climate. There are parts of the United States where the climate is not over-stimulating, but in those parts of the country which are the most densely settled the nature of the climate is a factor of no small importance with respect to the tendency in point. Some day our science may find a way to change either the climate or ourselves so as to adapt the one to the other more agreeably; but until this is done, we have no recourse but to accept conditions as they are, merely bearing in mind the fact that overstimulation is more likely to be our lot, as individuals, than its opposite. This knowledge may help us to counteract our extreme desire to hold on.

The second condition which tends to produce over-strain among us is the state of affairs which results from the universal use of high-power machinery. This is so obvious and so well understood as to need no detailed explanation. It is enough to point out that machinery enters our lives at every turn; is not confined to the factory, the mill and the shop, where, as everyone knows, men are speeded up to the limit of endurance; but meets us in the automobile, the subway, the street car, the express train, the elevator, and, in short, everywhere and constantly. All such modern improvements are very convenient, if not absolutely necessary, but they nevertheless tend to speed up life. They help to create the habit of rushing through life and of holding on tight while doing so.

Next in order is the belief, almost universal also, in the possibility of salvation by human agency. To the question, Can the world be made better? the modern American likes to reply: "Yes, of course it can, and WE can make it so." This is optimism with a vengeance; for it is an optimism which is not content with the belief that man can assist in the process of the world's salvation, but boldly asserts that the salvation of the world depends wholly upon man's effort. Indubitably it is a faith which calls

to be up and doing, and, if true, would condemn beyond appeal those who refuse to set about this great task with unflagging energy and devotion.

And lastly, dogging our steps with the grim persistence of a ghost that can find no peace in the grave, filling our days with puritanical dullness, and crying to us with husky voices, "Hold on!" there is that frightful modern spectre, Psychological Introspection: dangerous when at its best, deadly when it becomes morbid. This creature is forever distressing us with a never-ending volley of questions, as fatal as the bullets from a machine-gun. "Why did you do that? and why did you leave this undone? What was your motive the other day when you gave a dime to a beggar? Were you actuated by self-love and the desire for display? Or do you think that altruism is a possible motive in human conduct? You love music. Why? what good is it? And what use is there in playing golf, or loving your neighbor, or praying to God?" So we are pressed by queries, everyone of which we take very seriously and do our level best to answer respectfully, grinding our teeth and hanging on tight the while.

But enough of this dark side of the picture. We all know the malady. What is the cure?

The cure is letting go; but what art it requires to do this successfully, and what faith! We are in a vicious circle at the very start, for the old habit persists and we insist instinctively, when we try to let go, upon hanging on to our determination to let go, which is sheer folly. Letting go is like learning to ride a bicycle. For a time we set our teeth and hang on with all our might and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, quick as a flash, we find that we are no longer hanging on, but are riding with the utmost ease, without the slightest strain, or tension, or fear. We have let ourselves go and we are safe!

The straining that is so apparent in modern life, the

eagerness to get somewhere, no matter where; the emphasis upon speed and the getting of things done, and the putting of things across; all this forces life upon the surface. A submarine can make barely eight knots under the water, but on the surface it is possible to drive her eighteen. To secure speed she must leave the depths and travel on the surface, and the same is true of life. To attain speed in living, thinking, acting, men must act, think and live on the surface. Another illustration is found in the case of the diver, for when the diver goes down deep into the sea in search of buried treasure, he proceeds slowly. The greatest speed is attained in the air by the aeronaut, but along his path are no treasures to be found. Wisdom comes not on the winds, but is found in deep places. To find wisdom we must learn to go slowly in quest of her, to forego anxiety, and to await her leisure.

The greatest teachers of the art of letting go are the mystics. Mysticism has been for long out of favor with us because of the seeming indefiniteness of her goals, the infinite patience required in them who would obtain her rewards, the love of solitude, repose, contemplation which the true mystic must possess. Upon action we have placed a high premium while passive contemplation goes begging in the market. From the error of so false an emphasis, so one-sided and top-heavy a view of the matter, we must inevitably some day awaken, and when we do so we shall begin to understand that the great mystics have not only been men in whom the love of God has burned with a pure and abiding flame and in whom the love of humanity has been so powerful as to compel respect and sympathy for the very lowest of God's children; but that, to all this, the mystics have added that very characteristic which we, in our blindness, had supposed mysticism inimical to, namely, the possibility of intense and prolonged activity. To us it may seem paradoxical, but nevertheless it is true

that the mystics are the world's greatest men of action. For they have accomplished herculean tasks and their work remains with us. The best thought of the world already repudiates Napoleon for all his whirl-wind activity, but Plato, St. Paul, St. Augustine, St. Francis, St. Bernard, will never be held in less esteem, but more. They will stand the test of time.

These were men who had learned to let go. Let us see, in the case of one or two of them, if this is not so. When St. Paul was hurrying up and down the land, "breathing out threatenings against the Church of God," haling men and women and children to prison with the furious speed of his restless anger, he undoubtedly felt the was accomplishing a great deal in the way of worth-while work. Yet all the while he was doing nothing at all of permanent value; on the contrary he was doing his best, which even so was very little, to undo the work of God. Then on the road to Damascus his wild and worse than futile activity was suddenly checked. In a blaze of blinding light, he fell to the earth like one dead, and in that moment he saw the glory of God and learned the will of God for himself; and then he learned to let go. He went for two years into Asia, and gave himself up to prayer and meditation. Thereafter he was no whit less energetic, but the sense of strain, of over-anxiety, of too great mental and spiritual pressure, had left him; and in the place of these came that serenity of soul possessed only by those who have made contact with the Infinite. Thereafter his life purpose, ever in the foreground of consciousness, sustained, inspired and comforted him, while at the same time it kept him perfectly calm in the knowledge that it was Godgiven and God-aided. God being for it, who could stand against it?

St. Augustine and St. Francis of Assisi both illustrate this same truth in their lives. Both were hot-blooded and

hot-headed in youth and went in vigorously for the pleasures of the hour. Both learned later the power of quiet self-possession, and in their new-found strength contributed immensely to the world's spiritual life. And how was it with the Master of these? What calm serenity was His! How calmly He moved through all the tumult and the mad fever of the world, with never the slightest trace of any loss of self-possession. In three years He did more than the greatest beside Him have done in a life-time, and He was able many times to withdraw to a quiet place apart for prayer and for thought. Every bit of energy men waste in needless anxiety, in straining for unmerited praise, in struggling for undeserved promotion, is energy taken from the true purpose of life. The law of the conservation of energy holds in this sphere also.

If we leave the company of the saints and of the mystics and turn to the lives of lesser men, we shall find that the same law holds good for them. Among literary men of fame, Stevenson is an example in point. He tells us that in his youth he was thought to be an idle, shiftless, worthless fellow, almost a ne'er-do-well. But in those seemingly wasted moments of his childhood and boyhood he was mentally very active, yet without strain. His genius developed easily and naturally, as a rose grows from seed to flower, with the result that his work has the freshness of nature's own garden, with no smell about it of the hot-house. So was it too with Keats, with Shelley and with Shakespeare. In the case of Milton there was too much straining in early youth, not without some ill effect upon his work, though later he learned to let go.

It is the little men who are tempted most to strain, for these see life slipping through their fingers with no apparent abiding results; and, if they are at all ambitious, they soon come to feel that they have not accomplished enough, that the time is short, that they must perforce