Wall that was the very night, as I said, that Josiah Allen come home so
awful cross. And what under the sun ailed him I could not imagine. He
had been clever when he left home,—very; he had had a extra good
breakfast, and he was the picture of happiness; and his morals seemed
stiddy and firm. And comin’ off so sudden onto such fearful
fractiousness, it worried me.
But little did I think he was plannin’ more head-work. If I had I should
have worried fur more. But he wuz. Old Ben Mandagool, a friend of
Josiah’s, was takin’ in boarders, and makin’ money by ’em. And that very
day (unbeknown to me) he had throwed them boarders, six of ’em, into
Josiah’s face, and the pile of money he had made by ’em, and twitted him
that if it wasn’t for his wife he could make jest as much. Old Mandagool
knew well how I felt about takin’ in boarders; he knew I was principled
against it, and sot. Mandagool misuses his wife shamefully; makes a
perfect underlin’ of her; works her down to skin and bone; they don’t
live happy together at all. And he seems to be envious of anybody that
does live agreeable with their pardner, and loves to break it up. And so
it went on for a number of days; he a twittin’ Josiah how if it wuzn’t
for his wife he could have his way, and make money, (and Josiah loves to
have his own way dearly,) and throwin’ them half a dozen boarders into
his face, and it hain’t no wonder that Josiah felt hurt. And it hain’t
no wonder, constituted as men be, that he was exceedingly cross to me.
But knowin’ how cast-iron my mind was when it was made up, he never let
on what ailed him. And I was skairt most to death to see him look so
mauger, and act so restless and oneasy, and crosser’n any bear out of a
circus.
How strange and mysterious things be in this world. Lots and lots of
things we can see the effects of,—powerful effects,—but can’t ketch a
glimpse of the causes. I could see the crossness, and bear it; but what
the cause of it was, was concealed from me by a impenetrable vail. And
I, jest as poor, blind mortal bein’s will do, when they stand in front
of mysteries, and don’t want to own they are puzzled by ’em, would make
up reasons in my own mind, and call ’em facts. Thinkses I to myself: he
is a enjoyin’ poor health, or else he is a gettin’ back-slid. And one
day I says to him, says I:
“Josiah Allen, what is the matter with you? You don’t act like the same
man you did several days ago. I am goin’ to steep up some catnip and
thoroughwort tea, and see if it won’t make you feel better,—and some
boneset.”
“I don’t want none of your boneset and catnip.”
Says I: “You know, Josiah Allen, that you are enjoyin’ very poor health.
You enjoy as bad agin health as you did along in the winter.”
[Illustration: “WHAT’S THE MATTER, JOSIAH?”]
[Illustration: “WHAT’S THE MATTER, JOSIAH?”]
“My health is well enough,” says he sort o’ surly like.
“Wall then,” says I in still more anxious tones, “if it hain’t your
health that is a sufferin’, is it your morals? Do they feel totterin’,
Josiah? Tell your pardner how they feel.”
“Dummit, my morals feel all right.”
Says I sternly: “Stop that swearin’ instantly and to once.” And I went
on in reasonable tones: “If you hain’t enjoyin’ poor health, Josiah, and
your morals are firm, why is there such a change in your mean?” Says I:
“Your mean don’t look no more like your old one than if it belonged to
another man.”
But instead of answerin’ my affectionate and anxious inquiries, he
jumped up and started for the barn. And so it went on for over 4 days; I
a knowin’ sunthin’ ailed him, and couldn’t get him to tell; he a growin’
crosser and crosser, and lookin’ maugerer and maugerer, and I a growin’
alarmed about him to that extent that I knew not what to do. And finally
one mornin’ to the breakfast table, I says to him in tones that would be
answered:
“Josiah Allen, you are carryin’ sunthin’ on your mind.” And says I
firmly: “Your mind hain’t strong enough to carry it alone; your pardner
_must_ and _will_ help you carry it.” He see determination in my
eyebrow, and he finally up and told me. How he was a hankerin’ to take
in summer boarders; how he wanted to get back the money he had lost in
some way, and he knew there was piles and piles of money to be made by
it; and it was such pretty business, too,—nothin’ but fun to take ’em
in; anybody could take such perfect comfort with ’em, besides bein’ so
awful profitable; and knowin’ my principles rose up like cast-iron
against the idee, it was a wearin’ on him.
I didn’t say nothin’. Some wimmen would have throwed Jonathan Spink and
his wife in her pardner’s face, and some wimmen would have throwed the
twin and the hull of the family. But I didn’t. I knew my pardner was a
sufferin’ fearfully, and my affection for him is like a ox’es, as has
been often remarked. No, I only said in a cold, cautious tone: “Will you
pass me the buckwheat-cakes, Josiah, and the syrup?”
But them words, them buckwheat-cakes, was only a vail (as it were) that
I threw over my feelin’s, tryin’ to hide ’em from my pardner. For oh!
what a wild commotion was goin’ on inside of me between my principles
and my affection. And of all the wars that ever devastated the world,
that is the most fearful; though it may be like many others, a silent
warfare. Yes, when love—such a love as my love for Josiah—and principles
strong and hefty as my principles are, get to fightin’ with each other,
and kickin’ back and forth, and ragin’, and as I may say, in a practical
and figurative way, snortin’ and prancin’,—then ensues and follers on a
time long to be remembered.
I was principled against takin’ in summer boarders. I had seen ’em took
in, time and agin, and seen the effects of it, and I had said, and said
calmly, that for people like us boarders was a moth. I had said, and
felt, that when a woman does her own housework it was all she ort to do
to take care of her own men folks, and her house, and housen stuff, and
common run of visitors,—and hired girls I was immovably sot against from
my birth.
[Illustration: A POETICAL SIMELY.]
Home seemed to me to be a peaceful haven, jest large enough for two
barks,—Josiah’s bark and my bark,—and when foreign schooners (to foller
up my poetical simely), when foreign schooners and periogers sailed in,
they generally proved to be ships of war, pirate fleets stealin’
happiness and ease, and runnin’ up the skeliton of our dead joys at
their mast-heads. But I am a episodin’, and wanderin’ off into fields of
poesy, and to resoom and go on:
It would be in vain and only harrow up the reader’s feelin’s to tell how
the long struggle went on inside of my mind. But when I say that my
pardner daily grew before my eyes crosser and more fearfully cross, and
mauger and more awfully mauger, any female woman who has got a beloved
companion, and a heart inside of her breast bones, knows how the
conflict ended. I yielded and gin in, and the very day I gin my consent
Josiah went and engaged ’em. He’d heard of ’em from old Mandagool. He
had boarded ’em the summer before, and he said they wanted to get board
again in Jonesville, though for some reason Mandagool didn’t seem to
want to board ’em himself. I thought to myself that looked squally. I
never liked old Mandagool,—not for a minute,—but I didn’t say a word.
Neither did I say anything when he told me there was 4 childern in the
family that was a comin’. No; I held firm. The job was undertook by me
for the savin’ of my pardner. I had undertook it in a martyr way, and I
wuzn’t goin’ to spile the job by murmerin’s and complainin’s.
But oh! how animated Josiah Allen was the day he come back from engagin’
of ’em. His appetite come back powerfully; he eat a immense dinner. His
crossness had disappeared, his affectionate demeanor all returned; he
would have acted as spoony as my big iron spoon if he had had so much as
a crumb of encouragement from me. But I didn’t encourage him. There was
a loftiness and majesty in my mean (caused by my principles) that almost
awed him. I looked first-rate, and acted so. But oh, how highlarious
Josiah Allen was! He was goin’ to make so much money by ’em. Says he,
with a happy look:
[Illustration: JOSIAH’S IDEE.]
“If a man loses money by one speck, he must launch out into another
speck and get it back again.” Says he: “I have tried to make money easy,
time and agin, and now I have hit the nail on the head; now I can make
up my loss, and get independently rich. Why, besides the pure happiness
we shall enjoy with ’em, the solid comfort, jest think of four dollars a
week for the man and his wife, and two dollars a piece for the childern.
Less see,” says he dreamily:
“Twice 4 is 8, and no orts to carry; 4 times 2 is 8, and 8 and 8 is 16.
Sixteen dollars a week. Why, Samantha,” says he, “that will support us;
there hain’t no need of our liftin’ our fingers agin, if we could only
keep ’em right here with us always.”
“Who is goin’ to cook and wait on ’em?” says I almost coldly. Not real
cold, but sort o’ coolish like. For I hain’t one when I tackle a cross
to go carryin’ it along groanin’ and cryin’ out loud all the way. No! if
I can’t carry it cheerfully, I’ll drop it. So, as I say, my tone wasn’t
frigid, but sort o’ cool like. “Who’ll wait on ’em?”
“Get a girl! get two girls! Think of sixteen dollars a week. You can
keep a variety of hired girls if you want to. Yes,” says he, with a
blissful expression and joyous axent, “besides the sweet rest and
comfort we are a goin’ to take with ’em, we can have everything else we
want. Thank Heaven we have now got a compeatency.”
“Wall,” says I in the same tones, or about the same,—coolish, but not
frigid,—“time will tell.”
[Illustration: EARLY BIRDS.]
Wall, they come on a Monday mornin’, on the six o’clock train. Josiah
had to meet ’em to the depot, and he was so afraid he should miss ’em,
and somebody else would undermine him, and get ’em as boarders, that he
was up about three o’clock, and went out and milked by candle-light,
so’s to be sure and be there in season. And I had to get up and get his
breakfast before daylight, feelin’ like a fool, too, for he kep’ me
awake all night a’most, walkin’ round the house, and fallin’ over chairs
and things,—sort o’ gropin’ round,—lightin’ matches to look at the clock
to see what time it was. And if he said to me once, he said 30 times
durin’ that night: “It would be jest my luck to have somebody get in
ahead of me to the cars, and undermind me at the last minute, and get
’em away from me.”
Says I, in dry tones (not so dry as I had used, but dryish): “I guess
there won’t be no danger, Josiah.”
But the very last thing I heard him say, in fearful and fractious tones,
as he got into that democrat, was: “It would be jest like old Mandagool
to undermind me.”
Wall, about a quarter to 7 he driv up with ’em. A tall, spindlin’,
waspish-lookin’ woman, and 4 childern. The man, they said, wasn’t comin’
till Saturday night. I thought the woman had a singular look to her when
I first see her, and so did the oldest boy, who was about 13 years old.
I thought he looked dretful white in the face, and sort o’ strange like.
He looked like his ma, only he was fleshy,—dretful sort o’
fleshy,—flabby like. And as they walked up from the gate, side by side,
I thought I never in my hull life see a waspisher and spindlener woman,
or a curiouser lookin’ couple. The other 3 childern that come behind
seemed to be pretty much of a age, and looked healthy, and full of the
old Harry, as we found out afterwards they indeed was.
Wall, I had a hard tussle of it through the day to cook and do for ’em.
Their appetites was tremenjous, specially the woman and the oldest boy.
They wasn’t healthy appetites. I could see that in a minute. Their eyes
would look holler and hungry, and they would look voraciously at the
empty deep dishes and tureens, after they had eat ’em all empty,—eat
enough for 4 men. Why, it did beat all. Josiah looked at me in silent
wonder and dismay, as he see the vittles disappeer before that woman and
boy. The other three childern eat about as common healthy childern
do,—each of ’em about twice what Josiah and me did. But there wasn’t
nothin’ mysterious about them. But the woman and boy made me feel
curious, curiouser than I had ever felt, for truly I thought to myself
if their legs and arms hain’t holler, how do they hold it. It was to me
a new and interesting spectacle, to be studied over and filosofied upon.
But to Josiah it was a canker, as I see the very first meal. I could see
by the looks of his mean that them two appetites was sunthin’ he hadn’t
reckoned and calculated upon. And I could see plain, havin’ watched the
changes of my pardner’s mean as close as astronomers watch the moon, I
could see that them two appetites was a wearin’ on him.
Wall, I thought mebby they was kinder starved out, comin’ right from a
city boardin’-house, and a few of my good meals would quell ’em down.
[Illustration: OUR BOARDERS.]
But no, instead of growin’ lighter them two appetites of their’n seemed,
if possible, to grow consuminer and consuminer, though I cooked lavish
and profuse, as I always did. They devoured everything before ’em, and
looked hungry and wistful at the plates and table-cloth. Josiah looked
on in perfect agony I knew, though he didn’t say nothin’ (he is very
close). And it seemed so awfully mysterious to me. I would get so lost
reasonin’ and felosifyin’ on it; whether their legs was holler or not
holler; and if they was holler, how they could walk round on ’em; and if
they wasn’t holler, where the vittles went to. Why, studyin’ so deep
into it, bringin’ all the deep scientific facts I could think on to bear
onto it, I don’t know but I should have gone ravin’ distracted if she
hadn’t herself up and told me what the matter was.
They had got tape-worms—she and the oldest boy; immense ones, so the
doctor said, and they had to eat to satisfy ’em. That explained it, and
I felt relieved. And I told Josiah, for I love that man, and love to
happify him when I possibly can. But if you’ll believe it, that man was
mad; and he vowed he would charge extra for ’em. It was after we went to
bed I told him, and I had to talk low, for their room was right over
our’n. Says I, in a low but firm whisper:
“Don’t you do no such thing, Josiah Allen. Do you realize how it would
look; what a sound it would have to community?”
“Wall,” he hollered out, “do you s’pose I am goin’ to board all the
tape-worms in the world free of expense? Do you s’pose I am goin’ to
have ’em all congregate here, and be boarded on me for nothin’? I took
men and wimmen and childern to board. I didn’t agree to board anything
else, and I won’t, nuther. It wuzn’t in the bill.”
“Do you keep still, Josiah Allen. She’ll hear you,” I whispered.
“I say it wuzn’t in the bill,” he hollered out agin. I s’pose he meant
it wasn’t in the bargain, but he was nearly delirious (he is very
close—nearly tight). But jest that minute,—before I could say a word,—we
heard a awful noise right over our heads; it sounded as if the hull top
of the house had fell in.
Says Josiah: “The old chimbly has fell in.”
Says I: “I think it is the ruff.”
And we both started for up-stairs on the run. I sent him back from the
head of the stairs, for in the awful fright he hadn’t realized his
condition, and wasn’t dressed. I waited for him at the top of the
stairs, for to tell the truth, I dassent go on. He hurried on his
clothes, and went in ahead,—and there she lay; there Miss Danks was on
the floor in a historical fit. Josiah, thinkin’ she was dead, run in and
ketched her up, and went to puttin’ her on the bed; and she, jest as
they will in historicks, clawed right into his hair, and tore out above
half he had on that side. She then struck him a fearful blow in the
eye—made it black and blue for over two weeks. She didn’t know what she
was about; she wuzn’t to blame—though the hair was a great loss to him,
and I won’t deny it.
Wall, we stood over her most all night to keep the breath of life in
her; and the oldest boy, bein’ skairt, it brought on some fits that he
was in the habit of havin’,—a sort of fallin’ fits; he would fall
anywheres; he fell onto Josiah twice that night, and almost knocked him
down. He was awful large for his age; dretful big and fat. It seemed as
if there was sunthin’ wrong about his heft, it was so oncommon hefty for
a boy of his age. He looked bloated. His eyes, which was a pale blue,
seemed to be kinder sot back in his head, and his cheeks stood out
below, some like baloons; and his mouth was kinder open a good deal of
the time, as if it was hard work for him to breathe; he breathed thick
and wheezy,—dretful oncomfortable. His complexion was bad, too; sallow
and sort o’ tallery lookin’. He acted dretful logy and heavy at the best
of times, and in them fits he was as heavy and helpless as lead.
Wall, that was the third night after they got there, and from that
night, as long as they stayed there, she had the historicks frequent and
violent, and Bill had his fallin’ fits. And you wouldn’t believe if you
hadn’t seen ’em, how many things he broke a fallin’ on ’em in them fits.
It beat all how unfortunate he was. They always come onto him
unexpected, and it seemed as if they would always come onto him while he
was in front of sunthin’ to smash all to bits. And I says to Josiah,
says I: “Did you ever see, Josiah Allen, anybody so unfortunate as that
boy in his fits? It seems as if he’ll break everything in the house if
it goes on.”
Says he, “’Tis a pity his cussed neck don’t break!”
[Illustration: A SURPRISED COLT.]
I don’t know as I ever gin Josiah Allen a firmer, eloquenter lecture
against swearin’ than I did then. But in my heart I pitied him, for it
was only the day before that he fell as he was a lookin’ at the colt. It
was only a week old, but Josiah sot his eyes by it, and the boy was
admirin’ of it—there wasn’t nothin’ ugly about him—but a fit come on,
and he fell onto the colt, and the colt not expectin’ of it, and bein’
unprepared, fell flat down, and the boy on it; and the colt jest lived,
that is all. Josiah says it never will be worth any thing; he thinks it
broke sunthin’ inside. As I said, there wasn’t a ugly thing about Bill.
He’d be awful sorry when he broke things, and squshed ’em, and flatted
’em all out a fallin’ on ’em.
All I blamed him for was his prowlin’ round so much. I thought then, and
I think still, seein’ he knew his own heft, and knew he had ’em, and was
liable to have ’em, he’d done better to have kep’ still, and not tried
to got round so much. But his mother said he felt restless and oneasy. I
couldn’t help likin’ the boy; and when he fell right into my bread that
I had a risin’ and spilte the hull batch, and when he fell acrost the
table in the parlor and broke everything that was on it, and when he
fell onto a chicken-coop and broke it down and killed a hull brood of
chickens, and when he fell onto some tomato plants of a extra kind which
Josiah had bought at a great expense and sot out, and broke ’em off
short, I didn’t feel like scoldin’ him. I s’pose it was my hefty
principles that boyed me up; them and the sweet thought that would come
to me—mebby Josiah Allen will hear to me another time, mebby he’ll get
sick of summer boarders and to takin’ of ’em in.
I s’pose it was these lofty feelin’s that kep’ me up; truly if it hadn’t
been I don’t know how I could have lived, cookin’ as much as I had to,
and goin’ through with what I did, historics, and fallin’ fits, and
etcetery, etcetery.
And the 3 smaller children was ugly; there haint no other name made that
will describe their demenors and acts, only jest that word, ugly.
They made me more work than all my housework put together. A handlin’
everything, and a breakin’ everything, and a ridin’ the turkeys, and
actin’, and performin’.
[Illustration: EXERCISING THE GOBBLER.]
I spose they was told more’n a hundred times by me and Josiah to _not_
ride that turkey gobbler. And I don’t spose there was ever any other
children on earth, only jest them 3, that would have dast to gone near
it. Why, I have seen right-minded and moral children time and agin weep
and cry when they seen it comin’ nigh ’em, it was so powerful lookin’,
and high-headed. But good land! first thing I’d know I’d see one on ’em
right on that gobbler, pretendin’ to ride it; they almost killed that
Tom Turkey.
And then all of a sudden we’d hear the fannin’ mill a goin’ full blast,
and Josiah would run to the barn, and there they would be a runnin’ dirt
through it, slates, stuns, or anything. And then I’d hear the wheel a
goin’ up stairs, buzzin’ as if it would break its old band, and up I’d
go, and there they’d be a spinnin’ of my best rolls. And five different
times I took the youngest one out of the flour barrel, where they was a
makin’ a ghost out of him, to appear to the oldest one—they loved to
scare that boy into fits, they loved it dearly.
And they’d lay to and eat between meals all the preserves and jell and
honey they could get holt of, unbeknown to me; they wasted twice over
every day what their board come to. But I kep’ still, and held firm.
Thinkses I the medicine is bitter, but it is goin’ to do good; the
patient is feelin’ the effects of it. For Josiah looked awful as the
days went by. He see he had made a terrible mistake; he see that he’d
done better to have listened to his faithful pardner. He see where he
had missed it. But pride kep’ him silent, only in the little unguarded
speeches that he would make in sudden moments of anger and agony,
unbeknown to him. Such as sayin’ in loud, quick axents:
“Dummit, I can’t stand it so much longer.” Or in low, plaintive tones,
“Did Heaven ever witness such tribulation?”
I’d ketch him a sayin’ that as he would be a bringin’ Bill in, for
Josiah would have to lift him and lug him in when he would fall out
doors. That in itself I could see was a underminin’ my pardner’s
strength and his back bones. And I shall always believe that was the
reason why Danks stayed out of the way. It was underhanded in him; he
knew that boy was heavy as lead, and he knew he would fall when he had
’em, and would have to be fetched in, and so he jest stayed away and let
Josiah do all the luggin’ and lifting’.
It was three weeks before that man come, and Josiah didn’t look like the
same man. What with chasin’ after them three littlest boys, and carryin’
round Bill in his fallin’ fits, and havin’ the care of providin’ more
provisions than was ever devoured on earth before by the same number of
people, and bein’ kep’ awake night after night by Miss Danks’es
historicks, and the oldest boy’s walkin’ in his sleep (I don’t know as I
have mentioned it, but Bill was liable to appear to us any time, and
have to be headed up stairs agin)—take it all together, Josiah looked
like a shadder. And thinkses I to myself, almost wildly, my principles
was hefty, and they are hefty; I have said I would stand firm, and I
have stood firm. But oh, must I, must I see my pardner crumple down and
die before my face and eyes?
[Illustration: A HEAVY BILL.]
It was Josiah’s pride that stood in the way of his startin’ of ’em off.
He couldn’t bear to give in to me that he was in the wrong on it, and I
was in the right on it. He couldn’t bear to come right out openly and
own up to his pardner how deceived, and fooled, and took in he had been.
Men’s pride is high, it towers up like a meetin’-house steeple, and when
it tottles and falls down, great is the fall thereof. I knew this,
divin’ into the mysterious ingregiencies of men’s naters so deep as I
had doven, I knew this great filisofical fact as well as I knew the
dimensions of the nose on my pardner’s face. And so I shuddered to
myself as I thought it over, and pondered on what the end would be. But
I held firm on the outside, and never let on how agonized and burdened
in soul I was. My mind is like a ox’es for strength, and very deep.
This was on a Friday mornin’ that I had this melancholy revery, as I
looked out of the buttery window, as I stood there a washin’ dishes to
the sink, and see Josiah come from the barn a luggin’ Bill in. He had
had a fit, and fell acrost the grin’-stun where Josiah was a grindin’,
and Josiah had to drop everything and come a luggin’ of him in. He broke
some of the runnin’-gear of the grin’-stun that time. Josiah had it
fixed so he could put a pail of water on top of it, and it would water
itself while he was a grindin’, but Bill had fell right acrost it and
flatted it all down. It cost Josiah upwards of seven shillin’s to make
that loss good.
Wall, that night old Danks come. It was most bed-time when he come, and
I didn’t see him much that night. She had the historicks the first part
of the night, Miss Danks did, but we knew he was with her, so we sort o’
gin up the care to him. Bill got up in his sleep, and went to prowlin’
round as usual in the kitchen. But Josiah headed him off up-stairs, and
locked the chamber door onto him, and let his father tussle with him. He
had a fallin’ fit, we both think,—Josiah and me do, that he had,—and
fell onto his father, and knocked him down. We don’t know it for
certain, but we think so. For we heard the awfulest katouse you ever did
hear. It sounded as if the house was a comin’ down, and then we heard
groanin’ and sithin’ and low, very low swearin’.
Of course we couldn’t sleep none while such a rumpus was a goin’ on, and
historicks and everything, and he a tryin’ to quell ’em down, but we lay
and rested, which was a good deal for us. Wall, in the mornin’, if
you’ll believe it, Danks told us (Miss Danks and the childern had gone
down into the orchard to eat some strawberries), and Danks up and told
Josiah and me that he was goin’ off agin that day, on the afternoon
train. He did look bad, I’ll say that for him; his sufferin’s was great.
But he hadn’t ort to shirk ’em off onto somebody else; he hadn’t ort to
throw a historicky wife onto perfect strangers, and bring a lot of
childern, perfect young hyenas, into the world, and then caper off, and
let other folks tussle with ’em.
But I held firm. I knew a crysis was approachin’ and drawin’ nigh, but I
wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’; I held firm; only I says in a mecanical and
sort of wonderin’ way:
“Goin’ away to-day?”
“Yes,” said Danks, “it is a case of life and death; I must go.”
And then all of a sudden Josiah Allen bust right out, and oh! what a
scene of wild excitement rained down for the next several moments.
Josiah riz right up, and hollered out to Danks louder than I most ever
hearn him holler,—loud enough to be hearn for half a mile, though Danks
was within half a foot of him. Says he, in that loud, scareful, wild
tone:
“If you leave this house for half a minute, without takin’ your family
with you, I’ll prosecute you, and throw you into jail, and take the law
to you.”
It skairt Danks dretfully; it come so unexpected onto him, he fairly
jumped. And it started me for a minute, though my principles are so
solid and hefty that they hold down my composure and keep it stiddy
better’n a iron wedge, makin’ my presence of mind like a ox’es for
strength.
Says Josiah, in that awful and almost deafenin’ tone of hisen, and with
a mean as wild and delerious as a mean ever looked on earth:
“I hain’t a wet-nurse, and I’ll let you know I hain’t, and Samantha
hain’t a horsepittle. Here I have,” says he, in a still more agonizin’
tone, “here I have for week after week kep’ stiddy company with fallin’
fits and historicks. I have been broke to pieces a luggin’ boys! and
rode to death by childern! and eat up by tape-worms! And there has got
to be a stop put to it, or somebody is goin’ to get hurt.”
He was perfectly delerious, and I says to him soothin’ly:
“Be calm, Josiah!”
“I won’t be calm, Samantha!”
But Danks had got over bein’ skairt, and begun to look cross,—crosser’n
a bear. And he spoke out, in a pert, hateful tone, old Danks did, and
says he:
“’Tain’t nothin’ to me; I don’t have the fallin’ fits nor the
historicks.” He looked dretful mad, and spoke up as pert and impudent to
my pardner as if it was Josiah’s business to tussle with them fits and
things, instead of hisen.
I had thought I wouldn’t put in my note at all, but I hain’t one to
stand by and see my pardner imposed upon. And then, too, I felt in the
name of principle I ort to speak. I felt a feelin’ that mebby here was a
chance for me to do good. And when he spoke out agin, more impudenter
and hatefuler than before, “that it wasn’t nothin’ to him,” says I:
“It is sunthin’ to you.” And then I went on powerful and eloquent. I can
tell you I talked deep and solemn to that man about what he took onto
himself when he sot out in matrimony; about the responsibility of
marriage, and bringin’ childern into the world; the responsibility to
God and man of usherin’ eternal souls into this world for everlasting
joy or misery; the terrible responsibility to these souls and to God,
the righteous Judge; and the terrible responsibility to the world of
lettin’ loose in it such mighty powers for good or evil,—a set of likely
creeters, blessings and benefactors forever, or shacks and sources of
uncounted misery, made so greatly by early care and culture; influences
that will go on and on for all time, growing and widening out all the
time, till no mind but the Eternal can reckon up or even imagine the
awful consequences for good or evil of one human soul. “How dare
anyone,” says I, “lightly and irreverantly even think on the
subject,—much less tackle it.”
I talked beautiful on the subject, and deep, deeper than I had for some
time. I felt fearfully eloquent, and acted so, and very noble. But Danks
acted mad, mad as a hen. And he snapped out agin:
“Who made any calculations on fallin’ fits and such things? I didn’t.”
Why, that man almost took my head off, he snapped me up so. But I didn’t
care; I knew I was a talkin’ on principle, and that reflection is a high
rock to lean and rest the moral back against. That thought is a thick
umberell to keep off the little hailstuns of impertinence and impudence
that might otherwise hurt one’s self-respect and mortify it. I felt well
and noble in my mind, and acted well, very. I kep’ right on cool and
collected together.
And says I, “That is one great reason why any one ort to consider well
on’t. They ort to know that this is one of them jobs that you can’t
calculate on exactly how it is a comin’ out. You must take the chances.
There is lots of undertakin’s jest so—jest as hard to tell how it is a
comin’ out as some things in Nater. Now the greatest of minds can’t
figger out exactly to a minute what time the butter will come—or how a
marriage is a goin’ to turn out—or jest when it will stop rainin’, or
begin—or when the old hen will lay.
“The world is a curious place, and in lots of undertakin’s you have to
step out blindfold and ketch holt of the consequences, good or bad. The
blinders will be took offen our eyes sometime, probable, but the time is
not yet. And marriage, I take it, is one of the very reskiest
undertakin’s you can undertake. It may lead you into a happiness as pure
and lofty as a certain couple I could mention have enjoyed for the
neighberhood of 20 years. It may, and then again it mayn’t. But there is
one great comfort in this that there hain’t in some things, such as
rain, and thunder storms, and etcetery. You needn’t enlist in this
warfare if you hain’t a mind to—that is a sweet and consolin’ thought—if
you feel scareful over it. But if you do enlist you must take the
chances of war, you must take the resks. And if it wasn’t a resky piece
of business to embark in, why did them old fathers put these words in
the marriage service, ‘for richer, or for poorer.’ They knew what they
was about, them old fathers did. They knew they couldn’t tell whether it
would turn out rich as rich could be with blessings and bliss, or poor
as poverty. Them old fathers knew that, and bein’ likely men and
sound-moraled, they fixed that halter so that folks couldn’t squirm
their necks out of it every time they got oneasy and worrysome.
“Historical fits, and etcetery,” says I, in reasonable tones, “might
come under the head of ‘worse.’ But you can’t slip your head out; that
vow holds you, for better or worse. You no need to have tackled that
vow, but you did, and now you ort to stand up under it; that is law, and
that is gospel too, which don’t always go together.”
“Well, what of it,” says Danks; “what if it duz? What are you goin’ to
do about it?”
Oh, how surly and mad that man did look. His mean would have skairt some
wimmen, but it didn’t me; mebby it would if I hadn’t been talkin’ on
such high principle, but that boyed me up.
“Why,” says I, “as I have said more’n 40 times, folks ort to get it into
their heads that it is a great and serious subject that ort to be
considered and prayed over and meditated upon. They ort to realize that
gettin’ married is a solemn thing; solemner, if anything, than it is not
to, and that has always been considered a very solemn thing, very. But
instead of lookin’ on it in this serious and becomin’ way, folks will
caper and prance off into matrimony in jest as light and highlarious and
triflin’ a way as if they was headin’ a row of fantasticks on the 4th of
July. They don’t consider and filosifize on it that the fantasticks can
take off their uniforms at night, and be themselves agin, but the
matrimourners can’t. They can’t do it nohow; there they be,
matrimourners. No matter how bad they feel, and how disappointed they be
by the looks of the state they have got into, they can’t get out of it.
They are matrimourners, and can’t help themselves.
“The state of wedlock has got a high, slippery wall round it, as high up
as eternity, and as low down as the same. It is a wall that can’t be
stepped acrost and climbed over. It is a wall that a man or a woman
can’t sneak out and creep up on without fallin’ back—it is too slippery.
It is a wall that can’t be broke down, and jumped over only on Bible
grounds. And then when you do take that jump on Bible grounds, oh how
fatiguein’ that leap is. How much happiness and ease of mind the
matrimourner has to drop in the jump, drop forever. And how much trouble
he has to carry with him, and disquietude of mind, and condemnation, and
upbraidin’s, and gossip, and evil speaking, and hateful memories, and
hauntin’ ones, and travel of soul and body. Oh, what a time that
matrimourner duz have.”
“I thought,” says he, with that surly, mad look of hisen, “I thought you
was one that preached up liberty, freedom, and etcetery.”
“So I be,” says I. “Hain’t I jest been a doin’ of it? Hain’t I jest said
that no man or woman ort to be drove into the state of matrimony by
anybody only jest their own selves? But after they lay holt, and drive
themselves in, they ortn’t to complain. But, as I have said frequent,
they’ll find after they have drove themselves in that it is the
curiousest state that ever was made. None of our States of America will
compare with it for curiosity,—and some of our’n are exceedingly
curious, take ’em laws and all, to wit: Havin’ a man in congress to make
laws that imprison a man for havin’ two wives, while he himself, proud
and hauty, a settin’ up a makin’ that law, has four on ’em. Exceedingly
curious that is, and to wit: Fixin’ penalties against crime and vice,
and then sellin’ licenses to encourage and make it respectable. Oh! how
curious, how curious some of our states be! But the state of matrimony
is far curiouser. It is curiouser in the beginning—some like a
conundrum. States have to be admitted into the Union; a union admits you
into that state. And then, it is bounded on every side by divinest
possibilities of happiness, or the most despairin’ ones, and no knowin’
which will break over the frontier, and capture you. Sweetest and most
rapturous joys may cover its soil as thick as blossoms on a summer
prairie, or angry passions and disappointments and cares may crunch ’em
down under foot, and set fire to ’em. Peace and trust and tenderness may
rain over that state, or anarky and sizm.”
“Yes, and fallin’ fits,” says Danks, with a bitter tone, “and
historicks.”
“Yes,” says I calmly, “matrimourners ort to take all the blessings and
enjoyments and comforts with a thankful heart, and they ort to have the
courage and the nobility and the common sense to take all the evils,
fallin’ fits, historicks, and etcetery, and etcetery, with a willin’
mind. You ort,” says I firmly, “you ort to have figured it all out. You
ort to have figured out the hull sum, orts and all, and seen what was to
carry, and got the right answer to it, before you drove yourself into
that state.”
“How could I see to carry historicks? how could I figured ’em out?” says
he bitterly.
But I kep’ right on: “You ort to have studied it out, whether you was
strong enough to stand the climate, with its torrid weather and its
frigid zones, its sweet summery winds and its blasts, its squalls and
hurrycains. But as I have said 40 times, if I have once, after you have
drove yourself into that state, you ort to hist up your moral umberell,
and make the best on’t.”
Danks didn’t look convinced at all. He muttered sunthin’ agin about fits
and other things, and how he hadn’t made no calculations on ’em; and I
felt fairly out of patience, and went to allegorin’, as I might have
known I should before I got through. (It is next to impossible for me to
be so eloquent as I was then without allegorin’ some).
“Why,” says I, “when a man buys a farm, he must be a natural fool, or
else a luny, if he expects and calculates the sun to shine on it every
day the year round. He must make calculations for rain and snow,
sunshine and thunder. He can’t expect it all to be ripe wheat and
apple-sass. He buys it with his eyes open; buys it with all its
possibilities of good or evil; and don’t expect, if he hain’t a fool, to
shirk out of carryin’ of ’em.”
“Who has shirked out of carryin’ of ’em?” says Danks. “I hain’t.”
“You have!” says Josiah, a jumpin’ up and hollerin’ at him agin; and his
face was red as a fire-bran’.
“I hain’t!” says Danks.
“You have!” says Josiah. “And don’t you dispute me agin if you know what
is good for yourself. You have shirked out of carryin’ that dumb boy of
your’n, in his dumb fits. And I let you know that I have broke my back
for the last time a luggin’ him round, or somebody or sunthin’ is goin’
to get hurt, and I can tell you so—dummit!”
I felt as if I should sink. My Josiah was almost doin’ what Miss Job
advised Mr. Job to do when he was smote with agony and biles. He was
almost a swearin’. But here was where I and the late Miss Job differ. I
knew my pardner’s sufferin’s was intense, and them sufferin’s was
terrible to me. But still I says in a reprovin’, but tender and pityin’
tone:
“Be calm, Josiah!”
“I won’t be calm!” says he.
Says I: “Josiah, you must; you are almost delerious.” Says I: “You are a
swearin’, Josiah! be calm!”
“Wall, I tell you agin that I won’t be calm; and I tell you agin,
_dummit_! there now! _dummit_!”
Oh! how my pardner did look, how his axent did sound, as he uttered them
fearful and profane words. And then before I could put in a soothin’
word to soothe him, Danks spoke right out, and says he:
“You promised to take ’em for all summer, and if you don’t I won’t pay
you a cent for their board, and you can’t make me.”
Here Josiah turned as white as a white milk-pail, and groaned to that
extent that I thought he was a goin’ to faint away.
And as it turned out, the law was on Danks’es side. Josiah made ’em all
go that very day, but he couldn’t get a cent from ’em. He hired a lawyer
to prosicute Danks, but Danks, bein’ sharp-witted and ugly (and
sometimes I think that such trials as he underwent, if anybody don’t
take ’em as a means of grace, makes anybody ugly. I can’t help feelin’
sorry for Danks, after all). But as I was a sayin’, Danks worked it in
such a way that Josiah lost the case, and had to pay the costs on both
sides. They was heavy bills,—most as heavy as Bill Danks,—and take it
with what we lost boardin’ of ’em, and what the childern tore to pieces,
and Bill smashed and squshed down, a fallin’ on ’em,—take it all
together, it is a loss that makes Josiah Allen groan now every time he
thinks on it. We don’t either of us think his back will ever feel as it
did before. He strained it beyond its strength.
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