THE DEMOCRATIC IDEAL OF LABOR1

ORVILLE DEWEY (1794-1882)

Ashamed to toil art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor field; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has stamped, 'midst sun and rain, 'midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to Nature; it is impiety to Heaven; it is breaking Heaven's great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat - TOIL, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!

WORK 2

THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881)

There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in Work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually

1 From "The Arts of Industry," in Works of Orville Dewey, published by Charles S. Francis, 1861.

Carlyle was a Scottish essayist and a critic representing the democratic extreme of the Victorian literary group. His rugged character, matched by his rugged style, was quite at variance with the ideals dominant at the time, but both in his criticisms and in his constructive suggestions he was the most forceful preacher of the spirit of democratic realism which, during the period of his literary activities, was most rapidly developing in America. From chapter on "Labor" in "Past and Present." Thomas Carlyle's Collected Works, Vol. XIII. Published by Chapman and Hall, London, 1843.

and earnestly works; in Idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so mammonish, is in communication with Nature; the real desire to get Work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's appointments and regulations, which are truth. . . .

It has been written, "an endless significance lies in Work," a man perfects himself by working. Foul jungles are cleared away, fair seedfields rise instead, and stately cities; and withal the man himself first ceases to be jungle and foul, unwholesome desert thereby. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of Labor, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the instant he sets himself to work! Doubt, Desire, Sorrow, Remorse, Indignation, Despair itself, all these like hell-dogs lie beleaguering the soul of the poor dayworker as of every man: but he bends himself with free valor against his task, and all these are stilled, all these shrink murmuring far off into their caves. The man is now a man. The blessed glow of Labor in him, is it not as purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is made bright, blessed flame!

Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. A formless Chaos, once set it revolving, grows round and even rounder; ranges itself, by mere force of gravity, into strata, spherical courses; is no longer a Chaos, but a round, compacted World. What would become of the Earth, did she cease to revolve? In the poor old Earth, so long as she revolves, all inequalities, irregularities, disperse themselves; all irregularities are incessantly becoming regular. Hast thou looked on the Potter's wheel, one of the venerablest objects; old as the prophet Ezechiel, and far older? Rude lumps of clay, how they spin themselves up, by mere quick whirling, into beau

tiful circular dishes! And fancy the most assiduous Potter, but without his wheel; reduced to make dishes or rather amorphous botches, by mere kneading and baking! Even such a potter were Destiny, with a human soul that would rest and lie at ease, that would not work and spin! Of an idle, unrevolving man the kindest Destiny, like the most assiduous Potter without wheel, can bake and knead nothing other than a botch; let her spend on him what expensive coloring, what gilding and enameling she will, he is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a bulging, kneaded, crooked, shambling, squint-cornered, amorphous botch, a mere enameled vessel of dishonor! Let the idle think of this.

Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose; he has found it, and will follow it! How as a free-flowing channel dug and torn by noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence, like an ever deepening river there, it runs and flows; - draining off the sour water gradually from the root of the remotest grass blade; making, instead of pestilential swamp, a green, fruitful meadow with its clear-flowing stream. How blessed for the meadow itself, let the stream and its value be great or small! Labor is life; from the inmost heart of the Worker rises his God-given force, the sacred celestial Life-essence, breathed into him by Almighty God; from his inmost heart awakens him to all nobleness, to all knowledge, "self-knowledge," and much else, so soon as Work fitly begins.

ARISTOKRATS1

JOSH BILLINGS (HENRY W. SHAW) (1818-1885)

Natur furnishes all the noblemen we hav. Pedigree haz no more to do in making a man aktually grater than he iz, than a pekok's feather in his hat haz in making him aktually taller.

This iz a hard phakt for some tew learn.

This mundane earth iz thik with folks who think they are grate, bekauze their ansesstor waz luckey in the sope or tobacco trade; and altho the sope haz run out some time since, they try tew phool themselves and other folks with the suds.

Sopesuds iz a prekarious bubble. Thare aint nothing so thin on the ribs az a sopesuds aristokrat.

Titles aint ov enny more real use or necessity than dog collars are. I hav seen dog collars that kost 3 dollars on dogs that want worth in enny market over 87 cents. This iz a grate waste ov collar and a grate damage tew the dog.

Raizing aristokrats iz a dredful poor bizzness; yu don't never git your seed back. One demokrat iz worth more tew the world than 60 thousand manufaktured aristokrats.

An Amerikan aristokrat iz the most ridiclus thing in the market. They are generally ashamed ov their ansesstors; and, if they hav enny, and live long enuff,

1 Mr. Shaw was a popular humorist whose humor consisted partly in the use of phonetic spelling and partly in the wit and common sense of the illiterate man.

Used by permission of M. A. Donahue & Co., Chicago, Illinois, publishers and owners of the complete copyright works of Josh Billings.

they generally hav cauze tew be ashamed ov their posterity.

I kno ov several familys in Amerika who are tryng tew liv on their aristokrasy. The money and brains giv out sum time ago. It iz hard skratching for them.

Yu kan warm up kold potatos and liv on them, but yu kant warm up aristokratik pride and git even a smell.

THE HOMES OF THE PEOPLE1

HENRY W. GRADY (1851-1889)

A few days later I visited a country home. A modest, quiet house sheltered by great trees and set in a circle of field and meadow, gracious with the promise of harvest; barns and cribs well filled and the old smokehouse odorous with treasure; the fragrance of pink and hollyhock mingling with the aroma of garden and orchard, and resonant with the hum of bees and poultry's busy clucking; inside the house, thrift, comfort, and that cleanliness that is next to godliness — the restful beds, the open fireplace, the books and papers, and the old clock that had held its steadfast pace amid the frolic of weddings, that had welcomed in steady measure the newborn babes of the family and kept company with the watchers of the sick bed, and had ticked the solemn requiem of the dead; and the wellworn Bible that, thumbed by fingers long since stilled, and blurred with tears of eyes long since closed, held the simple

1 An American journalist and orator, for many years editor of the Atlanta Constitution, Mr. Grady did much to reëstablish understanding and good will between the North and the South. From a speech, "The Farmer and the Cities," in Orations and Speeches of Henry W. Grady. Copyright, 1910, by Edwin Du Bois Shurter. Used by permission of the publisher.