e him
smile, too. It was all so good-natured, so openly sincere. Without
doubt it preached heresy--the heresy of viewing revered landmarks and
relics joyously, rather than lugubriously; reverentially, when they
inspired reverence; satirically, when they invited ridicule, and with
kindliness always.

The Innocents Abroad is Mark Twain's greatest book of travel. The
critical and the pure in speech may object to this verdict. Brander
Matthews regards it second to A Tramp Abroad, the natural viewpoint of
the literary technician. The 'Tramp' contains better usage without
doubt, but it lacks the "color" which gives the Innocents its perennial
charm. In the Innocents there is a glow, a fragrance, a romance of
touch, a subtle something which is idyllic, something which is not quite
of reality, in the tale of that little company that so long ago sailed
away to the harbors of their illusions beyond the sea, and, wandered
together through old palaces and galleries, and among the tombs of the
saints, and down through ancient lands. There is an atmosphere about it
all, a dream-like quality that lies somewhere in the telling, maybe, or
in the tale; at all events it is there, and the world has felt it ever
since. Perhaps it could be defined in a single word, perhaps that word
would be "youth." That the artist, poor True Williams, felt its
inspiration is certain. We may believe that Williams was not a great
draftsman, but no artist ever caught more perfectly the light and spirit
of the author's text. Crude some of the pictures are, no doubt, but they
convey the very essence of the story; they belong to it, they are a part
of it, and they ought never to perish. 'A Tramp Abroad' is a rare book,
but it cannot rank with its great predecessor in human charm. The
public, which in the long run makes mistakes, has rendered that verdict.
The Innocents by far outsells the Tramp, and, for that matter, any other
book of travel.

THE PURCHASE OF A PAPER.

It is curious to reflect that Mark Twain still did not regard himself as
a literary man. He had no literary plans for the future; he scarcely
looked forward to the publication of another book. He considered himself
a journalist; his ambition lay in the direction of retirement in some
prosperous newspaper enterprise, with the comforts and companionship of a
home. During his travels he had already been casting about for a
congenial and substantial association in newspaperdom, and had at one