Orleans. I know him to be valiant.
Constable. I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
Orleans. What’s he?
Constable. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said, he car’d not who knew it.
Henry V. Shakespear.
Millament. Sententious Mirabell! pr’ythee don’t look with that violent and inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the child in an old tapestry hanging.
Way of the world.
A true critic in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones.
Tale of a Tub.
In the following instances the ridicule is made to appear from the behaviour of the persons introduced.
Mascarille. Te souvient-il, vicomte, de cette demi-lune, que nous emportâmes sur les ennemis au siege d’Arras?
Jedelet. Que veux tu dire avec ta demi-lune? c’etoit bien une lune toute entiere.
Moliere les Precieuses Ridicules, sc. 11.
Slender. I came yonder at Eaton to marry Mrs. Anne Page; and she’s a great lubberly boy.
Page. Upon my life then you took the wrong.
Slender. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl: if I had been marry’d to him, for all he was in woman’s apparel, I would not have had him.
Merry Wives of Windsor.
Valentine. Your blessing, Sir.
Sir Sampson. You’ve had it already, Sir: I think I sent it you to-day in a bill for four thousand pound; a great deal of money, Brother Foresight.
Foresight. Ay indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a young man; I wonder what can he do with it.
Love for Love, act 2. sc. 7.
Millamant. I nauseate walking; ’tis a country-diversion; I lothe the country, and every thing that relates to it.
Sir Wilful. Indeed! hah! look ye, look ye, you do? nay, ’tis like you may—— here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like; that must be confess’d indeed.
Millamant. Ah l’etourdie! I hate the town too.
Sir Wilful. Dear heart, that’s much—— hah! that you should hate ’em both! hah! ’tis like you may; there are some can’t relish the town, and others can’t away with the country—— ’tis like you may be one of those, Cousine.
Way of the world, act 4. sc. 4.
Lord Froth. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at no body’s jest but my own, or a lady’s: I assure you, Sir Paul.
Brisk. How? how, my Lord? what, affront my wit! Let me perish, do I never say any thing worthy to be laugh’d at?
Lord Froth. O foy, don’t misapprehend me, I don’t say so, for I often smile at your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality, than to laugh; ’tis such a vulgar expression of the passion! every body can laugh. Then especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when any body else of the same quality does not laugh with one; ridiculous! To be pleas’d with what pleases the crowd! Now, when I laugh I always laugh alone.
Double Dealer, act 1. sc. 4.
So sharp-sighted is pride in blemishes, and so willing to be gratified, that it will take up with the very slightest improprieties; such as a blunder by a foreigner in speaking our language, especially if the blunder can bear a sense that reflects upon the speaker:
Quickly. The young man is an honest man.
Caius. What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet.
Merry Wives of Windsor.
Love-speeches are finely ridiculed in the following passage.
Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar manner. It consists in laughing at a man under disguise, by appearing to praise or speak well of him. Swift affords us many illustrious examples of this species of ridicule. Take the following example. “By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer, capable of managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For what though his head be empty, provided his commonplace book be full? And if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he shall see occasion; he will desire no more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller’s shelf, there to be preserved neat and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title, fairly inscribed on a label; never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library; but when the fullness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky[17].” The following passage from Arbuthnot is not less ironical. “If the Reverend clergy showed more concern than others, I charitably impute it to their great charge of souls; and what confirmed me in this opinion was, that the degrees of apprehension and terror could be distinguished to be greater or less, according to their ranks and degrees in the church[18].”
A parody must be distinguished from every species of ridicule. It enlivens a gay subject by imitating some important incident that is serious. It is ludicrous, and may be risible. But ridicule is not a necessary ingredient. Take the following examples, the first of which refers to an expression of Moses.
The next is an imitation of Achilles’s oath in Homer.
The following imitates the history of Agamemnon’s sceptre in Homer.
Ridicule, as observed above, is no necessary ingredient in a parody. But I did not intend to say, that there is any opposition betwixt them. A parody, no doubt, may be successfully employed to promote ridicule; witness the following example, in which the goddess of Dullness is addressed upon the subject of modern education.
The interposition of the gods in the manner of Homer and Virgil, ought to be confined to ludicrous subjects, which are much enlivened by such interposition handled in the form of a parody; witness the cave of Spleen, Rape of the Lock, canto 4.; the goddess of Discord; Lutrin, canto 1.; and the goddess of Indolence, canto 2.
Those who have a talent for ridicule, which is seldom united with a taste for delicate and refined beauties, are quick-sighted in improprieties; and these they eagerly lay hold of, in order to gratify their favourite propensity. The persons galled have no other refuge but to maintain, that ridicule ought not to be applied to grave subjects. It is yielded, on the other hand, that subjects really grave and important, are by no means fit for ridicule: but then it is urged, that ridicule is the only proper test for discovering whether a subject be really grave, or be made so artificially by custom and fashion. This dispute has produced a celebrated question, Whether ridicule be or be not a test of truth? I give this question a place here, because it tends to illustrate the nature of ridicule.
The question stated in accurate terms is, Whether the sense of ridicule be the proper test for distinguishing ridiculous objects from those that are not so? To answer this question with precision, I must premise, that ridicule is not a subject of reasoning, but of sense or taste[20]. This being taken for granted, I proceed thus. No person doubts that our sense of beauty is the true test of what is beautiful, and our sense of grandeur, of what is great or sublime. Is it more doubtful whether our sense of ridicule be the true test of what is ridiculous? It is not only the true test, but indeed the only test. For this is a subject that comes not, more than beauty or grandeur, under the province of reason. If any subject, by the influence of fashion or custom, have acquired a degree of veneration or esteem to which naturally it is not intitled, what are the proper means for wiping off the artificial colouring, and displaying the subject in its true light? Reasoning, as observed, cannot be applied. And therefore the only means is to judge by taste. The test of ridicule which separates it from its artificial connections, exposes it naked with all its native improprieties.
But it is urged, that the gravest and most serious matters may be set in a ridiculous light. Hardly so; for where an object is neither risible nor improper, it lies not open in any quarter to an attack from ridicule. But supposing the fact, I foresee not any harmful consequence. By the same sort of reasoning, a talent for wit ought to be condemned, because it may be employed to burlesque a great or lofty subject. Such irregular use made of a talent for wit or ridicule, cannot long impose upon mankind. It cannot stand the test of correct and delicate taste; and truth will at last prevail even with the vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule because it may be perverted to wrong purposes, is not a little ridiculous. Could one forbear to smile, if a talent for reasoning were condemned because it also may be perverted? And yet the conclusion in the latter case, would be not less just than in the former; perhaps more just, for no talent is so often perverted as that of reason.
We had best leave Nature to her own operations. The most valuable talents may be abused, and so may that of ridicule. Let us bring it under proper culture if we can, without endeavouring to pull it up by the root. Were we destitute of this test of truth, I know not what might be the consequences: I see not what rule would be left us to prevent splendid trifles passing for matters of importance, show and form for substance, and superstition or enthusiasm for pure religion.
WIT.
WIt is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions. The term is never applied to an action or a passion, and as little to an external object.
However difficult it may be in every particular instance to distinguish a witty thought or expression from one that is not so, yet in general it may be laid down, that the term wit is appropriated to such thoughts and expressions as are ludicrous, and also occasion some degree of surprise by their singularity. Wit also in a figurative sense expresses that talent which some men have of inventing ludicrous thoughts or expressions. We say commonly, a witty man, or a man of wit.
Wit in its proper sense, as suggested above, is distinguishable into two kinds; wit in the thought, and wit in the words or expression. Again, wit in the thought is of two kinds; ludicrous images, and ludicrous combinations of things that have little or no natural relation.
Ludicrous images that occasion surprise by their singularity, as having little or no foundation in nature, are fabricated by the imagination. And the imagination is well qualified for the office; being of all our faculties the most active, and the least under restraint. Take the following example.
Shylock. You knew (none so well, none so well as you) of my daughter’s flight.
Salino. That’s certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.
Merchant of Venice, act 3. sc. 1.
The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous: and it must occasion surprise; for having no natural foundation, it is altogether unexpected.
The other branch of wit in the thought, is that only which is taken notice of by Addison, following Locke, who defines it “to lie in the assemblage of ideas; and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy[21].” It may be defined more curtly, and perhaps more accurately, “A junction of things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because they are unexpected[22].” The following is a proper example.
Wit is of all the most elegant recreation. The image enters the mind with gaiety, and gives a sudden flash which is extremely pleasant. Wit thereby gently elevates without straining, raises mirth without dissoluteness, and relaxes while it entertains.
Wit in the expression, commonly called a play of words, being a bastard sort of wit, is reserved for the last place. I proceed to examples of wit in the thought. And first of ludicrous images.
Falstaff, speaking of his taking Sir John Colevile of the Dale:
Here he is, and here I yield him; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book’d with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top of it, Colevile kissing my foot: to the which course if I be inforc’d, if you do not all shew like gilt twopences to me; and I, in the clear sky of fame, o’er-shine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which shew like pins’ heads to her; believe not the word of the Noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.
Second part, Henry IV. act 4. sc. 6.
I knew, when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, if you said so, then I said so; and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your if is the only peacemaker; much virtue is in if.
Shakespear.
For there is not through all nature, another so callous and insensible a member as the world’s posteriors, whether you apply to it the toe or the birch.
Preface to a Tale of a tub.
The war hath introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will never be able to live many more campaigns. Speculations, operations, preliminaries, ambassadors, palisadoes, communication, circumvallation, battalions, as numerous as they are, if they attack us too frequently in our coffeehouses, we shall certainly put them to flight, and cut off the rear.
Tatler, Nº 230.
Speaking of Discord, “She never went abroad, but she brought home such a bundle of monstrous lies, as would have amazed any mortal, but such as knew her; of a whale that had swallowed a fleet of ships; of the lions being let out of the tower to destroy the Protestant religion; of the Pope’s being seen in a brandy-shop at Wapping,” &c.
History of John Bull, part. 1. ch. 16.
The other branch of wit in the thought, viz. ludicrous combinations and oppositions, may be traced through various ramifications. And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have no natural relation to the effects produced.
Lancaster. Fare you well, Falstaff; I, in my condition, Shall better speak of you than you deserve. [Exit.
Falstaff. I would you had but the wit; ’twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine. There’s never any of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards; which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it; it ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish, dull, and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which deliver’d o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which before cold and settled left the liver white and pale; which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice: but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards, to the parts extreme; it illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great, and puff’d up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage: and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it, that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and till’d, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertil sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should be to forswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack.
Second part of Henry IV. act. 4. sc. 7.
Speaking of physicians,
Le bon de cette profession est, qu’il y a parmi les morts une honnêteté, une discretion la plus grande du monde; jamais on n’en voit se plaindre du médicin qui l’a tué.
Le medicin malgré lui.
Belinda. Lard, he has so pester’d me with flames and stuff—I think I shan’t endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth.
Old Bachelor, act 2. sc. 8.
To account for effects by such fantastical causes, being highly ludicrous, is quite improper in any serious composition. Therefore the following passage from Cowley, in his poem on the death of Sir Henry Wooton, is in a bad taste.
Fanciful reasoning,
Falstaff. Imbowell’d!—— if thou imbowel me to-day, I’ll give you leave to powder me, and eat me to-morrow! ’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit; to die is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life, indeed.
First Part Henry IV. act 1. sc. 10.
Clown. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even Christian.
Hamlet, Act 5. sc. 1.
Pedro. Will you have me, Lady?
Beatrice. No, my Lord, unless I might have another for working days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day.
Much ado about nothing, act 2. sc. 5.
Jessica. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian.
Launcelot. Truly the more to blame he; we were Christians enough before, e’en as many as could well live by one another: this making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not have a rasher on the coals for money.
Merchant of Venice, act 3. sc. 6.
Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal importance.
Joining things that in appearance are opposite. As for example, where Sir Roger de Coverley, in the Spectator, speaking of his widow, “That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen; and that her finger should have sparkled with one hundred of his richest acres.”
Premisses that promise much and perform nothing. Cicero upon this article says, “Sed scitis esse notissimum ridiculi genus, cum aliud expectamus, aliud dicitur: hic nobismetipsis noster error risum movet[23].”
Beatrice.—— With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, if he could get her good-will.
Much ado about nothing, act 2. sc. 1.
Beatrice. I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church by day-light.
ibid.
Again,
Again,
Having discussed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is verbal only, commonly called a play of words. This sort of wit depends for the most part upon chusing words that have different significations. By this artifice, hocus-pocus tricks are played in language; and thoughts plain and simple take on a very different appearance. Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labour; and accordingly man loves play. He even relisheth a play of words; and it is happy for us, that words can be employed, not only for useful purposes, but also for our amusement. This amusement accordingly, though humble and low, is relished by some at all times, and by all at some times, in order to unbend the mind.
It is remarkable, that this low species of wit, has, at one time or other, made a figure in most civilized nations, and has gradually gone into disrepute. So soon as a language is formed into a system, and the meaning of words are ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportunity is afforded for expressions, which, by the double meaning of some words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new. And the penetration of the reader or hearer, is gratified in detecting the true sense disguised under the double meaning. That this sort of wit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, during the reigns of Elisabeth and James I. is vouched by the works of Shakespear, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have any long endurance: for as language ripens, and the meaning of words is more and more ascertained, words held to be synonymous diminish daily; and when those that remain have been more than once employed, the pleasure vanisheth with the novelty.
I proceed to examples, which, as in the former case, shall be distributed into different classes.
A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word.
A seeming contrast from the same cause, termed a verbal antithesis, which hath no despicable effect in ludicrous subjects.
Other seeming connections from the same cause.
Speaking of Prince Eugene. “This General is a great taker of snuff as well as of towns.”
Pope, Key to the Lock.
A seeming inconsistency from the same cause.
Again,
Again,
Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem; witness the following line in Pope’s Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady:
This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift:
Taking a word in a different sense from what is meant, comes under wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise.
Beatrice. I may sit in a corner, and cry Heigh ho! for a husband.
Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Beatrice. I would rather have one of your father’s getting: hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.
Much ado about nothing, act 2. sc. 5.
Falstaff. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.
Pistol. Two yards and more.
Falstaff. No quips now, Pistol: indeed, I am in the waste two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift.
Merry wives of Windsor, act 1. sc. 7.
Lo. Sands.—— By your leave, sweet ladies, If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me: I had it from my father.
Anne Bullen. Was he mad, Sir?
Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too; But he would bite none——
K. Henry VIII.
An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, one wrong; but so connected with other matters as to direct us to the wrong meaning. This species of bastard wit is distinguished from all others by the name pun. For example,
The pun is in the close. The word disarm has a double meaning. It signifies to take off a man’s armour, and also to subdue him in fight. We are directed to the latter sense by the context. But with regard to Helen the word holds only true in the former sense. I go on with other examples.