THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3214, 20 October 1915, Page 77

THE GARLAND.

By Duncan Weight, Dunedin.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR. NO. 112.

“GO WORK.” For 'Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. Watts. An idler is a- watch that wants both hands: As useless if it goes as if it stands. Cowper. 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 for angel’s feet. Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet. Kingsley. Heaven doth not with us as we with torches do, Hot light them for ourselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of ns, ’twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d. But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence, But like a thrifty goddess she determines Her the glory of a creator, — Both thanks and use. Perhaps you don’t believe in Channings utterance ; “I have faith in labour, and I see the goodness of God in placing us in a world where labour alone can keep us alive. I would not change; if I could, our subjection to physical laws, our exposure to hunger and cold, and the necessity of constant conflicts with the material world. I would not, if I could, so temper the elements that they should infuse into us only grateful sensations; that they should make vegetation so exuberant as to anticipate every want, and the minerals so ductile as to offer no resistance to our strength and skill. Such a world would make a contemptible race. Man owes his growth, his energy, chiefly to that striving of the will, that conflict with difficulty” which we call effort. Easy, pleasant work does not make robust minds, does not give men such a consciousness of their powers, does not train to endurance, to perseverance, to steady force of will—that force without which all other requisitions avail nothing.” His song was only living aloud His work, a singing with his hand! “To live well,” declares another wellknown writer, “in one’s place in the world, adorning one’s calling, however lowly, doing one’s most prosaic work diligent!v and honestly, and dwelling in love and unselfishness with all men, is to live grandly. To fight well the battle with one’s own lusts and tempers, and to be victorious in the midst of the temptations and provocations of daily life, is to be a Christian hero.’’ Shall I tell you about tho battle That was fought in the world to-day, Where thousands went down like heroes To death in the pitiless fray? You may know that some of the wounded And some of the fallen, when. I tell you this wonderful battle Was fought in the hearts of men. Not with the sounding of trumpets, Nor clashing of sabres drawn. But silent, as twilight in autumn All day the fight went on. Rev. At.kxanhke Maolaktcn', D.D., in a delightfully refreshing book called

“Music for the Soul*’ 1 has this stimulating message : “Blessed is that servant whom his Lord, when he cometh, shall find so doing.” “It may seem humbler work to servo out bundles of bread and pots of black broth to the family of slaves, when the steward is expecting the coming of the master of the house, and every nerve is tingling with anticipation. But it is steadying work, and it is blessed work. Xt is better that a man should be found doing the homeliest duty as the outcome of his great expectations of the coming of the Master, than that he should be fidgetting and restless and looking only at that thought til! it unfits him for his common tasks. Who was it who, sitting playing a game of chess, and being addressed by'a scandalised discijile with the question ;—‘What would you do if Jesus Christ came, and you were playing your game?’ Answered, ‘I would finish it.’ The best way for a steward to be ready for the Master, and to show that he is watching, is that he should he ‘found so doing’ the humble tasks of Xus stewardship. The two women that were squatting on either side of the millstone, and helping each other to whirl the handle round in that night, were in the right place, and the one that was taken had no cause to regret that she was net more religiously employed. The watchful servant should be a working servant.” The Christian worker who is constantly cudgelling his brains with statistics might note the following : “I dreamed, and in my dream I saw the .Recording Angel bending over his work. To him many messengers from great meetings, carrying sheaves of statistilCS. “The number of our members” cried one “is—“ Stop a minute,’’ said the Recording Angel, waving him on one side; “a man who was never yet enrolled anywhere has just helped an old blind woman across the Strand; a hungry outcast on the Embankment has shared a crust with one of his fellows; a poor worker in our East End sweating den lias sat by the bedside of a dying neighbour for three days —and I am busy. Your figures can wait.” Yes, yes, “your figures can wait.” Hungry men and women long for bread and something more practical than cold starvation statistics. THE GLORY OF THE WORK. “Man is glorified at his work, but he may be degraded. If a man goes to work in the morning with the thought (only) of pay-day—if he works merely for his wages —then he is being degraded every day he works. Every penny he receives bat makes him more of a slave, atid he becomes a beast of burden—only that, and nothing more. . . . But happy indeed are those workers to whom work is prayer, because all is wrought as He would have it done. They go singing to the workshop, and the light of Heaven falls on them as they toil, and the halo of Him who Wrought with human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, rests over them all the day. ... If, then, it is in such a mood as this that man goes to Iris business, whatever it may be—stone-breaking or Law-making, stargazing or loom-tending, for all work Is equal in the sight of Heaven—then, indeed, shall man work out his own salvation, in a beautiful sense. By the redemption of toil he shall bo saved; first by Another’s toil on Calvary, and thou, by his own—in his office, or parlour, or kitchen—wherever he may be. And the home of his labour, be it cotton-mill or foundry, concert hall or pulpit, shall assume the proportions of a magnificent minster, full of incense and music, the beauty of holiness, and abiding peace.” For labour, the common lot of man. Is part of a kind Creator’s plan; And lie is a king whose brow is wet With the pearl-gemmed crown of honest sweat. Some glorious day, this understood All toilers will be a brotherhood; With brain or hand, the purpose is one. And the Master Workman God’s own son. “It does not matter what particular instrument you may be using in the great life orchestra, whether it be the violin, the piano, the voice, or your rainci expressing itself in literature, law, medicine, or any other vocation, you cannot afford to start your concert, with the great human race for your audience, without getting in tune. Whatever ek-e you may do, do not play out of tune, or work out of tune. Do not j let your discordant instrument spoil your ear or your mental appreciation. Familiarity with discord will wreck your success perceptions. Not even a Paderewski could win exquisite harmonies from a piano out of tune.” Now hear a lady sing : “What hast thou done in the world to-day?” Asked the Lord of Life as the sunset’s fire Died cut. Said one: “I have sought to trace The pictured form of so fair a face That men shall perforce admire.” “What hast thou done in the world to-day?” Asked the Lord of Life as the night drew nigh. “I have penned a poem that men may see The earth is full of sweet mystery, * Of beauty that cannot die.' “What hast thou done in the world to-day?” Asked the Lord of Life as the night grew deep. “I only went forth with pitying hand To feed the birds, for the wintry laud Lay locked in an icy hand.” And the voice rang clear: “Thou hast done the best; On painter and poet the wreath may rest. But a loving heart is divinely blest.” My personal sympathies are entirely with Mr J. Baldwin '.Brown who says : “To work by fits and starts in the intervals of pleasure, to make that the chief concern, and work the interlude, is to kill all pure enjoyment at the very heart. Work is the mother of rest, strain of pleasure. No man knows what rest is but the weary; no man can enjoy but he who is relaxing a strain. The pleasures

of idleness are like the smiles of an idiot, the very dreariest and ghastliest things under the sun. Tlie men whose main business in life is to kill time, are killing much more than time, as they will discover in eternity.” IS THIS TRUE? “The ,aw of existence is work—for G-od, for brethren, for self; not for one alone, but for all. Transgress that law, and evil must ensue. The stagnant life becomes corrupt, and acts as a corrupter of others. It is vicious and noisome; hurtful to the community in that it defrauds it of its due from one of its members, and sets up a plague spot of infection which, becomes a fertile centre of mischief. ’’ Ok who would live, if only just to breath® Tins idle air, and indolently run, Ray alter day, the still returning round Of life’s mean offices and sickly joys? But in the service of mankind to be A guardian good below, still to employ The mind's bravo ardour in heroic aims. Such us may raise o’er the grovelling herd And make up shine for ever—dhat is life. When Adam dolvo, and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman? In Psalm 104 you have these grand old wholesome words : “Man goeth forth unto his work, and to his labour, until the evening.” Does any reader ask : “Where is my place in the world ? What special work should I attempt?” Somebody answers : Brothers! be ye who ye may, Sons of men, I bid you pray! Pray unceasing, pray with might. Pray in darkness, pray in light, Life hath yet no honours to spare, Rife is toil, and toil is prayer. Life is toil, and all that lives Sacrifice of labour gives; Water, fire, end air and earth. Rest nOt,_ pause not, from their birth. Sacred toil doth Nature share: Lovo and labour, work is prayer.