In her essay on Heine, George Eliot writes: “Every one who has had the opportunity of making the comparison, will remember that the effect produced on him by some witticisms is closely akin to the effect produced on him by subtle reasoning which lays open a fallacy or absurdity; and there are persons whose delight in such reasoning always manifests itself in laughter. This affinity of wit with ratiocination is the more obvious in proportion as the species of wit is higher and deals less with words and with superficialities than with the essential qualities of things. Some of Dr. Johnson’s most admirable witticisms consist in the suggestion of an analogy which immediately exposes the absurdity of an action or proposition; and it is only their ingenuity, condensation and instantaneousness which lift them from reasoning into wit.” The opinion of George Eliot has been shared by others. Pitt declared that “all wit is true reasoning,” and Rogers says that “wit is truth.” A French writer has observed that “reason needs to be armed with the terrible epigram.” And even solemn John Milton writes of Plato’s dialogues, “There is scarce one of them, especially wherein some notable sophister lies sweating and turmoiling under the inevitable and merciless dilemmas of Socrates, but he that reads, were it Saturn himself, would be robbed of more than a smile.”
There are in literature abundant examples of the condensed logic of wit,—the logic that exposes a fallacy, answers an objection and demolishes an argument, without resorting to major and minor premise and formal conclusion. One or two of these may pave the way to the main purpose of this chapter. “Where was your Protestant Church before Luther?” asked a Catholic of Wilkes. “Did you wash your face this morning?” said Wilkes. “I did, sir.” “Where was your face before you washed it?” The logic of wit as employed by Dr. Johnson, is referred to by George Eliot. On one occasion it was debated whether a clergyman who had five years before been guilty of some grave sin should be reinstated. Johnson inquired whether the man had repented. It was admitted that he had. “Then,” said Johnson, “if he has repented, is he not good enough to go to heaven?” “Certainly.” “Why, sir, then there is no objection. A man who is good enough to go to heaven is good enough to be a clergyman.” Johnson denounced Lord Bolingbroke in the following immortal analogy: “Sir, he was a scoundrel and a coward; a scoundrel for charging a blunderbuss against religion and morality, a coward because he had not resolution enough to fire it off himself, but left half-a-crown to a beggarly Scotchman to draw the trigger after his death.”
A certain clergyman who had been addicted to bawling and roaring in the pulpit said, “I once thought it was the thunder that killed, and know now that it is the lightning that does the execution. I mean to thunder less and lighten more.” Sir Thomas Overbury punctures certain pretensions thus: “The man who has not anything to boast of but his illustrious ancestors, is like a potato—the only good belonging to him is underground.” Thompson, of the Westminster Review, defended the Radicals against the attacks of the Whigs in this manner: “Noah was a Radical when, hearing the world was to be drowned, he went about such a commonsense proceeding as making for himself a ship to swim in. An antediluvian Whig would have laid together half-a-dozen sticks for an ark and called it a ‘virtual representation.’”
The principle that underlies these instances is obvious. The form may vary but in every case there is an analogy that serves all the purposes of formal logic,—“an analogy which immediately exposes the absurdity of an action or proposition.” The writers of the Bible understood and employed the same principle.
I.
One of the best examples of its use is found in Nathan’s parable. He goes to David and tells him: “There were two men in our city; the one rich, the other poor. The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds; but the poor man had nothing save one little ewe lamb, which he had brought and nourished up; and it grew up together with him and with his children; and it did eat of his own meat and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a daughter. And there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd to dress it for the wayfaring man that was come unto him; but took the poor man’s lamb and dressed it for the man that was come unto him.” Such an action is so atrocious that it kindles David’s wrath. He little suspects the purpose of the wily prophet. “As the Lord liveth,” he cries, “the man that hath done this thing shall surely die! And he shall restore the lamb four-fold because he did this thing, and because he had no pity.” Beware, David, beware! This Nestor-prophet, this Nathan of the subtle wit and keen-edged tongue hath digged a pit for thee and thou hast fallen into it. Swiftly the prophet smites the bewildered king with the conclusion, “Thou art the man!” Could a volume of reasoning have so impressed David with the enormity of his crime as this simple “analogy” of Nathan?
A similar instance is found in the first book of Kings. Ahab the king of Israel had allowed the Syrian general, Ben-hadad, to escape. One of the prophets, determined to rebuke him, disguised himself and sat by the wayside, waiting until the king should pass by. “And as the king passed by, he cried unto the king and said: Thy servant went out into the midst of the battle, and behold a man turned aside and brought a man unto me and said, Keep this man; if by any means he be missing, then shall thy life be for his life or else thou shalt pay a talent of silver. And as thy servant was busy here and there he was gone.” Ahab does not suspect the snare of the prophet. What would my lord, the king, decide? Shall thy servant pay the forfeit? “And the king of Israel said unto him, So shall thy judgment be; thyself hath decided it.” And he made haste, removed his disguise, and said to the king: “Thus saith the Lord: Because thou hast let go out of thine hand a man whom I had appointed to utter destruction, therefore thy life shall go for his life, and thy people for his people.” Ahab has judged himself. No wonder he was vexed. “And the king of Israel went to the house heavy and displeased.” Nothing so disconcerts one as the recoil of his own logic.
Let us place side by side with these illustrations one or two pieces of the same kind of reasoning from Shakespeare. The Court Fool endeavors to show Lear his own pitiful lack of wisdom in giving away his kingdom to his daughters:—
“Fool.—Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.
“Lear.—What two crowns shall they be?