with words.  Sir John Robinson gives, as an admirable instance of exaggeration of statement, the remark of an American in London that his dining-room ceiling was so low that he could not have anything for dinner but soles.  Sir John thought this could have been said only by an American, only by one accustomed to have a joke swiftly catalogued as a joke, and suffered to pass.  An English jester must always take into account the mental attitude which finds “Gulliver’s Travels” “incredible.”  When Mr. Edward FitzGerald said that the church at Woodbridge was so damp that fungi grew about the communion rail, Woodbridge ladies offered an indignant denial.  When Dr. Thompson, the witty master of Trinity, observed of an undergraduate that “all the time he could spare from the neglect of his duties he gave to the adornment of his person,” the sarcasm made its slow way into print; whereupon an intelligent British reader wrote to the periodical which had printed it, and explained painstakingly that, inasmuch as it was not possible to spare time from the neglect of anything, the criticism was inaccurate.

Exaggeration of phrase, as well as the studied understatement which is an even more effective form of ridicule, seem natural products of American humour.  They sound, wherever we hear them, familiar to our ears.  It is hard to believe that an English barrister, and not a Texas ranch-man, described Boston as a town where respectability stalked unchecked.  Mazarin’s plaintive reflection, “Nothing is so disagreeable as to be obscurely hanged,” carries with it an echo of Wyoming or Arizona.  Mr. Gilbert’s analysis of Hamlet’s mental disorder,—­

   “Hamlet is idiotically sane,
    With lucid intervals of lunacy,”—­

has the pure flavour of American wit,—­a wit which finds its most audacious expression in burlesquing bitter things, and which misfits its words with diabolic ingenuity.  To match these alien jests, which sound so like our own, we have the whispered warning of an American usher (also quoted by Sir John Robinson) who opened the door to a late comer at one of Mr. Matthew Arnold’s lectures:  “Will you please make as little noise as you can, sir.  The audience is asleep”; and the comprehensive remark of a New England scholar and wit that he never wanted to do anything in his life, that he did not find it was expensive, unwholesome, or immoral.  This last observation embraces the wisdom of the centuries.  Solomon would have endorsed it, and it is supremely quotable as expressing a common experience with very uncommon felicity.

When we leave the open field of exaggeration, that broad area which is our chosen territory, and seek for subtler qualities in American humour, we find here and there a witticism which, while admittedly our own, has in it an Old-World quality.  The epigrammatic remark of a Boston woman that men get and forget, and women give and forgive, shows the fine, sharp finish of Sydney Smith or Sheridan.  A Philadelphia