Where are the dead Humorists?

A cheerful person contemplates death with alarm.  What is he to do in this land of ghosts? there is no place for him.  Imagine the commonplace liver of a humdrum existence being received into ghostland.  He enters nervous, shy, feeling again the new boy at school.  The old ghosts gather round him.

“How do you come here—murdered?”

“No, at least, I don’t think so.”

“Suicide?

“No—can’t remember the name of it now.  Began with a chill on the liver, I think.”

The ghosts are disappointed.  But a happy suggestion is made.  Perhaps he was the murderer; that would be even better.  Let him think carefully; can he recollect ever having committed a murder?  He racks his brains in vain, not a single murder comes to his recollection.  He never forged a will.  Doesn’t even know where anything is hid.  Of what use will he be in ghostland?  One pictures him passing the centuries among a moody crowd of uninteresting mediocrities, brooding perpetually over their wasted lives.  Only the ghosts of ladies and gentlemen mixed up in crime have any “show” in ghostland.