think the more of ’em;” and I went on eloquently—“do you s’pose Delila,
that the love of a _true man_,—a love that crowns a woman more royally
than a queen, a love that satisfies her head and her heart and that she
can trust herself to through life and death; a love that inspires her to
think all goodness and purity are possible to her for its sake,—that
makes her, through very happiness, more humble and tender and yet
fearless, liftin’ her above all low aims and worryments; do you s’pose
this love that makes a woman as rich as a Jew if she owns nothin’ on
earth beside, can be inspired and awakened by a contemplation of sham
gentility and whiffet pups? Can bobinet lace spangled with gilt
butterflies weave a net to catch this priceless treasure? Never! Delila
Ann Spicer, never! that is,—a love that is worth havin’; some men’s love
haint worth nothin’; I wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for it by the
car-load.”
But, as I said, “Delila Ann and the hull eight on you promiscous, a
earnest, true, noble man would think as much again of a girl who had
independence and common sense enough to earn her own livin’ when her
father was a poor man. Good land! how simple it is to try to deceive
folks; gauze veils, and cotton-velvet cloaks haint a goin’ to cover up
the fact of poverty; if we be poor there’s not a mite of disgrace in it.
Poverty is the dark mine where diamonds are found lots of times by their
glitterin’ so ag’inst the blackness. The darkness of poverty can’t put
out the light of a pure diamond; it will shine anywhere, as bright in
the dark dirt as on a queen’s finger, for its light comes from within;
and rare pearls are formed frequent by the grindin’ touch of poverty,
tears of pain and privation and patience crystalized into great drops of
light that will shine forever. Honest hard workin’ poverty is
respectable as anything can be respectable and should be honored, if for
no other reason, for the sake of Him who eighteen hundred years ago made
it illustrious forever. But poverty hidin’ itself behind the
appariently; poverty hidin’ itself under a sham gentility; pretentious,
deceitful poverty—tryin’ to cover a empty stomach with a tinsel
breast-pin—is a sight, and enough to make angels weep, and sinners sick.
Let your girls learn some honest trade Delila Ann, let ’em be
self-respectin’, industrious—”
“Oh my! I wouldn’t have ’em miss of bein’ married for nothin’ in the
world.”
“Good land!” says I. “Is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay
holt of? It seems to me that the best way would be to lay holt of duty
now, and then if a bo comes lay holt of him. But if they catch a bo with
such a hook as they are a fishin’ with now, what kind of a bo will it
be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime novels,
lazyness, deceitfulness, and pups. Learn your girls to be industrious
and to respect themselves. They can’t now, Delila Ann, I _know_ they
can’t. No woman can feel honorable and reverential towards themselves,
when they are a foldin’ their useless hands over their empty souls,
waitin’ for some man—no matter who—to marry ’em and support ’em. When in
the agony of suspense and fear they have narrowed down to this one theme
all their hopes and prayers: “Good Lord, anybody!” But when a woman lays
holt of life in a noble earnest way, when she is dutiful, cheerful, and
industrious, God-fearin’ and self-respectin’, though the world sinks,
there is a rock under her feet that wont let her down fur enough to hurt
her any.”
“Oh dear;” says Delila Ann again, “I should think she would want to get
married—want to awfully.” Truly everybody has their theme, and marryin’
is hern. But I kep’ cool and says I in calm axents, but sort o’ noble
and considerable eloquent:
“If love comes to board with her, so much the better; she will be ready
to receive him royally, and keep him when she gets him—some folks don’t
know how to use love worth a cent, can’t keep him any length of time.
Such a woman wont git crazy as a loon, and wild-eyed, and accept the
wrong man—so dead with fear that the right one wont be forth comin’. She
wont barter her truth and self respect for a home and housen stuff, and
the sham dignity of a false marriage. No mom, or moms; though a regiment
of men are at her feet a askin’ her in pleadin’ axents if their bride
she will be, her ears will be deaf as a stun to the hull caboodle of
’em, unless the true voice speaks to her; and she wont listen with the
ear of flesh, she wont hear it unless her soul can listen. Mebby that
voice, that _true_ voice is soundin’ to her heart through the centuries;
mebby, like as not, she was born a century too soon, or a hundred years
too late—what of it? That don’t scare her a mite, she will keep right on
a livin’ jest as calm and collected and happy and contented as anything,
till the eternal meetin’ of true souls crowns him and her with the
greatness of that love. No, Delila Ann Spicer, such a woman as that, no
matter whether she be single or double, I am not afraid of her future.”
“What! not get married! Oh dear me suz,” screamed Delila Ann, for truly
the thought seemed to scare her nearly to death. “Oh how awful, how
lonely, lonely, they must be.”
“Who said they wasn’t?” says I in pretty middlin’ short tones—for she
was a beginnin’ to wear me out some—but I continued on in more mild
axents:
“I have seen married folks before now, that I _knew_ was in their souls
as lonesome as dogs and lonesomer,” says I, “a disagreeabler feelin’ I
never felt, than to have company that haint company, stay right by you
for two or three days. And then what must it be to have ’em stand by you
from forty to fifty years. Good land! it would tucker anybody out. A
desert haint to be compared to a crowd of strangers; woods can’t be
compared to human bein’s for loneliness, for Nater is a friendly
critter, and to them that love her, she has a hundred ways to chirk ’em
up and comfort ’em. And solitude is sacred, when the world’s babble dies
away, you hush your soul, and hear the footfalls of the Eternal. Hear
His voice speakin’ to your heart in better thoughts, purer aspirations,
nobler idees. No! for pure loneliness give me the presence of an alien
soul, whose thoughts can never be your thoughts, whose eyes can no more
see what your eyes see than if they wore leather spectacles, whose
presence weighs you down like four Nite Mairs and a half. And if for any
reason, fear, thoughtlessness, or wantin’ a home, you are married to
such a one, there is a loneliness for you Delila Ann Spicer.” But she
kep’ right on, with her former idees, for she felt ’em deeply.
“Oh Dear! I don’t see how folks git along that haint married. Nothin’ in
the world looks so poverty-struck, and lonesome as a woman that haint
married.”
“Yes,” says I reasonably, “they _do_ have a sort of a one sided look
I’ll admit, and sort o’ curious, at certain times, such as processions,
and etcetery; I always said so, and I say so still. But,” says I, “in my
opinion, there haint no lonesomeness to be compared to the lonesomeness
of the empty-headed and aimless, and no amount of husbands can make up
to any woman for the loss of her self-respect. Them is my idees,
howsumever everybody to their own mind.”
Whether I did ’em any good or not I don’t know, for my companion arrived
jest that moment, and we departed onto our tower; but it is a sweet and
comfortin’ thought, that whether you hit the mark you aim at or not, you
have done your best and a good pile of arrers somewhere will bear
witness that you have took aim, and fired nobly in the cause of Right.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
UNCLE ZEBULIN COFFIN
Ever sense I had married to Josiah Allen, I had heerd of Uncle Zebulin
Coffin, what a good man he was. Every time Josiah would git low spirited
and kinder back slid in his mind, he would groan out, “Oh, if I could
only be as good as Uncle Zebulin is!”
And when he would be in this deprested state, if he and I would laugh
out kinder hearty at sunthin’ the childern said or done, he would
mutter:
“Oh Samantha, what would Uncle Zebulin say if he should hear us laugh! I
don’t believe we shall ever get to be so good as he is in this world.”
“What has he done so awful good?” I would say.
“Why,” says Josiah, “Uncle Zebulin haint laughed in over forty years.
You don’t have no idee what a good man he is.”
“That don’t raise him 7 cents in my estimation,” says I. “What else has
he done so uncommon good?”
“Oh,” says Josiah. “I don’t know of anything in particular. But you
never see so good a man as he is. He’s made a regular pattern of
himself. He never smiles, and he would sooner cut off anybody’s head
than to joke with ’em; and he is so quick to see if anybody else does
wrong. He’ll make anybody feel so wicked, when they are with him;
they’ll see so plain how much better he is than they be. He is so
uncommon good, that I never could bear to stay there; I realized his
goodness so much, and see my own wickedness so plain. A dretful good
man, Uncle Zebulin is, dretful.”
I knew when we sot out for the Sentinal that we should go within a few
miles of him; we had got to go right through Loon Town, where his
letters was sent to. (Josiah had helped him to money to pay up a
mortgage, and they had wrote back and forth about it.) I beset Josiah to
stop and visit him, not that I had such a awful high opinion of him, but
I wanted to go more out of curiosity, a sort of a circus feelin’; but
Josiah hung back, and I says to him:
“Anybody would think Josiah Allen, that after praisin’ up a Uncle
Zebulin day and night for goin’ on twenty years, a man would be willin’
to let his lawful pardner git a glimpse on him;” but Josiah hung back,
and says he:
“He is so tarnal good, Samantha, you haint no idee how powerful
uncomfortable and unsatisfactory he makes wickeder folks feel.” But I
says cheerfully:
“If he is so dretful good as you say, he wont be likely to hurt us, and
I don’t go for comfort, I go in a sort of a menagery way; and also,” I
added with dignity, “as a P. A. and a P. I.”
“Well,” he kinder whimpered out, “mebby it is all for the best. We’ll go
if you are so sot on it, but there don’t seem to be no need of our
stayin’ any length of time.”
“Well,” says I, “we’ll see, when we git there.”
But after we got started off on our tower, and as we drew near Loon
Town, (thirteen miles from Melankton Spicer’ses) and I spoke to Josiah
about our visit to Uncle Zebulin, he made as strange of it, as if he
never had heerd of the idee; said he never had borrowed any trouble
about it, never had had an idee of goin’ nigh him.
“Then what made you say so,” says I.
“Say so!” says he in a wanderin’, unbelievin’ tone, “I haint said so,”
says he, “you must have dremp it.”
I argued with him for quite a spell, but he stuck to it; said he didn’t
blame me any for sayin’ it, for I had most probable dremp it.
It madded me so to hear him go on, that I wouldn’t multiply no more
words with him, and I should probable never have sot eyes on Zebulin
Coffin, if it hadn’t been for a axident that took place jest as we was a
enterin’ Loon Town.
I thought there had been sunthin’ kinder loose and shackly about the
buggy for some time, and so I says to Josiah:
“There seems to be sunthin’ wrong about the buggy Josiah Allen, I
believe the whiffletrys are loose.”
“The whiffletrys are all right. You are notional Samantha—wimmen always
be, not havin’ such strong firm minds as we men have they git the hypo.”
Says I, almost coldly, “After you throw us out, and kill both on us,
mebby you wont twit me of havin’ the hypo.”
“I haint never killed you yet, Samantha,” says he, “and you have been a
lookin’ out for it for the last twenty years.”
[Illustration: CHEATED.]
But that man hadn’t hardly got the words out of his mouth, when all of a
sudden jest what I had been bewarin’ him of happened; sunthin’ _did_
break down; he said it was the ex. But everything seemed to give way all
of a sudden under us; I was skairt, very. The old mare bein’ a orniment
to her sect stopped stun still, so there wasn’t no killed nor wounded to
repent on, but the top buggy had got to go to the wagon shop to be
repaired upon. Josiah acted mad; says he:
“That darned man cheated me on that buggy, I’ll bet a cent. We’d done
better to have bought a phantom; I told you so Samantha in the first
on’t.”
Knowin’ it was the nater born in every man to want to blame somebody or
sunthin’ in a time like this, and knowin’ if anything could be a comfort
to my companion _that_ would, I didn’t feel like arguin’ with him a mite
about our buyin’ or not buyin’ a phantom to ride. I was sorry for him,
but feelin’ I had a vow onto me, and knowin’ it was my duty to lock arms
(as it were) with my companion, and lead him gently back if I see him a
strayin’ off into the wrong, I says to him in a kind of a roundabout
way, but mildly and firmly:
“When companions was falsely told they had dremp things, mebby judgments
was sometimes sent onto Josiahs.”
I had hinted this in a dretful blind way, but he took it in a minute,
and snapped out enough to take my head off.
“Well, well! I s’pose we can go to Uncle Zeb’s, if you are so sot on it,
while this is bein’ mended;” and he added with a gloomy face: “I guess
you’ll have the worst on’t, when you see how good he is.”
I felt glad to go, for I had a curious feelin’ that I was needed there
as a Promiscous Advisor; as if I had a job there to tackle in the cause
of Right. The blacksmith sent a boy for a man that did such jobs, and in
a few minutes time we was on our way to Uncle Zebulin Coffin’ses. It was
a good lookin’ iron grey man, about the age of Josiah who was a carryin
us. He had a nice span of horses, and we rode in a respectable democrat
with two seats. Josiah sot on the front seat with the driver, and the
satchel and umberell and I sot on the back seat. After we had got
started, the man spoke up and says he:
“You are a goin’ over to Deacon Coffin’ses?”
“Yes,” says Josiah.
His face grew sad, and he shook his head in a mournful way.
“A dretful good man the Deacon is.”
Says I, “Sunthin’ in the line of Paradise Lost, or the Course of Time;
sunthin’ like Milton or Pollock, haint he?”
Says he “I haint acquainted with the gentlemen you speak of.”
He looked so kinder sharp and curious at me, that I spoke up again, and
says I:
“I have got the idee from what I have heerd, that he is sunthin’ like
them books I spoke of. Everybody knows they are hefty and respectable,
but somehow they don’t take so much comfort a perusin’ ’em as they do in
admirin’ ’em at a distance—bein’ wrote in blank verse, they make folks
feel sort o’ blank.”
The man didn’t answer me but put on a still more melancholly and
deprested look, and says he:
“He haint smiled in more’n thirty years, and haint snickered in goin’ on
fifty. It’s curious, how anybody can be so good haint it? You see, I
carry passengers back and forth, and the Deacon rode with me about a
year ago, and he labored with me powerful about my son Tom, Tom Pitkins!
my name is Elam Pitkins.”
He was a settin’ on the same seat with Josiah, and they had been a
visitin’ together like old friends. But Josiah turned right round and
shook hands with him, and say he: “How do you do Mr. Pitkins, happy to
make your acquaintance, sir.”
And then he took his hat off, and held it in his lap for a few moments;
then he put it on his head again. I was almost proud of that man at that
minute, to see how well he knew what belonged to good manners; (I had
took him in hand, and tutored him a sight, before we sot out on our
tower,) and bein’ Josiah’s teacher in politeness, I wasn’t a goin’ to be
out done by him; so I riz right up, and made a low curchy and shook
hands with him. The democrat jolted jest then, and I come down pretty
sudden, and bein’ a hefty woman I struck hard—but I didn’t begreech my
trouble. True politeness is dear to me; true courtesy is a near relation
to principle, as near as 2nd cousin.
This little episode over, and polite manners attended to, Elam Pitkins
continued on:
“As I say, the Deacon give it to me strong about my son Tom—he made me
feel wicked as a dog—said I’d be the ruination of him. You see the way
on’t was, Loon Town is a great place for politics; lots of congressmen
make it their home here summers, and so it is run down in its
morals—lots of drinkin’ saloons, and other places of licenced ruination,
and billiard-rooms, and so 4th—and Tom bein a bright, wide-awake lad,
got kinder unstiddy for a spell. You know boys at that age take to fun
and amusement as naterally as a duck takes to water; its nater, jest as
much as the sun is nater or the moon, and can’t be helped any more than
they can. Well, his ma and I talked it over; I was a great case to read
nights—solid books, such as Patent Office Reports and the Dictionary
bein’ my holt—and she was great on mendin’—socks bein’ her theme and
stiddy practice. But Tom was a gettin’ unstiddy; and we talked it over
and come to the conclusion that these occupations of ourn, though they
was as virtuous as two young sheep’s, still they wasn’t very highlarious
and happyfyin’ to a boy like Tom. And what do you s’pose we did—his ma
and I? Well sir, if you’ll believe it, we learnt to play dominoes, that
woman and I did and both on us a goin’ on fifty. You ort to seen us
handle them dominoes at first! We’d never either on us touched one
before, but we kep’ at it, a studyin’ deep, till we could play a good
hand; and if I had give Tom a 50 dollar bill, he wouldn’t have been half
so tickled as he was when his ma and I sot down to play dominoes with
him for the first time.
[Illustration: COMPETING WITH THE BAR-ROOM.]
“And then if you’ll believe it, his ma and I tackled the checker board
next, and mastered that; Tom beats us most every time, and I am glad on
it, and his ma is too. Then I got a box of authors; it don’t take near
so much mind to play that as it does dominoes, most anybody can learn
that, and it is a beautiful game—Thackuary and Dickens and all on ’em
painted out as plain as day on ’em—and we bought lots of interestin’
books wrote by these very men that we got acquainted with in this way.
And before winter was out, I got a set of parlor crokay; and when the
bar-room winders was all lit up, seeminly a beconin’ Tom and others like
him to come and be ruined, we lit up our sittin’-room winders brighter
still, and bein’ considerable forehanded, and thinkin’ it is cheaper
than to pay whisky bills, and gamblin’ debts, and worse—we lay out—Tom’s
ma and I do—to have fruit, and nuts, and pop-corn, and lemonade and so
4th every evening; and Tom’s mates are made welcome, when they come. Why
good land! You can’t git Tom away from home now hardly enough to be
neighborly. We have kep’ up such doin’s year after year, and Tom is
goin’ on twenty-two; and between you and me—you are related to Deacon
Coffin’ses folks, you say?”
“Yes,” says Josiah and I.
“Well, you look so sort o’ friendly, and you’d be apt to hear of it any
way, so I’ll tell you; Tom got sweet on the Deacon’s Molly; perfectly
smit by her, and before they knew it, as you may say, they was engaged.
Nater, you know, jest as nateral as the sun is, or the moon, or
anything; but when Tom told us about it, and we had always been so kind
of familiar with him, sort o’ mated with him, that it come nateral in
him to confide in us—he thinks a sight on us Tom does—I told him to be
honorable and manly, and tackle the old Deacon about it. Tom is brave as
a lion—he wouldn’t hang back a inch from bears or tigers or crockydiles
or anything of the kind—but when I mentioned the idee of his tacklin’
the old Deacon, I’ll be hanged if Tom didn’t flinch, and hang back.” Says
he:
“I hate to; I hate to go near him, he is such a good man;” says he, “he
makes me feel as if I could crawl through a knot hole, as if I wanted
to.”
But my advice to Tom was from day to day, “tackle the old Deacon.”
And finally Tom tackled him; and the old Deacon was madder than a hen.
“A _pious_ hen,” says I coldly, for I was a beginnin’ to not bear the
old Deacon.
“Yes,” says he, “bein’ so darned good, he said Molly shouldn’t marry any
feller that laughed and played dominoes and danced—and Tom had danced
once or twice to one of our neighbors, and the old Deacon had heerd of
it—so he turned Tom out doors, and forbid Molly’s speakin’ to him again;
Molly, they say, took it bad, and it come powerful hard on Tom. He is a
soft hearted feller Tom is, and he fairly worshipped her; but his ma and
I brought him up to meet trials bravely, and it is a pattern to anybody
to see how brave, and calm, and patient he is, with his trouble makin’
him as poor as a snail. Stiddy to work as a clock, cheerful, and growin’
poor all the time; awful good to babys, and childern Tom is, sense it
took place, and growin’ pale, and poor as a rat. I tell you it comes
pretty tough on his ma and me to see it go on; but Tom wont be
underhanded, and he’ll have to grin and bear it, for the Deacon says he
never changes his mind, and he is so tarnal good I s’pose he can’t.
“He talked powerful to me the day he rode with me; I don’t know when I
ever felt wickeder and meaner than I did then; I can truly say that when
the old Deacon got out of the buggy, and for several hours after that, I
could have been bought cheap—probable from 25 to 30 cents—he give it to
me so for lettin’ Tom play games, and playin’ with him myself. He said I
was doin’ the devil’s work; a immortal soul left to my charge, and I a
fillin’ it up with dominoes and checkers.
“‘But,’ says I, ‘Tom got to runnin’ to the tarven; he got into bad
company; I did it to stop him; factorum Deacon, honor bright.’
“And then the Deacon give it to me for swearin’; he was so good, he
thought honor bright and factorum was swearin’, and says he:
“‘S’posen Tom _did_ git to runnin’ to the tarven and other places of
ruination; _then_ was the time for you to do your duty. Preach his
wickedness to him; keep at it every time he come into the house day and
night, down suller, and up stairs, to the table and the altar. I s’posed
you was a prayin’ man, and prayed in your family.’
“‘I haint missed a night nor mornin’ sense I joined the meetin’-house,’
says I.
“‘Well, what a weapon that family altar might be, if you handled it
right, to pierce Tom to the heart; to show him how gloomy his sins made
you; to make him see _your_ goodness, and _his_ sinfulness; to make a
pattern of yourself before him; and then evenin’s you ort to be stern
and gloomy, and awful dignified, and spend ’em, every one of ’em, in
readin’ religious tracts to him; warnin’s to sinners, and the perils of
the ungodly. I would lend you half a bushel that I have used in bringin’
up my own family; and if you took this course, what a happyfyin’ thought
it would be, that, whatever course he took, whether he went to ruin or
not, you had done _your_ duty, set him a pattern of righteousness, and
his wickedness couldn’t be laid to _your_ charge; and you could have a
clear conscience, and be happy, even if you looked down from the shinin’
shore, and see him a wreathin’ in torment.’
“‘But,’ says I, ‘what if my preachin’ his wickedness into him, and
readin’ tracts at him had the effect of makin’ him hate religion, and
drivin’ him away from home to the tarven and wickedness? After Tom was
ruined, my makin’ a pattern of myself, and feelin’ innocent, wouldn’t
bring Tom back. And,’ says I, ‘if I kep’ Tom from goin’ to ruin, by
keepin’ him to home, and playin’ dominoes with him—and didn’t feel
innocent—lemme see—where be I—’”
“And I scratched my head till every hair stood up on end, I was so
puzzled, and kinder worked up, a thinkin’ how I would go to work to be
innocent in the matter, and whether after I had lost Tom, my bein’ a
pattern would be much of a comfort to me or his ma; but though I
scratched my head powerful, I couldn’t scratch a clear idee of the
matter out of it. But I tell you, the Deacon made me feel small, so
small that when I got home, I was most tempted to go in through the
key-hole; and mean—I knew I was the meanest man in North America, I
could have took my oath on it with a clear conscience.
“But Tom’s ma felt different about it when I talked it over with her;
and she went on and give _her_ views on bringin’ up childern and
religion, and things, for about the first time I ever heerd her in my
life—she bein’ one of the kind that believes in doin’ more and sayin’
less; though, if there is anybody livin’ that can beat her in piety, I’d
love to see ’em. As I say, I never see her talk so earnest and sort of
inspired like, as she did then; it went to my heart so, took me so
‘right where I lived’—as the poet says—and I have thought it over so
many times sense, that I can remember every word on it, though there was
powerful long words in it. But good land! long words haint nothin’ for
Tom’s ma to handle; she’s dretful high learnt, teached a deestrick
school for years; I never shall forget how she looked when she was a
talkin’ it to me; how her eyes shone; she has got big brown eyes jest
like Tom’s, and they sort o’ lit up, jest as if there was a kerosine
lamp a burnin’ inside of her face, or several candles; she talked
powerful. She said she didn’t think we need feel condemned; says she: