Living the Radiant Life: A Personal Narrative

by George Wharton James

I once had a surgical operation in which a severe corroding substance was injected into a certain part of my body. My physicians, men of wisdom and men who loved me, thought they knew how much that corrosive substance would burn. But it burned far more severely and destroyed much more tissue than they conceived, and my life came near to paying the penalty. Discontent works in exactly the same way, only worse. Its burnings are of the mind, and, therefore, more seriously injurious. Its burns are deep and uncertain. To put it in another way—it sours the milk of human kindness. It turns the butter rancid. It pulls down the shades and shuts out the sunlight. It turns the steam off from the radiator. It shuts out the fresh air. It banishes the fairies of jollity, healthfulness, happiness, and content.

Do not radiate discontent, therefore, but radiate a glorious, buoyant, exuberant contentment. Think of the books we have to-day, as compared with those possessed by people who lived a few hundred years ago—the poems, the dramas, the essays, the histories, the novels, the accounts of adventure and travel, the revelations of science. Think how cheap they are, how easy to obtain. Think of the public libraries established in almost every city, town, and village of the civilized world. In many states they have now established a method by means of which the library systems may become county-wide in their influences instead of confined to the cities and towns. Books are being sent to the remotest farmhouse, to the shack of the lumberman, the moving home of the sheep-herder, the log hut of the miner, anywhere, everywhere that a human hand is seen stretched forth for a book, the new library system seeks to reach.

Think of the music of to-day! The great bands, the marvelous orchestras, the soul-inspiring choruses, the wonderfully equipped opera companies, the cheapness of the organ and piano, the universality of the graphophone, with its records of music of every character that can be heard in the humblest home.

Think of the multiplication of the opportunities for hearing the drama, some good, some indifferent, some bad, but all more or less revealing artistic power and calling forth the satisfaction of the onlookers.

Think of the spread of educational opportunities, the public schools, the colleges, the universities, the correspondence schools, the women's clubs and leagues. I went through a high school the other day that was ten times better equipped for the higher education, as far as it went, than the universities were a hundred years ago.

Think of the ease with which we travel—electric cars, railway trains, automobiles, flying machines.

Think of the annihilation of distance in conversing with our friends, the telephone, the telegraph, the telepost, the wireless.

Think of the opportunities of enjoyment and education offered to the poor in our large cities by means of the parks, the children's playgrounds, the free museums, and the art galleries.

Think of the improvements during late years in the conditions of home life—the application of gas and electricity for lighting, heating, cooking, ironing, and, now, even for sweeping and cleaning up.

Think of the improvements of the condition of lives of our farmers and their laborers in the remote districts. Little by little the conditions of life are being made easier for them. Labor is being lightened and the hours shortened, uncertainties are being eliminated, results made more sure.