19th Sept. Reavers of Zruth—and their number is legion—must have been amused recently by a little episode recorded in its columns, which we venture to reproduce here for the benefit of any unfortunate person who may not have observed the original. In the issue of Mr. Labouchere's journal for 22nd June the following paragraph appeared amongst the editorial notes and comments:
"the following letter may be of some public interest, but I am averse to expressing an opinion upon it, knowing that in these questions of plagiarism there is always something to be said on the other side. I daresay many people will be ready to come forward and swear that this M. Dumas' never saw Mr, Wilde's play, perhaps never even heard of Mr. Wilde; but I earnestly beg that nobody will do anything of the kind "Dear Sir,—Might I call your attention to a scandalous plagiarism on the part of M. Alexandre Dumas in the piece produced last night at the Drury Lane theatre? M, Dumas puts into the mouth of one of his characters the following words: "Lo devoir est ce qu on exile des autres." Now Sir, surely every body is aware that Mr.. Oscar Wilde in his play "A Woman of no Importance" now running at the Haymarket Theatre has said " Duty is what we expect from others," and I, as a patriotic Englishman with the credit of our English drama at heart, do most vehemently protest against this shame-Jess appropriation of Mr. Wildes' brilliant witticisms. Who is this M. Dumas? remain, Yours, etc.
"Theatre Goer."
A week later Mr. Labouchere was compelled to make the following plaintive remarks on the same subject "Vainly did I beg that no one would inform me of the impossibility of the author of "Denise" having plagiatised from Oscar Wilde. I have received the following from the Grosvenor Club. As it is not authenticated by any signature, I cannot answer for its accuracy, but the writer is apparently a serious person, and I think incapable of any practical joking "Your correspondent Theatre Goer is fanny indeed! Not having heard of M. Dumas fils he would be surprised to hear that "Denise" was written and represented at the Comédie Francaise years before Mr. Oscar Wilde thought of writing his " Woman of no Importance."
Mr. Labouchere makes no further comment on the above epistle, beyond the pregnant query "Who would have thought of that?" A question whose suggestive mirth we doubt if "'Theatre hending. The whole incident is so delicious as it stands that it scarcely needs any amplifying on our part. No one with a vivid imagination could refrain from picturing the delight of the fussy and accurate member of the Grosvenor Club at the opportunity afforded by the first letter of correcting what appeared to him a terrible display of ignorance on the part of Truth's correspondent. "'I'héatre Frangais" was utterly incapable himself of seeing the delicate way in which Theatre-Goer silly accused the Prince of Zisthetes of a want of originality. The crowning question "Who is this Mr. Dumas?" only aroused in his mind a shocked sense of irritation that anyonepretending to love of the Drama should show such a culpable want of knowledge of the theatrical productions of his century. We can easily imagine the stolidly British manner in which he indited his epistle; we are only amazed at its brevity, for surely it must have been a great temptation to enlighten his unlearned opponent by transcribe ing from the pages of an encyclopedia a lengthy biography of "this M. Dumas." Doubtless "'I'héatre Frangais" awaited Truth's next issue with unconcealed eagerness, and we do not hesitate to conjecture that he is even now chuckling over his "little thing" appearing in its columns.
The incident certainly tends to prove that there are some amongst us who, having eyes, yet see not; and who are not blessed with that precious sense of humour that makes the desert of life bloom and blossom as the rose. This failing is acknowledged to be a peculiarly British characteristic and verily with such a specimen of English dulness as the above, we are almost forced to admit that no other nation could have displayed greater incapacity for appre-clating a joke. "With stupidity and sound digestion man may front much," said Carlyle; but we rather think that, given the sound digestion, a sense of humour will more adequately fit a man for any conflict than the lack of feeling that goes with stupidity. Charles Lamb has drawn for us a perfect picture of cheery optimism in the portrait of his old friend Captain Jackson, whose wonderful power of glorifying his surroundings by clothing everyone of them with a jest, makes us all wish that he too, like Elia, had enjoyed his acquaintance. We are sure that the poor half-pay officer, who supported a wife and two grown-up daughters on his slender professional allowance, and always had a hospitable welcome for his friends, must have possessed the keenest sense of humour to enable him to endure his condition with even a moderate amount of happiness. He must have learnt to treat life as a perpetual picnic, at which necessities were only left behind accidentally—notreally lacking,—otherwise he could never have borne. the endless cutting and contriving that was a sine que non of his existence. His riotous imagination' transformed the meagre scraps on his table' into semblances of sumptuous bauquets at which Royalty might worthily be entertained. His ready wit and merry jesting diverted everybody's attention from the bare reality; in fact as Elia cleverly put it "although wine there was none—ouly a thin kind of ale that did duty at all his eutertainments—Captain Jackson's guests got tipsy upon words, and reeled under the potency of his Bacchanalian encouragements."
There is no doubt that so long as we can laugh we shall not be in any danger of committing suicide; nor shall we be tempted to groan over the misery of being made a little lower than the angels Moralists may tell us that those who laugh last laugh longest but we prefer to relegate that remark to the collection of popular fallacies commencing with the hackneyed advice to rise with the lark; a foolish dictum no sane man would ever think of following. A strong sense of the ridiculous isa merciful gift with which everyone should pray Providence to endow him, the mau who possesses it will find flowers springing up everywhere in his path; and even Christmas bills—especially in China—may become a fruitful source of mirth when the debtor is capable of being amused by the orthographic mistakes of his creditor. We believe, there are people existing who are entirely devoid of this sixth sense, They are actually incapable of conjuring up even a feeble ghost of a smile over Barrie and Kipling and boldly acknow-
they can see nothing to laugh at in A ledge without any feeling of shame that Tramp Abroad. We fancy "'!héatre Frangais" must belong to this class; and we should like to have an opportunity of studying his expression during the performance of one of those ver Comédie Francaise productions with which he seems so familiar. Have Coquelin or Got ever succeeded in exciting the smallest sign of mirth on the countenance of their conscientious auditor? Deponent sayeth not; but probably "'Theatre Frangais " has usually been too much absorbed by his anxiety not to miss a single word of the carefully studied text, to be able to enjoy the subtler touches of the great actors' byplay. If it were possible to drag a laugh out of him, it would certainly deserve classification in that immortal catalogue to be found in the Sartor Resartus in a passage too perfect to avoid quoting here, "Some men wear an everlastingly barren simper; in the smile of others lies a cold glitter as of ice; the fewest are able to laugh, what can be called laughing, but only sniff and titter and snigger from the throat outwards; or at best produce some whiffling husky ca-chin nation, as if they were laughing through wool; of none such comes good. The man who cannot laugh is not only fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils, but his whole life is already a treason and a stratagem,"
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.