HUMOR:
Addison, Stevenson, Lamb.
Mere correctness in sentence structure (grammar) may be purely
scientific; but the art of rhetoric is so wrapped up with human emotion
that the study of human nature counts for infinitely more than the
theory of arrangement, figures of speech, etc., Unless the student has
some idea how the human mind works (his own mind and the minds of his
readers), he will make little or no progress in his study of this
subject. Professional teachers ignore this almost completely, and that
is one reason why they so often fail; and it is also a reason why persons
who do not go to them for training so often succeed: the latter class
finds that knowledge of the human heart makes up for many deficiencies.
The first important consideration is _good nature_. It is not often
that we can use words to compel; we must win; and it is an old proverb
that “more flies are caught with molasses than with vinegar.” The novice
in writing is always too serious, even to morbidness, too “fierce,” too
arrogant and domineering in his whole thought and feeling. Sometimes
such a person compels attention, but not often. The universal way is
to attract, win over, please. Most of the arts of formal rhetoric are
arts of making language pleasing; but what is the value of knowing the
theory in regard to these devices when the spirit of pleasing is absent?
We must go at our work gently and good-naturedly, and then there will
be no straining or morbidness or repulsiveness of manner. But all this
finds its consummation in what is called _humor_.
Humor is a thing that can be cultivated, even learned; and it is one
of the most important things in the whole art of writing.
We will not attempt to say just what humor is. The effort could bring
no results of value. Suffice it to say that there is implanted in most
of us a sense of the ridiculous―of the incongruous. If a thing is a
little too big or a little too small for the place it is intended to
fill, for some occult reason we regard it as funny. The difference of
a hair seems to tickle us, whereas a great difference does not produce
that kind of effect at all.
We may secure humor by introducing into our writing the slightest
possible exaggeration which will result in the slightest possible
incongruity. Of course this presupposes that we understand the facts
in a most thorough and delicate way. Our language is not precisely
representative of things as they are, but it proves better than any
other language that we know just what the truth is.
Humor is the touchstone by which we ought to try ourselves and our work.
It will prevent our getting very far away from what is normal and natural.
So much for its effect on ourselves. To our readers it proves that we
are good-natured, honest, and determined to be agreeable. Besides, it
makes an appeal to them on their weakest side. Few people can resist a
joke. There is never any occasion for them to cultivate resistance. So
there is no more certain way by which we can get quickly and inevitably
into their confidence and fellowship. When once we are on good terms
with them they will listen to us while we say anything we may have to say.
Of course we shall often have many serious things to say; but humor will
open the way for us to say them better than any other agency.
It is to be noted that humor is slighter and more delicate than any other
form of wit, and that it is used by serious and accomplished writers.
It is the element of success in nearly all essay-writing, especially in
letters; and the business man will find it his most powerful weapon in
advertising. Its value is to be seen by uses so various.
The student is invited to study three examples of humor. The first is
Addison's “Advice in Love.” It is obvious that this subject could not
very well be treated in any other way. It is too delicate for anything
but delicate humor, for humor can handle subjects which would be
impossible for any other kind of language. Besides, the sentiment would
be likely to nauseate us by its excess or its morbidity, except for the
healthy salt of humor. Humor makes this essay instructive and interesting.
Next we present two letters from Stevenson. Here we see that humor
makes commonplace things interesting. How deadly dull would be the
details Stevenson gives in these letters but for the enlivenment of humor!
By what other method could anything worth reading have been gotten out of
the facts?
The selection from Charles Lamb is an illustration of how humor may save
the utterly absurd from being unreadable. Lamb had absolutely nothing
to say when he sat down to write this letter; and yet he contrived to be
amusing, if not actually interesting.
The master of humor can draw upon the riches of his own mind, and
thereby embellish and enliven any subject he may desire to write upon.
Of these three selections, the easiest to imitate is Addison. First,
we should note the old-fashioned phrasing and choice of words, and
perhaps translate Addison into simple, idiomatic, modern English,
altering as little as possible. We note that the letter offered by
Addison is purposely filled with all the faults of rhetoric which we
never find in his own writing. Addison's humorous imitation of these
faults gives us twice as good a lesson as any possible example of real
faults made by some writer unconsciously.
In Stevenson's letters we see the value of what has been called “the
magic word.” Nearly the whole of his humor consists in selecting a
word which suggests ten times as much as it expresses on its face.
There is a whole world of fun in this suggestion. Sometimes it is
merely commonplace punning, as when he speaks of the “menial” of
“high Dutch extraction” as yet “only partially extracted;” and again
it is the delicate insinuation contained in spelling “Parc” with a _c,_
for that one letter gives us an entire foreign atmosphere, and the
disproportion between the smallness of the letter and the extent of
the suggestiveness touches our sense of the ridiculous.
The form of study of these passages may be slightly altered. Instead
of making notes and rewriting exactly as the original authors wrote,
we should keep the original open before us and try to produce something
slightly different in the same vein. We may suppose the letter on love
written by a man instead of by a woman. Of course its character will
be quite different, though exactly the same characteristics will be
illustrated. This change will require an alteration in almost every
sentence of the essay. Our effort should be to see how little change
in the wording will be required by this one change in subject; though
of course we should always modernize the phrasing. In the case of
Stevenson, we may suppose that we are writing a similar letter to friends,
but from some other city than San Francisco. We may imitate Lamb by
describing our feelings when afflicted by some other ailment than a cold.
ADVICE IN LOVE.
By Joseph Addison.
It is an old observation, which has been made of politicians who would
rather ingratiate, themselves with their sovereign, than promote his
real service, that they accommodate their counsels to his inclinations,
and advise him to such actions only as his heart is naturally set upon.
The privy-counsellor of one in love must observe the same conduct,
unless he would forfeit the friendship of the person who desires his
advice. I have known several odd cases of this nature. Hipparchus was
going to marry a common woman, but being resolved to do nothing without
the advice of his friend Philander, he consulted him upon the occasion.
Philander told him his mind freely, and represented his mistress to him
in such strong colors, that the next morning he received a challenge for
his pains, and before twelve o'clock was run through the body by the man
who had asked his advice. Celia was more prudent on the like occasion;
she desired Leonilla to give her opinion freely upon a young fellow who
made his addresses to her. Leonilla, to oblige her, told her with great
frankness, that she looked upon him as one of the most worthless―
Celia, foreseeing what a character she was to expect, begged her not to
go on, for that she had been privately married to him above a fortnight.
The truth of it is a woman seldom asks advice before she has bought her
wedding clothes. When she has made her own choice, for form's sake she
sends a _congé d'élire_ to her friends.
If we look into the secret springs and motives that set people at work
on these occasions, and put them upon asking advice, which they never
intend to take; I look upon it to be none of the least, that they
are incapable of keeping a secret which is so very pleasing to them.
A girl longs to tell her confidant that she hopes to be married in a
little time, and, in order to talk of the pretty fellow that dwells so
much in her thoughts, asks her gravely, what she would advise her to
in a case of so much difficulty. Why else should Melissa, who had not
a thousand pounds in the world, go into every quarter of the town to
ask her acquaintance whether they would advise her to take Tom Townly,
that made his addresses to her with an estate of five thousand a year?
'Tis very pleasant on this occasion to hear the lady propose her doubts,
and to see the pains she is at to get over them.
I must not here omit a practice that is in use among the vainer part
of our own sex, who will often ask a friend's advice, in relation to a
fortune whom they are never likely to come at. Will Honeycomb, who is
now on the verge of threescore, took me aside not long since, and ask
me in his most serious look, whether I would advise him to marry my Lady
Betty Single, who, by the way, is one of the greatest fortunes about
town. I stared him full in the face upon so strange a question; upon
which he immediately gave me an inventory of her jewels and estate,
adding, that he was resolved to do nothing in a matter of such
consequence without my approbation. Finding he would have an answer,
I told him, if he could get the lady's consent, he had mine. This is
about the tenth match which, to my knowledge, Will has consulted
his friends upon, without ever opening his mind to the party herself.
I have been engaged in this subject by the following letter, which comes
to me from some notable young female scribe, who, by the contents of it,
seems to have carried matters so far that she is ripe for asking advice;
but as I would not lose her good-will, nor forfeit the reputation which
I have with her for wisdom, I shall only communicate the letter to the
public, without returning any answer to it.
“Mr. Spectator,
Now, sir, the thing is this: Mr. Shapely is the prettiest gentleman
about town. He is very tall, but not too tall neither. He dances like
an angel. His mouth is made I do not know how, but it is the prettiest
that I ever saw in my life. He is always laughing, for he has an
infinite deal of wit. If you did but see how he rolls his stockings!
He has a thousand pretty fancies, and I am sure, if you saw him, you
would like him, he is a very good scholar, and can talk Latin as
fast as English. I wish you could but see him dance. Now you must
understand poor Mr. Shapely has no estate; but how can he help that,
you know? And yet my friends are so unreasonable as to be always
teasing me about him, because he has no estate: but I am sure he has
that that is better than an estate; for he is a good-natured, ingenious,
modest, civil, tall, well-bred, handsome man, and I am obliged to him
for his civilities ever since I saw him. I forgot to tell you that he
has black eyes, and looks upon me now and then as if he had tears in
them. And yet my friends are so unreasonable, that they would have me
be uncivil to him. I have a good portion which they cannot hinder me
of, and I shall be fourteen on the 29th day of August next, and am
therefore willing to settle in the world as soon as I can, and so is
Mr. Shapely. But everybody I advise with here is poor Mr. Shapely's
enemy. I desire, therefore, you will give me your advice, for I know
you are a wise man: and if you advise me well, I am resolved to follow
it. I heartily wish you could see him dance, and am,
“Sir, your most humble servant.
B. D.”
“He loves your Spectator mightily.”
Notes.
Addison's object in writing this paper is largely serious: he wishes
to criticise and correct manners and morals. He is satirical, but so
good-humored in his satire that no one could be offended. He also
contrives to give the impression that he refers to “the other fellow,”
not to you. This delicacy and tact are as important in the writer as in
the diplomat, for the writer quite as much as the diplomat lives by favor.
Addison is not a very strict writer, and his works have given examples
for the critics by the score. One of these is seen in “begged her not
to go on, _for-that_ she had been privately married:” “begged” and “for
that” do not go well together. To a modern reader such a phrasing as
“If we look into …… I look upon it to be” etc., seems a little awkward,
if not crude; but we may excuse these seeming discrepancies as “antique
usage,” along with such phrases as “advise her to in a case of such
difficulty” and “to hear the lady _propose_ her doubts, and to see the
pains she is _at_ to get over them.”
“Fortune whom” is evidently a personification. The use of _party_ in
“to the party herself” is now reckoned an Americanism (!) “Engaged
_in_ this subject” is evidently antiquated.
We miss in Addison the variety which we found in Ruskin. He does not
seem to understand the art of alternating long and short sentences,
and following one sentence form by another in quick succession. The
fact is, English prose style has made enormous advances since the time
of Addison, and we learn more by comparing him with a writer like Ruskin
than by deliberately imitating him. At the same time his method is
simpler, and since it is so we may find him a good writer to begin our
study with. In spite of any little faults we may find with him, he was
and is a great writer, and we should be sure we can write as _well_ as he
before we reject him.
LETTERS.
By Robert Louis Stevenson.
I.
My Dear Mother,―I am here at last, sitting in my room, without coat or
waistcoat, and with both window and door open, and yet perspiring like a
terra-cotta jug or a Gruy{è}əre cheese:
We had a very good passage, which we certainly deserved no compensation
for having to sleep on the cabin floor and finding absolutely nothing
fit for human food in the whole filthy embarkation. We made up for lost
time by sleeping on deck a good part of the forenoon. When I awoke,
Simpson was still sleeping the sleep of the just, on a coil of ropes and
(as appeared afterwards) his own hat; so I got a bottle of Bass and a
pipe and laid hold of an old Frenchman of somewhat filthy aspect (fiat
experimentum in corpora vii) to try my French upon. I made very heavy
weather of it. The Frenchman had a very pretty young wife; but my
French always deserted me entirely when I had to answer her, and so she
soon drew away and left me to her lord, who talked of French politics,
Africa, and domestic economy with great vivacity. From Ostend a smoking
hot journey to Brussels! At Brussels we went off after dinner to the
Pare. If any person wants to be happy, I should advise the Pare. You
sit drinking iced drinks and smoking penny cigars under great old trees.
The band place, covered walks, etc., are all lit up; and you can't fancy
how beautiful was the contrast of the great masses of lamplit foliage
and the dark sapphire night sky with just one blue star set overhead
in the middle of the largest patch. In the dark walks, too, there
are crowds of people whose faces you cannot see, and here and there a
colossal white statue at the corner of an alley that gives the place a
nice, _artificial,_ eighteenth-century sentiment. There was a good deal
of summer lightning blinking overhead, and the black avenues and white
statues leapt out every minute into short-lived distinctness.
II.
My dear Colvin,―Any time between eight and half-past nine in the
morning, a slender gentleman in an ulster, with a volume buttoned into
the breast of it, may be observed leaving No. 608 Bush and descending
Powell with an active step. The gentleman is R. L. S.; the volume
relates to Benjamin Franklin, on whom he meditates one of his charming
essays. He descends Powell, crosses Market, and descends in Sixth on
a branch of the original Pine Street Coffee House, no less; I believe he
would be capable of going to the original itself, if he could only find
it. In the branch he seats himself at a table covered with waxcloth,
and a pampered menial, of high Dutch extraction and, indeed, as yet only
partially extracted, lays before him a cup of coffee, a roll, and a pat
of butter, all, to quote the deity, very good. Awhile ago, and H. L. S.
used to find the supply of butter insufficient; but he has now learned
the art to exactitude, and butter and roll expire at the same moment.
For this refection he pays ten cents, or five pence sterling (£0 0s 5d).
Half an hour later, the inhabitants of Bush Street observe the same
slender gentleman armed, like George Washington, with his little
hatchet, splitting kindling, and breaking coal for his fire. He
does this quasi-publicly upon the window-sill; but this is not to
be attributed to any love of notoriety, though he is indeed vain of
his prowess with the hatchet (which he persists in calling an axe),
and daily surprised at the perpetuation of his fingers. The reason is
this: that the sill is a strong, supporting beam, and that blows of the
same emphasis in other parts, of his room might knock the entire shanty
into hell. Thenceforth, for from three to four hours, he is engaged
darkly with an ink-bottle. Yet he is not blacking _his_ boots, for the
only pair that he possesses are innocent of lustre and wear the natural
hue of the material turned up with caked and venerable slush. The youngest
child of his landlady remarks several times a day, as this strange occupant
enters or quits the house, “Dere's de author.” Can it be that this
bright-haired innocent has found the true clue to the mystery? The being
in question is, at least, poor enough to belong to that honorable craft.
Notes.
The first of these two letters by Stevenson was written very early in his
literary career, the second when he may be supposed to have been at the
height of his powers. It is interesting to see to what extent he had
improved his style.
Note now much suggestiveness (apart from the apparent meaning) is
contained in such words and phrases as “the whole filthy embarkation;”
“made very heavy weather of it” (speaking French); “Parc”;
“_artificial_” (the peculiar meaning being indicated by italicizing);
“pampered menial” (the reference being to just the opposite).
There is a peculiar mechanical sort of humor in omitting the word
_street_ after “Bush,” “Powell,” etc., and in giving the cost of his
meal so elaborately―“ten cents, or fivepence sterling (£0 0s 5d).”
The chief source of fun is in giving small things an importance they
do not deserve. The author is making fun at himself. Of course since
he makes fun at himself it is good-natured; but it must be just as
good-natured if one is to make fun of any one else. Addison was so
successful because no suggestion of malice ever crept into his satire.
A LETTER TO BERNARD BARTON.
By Charles Lamb.
January 9, 1824.
Dear B. B.,―Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable
day-mare,―a “whoreson lethargy,” Falstaff calls it,―an indisposition
to do anything or to be anything; a total deadness and distaste; a
suspension of vitality; an indifference to locality; a numb, soporifical
good-for-nothingness; an ossification all over; an oyster-like
insensibility to the passing events; a mind-stupor; a brawny de-fiance
to the needles of a thrust-in conscience? Did you ever have a very
bad cold with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes?
This has been for many weeks my lot and my excuse. My fingers drag
heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three-and-twenty
furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a thing to
say, nothing is of more importance than another. I am flatter than a
denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge Parke's wig when the head is in
it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it,―a cipher,
an o! I acknowledge life at all only by an occasional convulsional
cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the
world; life is weary of me. My day is gone into twilight, and I don't
think it worth the expense of candles. My wick bath a thief in it,
but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale suffocation; I can't
distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me. 'Tis twelve
o'clock, and Thurtell* is just now coming out upon the new drop, Jack
Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of
mortality; yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you
told me the world will be at an end tomorrow, I should say “Will it?”
I have not volition enough left to dot my i's, much less to comb my
eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a
poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come
back again; my skull is a Grub-street attic to let,―not so much as a
joint-stool left in it; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens
run about a little when their heads are cut off. Oh for a vigorous fit
of gout, colic, toothache―an earwig{†}¤ in my auditory, a fly in my
visual organs; pain is life,―the sharper the more evidence of life;
but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an obstinate cold,
a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear,
conscience, and everything? Yet do I try all I can to cure it. I try
wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities; but
they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better. I sleep in a damp
room, but it does no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find
any visible amendment! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?
*Hanged that day for the murder of Weare.
{†}¤An ant
It is just fifteen minutes after twelve. Thurtell is by this time a good
way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion, perhaps. Ketch is bargaining
for his cast coat and waistcoat; and the Jew demurs at first at three
half-crowns, but on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em
in the town, finally closes. C. L.
Notes.
The danger of not adapting your method to your auditor is well
illustrated by the beginning of Lamb's next letter to the same person:
“My dear sir,―That peevish letter of mine, which was meant to convey
an apology for my incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by
you in too serious a light,―it was only my way of telling you I had
a severe cold.”
Lamb's letter is filled with about every figure of speech known to
rhetoricians: It will be a useful exercise to pick them out.
Any person who does not have a well developed sense of humor will hardly
see the force of the reference to Thurtell, the murderer. It is a
whimsical way of indicating by a specific example how empty the writer's
brain was, forcing him to reflect on such a subject in so trivial a manner.
Observe the occasional summing up of the meaning, curiously repeating
exactly the same thing―“Did you ever have a very bad cold―?” “Did you
ever have an obstinate cold―?” The very short sentences summarize the
very long ones. The repetition is meant to give the impression of being
clumsy and stupid. In describing harshness we use words that are harsh,
in describing awkwardness we use words that are awkward, in describing
brightness and lightness we use words that are bright and light, in the
very words themselves giving a concrete illustration of what we mean.