Originally published in Fraser's Magazine (James Fraser) vol.3 #14 (Mar 1831).
To laugh is the privilege of man. It is beyond comparison the most valuable right that he can boast of. It is, moreover, peculiar to himself. No animal but he (for we do not admit our friend, the hyzena, to be an exception,) can achieve a cachinnation. None but himself can be his parallel—none but himself can "give his cheeks a holiday," in this innocent, admirable, and obstreperous fashion. We think too little of laughter; and far too little of those who make us laugh. They are our greatest benefactors. What is Magna Charta? or the Habeas Corpus? or universal suffrage—(a thing to be exercised once in three or seven years—a poor right to send "a burgess" to parliament for the independent borough of Brib'em) to this? Why this may be exercised every day—every hour—nay, we may split our sides upon every occasion, or no occasion, ten times a minute,—and who shall say us nay? Let us look into this matter a little. We owe a huge debt (on judgment, as the lawyers say,) to comic authors, and we seem a little backward to pay it. Yet it undoubtedly ought to be paid; if with nothing else, at least with gratitude.
All wise men, and men of experience, concur with us in admitting the utility and beauty of laughter. What say Hunter and Harvey,—Baillie and Cheselden:—"When the cachinnatory muscles are duly called into action, these morbid symptoms naturally disappear," &c.—(Hunter on the Nerves, p. 343.) "When the regions about the thorax and lungs are stimulated by laughter, the system resumes, &c., and the arterial vessels perform their functions with ease," &.—(Harvey on the Blood, p. 119, 131.) "When the surface of the cutis is thus abraded, and the eschar formed, nothing dissipates the serum which in those cases forms below the skin, so rapidly or effectually, as that involuntary convulsion of the system, which is vulgarly called laughter or cachinnation," &c.—(Cheselden's Works, vol. ii. p. 17.)—We could multiply our quotations to an incredible extent, were it necessary.
But it is not necessary. Laughter (like rum amongst the Indians,) needs only to be known, in order to be loved. It is a sort of maxim or axiom in nature, which carries conviction with it. It is self-evident. We hear, laugh, and are satisfied: that is all.
Some foolish people, indeed, imagine that laughing is a crime. They are told so by people more foolish than themselves; and upon the strength of this erroneous lesson they grow more lugubrious every day. But these are only the shakers, the ranters, the quaverers, the jumpers, and the various other sects or species, which, together form the genus "Methodist." In all that regards common sense, or rational amusement, they must be left out of calculation. Others, again, object to laughing, from mere vanity: as for instance, the solemn coxcomb fresh from Oxford; the young parson in his first surplice; the bran-new barrister, guiltless of a brief; the poet who has never published; and the numberless number of simpletons and pretenders, young and old, who utter an infinite quantity of nothing, and entrench themselves behind the squares of gravity, because they have no other defence against the wiser portion of the world's contempt. To laugh is to grow wise—it is to become agreeable. We hate to hear a young "member" haranguing by the hour upon the "Corn Laws," at his own table, when he should be pushing about the bottle; or a blockhead with bands under his chin, challenging the orthodoxy of Hooker or Jeremy Taylor, Barrow or South; or an author in embryo, swaggering about the streets, with his neck bare, and a black silk ribbon round his throat, looking as lofty as a mountain, upon the strength of the mouse that he is about to produce. Give us a laugh—nay, a grin, as broad as broad Scotch—or any thing else that is broadest of the broad—a thing, in short of infinite latitude, and in which the longitude cannot be found. We have a great liking for laughter, and we do not care who knows it; and our respect for the creators of laughter is absolutely immeasurable.
There is a good story, (in the Mirror, or Lounger, or Connoisseur, we forget which,) of a man, who dismisses all the common notions of respect from his mind; and in lieu of prostrating himself before wealth or rank, bows with the utmost humility before his superiors in health. He turns his back upon a paralytic duke, but bends his periwig to the dust before a peasant or artificer who has cheeks as ruddy as the morning, or sinews that compete with Hercules! And this is, after all, not so absurd. For, if we are to worship men only because they have the greatest power of enjoyment in their reach; it matters little to us from what source it be derived—from an overgrown fortune or a gigantic form; from the three per cent. consols or a rosy face; from a good constitution or a lordly name! It is, perhaps, partly on this account, (from the idea that the movers of laughter must also be the persons who enjoy it the most,) that we entertain such respect for the sons of Momus. Our gratitude, however, depends of course upon another cause,—the pleasure which they yield and have for many a year yielded to ourselves. What! shall we forget Hogarth, and Gillray, and Bunbury, and Cruikshank? (we mean Cruikshank the illustrious, Greorce—the first of that name—not Robert)—Do we owe nothing to the Marriage à la Mode? to the Harlot's Progress? the Rake's Progress?—to Gin Lane? to Morning, Noon, and Night? to the March to Finchley? Shall we wipe out Gillray and his political jokes from our memory? Bunbury and his caricatures, (Pistol eating his leeks, &c.)? Shall we—but we cannot if we would, for he stares at us from every window—shall we discard from our recollection the inimitable George Cruikshank, who has so often and in so many ways moved our muscles into mirth? We cannot be so base or so thankless to Nature—to roaring, ranting, laughing, riotous Nature—as to forget these things, or grow solemn or supercilious without strong occasion.
It must be now somewhat more than thirty years since we first went to Covent Garden, (old Covent Garden,) and had the starch taken out of our face by the irresistible genius of Munden, We were wise in the Bucolics and Georgics, and deep in Ovid's Metamorphosis, but such a metamorphosis as we then saw we had never contemplated. We scarcely knew that laughter was in us till then. But then—how rapidly it came out and showed itself! Shaking sides, unheard of sounds, (rising from the chuckle to the giggle, from the giggle to the irrepressible roar,) sighs, sobs, (from over exertion,) twitches of the muscles, twinkling eyes, running over with tears—these were the symptoms by which the spirit of Momus first shewed its presence within us; and we have loved him too well, ever to discard or despise him since. Then, what infinite jest lay hid in the visage of old Grimaldi!
"Within the hollow orb of a small eye
A world of laughter."
There he was—the second Joe—(Munden being the first)—with his painted cheeks, and restless dancing legs—the toes turned in, and shewing the enormous scarlet clocks on his stockings—a picture for Sir Joshua! Who ever stole fish—or kissed a chambermaid—or knocked his head against a butcher's tray—or drank small beer—or grew sea-sick—with half the gusto of Joe Grimaldi? No one. He was without an equal; nay, he was without a like—a phœnix of pantomime; and his name was Solus! There were others who looked like him, (jays in peacocks' feathers); there were and are many more active, more noisy than he; but who so rich in fun—so bubbling over with humour? Who ever looked a joke like him?
"Angulus ille ridet."
He gazed askant at you (or at some one else) and drew the laugh from you as certainly as the sun strips the cloak from the back of the roasted traveller. We laughed, and we laugh still, at his infinite grimace—his "most excellent fancy." We honour him, and we honour old Joe Munden; and, despite the gout of the one, and the chronic rheumatism of the other, we never shall cease to do so. The Face of Liston, which closes this gay "eventful history," is alone worthy to succeed these eminent persons. When that broad disk of comic light is clouded and closed for ever, perhaps we may turn to gravity, but not before. Yet, no; we shall rally even then. The playhouse is not the only place for merriment. We have books and authors enough still to drive the devil Care away from us; and, what is best, they will leave their works (our springs of laughter) behind them.
There are Smollett, with his Tabitha and Lismahago, Random, Bowling, Pipes, and all the rest, (a brave family!)—Swift, and his coarse fun—Pigautt Le Brun, a wit of the very first water, unjustly neglected—(who can forget his Uncle Thomas—a book, however, for men only—his Barons of Felsheim; his Monsieur Botte?)—and, lastly, who ever can or will forget Thomas Hood, or Theodore Hook?
We will say a word or two on the productions of these two last supercomical geniuses; and then, by means of a specimen from each, give the reader an opportunity of judging whether our notions concerning them be correct or not.
They are as different from each other as may be. They differ, as devilled turkey-leg au naturel does from devilled turkey-leg with sauce. The elder (Hook) is the leg with sauce. He is a loose, rambling, slap-dash humourist. Nothing comes amiss to him. From a Whig to a watchman—from a fashionable rout to a "blow up" at the Finish—he is your man. He is as little squeamish in his tastes as the dragon of Wantley. He is greater in offence than defence. His eulogy on a friend is but an indiscriminate piece of amity—(he smears him with honey all over)—but his assault is a formidable thing. A slang term, or a nick-name, is to him a mighty and weighty weapon. He batters and bruises his enemy with it at every turn; he hits him every where, over the head, over the eyes, without pause, and without mercy; and, finally, gives over the combat for no other reason than that he has fatigued himself. We remember a person, some years ago, becoming very grave and reprehensive upon Theodore's badgering "Lord Waithman." He could "see nothing to laugh at in such ribald jests on a respectable individual." Notwithstanding this, the critic's sides gave way at the sixth repetition of this identical joke, and he laughed till he shook like a jelly.
Mr. Hook's sketches of character want delicacy and marking, but they are often irresistibly comic; and his dialogues ad absurdum are unctuous and rich to the last degree of discretion. If we judge him by the writers of the present day, he is a rough and not over-nice satirist; but he is masculine and forcible, and we are not aware that he has ever been guilty of any overt expression of indelicacy. Compared with Swift and others he is absolutely refined. In comparison with Canning, Jeffrey, Lord Byron, Moore, the author of Anastasius, and others, he fails in point and finish. But some of his characters are terribly true, and must not be passed over without comment. There is a Sir Frederick Brashleigh in one of his novels, which is not surpassed by any thing of the sort in our recollection. He is a retired (or returned) nabob; as proud, as yellow, as rich, as ill-tempered, and as tyrannical as Bengal or Bahar ever ejected from their bilious regions, to strut and fume "their little hour" here, and taint the wholesome atmosphere of Old England. His "tiffin"—his "bungalow"—his "lacs"—his talk of "the Peishwah"—of "the Nawaub"—of the "musnud—of," &c.—live in our memory like the spots on the back of the serpent. They are true, odious, and full of lustre. No man ever implanted hate or scorn in the breasts of his readers—(hate or scorn for particular characters)—with more effect than Theodore Hook. Whoever remembers the Sir Frederick Brashleigh of whom we have spoken, Skinner, the Fugglestones, Mr. and Mrs. Crosby, (the physic-takers,) &c. &c.—or his old, addle-pated lords—his lank and shrivelled dowagers, (as stiff and as pale as parchment,)—or his bluff, superabundant City madams, who are eternally at war with the alphabet and common sense, &c. &e.,[1] will readily agree with our criticism. In his last novel of Maxwell, there is, we think, less merit of this kind than in some others of his books. Apperton, indeed, and his brothers and sisters of the half-blood, are done to the life; but the rest of the dramatis personæ are, as characters, little remarkable—with, however, one illustrious exception. This exception is a certain Mr. Macleod, "the Honourable East India Company's secretary in the Twankey Twaddle department"—a gentleman as precise, and diplomatic, and free from all sentimentality, as ever was transmitted in the green state from Loch Tay or the Trossachs, and ripened to perfection beneath a Calcutta sun. The following morçeau is, in our opinion, a masterly specimen of dialogue. That the reader may understand it, it is necessary to premise, that Charles Somerford (the hero) goes to consult Mr. Macleod, the Scotch-Indian, on the subject of a lady, (Lady Emily,) who has been offered by her father, Lord Lessingham, to the aforesaid Charles. How it happens that Charles, who is moreover a major, (a "majorr,") should seek advice from the diplomatist of the Twankey Twaddle department, in a matter of such delicate nature, we do not profess to understand; but the advice that he does receive is to be found in the following extract. Macleod opens the colloquy.
"'You ask my advice, Majorr,' said Macleod; 'd'ye want ony advice on sich a pint?' (I consider it right to print Mr. Macleod's words as he thought it right to pronounce them.) 'Can ye have a daut apaun sich a pint, Majorr? Ye must murry my Lady Emily of carse.'
"'And so forfeit my pledge to Mrs. Apperton,' said Charles.
"'Your pledge, Majorr!' said Macleod; 'why, surr, she's murried already, what more woud she have? Besides, 'spose, sir, she's a wuddy, what then? She has no fortun'—not a farden. No, no, she fuggut you, when ye ware out of hare sight, why, in the divil's name, shou'd you be so partiklar abut her—eh, Majorr?'
"'Why, Mr. Macleod,' said Charles, 'she was deceived into the marriage to which she consented.'
"'Deceived was she,' said the Nabob; 'well then there's nothing whatever like deception in the uffer of Lord Lessingham—there's a beautiful bibi saab, Lady Emily, the granddaughter of a Burrah saab like my Lord, with a tittle into the burgain. I only wush I had the reversion of the offer, Majorr.'
"'As a matter of feeling, I really cannot give up my old prepossession,' said Somerford; 'and yet how very advantageous is the prospect which the union with Lady Emily would open to me.'
"'Advantageous prospect,' said Macleod; 'the view from a hill furt is a fool to it—runk and dagnity buth at your feet. Why, even to me, a senior merchant in the Hunnurable Ist Ingy Company's suvvice, late Secretary in the Twanky Twaddle department, and eligible for a sit in cuncil—even I—I tell you so—should jump at the chance of sich an acquisition.'
"'But you would not feel so, if your first love still haunted you, Mr. Macleod,' said Charles, endeavouring to excite the nabob to sentimentality.
"'Fust love, sir!' said Macleod; 'wat in the divil's name has fust love to do with it?—my fust love was a littel cobbling shumaker's daughter in Hedge Lane, Lunnun. I fancied her perfection—I was sixteen years uld at the tim, and I dremt of her by night, and thowt of her by day, and sighed for her, and watched for her both day and night;—a pretty mess I'd have made if I had thowt it necessary to murry Miss Caroline Wagstaffe on my return to England—senior merchant in the Hunnurable Ist Ingy Company's suvvice, and eligible for a sit in cuncil—because she happened to be my fust love.'
"'I admit a peculiarity of feeling upon the point,' said Charles.
"'My dear friend,' said Macleod, 'putting the rank and fortune whully out of the question—only luck at Lady Emily's person and accomplishments—luck at her eyes—demants; luck at her lips—churries; luck at her tith—purrls—and a figgur entire semetry—perfection by Jooputur.'
"'I admit her charms—I—"
"'And as for Mussus Apperton, you know I saw her at Brighton—she's leddylike, I grunt, but passée surely—fine expression of countenance, good eyes and tith, I grunt; but dear me, such a defference in manner. Lady Emily is so delicate—so transparent—so sulph like—I declare to Gud she's puffect, entirely puffect—that's my view o' the case.'
"'Then you think,' said Charles, 'that falsehood to Katherine would be a venial crime.'
"'Falsehood, Majorr!' exclaimed the yellow chief, 'she's murried, I tell ye—she's suttled—she has chosen a spouse, and there an end—its absolutely criminal to bind yourself to one whose hand and heart I hopp are entirely another's. Take my advice, accept with grutitude the uffer of Lord Lessingham, and become the sire of a race of lords yourself.'
"'I will consider the case on my pillow,' said Charles. 'I sincerely thank you for your advice.'
"'Which, if it perfectly coincides with your own feelings, you will follow,' said Macleod; 'my opinion is like that of a cuncil in one of our Istern cullunies, where the membirs say their say, and the Governor does his do; if their nutiuns agree, well and gudd; if they dunt, the cuncil are at liberty to protest, but the Governor's measure is varried—eh, Majorr?'
"'Not so,' said Somerford; 'I will carefully consider the bearings of this extraordinary affair; for I honestly tell you, that so much of happiness as is here presented for my acceptance is enough to startle the firmest heart. of one thing, Mr. Macleod,' continued he, 'that I am not selfish, and that whatever decision I may come to, on this point, I shall be governed by motives which you will not, I am sure, fail to approve.'
"'I have no doubt, my dear Majorr,' said Macleod, 'not in the lest; but, I would just have you put the case fairly and duspassionately, as I did in the memorable time when I was resident at Pallydyneveraram. It cost me nearly two hours, although I was hurried by circumstances, before I resulved upon hanging a Rajah, three of his sons, his uncle Bungabyravamy Row, and two of his nevvies; but I did it, and if I had time, I am sure I could make you see that I was governed by motives which you could not fail to approve.'
"'Mine is a less desperate case,' said Charles, 'So having had the advantage of the opinion of a councillor--'
"'No—not actually--eligible for sit in cuncil, I said,' interrupted the punctilious prig.
"'Eligible for a seat in council,' continued Charles; 'I beg pardon—I will go to my room; and having put all the circumstances fairly before myself, decide and act upon my decision, whatever it may be, the first thing in the morning. And so good night, sir; with many apologies for detaining you so long on my affairs.'
"'Nut a wud—nut a wud, my dear Majorr,' said Macleod. 'I have little doubt what will be the result of your deliberation. You'll murry my Lady Emily, and I shall have the happiness of seeing an excellent, worthy, high-spirited young fellow, united to one of the sweetest creechurs that ever I saw in my whull existence, let the cullur be what it might.'"
Hood is of a famous family. There have been, within our knowledge, four or five great men of the name—Robin, the illustrious archer;—Hood, the great Captain, ('Lord Hood;')—Sir Samuel Hood, the Admiral; and finally—last, but not least—the Comedian Thomas!
Thomas Hood and Theodore Hook differ from each other essentially. The vis comica is very evident in each, but it arises in each from a different cause. Hook's is spontaneous, careless—an overflow of the animal spirits; sometimes dashing with prodigious force against the object, at others ill aimed and ineffective. Hood's jokes are, on the contrary, not produced without effort. His jest book is not written currente calamo. He pauses and points his joke, makes it compact and sharp, and it almost always tells. If he has less natural power over the muscles than Mr. Hook, he makes amends by being more sure and more learned. His Muse is more carefully educated. She does not roam about in her slippers like the buxom damsel of the other, but is more precise, and picks her way more discreetly. Hood never gives such a broadside as the editor of John Bull, but he is more certain in his hits. His jokes are more concentrated. The one expatiates in a strange wild way, and rambles about on all sides of his subject. The other either jumps at once to an antithesis, from 'pole to pole' (as must often be the case in pouncing upon a pun,) or he imprisons his joke in a small compass, so that you are sure never to miss his meaning in a waste of words. He is rich in language; but he is also economical in his use of it, and prospers accordingly. His page is as fertile with jests, as the soil of China. He cultivates every spot. The whole is, in fact, a pleasure ground, where the jokes hang round on all sides; and you may crack them at every turn without trouble.
It is somewhat singular that two men of such different talent, and as we should apprehend of such different temperaments, should do the same sort of thing almost equally well. For the Tour of Mrs. Ramsbottom, of Mr. Hook, is to all intents and purposes, a jest of the same order as Mr. Hood's Parish Revolution. The originator of this species of joke among the moderns is, as far as we recollect, Smollett, and then came Sheridan, his imitator. Mrs. Malaprop is neither more nor less than a reflexion of our old friend Mrs. Tabitha Bramble; only that Tabitha's blunders have become exaggerated, and her humour somewhat faded. And as Mrs. Malaprop is a copy of Miss Bramble, so is Mrs. Ramsbottom a copy of Mrs. Malaprop; and finally, Mrs. Jones, the fair historian of The Parish Revolution, must also be reckoned as a sister of the same family. This last mentioned piece of humour is undoubtedly the brightest part of Hood's last Comic Annual. It is so good, indeed, that we shall take the liberty of transplanting a considerable portion of it into our Magazine, in order that it may flourish in eternal youth, in eternal beauty. We shall preserve it, in the amber of our pages, for the antiquarians and classics of 1990.
After a series of paragraphs, manufactured after the most approved models, and announcing—"alarming news"—"further particulars"—"further, further particulars;" "another account"—"from another quarter"—"a later account;"—after fresh intelligence which comes pouring in at every turn—at "11"—at "12"—at a ¼ past 12"—"½ past 12"—"one"—"two"—"½ past 3"—"4 o'clock;"—after private letters—and articles—and preliminaries, amongst the belligerent parties of Stoge Pogis,—Bridget Jones—(first as well as last of all the Joneses—representative of the Joneses, the Smiths, the Browns, the Whites, &c. &c. &e., the invaluable common people of the earth)—the matchless and never-to-be-forgotten Bridget Jones takes up the goose-quill and begins. The following account was obtained by Mr. Hood, as we understand, from the state paper office, just after Mr. (we forget who) discovered the MS. of Milton. It is in every way worthy to be handed down to posterity in company with the well known essay of our great poet.
"The Narrowtive of a High Whitness who seed every Think proceed out of a Backwinder up Fore Pears to Mrs. Humphris.
"O Mrs. Humphris! Littel did I Dram, at my Tim of Life, to see Wat is before me. The hole Parrish is throne into a pannikin! The Revelations has reeched Stock Poggis—and the people is riz agin the Kings rain, and all the Pours that be. All this Blessed Mourning Mrs. Griggs and Me as bean siting abscondingly at the tiptop of the Hows crying for lowness. We have lockd our too selves in the back Attical Rome, and nothing can come up to our Hanksiety. Some say it is like the Frentch Plot—sum say sum thing moor arter the Dutch Patten is on the car-pit, and if so we shall Be flored like Brussels. Well, I never did like them Brown holland brum gals!
"Our Winder overlocks all the High Street, xcept jest ware Mister Higgins jutts out Behind. What a prospectus!—All riotism and hubbub—Their is a lowd speechifying round the Gabble end of the Hows. The Mare is arranging the Populous from one of his own long winders—Poor Man!—for all his fine goold Cheer, who wood Sit in his shews!
"I hobserve Mr. Tuder's bauld Hed uncommon hactiv in the Mobb, and so is Mister Wagstaff the Constable, considdering his rummatiz has onely left one Harm disaffected to shew his loyalness with. He and his men air staving the mobbs Heds to make them Suppurate. They are trying to Custardise the Ringleders But as yet hav Captivated Noboddy. There is no end to accidence. Three unsensible boddis are Carrion over the way on Three Cheers, but weather Naybers or Gyes, is dubbious. Master Gollop too, is jest gon By on one of his Ants Shuters, with a Bunch of exploded Squibs gone off in his Trowsirs. It makes Mrs. G. and Me tremble like Axle trees, for our Hone nevvies. Wile we ware at the open Winder they sliped out. With sich Broils in the Street who nose what Scraps they may git into. Mr. J. is gon off with his muskitry to militate agin the mobb; and I fear without anny Sand Witches in his Cartrich Box. Mrs. Griggs is in the Sam state of Singularity as meself. Onely think, Mrs. H. of too Loan Wiming looken Down on such a Heifervescence, and as Hignorant as the unbigotted Babe of the state of our Husbandry! To had to our Convexity, the Botcher has not Bean. No moor as the Backer and We shold here Nothing if Mister Higgins hadn't hollowed up Fore Storys. What news he brakes! That wicked Wigsby as reffused to Reed the Riot Ax, and the Town Clark is no Scollard! Is'nt thata bad Herring!
"O Mrs. Humphris! It is unpossible to throe ones hies from one End of Stock Poggis to the other, without grate Pane. Nothing is seed but Wivs asking for Huzbinds—nothing is herd but childerin looking for Farthers. Mr. Hatband the Undertacker as jist bean squibed and obligated for safeness to inter his own Hows. Mister Higgins blames the unflexable Stubbleness of the Mare and says a littel timely Concussion wood have been of Preventive Servis. Haven nose! For my Part I dont believe all the Concussion on Haerth wood hav prevented the Regolater bein scarified by a Squib and runnin agin the Rockit—or that it could unshatter Pore Master Gollop, or squentch Wider Welshis rix of Haze witch is now Flamming and smocking in two volumes. The ingins as been, but cold not Play for want of Pips which is too often the Case with Parrish inginuity. Wile affares are in these friteful Posturs, thank Haven I have one grate comfit. Mr. J. is cum back on his legs from Twelve to won tired in the extreams with Being a Standing Army, and his Uniformity spatterdashed all over. He says his hone saving was onely thro leaving His retrenchments.
"Pore Mr. Griggs has cum In after his Wif in a state of grate exaggeration. He says the Boys hav maid a Bone Fire of his garden fence and Pales upon Pales cant put it out. Severil Shells of a bombastic nater as been picked up in his Back Yard and the old Cro's nest as bean Perpetrated rite thro by a Rockit. We hav sent out the Def Shopmun to here wat he can and he says their is so Manny Crackers going he dont no witch report to Belive, but the Fishmongerers has Cotchd and with all his Stock compleatly Guttid. The Brazers next Dore is lickwise in Hashes,—but it is hopped he has assurance enuf to cover him All over.—They say nothink can save the Dwellins adjourning. O Mrs. H. how greatful ought J and I to bee that our hone Premiss and propperty is next to nothing! The effex of the lit on Bildings is marvulous. The Turrit of St. Magnum Bonum is quit clear and you can tell wat Time it is by the Clock verry planely only it stands!
"The noise is enuf to Drive one deleterious! Too Specious Conestabbles is persewing littel Tidmash down the Hi Street and Sho grate fermness, but I trembel for the Pelisse. Peple drops in with New News every momentum. Sum say All is Lost—and the Town Criar is missin. Mrs. Griggs is quite retched at herein five littel Boys is throwdoff a spirituous Cob among the Catherend Weals. But I hope it wants cobbobboration. Another Yuth its sed has had his hies Blasted by sum blowd Gun Powder. You Mrs. H. are Patrimonial, and may supose how these flying rummers Upsetts a Mothers Sperrits.
"O Mrs. Humphris how I envy you that is not tossing on the ragging bellows of these Flatulent Times, but living under a Mild Dispotic Govinment in such Sequestrated spots as Lonnon and Padington. May you never go thro such Transubstantiation as I have bean ritingin! Things that stood for Sentries as bean removed in a Minuet—and the verry effigis of wat is venerablest is now burning in Bone Fires, The Worshipfull chaer isemty. The Mare as gon off clandestiny with a pare of Hossis, and without his diner. They say he complanes that his Corperation did no stik to him as it shold have dun But went over to the other Side. Pore Sole—in sich a case I dont wunder he lost his Stommich. Yisterdy he was at the summut of Pour. Them that hours ago ware enjoying parrish officiousness has been turned out of there Dignittis! Mr. Barber says in futer all the Perukial Authoritis will be Wigs.
"Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim Minestir think of Stock Poggis's constitution, and believe me conclusively my deer Mrs. Humphris most frendly and trully
"BRIDGET JONES."
In the history of wit and waggery there is one more writer who merits honourable mention.[2] We are not sure, indeed, that any humourist has appeared in England since the days of Messrs. Shandy and Primrose, who can in all respects safely measure his wit with that of—Sir Morgan O'Doherty! This illustrious knight and adjutant, (who has quitted "the modern Athens," for "the modern Babylon,") is beyond doubt one of the most extraordinary men of the present age. He is as learned as a dictionary, as various as a book of receipts, as changeable as a kaleidoscope, as full of fun as the first of April. Nothing comes amiss to him, comedy, criticism, farce, politics, poetry, punch, pugilism—from Longinus to Boxiana, from the Zend to the Talmud. The Aulic Council, the British House of Commons, the French Chambers, the Divan of the Osmalee,—all are one to him. "All's fish that comes to his net." He mingles and reconciles all things; the strong, the acid, the sweet. Like a tumbler of whiskey toddy, he is, though miscellaneous, always agreeable. Oratory alone he cannot manage. A trifling hesitation in his speech, a slight nervousness of manner, and the most indomitable modesty (!) these are his impediments to this species of renown. Were his tongue once slit by a silver sixpence, he would be irresistible. As it is, he is compelled to be silent; leaving to Demosthenes and Tully, to Chatham and Burke, and Lord Brougham and Vaux, their unmitigated fame.
It is a pity that the humours of this admirable and laughter-loving writer should not be collected and formed into "a body of humours." People would know him better, and like him quite as well, we think, in his corporate shape, as they do in his present scattered, shadowy, undefined condition. He has expended, and is still expending, great wealth of mind in enriching daily, weekly, monthly, and annual publications. Half of what he does will be overlaid by the surrounding trash, and forgotten. His learned allusions, his witty parodies, his rich racy jests, his inimitable free flowing gaiety will avail him little. His "airy nothings" will be pressed down by the solid, stolid body of nonsense that is thrust into their company; and he will live, fifty years hence, in the recollections of men, like single-speech Hamilton, or Anthony White; like conversation Sharpe, or the great Sea Serpent; of each of whom we have heard much in our youth, but who, for want of some strong visible evidence of their merit, have passed away like the vapour of the morning. Nominis umbra—that will be all that our children will know of the famous adjutant, (incomparably the greatest military author since the days of Xenophon,) unless, in the classical language of Higginbottom, he "stirs his stumps," and stands in all his united powers face to face with the public. If he will no¢ do this—if he perversely choose to exist in his phantom state, (his strength, like Samson's, "diffused" over infinite space,) why then, O, winged fame! O, fickle fortune!
"Ah! receive then to join in your endless delight,
The shade of Sir Morgan O'Doherty, knight;"—
and never let him be pushed aside or neglected in after time for smaller Jesters or bold pretenders, nor for any proselyte or copyist, who shall attempt to imitate his inimitable style!
* * * * *
At the conclusion of a rambling article like this, it would be neither fit nor agreeable to examine very gravely into the causes or uses of laughter. Those who are desirous of doing this, should buy a pleasant little book entitled, Thoughts on Laughter, by a Chancery Barrister; in which the "general and particular causes" are inquired into and illustrated by a variety of humourous anecdotes, and in which the "uses" of laughter are not forgotten. In the mean time, if we may express our opinion, we think that the great use and object of laughing is that we may enjoy ourselves, and communicate enjoyment to others. Laughter is a healthy exercise. It shakes the system, disperses the morbid humours, extinguishes envy, annihilates the spleen, puts the blue devils to flight, and spreads summer and sunshine, and cordiality, wherever it appears To "laugh and grow wise," to "laugh and grow fat," are little more than synonymes. To all, therefore, who do not wish to remain in ignorance,—to all who do not wish they were "a little thinner," we recommend a loud, a hearty, a continuous roar. Democritus, the laughing philosopher (Δημόκριτος), was one of the wisest of men. He lived laughing for a hundred years, and then died unlamenting. What misanthrope or Megrim of modern times can do as much? Are all the grim affectations of Childe Harolde worth an ounce of laughter? Not a grain! They do good to no one. They are "entertainment" neither "for man nor beast." They make us lean, stupid, ungrateful. Shakspeare was the merriest of men; and he was the wisest. He laughed when he held the gallant's horses at the playhouse door, and saw them so "trimly dressed," and "perfumed like milliners." He laughed with Falstaff, ("old Jack Falstaff!") with Mercutio, with Biron, with Beatrice, with Rosalind, with Benedict. He laughed at Pistol's swaggering, at the red nose of Bardolph, at the gabble of Justice Shallow, at Slander, and Glendower, and Malvolio; at Froth, and Francis, and Bottom, and Wart, and Mouldy, and a hundred others. Nay, doubtless, he laughed also when he had finished Lear,—(that mighty tragedy, to which alone there is no rival in letters,) and thought—and knew that he had achieved a thing, of which past ages could afford no parallel, and which future times must struggle in vain to excel.
Great men and wise men have loved laughter. The vain, the ignorant, and the uncivilized alone have dreaded or despised it. Let us imitate the wise where we may. Let our Christmas laugh echo till Valentine's day; our laugh of Saint Valentine till the first of April; our April humour till May day, and our May merriment till Midsummer. And so let us go on, from holiday to holiday, philosophers in laughter at least, till, at the expiration of our century, we die the death of old Democritus, cheerful, hopeful, and contented: surrounded by many a friend, but without an enemy; and remembered principally because we have never, either in life or death, given pain for a moment to any one that lived!
1. In our estimate of Mr. Hook's talents, we—(that is to say,the |writer of this article)—must be understood as referring solely to his novels, and a few articles—(such as Mrs. Ramsbottom's tour, &c.)—which he has seen. With the exception of some of Mr. Hook's jests on Lord Waithman, &c., the writer does not profess to speak of his political squibs. Indeed, he is one of those who heartily wish that those fireworks had altogether burned out.
2. We have omitted the very clever Bow-street humourist of the Morning Herald; but we shall take a view of his merits on a future occasion.