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WORK
With a pleasure that's emphatic We retire to our attic With the satisfying feeling that our duty has been done.
Oh! philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a king But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none, And the culminating pleasure Which we treasure beyond measure Is the satisfying feeling that our duty has been done.
_W. S. Gilbert_
Work is supposed to be the centre round which school life revolves--thehub of the school wheel, the lode-star of the schoolboy's existence,and a great many other things. 'You come to school to work', is theformula used by masters when sentencing a victim to the wailing andgnashing of teeth provided by two hours' extra tuition on a hotafternoon. In this, I think, they err, and my opinion is backed up bynumerous scholars of my acquaintance, who have even gone so far--onoccasions when they themselves have been the victims--as to expresspositive disapproval of the existing state of things. In the dear, deaddays (beyond recall), I used often to long to put the case to myform-master in its only fair aspect, but always refrained from motivesof policy. Masters are so apt to take offence at the well-meantendeavours of their form to instruct them in the way they should go.
What I should have liked to have done would have been something afterthis fashion. Entering the sanctum of the Headmaster, I should havemotioned him to his seat--if he were seated already, have assured himthat to rise was unnecessary. I should then have taken a seat myself,taking care to preserve a calm fixity of demeanour, and finally, with apreliminary cough, I should have embarked upon the following movingaddress: 'My dear sir, my dear Reverend Jones or Brown (as the case maybe), believe me when I say that your whole system of work is founded ona fallacious dream and reeks of rottenness. No, no, I beg that you willnot interrupt me. The real state of the case, if I may say so, isbriefly this: a boy goes to school to enjoy himself, and, on arriving,finds to his consternation that a great deal more work is expected ofhim than he is prepared to do. What course, then, Reverend Jones orBrown, does he take? He proceeds to do as much work as will steer himsafely between the, ah--I may say, the Scylla of punishment and theCharybdis of being considered what my, er--fellow-pupils euphoniouslyterm a swot. That, I think, is all this morning. _Good_ day. Praydo not trouble to rise. I will find my way out.' I should then havemade for the door, locked it, if possible, on the outside, and, rushingto the railway station, have taken a through ticket to Spitzbergen orsome other place where Extradition treaties do not hold good.
But 'twas not mine to play the Tib. Gracchus, to emulate the O.Cromwell. So far from pouring my opinions like so much boiling oil intothe ear of my task-master, I was content to play the part of audiencewhile _he_ did the talking, my sole remark being 'Yes'r' at fixedintervals.
And yet I knew that I was in the right. My bosom throbbed with thejustice of my cause. For why? The ambition of every human new boyis surely to become like J. Essop of the First Eleven, who can hit aball over two ponds, a wood, and seven villages, rather than toresemble that pale young student, Mill-Stuart, who, though he canspeak Sanskrit like a native of Sanskritia, couldn't score a singleoff a slow long-hop.
And this ambition is a laudable one. For the athlete is the product ofnature--a step towards the more perfect type of animal, while thescholar is the outcome of artificiality. What, I ask, does the scholargain, either morally or physically, or in any other way, by knowing whowas tribune of the people in 284 BC or what is the precise differencebetween the various constructions of _cum_? It is not as ifignorance of the tribune's identity caused him any mental unrest. Inshort, what excuse is there for the student? 'None,' shrieks Echoenthusiastically. 'None whatever.'
Our children are being led to ruin by this system. They will becomedons and think in Greek. The victim of the craze stops at nothing. Hepuns in Latin. He quips and quirks in Ionic and Doric. In the worststages of the disease he will edit Greek plays and say that Merry quitemisses the fun of the passage, or that Jebb is mediocre. Think, I begof you, paterfamilias, and you, mater ditto, what your feelings wouldbe were you to find Henry or Archibald Cuthbert correcting proofs of_The Agamemnon_, and inventing 'nasty ones' for Mr Sidgwick! Verywell then. Be warned.
Our bright-eyed lads are taught insane constructions in Greek and Latinfrom morning till night, and they come for their holidays, in manycases, without the merest foundation of a batting style. Ask them whata Yorker is, and they will say: 'A man from York, though I presume youmean a Yorkshireman.' They will read Herodotus without a dictionary forpleasure, but ask them to translate the childishly simple sentence:'Trott was soon in his timber-yard with a length 'un that whippedacross from the off,' and they'll shrink abashed and swear they havenot skill at that, as Gilbert says.
The papers sometimes contain humorous forecasts of future education,when cricket and football shall come to their own. They little know theexcellence of the thing they mock at. When we get schools that teachnothing but games, then will the sun definitely refuse to set on theroast beef of old England. May it be soon. Some day, mayhap, I shallgather my great-great-grandsons round my knee, and tell them--as onetells tales of Faery--that I can remember the time when Work wasconsidered the be-all and the end-all of a school career. Perchance,when my great-great-grandson John (called John after the famous Jonesof that name) has brought home the prize for English Essay on 'Rugby_v._ Association', I shall pat his head (gently) and the tearswill come to my old eyes as I recall the time when I, too, might havewon a prize--for that obsolete subject, Latin Prose--and was onlyprevented by the superior excellence of my thirty-and-one fellowstudents, coupled, indeed, with my own inability to conjugate_sum._
Such days, I say, may come. But now are the Dark Ages. The only thingthat can possibly make Work anything but an unmitigated nuisance is theprospect of a 'Varsity scholarship, and the thought that, in the eventof failure, a 'Varsity career will be out of the question.
With this thought constantly before him, the student can put a certainamount of enthusiasm into his work, and even go to the length of risingat five o'clock o' mornings to drink yet deeper of the cup ofknowledge. I have done it myself. 'Varsity means games and yellowwaistcoats and Proctors, and that sort of thing. It is worth workingfor.
But for the unfortunate individual who is barred by circumstances fromparticipating in these joys, what inducement is there to work? Is sucha one to leave the school nets in order to stew in a stuffy room over aThucydides? I trow not.
Chapter one of my great forthcoming work, _The Compleat Slacker_,contains minute instructions on the art of avoiding preparation frombeginning to end of term. Foremost among the words of advice ranks thismaxim: Get an official list of the books you are to do, and examinethem carefully with a view to seeing what it is possible to do unseen.Thus, if Virgil is among these authors, you can rely on being able todo him with success. People who ought to know better will tell you thatVirgil is hard. Such a shallow falsehood needs little comment. Ascholar who cannot translate ten lines of _The Aeneid_ between thetime he is put on and the time he begins to speak is unworthy of pityor consideration, and if I meet him in the street I shall assuredly cuthim. Aeschylus, on the other hand, is a demon, and needs carefulwatching, though in an emergency you can always say the reading iswrong.
Sometimes the compleat slacker falls into a trap. The saddest case Ican remember is that of poor Charles Vanderpoop. He was a bright younglad, and showed some promise of rising to heights as a slacker. He fellin this fashion. One Easter term his form had half-finished a speech ofDemosthenes, and the form-master gave them to understand that theywould absorb the rest during the forthcoming term. Charles, beingnaturally anxious to do as little work as possible during the summermonths, spent his Easter holidays carefully preparing this speech, soas to have it ready in advance. What was his horror, on returning toSchool at the appointed date, to find that they were going to throwDemosthenes over altogether, and patronize Plato. Threats, entr
eaties,prayers--all were accounted nothing by the master who had led him intothis morass of troubles. It is believed that the shock destroyed hisreason. At any rate, the fact remains that that term (the summer term,mark you) he won two prizes. In the following term he won three. Torecapitulate his outrages from that time to the present were aharrowing and unnecessary task. Suffice it that he is now a RegiusProfessor, and I saw in the papers a short time ago that a lecture ofhis on 'The Probable Origin of the Greek Negative', created quite a_furore_. If this is not Tragedy with a big T, I should like toknow what it is.
As an exciting pastime, unseen translation must rank very high.Everyone who has ever tried translating unseen must acknowledge thatall other forms of excitement seem but feeble makeshifts after it. Ihave, in the course of a career of sustained usefulness to the humanrace, had my share of thrills. I have asked a strong and busy porter,at Paddington, when the Brighton train started. I have gone for thebroad-jump record in trying to avoid a motor-car. I have playedSpillikins and Ping-Pong. But never again have I felt the excitementthat used to wander athwart my moral backbone when I was put on totranslate a passage containing a notorious _crux_ and seventeendoubtful readings, with only that innate genius, which is the wonder ofthe civilized world, to pull me through. And what a glow of pride onefeels when it is all over; when one has made a glorious, golden guessat the _crux_, and trampled the doubtful readings under foot withinspired ease. It is like a day at the seaside.
Work is bad enough, but Examinations are worse, especially the BoardExaminations. By doing from ten to twenty minutes prep every night, thecompleat slacker could get through most of the term with averagesuccess. Then came the Examinations. The dabbler in unseen translationsfound himself caught as in a snare. Gone was the peaceful security inwhich he had lulled to rest all the well-meant efforts of his guardianangel to rouse him to a sense of his duties. There, right in front ofhim, yawned the abyss of Retribution.
Alas! poor slacker. I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, ofmost excellent fancy. Where be his gibes now? How is he to cope withthe fiendish ingenuity of the examiners? How is he to master thecontents of a book of Thucydides in a couple of days? It is a fearsomeproblem. Perhaps he will get up in the small hours and work by candlelight from two till eight o'clock. In this case he will start his day amental and physical wreck. Perhaps he will try to work and be led awayby the love of light reading.
In any case he will fail to obtain enough marks to satisfy theexaminers, though whether examiners ever are satisfied, except by Harrythe hero of the school story (Every Lad's Library, uniform edition, 2s6d), is rather a doubtful question.
In such straits, matters resolve themselves into a sort of drama withthree characters. We will call our hero Smith.
_Scene:_ a Study
_Dramatis Personae:_ SMITH CONSCIENCE MEPHISTOPHELES
_Enter_ SMITH (_down centre_)
_He seats himself at table and opens a Thucydides._
_Enter_ CONSCIENCE _through ceiling_ (R.), MEPHISTOPHELES_through floor_ (L.).
CONSCIENCE (_with a kindly smile_): Precisely what I was about toremark, my dear lad. A little Thucydides would be a very good thing.Thucydides, as you doubtless know, was a very famous Athenianhistorian. Date?
SMITH: Er--um--let me see.
MEPH. (_aside_): Look in the Introduction and pretend you did itby accident.
SMITH (_having done so_): 431 B.C. _circ_.
CONSCIENCE _wipes away a tear_.
CONSCIENCE: Thucydides made himself a thorough master of the concisestof styles.
MEPH.: And in doing so became infernally obscure. Excuse shop.
SMITH (_gloomily_): Hum!
MEPH. (_sneeringly_): Ha!
_Long pause_.
CONSCIENCE (_gently_): Do you not think, my dear lad, that you hadbetter begin? Time and tide, as you are aware, wait for no man. And--
SMITH: Yes?
CONSCIENCE: You have not, I fear, a very firm grasp of the subject.However, if you work hard till eleven--
SMITH (_gloomily_): Hum! Three hours!
MEPH. (_cheerily_): Exactly so. Three hours. A little more ifanything. By the way, excuse me asking, but have you prepared thesubject thoroughly during the term?
SMITH: My _dear_ sir! Of _course!_
CONSCIENCE (_reprovingly_):???!!??!
SMITH: Well, perhaps, not quite so much as I might have done. Such alot of things to do this term. Cricket, for instance.
MEPH.: Rather. Talking of cricket, you seemed to be shaping rather welllast Saturday. I had just run up on business, and someone told me youmade eighty not out. Get your century all right?
SMITH (_brightening at the recollection_): Just a bit--117 notout. I hit--but perhaps you've heard?
MEPH.: Not at all, not at all. Let's hear all about it.
_CONSCIENCE seeks to interpose, but is prevented by MEPH., who eggsSMITH on to talk cricket for over an hour._
CONSCIENCE _(at last; in an acid voice)_: That is a history of thePeloponnesian War by Thucydides on the table in front of you. I thoughtI would mention it, in case you had forgotten.
SMITH: Great Scott, yes! Here, I say, I must start.
CONSCIENCE: Hear! Hear!
MEPH. _(insinuatingly)_: One moment. Did you say you _had_prepared this book during the term? Afraid I'm a little hard ofhearing. Eh, what?
SMITH: Well--er--no, I have not. Have you ever played billiards with awalking-stick and five balls?
MEPH.: Quite so, quite so. I quite understand. Don't you distressyourself, old chap. You obviously can't get through a whole book ofThucydides in under two hours, can you?
CONSCIENCE _(severely)_: He might, by attentive application tostudy, master a considerable portion of the historian's _chefd'oeuvre_ in that time.
MEPH.: Yes, and find that not one of the passages he had prepared wasset in the paper.
CONSCIENCE: At the least, he would, if he were to pursue the coursewhich I have indicated, greatly benefit his mind.
MEPH. _gives a short, derisive laugh. Long pause._
MEPH. _(looking towards bookshelf)_: Hullo, you've got a decentlot of books, pommy word you have. _Rodney Stone, Vice Versa, ManyCargoes._ Ripping. Ever read _Many Cargoes?_
CONSCIENCE _(glancing at his watch)_: I am sorry, but I mustreally go now. I will see you some other day.
_Exit sorrowfully._
MEPH.: Well, thank goodness _he's_ gone. Never saw such a fearfulold bore in my life. Can't think why you let him hang on to you so. Wemay as well make a night of it now, eh? No use your trying to work atthis time of night.
SMITH: Not a bit.
MEPH.: Did you say you'd not read _Many Cargoes?_
SMITH: Never. Only got it today. Good?
MEPH.: Simply ripping. All short stories. Make you yell.
SMITH _(with a last effort)_: But don't you think--
MEPH.: Oh no. Besides, you can easily get up early tomorrow for theThucydides.
SMITH: Of course I can. Never thought of that. Heave us _ManyCargoes._ Thanks.
_Begins to read. MEPH. grins fiendishly, and vanishes through floorenveloped in red flame. Sobbing heard from the direction of theceiling.
Scene closes._
Next morning, of course, he will oversleep himself, and his Thucydidespaper will be of such a calibre that that eminent historian will writhein his grave.
Tales of St. Austin's Page 24