To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Farmington Avenue, Hartford, Apl. 26, 1875.  My dear Howells,—­An actor named D. H. Harkins has been here to ask me to put upon paper a 5-act play which he has been mapping out in his mind for 3 or 4 years.  He sat down and told me his plot all through, in a clear, bright way, and I was a deal taken with it; but it is a line of characters whose fine shading and artistic development requires an abler hand than mine; so I easily perceived that I must not make the attempt.  But I liked the man, and thought there was a good deal of stuff in him; and therefore I wanted his play to be written, and by a capable hand, too.  So I suggested you, and said I would write and see if you would be willing to undertake it.  If you like the idea, he will call upon you in the course of two or three weeks and describe his plot and his characters.  Then if it doesn’t strike you favorably, of course you can simply decline; but it seems to me well worth while that you should hear what he has to say.  You could also “average” him while he talks, and judge whether he could play your priest—­though I doubt if any man can do that justice.

Shan’t I write him and say he may call?  If you wish to communicate directly with him instead, his address is “Larchmont Manor, Westchester Co., N. Y.”

Do you know, the chill of that 19th of April seems to be in my bones yet? 
I am inert and drowsy all the time.  That was villainous weather for a
couple of wandering children to be out in. 
                                        Ys ever
          
                                        mark.

     The sinister typewriter did not find its way to Howells for nearly a
     year.  Meantime, Mark Twain had refused to allow the manufacturers
     to advertise his ownership.  He wrote to them: 

Hartford, March 19, 1875.  Please do not use my name in any way.  Please do not even divulge the fact that I own a machine.  I have entirely stopped using the typewriter, for the reason that I never could write a letter with it to anybody without receiving a request by return mail that I would not only describe the machine, but state what progress I had made in the use of it, etc., etc.  I don’t like to write letters, and so I don’t want people to know I own this curiosity-breeding little joker.

Three months later the machine was still in his possession.  Bliss
had traded a twelve-dollar saddle for it, but apparently showed
little enthusiasm in his new possession.

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

June 25, 1875.  My dear Howells,—­I told Patrick to get some carpenters and box the machine and send it to you—­and found that Bliss had sent for the machine and earned it off.

I have been talking to you and writing to you as if you were present when I traded the machine to Bliss for a twelve-dollar saddle worth $25 (cheating him outrageously, of course—­but conscience got the upper hand again and I told him before I left the premises that I’d pay for the saddle if he didn’t like the machine—­on condition that he donate said machine to a charity)