turally in its order. Not long ago I saw Louis
Jouvet of the French Company play Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek. It was a most
humorous performance of the part, and the reason is that the actor
made no primary effort to be funny. It was the humanity of his
playing, making his audience love him first of all, that provoked the
comedy. His long thin legs were comical and so was his drawling talk,
but the very heart and essence was this love he started in his
audience. Poor fellow! How delightfully he smoothed the feathers in
his hat! How he feared to fight the duel! It was easy to love such a
dear silly human fellow. A merely witty player might have drawn as
many laughs, but there would not have been the catching at the heart.

As for books and the wit or humor of their pages, it appears that wit
fades, whereas humor lasts. Humor uses permanent nutgalls. But is
there anything more melancholy than the wit of another generation? In
the first place, this wit is intertwined with forgotten circumstance.
It hangs on a fashion--on the style of a coat. It arose from a
forgotten bit of gossip. In the play of words the sources of the pun
are lost. It is like a local jest in a narrow coterie, barren to an
outsider. Sydney Smith was the most celebrated wit of his day, but he
is dull reading now. Blackwood's at its first issue was a witty daring
sheet, but for us the pages are stagnant. I suppose that no one now
laughs at the witticisms of Thomas Hood. Where are the wits of
yesteryear? Yet the humor of Falstaff and Lamb and Fielding remains
and is a reminder to us that humor, to be real, must be founded on
humanity and on truth.

On Going to a Party.

Although I usually enjoy a party when I have arrived, I seldom
anticipate it with pleasure. I remain sour until I have hung my hat. I
suspect that my disorder is general and that if any group of formal
diners could be caught in preparation midway between their tub and
over-shoes, they would be found a peevish company who might be
expected to snap at one another. Yet look now at their smiling faces!
With what zest they crunch their food! How cheerfully they clatter on
their plates! Who would suspect that yonder smiling fellow who strokes
his silky chin was sullen when he fixed his tie; or that this pleasant
babble comes out of mouths that lately sulked before their mirrors?

I am not sure from what cause my own crustiness proceeds. I am of no
essential unsociability. Nor is it wholly th