Honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and

In the golden pages of early America, the gentle sage Washington Irving penned words that shimmer like candlelight over a hearth: “Honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small and laughter abundant.” With this, he gave voice to a truth older than nations, as old as friendship itself—that good humor, when it springs from honesty and kindness, is the true nourishment of the human spirit. It is the oil that smooths the gears of conversation, the wine that warms the hearts of all who gather. For where laughter flows freely, there the soul remembers its lightness, and the world’s burdens seem for a while to fade.

Irving, a man of wit and observation, knew the difference between laughter that heals and laughter that wounds. His honest good humor is not the biting jest of cynics, nor the cruel amusement of those who mock others for sport. It is the laughter of companionship, pure and unpretentious, where joy is shared like bread and no one goes hungry for kindness. In such gatherings, even the humblest jest, even the smallest tale, becomes a spark that ignites warmth in every heart. He reminds us that it is not the sharpness of the joke that matters, but the abundance of laughter it brings—the laughter that binds, not divides.

In ancient times, the Greeks spoke of Euphrosyne, the goddess of mirth, one of the three Graces who blessed the banquets of gods and mortals. She moved unseen through feasts and firesides, her presence felt in every shared smile, every easing of tension. Where she went, resentment melted, and fellowship grew. It is her spirit that lives in Irving’s words. For a merry meeting is not made by fine wine or grand halls, but by the hearts that come together without vanity, without pretense. When men and women gather with good humor—honest, kind, and open-hearted—they partake in something divine, something that transcends the dust and noise of daily toil.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, whose heart bore the weight of a divided nation. In the darkest hours of the Civil War, when his spirit was heavy with sorrow, he often turned to gentle humor. He once said, “If I did not laugh, I should die.” His jests were never cruel, never arrogant. They were small and human, the kind that drew weary men to him, reminding them that even amid suffering, light could be found. Lincoln understood what Irving meant—good humor was not an escape from hardship but the oil and wine that kept courage alive in the fellowship of men.

In our own time, when gatherings grow hurried and conversations shallow, we would do well to remember Irving’s wisdom. Many seek to impress others with wit sharp as a blade, forgetting that such wit can cut rather than comfort. Yet the truest company is that in which no one strives to be the cleverest, but all strive to be the kindest. Laughter abundant is worth more than brilliance coldly displayed. The warmth of shared joy is the sign of a soul at peace, and the mark of friendship that endures when words have long faded.

There is a rhythm to human joy—a rise and fall like song, a tide that pulls us together. Good humor is its melody. It turns strangers into companions and weary hearts into joyful ones. The wise know that a cheerful heart, open and sincere, is a greater treasure than intellect untempered by love. The true feast is not in the abundance of food or wine, but in the spirit of joy that fills the air.

So, children of light, take this teaching into your days: be generous with your laughter, but sparing with your pride. Seek gatherings where humor is honest and kind, and let your presence be like oil and wine, bringing ease and gladness wherever you go. When you meet others, do not seek to shine above them, but to shine with them. Let your jokes be simple, your heart open, your laughter true. For in the end, the world will not remember what you said, but how you made it feel—and those who spread honest good humor will be remembered as healers of the human spirit.

And when your life’s evening comes, may your memory be as Irving described: surrounded not by echoes of sharp words, but by the sound of laughter abundant, the truest music of all companionship.