“To explain the nature of laughter and tears is to account for the condition of human life; for it is in a manner compounded of these two. It is tragedy or comedy, sad or merry, as it happens.”—Hazlitt.
“One touch of nature,” says Shakespeare, “makes the whole world kin;” but the great dramatist did not define exactly what he meant by “touch of nature,” and the critics of many generations have been at war over the question. Perhaps he could not have told us, even if he had tried,—any more than the critics can tell us. When Democritus was asked his definition of a man, his only reply was, “A man is that which we all see and know.” Further than this the philosopher could not proceed. But while Shakespeare has not given us a definition, he has given us an illustration:
“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,—
That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds,
Tho’ they are made and moulded of things past;
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o’erdusted.”
The whole world is kin in this, that all with one consent inexcusably forget the substantial past and praise the present folly, if that folly be well tricked out. Humanity proves its oneness by its foibles as well as by its virtues. “Foolery, sir, doth walk about the orb; like the sun it shineth everywhere.” Things deserving of laughter and things intended to provoke it have always been happening; and the faculties by which men perceive the foolish and ludicrous have always existed in human nature.
“Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles,
Sport that wrinkled care derides,
And laughter holding both his sides,”—
all these were in the past as well as in the present. They are “touches of nature” that “make the whole world kin.”
The statement was made in the preceding chapter that the writers of the Bible, especially of the historical books, drew faithfully from real life, and sketched manners and traits as they found them. They neither smoothed over nor concealed anything. They were absolutely frank. This fidelity to nature made it inevitable that the writers should now and then depict the ludicrous side of life and character, describe grotesque situations and paint amusing scenes. These are not uproariously funny, they will not provoke boisterous merriment, any more than will a page of Addison; but they are none the less specimens of genuine humor. Indeed, Carlyle reminds us that “true humor springs not more from the head than from the heart; it issues not in laughter, but in smiles that lie far deeper.”
We may be sure that all life from the very beginning has had its humorous no less than its serious side. If any record had been kept, we should no doubt find that Adam and Eve had their jokes about the apples—it is universally assumed that they were apples—on that forbidden tree, and that they were quite as good as any jokes that have been made about those same apples in more recent years. The masons and bricklayers on the tower of Babel no doubt poked their thumbs into each other’s ribs and slapped each other on the back to emphasize their rude jokes about the late “wet spell,” and wondered how long it would take to get to Heaven with their building. And we imagine that even during the flood itself there were sanguine souls who took the whole matter philosophically, declaring that ‘it never rained long when the clouds looked that way and the wind was in that direction.’ The Israelites, we suspect, lightened their bondage in Egypt by mimicking the pompous manners of their hated taskmasters and ridiculing the fools who thought that bricks could be made without straw. And the grimmest Egyptian mummy that now graces a museum or helps to fertilize the wheat-fields of the West once wore a smile or grin upon his leathern face as he related to a brother mummy how Pharoah made sport of the Israelites by promising to “let them go,” and then when they were all on tip-toe with expectation, countermanding the order. Then they would both shake their heads and chuckle with delight over the pleasant humor of their monarch and declare that ‘Pharoah was in high spirits to-day.’ Thus the world has rolled and chirruped and cackled on since the time when man emerged from the animal. And Holmes suggests, in our motto, that the sense of humor was in the animal before man.
I.
Sometimes the humor of the Bible lies in the thing described,—the odd or awkward or absurd thing said or done.
“The Iliad,” says Sidney Smith, “would never have come down to these times, if Agamemnon had given Achilles a box on the ear. We should have trembled for the Æneid, if some Trojan nobleman had kicked the pious Æneas in the fourth book. Æneas, may have deserved it, but he never could have founded the Roman Empire after so distressing an accident.” And yet accidents quite as distressing, if not of precisely the same nature, have happened in the best families that ever lived upon this planet. The writers of the Bible have not hesitated to give us a very frank account of some of them.
Imagine the vacant look of the terrified Aaron, as he gave his imbecile explanation of the golden calf! Moses and Joshua are coming down from the mountain. “And when Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said unto Moses, There is a noise of war in the camp. And Moses answered, It is not the voice of them that shout for mastery, neither is it the voice of them that cry for being overcome; but the noise of them that sing do I hear.” Soon they draw near the camp and see “the calf and the dancing.” Then does the anger of Moses wax hot. In his rage he flings down and shatters the “tables of stone.” Like a whirlwind he descends upon the camp, hurls the miserable calf into the fire, and demands an explanation of his recreant brother. “What did this people unto thee that thou hast brought so great a sin upon them?” Aaron quails beneath the wrath of Moses and stammers: “Thou knowest the people that they are set on mischief. For they said unto me, Make us gods which shall go before us: for as for this Moses”—think of that, this Moses—“that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we know not what has become of him.” You see they are set on mischief; they were disrespectful even unto you—this Moses. Something had to be done. “And I said unto them, Whosoever hath any gold, let them break it off. So they gave it to me, and I cast it into the fire, and”—what do you suppose happened?—“there came out this calf!” I was as much surprised as you are, but no one is responsible—it did itself!
In quaint fashion did Saul make honest confession when smitten with remorse on account of his persecution of David: “Behold I have played the fool!” The regret of Prince Hal also—“Thus do we play the fools with time, while the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.”
What an odd—almost laughable—spectacle is the bombastic Nebuchadnezzar, one moment proudly striding along the battlements of his palace, “Is not this great Babylon which I have builded?”—the next eating grass like the beasts of the field! As Carlyle says: “A purple Nebuchadnezzar rejoices to feel himself now veritably emperor of this great Babylon which he has builded; and is a nondescript, biped-quadruped, on the eve of a seven years’ course of grazing.”
There is a scene in the life of David in which that worthy is represented as cutting fantastic capers before high heaven. At one time, in order to keep out of Saul’s way, David went down to Gath. The servants of King Achish recognize him, and tell their royal master that this is the famous David over whose exploits the daughters of Israel sang. “Is not this David, the king of the land? Did they not sing to one another of him in dances, saying, Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands?” But David does not wish his identity known and with characteristic shrewdness he feigns insanity. “He feigned himself mad, and scrabbled on the doors of the gate and let his spittle fall down upon his beard,”—a sorry looking hero! So thinks the king Achish. What, this the man that slew the giant? this drivelling lunatic the victor that Israel’s daughters praised? His disgust knows no bounds. He is almost as grotesque in his anger as is David in his appearance and conduct. He turns upon his courtiers in offended dignity and cries, “Lo, ye see the man is mad; wherefore have ye brought him to me? Have I need of madmen, (are not ye my own servants sufficient?) that ye have brought this fellow to play the madman in my presence? Shall this fellow come into my house?” “Fool me no fools,” says King Achish. When King Achish asked, “Have I need of madmen?” he evidently thought of his own servants and courtiers as did Christian I., of Denmark, in modern times, of those who graced his Court. He sharply remarked, on a presentation to him of several court fools, that “he was not in want of such things, and if he were, he had only to give license to his courtiers, who, to his certain knowledge, were capable of exhibiting themselves as the greatest fools in Europe!”
In Nehemiah’s account of building the walls of Jerusalem, he shows how sorely the Jews took the clumsy jibes of their foes and gives us a specimen of Samaritan joking in that early day. Sanballat mocked the Jews and said, “What do these feeble Jews? Will they fortify themselves? Will they sacrifice? Will they make an end in a day? Will they revive the stones out of the heaps of rubbish which are burned?” Tobiah, the Amorite, was yet more caustic: “Even that which they build, if a fox go up, he will even break down their stone wall.” This ridicule, although the jests do not seem very formidable to us, was harder to bear than attacks with sword and spear. It is so to-day. We can stand anything but laughter. One would rather be made to appear infamous than ridiculous. The only answer the builders could make was to pray for the destruction of their sarcastic persecutors. They wished that heaven’s bolts of lightning might answer these bolts of wit.
II.
Sometimes the humor lies in the description itself rather than in the thing described. Dr. Barrow, in his famous essay, says of facetiousness, “Sometimes it is wrapped up in a dress of humorous expression.”
An excellent example is furnished in the account of the mob at Ephesus: “Some, therefore, cried one thing and some another; for the assembly was confused; and the more part knew not wherefore they were come together.”
When Sidney Smith speaks of “distressing accidents,” we are reminded that an exceedingly “distressing accident” happened in the very first family of which we have any record—the family that started in Eden. Aside from any question as to the literal truth of the story, nothing can exceed the simplicity and naturalness with which the writer has described the culprits and their excuses. The first thing they did after their transgression was to hide. The supreme and perpetual folly of guilt is to imagine that it can be hid when the voice of the Lord God is heard in the garden. “And the Lord God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou?” The culprit creeps forth from his hiding-place and stammers, “I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; and I hid myself.” “Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldst not eat?” Now the guilty secret is out and Adam pleads in extenuation, “The woman that thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree and I did eat.” It was no fault of mine. That woman was to blame—the woman, O Lord, remember, that thou gavest to be with me. Is not a little of the responsibility thine also, O Lord? A touch of nature! “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be!” But Eve will not bear all the blame. She also is ready with her excuse: “The serpent beguiled me and I did eat.” Another remove in the location of the responsibility. If we can forget all that theology has put into this story and look on it simply as a bit of literature, it is a charming description of the way in which we mortals disclaim accountability for our deeds.
“And oftentimes excusing of a fault,
Doth make the fault worse by the excuse;
As patches set upon a little breach,
Discredit more in hiding of the fault,
Then did the fault before it was so patched.”
Job has expressed his contempt for Adam’s conduct in Eden by invoking upon himself even greater ills than he was then suffering, if he followed that disgraceful example,—“If I covered my transgression as Adam, by hiding my iniquity in my bosom.” In magnificent scorn of Adam’s hiding from the Lord and laying his guilt upon another, Job exclaims, “Behold, my desire is that the Almighty would answer me!” and avows that “he would declare unto him the number of his steps, and as a prince would go near unto him,”—not skulk away from his presence among trees and bushes. The low estimation in which Job holds Adam suggests that the old Hebrew who wrote the story in Genesis, may have intended to hold up that primal man in a humorous light.
Whether the story of Balaam is literally correct in its details is one of the questions this little volume is not intended to discuss. The writer of that story tells his tale as naïvely as if conversations between men and animals were of everyday occurrence. If we read it as we would any similar piece, any other fable in which men and beasts speak to each other, we should say that there were some elements of the ludicrous in the picture of the prophet rebuked by his ass. “And the ass saw the angel of the Lord standing in the way, and his sword drawn in his hand; and the ass turned aside out of the way and went into the field. And Balaam smote the ass to turn her into the way.” Just what any one would do to a “shying” animal, upon impulse. “But the angel of the Lord stood in a path of the vineyards, a wall being on this side and a wall on that side. And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she thrust herself unto the wall and crushed Balaam’s foot against the wall; and he smote her again.” Naturally enough! “And the angel of the Lord went further and stood in a narrow place where there was no way to turn either to the right hand or to the left. And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she fell down under Balaam; and Balaam’s anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.” The rising wrath of the prophet can no longer be controlled. The turning from the way, the crushing of his foot against the wall, and finally the falling down under him and refusing to proceed further,—these indignities on the part of the ass at length exasperate the prophet beyond all measure, and he right lustily lays on the cudgel. “What have I done unto thee that thou hast smitten me these three times?” meekly inquires the belabored ass. “Because thou hast mocked me, I would that there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill thee,” roars Balaam. Thou hast mocked me; thou hast played tricks upon thy master, the prophet of God. Thou hast done this on purpose to vex me and put me to shame. Thou hast made a sorry spectacle of me with thy pranks, and thou hast crushed my foot in the bargain. “Am I not thine ass upon which thou hast ridden ever since I was thine unto this day? Was I ever wont to do so unto thee?” Should you not have known there was something unusual? These are touches of nature in a story which might illustrate the saying of Isaiah in which he attributes higher wisdom to brutes than to men: “The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master’s crib, but Israel doth not know, my people will not consider.” Was it this saying that Shakespeare had in mind when he said, through the lips of Mark Antony:
“O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason.”
At one time the king of Assyria brought men from Babylon and other cities, and put them into the cities of Samaria to take the places of the children of Israel; but the new inhabitants did not fear the Lord, so the writer tells us that the Lord sent lions among them and slew them. Some one spoke to the king of Assyria, saying, “The nations which thou hast moved and placed in the cities of Samaria know not the manner of the God of the land.” They are not acquainted with his habits and methods, and have gotten themselves into great trouble. The God of the land has sent lions among them. The king, hearing this, is in great dismay. It will never do—the ravages of those lions must be stopped. He evidently thought, as did Nick Bottom, “There is no more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living, and we ought to look to it.” “Then the king of Assyria commanded, saying, Carry thither one of the priests whom ye brought from thence, and let him go there and dwell and teach them the manner of the God of the land.” The priest went and taught the uninitiated people not to provoke a God who could let hungry lions loose upon them at any moment. The people listened in terror. The result of the instruction was that “the people feared the Lord,”—with a side glance at the lions. They tried to refrain from what would make him angry enough to order out the lions but after all—and there must have been a twinkle in the eye of the scribe as he recorded it—“they served their own gods.”
When Queen Vashti refused to come into the presence of King Ahasuerus and his drunken lords, she did something that was wholly unprecedented. Nothing of the kind had ever before been heard of in the whole history of the empire. The revellers are shocked sober. Consternation reigns supreme. When did a queen ever refuse to do the bidding of a king? a wife the bidding of a husband? Are all our ancient notions of propriety to be overturned? What will be the effect of Vashti’s rebellion? The feelings of the king are outraged because the queen declines to unveil her beauty before his roistering courtiers. Enraged, he demands, “What shall be done unto Queen Vashti because she hath not performed the commandment of the King Ahasuerus?” It is a grave question. The lords themselves have a stake in this matter. They fear the result of this strong-minded example. The contagion of disobedience may spread. If it should, whose authority as husband is safe? And Memucan answered, “Vashti, the queen, hath not done wrong to the king only, but also to all the princes, and to all the people that are in the province of the King Ahasuerus. For this deed of Queen Vashti’s shall come abroad to all women, to make their husbands contemptible in their eyes, when it shall be reported that the King Ahasuerus commanded Vashti the queen to be brought in before him, but she came not. And this day shall all the princesses of Persia and Media which have heard of the deed of the queen, say the like unto all the king’s princes. So shall there arise too much contempt and wrath.” Such a thought could not be entertained. As Dogberry would put it, “It is most tolerable and not to be endured.” Memucan, therefore, advises: “If it please the king let there go a royal commandment from him, and let it be written among the laws of the Persians and Medes, that it be not altered, that Vashti come no more before King Ahasuerus; and let the king give her royal estate unto another that is better than she.” The penalty is severe, but the case is one that demands heroic treatment. “And when the king’s decree which he shall make, shall be published throughout all his empire, all the wives shall give to their husbands honor, both great and small.” The advice is accepted. “The saying pleased the king and the princes; and the king did according to the word of Memucan; for he sent letters into all the king’s provinces, into every province according to the writing thereof, to every people after their language, that every man should bear rule in his own house.” Thus perished the first recorded movement in the direction of woman’s rights!
III.
The humor of the Biblical writers is often shown in the way they pierce through outward actions and penetrate to the hidden motives of men. Before their keen vision external disguises are vain.
Let us turn to the account of sending the demons from the maniac into the swine. Let us take the account that speaks of but one maniac. “Then they that fed the swine fled and told it in the city and in the country. And they went out to see what it was that was done. And they came to Jesus and see him that was possessed of the devil and had the legion, sitting clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid.” It must have seemed absurd to the evangelist that these Gadarenes should have been afraid of the insane man after he had been restored. But the swineherds have not yet told all their story. “And when they that saw it told them how it befell to him that was possessed with the devils and also concerning the swine—” “Aye, there’s the rub!” “when they heard that, they began to pray him to depart out of their coasts.” A man has been restored, but a herd of swine has been lost. This new prophet will ruin us all, if he stays here. Let him begone. Though he saved men, they prayed him to depart because he let the swine be drowned. Jesus himself said once that “every man was of more value than many sparrows;” but these Gadarenes seemed to think that no man was worth “two thousand swine.”
In the preceding section of this chapter, Paul’s description of a mob is noted. It will be interesting to understand the occasion of that mob. When Paul preached at Ephesus, there was a marked decline in the demand for images and silver shrines of Diana. The market became weak. One of the principal manufacturers, Demetrius, called together all who were in the same business and said: “Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth. Moreover, ye see and hear that not alone in Ephesus, but almost throughout all Asia, this Paul hath persuaded and turned away much people, saying that there be no gods which are made with hands: so that not only this our craft is in danger to be set at naught, but that the temple of the great goddess Diana should be despised and her magnificence should be destroyed, whom all Asia and the world worshippeth!” Demetrius, the unctuous hypocrite, seems to throw the real consideration into the background, and to be actuated mainly by concern for the honor of his goddess. Ah, Demetrius, Demetrius, little do you, little do your fellow craftsmen care for Diana and her worship, except as you get your gain through her devotees. But make the people think you are full of zeal for religion, and under the mantle of this falsehood cloak your motives, as you rush through the streets crying, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” Rouse the populace, always ripe for mischief, and always more furious than ever when they think that religion, something of which they do not understand the first letter, and of which they are absolutely destitute, is in danger. Rouse the people, make a pious demonstration, O Demetrius, but know that he who recorded it all for future ages, wrote down your inmost secret—“By this craft we have our wealth!”
Another instance of hypocrisy similar to that of Demetrius, occurred at Philippi. Paul and his comrades had spoiled the business of certain ones who had in charge a damsel who uttered prophecies and told fortunes, by casting out her “spirit of divination.” “And when her masters saw that the hope of their gains was gone, they caught Paul and Silas and drew them into the market-place unto the rulers, and brought them to the magistrate, saying, These men being Jews do exceeding trouble our city, and teach customs which are not lawful for us to observe, being Romans.” It is patriotism that furnishes the cloak in this case. No allusion to their loss of money—surely not; what matters that? “He who steals my purse steals trash.” But we must do our duty by our fellow-citizens. We must not let these Jewish notions corrupt our civilization. We are loyal Romans, let all the world know! Is there not something in this incident to suggest the truthfulness of Dr. Johnson’s remark, “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel?”
The result of the uproar was that the apostles were beaten and cast into prison. Somehow it was soon discovered that they themselves were Roman citizens, “and when it was day, the magistrates sent the sergeants, saying, Let these men go. And the keeper of the prison told this saying to Paul, The magistrates have sent to let you go; now, therefore, depart and go in peace.” It is now Paul’s turn to be indignant, and he is not the man to let the opportunity slip. Paul insisted, as he had a right to do, upon his dignity as a Roman citizen. He tartly replied, “They have taken us openly, uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into prison; and do they now thrust us out privily? Nay, verily; but let them come themselves and fetch us.” A touch of nature there! “And they came (meekly enough now, those pompous magistrates) and brought them out.”
A man who never lacked courage was Paul. It had been told him that there were certain ones among the Corinthians who had respect for his letters, but something bordering on contempt for his person. “For his letters, they say, are weighty and powerful, but his bodily presence is weak and his speech contemptible.” This is his answer: “Let such an one think this, that such as we are in word by letters, when we are absent, such will we be also in deed, when we are present.” Let those scoffers look to themselves!
In lighter and almost playful vein, is his remark about the church at Corinth, in his second letter: “Truly the signs of an apostle were wrought among you in all patience, in signs and wonders and mighty deeds.” And yet there was one point in which the Corinthian church was inferior to others: “For what is it wherein ye were inferior to other churches, except it be that I myself was not burdensome unto you?” Paul had allowed the other churches with which he labored to support him, but to the Corinthian church he had not accorded the same privilege. He had favored it with no opportunity for benevolence. “Forgive me,” he exclaims, “this wrong.”
Paul relates that on one occasion he had a dispute with Peter at Antioch, in which he “withstood Peter to the face, because Peter was to blame.” It is to be doubted whether Peter ever quite forgot this dispute. The memory of it may have lingered and been particularly active when he referred in one of his own letters to “our beloved brother Paul who, according to the wisdom given unto him, hath written unto you; as also in all his epistles speaking of these things; in which are some things hard to be understood, which they that are unstable and unlearned do wrest, as they do also the other Scriptures, (pray do not think that I am making brother Paul’s writings an exception) to their own destruction.”
There is another phase of this general subject that is reserved for separate treatment in the following chapter. We pause here to say that the people of Bible times have been removed from the people of to-day by a chasm too wide and deep. We have been accustomed to look upon them as belonging to another race—almost to another world. It is difficult to believe that they were “men of like passions with ourselves.” It seems almost like sacrilege to intimate that they had their follies and weaknesses; that they did things absurd and laughable, and sometimes went farther and did things that were mean and wicked. There was a vast deal of human nature in those sublime characters. Gail Hamilton sums them up as follows: “Adam had dominion over the earth, but he attempted to shield himself from the divine displeasure by laying the blame upon his wife, which no gentleman would ever do. Noah was a ‘just man and perfect in his generation,’ if you do not mind an occasional fit of drunkenness. Abraham was a fine old sheik, a truly heroic figure, brave, generous, courteous, hospitable, magnanimous; no wonder the haughty Jews loved to remember and repeat that they were Abraham’s children. But Abraham had his weaknesses and fell before his temptations; and Isaac followed in his footsteps. Of Jacob perhaps the least said the better, though he maintained his position as head of his family with unrelenting vigor, calling no man master, either son or king. There may have been other men whose life was ‘without fear and without reproach’; but their history is unknown to us; their portrait is hardly more than a name.”
IV. THE SENSE OF HUMOR IN JESUS.
“When a child, with child-like apprehensions that dived not beneath the surface of the matter, I read those parables—not guessing the involved wisdom—I had more yearnings toward that simple architect that built his house upon the sand, than I entertained for his more cautious neighbor; I grudged at the harsh censure pronounced upon the quiet soul that kept his talent; and prizing their simplicity beyond the more provident, and to my apprehension, somewhat unfeminine wariness of their competitors, I felt a kindness that amounted almost to a tendre for those thoughtless virgins. I have never made an acquaintance since that lasted, or a friendship that answered, with any that had not some tincture of the absurd in their characters.”—Charles Lamb.
THE SENSE OF HUMOR IN JESUS.
“Amid the sorrow, disappointment, agony, and anguish of the world,—our dark thoughts and tempestuous passions, the gloomy exaggerations of self will, the enfeebling illusions of melancholy,—wit and humor, light and lightning, shed their soft radiance and dart their electric flash.”—Whipple.
“How curious it is,” says the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, “that we always consider solemnity, and the absence of all gay surprises and encounters of wits, as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then call blessed! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity by banishing all gayety from their hearts and all joyousness from their countenances.” Rather than believe in the “smileless eternity” of such as these, we should accept the conjecture of Soame Jennings, that “a portion of the happiness of seraphim and just men made perfect would be derived from an exquisite perception of the ludicrous.”
To that school of melancholy teachers who frown upon all pleasantry, and buttress their gloomy position with the assertion that “Jesus wept but never smiled,” the title of this chapter will be particularly offensive. It will strike them as downright blasphemy to intimate that Jesus possessed and used the sense of humor so common to mankind. We assuredly appreciate the delicacy of the position, and shall endeavor to avoid, in our treatment of this subject, anything that might wound the most sensitive soul.
There are several considerations that will pave the way. We take it for granted that Jesus was a complete human being, and that as such a being he must have had all the human attributes and faculties,—the faculty of mirthfulness among them. He was a man, and lacked nothing that pertains to men. Then, too, had he been without the sense of humor, much in the lives and characters of those with whom he had to deal, he never could have understood and reached. The full success of his mission depended upon his knowing all that there is in man, and upon being able to gain access to him through every avenue of his nature.
Nor were the circumstances of his life unfavorable to the development of this particular attribute. Theology and Art have conspired to produce upon the world the impression that Jesus was an exceptionally wretched and suffering man. They have taken one or two expressions in Isaiah, such as, “his countenance was marred,” “he was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” expressions which they misunderstood and misapplied, and with them have laid the foundations of their house of woe. They have seized upon a few of the sadder incidents of his career, and have exaggerated them into undue prominence,—have given them undue proportions. Especially have they made much of his agony in the garden and his death upon the cross. These events have been magnified into such mountains that all the rest of his life seems to lie hidden beneath their shadows. It appears never to have entered the mind of either preacher or painter that the physical anguish of his death must have been even less than that which many martyrs at the stake or martyrs upon sickbeds have borne; and that before death came, he had lived a life with many bright days and many happy experiences. His existence upon earth was not a protracted sorrow, a monumental grief. Many a rose had blossomed at his feet before the thorns were twisted into a crown for his brow.
What shall we say of the thirty peaceful years under his father’s roof, with his brothers and sisters? Did he not in boyhood have the amusements of other children? Is there not a memento of his youthful sports in what he says of the games of the children in the marketplace, when they were playing at weddings and funerals? Did he not, when a young man, delight in his home and in his companions? Can we imagine that he moved among those who were nearest and dearest to him, with a face to which a smile was as much a stranger as a tropic flower to the frozen zone?
When, as a mature man, he entered upon his public ministry, although he was exposed to frequent attacks from the representatives of the established religion, yet he was never without friends; never without a place of refuge from the heat of battle. There were many homes in which a welcome always awaited him, and whose hospitality he gladly accepted. Is it probable that he was accustomed to sit in these homes—to use Shakespeare’s phrase—“like his grandsire cut in alabaster?”
More than once we are directly told that “he rejoiced in spirit;” more than once he spoke of his “joy” to his disciples. There is much evidence that Jesus was not a wretched but a happy man. Did this happiness never express itself in words or countenance?
There are other considerations that go far to refute the dismal assertion that “Jesus wept but never smiled.” Tired mothers brought their children to him and he rebuked the supercilious disciples who interfered. Can we think that on this occasion he had a woe-begone look? We read of him often at feasts; would he have been invited if he had been accustomed to sit at the table like the skeleton at an Egyptian banquet? Did he not by his frequent attendance upon festive occasions incur the odium of being a wine-bibber and a glutton? He was also a favorite with the common people. They heard him gladly. But there must have been something attractive in his presence and manner, as well as in his words, and the words themselves must have appealed to the shrewd, homely, common sense of his hearers. If he had been the sad spirit he has been pictured, would the people have followed him and listened to him as they did?
When we leave the outward circumstances and the presumption they furnish, and examine the fragments of his speech that have been preserved for us, many of them certainly contain the element of humor. We should undoubtedly call it humor if it came from any other lips than those of Jesus; if we found it in any other book than the New Testament.
The purpose of this chapter will be grossly misapprehended, however, if any one shall suppose that we are trying to degrade Jesus to the level of a professional joker. Nothing is further from our intention. The very thought is repulsive. One may have and use the sense of humor without putting on the cap and bells. He may use it with the highest motives and for the noblest ends. It was said of Hosea Ballou, that “it was no uncommon thing for him when preaching to excite a smile; but usually it was done by some ingenious argument that would electrify every one present.” His biographer adds: “It is not known that any person ever listened to one of his sermons who was not so impressed with his sincerity, dignity and earnestness, that the recollection of his occasional humorous sayings was held subsidiary and helpful to his main serious purpose. His mother-wit was sanctified. It served a divine mission in diffusing cheerfulness and health.” We must always remember that wit and humor do not mean buffoonery.
It is difficult to understand how any one can read many of the parables and other sayings of Jesus, and still believe the doleful tale that he “wept but never smiled.” He saw the dancing lights as well as the deep shadows, the more genial and even ludicrous aspects of life, as well as its various phases of sorrow and sin, and all these furnished subjects for his discourse as well as illustrations for his teaching.
Let us now consider some of the ways in which the sense of humor in Jesus manifested itself.
I.
The sense of humor often tempered his rebukes. There was often sunshine on the cloud.
There were times, indeed, as we shall see, when he spoke with unmeasured severity, when his words fell like fiery hail, beating and burning the heads of offenders; but anon he spoke half smiling, half pitying, as if disposed to laugh at the very inconsistencies he censured. In this respect his spirit has been caught by Addison and Goldsmith, by Irving and Dickens. Richter says that “no one has a right to laugh at men but he who most heartily loves them.” Taine says of Dickens, “Before reading him we did not know there was so much pity in the heart.” Jesus loved men, he pitied them, even while his eye detected and his words exposed their faults and foibles.
He had looked with pleasure (remembering his own childhood), upon the games of the boys and girls in the streets of Jerusalem; he thought of their whimsical complaints, as they played at weddings and funerals in the market-place. On one occasion, his severity mitigated by his sense of the ludicrous, he exclaimed, “Whereunto shall I liken this generation? and to what are they like? They are like unto children sitting in the market-places and calling to one another and saying, We have piped unto you and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you and ye have not lamented.” Everything had gone wrong. The others would not play fair. They would not dance when we wanted to play wedding; they would not be mourners when we wanted to play funeral. We have done all we could to please them, but they are “too mean for anything.” To the mind of Jesus, the people of that generation appeared to be making the same complaint. They were childishly dissatisfied with every divine messenger,—none could please them. “For John the Baptist came neither eating bread nor drinking wine,”—solemn, gloomy, austere; but they would have none of him. He mourned unto them, but they would not lament. They would not “play at funeral” with him. They turned away and said, “He hath a devil.” Then came the Son of Man, bright and cheerful, “eating and drinking,” but they would not dance to his piping. They pointed at him and said, “Behold a gluttonous man and a wine-bibber, a friend of publicans and sinners!” It was impossible to please that generation.
If we place this passage side by side with the following from Goldsmith, we shall see at once that if there be humor in the latter, there must also be humor in the former. The subject is the reception accorded the Chinese philosopher who tried to please his friends by his demeanor upon the death of an English sovereign: “I thought it at least my duty to appear sorrowful; to put on a melancholy aspect, or to set my face by that of the people. The first company I came amongst after the news became general was a set of jolly companions who were drinking prosperity to the ensuing reign. I entered the room with looks of despair, and even expected applause for the superlative misery of my countenance. Instead of that, I was universally condemned by the company and desired to take away my penitential phiz to some other quarter. I now corrected my former mistake, and with the most sprightly air imaginable entered a company where they were talking over the ceremonies of the approaching funeral. Here I sat for some time with an air of pert vivacity, when one of the chief mourners immediately observing my good humor desired me, if I pleased, to go and grin somewhere else; they wanted no disaffected scoundrels there. Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I amongst?” Whereunto shall I liken this generation?
There was a certain time when multitudes followed Jesus, not knowing what they were about, but simply swept along by the enthusiasm of the moment. He saw that they understood not, so he turned and gave them this gentle caution: “Which of you intending to build a tower sitteth not down first and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? Lest, haply, after he hath laid the foundation and is not able to finish, all that behold it begin to mock him, saying, This man began to build and was not able to finish.” Whoever comes after me and does not count upon bearing his cross, is in the predicament of this foolish tower-builder,—a ludicrous spectacle as he sits beside the unfinished structure, his materials exhausted, while all his neighbors, as they pass by, wag the head and point the finger. Such a spectacle as that will each one of you be who does not count the cost of discipleship. With such gentle strokes of humor did Jesus stay the thoughtless multitudes who imagined that their empty zeal was genuine loyalty. He set forth their conduct in terms that would most effectually impress upon them its folly,—in terms that appealed to their sense of the ridiculous.
In a sarcastic paragraph of his French Revolution, Carlyle speaks of the work of the National Convention thus: “In fact, what can be more unprofitable than the sight of six hundred and forty-nine ingenious men struggling with their whole force and industry, for a long course of weeks, to do at bottom this; to stretch out the old Formula and Law phraseology, so that it may cover the new, contradictory, entirely uncoverable thing? Whereby the poor formula does but crack and one’s honesty along with it. The thing that is palpably hot, burning, wilt thou prove it by a syllogism to be a freezing mixture? This of stretching out formulas till they crack is, especially in times of swift change, one of the sorrowfullest tasks poor humanity has.” Was it not this very formula-stretching that Jesus satirized in more playful vein,—this formula-stretching that existed in old times and that still exists,—when he said: “No man putteth a piece of new garment upon an old; if otherwise, then, both the new maketh a rent, and the piece that was taken out of the new agreeth not with the old”? You can not patch up old terms with new meanings. The new meaning agreeth not with the old term. “And no man putteth new wine into old wine-skins; else the new wine will burst the wine-skins and be spilled, and the wine-skins shall perish. But new wine must be put into new wine-skins, and both are preserved.” The man who tries to put new senses into old words, new ideas into old formulas, is like a man who cuts up a new garment to mend an old; like one who puts wine not yet done fermenting into a skin whose capacity admits no further strain. He spoils his new coat and he loses his new wine.
With such illustrations as these, illustrations embodying a figure or comparison or situation essentially amusing, was Jesus wont to temper his rebukes.
II.
The sense of humor in Jesus enabled him to detect pretension, imposture, hypocrisy, and expose them to the derision of mankind.
If we should find in Dickens or Thackeray such pictures as Jesus has given of the Scribes and Pharisees, they would strike us at once as the very quintessence of humor. “They go arrayed in long clothing, they love the uppermost rooms at feasts and the chief seats in the synagogues.” They are always posturing to attract attention. “They love greetings in the market-places, to be called of men Rabbi, Rabbi.” In their way, they are as much given to “deportment” as Mr. Turveydrop, when he says, “I suppose I must now go and show myself about town; it will be expected of me.” When they pray, they do it standing in the synagogues or at the corners of the streets that all may see how pious they are; when they perform their deeds of righteousness, a trumpet is sounded before them, to make solemn proclamation; as who should say, “Will the public please take notice; I am about to drop a mite into this poor widow’s hand.” When they fast they put on “a sad countenance and disfigure their faces” with fictitious woe and weeping, “that they may appear unto men to fast.” “See how I lay the dust with my tears,” says Launce. Everything they did was done for effect; nothing came from the heart. Their religion was the veriest sham. They had well-nigh reached the measure of South’s ideal hypocrite, “who never opens his mouth in earnest, but when he eats or breathes.” Well might Jesus say, “The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat; all things, therefore, whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do, but do ye not according to their works; for they say and do not.” Does not this remind us of Pecksniff, “who was a most exemplary man, fuller of virtuous precepts than a copy-book; but some people likened him to a direction-post which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there.”
III.
Not only did the sense of humor in Jesus enable him to unmask pretentious hypocrites, but also to expose the absurdities that the multitudes commonly practiced in the name of religion.
There are those, for example, who in prayer use “vain repetitions,” thinking that they shall be heard for their “much speaking.” They estimate the efficacy of prayer by its quantity and not by its quality. They think that if they only keep at it long enough, if they only use multitudes of words, they will surely attract attention on high.
There are others who think that religion consists in the “washing of pots and cups and such like things” and they “lay aside the commandment of God.” One of their representatives in modern literature is Dolly Winthrop, who tells Silas Marner about the letters “I.H.S.” pricked upon the Christmas cakes: “I can’t read ’em myself, and there’s nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on the pulpit-cloth at Church; an’ if there’s any good, we’ve need of it in this world.”
It is curious how the superstition of externalism has affected many, even noble minds. Dr. Johnson once said of John Campbell, a political and philosophical writer, “Campbell is a good man, a pious man; I’m afraid he has not been inside of a church for a good many years, but he never passes a church without pulling off his hat. This shows he has good principles.”
IV.
Jesus perceived the blunders of the well-meaning, but ignorant and ambitious,—such as the man who went to the wedding party without suitable garments, and was unceremoniously shown to the door; such as the obtuse people who, invited to a feast, always took the seats of honor and were as often courteously escorted to seats further down the table. When the “more honorable man” came, the host would say, “Give this man place,” and the other would “begin with shame to take the lowest seat.” Jesus saw these blunders, and we cannot believe that he was blind to their comical side. He must have felt that the mistake was a ludicrous one, even when he advised the stupid people who made it, “When thou art bidden, go and sit down in the lowest room; that when he that bade thee cometh, he may say, Friend, go up higher; and then thou shalt have worship in the presence of them that sit at meat with thee.”
V.
The sense of humor in Jesus is still further shown by his selection of characters for his parables and illustrations. How many of them are what we should call “odd sticks” to-day!
Could any one devoid of humor, or opposed to its use, have described such odd or eccentric people as the fool who thought that sand was as good a foundation for his house as rock; or the drowsy friend roused at midnight to lend his neighbor bread and scolding furiously at the annoyance? Then we have the shepherd’s coward hireling who ran away from his flock when he saw the wolf coming; the foolish rich man; the unscrupulous steward who provided for himself by cheating his master; the three fellows who made such puerile excuses for absenting themselves from the king’s banquet,—one was interested in a real estate transaction, another was dealing in stock, while the third had just “married a wife.” Perhaps the characterization of all these excuses as puerile, may be too sweeping. This last case may be an exception. Having just entered the holy estate of matrimony, any plans this man might have formed before that event were of course subject to revision. Let us not be too hard upon him. It may be that he rests under too heavy a load of censure. He may even be deserving of sympathy. He said—was there a suggestion of desperation in his words?—“I have married a wife and therefore I can not come.” The king ought very likely to have exempted this man from his wrath; for he seems to say, “I should like to come, but—!”
Then there was the servant who, in his lord’s absence, got above his business, assumed the master, became drunken in the company of roisterers, and beat his fellow-servants; but was at last put to shame by the sudden and unexpected arrival of his master. This servant was a veritable Jaques who, in the old play, assumed to be his master, the Duke, and who was likewise brought to grief by his master’s return: “I must appear important; big as a country pedagogue when he enters the school-room with a-hem, and terrifies the apple-munching urchins with the creaking of his shoes. I’ll swell like a shirt bleaching in a high wind; and look as burly as a Sunday beadle when he has kicked down the unhallowed stall of a profane old apple-woman. Bring my chair of state!”
There are other characters, such as the shrewd laborer who, digging in a field, finds a hidden treasure and secreting it goes and buys the field; the unjust judge who finally, completely tired out, gives way in no very amiable mood to the widow’s unceasing petitions for justice; the timid soul, who, fearing to use his talent, hid it in a napkin and buried it in the earth; the self-righteous Pharisee who recounts his good deeds before the Lord of the Temple and complacently congratulates himself that he is not as other men! “God, I thank thee that I am not as the rest of men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week; I give tithes of all that I get!” Mr. Pecksniff once more!—so satisfied with himself, “so radiant with ingenuous honesty that Mrs. Lupin almost wondered not to see a stained-glass glory, such as the saint wore in the church, shining about his head!”
VI.
In the introduction, reference was made to the words of Mr. Shorthouse which suggested this investigation. This seems a fitting place to present the only example in which Mr. Shorthouse has carried out his own suggestion,—the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
“But is it trite that there is no humor in the gospels? ‘What strokes of nature, if not of humor,’ to use Mr. Addison’s words again, may we find in the story, let us say, of the Prodigal Son? What, in the light of the modern conception of humor, will come out of this?
Here, surely, there is no want of real life, of low life, even. Here is a wild young scamp, as like Tom Jones as heart could wish. Here is ingratitude, forgetfulness of parents, riotous living, taverns, harlots, what not? Then beggary, and feeding swine, and living upon husks. Then when evil living is found not to answer, penitence—like Tom Jones again.
And ‘when he was yet a great way off his father saw him,’ along the stony road beneath the vine-clad hills. Who can tell how often the father’s eyes had gazed longingly down the road since his son’s figure, gay, reckless of the benefits just bestowed, accompanied by servants, eager for the pleasures of the world, had vanished from his sight? Now, at last, after so long waiting and looking, he sees in the far distance, a very different sight. He sees a solitary figure, worn and bent down, in rags, dragging on its weary steps; how could the old man’s gaze expect such a sight as this? Nevertheless, his father knew him, ‘and ran and fell on his neck.’ He did not wait for any accents of repentance, nor did he enforce any moral precepts which might advantage posterity. ‘He fell on his neck and kissed him.’ Foolish old father!
Tom Jones is brought in. He goes to the bath. The familiar feeling of luxury comes over him once more. He is clothed in fine linen, and has a gold ring placed on his finger, the past seems an evil dream. Then the fatted calf is killed. The banquet is spread and there is festivity, music, and dancing-girls.
But suddenly, in the midst of his delight, some trouble passes over the old man’s face; his eldest son is not in his place, and they bring him word that he is without and refuses to come in. Some perception of a neglected truth passes through the father’s mind, and he rises and goes out. ‘Therefore came his father out and entreated him.’
The eldest son has been out all day working in the vineyards; all his life had been one long performance of duty, taken for granted, and therefore unpraised and unrecognized. In how many households will silent witness be borne that this is real life—the gentle and obedient service overlooked—nay, more than this, the cross word or hasty temper where there is no fear that it will be returned.
‘All these years have I served thee * * * and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends.’ I am a man like others, gayety and feasting are pleasant to me, as to them.
A look of perplexed, but growing insight comes into the father’s face. ‘Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.’
This is all very well, still he is conscious that there is something to be said for the eldest son, too. But his lost son—his wayward, and therefore loved son, is come again.
‘It is meet that we should make merry and be glad, for this thy brother was dead and is alive again.’ We can see the pitiful, pleading look in the old man’s eyes,—‘thy brother was dead.’
Yes, Addison must be right. Nature and humor cannot be far apart. The source and spring of humor is human life. Its charm consists, not merely in laughter or even in joy, but in the stirring of those sympathies and associations which exist invariably in the race; for we inherit a world-life and a religion, the earth-springs of whose realities lie, perchance, too deep for laughter, but not, Heaven be praised, too deep for tears.”
Surely the examples given suggest an eye for the humorous in him who saw and described them. These illustrations were, indeed, used to convey moral truths, but they show how wide was the acquaintance of Jesus with all sorts of characters, and how he loved to use such as were out of the ordinary; such as, to-day, we should at least call “peculiar.” A recognition of this fact will help us better to appreciate and more thoroughly to enjoy those simple, yet wonderful parables, out of which the heavy hand of a severely literal criticism would crush all “touches of nature.”
V. PROVERBS AND EPIGRAMMATIC SAYINGS.
“Proverbs, must not be passed over in our enumeration,—proverbs, the philosophy of the common people; short, pithy, homely sayings that embody the concentrated essence of the common people’s wisdom. It has been difficult to give a perfect definition of a proverb, so crowded is it with the life of shrewdness and experience; yet so easy and negligent is it, and saucy as it were. Its characteristic excellences are shortness, sense and salt. It is the wit of one man, the wisdom of thousands.”—Macbeth.
PROVERBS AND EPIGRAMMATIC SAYINGS.