The New Reservation of Time

So far as I have observed, no attempt has been made to forecast the social effect of the various pension systems which are being put into operation for the retirement of the individual worker upon the approach of age. It is of course too early to judge of effects by results, and speculation is always liable to be errant. But it is quite evident that a new principle has been set at work in the social order, which invites careful study at many points. Society is fast becoming reorganized around the principle of a definite allotment of time to the individual for the fulfillment of his part in the ordinary tasks and employments. The termination of his period of associated labor has been fixed within the decade which falls between his ‘threescore,’ and his ‘threescore and ten’ years.

The intention of society in trying to bring about this uniform, and, as it will prove to be in most cases, reduced allotment, of time for the ordinary lifework of the individual, is twofold. I am obliged to use the term ‘society’ in this connection ; for when the state is not largely concerned in any changes in the social order, I know of no other collective term which so well expresses that general consent and approval, if not authority, through which such changes are effected. The first intention then of society in this matter is evidently to secure the greatest efficiency — in some employments the best quality of work, in others the largest amount. Society virtually notifies the individual that the time will come when it will account itself better off without his service than with it. More efficient workers will be in waiting to take his place. The workshop, whether manual or intellectual, must be run at a pace with which he cannot keep step. The second, and equally plain intention of society is to make some adequate provision in time for the individual worker before he becomes a spent force. It therefore creates for him a reservation of time sufficient for his more personal uses. Within this new region of personal freedom he may enter upon any pursuits, or engage in any activities required by his personal necessities or prompted by newlyawakened ambitions.

I am not now concerned with the results which society seeks to gain in carrying out its first intention. I think that the intention lies within the ethics of business, and that the results to be gained may be expected to warrant the proposed allotment of time. But what of the second intention of society? How far is it likely to be realized? What will be the effect of the scheme upon those now entering, and upon those who may hereafter enter, on the reservation of time provided for them? What is to be their habit of mind, their disposition, toward the reserved years which have heretofore been reckoned simply as the years of age? Will this change in the ordering of the individual life intensify the reproach of age, or remove it? Will the exceptional worker in the ranks of manual or intellectual labor, but especially the latter, who feels that he is by no means a spent force, accept reluctantly the provision made for him, as if closing his lifework prematurely, or will he accept it hopefully, as if opening a new field for his unspent energies? And as for the average worker, to whom the change will doubtless bring a sense of relief, will he enter upon the new ‘ estate ’ aimlessly, or ‘ reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly,’ and withal in good temper and cheer?

These questions are vital to society, much more so in fact than they are to the individual himself. For if the changed order is accepted reluctantly or aimlessly, society will soon have on its hands a very considerable number of depressed and restless persons for whom some adequate social and spiritual provision must be made. Even if the earlier release from the compulsion of labor does not extend the period of life, the segregation of a retired class will attract public attention, and in time bring the individuals who compose it more distinctly into evidence. It must also be considered that the habit of early retirement from the regular occupations will be adopted by many to whom the principle of compulsory retirement does not apply. Indirectly this will be a consequence of the wider application of the principle. So that we may fairly assume that the new reservation of time, however it may have been provided, will soon come to represent a social fact of no little significance. The accumulating force of the ‘ reserves ’ will ultimately count for or against society.

It is manifest therefore that if this scheme of time, which is going into effect in our generation, is to give us the happiest social results, we must in some way create a habit of mind corresponding to the scheme, and supporting it. We must, that is, secure a revaluation of time at the period of declining values which shall make the reservation of time within this period a thing to be desired, and to be fitly utilized. Is such a habit possible, and can it be made natural? I believe that the habit is possible, and that it can be made natural. And if my conclusion should be accepted, I cannot see why this reserved decade should not contribute as much to the tone of society, and to many of its higher interests, as any previous decade.

Since I came into this way of reflection through recent personal experience, I make no apology for any personal references which may follow. It so happened that the date of my withdrawal from administrative work fell within two days of the time when I crossed over to the thither side of ' threescore and ten.’ It was a coincidence which I had not noted, so that I had given no thought to the ‘ appropriate ’ feelings with which one might be expected to enter upon this new territory. Having gone into residence without forethought or premeditation, what I am actually finding to be true is, that the life there is most stimulating and quickening, in spite of the fact that I am cut off from certain public activities, and put upon a reduced regimen for each day’s work.

In asking myself the reason for this somewhat unexpected result, I have found what seems to me to be a sufficient answer in the new valuation of time which has come in with the change. It is surprising how easily and naturally one acquires the habit of revaluing time when the imperative occasion arises. It is also a grateful surprise to find how exhilarating is the feeling which the newly-acquired sense of the value of time creates. And yet why should not this be accepted as the natural result? Time has now become, in a very appreciable way, a freed possession. Various mortgages have been cleared off. And if time may thus mean more to a man as he reaches the years which have been set apart for revaluation, why should it not be worth more to him? and if worth more to him, why should not the increment of value become the compensation of age?

The petition of the ancient Psalm of Life, that we be taught how ‘to number our days,’ is seldom if ever offered in the days of our youth or of our manhood. Perhaps we are wiser than we mean to be in thus deferring the study of time. What if we thereby make this the peculiar privilege of age, if not its high prerogative? What if the revaluation of time shall be found to yield more than any original values which we may have put upon it? Such questions as these naturally arise when we think of the advantages which may accrue to the individual from the proper use of this new reservation of time. We must allow ourselves, I think, to expect that this reservation of time will carry with it a revaluation of time.

What are some of the possibilities, lying within this period of reserved and revalued time, which are open to those who have been withdrawn from the ranks of organized or associated labor — open more evidently to those who have been withdrawn from the comradeship of intellectual work? I cannot pass over a certain satisfaction, if not enjoyment, which may come from the more conscious use of time. As I have already intimated, the unconscious use of time is for the most part the better use. Herein lies the freedom and the charm of youth — in the very prodigality of its use of time. Herein, too, lies the freedom and the power of the man who is his own master — the thinker, the professional worker, the man of affairs, who is not obliged to shut off work with eight or ten hours, at anybody’s command. The right to work ‘ overtime,’which usually means the power to work without taking note of time, is a free and joyous right. It makes the difference, as any one knows who enjoys it, between work and the task.

Working ‘ on time ’ has the advantage which belongs to the virtues of punctuality and faithfulness, and it may be insisted upon in the interest of justice as well as of business, but it has its irritations. Even when the habit is self-imposed it may develop into an irritating self-consciousness. When the habit goes over into the miserly saving of time, it becomes like any other kind of miserliness, intolerable to a man’s friends, if painfully enjoyable to himself. The people who oblige us to break through their petty routines and systems to get some necessary access to them, put a heavy strain upon friendship. But the consciousness of time which comes with the thought that certain years have been reserved and set apart for us is entirely different from any over-conscious use of time which may have gone before. It is rather the appreciation of a gift of which we want to know the full value.

‘ Numbering our days’ means measuring their contents. The realized worth of a day now far exceeds the unrealized values of many days. One learns to anticipate and expect a day in its fullness. Of course in this closer estimate and appreciation of time there is no room for prodigality, The man living on reserved time cannot be a spendthrift; neither can he allow himself to become a miser, for the miserly habit will make him timorous and cowardly. The miser straightway begins to ‘ number ’ by subtraction, not by addition-one day less, not one day more to enrich the sum-total. The new economy simply takes due account of those lesser divisions of time which have been overlooked or undervalued. ‘ To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow ’ may seem a ‘ petty pace ’ for mankind, but it is quite fast enough for the man who is beginning to learn the secret of living in the day.

Living in the day, I say; for I count it a very great liberty to be allowed, as it is certainly a very great art to be able, to live in right proportion to the present. This liberty, and the art to use it, make up another of the rights and privileges which belong to those who have entered upon the reservation of time. Very few of us get much out of the present. We get the daily paper, the daily task with its environment, the passing word with a friend, and the hours of rest in the home. Our minds are set on the future. Our real world is a world of plans, of expectations, and of anxieties. We become disciplined to forethought and prevision. All this again is far better than that we should not live in the future. We are made to live that way in very large proportion. But we cannot believe that it was meant that our future should empty our present of so many of its rightful satisfactions.

Possibly there may be a tendency on the part of one who has been engaged in administrative work, especially in academic administration, to over-emphasize the amount of time actually spent in thinking for the future; but really the amount is very great. The details of the office take more time, but not more thought. Through all the day’s work one is continually asking himself, what next ? what better method of administration ? what wider range, or more careful limitation, of instruction ? what better adjustment of educational force to social and civic needs ? what enlargement or what regulation of the freedom of students in the interest of character, or of efficiency ? and, withal, what new sources of supply to meet the increasing demands of any given institution? The answer to these questions is not in abstract conclusions, but in very practical terms; in books and laboratories, in salaries, in dormitories, in standards and rules, in the development in various ways of the whole academic constituency. For this reason I have had occasion to say that the period of academic administration ought as a rule to close earlier, not later, than the period of instruction. When the time comes that an administrator can plan better than he can fulfill, it. is not quite fair to his successor to leave plans for two, three, or five years for him to carry out. Each man who takes his place in a succession is entitled to the advantage of his own policy from the very beginning, or as nearly so as may be consistent with his obligations to the inheritance.

But making due allowance for the personal or professional equation, I revert to the satisfaction of recovering, or, it may be, of discovering one’s rights in the present. It is something, for example, to feel that it is no longer a robbery of anybody’s time to read beyond the headlines into one’s daily paper, or to renew acquaintance with one’s library, or to reopen the halfclosed doors of friendship. This satisfaction however in the present is much more than the enjoyment of leisure, or of unhurried work. It brings us back again, with the advantage of a discriminating experience, into that receptive attitude to the world through which most of us began the intellectual life. Neither the aggressive nor the defensive attitude — the varying attitudes of business — can give us the best things which the world has to give. There are some things which we want, which we cannot earn or conquer; we must simply open our minds and let them in. And as we recover something of this receptive attitude we are surprised and pleased to find that the world has not been in so much of a hurry as we have been. Men and things most worth knowing have been waiting for us. All that has been wanting is time for hospitality. One of the first things which I did, when I closed the door of the‘office,’ was to order the back numbers of The Hibbert Journal. I was gratified to find how quickly the course of discussion running through these numbers could make connection with the mind of a belated reader.

The revaluation of time under the conditions which we are considering represents more than the conscious use of it, or the satisfaction of living again in closer relations with the present. The really significant thing about it is that it refreshens life by opening again the springs of choice. When we speak, as we so frequently do, of a man’s lifework, we think of it as his chosen work. In so saying and thinking we bound the man in by the limitation of time, and by the compulsion of an early choice. The new reservation of time throws off the limitation, and gives another chance to the man who has done his assumed Iifework, while the revaluation of time gives him the spirit and courage to take the second chance.

I think that it was a conceit of Hawthorne, though I have not been able to verify my remembrance, that some men ought to have as many as ten chances at life, through successive rebirths, to try as many careers. A given career, however well chosen, or strenuously pursued, or satisfying in its results, seldom expresses the whole man. And yet no man can afford to make his life a series of bold experiments. Every man must prove himself, and satisfy himself as well as he can, through one consistent lifework of achievement or sacrifice. But who would not welcome the opportunity to give some urgent, but untried, power the chance of a brief trial; or some avocation, made to serve as running-mate to the vocation, its own chance in the running; or some duty, which has been kept afar in some region of the outer life, the chance to come near and to feel for once the warmth of the heart?

The period of reserved and revalued time may certainly be used to make some amend for the stringency of our lives under the stress of the ordinary Iifework. Contrast the utterances of two most gifted English authors whose last books are just now before us — Father Tyrrell and William De Morgan. Father Tyrrell writes to a friend, “I am always hurried to get things in before death overtakes me, and am restless while anything is unfinished that I have once begun. Could I feel secure of a year . . . but I always think that it may be in a week.’ William De Morgan writes in the statement ‘ To His Readers Only,’ ‘ When to my great surprise I published four years since a novel called Joseph Vance, a statement was reported more than once in some journals that were kind enough to notice it, that its author was seventy years of age. Why this made me feel like a centenarian I do not know, especially as it was five years ahead of the facts. . . . But in the course of my attempts to procure the reduction to which I was entitled, I expressed a hope that the said author would live to be seventy, and further that he would write four or five volumes, as long as his first, in the interim. To my thinking, he has been as good (or as bad) as his word, for this present volume is the fourth story published since then, and the day of its publication will be the author’s seventieth birthday.’

I do not know that Father Tyrrell, had he lived on and gained assured health, would ever have entered into the possible freedom of age. The stringency under which he worked may have been in his nature, or in the nature of his self-appointed task. The prolific authorship of William De Morgan shows the possibilities which await slumbering genius, and possibly latent talent, when at the approach of age it breaks away from the routine of business, and puts its newly acquired freedom to the test.

It may be said in the interest of almost any capable man that the time will come to him when a change in the subject-matter of his thought, or in the immediate object of his pursuit, may be desirable. No one can expect to compete with two generations. If one has been a successful competitor with the men of his own generation, let that suffice. Not only are the general laws of progress to be recognized, but also the changing fashions in ways of thinking and in modes of action. Every generation has the right to make experiments. The period for which any one may regard himself, or allow himself to be regarded, as an authority in any profession, is very brief. The seat of authority in the investigating professions is moving steadily backward from age. And in the more active callings, productive or executive, the advisory relations of age are growing more and more questionable. ‘ Old men for counsel ’ is becoming an outworn motto, because young men have, by virtue of their training, become sufficiently conservative. Facts like these are to be accepted. The relinquishment in due season of what may have been a rightful claim to authority, or the detachment of one’s self from work which has fitly gone over into other hands, is a pretty sure indication that the mind thus set free is capable of achieving other results which may be in themselves desirable, and of possible advantage to society.

Assuming that the intellectual worker remains, upon retirement, in possession of his mental powers, there are at least three inciting moods which may lead him to undertake new work — the reminiscent, the reflective, the creative. Of course, intellectual work reaches far beyond books, covering an increasingly large area of business and affairs. Men of affairs, when they have withdrawn from public life, naturally become reminiscent, not under the desultory impulses of memory, but with a well-defined purpose. The reminiscent mood may be as constructive as any which can possess the mind. An actor in events extending over a wide territory, or through a long period, naturally wishes to relate them to one another, or at least to show the consistency of his own actions so far as he may have been concerned in them. He would, if possible, open a clear perspective into events which are about to become the material for history. He would like to have the events, and the men, of his generation known and estimated, as he knew and estimated them. Such a purpose as this must be carried out while all the mental processes are trustworthy — the mind free from prejudice, memory and imagination clear and sure, and the judgment sane. There are ‘Reminiscences ’ and ‘Autobiographies ’which show as much mental grasp as any of the mental activities which they record. Occasionally they reveal a distinct literary quality when there had been no literary training, as was true in so marked a degree of the Memoirs of General Grant.

The mind that craves reflection may be the mind which has been driven at a rapid pace with a view to a fixed amount of production. I should suppose that the opportunity for the reflective mood would be grateful to most teachers, preachers, and editors — to all persons, in fact, who have been obliged to work for occasions, or to meet some regularly recurring demand. There are callings which in themselves train the mind to quick and decisive judgments. There are other callings which presuppose and emphasize the communicating impulse. In any of these callings the individual has little chance to indulge in the reflective mood. Probably it is better for the public that he should not be able to fall into this indulgence. Certainly a change to the reflective habit of mind, as the controlling habit, would be fatal to success in the callings to which I have referred. But the limitations of one’s calling in this regard may make all the more welcome the freedom to exercise unused powers. Subjects unwillingly put by because demanding the reflective treatment, or subjects which for this reason have been only partially considered, may be recalled and considered according to their proper demands. Not infrequently, I think, a rejected subject of this sort will prove to be, when recovered, an open door, through which one may pass into a wide region of new and fascinating thought.

I believe that I am warranted in admitting the creative mood to a place beside the reminiscent and the reflective, among the later privileges of the mind — not like these a distinctive privilege, but still a fit privilege. Creative work is not to be measured, like the ordinary work of production, by physical vitality. The creative process is subtle, quickened at hidden sources, and sensitive to outward suggestion. As no one can tell when it may end, so no one can tell when or how it may begin. It is in no sense impossible that a certain proportion of mind, set free from monotonous toil, may, when it recovers its elasticity, feel the originating impulse; or that the originating impulse which has been allowed free action may be perpetuated. Age does not necessarily mean mental invalidism. Examples to the contrary always have been, and are, in abundant evidence. What we have most to fear from the new allotment of time is, that some who have wrought all their lives under various kinds of outward compulsion will allow the creative impulse to lapse when the outward necessity for its action is past. But over against this liability lies the persistent craving of the mind for employment. I doubt if many would be willing to accept, for other than financial reasons, any proposed system of retirement if it were understood to carry with it cessation from work.

As I have before intimated, much of what I am saying in this paper applies particularly to intellectual workers. But what I am just now saying applies equally, if not more, to those who labor with their hands. I think that the average working man will sadly miss his ‘job,’ who is retired, in comparative health, from the ranks of organized labor at seventy; and especially if at sixty, the age proposed for the retirement of railroad employés. The morning whistle will sound a different note when it no longer calls him to the day’s work. I anticipate no little difficulty in finding satisfactory employment for retired working men of sound health and of industrious habits. What will the trade-unions say to any relieving employments which may be provided for them, or which they may devise? Where is the ‘ open shop ’ to which they can have access?

Putting aside, however, the discussion of any of the ‘ labor questions’ to which the various schemes of retirement may give rise, there is one very practical conclusion to be drawn from any discussion of the subject under consideration. If the reservation of time which is now being planned shall be carried out in any large way, it must inevitably produce a change in the present aim, and to a degree in the present methods, of education. We have been at work for nearly a generation under the one dominating idea of training men for efficiency, meaning thereby the power to secure the largest possible material results within the shortest time. The chief means to efficiency has been specialization. We have set the individual man earlier and earlier upon the training for his specified task, broadening the immediate way, but closing divergent paths. We have reached the desired result. We have gained efficiency through specialization. The specialized man, presumably also a man of will-power, has become the type of the efficient man. But the argument for efficiency is the argument for more efficiency. The efficient man must constantly give place to the more efficient man, who in theory, and usually in fact, has had the more intense training. What is to happen to the supplanted man? When he has done the one thing which he can do to the best advantage of the business, what is he to do then? What is to be done with this increasing succession of secondbest men in the industries and in business? Retirement, whatever may be the pension, and however early it may take effect, does not answer the question. We have been training men for ends chiefly outside themselves. We have not given them resources upon which they can draw when the outside ends have been accomplished. As the outward results are to be credited chiefly to education, the deficiencies in personal results, if any such appear, must be charged to its account. And if these are likely to appear, the remedy must be anticipated in education. It would be an unseemly thing to allow the charitably intentioned retirement of men from their work to result in the exposure of their personal deficiencies.

The failure of education to produce personal results commensurate with outward results is easily detected whenever it occurs. We have a striking example of this fact in the present contrast between the successful training of men in the art of making money, and the unsuccessful training of them in the art of spending money— the latter art being more personal than the former. When we pass beyond the use of money as capital, we are confronted by a vast amount of foolish and often shameless expenditure. Much of this expenditure should be attributed to ignorance rather than to viciousness — to a certain emptiness of mind in respect to taste or satisfying enjoyment. Even the capitalist who knows how to utilize money for large enterprises is quite apt to be deficient in the finer art of giving. The example of t he late John Stewart Kennedy is most refreshing, in these days of delegated benevolence, in showing how a man of great fortune can be as capable of disposing of it as he was capable of making it.

It is evident that our present ideals and methods must be revised if we are to meet the social conditions which will come in with the new reservation of time. We must call back some of the current terms of modern education — efficiency, success, and even service — and reëndow them with a more personal meaning. We must of course continue to train the efficient, successful, and serviceable worker, but we must also make some sure intellectual and moral provision for the man himself who is expected to outlast the ' practical ' requirements of society. I do not attempt to forecast the type of man who can best fulfill what we are pleased to term his ‘ lifework,’and also be qualified to enter into the duties and privileges of the period of reserved and revalued time. Perhaps the changed order will evolve a larger and more complete type. It may be enough for us to recall and restore the man whom