extent.

that a relation is discovered which, upon first observation, does not appear to exist. These instances may be multiplied to any A gentleman at Paris, who lived very unhappily with his wife, used, for twenty years together, to pass his evenings at the house of another lady, who was very agreeable and drew together a pleasant society. His wife died; and his friends all advised him to marry the lady in whose society he had found so much pleasure. He said no, he certainly should not, for that, if he married her, he should not know where to spend his evenings. Here we are suddenly surprised with the idea that the method proposed of securing his comfort may possibly prove the most effectual method of destroying it. At least, to enjoy the pleasantry of the reply, we view it through his mode of thinking, who had not been very fortunate in the connection established by his first marriage. I have, in consequence of the definition I have printed of wit in the cards of the Institution, passed one of the most polemical weeks that ever I remember to have spent in my life. I think, however, that if my words are understood in their fair sense, I am not wrong. I have said, surprising relations between ideas- not between facts. The difference is very great. A man may tell me he sees a fiery meteor on the surface of the sea: he has no merit in the discovery-it is no extraordinary act of mind in him— any one who has eyes can ascertain this relation of facts as well, if it really exist; but to discover a surprising relation in ideas is an act of power in the discoverer, in which, if his wit be good, he exceeds the greater part of mankind: so that the very terms I have adopted imply comparison and superiority of mind. The discovery of any relation of ideas exciting pure surprise involves the notion of such superiority, and enhances the surprise. To discover relations between facts exciting pure surprise involves the notion of no such superiority; for any man could ascertain that a calf had two heads if it had two heads therefore, I again repeat, let any man show me that which is an acknowledged proof of wit, and I believe I could analyze the pleasure experienced from it into surprise, partly occasioned by the unexpected relation established, partly by the display of talent in discovering it; and, putting this position synthetically, I would say, whenever there is a superior act of intelligence in discovering a relation between ideas, which relation excites surprise, and no other high emotion, the mind will have the feeling of wit. Why is it not witty to find

:

a gold watch and seals hanging upon a hedge? Because it is a mere relation of facts discovered without any effort of mind, and not (as I have said in my definition) a relation of ideas. Why is it not witty to discover the relation between the moon and the tides? Because it raises other notions than those of mere surprise. Why are not all the extravagant relations in "Gargantua" witty? Because they are merely odd and extrav agant; and mere oddity and extravagance is too easy to excite surprise. Why is it witty, in one of Addison's plays, where the undertaker reproves one of his mourners for laughing at a funeral, and says to him, "You rascal, you! I have been raising your wages for these two years past, upon condition that you should appear more sorrowful, and the higher wages you receive the happier you look!" Here is a relation between ideas, the discovery of which implies superior intelligence, and excites no other emotion than surprise.

It is imagined that wit is a sort of inexplicable visitation, that it comes and goes with the rapidity of lightning, and that it is quite as unattainable as beauty or just proportion. I am so much of a contrary way of thinking that I am convinced a man might sit down as systematically and as successfully to the study of wit, as he might to the study of mathematics: and I would answer for it that, by giving up only six hours a day to being witty, he should come on prodigiously before midsummer, so that his friends should hardly know him again. For what is there to hinder the mind from gradually acquiring a habit of attending to the lighter relations of ideas in which wit consists? Punning grows upon everybody, and punning is the wit of words. I do not mean to say that it is so easy to acquire a habit of discovering new relations in ideas as in words, but the difficulty is not so much greater as to render it insuperable to habit. One man is unquestionably much better calculated for it by nature than another: but association, which gradually makes a bad speaker a good one, might give a man wit who had it not, if any man chose to be so absurd as to sit down to acquire it.

I have mentioned puns. They are, I believe, what I have denominated them the wit of words. They are exactly the same to words which wit is to ideas, and consist in the sudden discovery of relations in language. A pun, to be perfect in its

kind, should contain two distinct meanings: the one common and obvious, the other more remote; and in the notice which the mind takes of the relation between these two sets of words, and in the surprise which that relation excites, the pleasure of a pun consists. Miss Hamilton, in her book on Education, mentions the instance of a boy so very neglectful that he could never be brought to read the word patriarchs; but whenever he met with it he always pronounced it partridges. A friend of the writer observed to her that it could hardly be considered as a mere piece of negligence, for it appeared to him that the boy, in calling them partridges, was making game of the patriarchs. Now here are two distinct meanings contained in the same phrase; . . . and the whole pleasure derived from this pun consists in the sudden discovery that two such different meanings are referable to one form of expression. I have very little to say about puns; they are in very bad repute, and so they ought to be. The wit of language is so miserably inferior to the wit of ideas, that it is very deservedly driven out of good company. Sometimes, indeed, a pun makes its appearance which seems for a moment to redeem its species; but we must not be deceived by them: it is a radically bad race of wit. By unremitting persecution, it has been at last got under, and driven into cloisters, from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into the light of the world. One invaluable blessing produced by the banishment of punning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits. It is a wit of so low an order, and in which some sort of progress is so easily made, that the number of those endowed with the gift of wit would be nearly equal to those endowed with the gift of speech. The condition of putting together ideas in order to be witty operates much in the same salutary manner as the condition of finding rhymes in poetry; it reduces the number of performers to those who have vigor enough to overcome incipient difficulties, and makes a sort of provision that that which need not be done at all should be done well whenever it is done. For we may observe that mankind are always more fastidious about that which is pleasing, than they are about that which is useful. A commonplace piece of morality is much more easily pardoned than a commonplace piece of poetry or of wit; because it is absolutely necessary for the wellbeing of society that the rules. of morality should be frequently repeated and enforced; but as there is no absolute necessity that men should be either wits or

poets, we are less inclined to tolerate their mediocrity in superfluities. If a man have ordinary chairs and tables, no one notices it; but if he stick vulgar gaudy pictures on his walls, which he need not have at all, every one laughs at him for his folly.

THE RESCUE OF PICCIOLA.

BY X. B. SAINTINE.

[XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE, a French novelist and dramatist, was born in Paris, July 10, 1798. A little romantic masterpiece, “Picciola" (1838), gained him celebrity the moment it appeared. The work ranks as a French classic. Saintine wrote several other romances and over two hundred plays, most of them in collaboration with other authors. He died in Paris, January 21, 1865.]

[Charney, a political prisoner, has fixed his affections on a flower that grew between the stone of his prison and is in danger of withering.]

THE intervention of Josephine in Charney's favor had not proved so efficient as might have been supposed. At the conclusion of her mild intercessions in favor of the prisoner and his plant, when she proceeded to place in the hands of Napoleon the handkerchief inscribed with his memorial, the Emperor recalled to mind the singular indifference-so mortifying to his self-love-with which, during the warlike evolutions of the morning at Marengo, Josephine had cast her vacant, careless gaze upon the commemoration of his triumph; and thus predisposed to displeasure, the obnoxious name of Charney served only to aggravate his ill humor.

"Is the man mad?" cried he, "or does he pretend to deceive me by a farce? A Jacobin turned botanist!- — about as good a jest as Marat descanting in the tribune on the pleasures of pastoral life, or Couthon presenting himself to the Convention with a rose in his buttonhole."

Josephine vainly attempted to appeal against the name of Jacobin thus lightly bestowed upon the Count; for as she commenced her remonstrance a chamberlain made his appearance, to announce that the general officers, ambassadors, and deputies of Italy were awaiting their Majesties in the audience chamber, where, having hastily repaired, Napoleon immediately burst forth into a denunciation against visionaries, phi

losophers, and liberals, mainly inspired by the recent mention of the Count de Charney. In an imperious tone he threatened that all such disturbers of public order should be speedily reduced to submission; but the loud and threatening tone he had assumed, which was supposed to be a spontaneous outbreak of passion, was in fact a premeditated lesson bestowed on the assembly, and more especially on the Prussian ambassador, who was present at the scene. Napoleon seized the opportunity to announce to the representatives of Europe the divorce of the Emperor of the French from the principles of the French Revolution!

By way of homage to the throne, the subordinates of the Emperor hastened to emulate his new profession of faith. The general commandant at Turin more especially, JacquesAbdallah Menon, forgetting or renouncing his former principles, burst forth into a furious diatribe against the pseudo-Brutuses of the clubs and taverns of Italy and France, on which signal there arose from the minions of the Empire a unanimous chorus of execrations against all conspirators, revolutionists, and more especially Jacobins, till, overawed by their virulence, Josephine began to tremble at the storm she had been unwittingly the means of exciting. At length drawing near to the ear of Napoleon she took courage to whisper, in a tone of mingled tenderness and irony, "What need, Sire, of all these denunciations? My memorial regards neither a Jacobin nor a conspirator, but simply a poor plant, whose plots against the safety of the Empire should scarcely excite such vast tumults of consternation."

"This

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders. "Can you suppose me the dupe of such absurd pretenses?" he exclaimed. Charney is a man of high faculties and the most dangerous principles, would you pass him upon me for a blockhead? The flower, the pavement, the whole romance, is a mere pretext. The fellow is getting up a plan of escape! It must be looked to. Menon, let a careful eye be kept upon the movements of those imprisoned for political offenses in the citadel of Fenestrella. One Charney has presumed to address to me a memorial. How did he manage to forward his petition otherwise than through the hands of the commandant? Is such the discipline kept up in the state prisons of the Empire?"

Again the Empress ventured to interpose in defense of her protégé.