the reading of original authorities. The habit of orderliness saves one
from the need of hunting for material, and this search for material is
not only, as we all know, a great waste of time, but tempts us also to
lose pleasure in our work. Further, orderliness permits us to allow
one subject to be forgotten, while we apply ourselves to the next. The
reading of original sources, on the other hand, gives one the advantage
of being sure of his material, and of having his own judgment about
it. There is this further advantage, that the original sources are in
most cases not only much briefer, but much more interesting and much
easier to remember than the books that have been written about them.
Second-hand knowledge never gives the courage and self-confidence which
one gets from acquaintance with original sources. One of the great
mistakes of modern scholarship, as distinguished from that of the
classic world, is--as Winkelmann has pointed out--that our learning in
so many cases consists in knowing only what other people have known.
But, after all, we have not yet named the chief element in the
art of having time. It consists in banishing from one’s life all
superfluities. Much which modern civilization regards as essential,
is, in reality, superfluous, and while I shall indicate several things
which appear to me unnecessary, I shall be quite content to have my
reader supplement them by his own impressions. For instance, one
superfluity is beer. It is superfluous at any time of the day and
especially when drunk in the morning, after the fashion made popular by
Prince Bismarck. Perhaps the greatest contributors to waste of time in
this century are the brewers, and the time will come when people may
regard the excessive drinking of beer as they now regard the excessive
use of alcohol in other forms.
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._”[3]
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._”[4]
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._”[5]
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.”
I do not join in the condemnation with which the moralists usually
meet this view of life. I deny only the conclusions which are drawn
from such a view. I recognize the honest purpose of these modern
philosophers. They represent, at least, a sincere love of truth; they
are hostile to all mere phrases. The spirit of the modern world looks
for a happiness which is not mere philosophical composure, but which
has objective results. It demands a kind of contentment in which
every human being may have a share. In all this, the spirit of the
age is wholly right, and this demand for objective happiness which it
utters is a note which has not been heard for two thousand years. I,
too, desire happiness; but I know that one who would find the way to
happiness must, first of all, and without hesitation, throw overboard
all the false idols which have tempted him to worship them. As he
dismisses the prejudices which birth, or circumstances, or habits, have
created, he takes one step after another toward true happiness. As the
Emperor Maximilian of Mexico, one of the least fortunate persons of our
day, rightly said: “The abandoning of an untruth, or of a prejudice,
brings with it forthwith a sensation of joy.” Here, then, is our guide
along this darkened road, which without some such guidance we could not
find at all.
“_The happy life lies straight before our eyes,--
We see it, but we know not how to prize._”