which he neither emulates nor envies; the Frenchman may acknowledge
that English literature shows here and there a sort of heavy
playfulness; but neither of them would consider that the humour of
the other nation could stand a moment's comparison with his own.

Yet, oddly enough, American humour stands as a conspicuous exception
to this general rule. A certain vogue clings to it. Ever since the
spacious days of Artemus Ward and Mark Twain it has enjoyed an
extraordinary reputation, and this not only on our own continent,
but in England. It was in a sense the English who "discovered" Mark
Twain; I mean it was they who first clearly recognised him as a
man of letters of the foremost rank, at a time when academic Boston
still tried to explain him away as a mere comic man of the West.
In the same way Artemus Ward is still held in affectionate remembrance
in London, and, of the later generation, Mr. Dooley at least is a
household word.

This is so much the case that a sort of legend has grown around
American humour. It is presumed to be a superior article and to
enjoy the same kind of pre-eminence as French cooking, the Russian
ballet, and Italian organ grinding. With this goes the converse
supposition that the British people are inferior in humour, that
a joke reaches them only with great difficulty, and that a British
audience listens to humour in gloomy and unintelligent silence.
Peoplc still love to repeat the famous story of how John
Bright listened attentively to Artemus Ward's lecture in London
and then said, gravely, that he "doubted many of the young man's
statements"; and readers still remember Mark Twain's famous parody
of the discussion of his book by a wooden-headed reviewer of an
English review.