Manual of Patriotism
PREFATORY NOTE.—In the life oI the nation, true Patriotism and honest Labor are very closely allied. Then why not upon the printed page?
Only a few years ago, the State of New York recognized the cause of labor by making the first Monday in September of each year a legal holiday, called “Labor Day.” On that day hundreds of thousands of the toilers of the great Empire State march in procession with flags flying and bands playing,—and then away for an afternoon of games and sports! And every on-looker feels not only that “the laborer is worthy of his hire,” but of his holiday.
Moreover, the laborer is worthy not only of his hire and holiday, but of the best education for his children, and the best protection for himself and his family which the State can give! For without his faithful toil, the white Sails of Commerce would soon desert the seas; the Wheels of Trade would clog and stop—and the National Government itself stand still. There is no better patriot in the land than the strong-handed, true-hearted laborer.
As for bidding me not work, Molly might s well put the kettle on the fire, and say, “Now, don't boil!” — Sir Walter Scott.
The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of Northern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the Northern laborers! Who are the Northern laborers? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every page. Blot from your annals the words and doings of Northern laborers, and the history of your country presents but a universal blank. Sir, who was he that disarmed the Thunderer, wrested from his grasp the bolts of Jove; calmed the troubled ocean; became the central sun of the philosophical system of his age, shedding his brightness and effulgence on the whole civilized world; whom the great and mighty of the earth delighted to honor; who participated in the achievement of your independence, prominently assisted in molding your free institutions, and the beneficial effects of whose wisdom will be felt to the last moment of “recorded time?” Who, sir, I ask, was he? A Northern laborer,a Yankee tallow-chandler's son—a printer's runaway boy.—Charles Naylor.
And who let me ask the honorable gentleman, who was he that, in the days of our Revolution, led the Northern army,—yes, an army of Northern laborers,—and aided the chivalry of South Carolina in their defence against British aggression, drove the spoilers from their firesides, and redeemed her fair fields from foreign invaders? Who was he? A Northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith,—the gallant General Greene,—who left his hammer and his forge, and went forth conquering and to conquer in the battle for our independence! And will you preach insurrection to men like these?—Naylor.
Sir, our country is full of the achievements of Northern laborers. Where is Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the North? And what, sir, has shed an imperishable renown on the never-dying names of those hallowed spots, but the blood and the struggles, the high daring, and patriotism, and sublime courage, of Northern laborers? The whole North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelligence, and indomitable independence, of Northern laborers. Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these!—Naylor.
When the great obelisk, brought from Egypt in 1586, was erected in the square of St. Peter's in Rome, the tackle was all arranged for the delicate and peri1ous work. To make all safe and prevent the possibility of accident from any sudden cry or alarm, a papal edict had proclaimed death to any man who should utter a loud word, till the engineer had given the order that all risk was passed.
As the majestic monolith moved up, the populace closed in. The square was crowded with admiring eyes and beating hearts. Slowly that crystalization of Egyptian sweat rises on its base—five degrees, ten degrees, fifteen, twenty—there are signs of faltering. No matter—no voice—silence. It moves again—twenty-five, thirty, forty, forty-three-it stops! See! Those hempen cables which like faithful servants have obeyed the mathematician have suddenly received an order from God not to hold that base steady another instant on those terms. The obedient masons look at each other,—silent,—and then watch the threatening masses of stone. Among the crowd, silence,silence everywhere, obedience to law,—and the sun shone on the stillness and despair.
Suddenly from out of the breathless throng rang a cry, clear as the archangel's trumpet,—“Wet the ropes!" The crowd turned to look. Tiptoe on a post, in a jacket of homespun, his eyes full of prophetic fire, stood a workman of the people. His words flashed like lightning and struck. From the engineer to his lowest assistant the cry had instant obedience. Water was dashed on the cables; they bit fiercely into the granite; the windlasses were. manned once more, and the obelisk rose to its place and took its stand for centuries.—Adapted.
Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop 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, 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!—Orville Dewey.