Humor

Humor BY NEPHI JENSEN Before mc is a picture from a recent number of Life. In the background is a door above which appears the words, "Stage Entrance." To the left of the door is a representation of a modern ballet dancer, at whose feet are the words, "The Giggly Girl." — "Fourth Season." Just in front of the door, and walking from it, is a girl on whose dress is printed the words, "The Drama." As she walks away, Miss Drama looks askance at Shakespeare who stands near the entrance with bowed head, and disappointment written on his features. At the foot of the picture is printed the words, "Lovers once, but strangers now." The theatrical managers of today are attempting, with the aid of their patrons, to make life a narrow stage completely occupied by a giddy, giggling ballet dancer, and completely surrounded by a limitless ocean of giggles. Mantell, who yesterday charmed people of fine taste with his artistic interpretation of Shakespeare, has been driven from behind the foot-lights by the laughing mob, and Chaplin, the arch-buffoon, has taken his place at ten thousand a week. That this almost universal striving to find heartease in empty frivolity should be regarded, by those who have the mania, as evidence of increasing appreciation of humor, is full warrant for asking anew the old question, "What is a sense of humor?" Thackeray, who was a keen delineator of human character, said, "Humor is a mixture of love and wit." In genuine humor there is always a blending of something so true and real that it inspires an appreciation akin to love. Humor is truth in a witty setting. But the modern fun-makers are giving us the setting without the gem. They are making us laugh at the true instead of with the true. Were it not for those among us of deeper natures, who do not join with the giddy in splitting their sides at the sight of one clown throwing a bucket of slop on the head of another, the memory of Shelley's line would be forgotten "Our : sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought," and also Solomon's conclusion, "Mourning is better than laughter." Genuine humor imparts a pleasure deeper than mirth. When the Dutch farm hand says to his employer, "Better I throw the cow mid the fence some hay over," the employer does not laugh, because the language of the Dutchman is not only witty, in that it is deformed, but it also expresses a resolution to perform a

HUMOR 1003 duty. Just as the farmer is about to laugh at the peculiarities in the Dutchman's grammar, the sense of appreciation of the Dutchman's dutiful intention mingles with the farmer's inward mirth and turns it into something deeper than laugther. If the Dutchman's sentence were spoken on the stage it would be pure wit. It would not contain a grain of truth, and hence would not be humor. Lowell's definition, "Humor is a perception of the incongruous," is strikingly illustrated by a sentence in a boy's prayer. Lamar, a ruddy four-year-old boy, was the chum and neighbor of Paul, another four-year-old. Lamar's folks moved, and a family by the name of Wilson moved into the house which had been occupied by Lamar's folks. In the Wilson family there were so many children that Paul did not learn all their names the day they came to be his neighbors. That night Paul included the newcomers in his evening prayer : "Bless Mar and them kids over to Mar's house," and thus furnished us with an almost perfect specimen of humor. The word "kids" blends an element of the foolish with the sanctity of prayer, and gives us a sense of incongruity. If a person devoid of appreciation of the sacred beauty in prayer had heard the boy's petition he would have laughed an empty laugh. If a sanctimonious literalist had heard the same petition, he would have frowned his indignation. But if a person with a genuine sense of humor should hear such a prayer, he would neither smile nor frown. At about the time the sense of the ludicrous reached his funny bone, the feeling of sanctity that prayer brings would overtake the ludicrous, and turn it into something deeper and truer than laughter. "Truth against truth," says Hegel, "is the only perfect tragedy." There is nothing more nearly akin to this "perfect tragedy" than the ceaseless, vain, abortive human striving for joy in empty things. The genuine sadness born of a profound concern about life and its terrors is* the other and deeper half of humor. Laughter is the foam that merrily dances upon the crest of the wave. Sadness is the fathomless ocean beneath. Only those who see and feel the serious side of things really have a genuine appreciation of the funny side. Men of genuine humor are slow to laughter. Abraham Lincoln, far-famed as a humorous man, was deeply serious. The solemn, rugged realities of life were the chief burden of his brain and the keen consciousness of human woe and suffering ; stirred his tender heart to its great depths. That he could "laugh at himself and cry about others," is the most perfect tribute to his character. His nature was such a perfect "blending of mirth and sadness" that he would and did laugh at the right time and weep at the right time. That is perfect humor. Joy is as close to sadness as the sour is to the sweet in the orange. A young man with decided political aspirations, armed with

1004 IMPROVEMENT ERA a recommendation from President Lincoln, sought from Secretary of War Stanton a place in the Department of War. Stanton was not favorably impressed with the political aspirant. But the young man argued his cause by reminding Stanton of Lincoln's recommendation. "Lincoln is a fool," shouted Stanton, as he peremptorily dismissed the young man. The applicant, very much ruffled, hastily returned to Lincoln and told him what Stanton had said. Lincoln asked gently, "Did Stanton say that?" "He certainly did," replied the young man. "Well," said the President, "it must be so, because Stanton generally tells the truth." Only a man of the most profound sense of his own limitations could make such a remark about himself. The incident strikingly illustrates the deeper meaning of the plain and oftrepeated phrase, "a sense of humor," which is a deep consciousness of one's own faults. "A contrite heart," is the Bible phrase for the same thing. In this age of giggles it is a rare thing to find a person who knows that deep truth, that the divine invitation to contriteness of heart, is really an invitation to gladness and sanity of soul. In the contrite soul the serious regret for the imperfect, ever and ever, is turning into the gladsome consciousness of ever-increasing perfection. This is genuine joy. It is also perfect humor. The present-day abnormal striving to get away from the serious in the hope of finding contentment, is conclusive proof of the prevailing but mistaken notion that empty laughter is the token of joy. Sadness and joy are not at opposite poles. Only he is abjectly miserable who can neither laugh nor weep. And he who never weeps never really laughs. There never was a laugh worth the name that did not have a tear in it. Carlini, the great French comedian, who made all Paris laugh, became so melancholy that he consulted a medical expert in the hope of ridding his soul of despair. The doctor said, "Go and hear Carlini." "I am Carlini," said the actor who made others laugh but could not laugh himself. What does Carlini's experience teach? The simple lesson that any abnormal or unnatural state of soul ends in misery. To give one's self up entirely to light-mindedness is as abnormal and unproductive of joy as continued dolefulness. The middle ground is the natural state. Where the deep, serious consciousness of the need of growth and development is continually budding into the gladsome hope of achieving ever higher things, there is joy and life and spirit. There also is the perfect humor, "the true pathos and sublime of life." Perfect humor is the sanity of the soul. It is more. It hs gladsome, rippling, spiritual life. But it abides not in the empty heart. The gay know it not. Like truth, it loves the depths. It

— HUMOR 1005 is an island in "the sea of ideas and emotions," kissed by the sunshine of mirth, and washed by the waves of sadness. Just midway between the gay and the serious is the playground of the soul. There also is true humor. But only those find this playground whose lives are so "true to the poles of nature that the streams of truth roll through them in song." A reference to Jesus Christ in an article about humor would lively provoke a smile. And yet, why should it? He was really the "Perfect One," and undoubtedly walked all the way through life in the majestic pose of a perfect mood of spirit. Hugo wrote, "Jesus wept, and Voltair smiled ;" and yet nothing of character possessed by Voltair could add to Christ's disposition. If he did not laugh, it was not because he was not conscious of. the pleasant side of things it was because all his joys were so deep that ; they could not speak !The fact that it is written of him, "Jesus wept," but not, "Jesus smiled," is one of the striking proofs of his divinity, for, as Emerson says, "The highest natures do not jest." Laughter is the mark of our indifferent recognition of the faulty. Sadness is the proof that we not only recognize the faulty, but that we also have a serious desire to make the faulty perfect. I saw a picture once of a woman who for sixty years had walked along life's pathway in the beauty and unoffending poise of sainthood. The picture made me think of Emerson's words, "A cheerful, intelligent countenance is the end of culture." There was light in the eyes and something lingering about the -mouth that was illusive. Looked at from one angle, it appeared to be a smile. From another angle, there seemed to be a touch of sadness in it. What was it? The true humor that puts a serious edge on mirth to make joy everlasting. FOREST DALE, UTAH. Perils of Thinking A centipede was happy quite, Until a frog in fun Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which ?" This raised her mind to such a pitch, She lay distracted in the ditch Considering how to run. Anon.