remarkable improvement was found. In ability to memorise, the average
improvement for the group was 19 per cent.; in attention power, 60 per
cent.; in adding, 35 per cent.; in ability to associate words having an
opposite meaning, 129 per cent.; and in general association ability, 42
per cent. More than this, and testifying incontrovertibly to the direct
influence of the dental treatment in promoting vigour of thought, only
one of the children failed of promotion, six completed thirty-eight
weeks of school-work in twenty-four weeks, and one boy did two years’
work in one year. Yet all of these children, remember, had formerly
been quite unable to keep up with the work of their grades.
How explain this great improvement? Only on the theory that, by
repairing their teeth and drilling them in the rudiments of mouth
hygiene, a stop had been put to a disease-process which involved both
nervous strain and—through the swallowing of the toxic products of
tooth-decay—a poisoning of the supply of blood to the brain, with
consequent lessening of the brain’s ability to function properly.
Eye trouble, particularly in the way of hypermetropia, or
far-sightedness, is another frequent cause of laziness in
school-children, and the correction of the defective vision often is
followed by a marked access of vigour and alertness. In such cases,
however, the laziness is usually manifest only in the school-room, the
child being active enough at play, when no strain is put on the eyes
comparable with that occasioned by reading.
To cite a single instance, a little boy of ten was reported as being
so inattentive at school and so uninterested in his work as to yawn
and become sleepy when required to read. As no amount of scolding
sufficed to turn him from his idle ways, and as he began to complain
of headaches and nervousness, he was finally taken to an oculist. To
the surprise of his parents, who had always believed his vision normal,
he was found to be suffering from latent hypermetropia; and, on being
provided with the proper eye-glasses, he soon demonstrated, by the
rapidity with which he improved in his studies and the interest he now
showed in them, that his laziness had been determined by the condition
of his eyesight.
In fact, any bodily defect that is of such a character as to impose an
excessive strain on the nervous system tends to produce an asthenic
condition, with accompanying apathy and indolence. And, even when the
local trouble is only temporary, its disappearance is not necessarily
followed, as it was in the instances just narrated, by a return to
energetic, effective activity. For, in the meantime, the idler may have
acquired an unconscious—or, to be more precise, a subconscious—belief
that sustained exertion is and always must be beyond his powers. Thus
a vicious circle is established, the belief in his incapacity causing
him to act in such a way as to intensify the asthenic state, and the
resultant increased feeling of debility operating, in its turn, to
confirm and strengthen his erroneous belief. In other words, he is now
suffering chiefly from a “fixed idea,” and his condition is that of any
psycho-neurotic patient.
On this point all who have made a scientific study of laziness are in
substantial agreement. We must, flatly affirms the pioneer investigator
Doctor Maurice de Fleury, “take the indolent for what they nearly
always are—neuropaths; and neurosis for what it always is—bad habits of
cerebral activity.” The longer a man has been an idler, the more deeply
rooted, of course, will be his subconscious conviction that exertion is
impossible to him; but, according to de Fleury and other investigators,
once this conviction is broken down, he will find that he can work, and
work to good purpose.
The effecting of a cure, needless to say, is not always easy.
It requires co-operation on the part of the patient, and on the
physician’s part intelligent and sympathetic use of both physiological
and psychological methods of treatment. Hygienic measures must be
adopted to tone up the nervous system, to improve the circulation, the
digestion, the nutrition—to develop, as far as possible, a general
feeling of well-being. The idler must gradually be trained to occupy
himself usefully—not, perhaps, for many hours at a time, but for
regular stated periods, however short. And to this end, the effort has
to be made, from the outset, to awaken in him an absorbing interest
in the attainment of some one specific aim in life, thereby replacing
his baneful fixed idea of incapacity for work with the opposed and
beneficial obsession of something that he must and can accomplish.
Here we come to what is by far the most important factor in the cure of
laziness—the dynamic, regenerative power of some special interest.[2]
Even your idler, enfeebled by positive organic weakness, may rise
superior to himself and achieve marvels, if only his enthusiasm be
sufficiently aroused to a definite end. It was thus, for example, with
Charles Darwin.
When he was a boy, as was said above, Darwin was colossally lazy.
He neglected his books, and spent his days roaming through the
fields, gun in hand. “You care for nothing but shooting, dogs, and
rat-catching, and you will be a disgrace to yourself and all your
family,” was his father’s bitter reproof. As he grew older, his
propensity for idling seemed only to increase. In spite of this,
hoping against hope that he would yet settle down to serious things,
his father entered him at the University of Glasgow, with the idea
of fitting him for the practice of medicine. “It is no use,” the boy
frankly avowed, after a few months at Glasgow; “I hate the work here,
and I cannot possibly be a physician.” So earnest were his protests
that he was transferred to Cambridge University, on the understanding
that he would study to be a clergyman.
At Cambridge, as good fortune would have it, he entered the natural
history class of an eminent and enlightened scholar, Professor
Henslow, who sent him into the woods and fields to make collections
of plants and insects. Free again to roam under the clear blue skies,
but this time with a lofty purpose set before his mind, a passion for
achievement took possession of him. The boy whom other teachers had
found dull and lazy proved himself, under Professor Henslow’s inspiring
guidance, a marvel of industry and mental vigour. There was no longer
any thought of the “last resort” plan of putting him into the ministry.
He would, he told his delighted father, become a naturalist, and he
would work hard.
And he did work hard. Though his health was permanently impaired by
the hardships of a voyage of exploration, so that “for nearly forty
years he never knew one day of the health of ordinary men,” and “every
day succumbed to the exhaustion brought on by the slightest effort,”
he nevertheless found a way to work with an effectiveness few men of
normal health have equalled.
The establishment of regular hours for work—thus gradually forming a
work habit which itself constituted a sort of fixed idea contrary to
the idea of indolence, and the reinforcement of this work habit by
enthusiastic pre-occupation with an inspiring theme—such was the secret
of Charles Darwin’s mastery over ills more serious than those which
have made countless men lifelong idlers. What he did is precisely what
the medical psychologist of to-day prescribes as fundamental in the
successful treatment of laziness. Listen to the wise Doctor de Fleury:
“Let it be known that it is often possible in the practice of life
to replace an absurd idea by a good fixed one, and to form excellent
habits in the place of deplorable manias. It is precisely in doing this
that the psychological treatment of indolence consists; it is this
patient work that the doctor of misguided minds ought to undertake.
“To induce [a lazy person] to become possessed of a good fixed idea,
is not a superhuman work for those who know how to set about it. In
fact, the means to be employed remind one of a woman who wishes to make
herself loved.
“Let us consider for a moment the means dictated to her by her
infallible instinct concerning love affairs. First of all, she dresses
herself with care, so as to show off her charms to the full; then she
finds opportunities for constantly being seen, increases the number of
meetings; her presence must become habitual—in fact, necessary; he must
suffer when she is no longer near. She kindles the flame of jealousy,
to make it understood that she is an incomparable treasure, and that
another will grasp her if he does not stretch forth his arm in time.
“Imitate her, you who wish to learn the marvellous art of reclaiming
the indolent. Help your patient to choose a work really suited to his
abilities; embellish the idea [of it] with all the hope that it is
possible to raise—self-content, worldly importance, glory, and fortune
to be conquered. Talk about it without ceasing; like a Wagnerian
motive, repeat it again and again, and soon you will find that the
brain seizes the idea, and can no longer exist without this good
obsession. Finally, when the idea becomes cherished, when the brain
loves it as one loves and desires a woman, make it to be understood
that it belongs to all, that it is in the air, that another, braver and
more manly, may step in and carry it off....
“Naturally, it is necessary to vary one’s advice according to the
character and profession of each patient. I have had the opportunity of
treating—for nervous affections and at the same time for indolence—men
occupying the most varied social positions: students, composers,
military officers, men of letters, lawyers, financiers, politicians,
poor workmen, and idle, rich people. For each one of them it was
necessary to choose a ruling idea, suited to his occupation and in
proportion to his strength.”
Treatment by suggestion, then, plus careful preliminary physiological,
and if necessary medical, treatment to ameliorate the asthenic
condition common to idlers—that is the proper course to pursue in
dealing with all cases of laziness. And it is also the course to pursue
in the more important matter of prevention, a matter which, as the case
of Charles Darwin strikingly suggests, rests chiefly with fathers and
mothers.
Everybody knows that, as things now stand, young men and women choose
vocations in a haphazard way, and too often choose vocations for which
Nature has not intended them. What it is equally important to recognise
is that even when they do happen to hit on a vocation fitted to them,
it is only the exceptional man or woman who works anywhere near the
limit of his or her capacity. The great majority fritter away much of
their time, and may justly be accused of idleness.
The surprising thing about this is that, as has already been pointed
out, it is seldom one sees anything like real laziness in early
childhood. What causes the sharp contrast between the activity of
childhood and the frequent apathy of later years? Unfavourable physical
conditions cannot be held wholly responsible, especially when it is
observed that there always are some people who, like Darwin, contrive
to work effectively despite serious physical shortcomings. One must
look a little deeper, and, looking deeper, one finds, as medical
psychologists have lately found, that the trouble lies mostly with the
parental attitude in childhood and youth.
Too many parents discourage the ceaseless questioning of their
children, and thereby deaden that great stimulus to effort—curiosity.
Too many fail to direct their children’s thoughts into really worth
while channels. Too many daily give them an example, not of industrious
activity, but of half-hearted endeavour. All this goes to create
in the child habits inimical to real work; and in proportion as he
is afterward, by parent or teacher, forced to work, he finds work
burdensome and exhausting. Under this condition, whether or no he is
suffering from adenoids, eye trouble, or any other physical cause of
nervous strain, he is likely to develop the asthenic state of the true
idler, with the result of soon or late feeling that sustained effort is
beyond him.
On parents, therefore, ultimately rests the blame for the prevalence of
laziness; and for its prevention we must likewise look to parents. As
a friend, a prominent American medical psychologist, once said to me
emphatically:
“There would be far fewer lazy men in the world if parents only
appreciated the possibility of so influencing their children in early
youth as to confirm them in the tendencies to energetic action and
fruitful thinking which they usually display in the first years of
life. Instead of neglecting or repressing these tendencies, as so
many parents unfortunately do, they should encourage their children
in the active use of their minds, should train them in habits of
systematic and effective thinking, and especially, by observing just
what aptitudes they most clearly show, should take pains to cultivate
in them an abiding interest in the subjects for which they seem to have
greatest talent.
“If they would only do this, and would at the same time keep a close
watch for any symptoms of nerve-strain due to organic or functional
disturbances, correcting these at the earliest possible moment, we
should hear much less than we do now of the indolence of the average
child of school age; and we certainly should be taking a great forward
step in the lessening of laziness among grown men and women. For,
obviously, a child habituated from infancy to the fullest and freest
use of his natural powers, will be likely to continue thinking and
acting energetically in later life. In this, as in everything else, the
law is the same—as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined.”
VI
A CHAPTER ON LAUGHTER
Picture to yourself a familiar scene—the interior of a theatre crowded
with people. On the stage the persons of the play move to and fro,
speaking their lines. Presently a slight change is made in the current
of the dialogue, and, presto! the spectators who have been so quietly
listening and watching become weirdly agitated. Their features are
distorted in strange grimaces, they throw back their heads, and give
utterance to abrupt, explosive, unmelodious noises. Even their bodies
take part in the amazing commotion.
Something “funny” has just been said by one of the actors, and those
who have heard it are responding by an outburst of “laughter.”
Recall likewise the equally familiar picture of a huge circus tent with
its bewildering array of equipment for the performance of feats of
strength and daring, surrounded by tier upon tier of seats filled with
expectant holiday-makers. The entertainment is about to begin; from an
entrance come the blaring strains of a brass band, and a long, gaily
bedecked procession circles slowly before the gaping throng. At the
end of the procession are half a dozen men of uncouth gait and bizarre
appearance, their faces whitened and spotted, queer conical caps on
their heads, and wearing enormous, shapeless garments as white and
spotted as their faces.
These men say nothing—they simply go through all sorts of foolish
antics. But at the mere sight of them the same uproar of discordant
sounds fills the air, the spectators, like those of the theatre and
with even greater vehemence, uniting in a very bedlam of guffaws.
Pass, finally, to the open street, alive with men and women hurrying
to their work. Some one has carelessly dropped on the sidewalk the
slippery skin of a fruit. The first man to step on it feels his legs
give way beneath him, strives frantically to keep his balance, waves
his arms about, and ends by plumping to the ground with a heavy thud.
At once he is beset by the “smiles” and “chuckles” of those who have
witnessed his fall; and, hurt and annoyed, he scrambles to his feet,
gives himself a hasty brush, and disappears as rapidly as possible.
Now, just what is this singular phenomenon of laughter, so readily
induced and from such a variety of causes? What is there in the words
of an actor, the antics of a clown, or the misfortune of another
person, to provoke, under the circumstances mentioned, the peculiar
reaction of bodily and facial contortion and inarticulate vocal
utterance that, regarded dispassionately, seems almost repulsive?
What useful purpose can be served by such behaviour, such an obvious
departure from the well-ordered ways of the reasoning life? In a word,
why do we laugh?
It is a question far more easily asked than answered, as every one has
discovered who has really pondered it. The answer that immediately
comes to mind—“We laugh because we are amused”—not only is hopelessly
inadequate, but to a large extent is incorrect. It can readily be shown
that people sometimes laugh in situations where their mental state is
anything but that of amusement. In one well-authenticated instance a
frontiersman, on returning to his home and finding it in ruins, with
his wife and children mutilated corpses, began to laugh and continued
laughing until he died from the rupture of a blood-vessel. In another
case, cited among the responses to a questionnaire on laughter issued
by that well-known American psychologist, President G. Stanley Hall of
Clark University, a number of young people from nineteen to twenty-four
years of age were sitting together when the death of a friend was
announced. “They looked at each other for a second, and then all began
to laugh, and it was some time before they could become serious.”
A young woman, replying to the same questionnaire, confessed that she
often laughed when hearing people speak of the death of their friends,
“not because it is funny or pleases her, but because she cannot help
it.” Another young woman reported that on hearing of the death of a
former school-mate she felt deeply grieved, yet “laughed as heartily
as she had ever done in her life,” and, in spite of every effort to
control herself, “had to break out into a laugh repeatedly.” A third
“must always laugh when she hears of a death, and has had to leave the
church at a funeral because she must giggle.”
Even the shock of a severe physical pain is known to provoke
occasionally, not tears but laughter. “A young man,” says C. G. Lange,
“whom I was treating with a powerful caustic for an ulceration of the
tongue, invariably, at the moment when the pain was at its highest, was
attacked by a violent outburst of laughter.”
One has only to think also of the laughter caused by tickling to
realise that it is not always true to say that we laugh because we
are amused. And when it is true, this answer, instead of solving the
problem of laughter, merely raises it in another form, since it then
becomes necessary to explain why we are amused by the sayings and
happenings at which we laugh. Most students of laughter have indeed
felt that the important thing to do is to determine the nature of
the laughable, a task itself of considerable difficulty and leading
to the most diverse conclusions in the numerous explanatory formulas
which have been advanced from time to time, but which, when closely
scrutinised, are chiefly noteworthy for their incompleteness.
To mention only a few of the theories of the comic finding place
in psychological works, it is affirmed by some authorities that
the essence of the laughable is that it induces a sudden sense of
superiority in the person moved to laughter. This is the “sudden glory”
theory of Thomas Hobbes, and in support of it is cited more especially
the familiar fact that nobody likes to be laughed at. It also finds
support in the undoubted feeling of contempt which so often accompanies
the laughter provoked by the buffooneries of a mountebank, the dialogue
and action of a farce comedy, and the so-called “comic pictures” now
to be found in such lamentable profusion in many of our newspapers. In
some slight degree, too, there may be a “sudden glory” in the laughter
at the awkwardness and groundless fears of a child, or at his naïve
remarks, and in the laughter occasioned by mischances to other people.
But certainly there is much that is laughable—notably the kindly banter
between friends—that cannot reasonably be said to engender any feeling
of superiority. And, more than this, we are all of us, every day of our
lives, witnessing things that do suddenly arouse in us a lively feeling
of superiority, but without moving us to laughter—moving us, rather, to
pity and perhaps tears.
Even as amended by the psychologist Bain, the “sudden glory” theory
remains inadequate. Bain defines “the occasion of the ludicrous” as
“the degradation of some person or interest possessing dignity in
circumstances that excite no other strong emotion.” This is a decided
improvement, because it clearly recognises that the laughable must be
devoid of elements awakening counteracting emotions. But it is open
to the criticism that laughter is frequently excited by objects and
occurrences in which, unless the imagination be severely wrenched, it
is impossible to assume that ideas of degradation are dominant or even
operant.
When, for example, we laugh at the spectacle of a child half hidden
in his grandfather’s hat, what do we think of as degraded? Is it the
child, the hat, or the absent grandfather? In such an instance can the
idea of degradation properly be said to enter at all? So, likewise, it
is difficult to conceive the presence of any idea either of degradation
or superiority in the ringing laughter of a child at his puppy’s
gambols or at the frisking of his kitten. And how explain on such a
principle the laughter at non-malicious witticism?
Appreciating the inapplicability of the Hobbesian doctrine in any form
as explanatory of all sources of laughter, other investigators have
emphasised the principle of contrast and incongruity, but to scarcely
more satisfactory effect. “Laughter,” says Herbert Spencer, “naturally
results only when consciousness is unawares transferred from great
things to small—when there is what we call a descending incongruity.”
The manifest insufficiency of this theory is avoided in the more
extensive one, to which Darwin inclines, defining the laughable as that
which is queer, unusual, disagreeing with or contrary to our mental
habits or the normal order of affairs. Assuredly there is almost always
an element of queerness in the things at which we laugh. Yet it is
also certain that the queer does not always make us laugh. As Camille
Mélinaud has pointed out:
“There are things contrary to the normal order that have nothing
ludicrous about them; and if the view were true that queerness is the
laughable element, those things that are strangest and most unusual
should be the ones most certain by their very nature to excite
laughter. But we do not laugh at the dancing horses, the jumping pigs,
the musicians playing on bottles, of the circus, all of which are most
contradictory of what we are accustomed to. If we laugh at the circus,
it is at the accessory jokes and incidents in the detail. A conjurer’s
tricks, seemingly contradictory as they are of all our experiences and
notions, do not make us laugh. We laugh at his jokes and his funny
ways of proceeding, but we wonder at his tricks.” (_Popular Science
Monthly_, vol. liii, p. 398.)
Mélinaud’s own view, oddly enough, is about as unconvincing as any that
has ever been formulated, for, while laying stress on the principle
of incongruity, he insists that laughter comes only when the laugher,
“by a rapid process of thought,” submits the object of his mirth to a
reflective analysis and arrives at the laugh-provoking conclusion that
what seems absurd is really quite natural from the point of view of
the person or thing laughed at. Then, and not until then, do we feel
amused. On such a theory one might well wonder that children ever find
it possible to laugh, and that laughter is so prevalent among adults
who are not accustomed to any very high degree of logical thinking.