THE GLORY OF WORK
Very commonplace and familiar—perhaps too commonplace and familiar is the subject of Work. Every one worthy the name of man or woman is, or desires to be a Worker, and none surely would voluntarily swell the distressed ranks of the Unemployed. For to be unemployed is to be miserable. To find nothing to do,—to be of no use to ourselves or to our fellow-creatures is to be more or less set aside and cast out from the ever-working Divine scheme of labour and fruition, ambition and accomplishment. Among all the blessings which the Creator showers so liberally upon us, there is none greater than Work. And amid all the evils which Man wilfully accumulates on his own head through ignorance and obstinacy, there is none so blighting and disastrous as Idleness.
There are, however, certain people who have persuaded themselves to look upon Work as a curse. Many of these pin their theories on the Third Chapter of the Book of Genesis. There they read:
“Cursëd is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life.
“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the ground.”
But we may take comfort in the fact that the Book of Genesis shows some curious discrepancies. For in the Second Chapter God is represented as making one single man out of the dust of the ground, yet in the very First Chapter of the same Book we read that,—
“God created man in His own image; male and female created he them.
“And God blessed them and said unto them ... Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”
Thus we find that the story of Adam and Eve and the Serpent does not occur till after the creation of mankind (in the plural) and after the Divine order that this same mankind (in the plural) should “replenish the earth and subdue it.” No “curse” accompanied this command. On the contrary, it was sanctified by a blessing. “God blessed them.” And whether Genesis be taken seriously, or only read as poetic legend founded on some substratum of actual events, the fact remains that “to replenish the earth and subdue it,” literally means,—to Work. The “dominion” of man over the planet he inhabits is not to be gained by sitting down with folded hands and waiting for food to drop into the mouth. It is evident that he was intended to earn his right to live. It is also evident that the blessing of God will be his, if from the first beginnings of conscious intelligence and aptitude he resolutely and honestly sets his shoulder to the wheel.
It is only when we are at work that we are vitally and essentially a part of God’s great creative scheme. Idleness is an abnormal condition. It is not to be found in nature. There everything works, and in the special task allotted to it, each conscious atom finds its life and joy. The smallest seed works, as it slowly but surely pushes its way up through the soil;—the bird works, as it builds its nest and forages the earth and air to find food for its young. We cannot point to the minutest portion of God’s magnificent creation and say that it is idle. Nothing is absolutely at rest. There is—strictly speaking—no rest in the whole Universe. All things are working; all things are moving. Man clamours for rest,—but rest is what he will never get,—not even in the grave. For though he may seem dead, new forms of life germinate from his body, and go on working in their appointed way,—while, with the immortal part of himself which is his Soul, he enters at once into fresh fields of labour. Rest is no more possible than death, in the Divine scheme of everlasting progress where all is Life.
Nature is our mother, from whose gentle or severe lessons we must learn 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!”