is made up of ignorant vanity and eager desire for novelty, and a yearning to be in the fashion.  Take, for example—­and we have been a long time in coming to him—­Mark Twain. [Here follow some observations concerning the Yankee, which Lang confesses that he has not read, and has abstained from reading because——­].  Here Mark Twain is not, and cannot be, at the proper point of view.  He has not the knowledge which would enable him to be a sound critic of the ideals of the Middle Ages.  An Arthurian Knight in New York or in Washington would find as much to blame, and justly, as a Yankee at Camelot.

Of Mark Twain’s work in general he speaks with another conclusion: 

Mark Twain is a benefactor beyond most modern writers, and the cultured who do not laugh are merely to be pitied.  But his art is not only that of the maker of the scarce article—­mirth.  I have no hesitation in saying that Mark Twain is one among the greatest contemporary makers of fiction . . . .  I can never forget or be ungrateful for the exquisite pleasure with which I read Huckleberry Finn for the first time years ago.  I read it again last night, deserting Kenilworth for Huck.  I never laid it down till I had finished it.  I perused several passages more than once, and rose from it with a higher opinion of its merits than ever.

What is it that we want in a novel?  We want a vivid and original picture of life; we want character naturally displayed in action; and if we get the excitement of adventure into the bargain, and that adventure possible and plausible, I so far differ from the newest school of criticism as to think that we have additional cause for gratitude.  If, moreover, there is an unstrained sense of humor in the narrator we have a masterpiece, and Huckleberry Finn is, nothing less.

He reviews Huck sympathetically in detail, and closes: 

There are defects of taste, or passages that to us seem deficient in taste, but the book remains a nearly flawless gem of romance and of humor.  The world appreciates it, no doubt, but “cultured critics” are probably unaware of its singular value.  The great American novel has escaped the eyes of those who watch to see this new planet swim into their ken.  And will Mark Twain never write such another?  One is enough for him to live by, and for our gratitude, but not enough for our desire.

In the brief column and a half which it occupies, this comment of Andrew Lang’s constitutes as thoughtful and fair an estimate of Mark Twain’s work as was ever written.

W. T. Stead, of the Review of Reviews, was about the only prominent English editor to approve of the Yankee and to exploit its merits.  Stead brought down obloquy upon himself by so doing, and his separation from his business partner would seem to have been at least remotely connected with this heresy.

The Yankee in King Arthur’s Court was dramatized in America by Howard Taylor, one of the Enterprise compositors, whom Clemens had known in the old Comstock days.  Taylor had become a playwright of considerable success, with a number of well-known actors and actresses starring in his plays.  The Yankee, however, did not find a manager, or at least it seems not to have reached the point of production.