As for the Englishman’s sense of humor, or his lack of it, I judge that we Americans are partly wrong in our diagnosis of that phase of British character and partly right.  Because he is slow to laugh at a joke, we think he cannot see the point of it without a diagram and a chart.  What we do not take into consideration is that, through centuries of self-repression, the Englishman has so drilled himself into refraining from laughing in public—­for fear, you see, of making himself conspicuous—­it has become a part of his nature.  Indeed, in certain quarters a prejudice against laughing under any circumstances appears to have sprung up.

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.