Part 3

Want--want! O Lord! forgive me, o'er and o'er, That I haven't found these suffering folks before! We had a decent poor-house in our town, And I would often drive my spare horse down, And take a little stroll among them there, And try to cheer their every-day despair, And with their little wants and worries join, And chink round 'mongst them with small bits of coin (Done up in good advice, somewhat severe), And send them Christmas turkeys every year; Then, in my cosy home, think, with a grin, What a fine, liberal angel I had been. But here, O heavens! I find them, high and low, Hundreds of pauper-houses in a row! And suffering--suffering--in a shape, I vow, That makes my poor old tears run even now!

For city trouble, any one will find, Is more ingenious than the country kind, And has a thousand cute-invented ways To torture men and shorten off their days. And while we wonder that God made it so, He doesn't seem very anxious we should know; But He is willing we should search His plan, And pry around and find out all we can; And I suspect, when pains and troubles fall, That every one is useful, after all.

At any rate, the miseries that I see Are useful in their good effects on me; And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole (Though Heaven _does_ put a premium on each soul), Yet there are several people, I suspect, Who need a little of that same effect; And if they do not get it, old and young, 'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue.

One more small portion of God's plan I see Concerning its effect on "even me:" And that's its leading me, by methods queer, To be some help to these poor people here. For now I promise, from this very night, And hereby put it down in black and white, That out of every day that's given me yet, And out of every dollar I can get, And out of every talent, small or large, That God sees fit to put into my charge, A part shall be devoted--square and sure-- To God's own suffering, struggling, dying poor!

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

Poverty, why wast thou born In the world's earliest morn? Why hast thou lived all the years, Sowing thy pains and thy tears? Roaming about thou art seen, Crooked, decrepit, and lean; Travelling all the world through-- Suffering's "wandering Jew." Thin and unkempt is thy hair, Fleshless as parchment thy cheek, Sad and ungainly thine air, Hollow the words thou dost speak, Bony and grasping thy hand, Dreary thy days in the land. Poverty, why wast thou born Under the world's quiet scorn?

* * * * *

Poverty, thou hast been seen Clad in a comelier mien. Oft, to the clear-seeing eyes, Thou art a saint in disguise. Discipline rich thou hast brought, Lessons of labor and thought. Oft, in thy dreariest night, Virtue gleams sturdy and bright; Oft, from thy scantiest hour, Grow the beginnings of power; Oft, 'mongst thy squalors and needs Live such magnificent deeds As the proud angels will crown There in their gold-streeted town; Oft, from thy high garrets, throng Notes of magnificent song, That, from sad day unto day, Float through the ages away. Poverty--brave or forlorn-- God knoweth why thou wast born.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

FEBRUARY 12, 18--.

Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day; 'Twould have been sad to see it go away, If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lights Glimmered awhile across the Jersey heights, Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, came And set some New York windows all aflame. (From a clear sunset I can always borrow God's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)

But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight, My mind _would_ take a heavy, care-winged flight Up to a small back garret, far away, Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.

Want--want--want--want! it hung 'round everywhere; It threw its odors on the sickly air! The room was somewhat smaller, to begin, Than I would put a span of horses in; The floor was rough and damp as floor could be; No picture on the walls but Poverty; The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear; A rough-made, empty crib was standing near; The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare, Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air;

A little, worn-out doll some child had had, Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad, And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced, But bearing still some marks of girlish taste; A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every sign That it was on the last life of its nine, Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat, And not a very care-worn, desolate cat; A man, so grieved my heart can see him now, With frightful sorrow printed on his brow;

A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed, Looking uneasy even for the dead; A little, pallid face I saw therein-- A niceish-looking child she must have been, As sweet as ever need to feed a glance, If she had only had one-half a chance. But still, she woke a thought I could not smother-- "That child was murdered in some way or other."[4]

And my opinion didn't seem much amiss When the man spoke up, something like to this:

[4] All this, above the shoulder, I could see, Of an old preacher who had come with me-- A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say, A house and lot in heaven every day.

[THAT SWAMP OF DEATH.]

Yes, it's straight and true, good Preacher, every word that you have said; Do not think these tears unmanly--they're the first ones I have shed! But they kind o' beat and pounded 'gainst my aching heart and brain, And they would not be let go of, and they gave me extra pain.

I am just a laboring man, sir--work for food and rags and sleep, And I hardly know the meaning of the life I slave to keep; But I know when times are cheery, or my heart is made of lead; I know sorrow when I see it, and--I know my girl is dead!

No, she isn't much to look at--just a plainish bit of clay, Of the sort of perished children that die 'round here every day; And how _she_ could break a heart up you'd be slow to understand, But she held _mine_, Mr. Preacher, in that little withered hand!

There are lots of prettier children, with a face and form more fine-- Let their parents love and pet them--but _this_ little one was _mine_! There was no one else to cling to when we two were torn apart, And it's death--this amputation of the strong arms of the heart!

I am just an ignorant man, sir, of the kind that digs and delves, But I've learned that human beings cannot stay in by themselves; They will reach out after something, be it good or be it bad, And my heart on hers had settled, and--the girl was all I had!

Yes, it's solid, Mr. Preacher, every word that you have said-- God loves children while they're living, and adopts them when they're dead;

But I cannot help contriving, do the very best I can, That it wasn't God's mercy took her, but the selfishness of man!

Why, she lay here, faint and gasping, moaning for a bit of air, Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there; It climbed through every window, and crept under every door, And I tried to bar against it, and she only choked the more.

She would lie there, with the old look that poor children somehow get; She had learned to use her patience, and she did not cry or fret, But would lift her little face up, so piteous and so fair, And would whisper, "_I am dying for a little breath of air!_"

If she'd gone off through the sunlight, 'twouldn't have seemed so hard to me, Or among the fresh cool breezes that come sweeping from the sea; But it's nothing less than murder when my darling's every breath Chokes and strangles with the poison from that chimney swamp of death!

Oh, it's not enough those people own the very ground we tread, And the shelter that we crouch in, and the tools that earn our bread; They must place their blotted mortgage on the air and on the sky, And shut out our little heaven, till our children pine and die!

Oh, the air is pure and wholesome where _some_ babies coo and rest, And they trim them out with ribbons, and they feed them with the best; But the love they bear is mockery to the gracious God on high, If to give those children luxuries some one else's child must die!

Oh, we wear the cheapest clothing, and our meals are scant and brief, And perhaps those fellows fancy there's a cheaper grade of grief; But the people all around here, losing children, friends, and mates, Can inform them that _Affliction hasn't any under-rates_.

I'm no grumbler at the rulers of "this free and happy land," And I don't go 'round explaining things I do not understand; But I know there's something treacherous in the working of the law, _When we get a dose of poison out of every breath we draw_.

I have talked too much, good Preacher, and I hope you won't be vexed, But _I'm_ going to make a sermon with that white face for a text; And I'll preach it, and I'll preach it, till I set the people wild O'er the heartless, reckless grasping of the men who killed my child!

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

Still do I write--day-time and night-- That which I see in my leisurely flight. What is this sign that is claiming the sight?-- "Lodgings within here, at five cents per night!"

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!

* * * * * [Illustration: "WEARY OLD MAN WITH THE SNOW-DRIFTED HAIR, NOT BY YOUR FAULT ARE YOU SUFFERING THERE."]

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.