Chapter III: Part 3

Yes, every trap that ever caught a dime
Is ready set and baited, all the time!
Here nigh the shore a strange machine I found,
To see how hard, with beetles, men could pound;
And several fellows tried it, o'er and o'er,
Who never handled labor so before,
And would have shown capacity to shirk,
If they had known how much it looked like work.
Here round and round I saw a big wheel go,
Like an old-fashioned horse-power--larger, though,
And worked by steam; and on the sweeps one finds
Big wooden animals of different kinds:
Elephants, horses, birds of various hues,
Lions and leopards, roosters, kangaroos--
All staring with great, stupid, wondering eyes,
And all about the very self-same size!
And on these beasts, sixteen times round or more,
Rode children of from fifty down to four,
While some big-sized hand-organ filled the air
With crack-voiced music, plenty and to spare.
Here a big premium cow--quite dead, alas!
Gave milkman's milk-and-water by the glass;
Here were some great "museums," which consisted
Of wondrous things that never have existed;
There omnibuses hover on your track,
Ready to draw you somewhere else--and back;
Here "marine railroads," as you onward plod,
Will take you riding at five cents a rod;
This "elevator" lifts you pretty high,
And shows you men must look small from the sky;
Yon gambling den will send you from its door,
Poorer and not much wiser than before;
That fellow there will, in an ocean view,
Your picture take, and swear that it is you.
Yes, every trap that ever caught a dime,
Is ready set and baited, all the time!

And sometimes everything seems blurred, indeed,
With man's surprising wickedness and greed,
Till you most feel there's nothing genuine there,
Excepting ocean waves and open air!

But still they can't put all God's plans to death
To let the people have an honest breath;
And so, while thinking it all up, to-day,
I finally felt called upon to say,
Thank the good Lord, from whom all blessings fall,
For making Coney Island, after all!

My cousin, Abdiel Stebbins, large and slow,
Arrived at Ocean Grove some days ago;
He stopped off in this city on the way,
And stayed here with us two weeks and one day
(For we keep up our airy home in town
Whether the mercury goes up or down--
Not liking to exchange it very well
For a small sweat-box in a large hotel).
He promised that the first hour he could spare
He'd write us how he liked it over there;
The letter, like himself, is rather queer;
Perhaps I'd better paste it right in here:

[FARMER STEBBINS AT OCEAN GROVE.]

OCEAN GROVE, _June_ 30, 18--.

DEAR COUSIN JOHN:

We got here safe--my worthy wife and me--
And took a tent here in the woods contigious to the sea;
We've harvested such means of grace as growed within our reach--
We've been to several meetings here, and heard the Bishop preach;
And everything went easy like until we took a whim--
My wife and I--one breezy day, to take an ocean swim.

We shouldn't have ventured on't, I think, if Sister Sunnyhopes
Hadn't urged us over and again, and said she knew "the ropes,"
And told how soothing it would be "in ocean rills to lave,"
And "sport within the bounding surf," and "ride the crested wave;"
And so we went along with her--my timid wife and me--
Two inland noodles, for our first acquaintance with the sea.

They put me in a work-day rig, as usually is done--
A wampus and short overalls all sewed up into one.
I had to pull and tug and shrink to make the thing go 'round
(You are aware my peaceful weight will crowd three hundred pound).
They took my wig and laid it up--to keep it dry, they said--
And strapped a straw-stack of a hat on my devoted head.

They put my wife into a frock too short by full a third:
'Twas somewhat in the Bloomer style--I told her 'twas absurd!
You know she's rather long and slim--somewhat my opposite--
And clothes that was not made for her is likely not to fit;
But as we was we vent'red in--my timid wife and me--
And formed our first acquaintance with the inconsistent sea.

Miss Sunnyhopes she waded out a-looking nice and sweet
(She'd had her dress made to the store, and trimmed from head to feet);
And I went next, and grabbed their rope just as she told me to,
And Wife came third, a-looking scared, scarce knowing what to do.
Then Sister Sunnyhopes a smile of virgin sweetness gave,
And said, "Now watch your chance, and jump--here comes a _lovely_ wave!"

I must have jumped, I rather think, the wrong time of the moon;
At any rate the "lovely wave" occurred to me too soon!
It took me sudden, with a rude and unexpected shock;
I'd rather meet the stoutest pair of horns in all my flock!
And then to top the circus out, and make the scene more fine,
I tried to _kick_ this "lovely wave," and let right go the line.

On county fairs and 'lection days, in walking through a crowd,
I'm rather firm to jostle 'gainst--perhaps it makes me proud;
But if it does, that wave just preached how _sureness_ never pays,
And seemed to say, "How small is man, no odds how much he weighs!"
It kicked and cuffed me all about, in spite of right or law,
With all the qualities they give an average mother-in-law!

And then it set me on the bank, quite thankful for my life,
And looking 'round I give a gaze to find my faithful wife;
But she had kind o' cut this wave with all the edge she had,
And stood a-looking 'round for me, uncommon moist and sad;
While Sister Sunnyhopes with smiles was looking sweet and gay,
A-floating on her dainty back some several rods away!

She looked so newish pretty there--(she knowed it, too, the elf!)--
The crowd was all admiring her, and so was I myself;
And while I once more grasped the line, beside my wife of truth,
My eyes _would_ rove to Sister S.--her beauty and her youth;
When all at once a brindle wave, uncommon broad and deep,
Came thrashing down on Wife and me, and flopped us in a heap!

Heels over head--all in a bunch--my wife across of me,
And I on some misguided folks who happened there to be,
My hat untied and floated off, and left my bald head bare--
When I got out, if I'd have spoke, 'twould warmed up all the air!
We drank 'bout two-thirds of the sea--my gasping wife and I--
While Sister S. still floated soft, a-gazing at the sky!

We voted that we'd had enough, and got right out the way
Before another wave arrived, and bid the sea good-day.
We looked as like two drownded rats as ever such was called,
With one of them a dumbed old fool and most completely bald.
But, like a woman true she says--my shivering wife to me--
"We will not mind; there's others here looks just as bad as we."

Now, Sister Sunnyhopes, by'm-by, came back into our tent,
As sleek or sleeker than before, and asked us "When we went?"
Said I, "My dear good Sister S., please do not now pretend
You did not see our voyage through, and mark its doleful end.
If you would play the mermaid fair, why such I'd have you be;
But we're too old to take that part--my faithful wife and me;

"Some folks may be who ocean waves are fitted to command,
But we've concluded _we_ was built expressly for the land.
And when I want amusement for an uncompleted day,
I guess I'll go and take it in some good old-fashioned way;
And will not stand upon my head 'fore all the folks that's there,
And wildly wave my dumbed old feet in all the neighboring air!"

VICE.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

SEPTEMBER 10, 18--.

Ah me! it makes a sinner wondrous blue,
To see so many other sinners too!
When I rake over all my faults, and then
Notice the same, or worse, in other men,
It makes me very much surprised and sad,
That Heaven should see Earth turning out so bad!

Vice, vice, vice, vice! The _country's_ mean enough,
And has some villains that are pretty rough;
But in this town, where art and nature both
Are shoved into their very greatest growth,
And where the utmost of all things is found,
The Devil has his best men on the ground,
And gives them weapons meeting his own views,
And all the ammunition they can use!

Vice, vice, vice, vice! I never had been led
To think that Evil had so long a head!
I've seen more ingenuity displayed
In one crime, than 'twould take to learn a trade.
Such cute inventions Sin will take in charge:
Old Satan's patent-office must be large!

And yet, for all their craft, in time how brief
How many of these rascals come to grief!
For though within them cunning may abound,
The plain-clothed Truth is always standing round,
Or following rogues through every land and clime,
And gets them, if you'll only give him time.
I don't believe--as some good people say--
The Devil leads men on from day to day,
And takes them to a rock, and, first they know,
Pitches them off into some gulf below;
Or baits them into different traps, and then
Doesn't try at all to get them out again:
I think he'd like to keep them, safe and sound,
Doing his nasty work the whole year round;
And when a rogue fails up and comes to grief,
It hurts his brimstone-clothed but helpless chief!

These thoughts limped past my saddened mind to-day,
As through State's prison I pursued my way,
Led round by one who didn't seem to be knowing
What melancholy pictures he was showing!
Those walls and guards, that all escape opposed;
Those thick, iron doors--it thundered when they closed;
The cells--each one a closet full of gloom:
I'd just as soon sleep in a metal tomb![6]
The hard-faced men who worked away (no doubt,
For fear of hard-faced men that stood about),
Wearing that garb of stripes a free man loathes,
As if Law whipped them--even with their clothes;
The way they glance up at you from within
Their drooping eyelids, hard with grief or sin,
Wondering, as they gaze upon you so,
If you are not some one they used to know;
The ghosts you feel, that creep 'round, all the time,
Among these men who've shaken hands with crime;
The mournful hope that some are toiling here
Whose innocence in heaven is proved out clear:
All these things to my inmost spirit talked,
As through those regions dark I slowly walked;
And when the front door closed behind me--free--
The fresh air seemed like heaven itself to me!

I recollect once getting sick with pain,
When sitting near a sheriff, on the train,
Who had a young man with him--not of age--
Whom he was taking to this stone-bound cage.
The poor boy talked to him with drooping head,
And these are something like the words he said:

[6] And yet 'twas quite affecting, I declare,
How some had ornaments up, even there!
Not crime itself, or sad misfortune's smart
Can crush all sense of beauty from the heart!

[THE BOY CONVICT'S STORY.]

I'd rather sit here, Mr. Sheriff--up near to the end of the car;
We won't do so much advertising if we stay in the seat where we are.
That sweet little dude saw the bracelets that you on my wrists have
bestowed,
And tells the new passengers promptly you're "taking me over
the road."
I've had a well-patronized trial--the neighbors all know of my fall;
But when I get out among strangers I'm sensitive-like, after all.

For I was a lad of good prospects, some three or four summers ago--
There wasn't any boy in our township who made a more promising
show!
I learned all of Solomon's proverbs, and took in their goodness and
worth,
Till I felt like a virtue-hooped barrel, chock-full of the salt of the
earth.
And this precious picnic of sorrow would likely enough have been saved,
If I had had less of a heart, sir, or home had contained what it craved.

For the time when a boy is in danger of walking a little bit wild,
Is when he's too young to be married--too old to be known as a child;
A bird in the lonely grass thickets, just out of the parent tree thrown,
Too large to be kept in the old nest--too small to have one of his own;
When, desolate 'mid his companions, his soul is a stake to be won;
'Tis then that the Devil stands ready to get a good chance to catch on!

Oh, yes! I'd a good enough home, sir, so far as the house was concerned;
My parents were first-class providers--I ate full as much as I earned.
My clothes were all built of good timber, and fit every day to be seen;
There wasn't any lock on the pantry--my bedroom was tidy and clean;
And taking the home up and down, sir, I'd more than an average part,
With one quite important exception--_there wasn't any room for my
heart_.

The house couldn't have been any colder, with snow-drifts in every
room!
The house needn't have been any darker to make a respectable tomb!
I used to stop short on the door-step, and brace up a minute or more,
And bid a good-bye to the sunshine, before I would open the door;
I used to feed daily on icebergs--take in all the freeze I could hold--
Then go out and warm in the sunshine, because my poor heart was so
cold!

And hadn't I a father and mother? Oh yes! just as good as they
make--
_Too_ good, I have often suspected (though maybe that last's a mistake).
But they'd travelled so long and so steady the way to Perfection's abode,
They hadn't any feeling for fellows who could not as yet find the road;
And so, till some far advanced mile-post on goodness's pike I could win,
They thought of me, not as their own child, but as one of the children
of sin.

And hadn't I brothers and sisters? Oh yes! till they somewhat had
grown;
Then, shivering, they went off and left me to stand the cold weather
alone.
For I had the luck to be youngest--the last on the family page,
The one to prop up the old roof-tree--the staff of my parents' old age;
Who well understood all the uses to which a mere staff is applied;
They used me whenever convenient--then carelessly threw me aside!

And hadn't I any associates? Oh yes! I had friends, more or less,
But seldom I asked them to visit our house with the slightest success;
Whenever the project was mentioned, they'd somehow look blue like
and chill,
And mention another engagement they felt it their duty to fill;
For--now I am only a convict, there's no harm in telling the truth--
My home was a fearful wet blanket to blood that was seasoned with
youth!

Not one blessed thing that was cheerful; no festivals, frolics, or games;
No novels of any description--'twas wicked to mention their names!
My story-books suddenly vanished, my checker-boards never would keep,
No newspaper came through _our_ doorway unless it was first put to
sleep!
And as for love--well, that old song, sir, is very melodious and fine,
With "No place like home" in the chorus--I hope there ain't many
like mine!

And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul couldn't
abide,
And Pleasure was all the time smiling, and motioning me to her side;
And when I start out on a journey, I'm likely to go it by leaps,
For good or for bad, I'm no half-way--I'm one or the other for keeps.
My wild oats flew thicker and faster--I reaped the same crop that I
sowed,
And now I am going to market--I'm taking it over the road!

Yes, it grieved my good father and mother to see me so sadly astray,
They deeply regretted my downfall--in a strictly respectable way;
They gave me some more admonition, and sent me off full of advice,
And wondered to see such a villain from parents so good and precise.
Indeed I have often conjectured, when full of neglect and its smarts,
I must have been left on the door-step of their uncongenial hearts!

My home in the prison is waiting--it opens up clear to my sight;
Hard work and no pay-day a-coming, a close cell to sleep in at night.
And there I must lie sad and lonesome, with more tribulation than rest,
And wake in the morning with sorrow sharp sticking like steel in my
breast;
But maybe the strain and the trouble won't quite so much o'er me
prevail,
As 'twould be to some one who wasn't brought up in a kind of a jail!

_You've_ got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cosy and nice,
And 'tisn't for a wrist-shackled convict to offer _you_ words of advice;
But this I _must_ say, of all places your children may visit or call,
Make HOME the most pleasant and happy--the sweetest and best of
them all;
For the Devil won't offer a dollar to have his world-chances improved,
When Home is turned into a side-show, with half the attractions
removed!

_Don't_ think I'm too bitter, good sheriff--I like you: you've been very
good;
I'm ever and ever so grateful--would pay it all back if I could.
I didn't mean to slander my parents--I've nothing against their good
name,
And as for my unrighteous actions, it's mostly myself that's to blame;
Still, _if I'd had a home_--But the prison is only one station ahead--
I'm done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but _don't_ forget what I have said!

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER 15, 18--.

Vice, vice, vice, vice!--and 'tisn't all clear and free,
Where any one can take a look and see,
And then decide, immediate, on the spot,
Whether he'll buy his soul-farm there or not;
It's scattered round about so 'mongst the good,
Folks can't entirely shun it when they would.
Much better to escape it we'd be able,
If 'twas obliged to carry 'round a label
(It always does, some time before it ages,
But not enough so in its early stages).

My mind was led around about this way,
By a well-dressed young man I met to-day,
Who strove to twist some money out of me,
But had, instead, a first-class lecture free.

My cousin, Abdiel Stebbins, large and good,
Inclined to do even better than he should,
And with a heart that gets him into scrapes
Of a most strange variety of shapes,
But who, before they've run a fatal course,
Always gets out of them by sheer main force,
Wrote me two letters, several years ago,
Which I have kept, with no intent to show,
But simply to read over now and then
As part of my text-book entitled "Men."

I think I'll get my cousin's wail by letter,
And paste it here where I can find it better.

[FARMER STEBBINS ON THE BOWERY.]

DEAR COUSIN JOHN:

We got here safe--my worthy wife an' me,
An' then I looked the village through to see what I could see:
I rode upon the cur'us track with stations all up-stairs;
I walked through Wall Street all its length, an' saw no bulls or bears;
I patronized a red-nosed chap with manners very queer,
Who hadn't had a thing to eat for somethin' like a year;

I saw the road commissioners to work upon a bridge
A million times as large as that we built at Tompkins' Ridge--
(I'm told that they are makin' it, though maybe that's all fun,
To use the coming century, an' hope to get it done)--
When who should up an' grasp my hand, with face of genuine joy,
But Cousin Jeroboam Jones, my cousin's oldest boy!

I had not seen him years an' years--no wonder he looked strange;
His face an' form in some respects had undergone a change;
But then there wasn't a chance of doubt that that was him, because,
If not, how should he ever know that I was who I was?
We brushed our old acquaintance up, an' soon was at our ease,
A wanderin' all about the place, as cozy as you please.

It's nicer far, in foreign towns, than 'tis to be alone,
To walk with one whose blood proceeds from sources near your own;
A sim'lar temp'rature of heart, a sort of family ease,
Enables you to work your tongue as lib'ral as you please;
And so I found myself quite soon uncommonly at home,
Describin' all my business through to Cousin Jerobo'm.

He listened very docile like, an' hadn't much to say,
But what he did was vent'red in a satisfact'ry way;
He'd severed somewhat from his kin, an' sort o' lost the run,
But he recalled the Stebbinses, when mentioned, one by one;
An' takin' him inside an' out, our family scarcely owns
A relative more relishin' than Jeroboam Jones.

He's teacher in a Sunday-school, he told me, by the way,
Which has a room, above a store, that's open every day.
"For if," he says, "we come across a child that needs our care,
We cannot wait till Sunday comes--we join 'em then an' there.
An' if you want to see the way our worthy cause is run,
Come in an' take a little look--our 'social's' just begun."

The scholars hadn't come, as yet; the Superintendent, though,
Was sittin' at a table, like, an' bowed extremely low;
An' heard the praise on poor old me my cousin had to tell,
An' said he joyed to meet a friend of one he loved so well;
An' I talked back; an' for a time our converse did not cease--
A regular three-cornered gush of friendship, love, an' peace.

An' then he showed me how they run their "grab-bags" an' all such
(We have the same at home, you know, although not near so much);
An' then he had some val'ables on numbers that you saw,
With figures correspondin'ly, in envelopes, to draw;
I gin him fifty cents to help a cause I dearly hold,
An' drew a velvet hymn-book, with a clasp resemblin' gold!

My cousin pressed my hand with some congratulatin' jokes,
And said, "Ah me! the Stebbinses was always lucky folks!
But after all, their _shrewdness_ is the thing that lets them win."
(Which made me proud, though I didn't see just where the shrewd
came in.
But buyin' a five-dollar book at that unheard-of price,
An' helpin' of the cause meanwhile, was unsuspected nice.)

Whereat the Superintendent said, "You're lucky, I allow;
I'll have to charge five dollars for a chance to draw here now."
Whereat my cousin Jeroboam remarked, "If 'tisn't wrong,
I'll buy a draw for Cousin Steb, to help the cause along."
I shook my head, but he _would_ do't; an' sure as I'm alive,
I drawed a good ten-dollar bill for Cousin Jones's five!

Whereat the Superintendent said, "You're lucky men, I vow;
A hundred dollars I must charge for every drawing now;"
An' fingerin' the envelopes, one opened--just a grain--
And I discerned the number 11, uncommon black and plain;
An' on the _other_ number 11 by glancin' I could see
Five good crisp hundr'd-dollar bills a-waitin' there for me!

To make four hundred dollars clear, an' help the children too,
Was somethin' that would surely seem desirable to do;
With an unfailin' eagle eye, a heart that swelled with hope,
I watched, an' saw the very place he put that envelope;
I winked at Cousin Jeroboam, I counted out the cash,
An' drawed, an' had that card revealed almost as quick as flash!

Oh, sakes!--the second figure I had what I hadn't seen,
A _tail_ that made a 7 of it! 'twas Number 17!
An' on them figures on the board there nothin' was, in fact,
Except a little pamphlet like--an anti-gamblin' tract;
Which hadn't any money wuth, an' won't be good for much,
Except to keep my older boys from playin' cards an' such.

Now Cousin Jeroboam Jones was buried in surprise,
An' walked a half a mile with me, an' helped philosophize;
An' says, "You come some other day--we'll try that thing agin:
We come 'thin _part of one of it_--the next time we shall win."
Then, nearin' to a corner, he took kindly leave o' me,
Because of some new scholars there that he must go an' see.

I give you this experience, John, but please don't tell it now;
Let Tompkins take the chestnut horse, an' sell the brindle cow;
An' gather up what cash besides I have a-lyin' loose,
An' send the whole of it to me for my immediate use.
Do everything concerned in this, in soft, secretive tones;
Direct it to New York, in care of Jeroboam Jones.

A. S.

* * * * *

A few days, and the following one arrived,
Which shows Sin's triumph sometimes is short-lived:

[FARMER STEBBINS AHEAD.]

DEAR COUSIN JOHN:

I'm very glad you sent that money through,
By Cousin Seth, an' not by mail, as I requested you!
The fam'ly's just so much ahead: 'twere best it never came.
If Jeroboam Jones had twined his fingers 'round the same.
For that young man has principles fit only to abhor,
And isn't the kind of relative that I was lookin' for!

My sakes! Millennium's nowhere near, when men so false can be
As to equivocate themselves into my family tree;
An' on its honest branches graft the shoots of their design,
An' make me think they're good because they're relatives of mine;
While under those fraternal smiles a robber's frown is hid;
But that's the inappropriate thing that Jeroboam did!

When Cousin Seth the tavern reached whose clerk o'ershadows me,
He cried, "Where is my long-lost son I've come so far to see?"
An' so, to fill that father's heart with resurrected joy,
I twisted 'round with him a bit, to try an' find the boy;
An' comin' where I had the luck that hymn-book for to win,
I opened quietly the door, an' both of us went in.

The Superintendent still was there; he gave a little start,
But welcomed us, apparently, with overflowin' heart;
An' told us all about the work, an' how 'twas gettin' on,
An' how much money those who gave unto the cause had won;
But Cousin Seth, though much impressed with what he heard an' saw,
Said he didn't fix the envelopes, an' b'lieved he wouldn't draw.

Just then the door was opened quick, an' with a solemn grin,
Young Jeroboam Jones appeared, an' sidled softly in;
An' with him was an older man, who looked enough like me
To've been a reg'lar Stebbins too, so far as one could see;
But slappin' Seth upon the back, I said, "My duty's done,
For this is Jeroboam Jones, your long-lost oldest son!"

"My 'long-lost oldest son?'" said he: "he's 'bout as much my son
As you are the beloved babe of Gen'ral Washington!
It strikes me that my married life was very much amiss,
If I'm responsible for such a sneakin' face as this!
He's blinded you by his supposed relationship to me:
He's no one I have ever seen, or ever want to see!"

As when a fog above a field the sudden breezes tore,
You spied a thousand things you did not even miss before,
So all the facts of this affair, as clear as summer skies,
Straightway arranged themselves before my reconstructed eyes:
That these were not veracious men; an' this no Sunday-school;
An' naught was what it seemed, except one old bald-headed fool!

I held those two deceivers out, with unassisted strength,
An' by the collar shook each one to my arm's farthest length;
They gasped an' danced an' skipped around, without a word to say--
They "put their heads together" in a new an' painful way.
"Due ninety dollars fifty cents, an' not a penny less!"
I shouted; "an' I'll send you back your hymn-book by express!"

When finally in my discourse a breathin' pause occurred,
The Superintendent counted out the cash, without a word;
Which, with a manner dignified, I coldly repossessed,
An', still retainin' Jeroboam, that scamp I thus addressed:
"An' so you are the bogus friend and relative, so free
To spend his time a-makin' fools of poor old men like me.

"I'm Supervisor of the town where I have lived so long:
There ain't a man in all that part will say I've done him wrong;
There ain't a man will claim but what I'm ordinary keen;
But when I plant myself in town, I grow exceedin' green.
An' any kind-expressioned man, who acts a civil part,
Can always find my soul to home, an' house-room in my heart.

"It's sad for such a smile as yours to find so mean a fate;
An' there's _some_ good in you--at least enough to use for bait;
Without _some_ kindness in your heart, you couldn't have landed me;
An' as to how you've used your gifts, just pause a bit an' see.
I've gambled, by you're callin' it a charitable name,
And my self-valuation sunk with unaccustomed shame.

"I've done what I'd have whipped my boys for even lookin' at;
An' don't suppose but what I own part of the blame for that;
I thought I saw a chance to make five dollars out o' one,
Which, with strict justice all around, is very seldom done.
But up to that outrageous point, remember, I was led
By your assumed relationship, an' several things you said.

"Do you reflect, young man, upon the fruit you're growin' to?
There's prison gates a-waitin' now to stand in front of you.
There's grief of unexpected kinds, an' every sort of shame,
To send you some time from this world much poorer than you came.
Your guilty head you hang before us sinners standin' by:
What angle do you s'pose 'twould take 'mongst angels in the sky?

"There's hope e'en on the death-bed for a square, straightforward
thief,
But _Judases_ have always come to most peculiar grief;
The Lord has pity, I suppose, for errin' men an' weak,
But no good satisfact'ry place in which to put a sneak.
An' when a man wins men's esteem, then thrives by their mistakes,
He makes himself a bigger fool than all the fools he makes."

Then my adopted relative I seated in a chair,
With amply necessary help, an' sev'ral pounds to spare.
Then Seth an' I with dignity bade both the scamps good-day,
Advisin' them to gain their bread in some dissimilar way;
An' as we thundered down the stairs, with heavy rural tread,
I felt that I'd at last come out some several rods ahead.

A. S.

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

[THE "SLUGGING"-MATCH.]

"A first-class professional fight!"
I'm really doing the town!
There were thousands on thousands to-night
To see a man knock a man down.
Two dollars I willingly (?) paid
To view all this muscle and brawn;
'Twas rather too much, I'm afraid,
Or seemed so, the minute 'twas gone.

* * * * *

And yet 'tis a study to see
The rage gladiatorial of Rome
And grim Spanish bull-baiting glee
Adopt an American home!
That blood-thirsty, murderous spite
Men loudly condemn--and possess!
Besieged New York City last night,
With first-class financial success!

* * * * *

Hands gloved--to comply with the law;
Gloves hard--to comply with the crowd;
Fists savage as murder could draw;
Cheers heavy and fervent and loud.
Stern hisses, and shoutings of "Woman!"
When either too tender they found;
Tremendous applause when a foeman
Dropped, more than half dead, on the ground.

* * * * *

'Twas the soul's blackest hell-woven fibre,
All thrilling intensely and fast;
The curse of the Tagus and Tiber
Arrived in New York Bay at last!
And victor and vanquished, I learn,
Came off with more glittering spoil
Than teacher or preacher could earn
In years of the hardest of toil.

* * * * *

A spectacle pleasing and bright,
Full many good people delighting--
So many good men love a fight,
When somebody else does the fighting!
And "'tis shameful!" we mildly agree,
And shout our complainings afar;
But the facts are no worse than are we:
They show to us just what we are!

VIRTUE.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

OCTOBER 1, 18--.

Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay;
A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day--
When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you
Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
My wife said, as we talked of it together,
It seemed as if some of our old farm weather
Had got tired of the sober hills of brown,
Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!

We went to church, and heard a sermon preached,
Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,
And lifted us up toward the town divine,
Till we could almost see the steeples shine,
And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled
Along the massive turnpikes made of gold.
We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true
It made me think of every flower I knew;
And when, with benediction, the old pastor
Said "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master,
It put my resolution to the rack,
To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!

We tried to come straight out, as Christians should,
And bring away all of it that we could;
But there were certain persons there to-day,
Who, after church was over, clogged the way,
And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles,
Held a week-day reception in the aisles.
Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame,
He wants to get home safely with the same;
And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,
And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,
Intended, by some power, his mind to bring
Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing--
From office, and good methods to ensure it,
To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.

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

These are the spires that were gleaming
All through my juvenile dreaming;
Here the high belfries are singing:
Gold invitations they're winging,
Asking man through the charmed portal,
Where he is once more immortal;
Where he may hide from his cares,
Under a shelter of prayers.
Why do these halls, high and broad,
Under the same constant God,
Vary in structure and style--
Differ, from chancel to aisle?
Why forms and creeds so diverse?
Why is my blessing your curse?
Pondering here on the street,
This is one reason I meet:

Man's brain is devious and strange--
Differs, in form and in range;
So that God's fervid love-sun,
Falling the same on each one,
Differs in form and in hue,
(Not the less precious or true)!
Body and brain and heart--
Temple of infinite art--
You had no power to control
Hues of your windows of soul!

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

OCTOBER 5, 18--.

Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue!--what a start
You've got here in this city's feverish heart!
There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,
But some one's here to teach it, day and night;
No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,
But some one has it ready to his hand!

And then the churches--thick and rich of yield,
As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,
Where any one the golden fruit can find
All ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;
Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,
And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece
(Much too expensive, it might well be said,
If _bodies only_ need be clothed and fed).

And then the missions--regular district schools,
Where transient men are taught eternal rules;
Then the Salvation Army girls and boys,
Who season their religion up with noise,
And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the power
To help keep silent even half an hour;
But who take ragged wretches every day,
Haul them into the straight and narrow way,
Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it,
And get them saved--almost before they know it!
It's something good to make these people good,
Who never go to church, and never would!

God bless each woman, man, and child, I say,
That leads His creatures in the heavenly way,
Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means,
Or march with drums and flags and tambourines!

Then there's those men who've crept and crawled as low
As even Satan cared to have them go;
Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks,
Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks,
Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells,
Have sinned their way through several different hells;
Whose lives have been so terribly amiss
To ever find worse worlds than they've made this;
Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun,
And been washed up as clean as any one,
And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above;
Till they themselves start off on deeds of love,
And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow,
"I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now."
Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss,
"What! can there be some square way out of this?"
And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes,
Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams!

Oh you who shout or sing or chant or read--
Whatever be your name or style or creed--
If any one on earth a plan has got
(Whether it's half as good as yours or not)
To find a gate into the narrow way,
And let in others that have gone astray--
If there's a single chance to mortals given
By which to slip poor mortals into Heaven,
For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath,
Or throw a scornful word into their path!
But _interfere with help_ in their affairs,
And push them with your money and your prayers!
For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath,
In this strange world and in the next one, both;
And he who saves his fellow-men from pain,
Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain?
But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner,
That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner,
Unable even to follow my own view,
Much less to counsel others how to do.
I can't even eat--when I come right down to it,
Without a bell to tell me when to do it.
So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse,
And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.

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

[MORE WAYS THAN ONE.]

I was present, one day
Where both layman and priest
Worshipped God in a way
That was startling, at least:
Over thirty in place
On the stage, in a row,
As is often the case
At a minstrelsy show;
In a uniform clad
Was each one of them seen,
And a banjo they had,
And a loud tambourine.
And they sung and they shouted
Their spasmodic joys,
Just as if they ne'er doubted
That God loved a noise.

And their phrases, though all
Not deficient in points,
A grammarian would call
Rather weak in the joints;
And the aspirate sound
Was adroitly misused,
And The Language all round,
Was assaulted and bruised;
While the tunes that they sung
In bewildering throngs,
Had been married, when young,
To hilarious songs;
And the folks in that place,
Who this loud racket made,
Were not bounded by race
Or condition or shade.

* * * * *

Now I love my own meeting,
My own cosy pew,
While mentally greeting
Friends quietly true;
And the Gospel dispensed
With a dignified grace,
Born of reason clear-sensed
And a faith firm of place.
I love the trained voices
That float down the aisles,
Till the whole church rejoices
With God's sweetest smiles.
Have no sneer understood
For the rest, when I say
I had rather get good
In a civilized way.

So this meeting had grated
Somewhat on my heart,
And ere long I had waited,
I thought to depart.
But a young man arose,
Looking sin-drenched and grim,
As if rain-storms of woes
Had descended on him;
No such face you'd discern
In a leisurely search,
If you took a chance turn
Through a civilized church;
But his words, though not choice,
To my feelings came nigh;
There was growth in his voice,
There was hope in his eye.

And he said, "I'm a lad
With a life full of blame;
Every step has been bad,
Every hour was a shame.
And for drink I would pawn
All within my control,
From the clothes I had on,
To my heart and my soul.
I have drank the foul stuff
In my parents' hot tears;
I have done crime enough
For a hundred black years;
But I came to this place
For the help that I craved;
I have seen Jesus's face,
And I know I am saved."

Then a man rose to view,
When this youngster was done,
And he said, "This is true;
That young man is my son.
He was drunk every day,
And such terror would make,
That I spurned him away
From my house, like a snake.
We have suffered the worst
That can come from heart-fears;
He is sober the first
I have seen him for years.
I am full of such joy
As I never yet knew;
And now, Robert, my boy,
Home is open to you!

"You may go home with me--
Or may run on before;
You've a glittering key
That will open the door!
Your mother is there,
Praying for you e'en now;
There is snow in her hair,
There is pain on her brow.
And when you have kissed her
The old-fashioned way,
There's a brother and sister
Who've longed for this day;
And whatever can befriend you
On earth, shall be done;
May God's blessing attend you,
My son--oh, my son!"

Then the banjo struck in,
And the tambourine jingled;
There rose such a din
That my blood fairly tingled.
The vocalists screamed
Till quite red in the face;
But somehow it all seemed
Not at all out of place!
Now denouements immense
Do riot somehow take hold,
Or dramatic events
Reach my heart, as of old;
But my smiles could not hide
The fast-gathering tears,
And I cheered, laughed, and cried,
As I had not for years!
And I thought, "Not amiss
Are this tumult and shout:
Folks who save men like this
Know what they are about.
You who fight with God's sword
For the good of your kind--
You can never afford
To leave these men behind.
If these women I've seen,
Should be pelted or cursed,
I would step in between--
I would take the blow first.
They who draw souls above
From the depths lowest down,
Will not fail of God's love
Or to shine in His crown."

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

[THE MARCH OF THE CHILDREN.]

List to the sound of the drumming!
Gaily the children are coming;
Sweet as the smile of a fairy,
Fresh as the blossoms they carry.
Pride of the parents who love them,
Pure as the azure above them,
Free as the winds that caress them,
Bright as the sunbeams that bless them.

List to the voice-echoes ringing!
Sweeter than birds they are singing;
Thoughts that to virtue invite them,
Wed unto airs that delight them.
Truths that their future will cherish,
Soul-planted, never to perish!
Only to senses completer,
Heaven's choicest music were sweeter!

Virtue, unconscious and pretty,
Walks through the streets of the city;
See the gay bannerets flying,
Mottoes and titles undying;
Truths dearly hallowed and olden,
Braided in strands that are golden;
Words for the spirit's desiring,
Sentences sweetly inspiring!

* * * * *

When, in a voice of caressing,
Christ gave the children His blessing,
'Twas not for one generation--
But for each epoch and nation.
So through the present it lingers,
Shed from His bountiful fingers;
So unto these it is given--
Types of the angels in Heaven.

TRAVEL.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

NOVEMBER 1, 18--.

It's quite the thing to "travel" nowadays
(Although I do not think it _always_ pays),
And see if distant ground in general looks
As mentioned in the papers and in books.
I find, in sifting what few facts I know,
Three ways of realizing things are so:
First, when you're told them in such trusty shape
That square belief isn't easy to escape.
(There's lots of people--this town wouldn't hold them--
Who don't know much excepting what is told them.)
Second, what you've put on some mental shelf,
By having seen and understood yourself.
(How well we know things witnessed, largely lies
On how much brain there is behind our eyes.)
The third way is the surest and the best
(Though sometimes painful, it must be confessed):
It's where a truth has whipped the earth with you,
Until you _feel_, from head to foot, 'tis true.
I think, sometimes, when all is said and done,
Feeling is all the senses joined in one.

_We're_ going to travel!--not so very far
As our new friends, the Fitzcumnoodles, are,
Who cannot read their social title's clear
Unless they ride twelve thousand miles a year,
(I told them, with a philosophic smile,
That travelling shouldn't be measured by the mile.)
But we shall take a little trip, to-morrow,
With some spare time that wife's contrived to borrow,
To where George Washington laid out a town
That several centuries won't see tumbled down!
A city which, with all the sneaking sinners
That come down there to steal their daily dinners,
And all the human insects hovering nigh,
Such as swarm thick wherever good things lie,
And spite of all the bad weeds growing round,
Has always _some_ good folks upon the ground,
And will be head-piece of the greatest nation
That ever helped spruce up the Lord's plantation.

The Fitzcumnoodles, through their daughter Maud,
Inform us that we ought to go abroad;
The Clancdenancies, we have lately learned,
From an extended trip have just returned;
And so my eldest daughter, Isabel,
Who knows Miss Clanc, etc., very well,
Called on her in the progress of a walk,
And had a pleasant little travel-talk;
And after coming home misspent her time
In putting what she heard there into rhyme
And--lost it--not by accident, I fear;
I'll paste the "conversation" right in here:

HER TOUR.

Yes, we've been travelling, my dear,
Three months, or such a matter,
And it's a blessing to get clear
Of all the clash and clatter!
Ah! when I look the guide-book through,
And see each queer place in there,
'Tis hard to make it seem quite true
That I myself have been there!

Our voyage? Oh, of course 'twas gay--
Delightful! splendid! glorious!
We spurned the shore--we sped away--
We rode the waves victorious.
The first mate's mustache was so grand!
The ocean sweet, though stormy
(I was so sick I could not stand,
But papa saw it for me).

At Queenstown we saw land once more--
Ground never looked so pretty!
We took a steam-car near the shore
For some light-sounding city.
A very ordinary stone
We had to kiss at Blarney;
The beggars wouldn't let us alone
That half-day at Killarney!

The Giants' Causeway? 'Tis arranged
With no regard to science;
It must somehow of late have changed--
At least we saw no giants.
Some little funny scrubs of folks
Sold pictures, and were merry;
The men were full of yarns and jokes,
The women barefoot--very.

Old Scotland? Yes, all in our power
We did there to be thorough;
We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour,
Then straight to "Edin_borough_."
At Abbotsford we made a stay
Of half an hour precisely.
(The ruins all along the way
Were ruined very nicely.)

We "did" a mountain in the rain,
And left the others undone,
Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.
And came by night to London.
Long tunnels somewhere on the line
Made sound and darkness deeper;
No; English scenery is not fine,
Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.

Oh, Paris! Paris! Paris! 'tis
No wonder, dear, that you go
So far into the ecstasies
About that Victor Hugo!
He paints the city, high and low,
With faithful pen and ready
(I think, my dear, I ought to know--
We drove there two hours steady).

Through Switzerland by train. Yes, I
Enjoyed it, in a measure;
But still the mountains are too high
To see with any pleasure.
Their tops--they made my neck quite stiff,
Just stretching up to view them;
And folks are very foolish if
They clamber clear up to them!

Rome, Venice, Naples, and the Rhine?
We did them--do not doubt it;
This guide-book here is very fine--
'Twill tell you all about it.
We've saved up Asia till next year,
If business gets unravelled;
What! going? Come again; and, dear,
I will not seem so travelled.

* * * * *

WASHINGTON, _November 3, 18--._

_We're_ travelling, and we're here! and what a town!
I own, it picks me up and sets me down!
I thought I had some idea of the place,
And what its corporation lines embrace;
I'd read the county papers every week,
Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;
I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,
And, with Imagination for a staff,
Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,
Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;
And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,
'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."

But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated scheme
To prophesy how anything will seem.
This city's new to me--I do not doubt it--
As if I'd never heard a word about it!
There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,
And something even in the very air,
And in the great variety of faces,
Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,
And in that monument that reaches high--
The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,
And in that dome, whose kingly size and height
Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight--
From these, and several hundred other things
This nation's lead-horse city at you flings,
You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,
Into another planet for a while!

But men too weary to hold up their heads
Are apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds;
Then, having found one, and reclined within it,
Forget about him in just half a minute.
So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)
Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.

[7] Or woman--let due praise to her be paid;
A bed is never made until 'tis _made_.

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

AT THE SUMMIT OF THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT.

Look North! A white-clad city fills
This valley to its sloping hills;
Here gleams the modest house of white,
The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height.
Beyond, a pledge of love to one
Who in two lands was Freedom's son--
The holder of an endless debt--
Our nation's brother, Lafayette.
But yonder lines of costly homes
And bristling spires and swelling domes,
And far away the spreading farms
Where thrift displays substantial charms,
And hamlets creeping out of sight,
And cities full of wealth and might,
Must own the fatherhood of him
Whose glory Time can never dim.
All who can reckon Freedom's worth
Would write across this whole broad earth,
With pen dipped in the golden sun,
The magic name of Washington!
If we can keep the rules he gave
This land he more than fought to save,
Our future fame will glisten forth
Grand as the winter-lighted North!

* * * * *

Look South!--where, in its coat of gray,
The broad Potomac creeps away,
And seeks the blue of distant skies;
But pauses where the great chief lies
Within his humble, hallowed tomb,
Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom.
As glides this stream, great corse, past thee,
First to the bay, and then the sea,
So flowed thy life to rural rest,
Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest.
Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heart
Climbed from all common greeds apart;
To whom men's selfish ways were small,
As from this tower, serenely tall
(Built that all years thy fame may know),
Men look while creeping there below!
How weak was power to thy clear gaze,
Builder of nations joined in one,
Kindler of splendors still to blaze,
Finder of glories just begun!
Live on, great sleeper! as this stone,
Highest from earth that man has known,
So shall be ranked thy solid worth,
Highest of heroes on the earth!
Happy, secure, and cherished name,
Love is the pillar of thy fame;
Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth,
Warm as the sunbeams of the South!

* * * * *