"I fain would know why woman is outraged,
And trampled in the very dust by man,
Who vaunts himself the lord of all the earth,
And e'en the mighty realms of sea and air."
Winter was passing away, and Wimbledon was making but slow progress
toward the better knowledge of the new family that had come among them.
The silver plate on the hall door announced the master's name as Col. J.
Corydon Malcome, a sounding appellation enough; and he was often seen
walking up and down the streets in his rich, fur-lined overcoat and laced
velvet cap, placed with a courtly air over his cloud of ebon curls. He
was known to be a widower, and the woful extravagancies into which Mary
Madeline Mumbles cajoled her doting mother, were enough to make one
shudder in relating. Wimbledon was ransacked for the gayest taffetas, the
jauntiest bonnets, and broadest Dutch lace, till, at length, poor Mr.
Salsify went to his wife with a doleful countenance, and told her he
could never "rise in his profession" as long as she upheld Madeline in
such whimsical extravagance. Mrs. Salsify looked lofty, and tossed her
carroty head; but her husband had waxed bold in his distress, and could
not be intimidated by ireful brows, or pursed-up lips. So he proceeded to
free his mind on this wise: "As for Mary Madeline's ever catching that
haughty, black-headed Col. Malcome, I know better; she can't do it, and I
would much rather have her marry Theophilus Shaw, who is a steady, modest
shoemaker. He makes good wages, and can maintain a wife comfortably, and
would treat her well; which is more than I would trust that
murderous-looking colonel to do."
"Well, you will have your own way, I suppose," said Mrs. S., putting on
an injured expression. "I see it is about as Mrs. Pimble and the
sisterhood tell me. Men are all a set of tyrants, and the women are their
slaves."
"Come, come, wife!" said Mr. Salsify, impatiently; "pray, don't get any
of those foolish notions in your head. Depend upon it, nothing could so
effectually put a stop to my 'rising in my profession.' The piazza and
second story could never be built, if you neglected your home affairs,
and went cantering about the country, like those evil-spirited women,
turning everything topsy-turvy, and mocking at all law and order; but I
know my wife has a mind too delicate and feminine to commit such bold,
masculine actions."
Mr. Mumbles had chosen the right weapon with which to combat his wife's
inclinations toward the Woman's Rights mania. A love of flattery was her
weak point. It is with half her sex. We too often say, by way of
expressing our disapproval of a certain man, "O, he is a gross
flatterer!" thus very frequently condemning the quality we most admire in
him;--or, if not the one we most admire, at least the one which affords
us most pleasure and gratification when in his society. But to our tale:
On a certain blustering January day, a sleigh, containing two ladies and
a gentleman, drove to the door of Col. Malcome's elegant mansion, and
were ushered into the spacious drawing-room by the blooming-visaged
housekeeper. Col. Malcome arose from the luxurious sofa on which he had
been reclining among a profusion of costly furs, and received his
visitors with an air of courtly magnificence, which might have had the
effect to intimidate a modest, retiring female; but not king Solomon in
all his glory could intimidate or abash Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble, or
Mrs. Rebecca Potentia Lawson. As for poor, insignificant Peter Pimble, he
looked quite aghast with terror and astonishment at his own temerity in
penetrating to a presence so imposing and sublime, and cuddled away in
the most obscure corner he could find, while his majestic wife assumed a
velvet-cushioned arm-chair, which stood beside a marble table.
"Perhaps you do not know our names?" said Mrs. Pimble, bending a sharp
glance on Col. Malcome from beneath her shaggy brows.
"I certainly have not that pleasure, madam," answered the colonel, with a
graceful bow.
"I do not like that style of address," said Mrs. Lawson, arising from the
ottoman on which she had been sitting, with her broad, white palms
extended to the warmth of the glowing grate, and throwing her stately
form upon a crimson sofa; "it is a fawning, affected, puppyish manner,
which men assume when speaking to women, as if they were not capable of
understanding and appreciating a plain, common-sense mode of address."
"Ah, yes!" said Mrs. Pimble, "man has so long reigned a tyrant of
absolute sway, that centuries will pass, I fear, before he is dethroned,
and woman elevated to her proper stand among the nations of the earth."
Here she tossed her bonnet on the table, smoothed her bushy hair, and,
drawing a red bandanna from her pocket, gave her long nose a vigorous
rub, and settled herself in her soft chair again. Col. Malcome sat bolt
upright among the furs which were piled up around him, and stared at his
visitors. Yes, refined and polite though he was, he forgot his
good-breeding in surprise at the coarse, singular manners of his
involuntary guests. The figure in the extreme corner of the apartment at
length attracted his notice, and placing a chair in proximity to the
fire, he said, "Will you not be seated, sir?"
The muffled shape moved, but the brawny lady in the rocking-chair spoke,
and it was still again.
"O, Pimble can stand, Mr. Malcome," she said, "that's his name, and mine
is Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble, author of tracts for the amelioration of
enslaved and down-trodden woman; and this is Mrs. Rebecca Potentia
Lawson, my sister and co-operater in the work of reform."
Col. Malcome bowed; but, recollecting the rebuff one brief remark of his
had received, remained silent.
"The object of our visit," said Mrs. Lawson, "is to see and confer with
the ladies of your household."
"Begging your pardon," said the colonel, "my family contains but one
lady."
"Ah, the one we met at the door, then?" remarked Mrs. Pimble.
"No, madam; that was my housekeeper," returned the colonel.
"Well, what do you call _her_?" asked Mrs. Lawson.
"My housekeeper, madam, as I have just informed you."
"She has no other name, I suppose?" said Mrs. Pimble, in a loud, ironical
tone; "she is to you a housekeeper, as a horse is a horse, or a cow a
cow;--not a woman"----
"O, yes! a woman, certainly," interrupted the colonel.
"A woman, but not a lady?" continued Mrs. Pimble.
The gentleman bowed as if he felt himself understood. "Well, sir," said
Mrs. Lawson, peering on him through her green glasses, "will you please
to inform us of the difference between a woman and a lady?"
Col. Malcome, who loved the satirical, had a mind to apply it here, but
his politeness restrained him, and he merely remarked, "In a general
sense, none: in a particular, very great."
"That is, in _your_ opinion," said Mrs. Pimble. "Now let me tell you
there is no difference, whatever. The wide world over, every woman is a
lady--(the colonel hemmed,)--every woman is a lady," repeated Mrs. P.,
"and every lady is a woman."
"That is, in _your_ opinion?" remarked Col. Malcome.
"In every sensible person's opinion."
"Well, sister Justitia," said Mrs. Lawson, drawing forth a massive silver
watch, by a steel fob-chain; "we are wasting time. There's but an hour to
the lecture, and we have several miles to ride. Let us state the object
of our visit in a form suited to this man's comprehension."
The colonel felt rather small, on hearing this depreciation of his
intellectual powers, but said nothing.
"Well, make the statement, sister Potentia," said Mrs. Pimble, folding
her brawny arms over her capacious chest, and giving a loud, masculine
ahem.
"Mr. Malcome, we would like to see the female portion of your household,"
said Mrs. Lawson, in a slow, measured tone, with an emphasis on every
word.
As the colonel, indignant at the coarse vulgarity of the intruders, was
about to reply in the negative--the door opened, and Edith entered,
accompanied by Sylva, who led a small, white Spanish poodle by a silver
cord. The little animal capered gracefully about, cutting all sorts of
cunning antics, much to the amusement of the young girl, till at length
discovering the muffled shape of Pimble behind the door, he ran up to
him, smelt at his clothes, and commenced a furious barking.
"You had better go out doors, Pimble," said his wife; "you are so
contemptible a thing even insignificant curs yelp at your heels."
Mrs. Lawson laughed loudly at this witty speech, and the poor man was
about disappearing outside the door, when Col. Malcome prevented his exit
by bidding him be seated, and ordering Sylva to drive Fido from the room.
Quiet being restored, and Mr. Pimble having ventured to drop tremblingly
on the extreme edge of the chair offered for his comfort and convenience,
Col. Malcome said, "You wished to see the female portion of my
household:--here are two of them; my daughter and her attendant."
"Her attendant!" remarked Mrs. Lawson, "I do not know as I exactly
understand the signification of that term, as applied by you in the
present instance."
"Her waiting-woman, then," answered the colonel, "if that is a plainer
term."
"Ay, yes; her waiting-woman," resumed Mrs. L. "Well, your daughter looks
rather puny and sickly. She needs exercise in the open air, I should
say,--narrow-chested,--comes from a consumptive family on the mother's
side?"
"Madam," said Col. Malcome, with a sudden anger in his tone and manner,
"I don't know as it is any business of yours, from what family my
daughter comes."
"O, no particular business," continued Mrs. Lawson, with undisturbed
equanimity; "I only judged her to come of a consumptive race by her face
and form. Public speaking would be an excellent remedy for her weakly
appearance. That enlarges the lungs, and creates confidence and reliance
on one's own powers. Miss Malcome, would you not like to attend some of
our lectures and reform clubs?"
"I don't know," answered Edith, tremblingly. "I think I would if father
is willing;" and she turned her sweet blue eyes up to his face, as if to
read there her permission or refusal.
"A slave to parental authority, I see," remarked Mrs. Pimble; "but this
lady, grown to years of maturity; she, surely, should have a mind of her
own. Don't you think woman is made a galley-slave by the tyrant man?" she
demanded, turning her discourse on Sylva, who looked confused, as if she
did not quite understand the speech addressed to her. At length, she
asked timidly, "What woman do you refer to, madam?" "To all women upon
the face of the earth!" returned Mrs. Pimble, vehemently. "Are they not
loaded with chains and fetters, and crushed down in filthy mire and dirt
by self-inflated, tyrannizing man?"
"O, no!" answered Sylva, innocently; "no man ever put a chain on me, or
on any woman of my acquaintance, or ever pushed one down in the dirt."
"Poor fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pimble, with great indignation; "you are
grovelling in the mire of ignorance, and man's foot is on your neck to
hold you there."
The figure that trembled on the edge of the chair was now heard calling
faintly, "Mrs. Pimble--Mrs. Pimble."
"Pimble speaks, sister Justitia," said Mrs. Lawson.
"What do you want?" asked the lady, turning sharply round.
"'Tis four o'clock, ma'am," gasped he.
"Four o'clock! didn't I tell you I wished to be at the lecture-room at
that hour?"
"I didn't like to interrupt you," he answered feebly.
"What a fool of a man!" exclaimed the enraged wife. "Bring the sleigh to
the door, instanter;" and Pimble rushed out, the ladies following close
on his heels, vociferating at the top of their voices, without even a
parting salutation to the family they had been visiting.