By CHARLES HANSON TOWNE
(1877—). Managing editor of McClure's Magazine. He has written many delightful books, among which are: The Quiet Singer, and Other Poems; Jolly Jaunts with Jim; Autumn Loiterers; Shaking Hands with England.
Over two hundred years ago Joseph Addison imagined a character whom he called “The Spectator” meeting with various friends and discussing with them the life of the times. Through what was said by these imaginary beings Addison gave his own shrewd comments on foibles and follies. Mr. Towne's “young-old philosopher” is a sort of modern “Spectator.” He talks of the drudgery of work, and the glowing joy of a holiday, and comes to the sudden realization that the world is a world of work in which every one must play his part if he is to have real contentment. The essay is Mr. Towne's comment both on a life of unvaried drudgery and on a life of idleness.
“I have wondered what it would seem like to be ... jogging along with nowhere to go save where one pleased.”
The young-old philosopher was speaking.
“I had a strange experience yesterday. To have spent twenty years or so at office work, and then suddenly to arrange one's affairs so that a portion of the week became one's own—that is an experience, isn't it?”
We admitted that it was an achievement to be envied.
“How did you manage it?” was the natural question.
“That is a detail of little importance,” he replied. “Let the fact of one's sudden liberty be the point dwelt upon. I found myself walking up the avenue at the miraculous hour of eleven in the morning, and not going to a desk! I was headed for the park, where I knew the trees had long since loaded their branches with leaves, and the grass was so green that it made the heart ache with its loveliness. You know how perfect yesterday was, a summer day to remember and to be grateful for.
“To you who have never known what it is to drudge day in and day out, this may seem a trifling thing to speak of. For myself, a miracle had happened. I could not believe that this golden hour was mine completely. I had never seen shop-windows with quite this slant of the sun on them. Always I had viewed them early or late, or wistfully at noon, when the streets were so crowded with other escaped office men that I could take no pleasure in what I beheld. Shop-windows at eleven in the morning were for the elect of the earth. That hour had always heretofore meant for me a manuscript to be read or edited, a conference to be attended, a telephone call to be answered, a visit from some one seeking advice—something, at any rate, that made it impossible for me to call it my own. I have looked often from a high window at that hour, and seen the people in the streets as they trailed like ribbons round and round the vast city, and I have wondered what it would seem like to be one of them, not hurrying on some commercial errand, but jogging along with nowhere to go save where one pleased.