To this matter of quantity there is a fairly definite relation of quality. The fact that the largest quantity is now a discarded type indicates that relation to be one of inverse proportion. The second and third divisions evince hilarity, sarcasm, shoddy flippancy, or profound wit, according to the temperaments of the writers. Therein lies the greatest variety. The fourth occupies the great field of irony. It is the _siccum lumen_, occasionally flashing, usually lambent, smouldering, gravely glowing. Amid these differences in kind and degree, the Victorian novelists had a sort of unity in possessing a certain sense of satire, more or less consciously realized, and of themselves as satirists. This is not only discernible in the general air they have of intending to do it, but is made visible by remarks in the nature of Confessions of a Satirist voiced by about half their number. “Let those who cannot nicely and with certainty discern,” says Charlotte Brontë in _Shirley_, “the difference between the tones of hypocrisy and those of sincerity, never presume to laugh at all, lest they have the miserable misfortune to laugh in the wrong place, and commit impiety when they think they are achieving wit.” Thackeray,[75] the “cynic”, is the one to reiterate most strongly the Pauline creed that love of mankind is the root of all good. He remarks that humor means more than laughter, and adds: “The humorous writer professes to awaken your love, your pity, your kindness--your scorn for untruth, pretension, imposture--your tenderness for the weak, the oppressed, the unhappy. To the best of his means and ability he comments on all the ordinary actions and passions of life almost. He takes upon himself to be the week-day preacher, so to speak. Accordingly, as he finds, and speaks, and feels the truth best, we regard him, esteem him--sometimes love him.” Trollope[76] agrees as to the lay-clerical office: “I have always thought of myself as a preacher of sermons, and my pulpit as one which I could make both salutary and agreeable to my audience.” Dickens[77] also claims the intent of speaking the truth in love: “Cervantes laughed Spain’s chivalry away, by showing Spain its impossible and wild absurdity. It was my attempt, in my humble and far-distant sphere, to dim the false glitter surrounding something which really did exist, by showing it in its unattractive and repulsive truth.” The greatest unanimity is as to objects. Peacock[78] and Trollope[79] in conventional imitation of the old school speak of castigating vice, but they also in other places join the universal chorus against folly, and folly as an impostor. Disraeli[80] comes in on this: “Teach us that pretension is a bore. * * * Catch the fleeting colors of that sly chameleon, Cant, and show what excessive trouble we are ever taking to make ourselves miserable and silly.” Reade[81] adds a word: