It was a lovely mornin' about three weeks after Cicely's death. Josiah
had to go to Jonesville to mill, and the boy wanted to go to; and so I
put on his little cloak and hat, and told him he might go.
We didn't act cast down and gloomy before the boy, Josiah and me didn't.
He had worried for his ma dretfully, at first. But we had made every
thing of him, and petted him. And I had told him that she had gone to a
lovely place, and was there a waitin' for him. And I would say it to him
with as cheerful a face as I could. (I knew I could do my own cryin',
out to one side.)
And he believed me. He believed every word I said to him. And he would
ask me sights and sights of questions about “the _place_.”
And “if it was inside the gate, that uncle Josiah had read about,--that
gate that was big and white, like a pearl? And if it would float down
through the sky some day, and stand still in front of him? And would
the gate swing open so he could see into the City? and would it be all
glorious with golden streets, and shining, and full of light? And
would his mamma Cicely stand just inside, and reach out her arms to
him?--those pretty white arms.”
And then the boy would sob and cry. And I'd soothe him, and swaller
hard, and say “Yes,” and didn't think it was wicked, when he would be a
sobbin' so.
And then he'd ask, “Would she take him in her arms, and be glad to see
her own little boy again? And would he have long to wait?”
And I'd comfort him, and tell him, “No, it wouldn't be but a little time
to wait.”
And didn't think it was wicked, for it wuzn't long anyway. For “our days
are but shadows that flee away.”
Wall, he loved us, some. And we loved him, and did well by him; and
bein' a child, we could sometimes comfort him with childish things.
And this mornin' he wus all excitement about goin' to Jonesville with
his uncle Josiah. And I gin him some pennys to get some oranges for him
and the babe, and they set off feelin' quite chirk.
And I sot down to mend a vest for my Josiah. And I was a settin' there a
mendin' it,--one of the pockets had gin out, and it was frayed round the
edges.
And I sot there a sewin' on that fray, peaceful and calm and serene as
the outside of the vest, which was farmer's satin, and very smooth and
shinin'. The weather also wus as mild and serene as the vest, if not
serener. I had got my work all done up as slick as a pin: the floor
glittered like yellow glass, the stove shone a agreable black, a good
dinner was a cookin'. And I sot there, happy, as I say; for though,
when I had done so much work that mornin', if that vest had belonged to
anybody else, it would have looked like a stent to me, I didn't mind it,
for it was for my Josiah: and love makes labor light,--light as day.
I was jest a thinkin' this, and a thinkin' that though I had jest told
Josiah, from a sense of duty, that “he had broke that pocket down by
luggin' round so much stuff in it, and there was no sense in actin' as
if he could carry round a hull car-load of things in his vest-pocket;”
though I had spoken to him thus, from a sense of duty, tryin' to keep
him straight and upright in his demeaner,--still, I was a thinkin' how
pleasant it wuz to work for them you loved, and that loved you: for
though he had snapped me up considerable snappish, and said “he should
carry round in his pockets as much as he was a minter; and if I didn't
want to mend it, I could let it alone,” and had throwed it down in the
corner, and slammed the door considerable hard when he went out, still,
I knew that this slight pettishness was only the light bubbles that
rises above the sparkling wine. I knew his love for me lay pure and
clear and sparklin' in the very depths of his soul.
I was a settin' there, thinkin' about it, and thinkin' how true love,
such as mine and hisen, glorified a earthly existence, when all of a
sudden I heard a rap come onto the kitchen door right behind me; and I
says, “Come in.” And a tall, slim feller entered, with light hair, and
sort o' thin, and a patient, determined countenance onto him. A sort
of a persistent look to him, as if he wuzn't one to be turned round
by trifles. I didn't dislike his looks a mite at first, and sot him a
chair.
But little did I think what was a comin'. For, if you will believe it,
he hadn't much more than got sot down when he says to me right there, in
the middle of the forenoon, and right to my face,--the mean, miserable,
lowlived scamp,--says he, right there, in broad daylight, and without
blushing, or any thing, says he,--
“I called this morning, mom, to see if I couldn't sell you a feller.”
“Sell me a feller!” I jest made out to say, for I wus fairly paralyzed
by his impudence. “Sell me a feller!”
“Yes: I have got some of the best kinds they make, and I didn't know but
I could sell you one.”
Sez I, gettin' my tongue back, “Buy a feller! you ask me, at my age, and
with my respectability, and after carryin' round such principles as
I have been carryin' round for years and years, you ask me to buy a
feller!”
“Yes: I didn't know but you would want one. I have got the best kind
there is made.”
“I'll let you know, young man,” says I, “I'll let you know that I have
got a feller of my own, as good a one as was ever made, one I have had
for 20 years and over.”
“Wall, mom,” says he, with that stiddy, determined way of hisen, “a
feller that you have had for 20 years must be out of gear by this time.”
“Out of gear!” says I, speakin' up sharp. “You will be out of gear
yourself, young man, if I hear any more such talk out of your head.”
“I hope you will excuse me, mom,” says he, in that patient way of hisen.
“It hain't my way to run down anybody's else's fellers.”
“Wall, I guess you hadn't better try it again in this house,” says I
warmly. “I guess it won't be very healthy for you.”
[Illustration: AGENT TRYING TO SELL SAMANTHA A FELLER.]
“Can't I sell you some other attachment, mom? I have got 'em of all
kinds.”
“Sell me another attachment? No, sir. You can't sell me another
attachment. My attachment is as firm and endurin' as the rocks, and has
always been, and is one not to be bought and sold.”
“I presume yours was good in the day of 'em, mom, but they must be
old-fashioned. I have the very best and newest attachments of all kinds.
But I make a specialty of my fellers. You'd better let me sell you a
feller, mom.”
I declare for't, my first thought was, to turn him right outdoors, and
shet the door in his face. And then agin, I thought, I am a member of
the meetin'-house. I must be patient and long sufferin', and may be here
is a chance for me to do good. Thinks'es I, if I was ever eloquent in a
good cause, I must be now. I must convince him of the nefariousness of
his conduct. And if soarin' in eloquence can do it, why, I must soar.
And so I begun.
Says I, wavin' my right hand in a broad, soarin', eloquent wave, “Young
man, when you talk about buyin' and sellin' a feller, you are talkin'
on a solemn subject,--buyin and sellin' attachments! Buyin' and sellin'
fellers! It hain't nothin' new to me. I've hearn tell of such things,
but little did I suppose it was a subject I should ever be tackled on.
“But I have hearn of it. I have hearn of wimmen sellin' themselves to
the highest bidder, with a minister for auctioneer and salesman. I have
hearn of fathers and mothers sellin' beauty and innocence and youth to
wicked old age for money--sellin' 'em right in the meetin'-house, under
the very shadow of the steeple.
[Illustration: THEM THAT SELL DOVES.]
“Jerusalem hain't the only village where God's holy temple has been
polluted by money-changers and them that sell doves. Many a sweet
little dove of a girl is made by her father and mother, and other old
money-changers, to walk up to God's holy altar, and swear to a lie.
They think her tellin' that lie, makes the infamous bargain more sacred,
makes the infamous life they have drove her into more respectable.
“There was One who cleansed from such accursed traffic the old Jewish
temples, but He walks no more with humanity. If he did, would he not
walk up the broad aisles of our orthodox churches in American
cities, and release these doves, and overthrow the plots of these
money-changers?
“But let me tell 'em, that though they can't see Him, He is there; and
the lash of His righteous wrath will surely descend, not upon their
bodies, but upon their guilty souls, teachin' them how much more
terrible it is to sell a life, with all its rich dowery of freedom,
happiness, purity, immortality.”
Here my breath gin out, for I had used my very deepest principle tone;
and it uses up a fearful ammount of wind, and is tuckerin' beyend what
any one could imagine of tucker. You _have_ to stop to collect breath.
And he looked at me with that same stiddy, patient, modest look of
hisen; and says he, in that low, determined voice,--
“What you say, madam, is very true, and even beautiful and eloquent: but
time is valuable to me; and as I said, I stopped here this morning to
see if I could sell”--
“I know you did: I heard you with my own ears. If it had come through
two or three, or even one, pair of ears besides my own, I couldn't have
believed 'em--I never could have believed that any human creeter, male
or female, would have dared to stand up before me, and try to sell me a
feller! _Sell_ a feller to me! Why, even in my young days, do you s'pose
I would ever try to _buy_ a feller?
“No, sir! fellers must come free and spontaneous? or not at all. Never
was I the woman to advance one step towards any feller in the way of
courtship--havin' no occasion for it, bein' one that had more offers
than I knew what to do with, as I often tell my husband, Josiah Allen,
now, in our little differences of opinion. 'Time and agin,' as I tell
him, 'I might have married, but held back.' And never would I have
married, never, had not love gripped holt of my very soul, and drawed me
along up to the marriage alter. I loved the feller I married, and he was
the only feller in the hull world for me.”
Says he in that low, gentle tone, and lookin' modest and patient as a
lily, but as determined and sot as ever a iron teakettle was sot over a
stove,--
“You are under a mistake, mom.”
Says I, “Don't you tell me that agin if you know what is good for
yourself. I guess I know my own mind. I was past the age of whifflin',
and foolin' round. I married that feller from pure love, and no other
reason under the heavens. For there wuzn't any other reason only jest
that, why I _should_ marry him.”
And for a moment, or two moments, my mind roamed back onto that old,
mysterious question that has haunted me more or less through my natural
life, for over twenty years. _Why_ did I marry Josiah Allen? But I
didn't revery on it long. I was too agitated, and wrought up; and I says
agin, in tones witherin' enough to wither him,--
“The idee of sellin' me a feller!”
But the chap didn't look withered a mite: he stood there firm and
immovible, and says he,--
“I didn't mean no offense, mom. Sellin' attachments is what I get my
living by”--
“Wall, I should ruther not get a livin',” says I, interruptin' of him.
“I should ruther not live.”
“As I said, mom, I get my livin' that way: and one of your neighbors
told me that your feller was an old one, and sort o' givin' out; and
I have got 'em with all the latest improvements, and--and she thought
mebby I could sell you one.”
“You miserable coot you!” says I. “Do you stop your impudent talk, or I
will holler to Josiah. What do you s'pose I want with another feller? Do
you s'pose I'd swap Josiah Allen for all the fellers that ever swarmed
on the globe? What do you s'pose I care for the latest improvements? If
a feller was made of pure gold from head to feet, with diamond eyes and
a garnet nose, do you s'pose he would look so good to me as Josiah Allen
duz?
“And I would thank the neighbers to mind their own business, and let my
affairs alone. What if he is a gettin' old and wore out? What if he is
a givin' out? He is always kinder spindlin' in the spring of the year.
Some men winter harder than others: he is a little tizicky, and breathes
short, and his liver may not be the liver it was once; but he will come
round all right when the weather moderates. And mebby they meant to hint
and insinuate sunthin' about his bein' so bald, and losin' his teeth.
“But I'll let you know, and I'll let the neighbors know, that I didn't
marry that man for hair; I didn't marry that man for teeth, and a
few locks more or less, or a handful of teeth, has no power over that
love,--that love that makes me say from the very depths of my soul, that
my feller is one of a thousand.”
“I hain't disputed you, mom,” says he, with his firm, patient look.
“I dare presume to say that your feller was good in the day of such
fellers. But every thing has its day: we make fellers far different
now.”
Says I sarcasticly, givin' him quite a piercin' look, “I know they do:
I've seen 'em.”
“Yes, they make attachments now very different: yours is old-fashioned.”
“Yes, I know it is: I know that love, such love as hisen and mine, and
I know that truth and fidelity and constancy, _are_ old-fashioned. But
I thank God that our souls are clothed with that beautiful old fashion,
that seamless, flawless robe that wus cut out in Eden, and a few true
souls have wore ever since.”
“But your attachment will grow older and older, and give out entirely
after a while. What will you do then?”
“My attachment will _never_ give out.”
“But mom”--
“No, you needn't argue and contend--I say it will _never_ give out. It
is a heavenly gift dropped down from above, entirely unbeknown. True
love is not sought after, it comes; and when it comes, it stays.
Talk about love gettin' old--love _never_ grows old; talk about love
goin'--love _never_ goes: that which goes is not love, though it has
been called so time and agin. Talk about love dyin'--why, it _can't_
die, no more than the souls can, in which its sweet light is born.
Why, it is a flame that God Himself kindles: it is a bit of His own
brightness a shinin' down through the darkness of our earthly life, and
is as immortal and indestructible as His own glory.
“It is the only fountain of Eternal Youth that gushes up through this
dreary earthly soil, for the refreshin' of men and wimmen, in which the
weary soul can bathe itself, and find rest.”
“Sometimes,” says he, sort o' dreamily, “sometimes we repair old
fellers.”
“Wall, you won't repair my feller, I can let you know that. I won't
have him repaired. The impudence of the hull idee,” says I, roustin' up
afresh, “goes ahead of any thing I ever dreamed of, of impudence. Repair
my feller! I don't want him any different. I want him jest as he is. I
would scorn to repair him. I _could_ if I wanted to,--his teeth could
be sharpened up, what he has got, and new ones sot in. And I could
cover his head over with red curls; or I could paint it black, and paste
transfer flowers onto it. I could have a sot flower sot right on the top
of his bald head, and a trailin' vine runnin' round his forward. Or I
could trim it round with tattin', if I wanted to, and crystal beads.
I could repair him up so he would look gay. But do you s'pose that any
artificials that was ever made, or any hair, if it was as luxuriant as
Ayer'ses Vigor, could look so good to me as that old bald head that I
have seen a shinin' acrost the table from me for so many years?
[Illustration: JOSIAH AFTER BEING REPAIRED.]
“I tell you, there is memories and joys and sorrows a clusterin' round
that head, that I wouldn't swap for all the beauty and the treasures of
the world.
“Memories of happy mornin's dewy fresh, with cool summer breezes a
comin' in through the apple-blows by the open door, and the light of
the happy sunrise a shinin' on that old bald head, and then gleamin' off
into my happy heart.
“There is memories of pleasant evenin' hours, with the tea-table drawed
up in front of the south door, and the sweet southern wind a comin' in
over the roses, and the tender light of the sunset, and the waverin'
shadows of the honeysuckles and mornin'-glorys, fallin' on us, wrappin'
us all round, and wrappin' all of the rest of the world out.”
Mebby the young chap said sunthin' here, but it was entirely unbeknown
to me; though I thought I heard the murmur of his voice makin' a sort
of a tinklin' accompinment to my thoughts, sunthin' like the babble of a
brook a runnin' along under forest boughs, when the wind with its mighty
melody is sweepin' through 'em. Great emotions was sweepin' along with
power, and couldn't be stayed. And I went right on, not sensin' a thing
round me,--
“There is memories of sabbath drives, in fair June mornin's, through the
old lane alder and willow fringed, with the brook runnin' along on one
side of it; where the speckled trout broke the Sunday quiet by dancin'
up through the brown and gold shadows of the cool water, and the odor of
the pine woods jest beyend comin' fresh and sweet to us.
[Illustration: “GOIN' TO THE REVIVAL MEETING.”]
“Memories of how that road and that face looked in the week-day dusk, as
we sot out for the revival meetin', when the sun had let down his long
bars of gold and crimson and yellow, and had got over 'em, and sunk
down behind 'em out of sight. And we could ketch glimpses through the
willow-sprays of them shinin' bars a layin' down on the gray twilight
field. And fur away over the green hills and woods of the east, the moon
was a risin', big and calm and silvery. And we could hear the plaintive
evenin' song of the thrush, and the crickets' happy chirp, till we got
nearer the schoolhouse, when they sort o' blended in with 'There is a
fountain filled with blood,' and 'Come, ye disconsolate.'
“And the moonlight, and sister Bobbet's and sister Minkly's candles,
shone down and out, on that dear old bald head as his hat fell off, as
he helped me out of the wagon.
“Memories of how I have seen it a bendin' over the Word, in hours of
peace and happiness, and hours of anxiety and trouble, a readin' every
time about the eternal hills, and the shadow of the Rock, and the
Everlastin' Arms that was a holdin' us both up, me and Josiah, and the
Everlastin' Love that was wrappin' us round, helpin' us onward by these
very joys, these very sorrows.
“Memories of the midnight lamp lightin' it up in the chamber of the
sick, in the long, lonesome hours before day-dawn.
“Memories of its bendin' over the sick ones in happier mornin's, as he
carried 'em down-stairs in his arms, and sot 'em in their old places at
the table.
“Memories of how it looked in the glare of the tempest, and under the
rainbow when the storm had passed. It stands out from a background of
winter snows and summer sunshine, and has all the shadows and brightness
of them seasons a hangin' over it.
“Yes, there is memories of sorrows borne by both, and so made holier and
more blessed than happiness. That head has bent with mine over a little
coffin, and over open graves, when he shared my anguish. And stood by
me under the silent stars, when he shared my prayers, my hopes, for the
future.
“That old bald head stands up on the most sacred height of my heart,
like a beacon; the glow of the soul shines on it; love gilds it. And do
you s'pose any other feller's head on earth could ever look so good to
me as that duz? Do you s'pose I will ever have it repaired upon? never!
I _won't_ repair him. I won't have him dickered and fooled with. Not at
all.
“He'd look better to me than any other feller that ever walked on earth
if he hadn't a tooth left in his head, or a hair on his scalp. As long
as Josiah Allen has got body enough left to wrap round his soul, and
keep it down here on earth, my heart is hisen, every mite of it, jest as
he is too.
“And I'll thank the neighbors to mind their own business!” says I,
kinder comin' to agin. For truly, I had soared up high above my kitchen,
and gossipin' neighbors, and feller-agents, and all other tribulations.
And as I lit down agin (as it were), I see he was a standin' on
one foot, with his watch, a big silver one, in his hand, and gazin'
pensively onto it; and he says,--
“Your remarks are worthy, mom--but somewhat lengthy,” says he, in a
voice of pain; “nearly nine moments long: but,” says he, sort o' bracin'
up agin on both feet, “I beg of you not to be too hasty. I did not come
into this neighborhood to make dissensions or broils. I merely stated
that I got the idee, from what they said, that your feller didn't work
good.”
“Didn't work good! You impudent creeter you! What of it? What if
he don't work at all? What earthly business is it of yourn or the
neighbors? I guess he is able to lay by for a few days if he wants to.”
“You are laborin' under a mistake, mom.”
“No, I hain't laborin' under no mistake! And don't you tell me agin that
I be. We have got a good farm all paid for, and money out on interest;
and whose business is it whether he works all day, or don't. When I get
to goin' round to see who works, and who don't; and when I get so low
as to watch my neighbors the hull of the time, to find out every minute
they set down; when I can't find nothin' nobler to do,--I'll spend my
time talkin' about hens' teeth, and lettis seed.”
Says he, lookin' as amiable and patient as a factory-cloth rag-babe, but
as determined as a weepin' live one, with the colic,--
“You don't seem to get my meaning. I merely wished to remark that I
could fix over your feller if you wanted me to”--
Oh! how burnin' indignant I wuz! But all of a sudden, down on this
seethin' tumult of anger fell this one calmin' word,--_Meeting-house!_ I
felt I must be calm,--calm and impressive; so says I,--
“You need not repeat your infamous proposal. I say to you agin, that the
form where Love has set up his temple, is a sacred form. Others may be
more beautiful, and even taller, but they don't have the same look to
'em. It is one of the strangest things,” says I, fallin' agin' a little
ways down into a revery,--
“It is one of the very solemnest things I ever see, how a emotion large
and boundless enough to fill eternity and old space itself, should all
be gathered up and centered into so small a temple, and such a lookin'
one, too, sometimes,” says I pensively, as I thought it over, how sort
o' meachin' and bashful lookin' Josiah Allen wuz, when I married to him.
And how small his weight wuz by the steelyards. But it is so, curious it
can be, but so it is.
“_Why_ Love, like a angel, springs up in the heart unawares, as Lot
entertained another, I don't know. If you should ask me why, I'd tell
you plain, that I didn't know where Love come from; but if you should
ask me where Love went to, I should answer agin plain, that it don't go,
it stays. The only right way for pardners to come, is to come down free
gifts from above, free as the sun, or the showers--that fall down in
a drouth--and perfectly unbeknown, like them. Such a love is
oncalculatin', givin' all, unquestionin', unfearin', no dickering no
holdin' back lookin' for better chances.”
“Yes, mom,” says he, a twirlin' his hat round, and standin' on one foot
some like a patient old gander in the fall of the year.
“Yes, mom, what you say is very true; but your elequent remarks, your
very sociable talk, has caused me to tarry a longer period than is
really consistent with the claims of business. As I told you when I
first come in, I merely called to see if I could sell you”--
“Yes, I know you did. And a meaner, low-liveder proposal I never heard
from mortal lips, be he male, or be he female. The idee of _me_, Josiah
Allen's wife, who has locked arms with principle, and has kep' stiddy
company with it, for years and years--the idee of _me_ buyin' a feller!
I dare persume to say”--
Says I more mildly, as he took up his hat and little box he had, and
started for the door,--and seein' I was goin' to get rid of him so soon,
I felt softer towards him, as folks will towards burdens when they are
bein' lifted from 'em,--
“I dare persume to say, you thought I was a single woman, havin'
been told time and agin, that I am young-lookin' for my age, and fair
complected. I won't think,” says I, feelin' still softer towards him as
I see him a openin' the door,--
“I won't think for a minute that you knew who it was you made your
infamous proposal to. But never, never make it agin to any livin' human
bein', married or single.”
He looked real sort o' meachin' as I spoke; and he said in considerable
of a meek voice,--
“I was talkin' to you about a new feller, jest got up by the richest
firm in North America.”
“What difference does it make to me who he belongs to? I don't care if
he belongs to Vanderbilt, or Aster'ses family. Principle--that is what I
am a workin' on; and the same principle that would hender me from buyin'
a feller that was poor as a snail, would hender me from buyin' one that
had the riches of Creshus; it wouldn't make a mite of difference to me.
“As the poet Mr. Burns says,--I have heard Thomas J. repeat it time and
agin, and I always liked it: I may not get the words exactly right, but
the meanin' is,--
“Rank is only the E pluribus Unum stamp, on the trade dollar: a feller
is a feller for all that.”
But I'll be hanged if he didn't, after all my expenditure of wind and
eloquence, and quotin' poetry, and every thing--if he didn't turn round
at the foot of that doorstep, and strikin' that same patient, determined
attitude of hisen, say, says he,--
[Illustration: “CAN'T I SELL YOU A FELLER?”]
“You are mistaken, mom. I merely stopped this mornin' to see if I could
sell you”--
But I jest shet the door in his face, and went off upstairs into the
west chamber, and went to windin' bobbin's for my carpet. And I don't
know how long he stayed there, nor don't care. He had gone when I come
down to get dinner, and that was all I cared for.
I told Josiah about it when he and the boy come home; and I tell you,
my eyes fairly snapped, I was that mad and rousted up about it: but he
said,--
“He believed it was a sewin'-machine man, and wanted to sell me a feller
for my sewin'-machine. He said he had heard there was a general agent in
Jonesville that was a sendin' out agents with all sorts of attachments,
some with hemmers, and some with fellers.”
But I didn't believe a word of it: I believe he was _mean_. A mean,
low-lived, insultin' creeter.