The brilliant sally, the neat epigram, is the small-change of this wit. And nevertheless, it is yet an aspect of it, a characteristic peculiarity of the national intelligence. It is one of its keenest charms. It is this that makes the sceptical gaiety of Paris life, the careless cheerfulness of their manners and customs. It is part and parcel of the social amenity. Formerly, these pleasant jests were made in verse, now-a-days they appear in prose. They are called, according to their date, epigrams, _bons mots,_ traits, hits, _gauloiseries._ They fly through town and drawing-room, they spring up everywhere, on the boulevard as well as Montmartre. And those of Montmartre are often just as good as those of the boulevard, they are printed in the papers; from one end of France to the other, they excite laughter. For, at least, the French know how to laugh. Why should one good thing more than another, the unexpected, quaint, juxtaposition of two terms, two ideas or even two sounds; a ridiculous pun, some unexpected cock-and-bull story, open the floodgates of our gaiety, causing explosions of mirth, fit to blow up all Paris and the provinces like a mine? Why do all the French laugh, while all the English and all the Germans can understand nothing of the fun? Why? solely and wholly because they are French, because they possess the intelligence which is peculiar to the French, and because they possess the delightful, enviable gift of laughter. With them, moreover, a little mother-wit, enables any government to hold its own. Good spirits takes the place of genius, a neat saying consecrates a man at once, and makes him great for all posterity. The rest matters little. The nation loves those who amuse it, and forgives everything to those who can make it laugh. A glance thrown over the past history of France, will make us understand that the fame of their great men, has only been made by flashes of wit. The most detestable princes have become popular by agreeable jests, repeated and remembered from century to century. The throne of France, is maintained by the cap and bells of the jester. Jests, jests, nothing but jests, ironic or heroic, polished or coarse,--jests float for ever to the surface in their history, and make it like nothing so much as a collection of puns and witticisms. Clovis, the Christian king, cried on hearing the story of the Passion: "Why was I not there with my Franks?" This prince, in order to reign alone, massacred his allies and his relations, and committed every crime imaginable. Nevertheless, he is looked upon as a pious and civilizing monarch. "Why was I not there with my Franks?" We should know nothing of good King Dagobert, if the song had not apprised us of a few particulars, no doubt erroneous, of his existence. Pepin, wishing to remove the king Childeric from the throne, proposed to Pope Zacharias the following insidious question: