The autumn splendors passed you by?  What a pity!  I wish you had been here.  It was beyond words!  It was heaven & hell & sunset & rainbows & the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, & you couldn’t look at it and keep the tears back.

Such a singing together, & such a whispering together, & such a snuggling together of cozy, soft colors, & such kissing & caressing, & such pretty blushing when the sun breaks out & catches those dainty weeds at it—­you remember that weed-garden of mine?—­& then —­then the far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance—­oh, hearing about it is nothing, you should be here to see it!

In the 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.