 | City legends |  |
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Third Chain.
Scene I.
Christmas morning in an old-fashioned country kitchen. Culinary apparatus is lying about in a semi-orderly manner. Bunches of seed-corn are braided together by the husks over the doors. A Bible and hymn-book are on the mantel. An almanac is hanging near by. The last numbers of the Deacon's own denominational journal and the local paper of a neighboring village, rest upon a table in the corner—a pair of steel-bowed spectacles lying across them. Two cats are camping cozily and contentedly before the large kitchen stove—one of them purring softly in a half slumber, the other silent in absolute sleep.Deacon Kindman.
Trim up the parlors, good-wife, and make them extra gay;
For I'm to have a party, on this cold Christmas Day:
The friends that are invited will be here—do not doubt!
I'll go myself and bring them, unless they'll come without.
For I'm to have a party, on this cold Christmas Day:
The friends that are invited will be here—do not doubt!
I'll go myself and bring them, unless they'll come without.
Oh yes! you've been a-guessing, perhaps a month or two,
About my Christmas party, and what I meant to do;
The first whose invitations have all been left to me:
You're not quite sure concerning the guests you're going to see
About my Christmas party, and what I meant to do;
The first whose invitations have all been left to me:
You're not quite sure concerning the guests you're going to see
Our children?—No, not this time; they've children of their own,
Whose Christmas-trees are bending with presents newly grown;
They've got their life-vines planted, with love-flowers all about—
Just what we worked so hard for, when we first started out.
Whose Christmas-trees are bending with presents newly grown;
They've got their life-vines planted, with love-flowers all about—
Just what we worked so hard for, when we first started out.
Our cousins?—Well, not this time; 'tisn't what the plan intends;
They're all quite earthly-prosperous, with any amount of friends;
The world is always offering success an upward hitch;
But Christmas wasn't invented entirely for the rich.
They're all quite earthly-prosperous, with any amount of friends;
The world is always offering success an upward hitch;
But Christmas wasn't invented entirely for the rich.
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Our preacher and his family?—They're working now, like sin,
A-sorting out the slippers and other gifts sent in;
One turkey that I know of is on their kitchen-blaze;
A cheery, popular preacher has good times, nowadays!
A-sorting out the slippers and other gifts sent in;
One turkey that I know of is on their kitchen-blaze;
A cheery, popular preacher has good times, nowadays!
You don't know who you've cooked for?—Well, that is 'most too bad;
Of course you've no cur'os'ty—no woman ever had!
But still, your hands and heart, wife, have well nigh gone to war?
A woman works much happier, when she knows who it's for? ...
Of course you've no cur'os'ty—no woman ever had!
But still, your hands and heart, wife, have well nigh gone to war?
A woman works much happier, when she knows who it's for? ...
I'll tell you one:—a cripple that you and I both know,
Is living in a small hut, half buried in the snow—
His body bravely struggling to coax his soul to stay;
I'm going to get that cripple, and keep him here all day.
Is living in a small hut, half buried in the snow—
His body bravely struggling to coax his soul to stay;
I'm going to get that cripple, and keep him here all day.
And one's a poor old woman we've never called our friend,
But whose sad life grows heavy while struggling to its end—
Without a merry Christmas for twenty winters drear!
To-day she'll have a picnic to last her all the year.
But whose sad life grows heavy while struggling to its end—
Without a merry Christmas for twenty winters drear!
To-day she'll have a picnic to last her all the year.
And one's an old-style preacher; brimful of heavenly truth,
Whose eloquence lost fashion, or ran off with his youth;
And younger men and prettier, with flowery words came nigh;
And so the various churches have stood the old man by.
Whose eloquence lost fashion, or ran off with his youth;
And younger men and prettier, with flowery words came nigh;
And so the various churches have stood the old man by.
He tried his best to please them and serve Jehovah too—
He toiled each separate Sunday to “get up something new;”
They wanted elocution, and curvey-gestured speech!
And now this grand old preacher can't get a place to preach.
He toiled each separate Sunday to “get up something new;”
They wanted elocution, and curvey-gestured speech!
And now this grand old preacher can't get a place to preach.
But I've a strong opinion, that angels crowd up near
That man-deserted leader, his godlike thoughts to hear;—
We'll have a Bible-chapter made over good as new,
When he to-day talks Gospel, and asks the blessing too!
That man-deserted leader, his godlike thoughts to hear;—
We'll have a Bible-chapter made over good as new,
When he to-day talks Gospel, and asks the blessing too!
“And who else?”—I have sent word to all in my mind's way,
Who can't afford a dinner that's equal to The Day;
And some good prosperous friends, too, will come with smiling face,
To keep those poor from feeling that they're a separate race.
Who can't afford a dinner that's equal to The Day;
And some good prosperous friends, too, will come with smiling face,
To keep those poor from feeling that they're a separate race.
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And one of them's a neighbor; who, though sincere, no doubt,
Once couldn't quite understand me—and so we two fell out;
And every Sunday morning we've passed each other's door,
And have not known each other for fifteen years or more:
Once couldn't quite understand me—and so we two fell out;
And every Sunday morning we've passed each other's door,
And have not known each other for fifteen years or more:
I went to him last evening, and said, “Old friend, see here;
We're both tip-top good fellows: now, doesn't it strike you queer,
That we're assisting Satan to sow the grain of strife?
Come over, sure, to-morrow, and bring along your wife.
We're both tip-top good fellows: now, doesn't it strike you queer,
That we're assisting Satan to sow the grain of strife?
Come over, sure, to-morrow, and bring along your wife.
“Just come and help us, helping some poor ones draw their loads,
Who've stalled upon the side-hills of Life's uneven roads.”
He looked at me in wonder—then stood a moment still—
Then grasped my hands, and whispered, “My dear old friend, I will.”
Who've stalled upon the side-hills of Life's uneven roads.”
He looked at me in wonder—then stood a moment still—
Then grasped my hands, and whispered, “My dear old friend, I will.”
I think you're with me, good-wife, from what your features say;
And that's the kind of comp'ny we're going to have to-day—
Through which I hope a true love for all mankind may roam;
A sort of Christmas party where Christ would feel at home.
And that's the kind of comp'ny we're going to have to-day—
Through which I hope a true love for all mankind may roam;
A sort of Christmas party where Christ would feel at home.
Scene II.
a large number assembled in the parlor. It is not exactly a homogeneous company, but seems to be quite a happy one, nevertheless. Deacon Kindman has evidently followed his plan to the letter. Everybody that he invited is present, and a few that he did not, have happened in. The company have just risen from prayer with the good old-style preacher, who has thoroughly appreciated and improved the now unusual opportunity. He takes this occasion to combine two sermons—one on Thanksgiving Day, and one on Christmas—which have for many years been growing in his heart, waiting for a chance to be preached.Deacon Kindman.
Now in tuneful chorus, our thanks we will prolong,
And sing to the Father of fathers our own thanksgiving song.
With soul, as well as larynx, let all of us rejoice,
And not perform our worship entirely with the voice.
[Jeremiah, a neighboring poor man's son, passes round papers containing a hymn, which he has copied in an uncultured but very readable hand.
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sing.
HYMN OF THANKSGIVING.
To the air, “Portuguese Hymn.”
We thank thee, O Father, for all that is bright—
The gleam of the day, and the stars of the night;
The flowers of our youth, and the fruits of our prime,
And blessings e'er marching the path-way of time.
The gleam of the day, and the stars of the night;
The flowers of our youth, and the fruits of our prime,
And blessings e'er marching the path-way of time.
We thank thee, O Father, for all that is drear—
The sob of the tempest—the flow of the tear;
For never in blindness, and never in vain,
Thy mercy permitted a sorrow or pain.
The sob of the tempest—the flow of the tear;
For never in blindness, and never in vain,
Thy mercy permitted a sorrow or pain.
We thank thee, O Father, for song and for feast—
The harvest that glowed, and the wealth that increased;
For never a blessing encompassed thy child,
But thou in thy mercy looked downward and smiled.
The harvest that glowed, and the wealth that increased;
For never a blessing encompassed thy child,
But thou in thy mercy looked downward and smiled.
We thank thee, O Father of all! for the power
Of aiding each other in life's darkest hour;
The generous heart and the bountiful hand,
And all the soul-help that sad souls understand.
Of aiding each other in life's darkest hour;
The generous heart and the bountiful hand,
And all the soul-help that sad souls understand.
We thank thee, O Father! for days yet to be—
For hopes that our future will call us to thee;
That all our Eternity form, through thy love,
One Thanksgiving Day in the mansions above.
For hopes that our future will call us to thee;
That all our Eternity form, through thy love,
One Thanksgiving Day in the mansions above.
Deacon Kindman.
And now a neighbor's daughter, who—don't waste time to doubt—
Knows how to read a poem, and turn it inside out,
Who first sits down and invites it into her heart and soul,
And part of herself surrenders entire to its control,
Knows how to read a poem, and turn it inside out,
Who first sits down and invites it into her heart and soul,
And part of herself surrenders entire to its control,
And part of her mind keeps clear, like, when ready, as she ought
To be—to give to the author the aid of her own clear thought
(For face and form and gesture—be 't good or be it bad—
Add much to an author's meaning, or rob him of what he had);
To be—to give to the author the aid of her own clear thought
(For face and form and gesture—be 't good or be it bad—
Add much to an author's meaning, or rob him of what he had);
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Whose mental frills and tuckers are laid upon the shelf,
And who, in her well-conned subject, can partly forget herself;
This daughter of my good neighbor, who sits, himself, near by,
And needn't be blamed for looking at her with a partial eye;
And who, in her well-conned subject, can partly forget herself;
This daughter of my good neighbor, who sits, himself, near by,
And needn't be blamed for looking at her with a partial eye;
Will read a poem to us, presenting, I believe,
A legend of what happened on the first Christmas eve.
A legend of what happened on the first Christmas eve.
Alice
(the neighbor's daughter, reads, plainly, thoughtfully, spiritedly, and without affectation):
THE VOICE OF A STAR; OR, THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE.
Dark Night once more her tent unfurled
On Power's first-century home—
Upon the marble heart of the world—
The great, grand city of Rome;
And hushed at last were the chariot-tires,
And still the sandalled feet,
And dimmed the palace-window-fires
On many a noble street;
And to a roof a maiden came,
With eyes as angels love,
And looked up at the spheres of flame
That softly gleamed above.
On Power's first-century home—
Upon the marble heart of the world—
The great, grand city of Rome;
And hushed at last were the chariot-tires,
And still the sandalled feet,
And dimmed the palace-window-fires
On many a noble street;
And to a roof a maiden came,
With eyes as angels love,
And looked up at the spheres of flame
That softly gleamed above.
She gazed at them with a misty eye,
And spoke, in accents sad:
“O tell me, gold-birds of the sky
(If ever a voice you had!),
Is justice dull from a palsy stroke,
And deaf, as well as blind?
Else why must e'er the heaviest yoke
Be placed on womankind?
Why should the solace of man's heart
Be oft his meanest slave?
Why is her life e'er torn apart
By those she has toiled to save?
And spoke, in accents sad:
“O tell me, gold-birds of the sky
(If ever a voice you had!),
Is justice dull from a palsy stroke,
And deaf, as well as blind?
Else why must e'er the heaviest yoke
Be placed on womankind?
Why should the solace of man's heart
Be oft his meanest slave?
Why is her life e'er torn apart
By those she has toiled to save?
“Why should the mould of the human race
Be crushed and thrown away,
Whenever it lacks the outward grace
That wooes the stronger clay?
Why must the mothers of men be bought
And sold, like beasts that die?
Why are they scourged, for little or naught,
And barred of all reply?
Why are we women of Rome e'er told
That we should happy be,
Because not kept like flocks in fold,
Like those across the sea?
Be crushed and thrown away,
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That wooes the stronger clay?
Why must the mothers of men be bought
And sold, like beasts that die?
Why are they scourged, for little or naught,
And barred of all reply?
Why are we women of Rome e'er told
That we should happy be,
Because not kept like flocks in fold,
Like those across the sea?
“Have we no heart? Have we no mind?
Must not our conscience speak?
Say! must our souls be dumb or blind,
Because our hands are weak?
Must we be ever the laughing-stock
Of man's fond, fickle heart?
Were we but born for Fate to mock—
To play a menial part?
Must all our triumphs be a lie—
Our joys in fetters clad?
O tell me, gold-birds of the sky
(If ever a voice you had!).”
Must not our conscience speak?
Say! must our souls be dumb or blind,
Because our hands are weak?
Must we be ever the laughing-stock
Of man's fond, fickle heart?
Were we but born for Fate to mock—
To play a menial part?
Must all our triumphs be a lie—
Our joys in fetters clad?
O tell me, gold-birds of the sky
(If ever a voice you had!).”
Then from the east, a new, bright star
Flashed to her flashing eye,
And seemed to speak to her from afar,
With courteous, kind reply:
“Why weep, fair maid, upon the eve
Of Victory's coming morn?
It is o'er-strange for one to grieve,
Whose champion's to be born!
To-morrow a new, old king appears,
With dimpled, mighty hand;
And He shall reign a million years,
O'er many a princely land.
Flashed to her flashing eye,
And seemed to speak to her from afar,
With courteous, kind reply:
“Why weep, fair maid, upon the eve
Of Victory's coming morn?
It is o'er-strange for one to grieve,
Whose champion's to be born!
To-morrow a new, old king appears,
With dimpled, mighty hand;
And He shall reign a million years,
O'er many a princely land.
“His mother a queen the world shall see,
Whose reign doth e'er endure;
All women shall his sisters be,
Whose ways are just and pure;
A woman's fault shall not be her death,
By men or angels seen;
Repentance, and His God-strewn breath,
May always step between.
A woman's fame, by merit won,
Shall add to her queenly grace;
And higher, as the years march on,
Shall be her destined place.
Whose reign doth e'er endure;
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Whose ways are just and pure;
A woman's fault shall not be her death,
By men or angels seen;
Repentance, and His God-strewn breath,
May always step between.
A woman's fame, by merit won,
Shall add to her queenly grace;
And higher, as the years march on,
Shall be her destined place.
“And four great words the world shall see
Enwoven with man's life:
Mother and sister two shall be,
And two be daughter and wife.
It shall be felt that she whose care
The lamp of thrift makes burn,
Can take with him an equal share
Of all their lives may earn;
That she whose soft and healing hand
Can soothe, with blessing bright,
Is no less great and true and grand,
Than he who leads the fight.”
Enwoven with man's life:
Mother and sister two shall be,
And two be daughter and wife.
It shall be felt that she whose care
The lamp of thrift makes burn,
Can take with him an equal share
Of all their lives may earn;
That she whose soft and healing hand
Can soothe, with blessing bright,
Is no less great and true and grand,
Than he who leads the fight.”
Like one who through the woods may grope
Till light comes to his eyes,
The maiden thrilled with new-born hope,
And seized the glad surprise.
The voice of the star she understood;
Its glorious meaning knew;
And all her dreams of woman's good
Seemed likely to come true.
And when once more the twilight gray
Was brightened by the morn,
Within a manger far away,
The infant Christ was born.
Till light comes to his eyes,
The maiden thrilled with new-born hope,
And seized the glad surprise.
The voice of the star she understood;
Its glorious meaning knew;
And all her dreams of woman's good
Seemed likely to come true.
And when once more the twilight gray
Was brightened by the morn,
Within a manger far away,
The infant Christ was born.
[All the ladies present applaud vigorously. The men nod, in mild approbation. The old clergyman
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Deacon Kindman
(holding the hymn-book in his hand).
Not alone in the country, where God's first work was done,
Is found the true religion that came from His mighty Son;
Hear what an author's fancy heard a city brother say
When just about to be “moving,” upon the First of May.
[A small orphaned boy, whose residence just now is the neighboring poor-house, and who, even in that environment, has developed wonderful taste and talent, recites:
THE OLD HYMN-BOOK.
Yes, wife, we're going to move once more;
The last time, I declare,
Until the everlasting shore
Sends word it wants us there!
Some things this time with us we'll take,
Some leave here in disgust,
And some we'll lose, and some we'll break,
As movers always must.
The family Bible we will find
Devoutly carried through;
But also, wife, don't fail to mind
And save the hymn-book, too!
The last time, I declare,
Until the everlasting shore
Sends word it wants us there!
Some things this time with us we'll take,
Some leave here in disgust,
And some we'll lose, and some we'll break,
As movers always must.
The family Bible we will find
Devoutly carried through;
But also, wife, don't fail to mind
And save the hymn-book, too!
Though finger-marked and cupboard-worn,
And shabby in its looks,
I prize that volume, soiled and torn,
Next to the Book of books;
When David trimmed his golden lyre
With song forget-me-nots,
He left a flame of sacred fire
For Wesley and for Watts.
And many other singers, wife,
Have made God's glory known
In hymns and tunes that drew their life
From echoes round the throne!
And shabby in its looks,
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Next to the Book of books;
When David trimmed his golden lyre
With song forget-me-nots,
He left a flame of sacred fire
For Wesley and for Watts.
And many other singers, wife,
Have made God's glory known
In hymns and tunes that drew their life
From echoes round the throne!
I've sung them when, on lofty track,
My heart soared through the sky,
And every word and tone brought back
A telegraph-reply;
I've hummed them when my soul with grief
Feared all its prayers were vain,
Till they have braced up my belief,
And soothed my doubting-pain;
I've told them to the woods, and stirred
The trees up to rejoice;
I've joined in meetings where God heard
Ten thousand in one voice!
My heart soared through the sky,
And every word and tone brought back
A telegraph-reply;
I've hummed them when my soul with grief
Feared all its prayers were vain,
Till they have braced up my belief,
And soothed my doubting-pain;
I've told them to the woods, and stirred
The trees up to rejoice;
I've joined in meetings where God heard
Ten thousand in one voice!
I've paused—those sacred words to hear—
When life was gay and bright,
And every sound that charmed the ear
Brought glory to the sight;
I've heard them when the sexton's spade
Had cut my life in two,
And my sad heart, by their sweet aid,
Has walked the valley through.
Ah, wife! when heaven's great music-burst
Awakes my senses dim,
I humbly hope they'll give me first
A good old-fashioned hymn!
When life was gay and bright,
And every sound that charmed the ear
Brought glory to the sight;
I've heard them when the sexton's spade
Had cut my life in two,
And my sad heart, by their sweet aid,
Has walked the valley through.
Ah, wife! when heaven's great music-burst
Awakes my senses dim,
I humbly hope they'll give me first
A good old-fashioned hymn!
I trust, when our last moving-day
Has shown us God's good love,
And we have settled down to stay
In colonies above,
We'll find a hundred earthly things
Our hearts had twined about,
And which—so tight the memory clings—
Heaven wouldn't be heaven without;
And somewhere, in that blesséd place,
God grant I may behold,
Near by the precious word of grace,
My hymn-book, bound in gold!
Has shown us God's good love,
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In colonies above,
We'll find a hundred earthly things
Our hearts had twined about,
And which—so tight the memory clings—
Heaven wouldn't be heaven without;
And somewhere, in that blesséd place,
God grant I may behold,
Near by the precious word of grace,
My hymn-book, bound in gold!
[A great deal of appreciation is expressed of the reading of this poem. No one seems much struck by the subject-matter, except the old clergyman, who remarks that he has a series of fourteen sermons upon the influence of hymns on the human race, which he will be happy to give at the school-house, or any other place where an audience will assemble to hear them. Deacon Kindman makes arrangements to have the first of the series delivered in his parlor, upon the ensuing Thursday evening, and all the company promise to be present, if possible.
Deacon Kindman.
And now our good old pastor, whose heart is ever alive
To other good old pastors, and how they toil and strive,
Will read that a city preacher, with fame in his well-filled hand,
Became as little children, when near to the heavenly land.
The old Clergyman
reads:
THE PASTOR'S FAREWELL.
The sermon was o'er—the prayer—the song—
And dimmed was the mellow light;
With Summer at heart, the homeward throng
Went out in the Winter night.
And dimmed was the mellow light;
With Summer at heart, the homeward throng
Went out in the Winter night.
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But the pastor stayed, at his tired heart's choice,
To list to the chanted word;
For the organ-loft and the human voice
Still sung to the pastor's Lord.
To list to the chanted word;
For the organ-loft and the human voice
Still sung to the pastor's Lord.
The sweet tones brought to his wearied heart
Their mingled smiles and tears;
And he felt that night full loath to part
From the shrine of forty years.
Their mingled smiles and tears;
And he felt that night full loath to part
From the shrine of forty years.
The scene of a thousand wondrous hours
He saw as he glanced around;
The vase of affection's faithful flowers—
The blood of a battle-ground.
He saw as he glanced around;
The vase of affection's faithful flowers—
The blood of a battle-ground.
'Twas here he had preached with tones of love,
Or the clarion call of strife,
Of God within, as well as above;
And sweetened the bread of life.
Or the clarion call of strife,
Of God within, as well as above;
And sweetened the bread of life.
And here, with gesture of brave command,
And tenderly beaming face,
He reached to the world a thrilling hand,
And fought for the human race.
And tenderly beaming face,
He reached to the world a thrilling hand,
And fought for the human race.
'Twas here, with a strength by anguish bought,
And a love that never slept,
He rocked the cradle of new-born thought,
While the century smiled and wept.
And a love that never slept,
He rocked the cradle of new-born thought,
While the century smiled and wept.
He saw the thousands that o'er this track
Had walked to the country of day;
And now they seemed to be reaching back,
And beckoning him away.
Had walked to the country of day;
And now they seemed to be reaching back,
And beckoning him away.
But ere long time his soul had been
By olden memories stirred,
Two boys from the street came wandering in,
To list to the chanted word.
By olden memories stirred,
Two boys from the street came wandering in,
To list to the chanted word.
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Two young, fresh hearts, with a goodly sum
Of Innocence' saving leaven,
Like such it is said ours must become
Before we can enter heaven.
Of Innocence' saving leaven,
Like such it is said ours must become
Before we can enter heaven.
They heard in silence, with face upturned,
And tremulous, deep surprise,
And all the fire of the music burned
Within their youthful eyes!
And tremulous, deep surprise,
And all the fire of the music burned
Within their youthful eyes!
There crept to the old man's eyes a mist;
And down the pulpit stair
He gently came, and tenderly kissed
The children lingering there;
And down the pulpit stair
He gently came, and tenderly kissed
The children lingering there;
And o'er their shoulders his arms he threw,
This king with the crown of gray:
And finally, like three comrades true,
Together they walked away.
This king with the crown of gray:
And finally, like three comrades true,
Together they walked away.
And two went out in the Winter night,
Their earth-toil just begun;
The other, forth to eternal light—
His work for the planet done.
Their earth-toil just begun;
The other, forth to eternal light—
His work for the planet done.
An incident that occurred during Henry Ward Beecher's last Sunday evening in the church where he had preached so many years.
Scene III.
the same; it has been growing dark, and is nearly time to go home. The remainder of the afternoon has passed in recitations, songs, and speeches, and all seem, upon the whole, to have had a good time.Deacon Kindman.
And now let's be reminded that though Misfortune's hand
Has reached us all for reasons that God can understand,
While we, short-sighted creatures, shrink murmuring from its touch.
Yet there are those who suffer a thousand times as much.
[Enter an elocutionist, dressed as a tramp. His face has a lonely, haggard look; his eyes are cast downward,
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THE CONVICTS CHRISTMAS EVE.
The term was done; my penalty was past;
I saw the outside of the walls at last.
When I left that stone punishment of sin,
'Twas 'most as hard as when I first went in.
It seemed at once as though the sweet-voiced air
Told slanderous tales about me everywhere;
As if the ground itself was shrinking back
For fear 'twould get the Cain's mark of my track.
Women would edge away, with shrewd she-guesses,
As if my very glance would spoil their dresses;
Men looked me over with close, careless gaze,
And understood my downcast, jail-bird ways;
My hands were so grim-hardened and defiled,
I wouldn't have had the cheek to pet a child;
If I had spoken to a dog that day,
He would have tipped his nose and walked away.
And so I wandered in a jail of doubt,
Whence neither heaven nor earth would let me out.
The world itself seemed to me every bit
As hard a prison as the one I'd quit.
I saw the outside of the walls at last.
When I left that stone punishment of sin,
'Twas 'most as hard as when I first went in.
It seemed at once as though the sweet-voiced air
Told slanderous tales about me everywhere;
As if the ground itself was shrinking back
For fear 'twould get the Cain's mark of my track.
Women would edge away, with shrewd she-guesses,
As if my very glance would spoil their dresses;
Men looked me over with close, careless gaze,
And understood my downcast, jail-bird ways;
My hands were so grim-hardened and defiled,
I wouldn't have had the cheek to pet a child;
If I had spoken to a dog that day,
He would have tipped his nose and walked away.
And so I wandered in a jail of doubt,
Whence neither heaven nor earth would let me out.
The world itself seemed to me every bit
As hard a prison as the one I'd quit.
If you are made of anything but dirt,
If you've a soul that other souls can hurt,
Turn to the right henceforth, whoever passes:
It's death to drop among the lawless classes!
Men lose, who lose the friendship of the law,
A blessing from each breath of air they draw;
They know th' advantage of a good square face,
When theirs has been disfigured by disgrace!
If you've a soul that other souls can hurt,
Turn to the right henceforth, whoever passes:
It's death to drop among the lawless classes!
Men lose, who lose the friendship of the law,
A blessing from each breath of air they draw;
They know th' advantage of a good square face,
When theirs has been disfigured by disgrace!
So I trudged round, appropriately slow
For one with no particular place to go;
The houses scowled and stared as if to say,
“You jail-bird, we are honest; walk away!”
The factories seemed to scream, when I came near,
“Stand back! unsentenced men are working here!”
And virtue had th' appearance, all the time,
Of trying hard to push me back to crime.
For one with no particular place to go;
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“You jail-bird, we are honest; walk away!”
The factories seemed to scream, when I came near,
“Stand back! unsentenced men are working here!”
And virtue had th' appearance, all the time,
Of trying hard to push me back to crime.
It struck me strange, that stormy, snow-bleached day,
To watch the different people on the way,
All carrying parcels, of all sorts of sizes,
As carefully as gold and silver prizes.
Well-dressed or poor—I could not understand
Why each one hugged a bundle in his hand.
I asked an old policeman what it meant:
He looked me over, with eyes shrewdly bent,
While muttering, in a voice that fairly froze,
“It's 'cause to-morrow's Christmas, I suppose.”
And then the fact came crashing over me,
How horribly alone a man can be!
To watch the different people on the way,
All carrying parcels, of all sorts of sizes,
As carefully as gold and silver prizes.
Well-dressed or poor—I could not understand
Why each one hugged a bundle in his hand.
I asked an old policeman what it meant:
He looked me over, with eyes shrewdly bent,
While muttering, in a voice that fairly froze,
“It's 'cause to-morrow's Christmas, I suppose.”
And then the fact came crashing over me,
How horribly alone a man can be!
I don't pretend what tortures yet may wait
For souls that have not run their reckonings straight;
It isn't for mortal ignorance to say
What kind of night may follow any day;
There may be pain for sin some time found out,
That sin on earth knows nothing yet about;
But I don't think there's any harbor known
Worse for a wrecked soul—than to be Alone.
Alone!—there maybe never has occurred
A word whose gloom is gloomier than that word!
For souls that have not run their reckonings straight;
It isn't for mortal ignorance to say
What kind of night may follow any day;
There may be pain for sin some time found out,
That sin on earth knows nothing yet about;
But I don't think there's any harbor known
Worse for a wrecked soul—than to be Alone.
Alone!—there maybe never has occurred
A word whose gloom is gloomier than that word!
You who can brighten up your Christmas joys
With all affection's small but mighty toys,
Who fancy that your gifts of love be rash,
And presents are not worth their price in cash,
Thank God, with love and thrift no more at war,
That you've some one to spend your money for!
A dollar plays a very dingy part
Till magnetized by some one's grateful heart.
So evening saw me straggling up and down
Within the gayly lighted, desolate town,
A hungry, sad heart-hermit all the while,
My rough face begging for a friendly smile.
Folks talked with folks, in new-made warmth and glee,
But no one had a word or look for me;
Love flowed like water, but it could not make
The world forgive me for my one mistake.
With all affection's small but mighty toys,
Who fancy that your gifts of love be rash,
And presents are not worth their price in cash,
Thank God, with love and thrift no more at war,
That you've some one to spend your money for!
A dollar plays a very dingy part
Till magnetized by some one's grateful heart.
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Within the gayly lighted, desolate town,
A hungry, sad heart-hermit all the while,
My rough face begging for a friendly smile.
Folks talked with folks, in new-made warmth and glee,
But no one had a word or look for me;
Love flowed like water, but it could not make
The world forgive me for my one mistake.
An open church some look of welcome wore;
I crept in soft, and sat down near the door.
I'd never seen, 'mongst my unhappy race,
So many happy children in one place;
I never knew how much a hymn could bring
From Heaven, until I heard those children sing;
I never saw such sweet-breathed gales of glee,
As swept around that fruitful Christmas-tree!
I crept in soft, and sat down near the door.
I'd never seen, 'mongst my unhappy race,
So many happy children in one place;
I never knew how much a hymn could bring
From Heaven, until I heard those children sing;
I never saw such sweet-breathed gales of glee,
As swept around that fruitful Christmas-tree!
You who have tripped through childhood's merry days
With passionate love protecting all your ways,
Who did not see a Christmas-time go by
Without some present for your sparkling eye,
Thank God, whose goodness gave such joy its birth,
And scattered heaven-seeds in the dust of earth!
In stone-paved ground my thorny field was set:
I never had a Christmas present yet.
With passionate love protecting all your ways,
Who did not see a Christmas-time go by
Without some present for your sparkling eye,
Thank God, whose goodness gave such joy its birth,
And scattered heaven-seeds in the dust of earth!
In stone-paved ground my thorny field was set:
I never had a Christmas present yet.
And so I sat and saw them, and confess
Felt all th' unhappier for their happiness;
And when a man gets into such a state,
He's very proud—or very desolate.
Felt all th' unhappier for their happiness;
And when a man gets into such a state,
He's very proud—or very desolate.
Just then a cry of “Fire!” amongst us came;
The pretty Christmas-tree was all aflame;
And one sweet child there in our startled gaze
Was screaming, with her white clothes all ablaze!
The pretty Christmas-tree was all aflame;
And one sweet child there in our startled gaze
Was screaming, with her white clothes all ablaze!
The crowd seemed crazy-like, both old and young,
And very slow of deed, though swift of tongue.
But one knew what to do, and not to say,
And he a convict, just let loose that day.
And very slow of deed, though swift of tongue.
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And he a convict, just let loose that day.
I fought like one who deals in deadly strife:
I wrapped my life around that child's sweet life;
I choked the flames that choked her, with rich cloaks,
Stol'n from some good but very frightened folks;
I gave the dear girl to her parents' sight,
Unharmed by anything excepting fright;
I tore the blazing branches from the tree;
Till all was safe, and no one hurt but me.
I wrapped my life around that child's sweet life;
I choked the flames that choked her, with rich cloaks,
Stol'n from some good but very frightened folks;
I gave the dear girl to her parents' sight,
Unharmed by anything excepting fright;
I tore the blazing branches from the tree;
Till all was safe, and no one hurt but me.
That night, of which I asked for sleep in vain—
That night, that tossed me round on prongs of pain,
That stabbed me with fierce tortures through and through
Was still the happiest that I ever knew.
I felt that I at last had earned a place
Among my race, by suffering for my race;
I felt the glorious facts wouldn't let me miss
A mother's thanks—perhaps a child's sweet kiss;
That man's warm gratitude would find a plan
To lift me up, and help me be a man.
That night, that tossed me round on prongs of pain,
That stabbed me with fierce tortures through and through
Was still the happiest that I ever knew.
I felt that I at last had earned a place
Among my race, by suffering for my race;
I felt the glorious facts wouldn't let me miss
A mother's thanks—perhaps a child's sweet kiss;
That man's warm gratitude would find a plan
To lift me up, and help me be a man.
Next day they brought a letter to my bed;
I opened it with tingling nerves, and read:
“You have upon my kindness certain claims,
For rescuing my young child from the flames;
Such deeds deserve a hand unstained by crime;
I trust you will reform while yet there's time.
The blackest sinner may find mercy still.
(Enclosed please find a thousand-dollar bill.)
Our paths of course on different roads must lie;
Don't follow me for any more. Good-by.”
I opened it with tingling nerves, and read:
“You have upon my kindness certain claims,
For rescuing my young child from the flames;
Such deeds deserve a hand unstained by crime;
I trust you will reform while yet there's time.
The blackest sinner may find mercy still.
(Enclosed please find a thousand-dollar bill.)
Our paths of course on different roads must lie;
Don't follow me for any more. Good-by.”
I scorched the dirty rag till it was black;
Enclosed it in a rag, and sent it back.
Enclosed it in a rag, and sent it back.
That very night, I cracked a tradesman's door,
Stole with my blistered hands ten thousand more,
Which I next day took special pains to send
To my good, distant, wealthy, high-toned friend,
And wrote upon it in a steady hand,
In words I hoped he wouldn't misunderstand:
“Money is cheap, as I have shown you here;
But gratitude and sympathy are dear.
These rags are stolen—have been—may often be:
I trust the one wasn't that you sent to me.
Hoping your pride and you are reconciled—
From the black, sinful rescuer of your child.”
Stole with my blistered hands ten thousand more,
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To my good, distant, wealthy, high-toned friend,
And wrote upon it in a steady hand,
In words I hoped he wouldn't misunderstand:
“Money is cheap, as I have shown you here;
But gratitude and sympathy are dear.
These rags are stolen—have been—may often be:
I trust the one wasn't that you sent to me.
Hoping your pride and you are reconciled—
From the black, sinful rescuer of your child.”
I crept to court—a crushed, triumphant worm—
Confessed the theft, and took another term.
Confessed the theft, and took another term.
My life closed, and began; and I went back
Among the rogues that walk the broad-gauged track.
I prowl 'mid every sort of sin that's known;
I walk rough roads—but do not walk Alone.
[Company take leave of their host, and disperse, cheerfully
but thoughtfully, with the consciousness of
having had a splendid time, but with pity in their
hearts for those who are more miserable than Poverty
could possibly make them.
Among the rogues that walk the broad-gauged track.
I prowl 'mid every sort of sin that's known;
I walk rough roads—but do not walk Alone.
| City legends | |