“Yes, indeed, I have read it!” the mandarin said, eagerly.  “We are enjoying it in China, and shall have it soon in our own language.  It is by Mark Twain.”

In England the book had an amazing vogue from the beginning, and English readers were endeavoring to outdo the Americans in appreciation.  Indeed, as a rule, English readers of culture, critical readers, rose to an understanding of Mark Twain’s literary value with greater promptness than did the same class of readers at home.  There were exceptions, of course.  There were English critics who did not take Mark Twain seriously, there were American critics who did.  Among the latter was a certain William Ward, an editor of a paper down in Macon, Georgia—­The Beacon.  Ward did not hold a place with the great magazine arbiters of literary rank.  He was only an obscure country editor, but he wrote like a prophet.  His article—­too long to quote in full—­concerned American humorists in general, from Washington Irving, through John Phoenix, Philander Doesticks, Sut Lovingwood, Artemus Ward, Josh Billings and Petroleum V. Nasby, down to Mark Twain.  With the exception of the first and last named he says of them: 

They have all had, or will have, their day.  Some of them are resting beneath the sod, and others still live whose work will scarcely survive them.  Since Irving no humorist in prose has held the foundation of a permanent fame except it be Mark Twain, and this, as in the case of Irving, is because he is a pure writer.  Aside from any subtle mirth that lurks through his composition, the grace and finish of his more didactic and descriptive sentences indicate more than mediocrity.

The writer then refers to Mark Twain’s description of the Sphinx, comparing it with Bulwer’s, which he thinks may have influenced it.  He was mistaken in this, for Clemens had not read Bulwer—­never could read him at any length.

Of the English opinions, that of The Saturday Review was perhaps most doubtful.  It came along late in 1870, and would hardly be worth recalling if it were not for a resulting, or collateral, interest.  Clemens saw notice of this review before he saw the review itself.  A paragraph in the Boston Advertiser spoke of The Saturday Review as treating the absurdities of the Innocents from a serious standpoint.  The paragraph closed: 

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.”

The old temptation to hoax his readers prompted Mark Twain to “reproduce” in the Galaxy, not the Review article, which he had not yet seen, but an imaginary Review article, an article in which the imaginary reviewer would be utterly devoid of any sense of humor and treat the most absurd incidents of The New Pilgrim’s Progress as if set down by the author in solemn and serious earnest.  The pretended review began: