A Whiff of Eternity.
One of the most foolish conditions into which a man can fall is a state of nervous hurry.
Every one of my readers—at least, every one of my American readers—knows just what I mean.
The brain is out of breath. There is a conflagration of the will. The air presses heavily upon you. Waiting tasks hang on your shoulders, leer in your face, scream into your ears. The universe is one big scramble, and you are right in the focus of the biggest scramble of all. Oh, it is horrible!
I am learning, when I get into such a plight, just to stop and shake my soul.
"You silly soul!" I say to it, "what's the rush? How much time have you, anyway, you little idiot? Ten minutes? Half an hour? Half a day? Fie! You have ten years, half a century, a hundred million ages!
"You are living like a gnat," I say to my soul. "You are fussing as if you were to vanish to-morrow into nothingness, and had only to-day in which to work and live.
"Nonsense! You have eternity in which to work and live. Get some of its serenity into you now. Live in its long spaces now. Behave yourself as its citizen now, and not like a citizen of Bubbleton.
"Take a long breath, soul! Orient yourself, soul! Get in touch with realities, soul, and stop fretting yourself with mirages! Why, soul, you are immortal, and yours is all the leisure of the endless years."
Having thus addressed myself, I turn to my work, and calmly turn off lots of it—until I forget again.
Out to the Propeller.
We were down in the engine—room of a great ocean steamer,—a small party of us,-and we were greatly confused by the clamor there, as well as smothered by the fierce heat. Up and down, backward and forward, around and around, great masses of steel were whirling and flashing and plunging, with spitting of hot oil and flashes of steely glitter.
It was a great relief to be led away from that pandemonium into a long, low, dark gallery, quiet and comparatively peaceful. It stretched through the ship, far back, scores of feet. We walked along a narrow plank, and at our side was an enormous, continuous steel shaft, supported occasionally, which extended from the central machinery the whole way to the stern. We were led to the very end of the ship, and were told that only an inch or two of steel was between us and the ocean. Right through this final steel plate passed the shaft, and became a part of the little propeller outside, that powerful screw which was pushing the gigantic boat so swiftly through the water.
For that long steel shaft, through all its scores of feet, was in rapid but quiet motion, and was communicating to the propeller the power generated by the central engines far back in the heart of the boat. Out of that turmoil and heat where it was born the power passed, swiftly and surely, by way of that placid steel rod. Without the shaft, the engines would move all vainly. The ship would stand still, the sport of the waves.
That is the way I want my life to work. I suppose there must be in it a lot of bustle and noise and heat. I suppose the force-generators must be hot and clamorous. But out of the midst of whatever confusion and turmoil may be necessary I want the power to move, along some definite and determined line, to some fixed and clear application, and steadily, quietly, serenely, as that propeller-shaft. Along that line, rapidly moving though the power-transmitter may be, I shall find rest, and peace, whirling machinery at one end and foaming water at the other; but between, my gallery of quietness!
Oh, for a heart at peace! Oh, for a life whose hidden motives and essential being are unfretted and serene!
"Screamers!"
I have often wondered why it is that printers have such an aversion to "screamers."
Perhaps you don't know what a "screamer" is. In printing-house phrase, it is an exclamation point. The term itself expresses contempt—"screamer!"
There is no doubt about the fact. No one can have much to do with proof-reading for various offices without noting that compositors emphatically dislike that emphatic punctuation point. I don't know why, but they do. You write, "What a state of affairs!" and the proof reads, "What a state of affairs?" or perhaps, "What a state of affairs." But no "screamer."
Of a piece with this aversion to "screamers," but more explicable, is the general objection to italics. One can understand this. Italics mean a visit to another "case." They make trouble. Besides, they break up that beautiful uniformity of the page, so dear to a printer's eye. But none of these things is true of the "screamer."
I have concluded that the secret resides in a more or less conscious adherence to one of the fundamental principles of wise living: "the golden mean," "in nothing too much." I have decided that the printers consider a "screamer" hysterical. They want a dignified poise. They want the simple life. No bombast, if you please.
In the old day our books toppled over with italics in every line. They bristled with "screamers." Sometimes one was altogether inadequate to express the author's harassed feelings, and three or four marched in line. Now, plain Roman, and sedate periods. No "screamers."
How I admire all this. What a debt we owe to the disciples of Gutenberg and Faust. And oh, how serene the world will be when the regions outside the printing-office have learned this typographical lesson.
The Art of Quiet Motion.
Not the least of the advantages of the newly introduced turbine engines is their freedom from vibration. This is especially grateful on ocean steamers. The up-and-down movements of the engines are largely responsible for those unpleasant sensations which, resulting in seasickness, do so much to neutralize the enjoyment and the physical benefits of an ocean voyage.
Where the ship-builder does not wish to introduce turbines, he is devoting more and more study to the problem of diminishing the vibration of the machinery. Vast improvements have already been made in this respect. But a German engine-designer, Otto Schlick, has invented an instrument that will lead to still further improvement. It is called a "pallograph," and by means of it Mr. Schlick is able to register and measure the different rates and directions of vibration of different parts of the ship.
The problem would largely be solved if the engines and the hull could be put entirely out of harmony. The hull has its own natural rate of vibration, just as truly as a violin string. Whoever has read Kipling's wonderful story, "The Ship That Found Herself," will understand what I mean. To discover what this is, and so far as possible to put the engines out of tune with it by increasing or diminishing their speed, is not at all easy; but when it is done, the passengers will ride with far more comfort.
It is not difficult to apply this bit of ocean lore to our daily and hourly voyages on the stormy sea of life. The human vessels that journey along with the least jar and the most comfort are those that have regard to this principle of compensations and balances. There is a plenty of vibration in such lives, a large amount of energy, and they do a lot of work. Look at them, and you will see that they are making progress right along. They are forging ahead through whatever waves oppose them. But they are doing it quietly, without a jar.
It is because they do not allow themselves to vibrate all over at the same pitch. They stand apart from the exteriors of their lives, and know a peace and a self-control that are independent of toil and possessions, failure and success. They live two lives, as it were, one in the material world and one in the spiritual world. These are practically united for the doing of their work in the world of men and things; but a disturbance in one is not allowed to extend to the other. Thus under all circumstances they have rest and peace.
Do I seem to arrive at a very mystical conclusion from a very practical beginning? I assure you that, of the two portions of this little talk, by far the most practical portion is the last! Try it, and you will agree.
Those High-Backed Seats.
The South Station in Boston is, according to Boston brag, one of the largest and finest in the country. However that may be, it has many excellent points, and one of the best of these is the superb waiting-room.
This waiting-room is so large and so well proportioned that merely to look into it gives the hurrying traveler a dim sense of peace. I do not remember to have seen a single person running through it or even walking fast. It is one of the most dignified spots in that dignified city.
One feature that contributes much to this feeling of dignity and quiet is the arrangement of the seats. They are placed in a long row away off to one side of the room. There are forty-two of them, back to back, and they will easily accommodate 420 persons,—half a regiment. Each alcove thus formed is lettered with the name of some Massachusetts county, so that you can agree to meet your friends in the Middlesex section, if you please, or perhaps in the Berkshire section, and you will find them there.
This plan is necessary, for you could not find them otherwise except with considerable difficulty, because the seats have high, solid, wooden backs more than a foot higher than a man's head as he sits down; so that, though 420 might be sitting in those seats, the room would seem quite empty; scarcely one of them could be seen. I have been in the room when it must have contained more than five hundred people, and perhaps a score of these were visible, at the ticket windows and going to their trains. That was all.
Of course, it is needless to say that no trains are called in this dignified place. There are two monster clocks at either end to be read from any seat, and the meaningless clamor of the train-announcer is dispensed with.
Well, do you know, there are some happy men and women that know how to arrange their lives after precisely this model. They put their various tasks away in high-backed compartments. Each is labeled, and they know just where they all are, but each is out of the way and out of sight. There is no worry, no bustle or hurry. Each task goes quietly to its compartment, watches the clock, and, when it is train time, gets up and goes to business. The man or woman seems always at leisure; the life seems spacious, almost empty. It is a lovely way to get along.
I wonder if I can ever do that way myself.
Cutting Out the Cut-Out.
The cut-out is the part of an automobile which, next to the horn, makes the most noise; in fact, it is sometimes used instead of a horn to signal the approach of a car.
The exhaust from the gasoline-engine—that is, the refuse gas left after the explosion—goes to the rear through a long tube. This makes a back-pressure on the engine, to relieve which the cut-off opens the tube near the engine, thus affording the exhaust an easy, quick, and—noisy mode of escape.
In most towns motorists are forbidden to use the cut-off, and few drivers now use it on the road, even to assist the engine in getting up a hill; for present-day engines are so powerful that this aid is too trifling to count. Now comes the National Automobile Chamber of Commerce and decrees the elimination of the cut-off altogether from new cars, as being unnecessary and as constituting an annoyance to the public. This is a noisy age; it is good to note at least one noise so satisfactorily suppressed.
Now if we could only cut out the cut-outs from all modern life! If we could all of us study to be quiet! If we could realize that one test of a wise plan, a well-ordered establishment, a skillful organization, or a noble life, is its unobtrusiveness! Bluster defeats itself. Brag merely advertises its own worthlessness. Self-booms are boomerangs. The worker who accomplishes his tasks with the least noise, steadily and modestly but efficiently, makes a success which in time is recognized gladly by all. Let us follow the automobile manufacturers, fellow toilers, and cut out the cut-outs.