say that the “finite great” is a general way of describing those ideals which mankind has been able to create out of the energy of the suppressed instincts of sex or egoistic lusts of any kind; it is a general description of the “sublimations” of our instincts. Humour is a sudden perception of the fact that our lowest lusts and our highest ideals cancel out one another—that is one possible psychological explanation. But not every one finds a sublimation of his suppressed instincts; they remain underground and fester—form a complex, as the psychologists say. For such people humour has a different function: it acts as a release, as a safety-valve, dissipating in laughter the tangled darkness of the mind. That is a second possible psychological explanation of the close alliance between humour and what Mr. Saintsbury likes to call “tumtedy.” Both explanations are illuminating, and since they are complementary rather than mutually exclusive, they probably embrace a good deal of truth. It is not every kind of humour that leaves the soul calm and serene—that is implicit in Goethe’s saying; it is only humour such as Boccaccio’s, or Rabelais’, or Sterne’s—and precisely their kind of humour because it is grounded in these elemental facts of the human organism, precisely their humour because it descends low enough to undermine the heights. Incidentally, I would make nothing of the difference in kind between the humour of Sterne and that of, say, Rabelais. Mr. Saintsbury tries to force a case here, but I think the difference is minute—the distance inter fæces et urinam.

A defence of Sterne’s humour was a necessary but aggressive duty; to praise his style is merely to join a chorus. Its ease, which is its most admirable quality, is perhaps only obvious to those who themselves struggle for the same mysterious mastery of the obvious. The accomplishment, in Sterne, is closely related to the art of conversation. Sterne was most likely a good talker: we can see it from his letters. His composition begins in conversation and slides naturally into a natural ease. Observe, for example, the opening of this Journey. It begins with a spoken sentence, a question in retort, and then the author is launched on a kind of “interior monologue” which maintains the same accent of ease and actuality to the very end. Other qualities are evolved: the actuality is not only a product of tone, but also of visual imagination. The scenes and events are conceived in simple and significant outlines, and the narrative, when it moves, moves quickly and spontaneously. There is also a very special rhythm—a manipulation of the music of words and the rise and fall of periods—which is an intimate achievement of Sterne’s own. Let the reader turn to the chapter called “The Captive” (pp. 129-131) and read the passage from “I beheld his body …” down to the sentence “I’ll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur Le Duc de Choiseul.” When Sterne becomes sentimental, in his sense of the word, his pen is muted to a wistful tenderness: we listen to his music in an enchanted stillness; and then, when he has reduced our sensibility to its last defence, he revives us with a sudden vivacious step, a beat of drums and a whistle of fifes. The best example of such modulated phrasing is the famous description of Maria in Tristram Shandy: a passage which rhythmically has much in common with the one I have just referred to. But in spite of this subtle musical structure, Sterne’s prose is anything but ornate. It is, indeed, almost the antithesis of the ornate. In English prose the ornate is represented by two authors—Sir Thomas Browne, who is the romantic extreme, and Milton, who is the passionate extreme. Sterne has nothing in common with these stylists: he stands rather with Shakespeare, who in his prose passages is the extreme of naturalness. Perhaps he lacks Shakespeare’s suavity. His intelligence was as restless as it was brilliant; it abhorred the fixed form, and the awful gravity of logic. His humour just avoided the clarity that is so often banal. He realised that a conclusion is too often a fullstop, and that resumption is a painful process. He is a master of transitions, and almost elf-like in his flights. But the light in his path is humane; his mockery is compassionate. There is a clear affinity between those two great spirits—between the creator of Falstaff and the creator of Uncle Toby. It is true that Falstaff is only one aspect of Shakespeare, and that there is the universe of his poetic sensibility besides; whereas Uncle Toby is practically the whole of Sterne. But it is a great thing to be a peer to any aspect of Shakespeare’s genius, and the most fervent of Sterne’s admirers cannot hope for a higher recognition.

Herbert Read