WORK.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Volume II, Issue 64, 9 December 1863, Page 1 (Supplement)

WORK.

BY A PENSIONED LOAFER. Such beautiful weather—so calm, and warm, and genial; so pleasant to lie on one's back under the shade of a large gum tree, and drawing one's hat over one's face, to dream the day softly away. You can hear the birds twittering and chirping overhead; hopping about—foolish little things —in the hot sunshine, and getting, no doubt, into a perspiration for no earthly reason. And the bees, and wasps, and gnats, and a thousand other kinds of small creatures, are eternally buzzing and fizzing about me. Nothing seems to take life easily. Everything is continually hopping and skipping about, and realising in full force the term " animated " nature. Even now, as I lie quietly in the shade, I see shadows pass quickly by me which I know to be the reflection of what people call men of energy. There they go—one, two, three, dozens—all scampering off to the hot, perspiring city—to work. Ye gods! work—what an idea—and everything here around me so beautifully calm and quiet, and dozy—everything except those confounded insects and birds aforesaid.

Work! Well, I suppose somebody must work; I suppose that we should all go to leeward fast enough if everybody looked upon work as I do. Yet, nevertheless, it is sickening to hear the constant drumming iuto one's ears about the necessity of exertion, the importance of energy, &c. " Tom, my boy," said my dear old governor at home, when he bade me good-bye off Gravesend, " Tom," said he, " turn to, and work. I'll allow you £IOO a year just to keep the wolf from the door, and for the rest you must work. Remember," said the old fellow, ''that labor omnia vincit. Good-bye, and mind what I say —work! work! work!" and off he went. NoW, it's all very fine to talk in this strain, and it will suit many fellows I know, with lots of what people call superfluous energy, &c.; but when a man is constituted as 1 am, why it's out of the question. " Oh, the delight," says dear old Charles Lamb, " Oh, the delight of doing nothing." Now, that is a sentiment after my own heart. The delight, the ineffable enjoyment of lying here as I do, taking my dolce far niente under the umbrageous shades of this jolly old gum—of dozing the hours away until dinner time ; of listening to the dinning and buzzing of the bees, and the chirp of the locusts: of laughing to myself as I hear the men of work hurrying past helter-bkelter to the great city, all intent upon work, and mad to plunge into the great whirpool of exertion. Well, well, che sara sara, as our good friends the Italians have it; and apropos, what jolly devils those lazzaroni must be. 11 If I were not Alexander," &c., you know the rest; and if I were not Tom Dreamy, I would be one of those lazy beg-1 gars in Naples. The philosophy of life, I take it, is summed up in these three words, —" Take it easy." Where is the use of this eternal struggle, and pushing, and crushing after a shadow. What earthly benefit is to be derived from the anxiety, and fever and worry of business ? Where is the sense of exhausting body and mind in this const;) nt and insane mania for work. There they art—men, women, and children ; merchants, lawyers, soldiers, sailors, tinkers, tailors, parsons, and market-gardeners—(you see, I put my 11and in the bag, and pick them out indiscriminately)— all at it, hard at work. And here am I, Tom Dreamy, an only son, with an allowance of £IOO per annum, which, besides keeping me free from debt, permits me to have a moderate enjoyment of beer and tobacco; here am I, I say, lying on ray back in the shade, taking, as is my wont, life easily. And talking of enjoyment, it is astonishing how men work in what they call enjoyment. There now, last night, it was something awful f o s'ee the hot, perspiring dowagers and their lords squeezed into the boxes of the Haymarket. The crush in that closest and most uncomfortable of pits—the regular jam and smash throughout. This is what people call enjoyment, and after venting their energies in their regular round of work during the day, they let off the superfluous steam in working hard at enjoyment in the evening. And so it is with everything. People will not take it easy. Thev hurry, and. bustle, and perspire, and work,—in short, even where there is no earthly occasion. Now, if I had my will—eh ? why it's half-past twelve, and I have to walk all the way to Collingwood to lunch—out! what a nuisance why don't they have palanquins and blackfellows, or some public convenience of that sort. Well, after all, I won't grumble ; so, my pipe alight, and home to dinner. And I see to my right the city, with wreaths of thick dark smoke curling above it, and I hear the rattle of railway carriages, and the clang of hammers, and all the noise and turmoil of work. Well, well, as you will; for my part, my pipe, my beer, my book, and work as you please. I bear you no ill-will. I have a faint idea of admiration for you; but, nevertheless, I pity you. Work away; struggle and bustle, and get into awful perspiration—phew ! it is hot, and I'll away home to dinner. Yes, I certainly do pity those poor devils who have to work to-day. The very thought is enough to , make one faint—dear, dear, what an awful distance it is to Collingwood. I must look out for a cab, for I shall never manage to crawl home such a hot day as this. Confound all exertion, all work, all trouble, say I.—Melbourne Herald.