Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (601 page)

There must be many, even in the circle of Dr. Cumming’s admirers, who would be revolted by the doctrine we have just exposed, if their natural good sense and healthy feeling were not early stifled by dogmatic beliefs, and their reverence misled by pious phrases.  But as it is, many a rational question, many a generous instinct, is repelled as the suggestion of a supernatural enemy, or as the ebullition of human pride and corruption.  This state of inward contradiction can be put an end to only by the conviction that the free and diligent exertion of the intellect, instead of being a sin, is part of their responsibility — that Right and Reason are synonymous.  The fundamental faith for man is, faith in the result of a brave, honest, and steady use of all his faculties:

“Let knowledge grow from more to more,
   But more of reverence in us dwell;
   That mind and soul according well
May make one music as before,
   But vaster.”

Before taking leave of Dr. Cumming, let us express a hope that we have in no case exaggerated the unfavorable character of the inferences to be drawn from his pages.  His creed often obliges him to hope the worst of men, and exert himself in proving that the worst is true; but thus far we are happier
than he.  We have no theory which requires us to attribute unworthy motives to Dr. Cumming, no opinions, religious or irreligious, which can make it a gratification to us to detect him in delinquencies.  On the contrary, the better we are able to think of him as a man, while we are obliged to disapprove him as a theologian, the stronger will be the evidence for our conviction, that the tendency toward good in human nature has a force which no creed can utterly counteract, and which insures the ultimate triumph of that tendency over all dogmatic perversions.

“Nothing,” says Goethe, “is more significant of men’s character than what they find laughable.”  The truth of this observation would perhaps have been more apparent if he had said
culture
instead of character.  The last thing in which the cultivated man can have community with the vulgar is their jocularity; and we can hardly exhibit more strikingly the wide gulf which separates him from them, than by comparing the object which shakes the diaphragm of a coal-heaver with the highly complex pleasure derived from a real witticism.  That any high order of wit is exceedingly complex, and demands a ripe and strong mental development, has one evidence in the fact that we do not find it in boys at all in proportion to their manifestation of other powers.  Clever boys generally aspire to the heroic and poetic rather than the comic, and the crudest of all their efforts are their jokes.  Many a witty man will remember how in his school days a practical joke, more or less Rabelaisian, was for him the
ne plus ultra
of the ludicrous.  It seems to have been the same with the boyhood of the human race.  The history and literature of the ancient Hebrews gives the idea of a people who went about their business and their pleasure as gravely as a society of beavers; the smile and the laugh are often mentioned metaphorically, but the smile is one of complacency, the laugh is one of scorn.  Nor can we imagine that the facetious element was very strong in the
Egyptians; no laughter lurks in the wondering eyes and the broad calm lips of their statues.  Still less can the Assyrians have had any genius for the comic: the round eyes and simpering satisfaction of their ideal faces belong to a type which is not witty, but the cause of wit in others.  The fun of these early races was, we fancy, of the after-dinner kind — loud-throated laughter over the wine-cup, taken too little account of in sober moments to enter as an element into their Art, and differing as much from the laughter of a Chamfort or a Sheridan as the gastronomic enjoyment of an ancient Briton, whose dinner had no other “removes” than from acorns to beech-mast and back again to acorns, differed from the subtle pleasures of the palate experienced by his turtle-eating descendant.  In fact they had to live seriously through the stages which to subsequent races were to become comedy, as those amiable-looking preadamite amphibia which Professor Owen has restored for us in effigy at Sydenham, took perfectly
au sérieux
the grotesque physiognomies of their kindred.  Heavy experience in their case, as in every other, was the base from which the salt of future wit was to be made.

Humor is of earlier growth than Wit, and it is in accordance with this earlier growth that it has more affinity with the poetic tendencies, while Wit is more nearly allied to the ratiocinative intellect.  Humor draws its materials from situations and characteristics; Wit seizes on unexpected and complex relations.  Humor is chiefly representative and descriptive; it is diffuse, and flows along without any other law than its own fantastic will; or it flits about like a will-of-the-wisp, amazing us by its whimsical transitions.  Wit is brief and sudden, and sharply defined as a crystal; it does not make pictures, it is not fantastic; but it detects an unsuspected analogy or suggests a startling or confounding inference.  Every one who has had the opportunity of making the comparison will remember that the effect produced on him by some witticisms is closely akin to the effect produced on him by subtle reasoning which lays open a fallacy or absurdity, and there are persons whose delight in
such reasoning always manifests itself in laughter.  This affinity of wit with ratiocination is the more obvious in proportion as the species of wit is higher and deals less with less words and with superficialities than with the essential qualities of things.  Some of Johnson’s most admirable witticisms consist in the suggestion of an analogy which immediately exposes the absurdity of an action or proposition; and it is only their ingenuity, condensation, and instantaneousness which lift them from reasoning into Wit — they are
reasoning raised to a higher power
.  On the other hand, Humor, in its higher forms, and in proportion as it associates itself with the sympathetic emotions, continually passes into poetry: nearly all great modern humorists may be called prose poets.

Some confusion as to the nature of Humor has been created by the fact that those who have written most eloquently on it have dwelt almost exclusively on its higher forms, and have defined humor in general as the
sympathetic
presentation of incongruous elements in human nature and life — a definition which only applies to its later development.  A great deal of humor may coexist with a great deal of barbarism, as we see in the Middle Ages; but the strongest flavor of the humor in such cases will come, not from sympathy, but more probably from triumphant egoism or intolerance; at best it will be the love of the ludicrous exhibiting itself in illustrations of successful cunning and of the
lex talionis
as in
Reineke Fuchs
, or shaking off in a holiday mood the yoke of a too exacting faith, as in the old Mysteries.  Again, it is impossible to deny a high degree of humor to many practical jokes, but no sympathetic nature can enjoy them.  Strange as the genealogy may seem, the original parentage of that wonderful and delicious mixture of fun, fancy, philosophy, and feeling, which constitutes modern humor, was probably the cruel mockery of a savage at the writhings of a suffering enemy — such is the tendency of things toward the good and beautiful on this earth!  Probably the reason why high culture demands more complete harmony with its moral sympathies in humor than in wit, is
that humor is in its nature more prolix — that it has not the direct and irresistible force of wit.  Wit is an electric shock, which takes us by violence, quite independently of our predominant mental disposition; but humor approaches us more deliberately and leaves us masters of ourselves.  Hence it is, that while coarse and cruel humor has almost disappeared from contemporary literature, coarse and cruel wit abounds; even refined men cannot help laughing at a coarse
bon mot
or a lacerating personality, if the “shock” of the witticism is a powerful one; while mere fun will have no power over them if it jar on their moral taste.  Hence, too, it is, that while wit is perennial, humor is liable to become superannuated.

As is usual with definitions and classifications, however, this distinction between wit and humor does not exactly represent the actual fact.  Like all other species, Wit and Humor overlap and blend with each other.  There are
bon mots
, like many of Charles Lamb’s, which are a sort of facetious hybrids, we hardly know whether to call them witty or humorous; there are rather lengthy descriptions or narratives, which, like Voltaire’s “Micromégas,” would be more humorous if they were not so sparkling and antithetic, so pregnant with suggestion and satire, that we are obliged to call them witty.  We rarely find wit untempered by humor, or humor without a spice of wit; and sometimes we find them both united in the highest degree in the same mind, as in Shakespeare and Molière.  A happy conjunction this, for wit is apt to be cold, and thin-lipped, and Mephistophelean in men who have no relish for humor, whose lungs do never crow like Chanticleer at fun and drollery; and broad-faced, rollicking humor needs the refining influence of wit.  Indeed, it may be said that there is no really fine writing in which wit has not an implicit, if not an explicit, action.  The wit may never rise to the surface, it may never flame out into a witticism; but it helps to give brightness and transparency, it warns off from flights and exaggerations which verge on the ridiculous — in every
genre
of writing it preserves a man from sinking into the
genre ennuyeux
.  And it is eminently
needed for this office in humorous writing; for as humor has no limits imposed on it by its material, no law but its own exuberance, it is apt to become preposterous and wearisome unless checked by wit, which is the enemy of all monotony, of all lengthiness, of all exaggeration.

Perhaps the nearest approach Nature has given us to a complete analysis, in which wit is as thoroughly exhausted of humor as possible, and humor as bare as possible of wit, is in the typical Frenchman and the typical German.  Voltaire, the intensest example of pure wit, fails in most of his fictions from his lack of humor.  “Micromégas” is a perfect tale, because, as it deals chiefly with philosophic ideas and does not touch the marrow of human feeling and life, the writer’s wit and wisdom were all-sufficient for his purpose.  Not so with “Candide.”  Here Voltaire had to give pictures of life as well as to convey philosophic truth and satire, and here we feel the want of humor.  The sense of the ludicrous is continually defeated by disgust, and the scenes, instead of presenting us with an amusing or agreeable picture, are only the frame for a witticism.  On the other hand, German humor generally shows no sense of measure, no instinctive tact; it is either floundering and clumsy as the antics of a leviathan, or laborious and interminable as a Lapland day, in which one loses all hope that the stars and quiet will ever come.  For this reason, Jean Paul, the greatest of German humorists, is unendurable to many readers, and frequently tiresome to all.  Here, as elsewhere, the German shows the absence of that delicate perception, that sensibility to gradation, which is the essence of tact and taste, and the necessary concomitant of wit.  All his subtlety is reserved for the region of metaphysics.  For
Identität
in the abstract no one can have an acuter vision, but in the concrete he is satisfied with a very loose approximation.  He has the finest nose for
Empirismus
in philosophical doctrine, but the presence of more or less tobacco smoke in the air he breathes is imperceptible to him.  To the typical German —
Vetter Michel
— it is indifferent whether his door-lock will catch, whether his teacup be more
or less than an inch thick; whether or not his book have every other leaf unstitched; whether his neighbor’s conversation be more or less of a shout; whether he pronounce
b
or
p
,
t
or
d
; whether or not his adored one’s teeth be few and far between.  He has the same sort of insensibility to gradations in time.  A German comedy is like a German sentence: you see no reason in its structure why it should ever come to an end, and you accept the conclusion as an arrangement of Providence rather than of the author.  We have heard Germans use the word
Langeweile
, the equivalent for ennui, and we have secretly wondered
what
it can be that produces ennui in a German.  Not the longest of long tragedies, for we have known him to pronounce that
höchst fesselnd
(
so
enchaining!); not the heaviest of heavy books, for he delights in that as
gründlich
(deep, Sir, deep!); not the slowest of journeys in a
Postwagen
, for the slower the horses, the more cigars he can smoke before he reaches his journey’s end.  German ennui must be something as superlative as Barclay’s treble X, which, we suppose, implies an extremely unknown quantity of stupefaction.

It is easy to see that this national deficiency in nicety of perception must have its effect on the national appreciation and exhibition of Humor.  You find in Germany ardent admirers of Shakespeare, who tell you that what they think most admirable in him is his
Wortspiel
, his verbal quibbles; and one of these, a man of no slight culture and refinement, once cited to a friend of ours Proteus’s joke in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” — “Nod I? why that’s Noddy,” as a transcendant specimen of Shakespearian wit.  German facetiousness is seldom comic to foreigners, and an Englishman with a swelled cheek might take up
Kladderadatsch
, the German Punch, without any danger of agitating his facial muscles.  Indeed, it is a remarkable fact that, among the five great races concerned in modern civilization, the German race is the only one which, up to the present century, had contributed nothing classic to the common stock of European wit and humor; for
Reineke Fuchs
cannot be regarded as a peculiarly Teutonic
product.  Italy was the birthplace of Pantomime and the immortal Pulcinello; Spain had produced Cervantes; France had produced Rabelais and Molière, and classic wits innumerable; England had yielded Shakspeare and a host of humorists.  But Germany had borne no great comic dramatist, no great satirist, and she has not yet repaired the omission; she had not even produced any humorist of a high order.  Among her great writers, Lessing is the one who is the most specifically witty.  We feel the implicit influence of wit — the “flavor of mind” — throughout his writings; and it is often concentrated into pungent satire, as every reader of the
Hamburgische Dramaturgie
remembers.  Still Lessing’s name has not become European through his wit, and his charming comedy,
Minna von Barnhelm
, has won no place on a foreign stage.  Of course we do not pretend to an exhaustive acquaintance with German literature; we not only admit — we are sure that it includes much comic writing of which we know nothing.  We simply state the fact, that no German production of that kind, before the present century, ranked as European; a fact which does not, indeed, determine the
amount
of the national facetiousness, but which is quite decisive as to its
quality
.  Whatever may be the stock of fun which Germany yields for home consumption, she has provided little for the palate of other lands.  All honor to her for the still greater things she has done for us!  She has fought the hardest fight for freedom of thought, has produced the grandest inventions, has made magnificent contributions to science, has given us some of the divinest poetry, and quite the divinest music in the world.  No one reveres and treasures the products of the German mind more than we do.  To say that that mind is not fertile in wit is only like saying that excellent wheat land is not rich pasture; to say that we do not enjoy German facetiousness is no more than to say that, though the horse is the finest of quadrupeds, we do not like him to lay his hoof playfully on our shoulder.  Still, as we have noticed that the pointless puns and stupid jocularity of the boy may ultimately be developed into the epigrammatic
brilliancy and polished playfulness of the man; as we believe that racy wit and chastened delicate humor are inevitably the results of invigorated and refined mental activity, we can also believe that Germany will, one day, yield a crop of wits and humorists.