Part 7

I’ve told the plain tale of my woes, With no deceit or language vain, Have told whereon my hopes are rose Have sung my mournful song of pain. And now e’en I will end my tale I’ve sung my song, I’ve wailed my wail.

“Wall, I call it foolish stuff,” I said, when I had finished. “Though, if I was to measure ’em with a yardstick, the lines might come out pretty nigh an equal length, and so I s’pose it would be called poetry.”

At any rate, I have made a practice, ever since, of callin’ it so; for I am one that despises envy and jealousy amongst sister authoresses. No, you never ketch me at it; I would sooner help ’em up the ladder than upset ’em, and it is ever my practice so to do. But truth must be spoke if subjects are brung up. Uronious views must be condemned by Warriors of the Right, whether ladders be upset, or stand firm, poetesses also.

I felt that this poetry attacked a tender subject, a subject dearer to me than all the world besides, the subject of Josiah. Josiah is a man.

And I say it, and I say it plain that men hain’t no such creeters as he tries to make out they be. Men are first-rate creeters in lots of things, and as good as wimmen any day of the week.

Of course, I agree with Betsy that husbands are tryin’ in lots of things; they need a firm hand to the hellum to guide ’em along through the tempestuous wave of married life, and get along with ’em. They are lots of trouble, and then I think they pay after all. Why, I wouldn’t swap my Josiah for the best house and lot in Janesville, or the crown of the Widder Albert. I love Josiah Allen. And I don’t know but the very trouble he has caused me makes me cling closer to him; you know the harder a horse’s head beats and thrashes against burdock burs, the tighter the burdocks will cling to its mane. Josiah makes me sights of trouble, but I cling to him closely.

I admit that men are curious creeters and tegus creeters, a good deal of the time. But then agin, so be wimmen, just as tegus, and I don’t know but teguser! I believe my soul, if I had got to be born again, I had almost as lives be born a man as a woman.

No, I don’t think one sect ort to boast much over the other one. They are both about equally foolish and disagreeable, and both have their goodness and nobilities. And both ort to have their rights. Now I haint one to set up and say men hadn’t ort to vote, that they don’t know enough, and hain’t good enough, and so forth, and so on. No, you don’t ketch me at it. I am one that stands up for justice and reason.

Now, the other day a wild-eyed woman with short hair, who goes round lecturin’ on wimmen’s rights, came to see me, a tryin’ to inviggle me into a plot to keep men from votin’. Says she, “The time is drawin’ near, when wimmen are a goin’ to vote, without no doubt.”

“Amen!” says I, “I can say amen to that with my hull heart and soul.”

“And then,” says she, “when we get the staff in our own hands less we wimmen all put in together and try to keep men from votin’.”

“Never!” says I. “Never! will you get me into such a scrape as that.” Says I, “men have jest exactly as good a right to vote as wimmen have. They are condemned, and protected, and controlled by the same laws that wimmen are, and so of course are equally interested in makin’ ’em. You needn’t try to inviggle me into no plot to keep men from votin’, for justice is ever my theme, and also Josiah.”

Says she, bitterly, “I’d love to make these miserable sneaks try it once and see how they would like it, to have to spend their property and be hauled round, and hung by laws they hadn’t no hand in makin’.”

But I still say with marble firmness, “men has jest as good a right to vote as wimmen have. And you needn’t try to inviggle me into no such plans, for I won’t be inviggled.”

And so she stopped invigglin, and went off.

And then agin in Betsy’s poetry (though as a neighbor, and a female authoress, I never would speak a word against it, and what I say, I say as a Warrior, and would wish to be so took) I would say in kindness that Betsy sot out in married life expectin’ too much. Now, she didn’t marry in the right way, and so she ought to have expected tougher times than the usual run of married females ort to expect, more than the ordinary tribulations of matrimony.

And it won’t do to expect too much in this world anyway. If you can only bring your lives down to it, it is a sight better to expect nothing, and then you won’t be disappointed if you get it, as you most probably will. And if you get something, it will be a joyful surprise to you. But there are few indeed who has ever sot down on this calm hite of filosify.

Folks expect too much. As many, and many times as their hopes has proved to be uronious, they think, well now, if I only had that certain thing, or was in that certain place, I should be happy. But they haint. They find when they reach that certain gole and have climbed up and sot down on it, they’ll find that somebody has got onto the gole before ’em, and is there a settin’ on it. No matter how spry anybody may be, they’ll find that Sorrow can climb faster than they can, and can set down on goles quicker.

It haint no matter how easy a seat anybody sets down in, they’ll find that they’ll have to hunch along, and let Disappointment set down with ’em, and Anxiety, and Weariness, and et ceteree, et ceteree.

Now, the scholar, or the literatoor, or writer, thinks if he can only stand up on that certain hite of scientific discovery, or Akkropolis of literatoor, he will be happy; for he will know all that he cares about, and will have all the fame he wants to. But when he gets up there, he’ll see plain, for the higher he riz above the mists of ignorance that floats ’round the lower lands, the clearer his vision, and he will see another peek right ahead of him steeper and loftier and icier than the last, and so on ad infinitum, ad infinity. And if it is literatoor, he’ll see somebody that’s got higher, or thinks he has, or he’ll find some critick that says he hasn’t done much, and Shakespeare did better.

Just as it was with old Mrs. Peedick, our present Mrs. Peedick’s mother-in-law, she said, she told me with her own lips, that she knew she should be happy when she got a glass butter-dish, but she said she wasn’t; she told me with her own lips, that jest as quick as she got that she wanted a sugar-bowl, for the Druffels had sugar-bowls, and why shouldn’t she?

The lover thinks, when he can once claim his sweetheart, call her his own, he will be blessed and content; but he hain’t. No matter how well he loves her, no matter how fond she is of him, and how blessed they are in each other’s love, the haunting fear must always rack his soul, the horrible fear be there, of seeing her slip away from him altogether. That in place of her warm, beating heart, whose every throb is full of love for him, will be only her vacant place, and instead of the tender sweetness of her voice, the everlasting silence of Eternity.

The little ones that cling to our knees, that pray beside us at bed-time, and the patter of whose feet is such music to us—they go, too, and we no more feel their kisses, or hear their tiny voices. Every day, every hour, we are losing something, that we called our own.

You see we don’t own much of anything in this world. It’s curious, but so it is. And what we call our own, don’t belong to us; not at all. That is one of the things that makes this such an extremely curious world to live in. Yes, we are situated extremely curious, as much so as the robins and swallows who build their nests on the swaying forest boughs.

We smile at the robin, with our wise, amused pity, who builds her tiny nest, with such laborious care, high up, out on the waving tree-top, only to be blown away by the chilly autumn winds. But are not our homes, the sweetest homes of our tenderest love, built upon just as insecure foundations, hanging over more mysterious depths? Rocked to and fro, swept to their ruin by a breath of the Unknown? Our dreams, and hopes, and ambitions, what are they all but the sticks and straws that we weave about our frail nests, only to be blown away forever?

And when our December comes, are not we too swept away, poor voyagers, over pathless wastes? Yet HE, who has provided a balmy South, as a refuge for the summer birds, to which they fly, intuitively, with blind hope and trust—has not HE prepared likewise a shelter for us, one where we may fulfil our deathless longings, meet the “loved and lost,” and realize our soul’s dearest dreams? Yes, over the lonely way, over the untried fields of the future, ay, even over the Unknown Sea, which they call DEATH, even over that, HE will guide us safely, to a haven, a home, immortal, “not made with hands, eternal in the Heavens”.

But I am eppisodin!

DEACON SLIMPSEY’S MOURNFUL FOREBODINGS.

Thomas Jefferson went to the school-house to meetin’ last night, and he broke out to the breakfast-table:

“Betsey Bobbet spoke in meetin’ last night, father.” He addressed the words to his father, for he knows I won’t uphold no kind of light talking about serious things.

“She said she knew she was religious, because she felt she loved the bretheren.” Then they both laughed in an idiotic manner. But I said, in a tone of cool dignity, as I passed him his 3d cup of coffee, “She meant it in a Scriptural sense, no doubt.”

“I guess you’d think she meant it in a earthly sense, if you had seen her hang on to old Slimpsey last night; she’ll marry that old man yet, if he don’t look out.”

“Oh, shaw!” says I, coolly. “She’s payin’ attention to the editor of the _Gimlet_.”

“She’ll never get him,” says he. “She means to be on the safe side, and get one or the other of ’em; how steady she has been to meetin’ sence Deacon Slimpsey moved into the place.”

“You shall not make light of her religeen, Thomas Jefferson,” says I, in a severe voice.

“I won’t, mother. I shouldn’t feel right to, for it is light enough now; it don’t all consist in talkin’ in meetin’, mother. I don’t believe in folks’es usin’ up all their religeen Sunday nights, and then goin’ without any all the rest of the week; it looks as shiftless in ’em as a 3-year-old hat on a female.”

Says I, in a tone of deep rebuke, “Instead of tendin’ other folks’s motes, Thomas Jefferson, you had better take care of your own beams; you’ll have plenty work enough to last you one spell.”

“And if you are through with your breakfast,” says his father, “you had better go and give the cows something to eat.”

“Can’t they come here, father?” says he, leanin’ kinder lazy over the table.

Says I, “That is pretty talk to your father, Thomas J. How do you suppose your days will be long in the land if you don’t honor your father and mother?”

“I do honor you, mother. I never see such long, wet, tedious days as they have been ever sence I have been home from school, and I lay it to honorin’ you and father so.”

Says I, “I won’t hear another light word this mornin’, Thomas Jefferson—not one.” He read earnestness in my tone; and he rose with alackrity and went to the barn, and his farther soon drew on his boots and followed him, and with a pensive brow I turned out my dish water. I hadn’t got my dishes more than half done, when, with no warnin’ of no kind, the door burst open, and in tottered Deacon Slimpsey, pale as a piece of white cotton shirt. I wildly wrung out my dish-cloth, and offered him a chair, sayin’, in a agitated tone, “What is the matter, Deacon Slimpsey?”

“Am I pursued?” says he, in a voice of low frenzy, as he sank into a wooden-bottomed chair. I cast one or two eagle glances out of the window, both ways, and replied in a voice of choked-down emotion:

“There haint nobody in sight. Has your life been attacked by burglers and incendiarys? Speak, Deacon Slimpsey, speak!”

He struggled nobly for calmness, but in vain. And then he put his hand wildly to his brow and murmured, in low and hollow accents:

“Betsey Bobbet!”

I see he was overcome by as many as seven different emotions of different anguishes, and I give him pretty near a minute to recover himself; and then, says I, as I sadly resumed my dish-cloth, “What of her, Deacon Slimpsey?”

“She’ll be the death on me,” says he, “and that haint the worst on it. My soul is jeopardied on account of her. Oh!” says he, groanin’ in an anguish, “Can you believe it, Miss Allen, that I, a deacon in an autherdox church, could be tempted to swear? Behold that wretch! I confess it, as I came through your gate, just now, I said to myself, ‘By Jupiter, I can’t stand it so much longer’; and only last night I wished I was a ghost; for I thought if I were an apperition, I could have escaped from her view. Oh!” says he, groanin’ agin, “I have got so low as to wish I was a ghost!” He paused, and in a deep and brooding silence I finished my dishes, and hung up my dish-pan. “She was rushing out of Deacon Gowdey’s, as I came by, just now, to talk to me. She don’t give me no peace—last night she would walk tight to my side all the way home, and she looked hungry at the gate as I went through, and fastened it on the inside.” Agin he paused overcome by his emotions, and I looked pityin’ly on him. He was a small boned man of about seventy summers and winters. Age, who had ploughed the wrinkles into his face, had turned the furrows deep. The cruel fingers of time, or some other female, had plucked nearly every hair from his head, and the ruthless hand of fate had also seen fit to deprive him of his eye-winkers, not one solitary winker bein’ left for a shade tree (as it were) to protect the pale pupils below, and they bein’ a light watery blue, and the lids bein’ inflamed, they looked sad indeed. Owing to afflictive providences, he was dressed up more than men generally be, for his neck bein’ badly swelled, he wore a string of yellow amber beads, and in behalf of his sore eyes he wore ear-rings. But truly outside splender and glitter won’t satisfy the mind, or bring happiness; I looked upon his mournful face, and my heart melted inside of me, almost as soft as it could, almost as soft as butter in the month of August, and I said to him in a soothin’ and encouragin’ tone:

“Mebby she’ll marry the editor of the _Gimlet_. She is payin’ attention to him.”

“No, she won’t,” says he, in a solemn and affectin’ tone that brought tears to my eyes, as I sat peelin’ my onions for dinner. “No, she won’t. I shall be the one, I feel it. I was always the victim; I was always down-trodden. When I was a baby, my mother had two twins both of ’em a little older than me, and they almost tore me to pieces before I got into trowsers. Mebby it would have been better for me if they had,” said he in a musin’ and mournful tone—and then heavin’ a deep sigh, he resumed; “When I went to school and we played leap-frog if there was a frog to be squashed down under all the rest, I was that frog; it has always been so, if ever there was a victim wanted, I was the victim, and Betsey Bobbet will get round me yet, and see if she don’t; women are awful perseverin’ in such things.”

“Cheer up, Deacon Slimpsey, you haint obleeged to marry her—it is a free country; folks haint obleeged to marry unless they are a mind to; it don’t take a brass band to make that legal.” I quoted these words in a light and joyous tone, hopin’ to rouse him from his despondancy—but in vain, for he only repeated in a gloomy tone:

“She’ll get around me yet, Miss Allen, I feel it,” and as the shade deepened on his eyebrow, he said, “Have you seen her verses in the last week’s _Gimlet_?”

“No,” says I, “I haint.”

In a silent and hopeless way he took the paper out of his pocket, and handed it to me and I read as follows:

A SONG

Composed not for the strong-minded females, who madly and indecently insist on rights, but for the retiring and delicate-minded of the sect who modestly murmur “we wont have no rights—we scorn ’em;” will some modest and bashful sister set it to music, that we may timidly, but loudly warble it, and oblige hers till death in this glorious cause.

BETSEY BOBBET.

Not for strong minded wimmen Do I now tune my liar; Oh not for them would I kin- dle up the sacred fire; Oh modest bashful female For you I tune my lay; Although strong-minded wimmin sneer We’ll conquer in the fray. CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, Press onward, do not fear, Remember womens spear, sisters, Remember womens spear.

Twould cause some fun if poor Miss Wade, Should say of her boy Harry, “I shall not give him any trade, But bring him up to marry;” Twould cause some fun of course, dear maids, If Mrs. Wade’ses Harry, Should lose his end and aim in life, And find no chance to marry. CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, etc.

Yes, wedlock is our only hope, All o’er this mighty nation; Men are brought up to other trades, But this is our vocation. Oh not for sense or love ask we, We ask not to be courted;— Our watch-word is to married be, That we may be supported. CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, etc.

Say not you’r strong, and love to work, Are healthier than your brother, Who for a blacksmith is designed, Such feelings you must smother; Your restless hands fold up or gripe Your waist unto a span, And spend your strength in looking out To hail the coming man. CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, etc.

Oh do not be discouraged, when You find your hopes brought down; And find sad and unwilling men, Heed not their gloomy frown; Heed not their wild despaier We will not give no quarter; In battle all is fair We’ll win, for we had orter. CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, Press onward, do not fear, Remember womens spear, sisters, Remember womens spear.

“Wall,” says I in an encouragin’ tone, as I handed him the paper agin—“that haint much different from the piece she had in the _Gimlet_ a spell ago, that was about womens spear.”

“It is that spear that is goin’ to destroy me,” says he, mournfully.

“Don’t give up so, Deacon Slimpsey. I hate to see you lookin’ so gloomy and deprested.”

“It is the awful determination these lines breathe forth that appauls me,” says he. “I have seen it in another.

“Betsey Bobbet reminds me dreadfully of another. And I don’t want to marry agin, Miss Allen. I don’t want to,” says he, lookin’ me pitifully in the face, “I didn’t want to marry the first time; I wanted to be a bachelder. I think they have the easiest time of it by half. Now there is a friend of mine that never was married, he is jest my age, or that is, he is only half an hour younger, and that haint enough difference to make any account of, is it Miss Allen?” says he in a pensive and enquirin’ tone.

“No,” says I in a reasonable accent. “No, Deacon Slimpsey, it haint.”

“Wall, that man has always been a bachelder, and you ought to see what a head of hair he has got, sound at the roots now, not a lock missing. I wanted to be one, and meant to be, but jest as I got my plans all laid, she, my late wife, come and kept house for me, and married me. I lived with her for twenty 5 years, and when she left me,” he murmured with a contented look, “I was reconciled to it. I was reconciled before it took place. I don’t want to say anything against nobody that haint here, but I lost some hair by my late wife,” says he, putting his hand to his bald head in an abstracted way. “I lost a good deal of hair by her, and I haint much left as you can see,” says he in a melancholy tone. “I don’t want to be married agin. I did want to save a lock or two, for my children to keep as a relict of me.” And again he paused overcome by his feelin’s. I knew not what to say to comfort him, and I poured onto him a few comforting adjectives, sich as,

“Mebby you are borrowin’ trouble without a cause, Deacon. With life there is hope, Deacon Slimpsey. It is always the darkest before daylight.” But in vain. He only sighed mournfully.

“She’ll get round me yet, Miss Allen—mark my words, and when the time comes you will think of what I told you.” His face was most black with gloomy apprehensions, as he repeated again—“You see if she don’t get round me,” and a tear began to flow; I turned away with instinctive delicacy, and set my pan of onions in the sink, but when I glanced at him again it was still flowing, and I said to him in a tone of two-thirds pity and one comfort. “Chirk up, Deacon Slimpsey, be a man.”

“That is the trouble,” says he, “if I wasnt a man she would give me some peace,” and he wept into his red silk handkerchief (with a yellow border) bitterly.

BORROWING THE MAGAZINE.

Josiah had been to Jonesville, to the post-office and got the last number of my magazine, and I was just lookin’ at the pictures, which are always as pretty a pink, when happenin’ to cast my eyes out of the window, I saw Miss Gowdey and her little boy comin’ up the road.