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Of the noble and masterly Addison's sense of humour, Macaulay says: "If a portion of the happiness of the Seraphim and just men made perfect be derived from an quisite perception of the ludicrous, their mirth must surely be none other than the mirth of Addison, a mirth consistent with tender compassion for all that is frail, and with profound reverence for all that is sublime." Such is true humour, and such its real province; not to degrade, but to enliven and regenerate, a recreation, and, as has been said, recreation is re-creation.

If there is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous-a saying which has been attributed to both Napoleon and Tom Paine-it is quite as true that thoroughly gross natures, ambitious to shine as "wits", are all too eager to take that step and too frequently mistake that for wit which is nothing else than the merest and coarsest profanation. The man who looks to see the ridiculous in the sublime, surely is not to be envied, and he can hardly fail to remind us of the cat so ably chronicled in the melodies of Mother Goose, who went to London to see the Queen, and saw the mouse under the chair! Poor Pussy saw what she had the eyes to see. How often are we disgusted by the vulgarian in society who, in the vain effort to render himself interesting, endeavors to bring into ridicule not only that which is properly a subject for the highest art, but that which commands our reverence and worship! And here, I beg leave to say with, I trust, becoming humility, that if there is no such word in the

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Since these would-be-wits never attain the coveted notoriety of having said a really good thing, it must have been a prostitution of greater ability which elicited from Pascal the notable aphorism: "Diseur de bons mots, mauvais caractere." Yet Pascal, himself, was a master of irony, as his Provincial Letters amply illustrate, and no one better than himself knew how to wield the weapon of wit, which fact his adversaries well understood. This utterance was probably directed against the abuse rather than the use of wit, which he handled as a Damascene blade, since few men enjoyed the hearty laugh of true delight more than Pascal. In the same sense De Maistre made the wise remark, "Le mechant n'est jamais comique,' and it does not appear illogical to assume the converse to be true, "Le vrai comique n'est jamais mechant." It is when wit or humour transcends its privileges that it loses its charm and its power. No one will deny the wit or humour of Rabelais, who seems to have made a business of being a jolly good fellow his whole life, and when he said, "I owe much, I have nothing, and I leave the remainder to the poor," he appeals at once to our sense of humour and to our sympathy; but when in his last illness he put on a domino and uttered the words, "Beati sunt qui moriuntur in Domino," he was not witty but sacrilegious, and merited disdain rather than applause. Indeed, both the act and the utterance are so cheap that I am inclined to believe them inventions, but that he said to those who stood weeping around his death-bed, "If I were to die ten times over, I would never make you weep half so much as I have made you laugh," seems entirely consistent with his

merry and sympathetic nature. The late Bishop of Alabama, Richard Wilmer, whose sayings were pithy and pertinent as well as famous, preserved a nimble wit to the last hour of his life, and when asked if he felt the symptoms of approaching death, replied: "I cannot say, I have never had that experience."

The power, province and limitations, as well as the timeliness of wit, were fully appreciated by Erasmus, who sent many a stinging arrow into the ranks of the disputants of his age, and at the same time promoted peace and good feeling by the wholesomeness of his humour. It never lost in him its essential feature of spontaneousness; hence every thrust or parry he made was in itself its own excuse. It is the malice prepense and forethought, the prepared strategy and attack of the satirist, that is most likely to excite a resentment which refuses to forgive, and, like most other wicked practices, has its reflex influence upon the perpetrator. As brilliant as was the wit of Sheridan, it was too often the achievement of malicious and laborious preparation, and he degenerated in to mere poseur. a It cannot be argued that this was the cause of his profligacy and worthlessness, but that it ultimately had its part in destroying all earnestness of purpose and integrity of character, we may safely infer.

Swift's wit, though caustic, was natural and spontaneous; he never designed it beforehand or set a trap for his enemy, but he was indiscreet in its application and thereby lost a much desired bishopric, because he had grievously offended one of Queen Anne's courtiers who was in Her Majesty's grace. It is said that the Dean never laughed at his own

wit, he said it on the spur of a hot temper and did not chuckle over it, but Voltaire did, as we might expect: his meanness would never permit another to enjoy anything in which he had no share.

How pure, genuine and delicious. are the witticisms of Sir Thomas More! They have, too, a scholarly flavor which commends them at once to a refined taste, and a graciousness which stamps them with spontaneity. His reply to Manners, who had lately been made Earl of Rutland, is inimitable and the very flower of felicitous retort. Sir Thomas had recently entered upon the office of Chancellor, and the Earl, accusing him of too much elation over his new preferment, said: "Sir Chancellor, you verify the old. proverb-'Honores mutant mores,' to which More replied with characteristic urbanity, "No, my lord, the pun will do better in English"Honors change manners." A happier retort could not be imagined. On the day of his execution, seeing the insecurity of the steps to the scaffold, he showed his serenity of mind by his merry remark: "I pray you, master Lieutenant, see me safe up, and for my coming down I will shift for myself."

Shaftesbury's reply to Charles II. was most apt, and deserved the approving laugh it won from his sovereign. "You are the greatest rogue in all England, Shaftesbury," said Charles. "Of a subject, I think I am," was the well-timed answer. And Charles was as fruitful in witty retorts as he was in expedients when pursued by Cromwell's soldiers. The famous couplet which was written on his door by the Earl of Rochester, representing him as never having said a foolish thing and never having done a wise one,

was well answered in the words: "No wonder! my sayings are my own, my doings are those of my ministers!"

Sydney Smith's reputation as a wit and humourist is too well known to need comment here, and his sayings were reinforced by the sterling worth of his character, yet there was sometimes an over strain and pressure of constantly recurring wit, which probably elicited the criticism of Lord Brougham, that he was too much of a Jack-pudding! However, it cannot be gainsaid that he was a great exponent and example of English humour.

But what a heritage of charming, healthy and healthful humour has Charles Lamb bequeathed to all English speaking peoples! How it sparkles with personality, how it beams with good feeling and glows with sympathy and kindness! How permeating and pervading, like the redolence of flower-beds, or the light and warmth of an open fire!

Thackery's humour has the charm of subtlety and pervasiveness: it seems to create an atmosphere, so to speak, in which his characters move and have their being, and unlike that of Lamb, has the bite of satire, although without its venom, and the whole world has inherited a treasure in the work of this great, if not the greatest of England's novelists.

The humour of Dickens is by no means aphoristic, yet it is "sui generis," and although many critics characterize it as possessing the salient features of caricature, an acquaintance with the classes and personalities he portrays offers convincing testimony to his realism, notwithstanding the opinion of Mr. Howells. One who lives in London for any length of time, frequents its

courts, and walks its streets, can hardly fail to recognize his characters in individuals who look as if they had stepped out of his pages, so aptly do they embody his conceptions, and it is a remarkable fact that very young persons-growing boys and girls-are captivated by the humour of this novelist and find his books books irresistible. However valid the argument against the judgment of these juvenile readers, their predilection is strong proof of the naturalness of the author's humour. I cannot forget the fascination David Copperfield had for me when I was only thirteen, and as my mother permitted me to read only a certain number of pages a day, the anticipation of the promised delight was my last thought at night and my first in the morning. I happened to see a lad of same age receive from a Public Library attendant, a copy of "Dombey and Son," with an unmistakable tremor of happiness, as he exclaimed: “Oh, I was so afraid it might be out and I couldn't get it!" "Do you like to read Dickens?" I asked. "Oh, I just love him," he answered, "he's so funny, he's immense!" Walter Scott is hardly read for his humour, yet whenever the Wizard of the North offers humour to his readers, it is wholesome and palatable, and many of us believe that both he and Dickens write very good stories and we enjoy them, and sometimes not without the vague suspicion that posterity may enjoy them when, perhaps, Mr. Howells shall have been forgotten.

The utility of humour takes on another phase when it appears in the form of repartee: then it becomes a weapon of defence, and self-protection is its justification, as has been seen in instances already given. Mrs. Grote's reply to Louis Na

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poleon is unsurpassed in brevity or delicacy, yet its quality, like the famed blade of Damascus, pierced through the joints of the Emperor's armor. His Majesty had been well acquainted with the Grotes during his sojourn in England, while his fortune and his hopes were precarious, but when they visited Paris after his sudden elevation to the throne, he ignored them, which neglect the great historian and his wife thought unjustifiable. One evening he met Mrs. Grote at a general reception, and being obliged to recognize her, said coldly: "Do you stay long in Paris, Madam?" "No, do you?" was her withering reply, and the Emperor turned from cool to hot, if the redness of his face was any indication. As brilliant as had been his coup d'etat, the lady's shaft had gone home! Perhaps he took comfort in the recollection of Sydney Smith's facetious remark, when, on one occasion, the English wit saw Mrs. Grote arrayed in a most astonishing head-gear: "Now, I understand the meaning of the word grotesque!" So Dr. Emmon's reply to the infidel physician was elicited, and apt. The physician was boldly inveighing against all belief in the Old Testament, and especially against any faith in the story of Adam and Eve and the account of the first transgression. "It is all stuff, not a word of truth in it. I was just as much in the garden of Eden as Adam and Eve were!" "Ah! I always heard that there was a third party present, but I did not know it was you," quietly answered Dr. Emmons.

The reply of a naval officer to Louis XIV. deserves special mention for its aptness, as well as readiness. He had persistently presented a petition for promotion at every oppor

tunity, until one day the King, irritated by his frequent application, turned from him and said in a low tone to a courtier standing near: "This man gives more trouble than any man in my army!" The officer overheard the remark, and with ready wit responded: "That, Sire, has been said more than once by Your Majesty's enemies!"

When Theodore Hook, brought back from India to England on the charge of peculation, meeting a friend on the street in London who asked him why he had returned, answered: "Something wrong about the chest," it will be gained that he was far more witty than wise. The reply to the question, "Is life worth living?"-"That depends upon the liver."-is surely the perfection of readiness, as was the answer to a speaker in the House of Commons, who grandiloquently declared that England ought to put her foot down in several places at once, on the globe. "England is not a centipede!" sternly answered a voice in the rear of the enthusiastic orator.

The beggar's flattering speech to Louis XIV. well merited the coin bestowed by the monarch: "Ton image est partout excepte dans ma poche." And not unfrequently, the very vagueness or indirectness, which is not generally a characteristic of wit or humour, becomes a source of both, as when an English statesman said of the French people, "They do not know what they want, and will never be satisfied until they get it," or when Heine said, "It is curious that the three greatest enemies of Napoleon perished miserably; Castlereagh cut his throat, Louis XVIII. rotted on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still a professor at Gottingen!” Also, an inferential sarcasm, very kindly ut

tered by Prof. Silliman of Yale was not bad. There was a sort of merry war between him and one of his colleagues, who, passing Silliman's laboratory one day, heard him plying a hammer rather vigorously, and opening the door suddenly, said: "Shoeing asses, are you?" "Yes, come in," answered Silliman with a significant smile.

Douglas Jerrold's solemn negation affirmed much to the discerning mind: "There is no God, and Miss Martineau is his prophet." Those who are familiar with Harriet's vagaries as well as her virtues, will see a world of meaning in Jerrold's wit, and also in the sententious speech of the gentleman who went to a Positivist Club in London where the doctrine of Humanity was preached, only three or four being present. "Three persons and no God!" said he as he walked out of the club-room. In these instances, we have the soul of wit,-brevityone blow only, but that is décisive.

No form of wit or humour has been more criticised or depreciated than the pun, and Erskine's reply when he was told that a pun was the lowest form of wit,-"Yes, and therefore the foundation of all wit," -may be hardly considered logical, nor is it exactly consistent with fact, that only those persons despise puns who cannot make them, but it cannot be gainsaid that those who can make them seldom leave their ability unexercised, and how intolerant does patience itself become of the inveterate punster! In these days of specialists, we are almost tempted to wish that there might be special treatment for this monomania, yet a pun often justifies itself so handsomely that we can do nothing less than applaud it. The totality of time and place and per

son should be considered in this, as in every other form of wit or humour. That a pun should be, as Lamb says, "begotten of the occasion," is absolutely essential to its respectability. The hunted and farfetched pun shows a face so distorted and unattractive, that we will none of it. It is painful to dissent from any utterance of the inimitable Elia, but I cannot accept his dictum that the pun is as perfect and satisfactory as a sonnet. When, however, he insists that it is not bound by the laws which limit nicer witthat it is a pistol let off at the earan antic which does not stand upon manners, and does not show less comic for being dragged in sometimes by the head and shoulders, I accept his pronouncement with the proviso that there be limitations to the distance of the dragging!

The forcefulness, copiousness and variety of source which characterize the English language, render it a fruitful field for puns, and Sydney Smith, Archbishop Whately, Sheridan, Samuel Foote, Erskine, Jerrold and scores of others have abundantly proven it. There can be no question of the spontaneousness of Jerrold's puns, as when at the Vatican he saw an old Roman statue of Jupiter which had been differentiated into a statue of the Apostle Peter, he exclaimed: "Oh, it is only JewPeter after all!"-nor of Archbishop Whately's, when he said upon the spur of the moment, "Yes, Noah's ark was made of gophir wood, but Joan of Arc was Maid of Orleans!"

Queen Elizabeth had a keen sense of humour and made good puns, and England in the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, shows such an array of these arabesques of language, as to defy enumeration. In America,

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