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time. The appointed weeks of harvest come to those that fear God. "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." But there is even a more dreadful notion than that of a smitten or lost harvest. There is the national harvest of evil things, an overflowing harvest reaped to the last barley corn: "the daughter of Babylon is like a threshing floor; it is time to thresh her; yet a little while and the time of her harvest shall come.” Joel takes up the note: "Put ye in the sickle, for the harvest is ripe; come get you down, for the press is full, the vats overflow, for the wickedness is great." The sickening picture derived from the most heavenly of processes is re-etched by St. John, and we see the dreadful reaping of the earth with the sickle of the Lord. The transference of the idea of harvest from the fruits of the earth to the deeds of men is no doubt natural enough, but further transference to the deeds of a whole nation is a conception not merely of literary or poetic significance, but one that brought out that sense of unity which was destined to preserve Israel as a nation, not only in the exile to Babylon, but in the not less amazing exile to the Western world.

But with Christ the word harvest took yet another significance: "the harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few. Pray ye, therefore, the Lord of the harvest, that He will send forth laborers into his harvest.” The harvest now is not merely physical, or

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moral, or national. The earth is a field of souls, good grain that must be garnered after the tares at last are separated and burned, burned that the fields to come may be clean. The idea of harvest is carried over to the spiritual forces that are sown of God in the heart of man. The parable is told by one who knew what seed-time and harvest meant, and he carried the analogy fearlessly into spiritual things. The Kingdom of God itself is a seed subject to the laws of growth or evolution. Indeed, much of our modern thought about evolution in individuals and institutions was intuitively appreciated by the Jews and set forth in their parables of the harvest. To less imaginative races the Bible, as literature, has been an endless source of new thoughts and hopes, and the harvest of an English countryside to-day takes on a new significance to innumerable minds in the para bles of Scripture and in the utterances of prophets belonging to ages that lie at the dawn of our civilization.

When He brings Over the earth a cloud, will therein set His triple-colored bow, whereon to

look, And call to mind His covenant: day

and night, Seed time and harvest, heat and hoary

frost, Shall hold their course; till fire purge

all things new, Both heaven and earth, wherein the

just shall dwell.


The Wages of Sin, as we know from St. Paul, and an eminent lady novelist who has added her authority, is Death. There is another of the universe's economic principles, less frequently inculcated by moralists, who leave the

teaching thereof to the less august methods of every-day experience. The Wages of Hurry, I should sum it up, is Perfunctoriness. To which may be added that, as perfunctoriness implies unreality, it is, in so far, equivalent


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to failure. This connection is less obvious and less insisted on than that between death and sin, because the failure in question, though spelling inconvenience or disaster to someone else, is not necessarily failure in the eyes of the person who happens to be in a hurry. Since, in many cases, hurry aims merely at the relief of an emotional strain, and such relief is quite compatible with perfunctoriness, all that you need is the contrary emotion, and that can be set going by a word or a gesture quite as well as by efficient action, and a great deal quicker. It is notoriously a sign of man's superior position in the scale of beings, of his capacity for art, philosophy, morals, and indeed of his possession of a soul, that this emotion does not always deal with realities, but often with the idea, the name of them. The Revolutionaries who cut the words “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” on the Louvre and the basement of Notre Dame, felt the full zest of being free, equal, and united, although they were dealing in a free, equal, and united manner only with chisels and mallets, and there was not much freedom, equality, or fraternity in sundry other items, such as Committees of Public Safety and the Noyades.

Indeed, there was so little of any of those three desiderata for a good many years to come, that the necessity of a new inscription was felt in 1818 and 1870. But the emotion had been there. And that, as poets sing, when love has been and is no more, that, once it has been, nobody can ever take away.

As regards our own day and our own selves, we are all of us in a tremendous hurry, and perhaps just a trifle given to perfunctoriness on the subject of what used to be called Progress, but is now spoken of as Construction. The change of word answers to a change of gesture. Progress, like the verb spelt in the same way

though pronounced differently, is what old-fashioned grammars called intransitive; it does not imply anything that is done to: for instance, pushed or pulled and hustled along. It has a suspicious air of getting on by itself, whether you want it or not. Whereas Construction implies something which gets constructed, and a person who is the nominative to that accusative, who does the constructing—that is to say, acts, aims, and wills, all of these highly personal proceedings, and affording scope for that self-expression which is essential factor in latter-day schemes for universal betterment. The world might conceivably progress without any such expression of our higher Self; in fact, what small improvement it has far achieved shows little co-operation of the constructive sort of person, and, for obvious reasons, of you or me. But to construct the Future, or even as philosophic Tories try, to reconstruct the Past, speaks for the possession of Free Will, which shallow scepticism notoriously denies. Also there is a kind of forestalled personal immortal. ity: Statutes, Reports, and Blue-Books. "Exegi Monumentum aëre perennius." So sang the Vates, apparently foresee ing our case. And it is mere cavilling (and old-fashioned at that) to inquire, like cross-grained Herbert Spencer, whether the extremely durable construction shall continue for men's use and delight, or as their stumblingblock-perchance a yard or so additional of city wall shutting out air and light. Neither should we ask whether the monument thus structed by our delicate wisdom may not be usefully burnt for quicklime; or, with but little refashioning, make very proper pig-styes; or, again, being reduced to carefully excavated ground plan, serve as valuable evidence to the anthropologists of later ages.

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Be this as it may, our present aversion from mere Progress, and preference for Construction, have reinforced the notion (itself a pendulum swing from theological acquiescence and pessimistic fatalism) that wherever there is suffering there must be mismanagement, and that every woe the flesh is, or rather is not, heir to, must be traceable to muddle-headed

So far as this new attitude answers to the reality of things, enabling us to alter them, we may be glad it has replaced that faith in the decrees of Providence which made oldfashioned parents bury child after child instead of inventing vaccination. But as energetic and highly responsible people are no less muddle-headed than their passive, irresponsible forefathers, this constructive conception of the earthly paradise fosters a fine output of hurry and perfunctoriness, and a loss, not only of temper, but of some of our powers for improvement. For surely Time is an ingredient thereof; and you are wasting a good deal or that in your hustling attempts to dispense with it.

I have called this constructive view that of an earthly paradise. For to hear some of one's friends talk, or rather scold, one would conclude that Man had received the universe in charge on the Eden principle of tenure, but with freedom to eat his fill of knowledgeable apples; whereupon Man -or perhaps some other Man-had gone and muddled the whole business. I notice that the critic accepts only a slight collective share in this mismanagement, while showing, by his shrewd and fearless criticism, how little he shirks putting his own best brains and activity into setting things right again. Now, although the very existenee of man, and particularly of man's sensitiveness to inconvenience and distress, is proof of the universe not being entirely hostile, but having a

margin, so to speak, of goodwill in man's favor, yet, on the other hand, the existence of human difficulties and miseries shows that the universe is not arranged exclusively for · man's benefit and delectation; therefore, that although we may gradually make our situation therein less uncomfortable, we need not scold ourselves, nor even our contemporaries and predecessors, for not having brought it nearer to perfection.

This bad business of the Wages of Hurry has haunted my half-hearted acquiescence and shamefaced silence whenever I have found myself in the presence of such ardent enthusiasm for progress, that, let us say, of Suffragists, Eugenists, and various brands of Socialists. But most particularly whenever I have been confronted by some of my excellent friend, Mr. H. G. Wells's, various philosophical avatars, whether the silk-robed, self-restraining Samurai of his earlier Utopian books, or that more modern and less Puritanic statesman who crossed the floor of the House for the speedier passing of his particular Human Kegeneration Bill. How can you make such energetic enthusiasts understand (even if they wanted to) that disbelief in hurry is not necessarily disbelief in progress, nor scepticism about their construction equivalent to scepticism of the building instincts of the great human beaver-kind? They want your vote or your subscription—at least your active sympathy; it is nothing to them that your belief in the infinitesimally small results of individual effort obliges you to add that infinitesimal contribution to the more and more effectual mass of similar ones. At the moment of reading their books and listening to their words, one is even disquieted by a secret fear: may it not be that I am no better than a futile dilettante, self-complacent stick-in-the-mud? Perhaps some of


my contemporaries have gone through similar self-searchings; secret,

for these painful matters are kept to oneself, lest one be crowed over, or even quoted, by the Retrogrades; or, who knows?lest one blunderingly quench some fine young ardor. It is for the consolation of such silent disbelievers in hustle that I have plucked heart of grace and set the above thoughts upon paper, having suddenly found encouragement in a most unexpected quarter. For this is what I have come across in a brand new novel:

“But it (Life) is ever too much of a scramble yet, and ever too little of a dream. All our world ... is full of the confusion and wreckage of premature realization. . . Old necessity has driven men so hard that they still rush with a wild urgency, though she

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goads no more. Greed and haste; and if, indeed, we seem to have a moment's breathing space, then the Gawdsaker ... gets up, wringing his hands and screaming—'For Gawd's sake, let's do something now.'"

It is my friend, Mr. H. G. Wells, who has given that splendid paraphrase, "confusion and wreckage of premature realization" for my poor shamefacedly cherished formula, The Wages of Hurry is Perfunctoriness. And such is the useful, though disconcerting, changeableness and contrariness of the literary temperament, mine and also his, that I feel half-inclined to defend that “Gawdsaker," and to say: Do not be too stern in refusing to do any. thing now, lest your refusal to do resuit merely in a refusal to feel and to think.

Vernon Lee.




We all know that Americans play games, and prepare themselves for them, in a different spirit from our own. They are more serious, more painstaking, more precise, and more definitely "out to win." They may be right or wrong. Evidently a great many Englishmen think just now that Americans are right, and that the sooner we imitate them the better. The threat held over our heads is that if we do not take care we shall go under at the Olympic Games in Berlin in 1916, and that the world will never be the same again. Personally, we are inclined to advocate playing games in the spirit in which we have generally played them. We would count the game well lost if we were beaten by men for whom the game had fallen hopelessly out of perspective and had become a business instead of a recreation.

But although the difference of the American spirit from our own is ob

vious enough, we

have never felt quite sure how far the difference was deliberately thought out and accepted by Americans. It might conceivably be

unconscious difference due simply to some national ethos which lies beyond explanation or analysis. An article by Mr. Heinrich Schmidt (who played admirably in the recent amateur golf championship), in the last number of Country Life, proves that in the case of at least one eminent American intense seriousness is very deliberate.

First of all, he brushes away the suggestion that the American competitors lately in England played very slowly in order to tire out or baulk their English opponents. There were special reasons, such as their previous want of practice and their unfamiliarity with the course, which caused the Americans to play slower than usual. But when he has said this he frankly admits that American golfers do normally


play more slowly than Englishmen.

"The Americans seem to play the game more for what the game really means to them. The game of tennis, although a inathematical game, quires a rapid analysis of short strokes and quick action to take advantage of the stroke, and consequently the opponent. Golf, on the other hand, is a mathematical game which has not the time element to consider, but instead has a greater number of mathematical problems to be solved before a stroke can be inade with any certainty of the result. Slowness and care

are the characteristics of the game as it is played in the States, and of course there is a tendency towards overdoing a good thing, but not intentionally, with nothng but a victory in view. When one stops to consider the various points involved in a stroke, one invariably comes to the conclusion that the game is nothing but a mathematical problem with very little exercise thrown in. And that is really what the game means to me. For instance, in every stroke the distance, kind of shot, slope of ground, and the result on the ball after it lands, effect of wiud, drag or run on the ball, stance, kind of club, &c., and so on through many more time-taking problems-all must be considered before you can really say to yourself when you are following through, 'I have done everything I can to make that shot a success. If enough time has been taken to solve these problems, one can never say to one's self, 'Well, I could have done better if I had taken time, but I played carelessly and got what I deserved.' One such experience was enough to convince me, and since that time I have attempted to play golf, taking it as a problem and not as a game of luck in which one simply takes a chance of having the ball go just right.” Mr. Schmidt does not say that a golfer must spend a long time in his mathematical cogitations when actually addressing the ball; the golfer can solve most of his problems when walking from one stroke to the next. The

choice of the club with which to play the next shot-to most of us that represents almost the whole problem-is to Mr. Schmidt only an insignificant culmination to a comparatively long period of ambulatory thinking. Solvitur ambulundo is evidently his rule. Nevertheless, the mathematics of the whole question cannot be entirely disposed of while you walk. Mr. Schmidt insists on the necessity (to himself, at all events) of a practice swing before his stroke. He says:

"The purpose is simply this: Before I go up to the ball I have made up my mind what the line of play is, what kind of a shot to make and how hard, or rather how far back, I must swing to obtain the desired shot and length. I tberefore make a practice swing, not simply to make a stroke to be duplicated on the real stroke, but one which will give me a check on my estimation of the back-swing required. After making the practice stroke, I may say to myself, "That will not be enough; I will have to give it a little more.' But I do not make the stroke over again to make doubly sure—to me it seeins altogether too cautious and entirely unnecessary. The purpose of the practice stroke is to check one's mental estimate, and this is not a tiresome mental exertion, nor even physical one." We suppose that there can be hardly any Englishmen who have made such a wathematical study of the game as this. When they take a practice swing at golf, for instance, they have

more profound purpose than to make sure that their shoulders are in a loose and supple condition for swinging and that their feet have settled into a comfortable stance.

It would be highly interesting to know for certain whether Mr. Schmidt's very deliberate mental attitude towards games is typical of that of most Americans. We should know exactly where we stand in relation to them, and be able to say more easily



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