THE PILGRIM AND PSYCHOLOGY

HAVE made an interesting observation

discovery that under certain circumstances not yet fully determined the contents of books standing adjacent on shelves, or lying upon one another on the table, may become in a manner mixed and transfused. It is my personal belief that this mingling occurs most often in the presence of an idle mind, but at the moment it is less causes and explanations than a bare account of facts that I wish to present; and the main fact is that the contents of adjacent books do sometimes intermingle.

I first noticed something of the kind some years ago when I took up to replace on the shelves a copy of Mrs. Hemans' Poems, which had accidentally been left lying on top of a copy of Kipling's Barrack-room Ballads. As I lifted the book it opened of itself at the well-known verses on the Landing of the Pilgrims. What was my astonishment, as my eye fell upon the page, to find what I had never seen there before, and what I knew had no place there a choral refrain following each stanza. It made the poem run like this:

The breaking waves dashed high,
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed.

On the road to Plymouth bay,
Where the simple red men play,
Can't you see the Mayflower rolling
Half-seas-over toward the bay?

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

-

In the roads of Plymouth bay
What is this the exiles say?
Ain't there any return tickets?

This here ain't no place to stay.

And so it went on through the whole. It was plain. enough that Mrs. Hemans' stately lyric had become infected with Kipling's Mandalay. This was curious and shocking, and I looked promptly to see whether Kipling also would show any effect of the juxtaposition. I turned up the Mandalay, and there, sure enough, was clear proof that the exchange had been mutual. The last stanza reads in the original:

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is as the worst,

Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin', and it's there that I would be, By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea.

As I now read it this is what I found very much perhaps as it might have been worded by a Salvation Army songster:

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the heathen are the worst,

Where they don't know no commandments saving those they like to burst;

For the mission spirit calls me and 'tis there that I would be Doin' Christian-martyr duty by the lazy Burmah sea.

On the road to Mandalay,

Where there ain't no God they say,

And the heathen idols flourish, gettin' chesty day by day!
On the road to Mandalay,

Where the spicy breezes play,

And the prospects all are pleasing save our brother far

away.

Kipling infused with Mrs. Hemans was, if anything, worse than Mrs. Hemans Kiplingized; and I hastily put both books out the window to air and cool off. And I am happy to say that after a time both poets "came back" and were again normal in words and spirit.

I have noticed many other minor instances of such transfusion, but the most remarkable case occurred when a copy of Pilgrim's Progress had been left standing for some months between a volume of Life and one of the Philosophische Studien. The volume of Life which had stood on the left of the copy of Pilgrim's Progress showed considerable moral improvement, but its jokes had all become antiquated and its illustrations resembled those of the New England Primer. The effect upon the Studien on the right was less in amount, perhaps because of its serious character, and was represented chiefly in a lapse toward the "faculty" psychology.

Of the state of the allegory, which had suffered invasion from both sides, and therefore showed the most marked effects, it is hard to speak descriptively. Let me quote a sample instead. The one which I select, almost at random, is from the fifth chapter, in which in the unpolluted text, Christian comes to the House of Interpreter and is shown in symbolic representation some of the experiences to be met in the religious life. In the corrupted text the visitor is everywhere called Pilgrim instead of Christian an effect, I suppose, of the preponderatingly secular character of the contaminating works.

"The guide at once led Pilgrim along the main corridor of the House," so the book read, "explaining to him as they went something of its plan and purpose, and telling over the rooms they were about to visit. Even as he was speaking they came before a large door over which were painted the words 'Psychological Laboratory,' while in letters nearly as large there stood below the threatening legend: 'Who enters here must leave his soul behind.'

"As he read this last Pilgrim began to tremble, and turned as though he were half minded to run away. The guide, however, caught him by the arm. 'Be reassured,' he said, 'you are in the House of the Interpreter, and no harm can come to you here. You will not lose your soul; you will only need to leave it in check here at the door

while you are inside. You cannot take it in, because if a single live and active soul got loose inside, it would make no end of trouble, and might wreck the whole science of psychology.' Then Pilgrim looked and saw that on each side of the door there was a large set of pigeon holes and an attendant in clerical garb, in whose care all those who entered left their souls, each receiving in turn a check showing in which hole his soul had been placed.

"Not without misgivings, but still with trust in his guide, Pilgrim made the exchange, and the two entered the laboratory. Down the center of the spacious hall were cases of shiny brass instruments while many students and assistants were moving quietly hither and thither. On each side smaller rooms opened off the main hall. All this Pilgrim took in at a glance while they advanced toward the first of the cases, where stood a man, looking like a philosopher yet also something like a mechanic, whom the guide presented as Mr. Try-'em-out, Director of the Laboratory.

"The Interpreter begs, Mr. Director,' said the guide, 'that you will show this guest of his what you may now have in the laboratory that is notable.' 'Right gladly,' replied the Director, and turned at once to a door on the right which was marked Haptics. "This room,' he explained, 'is devoted to the study of Touch, the mother of the senses.' As he pushed the door open Pilgrim saw a tattered pan-handler 'touching' a reluctant attendant for the price of a night's lodging. 'Yes,' continued the Director, smiling and answering Pilgrim's expression without waiting for his question, 'Yes, it's all real. This study is one on "active touch" and we have called in a professional to assist us. We have great hopes for the future, particularly in the line of applications. We hope soon to be able to furnish charity collectors and even college presidents with precise directions for the most efficient "touching" of wary millionaires.'

"A little further down on the same side the Director

stopped before an open door marked Olfaction. "This room,' he said, 'like the other is for the study of an important sense- the one having the closest connection with the brain-the sense of Smell. I think you will be interested in our cabinet of odors and essences. Some of them are really unique.' And with that he showed the visitors a case of many bottles, all carefully labeled and some of curious shape and color. "This bottle,' said the Director, taking one from the shelf and handing it to Pilgrim, 'contains the Odor of Sanctity. We are trying to analyze it. What do you make of it?' Pilgrim took the bottle and removing the stopper took a strong whiff of it. 'It is indeed a strange mixture,' he replied. "There is something in it of mustiness, of that I am sure; something also, I should say, of stale incense, and something perhaps of unwashed humanity.' 'Well done,' exclaimed the Director; 'few recognize so many elements at the first attempt. And now try this one,' he continued, handing him another bottle. "This is the Essence of Pragmatism. Some say they can smell nothing in it but the odor of the primroses of the path of dalliance; and others nothing but dry logic and the spirit of progress. How does it seem to you?' 'I can hardly say,' said Pilgrim, trying it once or twice. 'I seem to have smelled something like it before, but I cannot give it a name. The odor is pleasant, though, and penetrating. I rather like it.' 'And here is a third,' said the Director, holding up before Pilgrim a curiously shaped bottle containing a little muddy looking fluid at the bottom and having its cork carefully tied in and sealed, 'but I shall not ask you to try it. You would not like it; of that I am certain. It is the Essence of Freudianism. We have to keep it tightly sealed not only because the odor of it is outrageously rank but because it is very volatile and a good deal of it evaporates if it is left open even for an instant.' And with that he replaced the bottle and led the way still farther down the hall to a room marked Vision.