Ah me! it makes a sinner wondrous blue,
To see so many other sinners too!
When I rake over all my faults, and then
Notice the same, or worse, in other men,
It makes me very much surprised and sad,
That Heaven should see Earth turning out so bad!
Vice, vice, vice, vice! The _country's_ mean enough,
And has some villains that are pretty rough;
But in this town, where art and nature both
Are shoved into their very greatest growth,
And where the utmost of all things is found,
The Devil has his best men on the ground,
And gives them weapons meeting his own views,
And all the ammunition they can use!
Vice, vice, vice, vice! I never had been led
To think that Evil had so long a head!
I've seen more ingenuity displayed
In one crime, than 'twould take to learn a trade.
Such cute inventions Sin will take in charge:
Old Satan's patent-office must be large!
And yet, for all their craft, in time how brief
How many of these rascals come to grief!
For though within them cunning may abound,
The plain-clothed Truth is always standing round,
Or following rogues through every land and clime,
And gets them, if you'll only give him time.
I don't believe--as some good people say--
The Devil leads men on from day to day,
And takes them to a rock, and, first they know,
Pitches them off into some gulf below;
Or baits them into different traps, and then
Doesn't try at all to get them out again:
I think he'd like to keep them, safe and sound,
Doing his nasty work the whole year round;
And when a rogue fails up and comes to grief,
It hurts his brimstone-clothed but helpless chief!
These thoughts limped past my saddened mind to-day,
As through State's prison I pursued my way,
Led round by one who didn't seem to be knowing
What melancholy pictures he was showing!
Those walls and guards, that all escape opposed;
Those thick, iron doors--it thundered when they closed;
The cells--each one a closet full of gloom:
I'd just as soon sleep in a metal tomb![6]
The hard-faced men who worked away (no doubt,
For fear of hard-faced men that stood about),
Wearing that garb of stripes a free man loathes,
As if Law whipped them--even with their clothes;
The way they glance up at you from within
Their drooping eyelids, hard with grief or sin,
Wondering, as they gaze upon you so,
If you are not some one they used to know;
The ghosts you feel, that creep 'round, all the time,
Among these men who've shaken hands with crime;
The mournful hope that some are toiling here
Whose innocence in heaven is proved out clear:
All these things to my inmost spirit talked,
As through those regions dark I slowly walked;
And when the front door closed behind me--free--
The fresh air seemed like heaven itself to me!
I recollect once getting sick with pain,
When sitting near a sheriff, on the train,
Who had a young man with him--not of age--
Whom he was taking to this stone-bound cage.
The poor boy talked to him with drooping head,
And these are something like the words he said:
[6] And yet 'twas quite affecting, I declare,
How some had ornaments up, even there!
Not crime itself, or sad misfortune's smart
Can crush all sense of beauty from the heart!
[THE BOY CONVICT'S STORY.]
I'd rather sit here, Mr. Sheriff--up near to the end of the car;
We won't do so much advertising if we stay in the seat where we are.
That sweet little dude saw the bracelets that you on my wrists have
bestowed,
And tells the new passengers promptly you're "taking me over
the road."
I've had a well-patronized trial--the neighbors all know of my fall;
But when I get out among strangers I'm sensitive-like, after all.
For I was a lad of good prospects, some three or four summers ago--
There wasn't any boy in our township who made a more promising
show!
I learned all of Solomon's proverbs, and took in their goodness and
worth,
Till I felt like a virtue-hooped barrel, chock-full of the salt of the
earth.
And this precious picnic of sorrow would likely enough have been saved,
If I had had less of a heart, sir, or home had contained what it craved.
For the time when a boy is in danger of walking a little bit wild,
Is when he's too young to be married--too old to be known as a child;
A bird in the lonely grass thickets, just out of the parent tree thrown,
Too large to be kept in the old nest--too small to have one of his own;
When, desolate 'mid his companions, his soul is a stake to be won;
'Tis then that the Devil stands ready to get a good chance to catch on!
Oh, yes! I'd a good enough home, sir, so far as the house was concerned;
My parents were first-class providers--I ate full as much as I earned.
My clothes were all built of good timber, and fit every day to be seen;
There wasn't any lock on the pantry--my bedroom was tidy and clean;
And taking the home up and down, sir, I'd more than an average part,
With one quite important exception--_there wasn't any room for my
heart_.
The house couldn't have been any colder, with snow-drifts in every
room!
The house needn't have been any darker to make a respectable tomb!
I used to stop short on the door-step, and brace up a minute or more,
And bid a good-bye to the sunshine, before I would open the door;
I used to feed daily on icebergs--take in all the freeze I could hold--
Then go out and warm in the sunshine, because my poor heart was so
cold!
And hadn't I a father and mother? Oh yes! just as good as they
make--
_Too_ good, I have often suspected (though maybe that last's a mistake).
But they'd travelled so long and so steady the way to Perfection's abode,
They hadn't any feeling for fellows who could not as yet find the road;
And so, till some far advanced mile-post on goodness's pike I could win,
They thought of me, not as their own child, but as one of the children
of sin.
And hadn't I brothers and sisters? Oh yes! till they somewhat had
grown;
Then, shivering, they went off and left me to stand the cold weather
alone.
For I had the luck to be youngest--the last on the family page,
The one to prop up the old roof-tree--the staff of my parents' old age;
Who well understood all the uses to which a mere staff is applied;
They used me whenever convenient--then carelessly threw me aside!
And hadn't I any associates? Oh yes! I had friends, more or less,
But seldom I asked them to visit our house with the slightest success;
Whenever the project was mentioned, they'd somehow look blue like
and chill,
And mention another engagement they felt it their duty to fill;
For--now I am only a convict, there's no harm in telling the truth--
My home was a fearful wet blanket to blood that was seasoned with
youth!
Not one blessed thing that was cheerful; no festivals, frolics, or games;
No novels of any description--'twas wicked to mention their names!
My story-books suddenly vanished, my checker-boards never would keep,
No newspaper came through _our_ doorway unless it was first put to
sleep!
And as for love--well, that old song, sir, is very melodious and fine,
With "No place like home" in the chorus--I hope there ain't many
like mine!
And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul couldn't
abide,
And Pleasure was all the time smiling, and motioning me to her side;
And when I start out on a journey, I'm likely to go it by leaps,
For good or for bad, I'm no half-way--I'm one or the other for keeps.
My wild oats flew thicker and faster--I reaped the same crop that I
sowed,
And now I am going to market--I'm taking it over the road!
Yes, it grieved my good father and mother to see me so sadly astray,
They deeply regretted my downfall--in a strictly respectable way;
They gave me some more admonition, and sent me off full of advice,
And wondered to see such a villain from parents so good and precise.
Indeed I have often conjectured, when full of neglect and its smarts,
I must have been left on the door-step of their uncongenial hearts!
My home in the prison is waiting--it opens up clear to my sight;
Hard work and no pay-day a-coming, a close cell to sleep in at night.
And there I must lie sad and lonesome, with more tribulation than rest,
And wake in the morning with sorrow sharp sticking like steel in my
breast;
But maybe the strain and the trouble won't quite so much o'er me
prevail,
As 'twould be to some one who wasn't brought up in a kind of a jail!
_You've_ got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cosy and nice,
And 'tisn't for a wrist-shackled convict to offer _you_ words of advice;
But this I _must_ say, of all places your children may visit or call,
Make HOME the most pleasant and happy--the sweetest and best of
them all;
For the Devil won't offer a dollar to have his world-chances improved,
When Home is turned into a side-show, with half the attractions
removed!
_Don't_ think I'm too bitter, good sheriff--I like you: you've been very
good;
I'm ever and ever so grateful--would pay it all back if I could.
I didn't mean to slander my parents--I've nothing against their good
name,
And as for my unrighteous actions, it's mostly myself that's to blame;
Still, _if I'd had a home_--But the prison is only one station ahead--
I'm done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but _don't_ forget what I have said!
* * * * *