Part 18

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?”

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.”

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.

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.

I use that figger of speech, because his face looked on the mountain plan, firm, and grand and decided. And I put in the Ingun summer, because you know jest how a mountain will look standin’ a considerable ways above you on the first of October--kind o’ mellow and peaceful and benign. But you realize all the time, that under all the green and shady growth of its mosses and evergreens, it has been growin’ gradual but stiddy through the centuries. Under all that viel of shinin’ blue gawze, wove out of mist one way, with a warp of sunshine, under all the mellow colerin’ the time of the year has give it, there is a good strong back bone of solid rock in the old mountain, that couldn’t be broke by all the hammers in creation.