Mark Twain, Humanities Humorist

by George Frein

Mark Twain was a humorist, America’s foremost humorist. But, he was not merely a humorist. “Humorists of the mere sort,” he said, “cannot survive.”

If not a mere humorist, what kind of humorist was he? I would say that Mark Twain was a humanities humorist. His humor served the humanities by getting readers of his books and audiences at his lectures to think critically about human nature, while laughing themselves silly. What’s more, Twain’s humor still survives, proving he was not a mere humorist.

What follows is the script for a Chautauqua-style performance I did for Humanities North Dakota and then for humanities audiences around the country. The script is composed chiefly of lines that Twain himself wrote on the topic of humor. I have edited his words and added a few lines here and there to turn Twain’s words into a coherent talk on the topic. Now once again, “Mark Twain” stands on stage to make audiences laugh and to think about why they are laughing. (Please note: Twain spoke in a slow Missouri drawl and that is how what follows is spoken. It would be good to read it that way too.)

MARK TWAIN, ON HUMOR

“My topic tonight is humor. I know something about it—and you too have considerable experience with humor. Everybody knows what's funny and what's not. At least we think we do. Why don't you match my talk with your experience and then you can ask me some questions while we talk about humor, and about humans.

Humor wasn’t my first job. No. I was a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi, but when the Civil War came along it put an end to steamboating. I went home and joined the Marion Rangers, a band of Confederate irregulars; but after two weeks of retreating, I knew more about retreating than the man who invented it. So I went to the captain and told him the war had become a disappointment to me. I withdrew; crippled the Southern cause to that extent.

I went west to Nevada Territory with my brother and prospected for silver. I was a failure as a prospector. I needed a job badly and considered becoming a preacher. Well, the ministry appealed to me in those innocent days. It never occurred to me that a preacher could be damned. It looked like a safe job. But I decided against it because I lacked one thing. I lacked the stock in trade. I lacked religion.

I became a newspaper writer instead and found that my best pieces were humorous ones. I was happy to have a calling as well as an income. I was also happy to be able to write to my hapless brother, Orion, who for once in his life had a job, and tell him the good news. I wrote: “I have a call to literature of a low order: namely humorous literature. It is nothing to be proud of but it is my strongest suit.” I should long ago have ceased to meddle with things I was unfitted for and turned my attention to seriously scribbling to excite laughter in God's creatures. It is a poor, pitiful business but it is my calling.

And my calling is a kind of preaching. The humorous writer tries to awaken your love, your pity, your kindness, your scorn for untruth, pretension, and imposture. He takes upon himself to be the week-day preacher. Of course, I wouldn’t have become a weekday preacher if the regular preachers weren’t on vacation six days a week!

I am not a weekday preacher only in my writing. I preach from the lecture platform too. I preach morals. Every preacher has a pet topic and morals is mine. And I have a theory about morals. It is this: that you should prize, as a priceless thing, every transgression, every crime you commit, the lesson of it, I mean. Make it permanent; impress it so that you never commit that same crime again as long as you live. Then you will see. The logical result will be you will get interested in committing crimes and in that way you will build up a perfect moral character for yourself. Now, there are 462 crimes possible, no more, no less. These have been all thought out and experimented with by the most capable men in the penitentiary. Now when you commit a transgression, lay it up in your memory—the lesson of it—and it will lead you to moral perfection. When at last you have committed your 462, you will stand with complete moral perfection. I am more than two-thirds the way up that ladder myself. It is an immense inspiration to find oneself climbing that way and have not much further to go.

I remember, way back in the beginning, the first time that I ever stole a watermelon. I carried it to a secluded bower in a lumber yard and broke it open, and it was green. Now, then, I began to reflect. When you do not reflect, the crime is wasted on you. I began to reflect and I said to myself: I have done wrong. It was wrong to steal that watermelon—that kind of watermelon. I said: what would a right-minded boy do that had stolen a watermelon like this. He must make restitution. He must restore that property to its owner. So I resolved to do so and was immediately refreshed and spiritually strengthened. I carried the watermelon back to the farmer whose it was and told him it was green and he should be ashamed of himself going around working off green watermelons that way on people who had confidence in him. And he was ashamed and said he would never do it again. I restored the watermelon and made him give me a ripe one. So in this way I morally helped him and helped myself at the same time—for that was a lesson that remained with me for my perfection. Ever since that day to this I never stole another— like that.

Now I teach morals. I am a professional moralist. It is noble to do good. And it is nobler to teach others to do good. And a lot easier. I have always preached. If the humor came of its own accord and uninvited I have allowed it a place in my sermon, but I was not writing the sermon for the sake of the humor. I should have written the sermon just the same, whether any humor applied for admission or not. Humor must not professedly teach and it must not professedly preach but it must do both if it would live forever. Of course by “forever” I mean for 30 years. Humorists of the mere sort cannot survive.

Of course, to illustrate his topic, a preacher must be able to tell stories. Stories bring the topic to life. I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know how a story ought to be told. You see, there are several kinds of stories. The comic story is English. The witty story is French. Comic and witty stories depend on the matter. The humorous story is American; and it depends, not upon the matter, but upon the manner of the telling for its effect. The humorous story is strictly a work of art and it was created in America.

The humorous story is told gravely and the teller does his very best to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it. Whereas the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is the funniest thing he has ever heard and then is the first to laugh when he gets through. And sometimes he will repeat the nub of the story and glance around collecting applause, and repeat the nub again! It is a pathetic thing to see. The teller of a humorous story pretends that he does not know it is a nub. Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal and when the audience caught the joke and laughed, he would look up with innocent surprise, as if wondering what they found to laugh at.

Let me give you an example of the comic method using an anecdote that’s twelve or fifteen hundred years old. The teller tells it this way: “Have you heard the one about the Wounded Soldier? It’s the funniest story I ever heard! Here it is:

“In the course of a certain battle a soldier had his leg shot off and called to a buddy to carry him to the rear saying his leg had been blown off. The buddy carried him on his back. Bullets and cannonballs were flying in all directions and presently one of the cannonballs took the wounded man’s head off—without his buddy being aware of it. Soon an officer shouted: ‘Soldier, Where are you going with that carcass?’ ‘To the rear, sir, he’s lost his leg!’ ‘His leg? You mean his head, you booby.’

“Whereupon the soldier put his burden down and looked upon it with great perplexity. At last he said, ‘It is true, sir, just as you say. But he TOLD ME IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!! He TOLD ME IT WAS HIS LEG!’”

Well, it only takes a minute and a half to tell that story in its comic form—and it isn’t worth telling after all. But put into the humorous-story form it takes 10-12 minutes, as James Whitcomb Riley tells it. He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who gets it all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in all sorts of details that don’t belong in the tale, making mistakes and stopping to correct them, telling the soldier’s name, adding that it is of no real importance anyway—though better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential after all—and so on and on— stringing absurdities innocently unaware they are absurdities. This is the basis of the American art.

Then there is one other element of the humorous story: that is the matter of the pause. The pause is an exceedingly important feature of the humorous story. One must get the pause just right, just the right length. And for this reason one must not read his story but tell it—looking at the audience to see its reaction. . . . One of the stories from my second book, Roughing It, that never worked as a reading never failed as a lecture piece. The idea of the story was to exhibit certain bad effects of a good memory—you know, the kind of memory that can’t tell the difference between an important event and an unimportant event. We all know people who tell stories this way. Such was the memory of Jim Blaine, the sleepy narrator of a tale called “Grandfather’s Old Ram.” [Sit.Yawn.] “Oh, you want to hear about the ram. [Stand. IN JIM BLANE’S VOICE.]

Grandfather bought that old ram from a feller in Siskiyou County and turned him loose in the medder. The next morning he went out to have a look at him and accidently dropped a ten-cent piece in the grass and stooped down—so—to git it. The ram, he was standin’ up the slope taking notice of grandfather stooping down. Smith was there nearby where I was watching. The ram—he bent his head down so. Smith was of Calaveras. No, it couldn't be that Smith. No, it was Smith of Tulare. Well that ram seen grandfather stoopin’ down that way, he took it for an invitation - and here he come! Down the slope, 30 miles an hour, his eye full of business. You see my grandfather’s back being to him; why sho! it warn't Smith of Tulare at all, it was Smith of Sacramento; and those Smiths come from the best Southern blood in the United States. There warn't any better blood line than the Sacramento Smiths. One of ‘em even married a Whitaker; that give you some idea. It was Mariar Whitaker that had the most generous heart in the world. She’d give you anything she had if you needed it. She had a glass eye she used to lend to Flora Ann Baxter who hadn’t one to receive company with. Flora Ann Baxter married a Hogadorn who was of old Maryland. It was Sally Hogadorn who married a missionary and went off carrying the good news to the cannibals somewheres and they et her, et him too, though it war an accident and the cannibals said so, said they were sorry and apologized, said it wouldn’t happen again; said ’t was an accident.

Accident! Now that's foolishness; there ain’t no such thing as an accident. There ain’t nothing happens in this world but what’s ordered just so by a Wiser Power fur a good purpose. When you think you see an accident, you can make up your mind it’s a special providence. Well, you look at my Uncle Lem. He an’ his dog was downtown and he was a-leaning up against a scaffolding next to a stranger and this Irishman was there with a hod of bricks up about the third story, and his foot slipped and down came the Irishman bricks and all. Hit the stranger —knocked the everlasting aspirations out of him. He was ready for the coroner in two minutes. People said it war an accident, but it warn’t - ’twas a special providence. The idea was to save the Irishman. If the stranger hadn’t been there, that Irishman would have been killed. People said, “special providence - sho! The dog was there—why didn’t the Irishman fall on the dog? Why warn't the dog appointed?” Well, fer a mighty good reason—the dog would a seen him a-coming. You can’t depend on no dog to carry out a special providence. That dog’s name was Jasper. Uncle Lem got him out of the Wheelers. Ain’t no better bloodline than the Wheelers.

Well, one day Wheeler was dreaming around in the carpet factory and the machinery made a snatch at him and first you know he was a-meandering all over the factory. Why you couldn't even see him; you could only hear him whiz when he went by. Well. Wheeler got wove up into 39 yards of the best 3-ply carpet made. The widder was sorry for she loved him and done the best she could for him under the circumstances. She took the whole 39 yards and gave him a proper burial. She couldn’t bear to roll him up. She took and spread him out full length. Then she boxed him, put him on a pedestal and so made a monument and grave all in one. She painted on it, “To the loving memory of 39 yards best 3-ply carpet containing the mortal remains of Millington G. Wheeler go thou and do likewise.“ [SIT. YAWN. SLEEP.]

[Stand. IN TWAIN’S VOICE.] At this point Jim Blaine fell asleep on his story. To this day we don’t know whether old Grandfather ever got the ten-cent piece [STOOP OVER.] out of the grass.

That tale of “Grandfather’s Old Ram” never worked when read and never failed when told from memory. The reason is the matter of the pause. The length of the pause must be determined by the audience. The speaker must perceive by their faces when the pause has reached the proper length. But the reader has his eyes in the book and so must guess. The lecturer has his eyes on the audience and can tell exactly how long it should be. I used to play with a pause the way other children play with a toy. In “Grandfather’s Old Ram” the question is whether the falling of the Irishman on the stranger was an accident or a special providence. If it was providence, why sacrifice the stranger? Why didn’t he fall on the dog? Becuz the dog would ‘a’ seen him a-comin’. The pause at this remark was necessary to allow the audience time to find the logic which recognizes in a dog an instrument too alert in looking out for his own personal interest to be depended on for a special providence.

Now, of course, there is more to humor than technical things like the manner in which a story is told and the matter of the pause. There are also philosophical purposes.

You may have noticed that the story of “Grandfather’s Old Ram” was an examination of the value of blood lines and the idea of special providence. The time was when to tell a story like that simply to amuse people would have satisfied my dearest ambition. People could get instruction elsewhere. But bye and bye I found I had two chances to help people to the teacher’s one: for amusement is a good preparation for study and a good healer of fatigue afterword.

A little harmless fun is a good and wholesome thing in this world; it tones a body up and keeps him human and prevents him from souring. A good laugh is money in one’s pocket because it cuts down on the doctor bills like everything. Humor is the great thing, the saving thing, after all. The minute it crops up all our harnesses yield, all our irritations and resentments flit away, and a sunny spirit takes their place. Humor is mankind’s greatest blessing.

But laughter without a tinge of philosophy is only a sneeze of humor. Genuine humor is replete with wisdom. Wit by itself is of little account. It becomes of moment only when grounded on wisdom.

A humorist’s worthy calling is to the deriding of shams and nobilities and privileges and all, all kindred swindles against human liberties. To all shams the humorist must show the greatest irreverence. Fortunately, I was born irreverent. But when a thing is sacred to me, it is impossible for me to be irreverent toward it. I cannot call to mind a single instance where I have been irreverent—except toward things which are sacred to other people. Irreverence is the champion of liberty.

For example, one of the sacred things I would never show the slightest irreverence is money. Money is universally reverenced. Some men worship rank, some worship heroes, some worship God, and over these ideals they dispute, but all men worship money.

Money, of course, is very American. God was left out of the Constitution but was furnished a front seat on the coins of the country. The motto, “ln God We Trust” states a lie. If this nation ever trusted in God, that time has gone by. For nearly half a century almost its entire trust has been in the Republican party and the dollar— mainly the dollar. There never was a nation in this world that put all its trust in God. I think it would be better to print this on the coins: “Within certain judicious limitations, we trust in God.” And, if there isn’t room enough on the coin for all that, why, enlarge the coin.

I myself have had experience with money and have learned some valuable lessons on the subject. First of all, I believe that the lack of money is the root of all evil. People dispute about the merits of hard currency versus paper money. I have no opinion on this. My only goal is to get as much of it as I can. And, in most any way I can. Borrowing is one good way to get money. Ah, beautiful credit. It is the foundation of modern society. Just two years ago I didn't have a dime—and now I owe two million dollars!

Being thrifty, of course, is another way to have money. And then there is the virtuous habit of not living beyond one’s means. I remember a recent New Years Eve party at which the topic of resolutions came up. Someone asked me, “Are you making any resolutions this year, Mark?” “You bet,” I said, “I'm going to live within my income this year even if I have to borrow money to do it.”

Envy is very common when it comes to money, but it is no way to make money. I was once vacationing in Bermuda with my good friend Henry Rogers, a millionaire. I met someone there who said to me one day, “Your friend Rogers is a good fellow. It's a pity his money is tainted.” “Oh!” I said, “It’s worse than that. It’s twice tainted. Taint yours, taint mine.” Wealth, you see, is a state of mind: If all men were rich, all men would be poor.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with being poor. Honest poverty is a gem that even a king might feel proud to call his own. That is so. But I wish to sell out. I wish to become rich, so that I can instruct the people and glorify honest poverty, like those kind-hearted, fat, benevolent people do. When I become king then poor people shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books, for a full belly is little worth when the mind is starved.

In conclusion, let me say only this from a book of mine:

“The human race, in its poverty, has unquestionably one really effective weapon —laughter. Power, money, persuasion, supplication, persecution—these can lift at a colossal humbug—push it a little—weaken it a little, century by century; but only laughter can blow it to rags and atoms at a blast. Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”

So for the destruction of humbugs as well as the healing of the human spirit, humor is mankind’s greatest blessing.”

GEORGE FREIN, taught in the Philosophy and Religion Department at the University of North Dakota from 1968 to 1997.Beginning in 1986, George spent summers traveling with the Great Plains ChautauquaSociety. Rather than lecture about the humanities, Chautauqua scholars choose to perform as the people one meets with in the humanities. For George, this has meant dressing and speaking as Herman Melville, Henry Adams, MarkTwain, Abraham Lincoln, Dr. Seuss, andCarl Jung among others. In this way,George says, "Audiences get to meet great humanities thinkers and ask them questions. It is more fun than listening to a lowly professor!" (Note: It is not true, as one of George's colleagues claims, that he chose to do Carl Jung in order to help himself deal with his multiple-personality syndrome!)