and duty of enjoying life merely because they miss the point that life is, in itself, enjoyable.  They are so busy reading guide-books to the vague beyond that they shut their minds to all that may be going on about them, or within them, at way-stations.  They close their eyes and ears to the immediate.  They veto all perception of the here and now.  But life itself is always here and now; and, truly to enjoy it, we must learn to look forever with unfaltering eyes into the bright face of immediacy.

* * * * *

And there is another point about railway junctions that reveals an important application to the larger journey of our life.  A friend of mine, who is a great lover of painting, had occasion once (and only once) to change trains at Basle, in the course of a journey from Lucerne to Heidelberg.  He had to wait two hours at this railway junction; and this time he pleasantly expended in eating many dishes at a restaurant, and amusing the lax porters by teaching them a method of economizing energy in shifting trunks.  It should be noted that this friend of mine was not trying to “kill time;” for, like all genuine humanitarians, he of course regards that tragic process as the least excusable of murders.  He was entirely happy for two hours in that railway station.  But—­having packed his guide-book in a trunk—­it was not until he reached Darmstadt, some days later, that he discovered that several of the very greatest works of Holbein are now resident in Basle.  The two hours that he had spent playing and eating might have been devoted to an examination of many masterpieces of that art which, more than any other, he had crossed the seas to seek.  He has never yet been able to return to Basle; but for a sight of those lost portraits of the most honest and straightforward of all German painters, he would gladly sell his memories of both Lucerne and Heidelberg.

Here we have a record of a great disappointment that was occasioned merely by the common habit of despising railway junctions, and presuming them to be inevitably dull.  But this same unfortunate presumption, applied to life at large, leads many people to overlook the nearness of some great adventure.  Interrogate a thousand men, and you will find that none of them has first set eyes upon his greatest friend in the Mosque of Cordoba or in Trafalgar Square.  Every adventure of lasting consequence has confronted all of them, without exception, in some hidden nook or cranny of the world,—­some place unknown to fame.  Anybody is as likely to meet the woman who is destined to become his wife, at Essex Junction on a wintry night, as in the Parthenon by moonlight in the month of May.  The most romantic places in the world are often those that promised, in advance, to be the least romantic.

Since this is so, how can anybody ever dare to shut his eyes to that incalculable imminency of adventure which environs him even when he is merely changing trains on some island-platform of the New York Subway?  In our daily living we are never safe from destiny; and who can ever know in what vacuous and sedentary period of his experience he may suddenly be called upon to entertain an angel unawares?  It is best to be prepared for anything, at any hour of our lives,—­even at those moments that must, perforce, be “spent waiting at a railway junction.”