What I Think Of Modern Youth-Pests To Society.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18946, 17 December 1929, Page 8

What I Think Of Modern Youth-Pests To Society.

TO-DAY’S SIGNED ARTICLE.

Written for the “ Star ” by THE BARONESS FURNIVALL. (The Baroness Furnivall is a Baroness in her own right.)

Where are the heroes of to-morrow? Where, indeed ?

In my view, the modern youth has not one thought, one ideal, or one ambition in the whole of his composition which is worth a row of pins! Certainly I would not risk my favourite pin upon the chances of his brain power carrying past the winning post. Taking the young man aged twenty to twenty-five of This Year of Grace, 1928, where is one to find among them the stuff of which heroes are made? I will not have this type confused with those of our men friends, mostly above the thirties, who have adequately proved themselves to be the heroes of yesterday, and the chivalrous men of today. What of the Future? There is much to be said for the young men of whom I complain—many of their defects are due to the war atmosphere in which they were brought up. In their home they saw their womenfolk racked with anxiety for the absent ones, and their school days were tingled with the dread of air-raids and a violent end! All around them was the spirit: “It is the war! “What the Hell does anything matter?’* Or perhaps it became twisted around to serve a new and even baser purpose, as in 1918: “The War is over. “What the Hell does anything else matter?” I will concede that, viewed in this light, it is possible to understand the origin of the rather brainless and inefficient youth one so often meets about town, and elsewhere. But this plea cannot reasonably be argued as an excuse for his becoming a permanent type. A sufficient interval has elapsed to wipe out the delirium and aftermath of the war. The Chaotic Youth! This type of young man has left college. He has, regrettably as it turns out, a generous amount of money to spend, and is very often gazetted to a crack regiment. But these advantages, which ought to give him a favourable start on the stage of life, seem to do him no good whatever. Indeed, it is questionable whether they do not, in the end, do him positive harm. His life is spent in cocktailing and chaos, and night after night he is to be found at night clubs, sometimes of the lowest order, from which he emerges, or is possibly ejected, at four or five in the morning. Courtesy, chivalry and good manners are meaningless terms to him. The idea never enters his head of showing any consideration or deference to the members of the opposite sex, or, if it does percolate to his “intelligence,” it is dismissed as being too laughable for words. Watch him at a dance or ball, as I have done. No emperor distributing favours to the meanest of his subjects

'has a loftier manner than our young friend in asking the ladies of his acquaintance for the honour of a dance. This is particularly unfortunate, because there is generally a shortage of young men, and as their presence is indispensable for this form of entertainment, the pest is encouraged to persevere in his rude and uncultured course. Youths Who Are a Menace. Then there is a worse, and even more unpleaant type, whom one frequently encounters. He is known as the “Aesthete,” and conceals, under a cloak of o-called intellectualim, a mass of effeminacy and degenerate ideas. Some of them will even go to the length of making up their complexions by the aid of liberal applications of powder and suchlike cosmetics. The very idea of riding across country to hounds would probably cause him to swoon! (I use the Victorian word as being particularly apt in this case.) As I heard one youth of this species say: “Hunting is so coarse! “We should strive to remember that we are sent into the world to create and spread the gospel of beauty! ” The only “gospel” this particular type of youth spreads is one that is utterly foreign to our British standards of manhood. What of to-morrow? One trembles to think of another war, and of the part likely to be played in it by this imitation of manhood, incapable and unfitted for the deadly combat into which modern warfare has developed. Dare one hope that, in his more lucid moments, he will pause to consider that he belongs to the finest Empire in the world, and that this Empire looks upon him to uphold the glory of its traditions, and to preserve the integrity of its traditions. Other Types! All this is, of course, very depressing, and by this time I can vision some irate objector demanding: “Yes; but what of young men like Dick? And Tom? And my boy, Wilfred? Surely they are creditable examples of young British manhood?” I hasten to say: “Yes. Most certainly—yes! ” This is the happier side of the picture, the exceptions which go to prove the general rule.

Your Toms and your Wilfreds are shining exceptions, and I feel sure that they, and many youngsters still at school, will, if and when the necessity arises, once more emulate the heroes of the past.

For example, I number in this category the son of one of our most prominent statesmen, who I was talking to recently. Inheriting a great deal of his father’s brillance, he is at the same time entirely natural and unassuming and affects none of those awful mannerisms displayed by so many modern young men.

In addition to being unusually intelligent, he excels at practically all sports. In other words, he is physically

and mentally equipped to be a hero of to-morrow. So are Tom, and Dick, and Wilfred. But for the vast majority Of the youths of 1929, I ask again: Where? Oh, where, are the heroes of to-morrow? (Anglo-American N.S. Copyright.)