d for that every man is certain that he himself is not
without sense of humour. A man will admit cheerfully that he does not
know one tune from another, or that he cannot discriminate the vintages
of wines. The blind beggar does not seek to benumb sympathy by telling
his patrons how well they are looking. The deaf and dumb do not scruple
to converse in signals. 'Have you no sense of beauty?' I said to a
friend who in the Accademia of Florence suggested that we had stood
long enough in front of the 'Primavera.' 'No!' was his simple,
straightforward, quite unanswerable answer. But I have never heard a
man assert that he had no sense of humour. And I take it that no such
assertion ever was made. Moreover, were it made, it would be a lie.
Every man laughs. Frequently or infrequently, the corners of his mouth
are drawn up into his cheeks, and through his parted lips comes his own
particular variety, soft or loud, of that noise which is called
laughter. Frequently or infrequently, every man is amused by something.
Every man has a sense of humour, but not every man the same sense. A
may be incapable of smiling at what has convulsed B, and B may stare
blankly when he hears what has rolled A off his chair. Jokes are so
diverse that no one man can see them all. The very fact that he can see
one kind is proof positive that certain other kinds will be invisible
to him. And so egoistic in his judgment is the average man that he is
apt to suspect of being humourless any one whose sense of humour
squares not with his own. But the suspicion is always false,
incomparably useful though it is in the form of an accusation.

Having no love for the public, I have often accused that body of having
no sense of humour. Conscience pricks me to atonement. Let me withdraw
my oft-made imputation, and show its hollowness by examining with you,
reader (who are, of course, no more a member of the public than I am),
what are the main features of that sense of humour which the public
does undoubtedly possess.

The word 'public' must, like all collective words, be used with
caution. When we speak of our hair, we should remember not only that
the hairs on our heads are all numbered, but also that there is a
catalogue raisonne' in which every one of those hairs is shown to be in
some respect unique. Similarly, let us not forget that 'public' denotes
a collection not of identical units, but of units separable and (under
close scrutiny) distinguishable one