I’ve got the first volume launched safely; consequently, half of the suspense is over, and I am that much nearer the goal.  We’ve bound and shipped 200,000 books; and by the 10th shall finish and ship the remaining 125,000 of the first edition.  I got nervous and came down to help hump-up the binderies; and I mean to stay here pretty much all the time till the first days of March, when the second volume will issue.  Shan’t have so much trouble, this time, though, if we get to press pretty soon, because we can get more binderies then than are to be had in front of the holidays.  One lives and learns.  I find it takes 7 binderies four months to bind 325,000 books.

This is a good book to publish.  I heard a canvasser say, yesterday, that while delivering eleven books he took 7 new subscriptions.  But we shall be in a hell of a fix if that goes on—­it will “ball up” the binderies again. 
               Yrs ever
                         mark.

November 30th that year was Mark Twain’s fiftieth birthday, an event noticed by the newspapers generally, and especially observed by many of his friends.  Warner, Stockton and many others sent letters; Andrew Lang contributed a fine poem; also Oliver Wendell.  Holmes —­the latter by special request of Miss Gilder—­for the Critic.  These attentions came as a sort of crowning happiness at the end of a golden year.  At no time in his life were Mark Twain’s fortunes and prospects brighter; he had a beautiful family and a perfect home.  Also, he had great prosperity.  The reading-tour with Cable had been a fine success.  His latest book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, had added largely to his fame and income.  The publication of the Grant Memoirs had been a dazzling triumph.  Mark Twain had become recognized, not only as America’s most distinguished author, but as its most envied publisher.  And now, with his fiftieth birthday, had come this laurel from Holmes, last of the Brahmins, to add a touch of glory to all the rest.  We feel his exaltation in his note of acknowledgment.

To Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in Boston: 

Dear Mr. Holmes,—­I shall never be able to tell you the half of how proud you have made me.  If I could you would say you were nearly paid for the trouble you took.  And then the family:  If I can convey the electrical surprise and gratitude and exaltation of the wife and the children last night, when they happened upon that Critic where I had, with artful artlessness, spread it open and retired out of view to see what would happen—­well, it was great and fine and beautiful to see, and made me feel as the victor feels when the shouting hosts march by; and if you also could have seen it you would have said the account was squared.  For I have brought them up in your company, as in the company of a warm and friendly and beneficent but far-distant sun; and so, for you to do this thing was for the sun to send down out of the skies the miracle of a special ray and transfigure me before their faces.  I knew what that poem would be to them; I knew it would raise me up to remote and shining heights in their eyes, to very fellowship with the chambered Nautilus itself, and that from that fellowship they could never more dissociate me while they should live; and so I made sure to be by when the surprise should come.