Wit and Humor of the Bible: A Literary Study

A LITERARY STUDY.

BY
Rev. Marion D. Shutter, D. D.

“Bibles laid open; millions of surprises.”—Herbert.

BOSTON, MASS.,
Arena Publishing Company,
COPLEY SQUARE.
1893.

COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY
MARION D. SHUTTER.
All rights reserved.

Dedication.
TO MY WIFE,
Mary Wilkinson Shutter.

PREFACE.

While “many have taken in hand to set forth in order” the pathos and sublimity of the Bible, those literary elements comprised under the title of this book have rarely been mentioned. Feeling that here was a field untraversed, the author of this little volume began an investigation whose results were originally embodied in an article published some years ago in an Eastern review. That article is given in “Poole’s Index” as the only one extant upon the subject. Since its publication, additional study has brought to light other examples of the use of Wit and Humor by the writers of the Bible. These later results were embodied in a course of lectures delivered last winter before the students of Lombard University, Galesburg, Ill. They are now given to the public in the present volume. It would be presumptuous to claim that these few pages exhaust the subject. Such a claim the author does not wish to make. Further research would no doubt bring to light instances that have escaped him. It is hoped, however, that these studies may be sufficiently complete to awaken interest in a long-neglected side of our sacred literature.

MARION D. SHUTTER.

Minneapolis, Minn., Dec. 24, 1892.
First Universalist Church.

INTRODUCTORY.

“There is still one question before us. If humor be what we have claimed for it, not a mere farce, but the depicting of the whole of human life, then we should expect that the highest literature should be found to contain it. We should expect to find it everywhere; that it should satisfy all that desire which a reading in theology, or philosophy, or science, or history, or a study in art, has created in man. Are there, then, any great books, or still more any great forces in human life which seem devoid of it? Is there any humor in the gospels? This is a dilemma that must be faced; for if humor be life itself, how can human life in its highest development dispense with it?”—Shorthouse.

INTRODUCTORY.

“Even St. Paul could invent and enjoy a humorous pun; the proof of which see Galatians V:12, in the original; so there is high authority for jesting.”—Kirke.

The title of this book will no doubt affect many persons unpleasantly at first. “Flat blasphemy!” I can hear some one exclaim, “We have already had the authority of the Bible undermined by critics, and here is a flippant rogue who goes still farther, and assures us that it is nothing more than a jest-book! This is the very climax and culmination of godless folly.”

The author makes haste, therefore, to disclaim any intention of irreverence. To cheapen or degrade sacred things, to “depreciate the moral currency,” is at the farthest remove from his intention. It is easy enough to take the language of Scripture and use it for coarse and vulgar purposes, and such use deserves the severest censure. It is not to be tolerated. Passages that have been light and guidance to multitudes, that have brought strength to the tempted, certainty to the doubting and consolation to the bereaved; that have been bread of life to those who have hungered for righteousness, inspiration to the purposeless and help to the needy,—have been turned into sources of merriment to freshen exhausted wit, and season the insipid discourse of stupidity. Persons whose brains are barren of pleasant conceits find no difficulty in so perverting a Scriptural expression as to make the “groundlings” laugh. In no such motives has this volume originated. The title has been chosen and the work which it covers has been done in the spirit of one who loves the Great Book, and who would secure for it an additional claim upon human affection. The studies of the writer have led him into fresh fields and pastures green, where he has gathered many things out of the ordinary that have given the Bible a larger place in his own heart.

No; the Bible is not a collection of jests; nor do we characterize it as a jest-book when we say that it contains Wit and Humor. These elements are in the Bible, and with good reason. They are not introduced to amuse. They are not intended to dissipate the weariness of an idle hour. They are not designed to produce convulsions of laughter. They are subsidiary to the main theme. They are incidental to the development of religious history and religious thought. They help reveal in their true light the characters who from time to time appear; they show the absurdity of the opposing error and sharpen the arrows with which folly is transfixed. They enhance in many ways the value and power of our Sacred Book.

I.

The Scripture documents may be viewed from several standpoints;—historical, exegetical, theological and literary. One may, for example, study the book of Job to find out the actual basis of fact that underlies it, or for the purpose of ascertaining and systematizing its doctrines, or he may read it as a great dramatic poem, and criticize it by the rules that would apply to any other dramatic poem. He may go through the Apocalypse, grammar and lexicon in hand, or he may study its flashing imagery as he would that of any other magnificent work of genius. He may read the Psalms as he would the odes of Horace. In these pages the Scriptures are considered simply as Literature. The question of inspiration or authority does not enter. Doctrinal inquiries are set aside. “To understand,” says Matthew Arnold, “that the language of the Bible is fluid, passing, literary, is the first step towards a right understanding of the Bible.”

The literary character of the Bible is admirably set forth in the following paragraph from a recent critic:

“As a particular book, the Bible is an unequaled source of literary inspiration. As a book of religious truth, it is supreme; but religious truth, without any impairment of its value or obscurity of its meaning, may be studied from the literary standpoint; in fact, in the light of literary criticism, or tested by the usual canons of the scholar, it will appear more sacred, more beautiful, more divine. Never forgetting that it is our manual of religion, it is also the vehicle of the most wonderful literature in human annals, and precedes in importance all others. There is no book so composite in character and yet so harmonious in plan, so multiplex in styles and yet so educational in rhetoric and logic, so varied in contents and yet so progressive in its philosophy and religion, as the Bible. Taken as a whole, it is massive, comprehensive, a revelation of the Infinite. Studied in its parts, it stimulates single faculties while it ministers nourishment to the whole frame. Its histories are more compact than those of Herodotus, Gibbon or Macaulay; its poetry, whose key is a mystery, quiets Homer, Shakespeare and Tennyson; its prophecies are unique climaxes of wisdom, both in drapery and substance; its biographies excel those of Plutarch, Irving, Carlyle and Boswell; its chronicles of wars are superior to those of Julius Cæsar, Wellington, Napoleon, and Ulysses Grant; its epistles eclipse those of Pliny, Madame Sevigne and Francis Bacon; its laws, in their ethical and spiritual import, are quite beyond Justinian, Blackstone and the English Parliament. Every phasis of literature, every norm of wisdom, is in the Bible. It ministers to all tastes and arouses the slumbering intellects of all who can comprehend the difference between reality and fiction, and who incline to virtue rather than vice. Ruskin confesses his indebtedness to the Bible, Homer and Sir Walter Scott, for his mental discipline; Charles Reade pronounces the characters in Scripture a literary marvel. Matthew Arnold daily read the New Testament in Greek for its style; Milton could not have written Paradise Lost without Genesis; Renan’s witchery of style is traceable to the New Testament. Job has taught the poets the art of construction, and David has sung an undying melody into the ears of the race. The Book of Ruth is the model idyl, and the Books of Esther and Daniel abound in incomparable dramatic elements; Isaiah has plumed the statesman for oratorical flights; Jeremiah has opened the fountains of pathos and sentiment in pathetic souls; Ezekiel has furnished a usable style of judicial denunciation for the criminal lawyer. Of all books, whether rhetoric, logic, vocabulary, poetry, philosophy, history, or whatever be the end, the Bible should be first and most carefully studied, its literary spirit and form should be closely traced and discerned, and its truth should be reverently incorporated into the daily speech, thought and life.”

But in this summary there is no mention made of the literary qualities which it is here proposed to consider. They are as completely ignored as if the very suggestion of their presence were profanation.

II.

The presumption is that in such a book, or rather collection of books as the Bible, the elements of Wit and Humor would be found. We have here the best historical, poetical, and moral works of a whole people. These documents cover in time more than a millennium and a half. It is more than probable that during that time amusing incidents occurred, even in connection with the religious trend of the history, some of which would be reported; that grotesque and odd characters existed, some of whom would be described, and their sayings and doings noted; that among the moral teachers of the people, there were some at least, who would point their precepts with wit and edge their rebukes with sarcasm. We should expect to find all these things, as we should expect to find pathos or sublimity. The humorous is just as legitimate in literature and quite as much an element of influence. It glows in all the other great books which have shaped the life and thought of mankind; and it is only fair to presume that we shall find its light shining from those pages that have been most potent of all.

But is not “the volume of this book” a serious one? Is it not profoundly in earnest? Are not its themes most solemn? Is not its purpose the highest under heaven, the most important to the inhabitants of earth? The conclusion, however, that the questioner has in mind is by no means inevitable. It is a mistake to suppose that humor is incompatible with seriousness, earnestness and solemnity. “As in one of my lectures,” says Henry Reed, “I spoke of attempting to draw too precise a line around sacred literature, making it too much a thing apart, so in regard to the literature of wit and humor. I shall be very sorry, if such a title as that which I have been obliged to use, led any one to think of it as of a more distinctive existence than is the case, instead of regarding those faculties as pervading the literature in various degrees, and thus forming some of the elements of its life. I shall have occasion to trace these elements in close connection with elements of tragedy, and to show how the processes we generalize under the names of wit and humor are kindred with the most intense passion and the deepest feeling.”

In human nature, the sources of laughter and tears lie close together, and the highest literature must express that nature in its entirety. “It is an understood fact,” says Whipple, “that mirth is as innate in the mind as any other original faculty. The absence of it in individuals or communities is a defect.” “He who laughs,” says the mother of Goethe, “can commit no deadly sin.” If it be true as Whipple says, that the absence of mirth in individuals or communities is a defect, then is the absence of it in literature likewise a defect. It is a defect because the literature which omits it fails to set forth all that there is in man. It leaves an important territory unexplored.

On the other hand, the literature which is designed to move and mold men must be addressed to human nature in its completeness. Freighted with destiny, charged with eternity as are the messages of the Bible, they are yet intended to impress men; they are addressed to human faculties in human speech. Whatever the capacities of language for touching the heart and operating upon the will, they may all be employed, though the theme soar to heaven or take hold on hell. The Bible is not an instrument of a single string; it gives forth a thousand harmonies. It is attuned to every note in human nature.

III.

Thus far we have simply dealt with the presumption. The considerations advanced show us what we might expect to find. When we proceed from presumption to actual investigation, our conjectures are verified. There are certainly passages in the Bible which in any other writings we should call Wit and Humor. Since this is the case, our discussion is legitimate, however repugnant the very suggestion may be to the feelings with which we are accustomed to regard the Bible.

Let us take some examples. If we found in any other book such a saying as this, “Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor, so doth a little folly him that is in great reputation for wisdom and honor,” should we not call it witty? Is it not witty as the Russian proverb “A spoonful of tar in a barrel of honey?”

Or consider such sentences as the following: “All the labor of a man is for his mouth, and yet his appetite is not filled.” “As he that taketh away a garment in cold weather, and as vinegar upon nitre, so is he that singeth songs to a heavy heart.” “Bread of deceit is sweet to a man, but afterwards his mouth shall be filled with gravel.” “He that answereth a matter before he heareth it, it is folly and shame unto him.” “A man of great wrath shall suffer punishment; for if thou deliver him, yet must thou do it again.” In other words, a man of violent temper is always getting into difficulties; you have no sooner helped him out of one than he madly plunges into another. Like the irascible person in the old nursery rhyme, who jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes, he is no sooner extricated, than “with all his might and main, he jumps into another bush and puts them out again.” “Can a man take fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burned? Can he go upon hot coals and his feet not be burned?” “Wealth makes many friends, but the poor is separated from his neighbor.” “He that passeth by and meddleth with strife belonging not to him, is like one that taketh a dog by the ears.” If we came upon such sentences in Johnson or Goldsmith, we should say in a moment that they were instances of genuine wit. Let us not hesitate to carry the same frankness of literary judgment to the Bible. When Isaiah characterizes certain ones as “mighty to drink wine and men of strength to mingle strong drink,” does he not use essentially the same reproach that Prince Hal fastened upon Falstaff, “Wherein is he good but to taste sack and drink it?” Who shall say that the earlier satire did not suggest the later? Much has been written about Shakespeare’s indebtedness to the Bible.

Here is a passage of biting sarcasm from Job. We should surely call it sarcasm if we found it in the pages of Robert South. Job is expressing his scorn for those who affect to look down upon him in his adversities: “But now they that are younger than I have me in derision, whose fathers I would have disdained to set with the dogs of my flock.” They are “the children of fools, yea, children of base men; they were viler than the earth.” (We have an equivalent expression in “meaner than dirt.”) They are members of the long-eared fraternity. He does not say so in the bluntest form of expression that can be used, and that any one less skillful would have used. Job puts it much more effectively: “Among the bushes they brayed; under the nettles they were gathered together.” “If that is not wit,” says one, “there is no such thing as wit. And yet the commentators do not see it, or will not see it. They are perfectly wooden when they come to any such gleam of humor.”

There is a bit of ridicule in Jeremiah that we should be quick to call ridicule, if we came upon it elsewhere. He is describing the disasters that fell upon the allies of the King of Egypt. “Why are the strong ones swept away? They stood not because the Lord did thrust them down. He made them to stumble, yea they fell one upon another; and they said, Arise, and let us go again to our own people, and to the land of our nativity, from the oppressing sword.” They are defeated in spite of all the promises of the King of Egypt. He does not seem to avail them. His boasts are ineffectual. His disgusted allies depart, flinging at him the withering reproach, “Pharoah, King of Egypt, is but a noise; he hath let the appointed time pass by.” That is to say, according to one paraphrase, “Pharoah is of no account now, he has had his chance and lost it; he has outlived his influence; his day is over; he is not a sovereign any longer; he is only a noise.” Or as Matthew Henry puts it, “Pharoah can hector and talk big; but that is all; all his promises vanish into smoke.” In the same spirit, Queen Catherine says of the dead Wolsey,

“His promise was as he then was, mighty;
But his performance, as he now is, nothing.”

If we found a little sketch like the following in Thackeray, we should, beyond doubt, pronounce it humorous: “All the brethren of the poor do hate him; how much more do his friends go far from him. He pursueth them with words, yet are they wanting to him.” The words of a poor man can not travel fast enough to overtake his rich friends and neighbors. Indeed, Thackeray has drawn such a picture in his more elaborate description of Harry Warrington in the sponging-house, making vain appeals for help to his rich relatives and friends. “He pursued them with words, yet were they wanting to him.” His aunt,—“a member of the great and always established Church of the Pharisees, sent him her blessing,—and a tract!”

If we found, in any modern literature, a sketch of the ruling deacon in a church, like John’s description of Diotrephus, we should say it was tinged with satire. “I wrote unto the Church, but Diotrephus, who loveth to have the pre-eminence among them, receiveth us not. Wherefore if I come, I will remember his deeds which he doeth, prating against us with malicious words; and not content therewith, neither doth he himself receive the brethren, and forbiddeth them that would, and casteth them out of the Church.” Evidently there was a deacon in one of the apostolic churches, who always had to be consulted. Everything must go as he dictated. He did not even stand in awe of an accredited apostle. The minister must preach according to his views of theology, or signify his willingness to accept a call to a new field. Those members of the church who upheld a minister whom Diotrephus did not like, found their connection with the body severed without the formality of asking their consent. In the matter of having a Diotrephus within their borders, some churches to-day find themselves in the direct line of apostolic succession.

In the book of Acts, there is an account of Paul’s reception at Athens. “And they took him and brought him unto Areopagus, saying, May we know what this new doctrine is, whereof thou speakest? For thou bringest certain strange things to our ears; we would know, therefore, what these things mean.” In the comment which follows this account, the writer indulges in a touch of ridicule upon the Athenian gossips and curiosity mongers. We should say it was a touch of ridicule if we found it in Addison. “For all the Athenians and strangers which were there, spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing.” Indeed there is a sketch in Addison of which this might easily have been the ground-work. “There is no humor of my countrymen which I am more inclined to wonder at than their general thirst after news. A victory or defeat is equally agreeable to them. The shutting of a cardinal’s mouth pleaseth them one post, and the opening of it another. They are delighted to hear the French Court is removed to Marli, and are afterwards as much delighted with its return to Versailles. They read the advertisements with the same curiosity as the articles of public news; and are as pleased to hear of a pye-bald horse that is strayed out of a field near Islington, as of a whole troop that has been engaged in any foreign adventure. In short, they have a relish for anything that is news, let the matter of it be what it will. They are men of a voracious appetite.” Is not the comment of the Scriptural writer upon the Athenians in the same vein with Addison’s comment upon the English?

Isaiah rebukes those “who call evil good and good evil; who put darkness for light and light for darkness; who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter,”—thus confusing moral distinctions. This is the same sort of sophistry that Addison exposes, in his gentle way, by proposing the following form of agreement: “We whose names are hereunto subscribed, do solemnly declare that we do in our consciences believe that two and two make four; and that we shall adjudge any man whatever to be our enemy who endeavors to persuade us to the contrary. We are likewise ready to maintain, with the hazard of all that is near and dear to us, that six is less than seven in all times and at all places; and that ten will not be more three years hence than it is at present. We do also firmly declare that it is our resolution as long as we live to call Black black and White white. And we shall upon all occasions oppose such persons that upon any day of the year shall call Black white or White black, with the utmost of our lives and fortunes.” The rebuke, in both cases, is the same.

IV.

What do these illustrations show? “That the Bible is, on the whole, a humorous book? Far from it. That religion is a humorous subject? that we are to throw all the wit we can into the treatment of it? No. But they show that the sense of the ludicrous is put into man by his Maker; that it has its uses; that we are not to be ashamed of it;” that we are not to be horrified at the mention of it in connection with things we deem most sacred. They show that the literature of the Bible contains the same elements that in any other literature we call Wit and Humor. They show us, also, that wit and humor do not of necessity produce hearty laughter or boisterous mirth; not always do they manifest themselves in “gibes and gambols and flashes of merriment that set the table in a roar.” Those, therefore, who may expect something in these chapters that will shake one’s sides with jollity, or make him “laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up,” will doubtless be disappointed. Wit and humor often lie too deep for laughter, as pathos often lies too deep for tears.

No attempt is here made at exact definition of the two words that are prominent in the general title of this book. Perhaps after they have passed through their final analysis we shall not be any wiser than before we cast them into the alembic. Barrow says of Humor: “It is a thing so versatile and multiform that it seems no less hard to settle a clear and certain notion thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus or to define the figure of the fleeting air.” We usually include under the general term all forms of pleasantry, grotesqueness, drollery, sarcasm, irony, ridicule. Our common acceptation shall serve us in these studies.

“There are many things,” says Prof. Matthews, “that definition helps us to understand, but there are other things that we understand better than we can any possible definition of them; among these are the cold, sparkling, mercurial thing we call wit, and that genial, juicy, unconscious thing we call humor.”

With these preliminary observations, we proceed to examine the subject in detail:

“Are there not two points in the adventure of the diver?
One when a beggar he prepares to plunge;
The other when a prince he rises with his pearl?
Festus, I plunge.”

II. CHARACTER SKETCHES.

CHARACTER SKETCHES.

“With what prudence does the Son of Sirach caution us in the choice of our friends. And with what strokes of Nature, (I could almost say of Humour,) has he described the behavior of a treacherous and self-interested friend!”—Addison.

“The history of the ancient Hebrews,” says George Eliot, “gives the idea of a people who went about their business and their pleasures as gravely as a society of beavers; the smile and laugh are often mentioned metaphorically; but the smile is one of complacency, the laugh of scorn.”

Against the authority of so illustrious a name, the writer of these pages confesses a somewhat different impression. It is difficult to believe that such sentiments as the following could have arisen among a people whose only smile was that of complacency, whose only laughter that of scorn:

“He that is of a merry heart hath a continual feast.”

“A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance.”

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

“Go thy way; eat thy bread with joy and drink thy wine with a merry heart.”

“The voice of mirth,” “the voice of gladness” are phrases of frequent occurrence. The ancient Hebrews believed that there was a “time to laugh” as well as a “time to weep.” Grave and serious as they were, there must have been in them, after all, something sunny and pleasant. They did not find the heavens forever black and the earth forever cheerless.

When we turn to the historical and biographical portions of Scripture, we find here and there a bit of quaintness and drollery in pictures of life and delineations of character that must have brought to the faces of those who read them or heard them smiles other than those of complacency; that must have been enjoyed with laughter other than that of scorn.

Mr. Shorthouse says, “Nature and humor do not lie far apart; the source and spring of humor is human life.” “The essence of humor,” Carlyle remarks, “is sensibility; warm, tender fellow-feeling with all forms of existence.” “The man of humor,” writes another distinguished critic, “seeing at one glance the majestic and the mean, the serious and the laughable; indeed, interpreting what is little or ridiculous by light derived from its opposite idea, delineates character as he finds it in life, without any impertinent intrusion of his own indignation or approval.”

The writers of the Bible sketched manners and traits as they found them. Their pencils were faithful to nature. They reported what they saw. The features which provoke the smile, as well as those which move us to admire, condemn or weep, are pictured on their canvas. They had an eye for the ludicrous side of life, as well as for its more sober aspects. So, genial is much of their—often unconscious—humor, so far removed from bitterness or scorn, that it should seem as if Addison and Irving might have drawn some of their inspiration from these old Hebrews.

In this chapter we shall give some illustrations from their sketches of character.

I.—Abimelech.

In the time of the Judges the unprincipled Abimelech contrived to have himself proclaimed king in Shechem. Knowing his unfitness for the throne, and vexed at his successful machinations, Jotham, a man of ready wit, ridicules the pretensions of the monarch and the folly of the people, in an admirable fable. Addison says: “Fables were the first pieces of wit that made their appearance in the world, and have been still highly valued, not only in times of the greatest simplicity, but among the most polite ages of mankind. Jotham’s fable of the Trees is the oldest that is extant, and as beautiful as any that have been made since that time.”

Perching himself upon the top of a hill, that his parable may not be brought to an untimely end, he speaks to the multitude: “The Trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them. And they said to the Olive Tree, Reign thou over us. But the Olive Tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and men, and go to be promoted over the Trees? Then said the Trees unto the Fig Tree, Come thou and reign over us. But the Fig Tree said unto them, Should I forsake my sweetness and my good fruit, and go to be promoted over the Trees? Then said the Trees unto the Vine, Come thou and reign over us. And the Vine said unto them, Should I leave my wine which cheereth God and Man, and go to be promoted over the Trees?” Thus far the Trees have been unsuccessful. They have found among their fellows of the forest no available candidate whose character and record are good. They anticipated a difficulty of more modern times. But they are becoming desperate. They are determined to have a king. In this extremity what step do they take? “Then said all the Trees unto the Bramble, Come thou and reign over us.” The Bramble cannot plead business. It cannot say, as do the Olive and Fig and Vine, “I am of some better use.” There is no reason, so far as any beneficent occupation is concerned, why it should not be king. The offer is eagerly accepted, and the pompous bush delivers itself of this high and mighty coronation address: “If in truth ye anoint me king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow; and if not, let fire come out of the Bramble and destroy the cedars of Lebanon!”

This Bramble, Jotham explains, represents Abimelech, while the misguided trees are the men of Shechem. Having made this application, Jotham became convinced that his mission was ended, and abandoned Mount Gerezim for a place of greater security. “And Jotham ran away and fled, and went to Beer and dwelt there for fear of Abimelech his brother.” He did not wait to see what impression he had made. He was willing to let his story, moral and all, take care of itself; for in that day, as in every subsequent age, there was no room for a satirist in the kingdom of an incompetent ruler.

II.—Samson.

Farther on in the book of Judges, we have the portrait of Samson. How quaintly is the character drawn! A great lubberly, good-natured giant, but now and then bursting out into fits of unreasoning and uncontrolled anger,—not unlike Ajax in the play. He is constantly making himself ridiculous in his love affairs.

In Love’s Labor Lost, the following dialogue occurs:—

“Armado.—Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love?

“Moth.—Hercules, Master.

“Arm.—Most sweet Hercules! More authority dear boy, name more; and sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.

“Moth.—Samson, Master; he was a man of good carriage, for he raised the town gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love.”

He tries to joke in clumsy riddles: “Out of the eater came forth meat, out of the strong came forth sweetness.” But his jokes were usually of a more practical and even more disastrous kind. L’Estrange, in his History of Humor, says: “The first character in the records of antiquity that seems to have had anything quaint or droll about it is that of Samson. Standing out amid the confusion of legendary times, he gives us good specimens of the fierce, wild kind of merriment relished in ancient days; and was very fond of making very sanguinary sport for the Philistines. He was an exaggeration of a not very uncommon type of man in which brute strength is joined to loose morals and whimsical fancy. People were more inclined to laugh at sufferings formerly than now, because they were not keenly sensitive to pain, and also had less feeling and consideration for others. That Samson found some malicious kind of pleasure and diversion in his reprisals on his enemies and made his misfortunes minister to his amusement, is evident from the strange character of his exploits. ‘He caught three hundred foxes, and took firebrands, and turned tail to tail, and put a firebrand in the midst between two tails, and when he had set the brands on fire, he let them go into the standing corn of the Philistines, and burned up both the shocks and also the standing corn of the Philistines, with the vineyards and olives.’ On another occasion, he allowed himself to be bound with cords and thus apparently delivered powerless into the hands of his enemies; he then broke his bonds ‘like flax that was burnt with fire,’ and taking the jawbone of an ass which he found, slew a thousand men with it. His account of this massacre shows that he regarded it in a humorous light: ‘With the jawbone of an ass, heaps upon heaps, with the jawbone of an ass, I have slain a thousand men.’ We might also refer to his carrying away the gates of Gaza to the top of a hill that is before Hebron, and to his duping Delilah about the seven green withes. * * * Samson was evidently regarded as a droll fellow in his day.”

What a touch of human nature there is in the scene between Samson and his wife, when she asks for the solution of that wretched riddle! “Thou dost but hate me,” is her reproach, “and lovest me not; thou hast put forth a riddle unto the children of my people, and hast not told it to me.” What! is there a domestic storm already brewing? There is something of a thunderclap in the angry retort of the husband: “Behold, I have not told it to my father and my mother,” (as if that would make any difference to her!) “and shall I tell it to thee?” Comparisons of this sort are but little noted for their conciliatory tendencies, and so we are fully prepared for what follows: “And she wept before him the seven days while the feast lasted.” Poor Samson is not proof against woman’s tears. He could rend the lion as a kid, and carry off the gates of Gaza as easily as a shepherd could bear a lamb upon his shoulders, but his superhuman strength is of no avail against “women’s weapons, water-drops.” We are not surprised to find that “it came to pass on the seventh day he told her.” Thus did conjugal quarrels end in the time of the Judges.

But if Samson was worsted in the encounter with his wife, he scored a victory against the Philistines who had frightened her into telling them the answer to the riddle. When they came with an air of insolent triumph and said: “What is sweeter than honey? and what is stronger than a lion?” he rather impolitely retorted,—traces of gall and wormwood at his recent humiliation by his wife still rankling in his mind,—“If ye had not ploughed with my heifer, ye had not found out my riddle.” But he paid the debt of honor he owed them, the wager he had lost. “He went down to Ashkelon, and slew thirty men of them, and took their spoil and gave changes of raiment unto them which expounded the riddle.” Thersites would have said of him as he did of Achilles, “His wit was his sinew.” Samson had wonderful muscular power of repartee.

On another occasion Samson amused himself by telling monstrous lies about the secret of his strength: “If they bind me with seven green withes that were never dried, then shall I be weak and be as another man;” “if they bind me fast with new ropes;” “if thou weavest the seven locks of my head with the web;” and so on. As Prince Hal said of the stories of his boon companion, “These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable.” Delilah, wearied with these practical jokes, exclaims at last, “How canst thou say ‘I love thee,’ when thine heart is not with me? Thou hast mocked me these three times, and hast not told me wherein thy great strength lieth.” Then she began a course of teasing and entreaty that finally proved successful. “It came to pass when she pressed him daily with her words, so that his soul was vexed unto death, that he told her all his heart.” Samson was great physically, but so weak mentally and morally that he is continually reducing himself to an absurd spectacle. He could not resist Delilah’s persistent importunities, nor had he sufficient resolution to betake himself from the presence of temptation. He had, no doubt, laughed loud and long at the victims of his huge falsehoods, but he is finally harassed by a woman whose reproaches and entreaties are like “a continual dropping on a rainy day,” into telling the fatal truth. Upon the whole, as we look upon the portrait of Samson, we find it impossible to respect him. We can only smile at his folly. The one flash of genuine nobility comes at the last. “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” After all, that heroic death more than half redeems the vacillating career it closes.

III.—Nabal.

There is quite a different character in the first book of Samuel. His name is Nabal. The word itself means “fool;” and the man’s wife, Abigail, volunteered the opinion that it was a very accurate description of her husband: “As his name is, so is he: Nabal is his name and folly is with him.” He is self-satisfied, hard-headed, irritable, obstinate. We are told that he was “churlish and evil in his doings.” He is blunt in speech, rude, and even boorish in manners. He stands out of the story like an old, gnarled tree. It would not be a matter of marvel if he suggested to Fielding the character of Squire Western. They have many points in common. The servants of Nabal are afraid of him: “He is such a son of Belial that a man cannot speak to him!” He is fond of wine, and sometimes falls asleep over his cups. When David asks a favor of him, he exclaims: “Who is David? and who is the son of Jesse? There be many servants now-a-days that break away, every man from his own master!” As much as to say, “The country is full of runaways and tramps, and how do I know but this David is one of them?” Then he goes on—“Shall I take my bread and my water, and my flesh that I have killed for my shearers, and give it unto men whom I know not whence they be?” Let this David look out for himself; it is all that I can do to provide for my own family and servants! How exactly in the Squire Western vein: “It’s well for un I could not get at un; I’d spoiled his caterwauling; I’d a taught un to meddle with meat for his master. He shan’t ever have a morsel of meat of mine, or a varden to buy it with!” Just the man, after he has stormed his life away, to die of apoplexy! And Nabal did die suddenly, a few days after he had been “very drunken.”

IV.—Jonah.

There are some elements of genuine humor in the story of Jonah. Whatever may be thought of the miraculous portions of the narrative, the character of the shirking and whimpering prophet is faithfully drawn. He first tries to escape the command of the Lord by fleeing to Tarshish, but finds that he who runs away from duty runs into danger. Thoroughly alarmed by the disastrous outcome of his attempt to get away from responsibility, he finally goes to Nineveh, but is not reconciled to his task. He did not go because he was anxious to serve the Ninevites, but because he wished to avert further danger from himself. He is in just the mood to complain of everything, to snatch at any straw of justification for his former conduct. Contrary to his expectations, and even, it must be confessed, to his secret wishes, the Ninevites were moved to repentance by his half-hearted preaching, with its undertone of grumbling, and God forgave them and turned away the threatened destruction of their city. But when the forty days expire, and the city does not fall, Jonah is angry, and he insists that he does well to be angry. He has been obliged to trudge through the streets of the city day after day shouting his predictions of doom, and now he is denied the poor satisfaction of seeing the bolts fall from heaven in vengeance. He has even gone so far as to prepare for himself a booth in a safe place, under whose shadow he might sit and enjoy the spectacle,—“where he might see what would become of the city.” And now there is nothing to come of it all! “It displeased Jonah exceedingly and he was very angry.” Surely the Lord is not considerate of the feelings of his prophet. Jonah’s pent-up displeasure breaks forth: “I pray thee, O Lord, was not this my saying while I was yet in mine own country?” Did I not tell you so? Did I not say then and there how this whole affair would turn out? “Therefore I fled before unto Tarshish.” Why should I blister under the sun of Nineveh, when I might take mine ease in Tarshish? “For I knew that Thou art a gracious God, slow to anger and of great kindness and repentest thee of the evil,”—too good-natured to do this thing! And now that I have come, my prophecy has failed and my mission is a farce. These wretches are spared and the prophet of God is a laughing-stock! “I do well to be angry, even unto death!” He goes farther: “I beseech thee, take away my life from me; for it is better for me to die than to live.” It is better to die than to be made ridiculous. Nothing could reconcile Jonah, just then, to the thought of further existence. Like Mr. Mantilini, he was determined to become a “body.”

V.—Absalom.

We must not pass by that exquisite likeness of the demagogue in Second Samuel. “Absalom rose up early and stood beside the way of the gate; and it was so that when any man that had a controversy came to the king for judgment, then Absalom called unto him and said, Of what city art thou? and he said, Thy servant is one of the tribes of Israel. And Absalom said unto him, See, thy matters are good and right, but there is no one deputed of the king to hear thee.” Things are getting very loose in the government; the country is going to the dogs. The present administration has been so long in power, that it has grown careless of the interests of the people. Absalom said, moreover, “O that I were made Judge in the land; that any man which hath any suit or any cause might come unto me, and I would do him justice!” We need a change. Put our party in power and see whether the rights of the people will not be better regarded; see whether there will not be reform in all departments of the government, and better times in the nation. “And it was so that when any man came to him to do him obeisance, he put forth his hand and took him and kissed him.” Really, here we have the origin of the hand shaking candidate of to-day. Here are the beginnings of that cajolery of the “poor laboring man,” “the honest farmer,” “the oppressed people,” which the modern aspirant to office so earnestly affects. “And in this manner did Absalom to all Israel that came unto the King for judgment; so Absalom stole the hearts of the men of Israel.” In one point the comparison between Absalom and his later imitators fails. Absalom, it will be remembered, closed his career by getting hung upon a tree. It is greatly to be regretted that many of our modern demagogues do not complete the parallel.

VI.—Shimei.

If Absalom is a type of the demagogue, Shimei surely is a type of the sycophant. While David was in power, Shimei was devoted. When David was supplanted by the scheming Absalom and went forth heart-broken and weary from the city where he had reigned, Shimei basely deserts him to become the tool of Absalom, and heaps insults upon the head of the fallen monarch. Here is a specimen of his conduct and language: “He cast stones at David and at the servants of King David. * * * And thus said Shimei when he cursed, Come out, come out, thou bloody man and thou man of Belial: the Lord hath returned upon thee all the blood of the house of Saul in whose stead thou hast reigned; and the Lord hath delivered the kingdom into the hand of Absalom thy son; and behold thou art taken in thy mischief because thou art a bloody man.” This exhibition of meanness rouses the just wrath of Abishai, who wishes to put an effectual stop to the miserable proceeding: “Why should this dead dog curse my lord, the King? Let me go over, I pray thee, and take off his head.” But David forbids, and Shimei secure in the continued possession of his head followed after David and his men and “cursed as he went, and threw stones at him and cast dust.” But the scene changes. Absalom lies dead under a heap of stones in the forest. David is returning to Jerusalem as king. A boat has carried him across the Jordan. Who is this that meets him as he lands and fawns upon him? The wretch who stoned and cursed him the other day. It is Shimei who forsook him and pelted him when he was unfortunate, but who returns to offer, “in a bondman’s key,” his humble services when David is restored to power. “Let not my Lord impute iniquity unto me, neither do thou remember that which thy servant did, the day that my lord the king went out of Jerusalem, that the king should take it to heart.” Do not grieve over it, do not take it too sorely. I admit that it was rather hasty and ill-advised. “For thy servant doth know that I have sinned.” To be sure I threw some stones, and kicked up a little dust, and swore a few oaths,—very inconsiderate it seems now; but I am willing to forget the whole affair. And see what splendid atonement I offer! “Behold, I am come first this day of all the house of Joseph, to go down to meet my Lord, the King.” Think of that! Ah, it is “my lord, the king” to-day; no longer a “man of Belial.” My lord the king can grant favors. Any little trifle of an office for which he may want an incumbent would be considered. Remember, “I am come this day, the first of all the house of Joseph to go down to meet my lord the king.”

Sterne says: “The wheel turns round once more; Absalom is cast down, and David returns in peace. Shimei suits his behavior to the occasion, and is the first man also who hastens to greet him; and had the wheel turned round a hundred times, Shimei, I dare say, in every period of its rotation would have been uppermost.” Then he adds: “O Shimei, would to heaven when thou wast slain, that all thy family had been slain with thee and not one of thy resemblance left. But ye have multiplied exceedingly and replenished the earth; and if I prophesy rightly, ye will in the end subdue it. Go where you will, in every quarter, in every profession, you see a Shimei following the wheels of the fortunate through thick mire and clay.”

It is not claimed that the writers of the Bible drew these portraits for the purpose of making ludicrous those whom they painted, but the features were in the originals, and they who wrote were simply faithful to nature. They portrayed what they saw. They did not blind themselves to facts; and now worthless usurper, weak-willed giant, churlish country squire of Palestine, grumbling prophet, scheming demagogue and oily sycophant live forever on their canvas. “Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time;” and some of those “strange fellows” lived in Judea thousands of years ago.

III. “TOUCHES OF NATURE.”

“The ludicrous has its place in the Universe; it is not a human invention, but one of the Divine ideas, illustrated in the practical jokes of kittens and monkeys, long before Aristophanes or Shakespeare.”—Holmes.

“TOUCHES OF NATURE.”

“To explain the nature of laughter and tears is to account for the condition of human life; for it is in a manner compounded of these two. It is tragedy or comedy, sad or merry, as it happens.”—Hazlitt.

“One touch of nature,” says Shakespeare, “makes the whole world kin;” but the great dramatist did not define exactly what he meant by “touch of nature,” and the critics of many generations have been at war over the question. Perhaps he could not have told us, even if he had tried,—any more than the critics can tell us. When Democritus was asked his definition of a man, his only reply was, “A man is that which we all see and know.” Further than this the philosopher could not proceed. But while Shakespeare has not given us a definition, he has given us an illustration:

“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,—
That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds,
Tho’ they are made and moulded of things past;
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o’erdusted.”

The whole world is kin in this, that all with one consent inexcusably forget the substantial past and praise the present folly, if that folly be well tricked out. Humanity proves its oneness by its foibles as well as by its virtues. “Foolery, sir, doth walk about the orb; like the sun it shineth everywhere.” Things deserving of laughter and things intended to provoke it have always been happening; and the faculties by which men perceive the foolish and ludicrous have always existed in human nature.

“Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles,
Sport that wrinkled care derides,
And laughter holding both his sides,”—

all these were in the past as well as in the present. They are “touches of nature” that “make the whole world kin.”

The statement was made in the preceding chapter that the writers of the Bible, especially of the historical books, drew faithfully from real life, and sketched manners and traits as they found them. They neither smoothed over nor concealed anything. They were absolutely frank. This fidelity to nature made it inevitable that the writers should now and then depict the ludicrous side of life and character, describe grotesque situations and paint amusing scenes. These are not uproariously funny, they will not provoke boisterous merriment, any more than will a page of Addison; but they are none the less specimens of genuine humor. Indeed, Carlyle reminds us that “true humor springs not more from the head than from the heart; it issues not in laughter, but in smiles that lie far deeper.”

We may be sure that all life from the very beginning has had its humorous no less than its serious side. If any record had been kept, we should no doubt find that Adam and Eve had their jokes about the apples—it is universally assumed that they were apples—on that forbidden tree, and that they were quite as good as any jokes that have been made about those same apples in more recent years. The masons and bricklayers on the tower of Babel no doubt poked their thumbs into each other’s ribs and slapped each other on the back to emphasize their rude jokes about the late “wet spell,” and wondered how long it would take to get to Heaven with their building. And we imagine that even during the flood itself there were sanguine souls who took the whole matter philosophically, declaring that ‘it never rained long when the clouds looked that way and the wind was in that direction.’ The Israelites, we suspect, lightened their bondage in Egypt by mimicking the pompous manners of their hated taskmasters and ridiculing the fools who thought that bricks could be made without straw. And the grimmest Egyptian mummy that now graces a museum or helps to fertilize the wheat-fields of the West once wore a smile or grin upon his leathern face as he related to a brother mummy how Pharoah made sport of the Israelites by promising to “let them go,” and then when they were all on tip-toe with expectation, countermanding the order. Then they would both shake their heads and chuckle with delight over the pleasant humor of their monarch and declare that ‘Pharoah was in high spirits to-day.’ Thus the world has rolled and chirruped and cackled on since the time when man emerged from the animal. And Holmes suggests, in our motto, that the sense of humor was in the animal before man.

I.

Sometimes the humor of the Bible lies in the thing described,—the odd or awkward or absurd thing said or done.

“The Iliad,” says Sidney Smith, “would never have come down to these times, if Agamemnon had given Achilles a box on the ear. We should have trembled for the Æneid, if some Trojan nobleman had kicked the pious Æneas in the fourth book. Æneas, may have deserved it, but he never could have founded the Roman Empire after so distressing an accident.” And yet accidents quite as distressing, if not of precisely the same nature, have happened in the best families that ever lived upon this planet. The writers of the Bible have not hesitated to give us a very frank account of some of them.

Imagine the vacant look of the terrified Aaron, as he gave his imbecile explanation of the golden calf! Moses and Joshua are coming down from the mountain. “And when Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said unto Moses, There is a noise of war in the camp. And Moses answered, It is not the voice of them that shout for mastery, neither is it the voice of them that cry for being overcome; but the noise of them that sing do I hear.” Soon they draw near the camp and see “the calf and the dancing.” Then does the anger of Moses wax hot. In his rage he flings down and shatters the “tables of stone.” Like a whirlwind he descends upon the camp, hurls the miserable calf into the fire, and demands an explanation of his recreant brother. “What did this people unto thee that thou hast brought so great a sin upon them?” Aaron quails beneath the wrath of Moses and stammers: “Thou knowest the people that they are set on mischief. For they said unto me, Make us gods which shall go before us: for as for this Moses”—think of that, this Moses—“that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we know not what has become of him.” You see they are set on mischief; they were disrespectful even unto you—this Moses. Something had to be done. “And I said unto them, Whosoever hath any gold, let them break it off. So they gave it to me, and I cast it into the fire, and”—what do you suppose happened?—“there came out this calf!” I was as much surprised as you are, but no one is responsible—it did itself!

In quaint fashion did Saul make honest confession when smitten with remorse on account of his persecution of David: “Behold I have played the fool!” The regret of Prince Hal also—“Thus do we play the fools with time, while the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.”

What an odd—almost laughable—spectacle is the bombastic Nebuchadnezzar, one moment proudly striding along the battlements of his palace, “Is not this great Babylon which I have builded?”—the next eating grass like the beasts of the field! As Carlyle says: “A purple Nebuchadnezzar rejoices to feel himself now veritably emperor of this great Babylon which he has builded; and is a nondescript, biped-quadruped, on the eve of a seven years’ course of grazing.”

There is a scene in the life of David in which that worthy is represented as cutting fantastic capers before high heaven. At one time, in order to keep out of Saul’s way, David went down to Gath. The servants of King Achish recognize him, and tell their royal master that this is the famous David over whose exploits the daughters of Israel sang. “Is not this David, the king of the land? Did they not sing to one another of him in dances, saying, Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands?” But David does not wish his identity known and with characteristic shrewdness he feigns insanity. “He feigned himself mad, and scrabbled on the doors of the gate and let his spittle fall down upon his beard,”—a sorry looking hero! So thinks the king Achish. What, this the man that slew the giant? this drivelling lunatic the victor that Israel’s daughters praised? His disgust knows no bounds. He is almost as grotesque in his anger as is David in his appearance and conduct. He turns upon his courtiers in offended dignity and cries, “Lo, ye see the man is mad; wherefore have ye brought him to me? Have I need of madmen, (are not ye my own servants sufficient?) that ye have brought this fellow to play the madman in my presence? Shall this fellow come into my house?” “Fool me no fools,” says King Achish. When King Achish asked, “Have I need of madmen?” he evidently thought of his own servants and courtiers as did Christian I., of Denmark, in modern times, of those who graced his Court. He sharply remarked, on a presentation to him of several court fools, that “he was not in want of such things, and if he were, he had only to give license to his courtiers, who, to his certain knowledge, were capable of exhibiting themselves as the greatest fools in Europe!”

In Nehemiah’s account of building the walls of Jerusalem, he shows how sorely the Jews took the clumsy jibes of their foes and gives us a specimen of Samaritan joking in that early day. Sanballat mocked the Jews and said, “What do these feeble Jews? Will they fortify themselves? Will they sacrifice? Will they make an end in a day? Will they revive the stones out of the heaps of rubbish which are burned?” Tobiah, the Amorite, was yet more caustic: “Even that which they build, if a fox go up, he will even break down their stone wall.” This ridicule, although the jests do not seem very formidable to us, was harder to bear than attacks with sword and spear. It is so to-day. We can stand anything but laughter. One would rather be made to appear infamous than ridiculous. The only answer the builders could make was to pray for the destruction of their sarcastic persecutors. They wished that heaven’s bolts of lightning might answer these bolts of wit.

II.

Sometimes the humor lies in the description itself rather than in the thing described. Dr. Barrow, in his famous essay, says of facetiousness, “Sometimes it is wrapped up in a dress of humorous expression.”

An excellent example is furnished in the account of the mob at Ephesus: “Some, therefore, cried one thing and some another; for the assembly was confused; and the more part knew not wherefore they were come together.”

When Sidney Smith speaks of “distressing accidents,” we are reminded that an exceedingly “distressing accident” happened in the very first family of which we have any record—the family that started in Eden. Aside from any question as to the literal truth of the story, nothing can exceed the simplicity and naturalness with which the writer has described the culprits and their excuses. The first thing they did after their transgression was to hide. The supreme and perpetual folly of guilt is to imagine that it can be hid when the voice of the Lord God is heard in the garden. “And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou?” The culprit creeps forth from his hiding-place and stammers, “I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; and I hid myself.” “Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldst not eat?” Now the guilty secret is out and Adam pleads in extenuation, “The woman that thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree and I did eat.” It was no fault of mine. That woman was to blame—the woman, O Lord, remember, that thou gavest to be with me. Is not a little of the responsibility thine also, O Lord? A touch of nature! “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be!” But Eve will not bear all the blame. She also is ready with her excuse: “The serpent beguiled me and I did eat.” Another remove in the location of the responsibility. If we can forget all that theology has put into this story and look on it simply as a bit of literature, it is a charming description of the way in which we mortals disclaim accountability for our deeds.

“And oftentimes excusing of a fault,
Doth make the fault worse by the excuse;
As patches set upon a little breach,
Discredit more in hiding of the fault,
Then did the fault before it was so patched.”

Job has expressed his contempt for Adam’s conduct in Eden by invoking upon himself even greater ills than he was then suffering, if he followed that disgraceful example,—“If I covered my transgression as Adam, by hiding my iniquity in my bosom.” In magnificent scorn of Adam’s hiding from the Lord and laying his guilt upon another, Job exclaims, “Behold, my desire is that the Almighty would answer me!” and avows that “he would declare unto him the number of his steps, and as a prince would go near unto him,”—not skulk away from his presence among trees and bushes. The low estimation in which Job holds Adam suggests that the old Hebrew who wrote the story in Genesis, may have intended to hold up that primal man in a humorous light.

Whether the story of Balaam is literally correct in its details is one of the questions this little volume is not intended to discuss. The writer of that story tells his tale as naïvely as if conversations between men and animals were of everyday occurrence. If we read it as we would any similar piece, any other fable in which men and beasts speak to each other, we should say that there were some elements of the ludicrous in the picture of the prophet rebuked by his ass. “And the ass saw the angel of the Lord standing in the way, and his sword drawn in his hand; and the ass turned aside out of the way and went into the field. And Balaam smote the ass to turn her into the way.” Just what any one would do to a “shying” animal, upon impulse. “But the angel of the Lord stood in a path of the vineyards, a wall being on this side and a wall on that side. And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she thrust herself unto the wall and crushed Balaam’s foot against the wall; and he smote her again.” Naturally enough! “And the angel of the Lord went further and stood in a narrow place where there was no way to turn either to the right hand or to the left. And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she fell down under Balaam; and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.” The rising wrath of the prophet can no longer be controlled. The turning from the way, the crushing of his foot against the wall, and finally the falling down under him and refusing to proceed further,—these indignities on the part of the ass at length exasperate the prophet beyond all measure, and he right lustily lays on the cudgel. “What have I done unto thee that thou hast smitten me these three times?” meekly inquires the belabored ass. “Because thou hast mocked me, I would that there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill thee,” roars Balaam. Thou hast mocked me; thou hast played tricks upon thy master, the prophet of God. Thou hast done this on purpose to vex me and put me to shame. Thou hast made a sorry spectacle of me with thy pranks, and thou hast crushed my foot in the bargain. “Am I not thine ass upon which thou hast ridden ever since I was thine unto this day? Was I ever wont to do so unto thee?” Should you not have known there was something unusual? These are touches of nature in a story which might illustrate the saying of Isaiah in which he attributes higher wisdom to brutes than to men: “The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master’s crib, but Israel doth not know, my people will not consider.” Was it this saying that Shakespeare had in mind when he said, through the lips of Mark Antony:

“O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason.”

At one time the king of Assyria brought men from Babylon and other cities, and put them into the cities of Samaria to take the places of the children of Israel; but the new inhabitants did not fear the Lord, so the writer tells us that the Lord sent lions among them and slew them. Some one spoke to the king of Assyria, saying, “The nations which thou hast moved and placed in the cities of Samaria know not the manner of the God of the land.” They are not acquainted with his habits and methods, and have gotten themselves into great trouble. The God of the land has sent lions among them. The king, hearing this, is in great dismay. It will never do—the ravages of those lions must be stopped. He evidently thought, as did Nick Bottom, “There is no more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living, and we ought to look to it.” “Then the king of Assyria commanded, saying, Carry thither one of the priests whom ye brought from thence, and let him go there and dwell and teach them the manner of the God of the land.” The priest went and taught the uninitiated people not to provoke a God who could let hungry lions loose upon them at any moment. The people listened in terror. The result of the instruction was that “the people feared the Lord,”—with a side glance at the lions. They tried to refrain from what would make him angry enough to order out the lions but after all—and there must have been a twinkle in the eye of the scribe as he recorded it—“they served their own gods.”

When Queen Vashti refused to come into the presence of King Ahasuerus and his drunken lords, she did something that was wholly unprecedented. Nothing of the kind had ever before been heard of in the whole history of the empire. The revellers are shocked sober. Consternation reigns supreme. When did a queen ever refuse to do the bidding of a king? a wife the bidding of a husband? Are all our ancient notions of propriety to be overturned? What will be the effect of Vashti’s rebellion? The feelings of the king are outraged because the queen declines to unveil her beauty before his roistering courtiers. Enraged, he demands, “What shall be done unto Queen Vashti because she hath not performed the commandment of the King Ahasuerus?” It is a grave question. The lords themselves have a stake in this matter. They fear the result of this strong-minded example. The contagion of disobedience may spread. If it should, whose authority as husband is safe? And Memucan answered, “Vashti, the queen, hath not done wrong to the king only, but also to all the princes, and to all the people that are in the province of the King Ahasuerus. For this deed of Queen Vashti’s shall come abroad to all women, to make their husbands contemptible in their eyes, when it shall be reported that the King Ahasuerus commanded Vashti the queen to be brought in before him, but she came not. And this day shall all the princesses of Persia and Media which have heard of the deed of the queen, say the like unto all the king’s princes. So shall there arise too much contempt and wrath.” Such a thought could not be entertained. As Dogberry would put it, “It is most tolerable and not to be endured.” Memucan, therefore, advises: “If it please the king let there go a royal commandment from him, and let it be written among the laws of the Persians and Medes, that it be not altered, that Vashti come no more before King Ahasuerus; and let the king give her royal estate unto another that is better than she.” The penalty is severe, but the case is one that demands heroic treatment. “And when the king’s decree which he shall make, shall be published throughout all his empire, all the wives shall give to their husbands honor, both great and small.” The advice is accepted. “The saying pleased the king and the princes; and the king did according to the word of Memucan; for he sent letters into all the king’s provinces, into every province according to the writing thereof, to every people after their language, that every man should bear rule in his own house.” Thus perished the first recorded movement in the direction of woman’s rights!

III.

The humor of the Biblical writers is often shown in the way they pierce through outward actions and penetrate to the hidden motives of men. Before their keen vision external disguises are vain.

Let us turn to the account of sending the demons from the maniac into the swine. Let us take the account that speaks of but one maniac. “Then they that fed the swine fled and told it in the city and in the country. And they went out to see what it was that was done. And they came to Jesus and see him that was possessed of the devil and had the legion, sitting clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid.” It must have seemed absurd to the evangelist that these Gadarenes should have been afraid of the insane man after he had been restored. But the swineherds have not yet told all their story. “And when they that saw it told them how it befell to him that was possessed with the devils and also concerning the swine—” “Aye, there’s the rub!” “when they heard that, they began to pray him to depart out of their coasts.” A man has been restored, but a herd of swine has been lost. This new prophet will ruin us all, if he stays here. Let him begone. Though he saved men, they prayed him to depart because he let the swine be drowned. Jesus himself said once that “every man was of more value than many sparrows;” but these Gadarenes seemed to think that no man was worth “two thousand swine.”

In the preceding section of this chapter, Paul’s description of a mob is noted. It will be interesting to understand the occasion of that mob. When Paul preached at Ephesus, there was a marked decline in the demand for images and silver shrines of Diana. The market became weak. One of the principal manufacturers, Demetrius, called together all who were in the same business and said: “Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth. Moreover, ye see and hear that not alone in Ephesus, but almost throughout all Asia, this Paul hath persuaded and turned away much people, saying that there be no gods which are made with hands: so that not only this our craft is in danger to be set at naught, but that the temple of the great goddess Diana should be despised and her magnificence should be destroyed, whom all Asia and the world worshippeth!” Demetrius, the unctuous hypocrite, seems to throw the real consideration into the background, and to be actuated mainly by concern for the honor of his goddess. Ah, Demetrius, Demetrius, little do you, little do your fellow craftsmen care for Diana and her worship, except as you get your gain through her devotees. But make the people think you are full of zeal for religion, and under the mantle of this falsehood cloak your motives, as you rush through the streets crying, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” Rouse the populace, always ripe for mischief, and always more furious than ever when they think that religion, something of which they do not understand the first letter, and of which they are absolutely destitute, is in danger. Rouse the people, make a pious demonstration, O Demetrius, but know that he who recorded it all for future ages, wrote down your inmost secret—“By this craft we have our wealth!”

Another instance of hypocrisy similar to that of Demetrius, occurred at Philippi. Paul and his comrades had spoiled the business of certain ones who had in charge a damsel who uttered prophecies and told fortunes, by casting out her “spirit of divination.” “And when her masters saw that the hope of their gains was gone, they caught Paul and Silas and drew them into the market-place unto the rulers, and brought them to the magistrate, saying, These men being Jews do exceeding trouble our city, and teach customs which are not lawful for us to observe, being Romans.” It is patriotism that furnishes the cloak in this case. No allusion to their loss of money—surely not; what matters that? “He who steals my purse steals trash.” But we must do our duty by our fellow-citizens. We must not let these Jewish notions corrupt our civilization. We are loyal Romans, let all the world know! Is there not something in this incident to suggest the truthfulness of Dr. Johnson’s remark, “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel?”

The result of the uproar was that the apostles were beaten and cast into prison. Somehow it was soon discovered that they themselves were Roman citizens, “and when it was day, the magistrates sent the sergeants, saying, Let these men go. And the keeper of the prison told this saying to Paul, The magistrates have sent to let you go; now, therefore, depart and go in peace.” It is now Paul’s turn to be indignant, and he is not the man to let the opportunity slip. Paul insisted, as he had a right to do, upon his dignity as a Roman citizen. He tartly replied, “They have taken us openly, uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into prison; and do they now thrust us out privily? Nay, verily; but let them come themselves and fetch us.” A touch of nature there! “And they came (meekly enough now, those pompous magistrates) and brought them out.”

A man who never lacked courage was Paul. It had been told him that there were certain ones among the Corinthians who had respect for his letters, but something bordering on contempt for his person. “For his letters, they say, are weighty and powerful, but his bodily presence is weak and his speech contemptible.” This is his answer: “Let such an one think this, that such as we are in word by letters, when we are absent, such will we be also in deed, when we are present.” Let those scoffers look to themselves!

In lighter and almost playful vein, is his remark about the church at Corinth, in his second letter: “Truly the signs of an apostle were wrought among you in all patience, in signs and wonders and mighty deeds.” And yet there was one point in which the Corinthian church was inferior to others: “For what is it wherein ye were inferior to other churches, except it be that I myself was not burdensome unto you?” Paul had allowed the other churches with which he labored to support him, but to the Corinthian church he had not accorded the same privilege. He had favored it with no opportunity for benevolence. “Forgive me,” he exclaims, “this wrong.”

Paul relates that on one occasion he had a dispute with Peter at Antioch, in which he “withstood Peter to the face, because Peter was to blame.” It is to be doubted whether Peter ever quite forgot this dispute. The memory of it may have lingered and been particularly active when he referred in one of his own letters to “our beloved brother Paul who, according to the wisdom given unto him, hath written unto you; as also in all his epistles speaking of these things; in which are some things hard to be understood, which they that are unstable and unlearned do wrest, as they do also the other Scriptures, (pray do not think that I am making brother Paul’s writings an exception) to their own destruction.”

There is another phase of this general subject that is reserved for separate treatment in the following chapter. We pause here to say that the people of Bible times have been removed from the people of to-day by a chasm too wide and deep. We have been accustomed to look upon them as belonging to another race—almost to another world. It is difficult to believe that they were “men of like passions with ourselves.” It seems almost like sacrilege to intimate that they had their follies and weaknesses; that they did things absurd and laughable, and sometimes went farther and did things that were mean and wicked. There was a vast deal of human nature in those sublime characters. Gail Hamilton sums them up as follows: “Adam had dominion over the earth, but he attempted to shield himself from the divine displeasure by laying the blame upon his wife, which no gentleman would ever do. Noah was a ‘just man and perfect in his generation,’ if you do not mind an occasional fit of drunkenness. Abraham was a fine old sheik, a truly heroic figure, brave, generous, courteous, hospitable, magnanimous; no wonder the haughty Jews loved to remember and repeat that they were Abraham’s children. But Abraham had his weaknesses and fell before his temptations; and Isaac followed in his footsteps. Of Jacob perhaps the least said the better, though he maintained his position as head of his family with unrelenting vigor, calling no man master, either son or king. There may have been other men whose life was ‘without fear and without reproach’; but their history is unknown to us; their portrait is hardly more than a name.”

IV. THE SENSE OF HUMOR IN JESUS.

“When a child, with child-like apprehensions that dived not beneath the surface of the matter, I read those parables—not guessing the involved wisdom—I had more yearnings toward that simple architect that built his house upon the sand, than I entertained for his more cautious neighbor; I grudged at the harsh censure pronounced upon the quiet soul that kept his talent; and prizing their simplicity beyond the more provident, and to my apprehension, somewhat unfeminine wariness of their competitors, I felt a kindness that amounted almost to a tendre for those thoughtless virgins. I have never made an acquaintance since that lasted, or a friendship that answered, with any that had not some tincture of the absurd in their characters.”—Charles Lamb.

THE SENSE OF HUMOR IN JESUS.

“Amid the sorrow, disappointment, agony, and anguish of the world,—our dark thoughts and tempestuous passions, the gloomy exaggerations of self will, the enfeebling illusions of melancholy,—wit and humor, light and lightning, shed their soft radiance and dart their electric flash.”—Whipple.

“How curious it is,” says the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, “that we always consider solemnity, and the absence of all gay surprises and encounters of wits, as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then call blessed! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity by banishing all gayety from their hearts and all joyousness from their countenances.” Rather than believe in the “smileless eternity” of such as these, we should accept the conjecture of Soame Jennings, that “a portion of the happiness of seraphim and just men made perfect would be derived from an exquisite perception of the ludicrous.”

To that school of melancholy teachers who frown upon all pleasantry, and buttress their gloomy position with the assertion that “Jesus wept but never smiled,” the title of this chapter will be particularly offensive. It will strike them as downright blasphemy to intimate that Jesus possessed and used the sense of humor so common to mankind. We assuredly appreciate the delicacy of the position, and shall endeavor to avoid, in our treatment of this subject, anything that might wound the most sensitive soul.

There are several considerations that will pave the way. We take it for granted that Jesus was a complete human being, and that as such a being he must have had all the human attributes and faculties,—the faculty of mirthfulness among them. He was a man, and lacked nothing that pertains to men. Then, too, had he been without the sense of humor, much in the lives and characters of those with whom he had to deal, he never could have understood and reached. The full success of his mission depended upon his knowing all that there is in man, and upon being able to gain access to him through every avenue of his nature.

Nor were the circumstances of his life unfavorable to the development of this particular attribute. Theology and Art have conspired to produce upon the world the impression that Jesus was an exceptionally wretched and suffering man. They have taken one or two expressions in Isaiah, such as, “his countenance was marred,” “he was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” expressions which they misunderstood and misapplied, and with them have laid the foundations of their house of woe. They have seized upon a few of the sadder incidents of his career, and have exaggerated them into undue prominence,—have given them undue proportions. Especially have they made much of his agony in the garden and his death upon the cross. These events have been magnified into such mountains that all the rest of his life seems to lie hidden beneath their shadows. It appears never to have entered the mind of either preacher or painter that the physical anguish of his death must have been even less than that which many martyrs at the stake or martyrs upon sickbeds have borne; and that before death came, he had lived a life with many bright days and many happy experiences. His existence upon earth was not a protracted sorrow, a monumental grief. Many a rose had blossomed at his feet before the thorns were twisted into a crown for his brow.

What shall we say of the thirty peaceful years under his father’s roof, with his brothers and sisters? Did he not in boyhood have the amusements of other children? Is there not a memento of his youthful sports in what he says of the games of the children in the marketplace, when they were playing at weddings and funerals? Did he not, when a young man, delight in his home and in his companions? Can we imagine that he moved among those who were nearest and dearest to him, with a face to which a smile was as much a stranger as a tropic flower to the frozen zone?

When, as a mature man, he entered upon his public ministry, although he was exposed to frequent attacks from the representatives of the established religion, yet he was never without friends; never without a place of refuge from the heat of battle. There were many homes in which a welcome always awaited him, and whose hospitality he gladly accepted. Is it probable that he was accustomed to sit in these homes—to use Shakespeare’s phrase—“like his grandsire cut in alabaster?”

More than once we are directly told that “he rejoiced in spirit;” more than once he spoke of his “joy” to his disciples. There is much evidence that Jesus was not a wretched but a happy man. Did this happiness never express itself in words or countenance?

There are other considerations that go far to refute the dismal assertion that “Jesus wept but never smiled.” Tired mothers brought their children to him and he rebuked the supercilious disciples who interfered. Can we think that on this occasion he had a woe-begone look? We read of him often at feasts; would he have been invited if he had been accustomed to sit at the table like the skeleton at an Egyptian banquet? Did he not by his frequent attendance upon festive occasions incur the odium of being a wine-bibber and a glutton? He was also a favorite with the common people. They heard him gladly. But there must have been something attractive in his presence and manner, as well as in his words, and the words themselves must have appealed to the shrewd, homely, common sense of his hearers. If he had been the sad spirit he has been pictured, would the people have followed him and listened to him as they did?

When we leave the outward circumstances and the presumption they furnish, and examine the fragments of his speech that have been preserved for us, many of them certainly contain the element of humor. We should undoubtedly call it humor if it came from any other lips than those of Jesus; if we found it in any other book than the New Testament.

The purpose of this chapter will be grossly misapprehended, however, if any one shall suppose that we are trying to degrade Jesus to the level of a professional joker. Nothing is further from our intention. The very thought is repulsive. One may have and use the sense of humor without putting on the cap and bells. He may use it with the highest motives and for the noblest ends. It was said of Hosea Ballou, that “it was no uncommon thing for him when preaching to excite a smile; but usually it was done by some ingenious argument that would electrify every one present.” His biographer adds: “It is not known that any person ever listened to one of his sermons who was not so impressed with his sincerity, dignity and earnestness, that the recollection of his occasional humorous sayings was held subsidiary and helpful to his main serious purpose. His mother-wit was sanctified. It served a divine mission in diffusing cheerfulness and health.” We must always remember that wit and humor do not mean buffoonery.

It is difficult to understand how any one can read many of the parables and other sayings of Jesus, and still believe the doleful tale that he “wept but never smiled.” He saw the dancing lights as well as the deep shadows, the more genial and even ludicrous aspects of life, as well as its various phases of sorrow and sin, and all these furnished subjects for his discourse as well as illustrations for his teaching.

Let us now consider some of the ways in which the sense of humor in Jesus manifested itself.

I.

The sense of humor often tempered his rebukes. There was often sunshine on the cloud.

There were times, indeed, as we shall see, when he spoke with unmeasured severity, when his words fell like fiery hail, beating and burning the heads of offenders; but anon he spoke half smiling, half pitying, as if disposed to laugh at the very inconsistencies he censured. In this respect his spirit has been caught by Addison and Goldsmith, by Irving and Dickens. Richter says that “no one has a right to laugh at men but he who most heartily loves them.” Taine says of Dickens, “Before reading him we did not know there was so much pity in the heart.” Jesus loved men, he pitied them, even while his eye detected and his words exposed their faults and foibles.

He had looked with pleasure (remembering his own childhood), upon the games of the boys and girls in the streets of Jerusalem; he thought of their whimsical complaints, as they played at weddings and funerals in the market-place. On one occasion, his severity mitigated by his sense of the ludicrous, he exclaimed, “Whereunto shall I liken this generation? and to what are they like? They are like unto children sitting in the market-places and calling to one another and saying, We have piped unto you and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you and ye have not lamented.” Everything had gone wrong. The others would not play fair. They would not dance when we wanted to play wedding; they would not be mourners when we wanted to play funeral. We have done all we could to please them, but they are “too mean for anything.” To the mind of Jesus, the people of that generation appeared to be making the same complaint. They were childishly dissatisfied with every divine messenger,—none could please them. “For John the Baptist came neither eating bread nor drinking wine,”—solemn, gloomy, austere; but they would have none of him. He mourned unto them, but they would not lament. They would not “play at funeral” with him. They turned away and said, “He hath a devil.” Then came the Son of Man, bright and cheerful, “eating and drinking,” but they would not dance to his piping. They pointed at him and said, “Behold a gluttonous man and a wine-bibber, a friend of publicans and sinners!” It was impossible to please that generation.

If we place this passage side by side with the following from Goldsmith, we shall see at once that if there be humor in the latter, there must also be humor in the former. The subject is the reception accorded the Chinese philosopher who tried to please his friends by his demeanor upon the death of an English sovereign: “I thought it at least my duty to appear sorrowful; to put on a melancholy aspect, or to set my face by that of the people. The first company I came amongst after the news became general was a set of jolly companions who were drinking prosperity to the ensuing reign. I entered the room with looks of despair, and even expected applause for the superlative misery of my countenance. Instead of that, I was universally condemned by the company and desired to take away my penitential phiz to some other quarter. I now corrected my former mistake, and with the most sprightly air imaginable entered a company where they were talking over the ceremonies of the approaching funeral. Here I sat for some time with an air of pert vivacity, when one of the chief mourners immediately observing my good humor desired me, if I pleased, to go and grin somewhere else; they wanted no disaffected scoundrels there. Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I amongst?” Whereunto shall I liken this generation?

There was a certain time when multitudes followed Jesus, not knowing what they were about, but simply swept along by the enthusiasm of the moment. He saw that they understood not, so he turned and gave them this gentle caution: “Which of you intending to build a tower sitteth not down first and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? Lest, haply, after he hath laid the foundation and is not able to finish, all that behold it begin to mock him, saying, This man began to build and was not able to finish.” Whoever comes after me and does not count upon bearing his cross, is in the predicament of this foolish tower-builder,—a ludicrous spectacle as he sits beside the unfinished structure, his materials exhausted, while all his neighbors, as they pass by, wag the head and point the finger. Such a spectacle as that will each one of you be who does not count the cost of discipleship. With such gentle strokes of humor did Jesus stay the thoughtless multitudes who imagined that their empty zeal was genuine loyalty. He set forth their conduct in terms that would most effectually impress upon them its folly,—in terms that appealed to their sense of the ridiculous.

In a sarcastic paragraph of his French Revolution, Carlyle speaks of the work of the National Convention thus: “In fact, what can be more unprofitable than the sight of six hundred and forty-nine ingenious men struggling with their whole force and industry, for a long course of weeks, to do at bottom this; to stretch out the old Formula and Law phraseology, so that it may cover the new, contradictory, entirely uncoverable thing? Whereby the poor formula does but crack and one’s honesty along with it. The thing that is palpably hot, burning, wilt thou prove it by a syllogism to be a freezing mixture? This of stretching out formulas till they crack is, especially in times of swift change, one of the sorrowfullest tasks poor humanity has.” Was it not this very formula-stretching that Jesus satirized in more playful vein,—this formula-stretching that existed in old times and that still exists,—when he said: “No man putteth a piece of new garment upon an old; if otherwise, then, both the new maketh a rent, and the piece that was taken out of the new agreeth not with the old”? You can not patch up old terms with new meanings. The new meaning agreeth not with the old term. “And no man putteth new wine into old wine-skins; else the new wine will burst the wine-skins and be spilled, and the wine-skins shall perish. But new wine must be put into new wine-skins, and both are preserved.” The man who tries to put new senses into old words, new ideas into old formulas, is like a man who cuts up a new garment to mend an old; like one who puts wine not yet done fermenting into a skin whose capacity admits no further strain. He spoils his new coat and he loses his new wine.

With such illustrations as these, illustrations embodying a figure or comparison or situation essentially amusing, was Jesus wont to temper his rebukes.

II.

The sense of humor in Jesus enabled him to detect pretension, imposture, hypocrisy, and expose them to the derision of mankind.

If we should find in Dickens or Thackeray such pictures as Jesus has given of the Scribes and Pharisees, they would strike us at once as the very quintessence of humor. “They go arrayed in long clothing, they love the uppermost rooms at feasts and the chief seats in the synagogues.” They are always posturing to attract attention. “They love greetings in the market-places, to be called of men Rabbi, Rabbi.” In their way, they are as much given to “deportment” as Mr. Turveydrop, when he says, “I suppose I must now go and show myself about town; it will be expected of me.” When they pray, they do it standing in the synagogues or at the corners of the streets that all may see how pious they are; when they perform their deeds of righteousness, a trumpet is sounded before them, to make solemn proclamation; as who should say, “Will the public please take notice; I am about to drop a mite into this poor widow’s hand.” When they fast they put on “a sad countenance and disfigure their faces” with fictitious woe and weeping, “that they may appear unto men to fast.” “See how I lay the dust with my tears,” says Launce. Everything they did was done for effect; nothing came from the heart. Their religion was the veriest sham. They had well-nigh reached the measure of South’s ideal hypocrite, “who never opens his mouth in earnest, but when he eats or breathes.” Well might Jesus say, “The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat; all things, therefore, whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do, but do ye not according to their works; for they say and do not.” Does not this remind us of Pecksniff, “who was a most exemplary man, fuller of virtuous precepts than a copy-book; but some people likened him to a direction-post which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there.”

III.

Not only did the sense of humor in Jesus enable him to unmask pretentious hypocrites, but also to expose the absurdities that the multitudes commonly practiced in the name of religion.

There are those, for example, who in prayer use “vain repetitions,” thinking that they shall be heard for their “much speaking.” They estimate the efficacy of prayer by its quantity and not by its quality. They think that if they only keep at it long enough, if they only use multitudes of words, they will surely attract attention on high.

There are others who think that religion consists in the “washing of pots and cups and such like things” and they “lay aside the commandment of God.” One of their representatives in modern literature is Dolly Winthrop, who tells Silas Marner about the letters “I.H.S.” pricked upon the Christmas cakes: “I can’t read ’em myself, and there’s nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on the pulpit-cloth at Church; an’ if there’s any good, we’ve need of it in this world.”

It is curious how the superstition of externalism has affected many, even noble minds. Dr. Johnson once said of John Campbell, a political and philosophical writer, “Campbell is a good man, a pious man; I’m afraid he has not been inside of a church for a good many years, but he never passes a church without pulling off his hat. This shows he has good principles.”

IV.

Jesus perceived the blunders of the well-meaning, but ignorant and ambitious,—such as the man who went to the wedding party without suitable garments, and was unceremoniously shown to the door; such as the obtuse people who, invited to a feast, always took the seats of honor and were as often courteously escorted to seats further down the table. When the “more honorable man” came, the host would say, “Give this man place,” and the other would “begin with shame to take the lowest seat.” Jesus saw these blunders, and we cannot believe that he was blind to their comical side. He must have felt that the mistake was a ludicrous one, even when he advised the stupid people who made it, “When thou art bidden, go and sit down in the lowest room; that when he that bade thee cometh, he may say, Friend, go up higher; and then thou shalt have worship in the presence of them that sit at meat with thee.”

V.

The sense of humor in Jesus is still further shown by his selection of characters for his parables and illustrations. How many of them are what we should call “odd sticks” to-day!

Could any one devoid of humor, or opposed to its use, have described such odd or eccentric people as the fool who thought that sand was as good a foundation for his house as rock; or the drowsy friend roused at midnight to lend his neighbor bread and scolding furiously at the annoyance? Then we have the shepherd’s coward hireling who ran away from his flock when he saw the wolf coming; the foolish rich man; the unscrupulous steward who provided for himself by cheating his master; the three fellows who made such puerile excuses for absenting themselves from the king’s banquet,—one was interested in a real estate transaction, another was dealing in stock, while the third had just “married a wife.” Perhaps the characterization of all these excuses as puerile, may be too sweeping. This last case may be an exception. Having just entered the holy estate of matrimony, any plans this man might have formed before that event were of course subject to revision. Let us not be too hard upon him. It may be that he rests under too heavy a load of censure. He may even be deserving of sympathy. He said—was there a suggestion of desperation in his words?—“I have married a wife and therefore I can not come.” The king ought very likely to have exempted this man from his wrath; for he seems to say, “I should like to come, but—!”

Then there was the servant who, in his lord’s absence, got above his business, assumed the master, became drunken in the company of roisterers, and beat his fellow-servants; but was at last put to shame by the sudden and unexpected arrival of his master. This servant was a veritable Jaques who, in the old play, assumed to be his master, the Duke, and who was likewise brought to grief by his master’s return: “I must appear important; big as a country pedagogue when he enters the school-room with a-hem, and terrifies the apple-munching urchins with the creaking of his shoes. I’ll swell like a shirt bleaching in a high wind; and look as burly as a Sunday beadle when he has kicked down the unhallowed stall of a profane old apple-woman. Bring my chair of state!”

There are other characters, such as the shrewd laborer who, digging in a field, finds a hidden treasure and secreting it goes and buys the field; the unjust judge who finally, completely tired out, gives way in no very amiable mood to the widow’s unceasing petitions for justice; the timid soul, who, fearing to use his talent, hid it in a napkin and buried it in the earth; the self-righteous Pharisee who recounts his good deeds before the Lord of the Temple and complacently congratulates himself that he is not as other men! “God, I thank thee that I am not as the rest of men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week; I give tithes of all that I get!” Mr. Pecksniff once more!—so satisfied with himself, “so radiant with ingenuous honesty that Mrs. Lupin almost wondered not to see a stained-glass glory, such as the saint wore in the church, shining about his head!”

VI.

In the introduction, reference was made to the words of Mr. Shorthouse which suggested this investigation. This seems a fitting place to present the only example in which Mr. Shorthouse has carried out his own suggestion,—the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

“But is it trite that there is no humor in the gospels? ‘What strokes of nature, if not of humor,’ to use Mr. Addison’s words again, may we find in the story, let us say, of the Prodigal Son? What, in the light of the modern conception of humor, will come out of this?

Here, surely, there is no want of real life, of low life, even. Here is a wild young scamp, as like Tom Jones as heart could wish. Here is ingratitude, forgetfulness of parents, riotous living, taverns, harlots, what not? Then beggary, and feeding swine, and living upon husks. Then when evil living is found not to answer, penitence—like Tom Jones again.

And ‘when he was yet a great way off his father saw him,’ along the stony road beneath the vine-clad hills. Who can tell how often the father’s eyes had gazed longingly down the road since his son’s figure, gay, reckless of the benefits just bestowed, accompanied by servants, eager for the pleasures of the world, had vanished from his sight? Now, at last, after so long waiting and looking, he sees in the far distance, a very different sight. He sees a solitary figure, worn and bent down, in rags, dragging on its weary steps; how could the old man’s gaze expect such a sight as this? Nevertheless, his father knew him, ‘and ran and fell on his neck.’ He did not wait for any accents of repentance, nor did he enforce any moral precepts which might advantage posterity. ‘He fell on his neck and kissed him.’ Foolish old father!

Tom Jones is brought in. He goes to the bath. The familiar feeling of luxury comes over him once more. He is clothed in fine linen, and has a gold ring placed on his finger, the past seems an evil dream. Then the fatted calf is killed. The banquet is spread and there is festivity, music, and dancing-girls.

But suddenly, in the midst of his delight, some trouble passes over the old man’s face; his eldest son is not in his place, and they bring him word that he is without and refuses to come in. Some perception of a neglected truth passes through the father’s mind, and he rises and goes out. ‘Therefore came his father out and entreated him.’

The eldest son has been out all day working in the vineyards; all his life had been one long performance of duty, taken for granted, and therefore unpraised and unrecognized. In how many households will silent witness be borne that this is real life—the gentle and obedient service overlooked—nay, more than this, the cross word or hasty temper where there is no fear that it will be returned.

‘All these years have I served thee * * * and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends.’ I am a man like others, gayety and feasting are pleasant to me, as to them.

A look of perplexed, but growing insight comes into the father’s face. ‘Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.’

This is all very well, still he is conscious that there is something to be said for the eldest son, too. But his lost son—his wayward, and therefore loved son, is come again.

‘It is meet that we should make merry and be glad, for this thy brother was dead and is alive again.’ We can see the pitiful, pleading look in the old man’s eyes,—‘thy brother was dead.’

Yes, Addison must be right. Nature and humor cannot be far apart. The source and spring of humor is human life. Its charm consists, not merely in laughter or even in joy, but in the stirring of those sympathies and associations which exist invariably in the race; for we inherit a world-life and a religion, the earth-springs of whose realities lie, perchance, too deep for laughter, but not, Heaven be praised, too deep for tears.”

Surely the examples given suggest an eye for the humorous in him who saw and described them. These illustrations were, indeed, used to convey moral truths, but they show how wide was the acquaintance of Jesus with all sorts of characters, and how he loved to use such as were out of the ordinary; such as, to-day, we should at least call “peculiar.” A recognition of this fact will help us better to appreciate and more thoroughly to enjoy those simple, yet wonderful parables, out of which the heavy hand of a severely literal criticism would crush all “touches of nature.”

V. PROVERBS AND EPIGRAMMATIC SAYINGS.

“Proverbs, must not be passed over in our enumeration,—proverbs, the philosophy of the common people; short, pithy, homely sayings that embody the concentrated essence of the common people’s wisdom. It has been difficult to give a perfect definition of a proverb, so crowded is it with the life of shrewdness and experience; yet so easy and negligent is it, and saucy as it were. Its characteristic excellences are shortness, sense and salt. It is the wit of one man, the wisdom of thousands.”—Macbeth.

PROVERBS AND EPIGRAMMATIC SAYINGS.

“The proverbialists occupy themselves with life in all its aspects. Sometimes they simply catch the expression of men, good or bad, or photograph their actions or thoughts; more generally they pass a verdict upon them and exhort or instruct men in regard to them. * * * Some of the proverbs have a certain flavor of humor.”—Davidson.

“The wise men of old,” says Whipple, “have sent most of their morality down the stream of time in the light skiff of apothegm or epigram: and the proverbs of nations which embody the common sense of nations, have the brisk concussion of the most sparkling wit. Almost every sensible remark on folly is a witty remark. Wit is thus often but the natural language of wisdom, viewing life with a piercing and passionless eye.” The object of the present study is to consider those proverbs and other epigrammatic sayings which distinctly contain the element of wit in some form or other, and which are so liberally scattered over the pages of the Bible.

I.—The Book of Proverbs.

In such an investigation, we naturally turn, first of all, to that great collection of proverbs, with which the name of Solomon has become identified. They do not, however, represent his genius alone, although we shall frequently use his name as representative of the whole class of philosophers. They are the productions of many wise men through many generations. They are, indeed, the outcome of the life of a whole people, put into definite shape by those who had insight sufficiently keen and power of expression sufficiently terse to formulate the lessons of human experience. “The wise men,” says Canon Driver, “took for granted the main postulates of Israel’s creed, and applied themselves rather to the observation of human nature as such, seeking to analyze character, studying action in its consequences, and establishing morality upon the basis of principles common to humanity at large. On account of their prevailing disregard of national points of view, and their tendency to characterize and estimate human nature under its most general aspects, they have been termed, not inappropriately, the Humanists of Israel. Their teaching had a practical aim; not only do they formulate maxims of conduct, but they appear also as moral advisers, and as interested in the education of the young.”

The Book of Proverbs is a perfect mine of cunning and glittering sentences, many of which are witty as well as wise, and none the less wise because they are witty. There are swords that pierce the hidden motives of men, and whips that lacerate the backs of their open follies and sins.

1. The Fool.

There is a personage, or more exactly, an assemblage of certain qualities, constantly held up to ridicule under the general title of The Fool. Ruskin says that “folly and sin are to some extent synonymous.” The Fool in the Book of Proverbs is one who combines mental stupidity with moral obtuseness. He has a hard time of it at the hands of the proverbialists. “He that begetteth a fool doeth so to his sorrow; the father of a fool hath no joy.”

Foolish persons have always been noted for parading their folly, and sounding a trumpet to proclaim their lack of understanding. So Solomon says: “A fool’s mouth is his destruction, and his lips are the snare of his soul.” “The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright; but the mouth of fools poureth out foolishness.” “When he that is a fool walketh in the way, his wisdom faileth him, and he saith to every one that he is a fool,”—his scanty supply of sense is not enough to last him to the end of his journey. There is a modern proverb to the same effect: “He has not wit enough to last him over night.” Everything the fool undertakes comes to grief. “He that sendeth a message by the hand of a fool cutteth off the feet and drinketh damage.” “The labor of the fool wearieth every one, because he knoweth not how to go to the city.” “The simple believeth every word, but the prudent man looketh well to his going.” “Let a bear robbed of her whelps meet a man, rather than a fool in his folly.” No discipline can be too severe for the fool. “Judgments are prepared for scorners and stripes for the back of fools.” “A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool’s back.” But Solomon is not sanguine that the most rigorous course will produce extraordinary results. “A reproof entereth more into a wise man than a hundred stripes into a fool.” “Wisdom is before him that hath understanding; but the eyes of a fool are in the ends of the earth.” “Wherefore is there a price in the hand of a fool to get wisdom, seeing he hath no heart to it?” One can almost see that picture—the fool wandering about the city with money in his hand, inquiring where a person in need of it might purchase a commodity of good common sense. “Though thou shouldst bray a fool in a mortar among wheat with a pestle, yet will not his foolishness depart from him.” In many other proverbs is the fool gibbeted. “As snow in summer, and as rain in harvest, so honor is not seemly for a fool.” “The legs of the lame are not equal; so is a parable in the mouth of fools.” “As he that bindeth a stone in a sling, making a dangerous weapon, so is he that giveth honor to a fool.” “As a thorn goeth up into the hand of a drunkard, so is a parable in the mouth of fools.” “It is better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools. For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fool.” In one chapter Solomon describes a group of foolish persons. “For three things the earth is disquieted and for four which it can not bear; for a servant when he reigneth”—the modern instance is the “beggar on horseback,”—“and a fool when he is filled with meat; for an odious woman when she is married; and a handmaid that is heir to her mistress.” These four characters “play such fantastic tricks before high heaven,” that whether the “angels weep” or not, the earth groans and is “disquieted.” And yet Solomon seems to have found a more grotesque and incorrigible character than the fool: “Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him.” The contempt of the proverbialists for the class of persons here described was quite as strong as that of Dr. Samuel Johnson. When some one hoped that the good doctor might meet in heaven a certain person whose conduct had aroused his ire, he retorted with some warmth, “Madam, I am not fond of meeting fools anywhere.”

2. The Idler.

How these writers love to castigate laziness! They toss the sluggard on all manner of sharp-pointed epigrams. “He that gathereth in summer is a wise son; he that sleepeth in harvest is a son that causeth shame.” “The way of a slothful man is as a hedge of thorns,”—he walks as slowly and painfully as if avoiding thorns on either hand. “As vinegar to the teeth and as smoke to the eyes, so is the sluggard to them that send him.” “The slothful man roasteth not that which he took in hunting.” “The sluggard will not plough by reason of the cold, therefore he shall beg in harvest and have nothing.” “Drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags.” “He that tilleth his land shall be satisfied with bread; but he that followeth vain persons”—those who teach him that there is any other way to success than honest industry,—“is void of understanding.” “The slothful man says, There is a lion without; I shall be slain in the streets.” “As the door turneth upon its hinges, so doth the slothful upon his bed.” “The slothful hideth his hand in his bosom; it grieveth him to bring it again to his mouth.” Too lazy to eat! This is the very acme of indolence.

3. The Babbler.

These wise men recommend, in pithy terms, the judicious control of the tongue. They commend the value of silence. “Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.” “The beginning of strife is as when one letteth out water; therefore leave off contention before it be meddled with.” “It is an honor to a man to cease from strife, but every fool will be meddling.” “Even a fool when he holdeth his peace is accounted wise; and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.” This is the same idea which we find, in more elaborate form, in Shakespeare:

“There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be drest in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!’
Oh, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing: Who, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn these ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.”

In point of condensation, the wit of the proverb has the advantage. Coleridge relates an incident which illustrates that “even a fool when he holdeth his peace is accounted wise, and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.” He once saw, at a dinner table, “a dignified man with a face as wise as the moon’s.” The awful charm of his manner was not broken until the muffins appeared, and then the imp of gluttony forced from him the exclamation—“Them’s the jockeys for me!”

There is a passage concerning the tongue in the Book of James, full of sayings quite as terse and striking as any in the Book of Proverbs. “If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body.” “The tongue is a little member and boasteth great things; behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth.” “Every kind of beasts and birds and serpents is tamed, and hath been tamed of mankind; but the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. * * * Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing. * * * Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter?”

This passage from James may be placed side by side with the familiar story of Æsop. His master, Xanthus, sent him to market to procure the best things it afforded. When the dinner hour arrived, Xanthus discovered that nothing but tongues had been provided. “What,” he exclaimed in a rage, “did I not tell you to procure the best things the market afforded?” “And have I not obeyed your orders? Is there anything better than a tongue? Is it not the bond of civil society, the organ of truth and reason, the instrument of our praise and adoration of the gods?” The next day Æsop was directed to go to the market and purchase the worst things it afforded. He did so and again purchased nothing but tongues. “What!” cried Xanthus, “tongues again?” “Certainly; for the tongue is surely the worst thing in the world; it is the instrument of all strife and contention, the inventor of law-suits, and the source of all division and wars; it is the organ of errors, of lies, of calumnies, and blasphemies.”

“Therewith bless we the Lord and Father, and therewith curse we men who are made after the likeness of God; out of the same mouth cometh forth cursing and blessing.”

4. The Scold.

To return to the proverbs. Solomon had some unhappy domestic experiences, and such proverbs as these may have been the outcome: “As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman without discretion.” “A continual dropping in a very rainy day, and a contentious woman are alike. Whosoever hideth her, hideth the wind.” “It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman.” “Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.” “It is better to dwell in the corner of a house top than with a brawling woman in a large house.”

5. The Power of Money.

The proverbialists had been close observers of human nature, and of the ways of the world. “Hell and destruction are never full, so the eyes of a man are never satisfied.” “A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry; but money answereth all things.” “The rich ruleth over the poor, and the borrower is servant to the lender.” These wise men had seen much to justify the sharp arrows they shot at those “who crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.” “The poor is hated even of his own neighbor, but the rich hath many friends.” “Many will entreat the favor of a prince, and every man is a friend to him that giveth gifts.” “A man’s gift maketh room for him, and bringeth him before great men.” There is an incident in the second Book of Kings, that exemplifies, with touches of humor, the truth of these proverbs. “And the king of Assyria found conspiracy in Hoshea, (king of Israel,) for he had sent messengers to So, king of Egypt, and brought no present to the king of Assyria, as he had done year by year.” The king of Assyria is greatly shocked at this sign of disrespect. His feelings are outraged and wounded at receiving no present. It is suspicious, very suspicious! Let this Hoshea be looked to. The man who fails to bring the usual present is fit for “treasons, stratagems and spoils.” There is no telling what evil he may be plotting. Surely there is “conspiracy in him.” “Therefore, the king of Assyria shut him up and bound him in prison.” Solomon was right—“A man’s gift bringeth him before great men,” but the absence of it bringeth him into prison as a traitor!

6. Miscellaneous.

Many other examples of wit and wisdom might be given. Let us add a few miscellaneous ones. Solomon advises against making long calls. Busy men would do well to hang this motto up in their offices: “Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbor’s house, lest he weary of thee and so hate thee.” In Solomon’s wide and varied experiences, there had evidently been occasional encounters with “bores.”

It may sometimes be well to present a stern front to the slanderer: “The North wind driveth away rain, so doth an angry countenance a back-biting tongue.”

Excellent advice this for those who indorse other people’s notes: “Be not one of them that strike hands, or one of them that are sureties for debts; if thou hast nothing to pay, why should he take away thy bed from under thee?” “He that hateth suretyship is sure.”

There were those in that day, as well as in our own, who tried to beat down the price of an article by depreciating its quality: “It is naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he hath gone his way, then he boasteth.” Donald G. Mitchell, in his charming book, My Farm at Edgewood, has a chapter on “Dickering” which is, in effect, an elaboration of the proverb last quoted. “Sometime or other, if a man enter upon farm life—and it holds in almost every kind of life—there will come to him a necessity for bargaining. It is a part of the curse, I think, entailed upon mankind at the expulsion from Eden, that they should sweat at a bargain. * * * If I were to take the opinions of my excellent friends, the purchasers, for truth, I should be painfully conscious of having possessed the most mangy hogs, the most aged cows, the scrubbiest veal, and the most diseased and stunted growth of chestnuts and oaks with which a country-liver was ever afflicted. For a time, in the early period of my novitiate, I was not a little disturbed by these damaging statements; but have been relieved by learning on further experience that the urgence of such lively falsehoods is only an ingenious mercenary device for the sharpening of a bargain.”

II.—Epigrammatic Sayings from other Sources.

The epigrammatic sayings of the Bible are not confined, as we have already seen, to the Book of Proverbs. We find them elsewhere. Hosea says of idolaters, “They have sown the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind.” Micah declared of the mercenary prophets, “He that putteth not into their mouth, they even declare war against him.” At the same time princes and judges are so corrupt, that “the best of them is as a briar; the most upright is sharper than a thorn hedge.”

Jeremiah charges against the people, “As a cage is full of birds, so are their houses of deceit.” “Can the Ethiopian,” he asks, “change his skin, or the leopard his spots?” and adds, “Then can ye also do right who are accustomed to do evil.” This is equivalent to the proverb of another people: “Though you feed milk to a young snake, will it leave off its habit of creeping under the hedge?”

“Can a maid forget her ornaments or a bride her attire?” asks Jeremiah; “yet my people have forgotten me days without number.” “Yea, the stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.” “As the partridge sitteth on eggs and hatcheth them not; so he that getteth riches and not by right, shall leave them in the middle of his days, and at the end shall be a fool.”

Isaiah admonishes the people, “Lo, thou trustest in the staff of this broken reed, on Egypt; whereon if a man lean, it will go into his hand and pierce it; so is Pharoah, king of Egypt, to all who trust in him,”—a saying which calls to mind the message Jesus sent to Herod, “Go, tell that fox.” To those who trusted in the prowess of the Egyptians, Isaiah declares, “Now, the Egyptians are men and not God; and their horses are flesh and not spirit.” He assures the people that the time will come when names shall be used with greater discrimination—“The vile person shall no more be called liberal, nor the churl said to be bountiful.”

Job says: “For vain man would be wise, though man be born like a wild ass’s colt.” And it is Job who has given us the common expression, “I am escaped with the skin of my teeth.”

David says of the hypocrite:—“The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart; his words were softer than oil, but they were drawn swords.” “Man that is in honor and understandeth not, is like the beasts which perish.” “The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.” Of the wicked the psalmist exclaims: “Their poison is like the poison of a serpent; they are like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear; which will not hearken to the voice of charmers, charming never so wisely.” Recalling an incident of Israel’s journey through the wilderness, he gives his opinion of the transaction Aaron tried to disclaim: “They made a calf in Horeb and worshipped the molten image. Thus they changed their glory into the similitude of an ox that eateth grass!” “Fools, because of their transgressions and because of their iniquities are afflicted.” He says of those who gave him pain,—the “ploughers who ploughed upon his back and made long their furrows,”—“They shall be as the grass upon the house-tops which withereth before it groweth up; wherewith the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth sheaves his bosom.”

Paul speaks of those “whose God is their belly, and whose glory is their shame;” and also of certain ones who “speak lies in hypocrisy, having their conscience seared with a red-hot iron.” “Rulers,” he says, “are not a terror to good works, but to evil.” “If a man thinketh himself to be something when he is nothing, he deceiveth himself.”

The Book of James has already been quoted in this chapter; but there is another passage of the proverbial or epigrammatic character that must not be omitted: “Be ye doers of the word and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves. For if any man be a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like unto a man beholding his natural face in a glass; for he beholdeth himself and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner of man he was.” The Veman proverb is very like this: “Whatever he devoid of understanding may be reading, his virtue continues only so long as he is reading; even as a frog is dignified only so long as it is seated on a lotus leaf.”

One of the best examples of the kind of wit we are now discussing is found in the account of King Asa’s sickness and death. The writer of the Book of Chronicles says: “Yet in his disease he sought not unto the Lord, but to the Physicians;” and then adds with imperturbable gravity, “And Asa slept with his fathers.” Referring to this passage, Professor Matthews says:—“It looks like a sarcasm on the medical practitioners of Palestine.” There is something similar to this in Ecclesiastes: “Wisdom is good—with an inheritance,” an ancient instance of “the old flag—and an appropriation.”

III.—The Sayings of Jesus.

To this chapter belong many of the sayings of Jesus. He spoke in proverbs as well as in parables.

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.”

“Many are called, but few are chosen.”

“The first shall be last, and the last first.”

“A prophet is not without honor save in his own country and among his friends.”

“He that humbleth himself shall be exalted; he that exalteth himself shall be abased.”

“Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”

“Physician, heal thyself.”

“Ye are the light of the world; a city that is set on an hill can not be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.”

“Let the dead bury their dead.”

“No man having put his hand to the plough and looking back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

“And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?” There are several proverbs in other literatures very like this. The Russian:—“A pig came up to a horse and said, Your feet are crooked, and your hair is worth nothing.” The Bengal:—“The sieve said to the needle, You have a hole in your tail.” The Chinese:—“Let every one sweep the snow before his own door, and not busy himself with the frost on his neighbor’s tiles.”

“Ye can not serve God and Mammon.”

“A house divided against itself can not stand.”

“Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know, them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles?”

“For unto every one that hath to him shall be given and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”

“Wheresoever the carcass is, there are the vultures gathered together.”

“Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under foot and turn again and rend you.” Similar proverbs may be gathered from other sources. The Persian says, “It is folly to give comfits to a cow;” the Veman, “Though you anoint an ass all over with perfumes, it feels not your fondness, but will turn again and kick you;” the Telugu asks, “What can a pig do with a rose-bottle?” the Tamul says, “Like reading a portion of the Veda to a cow about to gore you;” and again, “Though religious instruction be whispered into the ear of an ass, nothing will come of it but the accustomed braying.”

“They that are whole need not a physician, but they that are sick.” Such sayings of Jesus are true proverbs and instances of genuine wit.

Archbishop Trench says, “Any one who by after investigation, has sought to discover how much our rustic hearers carry away even from sermons to which they have attentively listened, will find it is hardly ever the course or tenor of the argument, supposing the discourse to have contained such; but if anything is uttered, as it used so often to be by the best Puritan preachers, tersely, pointedly and epigrammatically, this will have stayed by them while all the rest has passed away. Great preachers to the people, such as have ever found their way to the universal heart of their fellows, have ever been great employers of proverbs.” This principle helps to explain why, in the case of Jesus, “the common people heard him gladly.”

VI. REPARTEE.

“He that can define, he that can answer a question so as to admit of no further answer, is the best man. Jesus spent his life conversing with humble people on life and duty, in giving wise answers, showing that he saw at a larger angle of vision, and at least silencing those who were not generous enough to accept his thoughts.”—Emerson.

REPARTEE.

“And no one was able to answer him a word, neither durst any man from that day forth ask him any more questions.”—Matthew.

The present chapter brings us to the subject of Repartee. Of this form of wit, Professor Matthews says, “Nothing is more admirable, nothing more quickly enlists our sympathies, than this perfect command and quick, instantaneous concentration of the faculties, when a man is taken at a disadvantage and has to repel an insinuation or an insult at a moment’s warning. That felicity of instantaneous analysis which we call readiness, has saved thousands of men from mortification or contempt. The dextrous leap of thought by which the mind escapes from a seemingly hopeless dilemma is worth more than all the logic and learning of the world.” “The impromptu reply,” says Moliere, “is precisely the touchstone of wit.”

The pages of the Bible are sometimes enlivened by sharp repartees. The men of old time, the men of the Hebrew nation, understood the power of the quick and flashing answer, as well as more modern generations. Johnson and Foote and Sheridan might have found it by no means easy to hold their own in Judea. It is very likely that their powers would have been put to the severest test.

I.

Turning to the pages of the old Testament, we find many striking examples.

Ben-hadad sends word to the king of Israel, threatening to destroy his army. The king of Israel replies, “Tell him, Let not him that girdeth on his harness, boast himself as he that putteth it off.”

Amaziah desired war with Jehoash. He sends to him saying, “Come, let us look one another in the face.” Jehoash simply responds to the presumptuous challenge, “The thistle that was in Lebanon sent to the cedar that was in Lebanon, saying, Give thy daughter to my son to wife. And there passed by a wild beast that was in Lebanon and trod down the thistle.”

Job retorts upon Zophar, after a wearisome recital of dreary commonplaces intended for comfort, “No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom will die with you. But I have understanding as well as you; I am not inferior to you; yea, who knoweth not such things as these?” To the speech introduced by these words, Eliphaz sharply replies, “Art thou the first man that was born? or wast thou made before the hills? Hast thou heard the secret of God, and dost thou restrain wisdom to thyself? What knowest thou that we know not? What understandest thou which is not in us? With us are both the gray-headed and very aged men, much elder than thy father.” Upon this latter sentiment Elihu expresses himself when he finds opportunity to put in a word; “Great men are not always wise, neither do the aged understand judgment.”

Indeed the Book of Job abounds in sharp speeches and replies as cutting as the speeches they answer. The sufferer obstinately refuses to accept their theory of his affliction or to adopt the remedies his friends propose. “Ye are forgers of lies,” he exclaims, “ye are physicians of no value. O that ye would altogether hold your peace, and it should be your wisdom.” In response to this appeal, Eliphaz becoming piqued proceeds to administer consolation with the lash: “Shall a wise man utter vain knowledge, and fill his belly with the east wind? Should he reason with unprofitable talk or with speeches wherewith he can do no good?” “I have heard many such things,” cries the wretched Job, “miserable comforters are ye all. If your soul were in my soul’s stead, I could heap up words against you, and shake mine head at you; but I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving of my lips should assuage your grief.”

There were some word-battles between Sanballat and Nehemiah while the latter was trying to build the walls of Jerusalem, and the former was doing his best to hinder the enterprise. “Come,” says Sanballat, “let us meet together in one of the villages in the plain of Ono,”—let us be friendly, let us have a pleasant visit together,—“but he thought to do me mischief.” The crafty Sanballat did not take the builder of Jerusalem napping. Nehemiah replies, “I am doing a great work so that I can not come down; why should the work cease whilst I leave it to come down to you?” Are your wishes of such mighty importance, O Sanballat that I should leave the Lord’s work? Must the building cease that I may gratify your whim? Go to, Sanballat, go to; I can not come down. My work is great and noble; thou art a trifler and hypocrite! In precisely this vein was Spurgeon’s reply to the pious bore who sent up word, “Tell him a servant of the Lord wishes to see him.” It was Saturday afternoon, and Spurgeon replied, “Tell him I am busy with his Master!”

Sanballat will have at him again: “It is reported among the heathen, and Gashmu said it, that thou and the Jews think to rebel; for which cause thou buildest the wall that thou mayest be their king, according to these words. And thou hast appointed prophets to preach of thee at Jerusalem, saying, There is a king in Judah; and now shall it be reported to the king according to these words. Come now, therefore, and let us take counsel together.” To this tissue of falsehoods manufactured by the mendacious Gashmu, Nehemiah flashes back with indignation, “There are no such things as thou sayest, but thou feignest it out of thine own heart.” Nehemiah comes very near giving what Touchstone would call the “lie direct,” and he gives it without the qualifying “If.”

Robert Collyer has the following comment upon Gashmu, who was quoted by Sanballat as authority for the charge that Nehemiah was going to set up for a king: “This only, this one thing is left: A good man was doing a good work with all his might, and bad men tried to hinder him. They tried to hurt his person. Gashmu was above that. He was none of your common rowdies. Sanballat and Tobiah might do that, but not Gashmu; yet Gashmu will sit there and nurse his dislike, and be glad to hear the petty stories that float like thistledown through the neighborhood against the innocent man; words are twisted and turned to meanings Nehemiah never thought of, and Gashmu hopes they are true; he wishes they were true; the wish is father to the thought, and he believes them. * * * So Gashmu has permitted his prejudices to grow into a lie. Gashmu is to live thousands of years for one purely false assertion, and to be the representative man of unprincipled gossips and narrow bigots as long as the world stands.”

Another illustration. When the woman, in time of famine, appealed to the King of Israel as he passed by, “Help, my lord, O King,” he turned upon her with the somewhat grim rejoinder, “If the Lord do not help thee, whence shall I help thee?” Her case was hopeless, if the Lord could do nothing.

Although the resemblance is not very strong, this incident suggests a story of Michael Angelo. It calls to mind the way in which he took revenge upon Biagio di Cesena. This courtier ventured to criticise his Last Judgment. With a swift stroke he turned the Minos of the fresco into a likeness of his critic. Biagio complained to the Pope. “Where has he placed you?” inquired the Pontiff. “In Hell,” said Biagio. “I am sorry,” replied the Pope; “If it had been in Purgatory, something might have been done, but in Hell I have no jurisdiction.”

II.

Examples of prompt and keen retort are not confined to the Old Testament. When we turn to the New Testament, we find additional illustrations.

When Paul was making his defence before the Council, he said, “Men and brethren, I have lived in all good conscience before God until this day.” This declaration of innocence offended the High Priest Ananias, and he commanded those who stood by, to smite the speaker on the mouth. This raised the indignation of Paul, and with the swiftness of an arrow he transfixed the Priest, “God shall smite thee, thou whited wall; for sittest thou to judge me after the law and commandest me to be smitten contrary to the law?” This was understood as a bolt of invective by those who heard it, for they asked in alarm, “Revilest thou God’s High Priest?” The answer of Paul was a still more subtle sarcasm: “I wist not, brethren, that he was the High Priest.” There was nothing in the conduct of the man to betoken the dignity of his office. God’s High Priest must surely be fair and impartial. God’s High Priest would never counsel violence. The mistake, Paul would imply, was perfectly natural and excusable.

There is a story of John Randolph not unlike this. Indeed, the sarcasm is the same in spirit and purpose. Paul admitted that “one must not revile God’s High Priest,” but he did not perceive that the High Priest was present. The coarse, loud, ill-tempered person who commanded to smite him on the mouth could not be High Priest! The following was the occasion of Randolph’s sarcasm: During the winter of 1834 a member of the House, to whom he was much attached, died. His place was taken by a young man, vain and ambitious, who began his career by making a bitter attack on Mr. Randolph. No reply was made by the latter. Several days passed, when a question came up in which he was deeply interested, and he delivered a very earnest and impressive speech. As he closed, he said, “I should not, Mr. Speaker, have returned to press this matter with so much earnestness, had not my views possessed the sanction and concurrence of my late departed friend, whose seat, I lament, is now unhappily vacant.”

How skillfully, in the story of the young man who had been healed of his blindness, does the subject of the cure parry the thrusts of the synagogue authorities! “Give God the praise,” they exhort, “we know that this man is a sinner!” “Whether he be a sinner or no,” says the young man, “I can not tell; one thing I know that whereas I was blind, now I see.” Thus repulsed, they begin again. “What did he to thee? How opened he thine eyes?” He replies, “I have told you already, and ye did not hear; wherefore would ye hear it again? Will ye also be his disciples?” Stung to the quick, they revile him, “Thou art his disciple, but we are Moses’ disciples. We know that God spake unto Moses, but as for this fellow we know not from whence he is!” Thoroughly aroused, the young man sends home to them a final thrust: “Why herein is a marvelous thing that ye know not from whence he is, and yet he hath opened mine eyes? Now we know that God heareth not sinners; but if any man be a worshipper of God and doeth his will, him he heareth. Since the world began, was it not heard that any man opened the eyes of one born blind. If this man were not of God, he could do nothing!” Abuse and excision alone remain to the rulers of the synagogue. “Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou teach us?” And they cast him out. Excommunication is the sole answer of priest-craft and bigotry to reason.

III.

To many readers it may seem impious to say that under the head of Repartee we must classify many of those words of Jesus with which he cuts through the sophistry of opponents and disentangles himself from the webs that are woven about him. Let it be remembered, however, that we are dealing with his utterances simply as literature; with their religious significance, we are not now concerned. We are discussing the sayings of Jesus as we would the sayings of Johnson or Goldsmith.

One of the most striking instances is found in the controversy over exorcism. When the scribes who came down from Jerusalem charged, “He hath Beelzebub and by the prince of the devils casts he out devils,” he quickly reduced the accusation to an absurdity: “How can Satan cast out Satan? If he rise up against himself and be divided, he cannot stand, but hath an end.” He goes further—“If I by Beelzebub cast out devils, by whom do your children cast them out?”

There was one occasion, however, when Jesus himself seems to have been vanquished by a swift rejoinder. When the Syro-Phenician woman came to him in behalf of her daughter, in order to test her faith he said,—“Let the children first be filled, for it is not meet to take the children’s bread and to cast it unto the dogs.” “Yes, Lord,” she answered, “yet the dogs under the table eat of the children’s crumbs.” These words came from a bright intellect as well as from a trusting heart. Jesus appreciated the keenness of the reply no less than the confidence it expressed. “For this saying go thy way; the devil is gone out of thy daughter.” “For once,” says Macbeth, “Jesus was refuted and that by his own figure; and he wished to be refuted.”

How we enjoy such a dilemma as the one in which he placed the chief priests and the scribes and the elders! They asked him, “By what authority doest thou these things? And who gave thee authority to do these things?” “I will also ask of you one question,” says Jesus, “and answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I do these things—the baptism of John, was it from heaven, or of men? answer me.” “And they reasoned with themselves, saying, If we shall say from heaven, he will say, Why then did ye not believe him? But if we shall say of men,—they feared the people; for all men counted John that he was a prophet, indeed. And they answered and said unto Jesus, We can not tell.” “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Neither tell I you by what authority I do these things.”

Another time “came to Jesus Scribes and Pharisees which were of Jerusalem, saying, Why do thy disciples transgress the tradition of the Elders? for they wash not their hands when they eat bread?” How quick and effective the reply: “Why do ye also transgress the commandment of God by your tradition?” Nothing could be said in response. The question was absolutely closed. The disciples violate your tradition? Very good; but what does your tradition violate? Can we not see his opponents, falling back beaten, knitting their brows, taking counsel together, planning some overwhelming defeat for this impudent young heretic? What Thersites said of Ajax would well apply to them: “He bites his lips with a politic regard, as who should say, There were wit in this head an’ ’twould out; and so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking.”

When the woman poured the spikenard on the head of Jesus, Judas, the virtuous Judas, forsooth! made objection. “Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence and given to the poor?” Why not, indeed,—for Judas is custodian of the poor fund. “Judas,” returns his Master,—and there was pathos as well as rebuke in the words,—“Judas, the poor ye have with you always, and whenever ye will, ye may do them good.” This was the first time Judas had ever manifested any solicitude for the poor. “But me, ye have not always.” Judas was silenced; but he began to brood revenge. Soon he stole out and went to the chief priests. He had not secured the price of the spikenard, but he would indemnify himself by selling his Master!

With what relish do we read the trenchant replies of Jesus to the Scribes and Pharisees and Herodians who had leagued to “entangle him in his talk.” Easily as Samson broke the green withes, did he break the verbal fetters they forged. “In the resurrection, they neither marry nor are given in marriage!” “Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.” What can be more admirable viewed simply as repartee,—as illustrations of the “dexterous leap of thought by which the mind escapes from a seemingly hopeless dilemma?” If one were to read such fragments of Gospel history for the first time, without the idea that he must attach a solemn and awful meaning to every word, how would he delight in these intellectual contests and hail the genius of the victor!