lives of
ecclesiastical personages. The quiet monks often became cynical.

The spirit of the times determines the standard of wit. At various
periods in the world's history, men have been amused by strange and
differing forms of drollery; what seemed excruciatingly funny to
our grandparents does not strike us as being at all entertaining.
Each generation has its own idea of humour, and its own fun-makers,
varying as much as fashion in dress.

In mediaeval times, the sense of humour in art was more developed
than at any period except our own day. Even-while the monk was
consecrating his time to the work of beautifying the sanctuary,
his sense of humour was with him, and must crop out. The grotesque
has always played an important part in art; in the subterranean
Roman vaults of the early centuries, one form of this spirit is
exhibited. But the element of wit is almost absent; it is displayed
in oppressively obvious forms, so that it loses its subtlety: it
represents women terminating in floral scrolls, or sea-horses with
leaves growing instead of fins. The same spirit is seen in the
grotesques of the Renaissance, where the sense of humour is not
emphasized, the ideal in this class of decoration being simply to
fill the space acceptably, with voluptuous graceful lines,
mythological monstrosities, the inexpressive mingling of human and
vegetable characteristics, grinning dragons, supposed to inspire
horror, and such conceits, while the attempt to amuse the spectator
is usually absent.

In mediaeval art, however, the beauty of line, the sense of horror,
and the voluptuous spirit, are all more or less subservient to
the light-hearted buoyancy of a keen sense of fun. To illustrate
this point, I wish to call the attention of the reader to the wit
of the monastic scribes during the Gothic period. Who could look at
the little animals which are found tucked away almost out of sight
in the flowery margins of many illuminated manuscripts, without seeing
that the artist himself must have been amused at their pranks, and
intended others to be so? One can picture a gray-hooded brother,
chuckling alone at his own wit, carefully tracing a jolly little
grotesque, and then stealing softly to the alcove of some congenial
spirit, and in a whisper inviting his friend to come and see the
satire which he has carefully introduced: "A perfect portrait of
the Bishop, only with claws instead of legs! So very droll! And
dear brother, while you