Part 4
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._]