The Project Gutenberg eBook of Samantha at Saratoga, by Marietta Holley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Samantha at Saratoga Author: Marietta Holley Release Date: April 26, 2001 [eBook #3425] [Most recently updated: February 21, 2020] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: an anonymous volunteer *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAMANTHA AT SARATOGA *** cover Samantha at Saratoga by Marietta Holley Marietta Holley (1836-1926) has been called America’s first female humorist. She was an extremely popular author and a well-known suffragette. Holley, who never married, published her first books as Josiah Allen’s Wife, only adding her own name after her success was established. She lived in an 18 room home she built in Jefferson County, New York and drove a Pierce-Arrow. Her legacy of more than 20 books has mostly been forgotten today but they are still very good reading. I have no information about the illustrator. Josiah TO THE GREAT ARMY OF SUMMER TRAMPS THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY THEIR COMRADE AND FELLOW WANDERER THE AUTHOR * * * * * * * * * * * Samantha Contents PREFACE CHAPTER I. SAMANTHA AT SARATOGA CHAPTER II. ARDELIA TUTT AND HER MOTHER CHAPTER III. THE CHERITY OF THE JONESVILLIANS CHAPTER IV. ARDELIA AND ABRAM GEE CHAPTER V. WE ARRIVE AT SARATOGA CHAPTER VI. SARATOGA BY DAYLIGHT CHAPTER VII. SEEING THE DIFFERENT SPRINGS CHAPTER VIII. JOSIAH AND SAMANTHA TAKE A LONG WALK CHAPTER IX. JOSIAH’S FLIRTATIONS CHAPTER X. MISS G. WASHINGTON FLAMM CHAPTER XI. VISIT TO THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT CHAPTER XII. A DRIVE TO SARATOGA LAKE CHAPTER XIII. VISITS TO NOTABLE PLACES CHAPTER XIV. LAKE GEORGE AND MOUNT McGREGOR HAPTER XV. ADVENTURES AT VARIOUS SPRINGS CHAPTER XVI. AT A LAWN PARTY CHAPTER XVII. A TRIP TO SCHUYLERVILLE CHAPTER XVIII. THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING CHAPTER XIX. ST. CHRISTINA’S HOME CHAPTER XX. AN ACCIDENT WITH RESULTS A SORT OF PREFACE. WHICH IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO READ. When Josiah read my dedication he said “it wuz a shame to dedicate a book that it had took most a hull bottle of ink to write, to a lot of creeters that he wouldn’t have in the back door yard.” But I explained it to him, that I didn’t mean tramps with broken hats, variegated pantaloons, ventilated shirt-sleeves, and barefooted. But I meant tramps with diamond ear-rings, and cuff-buttons, and Saratoga trunks, and big accounts at their bankers. And he said, “Oh, shaw!” But I went on nobly, onmindful of that shaw, as female pardners have to be, if they accomplish all the talkin’ they want to. And sez I, “It duz seem sort o’ pitiful, don’t it, to think how sort o’ homeless the Americans are a gettin’? How the posys that blow under the winders of Home are left to waste their sweet breaths amongst the weeds, while them that used to love ’em are a climbin’ mountain tops after strange nosegays.” The smoke that curled up from the chimbleys, a wreathin’ its way up to the heavens— all dead and gone. The bright light that shone out of the winder through the dark a tellin’ everybody that there wuz a Home, and some one a waitin’ for somebody—all dark and lonesome. Yes, the waiter and the waited for are all a rushin’ round somewhere, on the cars, mebby, or a yot, a chasin’ Pleasure, that like as not settled right down on the eves of the old house they left, and stayed there. I wonder if they will find her there when they go back again. Mebby they will, and then agin, mebby they won’t. For Happiness haint one to set round and lame herself a waitin’ for folks to make up their minds. Sometimes she looks folks full in the face, sort o’ solemn like and heart-searchin’, and gives ’em a fair chance what they will chuse. And then if they chuse wrong, shee’ll turn her back to ’em, for always. I’ve hearn of jest such cases. But it duz seem sort o’ solemn to think—how the sweet restful felin’s that clings like ivy round the old familier door steps—where old 4 fathers feet stopped, and stayed there, and baby feet touched and then went away—I declare for’t, it almost brings tears, to think how that sweet clingin’ vine of affection, and domestic repose, and content—how soon that vine gets tore up nowadays. It is a sort of a runnin’ vine anyway, and folks use it as sech, they run with it. Jest as it puts its tendrils out to cling round some fence post, or lilock bush, they pull it up, and start off with it. And then its roots get dry, and it is some time before it will begin to put out little shoots and clingin’ leaves agin round some petickular mountain top, or bureau or human bein’. And then it is yanked up agin, poor little runnin’ vine, and run with—and so on—and so on—and so on. Why sometimes it makes me fairly heart-sick to think on’t. And I fairly envy our old 4 fathers, who used to set down for several hundred years in one spot. They used to get real rested, it must be they did. Jacob now, settin’ right by that well of his’n for pretty nigh two hundred years. How much store he must have set by it during the last hundred years of ’em! How attached he must have been to it! Good land! Where is there a well that one of our rich old American patriarks will set down by for two years, leavin’ off the orts. There haint none, there haint no such a well. Our patriarks haint fond of well water, anyway. And old Miss Abraham now, and Miss Isaac—what stay to home wimmen they wuz, and equinomical! What a good contented creeter Sarah Abraham wuz. How settled down, and stiddy, stayin’ right to home for hundreds of years. Not gettin’ rampent for a wider spear, not a coaxin’ old Mr. Abraham nights to take her to summer resorts, and winter hants of fashion. No, old Mr. Abraham went to bed, and went to sleep for all of her. And when they did once in a hundred years, or so, make up their minds to move on a mile or so, how easy they traveled. Mr. Abraham didn’t have to lug off ten or twelve wagon loads of furniture to the Safe Deposit Company, and spend weeks and weeks a settlin’ his bisness, in Western lands, and Northern mines, Southern railroads, and Eastern wildcat stocks, to get ready to go. And Miss Abraham didn’t have to have a dozen dress-makers in the house for a month or two, and messenger boys, and dry goods clerks, and have to stand and be fitted for basks and polenays, and back drapery, and front drapery, and tea gowns, and dinner gowns, and drivin’ gowns, and mornin’ gowns, and evenin’ gowns, and etectery, etcetery, etcetery. No, all the preperations she had to make wuz to wrop her mantilly a little closter round her, and all Mr. Abraham had to do wuz to gird up his lions. That is what it sez. And I don’t believe it would take much time to gird up a few lions, it don’t seem to me as if it would. And when these few simple preperations had been made, they jest histed up their tent and laid it acrost a camel, and moved on a mild or two, walkin’ afoot. Why jest imagine if Miss Abraham had to travel with eight or ten big Saratoga trunks, how could they have been got up onto that camel? It couldn’t lave been done. The camel would have died, and old Mr. Abraham would also have expired a tryin’ to lift ’em up. No, it was all for the best. And jest think on’t, for all of these simple, stay to home ways, they called themselves Pilgrims and Sojourners. Good land! What would they have thought nowadays to see folks make nothin’ of settin’ off for China, or Japan or Jerusalem before breakfast. And what did they know of the hardships of civilization? Now to sposen the case, sposen Miss Abraham had to live in New York winters, and go to two or three big receptions every day, and to dinner parties, and theatre parties, and operas and such like, evenin’s, and receive and return about three thousand calls, and be on more ’n a dozen charitable boards (hard boards they be too, some on ’em) and lots of other projects and enterprizes—be on the go the hull winter, with a dress so tight she couldn’t breathe instead of her good loose robes, and instead of her good comfortable sandals have her feet upon high-heeled shoes pinchin’ her corns almost unto distraction. And then to Washington to go all through it agin, and more too, and Florida, and Cuba; and then to the sea-shore and have it all over agin with sea bathin’ added. And then to the mountains, and all over agin with climbin’ round added. Then to Europe, with seas sickness, picture galleries, etc., added. And so on home agin in the fall to begin it all over agin. Why Miss Abraham would be so tuckered out before she went half through with one season, that she would be a dead 4 mother. And Mr. Abraham—why one half hour down at the stock exchange would have been too much for that good old creeter. The yells and cries, and distracted movements of the crowd of Luker Gatherers there, would have skairt him to death. He never would have lived to follow Miss Abraham round from pillow to post through summer and winter seasons—he wouldn’t have lived to waltz, or toboggen, or suffer other civilized agonies. No, he would have been a dead patriark. And better off so, I almost think. Not but what I realize that civilization has its advantages. Not but what I know that if Mr. Abraham wanted Miss Abraham to part his hair straight, or clean off his phylackrity when she happened to be out a pickin’ up manny, he couldn’t stand on one side of his tent and telephone to bring her back, but had to yell at her. And I realize fully that if one of his herd got strayed off into another county, they hadn’t no telegraf to head it off, but the old man had to poke off through rain or sun, and hunt it up himself. And he couldn’t set down cross-legged in front of his tent in the mornin’, and read what happened on the other side of the world, the evenin’ before. And I know that if he wanted to set down some news, they had to kill a sheep, and spend several years a dressin’ off the hide into parchment—and kill a goose, or chase it up till they wuz beat out, for a goose-quill. And then after about 20 years or so, they could put it down that Miss Isaac had got a boy—the boy, probably bein’ a married man himself and a father when the news of his birth wuz set down. I realize this, and also the great fundimental fact that underlies all philosophies, that you can’t set down and stand up at the same time—and that no man, however pure and lofty his motives may be, can’t lean up against a barn door, and walk off simultanious. And if he don’t walk off, then the great question comes in, How will he get there? And he feels lots of times that he must stand up so’s to bring his head up above the mullien and burdock stalks, amongst which he is a settin’, and get a wider view-a broader horizeon. And he feels lots of time, that he must get there. This is a sort of a curius world, and it makes me feel curius a good deal of the time as we go through it. But we have to make allowances for it, for the old world is on a tramp, too. It can’t seem to stop a minute to oil up its old axeltrys—it moves on, and takes us with it. It seems to be in a hurry. Everything seems to be in a hurry here below. And some say Heaven is a place of continual sailin’ round and goin’ up and up all the time. But while risin’ up and soarin’ is a sweet thought to me, still sometimes I love to think that Heaven is a place where I can set down, and set for some time. I told Josiah so (waked him up, for he wuz asleep), and he said he sot more store on the golden streets, and the wavin’ palms, and the procession of angels. (And then he went to sleep agin.) But I don’t feel so. I’d love, as I say, to jest set down for quite a spell, and set there, to be kinder settled down and to home with them whose presence makes a home anywhere. I wouldn’t give a cent to sail round unless I wuz made to know it wuz my duty to sail. Josiah wants to. But, as I say, everybody is in a hurry. Husbands can’t hardly find time to keep up a acquaintance with their wives. Fathers don’t have no time to get up a intimate acquaintance with their children. Mothers are in such a hurry—babys are in such a hurry —that they can’t scarcely find time to be born. And I declare for’t, it seems sometimes as if folks don’t want to take time to die. The old folks at home wait with faithful, tired old eyes for the letter that don’t come, for the busy son or daughter hasn’t time to write it—no, they are too busy a tearin’ up the running vine of affection and home love, and a runnin’ with it. Yes, the hull nation is in a hurry to get somewhere else, to go on, it can’t wait. It is a trampin’ on over the Western slopes, a trampin’ over red men, and black men, and some white men a hurryin’ on to the West—hurryin’ on to the sea. And what then? Is there a tide of restfulness a layin’ before it? Some cool waters of repose where it will bathe its tired forward, and its stun-bruised feet, and set there for some time? I don’t s’pose so. I don’t s’pose it is in its nater to. I s’pose it will look off longingly onto the far off somewhere that lays over the waters—beyend the sunset. JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE. NEW YORK, June, 1887. Chapter I. SAMANTHA AT SARATOGA. The idee on’t come to me one day about sundown, or a little before sundown. I wuz a settin’ in calm peace, and a big rockin’ chair covered with a handsome copperplate, a readin’ what the Sammist sez about “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.” The words struck deep, and as I said, it was jest that very minute that the idee struck me about goin’ to Saratoga. Why I should have had the idee at jest that minute, I can’t tell, nor Josiah can’t. We have talked about it sense. But good land! such creeters as thoughts be never wuz, nor never will be. They will creep in, and round, and over anything, and get inside of your mind (entirely unbeknown to you) at any time. Curious, haint it?—How you may try to hedge ’em out, and shet the doors and everything. But they will creep up into your mind, climb up and draw up their ladders, and there they will be, and stalk round independent as if they owned your hull head; curious! Well, there the idee wuz—I never knew nothin’ about it, nor how it got there. But there it wuz, lookin’ me right in the face of my soul, kinder pert and saucy, sayin’, “You’d better go to Saratoga next summer; you and Josiah.” But I argued with it. Sez I, “What should we go to Saratoga for? None of the relations live there on my side, or on hison; why should we go?” But still that idee kep’ a hantin me; “You’d better go to Saratoga next summer, you and Josiah.” And it whispered, “Mebby it will help Josiah’s corns.” (He is dretful troubled with corns.) And so the idee kep’ a naggin’ me, it nagged me for three days and three nights before I mentioned it to my Josiah. And when I did, he scorfed at the idee. He said, “The idee of water curing them dumb corns—“ Sez I, “Josiah Allen, stranger things have been done;” sez I, “that water is very strong. It does wonders.” And he scorfed agin and sez, “Don’t you believe faith could cure em?” Josiah in woodlot Sez I, “If it wuz strong enough it could.” But the thought kep a naggin’ me stiddy, and then—here is the curious part of it—the thought nagged me, and I nagged Josiah, or not exactly nagged; not a clear nag; I despise them, and always did. But I kinder kep’ it before his mind from day to day, and from hour to hour. And the idee would keep a tellin’ me things and I would keep a tellin’ ’em to my companion. The idee would keep a sayin’ to me, “It is one of the most beautiful places in our native land. The waters will help you, the inspirin’ music, and elegance and gay enjoyment you will find there, will sort a uplift you. You had better go there on a tower;” and agin it sez, “Mebby it will help Josiah’s corns.” And old Dr. Gale a happenin’ in at about that time, I asked him about it (he doctored me when I wuz a baby, and I have helped ’em for years. Good old creetur, he don’t get along as well as he ort to. Loontown is a healthy place.) I told him about my strong desire to go to Saratoga, and I asked him plain if he thought the water would help my pardner’s corns. And he looked dreadful wise and he riz up and walked across the floor 2 and fro several times, probably 3 times to, and the same number of times fro, with his arms crossed back under the skirt of his coat and his eyebrows knit in deep thought, before he answered me. Finely he said, that modern science had not fully demonstrated yet the direct bearing of water on corn. In some cases it might and probably did stimulate ’em to greater luxuriance, and then again a great flow of water might retard their growth. Sez I, anxiously, “Then you’d advise me to go there with him?” “Yes,” sez he, “on the hull, I advise you to go.” Samantha and Dr. Gale Them words I reported to Josiah, and sez I in anxious axents, “Dr. Gale advises us to go.” And Josiah sez, “I guess I shan’t mind what that old fool sez.” Them wuz my pardner’s words, much as I hate to tell on ’em. But from day to day I kep’ it stiddy before him, how dang’r’us it wuz to go ag’inst a doctor’s advice. And from day to day he would scorf at the plan. And I, ev’ry now and then, and mebby oftener, would get him a extra good meal, and attack him on the subject immegatly afterwards. But all in vain. And I see that when he had that immovible sotness onto him, one extra meal wouldn’t soften or molify him. No, I see plain I must make a more voyalent effort. And I made it. For three stiddy days I put before that man the best vittles that these hands could make, or this brain could plan. And at the end of the 3d day I gently tackled him agin on the subject, and his state wuz such, bland, serene, happified, that he consented without a parlay. And so it wuz settled that the next summer we wuz to go to Saratoga. And he began to count on it and make preparation in a way that I hated to see. Yes, from the very minute that our two minds wuz made up to go to Saratoga Josiah Allen wuz set on havin’ sunthin new and uneek in the way of dress and whiskers. I looked coldly on the idee of puttin’ a gay stripe down the legs of the new pantaloons I made for him, and broke it up, also a figured vest. I went through them two crisises and came out triumphent. Then he went and bought a new bright pink necktie with broad long ends which he intended to have float out, down the front of his vest. And I immegatly took it for the light-colored blocks in my silk log-cabin bedquilt. Yes, I settled the matter of that pink neck-gear with a high hand and a pair of shears. And Josiah sez now that he bought it for that purpose, for the bedquilt, because he loves to see a dressy quilt,—sez he always enjoys seein’ a cabin look sort o’ gay. But good land! he didn’t. He intended and calculated to wear that neck-tie into Saratoga,—a sight for men and angels, if I hadn’t broke it up. But in the matter of whiskers, there I was powerless. He trimmed ’em (unbeknow to me) all off the side of his face, them good honerable side whiskers of hisen, that had stood by him for years in solemnity and decency, and begun to cultivate a little patch on the end of his chin. I argued with him, and talked well on the subject, eloquent, but it wuz of no use, I might as well have argued with the wind in March. He said, he wuz bound on goin’ into Saratoga with a fashionable whisker, come what would. And then I sithed, and he sez,—“ You have broke up my pantaloons, my vest, and my neck-tie, you have ground me down onto plain broadcloth, but in the matter of whiskers I am firm! Yes!” sez he “on these whiskers I take my stand!” And agin I sithed heavy, and I sez in a dretful impressive way, as I looked on ’em, “Josiah Allen, remember you are a father and a grandfather!” And he sez firmly, “If I wuz a great-grandfather I would trim my whiskers in jest this way, that is if I wuz a goin’ to set up to be fashionable and a goin’ to Saratoga for my health.” And I groaned kinder low to myself, and kep’ hopin’ that mebby they wouldn’t grow very fast, or that some axident would happen to ’em, that they would get afire or sunthin’. But they didn’t. And they grew from day to day luxurient in length, but thin. And his watchful care kep’ ’em from axident, and I wuz too high princepled to set fire to ’em when he wuz asleep, though sometimes, on a moonlight night, I was tempted to, sorely tempted. But I didn’t, and they grew from day to day, till they wuz the curiusest lookin’ patch o’ whiskers that I ever see. And when we sot out for Saratoga, they wuz jest about as long as a shavin’ brush, and looked some like one. There wuz no look of a class-leader, and a perfesser about ’em, and I told him so. But he worshiped ’em, and gloried in the idee of goin’ afar to show ’em off. But the neighbors received the news that we wuz goin’ to a waterin’ place coldly, or with ill-concealed envy. Uncle Jonas Bently told us he shouldn’t think we would want to go round to waterin’ troughs at our age. And I told him it wuzn’t a waterin’ trough, and if it wuz, I thought our age wuz jest as good a one as any, to go to it. He had the impression that Saratoga wuz a immense waterin’ trough where the country all drove themselves summers to be watered. He is deef as a Hemlock post, and I yelled up at him jest as loud as I dast for fear of breakin’ open my own chest, that the water got into us, instid of our gettin’ into the water, but I didn’t make him understand, for I hearn afterwards of his sayin’ that, as nigh as he could make out we all got into the waterin’ trough and wuz watered. The school teacher, a young man, with long, small lims, and some pimpley on the face, but well meanin’, he sez to me: “Saratoga is a beautiful spah.” Samantha and the school teacher And I sez warmly, “It aint no such thing, it is a village, for I have seen a peddler who went right through it, and watered his horses there, and he sez it is a waterin’ place, and a village.” “Yes,” sez he, “it is a beautiful village, a modest retiren city, and at the same time it is the most noted spah on this continent.” I wouldn’t contend with him for it wuz on the stoop of the meetin’ house, and I believe in bein’ reverent. But I knew it wuzn’t no “spah,”—that had a dreadful flat sound to me. And any way I knew I should face its realities soon and know all about it. Lots of wimen said that for anybody who lived right on the side of a canal, and had two good, cisterns on the place, and a well, they didn’t see why I should feel in a sufferin’ condition for any more water; and if I did, why didn’t I ketch rain water? Such wuz some of the deep arguments they brung up aginst my embarkin’ on this enterprise, they talked about it sights and sights;—why, it lasted the neighbors for a stiddy conversation, till along about the middle of the winter. Then the Minister’s wife bought a new alpacky dress—unbeknown to the church till it wuz made up—and that kind o’ drawed their minds off o’ me for a spell. Aunt Polly Pixley wuz the only one who received the intelligence gladly. And she thought she would go too. She had been kinder run down and most bed rid for years. And she had a idee the water might help her. And I encouraged Aunt Polly in the idee, for she wuz well off. Yes, Mr. and Miss Pixley wuz very well off though they lived in a little mite of a dark, low, lonesome house, with some tall Pollard willows in front of the door in a row, and jest acrost the road from a grave-yard. Her husband had been close and wuzn’t willin’ to have any other luxury or means of recreation in the house only a bass viol, that had been his father’s—he used to play on that for hours and hours. I thought that wuz one reason why Polly wuz so nervous. I said to Josiah that it would have killed me outright to have that low grumblin’ a goin’ on from day to day, and to look at them tall lonesome willows and grave stuns. But, howsumever, Polly’s husband had died durin’ the summer, and Polly parted with the bass viol the day after the funeral. She got out some now, and wuz quite wrought up with the idee of goin’ to Saratoga. But Sister Minkley; sister in the church and sister-in-law by reason of Wbitefield, sez to me, that she should think I would think twice before I danced and waltzed round waltzes. And I sez, “I haint thought of doin’ it, I haint thought of dancin’ round or square or any other shape.” Sez she, “You have got to, if you go to Saratoga.” Sez I, “Not while life remains in this frame.” And old Miss Bobbet came up that minute—it wuz in the store that we were a talkin’—and sez she, “It seems to me, Josiah Allen’s wife, that you are too old to wear low-necked dresses and short sleeves.” “And I should think you’d take cold a goin’ bareheaded,” sez Miss Luman Spink who wuz with her. Sez I, lookin’ at ’em coldly, “Are you lunys or has softness begun on your brains?” “Why,” sez they, “you are talking about goin’ to Saratoga, hain’t you?” “Yes,” sez I. “Well then you have got to wear ’em,” says Miss Bobbet. “They don’t let anybody inside of the incorporation without they have got on a low-necked dress and short sleeves.” “And bare-headed,” sez Miss Spink; “if they have’ got a thing on their heads they won’t let ’em in.” Sez I, “I don’t believe it” Sez Miss Bobbet, “It is so, for I hearn it, and hearn it straight. James Robbets’s wife’s sister had a second cousin who lived neighbor to a woman whose niece had been there, been right there on the spot. And Celestine Bobbet, Uncle Ephraim’s Celestine, hearn it from James’es wife when she wuz up there last spring, it come straight. They all have to go in low necks.” “And not a mite of anything on their heads,” says Miss Spink. Sez I in sarcastical axents, “Do men have to go in low necks too?” “No,” says Miss Bobbet. “But they have to have the tails of their coats kinder pinted. Why,” sez she, “I hearn of a man that had got clear to the incorporation and they wouldn’t let him in because his coat kinder rounded off round the bottom, so he went out by the side of the road and pinned up his coat tails, into a sort of a pinted shape, and good land the incorporation let him right in, and never said a word.” I contended that these things wuzn’t so, but I found it wuz the prevailin’ opinion. For when I went to see the dressmaker about makin’ me a dress for the occasion, I see she felt just like the rest about it. My dress wuz a good black alpacky. I thought I would have it begun along in the edge of the winter, when she didn’t have so much to do, and also to have it done on time. We laid out to start on the follerin’ July, and I felt that I wanted everything ready. I bought the dress the 7th day of November early in the forenoon, the next day after my pardner consented to go, and give 65 cents a yard for it, double wedth. I thought I could get it done on time, dressmakers are drove a good deal. But I felt that a dressmaker could commence a dress in November and get it done the follerin’ July, without no great strain bein’ put onto her; and I am fur from bein’ the one to put strains onto wimmen, and hurry ’em beyend their strength. But I felt Almily had time to make it on honor and with good buttonholes. “Well,” she sez, the first thing after she had unrolled the alpacky, and held it up to the light to see if it was firm—sez she: “I s’pose you are goin’ to have it made with a long train, and low neck and short sleeves, and the waist all girted down to a taper?” I wuz agast at the idee, and to think Alminy should broach it to me, and I give her a piece of my mind that must have lasted her for days and days. It wuz a long piece, and firm as iron. But she is a woman who likes to have the last word and carry out her own idees, and she insisted that nobody was allowed in Saratoga—that they wuz outlawed, and laughed at if they didn’t have trains and low necks, and little mites of waists no bigger than pipe-stems. Sez I, “Alminy Hagidone, do you s’pose that I, a woman of my age, and a member of the meetin’ house, am a goin’ to wear a low-necked dress?” “Why not?,” sez she, “it is all the fashion and wimmen as old agin as you be wear ’em.” Well, sez I, “It is a shame and a disgrace if they do, to say nothin’ of the wickedness of it. Who do you s’pose wants to see their old skin and bones? It haint nothin’ pretty anyway. And as fer the waists bein’ all girted up and drawed in, that is nothin’ but crushed bones and flesh and vitals, that is just crowdin’ down your insides into a state o’ disease and deformity, torturin’ your heart down so’s the blood can’t circulate, and your lungs so’s you can’t breathe, it is nothin’ but slow murder anyway, and if I ever take it into my head to kill myself, Alminy Hagidone, I haint a goin’ to do it in a way of perfect torture and torment to me, I’d ruther be drownded.” She quailed, and I sez, “I am one that is goin’ to take good long breaths to the very last.” She see I wuz like iron aginst the idee of bein’ drawed in, and tapered, and she desisted. I s’pose I did look skairful. But she seemed still to cling to the idee of low necks and trains, and she sez sort a rebukingly: “You ortn’t to go to Saratoga if you haint willin’ to do as the rest do. I spose,” sez she dreamily, “the streets are full of wimmen a walkin’ up and down with long trains a hangin’ down and sweepin’ the streets, and ev’ry one on ’em with low necks and short sleeves, and all on ’em a flirting with some man” “Truly,” sez I, “if that is so, that is why the idee come to me. I am needed there. I have a high mission to perform about. But I don’t believe it is so.” “Then you won’t have it made with a long train?” sez she, a holdin’ up a breadth of the alpacky in front of me, to measure the skirt. “No mom!” sez I, and there wuz both dignity and deep resolve in that “mom.” It wuz as firm and stern principled a “mom” as I ever see, though I say it that shouldn’t. And I see it skairt her. She measured off the breadths kinder trembly, and seemed so anxious to pacify me that she got it a leetle shorter in the back than it wuz in the front. And (for the same reason) it fairly clicked me in the neck it wuz so high, and the sleeves wuz that long that I told Josiah Allen (in confidence) I was tempted to knit some loops across the bottom of ’em and wear ’em for mits. But I didn’t, and I didn’t change the dress neither. Thinkses I, mebby it will have a good moral effect on them other old wimmen there. Thinkses I, when they see another woman melted and shortened and choked fur principle’s sake, mebby they will pause in their wild careers. Wall, this wuz in November, and I wuz to have the dress, if it wuz a possible thing, by the middle of April, so’s to get it home in time to sew some lace in the neck. And so havin’ everything settled about goin’ I wuz calm in my frame most all the time, and so wuz my pardner. And right here, let me insert this one word of wisdom for the special comfort of my sect and yet it is one that may well be laid to heart by the more opposite one. If your pardner gets restless and oneasy and middlin’ cross, as pardners will be anon, or even oftener—start them off on a tower. A tower will in 9 cases out of 10 lift ’em out of their oneasiness, their restlessness and their crossness. Why this is so I cannot tell, no more than I can explain other mysteries of creation, but I know it is so. I know they will come home more placider, more serener, and more settled-downer. Why I have known a short tower to Slab City or Loontown act like a charm on my pardner, when crossness wuz in his mean and snappishness wuz present with him. I have known him to set off with the mean of a lion and come back with the liniment of a lamb. Curious, haint it? And jest the prospect of a tower ahead is a great help to a woman in rulin’ and keepin’ a pardner straight and right in his liniments and his acts. Somehow jest the thought of a tower sort a lifts him up in mind, and happifys him, and makes him easier to quell, and pardners must be quelled at times, else there would be no livin’ with ’em. This is known to all wimmen companions and and men too. Great great is the mystery of pardners. Josiah mad and happy Chapter II. ARDELLA TUTT AND HER MOTHER. But to resoom and continue on. I was a settin’ one day, after it wuz all decided, and plans laid on; I wuz a settin’ by the fire a mendin’ one of Josiah’s socks. I wuz a settin’ there, as soft and pliable in my temper as the woosted I wuz a darnin’ ’em with, my Josiah at the same time a peacefelly sawin’ wood in the wood-house, when I heard a rap at the door and I riz up and opened it, and there stood two perfect strangers, females. I, with a perfect dignity and grace (and with the sock still in my left hand) asked ’em to set down, and consequently they sot. Then ensued a slight pause durin’ which my two gray eyes roamed over the females before me. The oldest one wuz very sharp in her face and had a pair of small round eyes that seemed when they were sot onto you to sort a bore into you like two gimlets. Her nose was very sharp and defient, as if it wuz constantly sayin’ to itself, “I am a nose to be looked up to, I am a nose to be respected, and feared if necessary.” Her chin said the same thing, and her lips which wuz very thin, and her elbow, which wuz very sharp. Her dress was a stiff sort of a shinin’ poplin, made tight acrost the chest and elboes. And her hat had some stiff feathers in it that stood up straight and sort a sharp lookin’. She had a long sharp breast-pin sort a stabbed in through the front of her stiff standin’ collar, and her knuckles sot out through her firm lisle thread gloves, her umberell wuz long and wound up hard, to that extent I have never seen before nor sense. She wuz, take it all in all, a hard sight, and skairful. The other one wuzn’t no more like her in looks than a soft fat young cabbage head is like the sharp bean pole that it grows up by the side on, in the same garden. She wuz soft in her complexion, her lips, her cheeks, her hands, and as I mistrusted at that first minute, and found out afterwards, soft in her head too. Her dress wuz a loose-wove parmetty, full in the waist and sort a drabbly round the bottom. Her hat wuz drab-colored felt with some loose ribbon bows a hangin’ down on it, and some soft ostridge tips. She had silk mits on and her hands wuz fat and kinder moist-lookin’. Her eyes wuz very large and round, and blue, and looked sort o’ dreamy and wanderin’ and there wuz a kind of a wrapped smile on her face all the time. She had a roll of paper in her hand and I didn’t dislike her looks a mite. Finally the oldest female opened her lips, some as a steel trap would open sudden and kinder sharp, and sez she: “I am Miss Deacon Tutt, of Tuttville, and this is my second daughter Ardelia. Cordelia is my oldest, and I have 4 younger than Ardelia.” I bowed real polite and said, “I wuz glad to make the acquaintance of the hull 7 on ’em.” I can be very genteel when I set out, almost stylish. “I s’pose,” says she, “I am talkin’ to Josiah Allen’s wife?” I gin her to understand that that wuz my name and my station, and she went on, and sez she: “I have hearn on you through my husband’s 2d cousin, Cephas Tutt.” “Cephas,” sez she, “bein’ wrote to by me on the subject of Ardelia, the same letter containin’ seven poems of hern, and on bein’ asked to point out the quickest way to make her name and fame known to the world at large, wrote back that he havin’ always dealt in butter and lard, wuzn’t up to the market price in poetry, and that you would be a good one to go to for advice. And so,” sez she a pointin’ to a bag she carried on her arm (a hard lookin’ bag made of crash with little bullets and knobs of embroidery on it), “and so we took this bag full of Ardelia’s poetry and come on the mornin’ train, Cephas’es letter havin’ reached us at nine o’clock last night. I am a woman of business.” The bag would hold about 4 quarts and it wuz full. I looked at it and sithed. “I see,” sez she, “that you are sorry that we didn’t bring more poetry with us. But we thought that this little batch would give you a idee of what a mind she has, what a glorious, soarin’ genus wuz in front of you, and we could bring more the next time we come.” I sithed agin, three times, but Miss Tutt didn’t notice ’em a mite no more’n they’d been giggles or titters. She wouldn’t have took no notice of them. She wuz firm and decided doin’ her own errent, and not payin’ no attention to anything, nor anybody else. “Ardelia, read the poem you have got under your arm to Miss Allen! The bag wuz full of her longer ones,” sez she, “but I felt that I must let you hear her poem on Spring. It is a gem. I felt it would be wrongin’ you, not to give you that treat. Read it Ardelia.” I see Ardelia wuz used to obeyin’ her ma. She opened the sheet to once, and begun. It wuz as follows: “ARDELIA TUTT ON SPRING.” “Oh spring, sweet spring, thou comest in the spring; Thou comest in the spring time of the year. We fain would have thee come in Autumn; fling- est thou so sad a shade, oh Spring, so dear? “So dear the hopes thou draggest in thy rear, So mournful, and so wan, and not so sweet; So weird thou art, and oh, all! all! too dear Art thou, alas! oh mournful spring; my ear— “My ear that long did lay at gate of hope, Prone at the gate while years glided by— I fain would lift that ear, alas, why cope With cruel wrong, it must lie there so heavy ’tis my eye— “My eye, I fling o’er buried ruins long, I flung it there, regardless of the loss; That eye, I fain would gather in with song; In vain! ’tis gone, I bow and own the cross. “Dear ear, lone eye, sweet buried hopes, alas, I give thee to the proud inexorable main; Deep calls to deep, and it doth not reply, But sayeth my heart, they will not be mine own again.” Ardelia reads Jest the minute Ardelia stopped readin’ Miss Tatt says proudly: “There! haint that a remarkable poem,?” Sez I, calmly, “Yes it is a remarkable one.” “Did you ever hear anything like it?” says she, triumphly. “No,” sez I honestly, “I never did.” “Ardelia, read the poem on Little Ardelia Cordelia; give Miss Allen the treat of hearin’ that beautiful thing.” I sort a sithed low to myself; it wuz more of a groan than a common sithe, but Miss Tutt didn’t heed it, she kep’ right on— “I have always brought up my children to make other folks happy, all they can, and in rehearsin’ this lovely and remarkable poem, Ardelia will be not only makin’ you perfectly happy, givin’ you a rich intellectual feast, that you can’t often have, way out here in the country, fur from Tuttville; but she will also be attendin’ to the business that brought us here. I have always fetched my children up to combine joy and business; weld ’em together like brass and steel. Ardelia, begin!” So Ardelia commenced agin’. It wuz wrote on a big sheet of paper and a runnin’ vine wuz a runnin’ all ’round the edge of the paper, made with a pen, it was as follows: “STANZAS ENTITLED “SWEET LITTLE THING. “Wrote on the death of Ardelia Cordelia, who died at the age of seven days and seven hours.” “Sweet little thing, that erst so soon did bloom, And didest but fade, as falls the mystic flower! Sweet little thing, we did but erst low croon To thee a plaintive lay, and lo! for hour and hour— Sweet little thing. “For hours we sang to thee of high emprise, the songs of hope Though aged but week (and seven hours) thou laughested in thy sleep; We cling to that in peace, though mope The dullard knave, and biddest us go and weep— Sweet little thing. “Thou laughested at high emprise, and yet, in sooth, ’Twere craven to say thou couldst not rise To scale the mounts! to soar the cliffs! if worth Were the test, twice worthy thou, in that the merit lies— Sweet little thing. “Thy words that might have shook the breathless world with might; Alas! I catchested not on any earthly ground, That voice that might have guided nations high aright, Congealed within thy tiny windpipe ’twas, it did not steal around— Sweet little thing. “Sweet little thing, so soon thy wings unfurled A wing, a feather lone low floated up the yard; A world might weep, a world might stand appalled, To hear it low rehearsed by tearful female bard— Sweet little thing.” Jest as soon as Ardelia stopped rehearsin’ the verses, Miss Tutt sez agin to me: “Haint that a most remarkable poem?” And agin I sez calmly, and trutbfully, “Yes, it is a very remarkable one!” “And now,” sez Miss Tutt, plungin’ her hand in the bag, and drawin’ out a sheet of paper, “to convince you that Ardelia has always had this divine gift of poesy—that it is not, all the effect of culture and high education—let me read to you a poem she wrote when she wuz only a mere child,” and Miss Tutt read: “LINES ON A CAT “WRITTEN BY ARDELIA TUTT, “At the age of fourteen years, two months and eight days. “Oh Cat! Sweet Tabby cat of mine; 6 months of age has passed o’er thee, And I would not resign, resign The pleasure that I find in you. Dear old cat!” “Don’t you think,” sez Miss Tutt, “that this poem shows a fund of passion, a reserve power of passion and constancy, remarkable in one so young?” “Yes,” sez I reasonably, “no doubt she liked the cat. And,” sez I, wantin’ to say somethin’ pleasant and agreeable to her, “no doubt it was a likely cat.” “Oh the cat itself is of miner importance,” sez Miss Tutt. “We will fling the cat to the winds. It’s of my daughter I would speak. I simply handled the cat to show the rare precocious intellect. Oh! how it gushed out in the last line in the unconquerable burst of repressed passion—’Dear old cat!’ Shakespeare might have wrote that line, do you not think so?” “No doubt he might,” sez I, calmly, “but he didn’t.” I see she looked mad and I hastened to say: “He wuzn’t aquainted with the cat.” She looked kinder mollyfied and continued: “Ardelia dashes off things with a speed that would astonish a mere common writer. Why she dashed off thirty-nine verses once while she wuz waitin’ for the dish water to bile, and sent ’em right off to the printer, without glancin’ at ’em agin.’ “I dare say so,” sez I, “I should judge so by the sound on ’em.” “Out of envy and jealousy, the rankest envy, and the shearest jealousy, them verses wuz sent back with the infamous request that she should use ’em for curl papers. But she sot right down and wrote forty-eight verses on a ‘Cruel Request,’ wrote ’em inside of eighteen minutes. She throws off things, Ardelia does, in half an hour, that it would take other poets, weeks and weeks to write.” At the printers “I persume so,” sez I, “I dare persume to say, they never could write ’em.” “And now,” sez Miss Tutt, “the question is, will you put Ardelia on the back of that horse that poets ride to glory on? Will you lift her onto the back of that horse, and do it at once? I require nothin’ hard of you,” sez she, a borin’ me through and through with her eyes. “It must be a joy to you, Josiah Allen’s wife, a rare joy, to be the means of bringin’ this rare genius before the public. I ask nothin’ hard of you, I only ask that you demand, demand is the right word, not ask; that would be grovelin’ trucklin’ folly, but demand that the public that has long ignored my daugther Ardelia’s claim to a seat amongst the immortal poets, demand them, compel them to pause, to listen, and then seat her there, up, up on the highest, most perpendiciler pinnacle of fame’s pillow. Will you do this?” I sat in deep dejection and my rockin’ chair, and knew not what to say—and Miss Tutt went on: “We demand more than fame, deathless, immortal fame for ’em. We want money, wealth for ’em, and want it at once! We want it for extra household expenses, luxuries, clothing, jewelry, charity, etc. If we enrich the world with this rare genius, the world must enrich us with its richest emmolients. Will you see that we have it! Will you at once do as I asked you to? Will you seat her immegately where I want her sot? Sez I, considerin’, “I can’t get her up there alone, I haint strong enough.” Sez I, sort a mekanikly, “I have got the rheumatez.” “So you scoff me do you? I came to you to get bread, am I to get worse than a stun— a scoff?” “I haint gin you no scoff,” sez I, a spunkin’ up a little, “I haint thought on it. I like Ardelia and wish her well, but I can’t do merikles, I can’t compel the public to like things if they don’t.” Sez Miss Tutt, “You are jealous of her, you hate her.” “No, I don’t,” sez I, “I haint jealous of her, and I like her looks first-rate. I love a pretty young girl,” sez I candidly, “jest as I love a fresh posy with the dew still on it, a dainty rose-bud with the sweet fragrance layin’ on its half-folded heart. I love ’em,” sez I, a beginnin’ to eppisode a little unbeknown to me, “I love ’em jest as I love the soft unbroken silence of the early spring mornin’, the sun all palely tinted with rose and blue, and the earth alayin’ calm and unwoke-up, fresh and fair. I love such a mornin’ and such a life, for itself and for the unwritten prophecis in it. And when I see genius in such a sweet, young life, why it makes me feel as it duz to see through all the tender prophetic beauty of the mornin’ skies, a big white dove a soarin’ up through the blue heavens.” Sez Miss Tutt, “You see that in Ardelia, but you wont own it, you know you do.” “No!” sez I, “I would love to tell you that I see it in Ardelia; I would honest, but I can’t look into them mornin’ skies and say I see a white dove there, when I don’t see nothin’ more than a plump pullet, a jumpin’ down from the fence or a pickin’ round calmly in the back door-yard. Jest as likely the hen is, as the white dove, jest as honerable, but you mustn’t confound the two together.” “A hen,” sez Miss Tutt bitterly. “To confound my Ardelia with a hen! And I don’t think there wuz ever a more ironieler ‘hen’ than that wuz, or a scornfuller one.” “Why,” sez I reasonably. “Hens are necessary and useful in any position, both walkin’ and settin’, and layin’. You can’t get’em in any position hardly, but what they are useful and respectable, only jest flyin’. Hens can’t fly. Their wings haint shaped for it. They look some like a dove’s wings on the outside, the same feathers, the same way of stretchin’ ’em out. But there is sunthin lackin’ in ’em, some heaven-given capacity for soarin’ an for