Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 644
A frugal Scot was walking to church barefoot carrying his new Sunday boots under his arm. In walking he stubbed his toe. For a moment he drew it up in pain. Then his face relaxed and he said with a smile of satisfaction, “It would ha’ gi’en ’em an awfu’ dig!” This is not wit; there is no verbal effect in it.
On the other hand, we always talk of a ‘witty Irishman,’ that being the rôle for which the Irish are cast. The Irish are not only witty on purpose, since their nature is merry and they love words, but they are witty by accident, in the verbal form called an Irish bull. This is seen where the sense is clear enough and where the words actually convey it, though if they are taken literally they say something else, something that is quite impossible or quite the contrary of what is meant.
“Indeed, miss,” said the Irish usher of a Dublin theatre, “I’d like to give you a seat but the empty ones are all full.”
An Irish doctor sent in his professional account to a lady with the heading— “For curing your husband till he died.”
It was said above that the form called the pun could be used with but little humor, in the sense of amusement, but rather as a form of point and emphasis. So with wit. If humor in its essence stands for human kindliness, one has to admit that at times the forms of wit depart far from it and become like the cold light without heat, like that of the fire-fly, that contrasts with the warmth of a fireplace. Take the wit of the famous Talleyrand who began life as a ‘witty French Abbé,’ and ended it, or should have, like La Fontaine’s wolf, in thinking of “sa longue et méchante vie.” Talleyrand left behind him, since he couldn’t take them away, a great number of epigrams and bons mots. They still pass current in our histories, but in all the lot of them there isn’t enough of kindliness to warm a frog. He said of the British constitution, “Elle n’existe pas”; he said of Jeremy Bentham, “Pillé par tout le monde il est toujours riche”; he said of Napoleon’s pacific proclamations after Elba, “Le loup est devenu berger”; and he said of the Congress of Vienna, “Le congrès danse bien mais ne marche pas.”
All of this is wit undoubtedly, but there is a sort of chill to it. If witty people talk like that, I’d prefer to be with Scotsmen.
Chapter III. THE EXPRESSION OF HUMOR: IDEAS
WE PASS IN this chapter from the expression of humor effected by the contrasts and incongruities and conflicts of words, as such, to the expression of humor by the incongruity of ideas. Naturally the two run close together. The humor of words is ancillary and auxiliary to the humor of ideas. But the humor of incongruous ideas may be expressed, and often is, without any special departures in the use of the single words.
To illustrate the general notion of humor of ideas as opposed to humor of words, revert again to the pun. Theodore Hook writes: “A peer appears upon the pier, who blind still goes to sea.” Any point this has, if it has any, rests on the fact that the sound ‘peer’ means a ‘nobleman,’ and to ‘come into sight,’ and a ‘dock’: and the sound ‘sea’ refers to the ocean or to vision. That’s all. Similarly when some great forgotten genius first said “Dickens! how it burns!” the terrific amusement lay in the fact that the name of Dickens could be used as an expletive, and ‘Burns’ meant either conflagration or a Scotsman.
But contrast with the above this newspaper joke dating back to the Spanish-American War of 1898, when the animosity of Spain was tempered by its impecuniosity.
“Charge!” shouted the Spanish General.
“No, not this time,” said the contractor sadly: “It will have to be C.O.D.”
There is not only the verbal pun here: there is the sudden juxtaposition of gallantry and accountancy, two ill-assorted things.
Let me take a further example, drawn from the pages of a well-known English weekly. A drawing of two men in a suburban train, evidently commuters, and each a little hard of hearing, carried under it a conversation, which I quote as I recall it:
“Is this Wemsley?”
“No. Thursday.”
“Yes, I am: let’s have a drink.”
This is not just the play on words as between Wemsley and Wednesday: Thursday and thirsty. There’s the incongruity between the fact that the men are both deaf, don’t hear properly and yet on the whole come out of it better than if they did . . . unless of course the station is Wemsley.
Misunderstanding through deafness lends itself readily to creating a humorous conflict of idea. Some theatre-goers may recall the charming little ‘number’ arranged by that exquisite artist, the late Chic Sale — may the earth lie light on him! Here were four old fellows, all more or less deaf, sitting round out of doors, each busy with some little occupation of whittling or fixing tackle or something. One calls across to one of the others, in quite a loud voice with his hand to his ear: “How would you like to go fishing to-day?” The other with the same gesture but even a little louder calls back: “I can’t, I’m going fishing!”
This has nothing whatever to do with words. I leave it to any bright young student of humor to analyse out just how and where the incongruity of ideas makes it laughable. That it is laughable, is proved by the way in which the audiences used suddenly to explode at it. Res ipsa loquitur.
All of that by way of introduction so as to set up a preliminary notion of what is meant by the subject of this chapter. The general topic to be treated is that which is commonly indicated by such words as ‘parody,’ ‘travesty,’ ‘burlesque,’ ‘imitation,’ ‘take-off,’ etc. But these words obscure rather than elucidate the subject. Here, as in all else concerning humor, the field is so newly cleared and so little worked that appropriate implements are still wanting, and we possess no adequate terms. If we had to invent a single term to indicate the humorous juxtaposition of unrelated ideas made with a view to developing a new significance, we might suggest that of Analogies. We might go farther and be as brave as a biologist and invent a word. If he can call a new bug a culex Thompson we might fill this missing gap with the word Analogue, and define it with the phrase used above.
This lack of terms is an impediment because the use of cheap words for serious things conceals their worth. Such dilly-dilly terms as ‘natural history,’ ‘the language of flowers,’ etc., disguised a hundred years ago the reality of botany; and even ‘botany’ had to get out of the way for ‘plant physiology.’ When a great American university (beginning with C.) rechristened its course on Cooking as the Application of Heat on Food, and then led up to such terms as Dietetics and Calorifics, a wider range was opened for kitchen study. But think how hopeless are such words as ‘take-off,’ and ‘imitation.’ Even ‘parody,’ once a noble Greek word that meant ‘a song on the side’ (seeming to suggest just a song at twilight), is degraded by the fact that many parodies such as are made by clever school-children and belong to their time of life, are mere adaptations of new words to old texts, often of a very pointless kind. Hence the word ‘parody’ has lost caste. We talk of a thing as being a ‘mere parody’ of this or that, to mean that it utterly fails to be what it tries to be. A parody at its best is a brilliant form of criticism drawing attention to literary defects or philosophical fallacies in a way as legitimate or as exalted as a critical essay by a Sainte-Beuve or a Hippolyte Taine. Mr. Bob Benchley’s treatment of Shakespeare, as recorded below, ought to rank — if people had their deserts — with a discussion by Professor Dowden or Dr. Rolfe, yet we have no better designation for it than to call it a ‘parody’ of Shakespearian criticism.
There remains indeed the word ‘burlesque,’ but it has somehow acquired a rather different sense. To ‘burlesque’ anything means to make fun out of it, not of it; a burlesque version of a play merely means the treatment of the same theme in a comic way, not anything derogatory to the theme itself.
This lack of proper terms to designate their art, as felt by humorists, has been felt and remedied in other branches. Musicians long ago gave up such simple terms as ‘to play a piece on the fiddle,’ or ‘to play a tune on the piano’: they now ‘execute compositions,’ and ‘carry an aria’ or ‘interpret a prelude’ or words to that effect: and when they do it they do it ‘with brio,’ or ‘scherzando ma non troppo.’ But the humorist still has no better terms than to ‘write a take-off,’ or ‘make up a parody,’ or to ‘give an imitation,’ and so on. This cheapens his whole art in the literary sense. If Mr. Benchley’s critique of Shakespearian criticism, which is quoted below, were called a ‘risorgiment’ of Shakespeare written with no little ‘sploggio’ it would stand on a higher plane.
Before taking up detailed classes of ‘humor analogies,’ I will give one more general example calculated in my opinion to elucidate the ideas just explained.
Long ago before the War, when there used to be a Sultan of Turkey, it was found that the Sultan’s régime was out of touch with European civilization. Life in Turkey was uncertain, crime was widespread, commerce clogged with all sorts of obstructions and Christianity persecuted. In other words, it was like the world of to-day. But being thus ahead of his time, the Sultan was bombarded with protests and communiqués from the Great Powers; they threatened his existence and every now and then sent him an ‘ultimatum.’ The news of the day (a little went a long way then) thrilled with the latest ‘ultimatum,’ and when it appeared that the Sultan had again refused the ultimatum, civilization felt a throb of apprehension at what might happen next. But nothing ever did.
So it came about that a witty journalist wrote in an American paper the following paragraph:
THE REJECTED ULTIMATUM
OFFICIAL TEXT OF THE SULTAN’S ANSWER
TO LORD SALISBURY
In finding himself compelled to reject this ultimatum the Sultan does not wish in any way to reflect on its literary merit. You will readily understand that it is not possible for the Sultan to make use of all the ultimatums which come into our office. We thus often find ourselves compelled to reject ultimatums in which we recognize very considerable talent. We assure you that if you care to send us any further ultimatums the Sultan will be very happy to receive and consider them. We are always looking for new talent in this direction. We re-enclose your ultimatum and beg to draw your attention to the fact that all ultimatums sent to this office should be accompanied by return postage.
Now anybody who sees in that only a ‘parody’ of a newspaper rejection of manuscripts by turning it into the rejection of an ultimatum, or a parody vice versa, misses the point, or, at least, can’t express it. The analogy is full of meaning, full of satire of the hopelessness of active diplomacy against the vis inertia of Turkish immobility. A whole parliamentary harangue urging action and no more ultimatums, couldn’t say it better — not even Mr. Gladstone’s ‘bag and baggage’ denunciation of the Turk after the Bulgarian atrocities. Yet notice the kindliness of it: one recalls Æsop’s fable of the wind and sun, contesting to see which first could compel the wayfarer to lay aside his coat. At the cold blast he drew it together: the warm sun soon had it off him. Ex uno disce omnia.
Turning to the things called parodies, the simplest form, the kind that schoolboys write, is the Parody of Transcription of Names. It has no further significance than to take one person or set of persons and put them into a setting different from their usual one, more historic or exalted, or contrariwise, and so get an incongruous effect.
Let us make up an example: Take a poem with a lot of names of people in it. Shall we say, Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome, Item — Horatius, the description of the fight at the bridge-head.
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
Into the stream beneath:
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth.
etc. etc.
Now shift the setting to a row as commonplace and sordid as the fight at the bridge is heroic and inspiring: get a set of names entirely incongruous and lacking in majesty of sound. Let us make it a fight of Irishmen in a Chicago bar-room:
Steve Larkin hurled O’Hara
Into the beer beneath:
McGinnis struck O’Mara,
And knocked out half his teeth.
etc. etc.
The process here shown may be exactly turned around, like putting a car into reverse gear or running a moving picture backward. Here the persons are exalted, but the situation and the language mean. Compare in the Bon Gaultier Ballads the account of how Queen Victoria kept high festival in Windsor’s lordly hall:
There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel,
And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.
Sometimes a parody seems to be a mere wanton destruction of the original, like the malicious smearing of paint over a beautiful picture. Consider the following once-well-known stanza of which the original needs no mention:
The boy stood on the burning deck
Eating peanuts by the peck.
The flames rolled on, he would not go
Because he loved the peanuts so.
This is obviously without merit, or beauty or, at first sight, anything. How then could it come into being and be quoted? For this reason — imagine a person who has read and heard so much heroic poetry that he’s sick of it; has heard too much of the roast beef and blue water stuff — the: “Ho! mariners of England! Go weigh the vessel up! and sweep through the deep, with adamantine lips!”
And, “Toll for the brave, ten thousand fathoms down—”
And, having read all this and having come to the boy on the burning deck, and having been asked at the end, “The boy, oh, where was he?” answers a little testily as above.
Compare similarly the statement that “Mary had a little lamb, its feet were white as snow,” and the innumerable suggestions made in similar rhyme to suggest other colors for the lamb and other places for it to go. These parodies are a revulsion against the over-sentimentality which saw in every baa-baa and every piggy-wiggy a dear little tootsy-wootsy and forgot, or never knew, the simple realities of a barn-yard.
In other words, the parody is a protest against the over-sentimentality, or the over-reputation, of the original. The parody is the discord that follows and corrects a note too often struck. Thus the parody of this irreverent type played a special part in Victorian England when sentimentality in literature played a much greater part than it does now and needed more correction. The Victorians were a fine people of stout-hearted men and brave women capable of the heroism of Lucknow and of the sublime self-sacrifice of the Birkenhead; a God-fearing people who could believe anything and accept a miracle without an after-thought. But each virtue has its defects. They ran easily to sentiment, to what we call ‘sob-stuff’; in literature they loved death-scenes — small children preferred — paupers starving, barefooted Negroes in the snow, songs of a shirt, etc. They did nothing in particular to stop such sorrow. But they could have as good a time with it as an Irishman at a wake. We are otherwise. We struggle and fret to better society, yet we can’t believe anything except a slide-rule and a column of government statistics. So when it comes to literature we don’t want sob-stuff. We want bandits and yegg-men and -women with masks on who shoot people; in fact, the demand is greater than the supply. Soon we will want men with masks who shoot women. Soon literature will change sides at the bat like a cricket match and the crime will be the winning side, not virtue. All of this is a thousand miles from Little Nell, and Lord Jeffrey shedding floods of tears over Paul Dombey and thanking Dickens for turning them on.
So the Victorians needed parody. Without it their literature would have been a rank and weedy growth, over-watered with tears. A lot of their writing simply called aloud for parody. Consider:
Little Anne and her mother were walking one day
In London’s fair city so wide!
What they did, I forget: some errand of mercy no doubt: they sound namby-pamby enough for it. Some of it would be all right, but there was such a lot of it. Just as the “Ho! mariners” was overhoe’d till even naval bravery was sickening, so the emotions of pity were over-watered with tears.
Into the ward of the whitewashed walls
Where the dead and the dying lay
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody’s Darling was borne one day.
This is the Crimea — the Scutari hospital. There is in it all the pain of war, all the infinite sorrow for the death of those still young. But the writer wants to work it to the last item. “So young and so fair, wearing yet on his pale sweet face . . . kiss him once more for somebody’s sake . . . one bright lock from his forehead take. . . .”
In other words, don’t neglect anything.
If boys and girls read that stuff without any counteractive, their minds would soften. Hence those of us who read it, unconsciously welcomed irreverent parody, just as people are glad to escape tears in a play by the re-entry of the comic butler. Somebody once fixed up Somebody’s Darling by using initials for phrases:—”. . . wounded by B.S. and B.” . . . “wearing yet on his P.S.F.,” etc. The effect is not bad: anyone irreverent enough can easily reconstruct it.
But the essential point is the use of parody as a corrective to over-sentiment, of humor as a relief from pain, of humor as a consolation against the shortcomings of life itself. This aspect rises larger on the horizon as our study proceeds.
This form of parody, to protest against sentiment, is not confined to verse. There are admirable examples of such ‘analogies’ as applied to over-sentimental prose of the same era. Everybody recalls still Sandford and Merton, a book rather earlier in date than the Victorian period, and the numerous parodies it has provoked. The same thing has been done again recently in Mr. Archibald Marshall’s Birdikin Family, a perfect model of literary restraint, the stumbling-block of all humorists. Those who try to make people laugh, necessarily get afraid that they may not see the point and won’t laugh, or won’t laugh enough. Hence the tendency to make the point sharper and the angle of vision wider, to respond to the cruel demand, ‘louder and funnier.’ But those who wish to qualify as writers of humor should learn to resist the tendency to overdo the method and over-sharpen the point. Never mind if others don’t see it: if you have it all to yourself that is Scotch humor of the highest kind.
