[Illustration]
Samantha at Saratoga
by Marietta Holley
Marietta Holley (1836-1926) has been called America’s first female
humorist. She was an extremely popular author and a well-known suffragette.
Holley, who never married, published her first books as Josiah Allen’s
Wife, only adding her own name after her success was established. She lived in
an 18 room home she built in Jefferson County, New York and drove a
Pierce-Arrow. Her legacy of more than 20 books has mostly been forgotten today
but they are still very good reading.
I have no information about the illustrator.
Josiah
TO THE GREAT ARMY OF SUMMER TRAMPS
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY THEIR COMRADE AND FELLOW WANDERER
THE AUTHOR
* * * * * * * * * * *
Samantha
Contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER I. SAMANTHA AT SARATOGA
CHAPTER II. ARDELIA TUTT AND HER MOTHER
CHAPTER III. THE CHERITY OF THE JONESVILLIANS
CHAPTER IV. ARDELIA AND ABRAM GEE
CHAPTER V. WE ARRIVE AT SARATOGA
CHAPTER VI. SARATOGA BY DAYLIGHT
CHAPTER VII. SEEING THE DIFFERENT SPRINGS
CHAPTER VIII. JOSIAH AND SAMANTHA TAKE A LONG WALK
CHAPTER IX. JOSIAH’S FLIRTATIONS
CHAPTER X. MISS G. WASHINGTON FLAMM
CHAPTER XI. VISIT TO THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT
CHAPTER XII. A DRIVE TO SARATOGA LAKE
CHAPTER XIII. VISITS TO NOTABLE PLACES
CHAPTER XIV. LAKE GEORGE AND MOUNT McGREGOR
HAPTER XV. ADVENTURES AT VARIOUS SPRINGS
CHAPTER XVI. AT A LAWN PARTY
CHAPTER XVII. A TRIP TO SCHUYLERVILLE
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING
CHAPTER XIX. ST. CHRISTINA’S HOME
CHAPTER XX. AN ACCIDENT WITH RESULTS
A SORT OF PREFACE.
WHICH IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO READ.
When Josiah read my dedication he said “it wuz a shame to dedicate a
book that it had took most a hull bottle of ink to write, to a lot of
creeters that he wouldn’t have in the back door yard.”
But I explained it to him, that I didn’t mean tramps with broken hats,
variegated pantaloons, ventilated shirt-sleeves, and barefooted. But I
meant tramps with diamond ear-rings, and cuff-buttons, and Saratoga
trunks, and big accounts at their bankers.
And he said, “Oh, shaw!”
But I went on nobly, onmindful of that shaw, as female pardners have to
be, if they accomplish all the talkin’ they want to.
And sez I, “It duz seem sort o’ pitiful, don’t it, to think how sort o’
homeless the Americans are a gettin’? How the posys that blow under the
winders of Home are left to waste their sweet breaths amongst the
weeds, while them that used to love ’em are a climbin’ mountain tops
after strange nosegays.”
The smoke that curled up from the chimbleys, a wreathin’ its way up to
the heavens—all dead and gone. The bright light that shone out of the
winder through the dark a tellin’ everybody that there wuz a Home, and
some one a waitin’ for somebody—all dark and lonesome.
Yes, the waiter and the waited for are all a rushin’ round somewhere,
on the cars, mebby, or a yot, a chasin’ Pleasure, that like as not
settled right down on the eves of the old house they left, and stayed
there.
I wonder if they will find her there when they go back again. Mebby
they will, and then agin, mebby they won’t. For Happiness haint one to
set round and lame herself a waitin’ for folks to make up their minds.
Sometimes she looks folks full in the face, sort o’ solemn like and
heart-searchin’, and gives ’em a fair chance what they will chuse. And
then if they chuse wrong, shee’ll turn her back to ’em, for always.
I’ve hearn of jest such cases.
But it duz seem sort o’ solemn to think—how the sweet restful felin’s
that clings like ivy round the old familier door steps—where old 4
fathers feet stopped, and stayed there, and baby feet touched and then
went away—I declare for’t, it almost brings tears, to think how that
sweet clingin’ vine of affection, and domestic repose, and content—how
soon that vine gets tore up nowadays.
It is a sort of a runnin’ vine anyway, and folks use it as sech, they
run with it. Jest as it puts its tendrils out to cling round some fence
post, or lilock bush, they pull it up, and start off with it. And then
its roots get dry, and it is some time before it will begin to put out
little shoots and clingin’ leaves agin round some petickular mountain
top, or bureau or human bein’. And then it is yanked up agin, poor
little runnin’ vine, and run with—and so on—and so on—and so on.
Why sometimes it makes me fairly heart-sick to think on’t. And I fairly
envy our old 4 fathers, who used to set down for several hundred years
in one spot. They used to get real rested, it must be they did.
Jacob now, settin’ right by that well of his’n for pretty nigh two
hundred years. How much store he must have set by it during the last
hundred years of ’em! How attached he must have been to it!
Good land! Where is there a well that one of our rich old American
patriarks will set down by for two years, leavin’ off the orts. There
haint none, there haint no such a well. Our patriarks haint fond of
well water, anyway.
And old Miss Abraham now, and Miss Isaac—what stay to home wimmen they
wuz, and equinomical!
What a good contented creeter Sarah Abraham wuz. How settled down, and
stiddy, stayin’ right to home for hundreds of years. Not gettin’
rampent for a wider spear, not a coaxin’ old Mr. Abraham nights to take
her to summer resorts, and winter hants of fashion.
No, old Mr. Abraham went to bed, and went to sleep for all of her.
And when they did once in a hundred years, or so, make up their minds
to move on a mile or so, how easy they traveled. Mr. Abraham didn’t
have to lug off ten or twelve wagon loads of furniture to the Safe
Deposit Company, and spend weeks and weeks a settlin’ his bisness, in
Western lands, and Northern mines, Southern railroads, and Eastern
wildcat stocks, to get ready to go. And Miss Abraham didn’t have to
have a dozen dress-makers in the house for a month or two, and
messenger boys, and dry goods clerks, and have to stand and be fitted
for basks and polenays, and back drapery, and front drapery, and tea
gowns, and dinner gowns, and drivin’ gowns, and mornin’ gowns, and
evenin’ gowns, and etectery, etcetery, etcetery.
No, all the preperations she had to make wuz to wrop her mantilly a
little closter round her, and all Mr. Abraham had to do wuz to gird up
his lions. That is what it sez. And I don’t believe it would take much
time to gird up a few lions, it don’t seem to me as if it would.
And when these few simple preperations had been made, they jest histed
up their tent and laid it acrost a camel, and moved on a mild or two,
walkin’ afoot.
Why jest imagine if Miss Abraham had to travel with eight or ten big
Saratoga trunks, how could they have been got up onto that camel? It
couldn’t lave been done. The camel would have died, and old Mr. Abraham
would also have expired a tryin’ to lift ’em up. No, it was all for the
best.
And jest think on’t, for all of these simple, stay to home ways, they
called themselves Pilgrims and Sojourners. Good land! What would they
have thought nowadays to see folks make nothin’ of settin’ off for
China, or Japan or Jerusalem before breakfast.
And what did they know of the hardships of civilization? Now to sposen
the case, sposen Miss Abraham had to live in New York winters, and go
to two or three big receptions every day, and to dinner parties, and
theatre parties, and operas and such like, evenin’s, and receive and
return about three thousand calls, and be on more ’n a dozen charitable
boards (hard boards they be too, some on ’em) and lots of other
projects and enterprizes—be on the go the hull winter, with a dress so
tight she couldn’t breathe instead of her good loose robes, and instead
of her good comfortable sandals have her feet upon high-heeled shoes
pinchin’ her corns almost unto distraction. And then to Washington to
go all through it agin, and more too, and Florida, and Cuba; and then
to the sea-shore and have it all over agin with sea bathin’ added.
And then to the mountains, and all over agin with climbin’ round added.
Then to Europe, with seas sickness, picture galleries, etc., added. And
so on home agin in the fall to begin it all over agin.
Why Miss Abraham would be so tuckered out before she went half through
with one season, that she would be a dead 4 mother.
And Mr. Abraham—why one half hour down at the stock exchange would have
been too much for that good old creeter. The yells and cries, and
distracted movements of the crowd of Luker Gatherers there, would have
skairt him to death. He never would have lived to follow Miss Abraham
round from pillow to post through summer and winter seasons—he wouldn’t
have lived to waltz, or toboggen, or suffer other civilized agonies.
No, he would have been a dead patriark. And better off so, I almost
think.
Not but what I realize that civilization has its advantages. Not but
what I know that if Mr. Abraham wanted Miss Abraham to part his hair
straight, or clean off his phylackrity when she happened to be out a
pickin’ up manny, he couldn’t stand on one side of his tent and
telephone to bring her back, but had to yell at her.
And I realize fully that if one of his herd got strayed off into
another county, they hadn’t no telegraf to head it off, but the old man
had to poke off through rain or sun, and hunt it up himself. And he
couldn’t set down cross-legged in front of his tent in the mornin’, and
read what happened on the other side of the world, the evenin’ before.
And I know that if he wanted to set down some news, they had to kill a
sheep, and spend several years a dressin’ off the hide into
parchment—and kill a goose, or chase it up till they wuz beat out, for
a goose-quill.
And then after about 20 years or so, they could put it down that Miss
Isaac had got a boy—the boy, probably bein’ a married man himself and a
father when the news of his birth wuz set down.
I realize this, and also the great fundimental fact that underlies all
philosophies, that you can’t set down and stand up at the same time—and
that no man, however pure and lofty his motives may be, can’t lean up
against a barn door, and walk off simultanious. And if he don’t walk
off, then the great question comes in, How will he get there? And he
feels lots of times that he must stand up so’s to bring his head up
above the mullien and burdock stalks, amongst which he is a settin’,
and get a wider view-a broader horizeon. And he feels lots of time,
that he must get there.
This is a sort of a curius world, and it makes me feel curius a good
deal of the time as we go through it. But we have to make allowances
for it, for the old world is on a tramp, too. It can’t seem to stop a
minute to oil up its old axeltrys—it moves on, and takes us with it. It
seems to be in a hurry.
Everything seems to be in a hurry here below. And some say Heaven is a
place of continual sailin’ round and goin’ up and up all the time. But
while risin’ up and soarin’ is a sweet thought to me, still sometimes I
love to think that Heaven is a place where I can set down, and set for
some time.
I told Josiah so (waked him up, for he wuz asleep), and he said he sot
more store on the golden streets, and the wavin’ palms, and the
procession of angels. (And then he went to sleep agin.)
But I don’t feel so. I’d love, as I say, to jest set down for quite a
spell, and set there, to be kinder settled down and to home with them
whose presence makes a home anywhere. I wouldn’t give a cent to sail
round unless I wuz made to know it wuz my duty to sail. Josiah wants
to.
But, as I say, everybody is in a hurry. Husbands can’t hardly find time
to keep up a acquaintance with their wives. Fathers don’t have no time
to get up a intimate acquaintance with their children. Mothers are in
such a hurry—babys are in such a hurry—that they can’t scarcely find
time to be born. And I declare for’t, it seems sometimes as if folks
don’t want to take time to die.
The old folks at home wait with faithful, tired old eyes for the letter
that don’t come, for the busy son or daughter hasn’t time to write
it—no, they are too busy a tearin’ up the running vine of affection and
home love, and a runnin’ with it.
Yes, the hull nation is in a hurry to get somewhere else, to go on, it
can’t wait. It is a trampin’ on over the Western slopes, a trampin’
over red men, and black men, and some white men a hurryin’ on to the
West—hurryin’ on to the sea. And what then?
Is there a tide of restfulness a layin’ before it? Some cool waters of
repose where it will bathe its tired forward, and its stun-bruised
feet, and set there for some time?
I don’t s’pose so. I don’t s’pose it is in its nater to. I s’pose it
will look off longingly onto the far off somewhere that lays over the
waters—beyend the sunset.
JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.
NEW YORK, June, 1887.
Chapter I.
SAMANTHA AT SARATOGA.
The idee on’t come to me one day about sundown, or a little before
sundown. I wuz a settin’ in calm peace, and a big rockin’ chair covered
with a handsome copperplate, a readin’ what the Sammist sez about
“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.” The words struck deep, and as I said,
it was jest that very minute that the idee struck me about goin’ to
Saratoga. Why I should have had the idee at jest that minute, I can’t
tell, nor Josiah can’t. We have talked about it sense.
But good land! such creeters as thoughts be never wuz, nor never will
be. They will creep in, and round, and over anything, and get inside of
your mind (entirely unbeknown to you) at any time. Curious, haint
it?—How you may try to hedge ’em out, and shet the doors and
everything. But they will creep up into your mind, climb up and draw up
their ladders, and there they will be, and stalk round independent as
if they owned your hull head; curious!
Well, there the idee wuz—I never knew nothin’ about it, nor how it got
there. But there it wuz, lookin’ me right in the face of my soul,
kinder pert and saucy, sayin’, “You’d better go to Saratoga next
summer; you and Josiah.”
But I argued with it. Sez I, “What should we go to Saratoga for? None
of the relations live there on my side, or on hison; why should we go?”
But still that idee kep’ a hantin me; “You’d better go to Saratoga next
summer, you and Josiah.” And it whispered, “Mebby it will help Josiah’s
corns.” (He is dretful troubled with corns.) And so the idee kep’ a
naggin’ me, it nagged me for three days and three nights before I
mentioned it to my Josiah. And when I did, he scorfed at the idee. He
said, “The idee of water curing them dumb corns—“
Sez I, “Josiah Allen, stranger things have been done;” sez I, “that
water is very strong. It does wonders.”
And he scorfed agin and sez, “Don’t you believe faith could cure em?”
Josiah in woodlot
Sez I, “If it wuz strong enough it could.”
But the thought kep a naggin’ me stiddy, and then—here is the curious
part of it—the thought nagged me, and I nagged Josiah, or not exactly
nagged; not a clear nag; I despise them, and always did. But I kinder
kep’ it before his mind from day to day, and from hour to hour. And the
idee would keep a tellin’ me things and I would keep a tellin’ ’em to
my companion. The idee would keep a sayin’ to me, “It is one of the
most beautiful places in our native land. The waters will help you, the
inspirin’ music, and elegance and gay enjoyment you will find there,
will sort a uplift you. You had better go there on a tower;” and agin
it sez, “Mebby it will help Josiah’s corns.”
And old Dr. Gale a happenin’ in at about that time, I asked him about
it (he doctored me when I wuz a baby, and I have helped ’em for years.
Good old creetur, he don’t get along as well as he ort to. Loontown is
a healthy place.) I told him about my strong desire to go to Saratoga,
and I asked him plain if he thought the water would help my pardner’s
corns. And he looked dreadful wise and he riz up and walked across the
floor 2 and fro several times, probably 3 times to, and the same number
of times fro, with his arms crossed back under the skirt of his coat
and his eyebrows knit in deep thought, before he answered me. Finely he
said, that modern science had not fully demonstrated yet the direct
bearing of water on corn. In some cases it might and probably did
stimulate ’em to greater luxuriance, and then again a great flow of
water might retard their growth.
Sez I, anxiously, “Then you’d advise me to go there with him?”
“Yes,” sez he, “on the hull, I advise you to go.”
Samantha and Dr. Gale
Them words I reported to Josiah, and sez I in anxious axents, “Dr. Gale
advises us to go.”
And Josiah sez, “I guess I shan’t mind what that old fool sez.”
Them wuz my pardner’s words, much as I hate to tell on ’em. But from
day to day I kep’ it stiddy before him, how dang’r’us it wuz to go
ag’inst a doctor’s advice. And from day to day he would scorf at the
plan. And I, ev’ry now and then, and mebby oftener, would get him a
extra good meal, and attack him on the subject immegatly afterwards.
But all in vain. And I see that when he had that immovible sotness onto
him, one extra meal wouldn’t soften or molify him. No, I see plain I
must make a more voyalent effort. And I made it. For three stiddy days
I put before that man the best vittles that these hands could make, or
this brain could plan.
And at the end of the 3d day I gently tackled him agin on the subject,
and his state wuz such, bland, serene, happified, that he consented
without a parlay. And so it wuz settled that the next summer we wuz to
go to Saratoga. And he began to count on it and make preparation in a
way that I hated to see.
Yes, from the very minute that our two minds wuz made up to go to
Saratoga Josiah Allen wuz set on havin’ sunthin new and uneek in the
way of dress and whiskers. I looked coldly on the idee of puttin’ a gay
stripe down the legs of the new pantaloons I made for him, and broke it
up, also a figured vest. I went through them two crisises and came out
triumphent.
Then he went and bought a new bright pink necktie with broad long ends
which he intended to have float out, down the front of his vest. And I
immegatly took it for the light-colored blocks in my silk log-cabin
bedquilt. Yes, I settled the matter of that pink neck-gear with a high
hand and a pair of shears. And Josiah sez now that he bought it for
that purpose, for the bedquilt, because he loves to see a dressy
quilt,—sez he always enjoys seein’ a cabin look sort o’ gay. But good
land! he didn’t. He intended and calculated to wear that neck-tie into
Saratoga,—a sight for men and angels, if I hadn’t broke it up.
But in the matter of whiskers, there I was powerless. He trimmed ’em
(unbeknow to me) all off the side of his face, them good honerable side
whiskers of hisen, that had stood by him for years in solemnity and
decency, and begun to cultivate a little patch on the end of his chin.
I argued with him, and talked well on the subject, eloquent, but it wuz
of no use, I might as well have argued with the wind in March.
He said, he wuz bound on goin’ into Saratoga with a fashionable
whisker, come what would.
And then I sithed, and he sez,—“ You have broke up my pantaloons, my
vest, and my neck-tie, you have ground me down onto plain broadcloth,
but in the matter of whiskers I am firm! Yes!” sez he “on these
whiskers I take my stand!”
And agin I sithed heavy, and I sez in a dretful impressive way, as I
looked on ’em, “Josiah Allen, remember you are a father and a
grandfather!”
And he sez firmly, “If I wuz a great-grandfather I would trim my
whiskers in jest this way, that is if I wuz a goin’ to set up to be
fashionable and a goin’ to Saratoga for my health.”
And I groaned kinder low to myself, and kep’ hopin’ that mebby they
wouldn’t grow very fast, or that some axident would happen to ’em, that
they would get afire or sunthin’. But they didn’t. And they grew from
day to day luxurient in length, but thin. And his watchful care kep’
’em from axident, and I wuz too high princepled to set fire to ’em when
he wuz asleep, though sometimes, on a moonlight night, I was tempted
to, sorely tempted.
But I didn’t, and they grew from day to day, till they wuz the
curiusest lookin’ patch o’ whiskers that I ever see. And when we sot
out for Saratoga, they wuz jest about as long as a shavin’ brush, and
looked some like one. There wuz no look of a class-leader, and a
perfesser about ’em, and I told him so. But he worshiped ’em, and
gloried in the idee of goin’ afar to show ’em off.
But the neighbors received the news that we wuz goin’ to a waterin’
place coldly, or with ill-concealed envy.
Uncle Jonas Bently told us he shouldn’t think we would want to go round
to waterin’ troughs at our age.
And I told him it wuzn’t a waterin’ trough, and if it wuz, I thought
our age wuz jest as good a one as any, to go to it.
He had the impression that Saratoga wuz a immense waterin’ trough where
the country all drove themselves summers to be watered. He is deef as a
Hemlock post, and I yelled up at him jest as loud as I dast for fear of
breakin’ open my own chest, that the water got into us, instid of our
gettin’ into the water, but I didn’t make him understand, for I hearn
afterwards of his sayin’ that, as nigh as he could make out we all got
into the waterin’ trough and wuz watered.
The school teacher, a young man, with long, small lims, and some
pimpley on the face, but well meanin’, he sez to me: “Saratoga is a
beautiful spah.”
Samantha and the school teacher
And I sez warmly, “It aint no such thing, it is a village, for I have
seen a peddler who went right through it, and watered his horses there,
and he sez it is a waterin’ place, and a village.”
“Yes,” sez he, “it is a beautiful village, a modest retiren city, and
at the same time it is the most noted spah on this continent.”
I wouldn’t contend with him for it wuz on the stoop of the meetin’
house, and I believe in bein’ reverent. But I knew it wuzn’t no
“spah,”—that had a dreadful flat sound to me. And any way I knew I
should face its realities soon and know all about it. Lots of wimen
said that for anybody who lived right on the side of a canal, and had
two good, cisterns on the place, and a well, they didn’t see why I
should feel in a sufferin’ condition for any more water; and if I did,
why didn’t I ketch rain water?
Such wuz some of the deep arguments they brung up aginst my embarkin’
on this enterprise, they talked about it sights and sights;—why, it
lasted the neighbors for a stiddy conversation, till along about the
middle of the winter. Then the Minister’s wife bought a new alpacky
dress—unbeknown to the church till it wuz made up—and that kind o’
drawed their minds off o’ me for a spell.
Aunt Polly Pixley wuz the only one who received the intelligence
gladly. And she thought she would go too. She had been kinder run down
and most bed rid for years. And she had a idee the water might help
her. And I encouraged Aunt Polly in the idee, for she wuz well off.
Yes, Mr. and Miss Pixley wuz very well off though they lived in a
little mite of a dark, low, lonesome house, with some tall Pollard
willows in front of the door in a row, and jest acrost the road from a
grave-yard.
Her husband had been close and wuzn’t willin’ to have any other luxury
or means of recreation in the house only a bass viol, that had been his
father’s—he used to play on that for hours and hours. I thought that
wuz one reason why Polly wuz so nervous. I said to Josiah that it would
have killed me outright to have that low grumblin’ a goin’ on from day
to day, and to look at them tall lonesome willows and grave stuns.
But, howsumever, Polly’s husband had died durin’ the summer, and Polly
parted with the bass viol the day after the funeral. She got out some
now, and wuz quite wrought up with the idee of goin’ to Saratoga.
But Sister Minkley; sister in the church and sister-in-law by reason of
Wbitefield, sez to me, that she should think I would think twice before
I danced and waltzed round waltzes.
And I sez, “I haint thought of doin’ it, I haint thought of dancin’
round or square or any other shape.”
Sez she, “You have got to, if you go to Saratoga.”
Sez I, “Not while life remains in this frame.”
And old Miss Bobbet came up that minute—it wuz in the store that we
were a talkin’—and sez she, “It seems to me, Josiah Allen’s wife, that
you are too old to wear low-necked dresses and short sleeves.”
“And I should think you’d take cold a goin’ bareheaded,” sez Miss Luman
Spink who wuz with her.
Sez I, lookin’ at ’em coldly, “Are you lunys or has softness begun on
your brains?”
“Why,” sez they, “you are talking about goin’ to Saratoga, hain’t you?”
“Yes,” sez I.
“Well then you have got to wear ’em,” says Miss Bobbet. “They don’t let
anybody inside of the incorporation without they have got on a
low-necked dress and short sleeves.”
“And bare-headed,” sez Miss Spink; “if they have’ got a thing on their
heads they won’t let ’em in.”
Sez I, “I don’t believe it”
Sez Miss Bobbet, “It is so, for I hearn it, and hearn it straight.
James Robbets’s wife’s sister had a second cousin who lived neighbor to
a woman whose niece had been there, been right there on the spot. And
Celestine Bobbet, Uncle Ephraim’s Celestine, hearn it from James’es
wife when she wuz up there last spring, it come straight. They all have
to go in low necks.”
“And not a mite of anything on their heads,” says Miss Spink.
Sez I in sarcastical axents, “Do men have to go in low necks too?”
“No,” says Miss Bobbet. “But they have to have the tails of their coats
kinder pinted. Why,” sez she, “I hearn of a man that had got clear to
the incorporation and they wouldn’t let him in because his coat kinder
rounded off round the bottom, so he went out by the side of the road
and pinned up his coat tails, into a sort of a pinted shape, and good
land the incorporation let him right in, and never said a word.”
I contended that these things wuzn’t so, but I found it wuz the
prevailin’ opinion. For when I went to see the dressmaker about makin’
me a dress for the occasion, I see she felt just like the rest about
it. My dress wuz a good black alpacky. I thought I would have it begun
along in the edge of the winter, when she didn’t have so much to do,
and also to have it done on time. We laid out to start on the follerin’
July, and I felt that I wanted everything ready.
I bought the dress the 7th day of November early in the forenoon, the
next day after my pardner consented to go, and give 65 cents a yard for
it, double wedth. I thought I could get it done on time, dressmakers
are drove a good deal. But I felt that a dressmaker could commence a
dress in November and get it done the follerin’ July, without no great
strain bein’ put onto her; and I am fur from bein’ the one to put
strains onto wimmen, and hurry ’em beyend their strength. But I felt
Almily had time to make it on honor and with good buttonholes.
“Well,” she sez, the first thing after she had unrolled the alpacky,
and held it up to the light to see if it was firm—sez she:
“I s’pose you are goin’ to have it made with a long train, and low neck
and short sleeves, and the waist all girted down to a taper?”
I wuz agast at the idee, and to think Alminy should broach it to me,
and I give her a piece of my mind that must have lasted her for days
and days. It wuz a long piece, and firm as iron. But she is a woman who
likes to have the last word and carry out her own idees, and she
insisted that nobody was allowed in Saratoga—that they wuz outlawed,
and laughed at if they didn’t have trains and low necks, and little
mites of waists no bigger than pipe-stems.
Sez I, “Alminy Hagidone, do you s’pose that I, a woman of my age, and a
member of the meetin’ house, am a goin’ to wear a low-necked dress?”
“Why not?,” sez she, “it is all the fashion and wimmen as old agin as
you be wear ’em.”
Well, sez I, “It is a shame and a disgrace if they do, to say nothin’
of the wickedness of it. Who do you s’pose wants to see their old skin
and bones? It haint nothin’ pretty anyway. And as fer the waists bein’
all girted up and drawed in, that is nothin’ but crushed bones and
flesh and vitals, that is just crowdin’ down your insides into a state
o’ disease and deformity, torturin’ your heart down so’s the blood
can’t circulate, and your lungs so’s you can’t breathe, it is nothin’
but slow murder anyway, and if I ever take it into my head to kill
myself, Alminy Hagidone, I haint a goin’ to do it in a way of perfect
torture and torment to me, I’d ruther be drownded.”
She quailed, and I sez, “I am one that is goin’ to take good long
breaths to the very last.” She see I wuz like iron aginst the idee of
bein’ drawed in, and tapered, and she desisted. I s’pose I did look
skairful. But she seemed still to cling to the idee of low necks and
trains, and she sez sort a rebukingly:
“You ortn’t to go to Saratoga if you haint willin’ to do as the rest
do. I spose,” sez she dreamily, “the streets are full of wimmen a
walkin’ up and down with long trains a hangin’ down and sweepin’ the
streets, and ev’ry one on ’em with low necks and short sleeves, and all
on ’em a flirting with some man”
“Truly,” sez I, “if that is so, that is why the idee come to me. I am
_needed_ there. I have a high mission to perform about. But I don’t
believe it is so.”
“Then you won’t have it made with a long train?” sez she, a holdin’ up
a breadth of the alpacky in front of me, to measure the skirt.
“No mom!” sez I, and there wuz both dignity and deep resolve in that
“mom.” It wuz as firm and stern principled a “mom” as I ever see,
though I say it that shouldn’t. And I see it skairt her. She measured
off the breadths kinder trembly, and seemed so anxious to pacify me
that she got it a leetle shorter in the back than it wuz in the front.
And (for the same reason) it fairly clicked me in the neck it wuz so
high, and the sleeves wuz that long that I told Josiah Allen (in
confidence) I was tempted to knit some loops across the bottom of ’em
and wear ’em for mits.
But I didn’t, and I didn’t change the dress neither. Thinkses I, mebby
it will have a good moral effect on them other old wimmen there.
Thinkses I, when they see another woman melted and shortened and choked
fur principle’s sake, mebby they will pause in their wild careers.
Wall, this wuz in November, and I wuz to have the dress, if it wuz a
possible thing, by the middle of April, so’s to get it home in time to
sew some lace in the neck. And so havin’ everything settled about goin’
I wuz calm in my frame most all the time, and so wuz my pardner.
And right here, let me insert this one word of wisdom for the special
comfort of my sect and yet it is one that may well be laid to heart by
the more opposite one. If your pardner gets restless and oneasy and
middlin’ cross, as pardners will be anon, or even oftener—start them
off on a tower. A tower will in 9 cases out of 10 lift ’em out of their
oneasiness, their restlessness and their crossness.
_Why_ this is so I cannot tell, no more than I can explain other
mysteries of creation, but I know it is so. I know they will come home
more placider, more serener, and more settled-downer. Why I have known
a short tower to Slab City or Loontown act like a charm on my pardner,
when crossness wuz in his mean and snappishness wuz present with him. I
have known him to set off with the mean of a lion and come back with
the liniment of a lamb. Curious, haint it?
And jest the prospect of a tower ahead is a great help to a woman in
rulin’ and keepin’ a pardner straight and right in his liniments and
his acts. Somehow jest the thought of a tower sort a lifts him up in
mind, and happifys him, and makes him easier to quell, and pardners
_must_ be quelled at times, else there would be no livin’ with ’em.
This is known to all wimmen companions and and men too. Great great is
the mystery of pardners.
Josiah mad and happy