weird fascination of its goblins and monsters, make it a favorite source
of dramatic adaptations. And here, if any man doubt the doctrine of
original sin, let him note the fierce competition among the youngsters
for the part of Apollyon, and put his doubts from him. With a little
care a great many scenes may be selected from this inimitable work.
Christian's entry into the haven of refuge in the early part of his
pilgrimage can be effectively reproduced in the nursery. It will be
remembered that the approach was commanded by a castle of Beelzebub's,
from which pilgrims were assailed by a shower of arrows. It is this that
gives the episode its charm. One child is of course obliged to sacrifice
his inclinations and personate Christian. The rest eagerly take service
under Beelzebub and become the persecuting garrison. The "properties"
required are of the simplest kind. The nursery sofa or settee--a
position of great natural strength--is further fortified with chairs and
other furniture to represent the stronghold of the enemy. Christian
should be equipped with a wide-awake hat, a stick, and a great-coat
(papa's will do, or, better still, a visitor's), with a stool wrapped up
in a towel and slung over his shoulders to do duty as the bundle of
sins. He is then made to totter along to a "practical" gate (two chairs
are the right thing) at the far end of the room, while the hosts of
darkness hurl boots, balls, and other suitable missiles at him from the
sofa. Sometimes the original is faithfully copied, and bows and arrows
are employed; but this is, on the whole, a mistake: there is some chance
of Christian being really injured, and this, though of course no
objection in itself, is apt to provoke a summary interference by the
authorities. Christian's passage through the Valley of the Shadow of
Death is another favorite piece. Here, too, there are great
opportunities for an enterprising demon. It will be necessary, however,
for the success of the performance that Christian should abandon his
strictly defensive attitude in the narrative and lay about him with
sufficient energy to produce a general scrimmage.
"Robinson Crusoe" is a treasure-house of situations, some of which gain
a piquancy from the dash of the diabolical with which Crusoe's terrors
invested them. Even where this is wanting there is plenty of bloodshed
to take its place, and a happy combination of horrors is supplied by the
cannibal feast which Crusoe interrupts. The youngest member of the
troupe is, on the whole, the best victim; but, failing this, any pet
animal sufficiently lazy or good-tempered to endure the process makes a
tolerable substitute. "Masterman Ready," "The Swiss Family Robinson,"
and other cognate works, together with appropriate selections from
sacred and profane history, are adapted with a shamelessness which would
make a dramatic author's blood run cold.
Lions, tigers, and wild beasts generally are common objects of nursery
imitation, either from a genuine admiration of their qualities or from
the mysterious craving for locomotion on all-fours with which children
seem possessed. This branch of the art, however, struggles under some
difficulties. It has, of course, to contend with the undisguised
opposition of authority. This is hardly a matter for marvel, and perhaps
not even a matter for regret. A prudential regard for the knees of
puerile knickerbockers and the corresponding region of feminine frocks
may explain a good deal of parental discouragement in the matter; and
there is little public sympathy to counteract this, for it is felt that
the total decay of these mimes would not be a serious loss either to
dramatic art or to peace and quietness.
In one sense, no doubt, these amusements of childhood are matters of
little moment; but, in spite of their seeming triviality, they have a
genuine importance which should not be overlooked. The spontaneous
exhibitions of children at play often reveal latent tastes, tendencies,
or traits of character to one who is able to interpret them aright. If
this be so,--and it is no longer open to doubt,--it is clear that even
infant acting may furnish hints and assistance of the highest value to
an intelligent system of education. It is true, no doubt, that till
quite lately any such possibility was steadily ignored; but it is only
quite lately that anything like an intelligent system of early education
has been attempted. The idiosyncrasies of a child, instead of being
carefully observed, were either disregarded as meaningless or repressed
as being naughty. No greater mistake could be possible; and this at last
is beginning to be understood. The first struggles of a young
consciousness to express itself externally are nearly always eccentric,
and often seem perverse. But this is nothing more than we ought to
expect. The oddities of a child's conduct are in reality nothing else
than direct expressions of character, uncurbed by the conventions which
regulate the demeanor of adults, or direct revelations of some taste or
aptitude, which education may foster, but which neglect will hardly
crush. The world contains a woful number of human pegs thrust forcibly
into holes which do not fit them, and the world's work suffers
proportionately from this misapplication of energy. The mischief is
abundantly clear, but the remedy, if we do not shut our eyes to it, is
tolerably clear also. Just as this condition of things is largely due to
our unscientific neglect of variations in character and the wooden
system of education which this neglect has produced, so we may expect to
see its evils disappear by an abolition of the one and a reform of the
other. If the world be indeed a stage, with all humanity for its _corps
dramatique_ it must surely be well for the success of the performance
that the cast should take account of individual aptitudes, and that to
each player should be allotted the part which he can best support in the
great drama of Life.
NORMAN PEARSON.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
"The Man who Laughs."
The degree of culture and good breeding which a man possesses may be
very correctly determined by the way he laughs. The primeval savage,
from whom we trace descent, was distinguished above everything else by
his demonstrativeness; and there is much in our present type of social
manners and conduct which betrays our barbarous origin. The brute-like
sounds that escape from the human throat in the exercise of laughter,
the coarse guffaw, the hoarse chuckle, and the high, cackling tones in
which many of the feminine half of the world express their sense of
amusement, attest very painfully the animal nature within us. It was
Emerson, I believe, who expressed a dislike of all loud laughter; and it
is difficult to imagine the scene or occasion which could draw from that
serene and even-minded philosopher a broader expression of amusement
than that conveyed in the "inscrutable smile" which Whipple describes as
his most characteristic feature. Yet Emerson was by no means wanting in
appreciation of the comic. On the contrary, he had an abiding sense of
humor, and it was this--a keen and lively perception of the grotesque,
derived as part of his Yankee inheritance--that kept him from uniting in
many of the extravagant reform movements of the day. Few of us, however,
even under the sanction of an Emerson, would wish to dispense with all
sound of laughter.
The memory of a friend's voice, in which certain laughing notes and
tones are inextricably mingled with the graver inflections of common
speech, is almost as dear as the vision of his countenance or the warm
pressure of his hand. Yet among such remembrances we hold others, of
those from whom the sound of open laughter is seldom heard, the absence
of which, however, denotes no diminished sense of the humorous and
amusing. A quick, responsive smile, a flash or glance of the eye, a
kindling countenance, serve as substitutes for true laughter, and we do
not miss the sound of that which is supplied in a finer and often truer
quality.
The freest, purest laughter is that of childhood, which is as
spontaneous as the song of birds. It is impossible that the laughter of
older people should retain this sound of perfect music. Knowledge of
life and the world has entered in to mar the natural harmonics of the
human voice, which not all the skill and efforts of the vocal culturists
can ever again restore. It is only those who in attaining the years and
stature of manhood have retained the nature of the child, its first
unconscious truth and simplicity, whose laughter is wholly pleasant to
hear. I recall the laugh of a friend which corresponds to this
description, a laugh as pure and melodious, as guiltless of premeditated
art or intention, as the notes of the rising lark; yet its owner is a
man of wide worldly experience. It is natural that I, who know my
friend so well, should find in this peculiarly happy laugh of his the
sign and test of that type of high, sincere manhood which he represents;
but it is a dangerous business, this attempting to define the character
and disposition of people by the turn of an eyelid, the curve of a lip,
or a particular vocal shade and inflection. Not only has Art learned to
imitate Nature very closely, but Nature herself plays many a trick upon
our credulity in matters of this kind. Upon a woman who owns no higher
motive than low and selfish cunning she bestows the musical tones of a
seraph, as she sheathes the sharp claws of all her feline progeny in
cases of softest fur. Rosamond Vincy is not the only example which might
be furnished, either in or out of print, in proof that a low, soft
voice, that excellent thing in woman, may have a wrongly persuasive
accent, luring to disappointment and death, like the Lorelei's song, to
which the harsh tones of the most strong-minded Xantippe are to be
preferred.
Still, it does seem that, however right Shakespeare was when he said a
man may smile and smile and be a villain still, no real villain could
indulge in hearty, spontaneous laughter. Much smiling is one of the thin
disguises in which a certain kind of knavery seeks to hide itself, but
it is easy to conjecture that the low ruffian type of villain, like that
seen in Bill Sykes and Jonas Chuzzlewit, neither laughs nor smiles,
being as destitute of the courage to listen to the sound of its own
voice as of the wit that summons artifice to its aid in protection of
its guilty devices.
The ghastly effect of guilt laughing with constrained glee to hide
suspicion of itself from the eyes of innocence is vividly portrayed in
Irving's performance of "The Bells," in the scene where Mathias, by a
supreme effort of will, joins in Christian's laugh over the supposition
that it might have been his, the respected burgomaster's, limekiln in
which the body of the Polish Jew was burned. Genuine laughter must
spring from a pure and undefiled source. It may not always be of
tuneful quality, but it must at least contain the note of sincerity. I
have in mind the outbursts of deep-chested sound with which another
friend evinces his appreciation of a humorous remark or incident, a
laugh which many fastidious people would pronounce too hard and rough by
half, bending their heads and darting from under, as if suddenly
assailed by some rude nor'wester. But I like the pleasant shock bestowed
in those strong, breezy tones, and the feeling of rejuvenation and new
expectancy which it imparts.
Another laugh echoes in memory as I write, a girl's laugh this time, not
"idle and foolish and sweet," as such have been described, but clear,
and strong, and odd almost to the point of the ludicrous, yet charmingly
natural withal. A young woman's laugh is apt to begin at the highest
note, and, running down the scale, to end in a sigh of mingled relief
and exhaustion an octave or so lower down. This particular girl,
however, takes the other way, and, running her chromatic neatly up from
about middle C, pauses for a breath, and then astonishes her audience by
striking off two perfectly attuned notes several degrees higher up,
hitting her mark with the ease and deftness of a prima donna. So odd and
surprising a laugh is sure to be quickly infectious, and its owner is
never at a loss for company in her merriment, while a cheerful temper,
unclouded by a shade of envy or suspicion, is not in the least disturbed
by the knowledge that others are laughing at as well as with her.
The question of what we shall laugh at deserves more attention than our
manner of laughing. "There is nothing," says Goethe, "in which people
more betray their character than in what they find to laugh at," adding,
"The man of understanding finds almost everything ridiculous, the man of
thought scarcely anything." This last corresponds somewhat to a
sentiment found in Horace Walpole: "Life is a comedy to those who think,
a tragedy to those who feel."
With many people laughter seems to be an appetite, which grows by what
it feeds on, until all power of discrimination between the finer and the
more vulgar forms of wit is lost. Certain it is that the habit of
laughter is as easy to fall into as it is dangerous to all social
dignity. The muscles of the mouth have a natural upward curve,--a fact
which speaks well for the disposition of Mother Nature who made us, and
may also be held to signify that there are more things in the world
deserving our approval than our condemnation. But the hideous spectacle
presented in the contorted visage of Hugo's great character contains a
wholesome warning even for us of a later age; for there is a social
tyranny, almost as potent as the kingly despotism which ruled the world
centuries ago, that would fain shape the features of its victims after
one artificial pattern. We laugh too much, from which it necessarily
follows that we often laugh at the wrong things, a fault which betrays
intellectual weakness as well as moral cupidity. The determining quality
in true laughter lies in the degree of innocent mirth it gives
expression to; and when jealous satire, envy, or malice add their
dissonant note to its sound, its finest effect is destroyed and its
opportunity lost.
C.P.W.
Why we Forget Names.
In the last years of his life the venerated Emerson lost his memory of
names. In instance of this many will remember the story told about him
when returning from the funeral of his friend Longfellow. Walking away
from the cemetery with his companion, he said, "That gentleman whose
funeral we have just attended was a sweet and beautiful soul, but I
cannot recall his name." The little anecdote has something very touching
about it,--the old man asking for the name of the life-long friend, "the
gentleman whose funeral we have just attended."
When I saw Mr. Emerson a year prior to his own death, this defect of
memory was very noticeable, and extended even to the names of common
objects, so that in talking he would use quaint, roundabout expressions
to supply the place of missing words. He would call a church, for
instance, "that building in the town where all the people go on Sunday."
This loss of memory of names is very common with old people, but it is
not confined to them. Almost every one has at some time experienced the
peculiar, the almost desperate, feeling of trying to recall a name that
will not come. It is at our tongue's end; we know just what sort of a
name it is; it begins with a _B_; yet did we try for a year it would not
come. One curious fact about the phenomenon is that it seems to be
contagious. If one person suddenly finds himself unable to recall a
name, the person with whom he is talking will stick at it also. The name
almost always gets the best of them, and they have to say, "Yes, I know
what you mean," and go on with their talk.
I have never seen an explanation of this name-forgetfulness; but it is
not difficult to find a reason for it. What needs explaining is that
names are so obstinate, and grow more obstinate the harder we try, while
other things we have forgotten and are trying to recall generally yield
themselves to our efforts. Moreover, in other cases of forgetfulness we
never experience that peculiar and most exasperating feature of
name-forgetfulness,--the feeling that we know the word perfectly well
all the time. This last fact, indeed, seems to show that we have not
forgotten the name at all, but have simply lost the clue to it.
Now, let us inquire why this clue is so hard to find. Scientific men who
study the human mind and make a business of explaining thought, emotion,
memory, and the like, have an expression which they use frequently, and
which sounds difficult, but which really it is very easy as well as
interesting to understand. They speak of the _association of ideas_. The
association of ideas means simply the fact which every one has noticed,
that one thing tends to call up another in the mind. When you recall a
certain sleigh-ride last winter, you remember that you put hot bricks
in the sleigh; and this reminds you that you were intending to heat a
warming-pan for the bed to-night; and the thought of warming the bed
makes you think of poor President Garfield's sickness, during which they
tried to cool his room with ice. Each of these thoughts (ideas) has
evidently called up another connected--associated--with it in some way.
This is the association of ideas: it is a law that governs almost all
our thinking, as any one may discover by going back over his own
thoughts. Perhaps an easier way to discover it will be to observe the
rapid talk of an afternoon caller on the family, and see how the
conversation skips from one subject to another which the last suggested,
and from that to another suggested by this, and so on.
Just this association of ideas it is which enables us to recall things
we have forgotten. Our ideas on any subject--say that sleigh-ride last
winter--resemble a lot of balls some distance apart in a room, but all
connected by strings. If there is any particular ball we cannot
find,--that is, some fact we cannot remember,--then if we pull the
neighboring balls it is likely that they by the connecting strings will
bring the missing ball into sight. To illustrate this, suppose that you
cannot remember the route of that sleigh-ride. You recall carefully all
the circumstances associated with the ride, in hopes that some one of
them will suggest the route that was taken. You think of your
companions, of the moon being full, of having borrowed extra robes, of
the hot bricks--Ah, there is a clue! The bricks were reheated somewhere.
Where was it? They were placed on a stove,--on a red-hot stove with a
loafers' foot-rail about it. That settles it. Such stoves are found only
in country grocery-stores; and now it all comes back to you. The ride
was by the hill road to Smith's Corners. It is as if there were a string
from the hot-bricks idea to the idea that the bricks were reheated, to
this necessarily being done on a stove, to the peculiar kind of stove it
was done on, to the only place in the neighborhood where such a stove
could be, to Smith's Corners; and this string has led you, like a clue,
to the fact you desired to remember.
We can now return to the question asked above: In trying to recall
names, why is it so difficult to find a clue? After what has been said,
the question can be put in a better form: Why does not the association
of ideas enable us to recall names as it does other things? The answer
is, that names (proper names) have very few associations, very few
strings, or clues, leading to them. It is easy to see this; for suppose
you moved away from the neighborhood of that sleigh-ride many years
before, and in thinking over past times find yourself unable to recall
the name of the Corners where the store stood. The place can be
remembered perfectly, and a thousand circumstances connected with it,
but they furnish no clue to the name: the circumstances might all remain
the same and the name be any other as well. The only association the
name has is with an indistinct memory of how it sounded. It was of two
words: the second was something like Hollow, or Cross roads, or
Crossing; the first began with an _S_. But it is vain to seek for it: no
clue leads to it. Were it the ride you sought to remember, many of its
details could be recalled, some of which might lead to the desired fact;
but a name has no details, and it is only possible to say of it that it
sounded so and so, if it is possible to say that.
It may be asked, how, then, is it that we do remember some names, as
those in use every day? Just as the multiplication-table is
remembered,--by force of familiarity. Constant repetition engraves them
in the mind. When in old age the vigor of the mind lessens, the
engraving wears out and names are hard to recall, since there is no
other clue to them than this engraved record.
There may be mentioned one slight help in recalling names when the case
is important or desperate. It consists in going back to the period when
the name was known and deliberately writing out a circumstantial
account of all the connected incidents, mentioning names of persons and
places whenever they can be remembered. If this is done in a casual way,
without thinking of the purpose in view,--as if one were sending a
gossipy letter of personal history to a friend,--the mind falls into an
automatic condition that may result in producing the desired name
itself. Every one must have observed that it is this automatic activity
of the mind, and not conscious effort, which recovers lost names most
successfully. We "think of them afterwards."
XENOS CLARK.
A Reminiscence of Harriet Martineau.
It is more than fifty years since I, a mere child, spent a summer with
my parents in a sandy young city of Indiana. Eight or nine hundred
souls, perhaps more, were already anchored within its borders. Chicago,
a lusty infant just over the line, her feet blackened with prairie mud,
made faces, called names, and ridiculed its soil and architecture.
Nevertheless it was a valiant little city, even though its streets were
rivers of shifting sand, through which "prairie-schooners" were
toilsomely dragged by heavy oxen or a string of chubby ponies,--these
last a gift from the coppery Indian to the country he was fast
forsaking. Clouds of clear grit drifted into open casements on every
passing breeze, or, if a gale arose, were driven through every crevice.
Our little city was cradled amid the shifting sand-hills on Michigan's
wave-beaten shore. Indeed, it had received the name of the grand old
lake in loving baptism, and was pluckily determined to wear it worthily.
Its buildings were wholly of wood, and hastily constructed, some not
entirely unpretentious, while others tilted on legs, as if in readiness
at shortest notice to take to their heels and skip away. In those early
days there was only the round yellow-bodied coach swinging on leathern
straps, or the heavy lumber-wagon, to accommodate the tide of travel
already setting westward. It was a daily delight to listen to the
inspiring toot of the driver's horn and the crack of his long whip, as,
with six steaming horses, he swung his dusty passengers in a final grand
flourish up to the hospitable door of the inn.