the problems of our own lives. And whenever we go to her for help or
for instruction, we always find her working. She never sleeps. She
never has a spare moment. “Without haste, without rest” is her eternal
motto. When we, like fretful children, complain of long hours of toil,
scant wages and short holidays, she silently points us to the Universe
around us of which we are a part, and bids us set our minds “in tune
with the Infinite.” The Sun never takes holiday. With steady regularity
it performs its task. For countless ages it has worked without any
attempt to swerve from its monotonous round of duty. It shines on the
just and on the unjust alike; it gives life and joy equally to the gnat
dancing in its beams, as to the human being who hails its glory and
warmth as the simple expression of “a fine day.” It gets no wages. It
receives very little in the way of thanks. Its duty is so evident and
is always so well done, that by the very perfection of its performance
it has exhausted the far too easily exhausted sense of human gratitude.
Like a visible lamp of God’s love for us it generates beauty and
brightness about us wherever we go,--and it invites us to look beyond
the veil of creation to the Creator, who alone sustains the majestic
fabric of life.
In some ways God Himself may be resembled to the Sun, seeing that He
receives very little of our gratitude. We are so wonderfully guided
by His wisdom that we sometimes think ourselves wiser than He. Of our
own accord we give Him scarcely any of our real working powers, and
were it not that we are all, in the mass, unconsciously swayed by His
command, the little we do give would be less. Our ideas of serving Him
too often consist in attending various sectarian places of worship
where quarrelling is far more common than brotherly love and unity.
In these places of worship we pray to Him for Ourselves and our own
concerns. We ask Him for all we can possibly think of, and we seldom
pause to consider that He has already given us more than we deserve.
It very rarely enters into our heads to realize that we are required
to show Him some return--that we are bound to work--no matter in how
small a degree--towards something in His vast design which has, or
shall have, its place in the world’s progress. We continue to implore
Him to work for Us,--just as if He needed our urging! We petition Him
to give us food and other material comforts,--yet if we study the laws
of Nature we shall learn that we are intended to Work for our food and
for all the things we want. We must Work for them in common with the
rest of all our fellows in the animal, bird, and insect kingdoms. What
a man does, that he has. We have no need to ask God for what He has
already given us. He has provided all that is necessary for our health
and sustenance on the earth,--but we must earn it,--deserve it,--and
take a little intelligent trouble to understand the value of it, as
well as to learn the laws by which we may gain and hold our own in
life. We must, in fact, Work. All Creation visibly shows us that God
Himself has worked and is still working. He, who has made us in “His
own Image” must have from each one of us a strong and faithful effort
to follow His Divine pre-ordained order of Labour and Progress. It may
be asked--To what does the Labour and Progress tend? The answer of our
last great Poet Laureate, Tennyson, is the best--the
One far off divine event
To which the whole creation moves.
Whether it be work with the hands, or work with the brain, it is work
of some kind that we must do if we would prove ourselves worthy to be
a part of the ever-working Universe. And if by disinclination,--or
by lethargy of mind and spirit, we decline to share in the splendid
“onward and upward” march of toil, the time comes when great Mother
Nature will accept us exactly at our own valuation. If we choose to
be no more than clods of clay, then as clods of clay she will use
us, to make soil for braver feet than our own. If, on the contrary,
we strive to be active intelligences, she will equally use us for
nobler purposes. The formation of our condition rests absolutely with
ourselves. No one person can shape the life of another. The father
cannot ensure the fortunes of his son. The mother cannot guarantee the
happiness of her daughter. Both mother and father may do their best on
these lines, but sooner or later the son and daughter will take their
own way and make their own lives. Each individual man or woman must
work out his or her own salvation. For this is the Law,--and it is a
Law divine and eternal against which there is no appeal.
Let us realize, therefore, the Divine Necessity of Work,--and having
realized it let us take an honest joy in being able to do any sort of
work ourselves, no matter how humble or monotonous such work may be.
There is nothing really common even in what is called “common” work.
There is nothing undignified in the roughest labour. It is only the
“loafer” who loses both self-respect and dignity. The peasant who
turns the soil with his spade all day long is a noble and primeval
figure in the landscape, and deserves our consideration and respect.
The countless thousands of men, working in huge factories, patiently
guiding the machinery of giant looms, sweltering their very lives out
in the fiery heat of huge furnaces where iron and steel are shaped
for the uses of the world--these are the actual body of mankind--the
nerves, the muscles, the sinews of humanity. They represent the
nobility, the worth, the movement of the age. They are the Working
People. And the Working People of this, or of any other nation are the
People indeed--the People whose word--if they will only utter it--must
inevitably become Law.
Sometimes, however, when we work,--when we perform some special round
of duty more or less monotonous, we are unlike the rest of the working
Universe. The Universe works without any grumbling at its work--but
we--well!--we rather like to grumble. We want every one to know how
hard our work is, and how badly paid we are. Many of us, who are
men, would like to pass entire days, loafing about, our hands in our
pockets, our pipes in our mouths, serving no purpose whatever in the
world save that of replenishing the till of the nearest public-house.
Others of us who are women, would love to dress up for all we are worth
and meander through the streets, staring into shop-windows and coveting
goods we have no money to buy. We forget that while we are wasting time
in this fashion, we are consuming some of the very energy that should
be at work to obtain for us whatever we desire. And we are also apt to
forget that very often those who possess what we envy,--who hold all
that we would win--have worked for it.
It is of course quite true that some workers are well rewarded while
others get little if any reward at all. But to understand the cause
of this inequality we must examine the character of the work implied,
and the spirit in which that work is done. Is it undertaken with
cheerfulness and zeal? Or is it merely accepted as a “grind,” to be
shirked whenever possible and only half accomplished? I venture to
think that the man who loves his work,--who is content to begin at the
lowest rung of the ladder in order to master all the minutest details
of his particular trade or profession--whose Work is dearer to him
than either his wages or his dinner--is bound to be rewarded, bound to
succeed in whatever calling of life he may be. It is the half-hearted
worker who fails. It is the “scamp” worker who sticks in the rut. Every
man should do his utmost best. When he does only his half or quarter
best, he wrongs his own capability and intelligence even more than he
wrongs his employer. To “scamp” even the simplest kind of work proves
him to be out of tune with Nature. For in the natural world we find no
“scamping.” Each tiny leaf, each humble insect is as perfect in its way
as the planet itself. A midge’s wing seen through the microscope is
as brilliant and beautiful as that of a butterfly. And so,--“looking
up through Nature unto Nature’s God” we hear everywhere the Divine
command--“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy Might.”
I hardly think the love of Work, for Work’s own sake, is a leading
characteristic of the workers of the present day. There is a tendency
to “rush” everything,--to get it done and over. It is a rare thing to
meet a man who is so fond of his work that he can hardly be persuaded
to leave it. Yet in him is the real germ of success, and with him are
the true possibilities of power. For the conscientious and painstaking
worker more often than not may become the great discoverer. In the
very earnestness with which he bends over his daily toil which may
often seem the merest monotonous drudgery, it frequently chances that a
little hint,--an unexpected clue,--is given out from the great factory
of nature, which may revolutionize a whole handicraft, or quicken a
failing industry. Nothing of value in science or art is ever vouchsafed
to the mere “hustler.” And there is by far too much “hustling,”
nowadays. I am an ardent lover of steady toil and continuous progress,
provided the progress is accompanied by the growth of beauty, goodness
and happiness, but I am no advocate of “rush” or “speed.” Nothing is
well done that is done in a hurry. Every scrap of time should be used
as a precious gift,--not snatched up and devoured. For with haste
comes carelessness and what is called “slop work.” “As long as it’s
done never mind how it’s done,” is a kind of humour that is common
enough and easily fostered. Haste by no means implies real swiftness
or attention to details. We need not draw comparisons between the
foreign workman and his British brother, because there is a maxim which
says “Comparisons are odious.” But in justice to the foreign workman,
it must be said that he often shows great intelligence and artistic
ability. Moreover that he sometimes works twelve hours a day against
the British eight, at half the British workman’s wages.
But my own love for everything British is so deep and hearty that I
should like to see British handicraft, British art, British work of all
kinds at the head of creation. And I do most distinctly think it the
duty of every British employer of labour to provide work for British
workers first. Let the men who live in the land find means to live.
It is surely the right of the British working man to have the first
chance with a British employer. But this does not always happen. It is
a “consummation devoutly to be wished,” but it is not to be at once
realized even by schemes of fiscal policy. It is only to be attained
by the British working people themselves,--by the quality of the work
they do and the spirit in which they do it. We talk a great deal about
Education, technical and otherwise. What are the results? The fact
seems to be that when there was no compulsory Education much better
work was done. Houses were better built,--furniture was more strongly
made. Compare the brick-and-a-half “modern villa” architecture, with
its lath and plaster doors and window-frames, with the warm thick
walls and stout oak timbers of a farm or manor-house of the sixteenth
century! Put side by side the flimsy modern chair, and the serviceable
oak one, hand made in the time of our forefathers! Connoisseurs and
collectors of bric-à-brac are supposed to have a craze for “old”
things, merely because they _are_ “old.” This is not altogether true.
Old things are appreciated because they are good,--because they show
evidences of painstaking and careful Work. An old oak staircase in
a house is valued as a treasure, not only for its age, but for its
artistic construction, which our best workers can only imitate and
never surpass. It must, I think, be conceded that our forefathers
had better conceptions of the fitting and the beautiful in some ways
of work than we have. We have only to compare the Cathedrals which
they built for the worship of God, with our uninspired ugly modern
Churches and chapels. We know that they appreciated the beauties of the
landscape, and that they loved the grand old English trees, which our
short-sighted County Councils are destroying every year. Nothing can be
more pitiful to see than the ruthless and stupid cutting down of noble
trees all over the country, under the rule that their branches shall
not hang over the road. Thus, every grateful place of shade is ruined,
as well as much natural beauty. Our ancestors, more individually free,
showed finer taste. The roofs of their houses were picturesquely
thatched or tiled, and gabled,--their eyes were never affronted by
the dull appearance of cheap slate and corrugated iron. They left us
a heritage of many lovely and lasting things; but it is greatly to be
feared that we shall not do likewise to those that come after us. We
are destroying far more than we are creating.
And when we come to the higher phases of intellectual work, we find
that though we have plenty of “schools of art” we have no great
British artists such as Gainsborough, Reynolds or Romney. And though
every one is supposed to know how to read and write, we have no great
literature such as that of Shakespeare, Scott, Thackeray or Dickens.
These belonged to the days of non-compulsory Education. Poetry, too,
the divinest of the arts, is well-nigh dead. The great poets were born
in so-called “uneducated” times. Our present system of Education is
absolutely disastrous in one respect--that of its tendency to depress
and cramp rather than to encourage the aspiring student. Its mechanical
routine works on the line of flattening all human creatures down to one
level. Originality is often “quashed.” Yet in all educational schemes
there should be plenty of room left for the natural ability of the
student or worker to expand and declare itself in some entirely new
form wherever possible.
But despite our perpetual talk of the advantages of Education, here
we are to-day with plenty of schools both before and behind us, but
no very great men. And looking a long way back in history we see that
when there was no Compulsory Education at all, there _were_ very great
men,--men who made the glory of England. Shall we leave anything after
us, to match their heritage? It is open to doubt. Much of our modern
work is “scamped” and badly done. And a great deal of the mischief
arises from our way of “rushing” things. We are so anxious to catch
Time by the forelock that we almost tear that forelock off. But why
such haste? What is our object? Well,--we want to make money before
we die. We want to make it, and then spend it on ourselves, or else
leave it to our children, who will no doubt get rid of it all for us
with the most cheerful rapidity. Or we want to have enough to “sit
down and do nothing.” This is some people’s idea of perfect bliss.
A servant of mine once very kindly reproached me for sticking at my
desk so long. “If I were a lady,” said she--“I would sit down and do
nothing.” No more cruel torture can be imagined than this. We read in
history of prisoners who, condemned to such a life, went mad with the
misery of it. The only way to live happily and healthfully is to try
with every moment of our time to accomplish something--even if it be
only a thought. Thought, as we know, crystallizes into action. Yet
very few people really think. Many get no further than to think they
are thinking. To think is a kind of Work--too hard for many folks. In
politics, for instance, some people let the Press think for them. They
cannot be bothered to do it for themselves. And when the Press makes
what is called a “corner” in any particular policy, they sometimes
submit to be “cornered.” There have been of late a great many rumours
concerning a gigantic Press “combine” which is to be formed for the
purpose of swaying the opinion of the British public and particularly
the opinion of the British working man. In other words, opinion is no
longer to be “free,” but coerced by something like a Press “Trust”
Company. Now if we are to believe this, we must likewise believe the
British public fools. And we should surely be sorry to be forced to
such a conclusion. Let us hope the British public has an opinion
of its own entirely apart from the Press, and that it will declare
that opinion bravely and openly. It is hard to imagine that it will
allow its fondness for “prize-competitions” and “puzzle-pictures”
to interfere with its common sense and honesty. I may say, however,
that I have often marvelled at the generosity with which a large
majority of people will insist on filling the pockets of newspaper
capitalists, by purchasing such quantities of the particular journals
which contain these puzzles and competitions. The guileless innocence
of childhood in the nursery is not more touching than the faith of the
great British public in what is called a “Picture” or “Word” puzzle.
Over this kind of thing I have seen otherwise sane though indolent
people actually _work_! Once I made a calculation of the hours spent by
a friend of mine in deciphering one of these newspaper problems, and
found that he could certainly have obtained a very fair knowledge of
French or Italian in the time, or he could have learned shorthand and
typewriting. He was successful in the competition, and received for his
pains the splendid sum of three-halfpence. It was explained to him that
there were so many successful competitors that the hundred--or thousand
pounds reward had to be divided among the crowd. Three half-pence
therefore was his legitimate share.
I am no politician. I am simply a Worker--and I do such work as I
can, quite independently of sect or party. But _as_ a Worker, and
looker-on at the events taking place around me, I cannot help feeling
that this dear land of ours is on the verge of a great crisis in her
history. We hear much of failing trade,--depression in this or that
quarter,--yet apart from political agitators, it seems to me that Great
Britain stands where she has always stood--at the top of the world!
Whatever influences have set her there, surely there she is. And it
is for all true workers to keep her there. It is not by what parties
or Governments will do for us that her position will be sustained
and strengthened,--it is by what we, in the skill and excellence of
our Work in all trades and professions, will do for Her. It is by our
determination to excel in all kinds of Work that she will hold her
own,--by our unstinted time, our ungrudging labour, our zeal, our
cheerfulness, our love for her glory that she--and ourselves--will
exist. It is necessary to “protect” her, and all things that may help
to make her stronger and greater--but sometimes the word “Protection”
may be made to apply chiefly to capitalists and “cornerers” of trade.
Herein comes the hard work of Thinking. We must Think for ourselves.
God has given us brains to work with. There is never any good reason
why we should hastily adopt the political views of certain newspaper
proprietors, who are perhaps under the impression that we have no
brains at all, and that being thus sadly deficient, we are willing
to buy their brains for a penny or a halfpenny! It is by the workers
of the land that the land lives. And more than this,--it is from the
workers that must come the great battle of Right against Might. It is
for the Workers to put to shame by their own faith and honour, the
wicked Atheism and open immorality which are disgracing some of our
so-called “upper” classes to-day--and it is for the Workers to show by
their upright, temperate lives, and their steady downright Work, that
they are determined to keep the foundations of the Home secure, and the
heart of England warm and true. What says brave Thomas Carlyle?
“All true Work is sacred; in all true Work, were it but true
hand-labour, there is something of divineness. Labour, wide as the
Earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow, and up from that
to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart--which includes all Kepler
calculations, Newton meditations, all Sciences, all spoken Epics, all
acted Heroisms, and Martyrdoms, up to that ‘Agony of bloody sweat’
which all men have called divine! O brother, if this is not ‘worship,’
then I say the more pity for worship, for this is the noblest thing yet
discovered under God’s sky. Who art thou that complainest of thy life
of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother!--see thy fellow
Workmen there in God’s eternity, surviving there, they alone surviving;
sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial Bodyguard of the Empire of
Mankind. Even in the weak Human memory they survive so long, as saints,
as heroes, as gods, they alone surviving--peopling, they alone, the
measured solitudes of Time. To thee, Heaven, though severe, is _not_
unkind; Heaven is kind as a noble Mother--as that Spartan mother,
saying while she gave her son his shield--“With it, my son, or upon
it!” Thou too shalt return home in honour, brother Worker!--to thy far
distant Home, in honour, doubt it not, if in the battle thou keep thy
shield!”
THE HAPPY LIFE
Most people want to be happy if they can. I suppose it may be safely
set down without fear of contradiction that no one who is sane and
healthy wilfully elects to be miserable. Yet the secret of happiness
seems to be solved by very few. People try to be happy in all sorts of
queer ways--in speculation, land-grabbing, dram-drinking, horse-racing,
bridge-playing, newspaper-running, and various other methods which
are more or less suited to their constitutional abilities--but in
many cases these channels, carefully dug out for the reception of
a perpetual inflowing of the stream of happiness, appear very soon
to run dry. I have been asked scores of times what I consider to be
the happiest life in the world, and I have always answered without
the least hesitation--the Life Literary. In all respects it answers
perfectly to the description of the “Happy Life” portrayed by that
gentle sixteenth-century poet, Sir Henry Wotton:--
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another’s will,
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.
Herein we have the vital essence of all delight--honest thought
and simple truth--and in the “serveth not another’s will,” glorious
liberty. For chiefest among the joys of the Life Literary are its
splendid independence, its right of free opinion, and its ability to
express that opinion. An author is bound to no person, no place, and no
party, unless he or she wilfully elects to be so bound. To him, or to
her, all the realms of Nature and imagination are entrance-free--the
pen unlocks every closed door--and not only is the present period of
time set out like a stage-scene for contemplation and criticism, but
all the past ages, with their histories, and the rise and fall of their
civilizations, arrange themselves to command in a series of pictures
for the pleasure of the literary eye and brain; and it is just as easy
to converse in one’s own library with Plato on the immortality of the
soul as it is good-humouredly to tolerate Mr. Mallock and his little
drawing-room philosophies. For a book is more or less the expression
of the mind, or a part of the mind, of its writer, and, inasmuch
as it is only with the moral and intellectual personalities of our
friends and enemies that we care to deal, it matters little whether
such personalities be three or four thousand years old, or only of
yesterday. And to live the Life Literary means that we can always
choose our own company. We can reject commoners and receive kings, or
_vice versâ_. The author who is careful to hold and to maintain all the
real privileges and rights of authorship is a ruler of millions, and
under subjection to none. The position is unique and, to my thinking,
unequalled.