English Pharisees and French Crocodiles Part 7

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 a.s.sure 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 ill.u.s.trate 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."

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.

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."

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 amba.s.sador, 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 grat.i.tude 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!

The sky is serene, a light breeze gently fans your cheek, the water in the harbor is as smooth as a sheet of gla.s.s. You timidly ask the first sailor you come across a question or two as to the weather and the outlook for the pa.s.sage--not for your own rea.s.surance, 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 rea.s.sured. You say to yourself: "Well, this time, at all events, we shall have a good pa.s.sage;" 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 pa.s.sed. 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.