thing!
And what is his return? Four hundred a year and all found. I look into
the frank eyes of George the Fourth and I am mute. In no philosophy,
in no "Conduct of Life," in no "Lesson for the Day" which I have read
can I discover any consolation or sane rule of living for such as he.
Is not this a terrible gap in Ruskin, Emerson, and Co.? I take up the
first and I ask George to listen. He is perfectly willing, because, he
says with reverence, I am "a scholar," and I have read to him before.

"... There _must_ be work done by the arms, or none of us could live.
There _must_ be work done by the brains, or the life we get would not
be worth having. And the same men cannot do both. There is rough work
to be done, and rough men must do it; there is gentle work to be done,
and gentlemen must do it; and it is physically impossible that one
class should do, or divide, the work of the other. And it is of no use
to try to conceal this sorrowful fact by fine words, and to talk to
the workman about the honourableness of manual labour and the dignity
of humanity. Rough work, honourable or not, takes the life out of us;
and the man who has been heaving clay out of a ditch all day, or
driving an express train against the north wind all night, or holding
a collier's helm in a gale on a lee shore, or whirling white-hot metal
at a furnace mouth, is not the same man at the end of his day, or
night, as one who has been sitting in a quiet room, with everything
comfortable about him, reading books, or classing butterflies, or
painting pictures."

George nods. He understands exactly what is meant. His father is
skipper of a collier, his brother is in a steel works. Probably he and
I know, better than John Ruskin, how rough work "takes the life out of
us." But when I continue, and read to him what the wise man teaches
concerning justice to men, and never-failing knight-errantry towards
women, and love for natural beauty, even awe-struck George becomes
slightly sardonic, and his mouth comes down at the corners. Let me
formulate his thoughts. He is asking how can one be just when
the work's _got_ to be done, and blame _must_ fall on somebody's
shoulders? How can one feel and act rightly towards women when one
is young, yet compelled to live a life of alternate celibacy and
licence? How can one love nature, even the sea, when the engine-room
temperature is normally 90 deg. F., and often 120 deg. F., when the
soul cries out against the endless