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 declare that it is not the fire of adverse critics which afflicts or frightens the editorial bosom.  They may be right; they may be rogues who have a personal spite; they may be dullards who kick and bray as their nature is to do, and prefer thistles to pineapples; they may be conscientious, acute, deeply learned, delightful judges, who see your joke in a moment, and the profound wisdom lying underneath.  Wise or dull, laudatory or otherwise, we put their opinions aside.  If they applaud, we are pleased:  if they shake their quick pens, and fly off with a hiss, we resign their favors and put on all the fortitude we can muster.  I would rather have the lowest man’s good word than