And then
there strike in upon the mind two thoughts. Is, perhaps, the basis
of humour a kind of selfish security? Does one primarily laugh at
all that is odd, grotesque, broken, ill at ease, fantastic, because
such things heighten the sense of one's own health and security? I
do not mean that this is the flower of modern humour; but is it
not, perhaps, the root? Is not the basis of laughter perhaps the
purely childish and selfish impulse to delight, not in the
sufferings of others, but in the sense which all distorted things
minister to one--that one is temporarily, at least, more blest than
they? A child does not laugh for pure happiness--when it is
happiest, it is most grave and solemn; but when the sense of its
health and soundness is brought home to it poignantly, then it
laughs aloud, just as it laughs at the pleasant pain of being
tickled, because the tiny uneasiness throws into relief its sense
of secure well-being.
And the further thought--a deep and strange one--is this: We see
how all mortal things have a certain curve or cycle of life--youth,
maturity, age.
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