I was looking one day through the pages of one of the critical
English weeklies. Nearly all British weeklies are heavy, and this
is the heaviest of the lot. Its editorial column alone weighs
from twelve to eighteen pounds, and if you strike a man with a
clubbed copy of it the crime is assault with a dull blunt instrument,
with intent to kill. At the end of a ponderous review of the East
Indian question I came on a letter written to the editor by a
gentleman signing himself with his own name, and reading in part
as follows:
SIR: Laughter is always vulgar and offensive. For instance,
whatever there may be of pleasure in a theater - and there is not
much - the place is made impossible by laughter ... No; it is very
seldom that happiness is refined or pleasant to see - merriment
that is produced by wine is false merriment, and there is no true
merriment without it ... Laughter is profane, in fact, where it
is not ridiculous.
On the other hand the English in bulk will laugh at a thing which
among us would bring tears to the most hardened cheek and incite
our rebellious souls to mayhem and manslaughter. On a certain
night we attended a musical show at one of the biggest London
theaters. There was some really clever funning by a straight
comedian, but his best efforts died a-borning; they drew but the
merest ripple of laughter from the audience. Later there was a
scene between a sad person made up as a Scotchman and another
equally sad person of color from the States. These times no English
musical show is complete unless the cast includes a North American
negro with his lips painted to resemble a wide slice of ripe
watermelon, singing ragtime ditties touching on his chicken and
his Baby Doll. This pair took the stage, all others considerately
withdrawing; and presently, after a period of heartrending
comicalities, the Scotchman, speaking as though he had a mouthful
of hot oatmeal, proceeded to narrate an account of a fictitious
encounter with a bear. Substantially this dialogue ensued:
THE SCOTCHMAN - He was a vurra fierce grizzly bear, ye ken; and he
rushed at me from behind a jugged rock.
THE NEGRO - Mistah, you means a jagged rock, don't you?
THE SCOTCHMAN - Nay, nay, laddie - a jugged rock.
THE NEGRO - Whut's dat you say? Whut - whut is a jugged rock?
THE SCOTCHMAN (forgetting his accent) - Why, a rock with a jug on
it, old chap. (A stage wait to let that soak into them in all its
full strength.) A rock with a jug on it would be a jugged rock,
wouldn't it - eh?
