On June thirtieth Charles Francis Adams sent me a copy of 457 his oration about Cromwell’s having a statue in the New England Colonies. He deserved it. If England had not so urgently needed him, he would have accompanied his friend, Long John Wentworth, to Massachusetts. If Mr. Adams had only told the New Englanders, that Cromwell was the best ball player in England, and that Wentworth was the only man who could match him, they would doubtless have taken the statue into serious consideration.
At the end of August I finished “A Song of a Single Note” and Mary and Kirk fortunately came from Florida, to pay me a visit. My days of remembrance, the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth of September, I spent reading Professor James’s “Varieties of Religious Experience,” a wonderful, wonderful book, which none who read thoughtfully can ever forget. I have read it through many times; it always makes a good time for me, spiritually.
On October, the twenty-sixth, Mr. Hearst gave me fifty dollars for permission to copy my article on “Divorce” from the North American Review into his paper; and on the sixth of December I went to the Marlborough House in Atlantic City. Alice and I spent Christmas alone; she was very sweet and reflective, and talked to me long of the Christmases gone forever. “So fair! So sad!” I said; and she answered with a smile, “They are with God.”
On February fifteenth, I was again settled at Cherry Croft, and began “The Black Shilling,” but on the twenty-sixth I tore up all I had written, and began it over again. On the twenty-ninth of March, my seventy-third year of travail through this life, I write gratefully, “I have good health, a good home, good daughters, good servants, many friends, and one hundred three pages of ‘The Black Shilling’ written to my satisfaction. Lilly was here, and Alice is quite well, and Rutger remembered my birthday and sent me one hundred thirty dollars royalty.” I finished “The Black Shilling” on the twenty-ninth of July; and my eyes were so tired, I went into a darkened room for three weeks, and on the thirtieth of October I went to New York in order to be under the care of Dr. Hunter, a fine oculist, and no alarmist. He told me there was not the slightest evidence of 458 any disease, they only wanted rest; and the relief his verdict gave me was unspeakable, and in itself curative.
From the fourteenth to the nineteenth of December I went to Princeton to stay with the Libbeys. I had sent out no cards this winter, and I saw no one but Dr. and Mrs. Klopsch, and Rutger Jewett. On the whole 1903 was a hard year, and my eyes were so troublesome that I only wrote “The Black Shilling,” and a few little articles for the daily press.
“Jan. 1st, 1904. When I opened my Bible this morning my eyes fell upon this cheering verse, ‘Having obtained help of God, I continue unto this day.’ (Acts, 26:22.)” Three days afterwards I went back to Cornwall, and on the sixteenth I had a visit from Mr. Platt of the Smart Set, about writing for him. He was an English gentleman of a fine type, but I am sure he understood at once, that I could not write for a set I knew nothing about. Nevertheless I enjoyed his visit. I read all January for “The Belle of Bowling Green,” which I began on February, the eighth, and finished on June, the twenty-seventh. All August, I was writing for Mr. Rideing and Dr. Klopsch; but on September, the eighteenth, I began “Cecilia’s Lovers,” which I finished on February eighth, 1905.
All April, May and June I was writing articles for the Globe on social subjects, such as slang, bored husbands, colossal fortunes, et cetera. On November fifteenth, I had an invitation to a dinner given to Mark Twain on his seventieth birthday. I did not go to the dinner, but I sent Mr. Clemens the wish that Dr. Stone wrote to me on my seventieth birthday. “The days of our life are three score years and ten, and if by reason of strength it be four score years, yet is it labor and sorrow. May you have the labor without the sorrow.”
On November, the twenty-fourth, I made a contract with Mr. Lovell to write him a novel for five thousand dollars. I wrote him one called “The Man Between,” and it was finished and paid for on March thirty-first, 1906. In April of 1906, I began “The Heart of Jessy Laurie,” which was sold to Mr. Dodd on September the seventeenth. In November I began a book that is a great favorite, and whose writing gave me constant pleasure, “The Strawberry Handkerchief.”
I began 1907 in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and on the fifteenth had finished the first chapter of “The Strawberry Handkerchief,” but on the thirtieth I took pneumonia, and was very near to death. With God’s blessing on the skill of Dr. Charles Nammack, and Lilly’s faithful care, my life was saved. Her husband gave me an equally loving service. Every afternoon he came to the hotel, read and answered my letters, and sat with Alice, while Lilly had a long, sound sleep. Then he went for medicines, and if likely to be needed, remained all night. My own son could have done no more for me, nor done it any more lovingly.