see the change in his but’nut eye as it met hers, from what it had been
in more former times preceedin’. For whereas he had always looked at her
with fear and almost agonizin’ aprehension, as if he realized his danger,
now he looked full in her face, as she smiled across the room at him,
with a proud haughty and triumphant mene on him I could not understand.
He gazed at her silently for I should think pretty near a half a minute
and then he turned to me with a sweet, contented smile curvin’ his
moustache--which had been colored a new bright black,--and says he to me
with a peaceful and serene look on to Betsey,
“How sweet it is Josiah Allen’s wife for a noble but storm tosted bark to
anchor in a beautiful calm. How sweet it is, when you see the ravenin’
tempest a smilin’ at you, I mean a lowerin’ at you, in the distance, to
feel that it can’t harm you--that you are beyond its reach. To see it
in its former dread power a drawin’ near--” (Betsey had started to come
towards us,) “and feel that you are safe from it. Josiah Allen’s wife I
feel safe and happy to night.”
Betsey was stopped for the minute by Deacon Gowdey, but I knew it was
only a momentary respite, and knowin’ her design, how could I answer? I
could only look gloomy into his face, and think sadly, Ah! how little we
know when trials and dangers are ahead of us, how little we know when we
are goin’ to be encouraged.
But he continued on in the same sweet happy triumphin’ tones,
“Josiah Allen’s wife, I believe you are my friend.”
“Yes! and your well wisher,” and says I almost wildly, “whatever comes,
whatever may happen to you, remember that I wished you well, and I pitied
you.”
“Instead of pityin’ me, wish me joy,” and he held out his right hand
towards me.
I haint no hypocrite, and knowin’ what I knew, how could I be so
deceitful? I hung back and gripped holt of a breadth of my dress with my
right hand.
Says he, “I am married, Josiah Allen’s wife, I was married a week ago
to-night.”
I grasped holt of his right hand which he still held out, with my right
hand, and says I, “you take a load off’en my mind. Who too?”
Says he, “the prettiest girl in Log London where father lives.”
My emotions paralyzed me for nearly a quarter of a minute, and then says
I,
“Where is she?”
“To her folks’es,” says he, “But she will be here next week.”
Betsey drew near. He looked calmly and fearlessly at her, but he murmured
gently, “The twins will be a wakin’ up; I must be a goin’,” and he gently
retreated.
The first words Betsey said to me was, “Ketch hold of me Josiah Allen’s
wife, ketch hold of me, I am on the very point of swooning.”
Then I knew what Deacon Gowdey had been a tellin’ her. She looked like a
blue ghost, trimmed off with otter color, for she had on a blue parmetta
dress all trimmed with annato colored trimmin’s. She murmured in almost
incoherent words, somethin’ about “her dearest gazelle bein’ a dyin’, and
her wantin’ to be took off to her buryin’ ground.” But I knew it was no
time for me to show my pity; true friendship demanded firmness and even
sternness, and when she asked me wildly agin to “ketch hold of her,” I
says to her coldly,
“Ketch holt of yourself, Betsey Bobbet.”
“My lost, my dearest gazelle is a dyin’! my hopes are witherin’!” says
she, shettin’ up her eyes and kinder staggerin’ up against the wall.
Says I in tones as cold as old Zero, or pretty nigh as cold as that old
man,
“Let ’em wither.”
But I see I must come out still more plainer, or she would make a public
circus of herself, and says I pushin’ her into a corner, and standin’ up
in front of her, so as to shet off the audience from her face, for she
was a cryin’, and she did indeed look ghostly,
“Betsey Bobbet the gazelle is married, and their hain’t no use in your
follerin’ on that trail no longer. Now,” says I, “take your bunnet and go
home, and collect yourself together. And,” says I, generously “I will go
with you as far as the door.”
So I got her started off, as quick, and as quiet as I could, and I guess
there wasn’t mor’n seven men and 14 wimmen that asked me as I came back
in,
“If it was the Editer of the Augur, that Betsey was a cryin’ about, and
if I ever see such a idiot in my life?”
I answered ’em in a kind of blind way, and it broke up pretty soon.
[Illustration: BETSEY SEEKS RELIEF.]
When Josiah and me went home, as we passed Mr. Bobbet’ses, I looked up
into Betsey’s winder which fronted the road, and I see Betsey set by her
table a writin’. Her lips were firmly closed and she was a cryin’, her
cheeks looked holler and I knew that her teeth was out, so I felt that
she was writin’ poetry. I was right, for in the next weeks _Gimlet_ these
verses came out. These lines was wrote on to the top of ’em:
“We do not wish to encourage the feeling of revenge in our fair
contributor’s fair breast, but this we will say, that on some occasions,
revenge is a noble feeling and almost leans over against virtue’s side.
And though we do not wish to be personal--no one could scorn it more than
we do--but we say, and we say it with the kindest feelings towards him,
that the E---- of the A---- is a _villian_.”
Editor of the Gimlet.
A Desiah.
BY BETSEY BOBBET.
Methinks I soon shall pass away,
I have seen my last gazelle expiah;
Deah friends I do not wish to stay;
To be a ghost is my desiah.
Revenge is sweet as honey a most--
Methinks ’twere sweet to be a ghost.
I would not be a seraphim,
For far a sweeter sight would be
On bedpost sitting, twitting him,
Of his deceit and perfide;
I’d rathah be a dreadful ghost,
A sitting on a certain post.
I can give up my heavenly claim,
My seat upon the heavenly quiah;
I feel anotheh, wildeh aim--
To be a ghost is my desiah.
Ah, yes! I’d ratheh be a ghost,
And sit upon a certain post.
Methinks he’d coveh up his head
And groan and rithe, and maybe swear,
And sithe, “I wish she wasn’t dead;”
But still I’ll keep a sittin’ theah.
As long as I remain a ghost,
I’ll hang around a certain post.
Anotheh certain person may,
With terror wish she hadn’t had
The wretch who made me pass away;
Maybe _she’ll_ wish I wasn’t dead.
In vain! for still my dreadful ghost,
Shall glare on her from a certain post.
To think how I my brain have racked
On lays for him. My stomach cramp;
My bended form; my broken back;
My blasted hopes; my wasted lamp.
Oh, then I long to be a ghost,
To hang around a certain post.
My soul it pants, my crazed brain spins,
To think how gushed my fond heart’s flow,
My sympathy for certain twins,
And then to think he used me so.
But soon! ah soon I’ll be a ghost,
A haunting round a certain post.
[Illustration]
WIMMEN’S SPEAH.
One bright, beautiful day, I had got my mornin’s work all done up, and
had sot doun to double some carpet yarn, and Josiah sot behind the stove,
blackin’ his boots, when Betsey come in for a mornin’s call. She hadn’t
sot but a few minutes when says she,
“I saw you was not doun to the lecture night before last, Josiah Allen’s
wife. I was sorry that I attended to it, but my uncle’s people where I
was visitin’ went, and so I went with them. But I did not like it, I
do not believe in wimmin’s havin’ any rights. I think it is real bold
and unwomanly in her to want any rights. I think it is not her speah,
as I remarked last night to our deah New Preacher. As we was a coming
out, afteh the lecture, the fringe of my shawl ketched on to one of the
buttons of his vest, and he could not get it off--and I did not try to, I
thought it was not my place--so we was obleeged to walk close togatheh,
cleah through the hall, and as I said to him, afteh I had enquired if he
did not find it very lonesome here, says I, ‘It is not wimmin’s speah to
vote,’ and says I, ‘do you not think it is woman’s nature naturally to be
clingin’?’ ‘I _do_,’ says he, ‘Heaven _knows_ I _do_.’ And he leaned back
with such a expression of stern despaih on to his classic features, that
I knew he felt it strongly. And I said the truth. I do not believe wimmin
ought to vote.”
“Nor I nuther,” says Josiah, “she haint got the rekrisite strength to
vote, she is too fraguile.”
Jest at this minute the boy that draws the milk came along, and Josiah,
says he to me, “I am in my stockin’ feet, Samantha, can’t you jest step
out and help Thomas Jefferson on with the can?”
Says I, “If I am too fraguile to handle a paper vote, Josiah Allen, I am
too fraguile to lift 100 and 50 pounds of milk.”
He didn’t say nothin’, but he slipped on his rubbers and started out, and
Betsey resumed, “It is so revoltin’ to female delicacy to go to the poles
and vote; most all of the female ladies that revolve around in the high
circles of Jonesville aristocracy agree with me in thinkin’ it is real
revoltin’ to female delicacy to vote.”
[Illustration: FEMALE DELICACY]
“Female delicacy!” says I, in a austeer tone. “Is female delicacy a
plant that withers in the shadder of the pole, but flourishes in every
other condition only in the shadder of the pole?” says I in a tone of
witherin’ scorn. “Female delicacy flourishes in a ball room, where these
sensitive creeters with dresses on indecently low in the neck, will waltz
all night with strange men’s arms round their waists,” says I. “You have
as good as throwed it in my face, Betsey Bobbet, that I haint a modest
woman, or I would be afraid to go and vote; but you ketch me with a low
neck dress on, Betsey Bobbet, and you will ketch me on my way to the
Asylum, and there haint a old deacon, or minister, or presidin’ Elder
in the Methodist church, that could get me to waltz with ’em, let alone
waltzin’ with promiscuus sinners. And,” says I in the deep, calm tone of
settled principle, “if you don’t believe it, bring on your old deacons
and ministers, and presidin’ Elders, and try me.”
“You are gettin’ excited, Samantha,” says Josiah.
“You jest keep blackin’ your boots, Josiah Allen, I haint a talkin’ to
you. Betsey, is it any worse for a female woman to dress herself in a
modest and Christian manner, with a braige viel over her face, and a
brass mounted parasol in her hand, and walk decently to the pole and lay
her vote on it, than to be introduced to a man, who for all you know may
be a retired pirate, and have him walk up and hug you by the hour, to the
music of a fiddle and a base violin?”
“But if you vote you have got to go before a board of men, and how tryin’
to delicacy that would be.”
“I went before a board of men when I joined the meetin’ house, and when
I got the premium for my rag carpet, and I still live and call myself a
respectable character, but,” says I in a vain of unconcealed sarcasm “if
these delicate ball characters are too modest to go in broad daylight
armed with a umbrell before a venerable man settin’ on a board, let ’em
have a good old female board to take thier votes.”
“Would it be lawful to have a female board?” says Betsey.
“Wimmen can be boards at charity schools--poor little paupers, pretty
hard boards they find ’em some times--and they can be boards at fairs,
and hospitals, and penitentarys, and picnics, and African missions, and
would it be any worse to be a board before these delicate wimmen,” says
I, almost carried away with enthusiasm, “I would be a board myself.”
[Illustration: NO TIME TO VOTE.]
“Yes you would make a pretty board,” says Josiah, “you would make quite a
pile of lumber.” I paid no attention to his sarkastic remark, and Betsey
went on.
“It would be such public business Josiah Allen’s wife for a woman to
recieve votes.”
“I don’t know as it would be any more public business, than to sell
Episcopal pin cushiens, Methodist I scream, or Baptist water melons, by
the hour to a permiscuus crowd.”
But says Betsey, “’twould devouh too much of a female’s time, she would
not have time to vote, and perform the other duties that are incumbient
upon her.”
[Illustration: DREADFUL SHORT OF TIME.]
Says I, “Wimmen find time for thier everlastin’ tattin’ and croshain’.
They find plenty of time for thier mats, and their tidys, their
flirtations, thier feather flowers, and bead flowers, and hair flowers,
and burr flowers, and oriental paintin’s, and Grecian paintin’s, and face
paintin’s. They spend more time a frizzin’ thier front hair than they
would, to learn the whole constitution by heart; and if they get a new
dress they find plenty of time to cut it all up into strips, jest to
pucker it up and set it on agin. They can dress up in thier best and
patrol the streets as regular as a watchman, and lean over the counter
in dry good stores till they know every nail in ’em by heart. They find
plenty of time for all this, and to go to all the parties they can hear
of, and theatres and conserts, and shows of all kinds, and to flirt with
every man they can lay holt of, and to cover their faces with their fans
and giggle; but when it comes to an act as simple and short as puttin’ a
letter into the post office, they are dreadful short on it for time.”
But says Betsey, “The study that would be inevitable on a female in ordeh
to make her vote intelligably, would it not be too wearing on her?”
[Illustration: NO TIME TO STUDY LAWS.]
“No! not a single bit; s’posin these soft, fashionable wimmen should
read a little about the nation she lives in, and the laws that protects
her if she keeps ’em, and hangs and imprisons her if she breaks ’em? I
don’t know but it would be as good for her, as to pore over novels all
day long,” says I; “these very wimmen that think the President’s bureau
is a chest of draws where he keeps his fine shirts, and the tariff is
a wild horse the senators keep to ride out on,--these very wimmen that
can’t find time to read the constitution, let ’em get on to the track
of a love-sick hero and a swoonin’ heroine, and they will wade through
half a dozen volumes, but what they will foller ’em clear to Finis to
see ’em married there,” says I, warmin’ with my subject, “Let there be a
young woman hid in a certain hole, guarded by 100 and 10 pirates, and a
young man tryin’ to get to her, though at present layin’ heavily chained
in a underground dungeon with his rival settin’ on his back, what does
a woman care for time or treasure, till she sees the pirates all killed
off with one double revolver, and the young woman lifted out swoonin’
but happy, by the brave hero?” Says I, in a deep camp meetin’ voice, “If
there had been a woman hid on the Island of Patmos, and Paul’s letters to
the churches had been love letters to her, there wouldn’t be such a thick
coat of dust on bibles as there is now.
“But if wimmen _don’t_ read about the laws they’ll know as much as some
other folks do. I have seen men voters,” says I, and I cast a stern
glance onto Josiah as I spoke, “whose study into national affairs didn’t
wear on ’em enough to kill ’em at all. I have seen voters,” says I with
another cuttin’ look at him, “that didn’t know as much as their wives
did.” Josiah quailed a very little as I said this, and I continued on--“I
have seen Irish voters, whose intellects wasn’t tiresome to carry round,
and whose knowledge concernin’ public affairs wasn’t so good as it was
about rum, and who would sell their votes for a drink of whiskey, and
keep it up all day, votin’ and drinkin’ and then drinkin’ and votin’, and
I guess wimmen won’t do any worse.”
Betsey almost quailed before my lofty glance and voice, but continued on
cleavin’ to the subject--“How awful and revolting it would sound to hear
the faih and softeh sex talking about tariffs and caurkusses.”
“I don’t know,” says I, “but I had as lives hear ’em talk about
caurkusses, as to hear ’em backbitin’ thier neighbors and tearin’ the
charicters of other wimmen into bits, or talkin’ about such little things
as wimmen will; why in a small place, a woman can’t buy a calico apron
without the neighborhood holdin’ a inquest over it. Some think she ort
to have it, some think it is extravagant in her, and some think the set
flower on it is too young for her, and then they will all quarrel agin
whether she ort to make it with a bib or not.” Says I “the very reason
why men’s talk as a general thing is nobler than wimmen’s, is because
they have nobler things to think about.” Says I “Betsey Bobbet, when did
you ever know a passel of men to set down and spend a whole afternoon
talkin’ about each other’s vest, and mistrustin’ such a feller painted;
fill a woman’s mind with big, noble sized thoughts, and she won’t talk
such little back bitin’ gossip as she does now.”
“Josiah Allen’s wife,” says Betsey, “I shall always say it is not woman’s
speah to vote.”
“No,” says Josiah, “it hain’t; wimmen would vote for the handsomest
men, and the men that praised thier babys, they wouldn’t stand up onto
principal as men do, and then, how they would clog up the road ’lection
day, tryin’ to get all the news they could, wimmen have got such itchin’
ears.”
“Itchin’ ears!” says I, “principle!” says I, in low but awful deep tones
of voice, “Josiah Allen, it seems to me, that I wouldn’t try to stand
up onto principle agin, till the pantaloons are wore out you hired a
man with to vote your ticket.” He begun to look sheepish at once, and I
continued in still more awful accents, “talk about itchin’ ears, Josiah
Allen! here you have sot all the mornin’ blackin’ your boots, you have
rubbed them boots till you have most rubbed holes through ’em, jest for
an excuse to set here and hear me and Betsey Bobbet talk. And it hain’t
the first time nuther, for I have known you Josiah Allen, when I have had
female visitors, to leave your work and come in and lay on that lounge
behind the stove till you was most sweltered, pretendin’ you was readin’.”
“I _wuz_ a readin’,” says Josiah drawin’ on his boots.
“I have ketched you laughin’ over a funeral sermon, and a President’s
message, what is there highlarious in a funeral sermon Josiah Allen? What
is there exhileratin’ in a President’s message?”
“Wall,” says he, “I guess I’ll water the steers.”
“I should think you had better,” says I coolly, and after he went out,
Betsey resumed,
“Josiah Allen’s wife, I still say it is not woman’s speah to vote,” and
she continued, “I have got a few verses in my pocket, which I composed
that night aftah I returned from the lecture, which embody into them the
feelings of my soul concerning woman’s speah. I went to my chamber, and
let down my back haih, and took out my teeth, I always feel more free
somehow, and poetic, with my hair down and my teeth out, and there I
wrote these stanzeys, and seeing it is you, I will read them to you.”
My firm and cast iron principles forbid my wishin’ in a reckless way that
I wasn’t myself, and I was in my own house, and horspitality forbid my
orderin’ her in stern accents, not to read a word of ’em, so I submitted,
and she read as follows:
WIMMEN’S SPEAH;
Or whisperin’s of nature to
BETSEY BOBBET.
Last night as I meandered out
To meditate apart,
Secluded in my parasol,
Deep subjects shook my heart.
The earth, the skies, the prattling brooks,
All thundered in my ear,
“It is matrimony! it is matrimony
That is a woman’s speah.”
Day with a red shirred bonnet on,
Had down for China started,
Its yellow ribbons fluttered o’er
Her head, as she departed;
She seemed to wink her eyes on me,
As she did dissapeah;
And say, “It is matrimony, Betsey,
That is a woman’s speah.”
A rustic had broke down his team;
I mused almost in teahs,
“How can a yoke be borne along
By half a pair of steers?”
Even thus in wrath did nature speak,
“Heah! Betsey Bobbet, heah!
It is matrimony! it is matrimony
That is a woman’s speah.”
I saw a paih of roses
Like wedded pardners grow;
Sharp thorns did pave thier mortal path,
Yet sweetly did they blow;
They seemed to blow these _glorious_ words,
Into my _willing_ eah;
“It is matrimony! it is matrimony
That is a woman’s speah.”
Two gentle sheep upon the hills;
How sweet the twain did run,
As I meandered gently on
And sot down on a stun;
They seemed to murmur sheepishly,
“Oh Betsey Bobbet deah,
It is matrimony! it is matrimony
That is a woman’s speah.”
Sweet was the honeysuckle’s breath
Upon the ambient aih;
Sweet was the tendah coo of doves,
Yet sweeter husbands aih.
All nature’s voices poured these words
Into my _willing_ eah;
“B. Bobbet, it is matrimony
That is a woman’s speah.”
“The above are my sentiments,” says she, as she folded up the paper.
“I am a married woman,” says I, “and I hain’t got nothin’ to say aginst
marryin’, especally when Josiah’s back is turned, I don’t believe in
bein’ underhanded. But there are a great many widows and unmarried wimmen
in the world, what are they to do?”
“Let them take heed to these glorious and consoling words,
“‘It is matrimony, it is matrimony
That is a woman’s speah.’”
“Shet up about your speahs,” says I, gettin wore out, “You may sing it
Betsey Bobbet, and ministers may preach it, and writers may orate about
it, that it is women’s only speah to marry, but what are you goin’ to do?
Are you goin’ to compel men to marry all the wimmen off?” says I, with a
penetratin’ look onto Betsey.
[Illustration: A WOMAN’S RIGHTS.]
“I have seen wimmen that was willin’ to marry, but the men wasn’t
forthcomin’, what are they to do? What are the wimmen to do whose faces
are as humbly as a plate of cold greens?” Says I, in stern tones, “Are
men to be pursued like stricken dears by a mad mob of humbly wimmen?
Is a woman to go out into the street and collar a man and order him to
marry her? I am sick of this talk about its bein’ a woman’s only speah to
marry. If it is a woman’s only speah to marry, the Lord will provide her
with a _man_, it stands to reason he will. One that will suit her too,
one that will come jest as nateral for her to leave all of the rest of
the world and foller, as for a sunflower to foller on after the sun. One
that she seems to belong to, jest like North and South America, joined
by nature unbeknown to them ever sense creation. She’ll know him if she
ever sees him, for their two hearts will suit each other jest like the
two halves of a pair of shears. These are the marriages that Heaven signs
the certificates of, and this marryin’ for a home, or for fear of bein’
called a old maid, is no more marriage in the sight of God, no more true
marriage, than the blush of a fashionable woman that is bought for ten
cents an ounce and carried home in her pocket, is true modesty.”
Here was a pause, durin’ which Betsey quailed some, and I then resumed
again, in the same lofty tones and I don’t know but a little loftier,
“There is but one thing that makes marriage pure and holy in the sight of
God.”
“And what is that?” says Betsey in an enquirin’ tone.
“Love,” says I, in a full clear tone, “Love, such as angels feel for one
another, love, such as Samantha Smith felt for Josiah Allen, though _why_
I loved him, Heaven knows, I don’t. But I couldn’t help it, and I would
have lived single till them days we read of, if I hadn’t. Though for what
reason I loved him--” I continued mewsin’ly, and almost lost in deep
retrospectin’,--“I don’t know. I don’t believe in rehearsin’ privacies
and braggin’ about such things, but in the name of principle I speak. A
richer man wanted me at the same time, a man that knew half as much agin,
at least, as Josiah. I no need to have wet the ends of my fingers in
dishwater if I had married the other one, but I couldn’t do it, I loved
Josiah, _though why_”--and agin I plunged down into deep abstraction as I
murmured to myself,--“though _why_ I did, I don’t know.”
“In them days,” says I, risin’ up agin out of my revery, “In them days to
come, when men and wimmen are independent of each other, marriage will be
what it ought to be, for folks won’t marry unless God unites their hearts
so close they can’t get ’em apart nohow. They won’t be tackled together
by any old rotton ropes of interest and accomidation, that are liable to
break in to pieces any minute, and in them days, the hands of divorce
writers won’t be so lame as they be now.”
“I cannot comprehend,” says Betsey “how wimmen’s votin’, will change
the reprehensible ideah of marryin’ for a home, or for fear of being
ridiculed about, if it will, I cannot see.”
“Can’t you see daylight Betsey Bobbet, when the sun is mountin’ up into
the clear horizeon?” Says I in a eloquent voice, “it stands to reason
that a woman won’t marry a man she don’t love, for a home, if she is
capable of makin’ one for herself. Where’s the disgrace of bein’ a old
maid, only wimmen are kinder dependent on men, kinder waitin’ to have him
ask her to marry him, so as to be supported by him? Give a woman as many
fields to work in as men have, and as good wages, and let it be thought
jest as respectable for ’em to earn _thier_ livin’ as for a man to, and
that is enough. It riles me to hear ’em talk about wimmen’s wantin’ to
wear the breeches; they don’t want to; they like calico better than
broadcloth for stiddy wear, they like muslin better than kersey mear
for handsome, and they have a nateral hankerin’ after the good opinion
and admiration of the other sect, but they can do better without that
admiration than they can without vittles.”