“There is always a secret irritation about a laugh in which we cannot join”
“Your intention is a
benevolent one,” said the saint, who had been for years a confirmed
invalid. “Where it is now located, it has given me nothing but
trouble.” Surely, as we read such an anecdote as this, we share in the
curious sensation experienced by little Tom Tulliver, when, by dint of
Maggie’s repeated questions, he began slowly to understand that the
Romans had once been real men, who were happy enough to speak their
own language without any previous introduction to the Eton grammar. In
like manner, when we come to realize that the fathers of the primitive
Church enjoyed their quips and cranks and jests as much as do Mr.
Trollope’s jolly deans or vicars, we feel we have at last grasped the
secret of their identity, and we appreciate the force of Father Faber’s
appeal to the frank spirit of a wholesome mirth.
Perhaps one reason for the scanty tolerance that humor receives at the
hands of the disaffected is because of the rather selfish way in which
the initiated enjoy their fun; for there is always a secret irritation
about a laugh in which we cannot join. Mr. George Saintsbury is plainly
of this way of thinking, and, being blessed beyond his fellows with
a love for all that is jovial, he speaks from out of the richness of
his experience. “Those who have a sense of humor,” he says, “instead
of being quietly and humbly thankful, are perhaps a little too apt to
celebrate their joy in the face of the afflicted ones who have it not;
and the afflicted ones only follow a general law in protesting that
it is a very worthless thing, if not a complete humbug.” This spirit
of exclusiveness on the one side and of irascibility on the other
may be greatly deplored, but who is there among us, I wonder, wholly
innocent of blame? Mr. Saintsbury himself confesses to a silent chuckle
of delight when he thinks of the dimly veiled censoriousness with
which Peacock’s inimitable humor has been received by one half of the
reading world. In other words, his enjoyment of the Rev. Drs. Folliott
and Opimian is sensibly increased by the reflection that a great
many worthy people, even among his own acquaintances, are, by some
mysterious law of their being, debarred from any share in his pleasure.
“It is impossible for a lover of cats to banish these alert, gentle, and discriminating friends, who give us just enough of their regard and complaisance to make us hunger for more.”
I should like
to explain to her, if I dared, that my desk is small, littered with many
papers, and sadly overcrowded with the useful inutilities which
affectionate friends delight in giving me at Christmas time.
Sainte-Beuve’s cat, I am aware, sat on his desk, and roamed at will
among those precious manuscripts which no intrusive hand was ever
permitted to touch; but Sainte-Beuve probably had sufficient space
reserved for his own comfort and convenience. I have not; and
Agrippina’s beautifully ringed tail flapping across my copy distracts my
attention, and imperils the neatness of my penmanship. Even when she is
disposed to be affable, turns the light of her countenance upon me,
watches with attentive curiosity every stroke I make, and softly, with
curved paw, pats my pen as it travels over the paper,—even in these
halcyon moments, though my self-love is flattered by her condescension,
I am aware that I should work better and more rapidly if I denied myself
this charming companionship.
But in truth it is impossible for a lover of cats to banish these alert,
gentle, and discriminating little friends, who give us just enough of
their regard and complaisance to make us hunger for more. M. Fée, the
naturalist, who has written so admirably about animals, and who
understands, as only a Frenchman can understand, the delicate and subtle
organization of a cat, frankly admits that the keynote of its character
is independence. It dwells under our roof, sleeps by our fire, endures
our blandishments, and apparently enjoys our society, without for one
moment forfeiting its sense of absolute freedom, without acknowledging
any servile relation to the human creature who shelters it. “The cat,”
says M. Fée, “will never part with its liberty; it will neither be our
servant, like the horse, nor our friend, like the dog. It consents to
live as our guest; it accepts the home we offer and the food we give; it
even goes so far as to solicit our caresses, but capriciously, and when
it suits its humor to receive them.”
Rude and masterful souls resent this fine self-sufficiency in a domestic
animal, and require that it should have no will but theirs, no pleasure
that does not emanate from them.
“Democracy forever teases us with the contrast between its ideals and its realities, between its heroic possibilities and its sorry achievements.”
But the real significance of the “Americanization”
movement, the summoning of conferences, the promoting of exhibitions,
the bestowing of prizes, is the need we all feel of unification, the
hope we all cherish that, through the influence of congenial work,
immigrants and the children of immigrants will become one in spirit
with the native born. We could make shift to do without the posters and
the symbolic statuary; we could read fewer poems and listen to fewer
speeches; but we cannot possibly do without the loyalty which we have a
right to demand, and which is needful to the safety of the Republic.
For the main thing to be borne in mind is that Americanization does
not mean only an increase of opportunity for the alien, an effort
toward his permanent well-being. It means also service and sacrifice on
his part. This is what citizenship entails, although voters and those
who clamour for the vote seldom take into account such an inexorable
truth. The process of assimilation must go deeper than the polling
booth and the trade union can carry it. Democracy forever teases
us with the contrast between its ideals and its realities, between
its heroic possibilities and its sorry achievements. But it is our
appointed road, and the stones over which we perpetually stumble deny
us the drowsy perils of content. When we read Dr. Eliot’s noble words
in praise of free government and equal opportunities, we know that
his amazing buoyancy does not imply ignorance of primaries, of party
methods, and of graft. With these things he has been familiar all
his life; but the creaking machinery of democracy has never dimmed
his faith in its holiness. Remediable disorders, however grievous
and deep-seated, afford us the comfort of hope, and the privilege of
unending exertion.
To no one ignorant of history can the right of citizenship assume any
real significance. In our country the ballot is so carelessly guarded,
so shamefully misused, that it has become to some men a subject of
derision; to many, an unconsidered trifle; to all, or almost all, an
expression of personal opinion, which, at its best, reflects a popular
newspaper, and, at its worst, stands for nothing less hurtful than
stupidity.
“Conversation between Adam and Eve must have been difficult at times because they had nobody to talk about”
A
brand new school of fiction has been invented for their exclusive
diversion; and several complicated systems of religion have been put
together for their recent edification. It is hardly a matter of surprise
that, fed on such meats, they should wax scornful, and deride their
hungry fellow-creatures. It is even less amazing that these
fellow-creatures should weary from time to time of the crumbs that fall
from their table. It is told of Pliny the younger that, being invited to
a dinner, he consented to come on the express condition that the
conversation should abound in Socratic discourses. Here was a man
equally insensible to ennui and to the sufferings of others. The guests
at that ill-starred banquet appear to have been sacrificed as ruthlessly
as the fish and game they ate. They had not even the loophole of escape
which Mr. Bagehot contemplates so admiringly in Paradise Lost. Whenever
Adam’s remarks expand too obviously into a sermon, Eve, in the most
discreet and wife-like manner, steps softly away, and refreshes herself
with slumber. Indeed, when we come to think of it, conversation between
these two must have been difficult at times, because they had nobody to
talk about. If we exiled our neighbors permanently from our discussions,
we should soon be reduced to silence; and if we confined ourselves even
to laudatory remarks, we should probably say but little. Miss Frances
Power Cobbe, who is uncompromisingly hostile to the feeble vices of
society, insists that it is the duty of every woman to look bored when
she hears a piece of scandal; but this mandate is hardly in accord with
Miss Cobbe’s other requisite for true womanhood, absolute and
undeviating sincerity. How can she look bored when she does not feel
bored, unless she plays the hypocrite? And while many women are shocked
and repelled by scandal, few, alas! are wont to find it tiresome. I have
not even observed any exceeding weariness in men when subjected to a
similar ordeal. In that pitiless dialogue of Landor’s between Catherine
of Russia and Princess Dashkov, we find some opinions on this subject
stated with appalling candor. “Believe me,” says the empress, “there is
nothing so delightful in life as to find a liar in a person of repute.
“What monstrous absurdities and paradoxes have resisted whole batteries of serious arguments, and then crumbled swiftly into dust before the ringing death-knell of a laugh!”
” Yet this was the first statesman of his age,
and one whose clear and tranquil vision penetrated so far beyond the
turbulent, troubled times he lived in, that men looked askance upon a
power they but dimly understood. The sturdy “Trimmer,” who would be
bullied neither by king nor commons, who would “speak his mind and not
be hanged as long as there was law in England,” must have turned with
infinite relief from the horrible medley of plots and counterplots,
from the ugly images of Oates and Dangerfield, from the scaffolds
of Stafford and Russell and Sidney, from the Bloody Circuit and the
massacre of Glencoe, from the false smiles of princes and the howling
arrogance of the mob, to any jest, however “severe,” which would
restore to him his cold and fastidious serenity, and keep his judgment
and his good temper unimpaired. “Ridicule is the test of truth,”
said Hazlitt, and it is a test which Halifax remorselessly applied,
and which would not be without its uses to the Trimmer of to-day, in
whom this adjusting sense is lamentably lacking. For humor distorts
nothing, and only false gods are laughed off their earthly pedestals.
What monstrous absurdities and paradoxes have resisted whole batteries
of serious arguments, and then crumbled swiftly into dust before the
ringing death-knell of a laugh! What healthy exultation, what genial
warmth, what loyal brotherhood of mirth, attends the friendly sound!
Yet in labeling our life and literature, as the Danes labeled their
Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, “Not for amusement merely,” we have pushed
one step further, and the legend too often stands, “Not for amusement
at all.” Life is no laughing matter, we are told, which is true;
and, what is still more dismal to contemplate, books are no laughing
matters, either. Only now and then some gay, defiant rebel, like Mr.
Saintsbury, flaunts the old flag, hums a bar of “Blue Bonnets over
the Border,” and ruffles the quiet waters of our souls by hinting that
this age of Apollinaris and of lectures is at fault, and that it has
produced nothing which can vie as literature with the products of the
ages of wine and song.
ENGLISH LOVE-SONGS.
In a fair and far-off country, hidden to none, though visited by few,
dwell a little band of lovely ladies, to whose youth and radiance the
poets have added the crowning gift of immortality.
“Humor distorts nothing, and only false gods are laughed off their earthly pedestals.”
” Yet this was the first statesman of his age,
and one whose clear and tranquil vision penetrated so far beyond the
turbulent, troubled times he lived in, that men looked askance upon a
power they but dimly understood. The sturdy “Trimmer,” who would be
bullied neither by king nor commons, who would “speak his mind and not
be hanged as long as there was law in England,” must have turned with
infinite relief from the horrible medley of plots and counterplots,
from the ugly images of Oates and Dangerfield, from the scaffolds
of Stafford and Russell and Sidney, from the Bloody Circuit and the
massacre of Glencoe, from the false smiles of princes and the howling
arrogance of the mob, to any jest, however “severe,” which would
restore to him his cold and fastidious serenity, and keep his judgment
and his good temper unimpaired. “Ridicule is the test of truth,”
said Hazlitt, and it is a test which Halifax remorselessly applied,
and which would not be without its uses to the Trimmer of to-day, in
whom this adjusting sense is lamentably lacking. For humor distorts
nothing, and only false gods are laughed off their earthly pedestals.
What monstrous absurdities and paradoxes have resisted whole batteries
of serious arguments, and then crumbled swiftly into dust before the
ringing death-knell of a laugh! What healthy exultation, what genial
warmth, what loyal brotherhood of mirth, attends the friendly sound!
Yet in labeling our life and literature, as the Danes labeled their
Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, “Not for amusement merely,” we have pushed
one step further, and the legend too often stands, “Not for amusement
at all.” Life is no laughing matter, we are told, which is true;
and, what is still more dismal to contemplate, books are no laughing
matters, either. Only now and then some gay, defiant rebel, like Mr.
Saintsbury, flaunts the old flag, hums a bar of “Blue Bonnets over
the Border,” and ruffles the quiet waters of our souls by hinting that
this age of Apollinaris and of lectures is at fault, and that it has
produced nothing which can vie as literature with the products of the
ages of wine and song.
“It is not easy to find happiness in ourselves, and it is not possible to find it elsewhere.”
“We cannot really love anyone with with whom we never laugh”
“A kitten is chiefly remarkable for rushing about like mad at nothing whatever, and generally stopping before it gets there.”
“It has been well said that tea is suggestive of a thousand wants, from which spring the decencies and luxuries of civilization.”
“In the stress of modern life, how little room is left for that most comfortable vanity that whispers in our ears that failures are not faults! Now we are taught from infancy that we must rise or fall upon our own merits; that vigilance wins success, and incapacity means ruin.”
“Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding.”
“The pessimist is seldom an agitating individual. His creed breeds indifference to others, and he does not trouble himself to thrust his views upon the unconvinced.”
“A villain must be a thing of power, handled with delicacy and grace. He must be wicked enough to excite our aversion, strong enough to arouse our fear, human enough to awaken some transient gleam of sympathy. We must triumph in his downfall, yet not barbarously nor with contempt, and the close of his career must be in harmony with all its previous development.”
“The clear sighted do not rule the world, but they sustain and console it”
“It is as impossible to withhold education from the receptive mind, as it is impossible to force it upon the unreasoning.”
“There are few nudities so objectionable as the naked truth”
“Laughter springs from the lawless part of our nature”
“The thinkers of the world should by rights be guardians of the worlds mirth”
“People who cannot recognize a palpable absurdity are very much in the way of civilization”
