The “George” of this letter was Mark Twain’s colored butler, a valued and even beloved member of the household—­a most picturesque character, who “one day came to wash windows,” as Clemens used to say, “and remained eighteen years.”  The fiction of Mrs. Clemens’s severity he always found amusing, because of its entire contrast with the reality of her gentle heart.

Clemens carried the Tom Sawyer Ms. to Boston himself and placed it in Howells’s hands.  Howells had begged to be allowed to see the story, and Mrs. Clemens was especially anxious that he should do so.  She had doubts as to certain portions of it, and had the fullest faith in Howells’s opinion.

It was a gratifying one when it came.  Howells wrote:  “I finished reading Tom Sawyer a week ago, sitting up till one A.M. to get to the end, simply because it was impossible to leave off.  It’s altogether the best boy’s story I ever read.  It will be an immense success.  But I think you ought to treat it explicitly as a boy’s story.  Grown-ups will enjoy it just as much if you do; and if you should put it forth as a study of boy character from the grown-up point of view, you give the wrong key to it....  The adventures are enchanting.  I wish I had been on that island.  The treasure-hunting, the loss in the cave—­it’s all exciting and splendid.  I shouldn’t think of publishing this story serially.  Give me a hint when it’s to be out, and I’ll start the sheep to jumping in the right places”—­meaning that he would have an advance review ready for publication in the Atlantic, which was a leader of criticism in America.

Mark Twain was writing a great deal at this time.  Howells was always urging him to send something to the Atlantic, declaring a willingness to have his name appear every month in their pages, and Clemens was generally contributing some story or sketch.  The “proof” referred to in the next letter was of one of these articles.

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Hartford, Nov. 23, ’75.  My dear Howells,—­Herewith is the proof.  In spite of myself, how awkwardly I do jumble words together; and how often I do use three words where one would answer—­a thing I am always trying to guard against.  I shall become as slovenly a writer as Charles Francis Adams, if I don’t look out. (That is said in jest; because of course I do not seriously fear getting so bad as that.  I never shall drop so far toward his and Bret Harte’s level as to catch myself saying “It must have been wiser to have believed that he might have accomplished it if he could have felt that he would have been supported by those who should have &c. &c. &c.”) The reference to Bret Harte reminds me that I often accuse him of being a deliberate imitator of Dickens; and this in turn reminds me that I have charged unconscious plagiarism upon Charley Warner; and this in turn reminds me that