Tirzah Ann's summer trip, and other sketches

by Marietta Holley

Now, rests are as likely things as ever wus—so are changes. But I have said, and I say still, that I had ruther lay down to hum, as the poet saith, “on my own delightful feather bed,” with a fan and newspaper, and take a rest, than dress up and travel off two or three hundred milds in search of it, through the burnin’ sun, with achin’ body, wet with presperation all over. It seems to me I could get more rest out of the former than out of the more latter course, and proceedin’.

Howsomever, everybody to their own mind.

Likewise with changes. I have said, and I say still, that changes are likely and respectable, if you can get holt of ’em, but how can you?

Havin’ such powerful and eloquent emotions as I have, such principles a-performin’ inside of my mind, enjoyin’ such idees and aspirations, and longings, and hopes, and joys, and despairs, and—everything, I s’pose that is what makes me think that what is goin’ on ’round me—the outside of me—hain’t of so much consequence. I seem to live inside of myself (as it were), more than I do on the outside. And so it don’t seem of much consequence what the lay of the land ’round me may happen to be, whether it is sort o’ hilly and mountaneous, or more level like. Or whether steam-cars may be a-goin by me (on the outside of me), or boats a-sailin’ round me, or milk wagons.

You see, the real change—the real rest would have to be on the inside, and not on the outside. Nobody, no matter what their weight may be by the steelyards, can carry ’round such grand, hefty principles as I carry ’round, without gettin’ tired, or enjoy the lofty hopes, and desires, and aspirations that I enjoy, and meditate on all the sad, and mysterious, and puzzlin’ conundrums of the old world, as I meditate on ’em, without gettin’ fairly tuckered out. Great hearts enjoy greatly, and suffer greatly, and so, sometimes, when heart-tired and brain-weary, if I could quell down them lofty and soarin’ emotions, and make ’em lay still for a spell, and shet up my heart like a buro draw, and hang up the key, and onscrew my head, and lay it onto the manteltry-piece, then I could go off and enjoy a change that would be truly refreshin’ and delightful.

But as it is, from Janesville clear to Antipithies, the puzzlin’ perplexities and contradictions, the woes and the cares of the old world, foller right on after us as tight as our shadders. Our pure and soarin’ desires, our blind mistakes and deep despairs, our longings, strivings, memories, heart-aches, all the joys and burdens of a soul, has to be carried by us up the steepest mountains or down to the lowest vallies. The same emotions that was a-performin’ inside of our minds down in the Yo Semety, will be a-performin’ jist the same up on the Pyramids. The same questionin’ eyes, sort o’ glad, and sort o’ sorrowful, that looked out over New York harber, will look out over the Bay of Naples, and then beyond ’em both, out into a deeper and more mysterious ocean, the boundless sea that lays beyond everything, and before everything, and ’round everything. That great, misty sea of the unknown, the past, the hereafter; tryin’ to see what we hain’t never seen, and wonderin’ when we shall see it, and how, and where, and wherefore, and why? Tryin’ to hear the murmur of the waves that we know are a-washin’ up ’round us on every side, that nobody hain’t never heard, but we know are there; tryin’ to ketch a glimpse of them shadowy sails that are floatin’ in and out forevermore with a freight of immortal souls, bearin’ ’em here and away. We know we have sailed on ’em once, and have got to agin, and can’t ketch no glimpse on ’em, can’t know nothin’ about em; sealed baby lips—silent, dead lips never tellin’ us nothin’ about ’em. Each soul has got to embark, and sail out alone, out into the silence and the shadows, out into the mysterious Beyond.

Standin’ as we do on the narrow, precarious ground of the present, the mortal, and them endless, eternal seas, a-beatin’ ’round us, on every side of us, bottomless, shoreless, ageless, and we a not seein’ either of ’em, under them awful, and lofty, and curious circumstances, what difference does it really make to us whether we are a-settin’ down or a-standin’ up; whether we are on a hill or in a valley; whether a lot of us have got together like aunts in a aunt hill, or whether we are more alone like storks or ostriges?

We can’t get away from ourselves—can’t get a real change nohow, unless we knock our heads in and make idiots and lunys of ourselves. Movin’ our bodys round here and there is only a shadow of a change—a mockery. As if I should dress up my Josiah in a soldier coat, or baby clothes, there he is, inside of ’em, clear Josiah—no change in him, only a little difference in his outside circumstances.

This is a very deep and curious subject. I have talked eloquently on it, I know, and my readers know, and I could go on, and filosifize on it jest as eloquent and deep, fur hours and hours. But I have already episoded too fur, and to resoom, and continue on.

I told Tirzah Ann I thought it wus foolish in her to go off and rest, when they both, she and Whitfield, too, looked so awful rested now, and as bright as dollars. And that babe—well, it always wus the most beautiful child in the hull world, and the smartest child; but it does seem more as if it was smarter than ever, and beautifuler.