THE ROUTINE LIFE OF THE AVERAGE BUSINESS MAN
Bad habits of the business man
He rises between six and seven a. m., takes no exercise or fresh air; eats a breakfast composed largely of acid fruit, cereal starch, meat, and coffee. He then goes at once to his business, sits at a desk until noon, takes luncheon at a neighboring cafe. This repast is composed of meat, cereal, or potato starch, beer, or coffee. He hurries back to his business, sits at his desk five or six hours longer, hurries home, takes a dinner composed of more meat, more starch, more tea or coffee—no exercise, no diversion, no association with the great authors; no music, no poetry, no change.
The ancient remedy for Nature's warnings
A friend may come in, or he may go out to visit; then comes the soothing and soporiferous cigar which may have been his companion since breakfast. The market, the business, the chances for making or losing dollars are the topics of discussion. He is in the power of his master, "business," and must do him continual obeisance. Within the domain of the tyrant he lives, moves, and has his being. If he has a headache, sour stomach, indigestion, a tinge of rheumatism, dizziness, insomnia, nervousness, or any one of the thousand symptoms or warnings that Nature gives him for the violation of her laws, instead of thinking a little and trying to ascertain the cause, he sends, with "chesty pride," for His physician, and his physician writes out something in a dead language—the only suitable language. The local druggist sends over the "stuff," and it is swallowed with that childish confidence that fitly becomes the modern business man who knows a great deal about business, but nothing about himself.
The days and the months go on, the symptoms or signals become more numerous, more expressive, more impressive, more painful. His physician is called more often; the dead language paper goes to the druggist more frequently, and with faith he still swallows the drugs; they relieve him for a little while, usually by paralyzing the little nerve fibers that are carrying to the brain the messages of warning.
The ancient system declared a failure
HIS physician finally acknowledges a trip, or a sanatorium. It is either this procedure or the fate that befell Messrs. Roberts, Morgan, Colonel Ingersoll, and the uncounted thousands who had no reputation beyond the domain of their own locality, and of whom we never hear.