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THE CLIMBING BOY'S SOLILOQUIES.

167

PROLOGUE.

A WORD WITH MYSELF.

I know they scorn the Climbing Boy,
The gay, the selfish, and the proud;
I know his villanous employ
Is mockery with the thoughtless crowd.
So be it;—brand with every name
Of burning infamy his art,
But let his country bear the shame,
And feel the iron at her heart.
I cannot coldly pass him by,
Stript, wounded, left by thieves half dead;
Nor see an infant Lazarus lie
At rich men's gates, imploring bread.
A frame as sensitive as mine,
Limbs moulded in a kindred form,
A soul degraded, yet divine,
Endear to me my brother-worm.
He was my equal at his birth,
A naked, helpless, weeping child;
—And such are born to thrones on earth,
On such hath every mother smiled.
My equal he will be again,
Down in that cold oblivious gloom,
Where all the prostrate ranks of men
Crowd, without fellowship, the tomb.
My equal in the judgment-day,
He shall stand up before the throne,
When every veil is rent away,
And good and evil only known.
And is he not mine equal now?
Am I less fall'n from God and truth,
Though “Wretch” be written on his brow,
And leprosy consume his youth?
If holy Nature yet have laws
Binding on man, of woman born,
In her own court I'll plead his cause,
Arrest the doom, or share the scorn.
Yes, let the scorn that haunts his course
Turn on me like a trodden snake,
And hiss and sting me with remorse,
If I the fatherless forsake.
Sheffield, Feb. 28. 1824.

No. I. THE COMPLAINT.

Who loves the climbing boy? Who cares
If well or ill I be?
Is there a living soul that shares
A thought or wish with me?
I've had no parents since my birth,
Brothers and sisters none,
Ah! what to me is all this earth,
Where I am only one?
I wake and see the morning shine,
And all around me gay;
But nothing I behold is mine,
No, not the light of day;—
No, not the very breath I draw;
These limbs are not my own;
A master calls me his by law,—
My griefs are mine alone:
Ah! these they could not make him feel—
Would they themselves had felt
Who bound me to that man of steel,
Whom mercy cannot melt!
Yet not for wealth or ease I sigh,
All are not rich and great;
Many may be as poor as I,
But none so desolate.
For all I know have kin and kind,
Some home, some hope, some joy;
But these I must not look to find—
Who knows the climbing boy?
168

The world has not a place of rest
For outcast so forlorn;
'Twas all bespoken, all possest,
Long before I was born.
Affection, too, life's sweetest cup,
Goes round from hand to hand;
But I am never ask'd to sup—
Out of the ring I stand.
If kindness beats within my heart,
What heart will beat again?
I coax the dogs, they snarl and start;
Brutes are as bad as men.
The beggar's child may rise above
The misery of his lot;
The gipsy may be loved, and love;
But I—but I must not.
Hard fare, cold lodgings, cruel toil,
Youth, health, and strength consume:
What tree could thrive in such a soil?
What flower so scathed could bloom?
Should I outgrow this crippling work,
How shall my bread be sought?
Must I to other lads turn Turk,
And teach what I am taught?
O, might I roam with flocks and herds
In fellowship along!
O, were I one among the birds,
All wing, and life, and song!
Free with the fishes might I dwell
Down in the quiet sea!
The snail in his cob-castle shell—
The snail's a king to me!
For out he glides in April showers,
Lies snug when storms prevail;
He feeds on fruit, he sleeps on flowers—
I wish I was a snail!—
No, never! do the worst they can,
I may be happy still;
For I was born to be a man,
And if I live I will!

No. II. THE DREAM.

I dreamt; but what care I for dreams?
And yet I tremble too;
It look'd so like the truth, it seems
As if it would come true.
I dreamt that, long ere peep of day,
I left my cold straw bed,
And o'er a common far away,
As if I flew, I fled.
The tempest hurried me behind
Like a mill-stream along;
I could have lean'd against the wind,
It was so deadly strong.
The snow—I never saw such snow—
Raged like the sea all round,
Tossing and tumbling to and fro;
I thought I must be drown'd.
Now up, now down, with main and might
I plunged through drift and stour;
Nothing, no nothing baulk'd my flight,
I had a giant's power.
Till suddenly the storm stood still,
Flat lay the snow beneath;
I curdled to an icicle,
I could not stir—not breathe.
My master found me rooted there;
He flogg'd me back to sense,
Then pluck'd me up, and by the hair,
Sheer over ditch and fence,—
He dragg'd, and dragg'd, and dragg'd me on,
For many and many a mile;
At a grand house he stopp'd anon;—
It was a famous pile:
Up to the moon it seem'd to rise,
Broad as the earth to stand;
The building darken'd half the skies,
Its shadow half the land.
169

All round was still—as still as death;
I shivering, chattering, stood;
And felt the coming, going breath,
The tingling, freezing blood.
Soon, at my master's rap, rap, rap,
The door wide open flew;
In went we;—with a thunder-clap
Again the door bang'd to.
I trembled, as I've felt a bird
Tremble within my fist;
For none I saw, and none I heard,
But all was lone and whist.
The moonshine through the windows show'd
Long stripes of light and gloom;
The carpet with all colours glow'd,
Stone men stood round the room:
Fair pictures in their golden frames,
And looking-glasses bright;
Fine things, I cannot tell their names,
Dazed and bewitch'd me quite.
Master soon thwack'd them out my head—
The chimney must be swept!
Yet in the grate the coals were red;
I stamp'd, and scream'd, and wept.
I kneel'd, I kiss'd his feet, I pray'd;
For then—which shows I dreamt—
Methought I ne'er before had made
The terrible attempt.
But, as a butcher lifts the lamb
That struggles for its life,
(Far from the ramping, bleating dam,)
Beneath his desperate knife;
With his two iron hands he grasp'd
And hoisted me aloof;
His naked neck in vain I clasp'd,
The man was pity-proof.
So forth he swung me through the space,
Above the smouldering fire;
I never can forget his face,
Nor his gruff growl, “Go higher!”
As if I climb'd a steep house-side,
Or scaled a dark draw-well,
The horrid opening was so wide,
I had no hold,—I fell:
Fell on the embers, all my length,
But scarcely felt their heat,
When, with a madman's rage and strength,
I started on my feet;
And, ere I well knew what I did,
Had clear'd the broader vent;
From his wild vengeance to be hid,
I cared not where I went.
The passage narrow'd as I drew
Limb after limb by force,
Working and worming, like a screw,
My hard, slow, up-hill course.
Rougher than harrow-teeth within,
Sharp lime and jagged stone
Stripp'd my few garments, gored the skin,
And grided to the bone.
Gall'd, wounded, bleeding, ill at ease,
Still I was stout at heart;
Head, shoulders, elbows, hands, feet, knees,
All play'd a stirring part.
I climb'd, and climb'd, and climb'd in vain,
No light at top appear'd;
No end to darkness, toil, and pain,
While worse and worse I fear'd.
I climb'd, and climb'd, and had to climb,
Yet more and more astray;
A hundred years I thought the time,
A thousand miles the way.
Strength left me, and breath fail'd at last,
Then had I headlong dropp'd,
But the strait funnel wedged me fast,
So there dead-lock'd I stopp'd.
I groan'd, I grasp'd, to shriek I tried,
No sound came from my breast;
There was a weight on every side,
As if a stone-delf press'd.
170

Yet still my brain kept beating on
Through night-mares of all shapes,
Foul fiends, no sooner come than gone,
Dragons, and wolves, and apes.
They gnash'd on me with bloody jaws,
Chatter'd, and howl'd, and hiss'd;
They clutch'd me with their cat-like claws
While off they whirl'd in mist.
Till, like a lamp-flame, blown away,
My soul went out in gloom;
Thought ceased, and dead-alive I lay,
Shut up in that black tomb.
O, sweetly on the mother's lap
Her pretty baby lies,
And breathes so freely in his nap,
She can't take off her eyes.
Ah! thinks she then,—ah, thinks she not!—
How soon the time may be
When all her love will be forgot,
And he a wretch like me?
She in her grave at rest may lie,
And daisies speck the sod,
Nor see him bleed, nor hear him cry,
Beneath a ruffian's rod.
No mother's lap was then my bed,
O'er me no mother smiled;
No mother's arm went round my head,
—Am I no mother's child?
Life, on a sudden, ran me through,
Light, light, all round me blazed,
Red flames rush'd roaring up the flue,—
Flames by my master raised.
I heard his voice, and ten-fold might
Bolted through every limb;
I saw his face, and shot upright;
Brick walls made way from him.
Swift as a squirrel seeks the bough
Where he may turn and look
Down on the school-boy, chop-fallen now,
My ready flight I took.
The fire was quickly quench'd beneath,
Blue light above me glanced,
And air, sweet air, I 'gan to breathe,
The blood within me danced.
I climb'd, and climb'd, and climb'd away,
Till on the top I stood,
And saw the glorious dawn of day
Come down on field and flood.
Oh me! a moment of such joy
I never knew before;
Right happy was the climbing-boy,
One moment,—but no more.
Sick, sick, I turn'd, the world ran round,
The stone I stood on broke,
And plumb I toppled to the ground;
—Like a scared owl, I woke.
I woke, but slept again, and dream'd
The self-same things anew:
The storm, the snow, the building seem'd
All true, as daylight's true.
But, when I tumbled from the top,
The world itself had flown;
There was no ground on which to drop,
'Twas emptiness alone.
On winter nights I've seen a star
Leap headlong from the sky;
I've watch'd the lightning from afar
Flash out of heaven and die.
So,—but in darkness,—so I fell
Through nothing to no place,
Until I saw the flames of hell
Shoot upward to my face.
Down, down, as with a mill-stone weight,
I plunged right through their smoke:
To cry for mercy 'twas too late,—
They seized me,—I awoke:
'Woke, slept, and dream'd the like again,
The third time, through and through,
Except the winding up;—ah! then
I wish it had been true.
171

For when I climb'd into the air,
Spring-breezes flapp'd me round;
Green hills, and dales, and woods were there,
And May-flowers on the ground.
The moon was waning in the west,
The clouds were golden red;
The lark, a mile above his nest,
Was cheering o'er my head.
The stars had vanish'd, all but one,
The darling of the sky,
That glitter'd like a tiny sun,
No bigger than my eye.
I look'd at this,—I thought it smiled,
Which made me feel so glad,
That I became another child,
And not the climbing lad:
A child as fair as you may see,
Whom soot has never soil'd;
As rosy-cheek'd as I might be
If I had not been spoil'd.
Wings, of themselves, about me grew,
And, free as morning-light,
Up to that single star I flew,
So beautiful and bright.
Through the blue heaven I stretch'd my hand
To touch its beams,—it broke
Like a sea-bubble on the sand;
Then all fell dark.—I woke.

No. III. EASTER-MONDAY AT SHEFFIELD.

Yes, there are some that think of me;
The blessing on their heads! I say;
May all their lives as happy be
As mine has been with them to-day!
When I was sold, from Lincolnshire
To this good town, I heard a noise,
What merry-making would be here
At Easter-tide for climbing boys.
'Twas strange, because where I had been,
The better people cared no more
For such as me, than had they seen
A young crab crawling on their shore.
Well, Easter came;—in all the land
Was e'er a 'prentice-lad so fine!
A bran-new suit at second-hand,
Cap, shoes, and stockings, all were mine.
The coat was green, the waistcoat red,
The breeches leather, white and clean;
I thought I must go off my head,
I could have jump'd out of my skin.
All Sunday through the streets I stroll'd,
Fierce as a turkey-cock, to see
How all the people, young and old,—
At least I thought so,—look'd at me.
At night, upon my truss of straw,
Those gaudy clothes hung round the room;
By moon-glimpse oft their shapes I saw
Like bits of rainbow in the gloom.
Yet scarce I heeded them at all,
Although I never slept a wink;
The feast next day at Cutlers' Hall,
Of that I could not help but think.
Wearily trail'd the night away;
Between the watchman and the clock,
I thought it never would be day;
At length out crew the earliest cock.
A second answer'd, then a third,
At a long distance,—one, two, three,—
A dozen more in turn were heard;
—I crew among the rest for glee.
Up gat we, I and little Bill,
And donn'd our newest and our best;
Nay, let the proud say what they will,
As grand as fiddlers we were drest.
We left our litter in the nook,
And wash'd ourselves as white as snow;
On brush and bag we scorn'd to look,
—It was a holiday, you know.
172

What ail'd me then I could not tell,
I yawn'd the whole forenoon away,
And hearken'd while the vicar's bell
Went ding dong, ding dong, pay, pay, pay!
The clock struck twelve—I love the twelves
Of all the hours 'twixt sun and moon;
For then poor lads enjoy themselves,—
We sleep at midnight, rest at noon.
This noon was not a resting time!
At the first stroke we started all,
And, while the tune rang through the chime,
Muster'd, like soldiers, at the hall.
Not much like soldiers in our gait;
Yet never soldier, in his life,
Tried, as he march'd, to look more straight
Than Bill and I,—to drum and fife.
But now I think on't, what with scars,
Lank bony limbs, and spavin'd feet,
Like broken soldiers from the wars
We limp'd, yet strutted through the street.
Then, while our meagre motley crew
Came from all quarters of the town,
Folks to their doors and windows flew;
I thought the world turn'd upside down.
For now, instead of oaths and jeers,
The sauce that I have found elsewhere,
Kind words, and smiles, and hearty cheers,
Met us,—with halfpence here and there.
The mothers held their babies high,
To chuckle at our hobbling train,
But clipt them close while we went by;
—I heard their kisses fall like rain,—
And wiped my cheek, that never felt
The sweetness of a mother's kiss;
For heart and eyes began to melt,
And I was sad, yet pleased, with this.
At Cutlers' Hall we found the crowd,
That shout the gentry to their feast;
They made us way, and bawl'd so loud,
We might have been young lords at least.
We enter'd, twenty lads and more,
While gentlemen, and ladies too,
All bade us welcome at the door,
And kindly ask'd us, “How d'ye do?”
“Bravely,” I answer'd, but my eye
Prickled, and leak'd, and twinkled still;
I long'd to be alone, to cry,
—To be alone, and cry my fill.
Our other lads were blithe and bold,
And nestling, nodding as they sat,
Till dinner came, their tales they told,
And talk'd of this, and laugh'd at that.
I pluck'd up courage, gaped, and gazed
On the fine room, fine folks, fine things,
Chairs, tables, knives, and forks, amazed,
With pots and platters fit for kings.
Roast-beef, plum-pudding, and what not,
Soon smoked before us,—such a size,
Giants their dinners might have got;
We open'd all our mouths and eyes.
Anon, upon the board, a stroke
Warn'd each to stand up in his place;
One of our generous friends then spoke
Three or four words—they call'd it Grace.
I think he said—“God bless our food!”
—Oft had I heard that name, in tones
Which ran like ice, cold through my blood,
And made the flesh creep on my bones:
But now, and with a power so sweet,
The name of God went through my heart,
That my lips trembled to repeat
Those words, and tears were fain to start.
Tears, words, were in a twinkle gone,
Like sparrows whirring through the street,
When, at a sign, we all fell on,
As geese in stubble, to our meat.
The large plum-puddings first were carved,
And well we younkers plied them o'er;
You would have thought we had been starved,
Or were to be,—a month and more.
173

Next the roast beef flew reeking round
In glorious slices, mark ye that!
The dishes were with gravy drown'd;
A sight to make a weazel fat.
A great meat-pie, a good meat-pie,
Baked in a cradle-length of tin,
Was open'd, emptied, scoop'd so dry,
You might have seen your face within.
The ladies and the gentlemen
Took here and there with us a seat;
They might be hungry, too,—but then
We gave them little time to eat.
Their arms were busy helping us,
Like cobblers' elbows at their work,
Or see-saw, see-saw, thus and thus;
A merry game at knife and fork.
O, then the din, the deafening din,
Of plates, cans, crockery, spoons, and knives,
And waiters running out and in;
We might be eating for our lives.
Such feasting I had never seen
So presently had got enough;
The rest, like fox-hounds, staunch and keen,
Were made of more devouring stuff.
They cramm'd like cormorants their craws,
As though they never would have done;
It was a feast to watch their jaws
Grind, and grow weary, one by one.
But there's an end to every thing;
And this grand dinner pass'd away:—
I wonder if great George our king
Has such a dinner every day?—
Grace after meat again was said,
And my good feelings sprang anew;
But at the sight of gingerbread,
Wine, nuts, and oranges, they flew.
So while we took a turn with these,
Almost forgetting we had dined;
As though we might do what we please,
We loll'd, and joked, and told our mind.
Now I had time, if not before,
To take a peep at every lad;
I counted them to twenty-four,
Each in his Easter-finery clad:
All wash'd and clean as clean could be,—
And yet so dingy, marr'd, and grim,
A mole with half an eye might see
Our craft in every look and limb.
All shapes but straight ones you might find,
As sapling-firs on the high moors,
Black, stunted, crook'd, through which the wind,
Like a wild bull, all winter roars.
Two toddling five-year olds were there,
Twins, that had just begun to climb,
With cherry-cheeks, and curly hair,
And skins not yet engrain'd with grime.
I wish'd, I did, that they might die,
Like “Babes i' th' Wood,” the little slaves,
And “Robin-redbreast” painfully
Hide them “with leaves,” for want of graves;
Rather than live like me, and weep
To think that ever they were born;
Toil the long day, and from short sleep
Wake to fresh miseries every morn.
Gay as young goldfinches in spring,
They chirp'd and peck'd, top-full of joy,
As if it was some mighty thing
To be a chimney-sweeper's boy.
And so it is, on such a day,
As welcome Easter brings us here,
—In London, too, the first of May,—
But O, what is it all the year!
Close at a Quaker-lady's side,
Sate a young girl;—I know not how
I felt when me askance she eyed,
And a quick blush flew o'er her brow.
For then, just then, I caught a face
Fair,—but I oft had seen it black,
And mark'd the owner's tottering pace
Beneath a vile two-bushel sack.
174

O! had I known it was a lass,
Could I have scorn'd her with her load?—
Next time we meet, she shall not pass
Without a lift along the road.
Her mother—mother but in name!—
Brought her to-day to dine with us:
Her father,—she's his 'prentice:—shame
On both, to use their daughter thus!
Well, I shall grow, and she will grow
Older,—it may be taller,—yet;
And if she'll smile on me, I know
Poor Poll shall be poor Reuben's pet.
Time, on his two unequal legs,
Kept crawling round the church-clock's face;
Though none could see him shift his pegs,
Each was for ever changing place.
O, why are pleasant hours so short?
And why are wretched ones so long?
They fly like swallows while we sport,
They stand like mules when all goes wrong.
Before we parted, one kind friend,
And then another, talk'd so free;
They went from table-end to end,
And spoke to each, and spoke to me.
Books, pretty books, with pictures in,
Were given to those who learn to read,
Which show'd them how to flee from sin,
And to be happy boys indeed.
These climbers go to Sunday schools,
And hear what things to do or shun,
Get good advice, and golden rules
For all their lives,—but I'm not one.
Nathless I'll go next Sabbath day
Where masters, without thrashing, teach
Lost children how to read, and pray,
And sing, and hear the parsons preach.
For I'm this day determined—not
With bad companions to grow old,
But, weal or woe, whate'er my lot,
To mind what our good friends have told.
They told us things I never knew
Of Him who heaven and earth did make;
And my heart felt their words were true,
It burn'd within me while they spake.
Can I forget that God is love,
And sent his Son to dwell on earth?
Or, that our Saviour from above
Lay in a manger at his birth,—
Grew up in humble poverty,
A life of grief and sorrow led?
No home to comfort Him had He;
No, not a place to lay his head.
Yet He was merciful and kind,
Heal'd with a touch all sort of harms;
The sick, the lame, the deaf, the blind;
And took young children in his arms.
Then He was kill'd by wicked men,
And buried in a deep stone cave;
But of Himself He rose again,
On Easter-Sunday, from the grave.
Caught up in clouds,—at God's right hand
In heaven He took the highest place;
There, dying Stephen saw Him stand,—
Stephen, who had an angel's face.
He loves the poor, He always did;
The little ones are still his care;
I'll seek Him,—let who will forbid,—
I'll go to Him this night in prayer.
O, soundly, soundly should I sleep,
And think no more of sufferings past,
If God would only bless, and keep,
And make me His,—His own, at last!
Sheffield, March, 1834.
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