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CHAPTER XI.
HUMOR, WIT, AND HIBERNIANISM
Humor is a subtle, witty, philosophical, and greatly satirical form of gayety, the outcome of simplicity in the character, that is met chiefly among English-speaking people.
Humor has not the brilliancy, the vivacity of French wit, but it is more graceful, lighter, and above all more philosophic. A sarcastic element is nearly always present in it, and not unfrequently a vein of sadness. There is something deliciously quiet and deliberate about humor, that is in perfect harmony with the English character; and we have been right in adopting the English name for the thing, seeing that the thing is essentially English.
Germany has produced humorists, among whom Hoffman and Henry Heine shine conspicuously; but this kind of playful raillery is not to be met with in French literature, except perhaps in the Lettres provinciales of Pascal.
In France, irony is presented in a more lively form. Swift and Sterne are the acknowledged masters of British humor, as Rabelais and Voltaire are the personification of French wit.
British humor does not evaporate so quickly as French wit; you feel its influence longer. The latter takes you by storm, but humor lightly tickles you under the ribs, and quietly takes possession of you by degrees; the bright idea, instead of being laid bare, is subtly hidden; it is only after you have peeled off the coating of sarcasm lying on the surface, that you get at the fun underneath.
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I believe Parisian wit might be correctly described as a sudden perception and expression of a likeness in the unlike. Here is an example of it; an English one:
Sydney Smith, the most Parisian wit England has produced, one day asked the Corporation of the City of London to pave St. Paul's Churchyard with wood. The Corporation replied that such a thing was perfectly impracticable.
"Not at all, gentlemen, I assure you," cried Sydney Smith; "you have only to lay all your heads together, and the thing is done."
This is a specimen of French wit in English.
Sarcasm is one of the most important and frequent ingredients in French wit.
Voltaire is the personification of that kind of wit; but other countries have produced men whose wit he should have had the modesty of calling "as good as French." England is foremost among those countries. Douglas Jerrold, Sydney Smith, Sheridan, Lord Eldon, had they been born in France, would have been called French wits.
Two anecdotes of these men, to illustrate the point.
Sheridan's son one day came to his father and announced that he would be a candidate for Parliament.
"Indeed," said Sheridan, "and what are your colors?"
"I have none," said the son, "I am independent, and belong to no party. I will stick on my forehead: 'To be let.'"
"Good," said Sheridan, "and under that, put 'Unfurnished.'"
Lord Eldon was a great sufferer from gout. A sympathizing lady friend had made him a beautiful pair of very large slippers to wear when his enemy troubled him.
One day his servant came to him, and announced that the lovely slippers were gone, and had been stolen.
"Well," said Lord Eldon, "I hope they will fit the rascal."
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That kind of wit, peculiar to the Irish, and commonly called Hibernianism, is an apparent congruity in things essentially incongruous. In fact, it expresses what is apparently rational, but in reality utterly irrational.
Thus, when an Irishman was told that one of Dr. Arnott's patent stoves would save half the usual fuel, he exclaimed to his wife: "Arrah! thin I'll buy two and save it all, my jewel."
We have nothing in French wit that can properly be compared to Hibernianism, except perhaps the gasconnade at times, but in the gasconnade there is no humor, the essence of it is exaggeration.
"You often forget to close the shutters of the ground-floor rooms at night," an Irishman would say to his servant; "one of these fine mornings I shall wake up murdered in my bed." I do not know that friend Paddy has ever perpetrated this one, but he is quite capable of it.
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During the famous Michelstown Inquiry, Pat Casey was examined. He had seen the affray, hidden behind a wall.
"Was that brave, to hide behind a wall?" said the lawyer.
"Well, sor," said Pat, "better be a coward for foive minutes than to be dead for the rest of your loife."
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The Hibernianism is one of the forms of laziness of the mind, but it is not at all a proof of stupidity. On the contrary, all those jokes that the English are fond of putting to the credit of the Irish, are only the proof of a certain overflow of intelligence, two ideas issuing simultaneously from the brain, and getting confused into one. Dissect a Hibernianism, and you will generally find two ideas, perfectly sensible, but not agreeing together.
I have met with just as many noodles in England as elsewhere. But among all the Irish that I have come across, though some have been lazy, and many have been bunglers, I have not yet met one who was not intelligent, amiable, and witty.
While on this subject, I might remind the English of the remark made once by their celebrated critic, John Ruskin, at Oxford: "English jokes are often tame, but there is always wit at the bottom of an Irish bull."
And we might add:
Burke, the greatest English orator that ever lived, was an Irishman. Excuse, I beg, this Hibernianism of mine.
Lord Dufferin, that ambassador, and Lord Wolseley, that only general, whom England has been serving for the past few years, roast, baked, and boiled, to her friends and foes alike, the two saviors to whom she invariably turns when anything is going wrong … or is wanted to go wrong, are sons of Erin.
Goldsmith, the immortal author of the "Vicar of Wakefield," was Irish.
Sheridan, the author of the "School for Scandal," that the English might almost call their only comedy, was Irish.
Jonathan Swift and Richard Steele were Irish.
The names of Ireland's great men would fill a long list.
One might almost say that all that is most delicate and most witty in English literature is of Irish origin.
When we have added that the Duke of Wellington was an Irishman, perhaps we shall have succeeded in showing that England is very far yet from having paid her little debt of gratitude to Ireland.
CHAPTER XII.
THE MAL DE MER
To think that those worthy French and English people, who only live twenty-one miles from each other, should not be able to exchange visits without first making acquaintance with the mal de mer! To think that this must be the last impression that each one takes home with him!
The mal de mer! That uninteresting complaint which awakes no pity in the breast of man!
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The sky is serene, a light breeze gently fans your cheek, the water in the harbor is as smooth as a sheet of glass. You timidly ask the first sailor you come across a question or two as to the weather and the outlook for the passage – not for your own reassurance, for you are a pretty good sailor, but … for a friend, or … for a lady who is traveling with you, and who suffers dreadfully from seasickness. The sly fellow sees through your little ruse, and answers, with a serio-comic look: "The sea, sir! like a lake, sir; like a lake."
You feel reassured. You say to yourself: "Well, this time, at all events, we shall have a good passage;" and you cheerily pace the deck, light of heart and firm of foot, convinced that if anyone is ill, it will not be you.
The illusion is a sweet, but short-lived one.
The whistle sounds, the boat is set in motion, and gently and smoothly glides to the mouth of the harbor.
Everyone seems in the best of spirits, people chatter in groups, and handkerchiefs are waved to the friends who have come down to the quay to see you off.
The end of the pier is passed. There you are – now for it. You have hardly rounded the projection which would be for you a little Cape of Good Hope, if you were only arriving instead of departing, when the horrible construction heaves heavily forward, and then seems to sink away from under your feet, making you feel as if it were about to leave you in mid-air, and trust to your intelligence to catch it again. You would fain make your escape without delay; but everybody is there, so you hold on and look around. Little by little the faces grow serious; they begin to pale and lengthen visibly; the groups melt and gradually disperse. Everyone finds a pretext for going below and hiding his shame.
"I am not generally ill on the water," you remark to your neighbor; "but to-day, I don't know why, I am not feeling quite up to the mark; I must have eaten something at luncheon that does not agree with me… Oh! of course, it's that wretched lobster salad! I was cautioned not to touch it, too. Oh! la gourmandise!" Confident of having persuaded your traveling companion that you are a tolerably good sailor, you too disappear below … and he, not sorry to see you go, is not long in following your example.
You go down to the cabin. Alas! that is the finishing touch. The stuffy, heavy, unwholesome atmosphere, charged with a mixed odor of tar, mysterious cookery, and troubled stomachs, brings your digestive apparatus up to your throat. You feel stifled. All the vital forces crowd to your head, and your legs are powerless to support you. You throw yourself on your berth like a log, and instinctively close your eyes, so as not to see that man over there, who is just about to open the ball, or that other who is looking at you with a mixture of amusement and pity, as he calmly eats his chop. This creature is the most annoying of all your fellow-passengers. His compassion for you is insulting. You hate his healthy-looking face, his calm, his good appetite even; and your indignation reaches its climax when you see him coolly filling his pipe and preparing to go on deck and smoke. Unable to endure the atmosphere of the saloon any longer, you make a grand effort and return to the upper regions. The first sight that meets your eyes is that man again, now lavishing the most careful attentions upon your wife; he has been to fetch her some brandy and water, or a cup of tea. You would thank him, but you do not care for your wife to see you in your pitiful condition. That fellow is unbearable, overpowering. This is the only reflection suggested by his kindness to your wife; and away you steer, making a semicircle, or rather two or three, on your way to an empty bench, where you once more assume the horizontal.
A friend comes to tell you that your wife is giving up the ghost somewhere in the stern of the ship, but you make believe not to hear, and only murmur through your teeth: "So am I; what can I do for her?"
You ask the steward to send you some tea, and it comes up in an earthenware basin an inch thick. You put it to your lips. Horrible! What can it possibly be made of, this nauseating decoction? The smell of the flat, unpalatable stuff makes you feel more qualmish than ever; the remedy is worse than the evil.
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Just as, at Monaco, you never fail to come across a gambler who has his system, you rarely take a sea journey without meeting with the good soul who has an infallible preventive for seasickness. "This succeeds with nine persons out of ten," she tells you. Next time you cross, you try it, but only to find that you are evidently the tenth. However, it is not a failure or two that can shake the blind confidence she has in her remedy, I must say it to her credit.
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Though there exists no cure for this strange evil, I think, notwithstanding, that by the exercise of a little self-control, one can retard the catastrophe. At least such is my experience.
We were one day between Guernsey and Southampton, just near the Casquettes, where the Channel makes things very uncomfortable for you, if there is the least wind blowing. I had curled myself up in a corner in the stern of the boat and was preparing to feel very sadly. Up came two French ladies, appearing, like myself, to have strayed that way in search of solitude.
"Saperlotte," thought I, "here are women looking at you, my boy; be a man."
I fixed my eyes on a point of the horizon, and no doubt appeared to my neighbors to be plunged in profound contemplation.
The ladies took up their position not very far from me, and began to heave very heavy sighs. I looked at them. They were green.
"Ah, Monsieur!" said one of them to me, "how fortunate you are, not to be ill!"
I was saved, for the moment at all events. It put fresh strength into me. Forcing a smile, and gathering up my courage, I had the impudence to affirm that I felt pretty well. The effort of the will had the power to keep the evil in check.
At that moment I understood how you can make a hero of a frightened soldier by telling him that bravery is written in his eyes.
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A man who crosses the Channel several times a year is pretty sure to have one or two little anecdotes of the mal de mer, and its consequences, in a corner of his memory.
Here is one chosen at random:
It was between Boulogne and Folkestone, on a mare contrarium.
Seated quietly on deck, I was just dozing over a book, the author of which I will not name, since his volume had less power over my senses than the rolling of the boat. I was presently brought back to consciousness by the weight of a head, laid on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, looked out of the corners of them; the head was a very pretty one, upon my word.
What was I to do?
To stay would be compromising; to get away suddenly would be ungallant and perhaps not without danger, for the poor little head might fall against the bulwarks of the boat. I reclosed my eyes, and made believe not to have noticed anything. All at once I heard a sweet voice in my ear:
"O Arthur! What shall I do? If you only knew how sick I feel. Oh! I must lean my head on your shoulder; you don't mind, do you?"
The situation was getting alarming. I kept my eyes closed, so as not to scare away the poor creature, who was evidently at sea, in more senses than one. I kept quiet, buried in my wraps and traveling cap, and, without moving my head, just murmured, "I am really awfully sorry, madam, but I am not Arthur."
This was startling enough in all conscience. I quite expected a small explosion; apologies, little screams, a fainting fit, perhaps. Happily, however, on board ship, dignity is laid aside. Certainly, on dry land, this lady could not have done less than faint, if it were only for the sake of appearances. But à la mer, comme à la mer.
So there was no fuss or fainting; for that matter my poor fellow-traveler had not the strength to move. I rose, helped her to assume a more comfortable position, placed a cushion under her head, and covered her with my rug. Then, having called the steward and recommended Mme. Arthur to his care, there remained nothing but to decamp, and quit the thankless rôle of caretaker of somebody else's wife.
When we got into harbor at Folkestone, Arthur suddenly made his appearance from somewhere in the lower regions. He was my very double – the same size, the same dress… I saw through the misadventure.
On joining the London train, I found myself in the same compartment as the young couple. Arthur knew all, as they say in sensational novels, and we had a hearty laugh together over the affair. Arthur was as gay as a lark. I attributed his mirth to the fact of his having left the sea behind, and to his finding himself once more on terra firma with his beloved one. I found in the course of conversation that he had only been married the day before, and the happy pair had come over to hide their bliss in the fogs. They intended passing their honeymoon in London. It would have been sacrilege. I dissuaded them from their project, and induced them to go to Scotland, to see its lakes and mountains, and the bracken lit up with autumnal gold.
CHAPTER XIII.
BRITISH PHILOSOPHY AND FRENCH SENSITIVENESS
British philosophy!
Why not English Philosophy?
The difference is enormous. If I were to publish a treatise on the English philosophers, Bacon, Locke, Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, Frederic Harrison, etc., I should call my work: "A Study of English Philosophy." But if I said to you that the English, not having succeeded in regaining Khartoum, contented themselves with regaining the road to England, I should add, that is British philosophy.
You would not say, "History of British Literature," you say, "History of English Literature."
There is something serio-comic about the word "British," or something chauvinistic. You would be right in saying "British army, British soldiers." The lady who fills the newspapers with her outcries against the few nudities exhibited in the Academy every season, is known only by the name of "British Matron."
An Englishman only calls his fellow-countrymen "Britons" when he is half laughing at them. When he says, "We Britons," he is not quite serious; on the contrary, when he says, "We Englishmen," his face reflects the feeling of respect with which the sound of his name inspires him.
The "English public," is good society; the "British" public means the common run of mortals in the United Kingdom.
British philosophy! that philosophy that makes us like what we have when we cannot have what we like; that philosophy taught by that good mother, and incomparable teacher, whose name is Necessity.
Alas, we French people do not possess this kind of philosophy. I wish we did. As a matter of fact, we are the most absurdly sensitive, thin-skinned people on the face of the earth. We do not know how to take a kick, much less, make use of it. I mean a kick in the figurative sense; the one that leaves no trace, and does not prevent us from sitting at our ease.
But, if the Englishman knows how to take it, do you believe he feels it the less for that? Be not deceived on the point. He exercises control over himself. He does not give it back on the spot, but stores it up, rubs the injured part, applies a little cold cream, if necessary, and awaits the moment when he will be able to return it with interest. Such is the difference between the two men. To my mind, the Englishman is the more intelligent of the two.
Success turns our heads in France, reverses discourage and demoralize us; we know neither how to profit by victory, nor put up with defeat. In victory, we see only glory; in defeat, only disgrace.
Thus we are led to make war to serve dynastic interests; we go to the Crimea for the English, who do not go to Germany for us; we set the Italian nation on its feet, and to-day, see it, in its profound gratitude, preferring Germany to ourselves.
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Criticism exasperates instead of benefiting us, and even occasionally amusing us. We hate our enemies, instead of being grateful to them for the good they do us; for if we owe part of our success to our friends, we owe a still greater part to our enemies.
There are two ways of causing an animal to advance – whether that animal be an artist, a writer, or a prime minister – first, by kind encouragements … in front; secondly, by something less pleasant … on the other side.
I firmly believe the second process to be the more efficient of the two.
It is only indifference that kills; in religion, in love, in politics, in literature, in everything.
Christianity came out of the Roman arenas, English Protestantism out of the Smithfield fires; and many a demagogue owed his success, under the Second Empire, to the few months' imprisonment at Ste. Pélagie that the Imperialist judges were silly enough to condemn him to.
Enemies? Why, they are our fortune. When I hear a man spoken of after his death as never having had any enemies, as a Christian I admire him, but I also come to the conclusion that the dear fellow must have been a very insignificant member of the community.
If you do something new, you make enemies of all the red tapeists; if you do something intelligent, you make enemies of all the fools; if you are successful, you make enemies of all the army of failures, the misunderstood, the crabbed, and the jealous; but these little outbursts of hatred, one as diverting as the other, are really so many testimonials in your favor.
If you send in your application for some vacant post, and you succeed in obtaining it, you may be sure that there will be but one candidate who will consider that the election was made according to merit; yourself. The rest will cry out in chorus that your luck is something wonderful. Luck! What a drudge this poor word is made of! The privations you have imposed upon yourself, and the long nights that you have devoted to work, are luck. Luck, as a great English moralist puts it, means rising at six in the morning; luck means spending tenpence when you earn a shilling; luck means minding your own business and not meddling with other people's.
The Englishman knows that it falls to everyone's lot to be criticised, and he makes up his mind to endure it. He even has a certain admiration for those who criticise and rally him, if the operation is performed with a little dexterity. Violent criticism is the only kind he has a contempt for. "The fellow loses his temper," says he; "he is a fool, who proves that his cause is a bad one;" and he goes on his way unconcerned. So, while, in Paris, a Republican and a Bonapartist, who meet on the Boulevards, will look daggers at each other; a Liberal and a Conservative, who meet in Pall Mall, will shake hands and go and dine together amicably. They both know that it is all humbug. After dinner, they repair to the House of Commons; one takes his seat on the left, the other on the right of the Speaker, who ought rather to be called the Spoken to, since everyone addresses his remarks to him, but he very rarely opens his lips.
Never any insults in this Parliament. You will never hear any such phrase as "the honorable member has lied," but rather, "the honorable member has just made a remark which is scarcely in accordance with strict truth." These euphemisms are the soul of the English language, the outcome of the cool British temperament. Violent language has not the least power to move an Englishman to wrath – it rather excites his pity. In an English club, two members who had called each other "liars," would find their names promptly struck off the roll, and there would be an end of the matter. In France they would fight a duel.
The following anecdote shows how ready the English are to acknowledge their little failings.
I was speaking of the English spirit of colonization one day at a lecture, and in the course of my remarks on the subject, I took the liberty of saying, not without a slight touch of satire:
"When John Bull makes colonies, it is for the good of the natives."
"For their goods!" cried a jolly Briton from the gallery.
He evidently thought me too indulgent. By the manner in which my interrupter was applauded, I judged that he had properly seized and expressed the general feeling of the audience.
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It is in adversity that the Englishman is to be admired. If he is defeated, he puts a good face upon it; he accepts his defeat, and makes the best of it. "I have proved that I can fight," he says; "why should I fight a hopeless battle?" If the door must give way to the burglars, he does not wait for them to break it open, he opens it himself; if he cannot save his furniture, he saves his door; it is so much gained.
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It is thanks to this practical philosophy that, on the day after an election, you see all the newspapers express their satisfaction at the result. The winning side has always gained a more brilliant, more decisive, victory than ever, in spite of the enormous difficulties that had to be overcome. The losing side invariably gains a moral victory, and this is proved by a + b.
When, after the defeat at Majuba Hill, England abandoned the conquest of the Transvaal, a feat which would have been mere child's play to her, but which would probably have aroused some indignation in Europe, Mr. Gladstone announced that, after all, the Boers were only fighting for their independence, and it was not seemly for generous England to annex by force a country that wished to be free, and had given such proof of valor.
A little masterpiece in its way, this speech!
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What a strange, ungrateful animal is man! What respect he has for his conquerors! What contempt for those he can conquer! When he speaks of the lion that devours him, or the eagle that tears his flesh, he is ready to take off his hat to them; when he speaks of the donkey that renders him great service, or of the goose that furnishes him a good dinner, a pen to write with, and a bed to lie on, he cannot sufficiently express his contempt.
Do you remember, dear American friends, how, some four years ago, a certain Lord Sackville, British minister in Washington, was given twenty-four hours to leave the country? Never had John Bull been administered a better kick before. Did he go to war with America? Oh, no. The prime minister of England declared that you could not expect "gentlemanly manners from American politicians," and John Bull was satisfied, and he set about bullying little Portugal about some South African bit of territory.
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When the Englishman meets with his superior, he is ready to admit it. If he be jealous of him, he will not expose himself to ridicule by showing it. He does not shun the prosperous man, he cultivates his acquaintance. He is not necessarily a schemer for that; where there is no meanness there is no scheming. He acknowledges all the aristocracies; the aristocracy of birth, the aristocracy of money, and the aristocracy of talent; and I only blame him for one thing, which is that he has much less admiration for the third of these than for the other two. At a public dinner, in England, you may see in the places of honor, on either side of the chairman, one or two lordlings, then the wealthy guests … then, but much farther down, the literary men, artists, and other small fry.
We French people have not the bump of veneration very much developed, it is true; but we have an admiration, approaching veneration, for talent and science, and the same Frenchman who takes no notice of a duke, will turn to get a second look at a great literary man or a savant. The commonplace Englishman, who humbles himself before a village squire, or a big banker, takes his revenge when he meets the schoolmaster who, in France, would be a professeur, but who, in England, were he a double first of Oxford, an ex-scholar of Balliol College, goes through life by the name of schoolmaster; rinse your mouth quickly.
In England, social disparity excites no jealousy. On the contrary, the noble and the wealthy are popular.
In France, we have given up admitting superiority since our walls have been ornamented with the announcement that all Frenchmen are brethren, free men, and equals. This rage for equality degenerates into jealousy of all superiority. In fact, the French are all equal to their superiors, and most of them superior to their equals. As soon as superiority clearly manifests itself, in political life, in literature, in the fine arts, anywhere, it is ostracized.
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I was talking one day with a Frenchman, who still massacres the English language, although he has lived in this country more than twenty years. In the course of conversation I named a compatriot of ours. "Now, there is a man," said I, "who speaks English admirably."
"Admirably?" cried he, "well, yes, he does … like the rest of us."
This is a truly French retort.
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Jealousy is the commonest and most characteristic failing of the French.
With us, jealousy is not only the stamp of mediocrity, as it is everywhere else; it is a malady that our greatest men have been tainted with. The acrimonious and contemptible polemic that Bossuet and Fénelon engaged in, the implacable hatred of Voltaire toward Rousseau, are but two instances of it; the history of French literature abounds with others. Our Parisian newspapers are daily filled with polemics and personalities.
In England, everyone minds his own business, and does not trouble himself about what his neighbor says or does.
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May I be allowed to make another comparison here?
If the Englishman is less jealous than the Frenchman of the success of his fellow-creature, it is because he often does not attribute it to the same causes.
The Englishman maintains, rightly or wrongly, that a man owes his successes far more to his character than to his talent. If I am not mistaken, it was Thomas Carlyle who laid down this rule of British philosophy.
This philosophical proposition is very comforting to the misunderstood; to hint to a man that he is less talented than another, is to vex him; on the contrary, to tell him that he has less shrewdness, is almost to pay him a compliment.
