m 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,