Americans and Others | Page 8

our Sunday newspapers, designed for the refreshment of
the feeble-minded, and calculated to blight the spirits of any ordinarily
intelligent household. Think of the debilitated jests and stories which a
time-honoured custom inserts at the back of some of our magazines. It
seems to be the custom of happy American parents to report to editors
the infantile prattle of their engaging little children, and the editors
print it for the benefit of those who escape the infliction firsthand.
There is a story, pleasant but piteous, of Voltaire's listening with what
patience he could muster to a comedy which was being interpreted by
its author. At a certain point the dramatist read, "At this the Chevalier
laughed"; whereupon Voltaire murmured enviously, "How fortunate
the Chevalier was!" I think of that story whenever I am struck afresh by
the ease with which we are moved to mirth.
A painstaking German student, who has traced the history of humour
back to its earliest foundations, is of the opinion that there are eleven
original jokes known to the world, or rather that there are eleven
original and basic situations which have given birth to the world's jokes;
and that all the pleasantries with which we are daily entertained are
variations of these eleven originals, traceable directly or indirectly to
the same sources. There are times when we are disposed to think eleven
too generous a computation, and there are less weary moments in
which the inexhaustible supply of situations still suggests fresh
possibilities of laughter. Granted that the ever fertile mother-in-law jest
and the one about the talkative barber were venerable in the days of
Plutarch; there are others more securely and more deservedly rooted in

public esteem which are, by comparison, new. Christianity, for
example, must be held responsible for the missionary and cannibal joke,
of which we have grown weary unto death; but which nevertheless
possesses astonishing vitality, and exhibits remarkable breadth of
treatment. Sydney Smith did not disdain to honour it with a joyous and
unclerical quatrain; and the agreeable author of "Rab and his Friends"
has told us the story of his fragile little schoolmate whose mother had
destined him for a missionary, "though goodness knows there wasn't
enough of him to go around among many heathen."
To Christianity is due also the somewhat ribald mirth which has clung
for centuries about Saint Peter as gatekeeper of Heaven. We can trace
this mirth back to the rude jests of the earliest miracle plays. We see
these jests repeated over and over again in the folklore of Latin and
Germanic nations. And if we open a comic journal to-day, there is more
than a chance that we shall find Saint Peter, key in hand, uttering his
time-honoured witticisms. This well-worn situation depends, as a rule,
upon that common element of fun-making, the incongruous. Saint Peter
invaded by air-ships. Saint Peter outwitting a squad of banner-flying
suffragettes. Saint Peter losing his saintly temper over the expansive
philanthropy of millionaires. Now and then a bit of true satire, like Mr.
Kipling's "Tomlinson," conveys its deeper lesson to humanity. A
recently told French story describes a lady of good reputation, family,
and estate, presenting herself fearlessly at the gates of Heaven. Saint
Peter receives her politely, and leads her through a street filled with
lofty and beautiful mansions, any one of which she thinks will satisfy
her requirements; but, to her amazement, they pass them by. Next they
come to more modest but still charming houses with which she feels
she could be reasonably content; but again they pass them by. Finally
they reach a small and mean dwelling in a small and mean thoroughfare.
"This," says Saint Peter, "is your habitation." "This!" cries the
indignant lady; "I could not possibly live in any place so shabby and
inadequate." "I am sorry, madame," replies the saint urbanely; "but we
have done the best we could with the materials you furnished us."
There are no bounds to the loyalty with which mankind clings to a
well-established jest, there is no limit to the number of times a tale will

bear retelling. Occasionally we give it a fresh setting, adorn it with
fresh accessories, and present it as new-born to the world; but this is
only another indication of our affectionate tenacity. I have heard that
caustic gibe of Queen Elizabeth's anent the bishop's lady and the
bishop's wife (the Tudors had a biting wit of their own) retold at the
expense of an excellent lady, the wife of a living American bishop; and
the story of the girl who, professing religion, gave her ear-rings to a
sister, because she knew they were taking her to Hell,--a story which
dates from the early Wesleyan revivals in England,--I have heard
located in Philadelphia, and assigned to one of Mr.