There is, of course, nothing that results in a more unpleasa

Produced by Steve Solomon

AS A MATTER OF COURSE

BY

ANNIE PAYSON CALL

Author of "Power Through Repose," "The Freedom of Life,"

"Nerves and Common Sense," Etc.

1894

PREFACE.

THE aim of this book is to assist towards the removal of nervous

irritants, which are not only the cause of much physical disease,

but materially interfere with the best possibilities of usefulness

and pleasure in everyday life.

CONTENTS.

I. INTRODUCTION

II. PHYSICAL CARE

III. AMUSEMENTS

IV. BRAIN IMPRESSIONS

V. THE TRIVIALITY OF TRIVIALITIES

VI. MOODS

VII. TOLERANCE

VIII. SYMPATHY

IX. OTHERS

X. ONE'S SELF

XI. CHILDREN

XII. ILLNESS

XIII. SENTIMENT VERSUS SENTIMENTALITY

XIV. PROBLEMS

XV. SUMMARY

AS A MATTER OF COURSE.

I.

INTRODUCTION.

IN climbing a mountain, if we know the path and take it as a matter

of course, we are free to enjoy the beauties of the surrounding

country. If in the same journey we set a stone in the way and

recognize our ability to step over it, we do so at once, and save

ourselves from tripping or from useless waste of time and thought as

to how we might best go round it.

There are stones upon stones in every-day life which might be

stepped over with perfect ease, but which, curiously enough, are

considered from all sides and then tripped upon; and the result is a

stubbing of the moral toes, and a consequent irritation of the

nervous system. Or, if semi-occasionally one of these stones is

stepped over as a matter of course, the danger is that attention is

immediately called to the action by admiring friends, or by the

person himself, in a way so to tickle the nervous system that it

amounts to an irritation, and causes him to trip over the next

stone, and finally tumble on his nose. Then, if he is not wise

enough to pick himself up and walk on with the renewed ability of

stepping over future stones, he remains on his nose far longer than

is either necessary or advisable.

These various stones in the way do more towards keeping a nervous

system in a chronic state of irritation than is imagined. They are

what might perhaps be called the outside elements of life. These

once normally faced, cease to exist as impediments, dwindle away,

and finally disappear altogether.

Thus we are enabled to get nearer the kernel, and have a growing

realization of life itself.

Civilization may give a man new freedom, a freedom beyond any power

of description or conception, except to those who achieve it, or it

may so bind him body and soul that in moments when he recognizes his

nervous contractions he would willingly sell his hope of immortality

to be a wild horse or tiger for the rest of his days.

These stones in the way are the result of a perversion of

civilization, and the cause of much contraction and unnecessary

suffering.

There is the physical stone. If the health of the body were attended

to as a matter of course, as its cleanliness is attended to by those

of us who are more civilized, how much easier life might be! Indeed,

the various trippings on, and endeavors to encircle, this physical

stone, raise many phantom stones, and the severity of the fall is

just as great when one trips over a stone that is not there. Don

Quixote was quite exhausted when he had been fighting the windmills.

One recognizes over and over the truth spoken by the little girl

who, when reprimanded by her father for being fretful, said: "It

isn't me, papa, it's that banana."

There is also the over-serious stone; and this, so far from being

stepped over or any effort made to encircle it, is often raised to

the undue dignity of a throne, and not rested upon. It seems to

produce an inability for any sort of recreation, and a scorn of the

necessity or the pleasure of being amused. Every one will admit that

recreation is one swing of life's pendulum; and in proportion to the

swing in that direction will be the strength of the swing in the

other direction, and vice versa.

One kind of stone which is not the least among the self-made

impediments is the microscopic faculty which most of us possess for

increasing small, inoffensive pebbles to good-sized rocks. A quiet

insistence on seeing these pebbles in their natural size would

reduce them shortly to a pile of sand which might be easily smoothed

to a level, and add to the comfort of the path. Moods are stones

which not only may be stepped over, but kicked right out of the path

with a good bold stroke. And the stones of intolerance may be

replaced by an open sympathy,--an ability to take the other's point

of view,--which will bring flowers in the path instead.

In dealing with ourselves and others there are stones innumerable,

if one chooses to regard them, and a steadily decreasing number as

one steps over and ignores. In our relations with illness and

poverty, so-called, the ghosts of stones multiply themselves as the

illness or the poverty is allowed to be a limit rather than a guide.

And there is nothing that exorcises all such ghosts more truly than

a free and open intercourse with little children.

If we take this business of slipping over our various nerve-stones

as a matter of course, and not as a matter of sentiment, we get a

powerful result just as surely as we get powerful results in

obedience to any other practical laws.

In bygone generations men used to fight and kill one another for the

most trivial cause. As civilization increased, self-control was

magnified into a virtue, and the man who governed himself and

allowed his neighbor to escape unslain was regarded as a hero.

Subsequently, general slashing was found to be incompatible with a

well-ordered community, and forbearance in killing or scratching or

any other unseemly manner of attacking an enemy was taken as a

matter of course.

Nowadays we do not know how often this old desire to kill is

repressed, a brain-impression of hatred thereby intensified, and a

nervous irritation caused which has its effect upon the entire

disposition. It would hardly be feasible to return to the killing to

save the irritation that follows repression; civilization has taken

us too far for that. But civilization does not necessarily mean

repression. There are many refinements of barbarity in our

civilization which might be dropped now, as the coarser expressions

of such states were dropped by our ancestors to enable them to reach

the present stage of knives and forks and napkins. And inasmuch as

we are farther on the way towards a true civilization, our progress

should be more rapid than that of our barbaric grandfathers. An

increasingly accelerated progress has proved possible in scientific

research and discovery; why not, then, in our practical dealings

with ourselves and one another?

Does it not seem likely that the various forms of nervous

irritation, excitement, or disease may result as much from the

repressed savage within us as from the complexity of civilization?

The remedy is, not to let the savage have his own way; with many of

us, indeed, this would be difficult, because of the generations of

repression behind us. It is to cast his skin, so to speak, and rise

to another order of living.

Certainly repression is only apparent progress. No good physician

would allow it in bodily disease, and, on careful observation, the

law seems to hold good in other phases of life.

There must be a practical way by which these stones, these survivals

of barbaric times, may be stepped over and made finally to

disappear.

The first necessity is to take the practical way, and not the

sentimental. Thus true sentiment is found, not lost.

The second is to follow daily, even hourly, the process of stepping

over until it comes to be indeed a matter of course. So, little by

little, shall we emerge from this mass of abnormal nervous

irritation into what is more truly life itself.

II.

PHYSICAL CARE.

REST, fresh air, exercise, and nourishment, enough of each in

proportion to the work done, are the material essentials to a

healthy physique. Indeed, so simple is the whole process of physical

care, it would seem absurd to write about it at all. The only excuse

for such writing is the constant disobedience to natural laws which

has resulted from the useless complexity of our civilization.

There is a current of physical order which, if one once gets into

it, gives an instinct as to what to do and what to leave undone, as

true as the instinct which leads a man to wash his hands when they

need it, and to wash them often enough so that they never remain

soiled for any length of time, simply because that state is

uncomfortable to their owner. Soap and water are not unpleasant to

most of us in their process of cleansing; we have to deny ourselves

nothing through their use. To keep the digestion in order, it is

often necessary to deny ourselves certain sensations of the palate

which are pleasant at the time. So by a gradual process of not

denying we are swung out of the instinctive nourishment-current, and

life is complicated for us either by an amount of thought as to what

we should or should not eat, or by irritations which arise from

having eaten the wrong food. It is not uncommon to find a mind taken

up for some hours in wondering whether that last piece of cake will

digest. We can easily see how from this there might be developed a

nervous sensitiveness about eating which would prevent the

individual from eating even the food that is nourishing. This last

is a not unusual form of dyspepsia,--a dyspepsia which keeps itself

alive on the patient's want of nourishment.

Fortunately the process of getting back into the true food-current

is not difficult if one will adopt it The trouble is in making the

bold plunge. If anything is eaten that is afterwards deemed to have

been imprudent, let it disagree. Take the full consequences and bear

them like a man, with whatever remedies are found to lighten the

painful result. Having made sure through bitter experience that a

particular food disagrees, simply do not take it again, and think

nothing about it. It does not exist for you. A nervous resistance to

any sort of indigestion prolongs the attack and leaves, a

brain-impression which not only makes the same trouble more liable

to recur, but increases the temptation to eat forbidden fruit. Of

course this is always preceded by a full persuasion that the food is

not likely to disagree with us now simply because it did before. And

to some extent, this is true. Food that will bring pain and

suffering when taken by a tired stomach, may prove entirely

nourishing when the stomach is rested and ready for it. In that

case, the owner of the stomach has learned once for all never to

give his digestive apparatus work to do when it is tired. Send a

warm drink as a messenger to say that food is coming later, give

yourself a little rest, and then eat your dinner. The fundamental

laws of health in eating are very simple; their variations for

individual needs must be discovered by each for himself.

"But," it may be objected, "why make all this fuss, why take so much

thought about what I eat or what I do not eat?" The special thought

is simply to be taken at first to get into the normal habit, and as

a means of forgetting our digestion just as we forget the washing of

our hands until we are reminded by some discomfort; whereupon we

wash them and forget again. Nature will not allow us to forget. When

we are not obeying her laws, she is constantly irritating us in one

way or another. It is when we obey, and obey as a matter of course,

that she shows herself to be a tender mother, and helps us to a real

companionship with her.

Nothing is more amusing, nothing could appeal more to Mother

Nature's sense of humor, than the various devices for exercise which

give us a complicated self-consciousness rather than a natural

development of our physical powers. Certain simple exercises are

most useful, and if the weather is so inclement that they cannot be

taken in the open air, it is good to have a well-ventilated hall.

Exercise with others, too, is stimulating, and more invigorating

when there is air enough and to spare. But there is nothing that

shows the subjective, self-conscious state of this generation more

than the subjective form which exercise takes. Instead of games and

play or a good vigorous walk in the country, there are endless

varieties of physical culture, most of it good and helpful if taken

as a means to an end, but almost useless as it is taken as an end in

itself; for it draws the attention to one's self and one's own

muscles in a way to make the owner serve the muscle instead of the

muscle being made to serve the owner. The more physical exercise can

be simplified and made objective, the more it serves its end. To

climb a high mountain is admirable exercise, for we have the summit

as an end, and the work of climbing is steadily objective, while we

get the delicious effect of a freer circulation and all that it

means. There might be similar exercises in gymnasiums, and there

are, indeed, many exercises where some objective achievement is the

end, and the training of a muscle follows as a matter of course.

There is the exercise-instinct; we all have it the more perfectly as

we obey it. If we have suffered from a series of disobediences, it

is a comparatively easy process to work back into obedience.

The fresh-air-instinct is abnormally developed with some of us, but

only with some. The popular fear of draughts is one cause of its

loss. The fear of a draught will cause a contraction, the

contraction will interfere with the circulation, and a cold is the

natural result.

The effect of vitiated air is well known. The necessity, not only

for breathing fresh air when we are quiet, but for exercising in the

open, grows upon us as we see the result. To feel the need is to

take the remedy, as a matter of course.

The rest-instinct is most generally disobeyed, most widely needed,

and obedience to it would bring the most effective results. A

restful state of mind and body prepares one for the best effects

from exercise, fresh air, and nourishment. This instinct is the more

disobeyed because with the need for rest there seems to come an

inability to take it, so that not only is every impediment

magnified, but imaginary impediments are erected, and only a decided

and insistent use of the will in dropping everything that

interferes, whether real or imaginary, will bring a whiff of a

breeze from the true rest-current. Rest is not always silence, but

silence is always rest; and a real silence of the mind is known by

very few. Having gained that, or even approached it, we are taken by

the rest-wind itself, and it is strong enough to bear our full

weight as it swings us along to renewed life and new strength for

work to come.

The secret is to turn to silence at the first hint from nature; and

sleep should be the very essence of silence itself.

All this would be very well if we were free to take the right amount

of rest, fresh air, exercise, and nourishment; but many of us are

not. It will not be difficult for any one to call to mind half a

dozen persons who impede the good which might result from the use of

these four necessities simply by complaining that they cannot have

their full share of either. Indeed, some of us may find in ourselves

various stones of this sort stopping the way. To take what we can

and be thankful, not only enables us to gain more from every source

of health, but opens the way for us to see clearly how to get more.

This complaint, however, is less of an impediment than the whining

and fussing which come from those who are free to take all four in

abundance, and who have the necessity of their own especial physical

health so much at heart that there is room to think of little else.

These people crowd into the various schools of physical culture by

the hundred, pervade the rest-cures, and are ready for any new

physiological fad which may arise, with no result but more physical

culture, more rest-cure, and more fads. Nay, there is sometimes one

other result,--disease. That gives them something tangible to work

for or to work about. But all their eating and breathing and

exercising and resting does not bring lasting vigorous health,

simply because they work at it as an end, of which self is the

centre and circumference.

The sooner our health-instinct is developed, and then taken as a

matter of course, the sooner can the body become a perfect servant,

to be treated with true courtesy, and then forgotten. Here is an

instinct of our barbarous ancestry which may be kept and refined

through all future phases of civilization. This instinct is natural,

and the obedience to it enables us to gain more rapidly in other,

higher instincts which, if our ancestors had at all, were so

embryonic as not to have attained expression.

Nourishment, fresh air, exercise, rest,--so far as these are not

taken simply and in obedience to the natural instinct, there arise

physical stones in the way, stones that form themselves into an

apparently insurmountable wall. There is a stile over that wall,

however, if we will but open our eyes to see it. This stile,

carefully climbed, will enable us to step over the few stones on the

other side, and follow the physical path quite clearly.

III.

AMUSEMENTS.

THE ability to be easily and heartily amused brings a wholesome

reaction from intense thought or hard work of any kind which does

more towards keeping the nervous system in a normal state than

almost anything else of an external kind.

As a Frenchman very aptly said: "This is all very well, all this

study and care to relieve one's nerves; but would it not be much

simpler and more effective to go and amuse one's self?" The same

Frenchman could not realize that in many countries amusement is

almost a lost art. Fortunately, it is not entirely lost; and the

sooner it is regained, the nearer we shall be to health and

happiness.

One of the chief impediments in the way of hearty amusement is

over-seriousness. There should be two words for "serious," as there

are literally two meanings. There is a certain intense form of

taking the care and responsibility of one's own individual

interests, or the interests of others which are selfishly made one's

own, which leads to a surface-seriousness that is not only a chronic

irritation of the nervous system, but a constant distress to those

who come under this serious care. This is taking life _au grand

serieux_. The superficiality of this attitude is striking, and would

be surprising could the sufferer from such seriousness once see

himself (or more often it is herself) in a clear light. It is quite

common to call such a person over-serious, when in reality he is not

serious enough. He or she is laboring under a sham seriousness, as

an actor might who had such a part to play and merged himself in the

character. These people are simply exaggerating their own importance

to life, instead of recognizing life's importance to them. An

example of this is the heroine of Mrs. Ward's "Robert Elsmere," who

refused to marry because the family could not get on without her;

and when finally she consented, the family lived more happily and

comfortably than when she considered herself their leader. If this

woman's seriousness, which blinded her judgment, had been real

instead of sham, the state of the case would have been quite clear

to her; but then, indeed, there would have been no case at all.

When seriousness is real, it is never intrusive and can never be

overdone. It is simply a quiet, steady obedience to recognized laws

followed as a matter of course, which must lead to a clearer

appreciation of such laws, and of our own freedom in obeying them.

Whereas with a sham seriousness we dwell upon the importance of our

own relation to the law, and our own responsibility in forcing

others to obey. With the real, it is the law first, and then my

obedience. With the sham, it is myself first, and then the laws; and

often a strained obedience to laws of my own making.

This sham seriousness, which is peculiarly a New England trait, but

may also be found in many other parts of the world, is often the

perversion of a strong, fine nature. It places many stones in the

way, most of them phantoms, which, once stepped over and then

ignored, brings to light a nature nobly expansive, and a source of

joy to all who come in contact with it. But so long as the

"seriousness" lasts, it is quite incompatible with any form of real

amusement.

For the very essence of amusement is the child-spirit. The child

throws himself heartily and spontaneously into the game, or whatever

it may be, and forgets that there is anything else in the world, for

the time being. Children have nothing else to remember. We have the

advantage of them there, in the pleasure of forgetting and in the

renewed strength with which we can return to our work or care, in

consequence. Any one who cannot play children's games with children,

and with the same enjoyment that children have, does not know the

spirit of amusement. For this same spirit must be taken into all

forms of amusement, especially those that are beyond the childish

mind, to bring the delicious reaction which nature is ever ready to

bestow. This is almost a self-evident truth; and yet so confirmed is

man in his sham maturity that it is quite common to see one look

with contempt, and a sense of superiority which is ludicrous, upon

another who is enjoying a child's game like a child. The trouble is

that many of us are so contracted in and oppressed by our own

self-consciousness that open spontaneity is out of the question and

even inconceivable. The sooner we shake it off, the better. When the

great philosopher said, "Except ye become as little children," he

must have meant it all the way through in spirit, if not in the

letter. It certainly is the common-sense view, whichever way we look

at it, and proves as practical as walking upon one's feet.

With the spontaneity grows the ability to be amused, and with that

ability comes new power for better and really serious work.

To endeavor with all your might to win, and then if you fail, not to

care, relieves a game of an immense amount of unnecessary nervous

strain. A spirit of rivalry has so taken hold of us and become such

a large stone in the way, that it takes wellnigh a reversal of all

our ideas to realize that this same spirit is quite compatible with

a good healthy willingness that the other man should win--if he can.

Not from the goody-goody motive of wishing your neighbor to

beat,--no neighbor would thank you for playing with him in that

spirit,--but from a feeling that you have gone in to beat, you have

done your best, as far as you could see, and where you have not, you

have learned to do better. The fact of beating is not of paramount

importance. Every man should have his chance, and, from your

opponent's point of view, provided you were as severe on him as you

knew how to be at the time, it is well that he won. You will see

that it does not happen again.

Curious it is that the very men or women who would scorn to play a

child's game in a childlike spirit, will show the best known form of

childish fretfulness and sheer naughtiness in their way of taking a

game which is considered to be more on a level with the adult mind,

and so rasp their nerves and the nerves of their opponents that

recreation is simply out of the question.

Whilst one should certainly have the ability to enjoy a child's game

with a child and like a child, that not only does not exclude the

preference which many, perhaps most of us may have for more mature

games, it gives the power to play those games with a freedom and

ease which help to preserve a healthy nervous system.

If, however, amusement is taken for the sole purpose of preserving a

normal nervous system, or for returning to health, it loses its zest

just in proportion. If, as is often the case, one must force one's

self to it at first, the love of the fun will gradually come as one

ignores the first necessity of forcing; and the interest will come

sooner if a form of amusement is taken quite opposite to the daily

work, a form which will bring new faculties and muscles into action.

There is, of course, nothing that results in a more unpleasant state

of ennui than an excess of amusement. After a certain amount of

careless enjoyment, life comes to a deadly stupid standstill, or the

forms of amusement grow lower. In either case the effect upon the

nervous system is worse even than over-work.

The variety in sources of amusement is endless, and the ability to

get amusement out of almost anything is delightful, as long as it is

well balanced.

After all, our amusement depends upon the way in which we take our

work, and our work, again, depends upon the amusement; they play

back and forth into one another's hands.

The man or the woman who cannot get the holiday spirit, who cannot

enjoy pure fun for the sake of fun, who cannot be at one with a

little child, not only is missing much in life that is clear

happiness, but is draining his nervous system, and losing his better

power for work accordingly.

This anti-amusement stone once removed, the path before us is

entirely new and refreshing.

The power to be amused runs in nations. But each individual is in

himself a nation, and can govern himself as such; and if he has any

desire for the prosperity of his own kingdom, let him order a public

holiday at regular intervals, and see that the people enjoy it.

IV.

BRAIN IMPRESSIONS.

THE mere idea of a brain clear from false impressions gives a sense

of freedom which is refreshing.

In a comic journal, some years ago, there was a picture of a man in

a most self-important attitude, with two common mortals in the

background gazing at him. "What makes him stand like that?" said

one. "Because," answered the other, "that is his own idea of

himself." The truth suggested in that picture strikes one aghast;

for in looking about us we see constant examples of attitudinizing

in one's own idea of one's self. There is sometimes a feeling of

fright as to whether I am not quite as abnormal in my idea of myself

as are those about me.

If one could only get the relief of acknowledging ignorance of one's

self, light would be welcome, however given. In seeing the truth of

an unkind criticism one could forget to resent the spirit; and what

an amount of nerve-friction might be saved! Imagine the surprise of

a man who, in return for a volley of abuse, should receive thanks

for light thrown upon a false attitude. Whatever we are enabled to

see, relieves us of one mistaken brain-impression, which we can

replace by something more agreeable. And if, in the excitement of

feeling, the mistake was exaggerated, what is that to us? All we

wanted was to see it in quality. As to degree, that lessens in

proportion as the quality is bettered. Fortunately, in living our

own idea of ourselves, it is only ourselves we deceive, with

possible exceptions in the case of friends who are so used to us, or

so over-fond of us, as to lose the perspective.

There is the idea of humility,--an obstinate belief that we know we

are nothing at all, and deserve no credit; which, literally

translated, means we know we are everything, and deserve every

credit. There is the idea, too, of immense dignity, of freedom from

all self-seeking and from all vanity. But it is idle to attempt to

catalogue these various forms of private theatricals; they are

constantly to be seen about us.

It is with surprise unbounded that one hears another calmly assert

that he is so-and-so or so-and-so, and in his next action, or next

hundred actions, sees that same assertion entirely contradicted.

Daily familiarity with the manifestations of mistaken brain-impressions

does not lessen one's surprise at this curious personal

contradiction; it gives one an increasing desire to look to one's

self, and see how far these private theatricals extend in one's own

case, and to throw off the disguise, as far as it is seen, with a

full acknowledgment that there may be--probably is--an abundance

more of which to rid one's self in future. There are many ways in

which true openness in life, one with another, would be of immense

service; and not the least of these is the ability gained to erase

false brain-impressions.

The self-condemnatory brain-impression is quite as pernicious as its

opposite. Singularly enough, it goes with it. One often finds

inordinate self-esteem combined with the most abject condemnation of

self. One can be played against the other as a counter-irritant;

but this only as a process of rousing, for the irritation of either

brings equal misery. I am not even sure that as a rousing process it

is ever really useful. To be clear of a mistaken brain-impression, a

man must recognize it himself; and this recognition can never be

brought about by an unasked attempt of help from another. It is

often cleared by help asked and given; and perhaps more often by

help which is quite involuntary and unconscious. One of the greatest

points in friendly diplomacy is to be open and absolutely frank so

far as we are asked, but never to go beyond. At least, in the

experience of many, that leads more surely to the point where no

diplomacy is needed, which is certainly the point to be aimed at in

friendship. It is trying to see a friend living his own idea of

himself, and to be obliged to wait until he has discovered that he

is only playing a part. But this very waiting may be of immense

assistance in reducing our own moral attitudinizing.

How often do we hear others or find ourselves complaining of a fault

over and over again! "I know that is a fault of mine, and has been

for years. I wish I could get over it." "I know that is a fault of

mine,"--one brain-impression; "it has been for years,"--a dozen or

more brain-impressions, according to the number of years; until we

have drilled the impression of that fault in, by emphasizing it over

and over, to an extent which daily increases the difficulty of

dropping it.

So, if we have the habit of unpunctuality, and emphasize it by

deploring it, it keeps us always behind time. If we are

sharp-tongued, and dwell with remorse on something said in the past,

it increases the tendency in the future.

The slavery to nerve habit is a well-known physiological fact; but

nerve habit may be strengthened negatively as well as positively.

When this is more widely recognized, and the negative practice

avoided, much will have been done towards freeing us from our

subservience to mistaken brain-impressions.

Let us take an instance: unpunctuality-for example, as that is a

common form of repetition. If we really want to rid ourselves of the

habit, suppose every time we are late we cease to deplore it; make a

vivid mental picture of ourselves as being on time at the next

appointment; then, with the how and the when clearly impressed upon

our minds, there should be an absolute refusal to imagine ourselves

anything but early. Surely that would be quite as effective as a

constant repetition of the regret we feel at being late, whether

this is repeated aloud to others, or only in our own minds. As we

place the two processes side by side, the latter certainly has the

advantage, and might be tried, until a better is found.

Of course we must beware of getting an impression of promptness

which has no ground in reality. It is quite possible for an

individual to be habitually and exasperatingly late, with all the

air and innocence of unusual punctuality.

It would strike us as absurd to see a man painting a house the color

he did not like, and go on painting it the same color, to show

others and himself that which he detested. Is it not equally absurd

for any of us, through the constant expression of regret for a

fault, to impress the tendency to it more and more upon the brain?

It is intensely sad when the consciousness of evil once committed

has so impressed a man with a sense of guilt as to make him steadily

undervalue himself and his own powers.

Here is a case where one's own idea of one's self is seventy-five

per cent below par; and a gentle and consistent encouragement in

raising that idea is most necessary before par is reached.

And par, as I understand it, is simple freedom from any fixed idea

of one's self, either good or bad.

If fixed impressions of one's self are stones in the way, the same

certainly holds good with fixed impressions of others. Unpleasant

brain-impressions of others are great weights, and greater

impediments in the way of clearing our own brains. Suppose

So-and-so had such a fault yesterday; it does not follow that he has

not rid himself of at least part of it to-day. Why should we hold

the brain-impression of his mistake, so that every time we look at

him we make it stronger? He is not the gainer thereby, and we

certainly are the losers. Repeated brain-impressions of another's

faults prevent our discerning his virtues. We are constantly

attributing to him disagreeable motives, which arise solely from our

idea of him, and of which he is quite innocent. Not only so, but our

mistaken impressions increase his difficulty in rising to the best

of himself. For any one whose temperament is in the least sensitive

is oppressed by what he feels to be another's idea of him, until he

learns to clear himself of that as well as of other

brain-impressions.

It is not uncommon to hear one go over and over a supposed injury,

or even small annoyances from others, with the reiterated assertion

that he fervently desires to forget such injury or annoyances. This

fervent desire to forgive and forget expresses itself by a repeated

brain-impression of that which is to be forgiven; and if this is so

often repeated in words, how many times more must it be repeated

mentally! Thus, the brain-impression is increased until at last

forgetting seems out of the question. And forgiving is impossible

unless one can at the same time so entirely forget the ill-feeling

roused as to place it beyond recall.

Surely, if we realized the force and influence of unpleasant

brain-impressions, it would be a simple matter to relax and let them

escape, to be replaced by others that are only pleasant It cannot be

that we enjoy the discomfort of the disagreeable impressions.

And yet, so curiously perverted is human nature that we often hear a

revolting story told with the preface, "Oh, I can't bear to think of

it!" And the whole story is given, with a careful attention to

detail which is quite unnecessary, even if there were any reason for

telling the story at all, and generally concluded with a repetition

of the prefatory exclamation. How many pathetic sights are told of,

to no end but the repetition of an unpleasant brain-impression. How

many past experiences, past illnesses, are gone over and over, which

serve the same worse than useless purpose,--that of repeating and

emphasizing the brain-impression.

A little pain is made a big one by persistent dwelling upon it; what

might have been a short pain is sometimes lengthened for a lifetime.

Similarly, an old pain is brought back by recalling a

brain-impression.

The law of association is well known. We all know how familiar

places and happenings will recall old feelings; we can realize this

at any time by mentally reviving the association. By dwelling on the

pain we had yesterday we are encouraging it to return to-morrow. By

emphasizing the impression of an annoyance of to-day we are making

it possible to suffer beyond expression from annoyances to come; and

the annoyances, the pains, the disagreeable feelings will find their

old brain-grooves with remarkable rapidity when given the ghost of a

chance.

I have known more than one case where a woman kept herself ill by

the constant repetition, to others and to herself, of a nervous

shock. A woman who had once been frightened by burglars refused to

sleep for fear of being awakened by more burglars, thus increasing

her impression of fear; and of course, if she slept at all, she was

liable at any time to wake with a nervous start. The process of

working herself into nervous prostration through this constant,

useless repetition was not slow.

The fixed impressions of preconceived ideas in any direction are

strangely in the way of real freedom. It is difficult to catch new

harmonies with old ones ringing in our ears; still more difficult

when we persist in listening at the same time to discords.

The experience of arguing with another whose preconceived idea is so

firmly fixed that the argument is nothing but a series of circles,

might be funny if it were not sad; and it often is funny, in spite

of the sadness.

Suppose we should insist upon retaining an unpleasant

brain-impression, only when and so long as it seemed necessary in

order to bring a remedy. That accomplished, suppose we dropped it on

the instant. Suppose, further, that we should continue this process,

and never allow ourselves to repeat a disagreeable brain-impression

aloud or mentally. Imagine the result. Nature abhors a vacuum;

something must come in place of the unpleasantness; therefore way is

made for feelings more comfortable to one's self and to others.

Bad feelings cause contraction, good ones expansion. Relax the

muscular contraction; take a long, free breath of fresh air, and

expansion follows as a matter of course. Drop the brain-contraction,

take a good inhalation of whatever pleasant feeling is nearest, and

the expansion is a necessary consequence.

As we expand mentally, disagreeable brain-impressions, that in

former contracted states were eclipsed by greater ones, will be

keenly felt, and dropped at once, for the mere relief thus obtained.

The healthier the brain, the more sensitive it is to false

impressions, and the more easily are they dropped.

One word by way of warning. We never can rid ourselves of an

uncomfortable brain-impression by saying, "I will try to think

something pleasant of that disagreeable man." The temptation, too,

is very common to say to ourselves clearly, "I will try to think

something pleasant," and then leave "of that disagreeable man" a

subtle feeling in the background. The feeling in the background,

however unconscious we may be of it, is a strong

brain-impression,--all the stronger because we fail to recognize

it,--and the result of our "something pleasant" is an insidious

complacency at our own magnanimous disposition. Thus we get the

disagreeable brain-impression of another, backed up by our agreeable

brain-impression of ourselves, both mistaken. Unless we keep a sharp

look-out, we may here get into a snarl from which extrication is

slow work. Neither is it possible to counteract an unpleasant

brain-impression by something pleasant but false. We must call a

spade a spade, but not consider it a component part of the man who

handles it, nor yet associate the man with the spade, or the spade

with the man. When we drop it, so long as we drop it for what it is

worth, which is nothing in the case of the spade in question, we

have dropped it entirely. If we try to improve our brain-impression

by insisting that a spade is something better and pleasanter, we are

transforming a disagreeable impression to a mongrel state which

again brings anything but a happy result.

Simply to refuse all unpleasant brain-impressions, with no effort or

desire to recast them into something that they are not, seems to be

the only clear process to freedom. Not only so, but whatever there

might have been pleasant in what seemed entirely unpleasant can more

truly return as we drop the unpleasantness completely. It is a good

thing that most of us can approach the freedom of such a change in

imagination before we reach it in reality. So we can learn more

rapidly not to hamper ourselves or others by retaining disagreeable

brain-impressions of the present, or by recalling others of the past.

V.

THE TRIVIALITY OF TRIVIALITIES.

LIFE is clearer, happier, and easier for us as things assume their

true proportions. I might better say, as they come nearer in

appearance to their true proportions; for it seems doubtful whether

any one ever reaches the place in this world where the sense of

proportion is absolutely normal. Some come much nearer than others;

and part of the interest of living is the growing realization of

better proportion, and the relief from the abnormal state in which

circumstances seem quite out of proportion in their relation to one

another.

Imagine a landscape-painter who made his cows as large as the

houses, his blades of grass waving above the tops of the trees, and

all things similarly disproportionate. Or, worse, imagine a disease

of the retina which caused a like curious change in the landscape

itself wherein a mountain appeared to be a mole-hill, and a

mole-hill a mountain.

It seems absurd to think of. And, yet, is not the want of a true

sense of proportion in the circumstances and relations of life quite

as extreme with many of us? It is well that our physical sense

remains intact. If we lost that too, there would seem to be but

little hope indeed. Now, almost the only thing needed for a rapid

approach to a more normal mental sense of proportion is a keener

recognition of the want. But this want must be found first in

ourselves, not in others. There is the inclination to regard our own

life as bigger and more important than the life of any one about us;

or the reverse attitude of bewailing its lack of importance, which

is quite the same. In either case our own life is dwelt upon first.

Then there is the immediate family, after that our own especial

friends,--all assuming a gigantic size which puts quite out of the

question an occasional bird's-eye view of the world in general. Even

objects which might be in the middle distance of a less extended

view are quite screened by the exaggerated size of those which seem

to concern us most immediately.

One's own life is important; one's own family and friends are

important, very, when taken in their true proportion. One should

surely be able to look upon one's own brothers and sisters as if

they were the brothers and sisters of another, and to regard the

brothers and sisters of another as one's own. Singularly, too, real

appreciation of and sympathy with one's own grows with this broader

sense of relationship. In no way is this sense shown more clearly

than by a mother who has the breadth and the strength to look upon

her own children as if they belonged to some one else, and upon the

children of others as if they belonged to her. But the triviality of

magnifying one's own out of all proportion has not yet been

recognized by many.

So every trivial happening in our own lives or the lives of those

connected with us is exaggerated, and we keep ourselves and others

in a chronic state of contraction accordingly.

Think of the many trifles which, by being magnified and kept in the

foreground, obstruct the way to all possible sight or appreciation

of things that really hold a more important place. The cook, the

waitress, various other annoyances of housekeeping; a gown that does

not suit, the annoyances of travel, whether we said the right thing

to so-and-so, whether so-and-so likes us or does not like

us,--indeed, there is an immense army of trivial imps, and the

breadth of capacity for entertaining these imps is so large in some

of us as to be truly encouraging; for if the domain were once

deserted by the imps, there remains the breadth, which must have the

same capacity for holding something better. Unfortunately, a long

occupancy by these miserable little offenders means eventually the

saddest sort of contraction. What a picture for a new Gulliver!--a

human being overwhelmed by the imps of triviality, and bound fast to

the ground by manifold windings of their cobweb-sized thread.

This exaggeration of trifles is one form of nervous disease. It

would be exceedingly interesting and profitable to study the various

phases of nervous disease as exaggerated expressions of perverted

character. They can be traced directly and easily in many cases. If

a woman fusses about trivialities, she fusses more when she is

tired. The more fatigue, the more fussing; and with a persistent

tendency to fatigue and fussing it does not take long to work up or

down to nervous prostration. From this form of nervous excitement

one never really recovers, except by a hearty acknowledgment of the

trivialities as trivialities, when, with growing health, there is a

growing sense of true proportion.

I have seen a woman spend more attention, time, and nerve-power on

emphasizing the fact that her hands were all stained from the dye on

her dress than a normal woman would take for a good hour's work. As

she grew better, this emphasizing of trivialities decreased, but, of

course, might have returned with any over-fatigue, unless it had

been recognized, taken at its worth, and simply dropped. Any one can

think of example after example in his own individual experience,

when he has suffered unnecessary tortures through the regarding of

trifling things, either by himself or by some one near him. With

many, the first instance will probably be to insist, with emphasis

and some feeling, that they are _not_ trivialities.

Trivialities have their importance _when given their true proportion_.

The size of a triviality is often exaggerated as much by neglect as

by an undue amount of attention. When we do what we can to amend an

annoyance, and then think no more about it until there appears

something further to do, the saving of nervous force is very great.

Yet, so successful have these imps of triviality come to be in their

rule of human nature that the trivialities of the past are

oftentimes dwelt upon with as much earnestness as if they belonged

to the present.

The past itself is a triviality, except in its results. Yet what an

immense screen it is sometimes to any clear understanding or

appreciation of the present! How many of us have listened over and

over to the same tale of past annoyances, until we wonder how it can

be possible that the constant repetition is not recognized by the

narrator! How many of us have been over and over in our minds past

troubles, little and big, so that we have no right whatever to feel

impatient when listening to such repetitions by others! Here again

we have, in nervous disease, the extreme of a common trait in

humanity. With increased nervous fatigue there is always an increase

of the tendency to repetition. Best drop it before it gets to the

fatigue stage, if possible.

Then again there are the common things of life, such as dressing and

undressing, and the numberless every-day duties. It is possible to

distort them to perfect monstrosities by the manner of dwelling upon

them. Taken as a matter of course, they are the very triviality of

trivialities, and assume their place without second thought.

When life seems to get into such a snarl that we despair of

disentangling it, a long journey and change of human surroundings

enable us to take a distant view, which not uncommonly shows the

tangle to be no tangle at all. Although we cannot always go upon a

material journey, we can change the mental perspective, and it is

this adjustment of the focus which brings our perspective into truer

proportions. Having once found what appears to be the true focus,

let us be true to it. The temptations to lose one's focus are many,

and sometimes severe. When temporarily thrown off our balance, the

best help is to return at once, without dwelling on the fact that we

have lost the focus longer than is necessary to find it again. After

that, our focus is better adjusted and the range steadily expanded.

It is impossible for us to widen the range by thinking about it;

holding the best focus we know in our daily experience does that

Thus the proportions arrange themselves; we cannot arrange the

proportions. Or, what is more nearly the truth, the proportions are

in reality true, to begin with. As with the imaginary eye-disease,

which transformed the relative sizes of the component parts of a

landscape, the fault is in the eye, not in the landscape; so, when

the circumstances of life are quite in the wrong proportion to one

another, in our own minds, the trouble is in the mental sight, not

in the circumstances.

There are many ways of getting a better focus, and ridding one's

self of trivial annoyances. One is, to be quiet; get at a good

mental distance. Be sure that you have a clear view, and then hold

it. Always keep your distance; never return to the old stand-point

if you can manage to keep away.