Part 6

I may name as a second superfluity the excessive reading of newspapers. There are in our day people who regard themselves as educated, and who yet read nothing but newspapers. Their houses are built and furnished in all possible--and impossible--styles, and yet you will find in them hardly a dozen good books. They get their whole supply of ideas out of the newspapers and magazines, and these publications are more and more designed to meet the needs of such people. This excessive, or even exclusive, reading of newspapers is often excused on account of our political interests; but one has only to notice what it is in the newspapers which people are most anxious to read to arrive at a judgment whether this excuse is sound. I may add that the time of day dedicated to the newspaper is by no means unimportant. People, for instance, who devote their first hour in the morning to the reading of one or two newspapers lose thereby the freshest interest in their day’s work.

Another superfluity is the excessive going to meetings. A man who is much devoted to such gatherings can scarcely find time for serious work. Indeed, it is not necessary for him to do independent work; for he has substituted for his own judgment the judgment of the crowd, and the crowd carries him on its shoulders. A great waste of time occurs, further, among one class of people at the present time, through a pretended devotion to art. I do not refer to art practised by oneself, but to art as passively accepted; and I should perhaps make exception in what I say, of the art of music. In other forms of art many persons permit those impulses which should have stirred them to idealism, and to responsiveness toward the beautiful, to evaporate in æsthetic satisfactions. Many women, to speak frankly, are educated to acquire mere artistic appreciation; and they cannot, without severe struggles and against great hindrances, find the way back from this mood to any profitable and spiritually satisfying work.

Another superfluity is the devotion to social duties and the whole purposeless system of making “calls.” These habits are the mere shadows of genuine friendship, and of the intellectual stimulus through personal intercourse which they were originally intended to express. I need not speak of superfluous amusements. The theatre, for instance, to accomplish its legitimate aim needs so fundamental a reform that there would be really nothing left of its present methods. Finally, and of quite another category among the elements of culture in our time, I may name as superfluous the superficial and popular products of materialism, and with these the debasing French novels and dramas of the day. People of the educated class in our time, and especially people of the academic circle, ought to have the courage to say of such literature: “We know nothing about it.” Then perhaps one might have time to read something each day which was serious and educative; something that tended to strengthen the mind and to bring one into real contact with the intellectual movement of the age.

And now, lest there should be complaint of time wasted on such reading as this, I shall add but two other points. One of these, stated by Rothe, is the advice that it is most desirable not to take up one’s time with the details of one’s business affairs. Even if this is not altogether possible, one may, if he wish it, greatly reduce the care of details of administration, and live in a world of larger and happier thoughts. The other point, which has even more practical significance, is this: Limit yourself to that which you really know and which has been especially committed to your care. For your special task you will almost always have time enough. An Old Testament saying states it even more plainly: “He that tilleth his land shall have plenty of bread: but he that followeth after vain persons shall have poverty enough.” As to the things which do not concern one’s special calling, but which have a certain significance in the world and a certain importance for culture, it may be necessary for one, once in his life, to acquire a superficial survey of them by a glance at the best original sources. One should thereafter leave these matters alone and not concern himself with them further.

Finally, in this enumeration of the things which waste one’s time, I may add that one must not permit himself to be overburdened with superfluous tasks. There are in our day an infinite number of these,--correspondence, committees, reports, and not the least, lectures. All of them take time, and it is extremely probable that nothing will come of them. When the Apostle Paul was addressing the Athenians, he remarked that they did nothing else than to hear some new thing. It was not the serious part of his address, or its spiritual quickening, to which they gave their attention, it was its novelty; and the outcome of his sermon was simply that some mocked, and the most friendly said with patronizing kindness: “We will hear thee again of this matter.” Indeed, the reporter of the incident finds it necessary to mention expressly, that one member of the Athenian City-Council and one woman in the audience received some lasting good from the Apostle’s address. How is it, let me ask you, with yourselves? Have the lectures which you have heard been to you in any way positive influences of insight and decision, or have they been merely the evidences of the speaker’s erudition?

Such are the ways which in our present social conditions are open to any one to use for saving time. I must add, however, that if one tries to use these ways of saving time, he will make another discovery. For one of the most essential elements of such happiness as we can reach on earth lies in not having too much time. The vastly greater proportion of human happiness consists in continuous and progressive work, with the blessing which is given to work and which in the end makes work itself a pleasure. The spirit of man is never more cheerful than when it has discovered its proper work. Make this discovery, first of all, if you wish to be happy. Most of the wrecks of human life are caused by having either no work, or too little work, or uncongenial work; and the human heart, which is so easily agitated, never beats more peacefully than in the natural activity of vigorous, yet satisfying, work. Only one must guard against making of work an idol, instead of serving God through one’s work. Those who forget this last distinction find themselves in later life doomed to intellectual or physical prostration.

There are, then, but two possessions which may be attained by persons of every condition, which never desert one through life, and are a constant consolation in misfortune. These are work and love. Those who shut these blessings out of life commit a greater sin than suicide. They do not even know what it is that they throw away. Rest without work is a thing which in this life one cannot endure. The best blessing which can be promised is that last blessing of Moses for Asher: “Thy shoes shall be iron and brass; and as thy days, so shall thy strength be.” Better than this one should not desire, and if one has this he should be thankful. Yet, it must be added, this contentedness in continuous work is possible only when one abandons ambition; for ambition is always most deeply anxious not to do work, but as soon as possible to get the result of work, even if that result is illusive. Ambition is the Moloch of our time, to whom we feel bound to sacrifice even our own children, and who, more than all other foes, destroys the bodies and the souls of youth.

If, still further, one commit himself, as is so often the case, to that philosophy of materialism in which this brief life is the end of opportunity, so that but a few years are ours for the accomplishment of all which the pitiless and endless struggle for existence and the survival of the fittest permit, then there is an end of all restfulness and blessedness in work. Under such a view, time is indeed too short, and every art is indeed too long. The true spirit of work, which has no time for superfluities, but time enough for what is right and true, grows best in the soil of that philosophy which sees one’s work extending into the infinite world, and one’s life on earth as but one part of life itself. Then one gets strength to do his highest tasks, and patience among the grave difficulties and hindrances which confront him both within himself and in the times in which he lives. One is calmly indifferent to much which in the sight of this world alone may seem important, but which, seen in the light of eternity, loses significance. This is the meaning of that beautiful saying of the philosopher of Görlitz, which brings to our troubled time its message of comfort:

“He who, while here, lives the eternal life Is through eternity set free from strife.”

VI. HAPPINESS

VI. HAPPINESS

Whatever the philosophers may say, it remains true that, from the first hour of man’s waking consciousness until that consciousness ceases, his most ardent desire is to be happy, and that the moment of his profoundest regret is when he becomes convinced that on this earth perfect happiness cannot be found. Here is the problem which gives to the various ages of human history their special characters. Blithe are those ages when young and progressive nations still hope for happiness, or when men believe that in some new formula of philosophy, or of religion, or perhaps in some new industrial programme, the secret of human happiness has at last been found. Gloomy are those ages in which, as in our time, great masses of people are burdened with the conviction that all these familiar formulas have been illusions, and when persons of the keenest insight say--as they are now saying--that the very word happiness has in it a note of melancholy. No sooner, we are told, does one speak of happiness than it flees from him. In its very nature it lies beyond the sphere of practical realization.

I do not share this opinion. I believe that happiness can be found. If I thought otherwise, I should be silent and not make unhappiness the more bitter by discussing it. It is, indeed, true that those who talk of happiness utter therewith a sigh, as if there were doubt whether happiness could be attained. It is still further true that irrational views of happiness seem to be for the present forced upon us. Only through these imperfect views can individuals or communities approach that degree of spiritual and material development which is the necessary foundation for real happiness.

And here our question seems to involve a serious contradiction. For we have, first of all, to learn from our own experience much that does not bring us happiness. Each in his own way must pass, with the greatest of all poets, through the “forest dark” to the “city dolent,” and climb the steep path of the “Holy Mountain,” before he may learn how

“That apple sweet, which through so many branches The care of mortals goeth in pursuit of, To-day shall put in peace thy hungerings.”

All this is to be attained, not through instruction, but through experience. It is a path, and especially the latter part of it, which each must walk alone. No visible help is on any side, and as one meets each of those obstacles which in his own strength perhaps he could not overcome, he is upborne by that

“... eagle in the sky, with plumes of gold, With wings wide open, and intent to stoop,

* * * * *

Then wheeling somewhat more, it seemed to me, Terrible as the lightning he descended, And snatched me upward even to the fire.”

Thus the suggestions which now follow concern themselves merely with the many misleading ways which purport to lead toward happiness, and in which each new generation in its restless longing is tempted to go astray.

The paths by which people journey toward happiness lie in part through the world about them and in part through the experience of their souls. On the one hand, there is the happiness which comes from wealth, honor, the enjoyment of life, from health, culture, science, or art; and, on the other hand, there is the happiness which is to be found in a good conscience, in virtue, work, philanthropy, religion, devotion to great ideas and great deeds.

The outward ways to happiness are, however, all, in one respect, disappointing. They are not paths which are possible for every one to follow, and therefore, for many cannot lead to happiness. Still further, the possession of good things which others do not possess cannot but bring with it to any noble soul some twinge of conscience. One who enjoys these outward blessings, and recalls the millions of human beings by his side who are perishing for lack of them, must be either thoroughly selfish or profoundly unhappy. It is of such persons that Jesus is thinking when he speaks of the “unrighteous Mammon,” and even goes on to say: “How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom.” No man, that is to say, can attain to Christian happiness who attains distinction at the cost of others. “One that is proud in heart,” says the Book of Proverbs, “is an abomination to the Lord.”

Thus it was that Francis of Assisi, and many a saint before and after him, resolved, at any price, to break the chains of worldly possessions. It was a logical resolution. Wealth is the gravest of obstacles to the spiritual life, and few men are wholly free from its solicitations or slavery. The possession and administration of a large property, and, indeed, every position of exceptional honor and power, induce with almost absolute certainty a hardening of the disposition which is the very opposite of happiness. One shudders as he observes how dull life seems to that spiritless throng which in ever-increasing numbers visits each year the Swiss mountains to escape the emptiness of their prosperous lives.

Such is the result of these external ways of seeking happiness. But we do not fare much better when we turn to that form of happiness which lays claim to a nobler and a spiritual source,--the happiness of the æsthetic life. For the boundaries between this form of happiness and that of mere materialism are by no means easy to define. Æsthetic enjoyment often passes over into mere sensualism, as Goethe, the great model of æsthetic interest, has proved to us both in his poetry--as in the case of Faust--and in his own life. Indeed, the new school of æstheticism runs grave risk of interpreting much in terms of art which is in fact mere materialism. Those who thus seek happiness should recall the saying of their illustrious predecessor, who possessed in an extraordinary degree the capacity to attain whatever happiness in life æstheticism had to offer. “When all is said,” remarks Goethe, “my life has been nothing but care and work. I can even say that in my seventy-five years, I have not had four weeks of real happiness. It has been a continuous rolling up hill of a stone which must ever be pushed again from the bottom.” Four weeks of happiness in seventy-five years! This man of art declares that in his view life is nothing else than misery! There is hardly an honest day-laborer who at the end of his life, full as it may have been of genuine troubles, could give so poor an account of himself.

The fact is, then, that human nature seems obviously not intended for this kind of happiness. Life is made for activity; and this kind of receptive enjoyment, even in its highest forms, is designed merely to give flavor and change to life, and to be sparingly used; so that those who give themselves too confidently to such enjoyment bitterly deceive themselves. Genuine happiness cannot be arbitrarily produced. It issues from obedience to a genuine demand of human nature, and from intelligent activity naturally employed. Here is the rational basis of that faith in human equality and that contentment with the simple joys of life, in which people to-day believe much too little, and which awhile ago people praised with perhaps exaggerated sentiment.

Still further, as regards such æsthetic enjoyment, it is to be observed that the level of æsthetic judgments in literature and art is now so visibly sinking that these resources cannot long satisfy minds that can be called educated, or nations that can be called progressive. The time may soon come when people will weary of this “efflorescence” of science, literature, and art; and may even wish to exchange it for a taste of healthy barbarism. The Austrian poet Rosegger has thus described a not impossible future: “We already see each year a great migration of people passing from the cities to the country and the mountains, and not until the leaves are touched with autumn color returning to the city walls. The time will come, however, when prosperous city-folk will betake themselves permanently to country life; and when the work-people of the city will migrate to the wilderness and subdue it. They will abandon the search for book-knowledge, they will find their pleasure and renewal in physical work, they will make laws under which an independent and self-respecting livelihood will be ensured to country-dwellers; and the notion of an ignorant peasantry will disappear.” However this may be, it is at least certain that we are approaching a period marked by a return to nature, and by a taste for simplicity, such as existed at the end of the last century, when Marie Antoinette played shepherdess with her courtiers at the Trianon. It is a simplicity which is caricatured by the luxurious folk who parade each summer through Switzerland in mountain dresses and spiked shoes, and attempt an intimacy with the life of nature. Even these folk, strange as is their attire and laughable as is their mimicry of the life of peasants and mountaineers, find themselves as happy as their conventional lives permit.

One other external notion of happiness may be dealt with in a word. It is the happiness which is sought in freedom from care. Such happiness is an ideal for those only who have never had the experience of such freedom. For the fact is that through our cares, when not excessive, and through our victory over cares, comes the most essential part of human happiness. Cares of a reasonable nature do not constitute what we call care. Many a life of the widest experience would testify that the most unendurable experience is to be found, not in a series of stormy days, but in a series of cloudless ones.

I pass, then, from those who seek for happiness in material and outward conditions to those more rational inquirers who seek it in the spiritual life. These persons expect that happiness will be secured in the doing of their duty, in a good conscience, in personal work of public good, in patriotism, or charity, or some form of philanthropy, or perhaps in conformity to the teachings of their Church. And yet, a very considerable part of the drift to pessimism which one observes in our day comes of the experience that no one of these ways leads surely to happiness, or, at least, that one does not get in such ways the happiness for which he hoped. Indeed, it is perhaps still further true that a great part of the reckless “Realism,” now so prevalent among us, comes not of the conviction that it will make one happy, but only of the despair of finding any other way of happiness. For if it be true that neither our work, nor what we call our virtues, can bring peace to the soul; if outward activity, and charity, and patriotism, are but a mockery of happiness; if religion is for the most part only a form or a phrase, without objective certainty; if all is thus but vanity of vanities, then indeed: “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.”