Wit is the lowest form of humor.

“Wit is the lowest form of humor.” So wrote Alexander Pope, the poet of reason and refinement, whose pen shaped the moral conscience of his age. At first glance, these words may seem harsh — a dismissal of cleverness, a denial of artistry. Yet beneath them lies a deep river of wisdom, flowing from one who knew the difference between the glitter of intellect and the glow of truth. For wit, though sharp and dazzling, often strikes the surface of life; humor, when pure, touches the heart. Pope’s teaching reminds us that the highest laughter does not mock or wound — it heals, uplifts, and binds the soul to humanity.

In the days of Pope, the salons of London brimmed with clever men and women who wielded wit as both sport and weapon. The duel of words was a noble art, yet it was also cruel. A single line of mockery could ruin a rival’s name, and those who sought fame in the courts of wit often left a trail of hurt behind them. Pope, though a master of this craft, knew its dangers well. In his youth he delighted in the sharpness of his tongue, but as age and wisdom tempered him, he saw that such brilliance often lacked compassion. Wit, he came to understand, was but the shadow of true humor — bright, but without warmth.

The ancients, too, spoke of this distinction. The philosophers of Greece taught that wit is the play of intellect, while humor is the play of spirit. Wit amuses; humor embraces. Wit observes the follies of mankind from above, but humor laughs among them, saying, “I too am flawed, I too am human.” The gods themselves, in their stories, were said to laugh not in scorn but in joy — a laughter that united heaven and earth. Thus, when Pope calls wit the “lowest form of humor,” he does not deny its beauty; he only reminds us that the higher art of laughter is rooted in empathy, not superiority.

Consider the tale of Abraham Lincoln, that weary yet wise soul who bore the weight of a divided nation. His humor was not cutting, but kind. In the darkest hours of war, when his countrymen despaired, Lincoln would tell stories — humble, human, and full of warmth. Once, when criticized for his laughter amid suffering, he replied, “I laugh because I must not weep.” That was no wit, but humor in its highest form — the laughter of endurance, the smile that keeps the heart from breaking. Pope would have recognized in Lincoln’s words the nobility of the spirit that laughs not to mock, but to survive.

There is a kind of pride in wit, a hunger to be admired, to conquer with intellect. It dazzles, yes, but it seldom nourishes. The one who is witty seeks to impress; the one who is humorous seeks to connect. Wit can divide the speaker from the listener, setting one above the other. Humor, by contrast, draws all closer — it is the music of shared imperfection. Pope, whose own frail body made him the target of mockery, learned to see this clearly. He knew that laughter born of cruelty is a blade that wounds twice — once the victim, and once the soul of the wielder.

And yet, Pope did not despise wit altogether. He only sought to order the hierarchy of laughter, to remind the world that cleverness without compassion is an empty art. True humor, in his eyes, required not just intelligence, but grace — the capacity to see folly without contempt, to speak truth without malice. The wit may win applause, but the humorist wins hearts. For the former delights for a moment; the latter endures for generations.

So, my children, let this be your lesson: seek not to be merely witty, but to be wise in your laughter. Do not sharpen your tongue at another’s expense, for wit that wounds is a fleeting triumph. Instead, learn the sacred joy of humor that heals. When you speak, let your laughter spring from kindness; when you jest, let mercy dwell within it. Remember that every heart you meet carries hidden battles, unseen sorrows. Let your humor be a balm, not a blade.

Thus we return to Pope’s quiet truth: “Wit is the lowest form of humor.” Not because it is unworthy, but because it stands at the beginning of a greater journey — the ascent from intelle