Chapter X: Part 10

The greatest poet in the world, William Shakespeare, was, from all we can gather, an unaffected, cheery, straightforward Warwickshire man, who wrote plays to please the Public who went to the Globe Theatre. He did not say he was too good for the Public; he worked _for_ the Public. He attached so little importance to his own genius, that he made no mention of his work in his will. So we may fairly judge that he never dreamed of the future splendour of his fame--when, three hundred years after his death, every civilized country in the world would have societies founded in his name; when, year after year, new discussions would be opened up concerning his Plays, new actors would be busy working hard to represent his characters, and, strangest compliment of all, when envious persons would turn up to say his work was not his own! For when genius is so varying and brilliant that a certain section of the narrow-minded cannot understand its many-sided points of view, and will not believe that it is the inheritance of one human brain, then it is great indeed! Three hundred years hence there will, no doubt, be other people to announce to the world that Walter Scott did not write, and could not have written, the Waverley Novels. For they are--in their own special way--as great as the plays of Shakespeare. He, too, was one of those who wrote for the Public. With his magic wand he touched the wild mountains, lakes and glens of his native land, and transfigured them with the light of romance and beauty for ever. Can we imagine Scotland without Walter Scott and Robert Burns? No! Their power of the pen rules the whole country, and gives it over the heads of monarchs a free fairy kingdom to all classes and peoples who have the wish and will to possess it. There are certain superior people nowadays who declare that Walter Scott is “old-fashioned,” and that they, for their parts, cannot read his novels. Well, I grant that Walter Scott _is_ old-fashioned--as old-fashioned as the sunshine--and just as wholesome. He lived in a time when men still reverenced women, and when women gave men cause for reverence. I think if he could be among us now, and see the change that has come over society since his day, he would scarcely have the heart to write at all. The idolatry of wealth--the servile worship of the newest millionaire--would hardly inspire his pen, save perhaps to sorrow and indignation. But if he were with us and did write for us, I am sure he would employ some of his great power to protest against the lack of fine feeling, gentleness, forbearance and courtesy which unfortunately marks much of our latter-day society. I think he would have something to say about the school-girl who smokes,--I fancy his mind might revolt against the skirt-dancing peeress! I think he would implore women not to part with their chief charm--womanliness--and I am sure he would be very sorry to see children of ten and eleven so deplorably “advanced” as to be unable to appreciate a fairy tale.

And what of dear Charles Dickens--he, whom certain superfine persons who read Yellow Journalism presume to call “vulgar”? Is love, is pity, is tenderness, is faith “vulgar”? Is kindness to the poor, patience with the suffering, tolerance for all men and all creeds “vulgar”? If so, then Charles Dickens _was_ vulgar!--not a doubt of it! Few authors have ever been so blessedly, gloriously “vulgar” as he! What marvellous pictures his “power of the pen” conjures up at once before our eyes!--pathetic, playful, humourous, thrilling--rising to grandeur in such scenes as the shipwreck in _David Copperfield_; or that wonderful piece of description in the _Tale of Two Cities_, when the tramping feet of the Spirit of the French Revolution sweep past in the silence of the night! Match us such a passage in any literature past or present! It is unique in its own way--as unique as all great work must be. There is nothing quite like it, and never will be anything quite like it. And when we “go” with such great authors as these--and by this I mean, when we are determined to be one with them--we shall win such victories over our hearts and minds, our passions and desires, as shall make us better and stronger men and women.

And this brings me to a point which I have often earnestly considered. One cannot help noticing that the present system of education is fast doing away with two great ingredients for the thorough enjoyment of life, and especially the enjoyment of Literature--Imagination and Appreciation. On the school-boy or school-girl who is “coached” or “crammed,” the gates of fairyland and romance are shut with a bang. I had once the pleasure of entertaining at my house a small gentleman of eleven, fresh from his London College--he was indifferent to, or weary of life; things generally, were a “bore,” and he expressed his opinion of fairy tales in one brief word, “Rot!” Now altogether apart from that most revolting expression, which is becoming of frequent use, especially in the “upper circles,” it seemed to me a real misfortune to consider, that for this child, Hans Andersen was a sealed book, and the wonders and beauties of the _Arabian Nights_ a lost world. And in the same way I pity the older children--the grown men and women, who cannot give themselves up to the charm or terror of a book completely and ungrudgingly--who approach their authors with a carping hesitation and a doubtful preparatory sneer. By so doing they shut against themselves the gate of a whole garden of delights. Imagination is the supreme endowment of the poet and romancist. It is a kind of second sight, which conveys the owner of it to places he has never seen, and surrounds him with strange circumstances of which he is merely the spiritual eyewitness. One of the most foolish notions prevalent nowadays is that an author must personally go and visit the place he intends to describe. Nothing is more fatal. For accuracy of detail, we can consult a guide book--but for a complete picture which shall impress us all our lives long, we must go to the inspired author whose prescience or second-sight enables him to be something more than a mere Baedeker. Endless examples of this second-sight faculty could be given. Take Shakespeare as the best of them. He could never have personally known Antony and Cleopatra. He did not live in the time of Julius Cæsar. He was not guilty of murder because he described a murder in _Macbeth_. He could not have been a “fellow-student” of Hamlet’s. And where do you suppose, among the grim realities of life, he could have met those exquisite creations, Ariel and Puck, if not in the heaven of his own peerless imagination, borne to him on the brilliant wings of his own thought, to take shape and form, and stay with us in our English language for ever! Walter Scott had never seen Switzerland when he wrote _Anne of Geierstein_. Thomas Moore never visited the East, yet he wrote _Lalla Rookh_. Charles Dickens never fought a duel, and never saw one fought, yet the duel between Mr. Chester and Haredale in _Barnaby Rudge_ is one of the finest scenes ever written. Because an author is able to describe a certain circumstance, it does not follow that he or she has experienced that very circumstance personally. Very often it may be quite the contrary. The most romantic descriptions in novels have often been written by people leading very hum-drum, quiet lives of their own. We have only to think of _Jane Eyre_, and to remember the prosy, dull days passed by its author, Charlotte Brontë.

To refer once more to Hans Andersen--we all know that he never could have seen a Dresden China shepherdess eloping up the chimney with a Dresden China sweep. We know he never saw that dainty little shepherdess weeping on the top of a chimney because the world was so large, and because all her gilding was coming off. But when we are reading that fantastic little story, we feel he _must_ have seen it somehow, and we are conscious of a slight vexation that we never see such a curious and delightful elopement ourselves. This is a phase of the power of the pen--to make the beautiful, the quaint, the terrible, or the wonderful things of imagination seem an absolute reality.

But to get all the enjoyment out of an author’s imagination, we, who read his books, must ourselves “imagine” with him. We must let him take us where he will; we must not draw back and refuse to go with him. We must not approach him in a carping spirit, or make up our minds before opening his book, that we shall not like it. We should not allow our particular views of life, or our pet prejudices to intervene between ourselves and the writer whose power of the pen may teach us something new. And above all things, we should prepare ourselves to appreciate--not to depreciate. Nothing is easier than to find fault. The cheapest sort of mind can do that. The dirty little street-boy can enter the British Museum and find fault with the Pallas Athene. But the Pallas Athene remains the same. To be Pallas Athene is sufficient. The power of appreciation is a great test of character. To appreciate warmly, even enthusiastically, is generally the proof of a kind and sunny disposition; to depreciate is to be in yourself but a sad soul at best! For depreciation in one thing leads to depreciation in another; and by and by the daily depreciator finds himself depreciating his Maker, and wondering why he was ever born! And he will never find an answer to that question till he changes his humour and begins to appreciate; then, and only then, will life explain its brightest meaning.

Of course, when vulgarity, coarseness, slang, and ribaldry are set forward as “attractions” in certain books and newspapers, it is necessary to depreciate what is not the power of the pen, but the abuse of the pen. Such abuse is easily recognizable. The libellous paragraph, the personal sneer, the society scandal--there is no need to enumerate them. But we do not call the writers of these things authors, or even journalists. They are merely on a par with the anonymous letter-writer whom all classes of society agree in regarding as the most contemptible creature alive. And they do not come at all under the heading of the power of the pen, their only strength being weakness.

I have already said that I believe the Power of the Pen to be the greatest power for good or evil in the world. And I may add that this power is never more apparent than in the Press. The Press nowadays is not a literary press; classic diction and brilliancy of style do not distinguish it by any means. It would be difficult to find a single newspaper or magazine to which we could turn for a lesson in pure and elegant English, such as that of Addison, Steele or Macaulay. But in the Scott or Byron days, the Press was literary to a very great extent, and as a natural consequence it had a powerful influence on the success or failure of an author’s work. That influence is past. Its work to-day deals, not with books, but with nations.

National education, progressing steadily for years, has taught the Public to make up its own mind more quickly than ever it did before, as regards the books it reads. It will take what it wants and leave the rest; and the Press can neither persuade it nor repel it against its own inclination. So that the author in these days has more difficulties and responsibilities than in the past. He has to fight his battle alone. He has many more rivals to compete with, and many more readers to please. And the Press cannot help him. The Press may recommend, may even “boom” his work; but several instances have occurred lately where such recommendation has not been accepted. For, sometimes the Public fight shy of a “boom.” They think it has been worked up by the author’s friends, and they are not always mistaken. And they silently express the fact that they are quite capable of choosing the books they wish to read, without advice or assistance. This being the case, the Press is beginning to leave books and authors alone to shift for themselves as best they may, and is turning to other pastime. Nations, peoples, governments! These are the great footballs it occasionally kicks in the struggle for journalistic pre-eminence. And I hope I shall not be misunderstood if I venture to say that it is a somewhat dangerous game! Because, however powerful the Press may be, it is not the People. It is the printed opinion of certain editors and their staff. The People are outside it altogether. And if some one on the Press insults a monarch or a nation, that insult should not be taken as a People’s insult. It is the insult of the editor or proprietor who deliberately allows it to be printed in the particular journal he controls.

It is a thousand pities, for example, that a section of the lower _boulevard_ press in Paris should be accepted in any quarter, as being representative of the feeling of the whole French people. When flippant and irresponsible newspaper scribes resort to calumny for the sake of notoriety, they prove themselves unworthy to be trusted with the Power of the Pen. In any case it can only be a God-forsaken creature who seeks to earn his living by scurrility. Such an one may excite individual contempt, but does not merit the notice of a great nation.

As an author and as a lover of literature, I care very much for the honour and dignity of the British Press, and I cannot but earnestly deprecate the too free exchange of petty or malicious innuendo between foreign and English writers on their various respective journals. Bismarck used to say, “The windows which our Press breaks we shall have to pay for.” The power of the pen is abused when _such_ windows are broken as can only be mended by the sufferings of nations. If France or Germany sneers at us, or misreads our intentions, I do not see that we are called upon to sneer at them in return. That is mere schoolboy conduct. Our dignity should shame their flippancy. The Press of such an empire as Great Britain can afford to be magnanimous and dignified. It is too big and strong a boy to throw stones at its little brothers.

On such a subject as the Power of the Pen, one might speak endless discourses, and write endless volumes, for it is practically inexhaustible. It is a power for good and evil--as I have said--but the author wrongs his vocation if he does not always, most steadfastly and honestly, use it for Good. The Power of the Pen should define Right from Wrong with absolute certainty,--it should not so mix the two together that the reader cannot tell one from the other. In what is called the “problem” novel or the “problem” play, the authors manage so to befuddle the brains of their readers, that they hardly know whether virtue is vice or vice virtue. This is putting the power of the pen to unfair and harmful uses. And when a writer--any writer--employs his or her power to promote the spirit of Atheism and Materialism, the pen is turned into a merely murderous tool of the utmost iniquity. And whosoever uses it in this sense will have to answer at a Higher Tribunal for much mischief and cruelty wrought in the world.

Many people are familiar with Shakespeare’s town, Stratford-on-Avon, quaint and peaceful and beautiful in itself, and in all its surroundings. Outside it, many roads lead to many lovely glimpses of landscape; but there is one road in particular which winds uphill, and from which, at certain times, the town itself is lost sight of, and only the tapering spire of Holy Trinity Church--Shakespeare’s Church--can be seen. Frequently at sunset, when the rosy hue of the low clouds mingles with the silvery mist of the river Avon, all the houses, bridges and streets are veiled in an opaque glow of colour--and look like “mirage,” or a picture in a dream. And then, the spire of Shakespeare’s Church, seen by itself, rising clear up from the surrounding haze, puts on the distinct appearance of a Pen,--pointing upwards, as though prepared to write upon the sky!

Often and often have I seen it so, and others have seen it with me, glittering against clouds, or lit up by a flashing sunbeam. I have always thought it a true symbol of what the Power of the Pen should be--to point upwards. To point to the highest aims of life, the best, the greatest things; to rise clear out of the darkness and point straight to the sunshine! For, if so uplifted, the Power of the Pen becomes truly invincible. It can do almost anything. It can shame the knave--it can abash the fool. It can lower the proud,--it can raise the humble. It can assist the march of Science,--it can crush opposition. Armed with truth and justice, its authority is greater than that of governments,--for it can upset governments. It would seem impossible to dethrone an unworthy king; but it has been done--by the Power of the Pen! It is difficult to put down the arrogance of a county snob,--but it _can_ be done!--by the Power of the Pen! It may seem a terrible task to root up lies, to destroy hypocrisies, shams, false things of every kind, and make havoc among rogues, sensualists, and scoundrels of both high and low degree,--but it can be done, by the Power of the Pen! And to those who are given this power in its truest sense, is also added the gift of prophecy--the quick prescience of things To Be--the spiritual hearing which catches the first sound of the approaching time. And beyond the things of time this spiritual sense projects itself, and hears, and almost _sees_, all that shall be found most glorious after death!

With the Power of the Pen we can uphold all noble things; we can denounce all vile things. May all who have that power so deal with it--and point us on--and upward! For as our great poet, Tennyson, says:--

What is true at last will tell;
Few at first will place thee well;
Some too low would have thee shine,
Some too high--no fault of thine!
Hold thine own and work thy will!

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!”

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.

There are many, of course, who will by no means agree with me as to the superior charm of the Life Literary over all other lives--and such objectors will be found mostly in the literary profession itself. Unsuccessful authors--particularly those who are in any way troubled with dyspepsia--will be among them. “Tied” authors also--and by “tied” authors I mean the unhappy wretches who have signed contracts with publishers several years ahead, and are, so to speak, dancing in fetters. Authors who count the number of words they write per day, like potatoes, and anxiously calculate how much a publisher will possibly give for them per bushel, are not likely to experience any very particular “happiness” while they are measuring out halfpence in this fashion. And authors who run after “society” and want to be seen here, there, and everywhere, are bound to lose the gifts of the gods one by one as they scamper helter-skelter through the world’s Vanity Fair, while they may be perfectly sure that the “great” or swagger persons with whom they seek to associate will be the first to despise and neglect them in any time of need or trouble, as well as the last to support or help them in any urgent cause which might be benefited by their assistance.

On this point we have only to remember the melancholy experience of Robert Burns, who, after having been flattered and feasted by certain individuals who were, in an ephemeral sense, influential for the time being, either through their rank or their wealth, was afterwards shamefully neglected by them, and finally, notwithstanding the various social attentions and courtesy he had at one time received, he was left, when ill and dying, in such extremity as to be compelled to implore his publisher for the loan of five pounds! What had become of all his wealthy and “influential” friends? Why they were exactly where all “influential” persons would be now in a similar case--“otherwise engaged” when their help is needed. Nothing can well be more deplorable than the position of any author who depends for success on a clique of “distinguished” or “society” persons. He or she has exchanged independence for slavery--the nectar of the gods for a base mess of pottage--and the true “happiness” of the Life Literary for a mere miserable restlessness and constant craving after fresh excitement, which gradually breeds nervous troubles, and disturbs that fine and even balance of brain without which no clear or convincing thought is possible. Again, authors who deliberately prostitute their talents to the writing of lewd matter unfit to be handled by cleanly-minded men and women need never hope to possess that happy and studious peace which comes from the

Pure intent to do the best
Purely--and leave to God the rest.

For the highest satisfaction in the Life Literary is to think that perhaps, in a fortunate or inspired moment, one may have written at least a sentence, a line, a verse, that may carry comfort and a sense of beauty to the sorrowful, or hope to the forlorn; while surely the greatest pang would be to know that one had cast the already despairing soul into a lower depth of degradation, or caused the sinner to revel more consciously in his sin.

But are there no drawbacks, no disappointments, no sufferings in the Life Literary? Why, of course there are! Who would be such a useless block of stone, such a senseless lump of unvalued clay, as not to ardently wish for drawbacks, disappointments, and sufferings? Who that has a soul at all does not pray that it may be laid like glowing iron on the anvil of endurance, there to be beaten and hammered by destiny till it is of a strong and shapely mould, fit for combat, nerved to victory? And I maintain that such drawbacks, disappointments, difficulties, and sufferings as the profession of Literature entails are sweeter and nobler than the cares besetting other professions, inasmuch as they are always accompanied by never-failing consolations. If the pinch be poverty, the true servant of Literature can do with less of this world’s goods than most people. Luxury is not called for when one is rich in idealism and fancy. Heavy feeding will not make a clear, quick brain. Extravagant apparel is a necessity for no one--and genius was never yet born of a millionaire.

If the “thorn in the flesh” is the petty abuse of one’s envious contemporaries, that is surely a matter for rejoicing rather than grief, as it is merely the continuance of an apparently “natural law in the spiritual world” acting from the Inferior upon the Superior, which may be worded thus: “Whosoever will be great, let him be flayed alive!” Virgil was declared by Pliny to be destitute of invention; Aristotle was styled “ignorant, vain, and ambitious” by both Cicero and Plutarch; Plato was so jealous of Democritus that he proposed to burn up all his works; Sophocles was brought to trial by his own children as a lunatic; Horace was accused of stealing from all the minor Greek poets; and so on in the same way down to our own times.