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 Marietta Holley

MELANKTON SPICER AND HIS FAMILY.

Philander Spicer told Josiah and me that he did wish we would stop and visit his brother Lank, seein’ we had to pass right by his house. Melankton Spicer, Philander’s twin brother, married Mahala’s sister Delila Ann, makin’ ’em double and twisted relations, as you may say. And we told him that seein’ it was right on our way we would stop a few minutes, but I guessed we wouldn’t stay long for we wasn’t much acquainted with ’em, though she had visited me years ago, and we had seen ’em to Father Allen’s once or twice.

Philander told us mebby we hadn’t better stay long, for they had hard work to git along; he said Delila Ann wasn’t a mite such a turn as Mahala, for whereas Mahala, havin’ a husband that was well off, would work and scrub every minute with no need on it, Delila Ann, havin’ married a poor man who needed help, wouldn’t work a mite; hadn’t been no help to him at all sense they was married, only by puttin’ on appearances, and havin’ seven girls and they bein’ growed up, and their ma not allowin’ ’em to do a speck of work only to dress up to catch a bo. Lank had to work from mornin’ till night in the store where he was a clerk, and then set up half the night to copy papers for a lawyer, to try to pay their milliner bills and the hired girls; but he couldn’t, he was in debt to everybody. And he didn’t git no rest and peace to home, for they was a teasin’ him the hull time for gold bracelets and silk dresses and things; he said they lived poor, and their morals was all run down.

Lank hadn’t ever been able to git enough ahead to buy a Bible; he hadn’t nothin’ but the Pokrafy, and a part of the Old Testament that had fell to him from his grandfather, fell so fur that the ’postles and all the old prophets—except Malachi—had got tore to pieces, and he was battered considerable. Philander said Lank told him it was hard work to bring up a family right, with nothin’ but the Pokrafy to go by, and he wanted to git a Bible the worst way; and when he got his last month’s wages he did mean to git enough ahead to buy one, and a sack of flour; but when he got his pay, his wife said she was sufferin’ for a new gauze head-dress, and the seven girls had got to have some bobinet neck-ties, and some new ear-rings; that after they had got these necessarys, then, if there was anything left, they would git a sack of flour and a Bible. But there wasn’t, and so they had to git along with the Pokrafy, and without the sack of flour; and he said that workin’ so hard, and farin’ so awful bad, Lank was a most used up; he said Lank wasn’t more’n two or three moments older than he was, but he looked as if he was seventy-five years old, and he was afraid he wouldn’t stand it more than several months longer if things went on so.

I said to myself, when Philander was tellin’ us this, here is mebby another chance for me to burn myself up and brile myself on a gridiron (as it were) in the cause of Right. I felt a feelin’ that mebby I could win a victory, and advise Delila Ann for her good. And so I spoke up mildly, but with a firm noble mean on me, and says to him: “Philander, we will stop there an hour or two.”

When we got to the village where Lank lived, Josiah said he guessed he would go right down to the store where Lank worked and see him, and I might go in and call on Delila Ann. A small white-headed boy with tow breeches held up by one lonely gallus told me he would show me the way—the same boy offerin’ to hitch the mare.

“THAT DOOR WANTS MENDIN’ BAD.”

It had been a number of years sense I had seen Delila Ann, and I didn’t s’pose I should know her if I should see her in my porridge dish, Philander said she had changed so. He said she had that sort of anxious, haggard, dissatisfied, kinder sheepish, and kinder bold look—a mean that folks always git by puttin’ on appearances; I’ve heerd, and I believe, that is jest about as wearin’ a job as anybody can git into to foller from year to year. There didn’t seem to be anything hull and sound about the front door, except the key-hole; but it had a new brass plate on it, with a bell kinder fixed in it, and the plate bore Lank’s name in bold noble letters which I s’pose was a comfort to the family, and rose ’em up above the small afflictions of the snow and rain that entered at will, and when they was a mind to.

The white headed boy, with the solitary and lonesome gallus, said to me as he stood waitin’ for the five cent bill I was a gettin’ for him out of my port-money: “That door needs mendin’ bad!”

I give him his bill and started him off, and I was jest a musin’ on his last words, and thinkin’ that Lank’s best way would be to take the key-hole and have a new door made to it, when the hired girl come to the door. I told her who I was and she seemed to be kinder flustrated and said she’d go and tell the family. And I, a standin’ there in the hall, and not knowin’ how long she would be gone, thought I would set down—for it always tires me to stand any length of time on my feet. There was a elegant imposin’ lookin’ chair by the side of a real noble lookin’ table, but to my surprise and mortification when I went to set down, I sot right down through it, the first thing; I catched almost wildly at the massive table to try to save myself, and I’ll be hanged if that didn’t give way and spilte on my hands, as you may say; it tottled and fell right over onto me; and then I see it was made of rough shackly boards, but upholstered with a gorgeous red and yeller cotton spread, like the chair; they both looked splendid. I gathered myself up, and righted the table murmurin’ to myself, “Put not your trust in princes, nor turkey red calico, Josiah Allen’s wife; set not down upon them blindly, lest you be wearied and faint in your mind, and lame in your body.”

APPARIENTLY STRONG.

I was jest a rehearsin’ this to myself, when the hired girl come back, and says I:

“I am glad you have come, for I don’t know but I should have brought the hull house down in ruins onto me, if you hadn’t come jest as you did.”

“And then she up and told me that that chair and table wasn’t made for use, but jest for looks; she said they wanted a table and a reception chair in the hall, and not bein’ able to buy sound ones, they had made ’em out of boards they had by ’em.”

“Well,” says I mildly, “I went right down through the chair the first thing, and it skairt me.”

I got along through the hall first-rate after this, only I most fell twice, for the floor bein’ carpeted with wall paper varnished (to be oil-cloth appariently) and tore up, and the varnish makin’ it stiff, it was as bad as a man-trap to catch folks in, and throw ’em.

Jest before we got to the parlor door I see, that in the agitation of body and mind I had experienced sense I come in, I had dropped one of my cuff buttons, nice black ones that I had bought jest before I started at a outlay of 35 cents, and the hired girl said she would go back for it; and while she was a lookin’ for it—the plasterin’ bein’ off considerable, and the partition jest papered over—I heard ’em a sayin’ and they seemed to be a cryin’ as they said it:

“What did she want to come here for? I should think she would know enough to stay away.”

“To think we have got to be tormented by seein’ her,” says another voice.

“I hate to have her come as bad as you do children,” says a voice I knew was Delila Ann’s; “but we must try to bear up under it; she wont stay probable more’n two or three hours.”

“I thay, I hope she wont sthay two minith,” says another voice with a lisp to it.

“We wont let her stay,” says a little fine voice.

I declare for’t, if it hadn’t been for my vow I would have turned right round in my tracks; but I remembered it wasn’t the pious folks that needed the most preachin’, and if ever promiscous advisin’ seemed to be called for, it was now. And jest as I was a rememberin’ this, the hired girl come back with my cuff button.

The minute she opened that parlor door, I see that I had got into the house of mournin’. The room, which resembled the hall and the front door as much as if they was three twins, seemed to be full of braize delaine, and bobinet lace, and thin ribbin, all bathed in tears and sobs. When I took a closer look, I see there was eight wimmen under the gauzes and frizzles and folderols and etcetery; some of ’em held dime novels in their hands, and one of ’em held a white pup.

The moment I went in, every one of ’em jumped up and kissed me, and throwed their arms round me. Some of the time I had as many as six or seven arms at a time round me in different places, and every one of ’em was a tellin’ me in awful warm tones, how glad, how highly tickled they was to see me; they never was so carried away with enjoyment and happy surprise in their hull lives before; and says four of ’em tenderly:

“You must stay a week with us anyway.”

“A week!” says the little fine voice, “that haint nuthin’, you must stay a month, we wont let you off a day sooner.”

“No, we wont!” says six warm voices, awful warm.

APPARIENTLY WELCOME.

“Sthay all thummer—do,” says the lispin’ voice.

“Yes do!” says the hull seven.

And then Delila Ann threw both her arms round my neck, and says she:

“Oh if you could only stay with us always, how happy, happy we should be.” And then she laid her head right down on my shoulder and begun to sob, and weep, and cry; I was almost sickened to the stomach by their actin’ and behavin’, but the voice of sorrow always appeals to my heart. I see in a minute what the matter was; Lank had give out, had killed himself with hard work; and though I knew she was jest as much to blame as if she was made of arsenic and Lank had swallered her, still pity and sympathy makes the handsomest, shineyest kind of varnish to cover up folks’es faults with, and Delila Ann shone with it from head to foot, as she lay there on my neck, wettin’ my best collar with her tears, and almost tearin’ the lace offen it with her deep windy sithes. I pitied Delila Ann, from pretty near the bottom of my heart; I forgot for the time bein’ her actin’ and behavin’; I felt bad, and says I:

“Then he is gone Delila Ann, I feel to sympathize with you; I am sorry for you as I can be.”

“Yes,” says she, pretty near choked up with emotion, “he is gone; we have lost him.”

I wept; I thought of my Josiah, and I says in tremblin’ tones: “When love is lost out of a heart that has held it, oh, what a goneness there must be in that heart; what a emptyness; what a lonesomeness; but,” says I, tryin’ to comfort her, “He who made our hearts knows all about ’em; His love can fill all the deep lonesome places in ’em; and hearts that He dwells in wont never break; He keeps ’em, and they are safe with an eternal safety.”

All the hull of the girls was a sobbin’, and one of ’em sithed out: “Oh, it does seem as if our hearts must break, right in to.”

Then I spoke up and says in tremblin’ tones: “If you are willin’ Delila Ann, it would be a melancholly satisfaction to me to see the corpse.”

THE HOUSE OF MOURNIN’.

The girls led the way a sobbin’ and sithin’, and I follered on kinder holdin’ up Delila Ann, expectin’ every minute she would faint away on my hands. We was a mournful lookin’ procession; they led the way into the next room, and led me up to a sofy, and there laid out on a gorgeous yeller cotton cushin, lay a dead pup; I was too dumbfoundered to speak for nearly half a moment.

Oh! what feelin’s I felt as I stood there a lookin’ on ’em, to think how I had been a sympathizin’ and a comfortin’, a pumpin’ the very depths of my soul to pour religious consolation onto ’em, and bewailin’ myself, a sheddin’ my own tears over a whiffet pup. As I thought this over, my dumbfounder begun to go off on me, and my mean begun to look different, and awfuler; I thrust my cotton handkerchief back into my pocket again with my right hand, and drew my left arm hautily from Delila Ann, not carin’ whether she crumpled down and fainted away or not; I s’pose my mean apauled ’em, for Delila Ann says to me in tremblin’ tones:

“All genteel wimmen dote on dogs.” And she added in still more tremblin’ tones, as she see my mean kep’ a growin’ awfuler, and awfuler every minute: “Nothin’ gives a woman such a genteel air as to lead ’em round with a ribbin.” And she says still a keepin’ her eye on my mean: “I always know a woman is genteel the minute I see her a leadin’ ’em round, and I never have been mistakin’ once; the more genteel a woman is, the more poodle dogs she has to dote on.”

I didn’t say a word to Delila Ann nor the hull set on ’em, but my emotions riz up so that I spoke right out loud, unbeknown to me; I episoded to myself in a deep voice:

GENTILITY.

“Fathers bein’ killed with labor, and a world layin’ in wickedness, and wimmen dotin’ on dogs; hundreds of thousands of houseless and homeless childern—little fair souls bein’ blackened by ignorance and vice with a black that can’t never be rubbed off this side of heaven, and immortal wimmen spendin’ their hull energies in keepin’ a pup’s hair white; little tender feet bein’ led down into the mire and clay, that might be guided up to heaven’s door, and wimmen utterly refusin’ to notice ’em, so rampant and sot on leadin’ round a pup by a string. Good heavens!” says I, “it makes me sweat to think on it;” and I pulled out my cotton handkerchief and wiped my forred almost wildly. I s’pose my warm emotions had melted down my icy mean a very little, for Delila Ann spoke up in a little chirker voice, and says she:

“If you was one of the genteel kind, you would feel different about it;” says she—a tryin’ to scare me—“I mistrust that you haint genteel.”

“That don’t scare me a mite,” says I, “I hate that word and always did,” says I still more warmly, “there is two words in the English language that I feel cold, and almost hauty towards, and they are ‘affinity,’ such as married folks hunt after, and ‘genteel.’ I wish,” says I, “that these two words would join hands and elope the country; I’d love to see their backs, as they sot out, and bid ’em a glad farewell.” She see she hadn’t skairt me, and the thought of my mission goared me to that extent, that I rose up my voice to a high key and went on wavin’ my right hand in as eloquent a wave as I had by me—I keep awful eloquent waves a purpose to use on occasions like these—and says I:

“I am a woman that has got a vow on me; I am a Promiscous Advisor by trade, and I can’t shirk out when duty is a pokin’ me in the side; I must speak. And I say unto you Delila Ann, and the hull on you promiscous, that if you would take off some of your bobinet lace, empty your laps of pups and dime novels, and go to work and lift some of the burdens from the breakin’ back of Melankton Spicer, you would raise yourselves in my estimation from 25 to 30 cents, and I don’t know but more.”

“Oh,” says Delila Ann, “I want my girls to marry; and it haint genteel for wimmen to work; they wont never catch a bo if they work.”

“Well,” says I almost coldly, “I had ruther keep a clear conscience and a single bedstead, than twenty husbands and the knowledge that I was a father killer; but,” says I in reasonable tones—for I wanted to convince ’em—“it haint necessary to be lazy, to read dime novels, and lead round pups, in order to marry; if it was, I should be a single woman to-day.”

“Oh I love to read dime novelth,” says the lispin’ one; “I love to be thad and weep, it theemth tho thweet, tho thingularly thweet.”

Says I, “There is a tragedy bein’ lived before your eyes day after day that you ort to weep over; a father killin’ himself for his wife and childern—bearin’ burdens enough to break down a leather man—and they a spendin’ their time a leadin’ round whiffet pups.”

“Whiffet pups!” says Delila in angry tones, “they are poodles.”

“Well,” says I calmly, “whiffet poodle pups, if that suits you any better, it don’t make any particular difference to me.”

Says Delila Ann, “I paid seven dollars a piece for ’em, and they have paid their way in comfortin’ the girls when they feel bad; of course my girls have their dark hours and git low-spirited when they teaze their pa for things that he wont buy for ’em; when they want a gold butterfly to wear in their hair, are sufferin’ for it or for other necessaries, and their pa wont git ’em for ’em; in such dark hours the companionship of these dear dogs are such a comfort to ’em.”

“Why don’t they go to work and earn their own butterflies if they have got to have ’em?” says I.

“Because they wont never marry if they demean themselves and work.”

Says I, “It haint no such thing! A man whose love is worth havin’ would think the more of ’em;” and I went on eloquently—“do you s’pose Delila, that the love of a true man,—a love that crowns a woman more royally than a queen, a love that satisfies her head and her heart and that she can trust herself to through life and death; a love that inspires her to think all goodness and purity are possible to her for its sake,—that makes her, through very happiness, more humble and tender and yet fearless, liftin’ her above all low aims and worryments; do you s’pose this love that makes a woman as rich as a Jew if she owns nothin’ on earth beside, can be inspired and awakened by a contemplation of sham gentility and whiffet pups? Can bobinet lace spangled with gilt butterflies weave a net to catch this priceless treasure? Never! Delila Ann Spicer, never! that is,—a love that is worth havin’; some men’s love haint worth nothin’; I wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for it by the car-load.”

But, as I said, “Delila Ann and the hull eight on you promiscous, a earnest, true, noble man would think as much again of a girl who had independence and common sense enough to earn her own livin’ when her father was a poor man. Good land! how simple it is to try to deceive folks; gauze veils, and cotton-velvet cloaks haint a goin’ to cover up the fact of poverty; if we be poor there’s not a mite of disgrace in it. Poverty is the dark mine where diamonds are found lots of times by their glitterin’ so ag’inst the blackness. The darkness of poverty can’t put out the light of a pure diamond; it will shine anywhere, as bright in the dark dirt as on a queen’s finger, for its light comes from within; and rare pearls are formed frequent by the grindin’ touch of poverty, tears of pain and privation and patience crystalized into great drops of light that will shine forever. Honest hard workin’ poverty is respectable as anything can be respectable and should be honored, if for no other reason, for the sake of Him who eighteen hundred years ago made it illustrious forever. But poverty hidin’ itself behind the appariently; poverty hidin’ itself under a sham gentility; pretentious, deceitful poverty—tryin’ to cover a empty stomach with a tinsel breast-pin—is a sight, and enough to make angels weep, and sinners sick. Let your girls learn some honest trade Delila Ann, let ’em be self-respectin’, industrious—”

“Oh my! I wouldn’t have ’em miss of bein’ married for nothin’ in the world.”

“Good land!” says I. “Is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay holt of? It seems to me that the best way would be to lay holt of duty now, and then if a bo comes lay holt of him. But if they catch a bo with such a hook as they are a fishin’ with now, what kind of a bo will it be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime novels, lazyness, deceitfulness, and pups. Learn your girls to be industrious and to respect themselves. They can’t now, Delila Ann, I know they can’t. No woman can feel honorable and reverential towards themselves, when they are a foldin’ their useless hands over their empty souls, waitin’ for some man—no matter who—to marry ’em and support ’em. When in the agony of suspense and fear they have narrowed down to this one theme all their hopes and prayers: “Good Lord, anybody!” But when a woman lays holt of life in a noble earnest way, when she is dutiful, cheerful, and industrious, God-fearin’ and self-respectin’, though the world sinks, there is a rock under her feet that wont let her down fur enough to hurt her any.”

“Oh dear;” says Delila Ann again, “I should think she would want to get married—want to awfully.” Truly everybody has their theme, and marryin’ is hern. But I kep’ cool and says I in calm axents, but sort o’ noble and considerable eloquent:

“If love comes to board with her, so much the better; she will be ready to receive him royally, and keep him when she gets him—some folks don’t know how to use love worth a cent, can’t keep him any length of time. Such a woman wont git crazy as a loon, and wild-eyed, and accept the wrong man—so dead with fear that the right one wont be forth comin’. She wont barter her truth and self respect for a home and housen stuff, and the sham dignity of a false marriage. No mom, or moms; though a regiment of men are at her feet a askin’ her in pleadin’ axents if their bride she will be, her ears will be deaf as a stun to the hull caboodle of ’em, unless the true voice speaks to her; and she wont listen with the ear of flesh, she wont hear it unless her soul can listen. Mebby that voice, that true voice is soundin’ to her heart through the centuries; mebby, like as not, she was born a century too soon, or a hundred years too late—what of it? That don’t scare her a mite, she will keep right on a livin’ jest as calm and collected and happy and contented as anything, till the eternal meetin’ of true souls crowns him and her with the greatness of that love. No, Delila Ann Spicer, such a woman as that, no matter whether she be single or double, I am not afraid of her future.”

“What! not get married! Oh dear me suz,” screamed Delila Ann, for truly the thought seemed to scare her nearly to death. “Oh how awful, how lonely, lonely, they must be.”

“Who said they wasn’t?” says I in pretty middlin’ short tones—for she was a beginnin’ to wear me out some—but I continued on in more mild axents:

“I have seen married folks before now, that I knew was in their souls as lonesome as dogs and lonesomer,” says I, “a disagreeabler feelin’ I never felt, than to have company that haint company, stay right by you for two or three days. And then what must it be to have ’em stand by you from forty to fifty years. Good land! it would tucker anybody out. A desert haint to be compared to a crowd of strangers; woods can’t be compared to human bein’s for loneliness, for Nater is a friendly critter, and to them that love her, she has a hundred ways to chirk ’em up and comfort ’em. And solitude is sacred, when the world’s babble dies away, you hush your soul, and hear the footfalls of the Eternal. Hear His voice speakin’ to your heart in better thoughts, purer aspirations, nobler idees. No! for pure loneliness give me the presence of an alien soul, whose thoughts can never be your thoughts, whose eyes can no more see what your eyes see than if they wore leather spectacles, whose presence weighs you down like four Nite Mairs and a half. And if for any reason, fear, thoughtlessness, or wantin’ a home, you are married to such a one, there is a loneliness for you Delila Ann Spicer.” But she kep’ right on, with her former idees, for she felt ’em deeply.

“Oh Dear! I don’t see how folks git along that haint married. Nothin’ in the world looks so poverty-struck, and lonesome as a woman that haint married.”

“Yes,” says I reasonably, “they do have a sort of a one sided look I’ll admit, and sort o’ curious, at certain times, such as processions, and etcetery; I always said so, and I say so still. But,” says I, “in my opinion, there haint no lonesomeness to be compared to the lonesomeness of the empty-headed and aimless, and no amount of husbands can make up to any woman for the loss of her self-respect. Them is my idees, howsumever everybody to their own mind.”

Whether I did ’em any good or not I don’t know, for my companion arrived jest that moment, and we departed onto our tower; but it is a sweet and comfortin’ thought, that whether you hit the mark you aim at or not, you have done your best and a good pile of arrers somewhere will bear witness that you have took aim, and fired nobly in the cause of Right.