Sweet Cicely — or Josiah Allen as a Politician by Marietta Holley (novels for teenagers .txt) 📗
- Author: Marietta Holley
Book online «Sweet Cicely — or Josiah Allen as a Politician by Marietta Holley (novels for teenagers .txt) 📗». Author Marietta Holley
Wall, he said he would mention it to 'em; and says he, with a contented look,—
“I told uncle Nate I knew I wus right. I knew Liberty wus a man.”
Wall, I didn't say no more: and I got him as good a supper as the house afforded, and kep' still as death on politics; fur I could not help havin' some hopes that he might get sick of the idee of public life. And I kep' him down close all that evenin' to religion and the weather.
But, alas! my hopes wus doomed to fade away. And, as days passed by, I see the thought of bein' a senator wus ever before him. The cares and burdens of political life seemed to be a loomin' up in front of him, and in a quiet way he seemed to be fittin' himself for the duties of his position.
He come in one day with Solomon Cypher'ses shovel, and I asked him “what it wuz?”
And he said “it wus the spoils of office.”
And I says, “It is no such thing: it is Solomon Cypher'ses shovel.”
“Wall,” says he, “I found it out by the fence. Solomon has gone over to the other party. I am a Democrat, and this is party spoils. I am goin' to keep this as one of the spoils of office.”
Says I firmly, “You won't keep it!”
“Why,” says he, “if I am goin' to enter political life, I must begin to practise sometime. I must begin to do as they all do. And it is a crackin' good shovel too,” says he pensively.
Says I, “You are goin' to carry that shovel right straight home, Josiah Allen!”
And I made him.
The idee.
But I see in this and in many kindred things, that he wuz a dwellin' on this thought of political life—its honors and emollients. And often, and in dark hints, he would speak of his Plan. If every other means failed, if he couldn't spare the money to buy enough votes, how his plan wus goin' to be the makin' of him.
And I overheard him tellin' the babe once, as he wus rockin' her to sleep in the kitchen, “how her grandpa had got up somethin' that no other babe's grandpa had ever thought of, and how she would probable see him in the White House ere long.”
I wus makin' nut-cakes in the buttery; and I shuddered so at these words, that I got in most as much agin lemon as I wanted in 'em. I wus a droppin' it into a spoon, and it run over, I wus that shook at the thought of his plan.
I had known his plans in the past, and had hefted 'em. And I truly felt that his plans wus liable any time to be the death of him, and the ruination.
But he wouldn't tell!
But kep' his mind immovibly sot, as I could see. And the very day of the shovel episode, along towards night he rousted out of a brown study,—a sort of a dark-brown study,—and says he,—
“Yes, I shall make out enough votes if we have a judicious committee.”
“A lyin' one, do you mean?” says I coldly. But not surprized. For truly, my mind had been so strained and racked that I don't know as it would have surprized me if Josiah Allen had riz up, and knocked me down.
“Wall, in politics, you have to add a few orts sometimes.”
I sithed, not a wonderin' sithe, but a despairin' one; and he went on,—
“I know where I shall get a hull lot of votes, anyway.”
“Where?” says I.
“Why, out to that nigger settlement jest the other side of Jonesville.”
“How do you know they'll vote for you?” says I.
“I'd like to see 'em vote aginst me!” says he, in a skairful way.
“Would you use intimidation, Josiah Allen?”
“Why, uncle Nate Gowdey and I, and a few others who love quiet, and love to see folks do as they ort to, lay out to take some shot-guns and make them niggers vote right; make 'em vote for me; shoot 'em right down if they don't. We have got the campaign all planned out.”
“Josiah Allen,” says I, “if you have no fear of Heaven, have you no fear of the Government? Do you want to be hung, and see your widow a breakin' her heart over your gallowses?”
“Oh! I shouldn't get hung. The Government wouldn't do nothin'. The Government feels jest as I do,—that it would be wrong to stir up old bitternesses, and race differences. The bloody shirt has been washed, and ironed out; and it wouldn't be right to dirty it up agin. The colored race is now at peace; and if they will only do right, do jest as the white men wants 'em to, Government won't never interfere with 'em.”
I groaned, and couldn't help it; and he says,—
“Why, hang it all, Samantha, if I make any show at all in public life, I have got to begin to practise sometime.”
“Wall,” says I, “bring me in a pail of water.” But as he went out after it, I murmured sternly to myself,—
“Oh! wus there ever a forerunner more needed run?” and my soul answered, “Never! never!”
So with sithes that could hardly be sithed, so big and hefty wuz they, I commenced to make preparations for embarkin' on my tower. And no martyr that ever sot down on a hot gridiron wus animated by a more warm and martyrous feelin' of self-sacrifice. Yes, I truly felt, that if there wus dangers to be faced, and daggers run through pardners, I felt I would ruther they would pierce my own spare-ribs than Josiah's. (I say spare-ribs for oritory—my ribs are not spare, fur from it.)
I didn't really believe, if he run, he would run clear to Washington. And yet, when my mind roamed on some public men, and how fur they run, I would groan, and hurry up my preparations.
I knew my tower must be but a short one, for sugarin'-time wus approachin' with rapid strides, and Samantha must be at the hellum. But I also knew, that with a determined mind, and a willin' heart, great things could be accomplished speedily; so I commenced makin' preparations, and layin' on plans.
As become a woman of my cast-iron principles, I fixed up mostly on the inside of my head instead of the outside. I studied the map of the United States. I done several sums on the slate, to harden my mind, and help me grasp great facts, and meet difficulties bravely. I read Gass'es “Journal,”—how he rode up our great rivers on a perioger, and shot bears. Expectin', as I did, to see trouble, I read over agin that book that has been my stay in so many hard-fit battle-fields of principle,—Fox'es “Book of Martyrs.”
I studied G. Washington's picture on the parlor-wall, to get kinder stirred up in my mind about him, so's to realize to the full my privileges as I wept onto his tomb, and stood in the capital he had foundered.
Thomas J. come one day while I wus musin' on George; and he says,—
“What are you lookin' so close at that dear old humbug for?”
Says I firmly, and keepin' the same posture, “I am studyin' the face of the revered and noble G. Washington. I am going shortly to weep on his tomb and the capital he foundered. I am studyin' his face, and Gass'es 'Journal,' and other works,” says I.
“If you are going to the capital, you had better study Dante.”
Says I, “Danty who?”
And he says, “Just plain Dante.” Says he, “You had better study his inscription on the door of the infern”—
Says I, “Cease instantly. You are on the very pint of swearin';” and I don't know now what he meant, and don't much care. Thomas J. is full of queer remarks, anyway. But deep. He had a sick spell a few weeks ago; and I went to see him the first thing in the mornin', after I heard of it. He had overworked, the doctor said, and his heart wuz a little weak. He looked real white; and I took holt of his hand, and says I,—
“Thomas J., I am worried about you: your pulse don't beat hardly any.”
“No,” says he. And he laughed with his eyes and his lips too. “I am glad I am not a newspaper this morning, mother.”
And I says, “Why?”
And he says, “If I were a morning paper, mother, I shouldn't be a success, my circulation is so weak.”
A jokin' right there, when he couldn't lift his head. But he got over it: he always did have them sort of sick spells, from a little child.
But a manlier, good-hearteder, level-headeder boy never lived than Thomas Jefferson Allen. He is just right, and always wuz. And though I wouldn't have it get out for the world, I can't help seein' it, that he goes fur ahead of Tirzah Ann in intellect, and nobleness of nater; and though I love 'em both devotedly, I do, and I can't help it, like him jest a little mite the best. But this I wouldn't have get out for a thousand dollars. I tell it in strict confidence, and s'pose it will be kep' as such. Mebby I hadn't ort to tell it at all. Mebby it hain't quite orthodox in me to feel so. But it is truthful, anyway. And sometimes I get to kinder wobblin' round inside of my mind, and a wonderin' which is the best,—to be orthodox, or truthful,—and I sort o' settle down to thinkin' I will tell the truth anyway.
Josiah, I think, likes Tirzah Ann the best.
But I studied deep, and mused. Mused on our 4 fathers, and our 4 mothers, and on Liberty, and Independence, and Truth, and the Eagle. And thinkin' I might jest as well be to work while I was a musin', I had a dress made for the occasion. It wus bran new, and the color wus Bismark Brown.
Josiah wanted me to have Ashes of Moses color.
But I said no. With my mind in the heroic state it was then, I couldn't curb it down onto Ashes of Moses, or roses, or any thing else peacible. I felt that this color, remindin' me of two grand heroes,—Bismark, John Brown,—suited me to a T. There wus two wimmen who stood ready to make it,—Jane Bently and Martha Snyder. I chose Martha because Martha wus the name of the wife of Washington.
It wus made with a bask.
When the news got out that I wus goin' to Washington on a tower, the neighbors all wanted to send errents by me.
Betsey Bobbet wanted me to go to the Patent Office, and get her two Patent-office books, for scrap-books for poetry.
Uncle Jarvis Bently wanted me to go to the Agricultural Bureau, and get him a paper of lettis seed. And Solomon Cypher wanted me to get him a new kind of string-beans, if I could, and some cowcumber seeds.
Uncle Nate Gowdey, who talked of paintin' his house over, wanted me to ask the President what kind of paint he used on the White House, and if he put in any sperits of turpentime. And Ardelia Rumsey, who wuz goin' to be married soon, wanted me, if I see any new kinds of bed-quilt patterns to the White House, or to the senators' housen, to get the patterns for her. She said she wus sick of sunflowers, and blazin' stars, and such. She thought mebby they'd have suthin' new, spread-eagle style, or suthin' of that kind. She said “her feller was goin' to be connected with the Government, and she thought it would be appropriate.”
And I asked her “how?” And she said, “he was goin' to get a patent on a new kind of a jack-knife.”
I told her “if she wanted a Government quilt, and wanted it appropriate, she ort to have it a crazy-quilt.”
And she said she had jest finished a crazy-quilt, with seven thousand pieces of silk in it, and each piece trimmed with seven hundred stitches of feather stitchin': she counted 'em. And then I remembered seein' it. There wus some talk then about wimmen's rights, and a petition wus got up in Jonesville for wimmen to sign; and I remember well that Ardelia couldn't
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