270 A BOOK-LOVER S HOLIDAYS 



able ease; and then it is a mere matter of prac 

 tise for any one to become able thoroughly to 

 enjoy the beauty and wisdom which knowledge 

 of the new tongue brings. 



Now and then one s soul thirsts for laughter. 

 I cannot imagine any one s taking a course in 

 humorous writers, but just as little can I sym 

 pathize with the man who does not enjoy them 

 at times from Sydney Smith to John Phoenix 

 and Artemus Ward, and from these to Stephen 

 Leacock. Mark Twain at his best stands a 

 little apart, almost as much so as Joel Chandler 

 Harris. Oliver Wendell Holmes, of course, is 

 the laughing philosopher, the humorist at his 

 very highest, even if we use the word &quot;humor&quot; 

 only in its most modern and narrow sense. 



A man with a real fondness for books of 

 various kinds will find that his varying moods 

 determine which of these books he at the mo 

 ment needs. On the afternoon when Stevenson 

 represents the luxury of enjoyment it may 

 safely be assumed that Gibbon will not. The 

 mood that is met by Napier s &quot; Peninsular 

 War,&quot; or Marbot s memoirs, will certainly not 

 be met by Hawthorne or Jane Austen. Park- 

 man s &quot;Montcalm and Wolfe,&quot; Motley s his 

 tories of the Dutch Republic, will hardly fill 

 the soul on a day when one turns naturally to 



