Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  I knew, too, that I had a certain hold upon her; and even at this moment I saw her eye often, as from old habit, looking across to me, a little timidly and anxiously, to see what I thought of her prize. She was Tina still, – the same old Tina, that always needed to be approved and loved and sympathized with, and have all her friends go with her, heart and hand, in all her ways. So I determined to like him.

  At this moment Sam Lawson came in. I was a little curious to know how he had managed it with his conscience to leave his domestic circle under their trying circumstances, but I was very soon satisfied as to this point.

  Sam, who had watched the light flaring out from the windows, and flattened his nose against the window-pane while he announced to Hepsy that “Mr. Davenport and Miss Mehitable and Tiny were all a goin’ into the Deacon’s to spend th’ evenin’,” could not resist the inexpressible yearning to have a peep himself at what was going on there.

  He came in with a most prostrate air of dejection. Aunt Lois frowned with stern annoyance, and looked at my grandmother, as much as to say, “To think he should come in when Mr. Davenport is making a call here!”

  Ellery Davenport, however, received him with a patronizing cheerfulness, – “Why, hulloa, Sam, how are you?” It was Ellery Davenport’s delight to start Sam’s loquacity and develop his conversational powers, and he made a welcoming movement toward the block of wood in the chimney-corner. “Sit down,” he said,– “sit down, and tell us how Hepsy and the children are.”

  Tina and he looked at each other with eyes dancing with merriment.

  “Wal, wal,” said Sam, sinking into the seat and raising his lank hands to the fire, while his elbows rested on his knees, “the children ‘s middlin – Doctor Merrill ses he thinks they ‘ve got past the wust on ‘t, – but Hepsy, she ‘s clean tuckered out, and kind o’ discouraged. An’ I thought I ‘d come over an’ jest ask Mis’ Badger ef she would n’t kind o’ jest mix ‘er up a little milk punch to kind o’ set ‘er up agin.’”

  “What a considerate husband!” said Ellery Davenport, glancing around the circle with infinite amusement.

  My grandmother, always prompt at any call on her charity was already half across the floor toward her buttery, whence she soon returned with a saucepan of milk.

  “I ‘ll watch that ‘ere, Mis’ Badger,” said Sam. “Jest rake out the coals this way, an’ when it begins ter simmer I ‘ll put in the sperits, ef ye ‘ll gin ’em to me. ‘Give strong drink ter him as is ready to perish,’ the Scriptur’ says. Hepsy ‘s got an amazin sight o’ grit in ‘er, but I ‘clare for ‘t, she ‘s ben up an’ down nights so much lately with them young uns thet she ‘s a ‘most clean wore out. An’ I should be too, ef I did n’t take a tramp now ‘n’ then to kind o’ keep me up. Wal, ye see, the head o’ the family, he hes to take car’ o’ himself, ‘cause ye see, ef he goes down, all goes down. ‘The man is the head o’ the woman,’ ye know,” said Sam, as he shook his skillet of milk.

  I could see Tina’s eyes dancing with mirthfulness as Ellery Davenport answered, “I ‘m glad to see, Sam, that you have a proper care of your health. You are such an important member of the community, that I don’t know what Oldtown would be without you!”

  “Wal, now, Mr. Devenport, ye flatter me; but then everybody don’t seem to think so. I don’t think folks like me, as does for this one an’ does for that one, an’ kind o’ spreads out permiskus is appreciated allers. There ‘s Hepsy, she ‘s allers at me, a sayin’ I don’t do nothin’ for her, an’ yet there las’ night I wus up in my shirt, a shiverin’ an’ a goin’ round, fust ter one and then ter ‘nuther, a hevin’ on em up an’ a thumpin’ on their backs, an clarin’ the phlegm out o’ their thruts, till I wus e’en a ‘most fruz and Hepsy, she lay there abed scoldin’ ‘cause I hed n’t sawed no wood thet arternoon to keep up the fire. Lordy massy, I jest went out ter dig a leetle sweet-flag root ter gin ter the boys, ‘cause I wus so kind o’ wore out. I don’t think these ‘ere women ever ‘flects on men’s trials. They railly don’t keep count o’ what we do for ‘em.”

  “What a picture of conjugal life!” said Ellery Davenport glancing at Tina. “Yes, Sam, it is to be confessed that the female sex are pretty exorbitant creditors. They make us pay dear for serving them.”

  “Jes’ so, jes’ so!” said Sam. “They don’t know nothin’ what we undergo. I don’t think Hepsy keeps no sort o’ count o’ the nights an’ nights I ‘ve walked the floor with the baby, whishin’ an’ shooin’ on ‘t, and singin’ to ‘t till my thrut wus sore, an’ then hed to git up afore daylight to split oven-wood, an then right to my blacksmithin’, jest to git a little money to git the meat an meal an’ suthin’ comfort’ble fur dinner! An’ then, ye see, there don’t nothin’ last, when there ‘s so many mouths to eat it up; an’ there ‘t is, it ‘s jest roun’ an’ roun’. Ye git a good piece o’ beef Tuesday an’ pay for ‘t, an’ by Thursday it ‘s all gone, an’ ye hev to go to work agin! Lordy massy, this ‘ere life don’t seem hardly wuth hevin’. I s’pose, Mr. Devenport, you ‘ve been among the gret folks o’ th’ earth, over there in King George’s court? Why, they say here that you ‘ve ben an’ tuk tea with the king, with his crown on ‘s head! I s’pose they all goes roun’ with their crowns on over there; don’t they?”

  “Well, no, not precisely,” said Ellery Davenport “I think they rather mitigate their splendors when they have to do with us poor republicans, so as not to bear us down altogether.”

  “Jes’ so,” said Sam, “like Moses, that put a veil over ‘s face ‘cause th’ Israelites could n’t bear the glory.”

  “Well,” said Ellery Davenport, “I ‘ve not been struck with any particular resemblance between King George and Moses.”

  “The folks here ‘n Oldtown, Mr. Davenport, ‘s amazin’ curus to hear the partic’lars ‘bout them grand things ‘t you must ha’ seen; I ‘s a tellin’ on ’em up to store how you ‘d ben with lords ‘n’ ladies ‘n’ dukes ‘n’ duchesses, ‘n’ seen all the kingdoms o’ the world, an’ the glory on ‘em. I told ’em I did n’t doubt you ‘d et off ‘m plates o’ solid gold, an’ ben in houses where the walls was all a crust o’ gold ‘n’ diamonds ‘n’ precious stones, ‘n’ yit ye did n’t seem ter be one bit lifted up nor proud, so ‘t yer could n’t talk ter common folks. I s’pose them gret fam’lies they hes as much ‘s fifty ur a hunderd servants, don’t they?”

  “Well, sometimes,” said Ellery Davenport.

  “Wal, now,” said Sam “I sh’d think a man ‘d feel kind o’ curus, – sort o’ ‘s ef he was keepin’ a hotel, an’ boardin’ all the lower classes.”

  “It is something that way, Sam,” said Ellery Davenport. “That ‘s one way of providing for the lower classes.”

  “Jest what th’ Lord told th’ Israelites when they would hev a king,” said Sam. “Ses he, ‘He ‘ll take yer daughters to be confectioners ‘n’ cooks ‘n’ bakers, an’ he ‘ll take the best o’ yer fields ‘n’ yer vineyards ‘n’ olive-yards, an’ give ’em to his sarvints, an’ he ‘ll take a tenth o’ yer seed ‘n’ give ’em ter his officers, an’ he’ll take yer men-sarvints ‘n’ yer maid-sarvints, ‘n’ yer goodliest young asses, an’ put ’em ter his works.”

  “Striking picture of monarchical institutions, Sam,” said Ellery Davenport.

  “Wal, now, I tell ye what,” said Sam, slowly shaking his shimmering skillet of milk, “I should n’t want ter git inter that ere’ pie, unless I could be some o’ the top crust. It ‘s jest like a pile o’ sheepskins, –’s only the top un lies light. I guess th’ undermost one ‘s squeezed putty flat.”

  “I ‘ll bet it is, Sam,” said Ellery Davenport, laughing.

  “Wal,” said Sam, “I go for republics, but yit it ‘s human natur’ ter kind o’ like ter hold onter titles. Now over here a man likes ter be a deacon ‘n’ a cap’n ‘n’ a colonel in the military ‘n’ a sheriff ‘n’ a judge, ‘n’ all thet. Lordy massy, I don’t wonder them grand English folks sticks to their grand titles, an’ the
people all kind o’ bows down to ‘em, as they did to Nebuchadnezzar’s golden image.”

  “Why, Sam,” said Ellery Davenport, “your speculations on politics are really profound.”

  “Wal,” said Sam, “Mr. Davenport, there ‘s one pint I want ter consult ye ‘bout, an’ thet is, what the king o’ England’s name is. There ‘s Jake Marshall ‘n’ me, we ‘s argood that pint these many times. Jake ses his name is George Rix, – R-i-x, – an’ thet ef he ‘d come over here, he ‘d be called Mr. Rix. I ses to him, ‘Why, Jake, ‘t ain’t Rix, it ‘s Rex, an’ ‘t ain’t his name, it ‘s his title, ses I, – ‘cause the boys told me thet Rex was Latin ‘n’ meant king; but Jake ‘s one o’ them fellers thet allers thinks he knows. Now, Mr. Devenport, I ‘d like to put it down from you ter him ‘cause you ‘ve just come from the court o’ England an’ you ‘d know.”

  “Well, you may tell your friend Jake that you are quite in the right,” said Ellery Davenport. “Give him my regards, and tell him he ‘s been mistaken.”

  “But you don’t call the king Rex when ye speak to ‘im, d’ yer?” said Sam.

  “Not precisely,” said Ellery Davenport.

  “Mis’ Badger,” said Sam, gravely, “this ‘ere milk ‘s come to the bile, ‘n’ ef you ‘ll be so kind ‘s to hand me the sperits ‘n’ the sugar. I ‘ll fix this ‘ere. Hepsy likes her milk punch putty hot.”

  “Well, Sam,” said my grandmother, as she handed him the bottle, “take an old woman’s advice, and don’t go stramming off another afternoon. If you ‘d been steady at your blacksmithin’, you might have earned enough money to buy all these things yourself, and Hepsy ‘d like it a great deal better.”

  “I suppose it ‘s about the two hundred and forty-ninth time mother has told him that,” said Aunt Lois, with an air of weary endurance.

  “Wal, Mis’ Badger,” said Sam, “‘all work an’ no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ ye know. I hes to recreate, else I gits quite wore out. Why, lordy massy, even a saw-mill hes ter stop sometimes ter be greased. ‘Tain’t everybody thet ‘s like Sphyxy Smith, but she grits and screeches all the time, jest ‘cause she keeps to work without bein’ ‘iled. Why, she could work on, day ‘n’ night, these twenty years, ‘n’ never feel it. But, lordy massy, I gits so ‘xhausted, an’ hes sech a sinking ‘t my stomach, ‘n’ then I goes out ‘n’ kind o’ Injunin’ round, an’ git flag-root ‘n’ wintergreen ‘n’ spruce boughs ‘n’ gensing root ‘n’ sarsafrass ‘n’ sich fur Hepsy to brew up a beer. I ain’t a wastin’ my time ef I be enjoyin’ myself. I say it ‘s a part o’ what we ‘s made for.”

  “You are a true philosopher, Sam,” said Ellery Davenport.

  “Wal,” said Sam, “I look at it this ‘ere way, – ef I keep on a grindin’ and a grindin’ day ‘n’ night, I never shell hev nothin’, but ef I takes now ‘n’ then an arternoon to lie roun’ in the sun, I gits suthin’ ‘s I go ‘long. Lordy massy, it ‘s jest all the comfort I hes, kind o’ watchin’ the clouds ‘n’ the birds, ‘n’ kind o’ forgettin’ all ‘bout Hepsy ‘n’ the children ‘n’ the blacksmithin’.”

  “Well,” said Aunt Lois, smartly, “I think you are forgetting all about Hepsy and the children now, and I advise you to get that milk punch home as quick as you can, if it ‘s going to do her any good. Come, here ‘s a tin pail to put it into. Cover it up and do let the poor woman have some comfort as well as you!”

  Sam received his portion in silence, and, with reluctant glances at the warm circle, went out into the night.

  “I don’t see how you all can bear to listen to that man’s maundering!” said Aunt Lois. “He puts me out of all sort of patience. ‘Head of the woman’ to be sure! when Hepsy earns the most of what that family uses, except what we give ‘em. And I know exactly how she feels; the poor woman is mad with shame and humiliation half the time at the charities he will accept from us.”

  “O come, Miss Lois,” said Ellery Davenport, “you must take an aesthetic view of him. Sam ‘s a genuine poet in his nature, and poets are always practically useless. And now Sam ‘s about the only person in Oldtown, that I have seen, that has the least idea that life is meant, in any way, for enjoyment. Everybody else seems to be sword in hand, fighting against the possibility of future suffering, toiling and depriving themselves of all present pleasure, so that they may not come to want by and by. Now I ‘ve been in countries where the whole peasantry are like Sam Lawson.”

  “Good gracious!” said Aunt Lois, “what a time they must have of it!”

  “Well, to say the truth, there ‘s not much progress in such communities, but there is a great deal of clear, sheer animal enjoyment. And when trouble comes, it comes on them as it does on animals, unfeared and unforeseen, and therefore unprovided for.”

  “Well,” said my grandmother, “you don’t think that is the way for rational and immortal creatures to live?”

  “Well,” said Ellery Davenport, “taking into account the rational and immortal, perhaps not; but I think if we could mix the two races together it would be better. The Yankee lives almost entirely for the future, the Italian enjoys the present.”

  “Well, but do you think it is right to live merely to enjoy the present?” persisted Aunt Lois.

  “The eternal question!” said Ellery.” After all, who knows anything about it? What is right, and what is wrong? Mere geographical accidents! What is right for the Greenlander is wrong for me; what is right for me is wrong for the Hindoo. Take the greatest saint on earth to Greenland, and feed him on train oil and candles, and you make one thing of him; put him under the equator, with the thermometer at one hundred in the shade, and you make another.”

  “But right is right and wrong is wrong,” said Aunt Lois, persistently, “after all.”

  “I sometimes think,” said Ellery Davenport, “that right and wrong are just like color, mere accidental properties. There is no color where there ‘s no light, and a thing is all sorts of colors according to the position you stand in and the hour of the day. There ‘s your rocking-chair in the setting sun becomes a fine crimson, and in the morning comes out dingy gray. So it is with human actions. There ‘s nothing so bad that you cannot see a good side to it, nothing so good that you cannot see a bad side to it. Now we think it ‘s shocking for our Indian tribes, some of them, to slay their old people; but I ‘m not sure, if the Indian could set forth his side of the case, with all the advantages of our rhetoric, but that he would have the best of it. He does it as an act of filial devotion, you see. He loves and honors his father too much to let him go through all that horrid process of draining out life drop by drop that we think the thing to protract in our high civilization. For my part, if I were an Indian chief, I should prefer, when I came to be seventy, to be respectfully knocked on the head by my oldest son, rather than to shiver and drivel and muddle and cough my life out a dozen years more.”

  “But God has given his commandments to teach us what is right,” said Aunt Lois. “‘Honor thy father and mother.”

  “Precisely,” said Ellery; “and my friends the Sioux would tell you that they do honor their fathers and mothers by respectfully putting them out of the way when there is no more pleasure in living. They send them to enjoy eternal youth in the hunting-grounds of the fathers, you know.”

  “Positively, Ellery,” said Tina, “I sha’ n’t have this sort of heathen stuff talked any longer. Why, you put one’s head all in a whirl and you know you don’t believe a word of it yourself. What ‘s the use of making everybody think you ‘re worse than you are?”

  “My dear,” said Ellery, “there ‘s nothing like hearing all that can be said on both sides of subjects. Now there ‘s my good grandfather made an argument on the will, that is, and forever will remain, unanswerable, because he proves both sides of a flat contradiction perfectly; that method makes a logic-trap out of which no mortal can get his foot.”

  “Well,” said my grandmother, “Mr. Davenport, if you ‘ll take an old woman’s advice, you ‘ll take up with your grandf
ather’s good resolutions, and not be wasting your strength in such talk.”

  “I believe there were about seventy-five – or eighty, was it? – of those resolutions,” said Ellery.

  “And you would n’t be the worse for this world or the next if you ‘d make them yourself,” said my grandmother.

  “Thank you, madam,” said Ellery, bowing, “I ‘ll think of it.”

  “Well, come,” said Tina, rising, “it ‘s time for us to go; and,” she said, shaking her finger warningly at Ellery Davenport, “I have a private lecture for you.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, with a shrug of mock apprehension; “the preaching capacities of the fair sex are something terrific. I see all that is before me.”

  They bade adieu, the fire was raked up in the great fireplace, all the members of the family went their several ways to bed, but Harry and I sat up in the glimmer and gloom of the old kitchen, lighted, now and then, by a sputtering jet of flame, which burst from the sticks. All round the large dark hearth the crickets were chirping as if life were the very merriest thing possible.