" It is quite
admissible as conversation. But he doesn't sit down to try to think,
along with nine other rival thinkers, of all the stories that he had
heard, and that makes all the difference.
The Scotch, by the way, resemble us in liking to tell and hear
stories. But they have their own line. They like the stories to be
grim, dealing in a jocose way with death and funerals. The story
begins (will the reader kindly turn it into Scotch pronunciation
for himself), "There was a Sandy MacDonald had died and the wife
had the body all laid out for burial and dressed up very fine in
his best suit," etc. Now for me that beginning is enough. To me
that is not a story, but a tragedy. I am so sorry for Mrs. MacDonald
that I can't think of anything else. But I think the explanation
is that the Scotch are essentially such a devout people and live
so closely within the shadow of death itself that they may without
irreverence or pain jest where our lips would falter. Or else,
perhaps they don't care a cuss whether Sandy MacDonald died or not.
Take it either way.
But I am tired of talking of our faults. Let me turn to the more
pleasing task of discussing those of the English. In the first
place, and as a minor matter of form, I think that English
humour suffers from the tolerance afforded to the pun. For some
reason English people find puns funny. We don't.
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