Part 1

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE AS A P. A. AND P. I.

SAMANTHA AT THE CENTENNIAL.

DESIGNED AS A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT, TO PIERCE THE FOGS OF ERROR AND INJUSTICE THAT SURROUND SOCIETY AND JOSIAH, AND TO BRING MORE CLEARLY TO VIEW THE PATH THAT LEADS STRAIGHT ON TO VIRTUE AND HAPPINESS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MY OPINIONS AND BETSEY BOBBET’S.”

“_What are you going to write now, Samantha?_”

HARTFORD, CONN.: AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 1883.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by the AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

To MY JOSIAH’S CHILDREN BY HIS FIRST WIFE: THOMAS JEFFERSON AND TIRZAH ANN, _THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED_ BY ONE, WHO, ALTHOUGH A STEP-MOTHER, IS STILL AS AFFECTIONATE AND FRIENDLY TO ’EM AS CAN BE.

* * * * *

The above is the dedication I had lotted on; had wrote all out and calculated to have; pleasing, very, to Josiah, to the children, and to myself. But come to think it over, I changed my mind. I thought: _they_ have friends, and eloquent tongues of their own, and happiness; are well off, and haint sufferin’ for dedications, or any of the other comforts and necessaries of life. And so, the above is hereby null and void; and this is what I now solemnly declare to be my last lawful will and dedication of this book:—

To THOSE WHO HAVE NO ONE TO SPEAK FOR THEM; TO THOSE WHO ARE IN BONDS (ANY KIND OF BONDS,) TO Those whose Hearts Ache, through Injustice and Oppression; TO THOSE WHOSE SAD EYES LOOK THROUGH TEARS FOR THE DAWNING OF A BRIGHTER, CLEARER DAY, _THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED, AND ALSO INSCRIBED_, BY THEIR SINCERE FRIEND AND WELL-WISHER,

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.

MY REASONS TO THE KIND AND ALMOST GENTLE READER WHY I DON’T HAVE NO PREFACE TO THIS BOOK.

My companion, Josiah, knew that my book was all finished and completed, and so one lovely day about half past four, P. M. in the afternoon, when he see me walk with a firm and even step up to the mantletry piece and take down my bottle of ink and my steel mounted pen, he says to me:

“What are you goin’ to writin’ on _now_, Samantha?”

Says I mildly, “I thought I’d lay to and write a preface to my book, Josiah. I thought I’d tell ’em that I had wrote it all down about you and I goin’ on a tower to Filadelfy village to see the Sentinel.”

“I guess after you have wrote it all out in black ink in a book, about our goin’ to the Sentimental, folks that read it will find out we have been there, without your writin’ a preface to _tell_ ’em of it. They will unless they are dumb fools.”

He snapped out _awful_ snappish. I couldn’t think what ailed him, and says I firmly:

“Stop swearin’ instantly and to _once_, Josiah Allen!” And I added again in mild axents: “I guess I’ll lay to and write my preface, Josiah; you know there has got to be one.”

“_Why_ has there got to be one?”

Oh! how fractious and sharp that “why” was. I never see a sharper, more worrysome “why” in my hull life than that “why” was. But I kep’ cool, and says I in calm tones:

“Because there _has_; Folks _always_ have prefaces, Josiah.”

“What _makes_ ’em have ’em? there’s the dumb of it. What _makes_ ’em?”

Says I mekanically,—for a stiddy follerin’ of duty has made reprovin’ my pardner in times of need, a second or third nature to me—“stop swearin’ to _once_, Josiah Allen! They have prefaces, Josiah, because”—again I paused half a moment in deep thought—“they have ’em, because they _do_ have ’em, that’s why.”

But even this plain and almost lucid statement didn’t seem to satisfy him, and he kep’ a arguin’ and sayin’,—“I’d be hanged if _I’d_ have ’em,” and so on and so 4th. And I argued back again. Says I:

“You know folks are urged to publish books time and again, that wouldn’t have had no idee of doin’ it if they had been let alone.” Says I,—“You know after they git their books all finished, they hang back and hate to have ’em published; hate to, like dogs; and are urged out of their way by relatives and friends, and have to give up, and have ’em published. They naturally want to tell the Public how it is, and that these things are so.”

“Oh wall,” says he, “if the Public is any like me, he’d ruther hear the urgin’ himself than to hear the author tell on it. What did they break their backs for a writin’ fourteen or fifteen hundred pages if they laid out to hang back in the end. If they found their books all wrote out, a growin’ on huckleberry bushes, or cewcumber vines, there would be some sense in talkin’ about urgin’ ’em out of their way.”

And he sot his head on one side, and looked up at the ceilin’ with a dretful shrewd look onto his face, and went to kinder whistlin’. I can’t bear hintin’, and never could, I always despised hinters. And I says in almost cold tones, says I:

“Don’t you believe they was urged, Josiah Allen?”

“I haint said they wuzn’t, or they _wuz_. I said I had ruther see the hangin’ back, and hear the urgin’ than to hear of it by-the-by, in prefaces and things. _That’s_ what I said.”

But again that awful shrewd look come onto his face, and again he sot his head on one side and kinder went to whistlin’; no particular tune, but jest a plain sort of a promiscous whistle. But I kep’ considerable cool, and says I:

“Folks may be real dissatisfied with what they have wrote, and want to sort o’ apoligise, and run it down kinder.”

Says Josiah,—“If folks don’t write the best they know how to, it is a insult to the Public, and ort to be took by him as one.”

“That is so, Josiah,” says I. “I always thought so. But writers may try to do the very best they can; their minds may be well stabled, and their principles foundered on a rock; their motives as sound as brass, and soarin’ and high-toned as anything can be, and still at the same time, they may have a realizin’ sense that in spite of all their pains, there is faults in the book; lots of faults. And they may” says I, “feel it to be their duty to tell the Public of these faults. They may think it is wrong to conceal ’em, and the right way is to come out nobly and tell the Public of ’em.”

“Oh! wall!” says Josiah, “if _that_ is what you are goin’ to write a preface for, you may set your heart at rest about it. Anybody that reads _your_ book will find out the faults in it for themselves, without your tellin’ ’em of ’em in a preface, or sayin’ a word to help ’em on in the search. Don’t you go to worryin’ about that, Samantha; folks will see the faults jest as easy; wont have to put on no specks nor nothin’ to find ’em; such things can’t be hid.”

My companion meant to chirk me up and comfort me. His will was good, but somehow, I s’pose I didn’t look so chirked up and happy as he thought I ort to, and so to prove his words, and encourage me still more, he went on and told a story:

“Don’t you remember the boy that was most a fool, and when he sot out for his first party, his father charged him not to say a word, or they would find him out. He sot perfectly speechless for more’n an hour; wouldn’t answer back a word they said to him, till they begun to call him a fool right to his face. And then he opened his mouth for the first time, and hollered to his father,—‘Father! father! they’ve found me out.’”

Josiah is a great case to tell stories. He takes all the most high-toned and popular almanacs of the day, and reads ’em clear through. He says he “will read ’em, every one of ’em, from beginnin’ to Finy.” He is fond of tellin’ me anecdotes. And is also fond of tragedies—he reads the _World_ stiddy. And I always make a practice of smilin’ or groanin’ at ’em as the case may be. (I sot out in married life with a firm determination to do my duty by this man.) But now, though I smiled a very little, there was sunthin’ in the story, or the thoughts and forebodin’s the story waked up in me, that made my heart sink from—I should judge from a careless estimate—an inch, to an inch and three-quarters. I didn’t make my feelin’s known, however; puttin’ my best foot forred has been my practice for years, and my theme. And my pardner went on in a real chirk tone:

“You see Samantha, jest how it is. You see there haint no kind o’ need of your writin’ any preface.”

I was almost lost in sad and mournful thought, but I answered dreamily that “I guessed I’d write one, as I had seemed to sort o’ lay out and calculate to.”

Then my companion come out plain, and told me his mind, which if he had done in the first place, would have saved breath and argument. Says he:

“I _hate_ prefaces. I hate ’em with almost a perfect hatred.” And says he with a still more gloomy and morbid look,—“I have been hurt too much by prefaces to take to ’em, and foller ’em up.”

“Hurt by ’em?” says I.

“Yes,” says he firmly. “That other preface of your’n hurt me as much as 7 cents in the eyes of the community. It was probable more’n that damage to me. I wouldn’t”—says he, with as bitter a look onto him as I ever see,—“have had it got out that I had the Night Mair, for a silver 3 cent piece.”

“Why,” says I mildly, “it wasn’t nothin’ ag’inst your _character_, Josiah.”

“Oh no!” says he in a sarcastic tone. “You would want it talked over in prefaces and round, wouldn’t you, that you had the Night Mair, and pranced round in your sleep?”

“I never mentioned the word prance,” says I mildly, but firmly, “_never_.”

“Oh wall,” says he, “it is all the same thing.”

“No it haint,” says I firmly. “No it haint.”

“Wall,” says he, “you know jest how stories grow by tellin’. And by the time it got to New York,—I dare persume to say before it got to that village,—the story run that I pranced round, and was wild as a henhawk. I have hated prefaces ever sense, and druther give _half a cent_ than to have you write another one.”

“Don’t go beyond your means a tryin’ to bribe me,” says I, in a almost dry tone. Josiah is honest as a pulpit, but close, nearly tight. After a moment’s thought, I says,—“If you feel like that about it, Josiah, I wont have no preface in this book.”

“Wall,” says he, “it would take a load offen my mind if you wouldn’t.” And he added in cheerful and tender tones,—“Shan’t I start up the fire for you, Samantha, and hang onto the tea-kettle?”

I told him he might, and then I rose up and put my bottle of ink on to the mantletry piece, and sot the table for supper. And this—generous and likely reader though I think a sight on you, and would have been glad of the chance to have told you so in a lawful way—is jest the reason why I have denied myself that privilege and don’t have no preface to this book. Further explanations are unnecessary. To the discernin’ mind my reasons are patented, for such well know that a husband’s wishes to a fond wife, are almost like takin’ the law to her. And knowin’ this, I hope and trust you will kindly overlook its loss. You will not call me shiftless, nor yet slack. You will heed not the dark report that may be started up that I was short on it for prefaces, or entirely run out of ’em, and couldn’t get holt of one. You will believe not that tale, knowin’ it false and also untrue. You will regard its absence kindly and even tenderly, thinkin’ that what is my loss is your gain; thinkin’ that it is a delicate and self-sacrificin’ token of a wife’s almost wrapped devotion to a Josiah.

WHAT I HAVE WRIT ABOUT.

PAGE. WHY I DON’T HAVE NO PREFACE TO THIS BOOK, v

THE JONESVILLE DEBATIN’-SCHOOL, 19

THE WIDDER DOODLE, 54

A DEBATE ON INTEMPERANCE, 73

TIRZAH ANN AS A WIFE, 103

P. A. AND P. I., 121

HOW I WENT TO ’LECTION, 144

SENATOR VYSE AND HIS VICTIM, 161

HOW WE BOUGHT A SEWIN’ MACHINE AND ORGAN, 193

PREPARIN’ FOR OUR TOWER, 211

THE WIDDER AND WIDOWER, 222

HOW SEREPTA CARRIED THE MEETIN’ HOUSE, 231

I AND JOSIAH VISIT PHILANDER SPICER’SES FOLKS, 270

MELANKTON SPICER AND HIS FAMILY, 294

UNCLE DEACON ZEBULON COFFIN, 316

HOW I MARRIED THE DEACON’S DAUGHTER, 353

THE GRAND EXHIBITION, 370

GOOD LAND! GOOD LAND! AND GOOD LAND!, 383

PATRONIZIN’ THE RAILROAD, 386

I ADVISE THE NATION THOUGH ITS GREAT MEN, 400

INTERVIEW WITH GEN. HAWLEY, 406

DOIN’ THE MAIN BUILDIN’, 411

JOSIAH’S RIDE IN A CHAIR, 422

A TRIP THROUGH THE WORLD, 425

IN THE CHINESE DEPARTMENT, 440

I MEET OLD ACQUAINTANCES, 453

WIDDER DOODLE AS A BRIDE, 460

THE ARTEMUS GALLERY, 473

INTERVIEW WITH DOM PEDRO, 490

THE “CREATION SEARCHERS” AT THE SENTINAL, 506

MACHINERY HALL, 507

THE MARQUIS OF LORNE, 513

THE SPIRITUALIST, 522

THE WIMMEN’S PAVILION, 523

THE FEMALE LECTURER, 525

AMONG THE RELICS, 535

AMONG THE WILD BEASTS, 539

THE INDIAN QUESTION, 541

MY SUCCESS AS P. A. AND P. I., 547

THE SENTINAL PROMISCOUS, 550

THE “CREATION SEARCHERS” IN JAIL, 551

THE END OF OUR TOWER, 557

HOME AFFAIRS, 559

THE 14TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER, 561

A BRIDAL TOWER, 563

A GOOD TIME GENERALLY, 570

THE BABY, 576

ALL HAPPY, 580

WHAT THE KIND ARTIST HAS DONE

PAGE 1. AS A P. A. AND P. I. _Frontispiece_

2. ALAS POOR BETSEY 21

3. THE EDITOR OF THE AUGER 24

4. A RIDE ON THE BOBS, (FULL PAGE) 30

5. THE LYCEUM, (FULL PAGE) 35

6. THE YOUNG NEPHEW 37

7. THE ONE GESTURE 39

8. A THRILLIN’ MOMENT 45

9. SUNDAY SLUMBERS 48

10. EDITOR OF THE GIMLET 52

11. PLUCKY, (TAIL PIECE) 53

12. DAVID DOODLE 56

13. WIDDER DOODLE 60

14. “THE VOYAGE OF LIFE” 61

15. LOVE’S DREAM 64

16. PRETTY HANDS AND EYES, (FULL PAGE) 68

17. HELPING CHURN 69

18. THE AFFIRMATIVE 77

19. NOT THE RIGHT KIND OF HORNS, (FULL PAGE) 84

20. THE BLIMMER CAUGHT 93

21. FOUND DEAD, (FULL PAGE) 96

22. THE NERVOUS WOMAN, (FULL PAGE) 111

23. LEFT BEHIND, (FULL PAGE) 118

24. COURTING, (TAIL PIECE) 120

25. TESTING A MAN’S TEMPER, (FULL PAGE) 123

26. THE THIEF AT HOME, (FULL PAGE) 131

27. JOSIAH’S SECRET, (FULL PAGE) 150

28. THE EDITOR’S WIFE 154

29. THE STRANGER 156

30. INTRODUCTION TO THE SENATOR, (FULL PAGE) 163

31. YOUNG WOMANHOOD 168

32. FALLEN 170

33. THE LITTLE INNOCENT 172

34. GRIEF AND REMORSE 173

35. “TOOK TO DRINKIN’” 174

36. ABOUT A FAIR THING 179

37. JOSIAH FINDS HIS SECRET IS KNOWN, (FULL PAGE) 189

38. MATERNAL AFFECTION, (TAIL PIECE) 192

39. AVOIDING A NUISANCE, (FULL PAGE) 199

40. THE SEWIN’ MACHINE AGENTS, (FULL PAGE) 207

41. “IT HAINT ALWAYS BEST TO TELL REASONS.” 212

42. THE WIDDER, (TAIL PIECE) 221

43. “I LOVED THAT WOMAN” 226

44. AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 235

45. SEREPTA SMITH 237

46. “NEEDS HEADIN’ OFF,” (FULL PAGE) 239

47. MISS HORN 245

48. A VISIT FROM THE CHURCH, (FULL PAGE) 263

49. TOO MANY RUFFLES, (FULL PAGE) 273

50. COVERED, (TAIL PIECE) 293

51. “THAT DOOR WANTS MENDIN’ BAD,” (FULL PAGE) 298

52. “APPARENTLY” STRONG 300

53. AN “APPARENTLY” WELCOME 303

54. “THE HOUSE OF MOURNIN’” 305

55. GENTILITY 307

56. THE PET, (TAIL PIECE) 315

57. CHEATED 319

58. COMPETIN’ WITH THE BAR-ROOM 324

59. DEACON ZEBULON COFFIN 331

60. THE CONDEMNED FIDDLE, (FULL PAGE) 334

61. FOOLIN’ AWAY TIME 337

62. MEETIN’ THE DEACON 343

63. MOLLY CONSOLIN’ TOM PITKINS 347

64. DRESSED FOR THE BALL 350

65. EXTRAVAGANT WIMMEN 351

66. FRUGAL MEN 352

67. THE DEACON’S OLD GAME 355

68. HELPIN’ THE WIDDER 360

69. “I HAINT A MORMON” 367

70. “BUY A GUIDE?” (FULL PAGE) 379

71. SAMANTHA ADDRESSES GEN. GRANT 400

72. INTERVIEW WITH GOV. HAWLEY, (FULL PAGE) 407

73. ONE OF THE SMITHS (FULL PAGE) 418

74. JOSIAH’S FIVE HOURS NAP 422

75. INTRODUCED TO JOHN ROGERS JR. 432

76. THE CHINESE DEPARTMENT, (FULL PAGE) 441

77. JOSIAH IN THE DRESSIN’-ROOM 458

78. POLITENESS TO A STRANGER 461

79. THE PHANTOM 467

80. SAMANTHA IN THE ART GALLERY, (FULL PAGE) 477

81. SAMANTHA MEETS DOM PEDRO 491

82. IN TROUBLE 505

83. JOSIAH ADMIRIN’ THE WATER 539

84. A SHORT ROLL 548

85. THE SENTINAL LICENSED 551

86. BRINGIN’ HER TO 563

87. JUDGE SNOW’S SURPRISE, (FULL PAGE) 573

88. UNDER THE MAPLES 579

THE JONESVILLE DEBATIN’-SCHOOL.

It was to the Jonesville Debatin’-School, that we first thought on’t. It was there that Josiah and me made up our 2 minds to go to Filadelfy village to see the Sentinal. They’ve had Debatin’-schools to Jonesville this winter, and as I was the only literary woman worth mentionin’, they made a great pint of havin’ me attend to ’em. I say the only literary woman,—Betsey Bobbet Slimpsey havin’ to work out so much that she has entirely left off writin’ poetry. She says she can’t go out washin’, and cleanin’ house, and makin’ soap, and write poetry at the same time, worth a cent. They have a awful hard time to git along. They both work out by the day, and they say that she has had to sell her tow frizzles and corneleun ring, and lots of her other nice things that she had to catch her husband with, in order to git along. Howsumever, I don’t _know_ this; you can hear _anything_, such a lyin’ time, now-a-days—as I told Josiah, the other day. He says to me, says he:

“I won’t believe _anything_, Samantha, till I see it with my own eyes.”

And says I,—“_I_ wont believe anything, Josiah Allen, till I have got holt of it.” Says I, “mists and black arts are liable to be cast before your eyes; but if you lay holt of anything with your two hands, you are pretty certain it is there.”

Never havin’ laid holt of her tow curls and other ornaments, as they was bein’ sold, I don’t tell it for certain truth, but only what I have hearn; but that they have a dretful hard time on’t to git along, _that_ I _know_.

Besides poverty, the horrors lay holt of Slimpsey the worst kind. They shake him as a dog shakes a chipmunk. When he lived with his first wife he didn’t have ’em more’n a few times a month, or so; but _now_ he has ’em every day, stiddy, right along. He yells at Betsey; goes to bed with his boots on; throws his hat at her, hollers, and keeps a actin’. He drinks, too, when he can git anything to drink. He says he drinks to forget his trouble; but what a simple move that is, for when he gits over it, there his trouble is, right before his eyes. There Betsey stands. Trouble is as black and troublesome again looked at through the glass, and topers find that it is; for they have the old trouble, all the same, besides shame and disgrace, and bodily ruination.

Considerin’ what a dretful hard time Betsey has, it would seem to a bystander to calmly think on’t, that she didn’t git much of any comfort from her marriage, except the dignity she told me of the other night, with her own tongue as she was goin’ home from washin’, at Miss Gowdey’s. (Miss Gowdey had a felon and was disabled.) She had on a old hood, and one of her husband’s old coats with brass buttons—for it was a rainin’ and she didn’t care for looks. She was all drabbled up, and looked tired enough to sink. She had a piece of pork to pay her for her washin’, and a piller-case about half full of the second sort of flour a carryin’ along, that Miss Gowdey had give her; and as I happened to be a standin’ in the front door a lookin’ for my companion, Josiah,—who had gone to Jonesville to mill—we got to talkin’ about one thing and another, and she up and told me that she wouldn’t part with the dignity she got by marryin’, for 25 cents, much as she needed money. Though she said it was a worse trial than anybody had any idee of, for her to give up writin’ poetry.