The Laying-out Hospital well might be named?
Won’t STEWART,4 or some of our dry-goods importers,
Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters?
Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses,
And life’s pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses,
Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier,
Won’t some one discover a new California?
Oh, ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold.
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,
As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare—
Spoiled children of Fashion—you’ve nothing to wear!
And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime,
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretense,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
Oh, daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!
WILLIAM McKENDREE CARLETON
(1845–1912)
BORN ON A farm near Hudson, Michigan, Will Carleton’s newspaper career began in nearby Hinsdale, Michigan, where he edited The Standard, a weekly paper, after graduating from Hinsdale College. Later he edited the Detroit Weekly Tribune before finally settling in Brooklyn as one of America’s most admired writers of sentimental dialect verse.
Carleton’s output was staggering. A trilogy of books containing farm poems (Farm Ballads, Farm Legends and Farm Festivals) was followed by a trilogy of books with poems about city life (City Ballads, City Legends and City Festivals). There were other verse collections and several unsuccessful plays.
“Over the Hill to the Poor-House,” his most famous ballad, first ran in Harper’s Weekly (June 17, 1871), and was included in Farm Ballads (1873). Readers were so distressed by it that Carleton cheered them up with a sequel, “Over the Hill from the Poor-House.” Other happy endings were penned by other hands. (See, for example, May Mignonette’s sequel in Crown Jewels [1887], edited by Henry Davenport Northrup [pages 48–49].) Carleton’s second most admired ballad, “Betsey and I Are Out,” told of a domestic spat. It, too, was followed with a happy ending, “Betsey and I Made Up.”
Harper and Brothers published Carleton’s poor-house poems in Over the Hill to the Poor-House (1904), a book illustrated with eight plates by W. E. Mears. In a preface to this edition Carleton wrote:
Letters have often been written me by repentant sons and daughters, acknowledging their error of indifference to the parents who had reared and loved them, and stating that reparation had been made as far as possible. And it has not been seldom that poor-masters have reported a diminution in the number of their tenants, caused by the withdrawal of old people whose children were ashamed of their neglect.
Change “poor-house” to “nursing home” and the heart-rending sentiments of Carleton’s famous poem are of course still with us.
In 1923 Michigan set aside October 21, the date of the poet’s birth, as Will Carleton Day. “Over the hill” has become a common expression for a person who is past his or her prime. Whether it had its origin in Carleton’s poem I don’t know.
Over the Hill to the Poor-House
Over the hill to the poor-house I’m trudgin’ my weary way—
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—
I, who am smart an’ chipper, for all the years I’ve told, As many another woman that’s only half as old.
Over the hill to the poor-house—I can’t quite make it clear!
Over the hill to the poor-house—it seems so horrid queer!
Many a step I’ve taken a-toilin’ to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
What is the use of heapin’ on me a pauper’s shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;
But charity ain’t no favor, if one can live without.
I am willin’ and anxious an’ ready any day
To work for a decent livin’, an’ pay my honest way;
For I can earn my victuals, an’ more too, I’ll be bound,
If any body only is willin’ to have me round.
Once I was young and handsome—I was, upon my soul—
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;
And I can’t remember, in them days, of hearin’ people say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
‘Taint no use of boastin’, or talkin’ over free,
But many a house an’ home was open then to me;
Many a han ’some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
For life was all before me, an’ I was young an’ strong,
And I worked the best that I could in tryin’ to get along.
And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay,
With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;
Till we had half a dozen, an’ all growed clean an’ neat,
An’ went to school like others, an’ had enough to eat.
So we worked for the child’rn, and raised ’em every one;
Worked for ’em summer and winter, just as we ought to ’ve done;
Only perhaps we humored ’em, which some good folks condemn,
But every couple’s child’rn’s a heap the best to them.
Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!—
I’d have died for my daughters, I’d have died for my sons;
And God he made that rule of love; but when we’re old and gray,
I’ve noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
Strange, another thing: when our boys an’ girls was grown,
And when, exceptin’ Charley, they’d left us there alone;
When John he nearer an’ nearer come, an’ dearer seemed to be,
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an’ took him away from me.
Still I was bound to struggle, an’ never to cringe or fall—
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,
Till at last he went a-courtin’, and brought a wife from town.
She was somewhat dressy, an’ hadn’t a pleasant smile—
She was quite conceity, and carried
a heap o’ style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, an’ I couldn’t make it go.
She had an edication, an’ that was good for her;
But when she twitted me on mine, ’twas carryin’ things too fur;
An’ I told her once, ‘fore company (an’ it almost made her sick),
That I never swallowed a grammar, or ’et a ’rithmetic.
So ’twas only a few days before the thing was done—
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage one family will do,
But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.
An’ I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,
An’ it made me independent, an’ then I didn’t try;
But I was terribly staggered, an’ felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned ag’in me, an’ told me I could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan’s house was small,
And she was always a-hintin’ how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband’s sisters, and what with child’rn three,
’Twas easy to discover that there wasn’t room for me.
An’ then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I’ve got,
For Thomas’s buildings ’d cover the half of an acre lot;
But all the child’rn was on me—I couldn’t stand their sauce—
And Thomas said I needn’t think I was comin’ there to boss.
An’ then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;
And one of ’em said ’twas too warm there for any one so old,
And t’other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
So they have shirked and slighted me, an’ shifted me about—
So they have well-nigh soured me, an’ wore my old heart out;
But still I’ve borne up pretty well, an’ wasn’t much put down,
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an’ put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house—my child’rn dear, good-by!
Many a night I’ve watched you when only God was nigh;
And God ’ll judge between us; but I will al’ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.
Over the Hill from the Poor-House
Over the hill to the poor-house I went, one winter’s day:
I—who was always considered a “bad stick” anyway;
I—who was always gettin’ in a large assortment of tricks,
And always sure to be quoted as “the worst of the Deacon’s six.”
Tom was a steady fellow, and saved up all he got;
But when it came to payin’ his debts, he’d always rather not;
And Isaac could quote the Scriptures, an’ never forgot nor slipped;
But “Honor thy father and mother” was one of the verses he skipped.
An’ as for Susan an’ ‘Becca, their hearts, as one might say,
Was good—what there was of ’em—which wasn’t much, anyway;
And all of our little family was good as you’ll often see,
Exceptin’ one poor fellow—and that ’ere one was me.
All of the rest was steady, an’ nice, an’ good, an’ right;
All of the rest was sober—but I was mainly tight;
An’ when I “borrowed” two horses, or helped to, just for fun—
If I hadn’t been drunk as blazes, it never would have been done.
But when they sent me to prison, the hardest grief I felt
Was when my poor old mother beside me feebly knelt,
And cried and prayed all round me, till I got melted down,
And cried as I wouldn’t have cried that day for half the horses in town.
And with my left arm round her—my right hand lifted high—
I swore henceforth to be honest, and sober live and die;
And I went and served my term out, although ’twas a bitter pill,
Which many fellows ought to take who probably never will.
And when I had served my sentence, I thought ’twould answer the best
To take the advice of Greeley: “Go West, young man, go West!”
And how I came to prosper there, I never could understand;
But Fortune seemed to like me—she gave me a winning hand!
And year after year I prospered, and kept a-going ahead;
And wrote to a trusty neighbor East, to tell ’em that I was dead;
And died a good straight fellow; for I knew it would please them more
Than if I had lived to a hundred and twelve—the chap that I was before!
But when this trusty neighbor—he wrote a line to me—
“Your mother’s in the poor-house, a-pining away,” says he,
To keep dead any longer—I knew that it wouldn’t be right;
So I’d a private resurrection, and started for her that night.
And when I came in the old town, my first act was to buy
A snug and handsome cottage, which rather seemed to my eye
To look just like the old one; I finished it off the same;
You couldn’t have told the difference—if you could, I wasn’t to blame!
The same old clock in the corner; the fireplace, wide and high,
Sent up the smoke and cinders, and flung them towards the sky;
From garret down to cellar—’twas all the self-same thing:
’Twas good enough for the President—’twas fine enough for a king!
Then over the hill to the poor-house, one blustering winter day,
With two fleet nags and a cutter, I swiftly took my way:
The fleetest nags in the county, and both as black as coal—
They very much resembled the pair of horses I stole.
I hitched in front of the poor-house—I opened the poor- house door;
My poor old mother was on her knees, a-scrubbin’ the kitchen floor!
I coughed a little, on purpose—she started, in surprise—
Rose up, with a scared expression, an’ looked me in the eyes.
I slowly walked up to her, an’ all her troubles’ trace
I saw in the lines of sorrow that marred her dear old face:
“Mother, O Mother!” I shouted; “your poor-house contract’s done;
An’ you henceforth are adopted, by your resurrected son!”
She didn’t faint nor holloa—but knelt down by my side,
And thanked the Lord for saving her me, till I broke down and cried;
But maybe our ride wasn’t merry! and maybe we wasn’t gay!
And maybe I didn’t wrap her up that blustering winter day!
And maybe, when we had got home, and entered the cottage door,
She didn’t start back kind of sudden—as if she’d seen it before!
And maybe it wasn’t pleasant—our cosey evening tea—
With her quite often stoppin’, and huggin’ and kissin’ me!
And maybe we didn’t live happy, for quite a number of years!
And I gained the respect of my neighbors—in spite of my brothers’ sneers,
And spite of my sisters’ caution; who said, as I have heard,
That they never could own a brother that had been a prison bird!
But I’ll bet, when the great bugle rings out its cheerful notes,
And the good Lord Almighty sorts out His sheep and goats,
However my case is settled, if you are there you’ll see
That my old Christian mother will stand right up for me.
JULIA A. (FLETCHER) CARNEY
(1823–1908)
I OWN A yellowed clipping from an unidentified Boston newspaper that is a lengthy obituary of Julia Carney. She was born in Lancaster, Massachusetts. When she was 22, and teaching a primary grade in Boston, she enr
olled in a shorthand class. Asked to write a bit of verse in shorthand, she jotted down the first stanza of “Little Things.” When a Universalist church Sunday School paper, the Gospel Teacher (later the Myrtle), asked for a contribution, she added three more stanzas. No date for this publication is given.
Merle Johnson, in You Know These Lines! (1935), has a seemingly different account. He quotes from a letter Carney sent to the Boston Transcript saying “the poem first appeared in an eight-page leaflet,” published by J. M. Usher of Boston. Was this leaflet the Gospel Teacher? In any case, the poem was soon appearing in newspapers all over the land, usually with no byline.
The poem was soon set to music, working its way into countless hymnals and anthologies where it was falsely credited to Reverend Ebenezer Cobham Brewer. Brewer was a prolific British author best known today for his Reader’s Handbook and his Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. A German woman had asked him for a copy of the poem. He responded that he did not know who the author was, and that he had added a fifth stanza of his own. I found this stanza in Roger Ingpen’s 1903 collection One Thousand Poems for Children, where the poem is credited to Dr. Brewer:
Little seeds of mercy,
Sown by youthful hands,
Famous Poems from Bygone Days Page 5