“Well, I knew there was a silly to it. They say,” says Josiah, “that runnin’ things down is always safe; that never hurts anybody’s reputation. The pint is, they say, in not bein’ pleased with anything, or if you be, to conceal it, look perfectly wooden, and not show your feelins a mite; that is the pint they say.”
Says I, “The pint is, some folks always did make natteral fools of themselves, and always will I s’pose.”
“Well,” says Josiah, “there must be sunthin’ in it, Samantha, or there wouldn’t be such a lot a gittin’ up a reputation for wisdom in that way.”
I couldn’t deny it without lyin’, and so bein’ in Austria, as I said, I commenced lookin’ round me. Comin’ right out of the United States I couldn’t help thinkin’ that Austria had a meller, rich look, sunthin’ like Autumn in the fall of the year, while the United States looked considerable like Summer. The picture that arrested my attention first and foremost in Austria was, “Venice paying homage to Caterina Cornaro.” It was a noble big picture, as big as one hull side of our house a most. I looked at that picture very admirinly and so did Josiah. We see a Emperor on a bust, and other interestin’ statutes; we give a glance at a sleepin’ Nymph—she was as handsome as a doll, but I thought then and I think still, that if Nymphs would put on store clothes, they would look better, and feel as well again.
“Convulsed with Grief,” was a beautiful picture but fur too affectin’ for my comfort. It was a bier all covered with flowers, and a dead child lyin’ on it with a veil thrown over its face, but painted in such a way that the beautiful white face was plain to be seen under it; and the mother was settin’ by it with grief, and agony, all painted out on her face. And as I looked on her, the tears jest started on a run down my cheeks, for though I well knew it was one of the sweetest and holiest things in life to become the mother of a baby angel, still I knew it was one of the saddest things too. I knew that mother heart where the pretty head had lain, was as empty and lonesome as a bird’s nest in winter; and the shadder of the little low grave would be high enough to cast its blackness and gloom over the hull earth. I felt for that mother so that I come pretty near cryin’ out loud. But I didn’t; I took out my white cotton handkerchief and wiped both of my eyes, and composed myself down.
And then feelin’ a little tired I seated myself on a bench in the middle of the room, Josiah sayin’ that he wanted to look at the Alps, and one or two convents, and a “Bull Dog.” But I watched him out of one corner of my speck, and I see that he never went nigh ’em, but kep’ a lookin’ at a “Centeur carryin’ off a Nymph” and a “Siesta of a Oriental Woman” and a “Nun’s Revery,” and a “Smilin’ Girl,” and some sirens, and other females. But I didn’t care; I haint got a jealous hair in the hull of my foretop, or back hair; and I well know the state of my pardner’s morals,—brass is no sounder. And I couldn’t help takin’ it as a compliment, and feelin’ flattered in behalf of my sect, to see all through the Sentinal, how sot men did seem to be a lookin’ at the pictures and statutes of wimmen. They looked at ’em as much again as they did at the figgers of their own sect; and it showed plain to me, that though they do some on ’em seem to feel rather hauty and proud-spirited towards us, they do think a sight on us—as a race.
So there I sot bounded by beauty on every side of me, and happy as a queen, when a likely lookin’ woman come in and sot down by me. Says she, “I have jest been a lookin’ at the Gobelin tapistry.”
“Why how you talk!” says I, “I never believed there was any such things as Gobelins or spooks.”
“I mean men;” says she, “men that foller the trade of the Gobelins.”
“Oh Gobblers?” says I in a enquirin’ tone.