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Of every two men probably one man thinks he is a drudge, and every second woman at times is sure she is. Either we are not doing the thing we would like to do in life; or, in what we do or like, we find so much to dislike, that the rut tires, even when the road runs on the whole a pleasant way. I am going to speak of the Culture that comes through this very Drudgery.
“Culture through my drudgery!” some one is now thinking: “This tread mill that has worn me out, this grind I hate, this plod that, as long ago as I remember it, seemed tiresome, — to this have I owed ‘culture’? Keeping house or keeping accounts, tending babies, teaching primary school, weighing sugar and salt at a counter, those blue overalls in the machine-shop — have these anything to do with ‘culture’? Culture takes leisure, elegance, wide margins of time, and a pocket-book: drudgery means limitations, coarseness, crowded hours, chronic worry, old clothes, black hands, headaches. Culture implies college: life allows a daily paper, a monthly magazine, the circulating library, and two gift-books at Christmas. Our real and our ideal are not twins: never were! I want the books, — but the clothes-basket wants me. The two children are good, — and so would be two hours a day without the children. I crave an out-door life, — -and walk down town of mornings to perch on a high stool till supper time. I love Nature, and figures are my fate. My taste is books, and I farm it. My taste is art, and I correct exercises. My taste is science, and I measure tape. I am young and like stir: the business jogs on like a stage coach. Or I am not young, I am getting grey over my ears, and like to sit down and be still: but the drive of the business keeps both tired arms stretched out full length. I hate this over bidding and this underselling, this spry, unceasing competition, and would willingly give up a quarter of my profits to have two hours of my daylight to myself — at least I would if, working just as I do, I did not barely get the children bread and clothes. I did not choose my calling, but was dripped into it — by my innocent conceit — or by duty to the family — or by a parent’s foolish pride — or by our hasty marriage; or a mere accident wedged me into it. Would I could have my life over again! Then, whatever I should be, at least I would not be what I am today!”
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