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THE STORY OF ALICE AYRES.
[In an eloquent and interesting letter addressed to The Times of September 5th, 1887, Mr. G. F. Watts recalls to our minds the fine story of Alice Ayres, a maid of all work, who, in April 1885, sacrificed her own life in order to save the children of her master from being burnt to death. The details of this story, as gathered from the letter, I have endeavoured to reproduce below. Mr. Watts, in commenting upon this heroic action, remarks with great force and truth, ‘that the material prosperity of a nation is not an abiding possession, but its deeds are.’ ‘The character of a nation as a people of great deeds is one, it appears to me, that never should be lost sight of;’ and he wishes to dignify, as it were, the jubilee year ‘by erecting a monument, say here, in London, to the names of those likely-to-be-forgotten heroes.’ With this wish of his, natural to an eminent artist, I sympathise in some degree, but not entirely. As a writer of verses another point of view opens itself before me, and this point I have tried to show in the following lines.]
Played by misleaders of the state,
And feel within our echoing hearts
The step of an advancing Fate.
Yes! England's sun may set, alas!
May set in gloom, nor rise agen,
Her proud name, like a shadow, pass
Out of the thoughts and words of men.
Great deeds can never be undone:
Their splendour yet must fill our sky
Like stars, outlasting even the sun.
Ten thousand years may come and go,
But not to move them from their place:
Through them new lands will learn and know
Why God once shaped the English race.
How, with a half unconscious thrill,
The noble pulse of duty beat
In simple hearts, and armed the will.
We who yet love dear England well,
Must rise and link our lot with theirs,
Perchance still living on to tell
Of those who died—like Alice Ayres.
Tossing aside each idler rhyme,
Should pour forth song, to keep them free
From the concealing dust of Time.
No tricks of style will this require:
Such stories should be plainly told:
Gems never lose their strength or fire,
Though tinsel settings may grow old.
A sudden voice rings through the night:
Men gather, hurrying to and fro,
With quivering lips and faces white:
A small mean house bursts forth in flame:
Within crash down the burning stairs;
And, like a picture in her frame,
Stands at the window Alice Ayres.
‘We have the means to break your fall.’
She does not seem to hear the crowd,
And gives no answer to their call.
Then, firm that evil hour to meet,
She forces, through the narrow pane,
Soft clothes and bedding on the street,
Retires, and straight returns again.
Whom, with a watchful hand and head,
Protecting from all risks and harms,
She drops in safety on the bed.
Slowly she steps back, in that gloom
Of strangling smoke to disappear,
Thence dragging from her instant doom
An older girl, who shrieks with fear.
‘Come down, or every hope is gone:
‘Save, save yourself at length,’ they cry,
‘Enough for others have you done.’
Death therefore must be faced once more:
The star of duty will not set
For her till the whole work is o'er.
Upon herself a look to cast;
But filled with that one thought sublime,—
God wills that it should be her last.
With feet astray and reeling brain,
Choked breath, dulled ears, and darkened eyes,
She staggers onwards, but in vain:
It is too late—she falls and dies!
A household drudge, who slaved all day,
Whose joyless years were one long task,
On stinted food and scanty pay;
But neither hunger, toil, nor care
Could e'er a selfish thought instil,
Or quench a spirit born to dare,
Or freeze that English heart and will.
That England's worth may thence be shown
That men and women, not a few,
Like Alice, should be better known.
‘Enrich,’ some say, ‘this golden year
(That no such legend we may lose)
‘By building up their statues here.’
So be it! if the people choose.
A statue moulders and decays,
Whilst soulless hirelings often blight
Grand hero-names with formal praise.
No! Alice and her partners call
For that which chisels cannot give:
Self-sculptured on the minds of all,
Such memories should not waste, but live.
A local boast, a mere street token;
But, like the air, diffused through space,
So long as English words are spoken:
To be drawn in, with each new breath,
Where red and warm the old blood runs,
And, o'er the wide world conquering death,
Shared thus for ever by our sons.
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