'1 HE SHORTAGE OF THANKS.
WHERE animals are concerned it is pathetically true that little gifts foster great friendships. Before the food regu- lations all the beasts at the Zoo liked the visitors—except those who would have liked to eat the visitors. Things have changed. A week or two ago the present writer was strolling among the cages and enclosures, and was depressed to observe that many of the greedier animals have broken off relations with the public alto- gether. Only one bear begged of him, and he was a small one with a suggestion of a short-coated retriever about him. Evidently he still had faith in his own power to deceive. " Surely," he seemed to say to himself, " they mist soon succumb to my innocent, dog- like looks. They cannot hold out much longer. They must at last believe that I do not even know the cause of this sad estrange- ment, and will relent and give me something." Nothing could be bought for the creatures. Not even a few nuts could be had for the monkeys, and those whom the writer saw were very tart and cold in their demeanour. No paw came through the bars. In fact, he could not but feel afraid that they may be permanently embittered by this shortage of gifts. Charity is a capricious business, they cannot but feel. The elephants were all in their stables. One trumpeted and put his trunk out for a bun, but withdrew it sud- denly as if remembering with something of a shock that nothing could• now be hoped for. " Am I losing my memory ? I keep thinking they still like me," was the obvious interpretation of his gesture.
The disappointed visitor who may give nothing will be inclined to cut short his stay. He feels he has not enjoyed his intercourse with the petted prisoners as much as usual. Is it because he is sorry for them ? They are better off, even as things are, than most of their four-footed relations outside. No ; the real dis- appointment lies in his own heart. He has got no thanks, and for thanks---the small change of gratitude—we most of us have a deeply rooted desire. The very first thing that we teach our children is to say " Thank you." They say it before they know what it means, before they can distinguish their right hand from their left. The worst-trained child has that amount of training. The parents know, even if they do not think much about it, that
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the giving and receiving of thanks is a very essential part of the happiness of life. Before the war it was a frequent subject of lament among the more hygienically and economically inclined
philanthropists that the, earners of small wages gave an altogether disproportionate amount of their. hard-won housekeeping money to their children for the purchase of sweets and fruit. They longed to stop this child-spoiling. Now the philanthropists have got their wish. Poor parents cannot any more indulge their natural instincts in this particular, and will—we may hope—save up to give the children something better worth having, if less acceptable. The present writer has often felt inclined to argue with the philan- thropist on the subject of these penny doles from parents to children. The people who give them have not one-tenth of the opportunities of pleasing their small boys and girls which are possessed by their critics. They want to see the immediate response which the little indulgence calls forth, and that response is something which it must be very hard to go without. To resist the pleasure may result after many weeks in a better pair of boots or a new coat, and the exchange would be no. doubt in some sense for the child's " geed," but in another sense we do not feel so sure. People without time, whose supply of. patience is subject to constant overdraft, must take other means than their better-off friends to foster " friendship " in their children, and have the same right to give expression to their parental affection, and to gratify their natural wish for a quick return in the sight of pleasure. They want the thanks. It is luciftrous to say that love is logical, and where it exists will sacrifice everything to the moral and physical improvement of the beloved. That- is the sentiment of a kind stepmother or of any perfectly conscientious person in loco parentis, but it is the outcome of a passionless devotion. Children, again, are unreasonable beings. They cannot always recognize their own " good." A little gift awakens. more love than a big sacrifice sometimes, because they cannot possibly grasp the extent of the latter. " Everything has been given up for those children, and they show their parents no affection," we often hear some one say. " Too much has been done." But very often the ex-planation simply is that the little things were never done at all, and the household wheels have not been greased with thanks.
A vast number of people are just now leading what might be called a public life. If they strain every nerve, they are doing no more than their duty. They are part not of a great machine but of a great living• organism, and private life has had in some sense to go to the wall. We have—most of us—to ask our friends and relations to excuse our neglect rather than to thank us for our attentions. There is no hospitality and no thanks for it, no little interchange of civilities. Very few little favours can be done, however much irresponsible gossip may suspect favour in high place. We get and give no thanks. The inevitable result of this inevitable sacrifice to duty is a- certain feeling of moral hunger. It is as difficult for the sense of benevolence to flourish in a shortage of thanks as it is difficult for physical strength to be maintained in a shortage of foodstuffs. There are substitutes in both case', and very indigestible they often are. A man can sit and consider how small are his own deserts, how often in the past he has himself shown want of gratitude. These considerations will keep his sense of general benevolence from starving, but, to quote Bunyan, such thoughts are " bitter to the mouth and cold to the stomach."
When we talk of " personal relations " between employers and employed we to a very large extent mean the interchange of thanks on both sides. If employers and employed meet, they are likely to realize how immense is their debt to each other. It is a curious thing that the present wave of democratic feeling and the present rate of wages have not availed to crush the " tipping" system. The public like it. They wish to keep this little opportunity for an interchange of thanks, especially in a time of shortage. Between the various classes in England there has not been since industrialism permeated the country much hospitality. We all incline to eat with our social equals. This is not quite as it should be. Every one has a sense that it is not, but the problem of amendment of it is too difficult to be tackled. The pourboire is a corrective, and it has now lost all suggestion of alcoholism. Of course the larger number of " tips " are simply irregular wages, which giver and receiver prefer should remain irregular. We tip a porter in payment of work done ; that is, we both pay and thank him. He receives his wage with thanks, and both parties get a little pleasure out of the transaction. This must be true or the system could not be so jealously maintained. Exactly the same thing is true when we tip our friends' servants. They would not like to have higher wages in lieu of presents. No one is grateful for good wages. An employer may stint himself to do his duty by his men, but he will not expect. any acknowledgment for so doing. In exactly the same way, a workman may fill his time conscientiously, but he will not expect to be thanked for it. Indeed, if he refuses to put in a quarter of an hour's extra work for love now and again, he will get fewer thanks than an unconscientious man who will " oblige." This is not fair, but it is a fact, and it comes of the instinctive dislike to the notion that the whole relation between employer and employed should be, as it tends to become whenever numbers make personal intercourse impossible, a mere matter of rule and duty with no cause for a " Thank you " on either side. There are a few people in the world who boast that they do not want thanks. They would not of course say that in great matters they were indifferent to gratitude, but they do not care for the little give-and-take, the little ritual of " Please" and " Thank you," which acts as a douceur in social life. They pride themselves on being perfectly disinterested. They miss a good deal of pleasure, so perhaps their ungracious virtue is its own punishment.
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