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
“No, sir! fellers must come free and spontaneous? or not at all. Never was I the woman to advance one step towards any feller in the way of courtship—havin' no occasion for it, bein' one that had more offers than I knew what to do with, as I often tell my husband, Josiah Allen, now, in our little differences of opinion. 'Time and agin,' as I tell him, 'I might have married, but held back.' And never would I have married, never, had not love gripped holt of my very soul, and drawed me along up to the marriage alter. I loved the feller I married, and he was the only feller in the hull world for me.”
Says he in that low, gentle tone, and lookin' modest and patient as a lily, but as determined and sot as ever a iron teakettle was sot over a stove,—
“You are under a mistake, mom.”
Says I, “Don't you tell me that agin if you know what is good for yourself. I guess I know my own mind. I was past the age of whifflin', and foolin' round. I married that feller from pure love, and no other reason under the heavens. For there wuzn't any other reason only jest that, why I should marry him.”
And for a moment, or two moments, my mind roamed back onto that old, mysterious question that has haunted me more or less through my natural life, for over twenty years. Why did I marry Josiah Allen? But I didn't revery on it long. I was too agitated, and wrought up; and I says agin, in tones witherin' enough to wither him,—
“The idee of sellin' me a feller!”
But the chap didn't look withered a mite: he stood there firm and immovible, and says he,—
“I didn't mean no offense, mom. Sellin' attachments is what I get my living by”—
“Wall, I should ruther not get a livin',” says I, interruptin' of him. “I should ruther not live.”
“As I said, mom, I get my livin' that way: and one of your neighbors told me that your feller was an old one, and sort o' givin' out; and I have got 'em with all the latest improvements, and—and she thought mebby I could sell you one.”
“You miserable coot you!” says I. “Do you stop your impudent talk, or I will holler to Josiah. What do you s'pose I want with another feller? Do you s'pose I'd swap Josiah Allen for all the fellers that ever swarmed on the globe? What do you s'pose I care for the latest improvements? If a feller was made of pure gold from head to feet, with diamond eyes and a garnet nose, do you s'pose he would look so good to me as Josiah Allen duz?
“And I would thank the neighbers to mind their own business, and let my affairs alone. What if he is a gettin' old and wore out? What if he is a givin' out? He is always kinder spindlin' in the spring of the year. Some men winter harder than others: he is a little tizicky, and breathes short, and his liver may not be the liver it was once; but he will come round all right when the weather moderates. And mebby they meant to hint and insinuate sunthin' about his bein' so bald, and losin' his teeth.
“But I'll let you know, and I'll let the neighbors know, that I didn't marry that man for hair; I didn't marry that man for teeth, and a few locks more or less, or a handful of teeth, has no power over that love,—that love that makes me say from the very depths of my soul, that my feller is one of a thousand.”
“I hain't disputed you, mom,” says he, with his firm, patient look. “I dare presume to say that your feller was good in the day of such fellers. But every thing has its day: we make fellers far different now.”
Says I sarcasticly, givin' him quite a piercin' look, “I know they do: I've seen 'em.”
“Yes, they make attachments now very different: yours is old-fashioned.”
“Yes, I know it is: I know that love, such love as hisen and mine, and I know that truth and fidelity and constancy, are old-fashioned. But I thank God that our souls are clothed with that beautiful old fashion, that seamless, flawless robe that wus cut out in Eden, and a few true souls have wore ever since.”
“But your attachment will grow older and older, and give out entirely after a while. What will you do then?”
“My attachment will never give out.”
“But mom”—
“No, you needn't argue and contend—I say it will never give out. It is a heavenly gift dropped down from above, entirely unbeknown. True love is not sought after, it comes; and when it comes, it stays. Talk about love gettin' old—love never grows old; talk about love goin'—love never goes: that which goes is not love, though it has been called so time and agin. Talk about love dyin'—why, it can't die, no more than the souls can, in which its sweet light is born. Why, it is a flame that God Himself kindles: it is a bit of His own brightness a shinin' down through the darkness of our earthly life, and is as immortal and indestructible as His own glory.
“It is the only fountain of Eternal Youth that gushes up through this dreary earthly soil, for the refreshin' of men and wimmen, in which the weary soul can bathe itself, and find rest.”
“Sometimes,” says he, sort o' dreamily, “sometimes we repair old fellers.”
“Wall, you won't repair my feller, I can let you know that. I won't have him repaired. The impudence of the hull idee,” says I, roustin' up afresh, “goes ahead of any thing I ever dreamed of, of impudence. Repair my feller! I don't want him any different. I want him jest as he is. I would scorn to repair him. I could if I wanted to,—his teeth could be sharpened up, what he has got, and new ones sot in. And I could cover his head over with red curls; or I could paint it black, and paste transfer flowers onto it. I could have a sot flower sot right on the top of his bald head, and a trailin' vine runnin' round his forward. Or I could trim it round with tattin', if I wanted to, and crystal beads. I could repair him up so he would look gay. But do you s'pose that any artificials that was ever made, or any hair, if it was as luxuriant as Ayer'ses Vigor, could look so good to me as that old bald head that I have seen a shinin' acrost the table from me for so many years?
“I tell you, there is memories and joys and sorrows a clusterin' round that head, that I wouldn't swap for all the beauty and the treasures of the world.
“Memories of happy mornin's dewy fresh, with cool summer breezes a comin' in through the apple-blows by the open door, and the light of the happy sunrise a shinin' on that old bald head, and then gleamin' off into my happy heart.
“There is memories of pleasant evenin' hours, with the tea-table drawed up in front of the south door, and the sweet southern wind a comin' in over the roses, and the tender light of the sunset, and the waverin' shadows of the honeysuckles and mornin'-glorys, fallin' on us, wrappin' us all round, and wrappin' all of the rest of the world out.”
Mebby the young chap said sunthin' here, but it was entirely unbeknown to me; though I thought I heard the murmur of his voice makin' a sort of a tinklin' accompinment to my thoughts, sunthin' like the babble of a brook a runnin' along under forest boughs, when the wind with its mighty melody is sweepin' through 'em. Great emotions was sweepin' along with power, and couldn't be stayed. And I went right on, not sensin' a thing round me,—
“There is memories of sabbath drives, in fair June mornin's, through the old lane alder and willow fringed, with the brook runnin' along on one side of it; where the speckled trout broke the Sunday quiet by dancin' up through the brown and gold shadows of the cool water, and the odor of the pine woods jest beyend comin' fresh and sweet to us.
“Memories of how that road and that face looked in the week-day dusk, as we sot out for the revival meetin', when the sun had let down his long bars of gold and crimson and yellow, and had got over 'em, and sunk down behind 'em out of sight. And we could ketch glimpses through the willow-sprays of them shinin' bars a layin' down on the gray twilight field. And fur away over the green hills and woods of the east, the moon was a risin', big and calm and silvery. And we could hear the plaintive evenin' song of the thrush, and the crickets' happy chirp, till we got nearer the schoolhouse, when they sort o' blended in with 'There is a fountain filled with blood,' and 'Come, ye disconsolate.'
“And the moonlight, and sister Bobbet's and sister Minkly's candles, shone down and out, on that dear old bald head as his hat fell off, as he helped me out of the wagon.
“Memories of how I have seen it a bendin' over the Word, in hours of peace and happiness, and hours of anxiety and trouble, a readin' every time about the eternal hills, and the shadow of the Rock, and the Everlastin' Arms that was a holdin' us both up, me and Josiah, and the Everlastin' Love that was wrappin' us round, helpin' us onward by these very joys, these very sorrows.
“Memories of the midnight lamp lightin' it up in the chamber of the sick, in the long, lonesome hours before day-dawn.
“Memories of its bendin' over the sick ones in happier mornin's, as he carried 'em down-stairs in his arms, and sot 'em in their old places at the table.
“Memories of how it looked in the glare of the tempest, and under the rainbow when the storm had passed. It stands out from a background of winter snows and summer sunshine, and has all the shadows and brightness of them seasons a hangin' over it.
“Yes, there is memories of sorrows borne by both, and so made holier and more blessed than happiness. That head has bent with mine over a little coffin, and over open graves, when he shared my anguish. And stood by me under the silent stars, when he shared my prayers, my hopes, for the future.
“That old bald head stands up on the most sacred height of my heart, like a beacon; the glow of the soul shines on it; love gilds it. And do you s'pose any other feller's head on earth could ever look so good to me as that duz? Do you s'pose I will ever have it repaired upon? never! I won't repair him. I won't have him dickered and fooled with. Not at all.
“He'd look better to me than any other feller that ever walked on earth if he hadn't a tooth left in his head, or a hair on his scalp. As long as Josiah Allen has got body enough left to wrap round his soul, and keep it down here on earth, my heart is hisen, every mite of it, jest as he is too.
“And I'll thank the neighbors to mind their own business!” says I, kinder comin' to agin. For truly, I had soared up high above my kitchen, and gossipin' neighbors, and feller-agents, and all other tribulations. And as I lit down agin (as it were), I see he was a standin' on one foot, with his watch, a big silver one, in his hand, and gazin' pensively onto it; and he says,—
“Your remarks are worthy, mom—but somewhat lengthy,” says he, in a voice of pain; “nearly nine moments long: but,” says he, sort o' bracin' up agin on both feet, “I beg of you not to be too hasty. I did not come into this neighborhood to make dissensions or broils. I merely stated that I got the idee, from what they said, that your feller didn't work good.”
“Didn't work good!
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