As a Matter of Course | Page 8

is striking, and would be surprising could the sufferer from
such seriousness once see himself (or more often it is herself) in a clear
light. It is quite common to call such a person over-serious, when in
reality he is not serious enough. He or she is laboring under a sham
seriousness, as an actor might who had such a part to play and merged
himself in the character. These people are simply exaggerating their
own importance to life, instead of recognizing life's importance to them.
An example of this is the heroine of Mrs. Ward's "Robert Elsmere,"
who refused to marry because the family could not get on without her;
and when finally she consented, the family lived more happily and
comfortably than when she considered herself their leader. If this
woman's seriousness, which blinded her judgment, had been real
instead of sham, the state of the case would have been quite clear to her;

but then, indeed, there would have been no case at all.
When seriousness is real, it is never intrusive and can never be
overdone. It is simply a quiet, steady obedience to recognized laws
followed as a matter of course, which must lead to a clearer
appreciation of such laws, and of our own freedom in obeying them.
Whereas with a sham seriousness we dwell upon the importance of our
own relation to the law, and our own responsibility in forcing others to
obey. With the real, it is the law first, and then my obedience. With the
sham, it is myself first, and then the laws; and often a strained
obedience to laws of my own making.
This sham seriousness, which is peculiarly a New England trait, but
may also be found in many other parts of the world, is often the
perversion of a strong, fine nature. It places many stones in the way,
most of them phantoms, which, once stepped over and then ignored,
brings to light a nature nobly expansive, and a source of joy to all who
come in contact with it. But so long as the "seriousness "lasts, it is quite
incompatible with any form of real amusement.
For the very essence of amusement is the child-spirit. The child throws
himself heartily and spontaneously into the game, or whatever it may
be, and forgets that there is anything else in the world, for the time
being. Children have nothing else to remember. We have the advantage
of them there, in the pleasure of forgetting and in the renewed strength
with which we can return to our work or care, in consequence. Any one
who cannot play children's games with children, and with the same
enjoyment that children have, does not know the spirit of amusement.
For this same spirit must be taken into all forms of amusement,
especially those that are beyond the childish mind, to bring the
delicious reaction which nature is ever ready to bestow. This is almost
a self-evident truth; and yet so confirmed is man in his sham maturity
that it is quite common to see one look with contempt, and a sense of
superiority which is ludicrous, upon another who is enjoying a child's
game like a child. The trouble is that many of us are so contracted in
and oppressed by our own self-consciousness that open spontaneity is
out of the question and even inconceivable. The sooner we shake it off,
the better. When the great philosopher said, "Except ye become as little
children," he must have meant it all the way through in spirit, if not in
the letter. It certainly is the common-sense view, whichever way we

look at it, and proves as practical as walking upon one's feet.
With the spontaneity grows the ability to be amused, and with that
ability comes new power for better and really serious work.
To endeavor with all your might to win, and then if you fail, not to care,
relieves a game of an immense amount of unnecessary nervous strain.
A spirit of rivalry has so taken hold of us and become such a large
stone in the way, that it takes wellnigh a reversal of all our ideas to
realize that this same spirit is quite compatible with a good healthy
willingness that the other man should win--if he can. Not from the
goody-goody motive of wishing your neighbor to beat,--no neighbor
would thank you for playing with him in that spirit,--but from a feeling
that you have gone in to beat, you have done your best, as far as you
could see, and where you have not, you have learned to do better. The
fact of beating is not of paramount importance. Every man should have
his chance, and, from your opponent's point of view, provided you were
as severe on him