In sleep’s sweet fetters bound.
Lord Neaves.

A frequent cause of suffering among men and women is their idea that they are necessary to the running of things. Usually they find themselves mistaken. The head of a firm was once warned by a physician that he must take a rest to avert a breakdown, but the man declared it to be an impossibility for him to get away from the office for even a week. He gripped his business so tight that he could not let go, nor could he see that others could do it as well as he could. In such a state of mind the doctor’s warning added another worry, fear for himself,—so at last the predicted breakdown came. He had reached the point where he had to let go, for his grip, both physical and mental, was gone. For six months he could not concern himself with business affairs, the necessity of fighting for life and renewed health occupying all his faculties. He refused to let himself think of the outcome, but put his attention upon getting well.

When he returned to his business, with his mind braced to stand any disasters that he might discover, he was astonished to find everything in perfect condition, and that his assistant had even corrected the errors he had himself made in the last weeks of overworked body and fagged brain. It was at first a blow to his pride that he was not essential to the success of his own business, but, as he realized how big a price he had paid to learn this simple lesson, he made a decision that showed how far he had advanced beyond his former condition.

Turning to his assistant, he said: “Smith, as you can carry on this business so well, I shall take three months’ vacation every year, and have no more expensive breakdowns; and, as I want you to continue to carry it on as well while I am away, you would better take three months’ vacation every year, too, so there shall be no breakdowns for you.” He had really learned two lessons in one—what things were not worth doing, and what things could be done by somebody else. He still had left “the things that were quite enough for any man to attempt.” No man is really indispensable to any undertaking, however much it may seem so to him. When James Alexander controlled the Equitable Life Assurance Society, he made it his rule to discharge anybody who seemed to be indispensable. His reason for this was that, the longer such a man was retained, the more indispensable he would become, until the association would be in danger of going to smash if anything happened to that one man. Common prudence dictated the advisability of getting rid of him while the company could manage to get along somehow without him.

There was once a Dutchman who was of much the same opinion as Mr. Alexander. His manager applied for an increase of salary.

“I t’ink I buys you bretty dear, alretty, Hans.” “Yes,” said Hans, “I get a good salary, but then I am worth it. I know everything and do everything about the business; in fact, you couldn’t get along without me.” “Ach, ish dot so? Vell; vat I do if you vas deat, Hans?” “Oh, well! if I were dead, you’d have to get along without me.” “Ach!” replied the Dutchman, slowly, “den, Hans, I t’inks we gonsiders you deat.” It is well to think sometimes of how nicely the world got along before we came to it, and how likely it is to do just as well after we have left it. If, when we are rushing around, weighed down by anxiety and a feeling of our own importance, we should “consider ourselves dead” for a few moments, we might find that the fever of life had subsided.

We should have to admit that, judging from the past, the world would not even slip a cog if we were to pass from it. And even if we were ready to claim that no one heretofore had been so important, and no one could ever again be so necessary, even then it were the part of wisdom to cease hurrying and worrying. For, as the human frame can be exhausted by overwork and overworry, it behooves the indispensable person to preserve himself as long as possible, so as to save the world from the catastrophe of his loss. The very thing he aims to do—save the world—he defeats by his anxiety and haste.

Proper prudence tends to prevent trouble, not to prevent worry. No amount of precaution and care will cure worry. In fact, the prudence and care help to fix the thought on all the mischances, however improbable or impossible, that may be imagined.

Elaborate precautions often defeat themselves, like a corporal who kept all his squad out as pickets till they were cut off one by one.

I once saw a family going off to the country, five “masters” and three servants, eight hand-packages, coachman, footman, and an extra servant, and the family doctor to get them off. The cautious doctor got the tickets days before, and even got checks for the trunks. An extra trunk, taken at the last hour to hold some extra things that might be needed, upset all that arranging.

The doctor went to the baggage-room in the gray dawn to get that precautionary trunk checked: after a long discussion about the place, he arranged to meet the family at the railway news-stand. The caretaker was shown once more how to work the burglar alarm, from which a necessary knob came off in the nervous hand of the Master of Cares—“telephone for the electrician” but at last the blinds were carefully pulled down, the house shut up and committed to Providence and the caretaker, and the family and its familiars arrived at the station nearly an hour before train-time, “getting off so nicely.” The Genius of Forethought sent out a pair of scouts to find the doctor. They returned, to report that there were three news-stands, but the doctor was not at any of them.

Then this Genius of Care went himself with one of the scouts, a long and hurried walk to the baggage-room,—not there.

Meanwhile, the doctor, who had stayed to see the trunks off, had found the main body with its camp-followers and light baggage. All stood in the station near a news-stand and waited for the return of the expedition, till the doctor got impatient as train-time approached and went off to find the Head of the House, who arrived in a flurry, having lost his own head a few minutes after he had gone with the tickets.

At last, after the pilgrimage from the ticket-gate down to the parlor-car, they are in the train, all safe, thank God; but the Genius of Care did not sleep that night “on account of the worry and fuss of getting off.” That was not the doctor’s fault. Like Martha, he had made his own punishment the same as the rest of us by being “careful about many things.” I remember an Irish servant who was shown one of our big banks with its huge window-bars, to make it safe. “Sure,” she said, “what’s the good of them things? The thieves is inside and not out.” Worry is inside and not out, and Sleep, like the Kingdom of Heaven, is not taken by force.