Produce! Produce! Were it but the
pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in
God's name! 'Tis the utmost thou hast in thee; out with it then.
Up, up! Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole
might. Work while it is called to-day; for the night cometh
wherein no man can work.'"
There is another passage in _Sartor Resartus_ which I have always
held in veneration, though the field labourer is not now so
"hardly-entreated" as when Carlyle wrote of him:--
"Two men I honour, and no third. First the toilworn Craftsman that
with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth, and
makes her man's.
"Venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse; wherein
notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue indefeasibly royal, as of
the sceptre of this planet. Venerable too is the rugged face, all
weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is
the face of a man living manlike. Oh, but the more venerable for
thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee!
Hardly-entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were
thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our
conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so
marred.
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