“The Gilded Age” by Mark Twain and Charles Warner appears to-day with Routledge’s imprint on the title-page, and the copyright secured to the authors. It is more to establish this copyright than for his lectures that Mark Twain is here; he preferring, he declares, to make the voyage to England for that purpose rather than visit Canada. What the matter is with Canada I can’t say. (Smalley 1874)

The American writer calling himself Mark Twain, is in a high degree peculiar—his method or plan, his style, his humour, belong entirely, or very much, to himself; and it was not to be hoped that he could find some one else qualified in all respects to run with him in double harness. . . . Mark Twain by himself would have been more enjoyable, and probably so would Mr Warner. We should infer that they went into partnership in this matter because the one was supposed to have what the other had not—Mark Twain is not a good hand at a plot, and perhaps Mr Warner is, whilst, on the other hand, he may not have those qualities which have given Mark Twain celebrity and success. Those qualities are a quick, quaint, dry humour, very considerable powers of grave and even poetic description, a penetrating good sense, and an abhorrence of all shams and hypocrisy, especially of those most prevalent amongst his own countrymen. Possessing these qualities, Mark Twain has given to the world many books yielding much amusement, though no story interesting by its mere plot. It was to supply this supposed defect, we suppose, that Mr Warner was called in; but we were quite content to take Mark Twain by himself, and to read him for his fun and his good sense. (“Literature,” 9 Jan 74, 2)

Every one . . . had a right to expect the book, when given to the world, though it should lack the unity and coherence of a work conceived and brought out by a single mind, should at least be redeemed with passages of the refined and delicate beauty which distinguishes the one writer, and with the quaint and fertile humor that has created for the other even a trans-Atlantic popularity. When, therefore, a book so utterly bald, so puerile, so vicious even, as “The Gilded Age,” appears with the signatures of Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner to give it a passport among respectable readers, wrath and disgust may rightfully inspire the critic to chastise them with[out] mercy. . . . Their names had become a sort of certificate of high character. It is a fraud to the reading public to append them to a trashy book like the mongrel before us. Stupidity can be forgiven, but deliberate deceit—never. . . . Thousands will be deluded into its purchase, only to find themselves cheated and robbed. Mr. Clemens and Mr. Warner . . . have willfully degraded their craft, abused the people’s trust, and provoked a stern condemnation. (“The Twain-Warner Novel,” 1 Feb 74, 9)

the time when we were scribbling in the same room for a little compensation—you with grand aspirations which I rejoice most sincerely you have found exchanged for, or transformed into grand realities. If my poor hopes and feebler anticipations have only brought the reverse, why, “sich is life,” and let it go as a part of the game. (CU-MARK)

Frank Soulé was one of the sweetest and whitest & loveliest spirits that ever wandered into this world by mistake; I seem somehow to have got the impression that he has of late years become sour & querulous; cannot tell—it has been 13 years since I worked at his side in the Morning Call office, in San Francisco; but no matter, he has believed for 36 years, that he would next year, & then next year, & still next year, be recognized as a poet—& all these slow years have come & gone, & each in its turn has lied to him. Soured?—why anybody would be, that had been served so. . . . Frank Soulé had that sort of a face which is so rare—I mean a face that is always welcome, that makes you happy all through, just to see it. And Lordy, to think that this fine & sensitive & beautiful & proud spirit had to grind, & grind, like a pitiful slave, on that degraded “Morning Call,” whose mission from hell & politics was to lick the boots of the Irish & throw bold brave mud at the Chinamen. And he is a slave yet! (3 Sept 80, MH-H, in MTHL, 1:325–26)

When Charles Dudley Warner and I were about to bring out “The Gilded Age,” the editor of the Daily Graphic persuaded me to let him have an advance copy, he giving me his word of honor that no notice of it should appear in his paper until after the Atlantic Monthly notice should have appeared. This reptile published a review of the book within three days afterward. I could not really complain, because he had only given me his word of honor, as security. I ought to have required of him something substantial. I believe his notice did not deal mainly with the merit of the book, or the lack of it, but with my moral attitude toward the public. It was charged that I had used my reputation to play a swindle upon the public—that Mr. Warner had written as much as half of the book, and that I had used my name to float it and give it currency—a currency which it could not have acquired without my name—and that this conduct of mine was a grave fraud upon the people. The Graphic was not an authority upon any subject whatever. It had a sort of distinction in that it was the first and only illustrated daily newspaper that the world had seen; but it was without character; it was poorly and cheaply edited; its opinion of a book or of any other work of art was of no consequence. Everybody knew this, yet all the critics in America, one after the other, copied the Graphic’s criticism, merely changing the phraseology, and left me under that charge of dishonest conduct. Even the great Chicago Tribune, the most important journal in the Middle-West, was not able to invent anything fresh, but adopted the view of the humble daily Graphic, dishonesty-charge and all. (AD, 7 Feb 1906, CU-MARK, in MTA, 2:69–70)

It is simply a rather incoherent series of sketches, from which the characteristic fun of Mr. Clemens and the subtle humor of Mr. Warner have been, for the most part, eliminated. . . . And so it has come to pass that the two most brilliant humorists in America—with the exception of “John Paul” [Charles Henry Webb]—have written a book in which we look almost in vain for the traces of either’s pen. (“Literary Notes,” 351)

No reviewer would be in the right who handled this production in the same spirit in which he would handle a story pure and simple. . . . But as a clever though rude satire upon certain customs and institutions, many of which deserve contempt and reprobation, it will scarcely be too highly praised. (“American Satire,” 22 Dec 73, clipping in CU-MARK)

There is scarcely a phase of the diversified social state of America which he does not touch. He passes with graceful transition from the twilight of civilization in the far West to its full orbed splendors in the eastern cities, reminding us, however, as he lifts the veil from the surface of society in the Atlantic capitals that all is not gold that glitters, and that there is a good deal of barbarism even in the centers of civilization so-called. His sketches of society in Washington, including the antiques, the parvenues, and the middle aristocracy are admirable. The visit to the Wall street headquarters of improvement companies, and the restrictions that are put on members of Congress, male lobbyist, female lobbyist, high moral Senator, and country member, with the capital illustrations, are full of suggestiveness and merriment. The description of the steamboat race on the Mississippi, and of the explosion, is graphic and powerful. The whole story in its conception, exposition of characters and composition, will add new reputation to the author. (“Mark Twain’s New Book,” 6 Feb 74, 2)

Up to the time old Hawkins dies your novel is of the greatest promise—I read it with joy—but after that it fails to assimilate the crude material with which it is fed, and becomes a confirmed dyspeptic at last. Still it is always entertaining; and it kept me up till twelve last night, though I needed sleep. I was particularly sorry to have Sellers degenerate as he did, and none of the characters quite fulfill their early promise. I will withold my public opinion altogether if you like, and if on revision of the book, it does not strike me more favorably, I should prefer to do so; though I should be able to praise parts of it with heartiness and sincerity. (Howells 1979, 46)

it is not what we had reason to expect from two authors of such unquestionable talent as Mr. Clemens and Mr. Warner. . . . It fearlessly lashes the frauds and humbugs who occupy prominent places in all ranks of society and in all positions of honor and profit. There is no mercy for such offenders. The mask of pretended piety and robe of assumed honesty are stripped off and the rascals exposed to the lash of the satirist and the scorn of the world. But, admitting this, it is not the work in which Messrs. Clemens and Warner feel most at home and in which their friends enjoy their company best. (“New Books,” 2)

The Gilded Age is a little more coherent than the Innocents Abroad, but lacks the novelty of that veracious chronicle, while we search in vain for the charming pleasantry of My Summer in a Garden. The story is dreadfully attenuated, and the padding is so evident that one cannot help the suspicion that the dominant motive in writing the book was to make a “companion volume—price three dollars and a half.” . . . Of course, there is much that is funny, and now and then a bit of pathos, with occasional sharp “cuts” at social and political life in Washington. . . . And yet one feels that the abundant material at hand has not been used in the most artistic manner, and the book fails of its purpose as a satire. (“The Gilded Age—A Tale of To-Day,” 1)