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it was the ruin of a joke that people did not see it. Now it is the sublime victory of a joke that people do not see it. Humour, my friends, is the one sanctity remaining to mankind. It is the one thing you are thoroughly afraid of. Look at that tree." His interlocutors looked vaguely towards a beech that leant out towards them from the ridge of the hill. "If," said Mr. Quin, "I were to say that you did not see the great truths of science exhibited by that tree, though they stared any man of intellect in the face, what would you think or say? You would merely regard me as a pedant with some unimportant theory about vegetable cells. If I were to say that you did not see in that tree the vile mismanagement of local politics, you would dismiss me as a Socialist crank with some particular fad about public parks. If I were to say that you were guilty of the supreme blasphemy of looking at that tree and not seeing in it a new religion, a special revelation of God, you would simply say I was a mystic, and think no more about me. But if"--and he lifted a pontifical hand--"if I say that you cannot see the humour of that tree, and that I see the humour of it--my God! you will roll about at my feet." He paused a moment, and then resumed. "Yes; a sense of humour, a weird and delicate sense of humour, is the new religion of mankind! It is towards that men will strain themselves with the asceticism of saints. Exercises, spiritual exercises, will be set in it. It will be asked, 'Can you see the humour of this iron railing?' or 'Can you see the humour of this field of corn? Can you see the humour of the stars? Can you see the humour of the sunsets?' How often I have laughed myself to sleep over a violet sunset." "Quite so," said Mr. Barker, with an intelligent embarrassment. "Let me tell you another story. How often it happens that the M.P.'s for Essex are less punctual than one would suppose. The least punctual Essex M.P., perhaps, was James Wilson, who said, in the very act of plucking a poppy--" Lambert suddenly faced round and struck his stick into the ground in a defiant attitude. "Auberon," he said, "chuck it. I won't stand it. It's all bosh." Both men stared at him, for there was something very explosive about the words, as if they had been corked up painfully for a long time. "You have," began Quin, "no--" "I don't care a curse," said Lambert, violently, "whether I have 'a delicate sense of humour' or n
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