Transcriber’s Note: Obvious printer and punctuation errors have been
corrected, but dialect, unconventional and inconsistent spellings
(haint/hain’t, their/thier, etc) are left untouched.
[Illustration: MR. BOBBET TELLS NEWS.]
MY OPINIONS
AND
BETSEY BOBBET’S.
DESIGNED AS
A BEACON LIGHT,
TO GUIDE WOMEN TO LIFE, LIBERTY AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS,
BUT WHICH MAY BE READ BY
MEMBERS OF THE STERNER SECT,
WITHOUT INJURY TO THEMSELVES
OR THE BOOK.
BY
JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.
“_Who will read the Book, Samantha, when it is rote?_”
PUBLISHED BY SUBSCRIPTION ONLY,
HARTFORD, CONN.:
AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.
1884.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by the
AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
This Book is Dedicated
To my own Lawful Pardner,
JOSIAH.
Whom (although I have been his Consort
for a little upwards of 14 years)
I still Love with a
CAST-IRON DEVOTEDNESS.
PREFACE.
Which is to be read, if it haint askin’ too much of the kind hearted
reader.
In the first days of our married life, I strained nearly every nerve
to help my companion Josiah along and take care of his children by his
former consort, the subject of black African slavery also wearin’ on me,
and a mortgage of 200 and 50 dollars on the farm. But as we prospered and
the mortgage was cleared, and the children were off to school, the black
African also bein’ liberated about the same time of the mortgage, then
my mind bein’ free from these cares--the great subject of Wimmen’s Rites
kept a goarin’ me, and a voice kept a sayin’ inside of me,
“Josiah Allen’s wife, write a book givin’ your views on the great subject
of Wimmen’s Rites.” But I hung back in spirit from the idea and says I,
to myself, “I never went to school much and don’t know nothin’ about
grammer, and I never could spell worth a cent.”
But still that deep voice kept a ’swaiden me--“Josiah Allen’s wife, write
a book.”
Says I, “I can’t write a book, I don’t know no underground dungeons, I
haint acquainted with no haunted houses, I never see a hero suspended
over a abyss by his gallusses, I never beheld a heroine swoon away, I
never see a Injun tommy hawked, nor a ghost; I never had any of these
advantages; I can’t write a book.”
But still it kept a sayin’ inside of my mind, “Josiah Allen’s wife write
a book about your life, as it passes in front of you and Josiah, daily,
and your views on Wimmen’s Rites. The great publick wheel is a rollin’
on slowly, drawin’ the Femail Race into liberty; Josiah Allen’s wife, put
your shoulder blades to the wheel.”
And so that almost hauntin’ voice inside of me kept a ’swaidin me, and
finally I spoke out in a loud clear voice and answered it--
“I _will_ put my shoulder blades to the wheel.”
I well remember the time I said it, for it skairt Josiah almost to death.
It was night and we was both settin’ by the fire relapsted into silence
and he--not knowin’ the conversation goin’ on inside of my mind, thought
I was crazy, and jumped up as if he was shot, and says he, in tremblin’
tones,
“What is the matter Samantha?”
Says I, “Josiah I am goin’ to write a book.”
This skairt him worse than ever--I could see, by his ghastly
countenance--and he started off on the run for the camfire bottle.
Says I, in firm but gentle axcents, “camfire can’t stop me Josiah, the
book will be wrote.”
He see by my pale but calm countenance, that I was not delirious any, and
(by experience) he knows that when my mind is made up, I have got a firm
and almost cast iron resolution. He said no more, but he sot down and
sithed hevily; finally he spoke out in a despairin’ tone, he is pretty
close (but honest),
“Who will read the book Samantha? Remember if you write it you have got
to stand the brunt of it yourself--I haint no money to hire folks with
to read it.” And again he sithed two or three times. And he hadn’t much
more than got through sithein’ when he asked me again in a tone of almost
agony--
“Who will read the book Samantha after you write it?”
The same question was fillin’ me with agonizin’ apprehension, but I
concealed it and answered with almost marble calm,
“I don’t know Josiah, but I am determined to put my shoulder blades to
the wheel and write it.”
Josiah didn’t say no more then, but it wore on him--for that night in the
ded of night he spoke out in his sleep in a kind of a wild way,
“Who will read the book?”
I hunched him with my elbo’ to wake him up, and he muttered--“I won’t pay
out one cent of my money to hire any body to read it.”
I pitied him, for I was afraid it would end in the Night Mair, and I
waked him up, and promised him then and there, that I never would ask
him to pay out one cent to hire any body to read it. He has perfect
confidence in me and he brightened up and haint never said a word sense
against the idea, and that is the way this book come to be wrote.
WHAT IS IN THE BOOK.
MARRIED TO JOSIAH ALLEN.
Livin’ up to one Idee--Love at First Sight--A Marriage of
Love--Why did I Love Josiah?--A Becon that has never gone
out--Men can’t stand Flattery--My Present feelin’s towards
Josiah--Objections to Widowers--Comparin’ Wives--Josiah not
encouraged in it--Rule for Domestic Happiness 17-20
JOSIAH AND THE CHILDREN.
A hard row for Step-Mothers--Thomas Jefferson and Tirzah
Ann--Thomas J. on Foreordination--Tirzah Ann’s sentiments--A
Hefty Angel--Makin’ excuses at table--How to make Bad Cake
taste good--Our Farm on the Canal--Plenty of Garden Sass--4
Tons to the acre 21-25
AN UNMARRIED FEMALE.
Betsey Bobbet introduced--While there is Life there is Hope of
getting married--Betsey’s personal appearance--Betsey’s Opinions
and Views of a Woman’s Speah--Betsey writes Poetry--A Specimen
of it--Owed to Josiah--Josiah makes a Confession and gets
Rebuked--Betsey Bobbet visits me unexpectedly--Gushin’s of a
Tendeh Soul--The Editah with Twins--Weddin’ Affinities 26-37
HAVIN’ MY PICTURE TOOK.
Down to Jonesville--In Mr. Gansey’s Aunty Room--Preparin’ for
a Picture--The Editer of the Augur--Daughters of Bachus and
Venus--Haunts of the Graces--“Logical Reveries”--A Poem--My
Picture Took 38-45
OUR SURPRISE PARTIES.
My opinions of Surprises--I am persuaded to go--A Surprise
Party Surprised--Not wanted just then--An Upset in the snow--A
Peaceful Evening at home--Josiah and I enjoying ourselves
Doctorin’--Our Happiness interrupted--Surprised by a Party of
50--Fearful excitement of Josiah--The Enemy retire--The Editer
surprised--Betsey writes a Poem upon it 46-57
A DAY OF TROUBLES.
Sugerin’ Time--Woman’s work--Man’s work--The Editer brings his
Twins--There first doin’s--The trouble begins--Betsey Bobbet
arrives--I think of John Rogers and have Patience--Betsey and
the twins--A Soothin’ Poultice--An Argument with Betsey--I
Preach and Practice--Betsey asks Advice and gets It--Betsey
reads a Poem--She gets more of my Opinions--Return of the
Editer--Concludes to stay to Dinner--Sees Betsey and changes
his mind--Grand Tableaux by the whole company 58-68
THE MINISTER’S BEDQUILT.
Thomas J. believes in water for the Baptists--Reasons for goin’
to Quiltin’s--The Baptist Quiltin’ Party--We dispose of all our
neighbors not present--Miss Dobbin, a peacemaker--The Minister’s
wife discussed--Betsey Bobbet arrives--She labors under great
excitement and overwhelms the party with her mysterious
words--Astounding disclosures--Thomas J.’s story to Betsey--The
story discussed--Handsome Ministers--Wimmen flingin’ stuns--The
Minister arrives--The mystery solved 69-84
A ALLEGORY ON WIMMEN’S RIGHTS.
A Wimmen’s Rights Meetin’--A Wimmen’s Rights man--Idiots,
Lunatics and Wimmen--The Woman sheep-stealer--Wimmen have a right
to go to Prison and be Hung--Wimmen in Court--The right to go to
the Hop and Cistern Poles--An anti Wimmen’s Rights man--Hired
Husbands--Marriage and Slavery--True Marriages--Happy Homes and
Children--An Angel calling for Fire Wood 85-98
AN AXIDENT.
Bothered by Hens--A model Pup Dog--A Fall--Very sick
a-bed--“That’s what’s the matter”--What makes Angels--Too much of
a thing--Josiah being cheerful--I use Strategim--Betsey visits me
and brings her Bed-Quilt--Come to spend the day--All the Family
comin’--Keepin’ me quiet and Chirkin’ me up--She flies in terror
from my wrath--Blasted Hopes 99-111
THE JONESVILLE SINGIN’ QUIRE.
Worryin’ about Girls and not about Boys--Wimmen’s Charity for
Wimmen--The Prodigal Daughter’s return--What is good for a Boy
is good for a Girl--A Spy in the Family--Tirzah Ann’s future
Marriage--Thomas J. prefers a back seat--He describes the
Quire--We go up to the Rehersal--A United Quire--The Entire
Orkusstree--A Artistic Duett--Josiah breaks out in Song--Betsey
Remonstrates in Verse 112-126
MISS SHAKESPEARE’S EARRINGS.
Josiah gives up Singin’--Betsey feelin’ lonesome, visits
me--She bemoans her lone state--Betsey is willin’ but the men
haint--A smile or a supper--Correctin’ a Husband--Woman as a
runnin’ vine--The Elder’s Choice--The Carpet Pedler--Bound for
a Trade--Bill Shakespeare’s present--An affectin’ story--Betsey
makes a purchase--Thomas J. turns poet--Betsey shows her
prize--The Minister’s Wife’s old Jewelry--Betsey sick at heart,
goes home 127-144
A NITE OF TROUBLES.
A Serenade disturbed by Thomas J.--Musical powers of Cats--Josiah
on the war-path--Another Serenade--Josiah swears--“Come, oh come
with me”--Josiah shows wickedness--A “meloncholly man”--The
Serenader “languishes”--An Address by Thomas J.--Relics left on
the field 145-156
4th OF JULY IN JONESVILLE.
The Professor’s Poem--The Celebration on the field--Professor
Aspire Todd--The Professor’s Speech--Old Mr. Bobbet endorses
the speaker--The Editer interferes--“Yes! dround the Black
Cat”--The next Speaker--An Argument Illustrated--A Wife’s
Devotion--Adjournment for Dinner--Toasts given--A Poem by B.
B.--At Home Countin’ the Cost--What good has it done? 157-174
SIMON SLIMPSEY’S MOURNFUL FOREBODIN’S.
Thomas J. discusses the Jews--He expresses his Opinion of
Betsey’s Religion--A visit from Simon Slimpsey--His
appearance--A Victim of bad luck--“She’ll get round me”--A
Poem for Modest Wimmen, by B. B.--Slimpsey don’t want to
marry--Reconciled to the loss of his late Consort--Overcome
by his fears for the future 177-187
FREE LOVE LECTURES.
A Beautiful October day, good to pull Beets--Betsey gets Kissed
at last--A Professor that was married some--Married Men good
for some purposes--A Free Love Song--A war Cry--Professor
Gusher’s Visit--Peppermint recommended to the Professor for his
troubles--No Yearnin’ for Freedom--Value of Divorce Bills--What
I would do if I Yearned--A Mean Business 188-200
ELDER WESLEY MINKLE’S DONATION.
Betsey visits me and brings her Tattin’--She Mourns over her
neglected duties--She decides in future to work and also to
prey--The Donation Party--Josiah objects to them--Quotes
the ’postle Paul as an Example--How we went and what was
Donated--Brother Minkley re-preaches his sermon to me--The
Elder tempted--The Grab Bag--The Elder throws the tempter--A
new attack of the Enemy--Grab Bags and Huzzies finally
overcome--Match Makin’--The Editer arrives--He congratulates
himself--Married and Saved--Betsey’s disappointment and wild
agony--She seeks relief in Poetry--She desires to be a ghost 201-221
WIMMEN’S SPEAH.
The new Preacher clung to--A Visit from Betsey--A Discussion
on Wimmen’s Speah--Female Delicacy as shown in Waltzin’ with
Pirates mebbe--Wimmen as boards--Tattin’ and Paintin’--Dressin’
and Flirtin’--Readin’ Novels--Paul’s Letters--Wimmen’s
talk--Itchin’ ears--Betsey’s new Poem on Matrimony--True
Marriage--About Divorces--Clingers--Baptist Wimmen Voters--Nater
will out: a hen will Scratch--Wimmen won’t be driven--Betsey
prefers to walk home and is accommodated 222-243
A TOWER TO NEW YORK DISCUSSED.
Progress of affairs at Jonesville--Peace and Plenty--Betsey
alive but Quiet--H. Greeley and I differ in some things--I
propose a Tower--Josiah shows Jealousy--Democrats short of
President Stuff--H. G. up for President--Effect of Suspense on
me--Josiah consents to the Tower--Preparations--An Overskirt
important--Josiah sells the Critter 244-257
GOVERNED BY PRINCIPLE.
Open preparations for the Tower--Josiah’s White Hat--My
Principles induce me also to wear one--Old “Hail the Day”
contributes Feathers--On the Political Fence--Betsey also
proposes a Tower--At the Depott--Betsey Explains--The 1st
Partin’ for 15 years 258-271
MEETIN’ GRANT AND COLFAX.
The Ticket Master--Folks I met with--Lack of Water
Privileges--A Cigar without smoke--The Smilin’ Stranger--Bad
use of Eggs--Grant and Colfax--“Ulysses, how do you do”--Betsey
reads a Poem to Gen’l Grant--“Let us have Peace”--Betsey
overcome by Strategim 272-287
AT NEW YORK, ASTERS’ES TAVERN.
A Familiar Stranger--“Will you have a bus?”--Betsey’s Hopes--A
Vegetable Widow--Procession on Broadway--Miss Asters’es
Tavern--The Register--The Elevator--First thoughts in the
Mornin’--Breakfast table--An Insult--Store Tea--I leave the
Water Runnin’--Betsey Disappointed again 288-305
MEET DR. MARY WALKER.
Call on Miss Hooker--Engaged and what of it--At Miss
Woodhull’s door--Of Doubtful Gender--Miss Dr.
Walker--Admittance obtained--A newly Married Man--Two Roman
Noses 306-312
INTERVIEW WITH THEODORE AND VICTORY.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton--H. W. Beecher--Isabella Beecher
Hooker--Susan B. Anthony--Theodore Tilton--Victory
Woodhull--Male and Female Angels--Feathers on Angel’s
Wings--Blind Marriages--Thoroughwert Pukes--Theodore’s
Opinions--He Advocates Divorces--To Marry and not to Marry
both Solemn--Betsey’s Prayer--Theodore yields 313-335
A WIMMEN’S RIGHTS LECTURER.
A Visitor--Been on a Lecture Tower--Tyrant man--A Cure for
Pantin’ Hearts--A Star of Hope--Dress and Statesmanship--A
Dinner and a Desert 336-347
ALEXANDER’S STORE.
Mr. Cash’es Family--Alexander don’t take Butter, Eggs, Socks,
or Barter--A Look at Calicos--Foreign Princes--Dolly Varden
and her Acquaintances--A Dreadful Discovery--Betsey’s Poetry
in Market 348-356
A HARROWIN’ OPERATION.
A poor Maniac--A Affectin’ Sight--A Ear for Music--Tirzah
Ann a Musician--Operation of the D-David--Farewell to Mrs.
Asters’es 357-364
A VISIT TO HORACE.
First Impressions of him--No Peace for Candidates--Men
all Alike--Darwin’s Idees--Horace’s old Letters--His
Admissions--Wimmen’s Influence at Washington--The Wrong
Foot Forrerd--A Woman, or Patrick Oh Flanegan--The Widder
Albert--Queen Bees--Paul’s Opinions--Christ’s Example--Nearly
Overcome--Betsey’s Overtures--Horace and I Part 365-396
A SEA VOYAGE.
Left by the Cars--On the Canal Boat--Terrible Storm--Dangers
Surround Us--Betsey Writes a Poem--Sings Sea Odes--The
Poem--At Home 397-405
OLD FRIENDS IN NEW GARMENTS.
Betsey Bobbet Married--Poor Simon Slimpsey--Betsey at Home--Her
Last Poem--The End 406-420
HOME AND JOSIAH.
Bad News--Horace Greeley dead--A Review of my Tower--Victory
in Jail--Miss Aster a deception--Beecher slandered--Tilton
do. do.--Doubts of Josiah--My Kitchen--I wear a bow on
principle--Our supper--Josiah grows sentimental--I don’t
discourage him 421-434
PICTURES IN THE BOOK.
PAGE.
1 THE PLEASANT SUPPER (FULL PAGE) (_Frontispiece_)
2 I AND JOSIAH 19
3 REFRESHMENTS (TAIL PIECE) 20
4 TIRZAH ANN 23
5 BETSEY BOBBET 27
6 READIN’ POETRY 33
7 LOOKING FOR A VICTIM (TAIL PIECE) 37
8 PREPARIN’ FOR A PICTURE 39
9 THE PICTURE 45
10 THE SURPRISE PARTY (FULL PAGE) 53
11 DELICIOUS (TAIL PIECE) 57
12 THE QUILTIN’ PARTY (FULL PAGE) 77
13 SCANDALIZED (TAIL PIECE) 84
14 AN ACCIDENT 101
15 JOSIAH BEIN’ CHEERFUL 105
16 KEEPIN’ THE SICK QUIET 109
17 A FULL QUIRE 123
18 THE EAR RING PEDLER (FULL PAGE) 141
19 DISGUST (TAIL PIECE) 144
20 THE SERENADERS (FULL PAGE) 150
21 MEWSIN’ (TAIL PIECE) 156
22 THE FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION (FULL PAGE) 162
23 WHAT HAPPENED AT THE DINNER (FULL PAGE) 170
24 COUNTIN’ THE COST (FULL PAGE) 175
25 SIMON SLIMPSEY 182
26 SIMON OVERWHELMED 187
27 PROF. GUSHER 195
28 LIVIN’ ON GOSPEL 204
29 THE ENEMY ATTACKED 210
30 THE ELDER ON THE ALERT 213
31 BETSEY SEEKS RELIEF 219
32 A STRONG ATTACHMENT (TAIL PIECE) 221
33 FEMALE DELICACY 224
34 NO TIME TO VOTE 226
35 DREADFUL SHORT OF TIME 227
36 NO TIME TO STUDY LAWS 228
37 A WOMAN’S RIGHTS (FULL PAGE) 234
38 PRIMARY MEETINGS AND RESULTS (FULL PAGE) 241
39 A VICTORY (TAIL PIECE) 256
40 VISIT TO JONESVILLE (FULL PAGE) 263
41 GONE (TAIL PIECE) 271
42 THE SMILIN’ STRANGER (FULL PAGE) 278
43 “LET US HAVE PEACE” (FULL PAGE) 284
44 ON THE STREET 305
45 HARD AT WORK (FULL PAGE) 317
46 BETSEY’S PRAYER 334
47 ON A LECTURIN’ TOWER (FULL PAGE) 339
48 HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT? 342
49 FEMALE STATESMANSHIP 345
50 DON’T TAKE BARTER 350
51 DOLLY VARDEN 354
52 A HARROWIN’ SCENE 358
53 INTERVIEW WITH HORACE (FULL PAGE) 369
54 FILLIN’ WOMAN’S SPEAR UNDER DIFFICULTIES (FULL PAGE) 395
55 AT HOME 402
56 MR. BOBBET TELLS NEWS (FULL PAGE) 407
MARRIED TO JOSIAH ALLEN.
If anybody had told me when I was first born that I would marry to a
widower, I should have been mad at ’em. I lived up to this idee quite
a number of years, how many, is nobody’s business, that I will contend
for. I laughed at the idee of love in my blindness of eye. But the first
minute I sot my grey eye onto Josiah Allen I knew my fate. My heart was a
pray to feelin’s it had heretofore been a stranger to.
Sez I to myself “Is this love?” I couldn’t answer, I was too agitated.
Josiah told me afterwards that he felt jest exactly the same, only,
when his heart wildly put the question to him, “Is it love you feel for
Samantha Smith?” he havin’ experience in the same, answered, “Yes, it is
love.”
I married Josiah Allen (in mother’s parlor, on the fourteenth day of
June, in a bran new silk dress with a long boddis waist) from pure love.
Though why I loved him, I know not. I looked at his mild face beamin’ on
me from above his black silk stock, which kep’ his head kinder stiff, and
asked myself this question, “Why do you love him?” I reckolected then,
and I have recalled it to his mind several times sense in our little
differences of opinion, which occur in the happiest families--that I had
had offers from men, handsomer than him, with more intelect than him,
with more riches than him, with less children than him. Why didn’t I love
these various men? I knew not. I can only repeat in the immortal and
almost deathless lines of the poet, “Love will go where it is sent.”
Yes, Josiah Allen was my fate, and when I laid my light silk glove in
his’en (they was almost of a color, a kind of cinnemen broun) before the
alter, or that is before Elder Wesley Minkley, I did it with the purest
and tenderest emotions of love.
And that love has been like a Becon in our pathway ever sense. Its pure
light, though it has sputtered some, and in tryin’ times such as washin’
days and cleanin’ house times has burnt down pretty low,--has never gone
out.
When I married him the bald spot on his head wuzn’t much bigger than a
new silver dollar. Now the top of his head is as smooth and clean as one
of my stun china dinner plates, and if any horse jocky was to try to
judge of his age by lookin’ at his teeth, they would be baffled, not but
what he has got some teeth, but they are pretty scatterin’. But still
that Becon shines, that pure love triumphs over lost teeth and vanished
sandy hair. There haint a man on the face of the earth that looks so
good to me as Josiah Allen. I don’t tell him this, mind you, 14 years
experience of married life has taught me caution. Josiah is as good as
they’ll average generally, but no man can’t stand too much flattery, men
are naturally vain.
[Illustration: I AND JOSIAH.]
As I said in the commencement of this plain and unvarnished history,
I had almost a deadly objection to widowers owin’ to their habit of
comparin’ their second wives to their first relict, to the disadvantage
of the first-named pardner. Josiah tride it with me when we was first
married. But I _didn’t encourage him in it_. He began on several various
times, “It seems to me Samantha that Polly Ann used to fry up her meat a
little cripsier,” or “It seems as if Polly Ann used to make my collers a
little stiffer.” He stopped it before we had been married a year, for _I
didn’t encourage it in him_.
As I mean that this book shall be a Becon light, guidin’ female wimmen,
to life, liberty, and the pursuit of true happiness, I would insert right
here this word of solem’ warnin’ to my sect situated in the tryin’ place
of second consorts, if the relict goes to comparin’ you to his foregone
consort, _don’t encourage him in it_. On this short rule hangs the hope
of domestick harmony.
[Illustration]
ABOUT JOSIAH AND THE CHILDREN.
But step-mothers have a pretty hard row to hoe, though I don’t complain.
I like children, clean children first rate, and I have tried to do my
duty by his’en. I have done as well by ’em as I knew how to, and I think
a sight of Thomas Jefferson and Tirzah Ann. Tirzah Ann is dreadful
sentimental, that is what spiles her mostly. And Thomas Jefferson thinks
he knows more than his father, that is his greatest failin’. But take ’em
all through, they are _full_ as good as other folks’es children, and I
know it. Thomas Jefferson is dreadful big feelin’, he is 17 years old,
he wears a stove pipe hat, and is tryin’ to raise a moustache, it is now
jest about as long as the fuzz on cotton flannel and most as white. They
both go to Jonesville to high school, (we hire a room for ’em to Mother
Allen’s, and they board themselves,) but they are to home every Saturday,
and then they kinder quarell all day jest as brothers and sisters will.
What agravates Thomas J. the worst is to call him “bub,” and Tirzah Ann
don’t call him anything else unless she forgets herself.
He seems to think it is manly to have doubts about religeon. I put
him through the catechism, and thought he was sound. But he seems to
think it is manly to argue about free moral agency, foreordination, and
predestination, and his father is jest fool enough to argue with him. Sez
he last Saturday,
“Father, if it was settled beyond question six or seven thousand years
ago that I was goin’ to be lost what good does it do for me to squirm?
and if it was settled that I was goin’ to be saved, how be I goin’ to
help myself?” sez he, “I believe we can’t help ourselves, what was meant
to happen, will happen.”
Before his father had time to speak--Josiah is a slow spoken man, Tirzah
Ann spoke up--
“Bub, if it was settled six or seven thousand years ago that I should
take your new jockey club and hair oil, and use ’em all myself, why then
I shall.”
“Tirzah Ann,” says he “If you should touch ’em it was foreordained from
creation that you would get dreadfully hurt.” But I spoke up then for the
first time, says I,
“You see Thomas J. that come to fighting you have moral agency enough--or
immoral agency. Now,” says I, “I won’t hear another word from you, you
Thomas J. are a young fool, and you Josiah Allen are a old one, now,”
says I “go to the barn, for I want to mop.”
Tirzah Ann as I said is dreadful sentimental, I don’t know which
side she took it from, though I mistrust that Josiah if he had any
encouragement would act spoony. I am not the woman to encourage any kind
of foolishness. I remember when we was first engaged, he called me “a
little angel.” I jest looked at him calmly and says I,
“I weigh two hundred and 4 pounds,” and he didn’t call me so again.
[Illustration: TIRZAH ANN.]
No! sentiment aint my style, and I abhor all kinds of shams and
deceitfulness. Now to the table you don’t ketch me makin’ excuses. I
should feel as mean as pusley if I did. Though once in a while when I
have particuler company, and my cookin’ turns out bad, I kinder turn the
conversation on to the sufferin’s of our four fathers in the Revolution,
how they eat their katridge boxes and shoe leather. It don’t do us no
hurt to remember their sufferin’s, and after talkin’ about eatin’ shoe
leather most any kind of cake seems tender.
I spose that life runs along with Josiah and the children and me about
as easy as it does with most men and female wimmen. We have got a farm
of 75 acres of land all paid for. A comfortable story and a half yeller
house--good barns, and a bran new horse barn, and health. Our door yard
is large and shady with apple, and pear, and cherry trees; and Tirzah
Ann has got posy beds under the winders that look first rate. And where
there haint no posy beds nor shade trees, the grass grows smooth and
green, and it is a splendid place to dry clothes. On the north side of
the house is our orchard, the trees grow clear up to our kitchen winder,
and when the north door is open in the spring of the year, and I stand
there ironin’, the trees all covered with pink blows it is a pleasant
sight. But a still pleasanter sight is it in the fall of the year to
stand in the door and see Josiah and Thomas Jefferson pickin’ up barells
of the great red and yeller grafts at a dollar a bushel. Beyond the
orchard down a little bit of a side hill runs the clear water of the
canal. In front of the house towards the south--but divided from it by a
good sized door yard and a picket fence, runs the highway, and back of
the house, if I do say it that ortn’t to, there is as good a garden as
there is in these parts. For I set my foot down in the first ont, that I
_would_ have garden sass of all kinds, and strawberrys, and gooseberrys,
and currant, and berry bushes, and glad enough is Josiah now to think
that he heard to me. It took a little work of course, but I believe in
havin’ things good to eat, and so does Josiah. That man has told me
more’n a hundred times sense that “of all the sass that ever was made,
garden sass was the best sass.” To the south of the house is our big
meadow--the smell of the clover in the summer is as sweet as anything,
our bees get the biggest part of their honey there, the grass looks
beautiful wavin’ in the sunshine, and Josiah cut from it last summer 4
tons of hay to the acre.
AN UNMARRIED FEMALE.
I suppose we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was
sayin’, a few days ago to Betsy Bobbet a neighborin’ female of
ours--“Every Station house in life has its various skeletons. But we
ort to try to be contented with that spear of life we are called on to
handle.” Betsey haint married and she don’t seem to be contented. She is
awful opposed to wimmen’s rights, she thinks it is wimmen’s only spear
to marry, but as yet she can’t find any man willin’ to lay holt of that
spear with her. But you can read in her daily life and on her eager
willin’ countenance that she fully realizes the sweet words of the poet,
“while there is life there is hope.”
Betsey haint handsome. Her cheek bones are high, and she bein’ not much
more than skin and bone they show plainer than they would if she was in
good order. Her complexion (not that I blame her for it) haint good, and
her eyes are little and sot way back in her head. Time has seen fit
to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly
suffered her to keep, but she has got the best white ivory teeth money
will buy; and two long curls fastened behind each ear, besides frizzles
on the top of her head, and if she wasn’t naturally bald, and if the
curls was the color of her hair they would look well. She is awful
sentimental, I have seen a good many that had it bad, but of all the
sentimental creeters I ever did see Betsey Bobbet is the sentimentalest,
you couldn’t squeeze a laugh out of her with a cheeze press.
[Illustration: BETSEY BOBBET.]
As I said she is awful opposed to wimmin’s havein’ any right only the
right to get married. She holds on to that right as tight as any single
woman I ever see which makes it hard and wearin’ on the single men round
here. For take the men that are the most opposed to wimmin’s havin’ a
right, and talk the most about its bein’ her duty to cling to man like a
vine to a tree, they don’t want Betsey to cling to them, they _won’t let_
her cling to ’em. For when they would be a goin’ on about how wicked it
was for wimmin to vote--and it was her only spear to marry, says I to
’em “Which had you ruther do, let Betsey Bobbet cling to you or let her
vote?” and they would every one of ’em quail before that question. They
would drop their heads before my keen grey eyes--and move off the subject.
But Betsey don’t get discourajed. Every time I see her she says in a
hopeful wishful tone, “That the deepest men of minds in the country agree
with her in thinkin’ that it is wimmin’s duty to marry, and not to vote.”
And then she talks a sight about the retirin’ modesty and dignity of
the fair sect, and how shameful and revoltin’ it would be to see wimmen
throwin’ ’em away, and boldly and unblushin’ly talkin’ about law and
justice.
Why to hear Betsey Bobbet talk about wimmin’s throwin’ their modesty away
you would think if they ever went to the political pole, they would have
to take their dignity and modesty and throw ’em against the pole, and go
without any all the rest of their lives.
Now I don’t believe in no such stuff as that, I think a woman can be bold
and unwomanly in other things besides goin’ with a thick veil over her
face, and a brass mounted parasol, once a year, and gently and quietly
dropping a vote for a christian president, or a religeous and noble
minded pathmaster.
She thinks she talks dreadful polite and proper, she says “I was
cameing” instead of “I was coming,” and “I have saw” instead of “I have
seen,” and “papah” for paper, and “deah” for dear. I don’t know much
about grammer, but common sense goes a good ways. She writes the poetry
for the Jonesville Augur, or “Augah,” as she calls it. She used to write
for the opposition paper, the Jonesville Gimlet, but the editer of
the Augur, a long haired chap, who moved into Jonesville a few months
ago, lost his wife soon after he come there, and sense that she has
turned Dimocrat, and writes for his paper stiddy. They say that he is a
dreadful big feelin’ man, and I have heard--it came right straight to
me--his cousin’s wife’s sister told it to the mother in law of one of my
neighbor’s brother’s wife, that he didn’t like Betsey’s poetry at all,
and all he printed it for was to plague the editer of the Gimlet, because
she used to write for him. I myself wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for
all the poetry she can write. And it seems to me, that if I was Betsey,
I wouldn’t try to write so much, howsumever, I don’t know what turn I
should take if I was Betsey Bobbet, that is a solemn subject and one I
don’t love to think on.
I never shall forget the first piece of her poetry I ever see. Josiah
Allen and I had both on us been married goin’ on a year, and I had
occasion to go to his trunk one day where he kept a lot of old papers,
and the first thing I laid my hand on was these verses. Josiah went with
her a few times after his wife died, a 4th of July or so and two or
three camp meetin’s, and the poetry seemed to be wrote about the time
_we_ was married. It was directed over the top of it “Owed to Josiah,”
just as if she were in debt to him. This was the way it read.
“OWED TO JOSIAH.
Josiah I the tale have hurn,
With rigid ear, and streaming eye,
I saw from me that you did turn,
I never knew the reason why.
Oh Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.
Why did you, Oh why did you blow
Upon my life of snowy sleet,
The fiah of love to fiercest glow,
Then turn a damphar on the heat?
Oh Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.
I saw thee coming down the street,
_She_ by your side in bonnet bloo;
The stuns that grated ’neath thy feet
Seemed crunching on my vitals too.
Oh Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.
I saw thee washing sheep last night,
On the bridge I stood with marble brow,
The waters raged, thou clasped it tight,
I sighed, ‘should both be drownded now--’
I thought Josiah,
Oh happy sheep to thus expiah.”
I showed the poetry to Josiah that night after he came home, and told him
I had read it. He looked awful ashamed to think I had seen it, and says
he with a dreadful sheepish look,
“The persecution I underwent from that female can never be told, she
fairly hunted me down, I hadn’t no rest for the soles of my feet. I
thought one spell she would marry me in spite of all I could do, without
givin’ me the benefit of law or gospel.” He see I looked stern, and he
added with a sick lookin’ smile, “I thought one spell, to use Betsey’s
language, ‘I was a gonah.’”
I didn’t smile--oh no, for the deep principle of my sect was reared up--I
says to him in a tone cold enough to almost freeze his ears, “Josiah
Allen, shet up, of all the cowardly things a man ever done, it is goin’
round braggin’ about wimmen’ likin’ em, and follerin’ em up. Enny man
that’ll do that is little enough to crawl through a knot hole without
rubbing his clothes.” Says I, “I suppose you made her think the moon rose
in your head, and set in your heels, I dare say you acted foolish enough
round her to sicken a snipe, and if you make fun of her now to please me
I let you know you have got holt of the wrong individual.” Now, says I,
“go to bed,” and I added in still more freezing accents, “for I want to
mend your pantaloons.” He gathered up his shoes and stockin’s and started
off to bed, and we haint never passed a word on the subject sence. I
believe when you disagree with your pardner, in freein’ your _mind_ in
the first on’t, and then not be a twittin’ about it afterwards. And as
for bein’ jealous, I should jest as soon think of bein’ jealous of a
meetin’-house as I should of Josiah. He is a well principled man. And I
guess he wasn’t fur out o’ the way about Betsey Bobbet, though I wouldn’t
encourage him by lettin’ him say a word on the subject, for I always make
it a rule to stand up for my own sect; but when I hear her go on about
the editor of the Augur, I can believe anything about Betsey Bobbet. She
came in here one day last week, it was about ten o’clock in the mornin’.
I had got my house slick as a pin, and my dinner under way, (I was goin’
to have a biled dinner, and a cherry puddin’ biled, with sweet sass to
eat on it,) and I sot down to finish sewin’ up the breadth of my new rag
carpet. I thought I would get it done while I hadn’t so much to do, for
it bein’ the first of March, I knew sugarin’ would be comin’ on, and then
cleanin’ house time, and I wanted it to put down jest as soon as the
stove was carried out in the summer kitchen. The fire was sparklin’ away,
and the painted floor a shinin’ and the dinner a bilin’, and I sot there
sewin’ jest as calm as a clock, not dreamin’ of no trouble, when in came
Betsey Bobbet.
I met her with outward calm, and asked her to set down and lay off her
things. She sot down, but she said she couldn’t lay off her things. Says
she, “I was comin’ down past, and I thought I would call and let you
see the last numbah of the Augah, there is a piece in it concernin’ the
tariff that stirs men’s souls, I like it evah so much.”
[Illustration: READING POETRY.]
She handed me the paper, folded so I couldn’t see nothin’ but a piece of
poetry by Betsey Bobbet. I see what she wanted of me and so I dropped my
breadths of carpetin’ and took hold of it and began to read it.
“Read it audible if you please,” says she, “Especially the precious
remahks ovah it, it is such a feast for me to be a sitting, and heah it
reheahsed by a musical vorce.”
Says I, “I spose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good,” so I
began as follers:
“It is seldem that we present to the readers of the Augur (the best
paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem like
the following. It may be by the assistance of the Augur (only twelve
shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in exchange) the
name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty pinnacle of fame’s
towering pillow. We think however that she could study such writers as
Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper with profit both to herself and to them.
EDITOR OF THE AUGUR.”
Here Betsey interrupted me, “The deah editah of the Augah had no need to
advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite authar, you
have devorhed him havn’t you Josiah Allen’s wife?”
“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.
“Mahten, Fahyueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.
“No mom,” says I shortly, “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor
no other man, I hain’t a cannibal.”
“Oh! you understand me not, I meant, devorhed his sweet, tender lines.”
“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I
made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so
I read.
GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL.
Oh let who will,
Oh let who can,
Be tied onto
A horrid male man.
Thus said I ’ere,
My tendah heart was touched,
Thus said I ’ere
My tendah feelings gushed.
But oh a change
Hath swept ore me,
As billows sweep
The “deep blue sea.”
A voice, a noble form,
One day I saw;
An arrow flew,
My heart is nearly raw.
His first pardner lies
Beneath the turf,
He is wandering now,
In sorrows briny surf.
Two twins, the little
Deah cherub creechahs,
Now wipe the teahs,
From off his classic feachahs.
Oh sweet lot, worthy
Angel arisen,
To wipe the teahs,
From eyes like his’en.
“What think you of it?” says she as I finished readin’.
I looked right at her most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of her
false curls, and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter. I
looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yeller bunnet
strings, and then I spoke out,
“Hain’t the Editor of the Augur a widower with a pair of twins?”
“Yes,” says she with a happy look.
Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.”
“Oh!” says she, and she dropped her bunnet strings, and clasped her long
bony hands together in her brown cotton gloves, “oh, we ahdent soles of
genious, have feelin’s, you cold, practical natures know nuthing of, and
if they did not gush out in poetry we should expiah. You may as well try
to tie up the gushing catarack of Niagarah with a piece of welting cord,
as to tie up the feelings of an ahdent sole.”
“Ardent sole!” says I coldly. “Which makes the most noise, Betsey Bobbet,
a three inch brook or a ten footer? which is the tearer? which is the
roarer? deep waters run stillest. I have no faith in feelin’s that stalk
round in public in mournin’ weeds. I have no faith in such mourners,”
says I.
“Oh Josiah’s wife, cold, practical female being, you know me not; we are
sundered as fah apart as if you was sitting on the North pole, and I was
sitting on the South pole. Uncongenial being, you know me not.”
“I may not know you, Betsey Bobbet, but I do know decency, and I know
that no munny would tempt me to write such stuff as that poetry and send
it to a widower, with twins.”
“Oh!” says she, “what appeals to the tendah feeling heart of a single
female woman more, than to see a lonely man who has lost his relict?
And pity never seems so much like pity as when it is given to the deah
little children of widowehs. And,” says she, “I think moah than as likely
as not, this soaring soul of genious did not wed his affinity, but was
united to a weak women of clay.”
“Mere women of clay!” says I, fixin’ my spektacles upon her in a most
searchin’ manner, “where will you find a woman, Betsey Bobbet, that
hain’t more or less clay? and affinity, that is the meanest word I ever
heard; no married woman has any right to hear it. I’ll excuse you, bein’
a female, but if a man had said it to me, I’d holler to Josiah. There is
a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are
married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.
“We kindred souls soah above such petty feelings, we soah fah above them.”
“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be, and to
tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.”
“The Editah of the Augah,” says she, and she grasped the paper off’en
the stand and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the
Editah of this paper is a kindred soul, he appreciates me, he undahstands
me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to
posterety togathah?”
Then says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there
now, both of you, I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you
was both of you in posterity now.”
[Illustration]
HAVING MY PICTURE TOOK.
The very next Saturday after I had this conversation with Betsey, I went
down to Jonesville to have my picture took, Tirzah Ann bein’ to home so
she could get dinner for the menfolks. As for me I don’t set a great deal
of store by pictures, but Josiah insisted and the children insisted, and
I went. Tirzah Ann wanted me to have my hair curled, but there I was
firm, I give in on the handkerchief pin, but on the curl business, there
I was rock.
Mr. Gansey the man that takes pictures was in another room takin’ some,
so I walked round the aunty room, as they call it, lookin’ at the
pictures that hang up on the wall, and at the people that come in to have
theirs took. Some of ’em was fixed up dreadful; it seemed to me as if
they tried to look so that nobody wouldn’t know whose pictures they was,
after they was took. Some of ’em would take off their bunnets and gaze
in the lookin’-glass at themselves and try to look smilin’, and get an
expression onto their faces that they never owned.
[Illustration: PREPARING FOR A PICTURE.]
In one corner of the room was a bewrow, with a lookin’-glass and hair
brushes onto it, and before it stood a little man dreadful dressed up,
with long black hair streamin’ down over his coat coller, engaged in
pouring a vial of oil onto his head, and brushing his hair with one of
the brushes. I knew him in a minute, for I had seen him come into the
meetin’ house. Afterwards when I was jest standin’ before the picture of
a dreadful harmless lookin’ man--he looked meek enough to make excuses to
his shadder for goin’ before it, and I was jest sayin’ to myself, “There
is a man who would fry pancakes without complainin’,” I heard a voice
behind me sayin’,
“So the navish villian stalks round yet in decent society.”
I turned round imegiately and see the little man, who had got through
fixin’ his hair to have his pictur took, standin’ before me.
“Who do you mean?” says I calmly. “Who is stalkin’ round?”
“The Editor of the Gimlet,” says he, “whose vile image defiles the walls
of this temple of art, the haunt of Aglia, Thalia, and Euphrosine.”
“Who?” says I glancin’ keenly at him over my specks, “the haunt of who?”
Says he “The daughters of Bachus and Venus.”
Says I “I don’t know anything about Miss Bachus, nor the Venus girls,”
and says I with spirit, “if they are any low creeters I don’t thank you
for speakin’ of ’em to me, nor Josiah won’t neether. This room belongs
to Jeremiah Gansey, and he has got a wife, a likely woman, that belongs
to the same meetin’ house and the same class that I do, and he haint no
business to have other girls hauntin’ his rooms. If there is anything
wrong goin’ on I shall tell Sister Gansey.”
Says he “Woman you mistake, I meant the Graces.”
“Graces!” says I scornfully, “what do I care for their graces. Sister
Gansey had graces enough when he married her,” says I. “That is jest
the way, a man will marry a woman jest as pretty as a new blown rose,
and then when she fades herself out, till she looks more like a dead
dandyline than a livin’ creeter, cookin’ _his_ vittles, washin’ _his_
dishes, and takin’ care of _his_ children; then he’ll go to havin’ other
girls hauntin’ him, there haint no gospel in it,” says I.
I looked him keenly in the face all the time I spoke, for I thought he
was kinder’ upholdin’ Sister Gansey’s husband, and I wanted my words to
apaul him, but I suppose he made a mistake, and thought I was admirin’ of
him I looked so earnest at him, for he spoke up and says he,
“I see by your stiddy glance that you have discovered who I be. Yes
Madam, you see before you the Editor of the Augur, but don’t be nervous,
don’t let it affect you more than you can help, I am a mortal like
yourself.”
I looked at him with my most majestic look, and he continued.
“The masses who devoured my great work ‘Logical Reveries on the Beauties
of Slavery,’ are naturally anxious to see me. I don’t wonder at it, not
at all.”
I was austerely silent and withdrawed to a winder and set down. But he
followed me and continued on.
“That tract as you are doubtless aware, was written just before the
war, and a weaker minded man might have been appalled by the bloodshed
that followed its publication. But no! I said calmly, it was written
on principle, and if it did bring ruin and bloodshed on the country,
principle would in the end prevail. The war turned out different from
what I hoped, chains broke that I could have wept to see break--but still
I hung on to principle. Might I ask you Madam, exactly what your emotions
were when you read ‘Logical Reveries’ for the first time? I suppose no
President’s message was ever devoured as that was.”
“I never see nor heard of your ‘Logical Reveries,’” says I coldly.
“And thank fortune nobody can accuse me of ever touchin’ a President’s
message--unless they belie me.”
He rolled up his eyes toward the cielin’ and sithed hevily, and then says
he, “Is it possible that in this enlightened community there is still
such ignorance amongst the masses. I have got a copy in my pocket, I
never go without one. And I will read it to you and it may be pleasant
for you to tell your children and grandchildren in the future, that the
author of “Logical Reveries on the Beauties of Slavery” told you with
his own lips, how the great work came to be written. A poem was sent
me intended as a satire on the beautiful and time hallowed system of
slavery, it was a weak senseless mass of twaddle, but if the author could
have foreseen the mighty consequences that flowed from it, he might well
have trembled, for senseless as it was it roused the lion in me, and I
replied. I divided my great work into two parts, first, that slavery
was right, because the constitution didn’t say it was wrong, and then I
viewed the subject in a Bible and moral light, but the last bein’ of less
importance, of course I didn’t enlarge on it, but on the first I come out
strong, there I shone. I will read you a little of the poem that was sent
me, that you may understand the witherin’ allusions I make concernin’ it.
I won’t read more than is necessary for that purpose, for you may get
sleepy listenin’ to it, but you will wake up enough when I begin to read
the “Logical Reveries,” I guess there couldn’t anybody sleep on them. The
poem I speak of commenced in the following weak illogical way.
SLAVERY.
So held my eyes I could not see
The righteousness of slavery,
So blind was I, I could not see
The ripe fruit hang on wisdom’s tree;
But groping round its roots did range,
Murmuring ever, strange, oh strange
That one handful of dust should dare
Enslave another God had made,
From his own home and kindred tear,
And scourge, and fetter, steal and trade.
If ’twas because they were less wise
Than our wise race, why not arise,
And with pretext of buying teas,
Lay in full cargoes of Chinese.
Let Fee Fo Fum, and Eng, and Chen,
Grow wise by contact with wise men;
If weakness made the traffic right,
Why not arise in manhood’s might,
And bind old grandmothers with gyves,
And weakly children, and sick wives.
If ’twas the dark hue of their face,
Then why not free our noble race
Forever from all homely men?
With manly zeal, and outstretched hand,
Pass like a whirlwind o’er the land.
Let squint eyed, pug-nosed women be
Only a thing of memory.
Though some mistakes would happen then,
For many bond servants there are,
Fair faced, blue eyed, with silken hair.
How sweet, how pleasant to be sold
For notes in hand, or solid gold,
To benefit a brother
Both children of one father,
With each a different mother.
One mother fair and richly clothed,
One worn with toil and vain despair
Down sunken to a life she loathed;
Both children with proud saxon blood,
In one breast mixed with tropic flame,
One, heir to rank and broad estates
And one, without even a name.
Jest as he arrived to this crysis in the poem, Mr. Gansey came out into
the aunty room, and told me he was ready to take my picture. The Editer
seein’ he was obleeged to stop readin’ told me, he would come down to
our house a visitin’ in sugarin’ time, and finish readin’ the poetry to
me. I ketched holt of my principles to stiddy ’em, for I see they was a
totterin’ and says to him with outward calmness,
“If you come fetch the twins.”