If without the faculty of observation one could acquire a thorough
knowledge of literature, the _art_ of literature, one would be
astonished to learn “by report divine” how few professional writers can
distinguish between one kind of writing and another. The difference
between description and narration, that between a thought and a
feeling, between poetry and verse, and so forth—all this is commonly
imperfectly understood, even by most of those who work fairly well by
intuition.
The ignorance of this sort that is most general is that of the
distinction between wit and humor, albeit a thousand times expounded
by impartial observers having neither. Now, it will be found that, as
a rule, a shoemaker knows calfskin from sole-leather and a black-smith
can tell you wherein forging a clevis differs from shoeing a horse. He
will tell you that it is his business to know such things, so he knows
them. Equally and manifestly it is a writer’s business to know the
difference between one kind of writing and another kind, but to writers
generally that advantage seems to be denied: they deny it to themselves.
I was once asked by a rather famous author why we laugh at wit. I
replied: “We don’t—at least those of us who understand it do not.” Wit
may make us smile, or make us wince, but laughter—that is the cheaper
price that we pay for an inferior entertainment, namely, humor. There
are persons who will laugh at anything at which they think they are
expected to laugh. Having been taught that anything funny is witty,
these benighted persons naturally think that anything witty is funny.
Who but a clown would laugh at the maxims of Rochefoucauld, which
are as witty as anything written? Take, for example, this hackneyed
epigram: “There is something in the misfortunes of our friends which
we find not entirely displeasing”—I translate from memory. It is an
indictment of the whole human race; not altogether true and therefore
not altogether dull, with just enough of audacity to startle and just
enough of paradox to charm, profoundly wise, as bleak as steel— a
piece of ideal wit, as admirable as a well cut grave or the headsman’s
precision of stroke, and about as funny.
Take Rabelais’ saying that an empty stomach has no ears. How pitilessly
it displays the primitive beast alurk in us all and moved to activity
by our elemental disorders, such as the daily stress of hunger! Who
could laugh at the horrible disclosure, yet who forbear to smile
approval of the deftness with which the animal is unjungled?
In a matter of this kind it is easier to illustrate than to define.
Humor (which is not inconsistent with pathos, so nearly allied are
laughter and tears) is Charles Dickens; wit is Alexander Pope. Humor
is Dogberry; wit is Mercutio. Humor is “Artemus Ward,” “John Phoenix,”
“Josh Billings,” “Petroleum V. Nasby,” “Orpheus C. Kerr,” “Bill” Nye,
“Mark Twain”—their name is legion; for wit we must brave the perils
of the deep: it is “made in France” and hardly bears transportation.
Nearly all Americans are humorous; if any are born witty, Heaven help
them to emigrate! You shall not meet an American and talk with him two
minutes but he will say something humorous; in ten days he will say
nothing witty; and if he did, your own, O most witty of all possible
readers, would be the only ear that would give it recognition. Humor
is tolerant, tender; its ridicule caresses. Wit stabs, begs pardon—and
turns the weapon in the wound. Humor is a sweet wine, wit a dry; we
know which is preferred by the connoisseur. They may be mixed, forming
an acceptable blend. Even Dickens could on rare occasions blend them,
as when he says of some solemn ass that his ears have reached a rumor.
My conviction is that while wit is a universal tongue (which few,
however, can speak) humor is everywhere a _patois_ not “understanded
of the people” over the province border. The best part of it—its
“essential spirit and uncarnate self,” is indigenous, and will not
flourish in a foreign soil. The humor of one race is in some degree
unintelligible to another race, and even in transit between two
branches of the same race loses something of its flavor. To the
American mind, for example, nothing can be more dreary and dejecting
than an English comic paper; yet there is no reason to doubt that
_Punch_ and _Judy_ and the rest of them have done much to dispel the
gloom of the Englishman’s brumous environment and make him realize his
relationship to Man.
It may be urged that the great English humorists are as much read in
this country as in their own; that Dickens, for example, has long
“ruled as his demesne” the country which had the unhappiness to kindle
the fires of contempt in him and Rudyard Kipling; that “the excellent
Mr. Twain” has a large following beyond the Atlantic. This is true
enough, but I am convinced that while the American enjoys his Dickens
with sincerity, the gladness of his soul is a tempered emotion compared
with that which riots in the immortal part of John Bull when that
singular instrument feels the touch of the same master. That a jest of
Mark Twain ever got itself all inside the four corners of an English
understanding is a proposition not lightly to be accepted without
hearing counsel.
1903.