elbowing his way, or quivering with ill-bred impatience.  Turn to him for help in a crowd, and feel the bright sureness of his response.  Watch him under ordinary conditions, and observe his large measure of forbearance with the social deficiencies of his neighbour.  Like Steele, he deems it humanity to laugh at an indifferent jest, and he has thereby earned for himself the reputation of being readily diverted.  If he lacks the urbanities which embellish conversation, he is correspondingly free from the brutalities which degrade it.  If his instinct does not prompt him to say something agreeable, it saves him from being wantonly unkind.  Plain truths may be salutary; but unworthy truths are those which are destitute of any spiritual quality, which are not noble in themselves, and which are not nobly spoken; which may be trusted to offend, and which have never been known to illuminate.  It is not for such asperities that we have perfected through the ages the priceless gift of language, that we seek to meet one another in the pleasant comradeship of life.

The Mission of Humour

   “Laughter is my object:  ’tis a property
    In man, essential to his reason.” 
THOMAS RANDOLPH, The Muses’ Looking-Glass.

American humour is the pride of American hearts.  It is held to be our splendid national characteristic, which we flaunt in the faces of other nations, conceiving them to have been less favoured by Providence.  Just as the most effective way to disparage an author or an acquaintance—­and we have often occasion to disparage both—­is to say that he lacks a sense of humour, so the most effective criticism we can pass upon a nation is to deny it this valuable quality.  American critics have written the most charming things about the keenness of American speech, the breadth and insight of American drollery, the electric current in American veins; and we, reading these pleasant felicitations, are wont to thank God with greater fervour than the occasion demands that we are more merry and wise than our neighbours.  Mr. Brander Matthews, for example, has told us that there are newspaper writers in New York who have cultivated a wit, “not unlike Voltaire’s.”  He mistrusts this wit because he finds it “corroding and disintegrating”; but he makes the comparison with that casual assurance which is a feature of American criticism.

Indeed, our delight in our own humour has tempted us to overrate both its literary value and its corrective qualities.  We are never so apt to lose our sense of proportion as when we consider those beloved writers whom we hold to be humourists because they have made us laugh.  It may be conceded that, as a people, we have an abiding and somewhat disquieting sense of fun.  We are nimble of speech, we are more prone to levity than to seriousness, we are able to recognize a vital truth when it is presented to us under the familiar aspect of a jest, and we habitually allow