who had charge of the Chinese educational mission in Hartford, and
how Mark Twain, with Twichell, called on General Grant in behalf of
the mission. Yung Wing, now returned to China, had conceived the
idea of making an appeal to the Government of the United States for
relief of his starving countrymen.

*****

To J. H. Twichell, in Hartford:

AMPERSAND, N. Y., July 28, '01.

DEAR JOE,--As you say, it is impracticable--in my case, certainly. For
me to assist in an appeal to that Congress of land-thieves and liars
would be to bring derision upon it; and for me to assist in an appeal
for cash to pass through the hands of those missionaries out there,
of any denomination, Catholic or Protestant, wouldn't do at all. They
wouldn't handle money which I had soiled, and I wouldn't trust them
with it, anyway. They would devote it to the relief of suffering--I
know that--but the sufferers selected would be converts. The
missionary-utterances exhibit no humane feeling toward the others, but
in place of it a spirit of hate and hostility. And it is natural;
the Bible forbids their presence there, their trade is unlawful, why
shouldn't their characters be of necessity in harmony with--but never
mind, let it go, it irritates me.

Later.... I have been reading Yung Wing's letter again. It may be that
he is over-wrought by his sympathies, but it may not be so. There may
be other reasons why the missionaries are silent about the Shensi-2-year
famine and cannibalism. It may be that there are so few Protestant
converts there that the missionaries are able to take care of them.
That they are not likely to largely concern themselves about Catholic
converts and the others, is quite natural, I think.

That crude way of appealing to this Government for help in a cause which
has no money in it, and no politics, rises before me again in all its
admirable innocence! Doesn't Yung Wing know us yet? However, he has
been absent since '96 or '97. We have gone to hell since then. Kossuth
couldn't raise 30 cents in Congress, now, if he were back with his
moving Magyar-Tale.

I am on the front porch (lower one--main deck) of our little bijou of a
dwelling-house. The lake-edge (Lower Saranac) is so nearly under me
that I can't see the shore, but only the water, small-pored with
rain-splashes--for there is a heavy down-pour. It is charmingly like
sitting snuggled up on a ship's deck wit