The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1894-10-05
A QUESTION OF NERVES.
The Dread of Noise One of the Alarming
Signs of Civilization.

Signs of Civilization.
Although, according to certain philoso-
pliers, sound ceases when noise begins, to
the world at large there is no sharp divis-
lon. Thomas Hood said that the Germans,
for a musical nation, were the most noisy
he ever met with, and Schopenhauer
quoted the opinion with approval, alleging
as a cause that his countrymen do not
think-"they only smoke, which is their
substitute for thought" The great pes
simist regarded noise as the assassin of
thought, hut DIR. johnson made the same
charge against music AS nation we de-
light in the firecrackers of the Chinese
and loathe their national music. They in
turn cannot endure our scale and our sys-
TEN of harmony. The Bostonian who does
not jump at discordant church chimes,
harsh and out of tune, will fret at the
street cries of a foreign city, although they
are often pleasantly pitched and of rare
historical interest.
The worshiper ut the shrine of Brahms
will stop her ears when Maggie Murphy"
issues from a new and improved hand Or
gan, although the melody is characters.
tic, the rhythm of the performer is faultless
and his bravura is of dazzling accuracy.
There are people in Detroit to whom the
factory whistles are such an annoyance
that by city ordinance workmen now go
to their labor and return homeward in a
depressing silence, and yet even the chro-
matte whistle, with its predominating
color red and its ascending wall, was
heard with joy at noon by women who
thus knew there was loafing spell for
their men. After all, this distinction be-
tween noise and sound is in a measure a
question Of individuality as well as of as
sociation of ideas.
When Elizabeth ruled England manual
laborers and mechanical artificers sang at
their work. The merry cobbler is extinct.
The tinker raises his voice in melody in
Mr.. De Koyen's Robin Hood, " but in our
daily life he gives vent to his feelings in
prose. Our street cries in America are
few, chiefly in the mouths of wandering
hucksters of fruits and vegetables. Their
calls are all too short, as though they
realized that even in this respect time is
money. Then, too, they know that in the
summer, when windows are open, their
vocal approach is feared by our nervous
citizens, whereas, if we were truly civil
ized it would be welcomed. 1t is true
there should be a training school, and the
work of Georges Kastner should be the
text book.
Each vegetable should have its peculiar
song. The butcher, the milkman, the
hurler of ice, the buyer of old clo, the
mender Of windows or umbrellas, all
other purveyors to human needs, should
serve sonorous apprenticeship. The ori-
entails are our masters. They clothe the
announcement of their merchandise in po-
etic phrases; they recommend fruit as q
consolation; flowers are perfumes of para
disc for the present delectation Of the faith
full. Were we to adopt their methods,
street cries might not in future be regard
ed as SO many varieties of noise, as terrible
AZ neighboring and busy pile driver.
The unreasonable dread of noise is one of
the most alarming symptoms of the sickly
condition Of our civilization. This is the
age of the nerves and of nervous diseases.
And yet in spite of the prevailing fear of
shocks to the ear, human ingenuity adds
daily to the number of disturbing causes.
Familiarity with such causes acts, it is
said, like potent, stupefying drug. But
we cannot all attend the concerts of a sea-
son, nor can we all live in the vicinity of a
boiler factory. The growth of the fat
should therefore be encouraged. The
privacy in such dwelling is tumultuous.
The kitchen is close to the parlor; voices
above and below assume unnatural proper
tions through the speaking trumpet of the
elevator; the irritating electric bell is at
the mercy of any 1ippant passer by. This
discipline Of a year may bring such cal
lousness Of nerve that the loneliness of an
isolated farmhouse or the waste of ocean
may in turn shLtter the town dweller
beyond repair. r.-BOston Transcript.