I take the following paragraph from an article in
the Boston advertiser:
Perhaps the most successful flights of humor of Mark
Twain have been descriptions of the persons who did
not appreciate his humor at all. We have become
familiar with the Californians who were thrilled with
terror by his burlesque of a newspaper reporter’s
way of telling a story, and we have heard of the Pennsylvania
clergyman who sadly returned his innocents abroad
to the book-agent with the remark that “the
man who could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must
be an idiot.” But Mark Twain may now add
a much more glorious instance to his string of trophies.
The Saturday review, in its number of October
8th, reviews his book of travels, which has been republished
in England, and reviews it seriously. We can
imagine the delight of the humorist in reading this
tribute to his power; and indeed it is so amusing
in itself that he can hardly do better than reproduce
the article in full in his next monthly Memoranda.
(Publishing the above paragraph thus, gives me a sort
of authority for reproducing the Saturday REVIEW’S
article in full in these pages. I dearly wanted
to do it, for I cannot write anything half so delicious
myself. If I had a cast-iron dog that could read
this English criticism and preserve his austerity,
I would drive him off the door-step.)
REVIEWS OF NEW BOOKS
The innocents abroad. A Book
of Travels. By Mark Twain.
London: Hotten, publisher. 1870.
Lord Macaulay died too soon. We never felt this
so deeply as when we finished the last chapter of
the above-named extravagant work. Macaulay died
too soon—for none but he could mete out
complete and comprehensive justice to the insolence,
the impertinence, the presumption, the mendacity,
and, above all, the majestic ignorance of this author.
To say that the innocents abroad is a curious
book, would be to use the faintest language—would
be to speak of the Matterhorn as a neat elevation
or of Niagara as being “nice” or “pretty.”
“Curious” is too tame a word wherewith
to describe the imposing insanity of this work.
There is no word that is large enough or long enough.
Let us, therefore, photograph a passing glimpse of
book and author, and trust the rest to the reader.
Let the cultivated English student of human nature
picture to himself this Mark Twain as a person capable
of doing the following-described things—and
not only doing them, but with incredible innocence
printing them calmly and tranquilly in a
book. For instance:
He states that he entered a hair-dresser’s in
Paris to get shaved, and the first “rake”
the barber gave him with his razor it loosened
his “Hide” and lifted him
out of the chair.
