bunnets when they haint a sufferin’ for ’em, and buy new dresses when
their old ones haint hardly come to mendin’, and mebby some of ’em have
two or three sets of jewelry at one time; and these dresses, and
bunnets, and jewelry, folks can lay holt of, and shake out before the
eyes of the public, and the public can look at ’em, and shed tears onto
’em, and bewail over ’em about wimmen’s extravagance; but men’s
extravagance haint so easy to git holt of as store clothes be. You can’t
weep over cigar smoke when it is evaporated, and after they are over
with, you can’t git holt of costly wines, and club dinners, and yot
races, and rides after fast horses, and bets, and gamblin’ debts, and
worse. As I said, their extravagance is harder to git holt of, but it is
worse than hers; for if she and he gits hungry, she can sell her jewelry
and fine clothes to buy bread for ’em, but who—no matter how big a
speculator he is—who can sell costly lunches years afterwards, and wines
after they are drunk up, and gamin’ and horse debts after they are paid
up, and old pleasure rides after fast horses, and etcetery. A man
couldn’t sell ’em at any lay at all, if he starved to death; so man’s
extravagance is _more_ extravagant than woman’s.”
[Illustration: FRUGAL MEN.]
[Sidenote: HOW I MARRIED THE DEACON’S DAUGHTER]
The Deacon didn’t mind my words no more’n the wind a whistlin’ round the
corner of the barn; but he give a look onto the little white waist that
was a layin’ on the table, as angry and rebukin’ a look as I ever see,
and says he: “To think an immortal soul will peril its hopes of heaven
on such wicked vanity.”
“Wicked!” says I, holdin’ up the little waist admirin’ly on my thumb and
forefinger. “It haint wicked, it is as white as chalk clean through;”
says I, “who told us to consider the lilies, and they are puckered up,
and ruffled off as much again as this is, and all ornamented off with
little gold ornaments; if there was any wickedness in ’em would He have
sot us to considerin’ of ’em? No! Zebulin Coffin, no!” And then I went
on in pretty reasonable tones: “No woman can have stronger principles
than I have on the subject of ruffles and knife pleatin’s, when pursued
after as a stiddy business and a trade. But I say it is jest as sensible
to expect young folks in the spring of life, to want to kinder trim
themselves out and look pretty, as it is to expect everything else to
kinder blow out in the spring of the year; apple trees, and pozy beds
and so 4th.” Says I, “I am a Promiscous Advisor by trade Uncle Zebulin,
and I feel it my duty to say to you promiscously, that you are
unreasonable; you don’t have charity enough for folks.”
And then as I calculated to all the time, I give him a very, very blind
hint about Tom Pitkins—for I thought mebby I could mollyfy the old
Deacon about him—and so says I in a awful roundabout, blind way: “Mebby
you haint charity enough for a certain person that is likely as likely
can be; mebby you condemn this certain person because he plays dominoes,
and has danced a very little in a neighborly way.”
The Deacon acted mad; and he run on about dancin’ almost fearfully, when
I asked him considerable calmly: “Did you ever dance when you was young,
Uncle Zeb?”
If a look could have cut anybodys head off, my Josiah would have mourned
over a guluntined companion that very minute.
“Dance! _I dance!_” Oh how he went on; and says I, “I s’pose you went to
parties and played?”
“Oh yes,” says he, “In youthful mirth I gambolled through the innocent
forms of ‘Wink ’em Slyly’ and such, but I never danced, I never
committed that sin.”
[Illustration: THE DEACON’S OLD GAME.]
“No,” says I, “but you went through with all the motions of dancin’,
caperin’ round the room, chasin’ likely wimmen to Copenhagen; and a
runnin’ ’em through the Needles-eye till they was most dead. Winkin’ of
’em slyly, and racin’ ’em round till you most run your precious legs off
and theirn too. You went through all the motions of dancin’, only
instead of takin’ their hands and promenadin’ down the room with ’em at
a slow respectable gait to the sound of music, you laid too and chased
’em, galloped after ’em like a wild Injun till you chased ’em down;
takin’ the advantage of ’em by dodgin’ unbeknown to ’em—catchin’ holt of
’em and a tearin’ their dresses, rippin’ of ’em off at the waist;
steppin’ through their flounces, towzelin’ their hair, and lamin’ of
’em. You chased ’em round in a particular form jest like dancin’ only
what took the wickedness off was your kissin’ ’em when you catched ’em;
every man in the room kissin’ every woman promiscous; that made it moral
and religious, so Deacons and all other meetin’ house folks could foller
it up.”
He looked wrathful, very; but I continued on in more reasonable axents:
“I never had no call to be a dancer, I always thought my time could be
spent in a more profitable way; and my Tirzah Ann never had no call that
way, and neither did she ever take to those promiscous kissin’ parties.
When she was a little mite of a girl she didn’t want to kiss anybody but
her pa and me, and I wouldn’t make her. Some thought she was too dainty
and I ort to punish her. Wimmen with their faces covered with scotch
snuff, have argued with me that it was my duty to whip her for hangin’
back from kissin’ ’em; but I says to ’em what if some big giant should
stand over me and make me kiss Simon Slimpsey or Solomon Cypher, how
should I feel? And Tirzah Ann has her rights as well as I
have—childern’s rights are jest as right as wimmen’s rights. Why should
I, because I am physically stronger than she is, force her to do what is
disagreeable and repulsive to her? There is no justice in it. Little
childern forced into this life entirely unbeknown to them, called out of
the peaceful land of Nowhere into this troublesome world by no will of
their own, ort to be treated well, Zebulin Coffin, by their fathers and
mothers and parents. It is a solemn thing, one of the solemnest things
that ever was done to wake up a deathless soul, to be endlessly happy or
miserable. An immortal soul, that can’t through time or eternity—no
matter how tired it is, ever go to sleep again; can’t never lay off for
half a moment, if ever so weary and despairin’, the burden of life’s
responsibilities, the burden of life’s sorrows; can’t never lay down the
awful—awful because so mysterious—gift of immortality; can’t never go
back to the serene if lonesome land you called ’em from—they have got to
face sorrow and weariness and death. You have sot ’em down in front of
them troubles anyway; and the least you can do for ’em is to make ’em as
happy as you can; treat ’em with respect and civility and do well by
’em. And if their hearts seem to be sot on certain persons, if them
certain persons are likely—which they be—we ort to do as we would be
done by if we was in Tom’s and Molly’s place.”
But I see then that even these roundabout hints wouldn’t be took. I see
how hard it was to mollyfy him about Molly, and I hastened to continue
on.
“As I was a sayin’, I wouldn’t make Tirzah Ann kiss folks promiscous
when she was a child, and when she grew up sort of bashful like, it
didn’t trouble me, for I knew her little dainty, timid, modest ways was
jest like the blush on a peach or a bunch of grapes; if that got brushed
off by rough handlin’, all the world couldn’t never put it back again.
As I said, she never had no drawin’ towards balls and promiscous
parties, and runnin’ off nights away from home. And though I don’t
consider it the height of wickedness at all, still it didn’t worry me a
bit to have her contented and willin’ to stay to home. She said home was
the pleasantest spot in the world to her, and so Thomas J. said. Josiah
and I did our best to make home pleasant to the childern; we had all
sorts of virtuous and harmless games, music and etcetery, to make ’em
happy—and they _was_ happy. We worked hard to git ’em headed right—and
they did head right; and when a likely young man come along that loved
Tirzah Ann, and she him, why we give our consent, jest as in my opinion
certain persons ort to have the free and full consent of a certain
Deacon.”
I _would_ give him a blind hint once in a while, if he took my head off;
but I see by his looks that it wouldn’t do to come out plain jest yet,
so I went on:
“I tried to make myself a sort of a mate to my Tirzah Ann, brought her
up so’s not to feel awe-struck, and afraid of me; afraid to confide all
her little tribulations and worryments to me.” Says I, “We worked head
work to keep ’em good and happy; Josiah and me did.”
The Deacon had sot for the last several moments with his head right up
in the air, and his eyes rolled up so I couldn’t see much besides the
whites of ’em, and as I stopped a few moments (for truly my breath had
give out, my deep principle tone uses up breath dretful fast) he groaned
out; “_Works._”
But I says mildly, “don’t you believe in works?”
“No I don’t, I believe in faith; you seem to lay out to be saved by
works.” And again he spoke out that “works,” as if it was the meanest
thing he ever heerd on; he lifted up his nose in as unbelievin, and
scornful a way as I ever see a nose lifted up.
But I kep’ cool, and says I, “No, I don’t; but I believe faith and works
ort to go together; they ort to work in one harness a drawin’ the soul
along the straight and narrer way.” Says I, “They haint calculated to
work in a single harness, either of ’em; they are double breasted, and
folks ort to realize that they be.” Says I, “I have seen folks before
now that kep’ the eye of their faith bent so stiddy upwards, that they
didn’t know nor care how many weak and helpless ones they was crunchin’
down under their heels; how many infant babes was a perishin’ with
hunger about ’em, starvin’ physically, and spiritually; the air full of
the groans and prayers of a sufferin’ humanity, and they a walkin’
calmly on, a hangin’ on to their faith, and their old beliefs, as if it
was the most delightful and consolin’ thing they ever heerd on, to think
_they_ was goin’ to be saved, and somebody else wasn’t. And then I’ve
seen them that laid themselves out on their good works, thought they was
goin’ to earn a deed of the heavenly homestead by doin’ day’s works
below; think they made themselves, and worship their maker. But there
haint either of these ways the right way.”
[Illustration: HELPIN’ THE WIDDER.]
Says I, “If you was a drowndin’, you would believe in faith and works
both. You would want somebody to have faith, they could git you out, and
then you would want ’em to lay to, and haul you ashore.” Says I, “Faith
alone in that case would drownd you stiffer’n a mushrat; and jest so in
various cases,—poor widders for instance. Now several hundred deacons
may git together in a warm meetin’-house, and lean over on their creeds
and have faith that a certain widder will come through the winter all
right. And probable it wouldn’t be half the help to her that one small
deacon would be that loaded up his Bobs with stove-wood, and flour, and
potatoes, and side-pork, and jest worked his way along through the snow
to her cold empty suller. And then on the other hand not to have any
faith, that I couldn’t stand. Some folks say they wont believe in
anything they can’t see for themselves. Good land! how will they git
holt of the prefume of a rose, or tackle a gust of wind? One is sweet
enough to fill you with happiness, and the other is strong enough to
blow you over; but you can’t git holt of one, with your two hands, or
wrastle with the other and throw it.
“We work by faith every day of our lives; we plant seed in the dark
earth, believin’ that though the seed perishes, it will break the bands
of death, and rise in greenness and bloom; though jest how it does that
job you cant tell, nor I cant, nor Josiah. They needn’t talk to me about
not believin’ anything they don’t understand; for what _do_ we
understand come to look at the matter fair and square?” Says I, “Life
itself is a sober riddle, the solemnest conundrum that was ever put out
to humanity. Who has ever been able to git the right answer to it by
reasonin’ it out himself, and if he did cypher out an answer, to suit
himself, how would he know it was the right one? We see that things be,
but why they be so, you can’t tell, nor I, nor Josiah.
“Truly, if anybody gits to pryin’ into hidden things, and reasonin’ on
first causes, he finds that the flood is deep and the rain is descendin’
onto him, and the proud peaks of his own reason and judgment is drownded
completely out. But God has sent forth an ark that rides triumphant on
the face of the waters; His revealed word floats above the rainy deluge
of our fears and wonderments. Not to have any faith would tucker me
completely out; there would be a looseness to it I couldn’t stand, a
waverin’ unstiddyness that would upset me, and take me offen my feet.”
Says I, “Faith and works ort to be twisted in one strand, and when they
are, they make a cord that anchors the soul to the Rock of Ages, and
holds it there fast and firm, so that change, and chance, and sin, and
temptation, and all the storms of this stormy life will beat ag’inst it
in vain, and bime-by that very cord will draw the soul right up through
the pearly gates into the city of our Lord.”
I declare I didn’t hardly know where I was, nor who I was, I was so
almost lost and carried away some distance by my emotions. But I was
soon drawed back to the realities of this life by Zebulin Coffin. His
mind was a roamin’ back to the subject on which he had went on, and
again he spoke out with a groan: “To think! to think I have lived to see
and hear a church member uphold dancin’.”
“I haint a holdin’ it up,” says I, coldly. “With the firm cast-iron
principles I have got, I never would dance a step with anybody but my
Josiah; and it haint much likely we shall begin to learn the trade now,
as old as we be, and most dead with the rheumatiz, both on us. Why, if
we should waltz together, as lame as I be, I couldn’t keep my feet half
a minute; and if I should fall on my pardner, he would be a dead man,
and I know it; I am hefty, very, and he is small boneded, and weighs but
little by the steelyards. I love that man devotedly, and I don’t want to
dance; but I say and I contend for it, if I was a follerin’ up
‘Wink-em-Slyly’ and etcetery, I wouldn’t have too much to say ag’inst
other kinds of caperin’ round the floor, such as dancin’ and so 4th.”
“I say all this to you, Uncle Zebulin, not as Josiah Allen’s wife, but
as a woman with a vow on her. When folks set out on towers as Promiscous
Advisors, they set out as sufferers and martyrs; they set out expectin’
to be burnt up on various stakes of the same. I have locked arms with
Principle, I am keepin’ stiddy company with Duty, and they are a drawin’
me along and a hunchin’ of me in the side, a makin’ me say to you, that
you are as self-righteous as the Old Harry; that you are more sot on
makin’ a pattern of yourself than in makin the world ’round you happier
and brighter; that instead of reflectin’ heaven’s peace and glory back
again upon a sad earth as Christians ort to, you have made a damper of
yourself, shettin’ off all warmth and light and happiness; a damper for
sinners to set down and freeze to death by.”
“To think!” he groaned out, “that anybody should dare to find fault with
me when I haint committed a sin in thirty-five years, nor smiled in over
forty.”
“Not laughin’ haint no sign of religion Uncle Zeb; because a man makes
himself disagreeable and repulsive, that haint another sign; gloom and
discomfort haint piety; because a man is in pain it haint no sign he is
enjoyin’ religion. I wouldn’t give two or three straws for a religion
that didn’t make folks happier as well as better; more tender and
charitable and pitiful; more loving and helpful to all humanity. Bigotry
and intolerance never was religion, Uncle Zeb, nor never will be, though
they have been called so time and again; religion is sunthin’ different,
it is as beautiful as _they_ are hegus; it is gentle, full of joy and
peace, pure, easily entreated, full of good works, mercy, and
charity—which is love.
“It is not Samantha, but a woman on the battle-field of Right, who is a
rakin’ you down with the arrers of Truth; it is a Promiscous Advisor who
says to you, that you have for years been doin’ what a great many do in
the name of religion; you have wrapped yourself in your own dignity and
self-righteousness, and worshipped yourself instead of God.”
I didn’t say no more then to the old Deacon in a martyr way; I pulled in
the reins and dismounted down from the war horse that was a canterin’
away nobly with me, and a snortin’ in the cause of Right. Though ready
and willin’ in spirit to mount this war horse and foller on where
Principle leads, without saddle or bridle, and to suffer as a Promiscous
Advisor, still it is a tuckerin’ business, and if anybody don’t believe
it, let em ride off this war-horse on a tower.
And the very hardest and most tuckerin’ place it ever cantered into, the
most gaulin’ and awfulest place it ever pranced round in, is other
folks’es housen. When it comes to advisin’ folks promiscously, under
their own “vials and mantletrees,” never, never do I feel such
temptations to give up my shield and fall offen his back. Oh, John
Rogers! you never, never suffered more excruciatin’ly than does Josiah
Allen’s wife in such moments. Nothin’, nothin’ but principle could nerve
me up to the agonizin’ effort. As I said, I didn’t say no more to the
old Deacon that night in a martyr way, and oh! what a relief it was to
dismount from the prancin’ steed of Duty, throw off the sharp moral spur
from my achin’ feet, curl in my lofty principle tone, and assume again
the gentle and almost affectionate axents of Samantha.
And another reason why I thought I would be kinder easy with the old
Deacon and not say anything to git him mad, was my determination to
mollyfy him about Molly—and a plan I had in my head growin’ bigger and
stronger every minute—to _marry that girl to Tom Pitkins, myself, before
I left that house_.
The hired girl had told me—I went out to wash my hands to the sink and I
happened to ask her in a polite way if she was goin’ to see the
Sentinal, and she said she was, that the old Deacon had told her that
day he was goin’ to be married in two weeks to Miss Horn, and shouldn’t
want her no longer—and if he was a goin’ to marry that Horn what good
was Molly a goin’ to do there, only in a martyr way. Some gentle souls
seem to be born martyrs, not to principles and idees, but ready to be
offered up on a Horn or anything; ready to be pricked and scattered over
with snuff in their pinnin’ blankets, and grow up ready to sacrifice
themselves to any idol that calls on ’em to—crumple right down and be
sot fire to—such was Molly. And it is for some strong hearted friend to
snatch ’em away from the fagots and the kindlin’ wood,—such a friend is
Samantha. Some see happiness right in front of ’em, and are too weak to
grasp holt of it; such need the help of a hand like hers.
I lay awake the biggest heft of that night, a thinkin’ in deep thought,
and a layin’ on plans. And finally I guess about three o’clock, I spoke
out and says I:
“Josiah Allen, we have got to marry Molly to-day before we leave this
house.”
“Good land!” says Josiah startin’ up on his piller full of horrer. “Good
land,” says he, “I haint a Mormon, Samantha, I can’t marry to another
woman.”
Says I coolly, “Lay down and compose yourself Josiah Allen; I am a goin’
to marry her myself.”
This skairt him worse than ever I could see, and he started up, with a
still more ghastly look onto him. He was so pale with horrer that his
bald head shone in the moonlight like a big goose egg, and his eyes
stood out about a quarter of an inch with fear and excitement. He
thought I was delerious; says he in tremblin’ tones: “What does ail you
Samantha! Shant I rub your back? Don’t you want sunthin’ to take?”
Says I calmly, “I want a companion that wont interrupt me before I
finish a speech. I am a goin’ to marry Molly to Tom Pitkins myself
before I leave this house. Lay down Josiah Allen and keep still while I
talk it over with you.”
[Illustration: “I HAINT A MORMON.”]
“Talk it over!” says he in loud angry tones, throwin’ his head back on
the piller. “I would break out in the dead of night, and scare a man to
death, a talkin’ and a arguin’. Do go to sleep, and lemme.”
But I held firm, and would tell him about the plan I had been a layin’
on through the night. I would tell him how I meant to mollyfy the Deacon
about Molly.
Says I, “Josiah Allen, I am a woman that has got a vow on me, and I love
that girl, as little as I have seen of her, and I am a goin’ to do by
her as I would want our Tirzah Ann done by.” Says I, “We shant probable
never visit Loon Town again; Tom Pitkins is liable to die off any time
with the feelin’s he feels for her; she is liable to die off any minute
with her unhappiness, and her feelin’s for him. I shouldn’t wonder a
mite if they didn’t live more’n ten or fifteen years if things go on as
they be now. And as bad off and wretched as Molly is now, worse is ahead
of her, the gloom of a Coffin is enough, let alone the hardness of a
Horn. Molly haint a goin’ to be sacrificed on that Horn, while I have
got a life left. Desperate diseases require desperate medicines.”
“Well, do for mercy’s sake go to sleep and lemme.”
“What if it was our Tirzah Ann that was in her place.” Says I in a low
deep voice, “Haint you a father, Josiah Allen?”
“No I _haint_!” he snapped out enough to tear my night cap in to. “No I
haint, nothin’ nor nobody, nor I wont be at this time of night.”
“Haint you no principle?” says I.
“No I haint! not a darn principle.”
“I’d lay and swear if I was in _your_ place Josiah Allen,” says I almost
coldly.
“Well! the idee of roustin’ anybody up in the dead of night, and callin’
on ’em for principle and things. But you wont git any principle out of
me at this time of night, you’ll _see_ you wont,” he hollered.
He was almost a luny for the time bein’. I pitted him, and says I
soothin’ly:
“Go to sleep Josiah, and we’ll talk it over in the mornin’.”
He dropped off to sleep, and I kep’ on a thinkin’ and a layin’ on my
plans to marry Molly off till most mornin’. And I did it, I married off
Molly about one o’clock and we started for the Sentinal in the
neighborhood of two.
Jest how I mollyfied the old Deacon about Molly, and brought him to
terms, I thought I wouldn’t tell to anybody but Josiah. Mebby there was
hints throwed out to him that there was Horns that would be meddled
with, and sot up ag’inst him. I guess I hadn’t better tell it, for I
made up my mind that I wouldn’t say nothin’ about it to anybody but my
Josiah. But I dressed Molly up that very afternoon,—she a blushin’ and a
laughin’ and a cryin’ at the same time—in that very white dress, and
married her myself (assisted by a Methodist minister) to Tom Pitkins.
And I have learned by a letter from Molly, and she sent me her new
picture, (they have gone to housekeepin’ and are as happy as kings) that
her father is married to Miss Horn. And all I have got to say is, that
she needs a good horn disposition to git along with him. And he, unless
I am mistaken, will wish before the year was up that he was a sleepin’
peacefully inside of his own Sername.
[Illustration]
THE GRAND EXHIBITION.