We are all agreed on the efficacy of humor, and we join without dissent in lauding the man who has the power to make the world laugh. He is as much our benefactor as the man whose scholarly and laborious research solves for us some great scientific problem which sets civilization forward; for, does he not unlock for us the gates of mirth, and climax a day of toil with an hour of restful merriment? His side-splitting joke pays the Doctor’s bill in advance by keeping us well and hearty; it settles pro tem. the grocer’s bill by making us forget it. His clever story charms and fascinates us, and we follow him down sunny lanes of laughter, and through sighing groves of pathos until the cares and vexations of our busy lives recede from us like a troubled shore. With the God-like power of genius, he leads us out of the thorn-hedged paths of everyday life, into the happy garden of the ideal where the flowers of sentiment bloom perennial, and the song of every bird is a lilted fragment of the universal chorus of love. This magic garden on the margin of the dusty field of reality from which we dig our daily bread, is an oasis to which we may not long repair, but to linger for an hour rests us from toil and refreshes us for labor. From behind its roses no venomous serpent is privileged to strike, and from its peaceful skies no hurricane may swoop down to lay waste. ’Tis there that the eye of despair is kindled with hope, the brow of care is smoothed with forgetfulness, and the lips of melancholy are curled with a smile. All hail to the man of humor and pathos! (He cannot possess one without possessing the other.) Pathos is but the gentle sister of humor. Her emotions have no kinship with sorrow; her tears are the trembling jewels of tender memories, and she has only to dry her eyes to disclose a smile.