QUIT YOUR WORRYING!
BY
GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
AUTHOR OF
"Living the Radiant Life," "What the White Race may learn from
the Indian," "The story of Scraggles," "California, Romantic and
Beautiful," "Our American Wonderlands," etc. etc.
PASADENA, CALIF.
1916
TO THOSE
who are standing on the banks of worry before the ocean of God's love
I cry aloud
"COME ON IN--THE WATER'S FINE!"
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
I THE CURSE OF WORRY
II OURS IS THE AGE OF WORRY
III NERVOUS PROSTRATION AND WORRY
IV HOLY WRIT, THE SAGES AND WORRY
V THE NEEDLESSNESS AND USELESSNESS OF WORRY
VI THE SELFISHNESS OF WORRY
VII CAUSES OF WORRY
VIII PROTEAN FORMS OF WORRY
IX HEALTH WORRIES
X THE WORRIES OF PARENTS
XI MARITAL WORRIES
XII THE WORRY OF THE SQUIRREL CAGE
XIII RELIGIOUS WORRIES AND WORRIERS
XIV AMBITION AND WORRY
XV ENVY AND WORRY
XVI DISCONTENT AND WORRY
XVII COWARDICE AND WORRY
XVIII WORRY ABOUT MANNERS AND SPEECH
XIX THE WORRIES OF JEALOUSY
XX THE WORRIES OF SUSPICION
XXI THE WORRIES OF IMPATIENCE
XXII THE WORRIES OF ANTICIPATION
XXIII HOW OUR WORRY AFFECTS OTHERS
XXIV WORRY VERSUS INDIFFERENCE
XXV WORRIES AND HOBBIES
JUST BE GLAD
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
_O heart of mine, we shouldn't worry so,
What we have missed of calm we couldn't have, you know!_
_What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow._
_We have erred in that dark hour, we have known,
When the tear fell with the shower, all alone._
_Were not shine and shower blent
As the gracious Master meant?
Let us temper our content
With His own._
_For we know not every morrow
Can be sad;
So forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years,
Just be glad._
FOREWORD
Between twenty and thirty years ago, I became involved in a series of
occurrences and conditions of so painful and distressing a character
that for over six months I was unable to sleep more than one or two
hours out of the twenty-four. In common parlance I was "worrying
myself to death," when, mercifully, a total collapse of mind and body
came. My physicians used the polite euphemism of "cerebral congestion"
to describe my state which, in reality, was one of temporary insanity,
and it seemed almost hopeless that I should ever recover my health
and poise. For several months I hovered between life and death, and my
brain between reason and unreason.
In due time, however, both health and mental poise came back in
reasonable measure, and I asked myself what would be the result if I
returned to the condition of worry that culminated in the disaster.
This question and my endeavors at its solution led to the gaining of a
degree of philosophy which materially changed my attitude toward life.
Though some of the chief causes of my past worry were removed there
were still enough adverse and untoward circumstances surrounding me
to give me cause for worry, if I allowed myself to yield to it, so I
concluded that my mind must positively and absolutely be prohibited
from dwelling upon those things that seemed justification for worry.
And I determined to set before me the ideal of a life without worry.
How was it to be brought about?
At every fresh attack of the harassing demon I rebuked myself with the
stern command, "Quit your Worrying." Little by little I succeeded
in obeying my own orders. A measurable degree of serenity has since
blessed my life. It has been no freer than other men's lives from the
ordinary--and a few extraordinary--causes of worry, but I have learned
the lesson. I have _Quit Worrying_. To help others to attain the same
desirable and happy condition has been my aim in these pages.
It was with set purpose that I chose this title. I might have selected
"Don't Worry." But I knew that would fail to convey my principal
thought to the casual observer of the title. People _will_ worry, they
_do_ worry. What they want to know and need to learn is how to
quit worrying. This I have attempted herein to show, with the full
knowledge, however, that no one person's recipe can infallibly be used
by any other person--so that, in reality, all I have tried to do is
to set forth the means I have followed to teach myself the delightful
lesson of serenity, of freedom from worry, and thereby to suggest
to receptive minds a way by which they may possibly attain the same
desirable end.
It was the learned and wise Dr. Johnson who wrote:
He may be justly numbered amongst the benefactors of mankind,
who contracts the great rules of life into short sentences,
that may easily be impressed on the memory, and taught by
frequent recollection to recur habitually to the mind.
I have no desire to claim as original the title used for these
observations, but I do covet the joy of knowing that I have so
impressed it upon the memory of thousands that by its constant
recurrence it will aid in banishing the monster, worry.
It is almost unavoidable that, in a practical treatise of this nature,
there should be some repetition, both in description of worries and
the remedies suggested. To the critical reader, however, let me say:
Do not worry about this, for I am far more concerned to get my thought
into the heads and hearts of my readers than I am to be esteemed a
great writer. Let me help but one troubled soul to quit worrying and I
will forego all the honors of the ages that might have come to me had
I been an essayist of power. And I have repeated purposely, for I
know that some thoughts have to knock again and again, ere they are
admitted to the places where they are the most needed.
I have written strongly; perhaps some will think too strongly. These,
however, must remember that I have written advisedly. I have been
considering the subject for half or three parts of a life-time. I
have studied men and women; carefully watched their lives; talked with
them, and seen the lines worry has engraved on their faces. I have
seen and felt the misery caused by their unnecessary worries. I have
sat by the bedsides of people made chronic invalids by worry, and I
have stood in the cells of maniacs driven insane by worry. Hence I
hate it in all its forms, and have expressed myself only as the facts
have justified.
Wherein I have sought to show how one might _Quit his Worrying_, these
pages presuppose an earnest desire, a sincere purpose, on the part
of the reader to attain that desirable end. There is no universal
medicine which one can drink in six doses and thus be cured of his
disease. I do not offer my book as a mental cure-all, or nostrum that,
if swallowed whole, will cure in five days or ten. As I have tried
to show, I conceive worry to be unnatural and totally unnecessary,
because of its practical denial of what ought to be, and I believe may
be, the fundamental basis of a man's life, viz., his perfect, abiding
assurance in the fatherly love of God. As little Pippa sang:
God's in his heaven,
All's right with the world.
The only way, therefore, to lose our sense of worry is to get back to
naturalness, to God, and learn the peace, joy, happiness, serenity,
that come with practical trust in Him. With some people this change
may come instantly; with others, more slowly. Personally I have had
to learn slowly, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little,
there a little." And I would caution my readers not to expect too
much all at once. But I am fully convinced that as faith, trust, and
naturalness grow, worry will cease, will slough off, like the dead
skin of the serpent, and leave those once bound by it free from its
malign influence. Who cannot see and feel that such a consummation is
devoutly to be wished, worth working and earnestly striving for?
If I help a few I shall be more than repaid, if many, my heart will
rejoice.
[Signed: George Wharton James]
Pasadena, Calif. _February_, 1916.
QUIT YOUR WORRYING!
CHAPTER I
THE CURSE OF WORRY
Of how many persons can it truthfully be said they never worry, they
are perfectly happy, contented, serene? It would be interesting if
each of my readers were to recall his acquaintances and friends, think
over their condition in this regard, and then report to me the result.
What a budget of worried persons I should have to catalogue, and alas,
I am afraid, how few of the serene would there be named. When John
Burroughs wrote his immortal poem, _Waiting_, he struck a deeper note
than he dreamed of, and the reason it made so tremendous an impression
upon the English-speaking world was that it was a new note to them. It
opened up a vision they had not before contemplated. Let me quote it
here in full:
Serene I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me,
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height,
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high
Can keep my own away from me.
I have been wonderfully struck by the fact that in studying the
Upanishads, and other sacred books of the East, there is practically
no reference to the kind of worry that is the bane and curse of our
Occidental world. In conversation with the learned men of the Orient
I find this same delightful fact. Indeed they have no word in their
languages to express our idea of fretful worry. Worry is a purely
Western product, the outgrowth of our materialism, our eager striving
after place and position, power and wealth, our determination to be
housed, clothed, and jeweled as well as our neighbors, and a little
better if possible; in fact, it comes from our failure to know that
life is spiritual not material; that all these outward things are the
mere "passing show," the tinsel, the gawds, the tissue-paper, the blue
and red lights of the theater, the painted scenery, the mock heroes
and heroines of the stage, rather than the real settings of the real
life of real men and women. What does the inventor, who knows that his
invention will help his fellows, care about the newest dance, or the
latest style in ties, gloves or shoes; what does the woman whose heart
and brain are completely engaged in relieving suffering care if she is
not familiar with the latest novel, or the latest fashions in flounced
pantalettes? Life is real, life is earnest, and this does not mean
unduly solemn and somber, but that it deals with the real things
rather than the paper-flower shows of the stage and the imaginary
things of so-called society.
It is the fashion of our active, aggressive, material, Occidental
civilization to sneer and scoff at the quiet, passive, and less
material civilization of the Orient. We despise--that is, the
unthinking majority do--the studious, contemplative Oriental. We
believe in being "up and doing." But in this one particular of worry
we have much to learn from the Oriental. If happiness and a large
content be a laudable aim of life how far are we--the occidental
world--succeeding in attaining it? Few there be who are content, and,
as I have already suggested few there be who are free from worry. On
the other hand while active happiness may be somewhat scarce in
India, a large content is not uncommon, and worry, as we Westerners
understand it, is almost unknown. Hence we need to find the happy mean
between the material activity of our own civilization, and the mental
passivity of that of the Orientals. Therein will be found the calm
serenity of an active mind, the reasonable acceptance of things as
they are because we know they are good, the restfulness that comes
from the assurance that "all things work together for _Good_ to them
that love God."
That worry is a curse no intelligent observer of life will deny. It
has hindered millions from progressing, and never benefited a soul. It
occupies the mind with that which is injurious and thus keeps out
the things that might benefit and bless. It is an active and real
manifestation of the fable of the man who placed the frozen asp in his
bosom. As he warmed it back to life the reptile turned and fatally bit
his benefactor. Worry is as a dangerous, injurious book, the reading
of which not only takes up the time that might have been spent in
reading a good, instructive, and helpful book, but, at the same time,
poisons the mind of the reader, corrupts his soul with evil images,
and sets his feet on the pathway to destruction.
Why is it that creatures endowed with reason distress themselves and
everyone around them by worrying? It might seem reasonable for the
wild creatures of the wood--animals without reason--to worry as to how
they should secure their food, and live safely with wilder animals
and men seeking their blood and hunting them; but that men and women,
endued with the power of thought, capable of seeing the why and
wherefore of things, should worry, is one of the strange and peculiar
evidences that our so-called civilization is not all that it ought to
be. The wild Indian of the desert, forest, or canyon seldom, if ever,
worries. He is too great a natural philosopher to be engaged in so
foolish and unnecessary a business. He has a better practical system
of life than has his white and civilized (!) brother who worries, for
he says: Change what can be changed; bear the unchangeable without
a murmur. With this philosophy he braves the wind and the rain, the
sand, and the storm, the extremes of heat and cold, the plethora of a
good harvest or the famine of a drought. If he complains it is within
himself; and if he whines and whimpers no one ever hears him. His
face may become a little more stern under the higher pressure; he may
tighten his waist belt a hole or two to stifle the complaints of his
empty stomach, but his voice loses no note of its cheeriness and his
smile none of its sweet serenity.
Why should the rude and brutal (!) savage be thus, while the cultured,
educated, refined man and woman of civilization worry wrinkles into
their faces, gray hairs upon their heads, querelousness into their
voices and bitterness into their hearts?
When we use the word "worry" what do we mean? The word comes from the
old Saxon, and was in imitation of the sound caused by the choking or
strangling of an animal when seized by the throat by another animal.
We still refer to the "worrying" of sheep by dogs--the seizing by the
throat with the teeth; killing or badly injuring by repeated biting,
shaking, tearing, etc. From this original meaning the word has
enlarged until now it means to tease, to trouble, to harass with
importunity or with care or anxiety. In other words it is _undue_
care, _needless_ anxiety, _unnecessary_ brooding, _fretting_ thought.
What a wonderful picture the original source of the word suggests of
the latter-day meaning. Worry takes our manhood, womanhood, our high
ambitions, our laudable endeavors, our daily lives, _by the throat_,
and strangles, chokes, bites, tears, shakes them, hanging on like a
wolf, a weasel, or a bull-dog, sucking out our life-blood, draining
our energies, our hopes, our aims, our noble desires, and leaving us
torn, empty, shaken, useless, bloodless, hopeless, and despairing. It
is the nightmare of life that rides us to discomfort, wretchedness,
despair, and to that death-in-life that is no life at all. It is the
vampire that sucks out the good of us and leaves us like the rind of
a squeezed-out orange; it is the cooking-process that extracts and
wastes all the nutritious juices of the meat and leaves nothing but
the useless and tasteless fibre.
Worry is a worse thief than the burglar or highwayman. It goes beyond
the train-wrecker or the vile wretch who used to lure sailing vessels
upon a treacherous shore, in its relentless heartlessness. Once it
begins to control it never releases its hold unless its victim wakes
up to the sure ruin that awaits him and frees himself from its bondage
by making a great, continuous, and successful fight.
It steals the joy of married life, of fatherhood and motherhood; it
destroys social life, club life, business life, and religious life.
It robs a man of friendships and makes his days long, gloomy periods,
instead of rapidly-passing epochs of joy and happiness. It throws
around its victim a chilling atmosphere as does the iceberg, or
the snow bank; it exhales the mists and fogs of wretchedness and
misunderstanding; it chills family happiness, checks friendly
intercourse, and renders the business occupations of life curses
instead of blessings.
Worry manifests itself in a variety of ways. It is protean in its
versatility. It can be physical or mental. The hypochondriac conceives
that everything is going to the "demnition bow-wows." Nothing can
reassure him. He sees in every article of diet a hidden fiend of
dyspepsia; in every drink a demon of torture. Every man he meets is a
scoundrel, and every woman a leech. Children are growing worse
daily, and society is "rotten." The Church is organized for the mere
fattening of a raft of preachers and parsons who preach what they
don't believe and never try to practice. Lawyers and judges are all
dishonest swindlers caring nothing for honor and justice and seeking
only their fees; physicians and surgeons are pitiless wretches who
scare their patients in order to extort money from them; men in office
are waiting, lurking, hunting for chances to graft, eager to steal
from their constituents at every opportunity. He expects every thing,
every animal, every man, every woman to get the best of him--and, as a
rule, he is not disappointed. For we can nearly always be accommodated
in life and get that for which we look.
We are told that all these imaginary ills come from physical causes.
The hypochondrium is supposed to be affected, and as it is located
under the "short ribs," the hypochondriac continuously suffers from
that awful "sinking at the pit of the stomach" that makes him feel
as if the bottom had dropped out of life itself. He can neither eat,
digest his food, walk, sit, rest, work, take pleasure, exercise, or
sleep. His body is the victim of innumerable ills. His tongue, his
lips, his mouth are dry and parched, his throat full of slime and
phlegm, his stomach painful, his bowels full of gas, and he regards
himself as cursed of God--a walking receptacle of woe. To physician,
wife, husband, children, employer, employee, pastor, and friend alike
the hypochondriac is a pest, a nuisance, a chill and almost a curse,
and, poor creature, these facts do not take away or lessen our
sympathy for him, for, though most of his ills are imaginary, he
suffers more than do those who come in contact with him.
Then there is the neurasthenic--the mentally collapsed whose collapse
invariably comes from too great tension or worry. I know several
housewives who became neurasthenic by too great anxiety to keep their
houses spotless. Not a speck of dust must be anywhere. The slightest
appearance of inattention or carelessness in this matter was a great
source of worry, and they worried lest the maid fail to do her duty.
I know another housewife who is so dainty and refined that, though her
husband's income is strained almost to the breaking point, she must
have everything in the house so dainty and fragile that no ordinary
servant can be trusted to care for the furniture, wash the dishes,
polish the floors, etc., and the result is she is almost a confirmed
neurasthenic because, in the first place, she worries over her
dainty things, and, secondly, exhausts herself in caring for these
unnecessarily fragile household equipments.
Every neurasthenic is a confirmed worrier. He ever sits on the "stool
of repentance," clothing himself in sackcloth and ashes for what he
has done or not done. He cries aloud--by his acts--every five minutes
or so: "We have done those things which we ought not to have done and
have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and there
is no health in us." Everything past is regretted, everything present
is in doubt, and nothing but anxieties and uncertainties meet
the future. If he holds a position of responsibility he asks his
subordinates or associates to perform certain services and then
"worries himself to death," watching to see that they "do it right,"
or afraid lest they forget to do it at all. He wakes up from a sound
sleep in dread lest he forgot to lock the door, turn out the electric
light in the hall, or put out the gas. He becomes the victim of
uncertainty and indecision. He fears lest he decide wrongly, he
worries that he hasn't yet decided, and yet having thoroughly argued a
matter out and come to a reasonable conclusion, allows his worries to
unsettle him and is forever questioning his decision and going back to
revise and rerevise it. Whatever he does or doesn't do he regrets and
wishes he had done the converse.
Husbands are worried about their wives; wives about their husbands;
parents about their children; children about their parents. Farmers
are worried over their crops; speculators over their gamblings;
investors over their investments. Teachers are worried over their
pupils, and pupils over their lessons, their grades, and their
promotions. Statesmen (!) are worried over their constituents, and the
latter are generally worried by their representatives. People who have
schemes to further--legitimate or otherwise--are worried when they
are retarded, and competitors are worried if they are not. Pastors are
worried over their congregations,--occasionally about their salaries,
very often about their large families, and now and again about their
fitness for their holy office,--and there are few congregations that,
at one time or another, are not worried _by_, as well as _about_,
their pastors. The miner is worried when he sees his ledge "petering
out," or finds the ore failing to assay its usual value. The editor
is worried lest his reporters fail to bring in the news, and often
worried when it is brought in to know whether it is accurate or
not. The chemist worries over his experiments, and the inventor that
certain things needful will persist in eluding him. The man who has
to rent a house, worries when rent day approaches; and many who own
houses worry at the same time. Some owners, indeed, worry because
there is no rent day, they have no tenants, their houses are idle.
Others worry because their tenants are not to their liking, are
destructive, careless, or neglect the flowers and the lawn, or allow
the children to batter the furniture, walk in hob nails over the
hardwood floors, or scratch the paint off the walls. Men in high
position worry lest their superiors are not as fully appreciative
of their efforts as they should be, and they in turn worry their
subordinates lest they forget that they are subordinate.
Mistresses worry about their maids, and maids about their mistresses.
Some of the former worry because they have to go into their
kitchens, others because they are not allowed to go. Some mistresses
deliberately worry their servants, and others are worried because
their servants insist upon doing the worrying. Many a wife is worried
because of her husband's typewriter, and many a typewriter is worried
because her employer has a wife. Some typewriters are worried because
they are not made into wives, and many a one who is a wife wishes she
were free again to become a typewriter.
Thousands of girls--many of them who ought yet to be wearing
short dresses and playing with dolls--worry because they have no
sweethearts, and equal thousands worry because they _do_ have them.
Many a lad worries because he has no "lassie," and many a one worries
because he has. Yesterday I rode on a street car and saw a bit of
by-play that fully illustrated this. On these particular cars there
is a seat for two alongside the front by the motorman. On this car,
chatting merrily with the handler of the lever, sat a black-eyed,
pretty-faced Latin type of brunette. That _he_ was happy was evidenced
by his good-natured laugh and the huge smile that covered his face
from ear to ear as he responded to her sallies. Just then a young
Italian came on the car, directly to the front, and seemed nettled to
see the young lady talking so freely with the motorman. He saluted her
with a frown upon his face, but evidently with familiarity. The change
in the girl's demeanor was instantaneous. Evidently she did not wish
to offend the newcomer, nor did she wish to break with the motorman.
All were ill at ease, distraught, vexed, worried. She tried to bring
the newcomer into the conversation, which he refused. The motorman
eyed him with hostility now and again, as he dared to neglect his
duty, but smiled uneasily in the face of the girl when she addressed
him with an attempt at freedom.
Bye and bye the youth took the empty seat by the side of the girl,
and endeavored to draw her into conversation to the exclusion of the
motorman. She responded, twisting her body and face towards him,
so that her sweet and ingratiating smiles could not be seen by the
motorman. Then, she reversed the process and gave a few fleeting
smiles to the grim-looking motorman. It was as clear a case of
How happy could I be with either,
Were t'other dear charmer away,
as one could well see.
Just then the car came to a transfer point. The girl had a transfer
and left, smiling sweetly, but separately, in turn, to the motorman
and her young Italian friend. The latter watched her go. Then a new
look came over his face, which I wondered at. It was soon explained.
The transfer point was also a division point for this car. The
motorman and conductor were changed, and the moment the new crew came,
our motorman jumped from his own car, ran to the one the brunette had
taken, and swung himself on, as it crossed at right angles over
the track we were to take. Rising to his feet the youth watched the
passing car, with keenest interest until it was out of sight, clearly
revealing the jealousy, worry, and unrest he felt.
In another chapter I have dealt more fully with the subject of
the worries of jealousy. They are demons of unrest and distress,
destroying the very vitals with their incessant gnawing.
Too great emphasis cannot be placed upon the physical ills that come
from worry. The body unconsciously reflects our mental states. A
fretful and worrying mother should never be allowed to suckle her
child, for she directly injures it by the poison secreted in her milk
by the disturbances caused in her body by the worry of her mind.
Among the many wonderfully good things said in his lifetime Henry Ward
Beecher never said a wiser and truer thing than that "it is not the
revolution which destroys the machinery, but the friction." Worry is
the friction that shatters the machine. Work, to the healthy body and
serene mind, is a joy, a blessing, a health-giving exercise, but to
the worried is a burden, a curse and a destroyer.
Go where you will, when you will, how you will, and you will find most
people worrying to a greater or lesser extent. Indeed so full has our
Western world become of worry that a harsh and complaining note is far
more prevalent than we are willing to believe, which is expressed in
a rude motto to be found hung on many an office, bedroom, library,
study, and laboratory wall which reads:
_Life is one Damn
Thing after Another_
[Note: this is outlined in a block.]
Those gifted with a sense of humor laugh at the motto; the very
serious frown at it and reprobate its apparent profanity, those who
see no humor in anything regard it with gloom, the careless with
assumed indifference, but in the minds of all, more or less latent or
subconscious, there is a recognition that there is "an awful lot of
truth in it."
Hence it will be seen that worry is by no means confined to the poor.
The well-to-do, the prosperous, and the rich, indeed, have far more to
worry about than the poor, and for one victim who suffers keenly from
worry among the poor, ten can be found among the rich who are its
abject victims.
It is worry that paints the lines of care on foreheads and cheeks that
should be smooth and beautiful; worry bows the shoulders, brings out
scowls and frowns where smiles and sweet greetings should exist. Worry
is the twister, the dwarfer, the poisoner, the murderer of joy, of
peace, of work, of happiness; the strangler, the burglar of life; the
phantom, the vampire, the ghost that scares, terrifies, fills with
dread. Yet he is a liar and a scoundrel, a villain and a coward, who
will turn and flee if fearlessly and courageously met and defied.
Instead of pampering and petting him, humoring and conciliating him,
meet him on his own ground. Defy him to do his worst. Flaunt him,
laugh at his threats, sneer and scoff at his pretensions, bid him do
his worst. Better be dead than under the dominion of such a tyrant.
And, my word for it, as soon as you take that attitude, he will flee
from you, nay, he will disappear as the mists fade away in the heat of
the noonday sum.
Worry, however, is not only an effect. It is also a cause. Worry
causes worry. It breeds more rapidly than do flies. The more one
worries the more he learns to worry. Begin to worry over one thing
and soon you are worrying about twenty. And the infernal curse is not
content with breeding worries of its own kind. It is as if it were a
parent gifted with the power of breeding a score, a hundred different
kinds of progeny at one birth, each more hideous, repulsive, and
fearful than the other. There is no palliation, temporization, or
parleying possible with such a monster. Death is the only way to be
released from him, and it is your death or his. His death is a duty
God requires at your hands. Why, then, waste time? Start now and kill
the foul fiend as quickly as you can.