Sweet Cicely — or Josiah Allen as a Politician, Marietta Holley [best books to read ever txt] 📗
- Author: Marietta Holley
Book online «Sweet Cicely — or Josiah Allen as a Politician, Marietta Holley [best books to read ever txt] 📗». Author Marietta Holley
“Uncle Nate is a sound man: his head is level.
“And good, sound platforms, that is another reform, uncle Nate said we needed the worst kind, and he hoped I would insist on it when I got to be senator. He said there was too much talk about 'em in the papers, and too little done about 'em. Why, Elam Gowdey, uncle Nate's youngest boy, broke down the platform to his barn, and went right down through it, with a load of hay. And nothin' but that hay saved his neck from bein' broke. It spilte one of his horses.
“Uncle Nate had been urgin' him to fix the platform, or build a new one; but he was slack. But, as uncle Nate says, if such things are run by law, they will have to be done.
“And then, there is another thing uncle Nate and I was talkin' about,” says he, lookin' very amiable at me as I rolled out my cream biscuit—almost spooney.
“I shall jest run every poor Irishman and Chinaman out of the country that I can.”
“What has the Irishmen done, Josiah Allen?” says I.
“Oh! they are poor. There hain't no use in our associatin' with the poor.”
Says I dreamily, “Did I not read once, of One who renounced the throne of the universe to dwell amongst the poor?”
“Oh, wall! most probable they wuzn't Irish.”
“And what has the Chinaman done?” says I.
“Why, they are heathens, Samantha. What does the United States want with heathens anyway? What the country needs is Methodists.”
“Somewhere did I not once hear these words,” says I musin'ly, as I set the coffee-cups on the table,—“'You shall have the heathen for an inheritance'—and 'preach the gospel to the heathen'—and 'we who were sometime heathens, but have received light'? Did not the echo of some such words once reach my mind?”
“Oh, wall! if you are goin' to quote readin', why can't you quote from 'The World'? you can't combine Bible and politics worth a cent. And the Chinaman works too cheap—are too industrious, and reasonable in their charges, they hain't extravagant—and they are too dumb peacible, dumb 'em!”
“Josiah Allen!” says I firmly, “is that all the fault you find with 'em?”
“No, it hain't. They don't want to vote! They don't care a cent about bein' path-master or President. And I say, that after givin' a man a fair trial and a long one, if he won't try to buy or sell a vote, it is a sure sign that he can't asimulate with Americans, and be one with 'em; that he can't never be mingled in with 'em peacible. And I'll bet that I'll start the Catholics out—and the Jews. What under the sun is the use of havin' anybody here in America only jest Methodists? That is the only right way. And if I have my way, I'll get rid of 'em,—Chinamen, Irishmen, Catholics,—the hull caboodle of 'em. I'll jest light 'em out of the country. We can do it too. That big statute in New-York Harbor of Liberty Enlightenin' the World, will jest lift her torch up high, and light 'em out of the country:—that is what we had her for.”
I sithed low, and says, “I never knew that wus what she wus there for. I s'posed it wus a gift from a land that helped us to liberty and prosperity when we needed 'em as bad as the Irishmen and Chinamen do to-day; and I s'posed that torch that wus lit for us by others' help, we should be willin' and glad to have it shine on the dark cross-roads of others.”
“Wall, it hain't meant for no such purpose: it is to light up our land and our waters. That's what she's there for.”
I sithed agin, a sort of a cold sithe, and says,—
“I don't think it looks very well for us New-Englanders a sittin' round Plymouth Rock, to be a condemnin' anybody for their religeous beliefs.”
“Wall, there hain't no need of whittlin' out a stick, and worshipin' it, as the Chinamen do.”
“How are you goin' to help 'em to worship the true God if you send 'em out of the country? Is it for the sake of humanity you drive 'em out? or be you, like the Isrealites of old, a worshipin' the golden calf of selfishness, Josiah Allen?”
“I hain't never worshiped no calf, Samantha Allen. That would be the last thing I would worship, and you know it.”
(Josiah wus very lame on his left leg where he had been kicked by a yearlin'. The spot wus black and blue, but healin'.)
“You have blanketed that calf with thick patriotic excuses; but I fear, Josiah Allen, that the calf is there.
“Oh!” says I dreamily, “how the tread of them calves has moved down through the centuries! If every calf should amble right out, marked with its own name and the name of its owner, what a sight, what a sight it would be! On one calf, right after its owner's name, would be branded, 'Worldly Honor and Fame.'”
Josiah squirmed, for I see him, but tried to turn the squirm in' into a sickly smile; and he murmured in a meachin' voice, and with a sheepish smile,—
“'Hon. Josiah Allen. Fame.' That wouldn't look so bad on a likely yearlin' or two-year old.”
But I kep' right on. “On another would be marked, 'Wealth.' Very yeller those calves would be, and a long, long drove of 'em.
“On another would be, 'Earthly Love.' Middlin' good-lookin' calves, these, and sights of 'em. But the mantillys that covered 'em would be all wet and wore with tears.
“'Culture,' 'Intellect,' 'Refinement.' These calves would march right along by the side of 'Pride,' 'Vanity,' 'Old Creeds,' 'Bigotry,' 'Selfishness.' The last-named would be too numerous to count with the naked eye, and go pushin' aginst each other, rushin' right through meetin'-housen, tearin' and actin'. Why,” says I, “the ground trembles under the tread of them calves. I can hear 'em whinner,” says I, fillin' up the coffee-pot.
“Calves don't whinner!” says Josiah.
Says I, “I speak parabolickly;” and says I, in a very blind way, “Parables are used to fit the truth to weak comprehensions.”
“Wall!” says he, kinder cross, “your potatoes are a burnin' down.”
I turned the water off, and mashed 'em up, with plenty of cream and butter; and them, applied to his stomach internally, seemed to sooth him,—them, and the nice tender steak, and light biscuit, and lemon puddin' and coffee, rich and yellow and fragrant.
He never said a word more about politics till after dinner. But on risin' up from the table he told me he had got to go to Jonesville to get the old mare shod. And I see sadly, as he stood to the lookin'-glass combin' out his few hairs, how every by-path his mind sot out on led up gradually to Washington, D.C. For as he stood there, and spoke of the mare's feet, he says,—
“The mare is good enough for Jonesville, Samantha. But when we get to Washington, we want sunthin' gayer, more stylish, to ride on. I calculate,” says he, pullin' up his collar, and pullin' down his vest,—“I lay out to dress gay, and act gay. I calculate to make a show for once in my life, and put on style. One thing I am bound on,—I shall drive tantrum.”
“How?” says I sternly.
“Why, I shall buy another mare, most probable some gay-colored one, and hitch it before the old white mare, and drive tantrum. You know, it is all the style. Mebby,” says he dreamily, “I shall ride the drag. I s'pose that is fashionable. But I'll be hanged if I should think it would be easy ridin' unless you had the teeth down. Dog-carts are stylish, I hear; but our dog is so dumb lazy, you couldn't get him to go out of a walk. But tantrum I will drive.”
I groaned, and says, “Yes, I hain't no doubt that anybody that sees you at Washington, will see tantrums, strange tantrums. But you hain't there yet.”
“No, but I most probable shall be ere long.”
He had actually begun to talk in high-flown, blank verse sort of a way. “Ere long!” that wus somethin' new for Josiah Allen.
Alas! every thought of his heart wus tuned to that one political key. I mentioned to him that “the bobbin to my sewin'-machine was broke, and asked him to get a new one of the agent at Jonesville.”
“Yes,” says he benignantly, “I will tend to your machine; and speakin' of machines, that makes me think of another thing uncle Nate and I wus talkin' about.”
“Machine politics, I sha'n't favor 'em. What under the sun do they want machines to make politics with, when there is plenty of men willin', and more than willin', to make 'em? And it is as expensive agin. Machines cost so much. I tell you, they cost tarnation high.”
“I can understand you without swearin', Josiah Allen.”
“I hain't a swearin': 'tarnation' hain't swearin', nor never wuz. I shall use that word most likely in Washington, D.C.”
“Wall,” says I coldly, “there will have to be some tea and sugar got.”
He did not demur. But, oh! how I see that immovible setness of his mind!
“Yes, I will get some. But won't it be handy, Samantha, to have free trade? I shall go for that strong. Why, I can tell you, it will come handy along in the winter when the hens don't lay, and we don't make butter to turn off—it will come dretful handy to jest hitch up the mare, and go to the store, and come home with a lot of groceries of all kinds, and some fresh meat mebby. And mebby some neckties of different colors.”
“Who would pay for 'em?” says I in a stern tone; for I didn't somehow like the idee.
“Why, the Government, of course.”
I shook my head 2 or 3 times back and forth. I couldn't seem to get the right sense of it. “I can't understand it, Josiah. We heard a good deal about free trade, but I can't believe that is it.”
“Wall, it is, jest that. Free trade is one of the prerequisits of a senator. Why, what would a man want to be a senator for, if they couldn't make by it?”
“Don't you love your country, Josiah Allen?”
“Yes, I do: but I don't love her so well as I do myself; it hain't nateral I should.”
“Surely I read long ago,—was it in the English Reader?” says I dreamily, “or where was it? But surely I have heard of such things as patriotism and honor, love of country, and love of the right.”
“Wall, I calculate I love my country jest as well as the next man; and,” says he firmly, “I calculate I can make jest as much out of her, give me a chance. Why, I calculate to do jest as they all do. What is the use of startin' up, and bein' one by yourself?”
Says I, “That is what Pilate thought, Josiah Allen.” Says I, “The majority hain't always right.” Says I firmly, “They hardly ever are.”
“Now, that is a regular woman's idee,” says he, goin' into the bedroom for a clean shirt. And as he opened the bureau-draw, he says,—
“Another thing I shall go for, is abolishin' lots of the bureaus. Why, what is the use of any man havin' more than one bureau? It is nothin' but nonsense clutterin' up the house with so many bureaus.
“When wimmen get to votin',” says he sarcastickly, “I'll bet their first move will be to get 'em back agin. I'll bet there hain't a women in the land, but what would love to have 20 bureaus that they could run to.”
“Then, you think wimmen will vote, do you, Josiah Allen?”
“I think,” says he firmly, “that it will be a wretched day for the nation if she does. Wimmen is good in their places,” says he, as he come to me to button up his shirtsleeves, and tie his cravat.
“They are good in their places. But they can't have, it hain't in 'em to have, the calm grasp of mind, the deep outlook into the future,
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