It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "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 I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're 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. "But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work, In the dull December light, And work-work—work, When the weather is warm and brightWhile underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want "Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, WEST LONDON MATTHEW ARNOLD (1843) Crouch'd on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. Some laboring men, whose work lay somewhere there, Pass'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hied Across, and begg'd, and came back satisfied. The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. Thought I: "Above her state this spirit towers; She will not ask of aliens, but of friends, The unknown little from the unknowing great, And points us to a better time than ours." (1867) To buy his friend in the market, and pinch Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and pine the sold? and their unlearned discontent, 476 We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent. Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, Them as 'as munny an' all-wot's a beauty? -the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty, grows. And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering Do'ant be stunt; taake time. I knaws what light is shed. Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best. Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail. Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and (1885) forth the Banners go. Woa-theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse? Time to think on it then; for thou'll be twen- Proputty, proputty-woa then, woa-let ma Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean Thou'll not marry for munny-thou's sweet upo' parson's lass Noa-thou'll marry for luvv-an' we boath Seea'd her to-daay goa by-Saaint's-daay- She's a beauty, thou thinks-an' soa is maakes tha sa mad. Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysén when But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as "Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is!" An' I went wheer munny war; an' thy muther coom to 'and, Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. Maaybe she warn't a beauty-I niver giv it a thowt But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt? An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, Stook to his taaïl they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe; fur, Sam- Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass Couldn I luvv thy muther by cause 'o 'er Naay-fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it; reason why. Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boath -an ass as near as mays nowtWoa then, wiltha? dangtha!—the bees is as fell as owt. Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastways 'is out o' the fence! Gentleman burn! what's gentleman burn? is it shillins an' pence? Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it is n't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it 's the best. Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meals. Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. Taake my word for it Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laazy lot, Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. munny was 'id. But 'e tued an' moil'd issén dead, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did. Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill! Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see; And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick; But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick. Coom oop, proputty, proputty-that's what I 'ears 'im saay Proputty, proputty, proputty-canter an' canter awaay. (1870) 3. WEALTH AND COMMONWEALTH TRAFFIC JOHN RUSKIN My good Yorkshire friends, you asked me down here among your hills that I might talk to you about this Exchange you are going to build: but earnestly and seriously. asking you to pardon me, I am going to do nothing of the kind. I cannot talk, or at least can say very little, about this same Exchange. I must talk of quite other things, though not willingly;-I could not deserve your pardon, if when you invited me to speak on one subject, I willfully spoke on another. But I cannot speak, to purpose, of anything about which I do not care; and most simply and sorrowfully I have to tell you in the outset, that I do not care about this Exchange of yours. If, however, when you sent me your invitation, I had answered, "I won't come, I don't care about the Exchange of Bradford," you would have been justly offended with me, not knowing the reasons of so blunt a carelessness. So I have come down, hoping that you will patiently let me tell you why, on this, and many other such occasions, 1 A lecture delivered in the Town Hall, Bradford, afterwards included in The Crown of Wild Olive. I now remain silent, when formerly I should have caught at the opportunity of speaking to a gracious audience. In a word, then, I do not care about this Exchange, because you don't; and because you know perfectly well I cannot make you. Look at the essential conditions of the case, which you, as business men, know perfectly well, though perhaps you think I forget them. You are going to spend £30,000, which to you, collectively, is nothing; the buying a new coat is, as to the cost of it, a much more important matter of consideration to me than building a new Exchange is to you. But you think you may as well have the right thing for your money. You know there are a great many odd styles of architecture about; you don't want to do anything ridiculous; you hear of me, among others, as a respectable architectural man-milliner; and you send for me, that I may tell you the leading fashion; and what is, in our shops, for the moment, the newest and sweetest thing in pinnacles. Now, pardon me for telling you frankly, you cannot have good architecture merely by asking people's advice on occasion. All good architecture is the expression of national life and character; and it is produced by a prevalent and eager national 478 taste, or desire for beauty. And I want you to think a little of the deep significance of this word "taste"; for no statement of mine has been more earnestly or oftener controverted than that good taste is essentially a moral quality. "No," say many of my antagonists, "taste is one thing, morality is another. Tell us what is pretty: we shall be glad to know that; but we need no sermons even were you able to preach them, which may be doubted." Permit me, therefore, to fortify this old dogma of mine somewhat. Taste is not only a part and an index of morality-it is the ONLY morality. The first, and last, and closest trial question to any living creature is, "What do you like?" Tell me what you like, and I'll tell you what you are. Go out into the street, and ask the first man or woman you meet, what their “taste” is, and if they answer candidly, you know them, body and soul. "You, my friend in the rags, with the unsteady gait, what do you like?" "A pipe and a quartern of gin." I know you. "You, good woman, with the quick step and tidy bonnet, what do you like?" "A swept hearth and a clean teatable, and my husband opposite me, and a baby at my breast." Good, I know you also. "You, little girl with the golden hair "My and the soft eyes, what do you like?" canary, and a run among the wood hyacinths." "You, little boy with the dirty hands and the low forehead, what do you like?" "A shy at the sparrows, and a game at pitch farthing." Good; we know them all now. What more need we ask? "Nay," perhaps you answer: "We need rather to ask what these people and children do, than what they like. If they do right, it is no matter that they like what is wrong; and if they do wrong, it is no matter that they like what is right. Doing is the great thing; and it does not matter that the man likes drinking, so that he does not drink; nor that the little girl likes to be kind to her canary, if she will not learn her lessons; nor that the little boy likes throwing stones at the sparrows, if he goes to the Sunday School." Indeed, for a short time, and in a provisional sense, this is true. For if, resolutely, people do what is right, in time they come to like doing it. But they only are in a right moral state when they have come to like doing it; and as long as they don't like it, they are still in a vicious state. The man is not in health of body who is always thinking of the bottle in the cupboard, though he bravely bears his thirst; but the man who heartily enjoys water in the morning and wine in the evening, each in its proper quantity and time. And the entire object of true education is to make people not merely do the right things, but enjoy the right things-not merely industrious, but to love industry-not merely learned, but to love knowledge-not merely pure, but to love purity-not merely just, but to hunger and thirst after justice. -a But you may answer or think, "Is the liking for outside ornaments,—for pictures, or statues, or furniture, or architecture,moral quality ?" Yes, most surely, if a rightly set liking. Taste for any pictures or statues is not a moral quality, but taste for good ones is. Only here again we have to define the word "good." I don't mean by "good," clever-or learned-or difficult in the doing. Take a picture by Teniers, of sots quarreling over their dice: it is an entirely clever picture; so clever that nothing in its kind has ever been done equal to it; but it is also an entirely base and evil picture. It is an expression of delight in the prolonged contemplation of a vile thing, and delight in that is an "unmannered," or "immoral" quality. It is "bad taste" in the profoundest sense-it is the taste of the devils. On the other hand, a picture of Titian's, or a Greek statue, or a Greek coin, or a Turner landscape, expresses delight in the perpetual contemplation of a good and perfect thing. That is an entirely moral quality-it is the taste of the angels. And all delight in fine art, and all love of it, resolve themselves into simple love of that which deserves love. That deserving is the quality which we call "loveliness"-(we ought to have an opposite word, hateliness, to be said of the things which deserve to be hated); and it is not an indifferent nor optional thing whether we love this or that; but it is just the vital function of all our being. What we like determines what we are, and is the sign of what we are; and to teach taste is inevitably to form character. As I was thinking over this, in walking up Fleet Street the other day, my eye caught the title of a book standing open in a bookseller's window. It was-"On the necessity of the diffusion of taste among all classes." "Ah," I thought to myself, "my classifying friend, when you have dif |