Said pious Watts, and thanked the Lord that not so poor was he.
I see so many poor to-day I think I’ll walk no more,
And then the poor in long array come knocking at my door.
The hungry poor! The dirty poor! The poor of evil smell!
Yet even these we could endure if they were only well!
But, O, this sick and crippled crew! The lame, the deaf, the blind!
What can a Christian person do with these upon his mind!
They keep diseases growing still like plants on greenhouse shelves,
And they’re so generous they will not keep them to themselves;
They propagate amazing crimes and vices scandalous,
And then at most uncertain times they wreak the same on us!
With charity we would prevent this poverty and woe,
But find the more we’ve fondly spent, the more the poor do grow!
We’ve tried by punishment full sore to mend the case they’re in;
The more we punish them the more they sin, and sin, and sin!
We make the punishment more kind, we give them wise reform,
And they, with a contented mind, flock to our prisons warm!
Then science comes with solemn air, and shows us social laws,
Explaining how the poor are there from a purely natural cause.
’Tis natural for low and high to struggle and to strive;
’Tis natural for the worse to die and the better to survive.
We swallowed all this soothing stuff, and easily were led
To think if we were stern enough, the poor would soon be dead.
But, O! in vain we squeeze, and grind, and drive them to the wall—
For all our deadly work we find it does not kill them all!
The more we struggle they survive! increase and multiply!
There seem to be more poor alive, in spite of all that die!
Whene’er I take my walks abroad how many poor I see,
And eke at home! How long, O Lord! How long must this thing be!
THE DEAD LEVEL.
There is a fear among us as we strive,
As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel,
That there will be no pleasure left alive
When we in peace and joy at last arrive
At one dead level.
And still the strangest part of this strange fear
Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it.
We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead
To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead;
We wish that peace, but wish no other near it!
Say, does it spoil your pleasure in a town
To have your neighbors’ gardens full of roses?
Is your house dearer when its eye looks down
On evil-smelling shanties rough and brown?
Is your nose safer than your neighbor’s nose is?
Are you unhappy at some noble fête
To see the whole bright throng in radiant dresses?
Is your State safer when each other State
That borders it is full of want and hate?
Peace must be peace to all before it blesses.
Is knowledge sweeter when it is hemmed in
By ignorance that does not know its master?
Is goodness easier when plenteous sin
Surrounds it? And can you not win
Joy for yourself without your friend’s disaster?
O foolish children! With more foolish fear,
Unworthy even of a well-trained devil!
Good things are good for all men,—that is clear;
To doubt it shows your heads are nowhere near
To that much-dreaded level!
THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.
Our business system has its base
On one small thought that’s out of place;
The merest trifle—nothing much, of course.
The truth is there—who says it’s not?
Only—the trouble is—you’ve got
The cart before the horse!
You say unless a man shall work
Right earnestly, and never shirk,
He may not eat. Now look—the change is small,
And yet the truth is plain to see—
Unless man eats, and frequently,
He cannot work at all!
And which comes first! Why, that is plain,
The man comes first. And, look again—
A baby! with an appetite to fit!
You have to feed him years and years,
And train him up with toil and tears,
Before he works a bit!
So let us change our old ideas,
And learn with these advancing years
To give the oats before we ask for speed;
Not set the hungry horse to run,
And tell him when the race is done
That he shall have his feed!
THE AMŒBOID CELL.
Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell,
“Why don’t you develop like me?
Just combine with the others,
Unite with your brothers,
And grow to a thing you can see,—
An organized creature like me!”
Said the Amœboid Cell to the Specialized Cell,
“But where would my liberty be?
If I’m one with a class,
I should lose in the mass
All my Individualitee!
And that is a horror to me!”
Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell,
“What good does it do you to-day?
You’re amorphous and small,
You’ve no organs at all,
You can’t even get out of the way!
You don’t half understand what I say!”
Said the Amœboid Cell to the Specialized Cell,
“But I’m independent and free!
I can float as I please
In these populous seas,
I’m not fastened to anybodee!
I have personal freedom, you see!
“And when I want organs and members and such,
I project them,—an arm or a wing;
I can change as I will,
But you have to keep still—
Just a part of the mass where you cling!
You never can be but one thing!”
Said the Specialized Cell to the Amœboid Cell,
“What you say is undoubtedly true,
But I’d rather be part
Of a thing with a heart
Than the whole of a creature like you!
A memberless morsel like you!
“You say you’re immortal and separate and free,
Yet you’ve died by the billion before;
Just a speck in the slime
At the birthday of time,
And you never can be any more!
As you are, you’ve no future in store!
“You say you can be many things in yourself,
Yet you’re all just alike to the end!
I am part of a whole—
Of a thing with a soul—
And the whole is the unit, my friend!
But that you can scarce comprehend!
“You are only yourself,—just a series of ones;
You can only say ‘I’—never ‘we’;
All of us are combined
In a creature with mind,
And _we_ are the creature you see!
And the creature feeds _us_—which is _me_!
“And being combined in a body like that
It can wisely provide us with food;
And we vary and change
In a limitless range;
We are specialized now, for our good!
And we each do our work—as we should!
“What protection have you from the chances of Fate?
What provision have you for the morrow?
You get food when it drops,
And you die when it stops!
You can’t give or take, lend or borrow!
You helpless free-agent of sorrow!”
Just then came a frost, and the Amœboid Cell
Died out by the billion again;
But the Specialized Cell
In the body felt well
And rejoiced in his place in the brain!
The dead level of life with a brain!
THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.
In northern zones the ranging bear
Protects himself with fat and hair.
Where snow is deep, and ice is stark,
And half the year is cold and dark,
He still survives a clime like that
By growing fur, by growing fat.
These traits, O Bear, which thou transmittest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!
To polar regions, waste and wan,
Comes the encroaching race of man;
A puny, feeble little lubber,
He had no fur, he had no blubber.
The scornful bear sat down at ease
To see the stranger starve and freeze;
But, lo! the stranger slew the bear,
And ate his fat, and wore his hair!
These deeds, O Man, which thou committest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!
In modern times the millionaire
Protects himself as did the bear.
Where Poverty and Hunger are,
He counts his bullion by the car.
Where thousands suffer, still he thrives,
And after death his will survives.
The wealth, O Crœsus, thou transmittest
Proves the survival of the fittest!
But, lo! some people, odd and funny,
Some men without a cent of money,
The simple common Human Race,
Chose to improve their dwelling-place.
They had no use for millionaires;
They calmly said the world was theirs;
They were so wise, so strong, so many—
The millionaire? There wasn’t any!
These deeds, O Man, which thou committest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!
DIVISION OF PROPERTY.
Some sailors were starving at sea
On a raft where they happened to be,
When one of the crew
Who was hidden from view
Was found to be feasting most free.
Then they cursed him in language profane,
Because there on the pitiless main
While the others did starve,
He could ladle and carve,
Eating food which they could not obtain.
“But,” said he, “’tis my own little store!
To feed all of you would take more!
If I shared, ’twould be found
That it would not go round;
And you all would starve on as before!
“It would only prolong your distress
To distribute this one little mess!
The supply is so small
I had best eat it all,
For me it will comfort and bless!”
This reasoning sounded most fair,
But the men had large appetites there,
And while he explained
They ate all that remained,
Forgetting to leave out his share!
CHRISTIAN VIRTUES.
Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!
Nowhere on land or sea
Will be room for charity!
Nowhere, in field or city,
A person to help or pity!
Better for them, no doubt,
Not to need helping out
Of their old miry ditch.
But, alas for us, the rich!
For we shall lose, you see,
Our boasted charity!—
Lose all the pride and joy
Of giving the poor employ,
And money, and food, and love
(And making stock thereof!).
Our Christian virtues are gone,
With nothing to practise on!
It don’t hurt them a bit,
For they can’t practise it;
But it’s our great joy and pride—
What virtue have we beside?
We believe, as sure as we live,
That it is more blessed to give
Than to want, and waste, and grieve,
And occasionally receive!
And here are the people pressing
To rob us of our pet blessing!
No chance to endow or bedizen
A hospital, school, or prison,
And leave our own proud name
To Gratitude and Fame!
No chance to do one good deed,
To give what we do not need,
To leave what we cannot use
To those whom we deign to choose!
When none want broken meat,
How shall our cake be sweet?
When none want flannels and coals,
How shall we save our souls?
Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!
The poor have their virtues rude,—
Meekness and gratitude,
Endurance, and respect
For us, the world’s elect;
Economy, self-denial,
Patience in every trial,
Self-sacrifice, self-restraint,—
Virtues enough for a saint!
Virtues enough to bear
All this life’s sorrow and care!
Virtues by which to rise
To a front seat in the skies!
How can they turn from this
To common earthly bliss,—
Mere clothes, and food, and drink,
And leisure to read and think,
And art, and beauty, and ease,—
There is no crown for these!
True, if their gratitude
Were not for fire and food,
They might still learn to bless
The Lord for their happiness!
And, instead of respect for wealth,
Might learn from beauty, and health,
And freedom in power and pelf,
Each man to respect himself!
And, instead of scraping and saving,
Might learn from using and having
That man’s life should be spent
In a grand development!
But this is petty and small;
These are not virtues at all;
They do not look as they should;
They don’t do _us_ any good!
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!
WHAT’S THAT?
I met a little person on my land,
A-fishing in the waters of my stream;
He seemed a man, yet could not understand
Things that to most men very simple seem.
“Get off!” said I; “this land is mine, my friend!
Get out!” said I; “this brook belongs to me!
I own the land, and you must make an end
Of fishing here so free.
“I own this place, the land and water too!
You have no right to be here, that is flat!
Get off it! That is all I ask of you!—”
“Own it?” said he; “what’s that?”
“What’s that?” said I, “why, that is common sense!
I own the water and the fishing right;
I own the land from here to yonder fence;
Get off, my friend, or fight!”
He looked at the clear stream so neatly kept;
He looked at teeming vine and laden tree,
And wealthy fields of grain that stirred and slept;
“I see!” he cried, “I see!
“You mean you cut the wood and plowed the field,
From your hard labor all this beauty grew,
To you is due the richness of the yield;
You have some claim, ’tis true.”
“Not so,” said I, with manner very cool,
And tossed my purse into the air and caught it;
“Do I look like a laborer, you fool?
It’s mine because I bought it!”
Again he looked as if I talked in Greek,
Again he scratched his head and twirled his hat,
Before he mustered wit enough to speak.
“Bought it?” said he, “what’s that?”
And then he said again, “I see! I see!
You mean that some men toiled with plows and hoes,
And while those worked for you, you toiled with glee
At other work for those.”
“Not so!” said I, getting a little hot,
Thinking the man a fool as well as funny;
“I’m not a working-man, you idiot;
I bought it with my money!”
And still that creature stared and dropped his jaw,
Till I could have destroyed him where he sat.
“Money,” said I, “money, and moneyed law!”
“Money?” said he, “what’s that?”
AN ECONOMIST.
The serene savage sitting in his tree
Saw empires rise and fall,
And moralized on their uncertainty.
(He never rose at all!)
He was full fat from god-sent droves of prey;
He was full calm from satisfied desire;
He was full wise in that he chose to stay
Free from ambition’s fire.
“See,” quoth the savage, “how they toil and strive
To make things better,—vain and idle wish!
Here is good store of what keeps man alive,
Of fruit, and flesh, and fish.
“Poor discontented wretches, fed on air,
Seeking to change the normal lot of man,
To lure him from this natural strife and care,
With vague Utopian plan!
“Here’s wealth and joy—why seek for any change?
Why labor for a more elaborate life?
As if God could not his own world arrange
Without our fretful strife!
“Those who complain of savagery as low
Are merely proven lazy, and too weak
To live by skilful hunt and deadly blow;
It is their needs that speak.
“Complain of warfare! Cry that peace is sweet!
Complain of hunting! Prate of toil and trade!
It only proves that they cannot compete
In the free life we’ve made.”
Another empire reeled into its grave;
The savage sat serenely as before,
As calm and wise, as cunning and as brave—
Never an atom more.
CHARITY.
Came two young children to their mother’s shelf
(One was quite little, and the other big),
And each in freedom calmly helped himself.
(One was a pig.)
The food was free and plenty for them both,
But one was rather dull and very small;
So the big smarter brother, nothing loath,
He took it all.
At which the little fellow raised a yell
Which tired the other’s more æsthetic ears;
He gave him here a crust, and there a shell
To stop his tears.
He gave with pride, in manner calm and bland,
Finding the other’s hunger a delight;
He gave with piety—his full left hand
Hid from his right.
He gave and gave—O blessed Charity!
How sweet and beautiful a thing it is!
How fine to see that big boy giving free
What is not his!
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's In this our world, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman