has been singularly unfruitful. Indeed, religion cannot be imparted
by instruction. It assumes not only a faith in that which is beyond
the world of knowledge, but also a faith in the teachers of religion.
The teachers of religion, therefore, can, at the best, only produce
in one a kind of mental disposition. They can free the mind from
disinclination to their view or from positive incapacity to share it,
and they can fortify conviction by their teaching. This limitation in
religious instruction has more than one cause. It sometimes happens
because the hearer’s way of life is inconsistent with idealism. It is
also, and quite as often, caused by a false definition of religion--the
notion that religion is a matter of doctrine, a kind of science which
can be taught and learned.
Wherein, then, it will be asked, lies the advantage of the wisdom
of the light over the wisdom of this world? Surely, the wisdom of
the world is a more obvious possession, and guarantees to us more of
the good things of life than the children of light can secure. The
advantage of the children of light, I answer, is threefold. It is to
be found, first, in the assurance that they are the possessors of
truth and are made thereby inwardly and wholly at peace. Lessing, in
his well-known words, announced that truth was not a thing which men
should desire to possess. Happiness, he conceived, was to be found in
the search for truth, not in its possession. But the possession of
the truth brings with it the only true happiness--a happiness which
is abundant and unspeakable, and which no man who has in any degree
obtained it would exchange for all the other good things of earth. For
the fundamental question is not of possessing any definite outward
thing, but of the inward happiness attained through that possession.
Even the selfish, the envious, and the self-indulgent do not regard
that which they want to possess as their real aim. It is only in their
eyes the essential means to the real end, and that end is their own
inward happiness. And this is precisely where they are self-deceived.
For there is this solemn fact about the order of the world, which
reveals itself to every candid observer,--that such people may attain
all that they earnestly desire, yet not attain with it their own peace.
Their attainment itself, their very success, becomes their punishment.
All this may be perhaps somewhat hard to understand, but for the moment
it may be accepted merely as a working hypothesis, and one may later
observe in life whether it is not true. It is by using thus a working
hypothesis that even natural science most easily reaches the truth.
The second advantage which the spirit of the truth, as we may
paraphrase it, has over the wisdom of this world is this: that when
brought to the test it is in reality much wiser than worldly wisdom.
Nothing but the wisdom of the children of light is in harmony with
the real laws of the universe. That is the reason why these seemingly
unwise persons still for the most part pass through the experiences
of life with less trouble and harm than the wise of this world. The
consciences of the children of light are undisturbed, and a troubled
conscience embitters the best joys. They pass through life also with
much less hurry, worry, and fear, both of people and of events. None
of these distresses of life is to be escaped except through this frame
of mind. Finally, they live more peacefully--not only in their own
hearts, but also with other people--because they live without the
passions, hatreds, and jealousies which make life hard to endure. Even
those who do not desire for themselves this habit of mind, and are not
indeed capable of it, as soon as they are convinced that the children
of light mean what they seem, that their attitude is not merely a
cloak to cover the wisdom of the world, and that they are not vain and
supercilious, grow more attached to these “Idealists” than to people
like themselves. The affection which goes out toward such persons is
quite beyond parallel. It is the reverence, for instance, felt toward
characters like Nicolaus von Flüe, or Francis of Assisi, or Catherine
of Siena, or in our own time Gordon Pasha. Thousands, for example, in
all lands deeply lamented General Gordon’s death and felt it to be a
national disaster, although they had not the least notion of following
his life. It is a form of sentiment which the most distinguished and
most successful political ruler of our own time does not inspire.
Persons like these, just because they have denied themselves what seem
to others the good things of life and have abandoned the competition
for them, have become the true rulers of their people and the heroes
of humanity. Truth, happiness, freedom from fear and care, peace
with oneself and with all men, the sincere respect and affection of
all,--one would think that these might be recognized as beyond a
doubt the good things of life, compared with which the accumulation
of wealth, the increase of honor, and the resources of luxury have no
weight or significance. Indeed, the blessings of the children of light
would outweigh the rewards of worldly wisdom, even if these rewards
could be attained with certainty and without the bitterness, anxiety,
and rivalry which inevitably accompany them.
Lastly, these ideal possessions have this further advantage,--that when
attained, they are secure; and that they are within any one’s power to
attain. One need only desire them seriously and wholly, and cease from
a hesitating dependence on the wisdom and the successes of this world,
and then, as many witnesses will testify from their own experience, the
blessings of the children of light are surely attained. It may not be
through one effort. Indeed, in most cases, it only happens after one or
more crises in one’s life--crises which are in fact not unlike death
itself, and in which a man renounces all his early hopes. In such a
crisis, however, the worst of the way of light is passed. In everything
else it is a much easier and more agreeable way than the worldly way,
and one is sure to meet much better company.
Christ has compared his way of life to the bearing of a yoke, and
indeed it always is a yoke; but compared with other ways of life, it is
a much easier and lighter yoke. That is the testimony of all, without
exception, who have ever borne that yoke, and not one single person
has ever been found who, at the end of such a life, whatever may have
been its outward circumstances, has looked back upon it with regret, or
has confessed that the way of the world was better and happier. On the
other hand, how many there have been since the days of King Solomon
who have come to the end of a life which, to the wisdom of this world,
seemed successful and free, and have found it only “vanity of vanities.”
One would think that this single fact of human experience would be
decisive. It fails of its effect only, as we know, because the lower
wisdom withholds one from that higher wisdom which ventures the larger
gain for the higher stake. Yet, I will not reproach those who follow
the lower wisdom. I simply leave it to the reader’s own reflection to
decide whether, on weighing the case as he best can, and considering
the conditions in which human life is ordinarily placed, he will do
better to choose the lower or the higher way. For, after all, the most
foolish people are beyond question those who follow this pilgrimage of
life for seventy or eighty years without ever clearly deciding whether
to choose the wisdom of this world or the wisdom of light; and to this
class of foolish persons, who, for the most part, accomplish nothing in
the world, belong, curiously enough, a very considerable number of what
we call the cultivated people of our day.
V. THE ART OF HAVING TIME
V. THE ART OF HAVING TIME
I have no time,--that is not only the most familiar and convenient
excuse for not doing one’s duty; it is also, one must confess, the
excuse which has in it the greatest appearance of truth. Is it a good
excuse? I must at once admit that within certain limits the excuse is
reasonable, but I shall try to show how it is that this lack of time
occurs, and how one may, at least in some degree, find the time he
needs. Thus my sermon differs from those of the preachers, in having,
not three heads, but only two. This I say to propitiate those who may
protest that they have no time for reading.
The most immediate reason, then, for lack of time is to be found in
the character of the present age. There is just now a prevailing
restlessness, and a continuous mood of excitement, from which, unless
one make himself a hermit, he cannot wholly escape. One who lives at
all in these days must live fast. If one could observe the modern
world as a bird might look down upon it, and at the same time could
distinguish the details of its life, he would see beneath him a picture
like that of a restless and swarming ant-hill, where even the railway
trains, as they cross and recross each other by night and day, would
be enough to bewilder his brain. Something of this bewilderment is,
in fact, felt by almost every one who is involved in the movement of
the time. There are a great many people who have not the least idea
why they are thus all day long in a hurry. People whose circumstances
permit complete leisure are to be seen rushing through the streets, or
whirling away in a train, or crowding out of the theatre, as if there
were awaiting them at home the most serious tasks. The fact is that
they simply yield to the general movement. One might be led to fancy
that the most precious and most unusual possession on earth was the
possession of time. We say that time is money, yet people who have
plenty of money seem to have no time; and even the people who despise
money are constantly admonishing us, and our over-worked children,
to remember the Apostle’s saying, and “to redeem the time.” Thus the
modern world seems pitiless in its exhortation to work. Human beings
are driven like horses until they drop. Many lives are ruined by the
pace, but there are always more lives ready like horses to be driven.
Yet the results of this restless haste are in the main not convincing.
There have been periods in history when people, without the
restlessness and fatigue that now prevail, accomplished far more in
many forms of human activity than men achieve to-day. Where are we now
to find a man like Luther, who could write his incomparable translation
of the Bible in an incredibly brief space of time, and yet not break
down at the end of the task, or be forced to spend months or years
in recreation or vacation? Where are the scholars whose works fill
thousands of volumes, or the artists like Michael Angelo and Raphael,
who could be at once painters, architects, sculptors and poets? Where
shall we find a man like Titian, who at ninety years of age could still
do his work without the necessity of retiring each year to a summer
resort or sanitarium? The fact is that the nervous haste of our day
cannot be wholly explained by assuming that modern men do more work,
or better work, than their predecessors. It must be possible to live,
if not without perfect rest, still without haste, and yet accomplish
something.
The first condition of escape from this ineffective haste is, beyond
doubt, the resolution not to be swept away by the prevailing current
of the age, as though one had no will of his own. On the contrary, one
must oppose this current and determine to live as a free man, and not
as a slave either of work or of pleasure. Our present system of the
organization of labor makes this resolution far from easy. Indeed,
our whole manner of thinking about money-making and our painstaking
provision of money for future generations--our capitalist system, in
short--increase the difficulty. Here is the solemn background of our
present question, with which I do not propose to deal. We may simply
notice that the problem of the use of time is closely involved with
the problem of that radical change which civilization itself must
experience before it reaches a more equitable division of labor and a
more equitable distribution of prosperity. So long as there are people,
and especially educated people, who work only when they are forced
to work and for no other purpose than to free themselves and their
children as soon as possible from the burden of work; so long as there
are people who proudly say: “Je suis d’une famille où on n’avait pas
de plume qu’aux chapeaux,”--so long must there be many people who have
too little time simply because a few have too much. All this, however,
is of the future. The only practical problem for our own age is to
maintain a sort of defensive attitude toward our lack of time, and to
seek less radical ways of fortifying ourselves. Let me enumerate some
of these ways.
The best way of all to have time is to have the habit of regular
work, not to work by fits and starts, but in definite hours of the
day,--though not of the night,--and to work six days in the week, not
five and not seven. To turn night into day or Sunday into a work-day
is the best way to have neither time nor capacity for work. Even
a vacation fails of its purpose, if it be given to no occupation
whatever. I am not without hope that the time may come when medical
science will positively demonstrate that regular work, especially
as one grows older, is the best preservative both of physical and
intellectual health. I may even add for the sake of women among my
readers, that here is the best preservative of beauty also. Idleness
is infinitely more wearisome than work, and induces also much more
nervousness; for it weakens that power of resistance which is the
foundation of health.
Work, it is true, may be excessive, but this is most obviously the
case when one cares more for the result of his work than he does for
the work itself. Under such conditions, it is peculiarly difficult
to exercise moderation, and as an ancient preacher remarks with a
sigh: “Work is given to every man according to his power, but his
heart cannot abide by it.” In such cases, however, Nature herself
has given us a monitor in that physical fatigue which work itself
produces. One need only take account of such fatigue, and not cheat it
by stimulants, and then, even without much philosophizing, he will not
lack self-control.
The habit of regular work is further greatly encouraged by having a
definite vocation which involves positive tasks and obligations. Thus
the socialistic romances which draw a picture of the future of the
world are quite justified when they describe the universal organization
of industry under the form of an army, for an army represents that way
of life in which order and duty in one’s work are most emphasized.
Every Swiss citizen knows that, with the exception of occasional
excessive demands, he has never been in better health than when serving
his term in the army. Every hour in the day then had its regular and
sufficient task, and no one was called to consider whether he desired
to do things or not to do them, while no one had time to anticipate
the tasks of the following day. Here is the misfortune of many rich
people in our day,--that they have no definite vocation. As the common
saying has it, “There is no ‘must’ for them.” For many such persons, a
specific business would be a redemption from the dilettantism which now
threatens their peace of mind. They might well follow the example of
that Bavarian prince who has undertaken the profession of an oculist. I
am even inclined to believe that part of the movement toward the higher
education which is so conspicuous among women in our day is simply the
response to this demand of human nature for some definite vocation.
Another question much discussed in our time concerns the division of
one’s working day. In great cities with their vast distances, in the
case of unmarried persons engaged in more or less mechanical tasks,
and in the case of all people who regard their work as a burden to be
thrown off as soon as possible, there is some advantage in working
continuously and without interruption. This is what we are in the
habit of calling the English method. It is never possible, however,
to accomplish in this way so much intellectual work of a productive
character as may be done under the Swiss custom of a pause at midday.
No one can continuously, or even with momentary pauses, devote himself
for six or eight hours to work of an intellectual character. Even if
he allow himself an hour’s interval, the sense of strain remains,
together with an abbreviation of time for work in the afternoon.
On the other hand, under the Swiss custom, it is perfectly easy to
work for ten or eleven hours a day,--four in the morning, four in
the afternoon, and two or three in the evening, and few of us could
accomplish our work in that eight-hour day of which we hear so much,
although we have not the honor of being reckoned as of the class known
as “working-people.”
The next essential point is not to have too much fussiness about one’s
work, or, in other words, not to permit oneself elaborate preparations
as to time, place, surroundings, inclination, or mood. The inclination
to work comes of itself when one has begun his work, and it is even
true that a kind of fatigue with which one often begins--unless,
indeed, it has some positive or physical cause--disappears as one
seriously attacks his work, and does not simply, as it were, defend
himself from it.
“_Begin with cheerfulness thy task
Nor ask how it may end,
Farther than all that thou couldst ask
Its issues surely tend._”
In short, if one permit himself habitually to stop and ask that
indolent part of him which the Apostle Paul calls “the old man” what
he would like to do, or would prefer not to do, “the old man” is most
unlikely to vote for serious work, but betakes himself to excellent
religious or moral advice. The bad part of one must be forced to the
habit of obeying, without grumbling, the “categorical imperative”
of the better part. When one has achieved this amount of soldierly
discipline in himself, then he is on the right path, and until he has
reached this point, he has not found his way. Here he first learns
whether his life is saved or lost. Sometimes a man proposes to himself
to collect his thoughts before he begins, or to meditate on the work
he is going to do. In most cases, this is merely an excuse for doing
nothing, and it is most obviously such an excuse, when, to encourage
this preliminary reflection, a man lights his cigar. In short, one’s
best ideas come while he is working, and often, indeed, while he is
working on a wholly different topic. A distinguished modern preacher
has remarked with originality, though not with strict accuracy, that
there is not a single case mentioned in the Bible in which an angel
appeared to a man who was not at work.
In close connection with this point should be mentioned the habit of
using fragments of time. Many people have no time because they always
want to have a large amount of uninterrupted time before they set
themselves to work. In such a plan they are doubly deceived. On the
one hand, in many circumstances of life these prolonged periods are
difficult to secure, and, on the other hand, the power of work which
one possesses is not so unlimited that it can continuously utilize
long stretches of time. This is peculiarly true of such intellectual
work as is devoted to productive effort. Of such work it may be said
without exaggeration that the first hour, or even the first half-hour,
is the most fruitful. Dismissing, however, these large intellectual
undertakings, there are to be found in connection with every piece of
work a great number of subordinate tasks of preparation or arrangement
which are of a mechanical nature, and for each of which a quarter of an
hour or so is sufficient. These minor matters, if not disposed of in
small fragments of time which would otherwise be wasted, will absorb
the time and power which should be devoted to one’s important task. It
might, indeed, be reasonably maintained that the use of these fragments
of time, together with the complete dismissal of the thought, “It is
not worth while to begin to-day,” accounts for half of the intellectual
results which one attains.
Another important means for saving time is the habit of changing the
kind of work in which one is engaged. Change is almost as restful
as complete rest, and if one acquire a certain degree of skill in
his ways of change,--a skill which comes from experience rather than
from theorizing,--one may carry on his work for almost the entire
day. Moreover, so far as my experience goes, it is a mistake to plan
that one piece of work shall be finished before another is begun.
The judicious course, on the contrary, is that which prevails among
artists, who are often engaged on a whole series of sketches, and turn,
according to the momentary inclination which overmasters them, first to
one piece of work and then to another. Here, too, it may be remarked is
an excellent way of maintaining one’s self-control. The old Adam in us
often persuades the better nature that he is not really lazy, but is
simply not in the mood for a certain piece of work. In this state of
things, one should forthwith say to himself: “Well, if you do not feel
inclined to this piece of work, take up with another.” Then one will
discover whether the difficulty is a disinclination to a special form
of work, to which one might yield, or a disinclination to do any work
at all. In short, one must not permit oneself to deceive oneself.
Another point to be considered is the habit of working quickly, not
giving too much care to outward form, but devoting one’s efforts to
the content of the task. The experience of most workers will bear
me out when I say that the most profitable and effective tasks are
those which have been done quickly. I am well aware that Horace
advises one to take nine years for the perfecting of verses; but such
scrupulousness presupposes an excessive notion of the quality of one’s
work. Thoroughness is a very beautiful and necessary trait, in so far
as it concerns truth, for truth cannot be too thoroughly explored; but
there is a spurious thoroughness which absorbs itself in all manner of
details and subordinate questions which are not worth investigating,
or which cannot be wholly known. Thoroughness of this kind is never
satisfied with itself. It is sometimes mistaken for great learning;
for to many people learning is profound only when wholly detached from
practical usefulness, or when an author, for a whole lifetime, has
brooded over one book.
Truth, wherever it may be sought, is, as a rule, so simple that it
often does not look learned enough. People feel as if they must
add to it something which is not essential to the nature of truth,
in order to give to truth a respectable and academic look. Among
learned people, it is often the case that one must first earn his
reputation by some piece of work which is of no use to himself or to
any one else, and in which he heaps together the hitherto undiscovered
rubbish of some remote century. Lassalle was able to write his famous
work on Herakleitos without forfeiting his interest in the affairs
of modern life, but there are few authors with this capacity for
practical concerns. On the contrary, many authors in their maiden
venture of learned work not only have their eyesight ruined by their
researches, but lose their inward vision, which is a matter of much
more consequence. They reach the goal of their ambition and become of
no further use.
A further way of saving a deal of time is to do one’s work and be
done with it; not to deal with it, that is to say, in a provisional
or preparatory manner. This kind of immediate thoroughness is in our
day extremely rare, and in my opinion much of the blame should be
laid to the newspapers, which accustom people to superficial surveys
of truth. The editorial writer says, at the close of his article, “We
shall return to this subject later”; but in fact he never returns. So
it is with the modern reader. If he wants to make use of what he has
read, he has to begin the reading of it afresh. His skimming of the
subject--as the phrase is--has had no result, and so the time that he
has given to skimming has been lost. This is the reason why people
have so little thorough knowledge in our day, and why, though they
have studied a subject ten times, on the eleventh occasion when they
need it, they must study it again. Indeed, there are people who would
be extremely glad if they could remember even the works of which they
themselves were the authors.