Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1905-01-12

find the means Of working for that or
others.
CHAPTER VII.
SIMPLE PLEASURES.
~ o you find life amusing in
q these days? For my part on
the whole, 1t seems rather de-
- pressing, and l fear that my
opinion Is not altogether personal. AS
/ observe the lives of my contempo-
raries and listen to their talk l find
myself unhappily confirmed In the
opinion that they do not get much
pleasure out Of things. And certainly
1t is not from lack Of trying. But 1t
cess Is meager. Where can the fault
be?
Some accuse politics or business,
others social problems or militarism.
We meet only an embarrassment Of
choice when we start to unstring the
chaplet of our carking cdres. Sup
pose we set out In pursuit of pleasure.
There is too much pepper in our soup
to make 1t palatable. Our arms are
filed with multitude Of embarrass-
ments, any one Of which would be
enough to spoil our temper. From
morning till night, wherever we go,
the people we meet are hurried, wor-
ried, preoccupied. Some have split
their good blood in the miserable con-
ficts of petty politics; others are dis
heartened by the meanness and Jeal-
ousy they have encountered in the
world of literature or art. Commercial
competition troubles the sleep of not
few. The crowded curricula OF
study and the exigencies of their open
Ing careers spoil life for young men.
The working classes suffer the conse-
quences Of a ceaseless struggle. 1t is
becoming disagreeable to govern be-
cause authority Is diminishing; to
teach, because respect is vanishing.
Wherever one turns there Is matter for
discomfort.
And yet history shows us certain
epochs of upheaval which were as
lacking In idyllic tranquility as is our
own, but which the gravest events
did not prevent from being gay. It
even seems as IL the seriousness of af-
fairs, the uncertainty Of the morrow,
the violence Of social convulslons,
sometimes became a new source Of
vitality. 1t is not rare thing to hear
soldiers singing between two battles,
and I think myself nowise mistaken in
saying that human Joy has celebrated
its finest triumphs under the greatest
tests of endurance. But to sleep peace
fully on the eve Of battle, or to exult
at the stake, men had then the slim
ulus Of an internal harmony which
we perhaps lack. Joy Is not in things;
IL Is in us, and hold to the belief that
the causes of our present unrest, of
this contagious discomfort spreading
everywhere, are In us at least as much
as in exterior conditions.
To give oneself up heartily to diver
sion one must feel himself on a solid
basis. must believe In life and find 1t
within him. And here lies our weak
ness. SO many Of us-even, alas, the
younger men - are at variance with
life, and do not speak of philosophers
only. How do you think a man can be
amused while lie has his doubts wheth-
er, after all, life is worth living? Be
sides this, one observes d disquieting
depression of vital force, which must
be attributed to the abuse man makes
OF his sensations. Excess of all kinds
has blurred our senses and poisoned
our faculty for happiness. Human ma
ture succumbs under the irregularities
imposed upon ii. Deeply attainted at
Its root, the desire to live, persistent In
spite OF everything, seeks satisfaction
In cheats and baubles. In medical sci
ence we have recourse to artificial res
piration, artificial alimentation AMI gal
vanism. SO, too, around expiring pleas
ure wo see n crowd OF its yotaries ex-
erting themselves to reawaken II, to re
animate It. Most ingenious means
have been invented; it can never be
said that expense has been spared
Everything has been tried, the possible
and the impossible. But In all these
complicated alembics no one has ever
arrived mt distilling drop of veritable
Joy. We must not confound pleasure
with the instruments of pleasure. To
be n painter, does IL suffice to arm
oneself with n brush, or does the pur-
chase at great cost of a Stradivarius
make one musiciani No more, II
you had the whole paraphernalia of
amusement In the perfection Of its In
genuIty, would 1t advance you upon
your rond But with bit of crayon
n great artist makes an immortal
sketch. 1t needs talent or genius to
paint; and 10 amuse oneself, the facul-
ty Of being happy-whoever possesses
II is amused at slight cost. This facul-
ty is destroyed by skepticism. artificial
living, overabuse; 1t is fostered by con-
hdence, moderation and normal habits
Of thought ana action.
An excellent proof Of my proposition,
and one very easily encountered, lies
In the fact that wherever life Ii sim
pie and same true pleasure accompa-
nies It as fragrance does uncutiyated
flowers. BE this life hard, hampered,
devoid OF all things ordinarily consid-
cred as the very conditions of pleasure.
the rare and delicate plant, JOY, flour
ishes there. 1t springs up between the
flags OF the pavement, on an arid wall.
in the fissure OF rock. We ask our
selves how II comes and whence but 1t
lives, while in tho soft warmth OF con-
servatories or in fields richly fcrtilized
you cultivate II at Il golden cost to see
Il fade and die In your hand.
Ask actors what audience IL happiest
ut the play. They will tell you the pop
ular one. Tho reason Is not hard to
grasp. TO these people the play Is an
exception. They are not bored by It
from oyerlndul2enca- Ind toa 10
hem it ia Il rest from rude toll. The
jleasure they enjoy they have honestly
earned, and they know its cost as
they know that Of each sou earned by
the sweat OF their labor. More, they