City Ballads Part 1

City Ballads.

by Will Carleton.

PREFACE.

When city people go among forests and hills, they drink in the fresh air and weird scenery of rural surroundings, with much more relish, enjoyment, and appreciation, than do the life-long residents they find there.

For the same reason, the great drama of metropolitan existence falls most forcibly upon those just from the clear streams and green meadows of the country. Their impressions then are deeper, and their feelings more intense than if they were city born and bred.

With the latter fact in view, this book is an effort to reproduce some of the effects of city scenes and character upon the intellect and imagination of two people from the country:

First, a young student, who has travelled the well-beaten roads of a college course, but is just entering real life, and now for the first time walks the paved and palace-bordered streets of which he has heard and read so much.

Second, an old farmer, with very little "book-learning," but a clear brain, a warm heart, and independent judgment, and a habit of philosophizing upon everything he sees, which habit he brings to the city, and applies to the strange facts he witnesses.

These, with certain incidental thoughts and characters encountered and discussed, const.i.tute the present work. It will be found, as intended, sketchy and suggestive rather than elaborate and complete.

Note-books and diaries are designed, not so much for the history of a career or an event, as a light to the memory, a stimulus to the imagination, and a help to the heart.

It is the hope of the author that his book may perform those offices for you, his readers, and that it will rouse your pity of pain, your enjoyment of honest mirth, your hatred of sham and wrong, and your love and adoration of the Resolute and the Good, and their winsome child, the Beautiful.

In which case he shakes hands with his large and loved const.i.tuency, and continues happy.

W. C.

CITY BALLADS.

WEALTH.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Here in The City I ponder, Through its long pathways I wander.

These are the spires that were gleaming All through my juvenile dreaming.

This is The Something I heard, far away, When, at the close of a tired Summer day, Resting from work on the lap of a lawn, Gazing to whither The Sun-G.o.d had gone, Leaving behind him his mantles of gold-- This is The Something by which I was told; "Bend your head, dreamer, and listen-- Come to my splendors that glisten!

Either to triumph they call you, Or to what worst could befall you!"

This is The Something that thrilled my desires, When the weird Morning had kindled his fires, And the gray city of clouds in the east Lighted its streets as for pageant or feast, Whisp'ring--my spirit elating-- "Come to me, boy, I am waiting!

Bring me your muscle and spirit and brain-- Here to my glory-strewn, ruin-strewn plain!"

Treading the trough of the furrow, Digging where life-rootlets burrow, Blade of the food-harvest swinging, In the barns toiling and singing, Breath of a hay-meadow smelling, Forest-trees loving and felling-- Where'er my spirit was turning, Lived that mysterious yearning!

When in the old country school-house I conned Legends of life in the broad world beyond-- When in the trim hamlet-college I cast Wondering glances at days that were past-- Ever I longed for the walls and the streets, And the rich conflict that energy meets!

So I have come: but The City is great Bearing me down like a brute with its weight.

So I have come: but The City is cold, And I am lonelier now than of old.

Yet, 'tis the same restless story: Even to fail here were glory!

Grand, to be part of this ocean Of matter and mind and emotion!

Here flow the streams of endeavor, Cityward trending forever.-- Wheat-stalks that ta.s.sel the field, Harvests of opulent yield, Gra.s.s-blades that fence with each other, Flower-blossoms--sister and brother-- Roots that are st.u.r.dy and tender, Stalks in your thrift and your splendor, Mind that is fertile and daring, Face that true beauty is wearing-- All that is strongest and fleetest, All that are dainty and sweetest.

Look to the domes and the glittering spires, Waiting for you with majestic desires!

List to The City's gaunt, thunderous roar, Calling and calling for you evermore!

Long in the fields you may labor and wait-- You and your tribe may come early or late; Beauty and excellence dwell and will dwell Oft amid garden and moorland and fell; Long generations may hold them, Centuries oft can enfold them; But the rich City's they some time shall be, Sure as the spring is the food of the sea.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

SEPTEMBER 20, 18--.

Wind in the south-west; weather wondrous fine; Thermometer 'twixt seventy-eight and nine.

Ground rather dry; sun flails us over-warm; It's most time for the equinoctial storm.

Family healthy as could be desired; Except we're somewhat mind and body tired At moving over such a lengthy road, And settling down here in our town abode, And wrestling with the pains that filter through one When he gives up an old home for a new one.

Old Calendar, you've always stood me true; Now I'll change works, and do the same by you!

You're just as good as when, with aching arm, I cleared and worked that eighty-acre farm!

And every night, in those hard, dear old days, 'Twas one of my most unconditional ways, When to my labors I had said Good-night, And recompensed my home-made appet.i.te, And talked with Wife, and traded family views, And gathered all the latest township news, And dealt my sons a sly fraternal hit, And flirted with my daughters just a bit, And through the papers tried my way to see, So the world shouldn't slip out from under me, As I was saying--in those sweet old days, 'Twas one of my most unconditional ways, To go to you, old book, before I'd sleep, And hand you over all the day to keep.

I gave you up what weather I could find, Likewise the different phases of my mind; What my hard hands from morn to night had done, And what my mind had been subsisting on; What accidents had touched my brain with doubt, And what successes it had whittled out; How well I had been able to control The weather fluctuations of my soul; What progress or what failures I had made In spying round and stealing Nature's trade; The seeds of actions planted long ago, And whether they had blossomed out or no; And oft, from what you of the past could tell, I've learned to steer my future pretty well.

And now I'M RICH (who ever thought 'twould be!) I'll stand by you, as you have stood by me; And now I'm "City people"--having moved (My circ.u.mstances suddenly improved) Into this town, with some quick-gotten pelf, To educate my children and myself, And give my wife, who has a pedigree, A chance to flutter round her family tree, And show her natural city airs and graces (Which didn't "take" quite so well in country places) Now we are here, old fellow, while we stay I'll give you all the news from day to day.

I'll find the good that in this city lurks, By regular, systematic, hard days' works; I'll rummage fearless round amongst the harm, As when I hoed up thistles on my farm; Shake hands with Virtue, help Sin while I spurn it, And if there's anything to learn, I'll learn it.

How little I suspected, by the way-- Scrambling for pennies in that patch of clay, The bare expenses of our lives to meet-- That waves of wealth were washing at my feet!

And when my hard and rather lazy soil Sprung a leak upward with petroleum-oil-- When, through the wonder in my glad old eyes, I saw tall derricks by the hundred rise, Flinging wealth at me with unceasing hand, And turning to a mine my hard old land, Until it seemed as if the spell would hold Till every blade of gra.s.s was turned to gold-- I felt, as never yet had come to me, How little round the curves of life we see; Or, in our rushings on, suspect or view What sort of stations we are coming to!

It brought a similar twinge--though not so bad-- As once, when losing every cent I had.

But still it could not shift my general views; My mind didn't faint at one good piece of news.

I think I'd too much ballast 'neath my sail To be capsized by one good prosperous gale (Same as I didn't lie down and give up all That other time, when tipped up by a squall).

I didn't go spreeing for my money's sake, Or with my business matters lie awake; 'Twould never do, as I informed my wife, To let a little money spoil our life!

And now I'm rich (who ever thought 'twould be!) I'll look about, and see what I can see; Appoint myself a visiting committee, With power to act in all parts of the city; Growl when I must, commend whene'er I can, And lose no chance to help my fellow-man.

For he who joy on others' paths has thrown, Will find there's some left over for his own; And he who leads his brother toward the sky, Will in the journey bring himself more nigh.

And what I see and think, in my own way, I'll tell to you, Old Calendar, each day; And if I choose to do the same in rhyme, What jury would convict me of a crime?

For every one, from palaces to attics, Has caught, some time or other, _The Rhythmatics_.