WANT.
[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
February 5, 18—.
Want—want—want—want! O God! forgive the crime,
If I, asleep, awake, at any time,
Upon my bended knees, my back, my feet,
In church, on bed, on treasure-lighted street,
Have ever hinted, or, much less, have pleaded
That I hadn't ten times over all I needed!
Lord save my soul! I never knew the way
That people starve along from day to day;
May gracious Heaven forgive me, o'er and o'er,
That I have never found these folks before!
Of course some news of it has come my way,
Like a faint echo on a drowsy day;
At home I "gave," whene'er by suffering grieved,
And called it "Charity," and felt relieved;
And thought that I was never undertasked,
If I bestowed when with due deference asked.
But no one finds the poorest poor, I doubt,
Unless he goes himself and hunts them out;
And when you get real suffering among,
Be thankful if your heart-strings are not wrung!
These thoughts sobbed through me this cold, snowy day,
As carefully I picked a dubious way
'Mongst nakedness and want on every side,
And a rough, masculine angel for my guide,
Who goes about among affliction's heirs,
And gives his life to piece out some of theirs.
Up—up—up—up! and yet, I am afraid,
Farther from Heaven at every step we made!
Gaunt, hungry creatures stood on every side
With cheeks drawn close and sad eyes opened wide,
Filled to the brim with greedy, starving prayers,
As we went past them up the creaking stairs.
And I peeped into rooms 'twas death to see
(Or, rather, they peeped darkly out at me)—
Such as I wouldn't have had the cheek to 've shown
To any swine I've ever chanced to own.
'Twas sad to see, in this great misery-cup,
How guilt and innocence were all mixed up:
Here lay a fellow, stupid, dull, and dumb,
Whose breath was like a broken keg of rum;
And there a baby, looking scared and odd,
Who had not been a week away from God.
Here a clean woman, toiling for her bread;
And there a wretch whose dirty heart was dead.
Here a sound rascal, lazy, loud, and bold;
And there the helpless, weak and sick and old.
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;
"YES, IT'S STRAIGHT AND TRUE, GOOD PREACHER, EVERY WORD THAT YOU HAVE SAID."
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!
"CHOKED AND STRANGLED BY THE FOUL BREATH OF THE CHIMNEYS OVER THERE."
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.
"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."
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!
"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!
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!