benignity is not incompatible with the finest satire. Meredith himself, after writing a dozen novels permeated with the most pungent satire, said in the last one that "if we bring reason to scan our laugh at pure humanity, it is we who are in place of the ridiculous, for doing what reason disavows."[1]
It may be that as we reason more we laugh less; and that brings the question whether it were wiser to check the reasoning or quench the laughter. Since, however, laughter is likely to improve in quality as it diminishes in quantity, we may be content to abjure the witticism at which "the fool lifteth up his voice with laughter," and substitute the reflective wit over which "the clever man will scarce smile quietly." Such was the mild aspiration of the humorous Victorians; but though mild, the spirit was ubiquitous. It gave tone to the pessimism of Thompson and temper to the optimism of Stevenson; it colored darkly the defiant pages of Carlyle and tinged lightly the protesting paragraphs of Arnold; it lent an edge to the sentiment of Tennyson and humanized the philosophy of Browning. It even dignified the comicality of Punch, for Douglas Jerrold, at least, was far from being an irresponsible jester. His gruesome Dish of Glory, with its ironical advice to the French to eat the Algerians as fast as they conquer them, will bear comparison with The Modest Proposal. The dedication of volume eight also illustrates the new effect of self-turned irony:
"As young Aurora, with her blaze of light,
Into the shade throws all the pride of night,
And pales presumptuous stars, who vainly think
That every eye is on them as they blink:
- ↑ An Amazing Marriage, 202.
