Wherein I have sought to show how one might Quit his Worrying, these pages presuppose an earnest desire, a sincere purpose, on the part of the reader to attain that desirable end.  There is no universal medicine which one can drink in six doses and thus be cured of his disease.  I do not offer my book as a mental cure-all, or nostrum that, if swallowed whole, will cure in five days or ten.  As I have tried to show, I conceive worry to be unnatural and totally unnecessary, because of its practical denial of what ought to be, and I believe may be, the fundamental basis of a man’s life, viz., his perfect, abiding assurance in the fatherly love of God.  As little Pippa sang: 

  God’s in his heaven,
  All’s right with the world.

The only way, therefore, to lose our sense of worry is to get back to naturalness, to God, and learn the peace, joy, happiness, serenity, that come with practical trust in Him.  With some people this change may come instantly; with others, more slowly.  Personally I have had to learn slowly, “line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little, there a little.”  And I would caution my readers not to expect too much all at once.  But I am fully convinced that as faith, trust, and naturalness grow, worry will cease, will slough off, like the dead skin of the serpent, and leave those once bound by it free from its malign influence.  Who cannot see and feel that such a consummation is devoutly to be wished, worth working and earnestly striving for?

If I help a few I shall be more than repaid, if many, my heart will rejoice.

[Signed:  George Wharton James]

Pasadena, Calif. February, 1916.

QUIT YOUR WORRYING!

CHAPTER I

THE CURSE OF WORRY

Of how many persons can it truthfully be said they never worry, they are perfectly happy, contented, serene?  It would be interesting if each of my readers were to recall his acquaintances and friends, think over their condition in this regard, and then report to me the result.  What a budget of worried persons I should have to catalogue, and alas, I am afraid, how few of the serene would there be named.  When John Burroughs wrote his immortal poem, Waiting, he struck a deeper note than he dreamed of, and the reason it made so tremendous an impression upon the English-speaking world was that it was a new note to them.  It opened up a vision they had not before contemplated.  Let me quote it here in full: 

  Serene I fold my hands and wait,
  Nor care for wind, or tide or sea;
  I rave no more ’gainst time or fate,
  For lo! my own shall come to me.

  I stay my haste, I make delays,
  For what avails this eager pace? 
  I stand amid the eternal ways,
  And what is mine shall know my face.

  Asleep, awake, by night or day,
  The friends I seek are seeking me,
  No wind can drive my bark astray,
  Nor change the tide of destiny.