The Project Gutenberg EBook of City Ballads, by Will Carleton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: City Ballads Author: Will Carleton Release Date: August 3, 2011 [EBook #36954] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CITY BALLADS *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Dianne Nolan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Cover "THESE ARE THE SPIRES THAT WERE GLEAMING." "THESE ARE THE SPIRES THAT WERE GLEAMING." CITY BALLADS BY WILL CARLETON AUTHOR OF "FARM BALLADS" "FARM LEGENDS" "FARM FESTIVALS" "YOUNG FOLKS' CENTENNIAL RHYMES" ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. All rights reserved. TO ADÓRA FRIEND, COMRADE, LOVER, WIFE floral decoration PREFACE. When city people go among forests and hills, they drink in the fresh air and weird scenery of rural surroundings, with much more relish, enjoyment, and appreciation, than do the life-long residents they find there. For the same reason, the great drama of metropolitan existence falls most forcibly upon those just from the clear streams and green meadows of the country. Their impressions then are deeper, and their feelings more intense than if they were city born and bred. With the latter fact in view, this book is an effort to reproduce some of the effects of city scenes and character upon the intellect and imagination of two people from the country: First, a young student, who has travelled the well-beaten roads of a college course, but is just entering real life, and now for the first time walks the paved and palace-bordered streets of which he has heard and read so much. Second, an old farmer, with very little "book-learning," but a clear brain, a warm heart, and independent judgment, and a habit of philosophizing upon everything he sees, which habit he brings to the city, and applies to the strange facts he witnesses. These, with certain incidental thoughts and characters encountered and discussed, constitute the present work. It will be found, as intended, sketchy and suggestive rather than elaborate and complete. Note-books and diaries are designed, not so much for the history of a career or an event, as a light to the memory, a stimulus to the imagination, and a help to the heart. It is the hope of the author that his book may perform those offices for you, his readers, and that it will rouse your pity of pain, your enjoyment of honest mirth, your hatred of sham and wrong, and your love and adoration of the Resolute and the Good, and their winsome child, the Beautiful. In which case he shakes hands with his large and loved constituency, and continues happy. W. C. CONTENTS. Page WEALTH 15 Including The Lovely Young Man 28 If I'd a Million Millions 35 Farmer Stebbins on Rollers 40 WANT 46 Including That Swamp of Death 53 A Sewing-Girl's Diary 64 FIRE 75 Including When Prometheus Stole the Flame 77 Flash: The Fireman's Story 79 How we Fought the Fire 84 "You will Tell me Where is Conrad?" 90 WATER 93 Including The Dead Stowaway 97 The Wedding of the Towns 102 Farmer Stebbins at Ocean Grove 107 VICE 113 Including The Boy-convict's Story 115 Farmer Stebbins on the Bowery 119 Farmer Stebbins Ahead 124 The Slugging-match 130 VIRTUE 132 Including More Ways than One 136 The March of the Children 141 TRAVEL 143 Including Her Tour 144 At the Summit of the Washington Monument 148 The Silent Wheel 155 Farmer and Wheel; or, The New Lochinvar 157 Only a Box 166 HOME 170 Including Let the Cloth be White 172 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page "These are the spires that were gleaming" Frontispiece. "I saw tall derricks by the hundred rise" 21 "I reached my hand down for it and it stopped" 29 "When all to once the wheels departed suddenly above, an' took along my heels" 43 Farmer Stebbins on Rollers 45 "Yes, it's straight and true, good preacher, every word that you have said" 51 "Choked and strangled by the foul breath of the chimneys over there" 54 "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" 55 "Weary old man with the snow-drifted hair, not by your fault are you suffering there" 59 "Is't the same girl that stood, one night, there in the wide hall's thrilling light?" 65 "And hateful hunger has come in" 69 "He begged that horse's pardon upon his bended knees" 80 "Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' 'Number Three'" 82 "Laid down in his harness" 83 How we Fought the Fire 87 "Battered and bruised, forever abused, he lay by the moaning sea" 99 "Miss Sunnyhopes she waded out" 108 "Two inland noodles, for our first acquaintance with the sea" 109 "A-floating on her dainty back" 110 "I tried to kick this 'lovely wave'" 110 "Heels over head—all in a bunch!" 111 "We voted that we'd had enough" 111 "To make four hundred dollars clear, an' help the children too" 121 "We come 'thin part of one of it" 123 "They 'put their heads together' in a new an' painful way" 127 "He makes himself a bigger fool than all the fools he makes" 129 The Salvation Army 140 The March of the Children 141 From the Monument 149 "And he stood there, like a colonel, with her trembling on his arm" 159 Chasing the Bicycle 163 "Only a box, secure and strong, rough and wooden, and six feet long" 167 "And carry back, from out our plenteous store, enough to keep himself a fortnight more" 172 "The hungry city children are coming here to-night" 173 "He heard its soft tones through the cottages creep, from fond mothers singing their babies to sleep" 177 CITY BALLADS. WEALTH. [From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.] Here in The City I ponder, Through its long pathways I wander. These are the spires that were gleaming All through my juvenile dreaming. This is The Something I heard, far away, When, at the close of a tired Summer day, Resting from work on the lap of a lawn, Gazing to whither The Sun-god had gone, Leaving behind him his mantles of gold— This is The Something by which I was told; "Bend your head, dreamer, and listen— Come to my splendors that glisten! Either to triumph they call you, Or to what worst could befall you!" This is The Something that thrilled my desires, When the weird Morning had kindled his fires, And the gray city of clouds in the east Lighted its streets as for pageant or feast, Whisp'ring—my spirit elating— "Come to me, boy, I am waiting! Bring me your muscle and spirit and brain— Here to my glory-strewn, ruin-strewn plain!" Treading the trough of the furrow, Digging where life-rootlets burrow, Blade of the food-harvest swinging, In the barns toiling and singing, Breath of a hay-meadow smelling, Forest-trees loving and felling— Where'er my spirit was turning, Lived that mysterious yearning! When in the old country school-house I conned Legends of life in the broad world beyond— When in the trim hamlet-college I cast Wondering glances at days that were past— Ever I longed for the walls and the streets, And the rich conflict that energy meets! So I have come: but The City is great Bearing me down like a brute with its weight. So I have come: but The City is cold, And I am lonelier now than of old. Yet, 'tis the same restless story: Even to fail here were glory! Grand, to be part of this ocean Of matter and mind and emotion! Here flow the streams of endeavor, Cityward trending forever.— Wheat-stalks that tassel the field, Harvests of opulent yield, Grass-blades that fence with each other, Flower-blossoms—sister and brother— Roots that are sturdy and tender, Stalks in your thrift and your splendor, Mind that is fertile and daring, Face that true beauty is wearing— All that is strongest and fleetest, All that are dainty and sweetest. Look to the domes and the glittering spires, Waiting for you with majestic desires! List to The City's gaunt, thunderous roar, Calling and calling for you evermore! Long in the fields you may labor and wait— You and your tribe may come early or late; Beauty and excellence dwell and will dwell Oft amid garden and moorland and fell; Long generations may hold them, Centuries oft can enfold them; But the rich City's they some time shall be, Sure as the spring is the food of the sea. [From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.] September 20, 18—. Wind in the south-west; weather wondrous fine; Thermometer 'twixt seventy-eight and nine. Ground rather dry; sun flails us over-warm; It's most time for the equinoctial storm. Family healthy as could be desired; Except we're somewhat mind and body tired At moving over such a lengthy road, And settling down here in our town abode, And wrestling with the pains that filter through one When he gives up an old home for a new one. Old Calendar, you've always stood me true; Now I'll change works, and do the same by you! You're just as good as when, with aching arm, I cleared and worked that eighty-acre farm! And every night, in those hard, dear old days, 'Twas one of my most unconditional ways, When to my labors I had said Good-night, And recompensed my home-made appetite, And talked with Wife, and traded family views, And gathered all the latest township news, And dealt my sons a sly fraternal hit, And flirted with my daughters just a bit, And through the papers tried my way to see, So the world shouldn't slip out from under me, As I was saying—in those sweet old days, 'Twas one of my most unconditional ways, To go to you, old book, before I'd sleep, And hand you over all the day to keep. I gave you up what weather I could find, Likewise the different phases of my mind; What my hard hands from morn to night had done, And what my mind had been subsisting on; What accidents had touched my brain with doubt, And what successes it had whittled out; How well I had been able to control The weather fluctuations of my soul; What progress or what failures I had made In spying round and stealing Nature's trade; The seeds of actions planted long ago, And whether they had blossomed out or no; And oft, from what you of the past could tell, I've learned to steer my future pretty well. And now I'm rich (who ever thought 'twould be!) I'll stand by you, as you have stood by me; And now I'm "City people"—having moved (My circumstances suddenly improved) Into this town, with some quick-gotten pelf, To educate my children and myself, And give my wife, who has a pedigree, A chance to flutter round her family tree, And show her natural city airs and graces (Which didn't "take" quite so well in country places) Now we are here, old fellow, while we stay I'll give you all the news from day to day. I'll find the good that in this city lurks, By regular, systematic, hard days' works; I'll rummage fearless round amongst the harm, As when I hoed up thistles on my farm; Shake hands with Virtue, help Sin while I spurn it, And if there's anything to learn, I'll learn it. How little I suspected, by the way— Scrambling for pennies in that patch of clay, The bare expenses of our lives to meet— That waves of wealth were washing at my feet! And when my hard and rather lazy soil Sprung a leak upward with petroleum-oil— When, through the wonder in my glad old eyes, I saw tall derricks by the hundred rise, Flinging wealth at me with unceasing hand, And turning to a mine my hard old land, Until it seemed as if the spell would hold Till every blade of grass was turned to gold— I felt, as never yet had come to me, How little round the curves of life we see; Or, in our rushings on, suspect or view What sort of stations we are coming to! It brought a similar twinge—though not so bad— As once, when losing every cent I had. But still it could not shift my general views; My mind didn't faint at one good piece of news. I think I'd too much ballast 'neath my sail To be capsized by one good prosperous gale (Same as I didn't lie down and give up all That other time, when tipped up by a squall). I didn't go spreeing for my money's sake, Or with my business matters lie awake; 'Twould never do, as I informed my wife, To let a little money spoil our life! And now I'm rich (who ever thought 'twould be!) I'll look about, and see what I can see; Appoint myself a visiting committee, With power to act in all parts of the city; Growl when I must, commend whene'er I can, And lose no chance to help my fellow-man. For he who joy on others' paths has thrown, Will find there's some left over for his own; And he who leads his brother toward the sky, Will in the journey bring himself more nigh. And what I see and think, in my own way, I'll tell to you, Old Calendar, each day; And if I choose to do the same in rhyme, What jury would convict me of a crime? For every one, from palaces to attics, Has caught, some time or other, The Rhythmatics. [From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.] Still through The City I ponder, Still do I wonder and wander. City—unconscious descendant Of olden-time cities resplendent! Child of rich forefathers hoary, Clad in their gloom and their glory!— Dream I of you in the rich, mellow past, Throbbing with life, and with Death overcast. Thebes—not to you, crushed and ghastly and dumb, Even the wreck-loving Ivy will come! Where stood your hundred broad, world-famous gates, Now a black Arab for charity waits. Not like this City—metropolis bold— Where the whole world brings its goods and its gold! Babylon—here the queen's gardens climbed high, Painting their flowers on the blue of the sky: "I SAW TALL DERRICKS BY THE HUNDRED RISE." "I SAW TALL DERRICKS BY THE HUNDRED RISE." This is where sinners, one asinine hour, Thought they could travel to Heaven by tower. (How like some sinners to-day, whose desires Mount by the way of their greed-builded spires!) Troy—of rare riches and valor possessed, Ruined fore'er by one beautiful guest— (Here many Helens, though less of renown, Do for some men what she did for a town!) Wondrous Palmyra, whose island of green, 'Mid the bleak sand, reared the beautiful queen (Sweet-faced Zenobia, peerless Proud in her virtue, and fearless) In this metropolis, virtuously grand, Many a queen is a joy to the land! Tyre—the huge pillars that groaned under thee, Rest in the depths of a desolate sea; Long may it be ere the spray's salted showers Foam o'er the walls of this city of ours! Mound-men's vast cities, whose graves we accost, Even your names are in ruins—and lost. What if, some time when this nation is nought, Vainly our names in our graves should be sought! Cities that yet are to flourish, That the rich Future must nourish! Where will you take up your stations— Where set your massive foundations? Where are the slumbering meadows, Dreaming of clouds through their shadows, That by rough wheels rudely shaken, Into new life shall awaken? Harbors that placidly float Nought but the fisherman's boat, Think you of fleets that shall lie Under the blue of your sky; When shall be built on your land Palaces wealthily grand; When in your face from tall spires Gleam the electrical fires? Cities that yet are to be, You are not phantoms to me! You are as certain and sure As that Old Time shall endure. Stars in the distant, mysterious sky, Flashing and flaming and dancing on high, Each is an earth to its millions, Each has its domes and pavilions. Cities, I see you—by reasoning led— On the great map with blue leaves overhead. Seaport and lakeport and rich inland town, Capital city, and village of brown; Thanking the prairie-food-givers, Strung on the winding star-rivers. Earths that can signal to earths, every one, With the bright torches you stole from the sun, Each on its surface has strown Cities and towns of its own, Fraught with their crimes and their graces, Full of mysterious places. They are no myths unto me— Clearly their outlines I see; Millions of towns I descry Hanging o'er me from the sky. Still through the paths of the town, Dreaming, I walk up and down. Is it so much of a wonder— Part of this whole, yet asunder, I in this throng, and I only— That I am wretched and lonely? Loneliness—loneliness ever— Leaving me utterly, never! Yes, I am part of this ocean Of matter and mind and emotion; Yet how entirely apart, Severed in mind and in heart! [From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.] September 25, 18—. Wealth—wealth—wealth—wealth! I never had been led, From all I'd thought and dreamed and heard and read, To think so much wealth, in whatever while, Could be raked up into one shining pile! Not long ago, a hundred dollars clear, Big as a hay-stack would to me appear. When first a thousand dollars made me smile, I sympathized with Crœsus quite a while; But looking round here makes me feel the same As if I hadn't a nickel to my name! Wealth—wealth! why, every acre I behold Has cost a mine of Californi' gold! The very ground one building here might fill Would almost buy the town of Tompkins Hill! There isn't a house my scrutiny has crossed But catches several figures in its cost; And when your eyes into the parlor go ('Mongst things they leave the curtains up to show), And see the carpets, rugs, and draperies rich, That twine ten dollars into every stitch, And view great pictures that such prices hold As if the painter's brush were dipped in gold; And when along the roads great buggies glide, With covers on, and rich-dressed folks inside, And up on top a man to drive the team— As fat as any cat brought up on cream (Man and team both), the driver dressed as gay As if he meant to marry that same day, Or wed his boss's daughter that same night (Which some consider as the coachman's right, And think it's understood, when he engages, A daughter should be thrown in with his wages), When even the horses, as so many do, Wear jewelry that cost a farm or two, You wonder in what tree-top grew the cash To buy so much reality and trash! Wealth—wealth—wealth—wealth! the very corner stores Are gold-mines from the ceilings to the floors! The shop we thought would ruin Cousin Phil, Because 'twas over-large for Tompkins Hill, Would, in the small vest-pocket, lose its way, Of one man's place I wandered through to-day! And then the banks—a hundred on one street— As full of money as an egg of meat (Although one never knows beyond a doubt What colored chickens they'll be hatching out); And then the churches—elegant to view— An independent fortune in each pew. One window-pane in one big church that's here Cost more than our old preacher made per year! (A city pastor's salary, I declare, Would keep him all his life, with cash to spare, A-preaching in that little house of wood, Holding his hearers' eyes in all he could, With rolling meadows and green trees in view, And fresh-complexioned streamlets wandering through); And then the rich school-houses in this town, Where children can be taught up-stairs and down, Swifter (if not so thorough), I suppose, Than in the small log school-house, where I rose From Numeration to the Rule of Three, And had Irregular Verbs whipped into me; And then the railroad stations, where, each day, Fortunes on wheels rush in and drive away; And then the steamboats paddling up and down— Towns swimming on their way from town to town; And then the ladies, in both street and store, Done up in silks and satins, spangled o'er As if it had rained diamonds for an hour, And they had gone and stood out in the shower; And then the rich and idle-houred young men— The rising generation's "Upper 10" (With the "1" left off), who each day, no doubt, Spend twice as much as all my "setting out," When Father said, "The family craft is full; Launch your own craft and show us how to pull." I often think, when past a dandy glides, Throwing his (father's) money on all sides, And peeking under each young lady's veil, As if he'd bought her at a mortgage sale, How shrewd it was of him, right on the start, To have a father who was rich and smart! (Folks often pride themselves much, by-the-way, Because their parents greater were than they.) Walking to-day along Fifth Avenue, A slip of paper on the sidewalk flew Before my eyes—some one the same had dropped; I reached my hand down for it and it stopped. I picked it up—the reading on't was queer; I think, perhaps, I'll paste it right in here. THE LOVELY YOUNG MAN. Oh the elements varied—the exquisite plan— That are used in constructing the lovely young man! His face he has easily made to possess The expression of nothing within to express; His hair is oiled glossily back of his ears, Atop of his head an equator appears; His scanty mustache has symmetrical bends, Is groomed with precision, and waxed at both ends; His darling complexion, bewitching to see, Is powdered the same as a lady's might be. And this is the dear whom the newspapers rude Have scornfully treated, and christened the——. The mental equipment I'll tell, if I can, That Nature has given the lovely young man: A set of emotions consistently weak, To go with a creature so gentle and meek; A will no opposing can break or surmount (Concerning all matters of no great account); A reasoning wheel, quite correctly revolved (When used on small questions already resolved); A taste for each gaudy and glistening thing That grows on the vision and dies on the wing. Elaborate methods and principles crude Encompass the mental estate of the——. The outer habiliments hastily scan, Employed in adorning the lovely young man! His feet two triangular cases have sought, By which his five toes to a focus are brought; "I REACHED MY HAND DOWN FOR IT AND IT STOPPED." "I REACHED MY HAND DOWN FOR IT AND IT STOPPED." The sheathes that enfold his propellers within Are on the most intimate terms with his skin; His starch-tortured collar on tip-toe appears, Desirous of learning the length of his ears; And fifteen-sixteenths of his brain, very nigh, Has run all to blossom and stopped in his tie. Such some of the splendors mad Fashion has strewed All over the surface comprising the——. Oh measure the brief philological span Of the high-pressure words of the lovely young man!— "B' Jauve! you daun't sayh saw! youah playing it low! Aw, auyn't she a daisy! I knaw her, y' knaw. She's thweet on me, somehow, though why I dawn't say, It cawn't be my beauty, it must be my way! Did you notith, laust night, Chawley Johnson's neck-tie? It paralyzed me, and I thought I should d-i-e! He's quite a sound fellaw to talk to awhile; It's weally a pity he isn't our style!" And thus talks forever, with slight interlude, The creature that lately was christened a——. Oh boys! there are several hundreds of ways To make yourselves small to the average gaze; Of which some will cost you considerably less, Accomplishing nearly an equal success. Go purchase a gilded hand-organ some day, And stand on the corner and solemnly play; Envelop yourselves in the skin of an ape, Assuming his methods as well, as his shape; Submit to refined zoological charms, And carry a lap-dog about in your arms; But don't let Destruction upon you intrude. So far as to make you down into a——. I think I saw, a minute's half or less, The young girl who composed this spiteful mess; She watched me pick it up, made a half rush Toward me, and then retreated with a blush. I called, before she vanished from my vision, "My dear, I think you've lost your composition!" But she dodged off, as if she seemed to doubt it, And, I suppose, went on to school without it. Pacing the question over, far and near, I think the little maid was too severe. Sweet Charity can roof much sin, they tell, Why shouldn't it shelter foolishness as well? When we draw rein and look about a minute, We see no field but God is somewhere in it; He made the eagle and the lion, I've heard; Why not the monkey and the chipping-bird? [From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.] Pavement and window and wall What is the cost of you all? Parlor and boudoir and stair, Crowded with furniture rare; Gems from the mountains and seas, Spires that out-measure the trees; Chamber and palace and hall— What is the price of you all? [Voices.] What did we cost? Bend ear; What did we cost? Now hear. Several millions men, There in the field and fen. Look! they are stripped and grim, Sturdy of voice and limb. Painfully, now, they toil Into the sullen soil; Stabbing the hills and meads, Planting the silent seeds. Into each streaming face Glides the hot sun apace. You in the thoughtful guise, You with the dreamy eyes— "Why do you labor so? Where do your earnings go?— "A goodly part to the rulers that form the powers that be; A modest part, if lucky, for my family and for me; And all the rest for the splendors that fringe the river and sea." [Voices.] What did we cost? Bend ear; What did we cost? Now hear. Listen! the factory wall Sends out its morning call. Hear the machinery's din; Look at the folks within. Child with a poor, pale face; Woman with hurried grace; Man with the look half wise; Girl with the handsome eyes. How the long spindles whirl! How the rich webs unfurl! Maid with the orbs that quiver With light from "Over the River,"[1] Why are you toiling so? Where do your wages go?— "A goodly part to the owners, whoever they may be; A little part to the living of those I love and me; And all the rest to the cities that gem the river and sea." [1] As is well known, the weird, inimitable poem, "Over the River," was written by a factory girl. [Voices.] What do we cost? Now hear; Hearken, with eye and ear. Several thousand men, There in the hill and glen; Forward, march! Take aim! Fire! now a storm of flame! Shriek and curse and shout; Death-beds lying about. Man with the kingly face, There in that gory place Bleeding and writhing so (Well a moment ago), Tell me, in mangled tones— Tell us, amid your groans, What do they buy with war? What were you fighting for?— "For country and for glory, and for the powers that be; To deck with pride and honor the family dear to me; And to defend our cities that gem the river and sea." [Voices.] What do we cost? Bend ear: No; you will never hear. [From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.] November 1, 18—. Wind north-east; weather getting cross and cool; Wife and the children gone to Sunday-school. And I—not very well—am home again, Holding a conversation with my pen. And all that I can make it say to me Is Wealth, wealth, wealth! how much I hear and see! Strange, how, on human brains, sixteen times o'er, Is stamped and carved the magic word of More! Some several thousands to my credit lie In a small bank on Wall Street, handy by; But I can't help contriving what I'd do If I possessed the whole Sub-Treasury too; Or if I had (to take a modest tone) A million million dollars, all my own! The subject took so strong a growth in me, I overtalked the same, last night, at tea;[2] And so my oldest daughter (who can rhyme, And strikes some notes that with her father's chime) Became with that same foolishness possessed, So much so that it would not let her rest, But hung about her bedside all the night And brought its capabilities in sight. So much so that she threw it into verse As bad as that her father writes—or worse. And then, with some unconscious girlish grace, And blushes chasing all about her face, She, in a way I've learned to understand Quite accident'ly, slipped it in my hand. It was not made in public to appear, But, privately, I'll paste it right in here: [2] Our dinner is at noon; our supper, six, We have not yet learned all the city tricks. IF I'D A MILLION MILLIONS. If I'd a million millions— Just think! a million millions!— What wouldn't I do—what couldn't I do— If I'd a million millions? From every forest's finest tree My many-gabled house should be; With silver threads from golden looms Should be attired my palace-rooms; My blossomed table have the best Of all the East and all the West; My bed should be a daintier thing Than ever sheltered queen or king; What wouldn't I do, What couldn't I do,