The Scheme of Things

Evening Post, Volume CXXIII, Issue 19, 23 January 1937, Page 19

The Scheme of Things

By M.H.C.

The tragedy of idleness—surely a volume might be written about this —and the end of the matter might be summed up in the situation that a number of people have lost any joy in work, in achievement, and have sunk down into mere apathy, finding their pleasure in idleness. A keen discussion arose recently among some women, roused by the mention on the part of one of the company that she had read, or heard, of some authority saying that he had yet to meet the man or woman who liked work. If it was really said, it was a reflection on the people met with on the pathway of ordinary life. There are two outstanding reflections. One, that idleness leads to ill health, bad temper, lack of moral control, and inertia of body, soul, and spirit; the other, the tragedy of a person who cannot take any joy in achievement, in conquering difficulties, in producing something useful or beautiful, in making life worth while in fact. A cultured writer, Sir Philip Gibbs, who has produced some wonderful work in his time, and certainly has been a worker of the finest description, pulls the mask off a number of the well-off idlers of the great city of London in a book of his. Speaking of a doctor, a poor man at the time, he says: "He looked into the eyes of these people and sometimes into their souls, and was pitiful because so many seemed to be caught into a mantrap of this civilisation with its mental and social strains. . . . Civilisation put a strain on them which was sometimes intolerable. No wonder they snapDed sometimes. There was a constant fretting at the nerves due to the pace of the social rhythm and the myriad impressions beating on the minds and senses with never a rest. Those winking lights; that tide of traffic; the constant irritation of trivial interests; every sensibility excited by the pageantry of shop windows, by the lure of luxury, by artfully stimulated desires which were never satisfied. They could find no satisfaction because (hey could find no harmony between themselves and the mystery of things. All they could do was to dope themselves in order to forget, not to think, fo stupefy the nagging of desire and this restlessness. It was all dope really—the cinemas and night clubs, the erotic novels, the worship of professional sport by millions who never played a game and didn't want to —the sensationalism of the news, the programmes of the wireless. Dope for maladjusted minds. Dope for neurasthenics. Dope for unsatisfied people, and like all dope it caused inevitable regressions and reactions, intensifying the need of new excitement and creating a tolerance for harmful stimulant." Thus Philip Gibbs, who develops in his story the achievement of the doctor, his interest in his work, his industry, his kindness, and his humanity, and finally his success. It is regrettable that all the clever amusements, the interesting plays and pictures, which are such a delightful rest to a real worker, which provide a relaxation which is so beneficial, should have been found by a keen and cultured observer to be so deadly to the, idle. To be provided for so that there' is no incentive to work is a harmful thing for some characters which need a healthy bracing and yet which "sag" hopelessly when there is no need for effort. To lie in bed while others toil for their living, to provide that bed, that food, and the necessities of life; to feel that there is no necessity to do anything but idle along through life, to disregard' the wise old saying that "Congenial work and plenty of it is the best gift of God to man"—these things seem a waste of life, and time. The priceless gift is made of no use, being the "talent" which is buried in the earth, and presented to the "Giver of all Good Things" with the remark that "He is a hard man who reaps where He has not strown," and so on through the fine old Biblical parable. That there are some unhealthy natures that don't mind "loafing" on anyone, their own folk, on the public purse, or on any-

I one or anything but themselves, is an unfortunate fact. Philip Gibbs has touched severely on the miserable consequences of an inert and effortless life, taking a , class that can afford pleasures; while there is just as large a class that will get pleasures anyhow and anywhere without working justly for them, or earning them in any reasonable way. * " * * The other side of the picture is a delightful one. The real joyous workers in life are plentiful everywhere. In the fields of research, art, medicine, history—the diggers and delvers into the bosom of the earth where such riches of knowledge of the past are obtained; the Edisons, Marconis, Curies, and many other famous people,

were all joyous interested workers. In other ways there are people who delight in clever work with their hands, the- production of exquisite carvings, of pictures, of designs for lovely articles for the joy of men and women, of accomplishments in architecture, and, indeed, in so "many inventions" that they are beyond recounting. It only remains to point out the immense number of people of daily industry who go home, and instead of idling their time away after their day's work, produce beautiful gardens—who rejoice in their lovely flowers, fine vegetables, wholesome fruit, and make life interesting all the time. The idler is not "worth while" himself, his life is not worth while either, and he soon becames unable to enjoy anything, for th£ mind and body become unhealthy. Such owners are only fit to join

Tennyson's company of lotus-eatevs and lived in that Jond, "In which it seemed always afternoon; all round the coast the languid air did swoon ... a land of dreams." ' After eating the magic lotus, the warriors in their choric song declare: We have had enough of action and of jnotion we ... Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toll, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh, rest ye. brother mariners, we will not wander more. Contrasting that attitude with the achievements of such explorers as Columbus, Tasman, and Cook, in older times, and of the Arctic explorers of today, it will be seen that the balance of power and common sense must swing with those who achieve, and who take joy in so doing, who make something of life, and who are worthwhile people in every sense of ,the word. These are good citizens, good fathers and mothers, efficient workers, and produce something which is of

some good in their day and generation. They can afford to look with compassion on those who by nature, upbringing, or misfortune are not able to recognise the "right to work," to realise the pleasure in a day well spent, in being a successful artisan, member of a profession, inventor; in . being one who leaves some "footprints on the sands of Time" as against those who literally don't matter, except that when they depart this life one more idle sponger on the efforts of others is taken away, to the relief of those i around them. Philip Gibbs, concluding his book, makes his doctor say that the antitoxin to the disease of civilisation is to get on with one's job ... to "get the mind right with the knowledge of this bewilderment called life and of the divine mystery beyond it."