And how smart they be, who can answer their questioning,—questionin' about every thing. Nobody can't—Josiah can't, nor I, nor nobody. Pretty soon she looked up at the comet; and says she, “Nama,”—she can't say grandma,—“Nama, is that God's comma?”
Now, jest see how deep that wuz, and beautiful, very. The heavens wuz full of the writin' of God, writin' we can't read yet, and translate into our coarser language; and she, with her deep, beautiful eyes, a readin' it jest as plain as print, and puttin' in all the marks of punctuation. Readin' the marvellous poem of glory, with its tremblin' pause of flame.
Josiah says, it is because she couldn't say comet; but I know better. Says I, “Josiah Allen, hain't it the same shape as a comma?”
And he had to gin it up that it was. And in a minute or two she says agin,—
“Nama, what is the comma up there for?”
Now hear that, how deep that wuz. Who could answer that question? I couldn't, nor Josiah couldn't. Nor the wisest philosopher that ever walked the earth, not one of 'em. From them that kept their night-watches on the newly built pyramids, to the astronimers of to-day who are spending their lives in the study of the heavens. If every one of them learned men of the world, livin' and dead, if they all stood in rows in our door-yard in front of little Samantha Joe, they would have to bow their haughty heads before her, and put their finger on their lips. Them lips could say very large words in every language under the sun; but they couldn't answer my baby's question, not one of 'em.
But I am eppisodin' fearfully, fearfully; and to resoom.
We left the children and the babe safe in their respective housen', and happy; and we went on placidly to Jonesville, got our usual groceries, and stopped to the post-office. Josiah went into the office, and come out with his “World,” and one letter, a big letter with a blue envelope. I thought it had a sort of a queer look, but I didn't say nothin'. And it bein' sort o' darkish, he didn't try to open it till we got home. Only I says,—
“Who do you s'pose your letter is from, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, “I don't know: the postmaster had a awful time a tryin' to make out who it was to. I should think, by his tell, it wus the dumbdest writin' that ever wus seen. I should think, by his tell, it went ahead of yourn.”
“Wall,” says I, “there is no need of your swearin'.” Says I, “If I wus a grandfather, Josiah Allen, I would choose my words with a little more decency, not to say morality.”
“Wall, wall! your writin' is enough to make a man sweat, and you know it.”
“I hadn't disputed it,” says I with dignity. And havin' laid the blame of the bad writin' of the letter he had got, off onto his companion, as the way of male pardners is, he felt easy and comfortable in his mind, and talked agreeable all the way home, and affectionate, some.
Wall, we got home; and I lit a light, and fixed the fire so it burnt bright and clear. And I drawed up a stand in front of the fire, with a bright crimson spread on it, for the lamp; and I put Josiah's rockin'-chair and mine, one on each side of it; and put Josiah's slippers in front of the hearth to warm. And then I took my knittin'-work, and went to knittin'; and by that time Josiah had got his barn-chores all done, and come in.
And the very first thing he did after he come in, and drawed off his boots, and wondered “why under the gracious heavens it was, that the bootjack never could be found where he had left it” (which was right in the middle of the settin'-room floor). But he found it hangin' up in its usual place in the closet, only a coat had got hung up over it so he couldn't see it for half a minute.
And after he had his warm slippers on, and got sot down in his easy-chair opposite to his beloved companion, he grew calmer again, and more placider, and drawed out that letter from his pocket.
And I sot there a knittin', and a watchin' my companion's face at the same time; and I see that as he read the letter, he looked smut, and sort o' wonder-struck: and says I,—
“Who is your letter from, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, lookin' up on top of it,—
“It is from the headquarters of the Railroad Company;” and says he, lookin' close at it agin, “As near as I can make out, it is a free pass for me to ride on the railroad.”
Says I, “Why, that can't be, Josiah Allen. Why should they give you a free pass?”
“I don't know,” says he. “But I know it is one. The more I look at it,” says he, growin' excited over it,—“the more I look at it, the plainer I can see it. It is a free pass.”
Says I, “I don't believe it, Josiah Allen.”
“Wall, look at it for yourself, Samantha Allen” (when he is dretful excited, he always calls me Samantha Allen), “and see what it is, if it hain't that;” and he throwed it into my lap.
I looked at it close and severe, but not one word could I make out, only I thought I could partly make out the word “remove,” and along down the sheet the word “place,” and there wus one word that did look like “free.” And Josiah jumped at them words; and says he,—
“It means, you know, the pass reads like this, for me to remove myself from place to place, free. Don't you see through it?” says he.
“No,” says I, holdin' the paper up to the light. “No, I don't see through it, far from it.”
“Wall,” says he, highly excited and tickled, “I'll try it to-morrow, anyway. I'll see whether I am in the right, or not.”
And he went on dreamily, “Lemme see—I have got to move that lumber in the mornin' up from my wood-lot. But it won't take me more'n a couple of hours, or so, and in the afternoon I'll take a start.”
Says I, “What under the sun, Josiah Allen, should the Railroad Company give you a free pass for?”
“Wall,” says he, “I have my thoughts.”
He spoke in a dretful sort of a mysterious way, but proud; and I says,—
“What do you think is the reason, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, “It hain't always best to tell what you think. I hain't obleeged to,” says he.
And I says, “No. As the poet saith, nobody hain't obleeged to use common sense unless they have got it;” and I says, in a meanin' tone, “No, I can't obleege you to tell me.”
Wall, sure enough, the next day, jest as quick as he got that lumber drawed up to the house, Josiah Allen dressed up, and sot off for Jonesville, and come home at night as tickled a man as I ever see, if not tickleder.
And he says, “Now what do you think, Samantha Allen? Now what do you think about my ridin' on that pass?”
And I says, “Have you rode on it, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, “Yes, mom, I have. I have rode to Loontown and back; and I might have gone ten times as fur, and not a word been said.”
And I says, “What did the conductor say?”
And he says, “He didn't say nothin'. When he asked me for my fare, I told him I had a free pass, and I showed it to him. And he took it, and looked at it close, and took out his specks, and looked and looked at it for a number of minutes; and then he handed it back to me, and I put it into my pocket; and that wus all there was of it.”
Says I, “How did the conductor look when he was a readin' it?”
And he owned up that he looked dubersome. But, says he, “I rode on it, and I told you that I could.”
“Wall,” says I, sithin', “there is a great mystery about it.”
Says he, “There hain't no mystery to me.”
And then I beset him agin to tell me what he thought the reason wus they give it to him.
And he said “he thought it was because he was so smart.” Says he, “I am a dumb smart feller, Samantha, though I never could make you see it as plain as I wanted to.” And then says he, a goin' on prouder and prouder every minute,—
“I am pretty-lookin'. I am what you might call a orniment to any car on the track. I kinder set a car off, and make 'em look respectable and dressy. And I'm what you might call a influential man, and I s'pose the railroad-men want to keep the right side of me. And they have took the right way to do it. I shall speak well of 'em as long as I can ride free. And, oh! what solid comfort I shall take, Samantha, a ridin' on that pass! I calculate to see the world now. And there is nothin' under the sun to hender you from goin' with me. As long as you are the wife of such a influential and popular man as I be, it don't look well for you to go a mopein' along afoot, or with the old mare. We will ride in the future on my free pass.”
“No,” says I. “I sha'n't ride off on a mystery. I prefer a mare.”
Says he, for he wus that proud and excited that you couldn't stop him nohow,—
“It will be a dretful savin' of money, but that hain't what I think of the most. It is the honor they are a heapin' onto me. To think that they think so much of me, set such a store by me, and look up to me so, that they send me a free pass without my makin' a move to ask for it. Why, it shows plain, Samantha, that I am one of the first men of the age.”
And so he would go on from hour to hour, and from day to day; and I wus that dumbfoundered and wonderin' about it, that I couldn't for my life tell what to think of it. It worried me.
But from that day Josiah Allen rode on that pass, every chance he got. Why, he went to the Ohio on it, on a visit to his first wive's sister; and he went to Michigan on it, and to the South, and everywhere he could think of. Why, he fairly hunted up relations on it, and I told him so.
And after he got 'em hunted up, he'd take them onto that pass, and ride round with 'em on it.
And he told every one of 'em, he told everybody, that he thought as much agin of the honor as he did of the money. It showed that he wus thought so much of, not only in Jonesville, but the world at large.
Why, he took such solid comfort in it, that it did honestly seem as if he grew fat, he wus so puffed up by it, and proud. And some of the neighbors that he boasted so before, wus eat up with envy, and seemed mad to think he had come to such honor, and they hadn't. But the madder they acted, the tickleder he seemed, and more prouder, and high-headeder.
But I could not feel so. I felt that there wus sunthin' strange and curius about it. And it wus very, very seldom that Josiah could get me to ride on it. Though I did take a few short journeys on it, to please him. But I felt sort o' uneasy while I was a ridin' on it, same as you feel when you are goin' up-hill with a heavy load and a little horse. You kinder stand on your feet, and lean forward, as if your bein' oncomfortable, and standin' up, helped the horse some.
I had a good deal of that restless feelin', and oneasy. And as I told Josiah time and time again, “that for stiddy ridin' I preferred a mare to a mystery.”
Wall, it run along for a year; and Josiah said he s'posed he'd have to write on, and get the pass renewed. As near as he could make out, it run out about the 4th day of April. So he wrote down to the head one in New-York village; and the answer came back by return mail, and wrote in plain writin' so we could read it.
It seemed there wus a mistake. It wuzn't a free pass, it wus a order for Josiah Allen to remove a pig-pen from his place on the railroad-track within three days.
There it wuz, a order to remove a nuisence; and Josiah Allen had been a ridin' on it for a year, with pride in his mean, and haughtiness in his demeanor.
Wall, I never see a man more mortified and cut up than Josiah Allen wuz. If he hadn't boasted so over its bein' gin to him on account of his bein' so smart and popular and etcetery, he wouldn't have felt so cut up. But as it was, it bowed down his bald head into the dust (allegory).
But he didn't stay bowed down for any length of time: truly, men are constituted in such a way that mortification don't show on 'em for any length of time.
But it made sights and sights of talk in Jonesville. The Jonesvillians made sights and sights of fun of him, poked fun at him, and snickered. I myself didn't say much: it hain't my way. I merely says this: says I,—
“You thought you wus so awful popular, Josiah Allen, mebby you won't go round with so haughty a mean onto you right away.”
“Throw my mean in my face if you want to,” says he. “But I guess,” says he, “it will learn 'em another time to take a little more pains with their duck's tracks, dumb 'em!”
Says I, “Stop instantly.” And he knew what I meant, and stopped.
CHAPTER V.
Josiah is as kind-hearted a man as was ever made. And he loves me with a devotion, that though hidden sometimes, like volcanic fires, and other married men's affections for their wives, yet it bursts out occasionally in spurts and jets of unexpected tenderness.
Now, the very next mornin' after Cicely left for her aunt Mary's, he gave me a flaming proof of that hidden fire that burns but don't consume him.
A agent come to our dwelling, and with the bland and amiable air of their sect, asked me,—
“If I would buy a encyclopedia?”
I was favorable to the idee, and showed it by my looks and words; but Josiah wus awful set against it. And the more favorable I talked about it, the more horrow-struck and skairt Josiah Allen looked. And finally he got behind the agent, and winked at me, and made motions for me to foller him into the buttery. He wunk several times before I paid much attention to 'em; but finally, the winks grew so violent, and the motions so imperious, yet clever, that I got up, and follered him into the buttery. He shet the door, and stood with his back against it; and says to me, with his voice fairly tremblin' with his emotions,—
“It will throw you, Samantha! you don't want to buy it.”
“What will throw me? and when?” says I.
“Why,” says he, “you can't never ride it! How should I feel to see you on one of 'em! It skairs me most to death to see a boy ride 'em; and at your age, and with your rheumatiz, you'd get throwed, and get your neck broke, the first day.” Says he, “If you have got to have something more stylish, and new-fangled than the old mair, I'd ruther buy you a philosopher. They are easier-going than a encyclopedia, anyway.”
“A philosopher?” says I dreamily.
“Yes, such a one as Tom Gowdey has got.”
Says I, “You mean a velocipede!”
“Yes, and I'll get you one ruther than have you a ridin' round the country on a encyclopedia.”
His tender thoughtfulness touched my heart, and I explained to him all about 'em. He thought it was some kind of a bycicle. And he brightened up, and didn't make no objections to my gettin' one.
Wall, that very afternoon he went to Jonesville, and come home, as I said, all rousted up about bein' a senator. I s'pose Elburtus'es bein' there, and talkin' so much on politics, had kinder sot him to thinkin' on it. Anyway, he come home from Jonesville perfectly rampant with the idee of bein' United-States senator. “He said he had been approached on the subject.”
He said it in that sort of a haughty, high-headed way, such as men will sometimes assume when they think they have had some high honors heaped onto 'em.
Says I, “Who has approached you, Josiah Allen?”
“Wall,” he said, “it might be a foreign minister, and it might be uncle Nate Gowdey.” He thought it wouldn't be best to tell who it was. “But,” says he, “I am bound to be senator. Josiah Allen, M.C., will probable be wrote on my letters before another fall. I am bound to run.”
Says I coldly, “You know you can't run. You are as lame as you can be. You have got the rheumatiz the worst kind.”
Says he, “I mean runnin' with political legs—and I do want to be a senator, Samantha. I want to, like a dog, I want the money there is in it, and I want the honor. You know they have elected me path-master, but I hain't a goin' to accept it. I tell you, when anybody gets into political life, ambition rousts up in 'em: path-master don't satisfy me. I want to be senator: I want to, like a dog. And I don't lay out to tackle the job as Elburtus did, and act too good.”
“No!” says I sternly. “There hain't no danger of your bein' too good.”
“No: I have laid my plans, and laid 'em careful. The relation on your side was too willin', and too clever. And witnessin' his campaign has learnt me some deep lessons. I watched the rocks he hit aginst; and I have laid my plans, and laid 'em careful. I am going to act offish. I feel that offishness is my strong holt—and endearin' myself to the masses. Educatin' public sentiment up to lovin' me, and urgin' me not to be so offish, and to obleege 'em by takin' a office—them is my 2 strong holts. If I can only hang back, and act onwillin', and get the masses fierce to elect me—why, I'm made. And then, I've got a plan in my head.”
I groaned, in spite of myself.
“I have got a plan in my head, that, if every other plan fails, will elect me in spite of the old Harry.”
Oh! how that oath grated against my nerve! And how I hung back from this idee! I am one that looks ahead. And I says in firm tones,—
“You never would get the nomination, Josiah Allen! And if you did, you never would be elected.”
“Oh, yes, I should!” says he. But he continued dreamily, “There would have to be considerable wire-pullin'.”
“Where would the wires be?” says I sternly. “And who would pull 'em?”
“Oh, most anywhere!” says he, lookin' dreamily up onto the kitchen ceilin', as if wires wus liable to be let down anywhere through the plasterin'.
Says I, “Should you have to go to pullin' wires?”
“Of course I should,” says he.
“Wall,” says I, “you may as well make up your mind in the first ont, that I hain't goin' to give my consent to have you go into any thing dangerous. I hain't goin' to have you break your neck, at your age.”
Says he, “I don't know but my age is as good a age to break my neck in as any other. I never sot any particular age to break my neck in.”
“Make fun all you are a mind to of a anxious Samantha,” says I, “but I will never give my consent to have you plunge into such dangerous enterprizes. And talkin' about pullin' wires sounds dangerous: it sounds like a circus, somehow; and how would you, with your back, look and feel performin' like a circus?”
“Oh, you don't understand, Samantha! the wires hain't pulled in that way. You don't pull 'em with your hands, you pull 'em with your minds.”
“Oh, wall!” says I, brightenin' up. “You are all right in that case: you won't pull hard enough to hurt you any.”
I knew the size and strength of his mind, jest as well as if I had took it out of his head, and weighed it on the steelyards. It was not over and above large. I knew it; and he knew that I knew it, because I have had to sometimes, in the cause of Right, remind him of it. But he knows that my love for him towers up like a dromedary, and moves off through life as stately as she duz—the dromedary. Josiah was my choice out of a world full of men. I love Josiah Allen. But to resoom and continue on.
Josiah says, “Which side had I better go on, Samantha?” Says he, kinder puttin' his head on one side, and lookin' shrewdly up at the stove-pipe, “Would you run as a Stalwart, or a Half-breed?”
Says I, “I guess you would run more like a lame hen than a Stalwart or a Half-breed; or,” says I, “it would depend on what breeds they wuz. If they wus half snails, and half Times in the primers, maybe you could get ahead of 'em.”
“I should think, Samantha Allen, in such a time as this, you would act like a rational bein'. I'll be hanged if I know what side to go on to get elected!”
Says I, “Josiah Allen, hain't you got any principle? Don't you know what side you are on?”
“Why, yes, I s'pose I know as near as men in gineral. I'm a Democrat in times of peace. But it is human nater, to want to be on the side that beats.”
I sithed, and murmured instinctively, “George Washington!”
“George Granny!” says he.
I sithed agin, and kep' sithin'.
Says I, “It is bad enough, Josiah Allen, to have you talk about runnin' for senator, and pullin' wires, and etcetery. But, oh, oh! my agony to think my partner is destitute of principle.”
“I have got as much as most political men, and you'll find it out so, Samantha.”
My groans touched his heart—that man loves me.
“I am goin' to work as they all do. But wimmen hain't no heads for business, and I always said so. They don't look out for the profits of things, as men do.”
I didn't say nothin' only my sithes, but they spoke volumes to any one who understood their language. But anon, or mebby before,—I hadn't kep' any particular account of time, but I think it wus about anon,—when another thought struck me so, right in my breast, that it most knocked me over. It hanted me all the rest of that day: and all that night I lay awake and worried, and I'd sithe, and sposen the case; and then I'd turn over, and sposen the case, and sithe.
Sposen he would be elected—I didn't really think he would, but I couldn't for my life help sposen. Sposen he would have to go to Washington. I knew strange things took place in politics. Strange men run, and run fur: some on 'em run clear to Washington. Mebby he would. Oh! how I groaned at the idee!
I thought of the awfulness of that place as I had heard it described upon to me; and then I thought of the weakness of men, and their liability to be led astray. I thought of the powerful blasts of temptation that blowed through them broad streets, and the small size of my pardner, and the light weight of his bones and principles.
And I felt, if things wuz as they had been depictered to me, he would (in a moral sense) be lifted right up, and blowed away—bones, principles, and all. And I trembled.
At last the idee knocked so firm aginst the door of my heart, that I had to let it in. That I must, I must go to Washington, as a forerunner of Josiah. I must go ahead of him, and look round, and see if my Josiah could pass through with no smell of fire on his overcoat—if there wuz any possibility of it. If there wuz, why, I should stand still, and let things take their course. But if my worst apprehensions wuz realized, if I see that it was a place where my pardner would lose all the modest worth and winnin' qualities that first endeared him to me—why, I would come home, and throw all my powerful influence and weight into the scales, and turn 'em round.
Of course, I felt that I should have to make some pretext about goin': for though I wus as innocent as a babe of wantin' to do so, I felt that he would think he wus bein' domineered over by me. Men are so sort o' high-headed and haughty about some things! But I felt I could make a pretext of George Washington. That dear old martyr! I felt truly I would love to weep upon his tomb.
And so I told Josiah the next mornin', for I thought I would tackle the subject at once. And he says,—
“What do you want to weep on his tomb for, Samantha, at this late day?”
Says I, “The day of love and gratitude never fades into night, Josiah Allen: the sun of gratitude never goes down; it shines on that tomb to-day jest as bright as it did in 1800.”
“Wall, wall! go and weep on it if you want to. But I'll bet half a cent that you'll cry onto the ice-house, as I've heard of other wimmen's doin'. Wimmen don't see into things as men do.”
“You needn't worry, Josiah Allen. I shall cry at the right time, and in the right place. And I think I had better start soon on my tower.”
I always was one to tackle hard jobs immejutly and to once, so's to get 'em offen' my mind.
“Wall, I'd like to know,” says he, in an injured tone, “what you calculate to do with me while you are gone?”
“Why,” says I, “I'll have the girl Ury is engaged to, come here and do the chores, and work for herself; they are goin' to be married before long: and I'll give her some rolls, and let her spin some yarn for herself. She'll be glad to come.”
“How long do you s'pose you'll be gone? She hain't no cook. I'd as lives eat rolls, as to eat her fried cakes.”
“Your pardner will fry up 2 pans full before she goes, Josiah; and I don't s'pose I'll be gone over four days.”
“Oh, well! then I guess I can stand it. But you had better make some mince-pies ahead, and other kinds of pies, and some fruit-cake, and cookies, and tarts, and things: it is always best to be on the safe side, in vittles.”
So it wus agreed on,—that I should fill two cubbard shelves full of provisions, to help him endure my absence.
I wus some in hopes that he might give up the idee of bein' United-States senator, and I might have rest from my tower; for I dreaded, oh, how I dreaded, the job! But as day by day passed, he grew more and more rampant with the idee. He talked about it all the time daytimes; and in the night I could hear him murmur to himself,—
“Hon. Josiah Allen!”
And once I see it in his account-book, “Old Peedick debtor to two sap-buckets to Hon. Josiah Allen.”
And he talked sights, and sights, about what he wus goin' to do when he got to Washington, D.C.—what great things he wus goin' to do. And I would get wore out, and say to him,—
“Wall! you will have to get there first.”
“Oh! you needn't worry. I can get there easy enough. I s'pose I shall have to work hard jest as they all do. But as I told you before, if every thing else fails, I have got a grand plan to fall back on—sunthin' new and uneek. Josiah Allen is nobody's fool, and the nation will find it out so.”
Then, oh, how I urged him to tell his plan to his lovin' pardner! but he wouldn't tell.
But hours and hours would he spend, a tellin' me what great things he wus goin' to do when he got to Washington.
Says he, “There is one thing about it. When I get to be United-States senator, uncle Nate Gowdey shall be promoted to some high and responsible place.”
“Without thinkin' whether he is fit for it or not?” says I.
“Yes, mom, without thinkin' a thing about it. I am bound to help the ones that help me.”
“You wouldn't have him examined,” says I,—“wouldn't have him asked no questions?”
“Oh, yes! I'd have him pass a examination jest as the New-York aldermen do, or the civil-service men. I'd say to him, 'Be you uncle Nate Gowdey?'
“'Yes.'
“'How long have you been uncle Nate Gowdey?'
“And he'd answer; and I'd say,—
“'How long do you calculate to be uncle Nate?'
“And he'll tell; and then I'll say,—
“'Enough: I see you have all the qualifications for office. You are admitted.' That is what I would do.”
I groaned. But he kep' on complacently, “I am goin' to help the ones that elect me, sink or swim; and I calculate to make money out of the project,—money and honor. And I shall do a big work there,—there hain't no doubt of it.
“Now, there is political economy. I shall go in strong for that. I shall say right to Congress, the first speech I make to it, I shall say, that there is too much money spent now to hire votes with; and I shall prove it right out, that we can get votes cheaper if we senators all join in together, and put our feet right down that we won't pay only jest so much for a vote. But as long as one man is willin' to pay high, why, everybody else has got to foller suit. And there hain't no economy in it, not a mite.
“Then, there is the canal question. I'll make a thorough end of that. There is one reform that will be pushed right through.”
“How will you do it?” says I.
“I will have the hull canal cleaned out from one end to the other.”
“I was readin' only yesterday,” says I, “about the corruption of the canal question. But I didn't s'pose it meant that.”
“That is because you hain't a man. You hain't got the mind to grasp these big questions. The corruption of the canal means that the bottom of the canal is all covered with dead cats and things; and it ort to be seen to, by men that is capable of seein' to such things. It ort to be cleaned out. And I am the man that has got the mind for it,” says he proudly.
“Then, there is the Star Route. Nothin' but foolishness from beginnin' to end. They might have known they couldn't make any road through the stars. Why, the very Bible is agin it. The ground is good enough for me, and for any other solid man. It is some visionary chap that begun it in the first place. Nothin' but dumb foolishness; and so uncle Nate Gowdey said it was. We got to talkin' about it yesterday, and he said it was a pity wimmin couldn't vote on it. He said that would be jest about what they would be likely to vote for.
“He is a smart old feller, uncle Nate is, for a man of his age. He talked awful smart about wimmin's votin'. He said any man was a fool to think that a woman would ever have the requisit grasp of intellect, and the knowledge of public affairs, that would render her a competent voter.
“I tell you, you have got to understand things in order to tackle politicks. Politicks takes deep study.
“Now, there is the tariff question, and the revenue. I shall most probable favor 'em, and push 'em right through.”
“How?” says I.
“Oh, wall! a woman most probable couldn't understand it. But I shall push 'em forward all I can, and lift 'em up.”
“Where to?” says I.
“Oh, keep a askin', and a naggin'! That is what wears out us public men,—wimmin's questionin'. It hain't so much the public duties we have to perform that ages us, and wears us out before our time,—it is woman's weak curiosity on public topics, that her mind is too feeble to grasp holt of. It is wearin',” says he haughtily.
Says I, “Specially when they don't know what to answer.” Says I, “Josiah Allen, you don't know this minute what tariff means, or revenue.”
“Wall, I know what starvation means, and I know what vittles means, and I know I am as hungry as a bear.”
Instinctively I hung on the teakettle. And as Josiah see me pare the potatoes, and grind the coffee, and pound the steak, he grew very pleasant again in his demeanor; and says he,—
“There will be some abuses reformed when I get to Washington, D.C.; and you and the nation will see that there will. Now, there is the civil-service law: Uncle Nate and I wus a talkin' about it yesterday. It is jest what we need. Why, as uncle Nate said, hired men hain't civil at all, nor hired girls either. You hire 'em to serve you, and to serve you civil; and they are jest as dumb uppish and impudent as they can be. And hotel-clerks—now, they don't know what civil-service means.”
“Why, uncle Nate said when he went to the Ohio, last fall, he stayed over night to Cleveland, and the hotel-clerk sassed him, jest because he wanted to blow out his light: he wanted uncle Nate to turn it off.
“And uncle Nate jest spoke right up, smart as a whip, and said, 'Old-fashioned ways was good enough for him: blows wus made before turners, and he should blow it out.' And the hotel-clerk sassed him, and swore, and threatened to make him leave.
“And ruther than have a fuss, uncle Nate said he turned it out. But it rankled, uncle Nate says it did, it rankled deep. And he says he wants to vote for that special. He says he'd love to make that clerk eat humble-pie.
“Uncle Nate is a sound man: his head is level.
“And good, sound platforms, that is another reform, uncle Nate said we needed the worst kind, and he hoped I would insist on it when I got to be senator. He said there was too much talk about 'em in the papers, and too little done about 'em. Why, Elam Gowdey, uncle Nate's youngest boy, broke down the platform to his barn, and went right down through it, with a load of hay. And nothin' but that hay saved his neck from bein' broke. It spilte one of his horses.
“Uncle Nate had been urgin' him to fix the platform, or build a new one; but he was slack. But, as uncle Nate says, if such things are run by law, they will have to be done.
“And then, there is another thing uncle Nate and I was talkin' about,” says he, lookin' very amiable at me as I rolled out my cream biscuit—almost spooney.
“I shall jest run every poor Irishman and Chinaman out of the country that I can.”
“What has the Irishmen done, Josiah Allen?” says I.
“Oh! they are poor. There hain't no use in our associatin' with the poor.”
Says I dreamily, “Did I not read once, of One who renounced the throne of the universe to dwell amongst the poor?”
“Oh, wall! most probable they wuzn't Irish.”
“And what has the Chinaman done?” says I.
“Why, they are heathens, Samantha. What does the United States want with heathens anyway? What the country needs is Methodists.”
“Somewhere did I not once hear these words,” says I musin'ly, as I set the coffee-cups on the table,—“'You shall have the heathen for an inheritance'—and 'preach the gospel to the heathen'—and 'we who were sometime heathens, but have received light'? Did not the echo of some such words once reach my mind?”
“Oh, wall! if you are goin' to quote readin', why can't you quote from 'The World'? you can't combine Bible and politics worth a cent. And the Chinaman works too cheap—are too industrious, and reasonable in their charges, they hain't extravagant—and they are too dumb peacible, dumb 'em!”
“Josiah Allen!” says I firmly, “is that all the fault you find with 'em?”
“No, it hain't. They don't want to vote! They don't care a cent about bein' path-master or President. And I say, that after givin' a man a fair trial and a long one, if he won't try to buy or sell a vote, it is a sure sign that he can't asimulate with Americans, and be one with 'em; that he can't never be mingled in with 'em peacible. And I'll bet that I'll start the Catholics out—and the Jews. What under the sun is the use of havin' anybody here in America only jest Methodists? That is the only right way. And if I have my way, I'll get rid of 'em,—Chinamen, Irishmen, Catholics,—the hull caboodle of 'em. I'll jest light 'em out of the country. We can do it too. That big statute in New-York Harbor of Liberty Enlightenin' the World, will jest lift her torch up high, and light 'em out of the country:—that is what we had her for.”
I sithed low, and says, “I never knew that wus what she wus there for. I s'posed it wus a gift from a land that helped us to liberty and prosperity when we needed 'em as bad as the Irishmen and Chinamen do to-day; and I s'posed that torch that wus lit for us by others' help, we should be willin' and glad to have it shine on the dark cross-roads of others.”
“Wall, it hain't meant for no such purpose: it is to light up our land and our waters. That's what she's there for.”
I sithed agin, a sort of a cold sithe, and says,—
“I don't think it looks very well for us New-Englanders a sittin' round Plymouth Rock, to be a condemnin' anybody for their religeous beliefs.”
“Wall, there hain't no need of whittlin' out a stick, and worshipin' it, as the Chinamen do.”
“How are you goin' to help 'em to worship the true God if you send 'em out of the country? Is it for the sake of humanity you drive 'em out? or be you, like the Isrealites of old, a worshipin' the golden calf of selfishness, Josiah Allen?”
“I hain't never worshiped no calf, Samantha Allen. That would be the last thing I would worship, and you know it.”
(Josiah wus very lame on his left leg where he had been kicked by a yearlin'. The spot wus black and blue, but healin'.)
“You have blanketed that calf with thick patriotic excuses; but I fear, Josiah Allen, that the calf is there.
“Oh!” says I dreamily, “how the tread of them calves has moved down through the centuries! If every calf should amble right out, marked with its own name and the name of its owner, what a sight, what a sight it would be! On one calf, right after its owner's name, would be branded, 'Worldly Honor and Fame.'”
Josiah squirmed, for I see him, but tried to turn the squirm in' into a sickly smile; and he murmured in a meachin' voice, and with a sheepish smile,—
“'Hon. Josiah Allen. Fame.' That wouldn't look so bad on a likely yearlin' or two-year old.”
But I kep' right on. “On another would be marked, 'Wealth.' Very yeller those calves would be, and a long, long drove of 'em.
“On another would be, 'Earthly Love.' Middlin' good-lookin' calves, these, and sights of 'em. But the mantillys that covered 'em would be all wet and wore with tears.
“'Culture,' 'Intellect,' 'Refinement.' These calves would march right along by the side of 'Pride,' 'Vanity,' 'Old Creeds,' 'Bigotry,' 'Selfishness.' The last-named would be too numerous to count with the naked eye, and go pushin' aginst each other, rushin' right through meetin'-housen, tearin' and actin'. Why,” says I, “the ground trembles under the tread of them calves. I can hear 'em whinner,” says I, fillin' up the coffee-pot.
“Calves don't whinner!” says Josiah.
Says I, “I speak parabolickly;” and says I, in a very blind way, “Parables are used to fit the truth to weak comprehensions.”
“Wall!” says he, kinder cross, “your potatoes are a burnin' down.”
I turned the water off, and mashed 'em up, with plenty of cream and butter; and them, applied to his stomach internally, seemed to sooth him,—them, and the nice tender steak, and light biscuit, and lemon puddin' and coffee, rich and yellow and fragrant.
He never said a word more about politics till after dinner. But on risin' up from the table he told me he had got to go to Jonesville to get the old mare shod. And I see sadly, as he stood to the lookin'-glass combin' out his few hairs, how every by-path his mind sot out on led up gradually to Washington, D.C. For as he stood there, and spoke of the mare's feet, he says,—
“The mare is good enough for Jonesville, Samantha. But when we get to Washington, we want sunthin' gayer, more stylish, to ride on. I calculate,” says he, pullin' up his collar, and pullin' down his vest,—“I lay out to dress gay, and act gay. I calculate to make a show for once in my life, and put on style. One thing I am bound on,—I shall drive tantrum.”
“How?” says I sternly.
“Why, I shall buy another mare, most probable some gay-colored one, and hitch it before the old white mare, and drive tantrum. You know, it is all the style. Mebby,” says he dreamily, “I shall ride the drag. I s'pose that is fashionable. But I'll be hanged if I should think it would be easy ridin' unless you had the teeth down. Dog-carts are stylish, I hear; but our dog is so dumb lazy, you couldn't get him to go out of a walk. But tantrum I will drive.”