Carlyle’s grim humour was also drilled into efficacy.  He used it in orderly fashion; he gave it force by a stern principle of repression.  He had (what wise man has not?) an honest respect for dulness, knowing that a strong and free people argues best—­as Mr. Bagehot puts it—­“in platoons.”  He had some measure of mercy for folly.  But against the whole complicated business of pretence, against the pious, and respectable, and patriotic hypocrisies of a successful civilization, he hurled his taunts with such true aim that it is not too much to say there has been less real comfort and safety in lying ever since.

These are victories worth recording, and there is a big battlefield for American humour when it finds itself ready for the fray, when it leaves off firing squibs, and settles down to a compelling cannonade, when it aims less at the superficial incongruities of life, and more at the deep-rooted delusions which rob us of fair fame.  It has done its best work in the field of political satire, where the “Biglow Papers” hit hard in their day, where Nast’s cartoons helped to overthrow the Tweed dynasty, and where the indolent and luminous genius of Mr. Dooley has widened our mental horizon.  Mr. Dooley is a philosopher, but his is the philosophy of the looker-on, of that genuine unconcern which finds Saint George and the dragon to be both a trifle ridiculous.  He is always undisturbed, always illuminating, and not infrequently amusing; but he anticipates the smiling indifference with which those who come after us will look back upon our enthusiasms and absurdities.  Humour, as he sees it, is that thrice blessed quality which enables us to laugh, when otherwise we should be in danger of weeping.  “We are ridiculous animals,” observes Horace Walpole unsympathetically, “and if angels have any fun in their hearts, how we must divert them.”

It is this clear-sighted, non-combative humour which Americans love and prize, and the absence of which they reckon a heavy loss.  Nor do they always ask, “a loss to whom?” Charles Lamb said it was no misfortune for a man to have a sulky temper.  It was his friends who were unfortunate.  And so with the man who has no sense of humour.  He gets along very well without it.  He is not aware that anything is lacking.  He is not mourning his lot.  What loss there is, his friends and neighbours bear.  A man destitute of humour is apt to be a formidable person, not subject to sudden deviations from his chosen path, and incapable of frittering away his elementary forces by pottering over both sides of a question.  He is often to be respected, sometimes to be feared, and always—­if possible—­to be avoided.  His are the qualities which distance enables us to recognize and value at their worth.  He fills his place in the scheme of creation; but it is for us to see that his place is not next to ours at table, where his unresponsiveness narrows the conversational area, and dulls the contagious ardour of speech.  He may add to the wisdom of the ages, but he lessens the gayety of life.