to make a natural born fool of herself. And I say agin, I don’t wonder
sometimes, that men don’t think that wimmen know enough to vote, when
they see ’em go on. If a woman don’t know enough to make a dress so she
can draw a long breath in it, how is she goin’ to take deep and broad
views of public affairs? If she puts 30 yards of calico into a dress,
besides the trimmin’s, how is she goin’ to preach acceptably on political
economy? If her face is covered with paint, and her curls and frizzles
all danglin’ down onto her eyes, how can she look straight and keenly
into foreign nations and see our relations there? If a woman don’t
know enough to keep her dress out of the mud, how is she goin’ to steer
the nation through the mud puddle of politics? If a woman humps herself
out, and makes a camel of herself, how is she goin’ through the eye of a
needle?”
I said these last words in a real solemn camp meetin’ tone, but they
seemed to mad her, for she started right up and went out, and I didn’t
care a cent if she did, I had seen enough of her. She ketched her trail
in the door and tore off pretty nigh a yard of it, and I didn’t cry
about that, not a mite. I don’t like these bold brazen faced wimmen that
go a rantin’ round the country, rigged out in that way, jest to make
themselves notorious. Thier names hadn’t ought to be mentioned in the
same day, with true earnest wimmen who take thier reputations in thier
hands, and give thier lives to the cause of Right, goin’ ahead walkin’
afoot through the wilderness, cuttin’ down trees, and diggin’ out stumps,
makin’ a path for the car of Freedom, that shall yet roll onward into
Liberty.
As soon as she was gone, I went down and eat my dinner, for I was hungry
as a bear. At the dinner table Jonothan Beans’es ex wife asked me “what I
would like for desert.”
I told her “I hadn’t turned my mind much that way, for I hadn’t no idee
of goin’ into the desert business, I wouldn’t buy one any way, and I
wouldn’t take one as a gift if I had got to settle down, and live on it.
But from what I had heard Thomas Jefferson read about it, I thought the
desert of Sarah was about as roomy and raised as much sand to the acre as
any of ’em.”
Says she, turnin’ the subject, “will you have pie or puddin’.”
I couldn’t see then, and I have thought about it lots sense, I don’t see
what started her off onto Gography all of a sudden.
After dinner I thought I would rest a spell. My talk with that female
lecturer had tired me out. Principle is dreadful tuckerin’ to any body,
when you make it a stiddy business. I had rather wash, any time, than to
go off on a tower of it as I was. So I went to my room and sot down real
comfortable. But I hadn’t sot more’n a minute and a half, when Betsey
Bobbet came, and nothin’ to do, but I must go to Stewarts’es store with
her. I hung back at first, but then I happened to think, if Alexander
should hear--as of course he would--that I had been to the village and
hadn’t been to his shop, he would have reason to feel hurt. Alexander is
a real likely man, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelin’s, and it haint
my way to want to slight anybody. And then I had a little tradin’ I
wanted to do. So take it all together, I finally told Betsey I would go
with her.
ALEXANDER’S STORE.
I had heard it was considerable of a store, but good land! it was bigger
than all the shops of Jonesville put together, and 2 or 3 10 acre lots,
and a few meetin’ housen. But I wouldn’t have acted skairt, if it had
been as big as all Africa. I walked in as cool as a cowcumber. We sot
down pretty nigh to the door and looked round a spell. Of all the sights
of folks there was a comin’ in all the time, and shinin’ counters all
down as fur as we could see, and slick lookin’ fellers behind every one,
and lots of boys runnin’ round, that they called “Cash.” I says to Betsey,
“What a large family of boys Mr. Cash’es folks have got, and they must
some of ’em be twins, they seem to be about of a size.”
I was jest thinkin’ in a pityin way of their mother: poor Mrs. Cash, and
how many pantaloons she would have to put new seats into, in slidin’ down
hill time, when Betsey says to me,
“Josiah Allen’s wife, hadn’t you better be purchasing your merchandise?”
Says she, “I will set here and rest ’till you get through, and as deah
Tuppah remarked, ‘study human nature.’” She didn’t have no book as I
could see to study out of, but I didn’t make no remarks, Betsey is a
curious critter, anyway. I went up to the first counter--there was a
real slick lookin’ feller there, and I asked him in a cool tone, “If Mr.
Stewart took eggs, and what they was a fetchin’ now?”
He said “Mr. Stewart don’t take eggs.”
“Well,” says I, “what does he give now for butter in the pail?”
He said “Mr. Stewart don’t take butter.”
“Well,” says I, in a dignified way, “It haint no matter, I only asked to
see what they was a fetchin’ here. I haint got any with me, for I come on
a tower.” I then took a little roll out of my pocket, and undone ’em. It
was a pair of socks and a pair of striped mittens. And I says to him in a
cool, calm way,
“How much is Mr. Stewart a payin’ for socks and mittens now. I know they
are kinder out of season now, but there haint no danger but what Winter
will come, if you only wait long enough.”
He said “we don’t take em.”
I felt dissapointed, for I did want Alexander to have ’em, they was knit
so good. I was jest thinkin’ this over, when he spoke up agin, and says
he, “we don’t take barter of no kind.” I didn’t know really what he
meant, but I answered him in a blind way, that it was jest as well as
if they did, as fur as I was concerned, for we hadn’t raised any barter
that year, it didn’t seem to be a good year for it, and then I continued
on--“Mebby Mr. Stewart would take these socks and mittens for his own
use.” Says I, “do you know whether Alexander is well off for socks and
mittens or not?”
[Illustration: DON’T TAKE BARTER.]
The clerk said “he guessed Mr. Stewart wasn’t sufferin’ for ’em.”
“Well,” says I in a dignified way, “you can do as you are a mind to about
takin’ ’em, but they are colored in a good indigo blue dye, they haint
pusley color, and they are knit on honor, jest as I knit Josiah’s.”
“Who is Josiah?” says the clerk.
Says I, a sort of blindly, “He is the husband of Josiah Allen’s wife.”
I would’t say right out, that I was Josiah Allen’s wife, because I wanted
them socks and mittens to stand on their own merits, or not at all. I
wasn’t goin’ to have ’em go, jest because one of the first wimmen of
the day knit ’em. Neither was I goin’ to hang on, and tease him to take
’em. I never said another word about his buyin’ ’em, only mentioned in a
careless way, that “the heels was run.” But he didn’t seem to want ’em,
and I jest folded ’em up, and in a cool way put ’em into my pocket. I
then asked to look at his calicos, for I was pretty near decided in my
own mind to get a apron, for I wasn’t goin’ to have him think that all my
property lay in that pair of socks and mittens.
He told me where to go to see the calicos, and there was another clerk
behind that counter. I didn’t like his looks a bit, he was real uppish
lookin’. But I wasn’t goin’ to let him mistrust that I was put to my
stumps a bit. I walked up as collected lookin’ as if I owned the whole
caboodle of ’em, and New York village, and Jonesville, and says I,
“I want to look at your calicos.”
“What prints will you look at?” says he, meanin’ to put on me.
Says I, “I don’t want to look at no Prince,” says I, “I had ruther see
a free born American citizen, than all the foreign Princes you can bring
out.” Says I, “Americans make perfect fools of themselves in my mind, a
runnin’ after a parcel of boys, whose only merit is, they happened to be
born before thier brothers and sisters was.” Says I, “If a baby is born
in a meetin’ house, it don’t make out that he is born a preacher. A good
smart American boy like Thomas Jefferson, looks as good to me as any of
your Princes.” I said this in a noble, lofty tone, but after a minute’s
thought I went on,
“Though, if you have got a quantity of Princes here, I had as lives
see one of Victory’s boys, as any of ’em. The widder Albert is a good
housekeeper, and a first-rate calculator, and a woman that has got a
Right. I set a good deal of store by the widder Albert, I always thought
I should like to get acquainted with her, and visit back and forth, and
neighbor with her.”
I waited a minute, but he didn’t make no move towards showin’ me any
Prince. But, says he,
“What kind of calico do you want to look at?”
I thought he come off awful sudden from Princes to calico, but I didn’t
say nothin’. But I told him “I would like to look at a chocklate colored
ground work, with a set flower on it.”
“Shan’t I show you a Dolly Varden,” says he.
I see plainly that he was a tryin’ to impose on me, talkin’ about
Princes and Dolly Varden, and says I with dignity,
“If I want to make Miss Varden’s acquaintance, I can, without askin’ you
to introduce me. But,” I continued coldly, “I don’t care about gettin’
acquainted with Miss Varden, I have heard her name talked over too much
in the street. I am afraid she haint a likely girl. I am afraid she haint
such a girl as I should want my Tirzah Ann to associate with. Ever sense
I started from Jonesville I have heard that girl talked about. ‘There is
Dolly Varden!’ and ‘Oh look at Dolly Varden!’ I have heard it I bet more’n
a hundred times sense I sot out. And it seems to me that no modest girl
would be traipsin’ all over the country alone, for I never have heard a
word about old Mr. and Miss Varden, or any of the Varden boys. Not that
it is anything out of charicter to go off on a tower. I am off on a tower
myself,” says I, with quite a good deal of dignity, “but it don’t look
well for a young girl like her, to be streamin’ round alone. I wish I
could see old Mr. and Miss Varden, I would advise the old man and woman
to keep Dolly at home, if they have any regard for her good name. Though
I’m afraid,” I repeated, lookin’ at him keenly over my specs, “I’m afraid
it is too late for me to interfere, I am afraid she haint a likely girl.”
His face was jest as red as blood. But he tried to turn it off with a
laugh. And he said somethin’ about her “bein’ the style,” and “bein’
gay,” or somethin’. But I jest stopped him pretty quick. Says I, givin’
him a awful searchin’ look,
“I think jest as much of Dolly as I do of her most intimate friends, male
or female.”
[Illustration: DOLLY VARDEN.]
He pretended to turn it off with a laugh. But I know a guilty conscience
when I see it as quick as anybody. I haint one to break a bruised reed
more than once into. And my spectacles beamed more mildly onto him, and I
says to him in a kind but firm manner.
“Young man, if I was in your place, I would drop Dolly Varden’s
acquaintance.” Says I, “I advise you for your own good, jest as I would
Thomas Jefferson.”
“Who is Thomas Jefferson?” says he.
Says I, in a cautious tone, “He is Josiah Allen’s child, by his first
wife, and the own brother of Tirzah Ann.”
I then laid my hand on a piece of choklate ground calico, and says I,
“This suits me pretty well, but I have my doubts,” says I, examinin’ it
closer through my specs, “I mistrust it will fade some. What is _your_
opinion?” says I, speakin’ to a elegantly dressed woman by my side, who
stood there with her rich silk dress a trailin’ down on the floor.
“Do you suppose this calico will wash mom?”
I was so busy a rubbin’ the calico to see if it was firm cloth, that I
never looked up in her face at all. But when I asked her for the third
time, and she didn’t speak, I looked up in her face, and I haint come so
near faintin’ sence I was united to Josiah Allen. _That woman’s head was
off!_
The clerk see that I was overcome by somethin’, and says he, “what is the
matter?”
I couldn’t speak, but I pinted with my forefinger stiddy at that murdered
woman. I guess I had pinted at her pretty nigh half a minute, when I
found breath and says I, slowly turnin’ that extended finger at him, in
so burnin’ indignant a way, that if it had been a spear, he would have
hung dead on it.
“That is pretty doin’s in a Christian country!”
His face turned red as blood agin--and looked all swelled up, he was so
mortified. And he murmured somethin’ about her “bein’ dumb,” or a “dummy”
or somethin’--but I interrupted him--and says I,
“I guess you would be dumb yourself if your head was cut off.” Says I, in
awful sarcastic tones,
“It would be pretty apt to make any body dumb.”
Then he explaned it to me. That it was a wooden figger, to hang thier
dresses and mantillys on. And I cooled down and told him I would take a
yard and 3 quarters of the calico, enough for a honorable apron.
Says he, “We don’t sell by retail in this room.”
I give that clerk then a piece of my mind. I asked him how many aprons he
supposed Tirzah Ann and I stood in need of? I asked him if he supposed we
was entirely destitute of aprons? And I asked him in a awful sarcastic
tone if he had a idee that Josiah and Thomas Jefferson wore aprons? Says
I, “any body would think you did.” Says I, turnin’ away awful dignified,
“when I come agin I will come when Alexander is in the store himself.”
I joined Betsey by the door, and says I, “Less go on to once.”
“But,” says she, to me in a low mysterious voice; “Josiah Allen’s wife, do
you suppose they would want to let me have a straw colored silk dress,
and take thier pay in poetry?”
Says I, “for the land’s sake Betsey, don’t try to sell any poetry here. I
am wore out. If they won’t take any sacks and mittens, or good butter and
eggs, I know they won’t take poetry.”
She argued a spell with me, but I stood firm, for I wouldn’t let her
demean herself for nothin’. And finally I got her to go on.
A HARROWIN’ OPERATION.
All I could do and say, Betsey would keep a goin’ into one store after
another, and I jest trailed round with her ’till it was pitch dark.
Finally after arguin’ I got her headed towards her cousin’s.
It was as late as half past eight when I got back to Miss Asters’es. As
I went by the parlor door, I heard a screechin’ melankoly hollerin’.
Thinks’es I to myself, “somebody’s hurt in there, some female I should
think, by the voice.” I thought at first I wouldn’t interfere, as there
was enough to take her part, for the room seemed to be chuck full. So I
was goin’ on up to my room, when it come to my ears agin, louder and more
agonizin’ than ever. I couldn’t stand it. As a female who was devoted to
the cause of Right, I felt that in the behalf of my sect I would see what
could be done. I kinder squeezed my way in, up towards the sound, and
pretty soon I got where I could see her. Then I knew she was crazy.
She looked bad. Her dress seemed to be nice silk, but it jest hung on
to her shoulders, and she had strung a lot of beads and things round her
neck--you know how such poor critters will rig themselves out--and she
had tore at her hair so she had got it all streamin, down her neck. Her
face was deathly white, only in the middle of her cheeks there was a
feverish spot of fire red. Her eyes was rolled up in her head. She looked
real bad.
[Illustration: A HARROWIN’ SCENE.]
She had got to the piano in some way, and there she set a poundin’ it,
and yellin’. Oh how harrowin’ it was to the nerves, it made my heart
almost ache to see her. There was a good many nicely dressed wimmen
and men in the room and some of ’em was leanin’ over the poor girl’s
shoulders, a lookin’ at her hands go, and some of them wimmen’s dresses
was hangin’ down off their shoulders, so that I thought they must have
been kinder strugglin’ with the maniac and got ’em all pulled down and
torn open, and they looked most as crazy as she did.
The poor girl didn’t know a word she was sayin’ but she kep’ a mutterin’
over somethin’ to herself in a unknown tongue. There wasn’t no words to
it. But poor thing, she didn’t sense it. Some of the time she would be a
smilin’ to herself, and go on a mutterin’ kinder low, and then her worse
fits seemed to come on in spasms, and she would go to poundin’ the piano
and yellin’. And I see by the way her hands went that she had got another
infirmity too. I see she had got Mr. Vitus’es dance. It was a sad sight
indeed.
As I see the poor thing set there with her dress most off of her, jest a
hangin’ on her shoulders, right there before so many men, I thought to
myself, what if was my Tirzah Ann there in that condition. But one thing
I know as long as Josiah Allen’s wife lived, she wouldn’t go a wanderin’
round half naked, to be a laughin’ stock to the community. I took it so
right to myself, I kep’ a thinkin’ so, what if it was our Tirzah Ann, that
there wasn’t hardly a dry eye in my head. And I turned to a bystanter,
standin’ by my side, and says I to him in a voice almost choked down
with emotion,
“Has the poor thing been so long? Can’t she get any help?”
Jest that minute she begun to screech and pound louder and more harrowin’
than ever, and I says in still more sorrowful accents, with my spectacles
bent pityin’ly on her,
“It seems to come on by spasms, don’t it?”
She kinder held up in her screechin’ then, and went at her mutterin’ agin
in that unknown tongue, and he heard me, and says he,
“Beautiful! hain’t it?”
That madded me. I give that man a piece of my mind. I told him plainly
that it “was bad enough to have such infirmities without bein’ made a
public circus of. And I didn’t have no opinion of anybody that enjoyed
such a scene and made fun of such poor critters.”
He looked real pert, and said somethin’ about my “not havin’ a ear for
music.”
That madded me agin. And says I, “Young man, tell me that I hain’t got
any ears agin if you dare!” and I ontied my bonnet strings, and lifted
up the corner of my head dress. Says I, “What do you call that? If that
hain’t a ear, what is it? And as for music, I guess I know what music is,
as well as anybody in this village.” Says I, “you ought to hear Tirzah
Ann sing jest between daylight and dark, if you want to hear music.” Says
I, “her organ is a good soundin’ one everybody says. It ought to be, for
we turned off a good two year old colt, and one of our best cows for it.
And when she pulls out the tremblin’ stopple in front of it, and plays
psalm tunes Sunday nights jest before sundown, with the shadders of the
mornin’ glory vines a tremblin’ all over her, as she sings old Corinth,
and Hebron, I have seen Josiah look at her and listen to her till he had
to pull out his red bandanna handkerchief and wipe his eyes.”
“Who is Josiah?” says he.
Says I, “It is Tirzah Ann’s father.” And I continued goin’ on with my
subject. “No medder lark ever had a sweeter voice than our Tirzah Ann.
And when she sings about the ‘Sweet fields that stand dressed in livin’
green,’ she sings it in such a way, that you almost feel as if you had
waded through the ‘swellin flood,’ and was standin’ in them heavenly
medders. Tell me I never heard music! Ask Whitfield Minkley whether
Tirzah Ann can sing Anna Lowery or not, on week day evenin’s, and old
Mr. Robin Grey. Ask Whitfield Minkley, if you don’t believe me. He is a
minister’s only son, and he hadn’t ought to lie.”
The little conceited feller’s face looked as red as a beet. He was a
poor lookin’ excuse any way, a uppish, dandyfied lookin’ chap, with
his moustache turned up at the corners, and twisted out like a waxed
end. He pretended to laugh, but he showed signs of mortification, as
plain as I ever see it. And he put up his specs, and I’ll be hanged if
he hadn’t broke one eye off’en ’em, and looked at me through it. But I
wasn’t dawnted by him, not a bit. I didn’t care how close he looked at
me. Josiah Allen’s wife hain’t afraid to be examined through a double
barreled telescope.
Just then a good lookin’ man with long sensible whiskers and moustache,
hangin’ the way the Lord meant ’em to, and who had come up while I was a
speakin’ this last--spoke to me and says he,
“I am like you madam, I like ballads better than I do opera music for the
parlor.”
I didn’t really know what he meant, but he looked good and sensible
lookin’ and so says I in a blind way,
“Yes like as not.”
Says he, “I am very partial to those old songs you have mentioned.”
Says I “They can’t be bettered.”
Before I could say another word, that poor crazy thing begun agin, to
yell, and pound and screech, and I says to him,
“Poor thing! couldn’t there be somethin’ done for her? If her mind can’t
be restored, can’t she get help for Mr. Vitus’es dance?”
And then he explained it to me, he said she wasn’t crazy, and didn’t have
Mr. Vitus’es dance. He said she was a very fashionable young lady and it
was a opera she was singin’.
“A operation,” says I sithin’ “I should think as much! I should think it
was a operation! It is a operation I don’t want to see or hear agin.”
And says I anxiously, “Is it as hard on everybody as it is on her? Does
everybody have the operation as hard as she has got it?”
He kinder smiled, and turned it off by sayin’ “It is the opera of _Fra
Diovole_.”
“Brother Devel,” says the conceited little chap with the waxed end
moustache.
“‘The Operation of the----’” on account of my connection with the M. E.
church, says I, “I will call it David.” But they both knew what I meant.
“The operation of the--the David. I should think as much.”
And I don’t know as I was ever more thankful than I was when I reflected
how my pious M. E. parents had taught me how to shun that place of awful
torment where the----David makes it his home. For a minute these feelin’s
of thankfulness swallered these other emotions almost down. But then as I
took another thought, it madded me to think that likely folks should be
tormented by it on earth. And I says to the little feller with the waxed
end moustache,
“If that operation is one of the torments that the----the David keeps to
torment the wicked with, it is a burnin’ shame that it should be used
beforehand, here on earth, to torment other Christian folks with.”
I didn’t wait for him to answer, but I turned round with a real lot of
dignity, and sailed out of the room. It was with a contented and happy
feelin’ the next mornin’ that I collected together my cap box, and
spectacle case, packed my satchel bag with my barred muslin night cap and
night gown, and put my umberella into its gingham sheath (for it was a
pleasant mornin’) and set, as you may say, my face homewards. I thought I
would proceed right from Horace’s to the depott, and not come back agin
to Miss Aster’ses. I paid my bill with a calm demeaner, though it galled
me to see ’em ask such a price.
Jonothan Beans’es ex wife seemed to hate to have me go, she is one that
don’t forget the days when she first went to grass. I told her to tell
Miss Aster just how it was, that I felt as if I must go, for Josiah would
be expectin’ me. But I would love to stay and get acquainted with her.
But she had so much on her hands, such a gang to cook for, that I knew
she didn’t have no time to visit with nobody. And I told her to be sure
and tell Miss Aster, that she mustn’t feel particuler at all because we
hadn’t visited together--but she must pay me a visit jest the same. Then
I sent my best respects to Mr. Aster and the boys, and then I set out.
Jest by the front door I met Betsey, and we both set sail for Horace’s.
A VISIT TO HORACE.
It was with a beatin’ heart that I stood at the door of the shop where
Horace’es papers are made. And though he haint printed ’em alone since he
was run up, as he did more formally, they told me I would be apt to find
him at his old office.
I was jest a goin’ to knock when a boy came out, and says I,
“Bub, I want to see Horace.”
“Horace who?” says he.
“Horace Greeley,” says I.
“Wall,” says he, “I will take up your card.”
I see then that he was a tryin’ to empose upon me. I haint naturally
warlike, but I can stand up on my dignity, straight as a cob when I set
out. Says I,
“I’ll have you know that I am a member of the Methodist meetin’ house.”
Says I, warmly, “I don’t know one card from another, and I’m glad I
don’t.” Says I, “I presume there are wimmin here in the village, as old
as I be, that set up to play cards till 9 or 10 o’clock at night. But
thank fortin’ I haint one of ’em.” Says I, “Young man, I detest card
playin’, it ends in gamblin’. Now,” says I firmly, “you jest tell me where
Horace is, or I’ll know the reason why!”
He see I wasn’t to be trifled with, any more. He muttered somethin’ about
_his_ not bearin’ the blame. But he went up stairs, and we followed tight
to his heels, and the minute he opened the door we went in. Horace hadn’t
dressed up much, for I spose he didn’t expect us. But if he had been
dressed up in pink silk throughout, it wouldn’t have made no difference
to my feelin’s as I ketched sight of that noble and benign face, that
peaceful innocent mouth, that high forward, with the hair a curlin’ round
the sides of it, like thin white clouds curlin’ round the side of a
mountain in Ingun summer.