We have got a dretful pretty girl a-stayin’ with us now, one of the
relation on my side, one of the Smiths. When we heard she was a comin’,
Josiah kinder hung back from the idee at first. But as I see him a
hangin’ back, I calmly, and with dignity, took the Widder Doodle, one of
the relations on his side, and mildly yet firmly threw her in his face.
It hit him jest right, the idee did, and I hain’t heard a word sense of
murmurin’s or complainin’s about the Smiths.
[Illustration: KITTY SMITH.]
I enjoy her bein’ here the best that ever was. We have took lots of
comfort sense she come. Not that happiness and security has caused me to
shut that open eye of my spectacle. No! that is still on the watch,
vigilent and keen, and if there is anything a goin’ on, I feel that it
cannot long be hid from that eye. But everything has seemed calm and
peaceful, Josiah is affectionate and almost tender in his mean to me.
And I learn from the neighbers that the Widder Bump has gone off on a
visit to her folkses. But still that eye of my speck is sleepless. Not
once has it closed itself in slumber, and still I _hold firm_.
Kitty Smith is a pretty girl, as pretty a one as I ever see. The Smiths,
as I have said to Josiah a number of times, was always pretty fair
lookin’. He thinks so too, only when he is fractious. She looks a good
deal as I did when I was her age; Josiah owned up to me the other night
that she did. We had had a splendid good supper, and he felt well, and
he said so of his own accord. And then she favors her mother
considerable, a good-lookin’ woman as I ever see, and smart.
Kitty is very fair complected, smooth, as delicate as a sea-shell, with
curly hair almost gold-colored, only bearin’ a little on the brown,
kinder fruzzly and fluffy on top, blowin’ all over her forward when she
goes out in the wind, or anything. And her forward bein’ white as snow,
when the little gold rings and curls are a blowin’ all over it, they
look well. She has got sort ’o pinky cheeks, and her eyes are big and
dark, and kinder grey like, and all runnin’ over with fun and mischief.
She is the biggest witch out. And her lips are red as two roses, and
always a laughin’, them and her eyes; I don’t know which laughs the
most. Her name is Kitty, and she is just as affectionate as a little
kitten, and as playful.
I think a sight on her. And I love to look at her. I always did love to
look at a handsome woman. There are some wimmen that it gauls to see a
female handsomer than they be, but it never did me. I always loved to
see handsome pictures, and a beautiful woman’s face is a picture with a
soul in it.
I set a great deal of store by her, and so does Josiah and the childern;
they are all a quarrelin’ now which will have her the most. But we
shan’t none of us have her long, I s’pose. For she has told me in strict
confidence, and if I tell, it must not go no further, for it _must be
kep’_! She don’t want Josiah and the childern to get holt of it, knowin’
they would plague her most to death. She is engaged to be married to a
awful smart-lookin’ feller. She showed me his picture—a keen-eyed,
noble-lookin’ chap, I can tell you, and well off. His father owns the
big manufactory where her father was overseer when he died, and where
her mother keeps boarders now. His father stood out, at first, about his
marryin’ a poor girl. And Kitty come off out here for a long visit; her
mother wanted her to; they are both proud, and won’t force themselves
into no company. But Mark—that is the young feller’s name—Mark stands
firm, and the old man is a comin’ round gradual. Kitty, though she jest
worships Mark, won’t go there till she is welcome, and I bear her out in
it. That is why she is here on such a long tower. But she knows it is
all a comin’ out right; her mother says it is; and Mark writes to her
every day or two, and she is happy as a bird.
But she is a little too full of fun sometimes, and thoughtless. She
don’t realize things as she ort, and as she will when she is older. Now
there is a young feller here in Jonesville that has got after her, Caleb
Cobb, or Kellup, as everybody calls him. And just out of pure fun she
lets him foller her up. I feel bad about it, and so I have told Josiah.
But he said “she didn’t mean no more hurt than a kitten did, a-playin’
with a mouse.”
Says I, “Josiah Allen, hain’t it bad for the mouse?”
“Wall,” says Josiah, “it no need to have been a mouse then.”
Says I, “That is a dretful deep argument, Josiah.” Says I, “I should be
afraid to be so smart, if I was in your place. I should be afraid they’d
want me to Congress.”
My tone was witherin’ and dry as a fish. But Josiah didn’t feel withered
up. The fact is, he hates Kellup, and loves to see him fooled, that is
the truth on’t. Kellup’s father is the cabinet-maker to Jonesville, and
Kellup drives the hearse, and he comes to see Kitty in it. His father
does sights and sights of business out in the country all round
Jonesville, and every time Kellup is called out with it, on his way home
he will go milds and milds out of his way for the privilege of stoppin’
and seein’ her. And he’ll hitch that hearse to the front gate, and come
in and try to court her. Why, anybody would think a pestilence had broke
out in our three housen, our’n, and Tirzah Ann’s, and Thomas
Jefferson’s, to see that hearse hitched in front of ’em every day or
two. It works me up and gives me awful feelin’s. But Kitty jest giggles
and laughs over it, and Josiah and the children encourages her in it.
They hate Kellup like pisen.
And he is one of the stingiest, disagreeablest, conceitedest,
self-righteousest creeters that I ever see in my life. And pretends to
be religious. Why, I spose tight is no name for his tightness. Somebody
made the remark that he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And Thomas J.
said it wasn’t nothin’ but the sheep’s hide, then, for if it had been
the hull pelt he’d sell the wool offen it quicker’n a wink.
And he thinks he is so beautiful, and dangerous to wimmen. But I never
could bear his looks. He has got great big black eyes, dretful shaller,
no depth to ’em, some like huckleberries, only bigger, but jest about as
much soul and expression into ’em as a huckleberry has. And a saller
skin and low forward, with sights of hair and whiskers. The curiousest
hair, and the singularest whiskers that I ever did see.
[Illustration: KELLUP.]
They are very heavy and bushy, and he bein’ pretty well along in years,
they would be as grey as two rats. But bein’ a bachelder, and wantin’ to
pass off as a young man, he colors ’em. Which would be all perfectly
proper and right, and no more than lots of folks do; but the peculiarity
is, he is so uncommon tight that he wont buy hair dye, but makes
experiments with himself, steeps up things, roots and herbs, and stuffs
he can buy cheap, minerals and things, cateku, and so 4th, and pusly.
And so you hardly ever see him twice with his hair and whiskers and
eyebrows the same color. And I’ll be hanged if he haint some of the time
the curiousest lookin’ creeter that was ever seen out side of a
menagery.
If he would only settle down on one color and keep it up, it wouldn’t be
so bad for him. London brown hair and whiskers wouldn’t look so awful
bad after you get used to ’em, or cateku color, or madder red. But he
thinks, I spose, that he will hit on sunthin’ cheaper than he has hit
on; so he will keep on tamperin’ with ’em, and makin’ experiments, and
you won’t no sooner get used to seein’ ’em cinneman color, than the very
next thing they will be a bright pusly color, or sorrel. It jest spiles
his looks, and so I have told Josiah.
And he said “It was hard spilin’ anything that was born spilt.” And I
told him “That no human bein’ was ever born with pusly-colored hair and
whiskers.”
And he said “He was born a dumb fool!”
And I didn’t deny it, and didn’t try to, only I scolded him powerful and
severe on the “dumb.”
His hair and whiskers, as I say, are always some new and curius shade,
very changeable and oncertain, as to color, but they are always greasy.
He uses sights and sights of hair oil; he makes it himself out of lard,
scented up high with peppermint. He uses peppermint essence on his
handkerchy, too (he gathers his own peppermint and makes it, and uses it
lavish). He says that is the only vain, worldly luxury he indulges in.
He says he feels guilty about usin’ up his property in it, but it is
such a comfort to him that he don’t feel as if he can give it up.
His clothes are always very cheap and poor lookin’, when he is dressed
up the most, but he dresses very poor the most of the time, for
principle, he says, to try to wean the wimmen from him as much as he
can.
And take him with them clothes of hisen, and that curius lookin’ hair
and whiskers all round his chin, and up the sides of his face, he is as
sepulchral and singular a lookin’ a chap as I ever laid eyes on.
He is a bachelder, Kellup is, not from necessity, he says, but because
he has found it so hard to select one from the surroundin’ wimmen that
want him. He has told me that the two main reasons why he didn’t marry,
one was, he found it so awful hard to select one out of so many, and the
other, it was so tryin’ to him to hurt the feelins’ of them he would
have to slight if he made a choice.
Why, he talked with me about it over two years ago. He was in to our
house one day, and Josiah had been a attin’ him about his not gettin’
married, and after Josiah went out, he talked to me confidential. I
s’pose it is that sort of a noble, lofty look, to my face, that makes
folks confide in me so much. Says he,
“I am tender-hearted, Josiah Allen’s wife. I am too tender-hearted for
my own good. There is so many wimmen that want me, and it would cut me,
it would cut me like a knife to have to disapinte so many.”
He stopped here for me to say sunthin’, and I remarked, in a sort of a
dry tone, that I wouldn’t worry about ’em, if I was in his place
“Wall,” says he, “I shouldn’t worry, if I was like some men. I should
slash right in and marry, without payin’ any attention to other wimmens
feelin’s. But if I should kill half a dozen wimmen or so, Josiah Allen’s
wife, I feel that I never should forgive myself.”
Here he stopped agin, and I see that he wanted me to say sunthin’; and
not knowin’ exactly what to say, I said sort o’ mechanically, without
really thinkin’ what I was a sayin’, that it would be a good stroke of
business for his father.
“Yes,” says he, “but the profits we should make wouldn’t much more than
half pay me for the feelin’s I should have a thinkin’ I was the means of
their dyin’ off.
“Why,” says he, takin’ out his pocket handkerchief and wipin’ his
forward, till the room smelt as strong as a peppermint sling,—“there
haint a woman in Jonesville but what would jump at the chance of
marryin’ of me. But they mustn’t calculate too strong on it. I wouldn’t
be the one to tell ’em right out plain that there wasn’t no hopes of
gettin’ me. That would be a little too heartless and cold-blooded in me.
But they mustn’t build up too high castles in the air about it, for I
may not marry at all.”
“Like as not you wont,” says I, speakin’ not quite so mekanikle, but
with considerable more meanin’. “I shouldn’t wonder a mite if you
didn’t.”
“No,” says he, foldin’ his arms and lookin’ haughtily at a picture of a
woman over the wood-box.
“No; the thing of it is I am so tender-hearted, and hate so to cause
sufferin’.
“I can’t,” says he, knittin’ up his eyebrows (they was a kind of a olive
green that day), “I _can’t_ marry all the wimmen that want me. That is a
settled thing. Anybody with half a mind can see that. I _can’t_ do it.
And so what would the result be if I should make a choice, and marry
one. One woman made happy, and cruelty, wanton, bloody cruelty, to all
other wimmen fur and near. Would that one woman’s happiness,” says he,
knittin’ up his eye-brows as hard as I ever see any knit, and I have
seen some considerable hard knittin’ in my day, “would that one woman’s
happiness go anywhere near makin’ up for the agony that would rack the
breasts of other wimmen, and tear their heart-strings all to flitters?
That is the question,” says he, lookin’ gloomily into the wood-box, that
is wearin’ on me night and day, and what shall I do to do right?”
[Illustration: THE WOMAN QUESTION.]
“Wall,” says I, “I can’t advise you. I wouldn’t marry, if I thought it
was a goin’ to kill ten or a dozen; and I wouldn’t marry anyway, unless
I got a chance.”
“Chance!” says he haughtily. “Why, there haint a woman in the country
but what would jump to have me; that is,” says he in a reasonable tone,
“if they wasn’t too old to jump, or wasn’t disabled in some way,
rheumatiz, or sunthin, or sprains. They all want me.”
“Why,” says I, tryin’ to chirk him up, and make him feel better, “I
thought it was right the other way. I thought you had got the mitten
more’n a dozen times. There was Polly Bamber”—
“Oh, well. Polly Bamber loved me to distraction. She tried to conceal it
from me. She refused me, thinkin’ it would make me fiercer to marry her.
But she got fooled. I only asked her three times. She was waitin’ for
the fourth, and I spose she was as disapinted as a girl ever was. I was
sorry for her; my heart fairly ached for her; but I had a man’s dignity
to keep up, and I left her.”
“Wall, there was Betsey Gowdey.”
“Betsey would have had me in a minute, if it hadn’t been for influences
that was brought to bear on her. She just as good as told me so. I
s’pose she felt awfully to lose me; but she bore up under it better than
I thought she would. I thought like as not she would break completely
down under it.”
“Wall,” says I, tryin’ my best to chirk him up, “there was Mahala
Grimshaw, and Martha Ann Snyder, and Jane Boden, and Serena Rumsey, and
Serepta Mandagool.”
[Illustration]
“Them girls was sorry enough, when it was too late. They lost me, every
one of them girls did, by puttin’ on airs and pretendin’ not to want me.
Pretendin’ to make fun of me, jest for an outside show. I see right
through it. But I took ’em at their word, and when they said they
wouldn’t have me, I jest left ’em, and paid no attention to what they
suffered after I left. Sometimes I have thought that mebby I was too
harsh with ’em, to punish ’em so; but I did it, and I’d do it agin if it
was to do over. They no need to have been so deceitful. They might
expect to suffer for it, and I am glad they did.”
“There was Nabby Ellis,” says I dreamily.
“Oh, Nabby was all right. It was envy and jealousy that broke that up.
Sam Larkins jest filled her ears about me, I know he did; if he hadn’t,
and hadn’t married her himself, Nabby would have gin her ears to have
had me. I think she thinks more of me to day than she does of Sam; but I
keep out of her way all I can; I don’t want to harrow up her feelin’s. I
am a young man of principle, if there ever was one.
“Now I know of several married wimmen that I am obleeged to treat cool
and distant, for their own good. What good would it do me?” says he,
knittin’ up his eyebrows agin.
“What good could it do me for a lot of married wimmen to get over head
and ears in love with me? They know they can’t get me. And though they
may feel hurt at my coldness at the time, when they come to think it
over they must know I am actin’ for their good in the long run, by bein’
cold and distant to ’em, and tryin’ my best to wean ’em from me.
“Some young men don’t seem to have no idee or care about the sufferin’
they cause on every side of ’em. They will trample right round over
female hearts, as if there wusn’t no more feelin’ in ’em than in tan
bark, and as if it didn’t hurt ’em and bruise ’em to tread on ’em. But
it haint my way. I don’t think a young man can be too careful about such
things. Why, I am so careful and conscientious that if I thought it was
necessary for females’ peace of mind, and the good of surroundin’
wimmen, I would be willin’ to wear a veil over my face the hull time.”
I looked him full and keen in the face, over the top of my specks, and
told him calmly that I didn’t think it was necessary.
“Wall,” says he, “I am jest that tender-hearted, that I would do it. I
am too tender-hearted for my own good. I know that very well. Now I want
to get married, I want to badly; but there them two reasons stand, right
in front of me, headin’ me off. It haint the expense of keepin’ a wife
that holds me back, for I could more than make her pay her way, doin’
the housework for father and me and five workmen. No, it is clear
principle that is headin’ me off. I may get reckless after a while.”
[Illustration: PAYIN’ HER WAY.]
Says he, with a sort of a bitter mean onto him: “I may get so carried
away with some girl’s looks, and so hankerin’ after matrimony, that I
shall forget my conscience and principle, and slash right in and marry
her, and let the other wimmen go to wrack and ruin. But then agin when I
think what the consequences would probable be, why then I tremble.”
And he kinder shook some as if he had a chill.
Says he: “When I think of Jane Sofier Burpy. When I think what my
feelin’s was as I drove her hearse to the buryin’-ground. When I think
how I felt durin’ that ride—why, I think I will never meddle again with
any women, in any way, shape, nor manner. When I think how she wilted
right down like a untimely flower cut down by the destroyer.”
“Why,” says I, “she died with a bile; that was what ailed her,—a
carbuncle on her back.”
“Yes,” says he, with a unbelievin’ look on his face, “so the doctors
said; so the cold world said. But I think it was sunthin’ deeper.”
[Illustration: HOW JANE WAS ROPED IN.]
“Why,” says I, “a bile couldn’t go no deeper than her’n went. It was
dreadful. It was the death of her.”
Says he: “I have always had my own idee of what ailed her. I know what
that idee is, and I know what a guilty conscience is. I wuzn’t careful
enough. I didn’t mean no harm to her, Heaven knows I didn’t. But I
wuzn’t careful enough. I boarded two weeks with her mother the spring
before she died. And I can see now where I missed it, where I did wrong.
I wuzn’t offish enough to her. I treated her too friendly. I was off my
guard, and didn’t notice how my attractions was bein’ too much for her.
[Illustration: THE DEATH BLOW.]
“I paid her little attentions to the table, such as passin’ her the
mashed-up potatoes and the beans. I talked with her, more or less. Once
I helped her hang out the clothes-line. I brought her letters from the
post-office. Twice I helped her into a wagon. I was onguarded. I think
then was the time I give her her death-blow.”
And oh! what a harrowin’ and remorseful look he did cast into that
wood-box, as he said this.
“She died in the fall. And my feelin’s durin’ that fall I shall never
forget. If that thing should happen agin, and my feelin’s prey on me as
they preyed then, I couldn’t stand it through more than seven or eight
more such cases. I know I couldn’t. I have been careful since then. When
I’m obliged to board now I don’t board in any house where there is a
woman under seventy-five years of age. And sometimes I am most afraid it
is resky then.”
And agin he looked as gloomy at that wood-box as I ever see a box looked
at. And he waited a minute or two. Mebby he waited for me to say
sunthin’ but I didn’t say it, and he kep’ on:
“Several times sense that I have started up, and thought that I would
marry anyway, and leave the result. But it has seemed to be broke up
every time providential, and I’d make up my mind in the end not to have
’em. But after awhile agin I will start up, and almost make my mind up,
that marry I will, no matter what the result may be. But there it is
agin; I am too tender-hearted. That is where the stick is with me. I
know jest how skurce men are, and how wimmen feel towards ’em. I know
jest how they get their minds sot on ’em, and how they feel to loose
’em. I have got principle, Josiah Allen’s wife. I am principle clear to
the back-bone.”
“Wall,” says I, “I don’t know but you be. I can’t dispute you, not
knowin’ how it is.”
“It may end,” says he, with a bitter look at the woman over the
wood-box, “it may end by my not marryin’ at all. But if I don’t marry,
where will the blame lie?”
Says he, speakin’ up louder and more excited than he had spoke up:
“I have been blamed; blamed in public places; right in the grocery, and
on the post-office steps; blamed by the trustees of the public school;
blamed by the old man that keeps the children’s toy-store; blamed by the
census man for shiftlessness, and slackness, in not increasin’ the
population.
“But where does the blame rest? Is it with me, or with the wimmen that
act so like furyation that it is impossible for me to make a choice
amongst ’em?
“If I should tell them men that the reason I had lived along, year after
year, without marryin’ was that I was so tender-hearted, they would
laugh at me.”
“I hain’t a doubt of it,” says I heartily and decidedly.
“Yes, they would hoot at me, so little can they enter into such a heart
as mine. But I can’t always live along in this way. Some day there may
be a change. I give wimmen warnin’ that there may be.”
And so he went on for two hours, if it was a minute. Repeatin’ it over
and over agin, till I was as sick as a dog of hearin’ of it. But knowin’
he was talkin’ to me in confidence, I didn’t want to come right out
plain, and tell him what I thought of him. But I was glad enough when he
got through and started off of his own accord.
But since Kitty come he has been to our house more than ever. He has
acted crazy as a loon about her. Though true to his principle, he asked
Josiah the other day, “if consumption run in her family, and if he
thought it would go too hard with her if he didn’t make up his mind to
marry her.”
[Illustration: A JUDGMENT SEAT.]
Old Cobb is well off, but he and Kellup works hard, and fares hard. They
stent themselves on clothes, and I don’t s’pose they allow themselves
hardly enough to eat and drink. And all the literary feasts and
recreations they allow themselves is to set round in stores and
groceries, on dry-goods boxes and butter-tubs, a-findin’ fault with the
government, spittin’ tobacco-juice at the stove, and fixin’ the doom of
sinners. Kellup is harder on ’em than the old man is. Old Cobb thinks
there won’t be more’n half the world saved; Kellup thinks there won’t be
more than a quarter, if there is that.
They argue powerful. Have come to hands and blows frequent. And once
Kellup knocked the old man down, he was so mad and out of patience to
think the old man couldn’t see as he see about the Judgment. You know
there is sights and sights said on that subject now and wrote on it; and
Kellup and the old man will borrow books and papers that are wrote on
it, some on one side and some on the other, and then they’ll quarrel
agin over them. And they’ve tried to draw me into their arguments time
and agin. But I have told ’em that I was a master hand to work where I
was needed most, and I didn’t seem to be needed so much a judgin’ the
world, and settlin’ on jest how many was a goin’ to be saved or lost, as
I did a mindin’ my own business, and tryin’ to read my own title clear
to mansions in the skies. Says I: “I find it a tuckerin’ job to take
care of one sinner as she ort to be took care of, and it would make me
ravin’ crazy if I had to take care of the hull universe.”
It fairly makes me out of patience, when there is so much work our
Master sot for us to do for His sake, it fairly makes me mad to see
folks refuse to do a mite of that work, but tackle jobs they hain’t sot
to tackle. Why, the Lord don’t, like a good many human bein’s, ask
impossibilities of us. He only wants us to do the best we can with what
we have got to do with, and He will help us. He never refused help to a
earnest, strugglin’ soul yet. But He don’t calculate nor expect us to
judge the world, I know He don’t. Why, our Saviour said, in that hour
when it seemed as if the God and the man was both speakin’ from a heart
full of a human longin’ for love and a divine pity and tenderness for
sorrowful humanity,—He said, “If you love me, feed my sheep.” He said it
twice over, earnest and impressive. He meant to have it heard and
understood. And once He said, seemin’ly so afraid the childern wouldn’t
be took care of, “Feed my lambs.” That is a good plain business, tryin’
to feed them every way, doin’ our best to satisfy all their hunger, soul
and body. That is the work He wants us to do, but He never gave a hint
that He wanted us to judge the world. But He said out plain and square
more’n once, “_Judge not_.” Then what makes folks try to do it? What
makes ’em pass right by flocks and flocks of sheeps needy and perishin’
every way, pass right by these little lambs of Christ, hungry and naked,
stumblin’ right over ’em without pickin’ of ’em up? Why, they might fall
right over quantities of dead sheeps and dyin’ lambs, and not know it,
they are so rampent and determined on tacklin’ jobs they hain’t sot to
tackle, crazy and sot on judgin’ the world.
Why, everybody says they never did see such a time as it is now for
arguin’ and fightin’ back and forth on that subject. Why, the papers are
full of it. “Is there a Hell?” And “How deep is it?” And “How many are a
goin’ there?” And “How long are they a goin’ to stay?” Books are wrote
on it, and lectures are lectured, and sermons are preached on both sides
of the Atlantic; and Kellup and his father are by no means the only ones
who get mad as hornets if anybody disputes ’em in their views of the
Judgment.
But I am glad enough that I don’t feel that way, for it would make me
crazy as a loon if I thought I was sot to judge one soul, let alone the
universe.
Why, how under the sun would I go to work to judge that one soul, and do
it right? I could see some of the outward acts, ketch glimpses of the
outside self. But how could I unlock that secret door that shuts in the
real person,—how could I get inside that door that the nearest and the
dearest never peeked through, that God only holds the key to—the secret
recesses of the immortal soul—and behold the unspeakable, the soarin’
desires, and yearnin’s, and divine aspirations—the good and true
intentions—the dreams and visions of immortal beauty, and purity, and
goodness—and the secret thoughts that are sin—the unfolded scarlet buds
of wrong, and the white folded buds of purity and holynesses, each
waiting for the breath of circumstance, of change, and what we call
chance, to unfold and blossom into beauty or hejusness? How could my
eyes see if I should put on ’em the very strongest spectacles earthly
wisdom could make—how could they behold all the passion and the glory,
the despair and the rapture, the wingéd hopes and faiths, the groveling,
petty fears and cares, the human and the divine, the eternal wonder and
mystery of a soul?
And if I could once ketch a glimpse of this—that I never shall see, nor
nobody else—if I could once get inside the mystery of a mind, how could
I judge it right? How could I go to work at it? How could I tackle it?
Good land, it makes me sweat jest to think on’t. How could I test the
strength of that mighty network of resistless influences that draws that
soul by a million links up toward Goodness and down toward Evil—binds it
to the outside world, and the spiritual and divine? How could I get a
glimpse of that unseen yet terrible chain of circumstances, the
inevitable, that wraps that soul almost completely round? How could I
ever weigh, or get the right heft if I could weigh ’em, of all the
individual tendencies, inherited traits, sins, and goodnesses that press
down upon that soul? How could I tell how the affections, powerful
critters as I ever see, was a drawin’ it one way, and where? and how
fur? And ambitions and worldly desires, how they was a hawlin’ it
another way, and where to? and when? How true, noble aims and holy
desires was pushin’ it one way, and ignoble impulses, petty aims and
littleness, self-seekin’, and vainglory was givin’ it a shove the other
way? Good land! if I could see all these, and see ’em plain—which no one
ever can or will—but if I could, how could I ever sort ’em out, and mark
’em with their right name and heft, and calculate how far they was a
drawin’ and a influencin’ that soul, and how fur it had power to resist?
How could the eyes of my spectacles ever see jest how fur down into the
depths of that soul shone the Divine Ideal, the holy, stainless image of
what we pray to be,—and jest how fur the mists that rise up from our
earthly soil darken and blind that light? Good land! I couldn’t do it,
nor Josiah, nor nobody.
We are blind creeters, the fur-seein’est of us; weak creeters, when we
think we are the strong-mindedest. Now, when we hear of a crime, it is
easy to say that the one who committed that wrong stepped flat off from
goodness into sin, and should be hung. It is so awful easy and sort o’
satisfactory to condemn other folks’es faults that we don’t stop to
think that it may be that evil was fell into through the weakness and
blindness of a mistake. Jest as folks fall down suller lots of times a
gropin’ round in the dark tryin’ to find the outside door, and can’t.
Doin’ their best to get out where it is lighter, out into the free air
of Heaven, and first they know, entirely unbeknown to them, they open
the wrong door, and there they are down suller, dark as pitch, and mebby
with a sore and broken head.
And if a wrong is done wilfully, with a purpose, it is easy to think of
nothin’ but the wrong, and not give a thought to what influences stood
behind that soul, a pushin’ it off into sin. Early influences, sinful
teachin’s drunk down eagerly before the mind could seperate the evil
from the good. Criminal inheritances of depraved tastes, and wayward and
distorted intellect, wretched, depressing surroundings, lack of all
comfort, hope, faith in God or man, ignorance, blind despair, all a
standin’ behind that soul pushin’ it forward into a crime. And then when
we read of some noble, splendid act of generosity, our souls burn within
us, and it is easy to say, the one who did that glorious deed should be
throned and crowned with honor—not thinkin’ how, mebby unbeknown to us,
that act was the costly and glitterin’ varnish coverin’ up a whited
sepulchre. That deed was restin’ on self-seekin’, ambitious littleness.
Yes, we are blind creeters. And there is but One who holds the key to
the terror, the glory, and the mystery of a soul. He, only, can see and
judge. He whose age is ageless, and who can therefore alone judge of the
mighty flood of influences that pour down upon the soul from that
ageless past, swayin’ it with mysterious power. He whose life fills that
boundless future—Eternity—He alone knows the strength of those mighty
forces drawin’ us thither. He who sees the unseen—whose eyes can alone
pierce the clouds that close so dark about us, and behold the host of
shadowy forms that surround us on every side, angels and demons, things
present, things to come, life, and death, and every other creature—He
only knows their power over us. He who alone knows the meaning of life,
the mystery of our creation. And all that keeps me from bein’ ravin’
distracted in even meditatin’ on this is to calm myself down on this
thought, that there is One who knows all. And He alone can judge of what
He alone can see. He, the just and loving One, will do right with the
souls He made.
Why, if I didn’t lean up against that thought, and lean heavy, I should
tottle and wobble round to that extent that I should fall to pieces—be a
perfect wrack and ruin in no time. And another thought that gives me
sights of comfort is, He don’t need none of my help in judgin’ the
world. And if I was ever glad of anything in my life, I am glad of that.
Why, in my opinion, it is irreverent, the very height of audacity, to
dare to affirm what shall be the doom of a single soul.
Then to think of the countless millions on earth, and who sleep in its
bosom—and the countless, countless worlds that fill endless and
boundless space, the unnumbered hosts of the ageless past, and the
endless future—the Eternity—and jest to speak that word almost takes
away my breath—and then to think of us, poor, blind little aunts, on a
aunt-hill, deciding on this mighty mystery, writin’ books, preachin’
sermons, givin’ lectures, one way and another, judgin’ the fate of these
souls, and where they are goin’ to, and quarrelin’ over it. In my
opinion it would be better for us to spend some of the breath we waste
in this way in prayer to Him who is Mighty, for help in right living.
Or, if we can’t do any better with it, let us spend a very little of it,
mebby ½ of it, in coolin’ porridge for the starvin’ ones right round us;
that would be better than to spend it as we do do, in beatin’ the air,
quarrelin’ on who is goin’ to be saved, and how many. Them’s my idees,
but, howsomever, everybody to their own mind. But good land! I am a
eppisodin’, and a eppisodin’, beyond the patience of anybody. And to
resoom and proceed:
As I was a sayin’ of Kellup and his father, I s’pose there’s lots of
things said about ’em that there hain’t no truth in. Now I don’t believe
that they chaw spruce-gum for dinner, and eat snow and icicles in the
time of ’em—not to make a stiddy practice of it. Why, they couldn’t
stand it, not for any length of time. But you know when anybody gets
their name up for any particular thing, it is dretful easy—don’t take
hardly a mite of strength—to histe it up a little higher. But I see this
myself, with my own eye.
Last Thanksgivin’ I was in the meat-shop to Jonesville, a buyin’ a
turkey, and some lamb, and oysters, and things. I was goin’ to have the
childern home to dinner. And Kellup come in, and said his father thought
it was such hard times they wouldn’t try to keep Thanksgivin’ this year.
But he told his father it showed a ungrateful heart for all the mercies
and benefits that had been bestowed on ’em durin’ the year, and it was
settin’ a bad example to sinners round ’em to not celebrate it; so he
had carried the day, and they was goin’ to swing right out, and buy half
a pound of fresh beef, and celebrate.
And he bought it, and beat the butcher half a cent on that. I think
myself that he is as tight as the bark to a tree, but I don’t believe he
is any tighter. But they say he is as tight agin.
[Illustration: SWINGIN’ OUT.]
Like myself and Josiah, Kellup is a member of the Methodist
meetin’-house. And he is a dretful case to exhort other folks. And jest
like them that don’t do nothin’ themselves, that never did a noble,
generous act in their lives, he is a great case to talk about other
folks’es duty. And jest like them that are too stingy to draw a long
breath for fear of wearin’ out their lungs, he is a great case to talk
about other folks’es givin’.
If anybody has decent clothes and vittles, he is always talkin’ about
their extravagance, and how much they could do for the sufferin’ poor
round ’em with the money. And a man could starve to death right on the
road in front of him, and all he would do would be to stop that hearse,
and exhort him from the top of it. Not a cent would he give if the man
died right there in under the hearse. I despise such Christians, and I
always shall; and there are lots of ’em all round us, who are always
talkin’ about workin’ for Christ, and all the work they do is with their
tongues. I say such religion is vain; empty as tinglin’ brass, and
soundin’ thimbles.
[Illustration: A COB(B) WITHOUT CORN.]
From the time he wore roundabouts, Kellup’s father promised him that
jest as quick as he got big enough he should drive that hearse, and it
has lifted him up, that hearse has, and always made him feel above the
other boys. He has always seemed to think that was the highest station
in life he could get up onto. We all think that the reason he comes to
see Kitty on it, is he thinks he looks more stately and imposin’ on it
than he would walkin’ afoot. And when the childern, the little
Jonesvillians, hoot at him, and make all manner of fun of him, he thinks
they envy him, and it makes him act haughtier than ever, and more
proud-spirited, and stiff-necked.
As I say, I feel bad, and I take Kitty to do about it every time I see
her a’most. And she’ll say:
“Oh, Auntie! it is too rich!”
[Illustration: KITTY’S KISS.]
And she’ll laugh, and kiss me, and coax me not to be cross about it,
till she makes most as big a fool of me as she does of Kellup, and I
tell her so.
But I stand firm, and try to make her feel a realizin’ sense how it
looks to have a hearse standin’ round promiscous every few days, hitched
to our front gate. It is a solemn thing to me. And would be to anybody
who looked at things serious and solemn. Most every subject has several
sides to it, and some has more’n 20. And folks ort to tutor themselves
to hold a subject right up in their hands, and look on every side of it.
But Kitty don’t try to. The humorous side of things is the side she
meditates on. And she thinks that Kellup’s travelin’ round after her on
that hearse has a funny side to it. But I can’t see it. It is a solemn
thing to me to see it drive up to our gate any time o’ day, and be
hitched there, while he comes in and tries to court her. Why, it looks
fairly wicked to me, and I tell her so. And then she’ll giggle and
laugh, and make a perfect fool of Kellup. Or, that is, improve on the
job; for truly Nater helped her powerful at his birth. Nater did a good
job in that line—in the fool line. Though you couldn’t make him think he
was most a fool, or leanin’ heavy that way, not if you should drive the
fact into his head with a hammer. It is one of the hardest things in the
world to make folks believe. They’ll own up to bein’ a fool twice as
quick.
But as I say, it worries me most to death. And there is only jest one
thing that keeps me from comin’ right out and puttin’ a stop to it, and
tellin’ Kellup she is a foolin’ of him. I have meditated on it powerful.
And sometimes I have thought that he needs such a affliction. Sometimes
I have thought that, bein’ so overbearin’, and haughty, and big-feelin’,
that such a takin’ down is what he needs to lift him up (morally).
But though that principle holds up my spirit, it is a hard trial to my
spirit, and to the eye of my spectacles. And I’ll say to Josiah, every
time I see him drive up, and groan loud as I say it: “I should think
he’d know better than to go a courtin’ with a hearse.”
But he says: “Keep still; it don’t hurt you any, does it?”
That man enjoys it. He has wicked streaks, and I tell him so. And says
I:
“Josiah Allen, you don’t seem to know what solemnity is, or what
wickedness is.”
And he says: “I know what a dumb fool is.”
And that is all the help I can get. And I s’pose I shall have to let it
go on. But I feel like death about it. When he comes here, and Kitty
don’t happen to be here, he will always begin to exhort me on religion.
He is the disagreeablest, self-righteousest creeter I ever see, and that
I won’t deny.
“Oh,” says he to me yesterday—there had been a funeral up by here, and
when he came back he hitched the hearse, and come in. And he began to
exhort me, and says he: “I have been a thinkin’ of it all day,—how glad
I am that salvation is free.”
I felt wore out with him, and says I: “Well you may be glad. For if it
wasn’t free, you wouldn’t have any—not a mite. You wouldn’t either if
you had to pay a cent for it.”
Before he could say anything, Kitty come in. She had been out to the
barn with Josiah to feed the sheep. She looked like a blush-rose; her
eyes a dancin’ and a sparklin’. And Kellup acted spoonier than any spoon
I have got on my buttery shelves.
[Illustration]