A Symbol for Salubrity.

Could we all but recover the soul of Saturday the world might wag instead of wobble.

But man, in the main, gropes in irksome excavations of Expediency, dug with his own fingernails—wells of necessity, badly bored and boresome. He sacrifices colour for collar, wisdom for whiskers, freedom for fret, comfort for cash, ingenuousness for ingeniousness and simplicity for complicity. He is hopelessly grown-up, an incorrigible adult, a moribund machinator with miserly Molloch, and a pitiful plaintiff in the courts of Common Sense, suing for the things he has tossed to the tumbrels and wondering why he loses the case and bears the costs. Because he has sacrificed the soul of Saturday and exchanged Simplicity for Duplicity he is of the lost legion. For the soul of Saturday is the soul of Youth and the charge to be answered by us mendacious meddlers in the schemes and schisms of the Wider Wisdom follows the fact that Youth never dies unless it is murdered.

So, we who moan and mumble that gone is the light from life, the gilt from Glamour, the “rococo” from Romance, and the soul from Saturday, are mental gangsters who have taken Youth “for a ride” and put it “on the spot.”

If, in spite of the exigencies of the interior and exterior, we can keep our souls up while we keep our noses down, there is hope while we grope, and we may regain that subtle something which, in our youth, was the soul of Saturday and the epitomisation of elation.

For this soul of Saturday is but a symbol for sentient salubrity.

Unless we have become atrophied in the “attic” and petrified in the perceptions, we surely can resurrect the emotions which, when life was young and our future was before us instead of behind us, lifted us from the moraine of mathematics and the antics of Algebra and transported us to the bonny braes of Saturday, where the sweet fresh breeze of Freedom blew the dry dust of durance out of the chinks in our brain.