Life has come to be a very serious matter with me.  I have a badgered, harassed feeling, a good part of my time.  It comes mainly of business responsibilities and annoyances, and the persecution of kindly letters from well meaning strangers—­to whom I must be rudely silent or else put in the biggest half of my time bothering over answers.  There are other things also that help to consume my time and defeat my projects.  Well, the consequence is, I cannot write a book at home.  This cuts my income down.  Therefore, I have about made up my mind to take my tribe and fly to some little corner of Europe and budge no more until I shall have completed one of the half dozen books that lie begun, up stairs.  Please say nothing about this at present.

We propose to sail the 11th of April.  I shall go to Fredonia to meet you, but it will not be well for Livy to make that trip I am afraid.  However, we shall see.  I will hope she can go.

Mr. Twichell has just come in, so I must go to him.  We are all well, and
send love to you all. 
                              Affly,
                                        Sam.

He was writing few letters at this time, and doing but little work.  There were always many social events during the winter, and what with his European plans and a diligent study of the German language, which the entire family undertook, his days and evenings were full enough.  Howells wrote protesting against the European travel and berating him for his silence: 

“I never was in Berlin and don’t know any family hotel there.  I should be glad I didn’t, if it would keep you from going.  You deserve to put up at the Sign of the Savage in Vienna.  Really, it’s a great blow to me to hear of that prospected sojourn.  It’s a shame.  I must see you, somehow, before you go.  I’m in dreadfully low spirits about it.

     “I was afraid your silence meant something wicked.”

     Clemens replied promptly, urging a visit to Hartford, adding a
     postscript for Mrs. Howells, characteristic enough to warrant
     preservation.

P. S. to Mrs. Howells, in Boston: 

Feb. ’78.  Dear Mrs. Howells.  Mrs. Clemens wrote you a letter, and handed it to me half an hour ago, while I was folding mine to Mr. Howells.  I laid that letter on this table before me while I added the paragraph about R,’s application.  Since then I have been hunting and swearing, and swearing and hunting, but I can’t find a sign of that letter.  It is the most astonishing disappearance I ever heard of.  Mrs. Clemens has gone off driving—­so I will have to try and give you an idea of her communication from memory.  Mainly it consisted of an urgent desire that you come to see us next week, if you can possibly manage it, for that will be a reposeful time, the turmoil of breaking up beginning the week after.  She wants you to tell her about Italy, and advise