Excerpt from “Life in the Iron-Mills” by Rebecca Harding Davis 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. . . . 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, ifhur'llcome,hur'llheffun,” 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. Alleysbehint, though we helped her, we dud. Anwidye! Let Deb alone! It'sondacentfrettin' a quite body. Be the powers, an we'll have a night of it! there'll belashin'so' drink,—theVargentbe blessed and praisedfor'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 asleepon 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 up,—some love or hope, it might be, or urgent need. When that stimulant was gone, she would take to whiskey. Man cannot live by work alone. While she was skinning the potatoes, and munching them, a noise behind her made her stop. “Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering into the darkness. “Janey, are you there?” A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a young girl emerged, staring sleepily at the woman. “Deborah,” she said, at last, “I'm here the night.” “Yes, child.Hur'swelcome,” she said, quietly eating on. The girl's face was haggard and sickly; her eyes were heavy with sleep and hunger: real Milesian eyes they were, dark, delicate blue, glooming out from black shadows with a pitiful fright. “I was alone,” she said, timidly. “Where's the father?” asked Deborah, holding out a potato, which the girl greedily seized. “He'sbeyant,—widHaley,—in the stone house. . . . I came here. Hugh told me never to stay me-lone.” “Hugh?” “Yes.” A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and added quickly,— “I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch lasts till the mornin'.” The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange some bread and flitch in a tin pail, and to pour her own measure of ale into a bottle. Tying on her bonnet, she blew out the candle. “Lay ye down,Janeydear,” she said, gently, covering her with the old rags. “Hurcan eat the potatoes, ifhur'shungry. “Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp.” “To the mill, with Hugh's supper.” “Let him bide till th' morn. Sit ye down.” “No, no,”—sharply pushing her off. “Theboy'llstarve.” She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily coiled herself up for sleep. The rain was falling heavily, as the woman, pail in hand, emerged from the mouth of the alley, and turned down the narrow street, that stretched out, long and black, miles before her. Here and there a flicker of gas lighted an uncertain space of muddyfootwalkand gutter; the long rows of houses, except anoccasional lager-bier shop, were closed; now and then she met a band ofmillhandsskulking to or from their work. Not many even of the inhabitants of a manufacturing town know the vast machinery of system by which the bodies of workmen are governed, that goes on unceasingly from year to year. The hands of each mill are divided into watches that relieve each other as regularly as the sentinels of an army. By night and day the work goes on, the unsleeping engines groan and shriek, the fiery pools of metal boil and surge. Only for a day in the week, in half-courtesy to public censure, the fires are partially veiled; but as soon as the clock strikes midnight, the great furnaces break forth with renewed fury, the clamor begins with fresh, breathless vigor, the engines sob and shriek like “gods in pain.” As Deborah hurried down through the heavy rain, the noise of these thousand engines sounded through the sleep and shadow of the city like far-off thunder. The mill to which she was going lay on the river, a mile below the city-limits. It was far, and she was weak, aching from standing twelve hours at the spools. Yet it was her almost nightly walk to take this man his supper, though at every square she sat down to rest, and she knew she should receive small word of thanks. Perhaps, if she had possessed an artist's eye, the picturesque oddity of the scene might have made her step stagger less, and the path seem shorter; but to her the mills were only “summatdeilishto look at by night.” The road leading to the mills had been quarried from the solid rock, which rose abrupt and bare on one side of the cinder-covered road, while the river, sluggish and black, crept past on the other. The mills for rolling iron are simply immense tent-like roofs, covering acres of ground, open on every side. Beneath these roofs Deborah looked in on a city of fires, that burned hot and fiercely in the night. Fire in every horrible form: pits of flame waving in the wind; liquid metal-flames writhing in tortuous streams through the sand; wide caldrons filled with boiling fire, over which bent ghastly wretches stirring the strange brewing; and through all, crowds of half-clad men, looking like revengeful ghosts in the red light, hurried, throwing masses of glittering fire. It was like a street in Hell. Even Deborah muttered, as she crept through, “looks like t' Devil's place!” It did,—in more ways than one.

Question

Excerpt from “Life in the Iron-Mills” by Rebecca Harding Davis 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. . . . 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, ifhur'llcome,hur'llheffun,” 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. Alleysbehint, though we helped her, we dud. Anwidye! Let Deb alone! It'sondacentfrettin' a quite body. Be the powers, an we'll have a night of it! there'll belashin'so' drink,—theVargentbe blessed and praisedfor'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 asleepon 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 up,—some love or hope, it might be, or urgent need. When that stimulant was gone, she would take to whiskey. Man cannot live by work alone. While she was skinning the potatoes, and munching them, a noise behind her made her stop. “Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering into the darkness. “Janey, are you there?” A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a young girl emerged, staring sleepily at the woman. “Deborah,” she said, at last, “I'm here the night.” “Yes, child.Hur'swelcome,” she said, quietly eating on. The girl's face was haggard and sickly; her eyes were heavy with sleep and hunger: real Milesian eyes they were, dark, delicate blue, glooming out from black shadows with a pitiful fright. “I was alone,” she said, timidly. “Where's the father?” asked Deborah, holding out a potato, which the girl greedily seized. “He'sbeyant,—widHaley,—in the stone house. . . . I came here. Hugh told me never to stay me-lone.” “Hugh?” “Yes.” A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and added quickly,— “I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch lasts till the mornin'.” The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange some bread and flitch in a tin pail, and to pour her own measure of ale into a bottle. Tying on her bonnet, she blew out the candle. “Lay ye down,Janeydear,” she said, gently, covering her with the old rags. “Hurcan eat the potatoes, ifhur'shungry. “Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp.” “To the mill, with Hugh's supper.” “Let him bide till th' morn. Sit ye down.” “No, no,”—sharply pushing her off. “Theboy'llstarve.” She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily coiled herself up for sleep. The rain was falling heavily, as the woman, pail in hand, emerged from the mouth of the alley, and turned down the narrow street, that stretched out, long and black, miles before her. Here and there a flicker of gas lighted an uncertain space of muddyfootwalkand gutter; the long rows of houses, except anoccasional lager-bier shop, were closed; now and then she met a band ofmillhandsskulking to or from their work. Not many even of the inhabitants of a manufacturing town know the vast machinery of system by which the bodies of workmen are governed, that goes on unceasingly from year to year. The hands of each mill are divided into watches that relieve each other as regularly as the sentinels of an army. By night and day the work goes on, the unsleeping engines groan and shriek, the fiery pools of metal boil and surge. Only for a day in the week, in half-courtesy to public censure, the fires are partially veiled; but as soon as the clock strikes midnight, the great furnaces break forth with renewed fury, the clamor begins with fresh, breathless vigor, the engines sob and shriek like “gods in pain.” As Deborah hurried down through the heavy rain, the noise of these thousand engines sounded through the sleep and shadow of the city like far-off thunder. The mill to which she was going lay on the river, a mile below the city-limits. It was far, and she was weak, aching from standing twelve hours at the spools. Yet it was her almost nightly walk to take this man his supper, though at every square she sat down to rest, and she knew she should receive small word of thanks. Perhaps, if she had possessed an artist's eye, the picturesque oddity of the scene might have made her step stagger less, and the path seem shorter; but to her the mills were only “summatdeilishto look at by night.” The road leading to the mills had been quarried from the solid rock, which rose abrupt and bare on one side of the cinder-covered road, while the river, sluggish and black, crept past on the other. The mills for rolling iron are simply immense tent-like roofs, covering acres of ground, open on every side. Beneath these roofs Deborah looked in on a city of fires, that burned hot and fiercely in the night. Fire in every horrible form: pits of flame waving in the wind; liquid metal-flames writhing in tortuous streams through the sand; wide caldrons filled with boiling fire, over which bent ghastly wretches stirring the strange brewing; and through all, crowds of half-clad men, looking like revengeful ghosts in the red light, hurried, throwing masses of glittering fire. It was like a street in Hell. Even Deborah muttered, as she crept through, “looks like t' Devil's place!” It did,—in more ways than one.

Question
Use the excerpt to answer the question. What aspect of the characterization in the excerpt is most important in conveying themes relating to the hard life of American labor? (1 point)

Responses
the dialect of the characters
the physical description of the characters
the description of Deborah’s inner strength
the relationship between Deborah and Hugh
the narrator’s relationship to the other characters

Answer 1

The most important aspect of characterization in the excerpt that conveys themes relating to the hard life of American labor is the physical description of the characters. This includes details such as their tiredness, hunger, deformities, and poverty, which highlight the struggles and hardships faced by workers in the mills.