Mark Twain thought this quaint book might amuse his royal hostess,
and forwarded a copy in what he considered to be the safe and proper
form.

To Col.  De Winton, in Ottawa, Canada: 

Hartford, June 4, ’83.  Dear colonel de Winton,—­I very much want to send a little book to her Royal Highness—­the famous Portuguese phrase book; but I do not know the etiquette of the matter, and I would not wittingly infringe any rule of propriety.  It is a book which I perfectly well know will amuse her “some at most” if she has not seen it before, and will still amuse her “some at least,” even if she has inspected it a hundred times already.  So I will send the book to you, and you who know all about the proper observances will protect me from indiscretion, in case of need, by putting the said book in the fire, and remaining as dumb as I generally was when I was up there.  I do not rebind the thing, because that would look as if I thought it worth keeping, whereas it is only worth glancing at and casting aside.

Will you please present my compliments to Mrs. De Winton and Mrs.
Mackenzie?—­and I beg to make my sincere compliments to you, also, for
your infinite kindnesses to me.  I did have a delightful time up there,
most certainly. 
                    Truly yours
                              S. L. Clemens.

P. S. Although the introduction dates a year back, the book is only just now issued.  A good long delay.

S. L. C.

Howells, writing from Venice, in April, manifested special interest in the play project:  “Something that would run like Scheherazade, for a thousand and one nights,” so perhaps his book was going better.  He proposed that they devote the month of October to the work, and inclosed a letter from Mallory, who owned not only a religious paper, The Churchman, but also the Madison Square Theater, and was anxious for a Howells play.  Twenty years before Howells had been Consul to Venice, and he wrote, now:  “The idea of my being here is benumbing and silencing.  I feel like the Wandering Jew, or the ghost of the Cardiff giant.”

He returned to America in July.  Clemens sent him word of welcome, with glowing reports of his own undertakings.  The story on which he was piling up Ms. was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, begun seven years before at Quarry Farm.  He had no great faith in it then, and though he had taken it up again in 1880, his interest had not lasted to its conclusion.  This time, however, he was in the proper spirit, and the story would be finished.

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Elmira, July 20, ’83.  My dear Howells,—­We are desperately glad you and your gang are home again—­may you never travel again, till you go aloft or alow.  Charley Clark has gone to the other side for a run—­will be back in August.  He has been sick, and needed the trip very much.