In proportion as people thought themselves refined they questioned
    that quality which all recognize in him now, but which was then the
    inspired knowledge of the simple-hearted multitude.

Even at the Atlantic dinners his place was “below the salt”—­a place of honor, but not of the greatest honor.  He did not sit on the dais with Emerson, Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Howells, and Aldrich.  We of a later period, who remember him always as the center of every board—­the one supreme figure, his splendid head and crown of silver hair the target of every eye-find it hard to realize the Cambridge conservatism that clad him figuratively always in motley, and seated him lower than the throne itself.

Howells clearly resented this condition, and from random review corners had ventured heresy.  Now in 1882 he seems to have determined to declare himself, in a large, free way, concerning his own personal estimate of Mark Twain.  He prepared for the Century Magazine a biographical appreciation, in which he served notice to the world that Mark Twain’s work, considered even as literature, was of very considerable importance indeed.  Whether or not Howells then realized the “inspired knowledge of the multitude,” and that most of the nation outside of the counties of Suffolk and Essex already recognized his claim, is not material.  Very likely he did; but he also realized the mental dusk of the cultured uninspired and his prerogative to enlighten them.  His Century article was a kind of manifesto, a declaration of independence, no longer confined to the obscurities of certain book notices, where of course one might be expected to stretch friendly favor a little for a popular Atlantic contributor.  In the open field of the Century Magazine Howells ventured to declare: 

    Mark Twain’s humor is as simple in form and as direct as the
    statesmanship of Lincoln or the generalship of Grant.

When I think how purely and wholly American it is I am a little puzzled at its universal acceptance . . . .  Why, in fine, should an English chief-justice keep Mark Twain’s books always at hand?  Why should Darwin have gone to them for rest and refreshment at midnight, when spent with scientific research?

I suppose that Mark Twain transcends all other American humorists in the universal qualities.  He deals very little with the pathetic, which he nevertheless knows very well how to manage, as he has shown, notably in the true story of the old slave-mother; but there is a poetic lift in his work, even when he permits you to recognize it only as something satirized.  There is always the touch of nature, the presence of a sincere and frank manliness in what he says, the companionship of a spirit which is at once delightfully open and deliciously shrewd.  Elsewhere I have tried to persuade the reader that his humor is, at its best, the foamy break of the strong tide of earnestness