Coasting Bohemia

by J. Comyns Carr

I suppose no man at this time of day would have the temerity to hazard a definition of humour. It has been often attempted, never, however, with any convincing success; and sometimes with such cumbrous elaboration of thought as to leave upon the reader only the desolating impression that the philosopher was wholly lacking in the quality which he sought to define. Nor is its presence so common even in those who most loudly deplore its absence in others. I have heard the dullest of men lament the fact that God has denied it to women, and the fleeting smile with which such an announcement is sometimes received by their wives goes far to prove that even the intimate association of marriage has not sufficed for the full appreciation of character.

In its larger and more elemental forms humour is certainly one of the rarest of human attributes; and even the appreciation of humour in that broader and deeper sense is not quite so common as is generally supposed. There is quite a considerable body of seemingly educated opinion which would concede to Shakespeare every gift except the gift of humour; persons who would regard Falstaff as a quite inconsiderable creation, and who would dismiss Dogberry and the nurse in Romeo and Juliet as negligible portraits in the great Shakespearean gallery. Once I remember hearing this view put forward very confidently in the presence of a brilliant essayist, whose grave demeanour gave the critic some ground for the belief that his unfavourable opinion would meet with ready acceptance. After holding forth at some length upon what he deemed to be this rather puerile aspect of Shakespeare’s genius, he ventured at the finish upon the direct inquiry: “Now what, sir, do you think of Shakespeare’s humour?” To which the reply came in very quiet tones: “Well, the trouble is, there is no other.”

The proposition need not be taken too literally, but it contains a truth that cannot be ignored. Shakespeare’s humour is as directly and as legitimately the fruit of his wide and deep love of life as the most sublime of his tragic creations. The mind that drew the portrait of Falstaff owns and claims the same large handwriting as that which revealed the character of Macbeth; in both there is an equal measure of mastery. And that, naturally, suggests an element in humour which, without risking the imprudence of definition, may be said to separate it from mere wit. The man of wit may distinguish and reveal the incongruities of life but the humorist, not only perceives them, but loves the characters in which they reside. Among the humorists I have met, this essential gift of sympathy has always, as it seems to me, been a constant and dominating force. It was not my fortune to know Charles Dickens, but his transcendent humour may be said to have dominated all who came within the reach and range of his genius; and it may surely be said of him, as it may be said of Shakespeare, that he not only saw where the sources of laughter lay, but that he loved the thing he made laughable.

This was equally true of Bret Harte, who in our talks together would always willingly own his obligations to the great master; and there is certainly no more touching tribute to Dickens’s genius than is contained in the little poem with which Bret Harte greeted the news of his death. As is not uncommon with men of creative humour, Bret Harte, in ordinary converse, gave little hint of its possession. A man of grave and reticent bearing, he made no attempt to shine as a talker; and as far as my experience went, rarely sought to draw the conversation into literary channels. He deliberately, as it would seem, kept all that concerned his work as an artist in a world apart; and his charm in companionship—which was not inconsiderable—suggested rather the tenderness and sympathy in his outlook on life than his equal gift of humorous appreciation. Those earlier meetings of the Kinsmen Club, of which Bret Harte was a member, brought together many humorous spirits, and amongst them George du Maurier and poor Randolph Caldecott, who, although he too owned a grave exterior, partly due to frailty of health, could on occasion break out into a frolic mood that was irresistible in its sense of fun.

But the draughtsmen for Punch in those days, even when, as in the case of du Maurier and Charles Keene, they could boast a higher measure of purely artistic accomplishment, were hardly comparable in their grasp of what is essentially comic in character with their predecessor, John Leech; and if we turn from the work they produced to the men themselves, it was not the possession of a sense of humour which formed the main element in the social charm they exercised. Du Maurier, in his conversation, never sought to exhibit or to exploit this particular side of his talent; and in our many talks upon the subject of art it was evident that he was rather on the alert to recognise what was seriously beautiful in the work of his contemporaries. He never tired in praise of Millais whom, I think, he ranked as the supreme master of his time; and, on the other hand, he never quite settled in his mind, even up to the end of his life, what measure of welcome to accord to the widely different gifts of Rossetti and Burne-Jones.

But although his talk was, for the most part, serious in tone, he could show himself on occasion to be possessed of the wildest high spirits, and it was then he most clearly revealed the qualities that were distinctively his in virtue of his partly foreign extraction.

Indeed among the men who practised this branch of art, I have known only two who in personal intercourse gave any complete indication of the humorous powers they possessed. Perhaps neither Phil May nor Fred Barnard have yet received their full meed of praise, and yet in them, rather than in their better known contemporaries, the tradition of the earlier humorists survives. In one sense they may be said to have shared between them the mantle of John Leech, and they possessed this quality in common, that their perception of the sources of laughter in life was as clearly betrayed in personal association as in the work that came from their hand. Phil May’s face was in itself a highly-coloured print that made an instant appeal to any one endowed even with a most rudimentary sense of humour, and his talk, though it affected no brilliancy, very clearly revealed the fact that the little pageant of life which came within the range of his vision struck itself at once into humorous outline. He hardly saw life, indeed, in any other frame, and the few finely selected lines with which he registered the images that presented themselves to his imagination seemed by instinctive preference to exclude and to dismiss those graver realities that were not his especial concern. And yet so keen and so sure was his touch of life that now and again his hand would outrun his purpose, and leave, even upon the slightest drawing, a suggestion of almost tragic import underlying its laughing message. Fred Barnard was a humorist through and through—at work or at play his eye lighted unerringly on whatever might enrich his humorous experience, and he was quick to detect, though never with any lack of urbanity, the little foibles of those with whom he was brought into contact.

But I suppose it is to the stage that one’s thoughts must naturally turn for the most telling exposition of this particular quality. Nearly all the comedians I have known have seemed to accept it as a part of the duty which their profession imposes on them, that they should be as amusing in the world as in the theatre. It cannot be said, according to my own experience, that they have always been successful, and I may even go so far as to say that the laboured efforts of the wilfully comic man mark off in remembrance some of the dullest hours I have passed. The penalty of the perpetual jester very often, as one would think, a grievous burden to himself, falls sometimes with even heavier incidence upon those he has doomed to be amused.

I know it is a prevalent belief among Americans that we English are wholly devoid of that sense of humour in which many of their own countrymen undoubtedly excel; and it may perhaps, therefore, shock them to learn that, to a taste differently educated, the unremitting efforts of some of their professional jesters are apt on occasion to appear a little overstrained. But in some natures the appetite for the ceaseless flow of comic anecdote is swiftly satisfied, and the man who will insist upon unpacking his wallet of well-worn stories for the intended delight of his fellows may, if he is not watchful of the effect he is producing, induce in the mind of his audience a mood of settled sadness, that not even the genius of a Dickens could lift or lighten.

This haunting fear lest conversation should at any point take a serious note—which I cannot help thinking characteristic of many Americans—is often to be found in our own country in the person of the comedian by profession. It existed perhaps in a lesser degree in J. L. Toole than any other representative of his calling whom I have intimately known. What rendered Toole delightful in companionship was rarely anything memorable that he said, for he made no effort to pose as a wit, and his reminiscent humour, which he could always summon at need, was for the most part introduced in illustration of some point of character humorously perceived and presented. There are critics who have questioned his appeal as a comedian in the theatre, but no one brought into personal contact with him could be left in any doubt as to the swiftness and sureness of his vision in detecting and enjoying the little foibles of those around him. In any company, whatever its composition, his mind got quickly to work upon each individuality in the group; and, although he might not join largely in the conversation, he loved to impart to the companion by his side his keen sense of enjoyment of the conflict and interplay of character as it presented itself at the table.