s harassed me ever since, and I have not had one short
quarter of an hour of peace to this moment.

You spoke of Middletown. Why not go there and live? Mr. Crane says it is
only about a hundred miles this side of New York on the Erie road. The
fact that one or two of you might prefer to live somewhere else is not
a valid objection--there are no 4 people who would all choose the same
place--so it will be vain to wait for the day when your tastes shall be
a unit. I seriously fear that our visit has damaged you in Fredonia, and
so I wish you were out of it.

The baby is fat and strong, and Susie the same. Susie was charmed with
the donkey and the doll.

Ys affectionately
SAML.

P. S.--DEAR MA AND PAMELA--I am mainly grieved because I have been rude
to a man who has been kind to you--and if you ever feel a desire
to apologize to him for me, you may be sure that I will endorse the
apology, no matter how strong it may be. I went to his bank to apologize
to him, but my conviction was strong that he was not man enough to know
how to take an apology and so I did not make it.

William Dean Howells was in those days writing those vividly
realistic, indeed photographic stories which fixed his place among
American men of letters. He had already written 'Their Wedding
Journey' and 'A Chance Acquaintance' when 'A Foregone Conclusion'
appeared. For the reason that his own work was so different, and
perhaps because of his fondness for the author, Clemens always
greatly admired the books of Howells. Howells's exact observation
and his gift for human detail seemed marvelous to Mark Twain, who
with a bigger brush was inclined to record the larger rather than
the minute aspects of life. The sincerity of his appreciation of
Howells, however, need not be questioned, nor, for that matter, his
detestation of Scott.

*****

To W. D. Howells, in Boston:

ELMIRA, Aug. 22, 1874.

DEAR HOWELLS,--I have just finished reading the 'Foregone Conclusion' to
Mrs. Clemens and we think you have even outdone yourself. I should think
that this must be the daintiest, truest, most admirable workmanship
that was ever put on a story. The creatures of God do not act out their
natures more unerringly than yours do. If your genuine stories can die,
I wonder by what right old Walter