ung man is not content to be very
young, nor even a young man to be young: he wants to share the dignity
of his elders. There is no dignity in laughter, there is much of it in
smiles. Laughter is but a joyous surrender, smiles give token of mature
criticism. It may be that in the early ages of this world there was far
more laughter than is to be heard now, and that aeons hence laughter
will be obsolete, and smiles universal--every one, always, mildly,
slightly, smiling. But it is less useful to speculate as to mankind's
past and future than to observe men. And you will have observed with me
in the club-room that young men at most times look solemn, whereas old
men or men of middle age mostly smile; and also that those young men do
often laugh loud and long among themselves, while we others--the gayest
and best of us in the most favourable circumstances--seldom achieve more
than our habitual act of smiling. Does the sound of that laughter jar on
us? Do we liken it to the crackling of thorns under a pot? Let us do so.
There is no cheerier sound. But let us not assume it to be the laughter
of fools because we sit quiet. It is absurd to disapprove of what one
envies, or to wish a good thing were no more because it has passed out
of our possession.

But (it seems that I must begin every paragraph by questioning the
sincerity of what I have just said) has the gift of laughter been
withdrawn from me? I protest that I do still, at the age of forty-seven,
laugh often and loud and long. But not, I believe, so long and loud
and often as in my less smiling youth. And I am proud, nowadays, of
laughing, and grateful to any one who makes me laugh. That is a bad
sign. I no longer take laughter as a matter of course. I realise, even
after reading M. Bergson on it, how good a thing it is. I am qualified
to praise it.

As to what is most precious among the accessories to the world we live
in, different men hold different opinions. There are people whom the
sea depresses, whom mountains exhilarate. Personally, I want the sea
always--some not populous edge of it for choice; and with it sunshine,
and wine, and a little music. My friend on the mountain yonder is of
tougher fibre and sterner outlook, disapproves of the sea's laxity
and instability, has no ear for music and no palate for the grape, and
regards the sun as a rather enervating institution, like central heating
in a house. What he likes is a grey day and the wind in his face; crag