Tirzah Ann's summer trip, and other sketches

Tirzah Ann and Whitfield—Tirzah Ann is Josiah’s darter, you know—make a likely couple, though I say it that shouldn’t. Whitfield is indestrius, and she is equinomical, which makes things go well. But Tirzah Ann is dretful ambitious, and wants to do as other folks do, and so knowin’ it is very genteel to go off in the summer for a rest, why she wanted to go off for a rest, too. And Whitfield bein’ perfectly bound up in her, of course wanted to do jist what she wanted to. I thought it wus foolish in her. But I always had very deep and filosofical idees on these things.

Now, rests are as likely things as ever wus—so are changes. But I have said, and I say still, that I had ruther lay down to hum, as the poet saith, “on my own delightful feather bed,” with a fan and newspaper, and take a rest, than dress up and travel off two or three hundred milds in search of it, through the burnin’ sun, with achin’ body, wet with presperation all over. It seems to me I could get more rest out of the former than out of the more latter course, and proceedin’.

Howsomever, everybody to their own mind.

Likewise with changes. I have said, and I say still, that changes are likely and respectable, if you can get holt of ’em, but how can you?

Havin’ such powerful and eloquent emotions as I have, such principles a-performin’ inside of my mind, enjoyin’ such idees and aspirations, and longings, and hopes, and joys, and despairs, and—everything, I s’pose that is what makes me think that what is goin’ on ’round me—the outside of me—hain’t of so much consequence. I seem to live inside of myself (as it were), more than I do on the outside. And so it don’t seem of much consequence what the lay of the land ’round me may happen to be, whether it is sort o’ hilly and mountaneous, or more level like. Or whether steam-cars may be a-goin by me (on the outside of me), or boats a-sailin’ round me, or milk wagons.

You see, the real change—the real rest would have to be on the inside, and not on the outside. Nobody, no matter what their weight may be by the steelyards, can carry ’round such grand, hefty principles as I carry ’round, without gettin’ tired, or enjoy the lofty hopes, and desires, and aspirations that I enjoy, and meditate on all the sad, and mysterious, and puzzlin’ conundrums of the old world, as I meditate on ’em, without gettin’ fairly tuckered out. Great hearts enjoy greatly, and suffer greatly, and so, sometimes, when heart-tired and brain-weary, if I could quell down them lofty and soarin’ emotions, and make ’em lay still for a spell, and shet up my heart like a buro draw, and hang up the key, and onscrew my head, and lay it onto the manteltry-piece, then I could go off and enjoy a change that would be truly refreshin’ and delightful.

But as it is, from Janesville clear to Antipithies, the puzzlin’ perplexities and contradictions, the woes and the cares of the old world, foller right on after us as tight as our shadders. Our pure and soarin’ desires, our blind mistakes and deep despairs, our longings, strivings, memories, heart-aches, all the joys and burdens of a soul, has to be carried by us up the steepest mountains or down to the lowest vallies. The same emotions that was a-performin’ inside of our minds down in the Yo Semety, will be a-performin’ jist the same up on the Pyramids. The same questionin’ eyes, sort o’ glad, and sort o’ sorrowful, that looked out over New York harber, will look out over the Bay of Naples, and then beyond ’em both, out into a deeper and more mysterious ocean, the boundless sea that lays beyond everything, and before everything, and ’round everything. That great, misty sea of the unknown, the past, the hereafter; tryin’ to see what we hain’t never seen, and wonderin’ when we shall see it, and how, and where, and wherefore, and why? Tryin’ to hear the murmur of the waves that we know are a-washin’ up ’round us on every side, that nobody hain’t never heard, but we know are there; tryin’ to ketch a glimpse of them shadowy sails that are floatin’ in and out forevermore with a freight of immortal souls, bearin’ ’em here and away. We know we have sailed on ’em once, and have got to agin, and can’t ketch no glimpse on ’em, can’t know nothin’ about em; sealed baby lips—silent, dead lips never tellin’ us nothin’ about ’em. Each soul has got to embark, and sail out alone, out into the silence and the shadows, out into the mysterious Beyond.

Standin’ as we do on the narrow, precarious ground of the present, the mortal, and them endless, eternal seas, a-beatin’ ’round us, on every side of us, bottomless, shoreless, ageless, and we a not seein’ either of ’em, under them awful, and lofty, and curious circumstances, what difference does it really make to us whether we are a-settin’ down or a-standin’ up; whether we are on a hill or in a valley; whether a lot of us have got together like aunts in a aunt hill, or whether we are more alone like storks or ostriges?

_We can’t get away from ourselves_—can’t get a real change nohow, unless we knock our heads in and make idiots and lunys of ourselves. Movin’ our bodys round here and there is only a shadow of a change—a mockery. As if I should dress up my Josiah in a soldier coat, or baby clothes, there he is, inside of ’em, clear Josiah—no change in him, only a little difference in his outside circumstances.

This is a very deep and curious subject. I have talked eloquently on it, I know, and my readers know, and I could go on, and filosifize on it jest as eloquent and deep, fur hours and hours. But I have already episoded too fur, and to resoom, and continue on.

I told Tirzah Ann I thought it wus foolish in her to go off and rest, when they both, she and Whitfield, too, looked so awful rested now, and as bright as dollars. And that babe—well, it always wus the most beautiful child in the hull world, and the smartest child; but it does seem more as if it was smarter than ever, and beautifuler.

You see, their yard is large and shady, and the little thing havin’ got so it could run alone, would be out in the yard, a-playin’ round, most all the time. It was dretful good for her, and she enjoyed it, and Tirzah Ann enjoyed it, too; for after she got her work done up, all she had to do was to set in the door, and watch that little, pretty thing a-playin’ round, and bein’ perfectly happy.

It was a fair and lovely evenin’, though very warm; my salaratus had nearly gi’n out, and I had made the last drawin’ of tea for supper, and so, when I had got the dishes washed up, and Josiah had milked, he hitched up the old mare, and calm and serene in our two minds as the air of the evenin’, we rode down to Janesville, to get these necessarys, and a little beefsteak for breakfast, and see the children.

We found that Thomas J. and Maggie had gone to tea to her folkses, that afternoon, but Tirzah Ann and Whitfield wus to home, and I don’t want to see a prettier sight than I see, as we druv up.

There Tirzah Ann sat out on the portico, all dressed up in a cool, mull dress—it was one I bought for her, before she was married, but it wus washed and done up clean, and looked as good as new. It was pure white, with little bunches of blue forget-me-nots on it, and she had a bunch of the same posys in her hair and in the bosom of her frock, (there is a hull bed of ’em in the yard.) She is a master hand for dressin’ up, and lookin’ pretty, but at the same time, would be very equinomical, if she wus let alone. She looked the picture of health and enjoyment, plump and rosy, and happy as a queen. And she was a queen. Queen of her husband’s heart, and settin’ up on that pure and lofty throne of constant and deathless love, she looked first-rate, and felt so.

It had been a very warm day, really hot, and Whitfield, I s’pose, had come home kinder tired, so he had stretched himself out at full length on the grass, in front of the portico; and there he lay, with his hands clasped under his head, a-talkin’ and laughin’, and lookin’ up into Tirzah Ann’s face, as radiant and lovin’ as if she was the sun, and he a sunflower. But that simily, though very poetical and figurative, don’t half express the good looks, and health, and happiness on both their faces, as they looked at each other, and that babe, that most beautifulest of children, a-toddlin’ round, first up to one, and then the other, with her bright eyes a-dancin’, and her cheeks red as roses.

But the minute she ketched sight of her grandpa and me and the mare, she jest run down to the gate, as fast as her little legs could carry her, and I guess she got a pretty good kissin’ from Josiah and me. And Whitfield and Tirzah Ann came hurryin’ down to the gate, glad enough to see us, as they always be. Josiah, of course, had to take that beautiful child for a little ride, and Whitfield said he guessed he would go, too. So I got out, and went in, and as we sot there on the stoop, Tirzah Ann up and told me what she and Whitfield wus a-goin’ to do. They wus agoin’ away for a rest.

“Why,” said I, “I hardly ever, in my hull life, see anybody look so rested as you do now, both on you. How, under the sun, can you be rested any more than you be now?”

“Well,” she said, “it’s so very genteel to go. Mrs. Skidmore is a-goin’, and Mrs. Skidmore says nobody who made any pretensions to bein’ genteel stayed to home durin’ the heated term, no matter how cool the place wus they wus a-livin’ in.”

“What do they go for mostly?” says I, in a very cool way; for I didn’t like the idee.

“Oh, for health and——”