A HAPPY, SUCCESSFUL LIFE Worry By WILLIAM GEORGE JORDAN [William George Jordan, editor, was born at New York City, March 6, 1864. He graduated from the College of the City of New York, and began his literary career as editor of "Book Chat" in 1884. Later he became editor of "Current Literature," from which he retired to enter the lecture field. In 1897 he was managing editor of "The Ladies' Home Journal," after which he edited "The Saturday Evening Post." Since 1899 he has been editor and vice-president of the Continental Publishing Co. He is author of "Mental Training; a Remedy for Education"; "The Kingship of Self-Control"; "The Majesty of Calmness."] WORRY TORRY is the most popular form of suicide. Worry impairs appetite, disturbs sleep, makes respiration irregular, spoils digestion, irritates disposition, warps character, weakens mind, stimulates disease, and saps bodily health. It is the real cause of death in thousands of instances where some other disease is named in the death certificate. Worry is mental poison; work is mental food. When a child's absorption in his studies keeps him from sleeping, or when he tosses and turns from side to side, muttering the multiplication table or spelling words aloud, when sleep does come, then that child shows he is worrying. It is one of nature's danger signals raised to warn parents, and in mercy the parent should take a firm stand. The burden of its daily tasks should be lightened, the tension of its concentration should be lessened, the hours of its slavery to education should be cut short. When a man or woman works over in dreams the problems of the day, when the sleeping hours are spent in turning the kaleidoscope of the day's activities, then there is either overwork or worry, and most likely it is the worry that comes from overwork. The Creator never intended a healthy mind to dream of the day's duties. Either dreamless sleep or dreams of the past should be the order of the night. When the specter of one grief, one fear, one sorrow, obtrudes itself between the eye and the printed page; when the inner voice of this irritating memory, or fear, looms up so loud as to deaden outside voices, there is danger to the individual. When all day, every hour, every moment, there is the dull, insistent, numb pain of something that makes itself felt through, above and below all our other thinking, we must know that we are worrying. Then there is but one thing to do-we must stop that worry; we must kill it. The wise men of this wondrous century have made great discoveries in their interviews with nature. They have discovered that everything that has been created has its uses. They will teach you not to assassinate flies with paper coated with sweetened glue, for "the flies are nature's scavengers." They will tell you just what are the special duties and responsibilities of each of the microscopic microbes with telescopic In their wildest moods of scientific enthusiasm they may venture to persuade you into believing that even the mosquito serves some real purpose in nature, but no man that has ever lived can say a good word about worry. Worry is forethought gone to seed. Worry is discounting possible future sorrows so that the individual may have present misery. Worry is the father of insomnia. Worry is the traitor in our camp that dampens our powder, weakens our aim. Under the guise of helping us to bear the present, and to be ready for the future, worry multiplies enemies within our own mind to sap our strength. Worry is the dominance of the mind by a single vague, restless, unsatisfied, fearing and fearful idea. The mental energy and force that should be concentrated on the successive duties of the day is constantly and surreptitiously abstracted and absorbed by this one fixed idea. The full, rich strength of the unconscious working of the mind, that which produces our best success, that represents our finest activity, is tapped, led away, and wasted on worry. Worry must not be confused with anxiety, though both words agree in meaning, originally, a "choking," or a "strangling," referring, of course, to the throttling effect upon individual activity. Anxiety faces large issues of life seriously, calmly, with dignity. Anxiety always suggests hopeful possibility; it is active in being ready, and devising measures to meet the outcome. Worry is not one large individual sorrow; it is a colony of petty, vague, insignificant, restless imps of fear, that become important only from their combination, their constancy, their iteration. When death comes, when the one we love has passed from us, and the silence and the loneness and the emptiness of all things make us stare dry-eyed into the future, we give ourselves up, for a time, to the agony of isolation. This is not a petty worry we must kill ere it kills us. This is the awful majesty of sorrow that mercifully benumbs us, though it may later become, in the mysterious working of omnipotence, a rebaptism and a regeneration. It is the worry habit, the magnifying of petty sorrows to eclipse the sun of happiness, against which I here make protest. To cure worry, the individual must be his own physician; he must give the case heroic treatment. He must realize, with every fiber of his being, the utter, absolute uselessness of worry. He must not think this is commonplace-a bit of mere theory; it is a reality that he must translate for himself from mere words to a real, living fact. He must understand that if he spend a whole series of eternities in worry, it would not change the fact one jot nor tittle. It is a time for action, not worry, because worry paralyzes thought and action too. If you set down a column of figures in addition, no amount of worry can change the sum total of those figures. That result is wrapped up in the inevitability of mathematics. The result can be made different only by changing the figures as they are set down in that column. The one time that a man cannot afford to worry is when he does worry. Then he is facing, or imagines he is, a critical turn in affairs. This is the time when he needs one hundred per cent of his mental energy to make his plans quickly, to see what is his wisest decision, to keep a clear eye on the sky and on his course, and a firm hand on the helm until he has weathered the storm. There are two reasons why man should not worry, either one of which must operate in every instance. First, because he cannot prevent the results he fears. Second, because he can prevent them. If he is powerless to avert the blow, he needs perfect mental concentration to meet it bravely, to lighten its force, to get what salvage he can from the wreck, to sustain his strength at this time when he must plan a new future. If he can prevent the evil he fears, then he has no need to worry, for he would by so doing be dissipating energy in his hour of need. If man does, day by day, ever the best he can by the light he has, he has no need to fear, no need to regret, no need to worry. No agony of worry would do aught to help him. Neither mortal nor angel can do more than his best. If we look back upon our past life we will see how, in the marvelous working of events, the cities of our greatest happiness and of our fullest success have been built along the rivers of our deepest sorrows, our most abject failures. We then realize that our present happiness or success would have been impossible had it not been for some terrible affliction or loss in the pastsome wondrous potent force in the evolution of our character or our fortune. This should be a wondrous stimulus to us in bearing the trials and sorrows of life. To cure oneself of worry is not an easy task; it is not to be removed in two or three applications of the quack medicine of any cheap philosophy, but it requires only clear, simple, common sense applied to the business of life. Man has no right to waste his own energies, to weaken his own powers and influence, for he has inalienable duties to himself, to his family, to society, and to the world. A HAPPY, SUCCESSFUL LIFE Friendship By RALPH WALDO EMERSON [Ralph Waldo Emerson, the Concord philosopher, was born in Boston, May 25, 1803. At eleven years of age he translated Virgil into verse, but at Harvard, though prize essayist and class poet, he was not otherwise distinguished. After graduation he taught school and studied divinity under Dr. Channing. He was ordained, but resigned on account of theological doubts. In 1833 he visited Europe and, in England, met Coleridge, Wordsworth, Landor, De Quincey, and Carlyle. The results of his observations were published in the volume "English Traits." On his return from Europe he began lecturing, which he followed at intervals for the rest of his life. The lectures were turned into essays, and in this form they have been published. In May 1834 he began the famous correspondence with Carlyle that since his death has been edited by C. E. Norton. In 1836 a little volume entitled "Nature" was published and placed him in the first rank of American thinkers. On August 31, 1837, he delivered the Harvard Phi Beta Kappa address, "The American Scholar." About 1840 there appeared in certain intellectual circles of New England, the so-called Transcendental movement which was accounted to spring from his writings. That he disclaimed responsibility for its extreme development is seen by his address on "The Conservative." The movement gave rise to the organ named "The Dial," edited first by Margaret Fuller, and afterward, for the three last years of its existence, by Emerson himself. In 1846 his first volume of poems was published, and in 1850, "Representative Men," a series of lectures delivered in England. After 1860 his work savored more of the practical philosopher. In that year he published "Conduct of Life" and in 1870, "Society and Solitude," two series of lectures. He died at Concord, April 27, 1882.] E have a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken. Barring all the selfishness that chills like east winds the world, the whole human family is bathed with an element of love like a fine ether. How many persons we meet in houses, whom we scarcely speak to, whom yet we honor, and who honor us! How many we see in the street, or sit with in church, whom, though silently, we warmly rejoice to be with! Read the language of these wandering eyebeams. The heart knoweth |