Part 18
“No doubt some of my sect are extravagant; I dare persume to say that some of the big wimmen in Washington and New York, and other big villages of the Union, git new clothes sometimes before the old ones are wore out; I hear they say, that they have to dress up or they can’t git any attention paid to ’em from the more opposite sect; I hear they say, that the men there look down on ’em, and slight ’em, and treat ’em like perfect underlin’s if they haint dressed right up in the height of fashion. Why, they say there was a fashionable woman at Washington whose bo had wrote a witherin’ piece ag’inst wimmen’s base wicked extravagance, bewarin’ ’em, and urgin’ ’em in the name of all that was great and good to come out and wear thick shoes, and dress with republican simplicity; and she, bein’ converted by his burnin’ eloquence, and bein’ anxious to marry him, thought she could bring him to terms by follerin’ on after his advice. So she arrayed her self in a brown, high-necked alpaca dress, barren of ruffles and puckers, made to clear the floor and show her sensible calf-skin shoes, and went to a big party, expectin’ her bo would be so thankful to her for follerin’ his advice; so proud of her; so highly pleased with her behavior, that she would go home as good as married to him. But they say, when he see how she was dressed, he wouldn’t speak to her, nor look at her; it broke up the match, he treated her with awful contempt, and witherin’ scorn; and she went into extravagance more than ever; spent every cent of her property in gauzes, and bobinet lace and things, wore ’em all out, and then went to the poor-house, a victim of leanin’ too heavy onto such men’s bewares. Lost and ondone; broke down and mortified by hangin’ too blindly onto that man’s moral apron strings; I pity her, but I don’t uphold her, nor him neither; their heads was soft, both on ’em, too soft for comfort.
“I dare say that there are lots of wimmen besides her that git new bunnets when they haint a sufferin’ for ’em, and buy new dresses when their old ones haint hardly come to mendin’, and mebby some of ’em have two or three sets of jewelry at one time; and these dresses, and bunnets, and jewelry, folks can lay holt of, and shake out before the eyes of the public, and the public can look at ’em, and shed tears onto ’em, and bewail over ’em about wimmen’s extravagance; but men’s extravagance haint so easy to git holt of as store clothes be. You can’t weep over cigar smoke when it is evaporated, and after they are over with, you can’t git holt of costly wines, and club dinners, and yot races, and rides after fast horses, and bets, and gamblin’ debts, and worse. As I said, their extravagance is harder to git holt of, but it is worse than hers; for if she and he gits hungry, she can sell her jewelry and fine clothes to buy bread for ’em, but who—no matter how big a speculator he is—who can sell costly lunches years afterwards, and wines after they are drunk up, and gamin’ and horse debts after they are paid up, and old pleasure rides after fast horses, and etcetery. A man couldn’t sell ’em at any lay at all, if he starved to death; so man’s extravagance is _more_ extravagant than woman’s.”
[Sidenote: HOW I MARRIED THE DEACON’S DAUGHTER]
The Deacon didn’t mind my words no more’n the wind a whistlin’ round the corner of the barn; but he give a look onto the little white waist that was a layin’ on the table, as angry and rebukin’ a look as I ever see, and says he: “To think an immortal soul will peril its hopes of heaven on such wicked vanity.”
“Wicked!” says I, holdin’ up the little waist admirin’ly on my thumb and forefinger. “It haint wicked, it is as white as chalk clean through;” says I, “who told us to consider the lilies, and they are puckered up, and ruffled off as much again as this is, and all ornamented off with little gold ornaments; if there was any wickedness in ’em would He have sot us to considerin’ of ’em? No! Zebulin Coffin, no!” And then I went on in pretty reasonable tones: “No woman can have stronger principles than I have on the subject of ruffles and knife pleatin’s, when pursued after as a stiddy business and a trade. But I say it is jest as sensible to expect young folks in the spring of life, to want to kinder trim themselves out and look pretty, as it is to expect everything else to kinder blow out in the spring of the year; apple trees, and pozy beds and so 4th.” Says I, “I am a Promiscous Advisor by trade Uncle Zebulin, and I feel it my duty to say to you promiscously, that you are unreasonable; you don’t have charity enough for folks.”
And then as I calculated to all the time, I give him a very, very blind hint about Tom Pitkins—for I thought mebby I could mollyfy the old Deacon about him—and so says I in a awful roundabout, blind way: “Mebby you haint charity enough for a certain person that is likely as likely can be; mebby you condemn this certain person because he plays dominoes, and has danced a very little in a neighborly way.”
The Deacon acted mad; and he run on about dancin’ almost fearfully, when I asked him considerable calmly: “Did you ever dance when you was young, Uncle Zeb?”
If a look could have cut anybodys head off, my Josiah would have mourned over a guluntined companion that very minute.
“Dance! _I dance!_” Oh how he went on; and says I, “I s’pose you went to parties and played?”
“Oh yes,” says he, “In youthful mirth I gambolled through the innocent forms of ‘Wink ’em Slyly’ and such, but I never danced, I never committed that sin.”
“No,” says I, “but you went through with all the motions of dancin’, caperin’ round the room, chasin’ likely wimmen to Copenhagen; and a runnin’ ’em through the Needles-eye till they was most dead. Winkin’ of ’em slyly, and racin’ ’em round till you most run your precious legs off and theirn too. You went through all the motions of dancin’, only instead of takin’ their hands and promenadin’ down the room with ’em at a slow respectable gait to the sound of music, you laid too and chased ’em, galloped after ’em like a wild Injun till you chased ’em down; takin’ the advantage of ’em by dodgin’ unbeknown to ’em—catchin’ holt of ’em and a tearin’ their dresses, rippin’ of ’em off at the waist; steppin’ through their flounces, towzelin’ their hair, and lamin’ of ’em. You chased ’em round in a particular form jest like dancin’ only what took the wickedness off was your kissin’ ’em when you catched ’em; every man in the room kissin’ every woman promiscous; that made it moral and religious, so Deacons and all other meetin’ house folks could foller it up.”
He looked wrathful, very; but I continued on in more reasonable axents:
“I never had no call to be a dancer, I always thought my time could be spent in a more profitable way; and my Tirzah Ann never had no call that way, and neither did she ever take to those promiscous kissin’ parties. When she was a little mite of a girl she didn’t want to kiss anybody but her pa and me, and I wouldn’t make her. Some thought she was too dainty and I ort to punish her. Wimmen with their faces covered with scotch snuff, have argued with me that it was my duty to whip her for hangin’ back from kissin’ ’em; but I says to ’em what if some big giant should stand over me and make me kiss Simon Slimpsey or Solomon Cypher, how should I feel? And Tirzah Ann has her rights as well as I have—childern’s rights are jest as right as wimmen’s rights. Why should I, because I am physically stronger than she is, force her to do what is disagreeable and repulsive to her? There is no justice in it. Little childern forced into this life entirely unbeknown to them, called out of the peaceful land of Nowhere into this troublesome world by no will of their own, ort to be treated well, Zebulin Coffin, by their fathers and mothers and parents. It is a solemn thing, one of the solemnest things that ever was done to wake up a deathless soul, to be endlessly happy or miserable. An immortal soul, that can’t through time or eternity—no matter how tired it is, ever go to sleep again; can’t never lay off for half a moment, if ever so weary and despairin’, the burden of life’s responsibilities, the burden of life’s sorrows; can’t never lay down the awful—awful because so mysterious—gift of immortality; can’t never go back to the serene if lonesome land you called ’em from—they have got to face sorrow and weariness and death. You have sot ’em down in front of them troubles anyway; and the least you can do for ’em is to make ’em as happy as you can; treat ’em with respect and civility and do well by ’em. And if their hearts seem to be sot on certain persons, if them certain persons are likely—which they be—we ort to do as we would be done by if we was in Tom’s and Molly’s place.”
But I see then that even these roundabout hints wouldn’t be took. I see how hard it was to mollyfy him about Molly, and I hastened to continue on.
“As I was a sayin’, I wouldn’t make Tirzah Ann kiss folks promiscous when she was a child, and when she grew up sort of bashful like, it didn’t trouble me, for I knew her little dainty, timid, modest ways was jest like the blush on a peach or a bunch of grapes; if that got brushed off by rough handlin’, all the world couldn’t never put it back again. As I said, she never had no drawin’ towards balls and promiscous parties, and runnin’ off nights away from home. And though I don’t consider it the height of wickedness at all, still it didn’t worry me a bit to have her contented and willin’ to stay to home. She said home was the pleasantest spot in the world to her, and so Thomas J. said. Josiah and I did our best to make home pleasant to the childern; we had all sorts of virtuous and harmless games, music and etcetery, to make ’em happy—and they _was_ happy. We worked hard to git ’em headed right—and they did head right; and when a likely young man come along that loved Tirzah Ann, and she him, why we give our consent, jest as in my opinion certain persons ort to have the free and full consent of a certain Deacon.”
I _would_ give him a blind hint once in a while, if he took my head off; but I see by his looks that it wouldn’t do to come out plain jest yet, so I went on:
“I tried to make myself a sort of a mate to my Tirzah Ann, brought her up so’s not to feel awe-struck, and afraid of me; afraid to confide all her little tribulations and worryments to me.” Says I, “We worked head work to keep ’em good and happy; Josiah and me did.”
The Deacon had sot for the last several moments with his head right up in the air, and his eyes rolled up so I couldn’t see much besides the whites of ’em, and as I stopped a few moments (for truly my breath had give out, my deep principle tone uses up breath dretful fast) he groaned out; “_Works._”
But I says mildly, “don’t you believe in works?”
“No I don’t, I believe in faith; you seem to lay out to be saved by works.” And again he spoke out that “works,” as if it was the meanest thing he ever heerd on; he lifted up his nose in as unbelievin, and scornful a way as I ever see a nose lifted up.
But I kep’ cool, and says I, “No, I don’t; but I believe faith and works ort to go together; they ort to work in one harness a drawin’ the soul along the straight and narrer way.” Says I, “They haint calculated to work in a single harness, either of ’em; they are double breasted, and folks ort to realize that they be.” Says I, “I have seen folks before now that kep’ the eye of their faith bent so stiddy upwards, that they didn’t know nor care how many weak and helpless ones they was crunchin’ down under their heels; how many infant babes was a perishin’ with hunger about ’em, starvin’ physically, and spiritually; the air full of the groans and prayers of a sufferin’ humanity, and they a walkin’ calmly on, a hangin’ on to their faith, and their old beliefs, as if it was the most delightful and consolin’ thing they ever heerd on, to think _they_ was goin’ to be saved, and somebody else wasn’t. And then I’ve seen them that laid themselves out on their good works, thought they was goin’ to earn a deed of the heavenly homestead by doin’ day’s works below; think they made themselves, and worship their maker. But there haint either of these ways the right way.”
Says I, “If you was a drowndin’, you would believe in faith and works both. You would want somebody to have faith, they could git you out, and then you would want ’em to lay to, and haul you ashore.” Says I, “Faith alone in that case would drownd you stiffer’n a mushrat; and jest so in various cases,—poor widders for instance. Now several hundred deacons may git together in a warm meetin’-house, and lean over on their creeds and have faith that a certain widder will come through the winter all right. And probable it wouldn’t be half the help to her that one small deacon would be that loaded up his Bobs with stove-wood, and flour, and potatoes, and side-pork, and jest worked his way along through the snow to her cold empty suller. And then on the other hand not to have any faith, that I couldn’t stand. Some folks say they wont believe in anything they can’t see for themselves. Good land! how will they git holt of the prefume of a rose, or tackle a gust of wind? One is sweet enough to fill you with happiness, and the other is strong enough to blow you over; but you can’t git holt of one, with your two hands, or wrastle with the other and throw it.
“We work by faith every day of our lives; we plant seed in the dark earth, believin’ that though the seed perishes, it will break the bands of death, and rise in greenness and bloom; though jest how it does that job you cant tell, nor I cant, nor Josiah. They needn’t talk to me about not believin’ anything they don’t understand; for what _do_ we understand come to look at the matter fair and square?” Says I, “Life itself is a sober riddle, the solemnest conundrum that was ever put out to humanity. Who has ever been able to git the right answer to it by reasonin’ it out himself, and if he did cypher out an answer, to suit himself, how would he know it was the right one? We see that things be, but why they be so, you can’t tell, nor I, nor Josiah.
“Truly, if anybody gits to pryin’ into hidden things, and reasonin’ on first causes, he finds that the flood is deep and the rain is descendin’ onto him, and the proud peaks of his own reason and judgment is drownded completely out. But God has sent forth an ark that rides triumphant on the face of the waters; His revealed word floats above the rainy deluge of our fears and wonderments. Not to have any faith would tucker me completely out; there would be a looseness to it I couldn’t stand, a waverin’ unstiddyness that would upset me, and take me offen my feet.”
Says I, “Faith and works ort to be twisted in one strand, and when they are, they make a cord that anchors the soul to the Rock of Ages, and holds it there fast and firm, so that change, and chance, and sin, and temptation, and all the storms of this stormy life will beat ag’inst it in vain, and bime-by that very cord will draw the soul right up through the pearly gates into the city of our Lord.”
I declare I didn’t hardly know where I was, nor who I was, I was so almost lost and carried away some distance by my emotions. But I was soon drawed back to the realities of this life by Zebulin Coffin. His mind was a roamin’ back to the subject on which he had went on, and again he spoke out with a groan: “To think! to think I have lived to see and hear a church member uphold dancin’.”
“I haint a holdin’ it up,” says I, coldly. “With the firm cast-iron principles I have got, I never would dance a step with anybody but my Josiah; and it haint much likely we shall begin to learn the trade now, as old as we be, and most dead with the rheumatiz, both on us. Why, if we should waltz together, as lame as I be, I couldn’t keep my feet half a minute; and if I should fall on my pardner, he would be a dead man, and I know it; I am hefty, very, and he is small boneded, and weighs but little by the steelyards. I love that man devotedly, and I don’t want to dance; but I say and I contend for it, if I was a follerin’ up ‘Wink-em-Slyly’ and etcetery, I wouldn’t have too much to say ag’inst other kinds of caperin’ round the floor, such as dancin’ and so 4th.”
“I say all this to you, Uncle Zebulin, not as Josiah Allen’s wife, but as a woman with a vow on her. When folks set out on towers as Promiscous Advisors, they set out as sufferers and martyrs; they set out expectin’ to be burnt up on various stakes of the same. I have locked arms with Principle, I am keepin’ stiddy company with Duty, and they are a drawin’ me along and a hunchin’ of me in the side, a makin’ me say to you, that you are as self-righteous as the Old Harry; that you are more sot on makin’ a pattern of yourself than in makin the world ’round you happier and brighter; that instead of reflectin’ heaven’s peace and glory back again upon a sad earth as Christians ort to, you have made a damper of yourself, shettin’ off all warmth and light and happiness; a damper for sinners to set down and freeze to death by.”
“To think!” he groaned out, “that anybody should dare to find fault with me when I haint committed a sin in thirty-five years, nor smiled in over forty.”
“Not laughin’ haint no sign of religion Uncle Zeb; because a man makes himself disagreeable and repulsive, that haint another sign; gloom and discomfort haint piety; because a man is in pain it haint no sign he is enjoyin’ religion. I wouldn’t give two or three straws for a religion that didn’t make folks happier as well as better; more tender and charitable and pitiful; more loving and helpful to all humanity. Bigotry and intolerance never was religion, Uncle Zeb, nor never will be, though they have been called so time and again; religion is sunthin’ different, it is as beautiful as _they_ are hegus; it is gentle, full of joy and peace, pure, easily entreated, full of good works, mercy, and charity—which is love.
“It is not Samantha, but a woman on the battle-field of Right, who is a rakin’ you down with the arrers of Truth; it is a Promiscous Advisor who says to you, that you have for years been doin’ what a great many do in the name of religion; you have wrapped yourself in your own dignity and self-righteousness, and worshipped yourself instead of God.”
I didn’t say no more then to the old Deacon in a martyr way; I pulled in the reins and dismounted down from the war horse that was a canterin’ away nobly with me, and a snortin’ in the cause of Right. Though ready and willin’ in spirit to mount this war horse and foller on where Principle leads, without saddle or bridle, and to suffer as a Promiscous Advisor, still it is a tuckerin’ business, and if anybody don’t believe it, let em ride off this war-horse on a tower.
And the very hardest and most tuckerin’ place it ever cantered into, the most gaulin’ and awfulest place it ever pranced round in, is other folks’es housen. When it comes to advisin’ folks promiscously, under their own “vials and mantletrees,” never, never do I feel such temptations to give up my shield and fall offen his back. Oh, John Rogers! you never, never suffered more excruciatin’ly than does Josiah Allen’s wife in such moments. Nothin’, nothin’ but principle could nerve me up to the agonizin’ effort. As I said, I didn’t say no more to the old Deacon that night in a martyr way, and oh! what a relief it was to dismount from the prancin’ steed of Duty, throw off the sharp moral spur from my achin’ feet, curl in my lofty principle tone, and assume again the gentle and almost affectionate axents of Samantha.
And another reason why I thought I would be kinder easy with the old Deacon and not say anything to git him mad, was my determination to mollyfy him about Molly—and a plan I had in my head growin’ bigger and stronger every minute—to _marry that girl to Tom Pitkins, myself, before I left that house_.
The hired girl had told me—I went out to wash my hands to the sink and I happened to ask her in a polite way if she was goin’ to see the Sentinal, and she said she was, that the old Deacon had told her that day he was goin’ to be married in two weeks to Miss Horn, and shouldn’t want her no longer—and if he was a goin’ to marry that Horn what good was Molly a goin’ to do there, only in a martyr way. Some gentle souls seem to be born martyrs, not to principles and idees, but ready to be offered up on a Horn or anything; ready to be pricked and scattered over with snuff in their pinnin’ blankets, and grow up ready to sacrifice themselves to any idol that calls on ’em to—crumple right down and be sot fire to—such was Molly. And it is for some strong hearted friend to snatch ’em away from the fagots and the kindlin’ wood,—such a friend is Samantha. Some see happiness right in front of ’em, and are too weak to grasp holt of it; such need the help of a hand like hers.
I lay awake the biggest heft of that night, a thinkin’ in deep thought, and a layin’ on plans. And finally I guess about three o’clock, I spoke out and says I:
“Josiah Allen, we have got to marry Molly to-day before we leave this house.”
“Good land!” says Josiah startin’ up on his piller full of horrer. “Good land,” says he, “I haint a Mormon, Samantha, I can’t marry to another woman.”
Says I coolly, “Lay down and compose yourself Josiah Allen; I am a goin’ to marry her myself.”
This skairt him worse than ever I could see, and he started up, with a still more ghastly look onto him. He was so pale with horrer that his bald head shone in the moonlight like a big goose egg, and his eyes stood out about a quarter of an inch with fear and excitement. He thought I was delerious; says he in tremblin’ tones: “What does ail you Samantha! Shant I rub your back? Don’t you want sunthin’ to take?”
Says I calmly, “I want a companion that wont interrupt me before I finish a speech. I am a goin’ to marry Molly to Tom Pitkins myself before I leave this house. Lay down Josiah Allen and keep still while I talk it over with you.”
“Talk it over!” says he in loud angry tones, throwin’ his head back on the piller. “I would break out in the dead of night, and scare a man to death, a talkin’ and a arguin’. Do go to sleep, and lemme.”
But I held firm, and would tell him about the plan I had been a layin’ on through the night. I would tell him how I meant to mollyfy the Deacon about Molly.
Says I, “Josiah Allen, I am a woman that has got a vow on me, and I love that girl, as little as I have seen of her, and I am a goin’ to do by her as I would want our Tirzah Ann done by.” Says I, “We shant probable never visit Loon Town again; Tom Pitkins is liable to die off any time with the feelin’s he feels for her; she is liable to die off any minute with her unhappiness, and her feelin’s for him. I shouldn’t wonder a mite if they didn’t live more’n ten or fifteen years if things go on as they be now. And as bad off and wretched as Molly is now, worse is ahead of her, the gloom of a Coffin is enough, let alone the hardness of a Horn. Molly haint a goin’ to be sacrificed on that Horn, while I have got a life left. Desperate diseases require desperate medicines.”
“Well, do for mercy’s sake go to sleep and lemme.”
“What if it was our Tirzah Ann that was in her place.” Says I in a low deep voice, “Haint you a father, Josiah Allen?”
“No I _haint_!” he snapped out enough to tear my night cap in to. “No I haint, nothin’ nor nobody, nor I wont be at this time of night.”
“Haint you no principle?” says I.
“No I haint! not a darn principle.”
“I’d lay and swear if I was in _your_ place Josiah Allen,” says I almost coldly.