repetition of a humorous story is that on a second relation the element
of falsehood becomes too strong in proportion to that of truth. Such an
explanation can scarcely be correct, for in many instances people would
not be able to show what was the falsity contained. A man may often form
a correct judgment as to the general failure of an attempt, without
being able to show how it could be corrected. Probably after having
heard a humorous story once we are prepared for something whimsical, and
are therefore less affected on its repetition.

We have already observed that certain emotions and states of mind are
adverse to the ludicrous, and we now pass on to those which, like
novelty, are favourable to it and have been at times considered elements
of the ludicrous, but are really only concomitant and accessory. As we
have observed, indelicacy, profanity, or a hostile joy at the downfall
or folly of others is not in itself humorous. Pleasantry without pungent
seasoning may be seen in those "facetious" verbal conceits which our
American cousins, and especially "yours trooly," Artemus Ward, have been
fond of framing. But accessory emotions are necessary to render humour
demonstrative. They are generally unamiable, censorious, or otherwise
offensive, perhaps in keeping with the disapproval excited by falsity.
In some cases the two feelings of wrong are almost inextricably
connected, but in others we can separate them without much difficulty.

In the following instances the presence of an accessory emotion can
easily be traced:--

"'What have you brought me there?' asks a French publisher of a young
author, who advances with a long roll under his arm. 'Is it a
manuscript?' 'No, Sir,' replies the man of letters, pompously, 'a
fortune!' 'Oh, a fortune! Take it to the publisher opposite, he is
poorer than I am.'"

(The disappointment of the author here adds considerably to our
amusement at the ingenious answer of the publisher.)

Two men, attired as a bishop and chaplain, entered one of the great
jewellery establishments in Bond Street and asked to be shown some
diamond rings. The bishop selected one worth a hundred pounds, but said
he had only a fifty-pound note with him, and that he wished to take the
ring away. The foreman took the note, and the bishop gave his address;
but he had scarcely left when a policeman rushed in and asked where the
two swindlers had gone. The foreman stood aghast, but said he had at
least secured