Chapter II: Part 2

Let me examine this cheap-entered nest,
Pay my five cents, and go in with the rest;
Let me jot down with sly pen, but sincere,
What, in this garret, I see, smell, and hear.
Great, gloomy den! where, on close-clustered shelves,
Shelterless wretches can shelter themselves;
Pestilence-drugged is the murderous air,
Full of the breathings of want and despair!
Horrible place!--where The Crushed Race
Winces 'neath Poverty's dolefullest blight--
Bivouac of suffering, sin, and disgrace:
What can you look for, at five cents per night?

Hustle them in, jostle them in,
Many of nation, and divers of kin;
Sallow, and yellow, and tawny of skin--
Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
Handfuls of withered but suffering clay,
Swept from the East by oppression away;
Baffled adventurers, conquered and pressed
Back from the gates of the glittering West;
Men who with indolence, folly, and guile
Carelessly slighted Prosperity's smile;
Men who have struggled 'gainst Destiny's frown,
Inch after inch, till she hunted them down.
Scores in a tier--pile them up here--
Many of peoples and divers of kin;
Drift of the nations, from far and from near,
Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

Islands of green, mistily seen,
Hover in visions these sleepers between;
Beautiful memories, cozy and clean,
Restfully precious, and sweetly serene.
Womanly kisses have softened the brow
Lying in drunken bewilderment now;
Infantile faces have cuddled for rest
Here on this savage and rag-covered breast.
Lucky the wretch who, in Poverty's ways,
Bears not the burden of "happier days:"
Many a midnight is gloomier yet
By the remembrance of stars that have set!
Echoes of pain, drearily plain,
Come of old melodies sweet and serene;
Images sad to the heart and the brain
Rise out of memories cozy and green.

* * * * *

Hustle them in, bustle them in,
Fetid with squalor, and reeking with gin,
Loaded with misery, folly, and sin--
Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!
Few are the sorrows so hopelessly drear
But they have sad representatives here;
Never a crime so complete and confessed
But has come hither for one night of rest.
Seeds that the thorns of diseases may bear
Float on the putrid and smoke-laden air;
Ghosts of destruction are haunting each breath--
Soft-stepping agents, commissioned by Death.
Crowd them in rows, comrades or foes,
Deadened with liquor and deafened with din,
Fugitives out of the frosts and the snows,
Hustle them, bustle them, jostle them in!

* * * * *

Guilt has not pressed unto its breast
All who are taking this dingy unrest:
Innocence often is Misery's guest;
Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.
You from whom hope, but not feeling, has fled,
This is your refuge from pauperhood's bed;
Timorous lad with a sensitive face,
You have no record of crime and disgrace;
Weary old man with the snow-drifted hair,
Not by your fault are you suffering there,
Never a child of your cherishing nigh--
'Tis not for sin you so drearily die.
Pain, in all lands, smites with two hands--
Guilty and good may encounter the test;
Misery's cord is of different strands;
Sorrow may strike at the brightest and best.

Sympathy's tear, warm and sincere,
Cannot but glisten while lingering near.
Edge not away, sir, in horror of fear,
These are your brothers--this family here!
What if Misfortune had made _you_ forlorn
With her stiletto as well as her scorn?
What if some fiend had been making _you_ sure
With more temptation than flesh could endure?
What if you deep in the slums had been born,
Cradled in villany, christened in scorn?
What if your toys had been tainted with crime?
What if your baby hands dabbled in slime?
Judge them with ruth. Maybe, in truth,
It is not they, but their luck, that is here.
Fancy _your_ growth from a sin-nurtured youth;
Pity their weakness, and give them a tear.

Help them get out; help them keep out!
Labor to teach them what life is about;
Give them a hand unencumbered with doubt;
Feed them and clothe them, but pilot them out!
Mortals depraved, whatsoe'er they have been,
Soonest can mend from assistance _within_.
Warm them and feed them--they're beasts, even then;
Teach them and love them--they grow into men.
You who 'mid luxuries costly and grand
Decorate homes with munificent hand,
Use, in some measure, your exquisite arts
For the improvement of minds and of hearts.
Lilies must grow up from below,
Where the strong rootlets are twining about;
Goodness and honesty ever must flow
From the heart-centres--to blossom without.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

FEBRUARY 28, 18--.

Wind in the west; no symptoms of a thaw;
The coldest, bleakest day I ever saw.
And I'm housed up, with nothing much to do
Except to read the papers through and through.

"Died of starvation!"--what does this all mean?
Stores of provisions everywhere are seen.
"Died of starvation!"--here's the place and name
Right in the paper; let us blush for shame!

This city _wastes_ what any one would call
Nine hundred times enough to feed us all;
And yet folks die in garret, hut, and street,
Simply because there isn't enough to eat!

Oh, heavens! there runs a great big Norway rat,
Sleek as a banker, and almost as fat;
He daily breakfasts, dines, and sups, and thrives
On what would save a pair of human lives;
He rears a family with his own fat features,
On food we lock up from our fellow-creatures;
And human beings fall down by the way,
And die for want of food, this very day!

"Frozen to death!"--the worse than useless moth
May feed, this year, on bales and bales of cloth;
Untouched, ten million tons of coal can lie,
While God's own human beings freeze and die!

"Died of starvation!"--waves of golden wheat
All summer dashed and glistened at our feet;
Dull, senseless grain is stored in buildings high,
And God's own human beings starve and die!

I would not rob from rich men what they earn,
But I would have them sweet compassion learn;
Oh, do not Pity's gentle voice defy,
While God's own human beings starve and die!

* * * * *

MARCH 5, 18--.

Died of starvation!--yes, it has been done;
To-day I've seen a hunger-murdered one,
Who had a perfect right, it seemed to me,
The mistress of a happy home to be;
And yet we found her on a ragged bed,
One white arm underneath a shapely head;
Her long, bright hair was lying, fold on fold,
Like finest threads spun from a bar of gold;
Her face was chiselled after beauty's style,
And want had not hewn out its witching smile;
'Twas like white marble half endowed with breath--
The face of this sweet maiden--starved to death!

Not far from where she lay, so sadly lone,
Her calendar, or "diary," was thrown;
They let me have it when the law had read
This plaintive, girlish message from the dead.
It doesn't look well among these notes to stay,
Of one who feeds on blessings every day;
But I will put it in here, for my heart
To look at when I feel too proud and smart!

A SEWING-GIRL'S DIARY.

FEBRUARY 1, 18--.

Here--am I here?
Or is it fancy, born of fear?
Yes--O God, save me!--this is I,
And not some wretch of whom I've read,
In that bright girlhood, when the sky
Each night strewed star-dust o'er my head;
When each morn meant a gala-day,
And all my little world was gay.
I had not felt the touch of Care;
I'd heard of something called Despair,
But knew it only by its name.
(How far it seemed!--how soon it came!)
Yes, all the bright years hurried by;
Sorrow was near, and--this is I!

Is't the same girl that stood, one night,
There in the wide hall's thrilling light,
With all the costly robes astir
That love and pride had bought for her?
How the great crowd, 'mid their kind din,
Gazed with gaunt eyes and drank me in!
And then they hushed at each low word,
So Death himself might have been heard,
To hear me mournfully rehearse
The tender Hood's pathetic verse
About the woman who, half dead,
Stitched her frail life in every thread.
How little then I knew the need!
Yet for my own sex I did plead,
And my heart crept on each word's track
Till soft sobs from the crowd came back.

I saw my sister, streaming-eyed,
Yet bearing still a face of pride:
Oh, sister! when you looked at me
With that quick yearning glance of love,
Did you peer on, to what might be--
_What is?_--and is it known above?
When that great throng a shout did raise,
And gave me words of heart-felt praise,
And loving eyes their incense burned
Till my young girlish head was turned--
Did your clear eye see farther then
A moment past all mortal ken,
And in the dreary scene I drew
Did my own form appear to you?
It might have been; grief was o'er-nigh,
And--God, have pity!--this is I,
Treading a steep and dang'rous way,
And--earning twenty cents a day!

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 5, 18--.

Father, this is the time we hailed
As your bright birthday. We ne'er failed
To throng about with love's fond arts,
And bring you presents from our hearts;
Your pleasure filled our day with bliss;
Oh what a different one from this!
My love, my father! how you stood
'Twixt me and all that was not good!
How, each o'er-hurried breath I drew,
My girl-heart turned and clung to you!

* * * * *

How near comes back that dismal day
You sat, sad-faced, with naught to say,
From morn till night! I did not dare
Even to ask to soothe your care;
I knew it was too sadly grand
To feel the light touch of my hand.
Ah! friends you loved had gone astray,
And swept our competence away;
And oh, I strove so hard to save
Your honored gray hairs from the grave!
Too late! your sun went down o'er-soon,
Clouded, in life's mid-afternoon.
You guarded me with patience rare
From e'en the shadow of a care;
You called me "Princess;" and my room
Was dressed as palaces might be;
And--here I am amid this gloom
That mocks, insults, and murders me,
Striving a garret's rent to pay,
And--earning twenty cents a day!

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 20, 18--.

I cannot well afford to write--
My fingers are in call elsewhere;
But I must voice my black despair,
Or I should die before 'twas night.
I have no mother now to call,
And seek her heart, and tell her all.
O, Mother! well I know you rest
In yonder heaven, serene and blest:
How sadly, strangely sweet 'twould be
To know you knew and pitied me!
And yet I would not have you dream
E'en of the dagger's faintest gleam
That's pointing at my maiden breast.
Rest on, sweet mother, sweetly rest!
And still I feel your loving art,
Sometimes upon my aching heart.
That night I stood upon the pier,
And the gray river swept so near,
And glanced up at me in a way
Some one with friendly voice might say,
"Come to my arms and rest, poor girl."
And I leaned down with head awhirl,
And heart so heavy it might sink
Me underneath the river's brink,
A hand I could not feel or see
Drew me away and fondled me;
A voice I felt, unheard, though near,
Said, "Wait! you must not enter here,
And press against me with one stain.
Poor girl, not long you need remain!"

* * * * *

But, O sweet mother! I must write
The words that would be said to-night,
If you could hold my tired head here!
I cannot see one gleam of cheer;
This is a garret room, so bleak
The cold air stings my fading cheek;
Fireless my room, my garb is thin,
And hateful Hunger has come in,
And says, "Toil on, you foolish one!
You shall be mine when all is done."
Two days and nights of pain and dread
I've gnawed upon a crust of bread
(For what scant nourishment 'twould give)
So hard, I could not eat and live!
O mother! I to God shall pray
This tale in heaven may ne'er be told;
For you are where whole streets are gold,
And I--earn twenty cents a day!

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 22, 18--.

He never loved me. For no one
Could love and do as he has done.
How my heart clung and clung to him,
E'en when respect and faith grew dim;
His lightest touch could thrill me so!
Weak girl, 'twas hard to bid him go.
Though wayward was his heart I knew,
I would have sworn that he was true!

Oh, how I loved him! or maybe
Loved some one that I thought was he.
They brought me--what? his mangled corse?
Would God they had! They brought me worse.

I saw one who should bear his name,
One whose pale face was fiercely grieved,
One whom he wantonly deceived,
And sentenced to a life of shame.
That was the end. I could not wed
A man whose nobler self was dead.

O, man!--a brave and god-like race,
But you can be so vile and base!
And when there is no urgent need,
You can protect us well indeed;
But when adversity is near,
When the wave breaks upon our head,
When we are crushed with want and dread,
Then we have most from you to fear.
Why do men strangely look me o'er
When I their mercy need the more?
Do they not know a girl may taste
The dregs of want and yet be chaste?
Should woman sell her soul away
To save its manacles of clay?

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 23, 1885.

All honest means of life have failed.
The small accomplishments I've tried
That pleased friends in my days of pride,
Are naught; but vice has not prevailed,
And, thank Heaven, should not, though my heart
Were torn a thousand times apart.
But God shield helpless girls alway
Who live on twenty cents a day!

FEBRUARY 24, 1885.

Weak, weak, still weaker do I grow:
My mournful fate I can but know;
God, keep me not long here, I pray,
To toil--on twenty cents a day!

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 26, 1885.

Oh, horrors! is it--is it true
What I have read?--if I but knew!
O, God, tell me where can I fly,
Not to be found when I shall die!
They say dead waifs are oft by night
Robbed of a decent burial's right;
That fiends the friendless bodies bear
To crowds of waiting students, where
Men tear them up for men to see.
O, God, sweet God, do pity me!
And I will humbly pray to men:
If this should come within the ken
Of one who lives a true-loved life,
Of one who sister has, or wife;
One who loves women for the best
That is in them, whose lips have pressed
Pure, genuine lips, whom women trust,
Whose heart is free from loathsome lust;
One whom I would have loved if he
Brother or husband were to me--
I ask you--nay, I do command
With that imperiousness you so
Like from a white and shapely hand--
I _order_ you--but no, no, no;
I am past that--I humbly pray
That you will see that I unmarred
Have Christian burial. Guard, oh guard,
You men with manly hearts and souls,
My poor dead body from the ghouls!
I strove alway to keep it pure
As the soul in me; it has been
Type of the thoughts that lived within,
The white slave of what shall endure,
My spirit's loved though humble mate;
Let none its white limbs desecrate!

* * * * *

Weaker--yet weaker--'tis to die
This sharp pain bids me. Ah! good-bye,
World that I was too weak for--

* * * * *

MARCH 10, 18--.

Back from a journey; mournful, it is true,
But mingled with a deep-down sweetness, too.
After the law with that poor girl was done,
I found permission with the proper one,
And, though such things by law could not occur,
In my heart-family I adopted her.
(Help much too late to benefit her, living--
It's that way with a good share of our giving!)
But, with a father's love, "Poor girl!" I said,
"You shall have all that I can give you, dead!"
I found, by lightning inquiries I made,
The graveyard where her own loved ones were laid;
I had her body tenderly removed,
And placed among the dear ones that she loved,
With all the honor that the poor, sweet child
Would have if Fortune still upon her smiled.
And when once more the flowers of summer blow,
My wife and daughters and myself will go
And make the sad but grateful duty ours
To see her last earth-dwelling roofed with flowers.

FIRE.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

MARCH 15, 18--.

Fire!--fire!--fire!--fire!--it sets me in a craze
To see a first-class building all ablaze;
A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh,
Some old acquaintance just about to die;
For structures that a person often sees
Look some like human beings--same as trees.
(There used to be some trees on my old place
That I'd know anywhere--just by their face.)
And when, last night, some bells began to cry,
And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by,
In just three minutes down the stairs I strode,
And hurried--somewhat dressed--into the road
(Partly to help a bit, if so might be,
And partly, I suppose, to hear and see).
It was a dark and thunder-stormy night;
There wasn't one inch of honest sky in sight;
Great black-finned clouds were swimming through the air,
And now and then their lightning-eyes would glare,
And, like a lot of cannon far away,
Some peals of thunder came from o'er the bay.
'Twas one of those strange nights I can't explain,
That make you think they're just a-going to rain,
But never do--save now and then a trace
Of a small drop comes dashing on your face;
One of those nights that try to keep you vexed
And wondering as to what will happen next.
I like such times: they kind of draw me nearer
To things unseen, and make all mystery clearer.

I ran like sin, and reached the fire at last:
A good-sized church was going, pretty fast.
(I'd noticed it a hundred times or more,
And several times had stepped inside the door.)
The burglar flames within had prowled around
A long time previous to their being found,
Till they had gained such foothold and such might
They'd turned to robbers--stealing plain in sight.
The dome and spires had on them flags of red;
They soon came thundering down from overhead.
It looked as if infernal spirits came,
To take this church away, in smoke and flame!

I wondered, in that wild, expensive glare,
How many of the home-robbed flock were there
To see the shelter where their souls had fed
Swept from existence by that broom of red.
Here was the family pew, so long time prized;
There was the font where they had been baptized;
Here was the altar, where one day they stood,
Started for Heaven, and promised to be good;
Or where they'd wept around some cherished love
Who'd "taken a letter" to The Church above.
And still I thought, as my eyes soulward turned,
How many things there are that can't be burned;
But still we cling, and cling, and hate to part
With the place where we found them on the start.

A sneerish sort of fellow stood by me,
And said, "To such extent as I can see,
When churches get afire, by night or day,
The Lord stands still and lets 'em burn away.
If this is His abode beyond a doubt,
Why doesn't He raise his hand and put it out?"
Said I, "Young man, please do not try to aid
With your advice the mighty Power that made
What little there is of you. There are still
Schemes you don't comprehend, and never will.
You're talented, I think; but no one cares
To have you help the Lord in His affairs.
Why, probably, right where that church has stood,
There'll soon be built another, twice as good;
And some mean, tight insurance company will
Perhaps be made to pay more'n half the bill.
The Lord knows, in these fool-confounding scenes,
When to rebuild, and where to get the means."

He turned away his head exceeding far,
And lit a little bit of white cigar;
But gave, "to such extent as I could see,"
No more of his theology to me.
I'm none too good; but when men jeer and flout,
I like to have them know what they're about.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

WHEN PROMETHEUS STOLE THE FLAME.

When Prometheus stole the flame,
Did he know what with it came?
Did he look afar and see
All the blessings that would be?
Could he view the gentle gloam
Of the fireside of a home?
Or the centre-table's blaze,
Turning evenings into days,
Where, encamped with quiet zest,
Happy children toil and rest?
Did he view the parlor's gleam,
Or the 'wildering palace dream?
See the torch's floating glare
Burn its way through walls of air;
Or, through under-regions trace
Earth's remotest hiding-place?
Did he see the flags of steam
O'er the cities flash and gleam?
To his vision, like a star,
Did the light-house gleam afar,
Which another eye should be
To the traveller of the sea?
If Prometheus, tortured--bound--
Knew the blessings man had found,
Then his sufferings must have been
Soothed by blessings from within.

* * * * *

When Prometheus stole the flame,
Did he know what with it came?
Did he see the fire up-steal,
Rise, and take its midnight meal?
Did he view the palace wall
Stumble 'mid the smoke and fall?
Did he see some cherished home
Feed a fiery ocean's foam?
Did he hear the war-alarms
Of a nation called to arms,
And behold men, in their ire,
Murdering men with bolts of fire?
Did some miscreant cross his sight,
Bent on booty or on spite,
Stealing steps into the dark,
With the incendiary spark?
Did there, faint and haggard, rise
Ghosts before his startled eyes,
Godly men of scathless name,
Felled for fuel to the flame;
In a short-lived earthly hell
Thrown, for voicing heaven too well?
If he knew that glittering thing
Would to Earth such curses bring,
Then his sufferings may have been
Edged with poison from within.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

MARCH 20, 18--.

Somehow, the fire I saw not long ago
Has subsequently chased me, high and low;
Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart,
And shows no disposition to depart.

And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps),
And got acquainted with the fireman chaps,
And planted good cigars where they would seem
Inclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.
(I never smoke; but, travelling near and far,
There's few things help one like a good cigar;
When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung,
It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.
I get more from cigars, before it's through,
Than all the fellows that I give them to.
Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will,
My method helps their families foot the bill.)

Not long ago a sturdy fireman lad,
Who smoked up every last cigar I had,
Unrolled the following story to my view,
Which I believe (conditionally) true:

"FLASH:" THE FIREMAN'S STORY.

"Flash" was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number Three:
Not much stable manners--an average horse to see;
Notional in his methods--strong in loves an' hates;
Not very much respected, or popular 'mongst his mates;
Dull an' moody an' sleepy, an' "off" on quiet days;
Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small, sarcastic ways;
Scowled an' bit at his partner, an' banged the stable floor--
With other means intended to designate life a bore.

But when, be't day or night time, he heard the alarm-bell ring,
He'd rush for his place in the harness with a regular tiger spring;
An' watch, with nervous shivers, the clasp of buckle an' band,
Until 'twas plainly evident he'd like to lend a hand.

An' when the word was given, away he would rush an' tear,
As if a thousand witches was rumplin' up his hair,
An' craze the other horses with his magnetic charm,
Till every hoof-beat sounded a regular fire-alarm!

Never a horse a jockey would notice an' admire
Like Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a fire;
Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin', an' so slack,
As Flash upon his return trip, a-drawin' the engine back.

Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed an' old,
They're no use in our business; so Flash was finally sold
To quite a respectable milkman, who found it not so fine
A-bossin' one o' God's creatures outside it's natural line.

Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here now,
Feelin' that he was simply assistant to a cow;
But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm-bell's din,
An' jump an' rear for a season before they could hold him in;

An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 'mongst us chaps,
To talk with the other horses, of former fires, perhaps;
Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us boys to please,
He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees.

But one day, for a big fire as we was makin' a dash,
Both o' the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' Flash,
Yellin' an' ringin' an' rushin', with excellent voice an' heart,
We passed the poor old fellow, a-tuggin' away at his cart.

If ever I see an old hoss grow upward into a new--
If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him flew,
'Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an' racin' down the track,
An' that respectable milkman a-tryin' to hold him back.

Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' "Number Three,"
Gained the lead, an' kept it, an' steered his journey free;
Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest "silk,"
An' furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, respectable milk.

Crowd a-yellin' an' runnin', an' vainly hollerin' "Whoa!"
Milkman bracin' an' sawin', with never a bit o' show;
Firemen laughin' an' chucklin', an' shoutin' "Good! go in!"
Hoss a-gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like sin.

Finally came where the fire was--halted with a "thud;"
Sent the respectable milkman heels over head in mud;
Watched till he see the engines properly workin' there,
After which he relinquished all interest in the affair.

Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, "faded away" once more,
Took up his old occupation--considerin' life a bore;
Laid down in his harness, an'--sorry I am to say--
The milkman he had drawn there took his dead body away.

That's the whole o' my story: I've seen, more'n once or twice,
That poor dead animals' actions is full o' human advice;
An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply answer, then,
That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelligent men.

An' if, as some consider, there's animals in the sky,
I think the poor old fellow is gettin' another try;
But if he should sniff the big fire that plagues the abode o' sin,
It'll take the strongest angel to hold the old fellow in.

* * * * *

MARCH 20, 18--.

Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail;
They run them here upon so large a scale.
My son, Charles Sumner (who is, by-the-way,
In Europe--terms ten dollars by the day,
Paid strictly in advance), can rhyme somewhat,
And often seems to me to touch the spot,
And light the truth up with a healthier glare,
And make it _truthfuller_ for his being there.
(But in such furrows human nature runs,
That old men aren't good critics for their sons.)
He used to rush (as youngsters often will)
To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill,
And seemed to plan less how to put them out
Than to get something new to write about.
He struck a rhyme I think isn't over bad,
About a "fire" our little village had
(Or city; for that town took city airs
Before its village short-clothes reached repairs).
I found a copy of it t'other day
Where he had laid it carefully away,
To keep me from not finding it (he meant
To get it back in the next check I sent).
'Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear;--
I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here:

HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE.

I.

'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill:
The very leaves of the trees lay still;
The world was slumbering, ocean deep;
And even the stars seemed half asleep,
And winked and blinked at the roofs below,
As yearning for morn, that they might go.
The streets as stolid and still did lie
As they would have done if streets could die;
The sidewalks stretched as quietly prone
As if a foot they had never known;
And not a cottage within the town,
But looked as if it would fain lie down.
Away in the west a stacken-cloud,
With white arms drooping and bare head bowed,
Was leaning against--with drowsy eye--
The dark blue velveting of the sky.
And that was the plight
Things were in that night,
Before we were roused the foe to fight--
The foe so greedy and grand and bright--
That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

II.

The Deacon lay on his first wife's bed,
His second wife's pillow beneath his head,
His third wife's coverlet o'er him wide,
His fourth wife slumbering by his side.
The parson visioned his Sunday's text,
And what he should hurl at Satan next;
The doctor a drowsy half-vigil kept,
Still studying, as he partly slept,
How men might glutton, and tope, and fly
In the face of Death, and still not die;
The lawyer dreamed that his clients meant
To club together, and then present,
As proof that their faith had not grown dim,
A small bright silver hatchet to him;
The laborer such sound slumber knew,
He hadn't a dream the whole night through;
The ladies dreamed--but I can't say well
What 'tis they dream, for they never tell!
In short, such a general drowsy time
Had ne'er been known in that sleepy clime,
As on the night
Of clamor and fright,
We were roused the treacherous foe to fight--
The foe so greedy and grand and bright,
And carrying such an appetite--
That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

III.

When all at once the old court-house bell
(Which had a voice like a maniac's yell)
Cried out, as if in its dim old sight
The judgment-day had come in the night.
"Bang whang whang bang clang dang bang whang,"
The poor old parcel of metal sang;
Whereat, from mansion, cottage, and shed,
Rose men and women as from the dead,
In different stages of attire,
And shouted, "The town is all afire!"
(Which came as near to being true
As some more leisurely stories do.)
They saw on the Deacon's house a glare,
And everybody hurried there;
And such a lot of visitors he
Had never before the luck to see.
The Deacon received these guests of night
In a costume very simple and white;
And after a drowsy, scared "Ahem!"
He asked them what he could do for them.
"Fire! fire!" they shouted; "your house's afire!"
And then, with energy sudden and dire,
They rushed through the mansion's solitudes,
And helped the Deacon to move his goods.
And that was the sight
We had that night,
When roused by the people who saw the light
Atop of the cottage, cozy and white,
Where lived old Deacon Tompkins.

IV.

Ah me! the way that they rummaged round!
Ah me! the startling things they found!
No one with a fair idea of space
Would ever have thought that in one place
Were half the things that, with a shout,
These neighborly burglars hustled out.
Came articles that the Deacon's wives
Had all been gathering half their lives;
Came furniture such as one might see
Didn't grow in the trunk of every tree;
A tall clock, centuries old, 'twas said,
Leaped out of a window, heels o'er head;
A veteran chair, in which, when new,
George Washington sat for a minute or two;
A bedstead strong, as if in its lap
Old Time might take his terminal nap;
Dishes, that in meals long agone
The Deacon's fathers had eaten on;
Clothes, made of every cut and hue,
That couldn't remember when they were new;
A mirror, scathless many a day
('Twas promptly smashed in the regular way);
Old shoes enough, if properly thrown,
To bring good luck to all creatures known;
And children thirteen, more or less,
In varying plenitude of dress.
And that was the sight
We had that night,
When roused, the terrible foe to fight,
Which blazed aloft to a moderate height,
And turned the cheeks of the timid white,
Including Deacon Tompkins.

V.

Lo! where the engines, reeking hot,
Dashed up to the interesting spot:
Came Number Two, "The City's Hope,"
Propelled by a line of men and rope;
And after them, on a spiteful run,
"The Ocean Billows," or Number One.
And soon the two, induced to "play"
By a hundred hands, were working away,
Until, to the Deacon's flustered sight,
As he danced about in his robe of white,
It seemed as if, by the hand of Fate,
House-cleaning day were some two years late,
And with complete though late success,
Had just arrived by the night express.
The "Ocean Billows" were at high tide,
And flung their spray upon every side;
The "City's Hope" were in perfect trim,
Preventing aught like an interim;
And a "Hook-and-Ladder Company" came,
With hooks and ropes and a long hard name,
And with an iconoclastic frown
Were about to pull the whole thing down,
When some one raised the assuring shout,
"It's only the chimney a-burnin' out!"
Whereat, with a sense of injured trust,
The crowd went home in complete disgust.
Scarce one of those who, with joyous shout,
Assisted the Deacon in moving out,
Refrained from the homeward-flowing din,
To help the Deacon at moving in.
And that was the plight
In which, that night,
They left the Deacon, clad in white,
Who felt he was hardly treated right,
And used some words, in the flickering light,
Not orthodox in their purport quite--
Poor, put-out Deacon Tompkins!

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Let me a moment indite
Scenes that I witnessed one night:

["YOU WILL TELL ME WHERE IS CONRAD?"]

"You will tell me where is Conrad?" said an old man, bent and gray,
While the flames were wildly dancing, and the walls were giving way.

"I haf heard some ones was buried--underneath the ruins fell;
He was in de topmost story--ach, mein Gott! I luf him well!

"I will tell you how you knew him: he had full and laughing eye,
And his face was smooth and smiling--and he was too young to die.

"Hair he had like clouds at sunset when anodher day is done,
And I luf him--how I luf him! and he is mein only son.

"Say, Policeman, tell me truly that this young man you did see,
And I all the money gif you, such as I could bring with me.

"Tell me that he anxious acted--that he hunted far and long,
Like as children would be calling for their fadher in a throng;

"Or he wounded was, pray tell me--in the hospital to lie?--
I will just now hasten to him, and I not will let him die!

"Tell me--oh, you must not told me--dead you haf my Conrad see?
Yet if so is I can stand that--I did long a soldier be.

"Only--Death, we do not fear him when we hear the bullets sing,
But to haf my boy killed this way is a rather different thing.

"Only--that his poor old mudher, she waits home all full of fear,
And I cannot there be going, till I take good news from here!

"Young he was when we did bring him from the Rhine land o'er the sea;
I did lif for her and Conrad--she did lif for him and me.

"Other ones we bring not with us: Gott he says, 'These more be mine;'
And we left them all a-sleeping 'mong the vineyards of the Rhine.

"He haf not a cross word gif us--he haf luf us every day,
And if he to-night comes home not, 'tis the first that he's away.

"Let me to that fire, Policeman! I care what for walls or brand?
Maybe he in there be living--reaching for his fadher's hand!

"Let me past, I say, Policeman! I haf work there to be done!
Let go me or I will strike you!--is it that you haf no son?"

* * * * *

Still the flames were like a furnace, and the walls were crashing loud,
And the old man, held in safety, fainted 'mid the trembling crowd.

And the mother watched and wondered, with her great eyes scarcely wet;
But, half dazed amid her sorrow, waits for Conrad even yet.

WATER.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

APRIL 25, 18--.

RAIN--rain--rain--for three good solid fluid weeks--
Till the air swims, and all creation leaks!
And street-cars furnish still less room to spare,
And hackmen several times have earned their fare.
The omnibuses lumber through the din,
And carry clay outside as well as in;
The elevated trains, with jerky care,
Haul half-way comfort through the dripping air;
The gutters gallop past the liquid scene,
As brisk as meadow brooks, though not so clean;
What trees the city keeps for comfort's sake,
Are shedding tears as if their hearts would break;
And water tries to get, by storming steady,
That fourth of all the world it hasn't already.

And men are not so sweet as men could wish,
In air that wouldn't offend a moderate fish;
Few places can be found, outside or in,
Where this dark-featured weather has not been;
For man has always striven, and in vain,
To roof his _disposition_ from the rain.
I've strolled about, this morning, several miles,
'Mongst men who get their living by their smiles;
I've set my old umbrella up to drip
In places where I claimed relationship
(Or, rather, where my heart did; and that's more
Than blood connection is, sixteen times o'er);
I've journeyed up and down through half Broadway,
And did not see a first-class smile to-day.

And so, in spite of all that I can do,
These gold-bowed spectacles are growing blue;
And my old heart must bear along the road
A fanciful but rather heavy load;
A painful pressure from a hand unseen:
Most any one knows nearly what I mean.

I think I'll powder up this dark-skinned day,
By going, to-night, to hear the actors play!
They'll make me laugh, and tone me up a bit,
And get me out of this unnatural fit.

* * * * *

_11 o'clock P.M._

Got back alive; and that's worth thinking on,
From where there's been such lots of killing done;
Mercy! it was a somewhat skittish sight--
So many people butchered in one night!
'Twas just a lot of people playing crime--
A sort of murder-picnic all the time.

We found the theatre with handbills spread,
Near where the notice in the paper said
(The weather had slacked up an hour or so,
And Wife thought she would condescend to go),
And after stumbling over several chaps,
Who thought they'd met us somewhere else, perhaps,
And cheerfully addressed us o'er and o'er,
As if they'd known us several years or more,
Persisting in affording us a chance
To buy our tickets at a slight advance
(The theatres employ these men, I've heard,
To greet their patrons with a friendly word,
And light their way in with kind word and smile,
And make a dollar out of them meanwhile);
We brushed past these remarkable "dead-beats,"
Some tickets bought, and scrambled to our seats.

After a piece of music by the band,
The curtain rose before a castle grand,
And soldiers talking, with a half-scared mien,
About a spook that one of them had seen.
When lo! this ghost appears, plump to their view,
And will not talk, although they beg him to.
(I whispered to my wife that I'd a freak
That a newspaper man could make him speak;
But suddenly my comments had to cease,
For Wife encouraged me to hold my peace.)

When lo! this ghost, who, thus far, might have come
Out of a sky-asylum for the dumb,
Speaks with a queer but rather human sound,
When once his son, the Prince, gets on the ground;
And taking him aside, ten feet almost,
Tells the poor boy that he's his father's ghost,
Whose own false brother softly to him crept,
And poured him full of poison while he slept.

Then the young man got mad, though to my mind
'Twas lunacy of quite a knowing kind;
And went to work with an apparent view
Of killing off 'most every one he knew.

I haven't the time his actions all to state;
I'll only say he managed it first-rate,
And some way killed all relatives he saw,
From uncle to prospective father-in-law;
And when he got through, those he hadn't snuffed out
Were hardly worth while bothering about.
(I mustn't forget to say that this poor elf
Became, at last, a good square corpse himself.)

I looked around, and, the whole building through,
Women were shedding tears as if 'twas true;
And Wife was 'most too much concerned to speak,
And even my old eyes had sprung a leak.
'Twas a moist time; and I remarked, "'Tis plain
We've come out of the rain into the rain."

I got so full of funeral, sitting there,
Then, when we once more sniffed the clean, live air,
It seemed a piece of good-luck all around,
To get away once more, alive and sound.

That's what they call a "tragedy;" where Death
Flies 'round till he himself gets out of breath;
And, with sword-slashes and cold poison filled,
All who amount to anything, get killed.
It's part of life; some time again I'll view it,
But take a good square rest before I do it!

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Here on this sea-beach I wander;
Why of the storms am I fonder
Than of the sunlight above them?
And the clouds: why do I love them--
Waves of the sky, onward sweeping,
Or to the ocean-waves leaping?
Why do I court this fierce day,
Dashing my face full of spray?
Why, when the waves strike the shore
With their strong, leonine roar,
Does my soul fiercely entreat them--
Rush out with rapture to meet them?
Why do I love to descry
War in the fields of the sky?
Why does the chain-lightning's glare,
Ploughing blue meadows of air,
Look to my vision alway
Sweet as a star in the day?

You who in fair summer weather
Seek this sea-city together
(Built for tumultuous rest,
With the famed ocean chief guest),
Not half the pleasure you've known
That I, here wand'ring alone,
On these wet sand-fields have found,
Hearing the ocean's own sound,
Viewing fierce waves from afar
Strive with the winter in war.
Storms that tumultuously roll
Far through my innermost soul--
Here you encounter, at last,
Harmonies wondrous and vast!

* * * * *

What did I find on the shore?
Must I rehearse it once more?

[THE DEAD STOWAWAY.]

He lay on the beach, just out of the reach
Of waves that had cast him by:
With fingers grim they reached for him
As often as they came nigh.
The shore-face brown had a surly frown,
And glanced at the dancing sea,
As if to say, "Take back the clay
You tossed this morning at me."
Great fragments rude, by the shipwreck strewed,
Had found by this wreck a place;
He had grasped them tight, and hope-strewn fright
Sat still on the bloated face.
Battered and bruised, forever abused,
He lay by the heartless sea,
As if Heaven's aid had never been made
For a villain such as he.
The fetter's mark lay heavy and dark
Around the pulseless wrists;
The hardened scar of many a war
Clung yet to the drooping fists.
The soul's disgrace across that face
Had built an iron track;
The half-healed gash of the jailman's lash
Helped cover the brawny back.
The blood that flowed in a crimson road
From a deep wound in his head
Had felt fierce pangs from the poison-fangs
Of those who his young life fed:
Cursed from the very beginning
With deeds that others had done,
"More sinned against than sinning"--
And so is every one!

He had never learned save what had turned
The steps of his life amiss;
He never knew a hand-grasp true,
Or the thrill of a virtuous kiss.
'Twas poured like a flood through his young blood,
And poisoned every vein,
That wrong is right, that law is spite,
And theft but honest gain.
The seeds were grown that had long been sown
By the heart of a murderous sire:
Disease and shame, and blood aflame
With thirst for the founts of fire.
Battered and bruised, forever abused,
He lay by the moaning sea,
As if Heaven's aid were even afraid
Of a villain such as he.

As he lay alone, like a sparrow prone,
An angel wandered nigh:
A look she cast over that dark past,
And tears came to her eye.

She bent by the dead, and tenderly said:
"Poor child, you went astray;
Your heart and mind were both born blind--
No wonder they lost their way!
Angels, I know, had fallen as low
With such a dismal chance.
Your heart was ironed, your soul environed,
You were barred of all advance!
Cursed from the very beginning
With deeds that others have done,
'More sinned against than sinning'--
And so is every one!"

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

MAY 24, 18--.

The Lord gave Water quite a good-sized start--
Three-fourths of this world's homestead for its part;
But lawyers are not needed to convince
That Water has been losing ever since.
The reason is not hard to understand:
For God's most knowing creatures live on land,
And, naturally, every chance they get,
Find some new means to keep them from the wet.
The farms their dykes have from the ocean won;
The ground men make to build their cities on;
The bridge that from the river shelters me;
The ships--great travelling bridges of the sea--
All are an effort of ambitious man
To make this world as solid as he can.

These thoughts, to-day, all through my mind would run,
While looking at a bridge they've just got done,
Which takes a man, dry shod, from shore to shore--
A matter of a good long mile or more.
I can't describe it; but I'll let the papers
(Who tell _some_ truth, 'mid all their fancy capers)
To my old scrap-book give of it a taste
(What I can't do with ink I'll do with paste).

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

[THE WEDDING OF THE TOWNS.][5]

Let all of the bells ring clear,
And all of the flags be seen;
The King of the Western Hemisphere
Has married the Island Queen!
For years he watched and waited
Along the river side,
And vowed that she was fated
To be his own fair bride;
Full many a night he wooed her
Upon her lofty throne,
And he hath long pursued her,
To make the prize his own;
Nor thankless his endeavor,
Nor coy the royal maid,
But, like true-love's course ever,
The banns were long delayed!

* * * * *

And boys to men had grown,
And men their graves had sought;
The gulf was yet between them thrown,
And the wooing came to nought.
Though couriers oft were dashing
'Twixt him and his adored,
Still was the river flashing
Between them like a sword.
In heart they well were mated;
And patiently and long
They for each other waited--
These lovers true and strong.

Let never a flag be hidden!
Let never a bell be dumb!
The guests have all been bidden--
The wedding-day has come!

For many a golden year
Shall gleam this silvery tie:
The wondering world will gather here
And gaze with gleaming eye.
Philosophers will ponder
How, blessed by the hand of Heaven,
The world has another wonder
To add to its famous seven;
Philanthropists will linger
To view the giant span,
And point with grateful finger
Where man has toiled for man;
And all will bless the year
When, in the May-month green,
The King of the Western Hemisphere
Was wed to the Island Queen!

[5] Written on the occasion of the opening of the New York
and Brooklyn Bridge.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

JULY 2, 18--.

Wealth, wealth, wealth, wealth! with iron bars to defend it,
And seventeen hundred thousand ways to spend it!
How men will work, in home and foreign lands,
To get a lot of money in their hands;
How they will bar and bolt, by night and day,
To keep some one from stealing it away;
Then, when a fresh bait strikes their fancy's eye,
How easy 'tis to make them let it fly!
Lock up your cash in places howe'er strong,
You lose it when the right thief comes along.
There are some families that I could name,
Who, spring and fall and winter, toil the same
As boys with sleds for half an hour will climb,
To ride back in about five minutes' time.
These fam'lies pinched and starved nine months will be,
To make a first-class show the other three;
And some whose fortunes sprung up like a flame,
Can puff it out even quicker than it came.

These thoughts grew like June corn the other day,
As I through Coney Island picked my way,
And found there, pert and prosperous as could be,
A land-and-water city by the sea;
And people holding, in free easy style,
A Fourth-of-July picnic all the while.
Thousands were eating there amid the din,
As though they'd hardly time to do it in;
Thousands were loitering in the breezy air,
As if they had a year or two to spare;
And every trap that ever caught a dime,
Was ready set and baited all the time!

The ocean, to my unaccustomed view,
Seemed having quite a lively picnic too;
The waves came slamming at us with a roar,
And chased each other pell-mell to the shore.
And in these waves, and adding to the noise,
A lot of men and women, girls and boys,
Dressed in a style that made my good wife frown,
Like big-sized corks went bobbing up and down.
Some glided out and in, like jumping-jacks,
Some rode the waves--a-lying on their backs;
And some--as decent folks as one could see--
Made capers that were very queer to see.
I noticed Miss Doozell, much versed in books,
And quite particular about her looks,
And dignified as any one I know,
Roll over maybe thirteen times or so;
While Jeremiah Jipson, LL.D.,
Who seldom makes a move above the knee,
And who, all former signs would seem to say,
Never indulges in unseemly play--
When an irreverent wave he chanced to meet,
Stood on his head, and raised aloft his feet.
The Ocean has no awe for any one,
And always seems to get more'n half the fun.

But how the pretty children carry sail!
Each with his tiny shovel and his pail,
Each working his own little piece of land,
And making small plantations in the sand!
These little incidents show on their face
That farming's natural to the human race!

When God's poor pretty ones, 'mid summer's blaze,
Have lived 'mongst brick and mortar all their days,
Trying their best to blossom and not spoil,
Like house-plants kidnapped from their native soil,
It must be heaven to sit here in the sand,
And take old Mother Earth right by the hand!
To lie here, by no brick blocks overlooked,
And take a breath of air that hasn't been cooked!
God bless you, children! May't a long time be,
Before the sand shall cover you and me!