to.

To forty-nine men in fifty the Sabbath day is a dreary, dreary bore.

Further, all sane people detest noise.

All people, sane or insane, like to have variety in their lives.
Monotony quickly wearies them.

Now then, you hav