't enough of him in the piece. That's a triumph--there'll never be
any more of him in it.

John Brougham said, "Read the list of things which the critics have
condemned in the piece, and you have unassailable proofs that the play
contains all the requirements of success and a long life."

That is true. Nearly every time the audience roared I knew it was over
something that would be condemned in the morning (justly, too) but
must be left in--for low comedies are written for the drawing-room, the
kitchen and the stable, and if you cut out the kitchen and the stable
the drawing-room can't support the play by itself.

There was as much money in the house the first two nights as in the
first ten of Sellers. Haven't heard from the third--I came away.

Yrs ever,
MARK.

In a former letter we have seen how Mark Twain, working on a story
that was to stand as an example of his best work, and become one of
his surest claims to immortality (The Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn), displayed little enthusiasm in his undertaking. In the
following letter, which relates the conclusion of his detective
comedy, we find him at the other extreme, on very tiptoe with
enthusiasm over something wholly without literary value or dramatic
possibility. One of the hall-marks of genius is the inability to
discriminate as to the value of its output. "Simon Wheeler, Amateur
Detective" was a dreary, absurd, impossible performance, as wild and
unconvincing in incident and dialogue as anything out of an asylum
could well be. The title which he first chose for it, "Balaam's
Ass," was properly in keeping with the general scheme. Yet Mark
Twain, still warm with the creative fever, had the fullest faith in
it as a work of art and a winner of fortune. It would never see the
light of production, of course. We shall see presently that the
distinguished playwright, Dion Boucicault, good-naturedly
complimented it as being better than "Ahi Sin." One must wonder
what that skilled artist really thought, and how he could do even
this violence to his conscience.

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

ELMIRA, Wednesday P.M. (1877)

MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It's finished. I was misled by hurried mis-paging.
There were ten pages of notes, a