life in the iron-mills-第1部分

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Life　in　the　Iron…Mills

by　Rebecca　Harding　Davis









〃Is　this　the　end？

O　Life；　as　futile；　then；　as　frail！

What　hope　of　answer　or　redress？〃





A　cloudy　day：　　do　you　know　what　that　is　in　a　town　of　iron…works？

The　sky　sank　down　before　dawn；　muddy；　flat；　immovable。　　The　air

is　thick；　clammy　with　the　breath　of　crowded　human　beings。　　It

stifles　me。　　I　open　the　window；　and；　looking　out；　can　scarcely

see　through　the　rain　the　grocer's　shop　opposite；　where　a　crowd

of　drunken　Irishmen　are　puffing　Lynchburg　tobacco　in　their

pipes。　　I　can　detect　the　scent　through　all　the　foul　smells

ranging　loose　in　the　air。



The　idiosyncrasy　of　this　town　is　smoke。　　It　rolls　sullenly　in

slow　folds　from　the　great　chimneys　of　the　iron…foundries；　and

settles　down　in　black；　slimy　pools　on　the　muddy　streets。　　Smoke

on　the　wharves；　smoke　on　the　dingy　boats；　on　the　yellow　river；

clinging　in　a　coating　of　greasy　soot　to　the　house…front；　the　two

faded　poplars；　the　faces　of　the　passers…by。　　The　long　train　of

mules；　dragging　masses　of　pig…iron　through　the　narrow　street；

have　a　foul　vapor　hanging　to　their　reeking　sides。　　Here；　inside；

is　a　little　broken　figure　of　an　angel　pointing　upward　from　the

mantel…shelf；　but　even　its　wings　are　covered　with　smoke；　clotted

and　black。　　Smoke　everywhere！　　A　dirty　canary　chirps　desolately

in　a　cage　beside　me。　　Its　dream　of　green　fields　and　sunshine　is

a　very　old　dream；almost　worn　out；　I　think。



From　the　back…window　I　can　see　a　narrow　brick…yard　sloping　down

to　the　river…side；　strewed　with　rain…butts　and　tubs。　　The　river；

dull　and　tawny…colored；　（la　belle　riviere！）　drags　itself

sluggishly　along；　tired　of　the　heavy　weight　of　boats　and　coal…

barges。　　What　wonder？　　When　I　was　a　child；　I　used　to　fancy　a

look　of　weary；　dumb　appeal　upon　the　face　of　the　negro…like　river

slavishly　bearing　its　burden　day　after　day。　　Something　of　the

same　idle　notion　comes　to　me　to…day；　when　from　the　street…window

I　look　on　the　slow　stream　of　human　life　creeping　past；　night　and

morning；　to　the　great　mills。　　Masses　of　men；　with　dull；　besotted

faces　bent　to　the　ground；　sharpened　here　and　there　by　pain　or

cunning；　skin　and　muscle　and　flesh　begrimed　with　smoke　and

ashes；　stooping　all　night　over　boiling　caldrons　of　metal；　laired

by　day　in　dens　of　drunkenness　and　infamy；　breathing　from　infancy

to　death　an　air　saturated　with　fog　and　grease　and　soot；　vileness

for　soul　and　body。　　What　do　you　make　of　a　case　like　that；

amateur　psychologist？　　You　call　it　an　altogether　serious　thing

to　be　alive：　　to　these　men　it　is　a　drunken　jest；　a　joke；

horrible　to　angels　perhaps；　to　them　commonplace　enough。　　My

fancy　about　the　river　was　an　idle　one：　　it　is　no　type　of　such　a

life。　　What　if　it　be　stagnant　and　slimy　here？　　It　knows　that

beyond　there　waits　for　it　odorous　sunlight；　quaint　old　gardens；

dusky　with　soft；　green　foliage　of　apple…trees；　and　flushing

crimson　with　roses；air；　and　fields；　and　mountains。　　The　future

of　the　Welsh　puddler　passing　just　now　is　not　so　pleasant。　　To　be

stowed　away；　after　his　grimy　work　is　done；　in　a　hole　in　the

muddy　graveyard；　and　after　that；　not　air；　nor　green　fields；　nor

curious　roses。



Can　you　see　how　foggy　the　day　is？　　As　I　stand　here；　idly　tapping

the　windowpane；　and　looking　out　through　the　rain　at　the　dirty

back…yard　and　the　coalboats　below；　fragments　of　an　old　story

float　up　before　me；a　story　of　this　house　into　which　I　happened

to　come　to…day。　　You　may　think　it　a　tiresome　story　enough；　as

foggy　as　the　day；　sharpened　by　no　sudden　flashes　of　pain　or

pleasure。I　know：　　only　the　outline　of　a　dull　life；　that　long

since；　with　thousands　of　dull　lives　like　its　own；　was　vainly

lived　and　lost：　　thousands　of　them；　massed；　vile；　slimy　lives；

like　those　of　the　torpid　lizards　in　yonder　stagnant　water…

butt。Lost？　　There　is　a　curious　point　for　you　to　settle；　my

friend；　who　study　psychology　in　a　lazy；　dilettante　way。　　Stop　a

moment。　　I　am　going　to　be　honest。　　This　is　what　I　want　you　to

do。　　I　want　you　to　hide　your　disgust；　take　no　heed　to　your　clean

clothes；　and　come　right　down　with　me；here；　into　the　thickest

of　the　fog　and　mud　and　foul　effluvia。　　I　want　you　to　hear　this

story。　　There　is　a　secret　down　here；　in　this　nightmare　fog；　that

has　lain　dumb　for　centuries：　　I　want　to　make　it　a　real　thing　to

you。　　You；　Egoist；　or　Pantheist；　or　Arminian；　busy　in　making

straight　paths　for　your　feet　on　the　hills；　do　not　see　it

clearly；this　terrible　question　which　men　here　have　gone　mad

and　died　trying　to　answer。　　I　dare　not　put　this　secret　into

words。　　I　told　you　it　was　dumb。　　These　men；　going　by　with

drunken　faces　and　brains　full　of　unawakened　power；　do　not　ask　it

of　Society　or　of　God。　　Their　lives　ask　it；　their　deaths　ask　it。

There　is　no　reply。　　I　will　tell　you　plainly　that　I　have　a　great

hope；　and　I　bring　it　to　you　to　be　tested。　　It　is　this：　　that

this　terrible　dumb　question　is　its　own　reply；　that　it　is　not　the

sentence　of　death　we　think　it；　but；　from　the　very　extremity　of

its　darkness；　the　most　solemn　prophecy　which　the　world　has　known

of　the　Hope　to　come。　　I　dare　make　my　meaning　no　clearer；　but

will　only　tell　my　story。　　It　will；　perhaps；　seem　to　you　as　foul

and　dark　as　this　thick　vapor　about　us；　and　as　pregnant　with

death；　but　if　your　eyes　are　free　as　mine　are　to　look　deeper；　no

perfume…tinted　dawn　will　be　so　fair　with　promise　of　the　day　that

shall　surely　come。



My　story　is　very　simple；Only　what　I　remember　of　the　life　of

one　of　these　men；a　furnace…tender　in　one　of　Kirby　&　John's

rolling…mills；Hugh　Wolfe。　　You　know　the　mills？　　They　took　the

great　order　for　the　lower　Virginia　railroads　there　last　winter；

run　usually　with　about　a　thousand　men。　　I　cannot　tell　why　I

choose　the　half…forgotten　story　of　this　Wolfe　more　than　that　of

myriads　of　these　furnace…hands。　　Perhaps　because　there　is　a

secret；　underlying　sympathy　between　that　story　and　this　day　with

its　impure　fog　and　thwarted　sunshine；or　perhaps　simply　for　the

reason　that　this　house　is　the　one　where　the　Wolfes　lived。　　There

were　the　father　and　son；both　hands；　as　I　said；　in　one　of　Kirby

&　John's　mills　for　making　railroad…iron；and　Deborah；　their

cousin；　a　picker　in　some　of　the　cotton…mills。　　The　house　was

rented　then　to　half　a　dozen　families。　　The　Wolfes　had　two　of　the

cellar…rooms。　　The　old　man；　like　many　of　the　puddlers　and

feeders　of　the　mills；　was　Welsh；had　spent　half　of　his　life　in

the　Cornish　tin…mines。　　You　may　pick　the　Welsh　emigrants；

Cornish　miners；　out　of　the　throng　passing　the　windows；　any　day。

They　are　a　trifle　more　filthy；　their　muscles　are　not　so　brawny；

they　stoop　more。　　When　they　are　drunk；　they　neither　yell；　nor

shout；　nor　stagger；　but　skulk　along　like　beaten　hounds。　　A　pure；

unmixed　blood；　I　fancy：　　shows　itself　in　the　slight　angular

bodies　and　sharply…cut　facial　lines。　　It　is　nearly　thirty　years

since　the　Wolfes　lived　here。　　Their　lives　were　like　those　of

their　class：　　incessant　labor；　sleeping　in　kennel…like　rooms；

eating　rank　pork　and　molasses；　drinkingGod　and　the　distillers

only　know　what；　with　an　occasional　night　in　jail；　to　atone　for

some　drunken　excess。　　Is　that　all　of　their　lives？of　the

portion　given　to　them　and　these　their　duplicates　swarming　the

streets　to…day？nothing　beneath？all？　　So　many　a　political

reformer　will　tell　you；and　many　a　private　reformer；　too；　who

has　gone　among　them　with　a　heart　tender　with　Christ's　charity；

and　come　out　outraged；　hardened。



One　rainy　night；　about　eleven　o'clock；　a　crowd　of　half…clothed

women　stopped　outside　of　the　cellar…door。　　They　were　going　home

from　the　cotton…mill。



〃Good…night；　Deb；〃　said　one；　a　mulatto；　steadying　herself

against　the　gas…post。　　She　needed　the　post　to　steady　her。　　So

did　more　than　one　of　them。



〃Dah's　a　ball　to　Miss　Potts'　to…night。　　Ye'd　best　come。〃



〃Inteet；　Deb；　if　hur'll　come；　hur'll　hef　fun；〃　said　a　shrill

Welsh　voice　in　the　crowd。



Two　or　three　dirty　hands　were　thrust　out　to　catch　the　gown　of

the　woman；　who　was　groping　for　the　latch　of　the　door。



〃No。〃



〃No？　　Where's　Kit　Small；　then？〃



〃Begorra！　on　the　spools。　　Alleys　behint；　though　we　helped　her；

we　dud。　　An　wid　ye！　　Let　Deb　alone！　　It's　ondacent　frettin'　a

quite　body。　　Be　the　powers；　an　we'll　have　a　night　of　it！

there'll　be　lashin's　o'　drink；the　Vargent　be　blessed　and

praised　for't！〃



They　went　on；　the　mulatto　inclining　for　a　moment　to　show　fight；

and　drag　the　woman　Wolfe　off　with　them；　but；　being　pacified；　she

staggered　away。



Deborah　groped　her　way　into　the　cellar；　and；　after　considerable

stumbling；　kindled　a　match；　and　lighted　a　tallow　dip；　that　sent

a　yellow　glimmer　over　the　room。　　It　was　low；　damp；the　earthen

floor　covered　with　a　green；　slimy　moss；a　fetid　air　smothering

the　breath。　　Old　Wolfe　lay　asleep　on　a　heap　of　straw；　wrapped　in

a　torn　horse…blanket。　　He　was　a　pale；　meek　little　man；　with　a

white　face　and　red　rabbit…eyes。　　The　woman　Deborah　was　like　him；

only　her　face　was　even　more　ghastly；　her　lips　bluer；　her　eyes

more　watery。　　She　wore　a　faded　cotton　gown　and　a　slouching

bonnet。　　When　she　walked；　one　could　see　that　she　was　deformed；

almost　a　hunchback。　　She　trod　softly；　so　as　not　to　waken　him；

and　went　through　into　the　room　beyond。　　There　she　found　by　the

half…extinguished　fire　an　iron　saucepan　filled　with　cold　boiled

potatoes；　which　she　put　upon　a　broken　chair　with　a　pint…cup　of

ale。　　Placing　the　old　candlestick　beside　this　dainty　repast；　she

untied　her　bonnet；　which　hung　limp　and　wet　over　her　face；　and

prepared　to　eat　her　supper。　　It　was　the　first　food　that　had

touched　her　lips　since　morning。　　There　was　enough　of　it；

however：　　there　is　not　always。　　She　was　hungry；one　could　see

that　easily　enough；and　not　drunk；　as　most　of　her　companions

would　have　been　found　at　this　hour。　　She　did　not　drink；　this

woman；her　face　told　that；　too；nothing　stronger　than　ale。

Perhaps　the　weak；　flaccid　wretch　had　some　stimulant　in　her　pale

life　to　keep　her