criticism is necessary. It is the spur, the brake, the corrective, to inform us when we are going too slow, too fast,' or in the wrong direction. It is not by nature an agreeable thing, and there are times when it should not be made so. But if there are deeds and characters beyond the reach of humor, it is equally true, conversely, as Meredith says:[1] "There are questions as well as persons that only the Comic can fitly touch." The paradox arises in the fact that while criticism is essentially scientific, satire is a branch of esthetics, which nevertheless has practical proclivities. These it does no harm to exercise, providing it wreaks no violence on its character as an art. But the effect of satire must not be confused with its quality. It cannot be said that he satirizes best who reforms most,—the harvest of reform from satiric seed being granted. Concerning a pitchfork or muckrake there is no question of art: concerning a statue there is no question of utility: but satire is like a silver spoon, which partakes of both qualities, and is estimated sometimes according to one, sometimes the other, and sometimes a compromise between the two.
"C'est une étrange entreprise," exclaimed Molière, "que celle de faire rire les hommêtes gens." The strangeness of it becomes more striking when we remember that the laughter of the race is directed against itself and at the very things over which it is most sensitive,—its own inept follies and poor flimsy pretenses. But it is unendurable only in the form of the "grinning sneer" of Blifil. Even ridicule may be welcome if it comes from the genial Allworthy, whose "smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind." Not all satirists are so benign, but such
- ↑ Essay on Comedy, 62.
