Victorian literature would not have cared to produce a Ship of Fools,—though a passenger list might easily be culled out from its fiction,—nor a Hudibras, nor a Dunciad, nor even a Tartuffe, for George Warrington voiced the general sentiment when he said of that great drama that it could not be reckoned great in comparison with Othello, because “‘a mere villainous hypocrite should not be chief of a great piece.’”[465]
This segment of literature may not be more sincere in its claim of truth-telling, but it shows more art in its method; and it is perhaps even less flattering to human nature in its assumption that simple exposure, without exaggeration, is quite enough.
Nor did it ever expect its satire to prove revolutionary. Peacock, first on the list, confessed, through one of his characters, of having been cured of a passion for reforming the world, “by the conviction of the inefficacy of moral theory with respect to producing a practical change in the mass of mankind.” He adds,—[466]
“Custom is the pillar round which opinion twines, and interest is the tie that binds it. It is not by reason that practical change can be effected, but by making a puncture to the quick in the feelings of personal hope and personal fear.”
The fear of being ridiculous is of course one of those which may be punctured to the quick, and thereby a practical change effected. It is also true that, the human constitution and capacity being what they are, constant criticism is necessary. It is the spur, the brake, the corrective, to inform us when we are going too slow, too fast, or in the wrong direction. It is not by nature an agreeable thing, and there are times when it should not be made so. But if there are deeds and characters beyond the reach of humor, it is equally true, conversely, as Meredith says:[467] “There are questions as well as persons that only the Comic can fitly touch.” The paradox arises in the fact that while criticism is essentially scientific, satire is a branch of esthetics, which nevertheless has practical proclivities. These it does no harm to exercise, providing it wreaks no violence on its character as an art. But the effect of satire must not be confused with its quality. It cannot be said that he satirizes best who reforms most,—the harvest of reform from satiric seed being granted. Concerning a pitchfork or muckrake there is no question of art: concerning a statue there is no question of utility: but satire is like a silver spoon, which partakes of both qualities, and is estimated sometimes according to one, sometimes the other, and sometimes a compromise between the two.
“C’est une étrange entreprise,” exclaimed Molière, “que celle de faire rire les honnêtes gens.” The strangeness of it becomes more striking when we remember that the laughter of the race is directed against itself and at the very things over which it is most sensitive,—its own inept follies and poor flimsy pretenses. But it is unendurable only in the form of the “grinning sneer” of Blifil. Even ridicule may be welcome if it comes from the genial Allworthy, whose “smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind.” Not all satirists are so benign, but such benignity is not incompatible with the finest satire. Meredith himself, after writing a dozen novels permeated with the most pungent satire, said in the last one that “if we bring reason to scan our laugh at pure humanity, it is we who are in place of the ridiculous, for doing what reason disavows.”[468]
It may be that as we reason more we laugh less; and that brings the question whether it were wiser to check the reasoning or quench the laughter. Since, however, laughter is likely to improve in quality as it diminishes in quantity, we may be content to abjure the witticism at which “the fool lifteth up his voice with laughter,” and substitute the reflective wit over which “the clever man will scarce smile quietly.” Such was the mild aspiration of the humorous Victorians; but though mild, the spirit was ubiquitous. It gave tone to the pessimism of Thompson and temper to the optimism of Stevenson; it colored darkly the defiant pages of Carlyle and tinged lightly the protesting paragraphs of Arnold; it lent an edge to the sentiment of Tennyson and humanized the philosophy of Browning. It even dignified the comicality of Punch, for Douglas Jerrold, at least, was far from being an irresponsible jester. His gruesome Dish of Glory, with its ironical advice to the French to eat the Algerians as fast as they conquer them, will bear comparison with The Modest Proposal. The dedication of volume eight also illustrates the new effect of self-turned irony:
“As young Aurora, with her blaze of light,
Into the shade throws all the pride of night,
And pales presumptuous stars, who vainly think