Howells’s approval of the Yankee came almost in the form of exultant shouts, one after reading each batch of proof.  First he wrote:  “It’s charming, original, wonderful! good in fancy and sound to the core in morals.”  And again, “It’s a mighty great book, and it makes my heart burn with wrath.  It seems God did not forget to put a soul into you.  He shuts most literary men off with a brain, merely.”  Then, a few days later:  “The book is glorious—­simply noble; what masses of virgin truth never touched in print before!” and, finally, “Last night I read your last chapter.  As Stedman says of the whole book, it’s titanic.”

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Hartford, Sept. 22, ’89.  Dear Howells,—­It is immensely good of you to grind through that stuff for me; but it gives peace to Mrs. Clemens’s soul; and I am as grateful to you as a body can be.  I am glad you approve of what I say about the French Revolution.  Few people will.  It is odd that even to this day Americans still observe that immortal benefaction through English and other monarchical eyes, and have no shred of an opinion about it that they didn’t get at second-hand.

Next to the 4th of July and its results, it was the noblest and the holiest thing and the most precious that ever happened in this earth.  And its gracious work is not done yet—­not anywhere in the remote neighborhood of it.

Don’t trouble to send me all the proofs; send me the pages with your corrections on them, and waste-basket the rest.  We issue the book Dec. 10; consequently a notice that appears Dec. 20 will be just in good time.

I am waiting to see your Study set a fashion in criticism.  When that happens—­as please God it must—­consider that if you lived three centuries you couldn’t do a more valuable work for this country, or a humaner.

As a rule a critic’s dissent merely enrages, and so does no good; but by the new art which you use, your dissent must be as welcome as your approval, and as valuable.  I do not know what the secret of it is, unless it is your attitude—­man courteously reasoning with man and brother, in place of the worn and wearisome critical attitude of all this long time—­superior being lecturing a boy.

Well, my book is written—­let it go.  But if it were only to write over
again there wouldn’t be so many things left out.  They burn in me; and
they keep multiplying and multiplying; but now they can’t ever be said. 
And besides, they would require a library—­and a pen warmed up in hell. 
                                        Ys Ever
          
                                        mark.