Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

IN THE CROWD

P. A. AND P. I.

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE
AS A
P. A.

P. I.
SAMANTHA AT THE CENTENNIAL.
DESIGNED AS
A BRIGHT AND SHINING LIGHT,
TO PIERCE THE FOGS OF ERROR AND INJUSTICE THAT SURROUND
SOCIETY AND JOSIAH,
AND TO BRING MORE CLEARLY TO VIEW THE PATH THAT LEADS STRAIGHT ON TO
VIRTUE AND HAPPINESS.

By the Author of

“MY OPINIONS AND BETSEY BOBBET’S.”

“What are you going to write now, Samantha?”

HARTFORD, CONN.:

AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY

1883.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by the

AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY,

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

To

MY JOSIAH’S CHILDREN BY HIS FIRST WIFE:

THOMAS JEFFERSON

AND

TIRZAH ANN,

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

BY ONE, WHO,

ALTHOUGH A STEP-MOTHER, IS STILL AS AFFECTIONATE AND FRIENDLY TO ’EM AS CAN BE.

The above is the dedication I had lotted on; had wrote all out and calculated to have; pleasing, very, to Josiah, to the children, and to myself. But come to think it over, I changed my mind. I thought: they have friends, and eloquent tongues of their own, and happiness; are well off, and haint sufferin’ for dedications, or any of the other comforts and necessaries of life. And so, the above is hereby null and void; and this is what I now solemnly declare to be my last lawful will and dedication of this book:—

To

THOSE WHO HAVE NO ONE TO SPEAK FOR THEM;

TO

THOSE WHO ARE IN BONDS

(ANY KIND OF BONDS,)

TO

Those whose Hearts Ache, through Injustice and Oppression;

TO

Those whose Sad Eyes Look Through Tears for the Dawning of a Brighter, Clearer Day,

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED, AND ALSO INSCRIBED,

By Their Sincere Friend and Well-Wisher,

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.

MY REASONS TO THE KIND AND ALMOST GENTLE READER
WHY
I DON’T HAVE NO PREFACE TO THIS BOOK.

My companion, Josiah, knew that my book was all finished and completed, and so one lovely day about half past four, P. M. in the afternoon, when he see me walk with a firm and even step up to the mantletry piece and take down my bottle of ink and my steel mounted pen, he says to me:

“What are you goin’ to writin’ on now, Samantha?”

Says I mildly, “I thought I’d lay to and write a preface to my book, Josiah. I thought I’d tell ’em that I had wrote it all down about you and I goin’ on a tower to Filadelfy village to see the Sentinel.”

“I guess after you have wrote it all out in black ink in a book, about our goin’ to the Sentimental, folks that read it will find out we have been there, without your writin’ a preface to tell ’em of it. They will unless they are dumb fools.”

He snapped out awful snappish. I couldn’t think what ailed him, and says I firmly:

“Stop swearin’ instantly and to once, Josiah Allen!” And I added again in mild axents: “I guess I’ll lay to and write my preface, Josiah; you know there has got to be one.”

“Why has there got to be one?”

Oh! how fractious and sharp that “why” was. I never see a sharper, more worrysome “why” in my hull life than that “why” was. But I kep’ cool, and says I in calm tones:

“Because there has; Folks always have prefaces, Josiah.”

“What makes ’em have ’em? there’s the dumb of it. What makes ’em?”

Says I mekanically,—for a stiddy follerin’ of duty has made reprovin’ my pardner in times of need, a second or third nature to me—“stop swearin’ to once, Josiah Allen! They have prefaces, Josiah, because”—again I paused half a moment in deep thought—“they have ’em, because they do have ’em, that’s why.”

But even this plain and almost lucid statement didn’t seem to satisfy him, and he kep’ a arguin’ and sayin’,—“I’d be hanged if I’d have ’em,” and so on and so 4th. And I argued back again. Says I:

“You know folks are urged to publish books time and again, that wouldn’t have had no idee of doin’ it if they had been let alone.” Says I,—“You know after they git their books all finished, they hang back and hate to have ’em published; hate to, like dogs; and are urged out of their way by relatives and friends, and have to give up, and have ’em published. They naturally want to tell the Public how it is, and that these things are so.”

“Oh wall,” says he, “if the Public is any like me, he’d ruther hear the urgin’ himself than to hear the author tell on it. What did they break their backs for a writin’ fourteen or fifteen hundred pages if they laid out to hang back in the end. If they found their books all wrote out, a growin’ on huckleberry bushes, or cewcumber vines, there would be some sense in talkin’ about urgin’ ’em out of their way.”

And he sot his head on one side, and looked up at the ceilin’ with a dretful shrewd look onto his face, and went to kinder whistlin’. I can’t bear hintin’, and never could, I always despised hinters. And I says in almost cold tones, says I:

“Don’t you believe they was urged, Josiah Allen?”

“I haint said they wuzn’t, or they wuz. I said I had ruther see the hangin’ back, and hear the urgin’ than to hear of it by-the-by, in prefaces and things. That’s what I said.”

But again that awful shrewd look come onto his face, and again he sot his head on one side and kinder went to whistlin’; no particular tune, but jest a plain sort of a promiscous whistle. But I kep’ considerable cool, and says I:

“Folks may be real dissatisfied with what they have wrote, and want to sort o’ apoligise, and run it down kinder.”

Says Josiah,—“If folks don’t write the best they know how to, it is a insult to the Public, and ort to be took by him as one.”

“That is so, Josiah,” says I. “I always thought so. But writers may try to do the very best they can; their minds may be well stabled, and their principles foundered on a rock; their motives as sound as brass, and soarin’ and high-toned as anything can be, and still at the same time, they may have a realizin’ sense that in spite of all their pains, there is faults in the book; lots of faults. And they may” says I, “feel it to be their duty to tell the Public of these faults. They may think it is wrong to conceal ’em, and the right way is to come out nobly and tell the Public of ’em.”

“Oh! wall!” says Josiah, “if that is what you are goin’ to write a preface for, you may set your heart at rest about it. Anybody that reads your book will find out the faults in it for themselves, without your tellin’ ’em of ’em in a preface, or sayin’ a word to help ’em on in the search. Don’t you go to worryin’ about that, Samantha; folks will see the faults jest as easy; wont have to put on no specks nor nothin’ to find ’em; such things can’t be hid.”

My companion meant to chirk me up and comfort me. His will was good, but somehow, I s’pose I didn’t look so chirked up and happy as he thought I ort to, and so to prove his words, and encourage me still more, he went on and told a story:

“Don’t you remember the boy that was most a fool, and when he sot out for his first party, his father charged him not to say a word, or they would find him out. He sot perfectly speechless for more’n an hour; wouldn’t answer back a word they said to him, till they begun to call him a fool right to his face. And then he opened his mouth for the first time, and hollered to his father,—‘Father! father! they’ve found me out.’”

Josiah is a great case to tell stories. He takes all the most high-toned and popular almanacs of the day, and reads ’em clear through. He says he “will read ’em, every one of ’em, from beginnin’ to Finy.” He is fond of tellin’ me anecdotes. And is also fond of tragedies—he reads the World stiddy. And I always make a practice of smilin’ or groanin’ at ’em as the case may be. (I sot out in married life with a firm determination to do my duty by this man.) But now, though I smiled a very little, there was sunthin’ in the story, or the thoughts and forebodin’s the story waked up in me, that made my heart sink from—I should judge from a careless estimate—an inch, to an inch and three-quarters. I didn’t make my feelin’s known, however; puttin’ my best foot forred has been my practice for years, and my theme. And my pardner went on in a real chirk tone:

“You see Samantha, jest how it is. You see there haint no kind o’ need of your writin’ any preface.”

I was almost lost in sad and mournful thought, but I answered dreamily that “I guessed I’d write one, as I had seemed to sort o’ lay out and calculate to.”

Then my companion come out plain, and told me his mind, which if he had done in the first place, would have saved breath and argument. Says he:

“I hate prefaces. I hate ’em with almost a perfect hatred.” And says he with a still more gloomy and morbid look,—“I have been hurt too much by prefaces to take to ’em, and foller ’em up.”

“Hurt by ’em?” says I.

“Yes,” says he firmly. “That other preface of your’n hurt me as much as 7 cents in the eyes of the community. It was probable more’n that damage to me. I wouldn’t”—says he, with as bitter a look onto him as I ever see,—“have had it got out that I had the Night Mair, for a silver 3 cent piece.”

“Why,” says I mildly, “it wasn’t nothin’ ag’inst your character, Josiah.”

“Oh no!” says he in a sarcastic tone. “You would want it talked over in prefaces and round, wouldn’t you, that you had the Night Mair, and pranced round in your sleep?”

“I never mentioned the word prance,” says I mildly, but firmly, “never.”

“Oh wall,” says he, “it is all the same thing.”

“No it haint,” says I firmly. “No it haint.”

“Wall,” says he, “you know jest how stories grow by tellin’. And by the time it got to New York,—I dare persume to say before it got to that village,—the story run that I pranced round, and was wild as a henhawk. I have hated prefaces ever sense, and druther give half a cent than to have you write another one.”

“Don’t go beyond your means a tryin’ to bribe me,” says I, in a almost dry tone. Josiah is honest as a pulpit, but close, nearly tight. After a moment’s thought, I says,—“If you feel like that about it, Josiah, I wont have no preface in this book.”

“Wall,” says he, “it would take a load offen my mind if you wouldn’t.” And he added in cheerful and tender tones,—“Shan’t I start up the fire for you, Samantha, and hang onto the tea-kettle?”

I told him he might, and then I rose up and put my bottle of ink on to the mantletry piece, and sot the table for supper. And this—generous and likely reader though I think a sight on you, and would have been glad of the chance to have told you so in a lawful way—is jest the reason why I have denied myself that privilege and don’t have no preface to this book. Further explanations are unnecessary. To the discernin’ mind my reasons are patented, for such well know that a husband’s wishes to a fond wife, are almost like takin’ the law to her. And knowin’ this, I hope and trust you will kindly overlook its loss. You will not call me shiftless, nor yet slack. You will heed not the dark report that may be started up that I was short on it for prefaces, or entirely run out of ’em, and couldn’t get holt of one. You will believe not that tale, knowin’ it false and also untrue. You will regard its absence kindly and even tenderly, thinkin’ that what is my loss is your gain; thinkin’ that it is a delicate and self-sacrificin’ token of a wife’s almost wrapped devotion to a Josiah.

WHAT I HAVE WRIT ABOUT.

WHAT THE KIND ARTIST HAS DONE

THE JONESVILLE DEBATIN’-SCHOOL.

It was to the Jonesville Debatin’-School, that we first thought on’t. It was there that Josiah and me made up our 2 minds to go to Filadelfy village to see the Sentinal. They’ve had Debatin’-schools to Jonesville this winter, and as I was the only literary woman worth mentionin’, they made a great pint of havin’ me attend to ’em. I say the only literary woman,—Betsey Bobbet Slimpsey havin’ to work out so much that she has entirely left off writin’ poetry. She says she can’t go out washin’, and cleanin’ house, and makin’ soap, and write poetry at the same time, worth a cent. They have a awful hard time to git along. They both work out by the day, and they say that she has had to sell her tow frizzles and corneleun ring, and lots of her other nice things that she had to catch her husband with, in order to git along. Howsumever, I don’t know this; you can hear anything, such a lyin’ time, now-a-days—as I told Josiah, the other day. He says to me, says he:

“I won’t believe anything, Samantha, till I see it with my own eyes.”

And says I,—“I wont believe anything, Josiah Allen, till I have got holt of it.” Says I, “mists and black arts are liable to be cast before your eyes; but if you lay holt of anything with your two hands, you are pretty certain it is there.”

Never havin’ laid holt of her tow curls and other ornaments, as they was bein’ sold, I don’t tell it for certain truth, but only what I have hearn; but that they have a dretful hard time on’t to git along, that I know.

Besides poverty, the horrors lay holt of Slimpsey the worst kind. They shake him as a dog shakes a chipmunk. When he lived with his first wife he didn’t have ’em more’n a few times a month, or so; but now he has ’em every day, stiddy, right along. He yells at Betsey; goes to bed with his boots on; throws his hat at her, hollers, and keeps a actin’. He drinks, too, when he can git anything to drink. He says he drinks to forget his trouble; but what a simple move that is, for when he gits over it, there his trouble is, right before his eyes. There Betsey stands. Trouble is as black and troublesome again looked at through the glass, and topers find that it is; for they have the old trouble, all the same, besides shame and disgrace, and bodily ruination.

ALAS! POOR BETSEY.

Considerin’ what a dretful hard time Betsey has, it would seem to a bystander to calmly think on’t, that she didn’t git much of any comfort from her marriage, except the dignity she told me of the other night, with her own tongue as she was goin’ home from washin’, at Miss Gowdey’s. (Miss Gowdey had a felon and was disabled.) She had on a old hood, and one of her husband’s old coats with brass buttons—for it was a rainin’ and she didn’t care for looks. She was all drabbled up, and looked tired enough to sink. She had a piece of pork to pay her for her washin’, and a piller-case about half full of the second sort of flour a carryin’ along, that Miss Gowdey had give her; and as I happened to be a standin’ in the front door a lookin’ for my companion, Josiah,—who had gone to Jonesville to mill—we got to talkin’ about one thing and another, and she up and told me that she wouldn’t part with the dignity she got by marryin’, for 25 cents, much as she needed money. Though she said it was a worse trial than anybody had any idee of, for her to give up writin’ poetry.

So, as I was a sayin’, bein’ the only literary woman of any account in Jonesville, they made a great handlin’ of havin’ me present at their meetin’s, or at least, some of ’em did. Though as I will state and explain, the great question of my takin’ part in ’em, rent Jonesville almost to its very twain. Some folks hate to see a woman set up high and honored; they hate to, like a dog. It was gallin’ to some men’s pride, to see themselves passed by, and a female woman invited to take a part in the great “Creation Searchin’ Society,” or “Jonesville Lyceum.” I sometimes call it Debatin’-school, jest as I used to; but the childern have labored with me; they call it Lyceum, and so does Maggy Snow, and our son-in-law, Whitfield Minkley; (he and Tirzah Ann are married, and it is very agreeable to me and to Josiah, and to Brother and Sister Minkley; very!) Tirzah Ann told me it worked her up, to see me so old-fashioned as to call it Debatin’-school.

But says I calmly,—“Work up or not, I shall call it so when I forget the other name.”

And Thomas Jefferson labored with me, and jest as his way is, he went down into the reason and philosophy of things, knowin’ well what a case his mother is for divin’ deep into reason and first causes. That boy is dretful deep; he is comin’ up awful well. He is a ornament to Jonesville, as Lawyer Snow—Maggy’s father—told me, last fall. (That haint come off yet; but we are perfectly willin’ and agreeable on both sides, and it will probable take place before long. Thomas J. fairly worships the ground she walks on, and so she does hisen.)

Says Thomas J. to me, says he, “I haint a word to say ag’inst your callin’ it Debatin’-school, only I know you are so kinder scientific and philosophical, that I hate to see you usin’ a word that haint got science to back it up. Now this word Lyceum,” says he, “is derived from the dead languages, and from them that is most dead. It is from the Greek and Injun; a kind of a half-breed. Ly, is from the Greek, and signifies and means a big story, or, in other words, a falsehood; and ce-um is from the Injun; and it all means, ‘see ’em lie.’”

That boy is dretful deep; admired as he is by everybody, there is but few indeed that realize what a mind he has got. He convinced me right on the spot, and I make a practice of callin’ it so, every time I think of it. But as I told Tirzah Ann—work up or not, if they was mortified black as a coal, both of ’em, when I forgot that name I should call it by the old one.

THE EDITOR OF THE AUGER.

There has been a awful thorough study into things to the Debatin’-school, or Lyceum. It has almost skairt me sometimes, to see ’em go so deep into hard subjects. It has seemed almost like temptin’ Providence, to know so much, and talk so wise and smart as some of ’em have.

I was in favor of their havin’ ’em, from the very first on’t, and said openly, that I laid out to attend ’em; but I thought my soul, I should have to stay to home, the very first one. It commenced on a Tuesday night, and I had got my mind all worked up about goin’ to it; and I told the Widder Doodle, (Josiah’s brother’s wife, that is livin’ with us at present,) I told her in the afternoon, it would be a dretful blow to me if anything should happen to keep me to home; and I got a early breakfast, a purpose to get a early dinner, so’s to have a early supper, so’s to be ready to go, you know, sunthin’ as the poem runs:—“The fire begun to burn the stick, the stick begun to lick the kid, and the kid begun to go.”

Wall, before supper, I went up into the Widder Doodle’ses room to git my soap-stone, to put on the tank to have it a warmin’ for the ride; (I let the Widder have the soap-stone, nights, she havin’ no other companion, and bein’ lonesome, and troubled with cold feet. I do well by the Widder.) As I come down with it, all boyed up in my mind about what a edifyin’ and instructive time I was a goin’ to have, the Widder spoke up and says she:

“Josiah has jest been in, and he don’t know as he shall go to Jonesville, after all; he says the Editor of the Auger is sick.” He was to make the openin’ speech.

“What ails the Editor?” says I.

Says she,—“He has got the Zebra Spinner Magnetics.”

“Good land!” says I, “he wont never get over it, will he? I shouldn’t never expect to get well if I had that distemper, and I don’t know as I should want to. It must leave the system in a awful state.”

“Yes,” says Josiah, who had come in with an armful of wood, “the Editor is bad off; but Sister Doodle haint got it jest right; it is the Zebra Smilin’ Marcellus that has got a holt of him. Solomon Cypher told me about it when he went by on his saw log.”

“Wall,” says I coolly, “a few words, more or less, haint a goin’ to make or break a distemper. You both seem to be agreed and sot onto the Zebra, so s’posen we call it the Zebra, for short. Do you know whether he catched the Zebra, or whether it come onto him spontaneous, as it were? Anyway, I don’t believe he will ever git over it.”

And I sithed as I thought of the twins; he has had a sight of twins sense he married this woman; I never see such a case for twins, as the Editor is. And I sithed as I thought of every span of ’em; and the ma, and step-ma of ’em. I kep’ a sithin’, and says I:

“This distemper is a perfect stranger to me, Josiah Allen. Where does the Zebra take holt of anybody?”

Says he,—“The disease is in the backside of his neck, and the posterity part of his brain.”

And then I felt better. I felt well about the Editor of the Augers’es wife, and the twins. Says I in a cheerful voice:

“If the disease is in his brain, Josiah, I know he will have it light. I know they can quell it down easy.”

I knew well that there could be a large, a very large and interestin’ book made out of what the Editor didn’t know. The minute he told me the Zebra was in his brain, I knew its stay there would be short, for it wouldn’t find anything to support itself on, for any length of time. I felt well; my heart felt several pounds lighter than it had; for lightness of heart never seems so light, as it does after anybody has been carryin’ a little jag of trouble. It takes the little streaks of shadow to set off the sunshine. Life is considerable like a rag carpet, if you only look on it with the eye of a weaver. It is made up of dark stripes and light stripes, and sometimes a considerable number of threads of hit or miss; and the dark stripes set off the light ones, and make ’em look first rate. But I am allegorin’.

As I said, I felt relieved and cheerful, and I got supper on the table in a few minutes—the tea-kettle was all biled. After supper, I said to Josiah in cheerful axents:

“I guess we had better go to Jonesville, anyway, for my mind seems to be sot onto that Debatin’-school, and I don’t believe the Editor’s havin’ the Zebra will break it down at all; and I want to go to Tirzah Ann’s a few minutes; and we are about out of tea—there haint enough for another drawin’.”

Josiah said it wasn’t best to take the old mare out again that night, and he didn’t believe there would be a Debatin’-school, now the Editor had got the Zebra; he thought that would flat it all out.

I didn’t argue on that; I didn’t stand on the Zebra, knowin’ well, I had a keener arrer in my bow. I merely threw in this remark, in a awful dry tone:

“Very well, Josiah Allen; I can git along on sage tea, if you can; or, I can make crust coffee for breakfast.”

I calmly kep’ a braidin’ up my back hair, previous to doin’ it up in a wad, for I knew what the end thereof would be. My companion, Josiah, is powerfully attached to his tea, and he sot for a number of minutes in perfect silence, meditatin’—I knew by the looks of his face—on sage tea. I kep’ perfectly still and let him meditate, and wouldn’t have interrupted him for the world, for I knew that sage tea, and crust coffee, taken internally of the mind, (as it were,) was what was good for him jest then. And so it proved, for in about three minutes and a half, he spoke out in tones as sharp as a meat axe; some like a simetar:

“Wall! do git ready if you are a goin’. I never did see such cases to be on the go all the time, as wimmen be. But I shall go with the Bobs, jest as I come from the woods; I haint a goin’ to fuss to git out the sleigh to-night.”

He acted cross, and worrysome, but I answered him calmly, and my mean looked first rate as I said it:

“There is a great literary treat in front of me, to-night, Josiah Allen, and a few Bobs, more or less, haint a goin’ to overthrow my comfort, or my principles. No!” says I stoppin’ at my bed-room door, and wavin’ my right hand in a real eloquent wave; “no! no! Josiah Allen; the seekin’ mind, bent on improvin’ itself; and the earnest soul a plottin’ after the good of the race, Bobs has no power over. Such minds cannot be turned round in their glorious career by Bobs.”

A RIDE ON THE BOBS.

“Wall! wall!” he snapped out again, “do git ready. I believe wimmen would stop to talk and visit on their way to the stake.”

I didn’t say nothin’ back, but with a calm face I went into the bed-room and put on my brown alpaca dress; for I thought seein’ I had my way, I’d let him have his say, knowin’ by experience, that the last word would be dretful sort o’ comfortin’ to him. I had a soap-stone and plenty of Buffaloes, and I didn’t care if we did go on the Bobs, (or Roberts, I s’pose would be more polite to call ’em.) There was a good floor to ’em, and so we sot off, and I didn’t care a mite if I did feel strange and curious, and a good deal in the circus line; as if I was some first-class curiosity that my companion, Josiah, had discovered in a foreign land, and was carryin’ round his native streets for a side-show.

When we got to Jonesville, we found they was a goin’ to start the Debatin’-school, jest the same as if the Editor hadn’t got the Zebra. We went into Tirzah Ann’s a few minutes, and she give us a piece of fresh beef—Whitfield had jest bought a quarter—Josiah hadn’t killed yet. Beef is Josiah’s favorite refreshment, and I told him we would have it for dinner the next day. Josiah begun to look clever; and he asked me in affectionate and almost tender axents, if apple dumplin’s didn’t go first rate with roast beef and vegetables. I told him yes, and I would make some for dinner, if nothin’ happened. Josiah felt well; his worrysome feelin’s all departed from him. The storekeeper had jest opened an uncommon nice chest of tea, too. I never see a man act and look cleverer than my pardner did; he was ready to go anywhere, at any time.

We got to the school-house where it was held, in good season, and got a good seat, and I loosened my bunnet strings and went to knittin’. But, as I said, they was determined (some on ’em) that I should hold up one of the sides of the arguments; but of course, as could be expected in such a interestin’ and momentous affair, in which Jonesville and the world at large was so deeply interested, there was them that it galled, to see a woman git up so high in the world. There was them that said it would have a tendency to onsettle and break up the hull fabric of society for a woman to take part in such hefty matters as would be argued here. Some said it was a revolutionary idee, and not to be endured for half a moment of time; and they brought up arguments from the Auger—wrote by its Editor—to prove out that wimmen ortn’t to have no such privileges and honors. They said, as sick as the Editor was now, it would kill him if he should hear that the “Creation Searchin’ Society”—that he had labored so for—had demeaned itself by lettin’ a woman take part in it. They said as friends of the Editor, they wouldn’t answer for the shock on his nervous and other system. Neither would they answer for the consequences to Jonesville and the world—the direful consequences, sure to flow from liftin’ a female woman so far above her spear.

Their talk was scareful, very, and some was fearfully affected by it; but others was jest as rampant on the other side; they got up and defied ’em. They boldly brought forward my noble doin’s on my tower; how I had stood face to face with that heaven-honored man of peace, Horace Greely—heaven-honored and heaven-blest now—how he had confided in me; how my spectacles had calmly gazed into hisen, as we argued in deep debate concernin’ the welfare of the nation, and wimmen. How I had preserved Grant from perishin’ by poetry; how I had labored with Victory and argued with Theodore. They said such doin’s had rose me up above other wimmen; had lifted me so far up above her common spear, as to make me worthy of any honors the nation could heap onto me; made me worthy even to take a part in the “Jonesville Creation Searchin’ and World Investigatin’ Society.”

I let ’em fight it out, and didn’t say a word. They fit, and they fit; and I sot calmly there on my seat a knittin’ my Josiah’s socks, and let ’em go on. I knew where I stood in my own mind; I knew I shouldn’t git up and talk a word after they got through fightin’. Not that I think it is out of character for a woman to talk in public; nay, verily. It is, in my opinion, no more wearin’ on her throat, or her morals, to git up and talk to a audience for their amusement and edification, in a calm and collected voice, than it is for her to key up her voice and sing to ’em by the hour, for the same reason. But everybody has their particular fort, and they ort in my opinion to stick to their own forts and not try to git on to somebody else’es.

Now, influencin’ men’s souls, and keepin’ their morals healthy by words of eloquence, is some men’s forts. Nailin’ on good leather soles to keep their body’s healthy, is another man’s fort. One is jest as honorable and worthy as the other, in my opinion, if done in the fear of God and for the good of mankind, and follerd as a fort ort to be follerd. But when folks leave their own lawful forts and try to git on to somebody else’es fort, that is what makes trouble, and makes crowded forts and weak ones, and mixes things. Too many a gettin’ on to a fort at one time, is what breaks it down. My fort haint talkin’ in public, and I foller it up from day to day, as a fort ort to be follerd. So I was jest as cool as a cewcumber, outside and inside, and jest as lives see ’em go on makin’ consummit idiots of themselves as not, and ruther.

THE LYCEUM.

THE YOUNG NEPHEW.

It was enough to make a dog snicker and laugh (if he hadn’t deep principle to hold him back, as I had,) to see ’em go on. The President Cornelius Cork, and Solomon Cypher talked the most. They are both eloquent and almost finished speakers; but Solomon Cypher havin’ had better advantages than the President, of course goes ahead of him as an oriter. A nephew of hisen, P. Cypher Bumpus, old Philander Bumpus’es only boy, (named after his father, and uncle Cypher,) has been there to his uncle’s givin’ him lessons all winter, in elocution and dramatic effects. Solomon has give him his board for tutorin’ him.

I s’pose P. Cypher Bumpus can’t be beat on elocution; he’s studied hard, and took lessons of some big elocutionists, and they say he can holler up as loud, and look as wild as the biggest of ’em, and dwindle his voice down as low, and make as curious motions as the curiousest of ’em. Besides, he has took up lots in his own head. He is very smart, naturally, and has stood by his uncle Solomon all winter, like a Major. And considerin’ Solomon’s age, and his natural mind—which haint none of the best—and his lameness, I never see a man make such headway as Solomon Cypher has. He can make eloquent and impressive gestures, very.

Cornelius Cork, the President, they say has been a tryin to learn himself; has tried to take gestures and motions up in his own head; but bein’ a poor man and not bein’ able to hire a teacher, of course he don’t make much headway; don’t git along nigh so well. He haint got but one gesture broke in so he can handle it to any advantage, and that is: pointin’ his forefinger at the audience, with the rest of his hand shet up; dartin’ it out sometimes, as if it was a bayonet he was goin’ to run through their hearts; and sometimes holdin’ it back, and takin’ a more distant and deliberate aim with it, as if it was a popgun he kep’ by him to shoot down congregations with. That is all he has got at present; but truly, he does the best he can, with what he has to do with. It don’t scare the audience so much I s’pose as he thinks it ort to, and he probable gits discouraged; but he ort to consider that he can’t show off much in gestures, while Solomon Cypher is livin’. A kerosine lamp can’t show off to any advantage when the sun gits up. But the President done well as I said, with what he had to do with. He pinted that forefinger almost threatningly in every direction, from Zenith to Nathan, as he went on to say: he hadn’t no personal objections to Josiah Allen’s wife, “fur frummit.”

THE ONE GESTURE.

Cornelius Cork bein’ a poor man, and shackled with the support of four maiden sisters of his own, and a mother-in-law and a grandmother-in-law of his wife’s, besides a large family of childern of their own, haint never felt able to own a dictionary, and so he pronounces by ear, and makes mistakes. But considerin’ his circumstances and shackles, I don’t think he ort to be run down for it. It makes it very bad, sometimes, for Solomon Cypher, for he bein’ so took up with gestures and motions, and bein’ one easy led astray by them that are in high office, he follers on blindly after the President and uses lots of words he wouldn’t dremp of usin’, if he hadn’t heerd the President use ’em. It makes it bad for Solomon, very.

The President repeated the words again, with dignity and emphasis: “fur frummit.” He trusted he realized too well whose tower it was, that bein’ gone off on, had lifted Jonesville fur up above surroundin’ nations; had lifted it high up on fame’s towerin’ pillow, and shed a lurid light on the housen thereof. He trusted he was too familiar with that noble book of hern, of which he had read the biggest heft, and was calculatin’ to tackle the rest of it if he lived long enough. And he had said, and he said still, that such a book as that, was liable to live and go down to Posterity, if Posterity didn’t git shiftless and hang off too long. And if anybody said it wasn’t liable to, he called ’em “traitor, to the face; traitor to Jonesville; traitor to Josiah Allen’s wife; traitor to Josiah.”

His face got red as blood, and he sweat considerable, he talked so hard, and got so excited, and pointed that forefinger so powerful and frequent at the audience, as if he was—in spirit—shootin’ ’em down like wild turkeys.

Jest as quick as he collected breath enough, he went on to say that though nobody could go ahead of him in honorin’ that esteemable woman, still he sot principle up in his mind above any other female; higher even than Josiah Allen’s wife. It was solid principle he was upholdin’; the principle of the male sex not bein’ infringed upon; that was his stand. Says he, “For a female woman to talk in public on such momentous and weighty subjects—subjects that weigh I don’t know what they wont weigh but this I know: every one will be hefty;—for a female woman to talk on those deep and perhaps awful subjects as they are a bein’ brung up, would have a dangerous tendency to make a woman feel as if she was equal to man. It would have a tendency to infringe on him; and if there is anything a man can’t, nor wont stand, it is infringin’. And it would also bring her into too close contract with him; and so, on them grounds, as a Latin author observes in a similar case: ‘I deny her the right in tato toto.’”

That was Latin, and I s’pose he thought it would scare me, but it didn’t a mite; for I don’t s’pose he knew what it meant no more’n I did. I bound off my heel with composure. But the excitement was fearful; no sooner would them on one side make a motion, than them on the other side would git up and make a different motion. You know when sheep go to jumpin’ over the fence, if one goes, they all want to go. There was the awfulest sight of motions made, I ever see; everybody was jumpin’ up and makin’ ’em. Why, one spell, I had to lay holt of Josiah Allen and hold him down by main strength, or he’d been up a makin’ ’em; he wanted to, and tried to, but I laid holt of him and argued to him. Says I:

“Let ’em fight it out; don’t you make a single motion, Josiah Allen.”

And Josiah, feelin’ clever, consented not to, and sot still, and I went to knittin’ again. But it was a scene of almost fearful confusion, and excitement. No sooner had the President sot down, sayin’ he denied me the right “in tato toto,” than Simon Slimpsey got up (with difficulty) and says he, in a almost thick tone:

“I think taint best to give her the potato.”

He had been a drinkin’ and didn’t know what he was sayin’. He sot down again right off—had to—for he couldn’t stand up. But as he kinder fell back on his seat, he kep’ a mutterin’ that “she didn’t ort to have the potato give her; she didn’t know enough to plant the tater, or hoe it—she hadn’t ort to have it.”

Nobody minded him. But Solomon Cypher jumped up, and says he, smitin’ his breast with his right hand:

“I motion she haint no right to talk.” And again he smote his breast almost severely.

“I motion you tell on what grounds you make the motion!” says the Editor of the Gimlet, jumpin’ up and throwin’ his head back nobly.

“I motion you set down again,” says the President,—takin’ aim at him as if he was a mushrat—“I motion you set down and give him a chance to git up and tell why he made the motion.”

So the Editor of the Gimlet sot down, and Solomon Cypher riz up:

“I stand on this ground,” (says he, stampin’ down his right foot,) “and on this ground I make my motion:” (says he, stampin’ down his left one, and smitin’ himself a almost dangerous blow in the breast,) “that this society haint no place for wimmen. Her mind haint fit for it; ‘fur frummit,’ as my honored friend, the President observes,—‘fur frummit.’ There is deep subjects a goin’ to be brung up here, that is all my mind can do, to rastle with and throw ’em; and for a female woman’s mind to tackle ’em, it would be like settin’ a pismire to move a meetin’ house. Wimmen’s minds is weak.”

Here he smote himself a fearful blow right in the pit of his stomach, and repeated the words slowly and impressively:

“Wimmen’s minds is weak. But this haint the main reason why I make my motion. My main reason is, that I object, and I always will—while I have got a breath left in my body—object to the two sexes a comin’—as my honored friend the President says—‘in such close contract with each other, as they would have to if wimmen took any part with men in such public affairs.’ Keep separate from each other! that is my ground, and that is my motion. Keep wimmen off as fur as you can, if you would be safe and happy. Men has their place,” says he,—stridin’ forred a long step with his right foot, and stretchin’ up his right arm nobly towards the sky as fur as he could with safety to his armpit—“and wimmen has hern!”—steppin’ back a long step with his left foot, and pintin’ down with his left hand, down through a hole in the floor, into the cellar—“and it is necessary for the public safety,” says he,—a smitin’ his breast, first with his right hand and then with his left—“that he keep hisen, and she hern. As the nation and individuals are a goin’ on now, everything is safe.” (Here he stopped and smiled.) “The nation is safe.” (Another smile.) “And men and wimmen are safe, for they don’t come in contract with each other.” (Here he stopped and smiled three times.) “But if wimmen are ever permitted in the future to take any part in public affairs; if they are ever permitted to come in contract with man, and bring thereby ruin, deep, deadly ruin onto Jonesville and the world, I want Jonesville and the world to remember that I have cleared my coat-skirts in the matter. I lift ’em out of the fearful and hazardous enterprise.”

He had an old-fashioned dress coat on, with long skirts, that come most to the floor, and as he said this, he lifted ’em up with a almost commandin’ air, as if he was a liftin’ ’em out of black mud. He lifted ’em right up, and they stood out in front of his arms, some like wings; and, as he stood lookin’ round the audience, in this commandin’ and imposin’ position, he repeated the words in a more lofty and majestic tone:

A THRILLIN’ MOMENT.

“I clear my coat-skirts of the hull matter. You see me clear ’em. None of the bloody ruin can be laid onto my coat-skirts.”

It was a thrillin’ moment. It had a terribly depressin’ effect on a great many lovers of justice and wimmen’s votin’, who was present. They see the dangers hedgin’ in the enterprise, as they never see ’em before. They see the power of the foe they was fightin’ ag’inst, and trembled and quailed before him. But though I realized well what was a goin’ on before me, though I knew what a deadly blow he was a givin’ to the cause, I held firm, and kep’ a cool mean, and never thought for half a moment of givin’ up my shield. And then I knew it wasn’t so much his words—although they was witherin’—as his lofty majesty of bearin’, that influenced the almost breathless audience. He stood in that commandin’ posture, I have described, for I should judge, nearly one moment and a half, and then he repeated the words:

“For I say unto you,”—and here he dropped his coat-skirts suddenly, and struck himself in the breast a sudden and violent blow with his thumb,—the fingers all standin’ out straight, like the bones of a fan—“for I say unto you; and if these are the last words you shall ever hear from my humble but perfectly honorable mouth,—remember, Jonesville and the world, that I died a sayin’, beware of the female pole.”

I never in my hull life heerd a pole sound so faint and sickly as that pole did. It dwindled away almost to nothin’, and he kinder shet his eyes up and sallied away, as if he was a goin to die off himself. It skairt some of the wimmen most to death, it was so impressive; but I knew it was all the effect of high trainin’; I knew he would come to in a minute, and he did. Pretty soon he kinder repeated the words, in a sickly tone:

“Remember, I died a sayin’: beware of the female pole. Beware! beware!!”

And oh, how skairt them wimmen was again; for he straightened right up and yelled out them two bewares, like a couple of claps of thunder; and his eyes kep’ a growin’ bigger and bigger, and his voice grew louder and louder, till it seemed as if it would raise the very ruff—though it had jest been new shingled, (cost the deestrick 20 dollars,)—and he looked round the audience as wise as any owl I ever laid eyes on, and struck himself a very fearful blow with his thumb, right on his stomach, and says he:

“Beware of bein’ infringed upon!”—and then followed another almost dangerous blow—“Beware of that terrible and fearful day, when men and wimmen shall come in contract with each other.”

He stopped perfectly still, looked all round the house with that wise and almost owl-like look on him, and then in a slow, impressive, and eloquent manner, he raised his hands and struck his breast bone with both thumbs and sot down. Some of the speakers seemed to be real envious of his gestures, but they ort to have considered that it was all in knowin’ how; it was all in practice. He’d probably studied on every motion for days and days, and they hadn’t ort to have begreched ’em so to him. But if he hadn’t never studied on elocution and impressive gesturin’; if he hadn’t looked a mite like an owl for solemnity and wisdom, his talk would have been dretful impressive and scareful to some, he painted it all out in such high colors, what a terrible and awful thing it would be for the two sects to ever come in “contract with each other.” I s’pose he meant contact,—I haint a doubt of it.

SUNDAY SLUMBERS.

Why, to have heerd him go on, if there had been a delegate present to the “Creation Searchin’ Society,” from the moon—or any other world adjacent to Jonesville—he wouldn’t have had any idee that men and wimmen had ever got any nearer to each other than from half to three-quarters of a mile. I s’pose I never could have made that foreigner believe, if I had talked myself blind, that, for all Solomon Cypher showed such deadly fear of men comin’ in “contract” with wimmen, he had lived with one forty years; drinked out of the same dipper; slept together Sundays in the same pew of the same meetin’ house; and brought up a big family of childern together, which belonged to both on ’em.

Howsumever, them was the facts of the case; but I let him go on, for principle held me down, and made me want to know how it would end; whether freedom, and the principles of our 4 fathers would triumph, or whether they would be quirled up like caterpillers, and be trod on.

I knew in my mind I shouldn’t git up and talk, not if they voted me in ten times over, for reasons that I give more formally; and besides them reasons, I was lame, and had ruther set and knit, for Josiah needed his socks; and I have always said, and I say still, that a woman ort to make her family comfortable, before she tackles the nation, or the heathen, or anything.

So they kep’ on a fightin’, and I kep’ on a knittin’; and upheld by principle, I never let on but what I was dyin’ to git up and talk. They got awful worked up on it; they got as mad as hens, every one on ’em, all but Josiah. He sot by me as happy as you please, a holdin’ my ball of yarn. He acted cleverer than he had in some time; he was awful clever and happy; and so was I; we felt well in our 2 minds, as we sot there side by side, while the fearful waves of confusion and excitement, and Cornelius Cork and Solomon Cypher, was a tostin’ to and fro about us.

And oh, how happyfyin’ and consolin’ and satisfyin’ to the mind it is, when the world is angry and almost mad at you, to set by the side of them you are attached to by links considerable stronger than cast iron. In the midst of the wildest tempests, you feel considerable safe, and some composed. No matter if you don’t speak a word to them, nor they to you, their presence is sufficient; without ’em, though you may be surrounded by admirin’ congregations, there is, as the poet says, “a goneness;” the biggest crowds are completely unsatisfactory, and dwindle down to the deepest lonesomeness. Though the hull world should be a holdin’ you up, you would feel tottlin’ and lonesome, but the presence of the one beloved, though he or she—as the case may be—may not be hefty at all, still is large enough to fill a meetin’ house, or old space himself without ’em; and truly, when heart leans upon heart, (figgeratively speakin’) there is a rest in it that feather beds cannot give, neither can they take away. My companion Josiah’s face shines with that calm, reposeful happiness, when he is in my society, and I—although I know not why I do—experience the same emotions in hisen.

Finally, at half past eleven—and they was completely tuckered out on both sides—the enemies of wimmen’s suffragin’ and justice, kinder all put together and brought in a motion, Solomon Cypher bein’ chief bearer and spokesman of the procession. They raised him up to this prominent position, because he was such a finished speaker. The motion was clothed upon in eloquent and imaginative language. Solomon Cypher never got it up alone. Cornelius Cork, and the Editor of the Auger, and probable two or three others had a hand in it, and helped git it up. It had a almost thrillin’ effect on the audience; though, by jest readin’ it over, nobody can git any clear idee how it sounded to hear Solomon Cypher declaim it forth with appropriate and impressive gestures, and a lofty and majestic expression onto him. This was the motion:

“Be it resolved over, and motioned at, and acted upon by us, ‘Creation Searchers and World Investigators,’ that wimmen’s body and mind, are both of ’em, as much too weak and feeble to tackle the subjects that will be brung up here, as a span of pismires are, to lay to and move a meetin’ house.”

After he had finished makin’ the motion, he stood a moment and a half lookin’ round on the audience with a smile on his lips, while such is the perfect control he has got by hard practice over his features, that at the same time his mouth was a smilin’, there was a severe and even gloomy expression on the upper part of his face, and an empty and vacant look in his eyes. Then he smote himself meaningly and impressively in the pit of his stomach, and sot down. And then, as it was considerable still for a moment, I spoke calmly out of my seat to the Editor of the Gimlet, who happened to be a standin’ near, and thanked him and the others on his side, for their labors in my behalf, and told ’em I hadn’t no idee of takin’ part in their Debatin’-school, (I called it so before I thought,) and hadn’t had, none of the time. And then, with a calm and collected mean onto me, I knit in the middle of my needle, and Josiah wound up my ball of yarn, and we started for home.

EDITOR OF THE GIMLET.

But I wasn’t goin’ to stay away from the Debatin’-school because they looked down on the female sect and felt awful kinder contemptible towards ’em. Other folks’es opinions of us hadn’t ort to influence us ag’inst them. Because a person is prejudiced ag’inst me, and don’t like me, that haint no reason why I shouldn’t honor what good qualities she has, and respect what is respectable in him. (I don’t know jest how to git the sect down, to git it right. I calculate to be very exact, as strict and scientific as a yard-stick, even in the time of allegorin’; but havin’ so much work, and the Widder Doodle on my hands, I haint studied into it so deep as I had ort to, whether a Debatin’-school, in the times of allegorin’, should be called a he, or a she.)

But howsumever, as I said, I laid out to be present at ’em, jest the same. And it was to this Debatin’-scho—I mean Lyceum, that the idee first entered my head, of goin’ to Filadelfy village to see the Sentinal; of which, more hereafter, and anon.

THE WIDDER DOODLE.

As I mentioned, more formally Josiah’s brother’s wife had come to live with us. My opinion is she is most a natural fool; howsumever, bein’ one of the relations on his side, I haint told her what I think of her, but bear with her as I would wish the relations on my side to be bore with by Josiah. How long she will live with us, that I don’t know. But she haint no place to go to, and we can’t turn her out of doors; so it looks dark to me, for it is a considerable sized tribulation, that I don’t deny; fools was always dretful wearin’ to me. But I don’t ort to call her a fool, and wouldn’t say it where it would git out, for the world. But she don’t know no more’n the law’l allow, that I will contend for boldly with my last breath.

But if her principles was as hefty as cast-iron, and her intellect as bright as it is t’other way—if it was bright as day—she would be a sort of a drawback to happiness—anybody would, whether it was a he or a she. Home is a Eden jest large enough to hold Adam and Eve and the family, and when a stranger enters its gate to camp down therein for life with you, a sort of a cold chill comes in with ’em. You may like ’em, and wish ’em well, and do the best you can with ’em, but you feel kinder choked up, and bound down; there is a sort of a tightness to it; you can’t for your life feel so loose and soarin’ as you did when you was alone with Josiah and the childern.

But I am determined to put up with her and do the best I can. She hadn’t no home, and was a comin’ on the town, so Josiah thought for the sake of Tim—that was his brother—it was our duty to take her in and do for her. And truly Duty’s apron strings are the only ones we can cling to with perfect safety. Inclination sometimes wears a far more shining apron, and her glitterin’ strings flutter down before you invitingly, and you feel as if you must leggo of Duty, and lay holt of ’em. But my friends, safety is not there; her strings are thin, and slazy, and liable to fall to pieces any minute. But hang on to Duty’s apron strings boldly and blindly, get a good holt and have no fear; let her draw you over rough pathways, through dark valleys, up the mounting side, and through the deep waters; don’t be afraid, but hang on. The string won’t break with you, and the country she will lead you into is one that can’t be bettered.

Her first husband was Josiah’s only brother. He died a few years after they were married, and then she married to another man, David Doodle by name and a shiftless creeter by nater—but good lookin’, so I hearn. Howsumever, I don’t know nothin’ about it only by hearsay, for I never laid eyes on none of the lot till she come on to us for a home. They lived out to the Ohio. But she fairly worships that Doodle to this day, talks about him day and night. I haint heerd her say a dozen words about Josiah’s brother Timothy, though they say he was a likely man, and a good provider, and did well by her. Left her a good farm, all paid for, and Doodle run through it; and five cows and two horses; and Doodle run through them, and a colt.

DAVID DOODLE.

But she don’t seem to remember that she ever had no such husband as Timothy Allen, which I know makes it the more wearin’ onto Josiah, though he don’t complain. But he thought a sight of Tim—they used to sleep together when they was children, and heads that lay on the same mother’s bosom, can’t git so fur apart but what memory will unite ’em. They got separated when they grew up; Tim went to the Ohio to live, as I say, but still, when Josiah’s thoughts git to travelin’, as thoughts will,—I never see such critters to be on the go all the time—they take him back to the old trundle-bed, and Tim.

But she don’t mention brother Timothy only when Josiah asks her about him. But Doodle! I can truly say without lyin’ that if ever a human bein’ got sick of any thing on earth, I got sick of Doodle, sick enough of him. Bein’ shet up in the house with her I sense it more than Josiah does. It is Doodle in the morning, and Doodle at noon, and Doodle at night, and Doodle between meals; and if she talks in her sleep—which she is quite a case to—it is about Doodle. I don’t complain to Josiah much, knowin’ it will only make his road the harder; but I told Thomas Jefferson one day, after she had jest finished a story about her and Doodle that took her the biggest part of the forenoon, for the particulars that she will put in about nothin’, is enough to make any body sweat in the middle of winter. She had went and lay down in her room after she got through; and good land! I should think she would want to—I should think she would have felt tuckered out. And I says to Thomas Jefferson—and I sithed as I said it:

“It does seem as if Doodle will be the death of me.” And I sithed again several times.

“Wall,” says he, “if he should, I will write a handsome piece of poetry on it;” says he, “Alf Tennyson and Shakespeare have written some pretty fair pieces, but mine shall

“Beat the hull caboodle,

And the burden of the him shall be,

That mother died of Doodle.”

I stopped sithin’ then, and I says to him in real severe tones, “You needn’t laugh Thomas J., I’d love to see you try it one day.” Says I, “You and your father bein’ outdoors all day, when you come in for a few minutes to your meals, her stiddy stream of talk is as good as a circus to you, sunthin’ on the plan of a side show. But you be shet up with it all day long, day after day, and week after week, and then see how you would feel in your mind; then see how the name of Doodle would sound in your ear.”

But I try to do the best I can with her. As I said, how long she will stay with us I don’t know. But I don’t s’pose there is any hopes of her marryin’ again. When she first came to live with us, I did think—to tell the plain truth—that she would marry again if she got a chance. I thought I see symptoms of it. But it wasn’t but a few days after that that I give up the hope, for she told me that it wasn’t no ways likely that she should ever marry again. She talks a sight about Doodle’s face, always calls it his ‘linement’, says it is printed on her heart, and it haint no ways likely that she will ever see another linement, that will look to her as good as Mr. Doodle’s linement.

I declare for’t, sometimes when she is goin’ on, I have to call on the martyrs in my own mind almost wildly, call on every one I ever heerd of, to keep my principles stiddy, and keep me from sayin’ sunthin’ I should be sorry for. Sometimes when she is goin’ on for hours about “Doodle and his linement” and so forth, I set opposite to her with my knittin’ work in my hand, with no trace on the outside, of the almost fearful tempest goin’ on inside of me. There I’ll be, a bindin’ off my heel, or seamin’ two and one, or toein’ off, as the case may be; calm as a summer mornin’ on the outside, but on the inside I am a sayin’ over to myself in silent but almost piercin’ tones of soul agony:

“John Rogers! Smithfield! nine children, one at the breast! Grid-irons! thum-screws! and so 4th, and so 4th!” It has a dretful good effect on me, I think over what these men endured for principle, and I will say to myself:

“Josiah Allen’s wife, has not your heart almost burnt up within you a thinkin’ of these martyrs? Have you not in rapped moments had longin’s of the sole to be a martyr also? Lofty principle may boy the soul up triumphant, but there can’t be anybody burnt up without smartin’, and fire was jest as hot in them days as it is now, and no hotter. If David Doodle is the stake on which you are to be offered up, be calm Samantha—be calm.”

WIDDER DOODLE.

So I would be a talkin’ to myself, and so she would be a goin’ on, and though I have suffered pangs that can’t be expressed about, my principles have grown more hefty from day to day. I begun to look more lofty in mean, and sometimes I have been that boyed up by hard principle, that jest to see what heights a human mind could git up on to, while the body was yet on the ground, I would begin myself about Doodle. And so, speakin’ in a martyr way, the Widder Doodle was not made in vain.

She is a small boneded woman, dretful softly lookin’; and truly, her looks don’t belie her, for she seems to me that soft, that if she should bump her head, I don’t see what is to hinder it from flattin’ right out like a piece of putty. I guess she was pretty good lookin’ in her day; on no other grounds can I account for it, that two men ever took after her. Her eyes are round as blue beads, and sort of surprised lookin’, she is light complected, and her mouth is dretful puckered up and drawed down. Josiah can’t bear her looks—he has told me so in confidence a number of times—but I told him I have seen wimmen that looked worse; and I have.

“I have seen them that looked far better,” says he.

“Who Josiah?” says I.

Says he, “Father Smith’s daughter, Samantha.”

Josiah thinks a sight of me, it seems to grow on him; and with me also, it is ditto and the same.

“THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.”

When two souls set out in married life, a sailin’ out on the sea of True Love, they must expect to steer at first through rocks, and get tangled in the sea weed, the rocks of opposing wills, and the sea weed of selfishness. And before they get the hang of the boat it will go contrary, squalls will rise and most upset it, and they’ll hist up the wrong sails and tighten the wrong ropes and act like fools generally. And they’ll be sick, very; and will sometimes look back with regret to the lonesome, but peaceful shores they have left, and wish they hadn’t never sot out.

But if they’ll be patient and steer their boat straight and wise, a calmer sea is ahead, deeper waters of trust and calm affection, in which their boat will sail onwards first rate. They’ll git past the biggest heft of the rocks, and git the nack of sailin’ round the ones that are left so’s not to hit ’em nigh so often, and the sea weed, unbeknown to them, will kinder drizzle out, and disappear mostly.

I don’t have to correct Josiah near so much as I used to, though occasionally, when I know I am in the right, I set up my authority, and will be minded; and he hisen. I never see a couple yet, whether they’d own it or not, but what would have their little spats; but good land! if they love each other they git right over it, and it is all fair weather again. The little breeze clears the air, and the sun will shine out again clear as pure water, and bright as a dollar.

Sister Doodle, (Josiah thought it was best to call her so some of the time, he thought it would seem more friendly) she says, the widder does, that she never see a couple live together any happier and agreabler than me and Josiah live together. She told me it reminded her dretfully of her married life with Doodle. (Josiah had cooed at me a very little that mornin’—not much, for he knows I don’t encourage it in him.)

Truly Doodle is her theme, but I hold firm.

She was a helpin’ me wash my dishes, and she begun: how much Josiah and I reminded her of her and Doodle.

Says she—“Nobody knows how much that man thought of me; he would say sometimes in the winter when we would wake up in the mornin’: ‘My dear Dolly,’—he used to call me that, though my name is Nabby, but he said I put him in mind so of a doll, that he couldn’t help callin’ me so—‘My dear Dolly,’ he’d say, ‘I have been a dreamin’ about you.’

“‘Have you Mr. Doodle?’ says I.

“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘I have been a dreamin’ how much I love you, and how pretty you are—jest as pretty as a pink posy.’ Them was Mr. Doodle’ses very words: ‘a pink posy.’

“I’d say,—‘Oh shaw, Mr. Doodle, I guess you are tryin’ to foolish me.’

“Says he—‘I haint, I dremp it.’ And then there would come such a sweet smile all over his linement, and he would say:

“‘Dolly, I love to dream about you.’

“‘Do you, Mr. Doodle?’ says I.

“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and it seems jest as if I want to go to sleep and have another nap, jest a purpose to dream about you.’

LOVE’S DREAM.

“And so I would git up and cut the kindlin’ wood, and build the fire, and feed the cows, and go round the house a gettin’ breakfast, as still as a mice so’s not to disturb him, and he’d lay and sleep till I got the coffee turned out, then he’d git up and tell me his dream. It would be all about how pretty I was, and how much he loved me and how he would die for my sake any time to keep the wind from blowin’ too hard onto me. And he would eat jest as hearty and enjoy himself dretfully. Oh! we took a sight of comfort together, me and Mr. Doodle did. And I can’t never forget him; I can’t never marry again, his linement is so stamped onto my memory. Oh, no, I can’t never forgit his linement; no other man’s linement can be to me what his linement was.”

She stopped a minute to ask me where she should set the dishes she had wiped, and I was glad of the respit, though I knew it would be but a short one. And I was right, for in settin’ up the dishes, she see a little milk pitcher that belonged to my first set of dishes; there was a woman painted onto it, and that set her to goin’ again. Truly, there is nothin’ on the face of the earth, or in the sky above, but what reminds her, in some way, of Doodle. I have known the risin’ sun to set her to goin’, and the fire-shovel, and the dust-pan. She held the pitcher pensively in her hand a minute or two, and then she says:

“This picture looks as I did, when I married Mr. Doodle. I was dretful pretty, so he used to tell me; too pretty to have any hardships put onto me, so he used to say. There was considerable talk about wimmen’s votin’, about that time, and he said there wasn’t money enough in the world to tempt him to let his Dolly vote. Anything so wearin’ as that, he said he should protect me from as long as he had a breath left in his body. He used to git dretful excited about it, he thought so much of me. He said it would ‘wear a woman right out; and how should I feel,’ says he, ‘to see my Dolly wore out.’

“He couldn’t use to bear to have me go a visitin’, either. He said talkin’ with neighborin’ wimmen’ was wearin’ too, and to have to come home and git supper for him after dark; he said he couldn’t bear to see me do it. He never was no hand to pick up a supper, and I always had to come home and git his supper by candle light—meat vittles; he always had to have jest what he wanted to eat, or it made him sick, he was one of that kind—give him the palsy. He never had the palsy, but he always said that all that kep’ him from it, was havin’ jest what he wanted to eat, jest at the time he wanted it; and so he would lay down on the lounge while I got his supper ready. I’d have to begin at the very beginning, for he never was one of the men that could hang over the tea-kettle, or git up potatoes, or anything of that sort; and I’d most always have to build up the fire, for he thought it wasn’t a man’s place to do such things. He was a dretful hand to want everybody to keep their place; that was one reason why he felt so strong about wimmen’s votin’. He had a deep, sound mind, my Doodle did. But, as I said, he’d lay on the lounge and worry so about its bein’ too much for me; that, ruther than make him feel so bad, I give up visitin’ almost entirely. But he never worried about that, so much as he did about votin’; it seemed as if the thought of that almost killed him. He said that with my health, (I didn’t enjoy very good health then) I wouldn’t stand it a year; I would wilt right down under it. Oh! how much that man did think of me!

PRETTY HANDS AND EYES.

“When I would be a workin’ in the garden, (I took all the care of the garden,) or when I would be a pickin’ up chips—we was kinder bothered for wood—he’d set out on the back piazza with his paper, the Evenin’ Grippher—awful strong paper against wimmen’s rights—and as I would be a bringin’ my chips in, (we had a old bushel basket that I used,) he would look up from his paper and say to me,—‘Oh, them pretty little hands, how cunning they look, a quirling round the basket handles; and oh, them pretty little eyes; what should I do if it wasn’t for my Dolly? And how should I feel if them pretty little eyes was a lookin’ at the pole?’ Says he, ‘It would kill me Dolly; it would use me right up.’

HELPING CHURN.

“And then, when I would be a churnin’—we had a good deal of cream, and the butter come awful hard; sometimes it would take me most all day and lame my back for a week—and when I would be a churnin’, he would be so good to me to help me pass away the time. He would set in his rockin’ chair—I cushioned it a purpose for him—and he would set and read the Evenin’ Grippher to me; sometimes he would read it clear through before I would fetch the butter; beautiful arguments there would be in it ag’inst wimmen’s rights. I used to know the Editor was jest another such a man as my Mr. Doodle was, and I would wonder how any livin’ woman could stand out ag’inst such arguments, they proved right out so strong that votin’ would be too much for the weaker sect, and that men wouldn’t feel nigh so tender and reverential towards ’em, as they did now.

“We wasn’t very well off in them days, for Mr. Doodle was obliged to mortgage the farm I brought him when we was married, and it was all we could do to keep up the money due on the mortgage, and father wouldn’t help us much; he said we must work for a livin’, jest as he did; and the farm kinder run down, for Mr. Doodle said he couldn’t go out to work and leave me for a hull day, he worshiped me so; so we let out the place on shares, and I took in work a good deal. When I was a workin’, Mr. Doodle would set and look at me for hours and hours, with a sweet smile on his linement, and tell me how delicate and pretty I was and how much he thought of me, and how he would die and be skinned—have his hide took completely off of him—before he’d let me vote, or have any other hardship put on me. Oh! what a sight of comfort me and Mr. Doodle did take together; and when I think how he died, and was a corpse—and he was a corpse jest as quick as he was dead, Mr. Doodle was—oh how I do feel. I can’t never forget him, his linement is so stamped onto my memory. I never can forget his linement, never.”

And so she’ll go on from hour to hour, and from day to day, about Doodle and Wimmen’s Rights—Wimmen’s Rights and Doodle; drivin’ ahead of her a drove of particulars, far, far more numerous than was ever heerd of in Jonesville, or the world; and I—inwardly callin’ on the name of John Rogers—hear her go on, and don’t call Doodle all to nothin’, or argue with her on Wimmen’s Rights. My mean is calm and noble; I am nerved almost completely up by principle; and then, it is dretful wrenchin’ to the arm to hit hard blows ag’inst nothin’.

Truly, if anybody don’t know anything, you can’t git any sense out of ’em. You might jest as well go to reckonin’ up a hull row of orts, expectin’ to have ’em amount to sunthin’. Ort times ort is ort, and nothin’ else; and ort from ort leaves nothin’ every time, and nothin to carry; and you may add up ort after ort, all day, and you wont have nothin’ but a ort to fall back on. And so with the Widder Doodle, you may pump her mind till the day of pancakes, (as a profane poet observes,) and you wont git anything but a ort out of it,—speakin’ in a ’rithmatic way.

Not that she is to blame for it, come to look at it in a reasonable and scientific sense. All figgers in life can’t count up the same way. There’s them that count one,—made so; got a little common sense unbeknown to them. Then there’s some that double on that, and count two,—more sense, and can’t help it; and all the way up to nine; and then there is the orts—made orts entirely unbeknown to them; and so, why should figgers seven, or eight, or even nine, boast themselves over the orts.

Truly, we all have abundant reason to be humble, and feel a humiliatin’ feelin’. The biggest figgers in this life don’t count up any too high, don’t know any too much. And all the figgers put together, big and little mingled in with orts, all make up a curious sum that our heads haint strong enough to figger out straight. It is a sum that is bein’ worked out by a strong mind above our’n, and we can’t see the answer yet, none on us.

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A DEBATE ON INTEMPERANCE.

Last Tuesday evenin’ the “Creation Searchin’ Society” argued on this question.

“Resolved; It is right to licence intemperance.”

Cornelius Cork, the President, got up and give the question out, and then a stern majestic look swept over his face, some like a thunder cloud, and says he, pintin’ out his forefinger nobly:

“Brother ‘Creation Searchers,’ and friends and neighbors promiscous. Before we tackle this momentous subject to-night, I have got a little act of justice to preform, which if I shirked out of doin’ of it, would send my name down to posterity as a coward, a rank traitor, and almost a impostor. The public mind is outraged at the present time, by officers in high places provin’ traitors to their trust: traitors to the confidin’ public that have raised ’em up to their high stations. The public of Jonesville will find that I am not one of that kind, that I am not to be trifled with, nor will I be seduced by flattery or gifts, to permit them that have raised me up to the height I now stand on, to be trifled with.”

Here he paused a moment, and laid his forefinger on his heart and looked round on us, as if he was invitin’ us all to take our lanterns and walk through it, and behold its purity. That gesture took dretful well with the audience. The President realized it, he see what he had done, and he kep’ the same position as he proceeded and went on.

“Every one who was present at the last meetin’ of our ‘Creation Searchin’ Society’ knows there was a disturbance there. They know and I know that right in the midst of our most searchin’ investigations, some unprincipled villain in the disguise of humanity outraged us, and insulted us, and defied us by blimmin’; in other words by yellin’ out ‘Blim! Blim!’ every few minutes. And now I publicly state and proclaim to that blimmer, that if he blims here to night, I will put the papers onto him. I will set the law at him. I’ll see what Blackstone and Coke has to say about blimmin’.”

He hadn’t no more’n got the words out of his mouth, when “Blim!” came from one side of the house, and “Blim! Blim!” came from the other side. Nobody couldn’t tell who it was, there was such a crowd. Cornelius Cork’s face turned as red as a root-a-bagy beet, and he yelled out in the awfulest tone I had ever heerd him use—and if we had all been polar bears right from the pole, he couldn’t have took a more deadly aim at us with that awful forefinger:

“Stop that blimmin’ instantly!”

His tone was so loud and awful, and his gesture so fearfully commandin’ and threatenin’, that the house was still as a mice. You could hear a clothes-pin drop in any part of it.

Here he set down, and the meetin’ begun. Elder Easy was on the affirmative, and Thomas J. on the negative, as they call it.

Elder Easy is a first-rate man, and a good provider, but awful conservative. He believes in doin’ jest as his 4 fathers did every time round. If anybody should offer to let him look at the other side of the moon, he would say gently but sweetly: “No, I thank you, my 4 fathers never see it, and so I would rather be excused from beholdin’ it if you please.” He is polite as a basket of chips, and well meanin’; I haint a doubt of it in my own mind. But he and Samantha Allen, late Smith, differs; that female loves to look on every side of a heavenly idee. I respect my 4 fathers, I think a sight of the old men. They did a good work in cuttin’ down stumps and so 4th. I honor ’em; respect their memory. But cities stand now where they had loggin’ bees. Times change, and we change with ’em. They had to rastle with stumps and brush-heaps, it was their duty; they did it, and conquered. And it is for us now, who dwell on the smooth places they cleared for us, to rastle with principle and idees. Have loggin’ bees to pile up old rusty brushwood of unjust laws and customs, and set fire to ’em and burn ’em up root and branch, and plant in their ashes the seeds of truth and right, that shall yet wave in a golden harvest, under happier skies than ourn. If we don’t, shall we be doin’ for posterity what they did for us? For we too are posterity, though mebby we don’t realize it, as we ort to.

THE AFFIRMATIVE.

But Elder Easy, although he lives in the present time, is in spirit a 4 father, (though I don’t say it in a runnin’ way at all, for I like ’em, have swapped hens with him and her, and neighbored with ’em considerable.) He was on the likker side, not that he wants to get drunk, or thinks anything particular of likker himself, but he believes in moderate drinkin’ because his 4 fathers drank moderate. He believes in licensin’ intemperance because his 4 fathers was licensed. And Shakespeare Bobbet was on his side, and old Mr. Peedick, and the Editor of the Auger, (he is a democrat and went for slavery strong, felt like death when the slaves was set free, and now he wants folks to drink all they can, goes for intemperance strong. He drinks, so they say, though I wouldn’t have it go from Josiah or me for the world.) And Solomon Cypher was on that side. He drinks. And Simon Slimpsey; howsumever, he haint of much account anyway, he has almost ruined himself with the horrors. He has ’em every day stiddy, and sometimes two and three times a day. He told a neighborin’ woman that he hadn’t been out of ’em sense the day he was married to Betsey, she was so uncommon mean to him. I told her when she was a tellin’ me about it (she is a real news-bearer, and I didn’t want to say anything she could carry back) I merely observed in a cool way: “I have always had my opinion about clingers, and wimmen that didn’t want no rights, I have kep’ my eye on ’em, I have kep’ my eye on their husbands, and my mind haint moved a inch concernin’ them from the place it stood in more formally.” I didn’t say no more, not wantin’ to run Betsey to her back, and then truly, as a deep thinker observes in one of his orations, “a dog that will fetch a bone, will carry one.”

On Thomas Jefferson’s side was himself, the Editor of the Gimlet, Lawyer Nugent, Doctor Bombus, Elder Morton, and Whitfield Minkley—six on each side. Thomas Jefferson spoke first, and he spoke well, that I know. I turned right round and give sister Minkley a proud happy look several times while Thomas J. was a talkin’; she sot right behind me. I felt well. And I hunched Josiah several times when he said his best things, and he me, for we both felt noble in mind to hear him go on.

His first speech was what they call an easy, or sunthin’ considerable like that; Josiah said when we was a goin’ home that they called it an essence, but I told him I knew better than that. He contended, and I told him I would leave it to Thomas J. but it slipped my mind. Howsumever it haint no matter; it is the thing itself that Josiah Allen’s wife looks at, and not the name of it. The easy—or sunthin’ like it,—run as follows: I believe my soul I can git the exact words down, for I listened to it with every ear I had, and upheld by the thoughts of the future generations, and the cause of Right, I kinder took it out of his overcoat pocket the next day, and read it over seven times from beginnin’ to end. I should have read it eight times, if I had had time.

He seemed to be a pryin’ into what the chief glory and pleasure of gettin’ drunk consisted in; he said the shame, the despair, and the ruin of intemperance anyone could see. And he pictured out the agony of a drunkard’s home, till there wasn’t a dry eye in my head, nor Josiah’s nuther. And he said in windin’ up, (I shan’t put down the hull on’t, for it would be too long) but the closin’ up of it was:

“I don’t believe there is a sadder sight for men or angels, than to see a man made in the image of God willfully casting aside his heritage of noble and true manhood; slipping the handcuffs over his own wrists; and offering himself a willing captive to the mighty but invisible wine spirit.

“No slave bound to the chariot wheels of a conqueror is so deplorable a sight as the captive of wine. His face does not shine like the face of an angel, as did a captive in the old time—but with so vacant and foolish an expression, that you can see at once that he is hopelessly bound, body, mind and soul to his conqueror’s chariot. And a wonderful conqueror is he, so weak in seeming as to hide beneath the ruby glitter of a wine cup, and yet so mighty as to fill our prisons with criminals, our asylums with lunatics—and our graveyards with graves. Mightier than Time or Death, for outstripping time, he ploughs premature furrows on the brow of manhood and alienates affection Death has no power over.

“I have often marvelled where the chief glory of dissipation came in. Its evil effects were always too hideously palpable to be misunderstood; but in what consists the gloating pleasure for which a man is willing to break the hearts of those who love him, bring himself to beggary, endow his children with an undeserved heritage of shame, destroy his intellect, ruin his body, and imperil his soul, is a mystery.

“I have wondered whether its chief bliss consisted in the taste of the cup; if so, it must be indeed a delicious enjoyment, transitory as it is, for which a man would be willing to loose earth and heaven. Or if it were in that intermediate stage, before the diviner nature is entirely merged in the animal—the foolish stage, when a man is so affectionately desirous of doing his full duty by his hearers, that he repeats his commonest remarks incessantly, with a thick tongue and thicker meaning, and if sentimentally inclined, smiles, oh how feebly, and sheds such very foolish tears. In lookin’ upon such a scene, another wonder awakens in me, whether Satan, who with all his faults is uncommonly intelligent, is not ashamed of his maudlin friend. Or is the consummation of glory in the next stage, where with oaths and curses a man dashes his clenched fists into the faces of his best friends, pursues imaginary serpents and fiends, thrusts his wife and children out into the cold night of mid-winter, and bars against them the doors of home. And home! what a desecration of that word which should be the synonym of rest, peace and consolation, is a drunkard’s home. Or is the full measure of pleasure attained when he, the noblest work of God, is stretched out at his full six feet length of unconsciousness, stupidity and degradation.

“If there be a lonely woman amid the multitude of lonely and sorrowful women, more to be pitied than another, I think it is a wife lookin’ upon the one she has promised to honor, lying upon the bed with his hat and boots on. Her comforter, who swore at her as long as he could speak at all. Her protector, utterly unable to brush a fly from his own face. Her companion, lying in all the stupor of death, with none of its solemn dignity. As he is entirely unconscious of her acts, I wonder if she never employs the slowly passing moments in taking down her old idol, her ideal, from its place in her memory, and comparing it with its broken and defaced image before her. Of all the poor broken idols, shattered into fragments for the divine patience of womanhood to gather together and cement with tears, such a ruin as this seems the most impossible to mould anew into any form of comliness. And if there is a commandment seemingly impossible to obey, it is for a woman to love a man she is in deadly fear of, honor a man she can’t help bein’ ashamed of, and obey a man who cannot speak his commands intelligibly.”

It was a proud moment for Josiah Allen and me, to hear Thomas J. go on; and to have the hull house so still, while he was makin’ his eloquent speech, that you could hear a clothes-pin drop in any part of the room. And though my companion, perfectly carried away by his glad emotions, hunched me several time harder than he had any idee of, and almost gored my ribs with his elbo, I didn’t, as you may say, seem to sense it at all. And though in hunchin’ and bein’ hunched, I dropped more’n 20 stitches in Josiah’s socks, I didn’t care for that a mite; I had plenty of time to pick ’em up durin’ the next speech, which was the Editor of the Auger’es, (he has got over the zebra, so’s to be out.)

I have said, and I say still, that I never see a man that would spread a idee out thinner than he will,—cover more ground with it. Talk about Ingy Rubber stretchin’,—why that man will take one small thought and pull it out and string on enough big words to sink it, seemin’ly.

Howsumever, his talk did jest about as much good on Thomas J’s side, as on hisen, for he didn’t seem to pay any attention to the subject, but give his hull mind to stringin’ big words onto his idees, and then stretchin’ ’em out as fur as human strength can go. That, truly, was his strong pint. But jest as he bent his knees and begun to set down, he kinder straightened up again and said the only thing that amounted to a thing. He said,—“Keepin’ folks from sellin’ likker, is takin’ away their rights.”

NOT THE RIGHT KIND OF HORNS.

“Rights!” says Thomas Jefferson, jumpin’ upon his feet the minute he set down. “Rights! The first right and law of our nature, is self-preservation, and what safety has any man while the streets are filled with men turned into crazed brutes by this traffic you are upholdin’? Every one knows that a drunken man entirely loses for the time his reasoning faculties, his morality and his conscience, and is made ripe for any crime. That he is jest as ready to rob and murder innocent citizens as to smoke his pipe. So if you and I lend our influence and our votes to make intemperance legal, we make arson, burglary, rape, robbery, murder, legal. Tell me a man has a right to thus plant the seeds of crime and murder in a man’s soul, and imperil the safety of the whole community. Why, the Bible says, that if a man let loose a wild ox, and it gored men with its horns and killed them, the men that let it go loose should surely be put to death.”

Here Simon Slimpsey got up, kinder hangin’ on to the bench, and made a dretful simple sort of a wink with one eye, and says he:

“Them haint the kind o’ horns we are a talkin’ about, we are talkin’ about takin’ a horn of whisky now and then.”

“Yes,” said Thomas J. “there was never a more appropriate name; for if there ever were horns that gored, and stabbed, and killed, it is these.”

Elder Easy spoke out, and says he,—“The Bible says: ‘take a little wine for the stomach sake.’”

But Elder Morton jumped up, and says he,—“There was two kinds of likker in earlier times; one that was unfermented and harmless, and contained no alcohol or any principle of intoxication, and another that contained this raging mocker.”

Then old Peedick spoke up. Says he,—“Likker would be all right if it wasn’t for the adultery in it: poison stuff, wormwood, and etcetery.”

But Dr. Bombus jumped up, and says he,—“Nothing that can be put into it, can be worse poison than the pure alcohol itself, for that is a rank poison for which no antidote has ever been found; useful for medical purposes, like some other poisons: arsenic, opium, laudanum, and so 4th.”

But old Peedick kep’ a mutterin’,—“I know there’s adultery in it;” and kep’ a goin’ on till Cornelius Cork, the President, sot him down, and choked him off.

Solomon Cypher spoke up, and says he:

“No! licence bills don’t do no good; there is more likker drunk when there haint no licence, than when there is. If you hinder one man from sellin’ it, another will.”

I declare, that excited me so, that entirely unbeknown to myself, I spoke right out loud to Josiah:

“Good land! of all the poor excuses I ever heerd, that is the poorest. If I don’t kill my grandmother, somebody else will; or she’ll die herself, of old age, or sunthin’; good land!”

The sound of my voice kinder brought my mind back, and Josiah hunched me hard, and I went to knittin’ dretful fast. Whitfield looked round to me and kinder smiled, and says he, right out in meetin’:

“That’s so, Mother Allen!”

I declare for’t, I didn’t know whether I was seamin’ two and one, or towin’ off, or in the narrowins. I was agitated.

But Whitfield went right on, for it was his turn. His speech was about licencing wrong: admitting a thing was wrong, evil in itself and evil in its effects, and then allowin’ folks to carry on the iniquity, if they’d pay enough for it. It was about givin’ folks the privilege of bein’ mean, for money; about a nation sellin’ the right to do wrong, and so 4th.

Whitfield done well; I know it, and Tirzah Ann knows it. Jest as quick as he sot down, Solomon Cypher got up and says he—with an air as if the argument he was about to bring forred, would bring down the school-house, convince everybody, and set the question to rest forever:

“The way I look at it, is this:” said he, (smitin’ his breast as hard as I ever see a breast smote,) “if there haint no licence, if a man treats me, and I want to treat him back again, where—” (and again he smote his breast almost fearfully,) “where will I git my likker to do it with.”