er 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 al