angry with jokers. Have
you ever watched an elderly male or female--an elderly "party," so to
speak, who begins to find out that some young wag of the company is
"chaffing" him? Have you ever tried the sarcastic or Socratic method
with a child? Little simple he or she, in the innocence of the simple
heart, plays some silly freak, or makes some absurd remark, which you
turn to ridicule. The little creature dimly perceives that you
are making fun of him, writhes, blushes, grows uneasy, bursts into
tears,--upon my word it is not fair to try the weapon of ridicule
upon that innocent young victim. The awful objurgatory practice he is
accustomed to. Point out his fault, and lay bare the dire consequences
thereof: expose it roundly, and give him a proper, solemn, moral
whipping--but do not attempt to castigare ridendo. Do not laugh at him
writhing, and cause all the other boys in the school to laugh. Remember
your own young days at school, my friend--the tingling cheeks, burning
ears, bursting heart, and passion of desperate tears, with which you
looked up, after having performed some blunder, whilst the doctor held
you to public scorn before the class, and cracked his great clumsy jokes
upon you--helpless, and a prisoner! Better the block itself, and the
lictors, with their fasces of birch-twigs, than the maddening torture of
those jokes!

Now with respect to jokes--and the present company of course
excepted--many people, perhaps most people, are as infants. They have
little sense of humor. They don't like jokes. Raillery in writing annoys
and offends them. The coarseness apart, I think I have met very, very
few women who liked the banter of Swift and Fielding. Their simple,
tender natures revolt at laughter. Is the satyr always a wicked brute
at heart, and are they rightly shocked at his grin, his leer, his horns,
hoofs, and ears? Fi donc, le vilain monstre, with his shrieks, and his
capering crooked legs! Let him go and get a pair of well-wadded black
silk stockings, and pull them over those horrid shanks; put a large gown
and bands over beard and hide; and pour a dozen of lavender-water into
his lawn handkerchief, and cry, and never make a joke again. It shall
all be highly-distilled poesy, and perfumed sentiment, and gushing
eloquence; and the foot SHAN'T peep out, and a plague take it. Cover it
up with the surplice. Out with your cambric, dear ladies, and let us all
whimper together.

Now, then, hand on heart, we decl