t certain letters, and write new ones wherewith to supply their
places. If you think such a book would suit your purpose, please drop
me a line, specifying the size and general style of the volume; when the
matter ought to be ready; whether it should have pictures in it or not;
and particularly what your terms with me would be, and what amount of
money I might possibly make out of it. The latter clause has a degree of
importance for me which is almost beyond my own comprehension. But you
understand that, of course.

I have other propositions for a book, but have doubted the propriety of
interfering with good newspaper engagements, except my way as an author
could be demonstrated to be plain before me. But I know Richardson,
and learned from him some months ago, something of an idea of the
subscription plan of publishing. If that is your plan invariably, it
looks safe.

I am on the N. Y. Tribune staff here as an "occasional,", among other
things, and a note from you addressed to

Very truly &c.

SAM L. CLEMENS

New York Tribune Bureau, Washington, will find me, without fail.

The exchange of these two letters marked the beginning of one of the
most notable publishing connections in American literary history.
The book, however, was not begun immediately. Bliss was in poor
health and final arrangements were delayed; it was not until late in
January that Clemens went to Hartford and concluded the arrangement.

Meantime, fate had disclosed another matter of even greater
importance; we get the first hint of it in the following letter,
though to him its beginning had been earlier--on a day in the blue
harbor of Smyrna, when young Charles Langdon, a fellow-passenger on
the Quaker City, had shown to Mark Twain a miniature of young
Langdon's sister at home:

*****

To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

224 F. STREET, WASH, Jan. 8, 1868.

MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--And so the old Major has been there, has he?
I would like mighty well to see him. I was a sort of benefactor to
him once. I helped to snatch him out when he was about to ride into a
Mohammedan Mosque in that queer old Moorish town of Tangier, in Africa.
If he had got in, the Moors would have knocked his venerable old head
off, for his temerity.

I have just arri