The busy
man has no time to brood or to fret.
"From toil he wins his spirits light,
From busy day the peaceful night;
Rich, from the very want of wealth,
In Heaven's best treasures, peace and health." [1]
This applies especially to the labor of the field and the workshop. Humble
it may be, but if it does not dazzle with the promise of fame, it gives
the satisfaction of duty fulfilled, and the inestimable blessing of
health. As Emerson reminds those entering life, "The angels that live with
them, and are weaving laurels of life for their youthful brows, are toil
and truth and mutual faith."
Labor was truly said by the ancients to be the price which the gods set
upon everything worth having. We all admit, though we often forget, the
marvellous power of perseverance, and yet all Nature, down to Bruce's
spider, is continually impressing this lesson on us.
Hard writing, it has been said, makes easy reading; Plato is said to have
rewritten the first page of the _Republic_ thirteen times; and Carlo
Maratti, we are told, sketched the head of Antinoues three hundred times
before he wrought it to his satisfaction.
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