Tirzah Ann and Whitfield—Tirzah Ann is Josiah’s darter, you know—make a
likely couple, though I say it that shouldn’t. Whitfield is indestrius,
and she is equinomical, which makes things go well. But Tirzah Ann is
dretful ambitious, and wants to do as other folks do, and so knowin’ it
is very genteel to go off in the summer for a rest, why she wanted to go
off for a rest, too. And Whitfield bein’ perfectly bound up in her, of
course wanted to do jist what she wanted to. I thought it wus foolish in
her. But I always had very deep and filosofical idees on these things.
Now, rests are as likely things as ever wus—so are changes. But I have
said, and I say still, that I had ruther lay down to hum, as the poet
saith, “on my own delightful feather bed,” with a fan and newspaper, and
take a rest, than dress up and travel off two or three hundred milds
in search of it, through the burnin’ sun, with achin’ body, wet with
presperation all over. It seems to me I could get more rest out of the
former than out of the more latter course, and proceedin’.
Howsomever, everybody to their own mind.
Likewise with changes. I have said, and I say still, that changes are
likely and respectable, if you can get holt of ’em, but how can you?
Havin’ such powerful and eloquent emotions as I have, such principles
a-performin’ inside of my mind, enjoyin’ such idees and aspirations, and
longings, and hopes, and joys, and despairs, and—everything, I s’pose
that is what makes me think that what is goin’ on ’round me—the outside
of me—hain’t of so much consequence. I seem to live inside of myself (as
it were), more than I do on the outside. And so it don’t seem of much
consequence what the lay of the land ’round me may happen to be, whether
it is sort o’ hilly and mountaneous, or more level like. Or whether
steam-cars may be a-goin by me (on the outside of me), or boats a-sailin’
round me, or milk wagons.
You see, the real change—the real rest would have to be on the inside,
and not on the outside. Nobody, no matter what their weight may be by
the steelyards, can carry ’round such grand, hefty principles as I carry
’round, without gettin’ tired, or enjoy the lofty hopes, and desires, and
aspirations that I enjoy, and meditate on all the sad, and mysterious,
and puzzlin’ conundrums of the old world, as I meditate on ’em, without
gettin’ fairly tuckered out. Great hearts enjoy greatly, and suffer
greatly, and so, sometimes, when heart-tired and brain-weary, if I could
quell down them lofty and soarin’ emotions, and make ’em lay still for a
spell, and shet up my heart like a buro draw, and hang up the key, and
onscrew my head, and lay it onto the manteltry-piece, then I could go off
and enjoy a change that would be truly refreshin’ and delightful.
But as it is, from Janesville clear to Antipithies, the puzzlin’
perplexities and contradictions, the woes and the cares of the old world,
foller right on after us as tight as our shadders. Our pure and soarin’
desires, our blind mistakes and deep despairs, our longings, strivings,
memories, heart-aches, all the joys and burdens of a soul, has to be
carried by us up the steepest mountains or down to the lowest vallies.
The same emotions that was a-performin’ inside of our minds down in
the Yo Semety, will be a-performin’ jist the same up on the Pyramids.
The same questionin’ eyes, sort o’ glad, and sort o’ sorrowful, that
looked out over New York harber, will look out over the Bay of Naples,
and then beyond ’em both, out into a deeper and more mysterious ocean,
the boundless sea that lays beyond everything, and before everything,
and ’round everything. That great, misty sea of the unknown, the past,
the hereafter; tryin’ to see what we hain’t never seen, and wonderin’
when we shall see it, and how, and where, and wherefore, and why? Tryin’
to hear the murmur of the waves that we know are a-washin’ up ’round us
on every side, that nobody hain’t never heard, but we know are there;
tryin’ to ketch a glimpse of them shadowy sails that are floatin’ in
and out forevermore with a freight of immortal souls, bearin’ ’em here
and away. We know we have sailed on ’em once, and have got to agin, and
can’t ketch no glimpse on ’em, can’t know nothin’ about em; sealed baby
lips—silent, dead lips never tellin’ us nothin’ about ’em. Each soul has
got to embark, and sail out alone, out into the silence and the shadows,
out into the mysterious Beyond.
Standin’ as we do on the narrow, precarious ground of the present, the
mortal, and them endless, eternal seas, a-beatin’ ’round us, on every
side of us, bottomless, shoreless, ageless, and we a not seein’ either
of ’em, under them awful, and lofty, and curious circumstances, what
difference does it really make to us whether we are a-settin’ down or
a-standin’ up; whether we are on a hill or in a valley; whether a lot of
us have got together like aunts in a aunt hill, or whether we are more
alone like storks or ostriges?
_We can’t get away from ourselves_—can’t get a real change nohow, unless
we knock our heads in and make idiots and lunys of ourselves. Movin’
our bodys round here and there is only a shadow of a change—a mockery.
As if I should dress up my Josiah in a soldier coat, or baby clothes,
there he is, inside of ’em, clear Josiah—no change in him, only a little
difference in his outside circumstances.
This is a very deep and curious subject. I have talked eloquently on it,
I know, and my readers know, and I could go on, and filosifize on it jest
as eloquent and deep, fur hours and hours. But I have already episoded
too fur, and to resoom, and continue on.
I told Tirzah Ann I thought it wus foolish in her to go off and rest,
when they both, she and Whitfield, too, looked so awful rested now,
and as bright as dollars. And that babe—well, it always wus the most
beautiful child in the hull world, and the smartest child; but it does
seem more as if it was smarter than ever, and beautifuler.
You see, their yard is large and shady, and the little thing havin’ got
so it could run alone, would be out in the yard, a-playin’ round, most
all the time. It was dretful good for her, and she enjoyed it, and Tirzah
Ann enjoyed it, too; for after she got her work done up, all she had to
do was to set in the door, and watch that little, pretty thing a-playin’
round, and bein’ perfectly happy.
It was a fair and lovely evenin’, though very warm; my salaratus had
nearly gi’n out, and I had made the last drawin’ of tea for supper,
and so, when I had got the dishes washed up, and Josiah had milked, he
hitched up the old mare, and calm and serene in our two minds as the air
of the evenin’, we rode down to Janesville, to get these necessarys, and
a little beefsteak for breakfast, and see the children.
We found that Thomas J. and Maggie had gone to tea to her folkses, that
afternoon, but Tirzah Ann and Whitfield wus to home, and I don’t want to
see a prettier sight than I see, as we druv up.
There Tirzah Ann sat out on the portico, all dressed up in a cool, mull
dress—it was one I bought for her, before she was married, but it wus
washed and done up clean, and looked as good as new. It was pure white,
with little bunches of blue forget-me-nots on it, and she had a bunch of
the same posys in her hair and in the bosom of her frock, (there is a
hull bed of ’em in the yard.) She is a master hand for dressin’ up, and
lookin’ pretty, but at the same time, would be very equinomical, if she
wus let alone. She looked the picture of health and enjoyment, plump and
rosy, and happy as a queen. And she was a queen. Queen of her husband’s
heart, and settin’ up on that pure and lofty throne of constant and
deathless love, she looked first-rate, and felt so.
It had been a very warm day, really hot, and Whitfield, I s’pose, had
come home kinder tired, so he had stretched himself out at full length
on the grass, in front of the portico; and there he lay, with his hands
clasped under his head, a-talkin’ and laughin’, and lookin’ up into
Tirzah Ann’s face, as radiant and lovin’ as if she was the sun, and
he a sunflower. But that simily, though very poetical and figurative,
don’t half express the good looks, and health, and happiness on both
their faces, as they looked at each other, and that babe, that most
beautifulest of children, a-toddlin’ round, first up to one, and then the
other, with her bright eyes a-dancin’, and her cheeks red as roses.
But the minute she ketched sight of her grandpa and me and the mare,
she jest run down to the gate, as fast as her little legs could carry
her, and I guess she got a pretty good kissin’ from Josiah and me. And
Whitfield and Tirzah Ann came hurryin’ down to the gate, glad enough to
see us, as they always be. Josiah, of course, had to take that beautiful
child for a little ride, and Whitfield said he guessed he would go, too.
So I got out, and went in, and as we sot there on the stoop, Tirzah Ann
up and told me what she and Whitfield wus a-goin’ to do. They wus agoin’
away for a rest.
“Why,” said I, “I hardly ever, in my hull life, see anybody look so
rested as you do now, both on you. How, under the sun, can you be rested
any more than you be now?”
“Well,” she said, “it’s so very genteel to go. Mrs. Skidmore is a-goin’,
and Mrs. Skidmore says nobody who made any pretensions to bein’ genteel
stayed to home durin’ the heated term, no matter how cool the place wus
they wus a-livin’ in.”
“What do they go for mostly?” says I, in a very cool way; for I didn’t
like the idee.
“Oh, for health and——”
But says I, interruptin’ of her:
“Hain’t you and Whitfield enjoyin’ good health?”
“Never could be better health than we both have got,” says she. “But,”
says she, “folks go for health and pleasure.”
But says I:
“Hain’t you a-takin’ comfort here—solid comfort?”
“Yes,” says she. “Nobody can be happier than Whitfield and I, every day
of our life.”
“Wall, then,” says I, coolly, “you had better let well enough alone.”
But says she:
“Folks go for a rest. Whitfield and I thought we would go for a rest.”
“Rest from what?” says I. Says I, “don’t you and Whitfield feel fresh
and rested every mornin’, ready to take up the laber of the day with a
willin’ heart?” Says I, “Do you either on you have any more work to do
than is good for your health to do? Don’t you find plenty of time for
rest and recreation, every day as you go along?” Says I, “It is with
health jist as it is with cleanin’ house: I don’t believe in lettin’
things get all run down and nasty, and then, once a year, tear everything
to pieces, and do up all the hull cleanin’ of a year to once, and then
let everything go agin for another year. No! I believe in keepin’ things
slick and comfortable day by day, and year by year. In business, have a
daily mixture of cleanin’ and comfort—in health, have a daily mixture of
laber, recreation and rest.” Says I, takin’ breath:
“I mean for folks like you and Whitfield, who can do so. Of course, some
have to work beyond their strength—let them take their rest and comfort
when they can git it. Better take it once a year, like a box of pills,
than not at all. But as for you and Whitfield, I say agin, in the words
of the poet, ‘Better let well enough alone.’”
But says she:
“I want to do as other folks do. I am bound to not let Mrs. Skidmore get
the upper hand of me. I want to be genteel.”
“Wall,” says I, “if you are determined to foller them paths, Tirzah Ann,
you mustn’t come to your ma for advice. She knows nothin’ about them
pathways; she never walked in ’em.”
“Mrs. Skidmore,” says she, “said that all the aristocracy of Janesville
will go away for the summer for a change, and I thought a change would do
Whitfield and me good.”
“A change!” says I, in low axents, a-lookin’ round the charming, lovely
prospect, the clean, cool cottage, with its open doors and windows, and
white, ruffled curtains swayin’ in the cool breeze; the green, velvet
grass, the bright flower beds, the climbing, blossoming vines, the birds
singing in the orchard, the blue lake layin’ so calm and peaceful in
the distance, shinin’ over the green hills and forests, and the wide,
cloudless sky bending above all like a benediction. “A change,” says I,
in low, tremblin’ tones of emotion. “Eve wanted a change in Paradise, and
she got it, too.”
But, says Tirzah Ann, for my axents impressed her fearfully:
“Don’t you believe in a change for the summer? Don’t you think they are
healthy?”
I didn’t go onto the heights and depths of filosofy, on which I so many
times had flew and doven; she had heard my soarin’ idees on the subject
time and time again; and eloquence, when it is as soarin’ and lofty as
mine, is dretful tuckerin’, especially after doin’ a hard day’s work, so
I merely said, tacklin’ another side of the subject, says I:
“When anybody is a-bakin’ up alive in crowded cities, when the hot sun
is shinin’ back on ’em from brick walls and stony roads, when all the
air that comes to them comes hot and suffocatin’, like a simon blowin’
over a desert—to such, a change of body is sweet, and is truly healthy.
But,” says I, lookin’ ’round agin on the cool and entrancin’ beauty
and freshness of the land and other scape, “to you whom Providence has
placed in a Eden of beauty and bloom, I agin repeat the words of the
poet: ‘Better let well enough alone.’”
I could see by the looks of her face that I hadn’t convinced her. But at
that very minute, Josiah came back and hollered to me that he guessed we
had better be a-goin’ back, for he wus afraid the hens would get out, and
get into the turnips; he had jist set out a new bed, and the hens wus
bewitched to eat tops off; we had shet ’em up, but felt it wus resky to
not watch ’em.
So we started, but not before I told Whitfield my mind about their goin’
off for a rest. I said but little, for Josiah wus hollerin’, but what I
did say wus very smart, and to the purpose. But if you’ll believe it,
after all my eloquent talk, and everything, the very next week they went
off for the summer. They came to see us the day before they went, but
their plans wus all laid (they wus goin’ to the same place Skidmore and
his wife went), and their tickets wus bought, so I didn’t say nothin’
more—what wus the use? Thinks’s I, bought wit is the best, if you don’t
pay too much for it. They’ll find out for themselves whether I wus in the
right or not. But bad as I thought it wus goin’ to be, little did I think
it would be as bad as it wus, little did I think Tirzah Ann would be
brought home on a bed, but she wus; and Whitfield walked with a cane, and
had his arm in a sling. But as I told Josiah, “if anybody wus a mind to
chase up pleasure so uncommon tight it wusn’t no wonder if they got lamed
by it.”
Wall, the very next day after they got back from their trip, I went to
see ’em, and Tirzah Ann told me all about it, all the sufferin’s and
hardships they had enjoyed on their rest, and pleasure exertion. There
wasn’t a dry eye in my head while I was a-listenin’ to her, and lookin’
into their feeble and used up lookin’ faces. She and Whitfield wus poor
as snails; I never see either of ’em in half so poor order before. They
hadn’t no ambition nor strength to work, they looked gloomy and morbid,
their morals had got all run down, their best clothes wus all worn out.
And that babe, I could have wept and cried to see how that little thing
looked, jest as poor as a little snail, and pale as a little fantom. And,
oh, how fearfully cross! It was dretful affectin’ to me to see her so
snappish. She reminded me of her grandpa, in his fractious hours.
It wus a dretful affectin’ scene to me, I told Tirzah Ann, says I, “Your
mean and Whitfield’s don’t look no more like your old means than if they
didn’t belong to the same persons.”
Tirzah Ann burst right out a-crying, and says she:
“Mother, one week’s more rest would have tuckered me completely out; I
should have died off.”
I wiped my own spectacles, I was so affected, and says I, in choked up
axents:
“You know I told you just how it would be; I told you you was happy
enough to home, and you hadn’t better go off in search of rest or of
pleasure.”
And says she, breakin’ right down agin, “One week more of such pleasure
and recreation, would have been my death blow.”
Says I, “I believe it, I believe you; you couldn’t have stood another
mite of rest and recreation, without it’s killin’ of you—anybody can see
that by lookin’ at your mean.” But says I, knowin’ it wus my duty to be
calm, “It is all over now, Tirzah Ann; you hain’t got to go through it
agin; you must try to overcome your feelin’s. Tell your ma all about it.
Mebby it will do you good, in the words of the him, ‘Speak, and let the
worst be known. Speakin’ may relieve you.’”
And I see, indeed, that she needed relief. Wall, she up and told me the
hull on it. And I found out that Mrs. Skidmore wus to the bottom of it
all—she, and Tirzah Ann’s ambition. I could see that them wus to blame
for the hull on it.
Mrs. Skidmore is the wife of the other lawyer in Janesville; they moved
there in the spring. She wus awful big feelin’, and wus determined from
the first to lead the fashion—tried to be awful genteel and put on sights
of airs.
And Tirzah Ann bein’ ambitius, and knowin’ that she looked a good deal
better than Mrs. Skidmore did, and knew as much agin, and knowin’ that
Whitfield wus a better lawyer than her husband wus, and twice as well
off, wusn’t goin’ to stand none of her airs. Mrs. Skidmore seemed to
sort o’ look down on Tirzah Ann, for she never felt as I did on that
subject.
Now, if anybody wants to feel above me, I look on it in this light, I
filosofize on it in this way: it probably does them some good, and it
don’t do me a mite of hurt, so I let ’em feel. I have always made a
practice of it—it don’t disturb me the width of a horse-hair. Because
somebody feels as if they wus better than I am, that don’t make ’em so;
if it did, I should probably get up more interest on the subject. But it
don’t; it don’t make them a mite better, nor me a mite worse, so what
hurt does it do anyway?
As I said, it probably makes them feel sort o’ good, and I feel
ferst-rate about it; jest as cool and happy and comfortable as a cluster
cowcumber at sunrise. That’s the way I filosofize on it. But not studyin’
it out as I have, not divin’ into the subject so deep as I have doven, it
galled Tirzah Ann to see Mrs. Skidmore put on such airs. She said:
“She wus poor, and humbly, and did’t know much, and it maddened her to
see her feel so big, and put on such airs.”
And then I had to go deep into reeson and filosofy agin to convince her;
says I:
“Such folks have to put on more airs than them that have got sunthin’ to
feel big over.” Says I, “It is reeson and filosify that if anybody has
got a uncommon intellect, or beauty, or wealth, they don’t, as a general
thing, put on the airs that them do that hain’t got nothing’; they
don’t _have_ to; they have got sunthin’ to hold ’em up—they can stand
without airs. But when anybody hain’t got no intellect, nor riches, nor
nothin’—when they hain’t got nothin’ only jest air to hold ’em up, it
stands to reeson that they have got to have a good deal of it.”
I had studied it all out, so it wus as plain to me as anything. But
Tirzah Ann couldn’t see it in that light, and would get as mad as a hen
at Mrs. Skidmore ever sense they came to Janesville, and was bound she
shouldn’t go by her and out-do her. And so when Mrs. Skidmore gin it out
in Janesville that she and her husband wus a goin’ away for the summer,
for rest and pleasure, Tirzah Ann said to herself that she and her
husband would go for rest and pleasure, if they both died in the attempt.
Wall, three days before they started, Tirzah Ann found that Mrs. Skidmore
had got one dress more than she had, and a polenay, so she went to the
store and got the material and ingredients, and sot up day and night
a-makin’ of ’em up; it most killed her a-hurryin’ so.
Wall, they started the same day, and went to the same place the Skidmores
did—a fashionable summer resort—and put up to the same tavern, to rest
and recreate. But Mrs. Skidmore bein’ a healthy, raw-boned woman, could
stand as much agin rest as Tirzah Ann could. Why, Tirzah Ann says the
rest wus enough to wear out a leather wemen, and how she stood it for
two weeks wus more than she could tell. You see she wusn’t used to hard
work. I had always favored her and gone ahead with the work myself, and
Whitfield had been as careful of her, and as good as a woman to help
her, and this rest came tough on it; it wus dretful hard on her to be put
through so.
You see she had to dress up two or three times a day, and keep the babe
dressed up slick. And she had to promenade down to the waterin’-place,
and drink jist such a time, and it went against her stomach, and almost
upset her every time. And she had to go a-ridin’, and out on the water in
boats and yots, and that made her sick, too, and had to play crokey, and
be up till midnight to parties. You see she had to do all this, ruther
than let Mrs. Skidmore get in ahead on her, and do more than she did,
and be more genteel than she wus, and rest more.
And then the town bein’ full, and runnin’ over, they wus cooped up in a
little mite of a room up three flights of stairs; that, in itself, wus
enough to wear Tirzah Ann out; she never could climb stairs worth a cent.
And their room wus very small, and the air close, nearly tight, and hot
as an oven; they wus used to great, cool, airy rooms to hum; and the babe
couldn’t stand the hotness and the tightness, and she began to enjoy poor
health, and cried most all the time, and that wore on Tirzah Ann; and to
hum, the babe could play round in the yard all day a’most, but here she
hung right on to her ma.
And then the rooms on one side of ’em wus occupied by a young man
a-learnin’ to play on the flute; he had been disappointed in love, and he
would try to make up tunes as he went along sort o’ tragedy style, and
dirge-like, the most unearthly and woe-begone sounds, they say, that they
ever heard or heard on. They say it wus enough to make anybody’s blood
run cold in their veins to hear ’em; he kept his room most of the time,
and played day and night. He had ruther be alone day times and play, than
go into company, and nights he couldn’t sleep, so he would set up and
play. They wus sorry for him, they said they wus; they knew his mind must
be in a awful state, and his sufferin’s intense, or he couldn’t harrow up
anybody’s feelin’s so. But that didn’t make it more the easier for them.
Tirzah Ann and Whitfield both says that tongue can’t never tell the
sufferin’s they underwent from that flute, and their feelin’s for that
young man; they expected every day to hear he had made way with himself,
his agony seemed so great, and he would groan and rithe so fearful, when
he wasn’t playin’.
And the room on the other side of ’em wus occupied by a young woman who
owned a melodien; she went into company a good deal, and her spells of
playin’ and singin’ would come on after she had got home from parties.
She had a good many bo’s, and wus happy dispositioned naturally; and
they said some nights, it would seem as if there wouldn’t be no end to
her playin’ and singin’ love songs, and performin’ quiet pieces, polkys,
and waltzes, and such. Tirzah Ann and Whitfield are both good-hearted as
they can be, and they said they didn’t want to throw no shade over young
hearts; they had been young themselves not much more than two years ago;
they knew by experience what it wus to be sentimental, and they felt to
sympathize with the gladness and highlarity of a young heart, and they
didn’t want to do nothin’ to break it up. But still it came tough on
’em—dretful. I s’pose the sufferin’s couldn’t be told that they suffered
from them two musicianers. And the babe not bein’ used to such rackets,
nights, would get skairt, and almost go into hysterick fits. And two or
three nights, Tirzah Ann had ’em, too—the hystericks. I don’t know what
kept Whitfield up; he says no mony would tempt him to go through it agin;
I s’pose she almost tore him to pieces; but she wasn’t to blame, she
didn’t know what she was a-doin’.
It hain’t no use to blame Tirzah Ann now, after it is all over with; but
she sees it plain enough now, and she’s a-sufferin’ from the effects of
it, her tryin’ to keep up with Mrs. Skidmore, and do all she done. And
there is where her morals get all run down, and Whitfield’s, too.
To think of them two, she that was Tirzah Ann Allan, and Whitfield
Minkley! to think of them two! brought up as they had been, with such
parents and step-parents as they had, settin’ under such a preacher as
they had always set under! to think of them two a-dancin’!
Why, if anybody else had told me, if it had come through two or three, I
would have despised the idee of believin’ it. But it didn’t come through
anybody; she owned it up to me herself; I couldn’t hardly believe my ear
when she told me, but I had to. They had parties there every evenin’
in the parlor, and Mrs. Skidmore and her husband went to ’em, and they
danced. I didn’t say nothin’ to hurt her feelin’s, her mean looked so
dretful, and I see she was a-gettin’ her pay for her sinfulness, but I
groaned loud and frequent, while she wus a-tellin’ me of this, (entirely
unbeknown to me).
Here was where Whitfield got so lame. He never had danced a step before
in his life, nor Tirzah Ann nuther. But Skidmore and his wife danced
every night, and Tirzah Ann, bein’ so ambitius, was determined that
she and Whitfield should dance as much as they did, if they fell down
a-doin’ of it; and not bein’ used to it, it almost killed ’em, besides
loosening their mussels, so that it will be weeks and weeks before they
get as strong and as firm as they wus before, and I don’t know as they
ever will. When mussels get to totterin’, it is almost impossible to get
’em as firm as they wus before. But truely they got their pay, Whitfield
bein’ so tuckered out with the rest and recreation he had been a-havin’,
it lamed him awfully, rheumatiz set in, and he wus most bed-rid. And then
a base ball hit him, when he was a-playin’; a base ball hit him on the
elbo’, right on the crazy-bone; I s’pose he wus most crazy, the pain wus
terrible, but the doctor says, with care, he may get over it, and use his
arm agin. At present, it is in a sling.
It seemed to hurt Tirzah Ann more innardly; it brought on a kind of
weakness. But where she got her death-blow (as it were), what laid her
up, and made her sick a-bed, was goin’ in a-bathin’, and drinkin’ so
much mineral water. Ridin’ out on the water was bad for ’em both, as I
said; made ’em as sick as snipes, they were dretfully sick every time
they went, almost split their stomachs. But if she had kep’ on top of the
water, it would have been better for her, sick as she was. But she wasn’t
goin’ to have Mrs. Skidmore bathe, and she not, not if she got drowned in
the operations. She was always afraid of deep water—dretful. But in she
went, and got skairt, the minute the water was over her ankles; it skairt
her so, she had sort o’ cramps, and gin up she was a-drowndin’, and that
made it worse for her, and she did crumple right down in the water,
and would have been drownded, if a man hadn’t rescued of her; she wus
a-sinkin’ for the third time, when he laid holt of her hair, and yanked
her out.
But she hain’t got over the fright yet, and I am afraid she never will.
Whitfield says now, night after night, she will jump right up inside of
the bed, and ketch holt of him, and yell the most uneerthly yells he
ever, ever heard; and night after night, in the dead of night, she will
jump right over him, onto the floor, thinkin’ she is drowndin’ agin; it
makes it hard for ’em both, dretful.
The mineral water, they say, told awfully, and it went against Tirzah
Ann’s stomach so, that she couldn’t hardly get down a tumblerful a
day; she wus always dretful dainty and sort o’ delicate-like. But Mrs.
Skidmore bein’ so tough, could drink seven tumblersful right down. And
it seems she acted sort o’ overbearin’ and haughty, because Tirzah Ann
couldn’t drink so much as she could. And put on airs about it. And Tirzah
Ann couldn’t stand that, so one day, it wus the day before she came home,
she said to herself that Mrs. Skidmore shouldn’t have that to feel big
over no longer, so she drinked down five tumblersful, and wus a-tryin’ to
get down the other two, when she wus took sick sudden and violent, and I
s’pose a sicker critter never lived than she wus. It acted on her like a
emetic, and she had all the symptoms of billerous colic. I s’pose they
wus awful skairt about her, and she was skairt about herself; she thought
she wus a-dyin’, and she made Whitfield promise on a Testament to carry
her, the next day, to Janesville, alive or dead. So he wus as good as his
word, and brought her home, the next day, on a bed.
They got round the house in a day or two, but they have been laid up
for repairs (as you may say,) ever sense. They are sick critters, now,
both on ’em. Never, never, did I see such awful effects from rest and
recreation before. As they both say, one week’s more rest would have
finished ’em for this world.
And besides these outside sufferin’s that are plain to be seen, there are
innurd hurts that are fur worse. Outside bruises and hurts can be reached
with arneky and wormwood, but how can you bathe a wounded sperit, or rub
it with hot flannel? You can’t do it.
Now, this that I am goin’ to say now, I wouldn’t have get round for the
world—it _must be kept_! But seein’ I am on this subject, I feel it to
be my duty to tell the truth, and the hull truth. But it musn’t go no
further: it must be kept.
Tirzah Ann didn’t tell this right out to me, but I gathered it from
little things I heard her and Whitfield say, and from what others said
who wus there.
If I didn’t feel it to be my bounden duty to write the truth, and if
it wusn’t for its bein’ a solemn warnin’ to them who may have felt a
hankerin’ toward goin’ off on a trip, I couldn’t write out the awful
words. But it must be kept.
I mistrust, and almost know, that Tirzah Ann flirted—flirted with a man!
You see Mrs. Skidmore, wantin’ to appear fashionable and genteel, flirted
with men, and I know jest as well as I want to know, that Tirzah Ann
did, not wantin’ to be outdone.
I know she and Whitfield quarreled, dretfully, for the first time in
their lives; that I had right from her own mouth. But she didn’t tell me
what it wus about; she looked sort o’ sheepish and weakin’, and turned
the subject, and I hain’t one to pump.
But I s’pose from what they both said to me, they came pretty nigh
partin’. And I know jest as well as if I see it myself, that Tirzah Ann
bein’ so ambitius, and not wantin’ to be outdone by Mrs. Skidmore, went
to flirtin’, and I mistrust it wus with old Skidmore himself. I know he
and Whitfield don’t speak. Tirzah Ann never could bear him, but I s’pose
she wanted to gall Mrs. Skidmore.
Oh, such doin’s, such doin’s! You hain’t no idee how it worked up Josiah
and me, and mortified us. As I told Josiah that night—after we went to
bed, we wus a-talkin’ the matter over—and says I:
“Josiah Allen, what would their morals have been, if they had rested and
recreated any longer?”
And he groaned out, and sayed what galled him the worst wus to think of
“the money they had throwed away.” Says he, “it will cramp ’em for months
and months.” And it did.