Oh Gimlet! back again I float,
With broken wings, a weary bard;
I cannot write as once I wrote,
I have to work so very hard;
So hard my lot, so tossed about,
My muse is fairly tuckered out.
My muse aforesaid once hath flown,
But now her back is broke, and breast;
And yet she fain would crumple down;
On Gimlet pages she would rest,
And sing plain words as there she’s sot—
Haply they’ll rhyme, and haply not.
I spake plain words in former days,
No guile I showed, clear was my plan;
My gole it matrimony was;
My earthly aim it was a man.
I gained my man, I won my gole;
Alas! I feel not as I fole.
Yes, ringing through my maiden thought
This clear voice rose: “Oh come up higher.”
To speak plain truth, with candor fraught,
To married be was my desire.
Now, sweeter still this lot shall seem,
To be a widder is my theme.
For toil hath claimed me for her own,
In wedlock I have found no ease;
I’ve cleaned and washed for neighbors round,
And took my pay in beans and pease;
In boiling sap no rest I took,
Or husking corn, in barn, and shock.
Or picking wool from house to house,
White washing, painting, papering;
In stretching carpets, boiling souse;
E’en picking hops, it hath a sting,
For spiders there assembled be,
Mosquitoes, bugs, and e t c.
I have to work, oh! very hard;
Old Toil, I know your breadth and length;
I’m tired to death, and, in one word,
I have to work beyond my strength.
And mortal men are very tough
To get along with,—hasty, rough.
Yes, tribulation’s doomed to her
Who weds a man, without no doubt.
In peace a man is singuler;
His ways they are past findin’ out.
And oh! the wrath of mortal males—
To point their ire, earth’s language fails.
And thirteen children in our home
Their buttons rend, their clothes they burst,
Much bread and such do they consume;
Of children they do seem the worst.
And Simon and I do disagree;
He’s prone to sin continuallee.
He horrors has, he oft doth kick,
He prances, yells,—he will not work.
Sometimes I think he is too sick;
Sometimes I think he tries to shirk.
But ’tis hard for her, in either case,
Who B. Bobbet was in happier days.
Happier? Away! such thoughts I spurn.
I count it true, from spring to fall,
’Tis better to be wed, and groan,
Than never to be wed at all.
I’d work my hands down to the bone
Rather than rest a maiden lone.
This truth I will not, cannot shirk,
I feel it when I sorrow most:
I’d rather break my back with work,
And haggard look as any ghost,—
Rather than lonely vigils keep,
I’d wed and sigh, and groan and weep.
Yes, I can say, though tears fall quick,
Can say, while briny tear-drops start,
I’d rather wed a crooked stick
Than never wed no stick at all.
Sooner than laughed at be, as of yore,
I’d rather laugh myself no more.
I’d rather go half-clad and starved,
And mops and dish-cloths madly wave,
Than have the words “B. Bobbet” carved
On headstun rising o’er my grave.
Proud thought! now, when that stun is risen,
’Twill bear two names—my name and hisen.
Methinks ’twould colder make the stun
If but one name, the name of she,
Should linger there alone—alone.
How different when the name of he
Does also deck the funeral urn;
Two wedded names,—his name and hurn.
And sweeter yet, oh blessed lot!
Oh state most dignified and blest!
To be a widder, calmly sot,
And have both dignity and rest.
Oh, Simon! strangely sweet ’twould be
To be a widder unto thee.
The warfare past, the horrors done,
With maiden’s ease and pride of wife,
The dignity of wedded one,
The calm and peace of single life,—
Oh, strangely sweet this lot doth seem;
A female widder is my theme.
I would not hurt a hair of he,
Yet, did he from earth’s toils escape,
I could most reconciléd be,
Could sweetly mourn, e’en without crape,
Could say, without a pang of pain,
That Simon’s loss was Betsey’s gain.
I’ve told the plain tale of my woes,
With no deceit, or language vain,
Have told whereon my hopes are rose,
Have sung my mournful song of pain.
And now I e’en will end my tale,
I’ve sung my song, and wailed my wail.
_I_ have made a practice of callin’ that Poetry, bein’ one that despises
envy and jealousy amongst female authoresses. No, you never ketch me at
it, bein’ one that would sooner help ’em up the ladder than upset ’em,
and it is ever my practice so to do. But truth must be spoke if subjects
are brung up. Uronious views must be condemned by Warriors of the Right,
whether ladders be upset or stand firm on their legs—poetesses also.
I felt that this poetry attacted a tender subject, a subject dearer to
me than all the world besides—the subject of Josiah. Josiah is a man.
And I say it, and I say it plain, that men hain’t no such creeters as
she tries to make out they be. Men are first-rate creeters in lots of
things, and are as good as wimmen be any day of the week.
Of course I agree with Betsey, that husbands are tryin’ in lots of
things; they need a firm hand to the hellum to guide ’em along through
the tempestuous waves of married life, and get along with ’em. They are
lots of trouble, but then I think they pay after all. Why, I wouldn’t
swap my Josiah for the best house and lot in Jonesville, or the crown of
the Widder Albert. I love Josiah Allen. And I don’t know but the very
trouble he has caused me makes me cling closer to him. You know the
harder a horse’s head beats aginst burdock burs the tighter the burdocks
will cling to its mane. Josiah makes me sights of trouble, but I cling
to him closely.
I admit that men are curious creeters, and very vain, and they hain’t
willin’ to let well enough alone. They over-do, and go beyond all sense
and reason. A instance of these two strong traits of their’s has jest
occurred and took place, which, as a true historian relatin’ solemn
facts, I will relate in this epistol.
Yes, men are tejus creeters a good deal of the time. But then agin, so
be wimmen, jest as tejus, and I don’t know but tejuser. I believe my
soul, if I had got to be born agin, I had jest as lieves be born a man
as a woman, and I don’t know but I drather.
No, I don’t think one sect ort to boast over the other one. They are
both about equally foolish and disagreeable, and both have their
goodnesses and nobilities, and both ort to have their rights.
Now I hain’t one to set up and say men hadn’t ort to vote, that they
don’t know enough, and hain’t good enough, and so forth and so on. No,
you don’t ketch me at it. I am one that stands up for justice and
reason.
[Illustration: THE WILD-EYED WOMAN.]
Now, the other day a wild-eyed woman, with short hair, who goes round a
lecturin’ on wimmen’s rights, come to see me, a tryin’ to inviggle me
into a plot to keep men from votin’. Says she, “The time is a drawin’
near when wimmen are a goin’ to vote, without no doubt.”
“Amen!” says I. “I can say amen to that with my hull heart and soul.”
“And then,” says she, “when the staff is in our own hands, less we
wimmen all put in together and try to keep men from votin’.”
“Never!” says I, “never will you get me into such a scrape as that,”
says I. “Men have jest exactly as good a right to vote as wimmen have.
They are condemned, and protected, and controlled by the same laws that
wimmen are, and so of course are equally interested in makin’ ’em. And I
won’t hear another word of such talk. You needn’t try to inviggle me
into no plot to keep men from votin’, for justice is ever my theme, and
also Josiah.”
Says she, bitterly, “I’d love to make these miserable sneaks try it
once, and see how they would like it, to have to spend their property,
and be hauled around, and hung by laws they hadn’t no hand in makin’.”
But I still says, with marble firmness, “Men have jest as good a right
to vote as wimmen have. And you needn’t try to inviggle me into no such
plans, for I won’t be inviggled.”
And so she stopped invigglin’, and went off.
And then again in Betsey’s poetry (though as a neighbor and a female
author I never would speak a word aginst it, and what I say I say as a
warrior, and would wish to be so took) I would say in kindness, and
strictly as a warrior, that besides the deep under-current of
foolishness that is runnin’ through it, there is another thought that I
deeply condemn. Betsey sot out in married life expectin’ too much. Now,
she didn’t marry in the right way, and so she ort to have expected
tougher times than the usual run of married females ort to expect; more
than the ordinary tribulations of matrimony. But she didn’t; she
expected too much.
And it won’t do to expect too much in this world, anyway. If you can
only bring your mind down to it, it is a sight better to expect nothing,
and then you won’t be disappointed if you get it, as you most probable
will. And if you get something it will be a joyful surprise to you. But
there are few indeed who has ever sot down on this calm hite of
filosify.
Folks expect too much. As many and many times as their hopes have proved
to be uronious, they think, well now, if I only had that certain thing,
or was in that certain place, I should be happy. But they hain’t. They
find when they reach that certain gole, and have clim up and sot down on
it, they’ll find that somebody has got onto the gole before ’em, and is
there a settin’ on it. No matter how spry anybody may be, they’ll find
that Sorrow can climb faster than they can, and can set down on goles
quicker. Yes, they’ll find her there.
It hain’t no matter how easy a seat anybody sets down in in this world,
they’ll find that they’ll have to hunch along, and let Disappointment
set down with ’em, and Anxiety, and Weariness, and et cetery, et cetery.
Now, the scholar thinks if he can only stand up on that certain hite of
scientific discovery, he will be happy, for he will know all that he
cares about or wants to. But when he gets up there, he’ll see plain; for
the higher he is riz above the mists of ignorance that floats around the
lower lands, the clearer his vision; and he will see another peak right
ahead of him, steeper and loftier and icier than the last, and so on ad
infinitum, ad infinity.
Jest as it was with old Miss Peedick, our present Miss Peedick’s
mother-in-law. She said (she told me with her own lips) that she knew
she should be happy when she got a glass butter-dish. But she said she
wasn’t; she told me with her own lips that jest as quick as she got that
she wanted a sugar-bowl.
The lover thinks when he can once claim his sweetheart, call her his
own, he will be blessed and content; but he hain’t. No matter how well
he loves her, no matter how fond she is of him, and how blest they are
in each other’s love, they must think, anyway, that the blessedness
lacks one thing—permanence.
And though he calls her his own, yet he must feel, if he knows anything,
that she is not his own; he must know that he has to dispute for the
possession of her daily with one stronger than he is. And if he is
tender-hearted and sensitive, the haunting fear must almost rack his
soul; the horrible dread of seeing her slip away from him altogether; of
sometime reaching out his arms, and finding that nowhere, nowhere can he
find her; that in place of her warm, beating heart, whose every throb
was full of love for him, is only the vacant spaces, the mysterious
wave-beats of emptyness and void; in place of the tender sweetness of
her voice, the everlasting silences of eternity.
And though he seek her forever and forever, he can never meet her;
never, never, through all this earthly life, find her again. She, the
nearest and the dearest, so lately a part of his own life, his own soul,
gone from him so swiftly and so utterly, over such a trackless road, as
to leave no trace of her footsteps that he may follow her. And though he
throw himself upon the turf that covers her, and weary the calm heavens
with his wild prayers and questionings, no answer comes; his words fall
back again upon his heart, like dust upon dust.
[Illustration: NO ANSWER.]
And then, those who love him tell him that the loving hands were
unclasped from his that he might forever reach upward, yearning, longing
to clasp them again, that he might make his own hands purer, fitter to
clasp an angel’s fingers.
That the bright tresses were hidden away under the coffin-lid, that
their immortal sheen might gleam through every sunset and every dawning;
heaven’s golden seal on the sunset of his joy, the morning of his hope,
his faith. That the sweet eyes were darkened here that they might become
to his sad heart the glowing light of the future. They say this to him,
and he listens to them—maybe.
But if this does not happen to him, if his sweetheart lives on beside
him, he finds that this mighty presence steals away—not love, for that
is a bit of the infinite dropped down into our souls unbeknown to us,
and so is immortal; but he steals the golden sheen of the hair, the
eye’s bright luster, the young form’s strength and rounded beauty. Every
day, every hour, he is losing something of what he proudly called his
own.
You see we don’t own much of anything in this world: it’s curious, but
so it is. And what we call our own don’t belong to us, not at all. That
is one of the things that makes this such an extremely curious world to
live in. Yes, we are situated extremely curious, as much so as the
robins and swallows who build their nests on the waving tree-boughs.
We smile at the robin, with our wise, amused pity, who builds her tiny
nest with such laborious care high up, out on the waving tree-top,
swinging back and forth, back and forth, in every idle wind. Gathering
her straws and bits of wood with such patient and tireless care to weave
about the frail homes that are to be blown away by the chilly autumn
winds, and they also to be driven southward before the snows.
But are not our homes, the sweet homes of our tenderest love, built upon
just as insecure foundations, hanging over more mysterious depths,
rocking to and fro, and swept to their ruin by a breath from the
Unknown? Our dreams, our hopes, our ambitions: what are ye all but the
sticks and straws that we weave about our frail nests? Throwing our
whole hearts and souls into them, toiling over them, building them for
an evanescent summer, to be swept away by the autumn winds. And we also,
poor voyagers, blown away through a pathless waste.
But shall we not go unfearing, believing that He who made a balmy south
to fulfill the little summer bird’s intuition, her blind hope and trust,
has also prepared a place to fulfill our deathless longin’s, our soul’s
strongest desires? And over the lonely way, the untried, desolate fields
of the future, He will gently guide us thither.
But I am eppisodin’. I said I would relate in this epistol a instance of
the devourin’ and insatiable vanity of man, and their invincible
unwillingness to let well enough alone. And so, although it is gaulin’
to me, gaulin’ in the extreme, to speak of my companion’s weaknesses,
yet, if medicine was not spread before patients, how could colic be
cured, and cramps, and etcetery?
Yes, in the name of Duty, as a warnin’ to the sect, dear to me (in a
meetin’-house way) for his sake of whom I write, I will proceed, and
give a plain and unvarnished history of Josiah’s serenade.
[Illustration: E. WELLINGTON GANSEY.]
Eliab Gansey, or E. Wellington Gansey, as he has rote his name for
years, has been here to Jonesville on a visit. He lives to the Ohio. He
is jest about Josiah’s age, and used to be a neighbor of his’n. He was
born here, and lived round here till he got to be a young man. But he
went to the Ohio to live when he was quite a young chap, and made money
fast, and got high in station. Why, some say he got as high as clerk to
town meetin’; I don’t know about that, but we do know that he got to be
a real big man anyway, and come home here on a visit, forehanded and
weighin’ over 300. He was slim as a lucifer match when he went away, or
a darnin’-needle.
Wall, his comin’ back as he did made a real commotion and stir in the
neighberhood. The neighbers all wanted to do sunthin’ to honor him, and
make him happy, and we all sort o’ clubbed together and got up a party
for him, got as good a dinner as ever Jonesville afforded, and held it
in old Squire Gansey’s dinin’-room. He was cousin to Liab on his
father’s side, and had a big house and lived alone, and urged us to have
the party there.
Wall, I approved of that dinner, and did all I could to help it along.
Talked encouragin’ about it to all the neighberin’ wimmen, and baked two
chicken-pies, and roasted a duck, and other vittles accordin’.
And the dinner was a great success. Liab seemed to enjoy himself
dretfully, and eat more than was for his good, and so did Josiah; I told
Josiah so afterwards.
Wall, we had that dinner for him, all together (as it were). And then we
all of us invited him to our own homes seperate, to dinner or supper, as
the case might be. We used him first-rate, and he appreciated it, that
man did, and he would have gone home feelin’ perfectly delighted with
our treatment of him, and leavin’ us feelin’ first-rate, if it hadn’t
been for Josiah Allen, if he had been willin’ to take my advice and let
well enough alone. And what a happyfyin’ thing that is, if folks would
only realize it, happyfyin’ to the folks that let well enough alone, and
happyfyin’ to them that are let.
But some are bound to over-do and go beyond all sense and reason. And
Josiah wasn’t contented with what he had done for Liab, but wanted to do
more—he was bound to serenade him. I argued and argued with him, and
tried to get the idee out of his head, but the more I argued aginst the
idee, the more firm he was sot onto it.
He said it stood Jonesville in hand to treat that man to all the honors
they could heap onto him. And then he told me sunthin’ that I hadn’t
heard on before; that Liab talked some of comin’ back here to live: he
was so pleased with his old neighbors, they had all used him so well,
and seemed to think so much of him.
“And,” says Josiah, “it will be the makin’ of Jonesville if he comes
back; and of me, too, for he talks of buyin’ my west lot for a
house-lot, and he has offered me 4 times what it is worth, of his own
accord,—that is, if he makes up his mind to come back.”
“Wall,” says I, “you wouldn’t take advantage of him, and take 4 times
what it is worth, would you?” Says I sternly: “If you do you won’t never
prosper in your undertakin’s.”
“He offered it himself,” says Josiah. “I didn’t set no price; he sot it
himself. And it wouldn’t be no cheatin’, nor nothin’ out of the way, to
take it, and I would take it with a easy conscience and a willin’ mind.
But the stick is,” says he dreamily, “the stick is to get him to come
back. He likes us now, and if we can only endear ourselves to him a
little mite more he will come. And I am goin’ to work for it; I am bound
to serenade him.”
Says I coldly: “If you want to endear yourself to him you are goin’ to
work in the wrong way.” And says I, still more frigidly: “Was you a
layin’ out to sing yourself, Josiah Allen?”
“Yes,” says he, in a animated way. “The way I thought of workin’ it was
to have about 8 of us old men, who used to be boys with him, get
together and sing some affectin’ piece under his winder; make up a piece
a purpose for him. And I don’t know but we might let some wimmen take a
hand in it. Mebby you would want to, Samantha.”
“No sir!” says I very coldly. “You needn’t make no calculations on me. I
shall have no hand in it at all. And,” says I firmly, “if you know what
is best for yourself, Josiah Allen, you will give up the idee. You will
see trouble if you don’t.”
“Wall, I s’pose it will be some trouble to us; but I am willin’ to take
trouble to please Liab, as I know it will. Why, if I can carry it out,
as I think we can, it will tickle that man most to death. Why, I’ll bet
after hearin’ us sing, as we shall sing, you couldn’t dog him from
Jonesville. And it will be the makin’ of the place if we can only keep
him here, and will put more money into my pocket than I have seen for
one spell. And I know we can sing perfectly beautiful, if we only set
out to. I can speak for myself, anyway; I am a crackin’ good singer, one
of the best there is, if I only set out to do my best.”
Oh! what a deep streak of vanity runs through the naters of human men.
As many times as it had been proved right out to his face that he
couldn’t sing no more than a ginny-hen, or a fannin’-mill, that man
still kep’ up a calm and perennial idee that he was a sweet singer.
Yes, it is a deep scientific fact, as I have often remarked to Josiah
Allen, that the spring of vanity that gushes up in men’s naters can’t be
clogged up and choked. It is a gushin’ fountain that forever bubbles
over the brink with perennial and joyful freshness. No matter how many
impediments you may put in its way, no matter how many hard stuns of
disappointment and revilin’ and agony you may throw into that fountain,
it won’t do no more than to check the foamin’ current for a moment. But
presently, or sometimes even before that, the irrepressible fountain
will soar up as foamin’ly as ever.
As many times, and times agin, as Josiah’s vanity had been trampled on
and beat down and stunned, yet how constant and clear it was a bubblin’
up and meanderin’ right before my sight. And before I had got through
allegorin’ in my own mind about the curious and scientific subject, he
gave me another proof of it.
Says he: “I don’t want you to think, Samantha, because I said I didn’t
know but we would let wimmen have a hand in it, I don’t want you to
think that we want any help in the singin’. We don’t want any help in
the singin’, and don’t need any; but I didn’t know but you would want to
help compose some poetry on Liab. Not but what we could do it
first-rate, but its a kind o’ busy time of year, and a little help might
come good on that account.”
Says I, in a very dry tone,—very: “What a lucky thing it is for Tennyson
and Longfellow that you and old Bobbet are so cramped for time. There
wouldn’t probable be no call for their books at all, if you two old men
only had time to write poetry; it is dretful lucky for them.”
But I didn’t keep up that dry, sarcastical tone long. No, I felt too
solemn to. I felt that I must get his mind off of the idee if I possibly
could. I knew it would be putting the wrong foot forward to come right
out plain and tell him the truth, that he couldn’t sing no more than a
steam-whistle or a gong. No, I knew that would be the wrong way to
manage. But I says, in a warnin’ and a awful sort of a tone, and a look
jest solemn and impressive enough to go with it:
“Remember, Josiah Allen, how many times your pardner has told you to let
well enough alone. You had better not try to go into any such doin’s,
Josiah Allen. You’ll sup sorrow if you do.”
But it was no use. In spite of all my entreaties and arguments they got
it up amongst ’em; composed some poetry (or what they _called_ poetry),
and went and sung it over (or what they _called_ singin’) night after
night to the school-house; practicin’ it secret so Liab shouldn’t hear
of it, for they was a lottin’ on givin’ him such a joyful surprise.
Wall, they practised it over night after night, for over a week. And
Josiah would praise it up so to me, and boast over it so, that I fairly
hated the word serenade.
“Why,” says he, “it is perfectly beautiful, the hull thirteen pieces we
have learnt, but specially the piece we have made up about him; that is
awful affectin’.” And says he: “I shouldn’t wonder a mite if Liab should
shed tears when he hears it.”
And I’d tell him I persumed it was enough to bring tears from anybody.
And that would mad him agin. He would get mad as a hen at me. But I
didn’t care. I knew I was a talkin’ on principle, and I wasn’t goin’ to
give in an inch, and I didn’t.
Wall, at last the night come that they had sot to serenade him. I felt
like cryin’ all the time he was a fixin’ to go. For next to bein’ a fool
yourself, it is gaulin’ to have a pardner make a fool of himself.
But never, never, did I see Josiah Allen so highlarious in his most
highlarious times. He acted almost perfectly happy. Why, you would have
thought he was a young man to see him act. It was fairly sickish, and I
told him so.
“Wall,” says he, as he started out, “you can make light of me all you
are a mind to, Samantha, but as long as Josiah Allen has the chance to
make another fellow-mortal perfectly happy, and put money in his own
pocket at the same time, he hain’t the feller to let the chance slip.”
“Wall,” says I coldly, “shet the gate after you.”
I knew there wuzn’t no use in arguin’ any more with him about it. And I
think it is a great thing to know when to stop arguin’ or preachin’ or
anythin’. It is a great thing to know enough to stop talkin’ when you
have got through sayin’ anythin’. But this is a deep subject; one I
might allegore hours and hours on, and still leave ample room for
allegory.
And to resoom and continue on, he started off; and I wound up the clock,
and undressed and went to bed, leavin’ the back-kitchen door onlocked.
Wall, that was in the neighborhood of 10 o’clock. And I declare for’t,
and I hain’t afraid to own it, that I felt afraid. There I was all alone
in the house, sunthin’ that hardly ever happened to me, for Josiah Allen
was always one that you couldn’t get away from home nights if he could
possibly help it; and if he did go I almost always went with him. Yes,
Josiah Allen is almost always near me; and though he hain’t probable so
much protection as he would be if he weighed more by the steelyards, yet
such is my love for him that I feel safe when he is by my side.
I had read only a day or two before about a number of houses bein’
broken open and plundered, besides several cases of rapine; and though I
hain’t, I persume, so afraid of burglers as I would be if I had ever
been burgled, and though I tried to put my best foot forward, and be
calm, still, the solemn thought would come to me, and I couldn’t drive
it away: Who knows but what this is the time that I shall be rapined and
burgled?
Oh! what a fearful time I did have in my mind, as I lay there in my
usually peaceful feather-bed.
Wall, I got wider and wider awake every minute, and thinkses I, I will
get up and light the lamp, and read a little, and mebby that will quiet
me down. So I got up and sot down by the buro, and took up the last
_World_; and the very first piece I read was a account of a house bein’
broke into, between ten o’clock and midnight, and four wimmen massacreed
in their beds.
I laid down the _World_, and groaned loud. And then I sithed hard
several times. And right there, while I was a sithin’, sunthin’ come
kerslop aginst the window, right by my side. And though I hain’t no
doubt it was a June bug or a bat, still if it had been a burgler all
saddled and bridled that had rode up aginst my winder, it couldn’t have
skairt me no worse, and I couldn’t have jumped no higher, I was that
wrought up and excited.
[Illustration: BURGLERS.]
Wall, thinkses I, it is the light that has drawed that bat or June bug
aginst the winder, and mebby it will draw sunthin’ worse, and I believe
I will blow out the light and get into bed agin; I believe I will feel
safer.
So I blowed the light out, and got into bed. Wall, I had lain there
mebby ten minutes, a tremblin’ and a quakin’, growin’ skairter and
skairter every minute, when all of a sudden I heard a rappin’ aginst my
winder, and a hoarse sort of a whisper sayin’:
“Josiah Allen! Josiah Allen! Miss Allen!”
It didn’t sound like no voice that I had ever heard, and I jest covered
my head up and lay there, with my heart a beatin’ so you could have
heard it under the bed. I _knew_ it was a burgler. I knew my time had
come to be burgled.
[Illustration: THE GHOST.]
Wall, the whisperin’ and the rappin’ kep’ up for quite a spell, and then
it kinder died off; and I got up and peeked through the winder, and then
I see a long white figger a movin’ off round the corner of the house
toward the back-kitchen. And then I was skairter still, for I knew it
was a ghost that was a appearin’ to me. And I had always said, and say
still, that I had ruther be burgled than appeared to.
And there I lay, a tremblin’ and a listenin’, and pretty soon I heard
steps a comin’ into the back-kitchen, and so along through the house up
to my bedroom door. And then there come a rap right onto my door. And
though cold shivers was a runnin’ down my back, and goose-pimples was
present with me, I knew sunthin’ had got to be done.
There I was alone in the house with a ghost. And thinkses I, I must try
to use it well, so’s to get rid of it; for I thought like as not if I
madded it, it would stick right by me. And so I says, in as near the
words I could remember, as I had hearn tell they talked to spirits:
“Are you a good spirit?” says I. “If you are a good spirit, raise up and
rap three times.”
I s’pose my voice sounded low and tremblin’ down under the bed-clothes,
and my teeth chattered so loud that they probable drounded the words
some. But the rappin’ kep’ up.
And says I agin: “If you are a likely spirit, raise up and rap three
times, and then leave.” And then says I, for I happened to think what I
had heard they done to get ’em away, for I had been that flustrated and
horrer-struck that I couldn’t think of nothin’ hardly, says I:
“I will you away. I will you off out of this house, if you please,” I
added, for I was so afraid of maddin’ it. Thinkses I to myself, I would
ruther mad a burgler or a rapiner ten times over than to get a
apperition out with me. I s’pose I had spoke up louder this time, for
the ghost (or what I thought was such) answered back to me, and says:
“I am Miss Moony.”
Says I: “Not she that was Tamer Sansey?”
“Yes, I be.”
Says I, in stern tones, for truth and rectitude is my theme, even in
talkin’ with a apperition, and I felt, skairt as I was, that it would be
better to improve a ghost than to not be a doin’ anything in the cause
of right. And so says I firmly:
“Do you stop tellin’ such stuff to me.” Says I: “You are a lyin’ spirit.
Tamer Moony is alive and enjoyin’ middlin’ good health, if she wuzn’t so
nervous. Eliab Gansey is a visitin’ of her now. She never was a ghost,
nor nothin’ like it, and apperition or not, you shan’t stand there and
lie to me.”
Says the voice: “Let me in, Miss Allen; I am Miss Moony, and I am most
dead; I am skairt most to death. And,” says she, “I want Josiah Allen to
go over to our house right off. Oh! I am most dead,” says she.
I begun to grow calmer. I see it wuzn’t no ghost, and says I: “Wait one
minute, Miss Moony.”
And I ketched up the first weepon I could get holt of to defend myself,
if she should prove to be a imposter. It was Fox’es Book of Martyrs, and
I calculated in case of need to jest throw them old martyrs at her in a
way she would remember. But it didn’t prove to be no imposter. When I
opened the door there stood Tamer Moony a tremblin’ in her night-gown,
with not a sign of a shoe nor a stockin’ on her feet, nor a bonnet on,
nor nothin’.
[Illustration: TAMER MOONY.]
“Why, for the land’s sake, Tamer Moony” says I, “what is the matter?
What are you here at this time of night for, and in this condition?”
says I.
“Why,” says she, a tremblin’ like a popple-leaf, “there is the awfulest
goin’s on up to our house that you ever see. There is murderin’ a goin’
on! Liab has been murdered in cold blood!” says she, a wringin’ her
hands, and groanin’ and sithin’ like a wild woman.
“What makes you think so?” says I. “What have you seen? Have you been
hurt? Where is Mandna?” says I.
“Oh, Mandy has gone over to Dagget’s to roust them up. Oh! Oh! them
awful sounds! They are a ringin’ through my ears yet!” says she, a
wringin’ her hands and a groanin’ wilder than ever.
[Illustration: THE SERENADING PARTY.]
Says I firmly, but kindly: “Tamer Moony, try to be calm, and compose
yourself down. Tell me jest what you have seen and heerd, and how it
begun.”
“Wall, in the first place, Mandana and I was rousted up out of sleep by
hearin’ a noise down in the yard, and we got up and peeked through
the winder, and we see 7 or 8 men,—wild, savage-lookin’ men,—a prowlin’
along through the yard; some of ’em walked with canes. I persume they
had swords in ’em. Mandy thought she see the swords—bloody swords. And
as we stood there a peekin’ through the blinds, we see ’em prowl their
way along round the house towards Liab’s winder. And then, a minute or
two after, we heerd the awfulest sounds we ever heerd, the most fearful
and agonizin’. I s’pose it was Liab a groanin’ and screechin’ when they
killed him. And then they seemed to screech out and yell the most
harrowin’ and blood-curdlin’ sounds I ever heerd. Mandy said she knew
they was Injuns. No other race could have made such hideous and
unearthly noises. She said she had heerd that Injuns gin jest such awful
and melancholy yells when they was on the war-path.
“Wall, them awful sounds took every mite of our strength away. We stood
there tremblin’ like two leaves, till finally we made out to totter down
the back stairs; and she run to Dagget’ses, and I started acrost the
lots here, for we thought the hull neighborhood ort to be rousted up. I
am most dead! Oh! poor Liab! poor Liab! And his wife and childern happy
at home! Who will carry the awful news to ’em? He was probable killed
before I got out of the house. I thought I suffered when I lost my
husband and 4 childern within a year, but this goes ahead of anything I
ever see. So harrowin’ and awful; to have Liab, my only brother, killed
right under my ruff, and I couldn’t help it. Oh! what shall I do? What
shall I do?”
I see she was jest a tumblin’ over into a historical fit, and I laid her
down on my bed, and broke it to her gradual, what the trouble was. And
then she had the historicks worse than ever. She broke out into a laugh
so loud that you could hear her clear to the road, and then she broke
out a cryin’ so you could hear her et cetery and the same. And then she
would claw right into me, and tear and rip round.
But good land! she didn’t know what she was a doin’, she was so full of
the historicks. She was jest a pullin’ and a tearin’ at the bottom sheet
when Josiah Allen came a meachin’ in. A meachiner-lookin’ creeter I
never beheld. And from what I learned afterwards, well he might meach.
And as bad as he looked, he looked worse when I says to him, says I:
“I told you, Josiah Allen, to let well enough alone, but you wouldn’t;
and you can see now what you have done with your serenadin’ and foolery.
You have killed Miss Moony, for what I know, and,” says I, in still
sterner axents, “a hull piece of factery cloth won’t make our loss
good.”
Then Josiah groaned awful, and says I:
“What worse effects have follered on after your serenadin’, I don’t
know.”
Josiah kep’ on a groanin’ pitifuller and pitifuller, and I see then that
his head was all bruised up. It looked as if he had been pelted with
sunthin’ hard, and there was a bunch riz up over his left eye as big as
a banty’s egg, and it was a swellin’ all the time stiddy and constant.
And from that night, right along, I kep’ bread and milk poultices on it,
changin’ from lobelia to catnip, as I see the swellin’ growed or
diminished.
[Illustration: THE BRUISED JOSIAH.]
His sufferin’s was awful, and so was mine, for all the first 3 days and
nights I thought it would mortify, do the best I could, it looked that
black and angry. His agony with it was intense, and also with his
mind—his mind bein’ near the swellin’, made it worse, mebby—his
mortification and disapointment was that overwhelmin’ and terrible. It
was the water-pitcher, as I hearn afterwards, that Liab had pelted him
with.
I s’pose from what I heerd afterwards, that they had the awfulest time
that was ever heard of in Jonesville, or the world. Liab jest throwed
everything at ’em he could lay his hands on. Why, them old men was jest
about killed. He pretended to think they was burglers and tramps, but I
never believed it for a minute. I believe it madded him to be waked up
out of a sound sleep, and see them 8 old creeters makin’ perfect fools
of themselves.
Some think that he had been kinder sot up by some jealous-minded person,
and made to think the Jonesvillians wanted to make money out of him, and
cheat him; and he was always dretful quick-tempered, that everybody
knows.
And some think that he thought it was a lot of young fellers dressed up
in disguise, a tryin’ to make fun of him, callin’ him “Eliab.” He always
hated the name Eliab, and had felt above it for years, and wrote his
name E. Wellington Gansey. But as he left on the first train in the
morning, I don’t s’pose we shall ever know the hull truth of the matter.
[Illustration: THE SERENADE.]
But anyway, whatever was the cause, he bruised up them old men fearful.
Eliab was strong and perseverin’, and a good calculator, or he never
could have laid up the property he had. Every blow hit jest where it
would hurt the worst. He pelted them old men perfectly fearful. They had
composed a lot of verses—over 20 they say there was of ’em—that they was
a layin’ out to sing to him. They didn’t sing but 3, I believe, when the
first boot hit ’em, but they say they kep’ on singin’ the next verse,
bein’ determined to mollify him down, till they got so bruised and
battered up that they had to flee for their very lives. The verses run
like this:
Who did from the Ohio come
To visit round in his old home,
And make the neighbers happy, some?
Eliab.
With melody we him will cheer,
And keep Eliab Gansey here.
Who is this man we love so dear?
Eliab.
If music sweet as can be had
Can sooth thee, make thee blest and glad,
Then never more shalt thou be sad,
Eliab.
I s’pose it was jest at this very minute that the washbowl flew and
struck old Bobbet in the small of the back, and crumpled him right down;
he was sort o’ bent over the accordeon. They didn’t play the accordeon
all the time they was singin’, as I have been told, but between the
verses; jest after they would sing “Eliab,” they would play a few notes
sort o’ lively.
It was Josiah’s idee, as I heard afterwards, their takin’ the accordeon.
They couldn’t one of ’em play a tune, or anything that sounded like a
tune, but he insisted it would look more stylish to have some
instrument, and so they took that old accordeon that used to belong to
Shakespeare Bobbet.
They had planned it all out, and had boasted that they had got up
something in their own heads that hadn’t never been heerd of in
Jonesville. And well they might say so, well they might.
Wall, there wasn’t one of them 8 old fellers that was good for anything
for the next 4 weeks. Eliab’s folks try to make the best of it. They say
now that Eliab always did, when he was first rousted up out of a sound
sleep, act kinder lost and crazy. They tell that now to kind o’ smooth
it over, but I think, and I always shall think, that he knew jest who he
was a hittin’, and what he was a hittin’ ’em with. It was the glass
soap-dish that struck old Dagget’s nose. And I wish you could have seen
that nose for the next 3 weeks. It used to be a Roman, but after that
night it didn’t look much like a Roman.
Eliab’s boots was the very best of leather, and they had a new-fashioned
kind of heels, some sort o’ metal or other, and Cornelius Cook says they
hit as powerful as any cannon balls would; he goes lame yet. You know
the shin-bone is one of the tenderest bones in the hull body to be hit
aginst.
It was the bootjack that hit the Editor of the Augur’ses head. His wife
was skairt most to death about him, and she says to me—she had come over
to see if she could get some wormwood—and she says:
“He never will get over that bootjack in the world, I don’t believe. His
head is swelled up as big as two heads ought to be.”
And says I: “It always happens so, don’t it, that the weakest spot is
the one that always gets hit?”
I was sorry for her as I could be. And I gin her the wormwood, and
recommended her to use about half and half smartweed. Says I: “Smartweed
is good for the outside of his head, and if it strikes in it won’t hurt
him none.”
I felt to sympathize with her. Old Sansey hain’t got over the slop-jar
yet. It brought on other complaints that he was subject to, and the Dr.
says he may get over it, and he may not.
But as bad as it was for all the rest, it was the worst for Josiah
Allen—as bad agin.
It wuzn’t so much the hurt he got that night, though I thought for quite
a spell that it would have to be operated on, and I didn’t know but it
would prove to be his death-blow. And it wuzn’t so much our sufferin’s
with Miss Moony, though them was fearful, bein’ up with her all that
night, and workin’ over her to keep the breath of life in her, and she a
clawin’ at us, and a ketchin’ holt of us, and a laughin’, and a cryin’.
We had to send for the neighbors, we was that skairt about her, and
Josiah had to go for the doctor right in the dead of night, with his
head a achin’ as if it would split open.
And it wuzn’t so much the thought of losin’ Eliab and money, though
Josiah was dretfully attached to both, and he felt the loss of both on
’em more deeply than tongue can ever tell. But that wuzn’t where the
deepest piece of iron entered his soul. It was to think his singin’ had
got called so all to nort. He thought he was such a sweet, dulcet
harmonist; he had gloated and boasted so over his lovely, melodious
voice, and thought he was goin’ to be admired so for it; and then to
think his singin’ had skairt two wimmen most to death, had skairt one
into fits, anyway—for if ever a woman had a historical fit Tamer Moony
had one that night. And instead of his serenade winnin’ Liab’s love and
money, it had disgusted him so that he had pelted him most to death.
Oh! it was a fearfully humiliatin’ blow to his vanity. The blow on his
forward wasn’t to be compared to the soreness of the blow onto his
vanity, though the swellin’ on his forward was bigger than a butnut, and
as sore as any bile I ever see.
Yes, I have seen Josiah Allen in tryin’ places, time and agin, and in
places calculated to make a man meach, but never, never did I see him in
a place of such deep meachin’ness and gloom as he was that night after
he had come home with Doctor Bamber. There he was, at the very time, the
very night, when he had lotted on bein’ covered with admiration and
glory like a mantilly, there he wuz lookin’, oh, so pitiful and meek,
bowed down by pain, contumily, and water-pitchers. And he happened to
pass by the bed where Miss Moony lay, and she, bein’ blind with
historicks, laid holt of him, and called him “Mandana.” She clutched
right into his vest, and held him tight, and says she:
“Oh Mandana! Oh! them awful voices! Oh! them horrible, screechin’ yells!
I can’t forget ’em,” says she. “They are ringin’ through my ears yet.”
And then Dr. Bamber and the neighbors knew all about what it wuz that
had skairt her so; there they stood a laughin’ in their sleeves (as it
were). And Josiah standin’ there, lookin’ as if he must sink. And there
Samantha wuz, who had vainly argued with him, and entreated him to let
well enough alone.
[Illustration: MANDANA! MANDANA!]
Yes, Josiah Allen was in a hard place, a very hard place. But he
couldn’t get away from her, so he had to grin and bear it. For he
couldn’t onclench her hands; she had a sort of a spazzum right there, a
holdin’ him tight. And every time she would come to a little, she would
call him “Mandana,” and yell about them “awful, blood-curdlin’
screeches.” It was a curious time—very.
Wall, she got better after a while. Dr. Bamber give her powerful doses
of morpheen, and that quelled her down.
But morpheen couldn’t quiet down Josiah Allen’s feelin’s, nor ease the
sore spot in his vanity. No! all the poppies that ever grew in earthly
gardens couldn’t do it. He never will start out a seranadin’ agin, I
don’t believe—never.
I hain’t one to be a twittin’ about things. But sunthin’ happened to
bring the subject up the other mornin’ jest after breakfast, and I says
this, I merely observed this to him:
“Wall, you wanted to make a excitement, Josiah Allen, and you did make
one.”
“Wall, wall! who said I didn’t?”
Says I: “You have most probable done your last seranadin’.”
I said this in a mild and almost amiable axent, but you ort to heard how
that man yelled up at me.
Says he: “If I was a woman, and couldn’t keep from talkin’ so dumb
aggravatin’, I’d tie my tongue to my teeth. And if you are a goin’ to
skim the milk for that calf, why don’t you _skim_ it?”
“Wall,” says I mildly, “I hain’t deef.”
[Illustration: A STITCH IN THE BACK.]
[Illustration]