Human Nature.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 17, 26 October 1910, Page 36

Human Nature.

(By

ELBERT HUBBARD.)

The article in which 1 deal, as a speed alty. human nature. 1 picture traits, moods, actions. Viewed from the moon, with a powerful telescope, all of our deeds would be straight comedy. Lovers, for instance, are all unconscious comedians. Nothing in life is so funny, so absurd, so tragic, as are the antics of humanity. Lawyers in deadly earnest trying eases, and lovers in the park, are always amusing—unless you happen to be mixed up in the lawsuit, or are seated on the bench by the side of the girl. If so, then, bless my soul, that’s different. But because 1 laugh at human traits is no sign that 1 am indifferent to the woes and joys of mankind. 1 love people, but some of the actions of some people 1 may dislike. 1 may smile at folks and laugh, and yet feel a pity and a love for the individual. Charles Dickens was, perhaps, the greatest dealer in human traits that the world has ever seen. Dickens’ characters are personifications of traits, not men and women. Yet they are a deal funnier —they are as funny as a box of monkeys, as entertaining as a Punch and Judy show, as interesting as a “fifteen puzzle,” and sometimes as pretty as ehromos. Quilp, munching the eggs,

shells and all, to seare his wife, makes one shiver as though a Jaek-in-the-Bop had been popped out at him. .Mr. Mould, the undertaker, and Jaggers, the lawyer, are as amusing as Humpty Dumpty and Pantaloon. And I am sure that no live lawyer ever gave me half the enjoyment that Jaggers has. Dr. Slammers’ talk is better medicine than the pills of any living M.D. Because the burnt cork minstrel pleases me more than a real “coon” is no reason why I should find fault. Dickens takes the horse, the eagle, and the elephant, and makes an animal of his own. He rubs up the feathers, places the tail at a fierce angle, makes the glass eyes glare, and you are ready to swear that the thing is alive. By rummaging over the commercial world you can collect the harshness, greed, avarice, selfishness, and vanity from a thousand men. With these sins you can, if you are very skilful, construct a Ralph Nickleby, a Scrooge, a Jonas Chuzzlewitt, an Aiderman Cute, a Mr. Murdstone, a Bounderby, or a Gradgrind at will. A little more pride, a trifle less hypocrisy, a molecule extra of untruth, and

flavour with this fault or that, and your man is ready to place up against the fence to dry. Then you can make a collection of all the ridiculous traits; the whims, silly pride, foibles, hopes founded on nothing and dreams touched with moonshine, and you get a Micawber. Put in a dash of assurance and a good thimbleful of hypocrisy, and Pecksniff is the product. Leave out the assurance, replacing it with cowardice, and the result is Dr. Chillip or Uriah Heap. Muddle the whole with stupidity and Bumble eomes forth, proud and pompous. Then, for the uneo gude, collect the virtues and season to suit the taste, and we have Cheeryble Brothers, Paul Dombey, or little Nell. These characters have no development, therefore no history—the circumstances under which you meet them vary, that’s all. They are people the like of whom are never seen on land or sea. Little Nell is good all day long, while live children are good for only five minutes at a time. The re-occurrence with which tseser five-minute periods return determines whether the child is “good” or “bad.” In the intervals the restless little feet stray into flower beds; stand on chairs so that grimy, dimpled hands may reach forbidden jam; run and romp in pure, joyous innocence, or kick spitefully at authority. Then the little fellow may go to sleep, smile in his dreams so that mamma says angels are talking to him; when he awakens, the fiveminute good spell returns. Caprice, temper, accident all act upon man. The north wind of hate, the simoon of jealousy, the cyclone of passion beat and buffet him. Pilots strong and pilots cowardly stand at the helm by turn. But sometimes the south wind softly blows, the sun comes out by day, the stars at night; friendship holds the rudder firm, and love makes all secure. Such is the life of man—& voyage on life’s unresting sea; but Dickens knows it not—Esther is always good, Fagin is always bad, Bumble is always pompous, and Scrooge is always Scrooge. At no Dickens’ party do you ever mistake Cheeryble for Carker, vet in real life Carker is Carker one day and

Cheeryble the next—yes, Carker in the morning and Cheeryble after dinner. There is no doubt that a dummy so ridiculous as Pecksniff has reduced the number of hypocrites; and the domineering and unjust are not quite so popular since Dickens painted their picture with a broom. And now if I laugh at folks, or at certain traits which certain folks possess, just remember that 1 do not laugh in scorn. In very truth, how would I know the man was absurd, if 1 did not look into my own heart ami see the man reflected there? The thing 1 see, 1 am. All we behold in life its the picture we throw upon the screen. That which its not akin to you, you do not know exists. Man is the only animal in creation that marches proudly in life’s procession and yet sits high in the grand stand and watches himself go by. And a very good way to cure a fault is to give it the merry ha-ha. O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel’s os ithers see us; It wad frae mony a blunder flee us, an’ foolish notion. So sang Bobbie Burns, and the curious fact is that in great degree we do see ourselves as others see us; otherwise we would be ram, jam, stark, staring mad, a sprint for Bedlam at the speed limit.— Elbert Hubbard.