"The modest, sensible and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can."
Pope, also, who is said not always to have followed his own good counsel, contributes a verse which may serve a turn:
"At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offense,That always shows great pride, or little sense."
The practice of such commonplace philosophy (which, to be effective, should be ready for immediate use, not stored away for later reflection), together with training against faulty mental states studied in these pages, will go far toward relieving the mental perturbation that unfits for effective work, and contributes to "neurasthenia."
During an hour's delay, caused by the failure of another to keep an appointment, I formulated the following maxim:
"These are the annoyances incident to my business; to fret when they occur means that I cannot manage my business without friction."
This may not appeal to the reader, but for me it has proved as good an hour's work as I ever did. Since that time, on the occurrence of similar sources of provocation, I have found it necessary to go no farther than "These are the annoyances," to restore the needful balance. When we allow our gorge to rise at ordinary sources of discomfort, it implies that we are prepared only for our affairs to run with perfect smoothness. This represents the insistent idea carried to an absurdity.
At the risk of losing caste with the critical I cannot forbear sharing with the reader an inelegant maxim which has more than once prevented an access of rage upon the blunder of a subordinate: "If he had our brains he'd have our job."
Spinoza says: "The powerlessness of man to govern and restrain his emotions I call servitude. For a man who is controlled by his emotions is not his own master but is mastered by fortune, under whose power he is often compelled, though he sees the better, to follow the worse." The same philosopher in counselling self-restraint adds:
"The mind's power over the emotions consists, first, in the actual knowledge of the emotions." Again: "An emotion which is a passion ceases to be a passion as soon as we form a clear and distinct idea of it." The meaning of this dictum I first realized on experiencing the magical effect of the line of thought suggested by the delayed appointment.
Communion with Nature has a peculiarly soothing effect on tired and jangled nerves. My friend, Dr. Harold Williams, tells me that among his main reliances for tired and overwrought women are thereading of children's books, andworking in the garden. Peterson thus advises his busy patient:
"A small farm in a simple community would be for you an asset of immeasurable value from the standpoint of health and spiritual rejuvenation. But true simplicity should be the rigorous order of that country life. A chateau by the sea, with a corps of gardeners, a retinue of servants, and yachts and automobiles, would prove a disastrous expedient.
"In that quiet retreat you should personally and tenderly learn to know each rosebud, shrub, vine, creeper, tree, rock, glade, dell, of your own estate. You should yourself design the planting, paths, roads, the flower-garden, the water-garden, the wood-garden, the fernery, the lily-pond, the wild-garden, and the kitchen garden."
Not everyone is so happily situated as to be able to follow this advice in its entirety, but many can make a modest effort in this direction: the kitchen-garden may appeal to some who have no appreciation for the wild flowers, and who scorn to cultivate such tastes.
One warning is, however, here in order: The cultivation of the garden or the field for utilitarian purposes is inevitably associated with the maxim, "Hoe out your row"—an excellent maxim for the idle and disorderly, but not to be taken too literally by the over-exacting and methodical business man who is trying to make the radical change in his view of life necessary to free his mind from the incubus of worry. Nor must the amateur husbandman scan with too anxious eye the weather map and the clouds. If he mind these warnings he may learn to say,—
"For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow'r,Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flower,Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew,The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew."
The over-conscientious individual may object that it is selfish to consider his own comfort when he has work to do for others. But expending too freely of our nervous energies, even in a good cause, is like giving to charity so much of our substance that we in turn are obliged to lean on others for support.
In properly conserving our own energy we may be lightening the ultimate burden of others. There is no place for selfishness in Haeckel's philosophy regarding the proper balance between duty to one's self and duty to others. Nor was selfishness a failing of the Quaker poet who idealized
"The flawless symmetry of man,The poise of heart and mind."
Digby's Epicurus, Maxim xl.
Sleeplessness is due, in the majority of cases, to a faulty habit of mind. The preparation for a sleepless night begins with the waking hours, is continued through the day, and reaches its maximum when we cease from the occupations which have in some degree diverted our attention from harassing thoughts, and retire, to struggle, in darkness and solitude, with the worries, doubts, regrets, and forebodings, which now assume gigantic and fantastic shapes.
He who would sleep at night must regulate his day, first, by not undertaking more than he can accomplish without undue stress, and, second, by carrying through what he does undertake, as far as he may, without the running accompaniment of undue solicitude, anxious doubts, and morbid fears discussed in the preceding sections. It is futile to expect that a fretful, impatient, and over-anxious frame of mind, continuing through the day and every day, will be suddenly replaced at night by the placid and comfortable mental state which shall insure a restful sleep.
Before proceeding, then, to the immediate measures for inducing sleep, let us consider the suitable preparatory measures.
The nervous breakdown which precludes sleep is oftener due to worry than to work. Nor should the sufferer jump too quickly to the conclusion that it is the loss of sleep rather than the worry that makes him wretched. It is astonishing how much sleep can be lost without harm, provided its loss is forgotten, and how much work can be carried on without extreme fatigue, provided it be undertaken with confidence and pursued without impatience. It is, however, essential that the work be varied and, at due intervals, broken. Trainers for athletic contests know that increasing practice without diversion defeats its end, and particularly insist upon cessation of violent effort directly before the final test. Why should we not treat our minds as well as our bodies?
The active and over-scrupulous business or professional man who allows no time for rest or recreation, who can confer no responsibility upon his subordinates, who cultivates no fad, and is impatient of every moment spent away from his occupation, is in danger of eventually "going stale," and having to spend a longer and less profitable vacation in a sanitarium than would have sufficed to avert the disaster. Nor will he find it easy to change his sleep-habit with the change of residence. It behooves him to change that habit while still at work, as a step toward averting breakdown.
It will harm few of us to take a bird's eye view of our affairs at stated intervals, and ask ourselves if the time has not arrived when it will be a saving of time and money as well as worry for us to delegate more of the details, and more even of the responsibilities, to others, concentrating our own energies upon such tasks as we are now peculiarly qualified to undertake. To the man determined to accomplish a lifetime of work before he rests, there is food for thought in the following anecdote:
When Pyrrhus was about to sail for Italy, Cineas, a wise and good man, asked him what were his intentions and expectations.
"To conquer Rome," said Pyrrhus.
"And what will you do next, my lord?"
"Next I will conquer Italy."
"And after that?"
"We will subdue Carthage, Macedonia, all Africa, and all Greece."
"And when we have conquered all we can, what shall we do?"
"Do? Why, then we will sit down and spend our time in peace and comfort."
"Ah, my lord," said the wise Cineas, "what prevents our being in peace and comfort now?"
The time to take a vacation is before one is exhausted. If one is discontented during his vacation, he should take it, none the less, as a matter of duty, not expecting to enjoy every moment of it, but contenting himself with the anticipation of greater pleasure in the resumption of his duties. He should cultivate an interest in out-door occupation or some study that carries him into the fields or woods. Aside from the time on shipboard, the worst possible vacation for the over-worked business or professional man is the trip to Europe, if spent in crowding into the shortest possible time the greatest possible amount of information on matters artistic, architectural, and historic.
No one can acquire the habit of sleep who has not learned the habit of concentration, of devoting himself single-minded to the matter in hand. If we practice devoting our minds, as we do our bodies, to one object at a time, we shall not only accomplish more, but with less exhaustion. Training in this direction will help us, on retiring, to view sleep as our present duty, and a sufficient duty, without taking the opportunity at that time to adjust (or to try to adjust) all our tangles, to review our past sources of discomfort, and to speculate upon the ills of the future.
A walk, a bath, a few gymnastic exercises, will often serve a useful purpose before retiring, but if they are undertaken in a fretful and impatient spirit, and are accompanied by doubts of their effectiveness, and the insistent thought that sleep will not follow these or any other procedure, they are likely to accomplish little.
The best immediate preparation for sleep is the confidence that one will sleep, andindifference if one does not. It is an aid in the adoption of this frame of mind to learn that many have for years slept only a few hours per night, without noticeable impairment of their health or comfort. Neither unbroken nor long-continued sleep, however desirable, is essential to longevity or efficiency. This is illustrated by the following examples:
Joseph A. Willard, for nearly half a century Clerk of the Court in Suffolk County, and a well-known figure on the streets of Boston, died in his eighty-eighth year. He was active and alert in the performance of his daily duties up to their discontinuance shortly before his death. He kept, meantime, records of the temperature, weather, and condition of the streets, at all hours of the night, and every night, for many years before the establishment of the weather bureau. So reliable were these records regarded by the courts that they were often appealed to in the trial of cases, and their accuracy never questioned by either party in the suit. I publish these facts by the permission of his son.
George T. Angell, the well-known humanitarian, than whom few, if any, have led a more busy life, when in his sixty-ninth year wrote as follows:
"For the benefit of those who do not [take narcotics, opiates, anæsthetics] I will say that I suppose there are very few in this countrywho have slept lessthan I have; but I have never taken anything to stupefy, while thousands of good sleepers I have known have long since gone to the last sleep that knows no waking here. It was undoubtedly wise to change my professional life from court to office practice: but in other matters I was compelled to choose between living the life of a vegetable, or losing sleep; and I chose the latter."
Mr. Angell is now eighty-four, still actively engaged in affairs, and allows me to add that during the past six years he has gone for a week at a time with no sleep; for three months at a time he has not averaged more than two hours in twenty-four; he does not remember having ever had a good night's sleep. Mrs. Angell states that, with one exception, she has never known him to sleep through the night.
It is worth while to remember these experiences before resorting to drugs for sleeplessness.
I have somewhere seen it stated that a prominent divine attributed his happy and green old age to the fact that he slept a certain number of hours every night. Against this statement must be set the reflection that many another old gentleman can fairly attribute his comfort, in part at least, to an attitude of indifference toward the unessentials, among which I suspect must be included the question whether we average eight hours of sleep or materially less.
Let us now consider some of the faulty mental habits directly affecting sleep itself. First comes the compulsive thought that one must sleepnow, and the impatient count of the wakeful hours supposed to be irrecoverably lost from the coveted number. This insistence in itself precludes sleep. The thought, "No matter if I don't sleep to-night; I will some other night," will work wonders in the direction of producing sleep to-night.
The continuance of any given position, completely relaxed, in bed, even without unconsciousness, is more restful than tossing about. The mere experiment of remaining immobile in a certain position as long as possible, and concentrating the mind on the thought, "I am getting sleepy, I am going to sleep," will oftener produce the desired result than watching the proverbial sheep follow one another over the wall. Training during the day in restraining nervous movements is an aid in acquiring the ability to do this.
This is a field in which self-suggestion is of definite value. Everyone appreciates the effect on sleep of the "state of mind" when he has passed a succession of sleepless hours followed by a sudden tendency to somnolence at the time for rising. The problem is to acquire the frame of mind without waiting for circumstances. To demonstrate the effect of faulty suggestion combined with restlessness on awaking in the night, try the following:
EXPERIMENT I.—Place yourself on the face and from this point turn rapidly in a complete circle backwards from right to left until you are again on the face. Pause several times and say to yourself rapidly "I cannot sleep in this position." The result of the experiment is practically uniform. The rapid movement and the suggestion prevent sleep.
To demonstrate the effect of bodily relaxation combined with correct suggestion, in promoting sleep try—
EXPERIMENT II.—Start in the same position as Experiment I. Traverse the same circle, prolonging each pause with body relaxed, and substituting at each pause the suggestion, "I can sleep in any position," repeated a number of times deliberately and as if you meant it. The restful pose and the suggestion generally induce sleep long before the circle is completed.
Next comes the compulsive thought that we cannot sleep until everything is "squared up" and all mental pictures completed. The story is told that a gentleman took a room in the hotel next another who was notoriously fussy. He remembered this fact after dropping one boot carelessly to the floor, and laid the other gently down. After a pause he heard a rap on the door and a querulous, "For heaven's sake, drop the other boot, or I can't get to sleep."
Many find themselves unable to sleep until the whole household is accounted for and the house locked up for the night, until certain news is received, and the like. The same tendency postpones sleep until all affairs are straightened out in the mind, as well as in reality. A little reflection shows how indefinite must be the postponement of sleep under such conditions.
No training is more important for the victim of compulsive tendencies than the practice of trusting something to chance and the morrow, and reconciling himself to the fact that at no time, in this world, will all things be finally adjusted to his satisfaction.
The habit of dismissing, at will, disagreeable thoughts is a difficult but not impossible acquisition. Arthur Benson in "The Thread of Gold" relates the following anecdotes:
"When Gladstone was asked, 'But don't you find you lie awake at night, thinking how you ought to act, and how you ought to have acted?' he answered, 'No, I don't; where would be the use of that?'"
"Canon Beadon [who lived to be over one hundred] said to a friend that the secret of long life in his own case was that he had never thought of anything unpleasant after ten o'clock at night."
The insistent desire to sleep in a certain bed, with a certain degree of light or darkness, heat or cold, air or absence of air, is detrimental. This is in line with the desire to eat certain foods only, at a certain table, and at a certain time. The man who loses his appetite if dinner is half an hour late is unable again to sleep if once waked up. This individual must say to himself, "Anyone can stand what he likes; it takes a philosopher to stand what he does not like," and try at being a philosopher instead of a sensitive plant.
Inability to sleep while certain noises are continued must be similarly combated. If one goes from place to place in search of the quiet spot for sleep, he may finally findquiet itselfoppressive, or worse yet, may be kept awake by hearing his own circulation, from which escape is out of the question. He who finds himself persistently out of joint with his surroundings will do well to ponder the language of the Chinese philosopher:
"The legs of the stork are long, the legs of the duck are short: you cannot make the legs of the stork short, neither can you make the legs of the duck long. Why worry?"
With regard to the character of sleep itself, the attitude of our mind in sleep is dominated, to a degree, at least, by its attitude in the waking hours. It is probable that during profound sleep the mind is inactive, and that dreams occur only during the transition-state from profound sleep to wakefulness. It is conceivable that in the ideal sleep there is only one such period, but ordinarily there occur many such periods during the night; for the uneasy sleeper the night may furnish a succession of such periods, with comparatively little undisturbed rest, hence his dreams seem to him continuous. The character of the pictures and suggestions of dreams, though in new combinations, are largely dependent on our daily experiences. Is it not, then, worth while to encourage, during our waking hours, as far as is consistent with our duties, such thoughts as are restful and useful, rather than those which serve no purpose but annoyance.
If we will, we can select our thoughts as we do our companions.
Be not ashamed, to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy duty like a soldier in the assault on a town. How, then, if being lame thou canst not mount up on the battlement alone, but with the help of another it is possible?
Marcus Aurelius.
The insistent and over-conscientious habit of mind plays so large a part in the so-called occupation neuroses that a brief discussion of their nature may here be in place.
The best-known form of this distressing malady is "writer's cramp." Upon this subject the proverbially dangerous little knowledge has been already acquired; a fuller knowledge may give comfort rather than alarm, and may even lead to the avoidance of this and allied nervous disorders.
The term "writer's cramp" has unduly emphasized a feature, namely, the cramp, which is neither the most common nor the most troublesome among the symptoms resulting from over-use of a part. In occupation neuroses, other than those produced by the use of the pen, pain, weakness, and numbness are at least equally prominent, and even in writer's cramp the "neuralgic" form is common.
The fact is generally realized that this type of disorder is particularly frequent among persons of nervous temperament. The reason is twofold, first, the resistance of such individuals is less than the average, second, the insistent habit of mind leads them to overdo. It is against the latter factor that our efforts may to advantage be directed.
I have in mind the case of a lady who complained of severe pain in the right arm with no apparent physical cause. The pain, at first appearing only when the arm was placed in a certain position, finally became almost constant. She denied excessive use of the arm, but her husband stated that she plied the needle to such an extent that it caused the family distress. This she indignantly denied, and fortified her position by the statement that she only took short stitches! Further inquiry elicited the acknowledgment that she did so because she could no longer take long ones. This is a fair example of an occupation neurosis.
Some time ago, after long continued and over-conscientious effort to satisfy the requirements of an athletic instructor, I acquired what is known as a "golf arm." Efforts at its relief were unavailing. A vigorous course of massage only increased the pain. I finally asked a friend what they did in England when a golf player suffered this annoyance. He replied that no golf player ever did so; when it occurred among others the arm was placed in wool for three months, at the end of which time a single movement of swinging the club was made; if this movement caused pain the treatment was renewed for another three months. I did not suppose he intended the advice to be taken literally, but followed it, except as regarded the wool, and I verily believe that I should otherwise have been experimenting with the treatment of golf arm to-day.
My friend's advice indicates the general experience with occupation neuroses including writer's cramp, for which every imaginable measure has been tried, only to be replaced by protracted abstinence from the use of the pen. The attempt to use the left hand proves, as a rule, only temporarily efficacious. The speedy appearance of symptoms in the left hand emphasizes the fact that it is tired brain, as well as the tired muscle, that rebels.
The ranks of every profession, and of every trade, are daily depleted of the most promising among their members, whose zeal has outrun their discretion; their over-worked brains and hands have succumbed under the incessant strain of tasks, often self-imposed.
It is hard, but essential, for the sufferer from an occupation neurosis to abandon frantic efforts at combining treatment with continuance of labor. He must bring all his philosophy to bear on the temporary, but complete, abandonment of his chosen occupation, at whatever loss to himself or others.
To avoid this contingency the over-conscientious worker will do well to modify his ambition, and lower his pride if needful, consoling himself with the reflection that an occasional interruption of his labor, even at material loss, may be replaced by years of future usefulness. Cowper says:
"'Tis thus the understanding takes reposeIn indolent vacuity of thought,And rests, and is refreshed."
Small habits, well pursued betimes,May reach the dignity of crimes.Hannah More.
More than one "sunbeam" and "life of the party" in society is the "cross patch" and "fuss budget" of the home. His gracious smiles and quips abroad are matched at home by darkened brows and moody silence, only broken by conversation of the italicized variety: "Willit ever stop raining?" "Can'tyou see that I am busy?" "Whatareyou doing?" and the like. Whatever banner is exhibited to the outside world, the motto at home seems to be "Whatever is, is wrong." Defects in the ménage, carefully overlooked when dining out, are called with peculiar unction to the attention of the housekeeper of the home, whose worry to please is only matched by the "sunbeam's" fear that she shall think him satisfied with what is placed before him.
"There's something kind of pitiful about a man that growlsBecause the sun beats down too hot, because the wild wind howls,Who never eats a meal but that the cream ain't thick enough,The coffee ain't been settled right, or else the meat's too tough—Poor chap! He's just the victim of Fate's oldest, meanest trick,You'll see by watching mules and men, they don't need brains to kick."Chicago Interocean.
Add to the "kicking habit" the insistence that each member of the family must be reminded at frequent intervals of his peculiar weaknesses, and that the discussion of uncomfortable topics, long since worn threadbare, must be reopened at every available opportunity, and the adage is justified, "be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."
Try the following suggestion on approaching the house after a hard day's work. Say to yourself, "Why tired and cross? Why not tired and good-natured?" The result may startle the family and cause inquiries for your health, but "Don't Worry," if it does; console yourself with the thought they will like you none the less for giving them a glimpse of that sunny nature of which they have often heard.
As a further preparation for the evening meal, and the evening, by way of alleviating the mental and physical discomfort following a trying day, one is surprised by the effectiveness of taking a bath and changing all the clothing. This treatment, in fact, almost offers a sure cure, but the person who would be most benefited thereby, is the person so obsessed to pursue the miserable tenor of his way that he scouts the suggestion that he thus bestir himself, instead of sinking into the easy chair. He may, however, accept the suggestion that simply changing the shoes and stockings is extremely restful, when reminded that if he had worn kid gloves all day he would be relieved to free his hands from the incubus, and, if gloves must still be worn, to put on a cool pair.
It is a further aid to physical, and indirectly to mental, comfort, if one can learn to wear low shoes and the thinnest of underwear the year round; the former offer a panacea for fidgets; the latter lessens the perspiration, which increases the susceptibility to drafts, and to even moderate lowering of temperature. The prevailing belief that this procedure is dangerous is disproved by the experience of the many who have given it a thorough trial. The insistent belief of the neurotic that he cannot acquire this habit is touched upon in the chapter on Worry and Obsession. If he thinks he is "taking cold," let him throw back his shoulders and take a few deep breaths, or if convenient, a few exercises, instead of doubling the weight of his underwear, and in the long run he will find that he has not only increased his comfort, but has lessened, rather than increased, the number of his colds.
Much of the worry of the home is retrospective. "If I had only made Mary wear her rubbers,"—"If we had only invested in Calumet & Hecla at 25,"—"If we had only sent John to college," represent a fruitful source of family discomfort. The morbid rhyme is familiar to all:
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest these, 'It might have been.'"
I should be glad to learn of any advantage accruing from the indulgence of this attitude toward the bygone. A happier and more sensible habit of mind may be attained by equal familiarity with the following:
"Add this suggestion to the verse,'It might have been a great deal worse.'"
A fruitful source of discomfort for the worrier at home is the absence of occupation. He looks forward to mental rest after using his brain all day, but there is no rest for him unless in sleep. The most valuable rest he could give his mind would be to occupy it with something worth while, yet not so strenuous as to cause solicitude. As Saleeby points out, the mock worry of a game is a good antidote for the real worry of life, and a game is far better than nothing, unless the player make, in turn, a work of his play, in which case worry continues.
The hardest task for the worrier at home is to get away from home. With advancing years the temptation grows upon us to spend our evenings by the fireside, to make no new friends and seek no new enjoyments. But this unbroken habit is neither the best preparation for a happy old age, nor the best method of counteracting present worry. Nor should one stop to decide whether the special entertainment in question will be worthwhile—he must depend rather on the realization that if he accepts most opportunities he will be, on the whole, the gainer.
The man whose occupation keeps him in-doors all day should make special effort to pass some time in the open air, if possible walking or driving to and from his place of business, and taking at least a stroll in the evening.
As more than one writer has suggested, the best resource is thefad. The fad will prove an inestimable boon after withdrawing from active work, but it should be commenced long before one discontinues business, else the chances are that he will never take it up, but will fret away his time like the average man who retires from an occupation which has engrossed his attention.
The fad should not be pursued too strenuously, or its charm is lost. A lady once told me that she had given up studying flowers because she found she could not master botany in the time at her disposal. Another sees no use in taking up history unless he can become an authority on some epoch. Another declines to study because he can never overtake the college graduate. But one of the best informed men of my acquaintance had no college education. One of his fads was history, with which he was far more familiar than any but the exceptional college man, outside the teachers of that branch of learning.
The usefulness of the fad does not depend upon the perfection attained in its pursuit, but upon the pleasure in its pursuit, and upon the diversion of the mind from its accustomed channels. The more completely one learns to concentrate his thoughts on anavocation, the more enthusiasm and effectiveness he can bring to bear on hisvocationin its turn. A fad that occupies the hands, such as carpentering, turning, or photography, is peculiarly useful if one's taste runs in that direction.
One handicap in cultivating the fad is the lack of interest on the part of our associates, but if we become genuinely interested in any fad that is at all worth while, we shall inevitably add new acquaintances likely to prove at least as interesting as those of our present friends, who have no thoughts outside their daily round of toil. The more fads one cultivates, so long as he avoids the obsession to obtrude them at all times and places, the more interesting he will, in his turn, become to others.
The over-solicitude that defeats its own end, in the case of a parent, has been admirably portrayed by Arthur Benson in "Beside Still Waters,"—"there was nothing in the world that he more desired than the company and the sympathy of his children; but he had, beside this, an intense and tremulous sense of his responsibility toward them. He attached an undue importance to small indications of character, and thus the children were seldom at ease with their father, because he rebuked them constantly, and found frequent fault, doing almost violence to his tenderness, not from any pleasure in censoriousness, but from a terror, that was almost morbid, of the consequences of the unchecked development of minute tendencies."
Something must be left to natural growth, and to fortune, even in such important matters as the rearing of children.
After all, is it not a part of the fine art of living to take the enjoyment of the moment as it comes without lamenting that it is not something else?
LILIAN WHITING:Land of Enchantment.
In no phase of life is the worrying and the "fussy" habit more noticeable than in travel. This is, perhaps, partly because the lack of self-confidence, which so often unsettles the worrier, is peculiarly effective when he has relinquished the security of his accustomed anchorage. This applies surely to the over-solicitous attention paid by the traveler to the possible dangers of rail and sea. Here is a verse from Wallace Irwin:
"'Suppose that this here vessel,' says the skipper with a groan,'Should lose 'er bearin's, run away and bump upon a stone;Suppose she'd shiver and go down when save ourselves we could'nt.'The mate replies,'Oh, blow me eyes!Suppose agin she shouldn't?'"
A common direction taken by the worrying habit, in the traveler, is that of taking in advance each step of the journey, preparing for every contingency, and suffering beforehand every imaginable hardship and inconvenience. I do not vouch for the story (though I can match it without going far afield) of the gentleman who abandoned his trip from Paris to Budapesth because he found he would be delayed in Vienna six hours, "too long time to wait in the station, and not long enough to go to the hotel." It is the imperative duty of every traveler to discover interests which shall tide him over a few hours' delay wherever it may occur.
It is by no means a waste of time to familiarize ourselves with the geography at least of our own country; to know the situation and appearance of every city of importance, and to know something about the different railroads besides their initials, and their rating in the stock market. Again, if we take up the study of the trees, flowers and birds, with the aid of the admirable popular works now available, we shall not only view the scenery with new eyes, but shall welcome, rather than be driven to despair, by a breakdown in the woods.
It is a mistake to shun our fellow-travelers, from whom we should rather try to learn something. This is a solace in traveling alone, for the boon companion may handicap us in cultivating new acquaintances and gaining new impressions. Though the main object of recreation is diversion from the daily round of thought, the fact need not be lost sight of that the busy man will find his practical interests furthered, rather than hindered, by a little widening of the horizon. Nor should he forget, meantime, the admonition of Seneca that if he would wish his travels delightful he must first make himself delightful.
It is inevitable that uncomfortable, as well as agreeable, experiences occur in travel. But the man who spends his time and thought in avoiding the one and seeking the other is steadily forging chains whose gall shall one day surpass the discomforts of a journey around the world. Arthur Benson in "Beside Still Waters" says that Hugh learned one thing at school, namely, that the disagreeable was not necessarily the intolerable. Some of us would do well to go back to school and learn this over again. I know of only two ways by which the discomforts of travel can be avoided. One is to ignore them, the other to stay at home.
A fellow traveler told me that on one occasion, in the presence of a beautiful bit of mountain scenery, he overheard two ladies in anxious consultation comparing, article by article, the correspondingmenusof two rival hotels. The fact that three varieties of fish were offered at one, while only two were offered at the other, opened so animated a discussion of quantity as opposed to probable quality that the listener discretely withdrew.
A lady on the Florida express, after reading a novel all day with an occasional interim, during which she gazed through her lorgnette with bored and anxious air, finally said to her companion, "I have not seen a single estate which compares to those in Brookline."
Among the varieties of needless worry imposed upon the traveler by the insistent habit, none is more common, or more easily overcome, than the refusal to sleep unless noise and light are quite shut out. If the sufferer make of his insistent habit a servant, rather than a master, and instead of reiterating "I must have quiet and darkness," will confidently assert, "I must get over this nonsense," he will speedily learn that freedom from resentment, and a good circulation of air, are more conducive to sleep than either darkness or silence.
The best drug for the sleepless traveler is theæquo animoof Cicero.
GOLDSMITH:The Traveller.
The insistent habit of mind is nowhere more noticeable than in connection with the food. I have seen a hotelhabitué, apparently sane, who invariably cut, or broke, his bread into minute particles, and minutely inspected each before placing it in his mouth. If this were a book of confessions, I should have myself to plead guilty, among worse things, to having avoided mince pie for weeks after encountering among other ingredients of this delicacy, a piece of broken glass.
Not infrequently the obsessive diner so long hesitates before giving his final order that the waiter brings the wrong dish. The insistent thought now replaces the doubting folly, and the diner would as soon think of eating grass as the article offered. I have known him impatiently to leave the table under these circumstances, and to play the ostentatious martyr, rather than partake of the food he had at the outset given weighty consideration. I have seen another omit his lunch because water had been spilled upon the cloth, and still another leave the dining-car, with the announcement that he would forego his meal because informed by the conductor that men's shirt waists without coats were taboo.
The obsessive of this type may by training even reach the point of seeing the amusing instead of the pathetic side of the picture when, in the course of his travels, his request for "a nice bit of chicken, cut thin," is transmitted to the kitchen as—"One chick."
One day, with pride, I called the attention of my easy-going friend to the fact that I was eating a dish I had not ordered. He quietly remarked that the next step was to eat it and say nothing! Another friend has this motto in his dining-room: "Eat what is set before you and be thankful." His children will open their eyes when they find others, less reasonably reared, demanding that the potatoes be changed because they are sprinkled with parsley, that a plate be replaced because it has had a piece of cheese upon it, or that the salad of lettuce and tomato be removed in favor of one with tomato alone.
A lady recently told me of breakfasting with a foreign sojourner in America, who upon being offered the contents of an egg broken into a glass, was not satisfied with declining it, but felt impelled also to express his extreme disgust at this method of serving it, fortunately to the amusement, rather than to the annoyance of his hostess.
"After this, know likewise," says Epictetus, "that you are a brother too; and that to this character it belongs to make concessions, to be easily persuaded, to use gentle language, never to claim for yourself any non-essential thing, but cheerfully to give up these to be repaid by a larger share of things essential. For consider what it is, instead of a lettuce, for instance, or a chair, to procure for yourself a good temper. How great an advantage gained!"
The insistent desire to have a certain degree and character of appetite not infrequently leads to consulting the physician. Still more common is the obsession that the appetite must be gratified, the supposition being that the desire for food is, in the growing child or in the adult, an infallible guide to the amount needed, though it is a matter of common knowledge that this is not true of infants or of domestic animals. If one leaves the table hungry he soon forgets it unless inordinately self-centered, and he has no more desire to return than to go back to bed and finish the nap so reluctantly discontinued in the morning.
I have heard the theory advanced by an anxious forecaster of future ills, that all unnecessary food, if packed away as adipose tissue, serves to nourish the body in periods of starvation. Assuming that the average individual need consider this stress of circumstance, I am strongly of the impression that the best preparation for enforced abstinence will prove, not a layer of fat, but the habit of abstinence. The nursery poet says: