condite are
the points in which its organism differs from that of its peers. The
lower the grade, the more numerous and obvious the points of likeness.
By 'the public' I mean that vast number of human animals who are in the
lowest grade of intelligence. (Of course, this classification is made
without reference to social 'classes.' The public is recruited from the
upper, the middle, and the lower class. That the recruits come mostly
from the lower class is because the lower class is still the least
well-educated. That they come in as high proportion from the middle
class as from the less well-educated upper class, is because the 'young
Barbarians,' reared in a more gracious environment, often acquire a
grace of mind which serves them as well as would mental keenness.)
Whereas in the highest grade, to which you and I belong, the fact that
a thing affects you in one way is no guarantee that it will not affect
me in another, a thing which affects one man of the lowest grade in a
particular way is likely to affect all the rest very similarly. The
public's sense of humour may be regarded roughly as one collective
sense.

It would be impossible for any one of us to define what are the things
that amuse him. For him the wind of humour bloweth where it listeth. He
finds his jokes in the unlikeliest places. Indeed, it is only there
that he finds them at all. A thing that is labelled 'comic' chills his
sense of humour instantly--perceptibly lengthens his face. A joke that
has not a serious background, or some serious connexion, means nothing
to him. Nothing to him, the crude jape of the professional jester.
Nothing to him, the jangle of the bells in the wagged cap, the thud of
the swung bladder. Nothing, the joke that hits him violently in the
eye, or pricks him with a sharp point. The jokes that he loves are
those quiet jokes which have no apparent point--the jokes which never
can surrender their secret, and so can never pall. His humour is an
indistinguishable part of his soul, and the things that stir it are
indistinguishable from the world around him. But to the primitive and
untutored public, humour is a harshly definite affair. The public can
achieve no delicate process of discernment in humour. Unless a joke
hits in the eye, drawing forth a shower of illuminative sparks, all is
darkness. Unless a joke be labelled 'Comic. Come! why don't you laugh?'
the public is quite silent. Violence and obviousness are thus the
essential