It has been remarked by a certain hawker of platitudes that humor is that which makes a man laugh. There have been several definitions of wit, one of them by Sydney Smith, and all of them more or less wanting in completeness. But in a general way nobody is particularly keen on definitions, provided they can get for their amusement and exhilaration either humor or wit. During the past few decades we have heard a vast deal of the advantages which accrue from the possession of what is called a sense of humor. This especial sense or faculty for appreciating a joke is nowadays cultivated, and consciously cultivated, by all sorts and conditions of people. The gravest and most reverend persons are wont to enliven their conversation or their[131] discourse with quips, cranks, gibes, and other sallies, ingeniously calculated to set the listener in a roar. The House of Commons has latterly appeared to be filled with gentlemen who live to amuse each other; there are judges who seem almost incapable of opening their mouths without attempting the hilarious, and even bishops and bankers must have their little joke. The press also strains after humorsomeness in every degree, and when critics wish to be particularly severe they write simply, “Mr. So-and-So has no sense of humor.” And here, in effect, we have what I conceive to be another distinct injustice to Ireland. For Irish wit and humor have passed into a tradition, and are believed by good judges to be the very wittiest and most humorous wit and humor the gods are likely to vouchsafe to us. In the course of years many fairly thick volumes have been compiled out of the abundance of humorous material Ireland has furnished forth. To turn to such a volume, however,[132] is in my opinion to experience a certain disappointment. There are jokes, it is true, and jokes innumerable; but somehow for the modern laughter seeker there is a distinct flatness about them. Furthermore, they are nearly all “chestnuts,” a fact which renders it pretty plain that the people of Ireland have come to a full stop as it were, and ceased to produce them. I subjoin a few examples culled hap-hazard from a book published so recently as last year:

A prisoner was trying to explain to a judge and jury his innocence of a certain crime. “It’s not meself,” he cried, “as’ll be afther thrying to desave yer honors. I didn’t hit the poor dead gintleman at all, at all. It was him that sthruck the blow, and the exartion killed him, and, what’s more, I wasn’t there at the time.” “I perceive,” observed the judge, “you are trying to prove an alibi.” “An al-loi-boi!” exclaimed the prisoner, evidently pleased at the big word being suggested[133] to strengthen his defense. “Yes,” said the judge. “Can you tell me what is a good alibi?” “Faith, yer honor,” replied the prisoner, “and it’s a loi boi which the prisoner gets off.”

“What passed between yourself and the complainant?” inquired the magistrate in a county court. “I think, sor,” replied the worthy O’Brien, “a half-dozen bricks and a lump of paving-stone.”

“I say, Paddy,” said a tourist to his car-driver, “that is the worst-looking horse you drive I ever saw. Why don’t you fatten him up?” “Fat him up, is it?” queried the Jehu, “faix, the poor baste can hardly carry the little mate that’s on him now!”

“Have you had any experience with children?” inquired a lady of a prospective nurse. “Oh, yes, mum,” replied the woman, blandly. “Oi used to be a child mesilf wanst.”

[134]

A jarvey, who was driving through the streets of Dublin, met with an obstruction in the shape of a man riding a donkey. “Now then, you two!” he exclaimed.

An Irish member, named Dogherty, who subsequently became Chief-Justice of Ireland, asked Canning what he thought of his maiden speech. “The only fault I can find with it,” said Canning, “is that you called the Speaker sir, too often.” “My dear fellow,” replied Dogherty, “if you knew the mental state I was in while speaking, you would not wonder if I had called him ma’am.”

“Get on, man; get on!” said a traveler to his car-driver. “Wake up your nag!” “Shure, sor,” was the reply, “I haven’t the heart to bate him.” “What’s the matter with him?” inquired the traveler; “is he sick?” “No, sor,” answered the jarvey, “he’s not sick, but it’s unlucky he is, sor, unlucky! You see, sor, every morning, before[135] I put him i’ the car, I tosses him whether he’ll have a feed of oats or I’ll have a dhrink of whisky, an’ the poor baste has lost five mornings running!”

“Did you notice no suspicious character about the neighborhood?” said a magistrate to an inexperienced policeman. “Shure, yer hanner,” replied the policeman, “I saw but one man, an’ I asked him what he was doing there at that time o’ night? Sez he, ‘I have no business ............