THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3111, 29 October 1913, Page 79

THE GARLAND.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR.

No. 9

By Duncan Wrioht, Dunedin

“GO, WORK.” When Adam delved and Eve span Who was then the gentleman?

In Cassell’s “Working Man’s Friend,” by Mr J. Richardson, are found the following breezy lines: Hurrah for the men that work! Whatever may be their trade; Hurrah for the men who wield the pen, And they who use the spade! Who earn their daily bread By the sweat of an honest brow; Hurrah for the men who dig and delve, And those who reap and plough! To these generous sentiments every ernost man and woman will give an ungrudging assent. But what shall we say or think of Tom Hood’s “Song of the Shirt”? With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch! Stitch! Stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang “The Song of the Shirt.” Work! Work! Work! Till the brain begins to swim, Work—work—work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons 1 fall asleep. And sew them on in a dream! And then the pathos of it all seems to reach a climax : Work—work —work, My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread —and rags— That shattered roof, and this naked floorA table—a broken chair— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! And this happens in eo-called Christian England 1 I blush to write the words. Perhaps Pagan England would be more appropriate. Perhaps not. How matters in. the world of labour are to be amicably and enuitably adjusted and readjusted who can tell? God forbid that in our own . favoured Dominion we should ever know the horrors which have been, and are now, too well known in the vast cities and among the teeming millions of the Old Land. So very inept are many of the opinions of those who, with limited vision and ill-informed minds, discuss the hard problems of the day that absolutely they are of no value. God’s Book is not effete, is not out of date, is not silent on these social and economic matters. What of the Sermon on the Mount? What about the practical words in the Epistle of James? Oh. men with sisters dear! Oh, men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you are wearing out, But human creatures' lives? Stitch—stitch—stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt. Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt! THOMAS CARLYLE SPEAKS. “Two men I honour, and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman, that with earthmade implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man’s. Venerable to me is the hard hand—crooked, coarse—wherein, notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefensibly royal, as of the sceptre of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living manlike. “Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity, as well as love thee! Hardly treated brother! For us was thy back’so bent; for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed ; thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and, fighting our battles, were so marred. For in thee, too, lay a God-created form, but it was not to” be unfolded ; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour, and thy body was not to know freedom. Yet, toil on ; toil on; thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable—for thy daily bread : Hurrah for the men who work And the trade that suits them best! Hurrah for the six days’ labour, And the one of blessed rest! Hurrah for the open heart! Hurrah for the noble aim! Hurrah for a quiet home! Hurrah for an honest name! “A second man, I honour,” continues Thomas Carlyle, “and still more highly; him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable, not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty, endeavouring towards inward harmony, revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low: —highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavour are one, —when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who, with heaven-made implements, conquers heaven for us. If the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious

toil for him in return, that he have light, have guidance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I honour; all else is chaff and duet, which let the wind blow -whither it listeth. Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find botn dignities united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man’s wants is also toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere be met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendour of heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth, like a* light shining in great darkness.” Weave, brothers, weave! Toil is ours; But toil is the lot of man; On© gathers th© fruit —on© gathers the flowers, One soweth his seed again! There is not a creature from England's king To the peasant that delves the soil, That knows kalf the pleasure the seasons bring If he have not his share of the toil. A PARABLE. Labour, the offspring of Want, and the mother of Health and Contentment, lived with her two daughters in a little cottage by the side of a hill, at a great way from town. They were totally unacquainted with the great, and kept no better company than the neighbouring villagers; but having a desire to see the world, they forsook their companions and habitations, and determined to travel. . \ Labour went soberly along the road with Health on the right hand. who. by the sprightliness of her conversation, and songs of cheerfulness and joy, softened the toils of the way; while Contentment went smiling on the left, supporting the steps of her mother, and by her perpetual good humour increasing the vivacity of her sister. In this manner they travelled over forests and through towns and villages, till at last they arrived at the capital of the kingdom. At their entrance into the great city the mother conjured her daughters never to lose sight of her; for it was the will of Jupiter, she said, that their separation should be attended with the utter ruin of all three. But Health was of too gay a disposition to regard the counsels of Labour; she suffered herself to be debauched by intemperance and at last died of disease. Contentment, in the absence of her sister, gave herself up to the enticements of Sloth, and was never heard of after; while Labour, -who could have no enjoyment without her daughters, went everywhere in search of them, till she was at last seized by Lassitude in her way, and died in misery. William S Lord sings (and we shall sing with him) a merry song : In days of old the sabre Gave honour to the hand, And those who did not labour Were princes in th© land; To-dav has crowned with glory The brow bedewed -with toil; The theme of song and story Has risen from the soil. O worker! see the beauty You’re binding to th© skies; Along the path of duty You’re nearing Paradise! The flowers of art that blossom In column, pire, and dome Shall lie on labour’s bosom And beautify her home. And Peace shall come, and wonder Shall fill the world anew; Eternal arms be under To waft your dangers through. The sun will shine still brighter. The stars will sing and shine; The burden will be lighter, For labour is divine! You have seen the village blacksmith as portrayed by Longfellow ; Week in, week out. from morn fill night You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him awing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow. Like sexton ringing the old kirk chimes When the evening sun is low. Y r ou know the man quite well because : He goes on Sunday to the church. And sits among bis boys; He hears the parson pray and preach. He hears bis daughter’s voice Singing in the village choir. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in her grave she lies. And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear from out his eyes. Both the reader and the writer of this message would do well to note and apply Kingsley’s message; Do the work that’s nearest. Though it’s dull at whiles. Helping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles; See in every hedgerow Marks of angels’ feet; Epics in each pebble. Underneath our feet.