learnt and absent-minded, and needs headin’ off. And when he is walkin’
by himself through the shady lanes and crooked pathways of the
docterines and creeds, and so on, and so 4th; when he is tryin’ to stand
up straight with one foot on Genesis, and the other on geoligy, tryin’
his best to break a path through the wilderniss of beliefs a road that
shall lead his hearers straight to heaven’s gate; with all this on his
hands, how can he be expected to keep his eye every minute on the little
woman by his side. How can he, when he is absent-minded, and needs
headin’ off, how can he be expected to know whether the meetin’ house is
a carryin’ her, or she is a carryin’ the meetin’ house.” Says I,
“Serepta Simmons is a Christian woman, and if she has time to spare
after taken’ care of them that Providence has placed in her keepin’, she
would be willin’ to do what she could for other heathen nations, and
tribes; it would be her duty and her priviledge.
“But,” says I, “because Serepta’s husband is hired out to you for 200
and 50 dollars a year, you have no more right to control Serepta’s
actions, and time, than you have to order round that old stun female
that keeps house by herself out in Egypt by the pyramids. I can’t think
of her name, but howsumever it haint no matter; I wish Serepta had some
of her traits, a good firm stun disposition, that couldn’t be coaxed nor
skairt into bearin’ burdens enough to break down seven wimmen. I’d love
to see you order old what’s-her-name round; I’d love to see you make
_her_ do all the housework and sewin’ for a big family, head off a deep
learnt, absent-minded husband, take care of five infant childern, and
carry round a meetin’ house. She’s kep’ a stiddy head on her shoulders
and minded her own business for centuries, and so is a pattern for some
other wimmen I know of, to foller.”
Oh how that madded ’em, and Miss Horn spoke up and says she:
“We have got a claim on her, and we’ll let you know we have.”
Says I, “The meetin’ house pays Elder Simmons 200 and 50 dollars, and so
has got a claim on him, and how much does it lay out to pay Serepta; how
much does it lay out to give her for the comin’ year?”
“Not one cent,” screamed out Miss Horn in skairt, excited axents. “Not
one cent,” says nine other wimmen and the old deacon.
Then says I, risin’ up on my feet and wavin’ my hand out nobly:
“Clear out, the hull caboodle of you, and” I added in still firmer,
nobler axents, “if the meetin’ house don’t leggo of Serepta, I’ll _make_
it leggo.”
I s’pose my mean was that awful and commandin’ that it filled ’em with
awe, and affright. They started right off, almost on the run, two
able-bodied wimmen takin’ the old deacon between ’em.
* * * * *
I had a letter from Serepta yesterday. She is a gettin’ along first
rate; her time is her own; her childern are gettin’ more’n half
civilized; and she has gained a pound a week.
[Illustration]
A VISIT TO PHILANDER SPICER’SES FOLKS.
Knowin’ that Philander Spicers’es folks was well off, and wouldn’t be
put to it for things to wait on us, we thought we wouldn’t write to tell
’em we was a comin’, but give ’em a happy surprise. They owned five
hundred acres of land, and had oceans of money out at interest. Well, it
was about the middle of the afternoon, P. M. when we arrove at their
dwellin’ place. It was a awful big, noble lookin’ house, but every
winder and winder blind was shut up tight, and it looked lonesome, and
close; but I haint one to be daunted, so I stepped up and rung at the
bell. Nobody come. Then I rung at it again, and Josiah took my umberell
and kinder rapped on the door with it, pretty considerable loud; and
then a dejected lookin’ man hollered at us from the barn door, and says
he:
“You wont get in there.”
Says I, “Why not, is it the house of mournin’?” says I; for there was
sunthin’ strange and melancholly in his tone.
“Because you might let in a fly,” says he.
He didn’t say nothin’ more, but stood a lookin’ at us dretful dejected
and melancholly-like, and Josiah and me stood lookin’ at him, and we
felt curious, very. But pretty soon I found and recovered myself, and I
says in pretty firm tones:
“If Mahala Spicer, she that was Mahala Allen lives here, I lay out to
see her before I leave these premises.”
“Well,” says the man, “foller up that path round the back side of the
house, and you’ll find her; we live in the wood-house.” As he said that,
he seemed to kinder git over into the manger, and I laid holt of Josiah,
and says I:
“That man is Philander Spicer, and he has seen trouble.”
“Bein’ a married man he might expect to—”
“Expect to _what_ Josiah Allen?” says I, lookin’ at him with a mean that
was like a icicle for stiffness and coolness.
“Oh! I meant he might expect to lay up property. What a big house! I
declare Samantha, I haint seen so big and nice a house sense we left
Jonesville.”
And truly, it was awful big and nice; big enough for half a dozen
families, but it was shet up fearfully close and tight, as tight as if
air and sunshine and Josiah and me was deadly pisen. And as we meandered
on round the house by winder after winder and door after door, shet up
as tight as glass and blinders could make ’em, I’ll be hanged if it
didn’t seem some as if it was war time, and Josiah and me was two
Hessian troopers, a tryin’ to break in and couldn’t.
At last, way on the back side of the house, we come to a little
wood-house built on, and there we see the first sign of life. The door
was open and three little childern sot out in a row by the side of the
house, on a clean board. They looked lonesome; they was ruffled off
dretful nice, and their shoes shone like glass bottles, but they looked
awful old and care-worn in their faces.
“Does Mahala Spicer, she that was Mahala Allen live here?” says I to the
oldest one. She looked in her face as if she might be a hundred years of
age, but from her size she wasn’t probable more’n nine or nine and a
half.
“Yes mom,” says she, sort o’ turnin’ her eyes at me, but she never moved
a mite.
Says I, “Is she to home?”
“Yes mom.”
Says I, “Speakin’ as a investigator, what are you settin’ there all in a
row for? Why haint you out a playin’ in the yard this nice day?”
As I mentioned the idee of playin’, their faces, as long as they was
before, lengthened out awfully, and the two youngest ones kicked right
out.
[Illustration: TOO MANY RUFFLES.]
“Mother wont let us play;” says the oldest one in bitter axents. “She
says we should muss up our ruffles, and rip off the knife pleatin’s.”
“Get our shoes dusty,” says the next one in vicious tones.
“Tear our overskirts,” says the four year old in loud angry axents, and
again she kicked right out, and every one of ’em looked bitterly mad,
and morbid; a morbider lot of faces I never laid eyes on. I didn’t say
nothin’ more, but I looked at Josiah, and Josiah looked at me; we felt
curious. But anon, or pretty near that time, I found and recovered
myself and so did Josiah, and we walked up to the door and knocked.
“Come in,” says a voice in a kind of a sharp tone, as if the owner of
the voice was awful busy and care-worn. So I and my companion walked in.
It was as comfortable a room as wood-houses generally be, but of course
there wasn’t much grandeur to it. There was about a dozen clean boards
laid along one side for a floor and on it a cook stove was sot, and
right by it was a sewin’ machine, and Mahala set by it a sewin’. But
I’ll be hanged if I could see in that minute, one of Mahala Spicer’ses
old looks; she looked so thin and care-worn and haggard. And if she is
one of the relations on Josiah side, I’ll say, and I’ll stick to it that
she looked as cross as a bear. I shouldn’t have had no idee who she was,
if I hadn’t seen her there. She knew Josiah and me in a minute
for—though I do say it that shouldn’t—folks say that my companion
Josiah, and myself do hold our looks wonderful. And bein’ (sometimes) so
affectionate towards each other in our demeanor, we have several times
been took for a young married couple.
I should judge there was from half a bushel to three pecks of ruffles
and knife pleatin’s that lay round her sewin’ machine and in her lap;
but she got up and shook hands with us and invited us to take our things
off. And then she said, bein’ as we was such near relations, (all in the
family as it were,) she would ask us to set right down where we was; it
bein’ fly time, she had got the rest of the house all shet up tight; had
jest got it cleaned out from top to bottom, and she wanted to keep it
clean.
I didn’t say nothin’, bein’ one that is pretty close mouthed naturally;
but I kep’ up considerable of a thinkin’ in my mind. After we sot down,
she give a kind of a anxious look onto the floor, and she see a little
speck of dirt that had fell off of Josiah’s boots, and first we knew she
was a wipin’ it up with a mop. Josiah felt as cheap as the dirt, I know
he did, and cheaper; but he didn’t say nothin’, nor I nuther.
She said then, if we’d excuse her she’d keep right on with her work,
because she had got dretful behindhand in ruffles. She said it kep’ her
every minute of her spare time to work a makin’ ruffles in order to keep
herself decent, and make the childern keep up with other folks’es
childern. So she nipped to and worked away dretfully, and every time the
door opened she would look up with such a wild anxious gaze, horrified
seeminly, for fear a fly would git in; and every time Josiah or her
husband (that man at the barn _did_ prove to be her husband) would move,
she would run after ’em, and wipe ’em up with a mop. It was a curious
time as I ever see in my life. She didn’t seem to sense anything only
ruffles and such like. Her mind all seemed to be narrowed down and
puckered up, jest like trimmin’, nothin’ free and soarin’ about it at
all—though she would talk some about fly time, and how hard it was to
keep ’em out of the house, and once she asked me which I preferred for
mops, rags or tow.
I tried to make talk with her; and says I, in a real friendly way:
“You have got three good lookin’ childern Mahala.”
“Yes,” says she, “three and three is six, and three is nine, and three
is twelve, and three is fifteen; fifteen ruffles at the least
calculation, to make ’em look decent, and like other folks’es childern;
and the biggest one ought to have six.”
Says I, “Your husband looks as if he might be a good man, and a good
provider.”
“Yes,” says she, “he means well, but he is a awful hand to let in flies.
Two years ago this summer he let in four at one time into my best room,
I counted them as I drove ’em out. I got so wore out, a chasin’ ’em, and
a tryin’ to keep decent, that I made up my mind that we would live out
here.”
“You don’t keep a girl, it seems?”
“No,” said she, “I cannot get one to suit me. When I do my work myself I
know how it is done.”
Then I atted her on other subjects; says I, “Do you see the Atlantic,
and Scribner’s, and Peterson’s and Harper’s, this summer? they are awful
interestin’.”
Says she, “I haint seen the ocean sense I was married; and the other
families you speak of don’t live any where near us.”
Says I, “Have you read Ruskin, Mahala?”
I was all engaged in it at that time for Thomas J. was a readin’ it out
loud evenin’s—dretful interestin’ readin’, made you feel as if you never
got acquainted with the world till he introduced you.
“Red Ruskin,” says she with a dreamy mean, “it seems as if we have got
some winter apples by that name, though I can’t tell for certain.”
Then truly I thought to myself, I had got to the end of my chain. I said
no more, but sot silently knittin’, and let her foller her own bent.
And there was truly as curious doin’s as I ever see. The little childern
couldn’t move for fear they would soil their clothes or muss their
ruffles. Her husband couldn’t take a step hardly without bein’ follered
round by a mop, and exhorted about lettin’ in flies, though he didn’t
realize his sufferin’s so much as he would, for he was to the barn the
most of the time; he had a chair out there, Josiah said, and kinder made
it his home in the manger.
When she got supper, we had enough, and that that was good; but we eat
on a oil-cloth because it was easier to keep clean than a table cloth,
and we eat on some awful old poor lookin’ dishes, she said she had
washed up her best ones, and put ’em away so’s to keep the dust out of
’em, and she didn’t want to open the cupboard, for fear of lettin’ in a
fly. And when we went up stairs to our room that night, way up in the
front bed-room, it was carpeted all the way, the hall and stairs, and
our room, with shinin’ oil cloth. You could see your faces in it, but it
seemed awful sort o’ slippery and uncomfortable. There wasn’t a picture
nor a bracket nor a statute on any of the walls; she said her husband
wanted some, but she wouldn’t have ’em they catched dust so. The sheets
and piller cases was starched stiff to keep clean longer, and ironed and
pressed till they shone like glass. My companion almost slipped up on
the oil cloth when he went to git into bed, and as he lay down between
the stiff shinin’ sheets, he says to me in sad tones:
“This is a slippery time, Samantha.”
I was a takin’ off my head-dress, and didn’t reply to him, and he says
to me in still more pitiful and lonesome tones:
“Samantha, this is a slippery time.”
His tone was very affectin’, very; and I says to him soothinly, as I
undid my breast-pin, and took off my collar:
“Less make the best of what we can’t help Josiah.”
But though my tone was soothin’, it didn’t seem to soothe him worth a
cent, for says he in tremblin’ tones:
“I am a sufferer Samantha, a great sufferer.”
Truly as Josiah said, it _was_ a slippery time, and then not bein’ used
to be follered round and wiped up by a mop, it all wore on him. Says he,
speakin’ out in a louder, sort o’ fiercer tone:
“Have we got to stay in this house Samantha, one minute longer than
to-morrow mornin’ at sunrise?”
Says I, “We will set sail from here some time in the course of the day.”
For truly I thought myself I couldn’t stand the doin’s much longer; and
then Josiah went on and told me what Philander had told him; he said
Philander said he was completely wore out. He was a good lookin’ sort of
a man, and one that would, I thought, under other and happier
circumstances, love a joke; but his spirit was all broke down now. He
told Josiah it was done by a mop, by bein’ run after with a mop; he said
it would break down a leather man in a year; he said he drather set out
doors all winter then go into the house; he said he made it his home to
the barn the most of the time—lived in the manger. He said when he first
commenced life, he had a young man’s glowin’ hopes in the future; he had
loftier, higher aims in life; but now his highest ambition was to keep
house by himself in the barn, live alone there from year to year, go
jest as nasty as he could, live on flies, and eat dirt; he talked
reckless and wild.
“But” says he, “if I should try it, she would be out there a scourin’
the rafters; before I had been there half an hour, she would be out
there with her mop. I hope,” says he, “that I am a Christian; but,” says
he, “I dassant express the feelin’ I have towards mops. Ministers of the
Gospel would call it a wicked feelin’, and so I shant never try to tell
any one how I feel towards ’em; mops is what I bury deep in my breast.”
Josiah said he spoke to him about how anxious and haggard his wife
looked, and how wild and keen her eyes was.
“Yes,” say she, “she got that look a chasin’ flies; she wont let one
come within half a mile of the house if she can help it; and,” says he,
“she would be glad to keep me a horseback a helpin’ her chase ’em off;
but I wont”, says he, with a gloomy look, “I never will take a horse to
it; I’ll run ’em down myself when she sets me at it, but I wont chase
’em a horseback as long as my name is Philander Spicer.”
The doin’s there wore on Josiah dretfully, I could see. Two or three
times after he got into a nap, he started up a shoutin’:
“There is one! catch it! take holt of ’em Nance.” Oh, how I pitied my
pardner, for I knew’ he was on the back of a Nite-Mare (as it were) a
chasin’ flies; and then he’d kinder shy off one side of the bed, and I’d
hunch him, and he’d say there was a hull regiment of wimmen after him
with mops.
But towards mornin’ I got a little good sleep, and so did he.
The next mornin’ Mahala kinder atted me about my house; said she s’posed
it wasn’t half as nice, nor furnished near so well as hern. Her mean was
proud, and I could see she felt hauty with her nice things, though I
couldn’t see half on ’em when she led me through the rooms they was so
shet up and dark, dark as a dark pocket, a most; and the air was musty
and tight, tight as a drum; she said she didn’t air it only in the night
for fear of flies.
Says she again, “I s’pose your house haint furnished near so nice as
mine.”
Says I, “I have got two elegant things in my house that you haint got in
yourn, Mahala.”
“What are they?” says she.
Says I, “Sunshine and air;” says I, “our house haint a big one, but it
is comfortable and clean, and big enough to hold Josiah and me, and
comfort, and the childern.” Says I, “My parlor looks well, everybody
says it does. The carpet has got a green ground work that looks jest
like moss, with clusters of leaves all scattered over it, crimson and
gold colored and russet brown, that look for all the world as if they
might have fell offen the maple trees out in the yard in the fall of the
year. I have got a good honorable set of chairs; two or three rockin’
chairs, and a settee covered with handsome copper-plate; lots of nice
pictures and books, for Thomas J. _will_ have ’em, and I am perfectly
willin’ and agreeable in that respect.” Says I, “Everybody says it is as
pleasant and cozy a room as they ever laid eyes on; and that room,
Mahala, is open every day to my companion Josiah, fresh air, sunshine,
myself and the childern;” says I, “when we have got our work done up and
want to rest, there is the place we go to rest in; it makes anybody feel
as chirk again as a poor dull lookin’ room; and what under the sun do I
want of a pleasant bright lookin’ room if it haint to take some comfort
with it?”
Says she, with a horrified look, “the idee of lettin’ the sunshine in on
a nice carpet; it fades ’em, it fades green awfully.”
Says I, “My carpet haint fadin’ colors, and if it was, there is more
where that come from. But,” says I, “there is other things that fade
besides carpets;” says I, “there is such a thing as fadin’ all the
greenness and brightness of life out;” says I, “I had ruther have my
carpet fade, than to have my childern’s fresh gayety, and my companion’s
happiness and comfort fade out as grey as a rat;” says I, “the only way
to git any comfort and happiness out of this old world, is to take it as
you travel on, day by day, and hour by hour.”
Says I, “In my opinion it is awful simple to stent yourselves, and
scrimp yourselves along all your lives lookin’ for some future time, fur
ahead, when you are goin’ to enjoy things and live agreeable;” says I,
“if such folks don’t look out, the street of By and By they are
travellin’ on, will narrow down to that road that is only broad enough
for one to travel on it at a time, and the house they are expectin’ to
take so much comfort in, will have a marble door to it, and be covered
over with the grasses of the valley.”
My tone was as solemn as solemn could be a most, but good land! she
didn’t sense it a mite; it seemed as if she follered us round with a mop
closer than ever, and the minute she got her work done up she went right
to her ruffles again; she didn’t take time to change her dress or comb
her hair or anything. Her dress was clean enough, but it was faded and
considerable ragged, and not a sign of a collar or cuff; and her hair,
which was wavy and crinkly naturally, and would have been glad to curl,
was tucked up tight in a little wad at the back side of her head, to
save work a combin’ it. I didn’t see much of Philander, for he stayed to
the barn the most of the time, though he seemed to have a desire to use
us well, and every little while he would come in and visit a few words
with us; but he acted awful uneasy, and low spirited, and meachin’, and
I was most glad every time when he’d git started for the barn, and she’d
set her mop down, for she’d scold him about flies and exhort him about
dust, and foller him round with a mop most every moment. She had in the
neighborhood of a bushel of ruffles a layin’ by her, and she said she
must stitch ’em, and pucker ’em all that day, and her face looked so
care-worn and haggard as she said it, that I almost pitted her; and I
says to her in tones about half pity, and half rebuke:
“What makes you lay so to ruffles Mahala, it is a wearin’ on you and I
can see it is.”
“Oh,” says she, and she nipped-to, harder than ever as she said it: “I
do it because other folks do. They wear ruffles a sight now.”
But I says in calm tones: “Have you got to be a fool Mahala, because
_they_ be?”
She didn’t answer me a word, only kep’ right on her ruffles as if they
was cases of life and death, and I continued on in reasonable axents.
“I am considerable dressy myself, and in the name of principle I believe
it is every woman’s duty to look as well and agreeable as she can,
especially if she has got a companion to show off before.”
As I said this, she give as scornful and humiliatin’ a look onto my
overskirt as I ever see looked. It was my new grey dress, all trimmed
off on the age of the overskirt with a plain piece cut ketrin’ ways of
the cloth, and stitched on. It looked well, but I see she despised it,
because it wasn’t ruffled; she showed it plain in her face, how
fearfully she felt above the biasin’ piece and me; she despised us both,
and acted so hauty towards us, that I was determined to give her a piece
of my mind, and says I again firmly:
“I believe it is every woman’s duty especially if she has got a pardner,
to put her best foot forred and look pleasant and agreeable from day to
day, and from hour to hour. But in my mind a woman don’t add to her good
looks by settin’ down lookin’ like fury for nineteen days, a workin’ too
hard to speak a pleasant word to her family, or give ’em a pleasant
look, for the sake of flauntin’ out on the twentieth for a few hours, to
show off before a lot of folks she don’t care a cent for, nor they for
her.” Says I, “A middlin’ plain dress for instance, one made with a
plain strip set on the bias round the overskirt, or sunthin’ of that
sort,” says I, “such a dress with a bright healthy, happy face, looks
better to me than the height of fashion wore with a face that is almost
completely worn out with the work a makin’ of it, drawn down by care,
and crossness, and hard work into more puckers than there is on the
ruffles;” says I, “if a woman is able and willin’ to hire her clothes
made, that’s a different thing; in them cases let wimmen ruffle
themselves off to their heart’s content, and the more work the better
for the sewin’ wimmen.”
I don’t think Mahala sensed my talk much of any, for she was nippin’-to,
sewin’ on her ruffles, and I heerd her say seeminly to herself:
“Lemme see; nine yards for the bottom ruffle, and a little over. Three
times nine is twenty-seven, and that leaves fourteen yards of trimmin’
for the poleynay, and up and down the back will be seventeen more—lemme
see!” And she was a measurin’ it off with her hands. Finally she seemed
to sense where she was for a minute, and turned to me with a still more
haggard look onto her face.
Says she: “Mebby you have heerd about it; is it so, or not? I _must_
know,” says she.
Says I, in anxious axents, for she looked fearfully bad: “Is it your
childern’s future you are a worryin’ about? Is your companion’s morals a
totterin? Is the Human Race on your mind, a tirin’ you, Mahala?”
“No!” says she. “It haint none of them triflin’ things, but I heerd a
rumor that they wasn’t a goin’ to wear poleynays trimmed up the back. Do
you know? Can you tell me what they are a goin’ to do?”
Oh! what a wild gloomy glarin’ look settled down onto her face as she
asked me this question:
“_They_” says I, a bustin’ right out almost wildly, “who is old _They_
that is leadin’ my sect into chains and slavery?” Says I, almost by the
side of myself with emotion, “Bring him up to me, and lemme wrastle with
him, and destroy him.” Says I, “I hear of that old tyrant on all sides.
If he gives the word, wimmen will drop their dresses right down a yard
into the mud, or tack ’em up to their knees; they will puff ’em out like
baloons, or pin ’em back, a bandegin’ themselves like mummies; they will
wear their bunnets on the back of their necks leavin’ their faces all
out in the sun, or they will wear ’em over their forwards, makin’ ’em as
blind as a bat—leavin’ the backside of their heads all out to the
weather; they will wear low slips as thin as paper, or be mounted up on
high heels like a ostridge; they will frizzle their hair all up on top
of their heads like a rooster’s comb, or let it string down their backs
like a maniac’s; and if I ask ’em wildly why these things are so; they
say they do it because _They_ do it. I find old _They_ at the bottom of
it.