I suppose we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was
sayin' a few days ago to Betsey 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 hain't married, and she don't seem to be
contented. She is awful opposed to wimmin's rights--she thinks it is
wimmin'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 hain't 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)
hain't 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.
As I said, she is awful opposed to wimmin's havin' 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 wearyin' 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 gray
eyes--and move off the subject.
But Betsey don't get discouraged. 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 wimmin 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 religious
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 editor of the _Augur_, a longhaired 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
stidy. 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 neighbors' brother's wife, that
he didn't like Betsey's poetry at all, and all he printed it for was
to plague the editor 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, on Fourth 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 wimmin likin' 'em, and follern' '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 daresay
you acted foolish enough round her to sicken a snipe, and if you
makes 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 hain't 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 to be a-twittin' about it afterward. 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
morning. I had got my house slick as a pin, and my dinner under way
(I was goin' to have a b'iled dinner, and a cherry puddin' b'iled
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-b'ilin', 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."
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-sittin' and heah
it rehearsed by a musical vorce."
Says I, "I s'pose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good," so I
began as follows:
"It is seldom that we present 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_ has no
need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite
authar. You have devorhed him, haven't you, Josiah's Allen wife?"
"Devoured who?" says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold
icicle.
"Mahten, Fahqueah, 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 sorrow's 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 teahs
From eyes like hisen.
"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
yellow 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 feelin's 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 feelin' 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 sole of genious did not wed his
affinity, but was united to a mere woman of clay."
"Mere woman 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 soles soah above such petty feelin's--we soah far 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 ain't."
"The editah of the _Augah_" says she, and she grasped the paper
offen the stand, and folded it up, and presented it at me like a
spear, "the editah of this paper is a kindred sole: 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."
_________
-THE END-
Marietta Holley's short story: An Unmarried Female
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