As I've repeated time and agin it is a apaulin' epock of time us males
are a passin' through. More and more, day by day and year by year the
female sect is a infringin' on us. Right after right, privelige after
privelige, dear to our manly souls as the very apples in our eyes, are
grasped holt on by encroachin' female hands and torn away from us weak
and helpless men.
From birth to death the infringin' goes on, you can't take up a
newspaper now but you see signs on't. In the good old times when a man
had a child born to him to carry on his name and his propputy to future
generations, he took the credit on't. How is it told on now? instead of
puttin' it in as it used to be, and ort to be, "John Smith has got a
son, John Smith Jr."--it is writ down now in this fool way:
"A son is born to John and Mary Smith." What's the use on't? John's
name is enough any fool would know there wuz a female somewhere
connected with the event in a womanly onobstrusive way, but why do
they have to bring her name forward to set her up, and spile her, and
mention all these little petickulars?
Why, how wuz it in Bible times, as I asked Samantha, sez I, "From the
very first it wuz set down as it ort to be and a sample to foller, Noah
begot Ham, and Ham begot Cush, and Cush begot Nimrod, and they kep' on
begettin' and begettin', chapter after chapter, and no female's name
connected with it in any way, shape or manner." Sez I, "Hain't that a
solemn proof, Samantha, that females are inferior and wuzn't considered
worth writin' about?" Sez I, "You nor no other Female Suffragist can
squirm out of that."
Sez Samantha, "Men translated the Bible, but I can tell you," sez she,
"that when Miss Ham, racked with agonizin' pain, went down to death's
door for little Cush, whilst Mr. Ham wuz santerin' round Canean smart
as a cricket, and probable flirtin' with some good lookin' four-mother,
if Miss Ham had writ it up for the Daily Paper her name would been
mentioned in the transaction."
That's jest the way it is, even Bible proof can't stop wimmen's clack
and argyin'. Yes, jest as I said, infringin' follers a man from the
cradle to the grave. For I'll be hanged if you don't see it writ
nowdays, "James Brown, beloved husband of Sarah Brown." How bold, how
forward! _husband of!_ It seems as if it is enough to make his grampa,
old Jotham Brown, turn over in his grave and try to git up, to stop
such doin's. He lived in a time when females knowed their place and
kep' in it. He had twenty-one children by his seven different wives,
and every one on 'em wuz put in the paper and the old Fambly Bible
credited to him; ketch him havin' any female's name mixed up with it,
oh no! They couldn't infringe on him, not whilst he wuz alive, they
couldn't. He worked his wives hard, and when one died off, he married
another. He said as long as the Lord kep' takin' 'em, he should.
As I said no female couldn't git the better of him whilst he wuz alive,
but they played a nasty mean trick on him after he wuz dead. His last
wife wuz a high headed creeter, or would have been if he hadn't broke
her in, and held her head down with such a tight rain. But owin' to
his disagreein' with all his children and bloody relatives she got
the propputy all in her hands, and after he died she got tall noble
gravestuns for every one of his different wives, almost monuments, with
a long verse of poetry on each one on 'em, and their names writ down in
full.
"Mahala Eliza--Mehitable Jane--Amanda Mandana--Drusilly
Charity--Priscilla Charlotte--Alzina Trypheena--Diantha Cordelia--all
carved in big deep letters, and their names before they wuz married.
These seven high stuns stood in a sort of a half circle with a little
low stun in the center and on it printed in little letters wuz:
"Our Husband."
It looked dretful; but his children all hatin' him as they did they
didn't interfere. But it wuz a mean trick and she couldn't have done it
if he'd been alive, no indeed. But seein' he wuzn't there to rain her
in and hold her down, she took the advantage on him as wimmen will if
you give 'em the chance. Folks all thought she done it to come up with
him for bein' so hard on his different wives, and keepin' 'em down so,
and I presoom she did. I presoom she wuz a regular female infringer and
suffrager.
Now in the marriage notices, instead of bein' put in the newspaper in
the modest becomin' way it used to be, "John Smith's son married to
Mary Brown," it has to be put in Mr. and Mrs. Smith's son or daughter
is married. Where is the good horse sense on't? Everybody would know
that young Smith had a mother somewhere in the background, but what's
the use of bringin' her forward so and makin' on her? It is jest to
infringe on men, that's what it is for.
And when Luke Dingman married Nancy Whittle she had the money to start
a store bizness, but Luke bein' a man, his wuz the name that ort to
been spoke on, and he went and got a handsome sign all painted "Luke
Dingman's Store." And if you'll believe it Nancy made him git it
painted all over agin "L. and N. Dingman's Store." What wuz the use of
draggin' a female's initional into it? Jest to infringe on us men. But
lots of men made fun on't and told Luke he'd ort to been man enough to
stand his ground and kep' the first sign. They say it makes Luke real
huffy, and he takes it out on Nancy, is dretful mean to her, but she's
only got herself to blame, she hadn't ort to infringed on him.
And last week Samantha and I went to Philena Peedick's weddin'. And
when the minister asked, "Who giveth this woman to this man?" the
widder Peedick walked up bold as brass, and gin Philena away, _she_, a
_female woman_! Never, as I told Uncle Sime, never did I see a plainer
or more flagrant case of infringin' on men's rights. Why, Philena had
a male uncle there, and ruther than see such things go on I would have
gin her away myself.
But thank Heaven, there is one thing they hain't changed yet, females
have got to knuckle down and be gin away to a man, in marriage, that's
a little comfort. "Who giveth this woman!" They have got to hear that,
much as it may gald 'em.
But as I told Uncle Sime, it would be jest like 'em to try to change
that. And I told him the first we knew a female would snake a man up to
the altar, and the minister would be made to say, Who giveth this man
to this woman? and the woman who walked him up there would say, "I give
him." And then she'll hand him over to the bride. Oh, my soul! have I
ever got to see that day? Uncle Sime and I both said that we hoped and
trusted that we would be dead and buried under our tombs before that
humiliation come onto our sect.
Uncle Sime and I sympathize a lot together and talk of the good old
times and forebode about the future. And one day when my sperit seemed
crushed down and deprested more than common, and the future for us men
looked dark and gloomy indeed, I sez to him:
"Simon, I see ahead on us the time when I shall be called Mr. Samantha
Smith."
Uncle Sime, though very smart, hain't got my mind, sort o' forebodin'
and prophetic, and much as he'd worried about wimmen's infringin', he
hadn't foreboded to that extent, and he trembled like a popple leaf at
them dretful words and sez:
"Oh, gracious heavens, Josiah! how can we men ever stand up under that!"
But I went on, turnin' the knife in the wownd, "Mr. Kittie Brown, Mr.
Nellie Jones! What do you think of that, Simon?"
He groaned and sithed but didn't say nothin'; it seemed as if the very
idee had fairly stunted him, and I kep' still and meditated and my mind
roamed back to the humiliatin' time when I laid my onwillin' nose on
the grindstun, or ruther it wuz laid on for me and held there, and I
signed a piece of poetry I had writ "Samantha Allen's Husband."
It hain't no use to go into the petickulars and tell all about the
means employed to git me under such mortifyin' subjugation. Vittles
had sunthin' to do with it, and I hain't goin' to tell no furder. But
never, never shall I forgit my meachin' and downtrod linement as I
surveyed it in the glass when I wuz shavin' jest afterwards. Shavin' a
beard! that very act riz up and asserted the supremacy of my sect and
mocked the move I had made. Oh, the sufferin's of that occasion and
my vain efforts to git out of it. But Samantha never sympathized with
me a mite. She said, "You've seen me doin' the same thing for years
and enjoyed it, and what is sass for the gander ort to be sass for the
goose."
There is another proof of wimmen's infringin'; she turned that familiar
old sayin' right round to carry her pint, and put the goose where the
gander always had been, and ort to be. I tell you there hain't no
length a female won't go to to carry the day and infringe on men's
rights.
And you might as well git blood from a white turnip as to git any pity
and sympathy from 'em for my downtrod sect. For when I mentioned to
Samantha my turrible forebodin' about my sect havin' to take wimmen's
names at the altar, and asked her if she could begin to realize what
men's humiliated and despairin' feelin's would be at such a time, she
up and sez:
"Do you realize what wimmen's feelin's are at the altar? She's had
to stand it. No matter how romantic and beautiful her name wuz, Miss
Victoria Angela Chesterfield has had to change it for Miss Ichabod
Tubbs, or Miss Peleg Hogg.
"And," sez she, "if she has a big propputy and married a man so poor he
had to borry his weddin' shirt, she had to hear him say, 'With all my
worldly goods I thee endow,' when all them goods wuz a pile of debts
she had to pay for him, but she had to stand it and couldn't snicker,
for it wuzn't a snickerin' time.
"And a great able bodied business woman had to promise to obey a
little snip of a boy, when they both knew she wuz lyin', with a priest
hearin' the lie and givin' it his blessin'. My sect has had to stand
considerable from yourn," sez Samantha.
No, I didn't git a mite of sympathy from her, and might have knowed it,
and I'd better not said a word to her about my forebodin's.
But Uncle Simon Bentley always hears my prognostics with respectful
sympathy, and he said after I come out of my meditations, and asked him
agin how he would feel to take a woman's name, he sez:
"Thanks to a kind and protectin' Providence, I hain't married. But
never! whilst I have the sperit of manhood in me would I, Simon
Bentley, ever be called Miss Polly Brown. No, I would cover that alter
with my goar, before I would submit to it." And to comfort me he sez,
"Josiah, mebby it won't take place in our day."
But I sez, "Simon, I see it jest ahead on us if this infringin' can't
be stopped, and I don't see no way to stop it."
But sez Simon in his comfortin' way, "Your book, Josiah, that great
work, you forgit that. I believe it will work wonders for our poor
strugglin' sect."
"No, Simon," sez I, "I don't forgit that great work for a moment of
time; it is the anchor throwed out into the heavin' water of woman's
revolt that is a risin' all round us. Sometimes I hope the anchor will
touch the solid bottom of man's supremacy, and hold, and then I feel
boyed up. But my feelin's ebbs and flows like the mighty ocean to which
I have before fittin'ly compared my emotions. We both on us heave up,
and heave down. To-day I am a heavin' down. Oh, how deprested and
dubersome I do feel," but I went on in tremblin' axents, "I am bound
to make this tremenjous effort, and if you and I, Uncle Sime, and the
rest of our sect have got to lay down in the dust to be trod on by the
feet of underlin's, whilst layin' there under them high heels, I will
have the conscientiousness that I have did what I could for my downtrod
sect."
My feelin's overcome me so here that I took out my bandanna and wiped
my eyes, and Uncle Sime hisen. He looked as cast down as I did, as
we both realized our danger from the turrible doin's round us, and
instinctively we took holt of hands and sot there sympathizin' for
quite a spell.
But anon Uncle Sime had to go home. He lives with his niece and she
sez, "if she has to support him, he has got to be promp to his meals,
or go without," so he hastened off.
And I summoned up the brave dantless sperit of manhood and walked
upright through the kitchen (we'd been settin' on the back stoop).
I trod with a firm bold step and braved Samantha's onsympathizin'
demeanor as she stood fryin' nut cakes, and retired into the welcome
seclusion of the corner sacred to my literary pursuits.
Mekanically I run my hands through the dish-pan heaped with Betsy's
poetry. Oh, how sad, when a man has to turn to another female (and one
he has always detested) for the sympathy and understandin' denied him
on his own hearthstun. And though I despise Betsy Bobbett Slimpsey as
a human bein' and a female, yet when torn and wownded from infringin'
and cold remarks from my own pardner, I do draw a little mite of
comfort from that granny iron dish-pan, and runnin' my hand through
the poetry heaped up in it, and read how she looks up to my sect, and
the becomin' and reverent views she takes on us, and me in petickular.
And how it has always been the goal of her life and should be to every
womanly female to be united by hook or by crook to one on us, it
soothed me, it brought back the dear old days when man's supremacy wuz
onquestioned and he wuzn't infringed on.
And I read how she despises and looks down on the encroachments of
the inferior sect to which she belongs, and how she loathes the great
tide of the Feminist movement that is risin' up all over the world,
threatenin' to sweep us strong males away, as frothy water, if there is
enough on't will uproot giant oaks.
I read over piece after piece to cam my sperit, hurt and wownded by
infringin', and my pardner's onsympathizin' words, and I picked out the
follerin' one as bein' comparitively worthy a place in my great work.
This poem, writ before her marriage, I consider the most touchin'ly
pathetic one of all the enormous pile on 'em I had perused. What to a
feelin' mind and tender heart is more pitiful than to see a patridge
hidin' his head under a maple leaf, and thinkin' his hull body is hid
from the hunter? What is more affectin' than to see how Betsy tried to
hide her lifelong pursuit of man, and matrimony, under the cold word,
_duty_?
"Unless she see her duty plain."
Oh, what a soul of meanin' there is hid under that word, _unless_.
A keen eye, and a tender heart can read between the lines her real
meanin', her dantless resolve, as plain as the hunter sees the plump
body and gray tail feathers of the patridge. But I will not keep the
reader longer from the sad but beautiful poem.