twenty-five million hearts have got to such temper, this _is_ the
Anarchy; the soul of it lies in this, whereof not peace can be the
embodiment! The death of Marat, whetting old animosities tenfold, will
be worse than any life. O ye hapless Two, mutually extinctive, the
Beautiful and the Squalid, sleep ye well,--in the Mother's bosom that
bore you both!

This is the History of Charlotte Corday; most definite, most complete:
angelic-demonic: like a Star!

II

THE BLESSEDNESS OF WORK[48]

For there is perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in Work, were
he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always
hope in a man that actually and earnestly works: in Idleness alone is
there perpetual despair. Work, never so Mammonish, mean, _is_ in
communication with Nature; the real desire to get Work done will
itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's appointments and
regulations, which are truth.

The latest Gospel in this world is, Know thy work and do it. "Know
thyself": long enough has that poor "self" of thine tormented thee;
thou wilt never get to "know" it, I believe! Think it not thy
business, this of knowing thyself; thou art an unknowable individual:
know what thou canst work at; and work at it like a Hercules! That
will be thy better plan.

It has been written, "An endless significance lies in Work"; a man
perfects himself by working. Foul jungles are cleared away, fair
seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities; and withal the man
himself first ceases to be jungle and foul unwholesome desert thereby.
Consider how even in the meanest sorts of Labor, the whole soul of a
man is composed into a kind of real harmony the instant he sets
himself to work! Doubt, Desire, Sorrow, Remorse, Indignation, Despair
itself, all these like hell-dogs lie beleaguering the soul of the poor
day-worker, as of every man: but he bends himself with free valor
against his task, and all these are stilled, all these shrink
murmuring far off into their caves. The man is now a man. The blessed
glow of Labor in him, is it not as purifying fire, wherein all poison
is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is made bright blessed
flame!

Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. A formless
Chaos, once set it _revolving_, grows round and ever rounder; ranges
itself by mere force of gravity into strata, spherical courses; is no
longer a Chaos, but a round compacted World. What would be