As your friends think it for the best
I ask your Autograph with the rest,
Hoping you will it to me send
’Twill please and cheer your dear old friend: 

Yours truly,
Bloodgood H. Cutter.

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Hartford, Apl 8, ’84.  My dear Howells, It took my breath away, and I haven’t recovered it yet, entirely—­I mean the generosity of your proposal to read the proofs of Huck Finn.

Now if you mean it, old man—­if you are in earnest—­proceed, in God’s name, and be by me forever blest.  I cannot conceive of a rational man deliberately piling such an atrocious job upon himself; but if there is such a man and you be that man, why then pile it on.  It will cost me a pang every time I think of it, but this anguish will be eingebusst to me in the joy and comfort I shall get out of the not having to read the verfluchtete proofs myself.  But if you have repented of your augenblichlicher Tobsucht and got back to calm cold reason again, I won’t hold you to it unless I find I have got you down in writing somewhere.  Herr, I would not read the proof of one of my books for any fair and reasonable sum whatever, if I could get out of it.

The proof-reading on the P & P cost me the last rags of my religion. 
                         M.

Howells had written that he would be glad to help out in the reading of the proofs of Huck Finn, which book Webster by this time had in hand.  Replying to Clemens’s eager and grateful acceptance now, he wrote:  “It is all perfectly true about the generosity, unless I am going to read your proofs from one of the shabby motives which I always find at the bottom of my soul if I examine it.”  A characteristic utterance, though we may be permitted to believe that his shabby motives were fewer and less shabby than those of mankind in general.

The proofs which Howells was reading pleased him mightily.  Once, during the summer, he wrote:  “if I had written half as good a book as Huck Finn I shouldn’t ask anything better than to read the proofs; even as it is, I don’t, so send them on; they will always find me somewhere.”

This was the summer of the Blaine-Cleveland campaign.  Mark Twain, in company with many other leading men, had mugwumped, and was supporting Cleveland.  From the next letter we gather something of the aspects of that memorable campaign, which was one of scandal and vituperation.  We learn, too, that the young sculptor, Karl Gerhardt, having completed a three years’ study in Paris, had returned to America a qualified artist.

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Elmira, Aug. 21, ’84.  My dear Howells,—­This presidential campaign is too delicious for anything.  Isn’t human nature the most consummate sham and lie that was ever invented?  Isn’t man a creature to be ashamed of in pretty much all his aspects?  Man, “know thyself “—­and then thou wilt despise thyself, to a dead moral certainty.  Take three quite good specimens—­Hawley, Warner, and Charley Clark.  Even I do not loathe Blaine more than they do; yet Hawley is howling for Blaine, Warner and Clark are eating their daily crow in the paper for him, and all three will vote for him.  O Stultification, where is thy sting, O slave where is thy hickory!