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

UNCLE ZEBULIN COFFIN

Ever sense I had married to Josiah Allen, I had heerd of Uncle Zebulin Coffin, what a good man he was. Every time Josiah would git low spirited and kinder back slid in his mind, he would groan out, “Oh, if I could only be as good as Uncle Zebulin is!”

And when he would be in this deprested state, if he and I would laugh out kinder hearty at sunthin’ the childern said or done, he would mutter:

“Oh Samantha, what would Uncle Zebulin say if he should hear us laugh! I don’t believe we shall ever get to be so good as he is in this world.”

“What has he done so awful good?” I would say.

“Why,” says Josiah, “Uncle Zebulin haint laughed in over forty years. You don’t have no idee what a good man he is.”

“That don’t raise him 7 cents in my estimation,” says I. “What else has he done so uncommon good?”

“Oh,” says Josiah. “I don’t know of anything in particular. But you never see so good a man as he is. He’s made a regular pattern of himself. He never smiles, and he would sooner cut off anybody’s head than to joke with ’em; and he is so quick to see if anybody else does wrong. He’ll make anybody feel so wicked, when they are with him; they’ll see so plain how much better he is than they be. He is so uncommon good, that I never could bear to stay there; I realized his goodness so much, and see my own wickedness so plain. A dretful good man, Uncle Zebulin is, dretful.”

I knew when we sot out for the Sentinal that we should go within a few miles of him; we had got to go right through Loon Town, where his letters was sent to. (Josiah had helped him to money to pay up a mortgage, and they had wrote back and forth about it.) I beset Josiah to stop and visit him, not that I had such a awful high opinion of him, but I wanted to go more out of curiosity, a sort of a circus feelin’; but Josiah hung back, and I says to him:

“Anybody would think Josiah Allen, that after praisin’ up a Uncle Zebulin day and night for goin’ on twenty years, a man would be willin’ to let his lawful pardner git a glimpse on him;” but Josiah hung back, and says he:

“He is so tarnal good, Samantha, you haint no idee how powerful uncomfortable and unsatisfactory he makes wickeder folks feel.” But I says cheerfully:

“If he is so dretful good as you say, he wont be likely to hurt us, and I don’t go for comfort, I go in a sort of a menagery way; and also,” I added with dignity, “as a P. A. and a P. I.”

“Well,” he kinder whimpered out, “mebby it is all for the best. We’ll go if you are so sot on it, but there don’t seem to be no need of our stayin’ any length of time.”

“Well,” says I, “we’ll see, when we git there.”

But after we got started off on our tower, and as we drew near Loon Town, (thirteen miles from Melankton Spicer’ses) and I spoke to Josiah about our visit to Uncle Zebulin, he made as strange of it, as if he never had heerd of the idee; said he never had borrowed any trouble about it, never had had an idee of goin’ nigh him.

“Then what made you say so,” says I.

“Say so!” says he in a wanderin’, unbelievin’ tone, “I haint said so,” says he, “you must have dremp it.”

I argued with him for quite a spell, but he stuck to it; said he didn’t blame me any for sayin’ it, for I had most probable dremp it.

It madded me so to hear him go on, that I wouldn’t multiply no more words with him, and I should probable never have sot eyes on Zebulin Coffin, if it hadn’t been for a axident that took place jest as we was a enterin’ Loon Town.

I thought there had been sunthin’ kinder loose and shackly about the buggy for some time, and so I says to Josiah:

“There seems to be sunthin’ wrong about the buggy Josiah Allen, I believe the whiffletrys are loose.”

“The whiffletrys are all right. You are notional Samantha—wimmen always be, not havin’ such strong firm minds as we men have they git the hypo.”

Says I, almost coldly, “After you throw us out, and kill both on us, mebby you wont twit me of havin’ the hypo.”

“I haint never killed you yet, Samantha,” says he, “and you have been a lookin’ out for it for the last twenty years.”

CHEATED.

But that man hadn’t hardly got the words out of his mouth, when all of a sudden jest what I had been bewarin’ him of happened; sunthin’ did break down; he said it was the ex. But everything seemed to give way all of a sudden under us; I was skairt, very. The old mare bein’ a orniment to her sect stopped stun still, so there wasn’t no killed nor wounded to repent on, but the top buggy had got to go to the wagon shop to be repaired upon. Josiah acted mad; says he:

“That darned man cheated me on that buggy, I’ll bet a cent. We’d done better to have bought a phantom; I told you so Samantha in the first on’t.”

Knowin’ it was the nater born in every man to want to blame somebody or sunthin’ in a time like this, and knowin’ if anything could be a comfort to my companion that would, I didn’t feel like arguin’ with him a mite about our buyin’ or not buyin’ a phantom to ride. I was sorry for him, but feelin’ I had a vow onto me, and knowin’ it was my duty to lock arms (as it were) with my companion, and lead him gently back if I see him a strayin’ off into the wrong, I says to him in a kind of a roundabout way, but mildly and firmly:

“When companions was falsely told they had dremp things, mebby judgments was sometimes sent onto Josiahs.”

I had hinted this in a dretful blind way, but he took it in a minute, and snapped out enough to take my head off.

“Well, well! I s’pose we can go to Uncle Zeb’s, if you are so sot on it, while this is bein’ mended;” and he added with a gloomy face: “I guess you’ll have the worst on’t, when you see how good he is.”

I felt glad to go, for I had a curious feelin’ that I was needed there as a Promiscous Advisor; as if I had a job there to tackle in the cause of Right. The blacksmith sent a boy for a man that did such jobs, and in a few minutes time we was on our way to Uncle Zebulin Coffin’ses. It was a good lookin’ iron grey man, about the age of Josiah who was a carryin us. He had a nice span of horses, and we rode in a respectable democrat with two seats. Josiah sot on the front seat with the driver, and the satchel and umberell and I sot on the back seat. After we had got started, the man spoke up and says he:

“You are a goin’ over to Deacon Coffin’ses?”

“Yes,” says Josiah.

His face grew sad, and he shook his head in a mournful way.

“A dretful good man the Deacon is.”

Says I, “Sunthin’ in the line of Paradise Lost, or the Course of Time; sunthin’ like Milton or Pollock, haint he?”

Says he “I haint acquainted with the gentlemen you speak of.”

He looked so kinder sharp and curious at me, that I spoke up again, and says I:

“I have got the idee from what I have heerd, that he is sunthin’ like them books I spoke of. Everybody knows they are hefty and respectable, but somehow they don’t take so much comfort a perusin’ ’em as they do in admirin’ ’em at a distance—bein’ wrote in blank verse, they make folks feel sort o’ blank.”

The man didn’t answer me but put on a still more melancholly and deprested look, and says he:

“He haint smiled in more’n thirty years, and haint snickered in goin’ on fifty. It’s curious, how anybody can be so good haint it? You see, I carry passengers back and forth, and the Deacon rode with me about a year ago, and he labored with me powerful about my son Tom, Tom Pitkins! my name is Elam Pitkins.”

He was a settin’ on the same seat with Josiah, and they had been a visitin’ together like old friends. But Josiah turned right round and shook hands with him, and say he: “How do you do Mr. Pitkins, happy to make your acquaintance, sir.”

And then he took his hat off, and held it in his lap for a few moments; then he put it on his head again. I was almost proud of that man at that minute, to see how well he knew what belonged to good manners; (I had took him in hand, and tutored him a sight, before we sot out on our tower,) and bein’ Josiah’s teacher in politeness, I wasn’t a goin’ to be out done by him; so I riz right up, and made a low curchy and shook hands with him. The democrat jolted jest then, and I come down pretty sudden, and bein’ a hefty woman I struck hard—but I didn’t begreech my trouble. True politeness is dear to me; true courtesy is a near relation to principle, as near as 2nd cousin.

This little episode over, and polite manners attended to, Elam Pitkins continued on:

“As I say, the Deacon give it to me strong about my son Tom—he made me feel wicked as a dog—said I’d be the ruination of him. You see the way on’t was, Loon Town is a great place for politics; lots of congressmen make it their home here summers, and so it is run down in its morals—lots of drinkin’ saloons, and other places of licenced ruination, and billiard-rooms, and so 4th—and Tom bein a bright, wide-awake lad, got kinder unstiddy for a spell. You know boys at that age take to fun and amusement as naterally as a duck takes to water; its nater, jest as much as the sun is nater or the moon, and can’t be helped any more than they can. Well, his ma and I talked it over; I was a great case to read nights—solid books, such as Patent Office Reports and the Dictionary bein’ my holt—and she was great on mendin’—socks bein’ her theme and stiddy practice. But Tom was a gettin’ unstiddy; and we talked it over and come to the conclusion that these occupations of ourn, though they was as virtuous as two young sheep’s, still they wasn’t very highlarious and happyfyin’ to a boy like Tom. And what do you s’pose we did—his ma and I? Well sir, if you’ll believe it, we learnt to play dominoes, that woman and I did and both on us a goin’ on fifty. You ort to seen us handle them dominoes at first! We’d never either on us touched one before, but we kep’ at it, a studyin’ deep, till we could play a good hand; and if I had give Tom a 50 dollar bill, he wouldn’t have been half so tickled as he was when his ma and I sot down to play dominoes with him for the first time.

COMPETING WITH THE BAR-ROOM.

“And then if you’ll believe it, his ma and I tackled the checker board next, and mastered that; Tom beats us most every time, and I am glad on it, and his ma is too. Then I got a box of authors; it don’t take near so much mind to play that as it does dominoes, most anybody can learn that, and it is a beautiful game—Thackuary and Dickens and all on ’em painted out as plain as day on ’em—and we bought lots of interestin’ books wrote by these very men that we got acquainted with in this way. And before winter was out, I got a set of parlor crokay; and when the bar-room winders was all lit up, seeminly a beconin’ Tom and others like him to come and be ruined, we lit up our sittin’-room winders brighter still, and bein’ considerable forehanded, and thinkin’ it is cheaper than to pay whisky bills, and gamblin’ debts, and worse—we lay out—Tom’s ma and I do—to have fruit, and nuts, and pop-corn, and lemonade and so 4th every evening; and Tom’s mates are made welcome, when they come. Why good land! You can’t git Tom away from home now hardly enough to be neighborly. We have kep’ up such doin’s year after year, and Tom is goin’ on twenty-two; and between you and me—you are related to Deacon Coffin’ses folks, you say?”

“Yes,” says Josiah and I.

“Well, you look so sort o’ friendly, and you’d be apt to hear of it any way, so I’ll tell you; Tom got sweet on the Deacon’s Molly; perfectly smit by her, and before they knew it, as you may say, they was engaged. Nater, you know, jest as nateral as the sun is, or the moon, or anything; but when Tom told us about it, and we had always been so kind of familiar with him, sort o’ mated with him, that it come nateral in him to confide in us—he thinks a sight on us Tom does—I told him to be honorable and manly, and tackle the old Deacon about it. Tom is brave as a lion—he wouldn’t hang back a inch from bears or tigers or crockydiles or anything of the kind—but when I mentioned the idee of his tacklin’ the old Deacon, I’ll be hanged if Tom didn’t flinch, and hang back.” Says he:

“I hate to; I hate to go near him, he is such a good man;” says he, “he makes me feel as if I could crawl through a knot hole, as if I wanted to.”

But my advice to Tom was from day to day, “tackle the old Deacon.”

And finally Tom tackled him; and the old Deacon was madder than a hen.

“A pious hen,” says I coldly, for I was a beginnin’ to not bear the old Deacon.

“Yes,” says he, “bein’ so darned good, he said Molly shouldn’t marry any feller that laughed and played dominoes and danced—and Tom had danced once or twice to one of our neighbors, and the old Deacon had heerd of it—so he turned Tom out doors, and forbid Molly’s speakin’ to him again; Molly, they say, took it bad, and it come powerful hard on Tom. He is a soft hearted feller Tom is, and he fairly worshipped her; but his ma and I brought him up to meet trials bravely, and it is a pattern to anybody to see how brave, and calm, and patient he is, with his trouble makin’ him as poor as a snail. Stiddy to work as a clock, cheerful, and growin’ poor all the time; awful good to babys, and childern Tom is, sense it took place, and growin’ pale, and poor as a rat. I tell you it comes pretty tough on his ma and me to see it go on; but Tom wont be underhanded, and he’ll have to grin and bear it, for the Deacon says he never changes his mind, and he is so tarnal good I s’pose he can’t.

“He talked powerful to me the day he rode with me; I don’t know when I ever felt wickeder and meaner than I did then; I can truly say that when the old Deacon got out of the buggy, and for several hours after that, I could have been bought cheap—probable from 25 to 30 cents—he give it to me so for lettin’ Tom play games, and playin’ with him myself. He said I was doin’ the devil’s work; a immortal soul left to my charge, and I a fillin’ it up with dominoes and checkers.

“‘But,’ says I, ‘Tom got to runnin’ to the tarven; he got into bad company; I did it to stop him; factorum Deacon, honor bright.’

“And then the Deacon give it to me for swearin’; he was so good, he thought honor bright and factorum was swearin’, and says he:

“‘S’posen Tom did git to runnin’ to the tarven and other places of ruination; then was the time for you to do your duty. Preach his wickedness to him; keep at it every time he come into the house day and night, down suller, and up stairs, to the table and the altar. I s’posed you was a prayin’ man, and prayed in your family.’

“‘I haint missed a night nor mornin’ sense I joined the meetin’-house,’ says I.

“‘Well, what a weapon that family altar might be, if you handled it right, to pierce Tom to the heart; to show him how gloomy his sins made you; to make him see your goodness, and his sinfulness; to make a pattern of yourself before him; and then evenin’s you ort to be stern and gloomy, and awful dignified, and spend ’em, every one of ’em, in readin’ religious tracts to him; warnin’s to sinners, and the perils of the ungodly. I would lend you half a bushel that I have used in bringin’ up my own family; and if you took this course, what a happyfyin’ thought it would be, that, whatever course he took, whether he went to ruin or not, you had done your duty, set him a pattern of righteousness, and his wickedness couldn’t be laid to your charge; and you could have a clear conscience, and be happy, even if you looked down from the shinin’ shore, and see him a wreathin’ in torment.’

“‘But,’ says I, ‘what if my preachin’ his wickedness into him, and readin’ tracts at him had the effect of makin’ him hate religion, and drivin’ him away from home to the tarven and wickedness? After Tom was ruined, my makin’ a pattern of myself, and feelin’ innocent, wouldn’t bring Tom back. And,’ says I, ‘if I kep’ Tom from goin’ to ruin, by keepin’ him to home, and playin’ dominoes with him—and didn’t feel innocent—lemme see—where be I—’”

“And I scratched my head till every hair stood up on end, I was so puzzled, and kinder worked up, a thinkin’ how I would go to work to be innocent in the matter, and whether after I had lost Tom, my bein’ a pattern would be much of a comfort to me or his ma; but though I scratched my head powerful, I couldn’t scratch a clear idee of the matter out of it. But I tell you, the Deacon made me feel small, so small that when I got home, I was most tempted to go in through the key-hole; and mean—I knew I was the meanest man in North America, I could have took my oath on it with a clear conscience.

“But Tom’s ma felt different about it when I talked it over with her; and she went on and give her views on bringin’ up childern and religion, and things, for about the first time I ever heerd her in my life—she bein’ one of the kind that believes in doin’ more and sayin’ less; though, if there is anybody livin’ that can beat her in piety, I’d love to see ’em. As I say, I never see her talk so earnest and sort of inspired like, as she did then; it went to my heart so, took me so ‘right where I lived’—as the poet says—and I have thought it over so many times sense, that I can remember every word on it, though there was powerful long words in it. But good land! long words haint nothin’ for Tom’s ma to handle; she’s dretful high learnt, teached a deestrick school for years; I never shall forget how she looked when she was a talkin’ it to me; how her eyes shone; she has got big brown eyes jest like Tom’s, and they sort o’ lit up, jest as if there was a kerosine lamp a burnin’ inside of her face, or several candles; she talked powerful. She said she didn’t think we need feel condemned; says she:

“‘We have always taught our boy to love God, and taught him that He was the one reality in an unreal world.’ Says she, ‘I have tried from his childhood to make Him who is invisible, a real presence to him, not an abstract idee; taught him that unseen things were more real than the seen; that love—even his mother’s love for him, which was as intangible as a breath of air—yet was still so much more imperishable than the form that enshrined it—stronger than life or death—was but a faint symbol of that greater love that so far transcended mine. That this love was the one rock of safety standin’ for evermore the same amid the ebb and flow of this changeful earthly life; and that safe in that love he could not by any possibility be harmed by life or death or any other creature; and if he was lost, it would not be because God desired it;’ says she, ‘I could not teach our boy to love God with a slave’s love for a tyrant, made up of fear and doubt; to think of Him as a far-off unapproachable bein’, in a remote inaccessible heaven; lookin’ down from a height of gloomy grandeur with a stern composure, a calm indifference, on the strugglin’ souls below, he had created; indifferent to their sufferin’s, their gropin’s after light and truth, their temptations, their blind mistakes; ready and anxious to condemn; angry with their innocent happiness.’ Says she, ‘It would be as impossible for me to worship the God of some Christians, as to worship a heathen God; and I have not taught our boy to worship such a bein’, but I have learned him from a child, to look upon Him as his nearest and dearest friend, the truest, and the tenderest; the one always near him, ready to help him when all other help was vain; grieved with his wrong doin’; rejoicin’ in his efforts to do right; helpin’ him in his struggles with his small temptations; drawin’ his soul upward with his divine love and tenderness. We have tried to teach him by our lives—which is the loudest preachin’—that the best way to show our love to God, is by bein’ helpful and compassionate to a sorrowful humanity.’”

THE DEACON.

Says I, “‘The old Deacon don’t look on religion in that light at all; he don’t seem to want to do any good, but jest gives his whole mind to bein’ wretched himself, and condemnin’ other folks’es sins, and makin’ them wretched. He seems to think if he can only do that, and keep himself from bein’ amused in any way, he is travelin’ the straight road to heaven; that truly is his strong pint.’”

“Well, she said she thought of the Saviour’s last charge to his disciples after his death and resurrection, when his words might well contain all earthly experience, and heavenly wisdom. Three times he asked that disciple, ‘Lovest thou me?’ And each separate time he bade him prove that love, not by bein’ gloomy faced and morose, not by loud preachin’ and condemnation of others, and long prayers and vows to Him, but in carin’ for the flock He had left. And when he pronounced the doom of the condemned, it was not because they had been happy and cheerful; not because they had neglected the creeds and forms of religion, but because they had seen Him in the form of a sufferin’ humanity, naked, athirst, and faint, and had not ministered unto Him.

“She talked like a little female preacher, Tom’s ma did; it was the first speech she had made sense I knew her, and that was goin’ on forty years, countin’ in seven years of stiddy courtin’. And says she in windin’ up—you know preachers always wind up, and Tom’s ma did—says she:

“‘I guess we won’t begin to be stern and dignified with Tom now, for we don’t care in particular about gainin’ the admiration of an awe-struck world, or awakenin’ Tom’s fears by makin’ patterns of ourselves;’ and says she, ‘I have always found, that people who set themselves up for patterns are very disagreeable as companions.’ Says she, ‘What we want is to save our boy, make him good and happy, and I am not a bit afraid of makin’ him too happy in an innocent way;’ says she, ‘for goodness is the own child of happiness on its mother’s side.’

THE CONDEMNED FIDDLE.

“Who is the other parent?” says I.

Says she with a reverent look:

“‘Goodness is born of God, and happiness is its own mother, nursed and brought up by her.’ She talked powerful, Tom’s ma did. But as I was a sayin’, in the matter of Molly the Deacon stands firm, and Molly bein’ the only child there, the old Deacon most probable hates to be left alone, though they do say that the Deacon is goin’ to marry a Miss Horn, who spent last winter here to her brother’s, and—’”

But my Josiah interrupted him: “Molly the only child? Where’s Zebulin Jr.”

“Oh he run away in war time. He’d worked day and night to make a fiddle. His mind was all sot on music, and they said the fiddle sounded first-rate; but when he got it done, the old Deacon burnt it up; he was so everlastin’ good, that he thought fiddlin’ was wicked. But Zeb Jr. not bein’ so good, couldn’t look at it in that light, so he left.”

“Where’s Zacheus?”

“Oh Zack, he run away a few weeks after Zeb did. It was sunthin’ about a checker-board that ailed Zack—I believe the old Deacon split it up for kindlin’ wood. Anyway it was someway where the Deacon showed up his own goodness and Zack’s sinfulness.”

“Well, where are the twins, Noah and Nathan?”

“Oh the twins got to runnin’ to the tarvern. They’d get out of the winder nights, after pretendin’ to go to bed early; said they couldn’t stay to home. I s’pose the Deacon was so good, that it made ’em powerful uncomfortable, they bein’ so different. It was jest about that time I had such a tussle to keep Tom to home. They was both of ’em jest about Tom’s age, they was next older than Molly. Well, as might be expected, they got into bad company to the tarvern, got to drinkin’ and carousin’, and the Deacon turned ’em out doors. Bein’ so good he naturally couldn’t stand such doin’s at all, and they went from bad to worse. I don’t know where they be now, though I heerd they had gone to sea. They seemed to be the most sot ag’inst religion of any of ’em, the two twins was. I heerd they vowed they’d be pirates before they died, but I don’t know whether they ever got up to that aim of theirn or not.”

“Well, there was another boy, between Zebulin Jr. and Zack. Where is he?”

“Oh, that was Jonathan. A real good-hearted feller Jont was, and full of fun when his father wasn’t round; of course the old Deacon wouldn’t stand no fun. Jont was the smartest one of the lot, and his mother’s idol. Well, the old Deacon was bent on Jonts preachin’, was determined to make an Elder of him, and Jont hadn’t never experienced religion, nor nothin.’ He told his father, I’ve heern, that he never had no call to preach, and that he was sot on bein’ a carpenter. Always putterin’ round a carpenter’s shop, and makin’ little housen, and wheels and things, Jont was; his nateral nater all seemed to run that way, but the old Deacon wouldn’t give in, said he called him, himself. He atted Jont about it all the time, preachin’ at him, and exhortin’ him. He was bound at convertin’ Jont himself. I s’pose he exhorted him powerful, and Jont not bein’ good enough to stand it, the upshot of the matter was, he jined a circus; turns summersets and so 4th.”

FOOLIN’ AWAY TIME.

“What did Uncle Zebulin say to that?”

“Oh, the old Deacon is so dignified you can’t never see no change in him, he haint one of the kind to squirm. He said in a conference meetin’ that week, that it was dretful consolin’ to think he had always done his duty by Jont, sot his sinful state before him day and night, and been a pattern before him from his youth. He was thankful and happy that his sin didn’t lay on his coat-skirts. But it jest killed the old lady; she didn’t live only a few weeks after Jont left.”

“Then Aunt Patience is dead?” says Josiah sithin’.

“Yes, she had been in a kind of a melancholly way for sometime, had kind o’ crazy spells, and when Jont left home that used her completely up.”

“It seems to me there was another boy, but I can’t call him by name this minute.”

“Oh, you mean Absolom.”

“Yes, Absolom! Where’s he?” says Josiah.

“Oh, Absolom stole a cow and was sent to jail. He said he’d always been called ungodly, and if he had the name, he’d have the game; so he stole a cow and was shet up.”

“I was a thinkin’ I heerd that Aunt Patience’es neice’s boy was a goin’ to live with him,—the one that never had no father in particular.”

“Yes,” says Elam Pitkins, “he did go to live there, but the old Deacon was so tarnal good that the boy couldn’t stand it with him.”

“What was the matter?” says Josiah.

“Well, the old Deacon bein’ sot so firm onto the docterines himself, thought the boy ort to think as he did, and be willin’, if it was for heaven’s glory, to be burnt up root and branch. The old Deacon worked at that boy eight months night and day to make him willin’ to go to hell; and the boy, bein’ a master hand for tellin’ the truth, and not bein’ good enough to be willin’ to go, wouldn’t say that he was. But the old Deacon had ‘got his back up,’—as a profane poet observes—and he was bound to carry the day, and he’d argue with him powerful, so they say, as to why he ort to be willin’. He’d tell him he was a child of wrath, and born in sin; and the boy, bein’ so mean, would sass him right back again, and tell him that he didn’t born himself; that it wasn’t none of his doin’s and he wasn’t to blame for it; and that if he had had his way, and been knowin’ to it at the time, he’d drather give ten cents than to have been born at all.

“And the Deacon couldn’t stand no such wicked talk as that, and he’d lay to and whip him, and then he’d try again to make him willin’ to go to hell.

“And finally, the boy told him one day that he was willin’; he’d drather go, root and branch, than to live with him. And then the Deacon whipped him harder than ever; and the boy got discouraged and took to lyin’, and probable there haint so big a liar to-day in North America. He’s studyin’ for a lawyer.”

Again my companion seemed to be almost lost in thought, and says he:

“It is the most astonishin’ thing I ever see, that so good a man as Uncle Zebulin, should have a family that turned out so bad. It seems to be a mysterious dispensation of Providence.”

“Yes!” says Elam Pitkins. “It is Providence that done it, I haint a doubt of it.”

This made me so agitated, that entirely unbeknown to myself I riz right up in the wagon, and says I:

“Josiah Allen if you lay any more such doin’s to Providence, I’ll know the reason why.” Says I, “Not bein’ Elam Pitkins’es natural gardeun, if he’s a mind to slander Providence I can’t help it, but you shant, Josiah Allen. You shall not talk ag’inst Providence, and abuse him by layin’ conduct to him that He is as innocent of as a infant babe.

“Well! well! do set down Samantha. How it does look for you to be a standing up a ridin’.”

The democrat give a awful jolt jest that minute, and truly I did what my companion advised me to, I sot down. But though my body was a settin’ down my mind was up and a doin’, for I see what was before me. I see that as a Promiscous Advisor there was a job ahead of me to tackle in the cause of Right.

When Elam Pitkins sot us down in front of Uncle Zebulin Coffin’ses house door, (two miles and a half almost, from Loon Town), the sun was jest a goin’ to bed for the night; a settlin’ down into a perfect pile of gold and purple and crimson bed clothes and comforters. But it seemed as if after he had pulled up the great folds of shinin’ drapery over him and covered his head up, he was a laughin’ to himself down under the bed-clothes, to think he had left the world lookin’ so beautiful and cheerful. Everything seemed to appear sort of happy and peaceful and still, still as a mouse, almost. It was the time of daisies and sweet clover, and all along the quiet country road, the white daisies was a smilin’ and noddin’ their bright heads. And the sweet clover, and the wild roses with their pretty red lips that the bees had been a kissin’ the biggest heft of the day, seemed to take a solid comfort in lookin’ bright, and makin’ the air sweet as honey, and sweeter.

There had been a shower of rain in the mornin’, and old Nater’s face was all washed off as clean as a pink; not a mite of dust on it. The medder was green as green could be, and the wavin’ wheat fields, looked first-rate. There was a strip of woods towards the west, quite a considerable ways off, shady and still it looked, and beyond that we could see the lake, part of it blue and serene like, and part of it lookin’ like them streets of gold, we read about.

The birds was a singin’ sort o’ low and sweet in the trees in the orchard. The sky overhead blushed up kinder pink, but the east was blue and clear, and the moon was sailin’ up in it like a silver boat that had sot out for the land of Pure Delight and expected to get there in a few moments. I don’t know when I ever see a handsomer time.

There are times you know, when it seems as if heaven and earth got so near to each other, that the stream of the Unknown that divides our world from the world of eternal light and beauty, could be spanned by one minute, if you could fix that minute onto an arrer, and aim it right, and shoot it straight. Oh! how beautiful and consolin’ and inspirin’ and happyfyin’ every thing looked, and I remarked to my pardner in tones of rapped admiration and extacy:

“Josiah, did you ever see so handsome a time?”

Josiah realized it; that man has a great eye for beauty. Though he don’t say so much as some men do, he feels the more. His eyes looked dreamy and sort o’ meditatin’, and his tones was low and gentle, as he replied to me:

“I hope they haint eat supper yet Samantha.”

Before I could answer him, a man come round the corner of the house, a walkin’ slowly along with his hands clasped under his coat-tails, and I knew the minute I sot eyes on him it was Uncle Zebulin Coffin. He was tall, and big boneded, but in dretful poor order; he had wintered bad, I knew. His face was from half to three-quarters of a yard in length. (I may not git the exact number of inches, never havin’ laid a yard stick to him, but I made a careless estimate in my mind, and have probable got it pretty near right.)

MEETIN’ THE DEACON.

He seemed lengthy everyway. His nose was long, and his chin was long, and his mouth was drawed down lengthways dretful long, and his vest was long, and his coat tails was long, and black as a coal his clothes was, every mite of ’em; his vest was buttoned up tight to his chin, and he had a black stock on that come up to his ears. His head was well lifted up, partly by the stock, and partly by dignity—about half-and-half I should judge; or come to think it over, there was probable more dignity than there was stock. He was awful dignified, and oh! how cold he looked. Why, when he come round the corner of the house and faced the west with his cold disapprovin’ eyes, I’ll be hanged if I didn’t think that he would freeze all the beauty and gladness out of the sky. And sure enough when I looked round, the sun had stopped laughin’ in a minute, and in order to hide himself from the Deacon (as it were) had begun to haul up over his shinin’ bed-clothes, a old faded out coverlet, grey as a rat; and a dark shadder was a fallin’ over all the brightness of the world.

When his eyes fell onto us, Josiah trembled imperceptably; but though cold shivers was a runnin’ over his back, he approached him—because he must—and I, not being one to desert my companion in the time of trouble, marched close by his side.

“How do you do, Uncle Zebulin,” and Josiah tried hard to smile. “We have come to see you.”

His face looked more dignified than ever, and several degrees colder. I declare it did seem as if Josiah’s whiskers must show signs of frost, if it kep’ on.

“What stranger cometh to see me out of a world of darkness and sin? Who claims me as his kinsman?”

And his voice was as cold as a axe in a December mornin,’ jest as cold and icy.

“It is Josiah Allen, Uncle Zebulin, don’t you know me? and this is Samantha.” (And Josiah again made a fearful effort to smile.)

But Zebulin Coffin drew his hands back, and folded ’em up under his coat-skirts, and looked at Josiah a minute or two in complete stillness, and his mean was as cold as a thermomiter hangin’ up right on the North pole. It was a awful time. Finally he spoke:

“I remember you Josiah Allen; you tarried with us occasionally in your youthful days. The last time you were here you snickered at prayer time, one of my own ungodly sons piercin’ you with a pin. Have you repented of your sinful ways, Josiah Allen? Are you weary of husks?”

Oh! how wretched and meachin’ Josiah Allen looked. He felt too mean to speak, and Uncle Zebulin went on:

“If you are weary of husks and tired of swine, I can forgive you Josiah. Have you repented? Are you worthy of forgiveness? Speak, Josiah Allen; have you come to eat of the fatted calf?”

If Josiah Allen had been a sheep, a full blooded merino, he couldn’t have looked any more sheepish.

Jest at that minute a real sweet voice, but sort o’ sad like, called out from the other side of the house:

“Supper’s ready, father.”

And then Zebulin Coffin ungripped his hands from under his coat tails, and shook hands first with Josiah and then with me. But it was done in such a way that takin’ the clammy feelin’ of his hand, and the cold icy look of his eye, and his name bein’ Coffin, and all, I declare I felt jest as if I was at a funeral, and was one of the first mourners.

A prettier girl than Molly Coffin I don’t want to see! Nater is likely and well behaved,—does lots of work too; but sometimes through havin’ so much on her mind, I s’pose the old gal gits frisky and cuts up curious capers. And if she had made a rosebud spring up and blow out in a dark suller bottom, it wouldn’t have been a mite curiouser caper than for such a blossom of a girl to blow out of such a soil as the Deacon’s soil.

Pretty, and patient, and tender-hearted, and sad, and hopeless, and half broken hearted, I could see that too; and the minute we was introduced, I jest laid holt of her and kissed her as if she had been my own girl. And Josiah kissed her too, and I was glad on it. I haint one of the jealous kind, and I know my companion is one man out of a thousand. He has perfect confidence in my behavior day and night, and I have in hisen; and oh! what a consolin’ comfort that is. Confidence is the anchor of the heart; if it holds fast and firm, what safety and rest it gives; but if the anchor wont hold, if it is waverin’ and goes a driftin’ back and forth, a draggin’ the ropes of your affections that try to grip holt of it—through the mud and the mire, oh, how wearin’ it is to the rope and to the heart. But my trust in Josiah is like a cast-iron anchor that grapples the rock every time; no shock of the waves of change and chance and other wimmen can unhitch it; for truly I know that though Josiah Allen is a short man, his morals are as high and towerin’ as a meetin’ house steeple; but I am a episodin’.

MOLLY CONSOLIN’ TOM PITKINS.

Molly had baked potatoes and cold meat, besides pie and cake and preserves, and such stuff; and as we had gone in entirely unexpected, I knew that Molly was a good housekeeper, for her vittles was good enough for the very best of company. But the Deacon didn’t seem to be satisfied with a thing she did. His eyes, as cold as the middle of last winter, follered her all the time chuck full of disapproval. Her big sorrowful eyes watched his face anxiously and sort o’ fearful like, every time he spoke, for she was one of them gentle, lovin’ ones, that a harsh word or a cold look stabs like a blow; and I know it was them words and looks added to sorrow and Tom Pitkins, that had made her pretty cheeks so thin and white, and give that wistful, frightened, sorrowful look to her big brown eyes. There she sot not darin’ to say a word, and there my companion sot lookin’ as if he had stole a sheep.

The Deacon asked a blessin’, remindin’ the Lord how awful good a Christian he was, and asked him for mercy’s sake to pity the sinners assembled round his board. It was about as long as one chapter of Pollock’s Course of Time. Josiah thought when we was a talkin’ it over afterwards, that it was as long as the hull book, the hull course of time itself, but it wasn’t. We stood it first-rate, only his words was so condemnin’ to us, and frigid, and he did it in such a freezin’ way that I was most afraid it would make the potatoes cold as snow-balls. I am a great case for potatoes; the poet made a mistake as fur as I am concerned, for truly to me potatoes are “the staff of life”—or staffs I suppose would be more grammarius.

And as I see that man set at the head of the table almost completely wrapped up in dignity—like a great self-righteous damper a shettin’ off all the warmth and brightness of life from the hull on us, and a feelin’ so uncommon big over it—I declare, duty and principle kep’ a hunchin’ me so, and puttin’ me up to tackle him, that I couldn’t hardly eat. I knew the hour drew near for me to set fire to myself as a martyr, and as a Promiscous Advisor to tackle him in the cause of Right and Molly.

Most all the while we was a eatin’, the Deacon kep’ a hintin’ and a preachin’ about the wickedness and depravity of wimmen dressin’ themselves up; and every time he would say anything, he would look at Molly as if he was determined to freeze her as stiff as a poker. When we got up from the table, and sot out in the settin’-room, I see what his talk meant.

It seemed she was a makin’ a white dress for herself out of muslin—jest a finishin’ it off with some modest lookin’ lace on the neck and sleeves, and a small—a very small and reasonable amount of puckers; she could make the hull on it in a day and a half at the outside, and I could see she would look as pretty in it as a pink. When the old Deacon went to set down, he took the skirt of the dress that happened to be a layin’ over his chair, and handlin’ it with considerable the countenance he would a checkered adder, he broke out colder and frigider than ever:

“No wonder the national debt haint paid; no wonder ruin and bankruptcy are in the land, and it is wimmen’s base carnal extravagance that does it.”

“Yes,” says Josiah—who seemed to want to curry the Deacon’s favor—“it is jest as you say; wimmen is tarnal extravagant.”

Oh how he looked at Josiah; “I said carnal, I am not in the practice of profane swearin’.”

Oh how sorry my Josiah looked, to think he had tried to curry him down.

And then the Deacon went on about wimmen’s base and vile extravagance, as much as seventeen minutes by the clock, givin’ such a look once in a while onto my respectable overskirt, and lace head-dress, and Molly’s dress, enough to make icikles hang to ’em. I heerd him go on as long as I could, and then says I:

DRESSED FOR THE BALL.

“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.

EXTRAVAGANT WIMMEN.

“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.”

FRUGAL MEN.

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.”

THE DEACON’S OLD GAME.

“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.”

HELPIN’ THE WIDDER.

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.”

“I HAINT A MORMON.”

“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.

“Well! the idee of roustin’ anybody up in the dead of night, and callin’ on ’em for principle and things. But you wont git any principle out of me at this time of night, you’ll see you wont,” he hollered.

He was almost a luny for the time bein’. I pitted him, and says I soothin’ly:

“Go to sleep Josiah, and we’ll talk it over in the mornin’.”

He dropped off to sleep, and I kep’ on a thinkin’ and a layin’ on my plans to marry Molly off till most mornin’. And I did it, I married off Molly about one o’clock and we started for the Sentinal in the neighborhood of two.

Jest how I mollyfied the old Deacon about Molly, and brought him to terms, I thought I wouldn’t tell to anybody but Josiah. Mebby there was hints throwed out to him that there was Horns that would be meddled with, and sot up ag’inst him. I guess I hadn’t better tell it, for I made up my mind that I wouldn’t say nothin’ about it to anybody but my Josiah. But I dressed Molly up that very afternoon,—she a blushin’ and a laughin’ and a cryin’ at the same time—in that very white dress, and married her myself (assisted by a Methodist minister) to Tom Pitkins.

And I have learned by a letter from Molly, and she sent me her new picture, (they have gone to housekeepin’ and are as happy as kings) that her father is married to Miss Horn. And all I have got to say is, that she needs a good horn disposition to git along with him. And he, unless I am mistaken, will wish before the year was up that he was a sleepin’ peacefully inside of his own Sername.