off, some up and down, some sideways. There was housen of every color
that ever was colored, with winders of every shape that ever a pain was
cut into, and every sort of ornament that ever a house was trimmed off
with. Why some of ’em seemed to be clear ornament, and nothin’ else.
There was one in particular, with a flight of stairs on each side and
some little slender pillows, that seemed to be clear trimmin’. It looked
as light as if it was made of air and sunshine and ornament—which it was
mostly. I says to Josiah: “That would be a beautiful home for summer,
Josiah, but it would be too cold and windy in the winter season for me.”
A young woman, sort o’ vacant lookin’, but dressed up slick spoke out to
me, and says in a sort of a uppish tone:
“It haint a house, it is a music stand.”
Says I, “It haint a stand.”
Says she, “It is.”
But I wasn’t a goin’ to be brow-beat by her, so I says in a dignified
tone:
“Young woman I have seen furniture and housen stuff when you was in
Nonentity, and I guess I know a stand when I see it.” Says I, “I had two
black cherry stands with curly maple drawers, with my settin’ out, and I
helped Josiah pick out a noble bass-wood stand for Tirzah Ann when she
was married and I say that haint a stand.”
Says she, “It is; don’t you see the Muse on top with the lyre.”
But I wouldn’t look up, I had too much dignity, and I resented deeply
her tryin’ to lie to me so, and I jest looked at her keenly, and says I:
“I can see liars without searchin’ for ’em on the top of housen.”
Says she, “I meant one of the Muses; one of Jupiter and Mnemosyne’s
daughters, with her lyre?”
Says I firmly, “I don’t care whose daughters they be. I don’t think no
more of a liar because they happen to have a likely father and mother. I
abominate ’em, and always did.”
I looked very sharp at her, and she felt it; her face looked red as
blood, and all swelled up with mortification. But truly I had no time to
waste on story tellers, or muse on their lies. Such sights as I see,
such grand and imposin’ grandeur, such beautiful and soarin’ beauty; I
wondered whether Paradise could have looked much better, and more
foamin’; and if it did, I wondered more and more how Eve (a distant
relative of mine on my mother’s side) could have done what she did do.
As we walked along a broad and shady path I says:
“Never, never did I feel towards E Pluribus as I do to-day, Josiah. When
I think of that old map of Grandfather Smith’s, and think how E Pluribus
was huddled down there close to the shore, so insignificant and skairt
lookin’ that it seemed as if it wouldn’t take but a very few more
war-whoops and hatchets to tumble him right off into the Atlantic to
drownd himself. And then to think how that old man has got up and spread
himself out from ocian to ocian, to look round here and see this
Sentinal a tellin’ to all the world how he has prospered;” says I,
“never never did I feel towards E Pluribus U, as I do to-day;” and says
I in tones tremblin’ with pride and thankfulness, “how do _you_ feel
Josiah Allen?”
Says he firmly, “I feel as hungry as a bear.”
I calmly took two cookies out of my pocket and handed them to him, and
kep’ right on: “Never! never, did I realize the size, the grandeur, the
loftiness, of E Pluribus as I do now; how high and lofty he stands,
Josiah Allen; how forehanded he has got.”
My lofty episodin’ tone was ruther loud, and a by stander who had been a
standin’ behind me unbeknown to me spoke up and says he:
“Yes, E Pluribus has got pretty well off, but what do you think Madam of
the rings he wears on his honored fingers? What do you think of his
choosin’ Tweed for raiment? What do you think of his wearin’ such dirty
clothin’ as he has wore of late, and so thin too, so awfully thin.”
I declare for’t, I was most mad to think of anybodys tryin’ to bring me
down from the height I stood upon, by talkin’ about store clothes and
jewelry; but bein’ very polite in my demeanor, I answered him mildly,
that I didn’t believe in anybodys wearin’ dirty clothes, and I never had
no opinion of Tweed, nor none of that kind of cloth; it was slazy, and
liable to drop all to pieces, and I’d ruther look further and pay more
for cloth that was firmer and would stand more of a strain.
“Yes,” says he, “that is jest my opinion, and I think if E Pluribus
wants to preserve his health he must keep cleaner, and be a little more
careful about the material he chooses to protect his honored form; and
in my opinion, he would look fur better if he didn’t wear so many rings
on his venerable fingers; money rings; and wheat rings; and railroad
rings.” He went on and named over a hull lot of jewelry, but I thought
to myself that he was makin’ a little too free to talk with a perfect
stranger, and I answered him in pretty cold tones:
Says I, “I never approved of old men’s wearin’ jewelry;” and says I, in
still more frigid tones, “I never, even in my young days thought a man
looked any the better for wearin’ ear-rings;” then I drew Josiah onwards
down a path that looked shady, and considerable still and quiet; but
jest as we moved on a man standin’ in front of us spoke up in a awe
struck tone, and says he:
“That gentleman that jest spoke to you was a English Lord.”
“Well,” says I, “Lord or no lord, I don’t over and above like his looks;
he looks smart, but kinder mean.”
Jest then all of a sudden, on happenin’ to turn the eye of my speck onto
a little bench under a shade tree, I see settin’ there a friend I knew;
I see a face that telescopes are bein’ aimed at by the envious to spy
out every little freckle, spot and wrinkle; (and where is there a
complexion however light, that can stand firm under a telescope, and the
strong glarin’ light of the present time, without showin’ a wrinkle?) It
was the face of a man I respected, and almost loved, (a meetin’ house
love, calm, yet firm as a settin’ hen.)
Without sayin’ a word, I jest drawd Josiah right up in front of him. At
the first glance he didn’t know me, but I jest made him a noble curchy,
and says I: “Ulysses how do you?” Says I, “The last time I see you I had
the honor to rescue you from pain and poetry and Betsey Bobbet.”
Before I could say another word he took the cigar he had in his lips
with one hand and reached out the other, and shook hands with me almost
warmly.
“Josiah Allen’s wife, my preserver! I am glad to meet you.”
Then and there I introduced Josiah; but I was sorry to see at that
moment that the knowledge that he was a talkin’ with the President of
the United States, made him act bashful and meachin’; but I was that
inspired and lifted up, that even my pardner’s meachin’ and almost
foolish mean didn’t seem to have no effect on me. I spoke right out and
says I:
“Ulysses, I never was so proud of my Nation before in my hull life as I
be now, and never did I feel such feelin’s for my 4 fathers. What a
undertakin’ they undertook! When a thing is done, and you are a standin’
up on the results safe and happy, then you feel well, and at rest; but
the curious time, and the solemn time, is when the thing haint done, and
you are a settin’ out to do it, with the risk and the uncertainty before
you. When you are a steppin’ off in the darkness and don’t have no idee
whether you are a steppin’ on sunthin’, or on nothin’; no idee where you
are a comin’ to next. I’ve got lost in our suller several times when my
candle went out, and it was a curious feelin’, Ulysses, to grope our way
along in the dark not knowin’ whether we would come out all right to the
bottom of the stairs, or come up sudden ag’inst the wall, or the pork
barrell. I’ve fell flat a number of times, when I thought I was a
steppin’ high, and doin’ the best I could; when you have reached the
stairs and git holt of ’em, and Josiah has opened the door and stands
there with a candle in his hand, then you feel well and safe, but you
can’t forgit your curious feelin’s when you was in the dark, a gropin’
and a feelin’ and not knowin’ where you was a goin’ to.
“Now, there was a time when the colonies was a gropin’ their way along
in the dark, not knowin’ where the next step would take ’em to—whether
they would come out to the stairs that led up to Freedom and Liberty and
happiness, or come up sudden and hard ag’inst the wall of defeat. They
was walkin’ a slender, slippery pathway, and if they slipped off they
knew black waters was under ’em, deep black waters, to drownd them and
their posterity in. They fell a number of times, but they got up again
nobly; they held firm, and stepped high, and at last they groped their
way to the stairs that led up to Liberty. And by God’s help, by prayer
and hard work, they mounted them stairs; and then another long flight of
lofty stairs was before ’em; and they rose them stairs, and have gone up
on ’em, higher and higher, ever sense to national power, and honor, and
glory. And now let ’em hold firm and examine the platform they are a
standin’ on.”
Ulysses smoked his cigar with a very thoughtful and attentive smoke. And
oh! how sort o’ solemn and martyr-like my tone was as I went on a
talkin’ to him, and a thinkin’ to myself: Here I be, advisin’ the Nation
for its good—a performin’ my mission, and advisin’ the United States, E
Pluribus Unim, through its chief magistrate. I felt noble and curious,
fearfully so, as I continued on:
“Oh! how awful it would be for ’em, Ulysses, a standin’ up on the height
they stand up on, if political rottenness should crumble away any of the
tall proud ladder that holds ’em up. Oh! how it would hurt ’em to fall
down flat, and lay on their backs with the ladder and platform on top of
’em. Let ’em be careful, and let ’em be prayerful; let ’em examine every
inch of the lumber that they are a standin’ on; if there is a rotten
spot in it, or a weak spot, or a suspicious spot, let ’em spurn it
nobly; let ’em not ask wildly and blindly: ‘Did this board grow in
Republican forests, or did it grow in Democratic swamps?’ Let ’em throw
that question down, and trample on it; and let ’em ask this question
only, and let ’em ask it in a firm loud voice: ‘_Is it a sound board?_’
“And let ’em git a straight plain answer to it, before they set foot on
it. Good land! The idee of shettin’ your eyes blindly, and runnin’ up a
rascal because he happens to belong to your party. As for me, when I
hold a rose I don’t care a cent whether it grew in a marble basin, or in
the corner of a rail fence; I only ask myself calmly, is it fresh and
sweet? If it is, I treasure it highly; if it is wormy and rotten at the
heart, I spurn it from me almost indignantly.
“I advise this Nation as a friend and well wisher, to worship the true
God, and not make a God of party and bow down to it. I advise it to
choose men for leaders, who are true, and honest and God-fearin’. Men
who are more careful of their character than of their reputation; more
careful to have the National capitol clean on the inside than to flower
off the front gate with brass nails; more sot on the Nation’s well-bein’
and prosperity, than on a big pocket-book, or a post-office and some
minin’ and railroad shares for that brother-in-law; more anxious to have
a white soul, than to white-wash their sepulchres. If the Nation votes
for bad men, how does it expect to have good laws?” says I almost
wildly. “Tell me, Ulysses, and tell me plainly; how can you expect to be
led onward in a straight path by a blind man? How can you obtain figs
from thistles, or anything to carry from an ort?
“If this Nation trusts God, and prizes the great gift our 4 fathers died
to leave us as it ort to be prized, who can paint the glory and splendor
before it. It is the home of the oppressed, and (when its laws relatin’
to wimmen are changed slightly) the true and only land of liberty and
freedom; its virtues ort to be grand and lofty and picturesque—on a big
noble New World plan. It ort to be as rich in goodness, as its earth is
rich in gold and silver and preciousness. Its dignity and calmness ort
to be wide and level and even, like its boundless praries; and at the
same time, it ort to have brilliant, unexpected streaks and flashes of
dazzlin’ generosities, jest like its flashin’ water-falls. Its
principles ort to be as firm and solid and high toned and soarin’ as the
biggest mountain peaks on the Yo Semitry; and these solid virtues ort to
be trimmed and ornamented off with consideration for the rights of
others, humanity, charity, courtesy and etcetery, and they ort to be
jest as pinted and as ever-green as the big pines them firm old
mountains have trimmed themselves off with. It should be jest as set on
follerin’ the right, and headed jest as strong that way, and be jest as
deep and earnest in that flow as Niagara is in hern; turnin’ not to the
right hand nor to the left, not multiplyin’ words nor foolin’, but jest
keep on a mindin’ its own business, and floodin’ right on.”
[Illustration: SAMANTHA ADVISIN’ PRESIDENT GRANT.]
[Sidenote: I ADVISE THE NATION THOUGH ITS GREAT MEN]
And then I advised the Nation (through Ulysses,) what to do in the great
cause of Wimmen’s Rights. I talked eloquent on that subject, and in
closin’ up I drawed his mind back a few years to the time when a great
war was goin’ on between justice and injustice, and how God wrought out
of it the freedom of a race, before He gave the victory. I reminded him
that another great battle was goin’ on now between temperance and
intemperance, and how, in that warfare, I believed God was helpin’
another race of human female beins to liberty; by showin’ to man how He
enabled _them_ to win greater victories than had ever crowned _man’s_
efforts, and provin’ what _they_ would do for God and humanity if the
power was given them. I told him I didn’t want to scare him or the
Nation, but still it wouldn’t do no hurt for ’em to think back how God
had kep’ that oppressed race from all harm while the warfare for ’em was
a goin’ on, while thousands of them who had unjestly denied them their
rights went down on the battle-field; and I hinted to him in a kind of a
blind way, that it wouldn’t do no harm for the Nation once in a while to
read over that old story of Pharioh; I told him—not knowin’ how well off
they was for such readin’ in Washington—that he would find that story in
the Bible.
I talked about the Heathen Chinee; I told him it seemed jest about as
impossible to git a stun to keep company with a turnip, and make it its
bride as to git a Chinee to fall in love with our institutions and
foller ’em; and after a man had tried to git water and oil to mix in a
friendly and sociable way—after he has sot and stirred ’em, and sweat
over ’em for weeks and weeks, I don’t know as he would be to blame to
empty the basin out for good; but then when I’d think again, I’d know it
was cruel and awful to turn anybody out doors, (as it were) especially a
heathen. And I knew I never could have the heart to do it, never in the
world. So says I, “I cannot advise the Nation what to do. It must try to
git along in this thing, without my tellin’ it what to do; it must think
it over and do the very best it can.”
But on the warlike fightin’ question, I come out strong; I knew jest
what advice to give the Nation, and I give it freely without money, and
without price.
Says I, “I should think the Nations would all be perfectly ashamed of
themselves to git together to show off their civilization and progress,
when they hold on to that most barbarious of all barbarism, that ever
come from Barbery. The most cruel and awful and the most simple too;
why,” says I, “you’d whip a lot of school childern that would go to
settlin’ their quarrels with their jack knives; you’d make ’em leave it
out to their teacher, or the trustees, or somebody; you’d spank ’em till
their nose bled if they didn’t, and,” says I, “childern ort to grow
wiser as they grow older instead of foolisher; it haint a mite handsomer
in grown folks than it is in childern.”
Says I, “Think how those bloody warfares are powerful for all sorts of
evils and crimes; how they turn human beins into wild beasts of prey;
think how humanity, and mercy, and purity and all goodness are trod down
under the feet of the great armys; and how the more ghastly army of
pestilence, and disease, and crime, and want, foller on after them—a
phantom host shadderin’ the land for years, mightier for evil than the
army they foller. Why Ulysses, I couldn’t begin to tell all the horrers
and evils of war, not if I should stand here and talk to you till the
year 1900; for it can’t be told not by mortal tongue. It is a language
writ in broken hearts, and despair, and want, and agony, and madness,
and crime, and death, and it takes them to read it.”
Ulysses haint much of a talker, but he took his cigar out of his mouth,
and says he mildly: “How will Nations settle their difficulties then?”
“Why,” says I, “leave it out to some good man to decide upon. Let ’em
have a honorable-minded Peace Commissioner. Why,” says I, “if it wasn’t
for havin’ everything else under the sun on my hands, I would be one
myself, and not charge a cent for my trouble.”
The Nation, (through Ulysses) seemed to take my advice first-rate; he
stood it like a major, and sot peacefully and smoked that cigar in as
friendly and meditatin’ a way as I ever see one smoked, and he said I
spoke his mind about the Peace Commissioners. And then I spoke up and
says I:
“Ulysses, I must also speak to you about Lo.”
“Lo who?” says he.
“Why,” says I, “Lo, the poor Injun.”
The minute I said Injun, he give a kind of a groan, and begun to look as
fractious and worrysome as I ever see Josiah look, and says he:
“Darn Lo, anyway.”
“Well,” says I, “when I look round here, and see how nobly Uncle Sam has
stood up and spread himself out here, see what wonders of glory and
enchantment he has wrought for his own race, it don’t seem to me that I
can bear to see him a settin’ down on the Injun race, a tryin’ to choke
’em to death. Samuel never took a posture that I hated to see worse than
that posture. It haint Christian nor even dignified.”
He looked very fractious, very, and he snapped out:
“He has got to take that posture or be scalped.”
“If Samuel would let _me_ pick out postures for him, I would have him
stand up so far above Lo—in mercy, and justice, and patience, and
truth,—that he couldn’t reach up to his scalp; and standin’ up on that
height, he might deal less in glass beads, and more in common honesty,”
says I mildly.
But again Ulysses looked me full in the eye of my speck, and says he
firmly:
“Darn Lo, anyway;” and at that same minute Josiah whispered to me: “Lo
haint no nearer starvin’ than I am this minute.”
He did look almost famishin’; and so tellin’ Ulysses to give my love to
Julia, and my best respects to Mr. Dents’es folks, and Fred and his
wife, and be sure and take good care of Nelly’s baby, I curchied to him
nobly and bid him good-bye.
So we wended our way along, the eye of my speck takin’ in the heavenly
beauty of the scene, when all of a sudden Josiah spoke up, and says he:
“What a pity it is that they are a goin’ to licence the Sentinal.”
I stopped stun still, leggo of his arm, and turned right round and faced
my pardner. “Licence the Sentinal, Josiah Allen!” says I.
“Yes,” says he, “they be, and they are tryin’ hard not to have no Sunday
neither.”
“A tryin’ to have the Sentinal not keep Sunday?”
“Yes,” says he.
Says I firmly, “Who is the man to go to, to advise the Nation through in
this matter? Never! never! did my mission as a Advisor soar up before me
more promiscously. Who is the man Josiah Allen?”
Says Josiah, “I have heerd that Gen. Hawley is the head one. But it
haint his doin’s; he has been tewed at, night and day.”
I drawed my companion onwards, almost wildly, he a hangin’ back and in
pitiful axents, sayin’ to me:
“Do less go back to the tarvern Samantha and git sunthin’ to eat before
we traipse off any further; do you want me to faint away on your hands?”
Says I, “You must have a different appetite from what _I_ have, Josiah
Allen, if you can swaller your conscience and set down at your ease,
while the Nation is a destroyin’ herself. I _must_ advise her about this
matter instantly and at once, before it is too late. But you can go home
if you want to. Principle will be my pardner, and go a lockin’ arms with
me.”
“I shall go if _you_ do,” says he in a cross surly voice. “I s’pose I
can starve it out;” and then he says almost mekanically, (as it were,)
“Gen. Hawley is a handsome feller, they say.”
“Well,” says I in a almost dry tone, “you needn’t worry about that; what
if he is? I should be ashamed of myself Josiah Allen, to go to bein’
jealous in such a time as this.”
“Who said I _was_?” says he.
I didn’t multiply no more words, and a policeman happenin’ to come along
that minute, I says to him:
“Can you tell me where to find Gen. Hawley?”
Says he, “You will probably find him in the ‘Buro of Installation.’”
“In a _buro_!” says I coldly. “Do you s’pose young man, that I am a
goin’ to crawlin’ and creepin’ round into buro draws? Do you s’pose, at
my age, and with my dignity I’m a goin’ to foller any man into a buro?
Gropin’ round, tryin’ to find somebody in a buro draw.”
[Sidenote: INTERVIEW WITH GEN. HAWLEY]
His face looked red—he see I wasn’t to be imposed upon—and he pinted out
the room where we should be apt to find him, he a goin’ most there with
us; and anon, or about that time, I found myself in the presence of Gen.
Hawley, a shakin’ hands with him and a introducin’ Josiah. He was
lookin’ over a lot of papers, but he looked up dretful sort o’ pleasant,
and in that tryin’ and almost curious time, I couldn’t help thinkin’
that Josiah was in the right on’t about his looks; for never, on a
tower, or off on it, did I ever see a franker, nobler, honester, well
meanin’er face than hisen. I never asked him whether he was enjoyin’
good health, or poor, but I says right out: “Joseph,” (I knew his name
was Joseph, and I thought he would take it more friendly in me if I
called him that, and it would look more familiar in me—as if my noble
mission didn’t make me feel above him.) “Joseph,” says I, “I have come
to advise you as a P. A. about what I have discovered as a P. I.”
He looked up at me from the awful pile of papers, sort o’ dreamy and
wonderin’, and I come out plainer still, and says I, “Joseph, tell me;
is it true that the Nation has licenced the Sentinal to git drunk, and
not to keep no Sundays?” And says I, “Haint it the time for the Nation,
if ever, for her to put her best foot forred, and if she has got any
remnants of Puritan habits, and religion, and solid principles, to show
’em off? Haint it time to brush the dirt and dust off of Plymouth Rock,
and let the world git a glimpse of the old original stun? Why,” says I,
“if the Mayflower could float back again from the past, and them old
Mayflowers should hear what this Nation is a doin’, they would say they
was glad they was dead.”
[Illustration: INTERVIEW WITH GOV. HAWLEY]
Joseph looked as if he felt what I said deeply. But he went on in a sort
of apologisin’ way, about his wantin’ to treat our fureign guests with
courtesy—and some of them was accustomed to beer and wine-drinkin’ to
home, and wasn’t in the habit of havin’ Sundays, and so 4th and so 4th.
“But,” says I in tremblin’ tones: “when a mother is weepin’ over the
ruin of what was once her son, and tracin’ back his first love of strong
drink to this place of beauty and enchantment, it wont remove her agony
nor hisen, to think it was done to please the German, Dutch, or Tunicks,
or even Turkeys.” Says I, “If the Nation gives her lawful consent and
lets the Sentinal drink all the beer and wine it wants to in 1876, in
1976 she will reap the seed she is a plantin’ now; and if you happen to
see me then, Joseph, you tell me if I haint in the right on’t. And then,
not havin’ no Sundays! I never in my hull life see anything look so
shiftless,—when we haint been out of Sundays for 1800 years, to all flat
out now and not have none,—it would look poor as poverty in us.”
He said it was handier for some folks; they could come better Sundays
than any other day.
“Handier!” says I, in a almost dry tone, “it would be awful handy for me
sometimes, to do my week’s washin’ Sundays, or knit striped mittens, or
piece up bed-quilts, but you don’t catch me at it.” Says I “Had we ort
to begreech one day out of the week to Him who give us the hull of ’em?”
And says I, “I don’t blame you a mite for wantin’ to make our fureign
visitors feel to home, and use ’em well; but when I go a visitin’ I
don’t expect ’em to kill off their grandmothers if I don’t happen to
like the looks of the old lady and haint used to grandmothers. Good
land! how simple it would be in me to expect it.”
Says Joseph, “Josiah Allen’s wife, you have presented the subject to me
in a interestin’ and eloquent manner.” Says he, “The other matter is out
of my power to change, but as for Sundays, I will get ’em back again; I
will have ’em.”