Tales of the Factories Respectfully inscribed to Mr. Sadler. By the Authoress of "Ellen Fitzarthur" [etc.] [i.e. by C. A. Bowles] |
 |
THE FATHER'S TALE. |
 | Tales of the Factories |  |
5
THE FATHER'S TALE.
“Shall I not visit for these things, saith the Lord?”
Jeremiah, v. 29.
Jeremiah, v. 29.
Come near, my children! till the hour of prayer
Close we, with serious talk, the Sabbath-day;
Come clust'ring round us—round your mother's chair
And mine: Methinks I'd have you so alway,
But so it cannot be. Soon far and wide
In this world must your several paths divide.
Close we, with serious talk, the Sabbath-day;
Come clust'ring round us—round your mother's chair
And mine: Methinks I'd have you so alway,
But so it cannot be. Soon far and wide
In this world must your several paths divide.
But work ye to one end, and with one mind,
Unto His glory, whose redeemed ye are,
Doing his pleasure—rend'ring to your kind
As ye'd receive again. Though sundered far,
Your earthly portions, bright or overcast,
Doubt not ye all shall meet in Heaven at last.
Unto His glory, whose redeemed ye are,
Doing his pleasure—rend'ring to your kind
As ye'd receive again. Though sundered far,
Your earthly portions, bright or overcast,
Doubt not ye all shall meet in Heaven at last.
6
And we—whose treasure and whose trust ye are,
If faithful found at the great reckoning day,
Shall back receive ye, each a living star
Wreathed in one crown of glory. Lo! the way
Is plain before us; let us but endure
Our time appointed, and the end is sure.
If faithful found at the great reckoning day,
Shall back receive ye, each a living star
Wreathed in one crown of glory. Lo! the way
Is plain before us; let us but endure
Our time appointed, and the end is sure.
But oh! beloved ones—full many a snare
And treacherous pitfall in your path doth lie;
Be constant still in watchfulness and prayer,
Search out your secret hearts continually;
Lest, from the root of evil set therein,
Shoot up and flourish some triumphant sin.
And treacherous pitfall in your path doth lie;
Be constant still in watchfulness and prayer,
Search out your secret hearts continually;
Lest, from the root of evil set therein,
Shoot up and flourish some triumphant sin.
At first “a little one,”—and so excused—
Or for a while in virtue's semblance drest—
Till moral sense and feeling, self-abused,
Are lulled at last to deep and deadly rest;
And the whole heart, corrupted to the core,
To work the Tempter's will, is given o'er.
Or for a while in virtue's semblance drest—
Till moral sense and feeling, self-abused,
Are lulled at last to deep and deadly rest;
And the whole heart, corrupted to the core,
To work the Tempter's will, is given o'er.
7
Oh, my dear children! I have seen to-day,
Have heard and seen what made my blood run cold.
There is a moral leprosy—I say
A plague among us—yea, the love of gold;
And rank and foul idolaters we see,
As e'er to ruthless Moloch bent the knee.
Have heard and seen what made my blood run cold.
There is a moral leprosy—I say
A plague among us—yea, the love of gold;
And rank and foul idolaters we see,
As e'er to ruthless Moloch bent the knee.
Ye've read (and shuddered) of those rites accurst,
Of Jaggernaut, the Indian demon god,
Whose maddened votaries struggle to be first,
When yearly his dread chariot comes abroad,
Headlong themselves or tender babes to dash
Before the horrid wheels, as on they crash.
Of Jaggernaut, the Indian demon god,
Whose maddened votaries struggle to be first,
When yearly his dread chariot comes abroad,
Headlong themselves or tender babes to dash
Before the horrid wheels, as on they crash.
Shudd'ring ye've read—but all in pity too
For those poor fanatics have wept the while;
Those blinded ones, who “know not what they do.”
But here in England, in our Christian isle,
Baptized men, for love of cursed gain,
Heap Mammon's altar with their infant slain.
For those poor fanatics have wept the while;
Those blinded ones, who “know not what they do.”
But here in England, in our Christian isle,
Baptized men, for love of cursed gain,
Heap Mammon's altar with their infant slain.
8
Marvel not, children! that ye see me so
In spirit moved for poor humanity—
This morning, as is oft my wont, you know,
Being awake, and stirring with the bee,
I took my way to visit that small mound
Ye wot of, in our parish burying-ground—
In spirit moved for poor humanity—
This morning, as is oft my wont, you know,
Being awake, and stirring with the bee,
I took my way to visit that small mound
Ye wot of, in our parish burying-ground—
That low green grave, where your young sister lies,
Whom late, with many tears, ye saw laid there—
Kiss off those drops from your fond mother's eyes—
Children! ye see how dear to us ye are.
But God, who gave, required his own again—
We wept, and yielded up our little Jane.
Whom late, with many tears, ye saw laid there—
Kiss off those drops from your fond mother's eyes—
Children! ye see how dear to us ye are.
But God, who gave, required his own again—
We wept, and yielded up our little Jane.
But oh! with what an agony of prayer
That one dear lamb selected from our fold
For his good pleasure, he the rest would spare;
Even with like pleadings that may not be told,
This very morn, my precious ones! I prayed
By that green mound beneath the lime-tree's shade.
That one dear lamb selected from our fold
For his good pleasure, he the rest would spare;
Even with like pleadings that may not be told,
This very morn, my precious ones! I prayed
By that green mound beneath the lime-tree's shade.
9
While thus I stood, smote heavy on mine ear
The funeral-bell; and, turning, I espied
An open grave, planked loosely over, near,
That scarce a few short paces did divide
From that of mine own child; and it must be,
Methought, for one as early called as she.
The funeral-bell; and, turning, I espied
An open grave, planked loosely over, near,
That scarce a few short paces did divide
From that of mine own child; and it must be,
Methought, for one as early called as she.
Once—twice again (no more) that sullen sound
Jarred with uneven stroke—and, at the call
Appeared, within the consecrated ground,
No funeral pomp of mourners—plume and pall;
But minister and clerk—and, huddling nigh,
A squalid group—one wretched family.
Jarred with uneven stroke—and, at the call
Appeared, within the consecrated ground,
No funeral pomp of mourners—plume and pall;
But minister and clerk—and, huddling nigh,
A squalid group—one wretched family.
Foremost, a man of wasted frame, and weak,
But tall and bony—bowed, but not by years;
Grizzled his thick black locks—his sallow cheek
Dug out, as if by long corroding tears;
But the deep sunken caves were parch'd and dry,
And glazed and meaningless his hollow eye.
But tall and bony—bowed, but not by years;
Grizzled his thick black locks—his sallow cheek
Dug out, as if by long corroding tears;
But the deep sunken caves were parch'd and dry,
And glazed and meaningless his hollow eye.
10
With him came step for step, with shambling gait,
A pale-faced boy, whose swollen and feeble knees
Bowed out and bent beneath his starveling weight;
They two between them, slung with careless ease,
A little coffin, of the roughest boards
And rudest framing Parish help affords.
A pale-faced boy, whose swollen and feeble knees
Bowed out and bent beneath his starveling weight;
They two between them, slung with careless ease,
A little coffin, of the roughest boards
And rudest framing Parish help affords.
And close behind, with stupid looks agape,
Two sickly, shivering girls, dragged shuffling on
A long-armed, withered creature, like an ape,
From whose bleared eyeballs reason's light was gone;
The idiot gibbered in his senseless glee,
And the man turned—and cursed him bitterly.
Two sickly, shivering girls, dragged shuffling on
A long-armed, withered creature, like an ape,
From whose bleared eyeballs reason's light was gone;
The idiot gibbered in his senseless glee,
And the man turned—and cursed him bitterly.
Alas, my children! But the Judge of all
Tries not the heart by superficial sign;
And when we think his thunderbolt must fall
On some offender, oft the hand divine
Reserves its wrath the guiltier wretch to slay
Who led, or drove him from the righteous way.
Tries not the heart by superficial sign;
And when we think his thunderbolt must fall
On some offender, oft the hand divine
Reserves its wrath the guiltier wretch to slay
Who led, or drove him from the righteous way.
11
Bareheaded, by the grave of mine own dead
I stood, while his, that wretched Man's, was lowered
Into the narrow house. His shaggy head
Sank on his breast; but when the earth was poured
Upon the coffin lid, there stirred in him
No visible change or tremor, face or limb.
I stood, while his, that wretched Man's, was lowered
Into the narrow house. His shaggy head
Sank on his breast; but when the earth was poured
Upon the coffin lid, there stirred in him
No visible change or tremor, face or limb.
And so he stood, while all was finished—
The grave filled in—the daisied turf smooth'd o'er;
Till one cried—“Father!” Then he raised his head
With such a look!—I see it to this hour—
And turning, stampt down hard the new-laid sod,
Mutt'ring with half-clenched teeth, “One's gone— thank God!”
The grave filled in—the daisied turf smooth'd o'er;
Till one cried—“Father!” Then he raised his head
With such a look!—I see it to this hour—
And turning, stampt down hard the new-laid sod,
Mutt'ring with half-clenched teeth, “One's gone— thank God!”
“One's gone!” I echoed, glancing where mine own
Slept in her grave; “and thou can'st tread that spot
So rudely—speak those words in such a tone!
Art thou a father?” “Would that I were not!”
Facing quick round his questioner to scan,
Made answer stern, that miserable Man.
Slept in her grave; “and thou can'st tread that spot
So rudely—speak those words in such a tone!
Art thou a father?” “Would that I were not!”
Facing quick round his questioner to scan,
Made answer stern, that miserable Man.
12
Dark scowling from beneath his close-knit brow,
His gloomy eye full fixt on mine, he said,
“Children may be good gifts to thee, and thou
Mayst love them living, and lament them dead;
But mine are born to slavery and despair—
They're better off in Heaven, or—anywhere!”
His gloomy eye full fixt on mine, he said,
“Children may be good gifts to thee, and thou
Mayst love them living, and lament them dead;
But mine are born to slavery and despair—
They're better off in Heaven, or—anywhere!”
“Ye're of the Fact'ries,” I began, but he
Broke in with horrid laugh—“Aye, who can doubt
That same that sees us? Fact'ry hands are we—
Their mark's upon us—and it don't wear out.”
And dragging forward one poor girl—“Look there!”
He shouted out, and laid her shoulders bare.
Broke in with horrid laugh—“Aye, who can doubt
That same that sees us? Fact'ry hands are we—
Their mark's upon us—and it don't wear out.”
And dragging forward one poor girl—“Look there!”
He shouted out, and laid her shoulders bare.
Tearing the ragged shawl off—“That's fresh done!
They sent her home scored black and blue last night,
To serve as mourning for the little one—
We've no black rags.—And that's a goodly sight
For parents' eyes—that poor demented thing!
He was born straight and healthy—Duke or King
They sent her home scored black and blue last night,
To serve as mourning for the little one—
We've no black rags.—And that's a goodly sight
For parents' eyes—that poor demented thing!
He was born straight and healthy—Duke or King
13
“Might have been proud of him; sharp-witted too—
Aye, 'cutest of 'em all—till his time came
For the curst Mill. They strapped him on to do
Beyond his strength: He fell against a frame
Struck backward—Hurt his spine, the doctors say,
And grew deformed and foolish from that day.
Aye, 'cutest of 'em all—till his time came
For the curst Mill. They strapped him on to do
Beyond his strength: He fell against a frame
Struck backward—Hurt his spine, the doctors say,
And grew deformed and foolish from that day.
“Sir! when your young ones are in bed, asleep,
Mine must slave on—in dust, and steam, and flue:
You may with yours the Lord's day holy keep
In his own house. 'Tis more than I can do,
(Brute as you think me,) from their rest that day,
Poor little wretches! to drag mine away.
Mine must slave on—in dust, and steam, and flue:
You may with yours the Lord's day holy keep
In his own house. 'Tis more than I can do,
(Brute as you think me,) from their rest that day,
Poor little wretches! to drag mine away.
“'Tis somewhere written in the Bible book,
How that Christ loves young children, and for foes
Counts all who wrong them. Think ye, does he look
In suchwise on our little ones, and those
Who rack their tender limbs, their sinews strain,
And coin out their young lives in cursed gain!
How that Christ loves young children, and for foes
Counts all who wrong them. Think ye, does he look
In suchwise on our little ones, and those
Who rack their tender limbs, their sinews strain,
And coin out their young lives in cursed gain!
14
“There came a man to me but yesternight,
Collecting pennies, towards setting free
Poor Negro slaves abroad! I laughed outright.
Master! says I, no need to cross the sea
For your good work; on this side the salt waves,
No lack of Slavery, nor of Infant Slaves.
Collecting pennies, towards setting free
Poor Negro slaves abroad! I laughed outright.
Master! says I, no need to cross the sea
For your good work; on this side the salt waves,
No lack of Slavery, nor of Infant Slaves.
“Your pardon, sir!” he said, with softened tone
Deep lowered; and touched his hat in act to go—
“But if I have forgot myself, you'll own
Wrongs such as mine may make a man do so.
I've loved my children—God he knows how well—
But my heart's hardened—and my thoughts are hell.
Deep lowered; and touched his hat in act to go—
“But if I have forgot myself, you'll own
Wrongs such as mine may make a man do so.
I've loved my children—God he knows how well—
But my heart's hardened—and my thoughts are hell.
“I've been myself, a wretched Fact'ry boy—
Untaught—uncared for—a poor foundling too;
I never felt the feeling you call joy,
Nor leapt, nor laughed, as happy children do;
But I got on, and married like the rest
In reckless folly.—And I say 'tis best
Untaught—uncared for—a poor foundling too;
I never felt the feeling you call joy,
Nor leapt, nor laughed, as happy children do;
But I got on, and married like the rest
In reckless folly.—And I say 'tis best
15
“To die a sinless child, as mine lies there”—
With aching pity, tenderly I strove
To soothe the wretched man in his despair:
I talked to him of seeking strength above—
He shook his head—Of comfort found in prayer—
He groaned out, pointing to the grave, “There! there!”
With aching pity, tenderly I strove
To soothe the wretched man in his despair:
I talked to him of seeking strength above—
He shook his head—Of comfort found in prayer—
He groaned out, pointing to the grave, “There! there!”
But we must seek him in his home distrest,
Where ague-struck his helpless partner lies,
Nursing a wailing baby at her breast,
That drains her life-blood with its scant supplies:
And we must try what Christian love can do,
For the sick soul, and sinking body too.
Where ague-struck his helpless partner lies,
Nursing a wailing baby at her breast,
That drains her life-blood with its scant supplies:
And we must try what Christian love can do,
For the sick soul, and sinking body too.
And oh, my children! fervent be our prayer,
This night before we sleep, and day by day,
That from our country, this good land and fair!
The moral plague-spots may be wiped away.
Ere from her heights, like guilty Tyre, she's hurled,
The wonder and opprobrium of a world.
This night before we sleep, and day by day,
That from our country, this good land and fair!
The moral plague-spots may be wiped away.
Ere from her heights, like guilty Tyre, she's hurled,
The wonder and opprobrium of a world.
| Tales of the Factories | |