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Page 73
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."
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