The minds of
some are so versatile, and so richly endowed with intellectual gifts,
that their ideas sparkle and coruscate, they splinter every ray of light
into a thousand colours, and produce all kinds of strange juxtapositions
and combinations. (This exuberance has probably led to the seemingly
contradictory saying that men of sentiment are generally men of humour.)
No doubt their sallies would be poor and appreciated by themselves alone
were they without a certain foundation, but a vast number of things are
capable of affording amusement. Pleasantries often turn upon something
much more difficult to define than to feel--upon some nicety of regard,
or neatness of proportion. No interchange of ideas can take place
without much beyond the letter being understood, and very much depends
upon variety of delicate significations. Words are as variable and
relative as thought, differing with time and place--a few constantly
dropping out of use, some understood in one age, but conveying no
distinct idea in another, and not calling up exactly the same
associations in different individuals. We cannot, therefore, agree with
Addison that translation may be considered a sure test for
distinguishing between genuine and spurious humour--although it would
detect mere puns. Voltaire says of Hudibras, "I have never met with so
much wit in one book as in this--who would believe that a work which
paints in such lively and natural colours the several foibles and
frolics of mankind, and where we meet with more sentiment than words,
should baffle the endeavours of the ablest translator?" But any
alteration of words would generally destroy humour.
Pages:
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294