foundation of his
study of the historical atmosphere of that novel--the best, from the
point of view of style, except "Barnaby Rudge," that he ever wrote,
probably due to the fact that, treading as he did on ground that was new
to him, he had to guide his steps very carefully. The novel is
nevertheless a failure because it is untrue; it concerns itself with a
France that never existed seen through as artificial a medium as the
mauve tints through which certain artists see their figures and
landscapes. It was not with Dickens a case of defect in vision, but a
lack of knowledge. It was not lack of perception or the absence of a
great power of feeling. It was pure ignorance. He was without that
training which would have enabled him to go intelligently to the sources
of French history.

In Mark Twain's case it was not a lack of the power to reach the
sources; it was an inability to understand the character of the woman
whom he reverenced, so far as he could feel reverence, and an invincible
ignorance of the character of her time. Mark Twain was modern; but
modern in the vulgarest way. I know that "Huckleberry Finn" and the
other young Americans--whom our youth are expected to like, if not to
imitate--are looked on as sacred by the guardians of those libraries who
recommend typical books to eager juvenile readers. But let that pass for
the moment. To take a case in point, there is hardly any man or woman of
refinement who will hold a brief in defense of the vulgarity of "A
Connecticut Yankee at the Court of King Arthur."

It may be said that the average reader of Mark Twain's books--that is,
the average American reader--for Mark Twain is read the world
over--cares nothing for his philosophy of life. The average American
reads Mark Twain only to be amused, or to recall the adventures of a
time not far away when we were less sophisticated. Still, whether my
compatriots are in the habit of looking into books for a philosophy or
not, or of considering the faiths or unfaiths of the writer in hand, it
does not follow that it is to their credit if they neglect an analysis
which cultivated readers in other countries seldom omit.

If I thought that any words of mine would deprive anybody of the gaiety
which Mark Twain has added to life, I should not write these words; but
as this little volume is a book of impressions, and sincere impressions,
I may be frank in the full understanding that the average American
reader will not take