THE DIGNITY OF LABOUR. IN approaching the "Dignity of Labour" I am met with the thought, that the first record we have of work done is God's creation of the world. God laboured, and rested from his labour. The labour of the Deity produced a perfect world, with its myriads of perfect and happy creatures. This happiness man lost through sin. Man's first-recorded work after the fall was that in which the erring pair made their first effort, at constructiveness. This labour the Lord evidently approved, and in his goodness suggested to his fallen children, before they were driven from the garden, that by the exercise of ingenuity and labour they might even still enjoy comforts very much akin to those they had lost in Paradise. This, I think, was clearly suggested by the fact recorded in the words, "Unto Adam, and also unto his wife, did the Lord God make coats of skins, and clothed them;" thus, in his Fatherly love, fully awakening in his fallen children those constructive faculties which, with skilful labour, give us so much of our happiness. It requires, I think, but little of the poet's fancy to imagine how very soon the "dignity of labour" became apparent to our first parents when, hand in hand, they had taken their solitary way. They cannot have travelled far ere a resting-place was required. A place of shelter for the night was certainly required. How was it to be obtained? A lesson had been taught them in the making of the coats-the skins had been ingeniously put together, forming garments of comfort and protection. Adam had no doubt remembrance of the architecture of the bowers of paradise; now he must himself construct a bower for the shelter of his weary partner. He looks around for a suitable site. Here is a thick cluster of small trees if the minor shrubs were removed there would be sufficient space for the required apartment. He seats our mother on a mossy bank, and throwing off his coat, wraps it round her, and sets actively to work. He never knew his strength before. He tears up the obstructing shrubs and plants by the roots, soon clearing the required space: he smooths the surface with a broken bough. So far all is well; but a gentle shower reminds him that a watertight roof is necessary. He now, lightly mounting, intertwines the spreading boughs, finding immediate use for his clearings in filling up the gaps. "Not so bad," he says; but still the light shines through. His fig leaves throw the rain from his limbs; they will do the same for his dwelling. He goes off, and returns laden with fig tree branches. Eve, who has been seated, entranced at beholding the dignity of her husband's newly discovered powers, now rises, curious to see what next. Adam is again upon the roof, and now requests his wife to hand him the branches. She joyfully performs her part, forgetting her sorrow in discovering that she, too, can be useful. The roof completed, Adam pronounces his house finished. Eve, smiling, says, ""Tis well, but may be better;" the floor, she thinks, is rather rough. The moss on which she had been sitting was soft and pleasant; if Adam will but rest him now she will make the desired improvement. Adam, well pleased, stands aside and watches with pride the taste and ingenuity of his helpmate as she pulls the mossy tufts of various hues, and arranges them with wondrous skill upon the floor, thus giving to his rough, homely work much of the grace and elegance they had lost in paradise. Who can doubt that, when this work was completed, husband and wife had more of dignity in each other's eyes? |