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imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself in those Elysian palaces.
2. “Fair scene!" I imagine you are saying: “fortunate for as had it been the scene ordained for human life !" But where then had been human energy, perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off labor, with one blow, from the world, and mankind had sunk to a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. No! it had not been fortunate! Better, that the earth be given to man as a dark mass, whereupon to labor. Better, that rude and unsightly materials be provided in the ore-bed and in the forest, for him to fashion in splendor and beauty.
3. Better, I say, not because of that splendor and beauty, but because the act of creating them is better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy of honor than the idler. If man stood on the earth passively and unconscious, imbibing the dew and sap, and spreading his arms to the light and air, he would be but a tree. If he grew up capable neither of purpose nor of improvement, with no guidance but instinct, and no powers but those of digestion and locomotion, he would be but an animal.
4. But he is more than this': he is a man'; he is made to improve'; he is made', therefore', to think', to act', to work! Labor is his great function', his peculiar distinction', his privilege'. Can he not think so? Can he not see, that, from being an animal, to eat, and drink, and sleep, to become a worker, to put forth the hand of ingenuity, and to pour his own thoughts into the molds of nature, fashioning them into forms of grace and fabrics of convenience, and converting them to purposes of improvement and happiness, ---can he not see, I repeat, that this is the greatest possible step in privilege?
5. Labor, I say, is man's great function. The earth and the atmosphere are his laboratory. With spade and plow; with mining shafts, and furnaces, and forges; with fire and steam; amidst the noise and whirl of swift and bright machinery; and abroad in the silent fields, beneath the roofing sky; man was made to be ever working, ever experimenting. And while he, and all his dwellings of care and toil, are borne onward with the circling skies, and the shows of heaven are around him, and their infinite depths image and invite his thought, stilí, in all the worlds of philosophy, in the universe of intellect, man must be a worker. He is nothing, he can be nothing, he can achieve nothing, fulfill nothing, without working.
6. I call upon those whom I address, to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven's great ordinance for human
improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down, for ages. Let it, then, be built up again; here, if any. where, on these shores of a new world, of a new civilization. But how, it may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil ? . it may be said. They do, indeed, toil; but they too generally do it because they must.
7. Many submit to it, as in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth, as to escape from it
. They fulfill the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit. To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should hasten, as a chosen, coveted theater of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting
8. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil? 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 embroidered, midst sun and rain, 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.
BY MRS. F. S. OSGOOD.
FRANCES S. Osgood, the daughter of Mr. Joseph Locke, was born in Boston, about the year 1812. In 1834 she married Mr. S. S. Osgood, a young painter, already favorably known in his profession. Mrs. Osgood wrote many prose tales and sketches, but her literary fame rests principally upon her poetical compositions, which are quite numerous. She died May 12, 1850.
1. Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us:
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 2. “Labor is worship!” the robin is singing;
“Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing.
Speaks to thy soul from out nature's heart.
Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part. 3. “ Labor is life!” 'Tis the still water faileth;
Illeness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tine 4. Labor is rest, from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from world-sirens that lead us to ill
Work,--and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!
5. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!
Rest not content in thy darkness,-a clod!
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.
Stranger - O’Callaghan. Stranger. I HAVE lost my way, good friend: can you assist me in finding it?
O’Callaghan. Assist you in finding it, sir? ay, by my faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the world's end, and further 100.
Str. I wish to return by the shortest route to the Black Rock..
O’Cal. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's honor; and O'Callaghan's own self sball show you the way, and then you can't miss it, you know.
Str. I would not give you so much trouble, Mr. O'Callaghan.
O’Cal. It is never a trouble, so plase your honor, for an Irishman to do his duty.
Sir. Whither do you travel, friend?
O’Cal. To Dublin, so plase your honor. Sure all the world knows that Judy O'Flanagan will be married tomorrow, God willing, to Pat Ryan; and Pat, you know, is my own fosterbrother, because why we had but one nurse betwane us, and that was my own mother; but she died one day, the Lord rest her swate soul! and left me an orphan, for my father married again, and his new wife was the devil's own child, and did nothing but bate me from morning till night. Och, why did I not die before I was born to see that day? for, by St. Patrick, the woman's heart was as cold as a hailstone.
Str. But what reason could she have for treating you so unmercifully, Mr. O'Callaghan?
OʻCal. Ah, your honor, and sure enough there are always rasons as plenty as pratees; for being hard-hearted. And I was no bigger than a dumpling at the time, so I could not help myelf, and my father did not care to help me, and so I hopped he twig, and parted old Nick's darling! Och! may the devil find her wherever she goes! But here I am alive and lapeing and going to see Pat married; and faith, to do him justice, he's as honest a lad as any within ten miles of us, and no disparagement, neither; and I love Pat, and I love all his family; ay, by my shoul do I, every mother's skin of them; and by the same token, I have traveled many a long mile to be present at his wedding Str. Your miles in Ireland are much longer than ours,
OʻCal. Indade, and you may belave that, your honor, because why, St. Patrick measured them in his coach, you know. Och, by the powers! the time has been,-but, 'tis no matter, not a single copper at all at all now belongs to the family, but as I was saying, the day has been, ay, by my troth, and the night too, when the O'Callaghans, good luck to them, held their heads up as high as the best; and, though I have not a rod of land belonging to me but what I hire, I love my country, and would halve my last pratee with every poor creature that has none.
Str. Pray how does the bride appear, Mr. O'Callaghan?
O'Cal. Och, by my shoul, your honor, she's a nate article; and then she will be rigged out as gay as a lark and as fine as a peacock; because why, she has a great lady for her godmother, -long life and success to her,—who has given Judy two milch cows and five pounds in hard money; and Pat has taken as dacent apartments as any in Dublin, a nate, comely parlor as you'd wish to see, just six fate under ground, with a nice, beautiful ladder to go down, and all so complate and gentale, and comfortable as a body may say.
Str. Nothing like comfort, Mr. O'Callaghan.
O’Cal. Faith, and you may say that your honor. Comfort is comfort, says I to Mrs. O'Callaghan, when we are all sated 80 cleverly around a great big turf fire, as merry as grigs, with the dear little grunters snoring so swately in the corner, defying wind and weather, with a dry thatch and a sound conscience to go to slape upon.
Str. A good conscience makes a soft pillow.