A superfluity in Timbuctoo.
When, through his journey, was the fool at ease?
When Thoreau was questioned as to his beliefs in a life beyond the grave, he answered impatiently, “Oh, one world at a time.”
I was deeply impressed in reading Dr. Cushing’s admirable biography of Sir William Osler, to see that the physician and philosopher laid the greatest stress on living one day at a time. That was his summary of the art of living, for all those who wished to accomplish as much as possible, and retain their peace of mind: Live one day at a time.
I remember, when I was twenty years old, I wasted many good hours in speculating on what I should do after graduation from college, which event was two years ahead. An old man told me not to give it a moment’s thought: “You cannot decide what to do till the emergency comes.” Meanwhile there was the daily work. The best way to prepare for the future was to do that well, rather than waste one’s energies on idle worry.
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
There are always gloomy prophets who cannot enjoy the present moment, because they are so sure trouble is coming. The winter of 1917–1918 was the coldest in my recollection; and many said, “Well, the climate is changing and we must not expect any mild winters.” Then came the winter of 1918–1919, which was the mildest in my recollection. And how distinctly I recall conversations like the following. Along about Christmastide, I would say, “What a beautiful winter!” and in every instance, without a single exception, I got the reply, “Just wait. We’ll catch it later.” Then when the weather continued sweet all through January, I made the same remark to different individuals, and always got a warning for my pains. But the evil came not at all. My friends had determined to be miserable. They could not enjoy a lovely mild season, for in its loveliness they shook with the chill of apprehension.
The fear of life is the favourite disease of the twentieth century. Too many people are afraid of tomorrow—their happiness is poisoned by a phantom. Many are afraid of old age, forgetting that even if they should lose their bodily vigour, weakness itself may minister to the development of the mind and spirit. In the words of the aged poet Waller,
The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.