Be you the divorce man?
Lawyer Porter.(Smiling.) Well, I don’t exactly know that my vocation lies particularly in that direction, but I have been known to undertake such cases. Are you in trouble?
Far. H.I should rather say so! It’s come to jest this ’ere climax that Ican’tstand it nohow, not another day; an’ ef you can’t git me unspliced, I’ll hev to find some one who can.
Law. P.What are your grounds for complaint?
Far. H.Grounds!Ordinary grounds wouldn’t hold ’em! I’ve a hull farm full!
Law. P.One or two are just as efficient in procuring a divorce as a hundred, providing the offence is grave enough. Your wife now, for instance; I suppose she hasn’t fallen in love with another man?
Far. H.Haw-haw! That’s a good ’un! Betsey in love withanotherfeller! Wal, hardly, mister! Betsey isn’t no fool. You can bet high onthat!
Law. P.Of course that was a suppositional case, merely. Is she a scandal-monger?
Far. H.Scandal-monger? Not much; ef ever a woman knew how to hold her tongue when other folks’s is a-waggin’, that’s Betsey every time.
Law. P.Cruel to her children, possibly?
Far. H.I swow, I’ll begin to take you fer the fool, mister. Our children is growed up an’ in homes of the’r own, years back; an’ ez fer gran’children, ef ever an old woman made an idjit of herself over babies, it’s Betsey with them thar youngsters. She jest sp’iles them no end, an’ thar’s nobudy they sets such store by as gran’ma. You hain’t on the right track, by long odds.
Law. P.Evidently not. Suppose now, as my time is valuable, we reverse the case, and you enlighten me as to the cause of your unhappiness, instead of my wasting the minutes in making conjectures? Perhaps incompatibility of temper may cover the ground.
Far. H.In—com—what kind of temper? You beat me with them long words o’ yourn; but, mebbe you’ve struck it, this time. Thar’s no use talking, but Betsey’s that aggervatin’, she riles me so it seems like as though I’d bu’st! Ef she’d eversaya word I could stand it; but she’s that mum you can’t get a word out o’ her edgewise; you’d say, for sartain, thet she’d b’en born deaf, an’ without a tongue in her mouth.
Law. H.A woman anddumb? Ye gods! This is a reversal of the laws of nature with a vengeance! Do you mean for me to understand that your wifeneverspeaks? How can she conduct her household?
Far. H.Oh, she’s chipper enough when things goes to suit; but when I’m r’iled, an’ dyin’ to see the fur fly—to hev it out with some one—then she’s mummer than the side o’ a house; ye couldn’t git a word out o’ her then with a pair o’ oxen! Ef she’d only spit it out, too, an’ hev a good out en out settlin’ o’ matters, ’twould clear the air like a thunder-storm; but thet’s exactly whar the pinch comes. I might r’are an’ tear, an’ pull the house down over our heads, fer all the good ’twould do—thet woman would set as calm es a cucumber, or go about her chores, an’ you’d never guess she knew I was within a hundred miles o’ her! Either she hain’t got an atom o’ sense in her git up, or else she’s too dumb to show it at sech times. It’s enough to drive a man into fits, an’ I can’t go it no longer. It’s either her or me that’s got to git out! I’m willin’ to do my duty to the letter, an’ give her a share in the old farm. I wouldn’t see her want for nothin’, fer in spite o’ her tongue—
Law. P.I rather think you mean her want of tongue!
Far. H.Jest so! There isn’t a kinder or willin’er woman in the section.
Law. P.Suppose, now, that we sum up: your wife, according to your statements, is a good, pure woman—
Far. H.That she is, lawyer! I’d like to hear any one say a thing against Betsey’s character! I’d choke the life out ov him!
Law. P.Fond of her children and grandchildren; don’t gossip; domestic in her tastes—Does she keep your house in order, your clothes mended, your wants all attended to, and give you your meals on time!
Far. H.Why, of course! Thet’s what a wife’s fer, isn’t she? What a question to ax!
Law. P.You acknowledge all this. Now, supposing, on the contrary, that your wife was a shrew.
Far. H.(Bewildered.) A which?
Law. P.A cross, scolding woman; a woman who left her own fireside to gossip and make scandal among her neighbors; who neglected her home; who got your meals at all or no times and let you look out for yourself; who abused the little children around her; who—
Far. H.Stop, mister! Betseycouldn’tdo none o’ them things. Why, you’d make her out a pretty sort o’ critter for me to hev been livin’ with these forty years!
Law. P.No, Betsey couldn’t do all or any of these things. From your own story you have a saint instead of an ordinary woman for a wife; a being who knows that essence of all true happiness—how to hold her tongue; who, instead of lowering herself to petty quarrels and commonplace bickerings, keeps her temper within bounds while you are purposely doing all you possibly can to aggravate her—to make her dislike you—to—
Far. H.(Shamefacedly.) Sho! You air trying to make out a purty strong case against me, ain’t you now? I never looked at it in jestthatlight before, an’ you can’t tell how a few words now an’ then would splice up things in general.
Law. P.If your wife were to come to me and demand a divorce, after what you have told me, I should be strongly tempted to take up her case.
Far. H.Betseygit a divorce fromme! Thet’s the best yet! Well, I should as soon think o’ the sky falling. (Knock at door, voice outside asking ifLawyer Porteris in.) I’ll be everlastin’ly simmered, ef thet don’t sound like Betsey’s voice this actual minute! Whar’ll I go? I don’t want to be found around these parts; but, what in the name o’ conscience kinshewant with you, now? (Glares, at the lawyer, who takes him by the shoulder and leads him up to closet door or behind a screen.)
Law. P.Step into this cover, and be quick about it. You’ll soon ascertain what your wife wants of me. And remember, this is a private interview which you are not to interrupt (Farmer Hanksdisappears, and the lawyer goes to door.)
(EnterMrs Hanks, hesitatingly.)
Law. P.Good morning, madame! What can I do for you? Let me give you a chair. (Seats her with back to closet or screen.Farmer H.pokes his head out.)
Far. H.I’ll be durned but itisBetsey! (Comes half out into room, butLawyer P.scowls and motions him back.Mrs. Hankssits silent.)
Law. P.(Kindly.) Well, madame, you want—
Mrs. Hanks.(In a half whisper.) I want, or IguessI want a bill of divorce. (Farmer Hanks’sface pops out again, with an expression of bewilderment and horror upon it.)
Law. P.Your husband is addicted to the excessive use of liquor, maybe? (Farmer H.shakes his fist at the lawyer.)
Mrs. H.Good gracious, no! Samuel never took too much liquor in his life, to my knowledge.
Law. P.Then, perhaps, he is violent, and cruel to you and the children?
Mrs. H.Mercy, no! Whatever made you think of sech a thing! Samuel wouldn’t hurt a fly; he’s the softest-hearted man in the world; it isn’t that—it’s only—only—
Law.P. Well, you must try to tell me your difficulty, or I will be unable to help you.
Mrs. H.(Bursting into tears.) It’s so hard to tell, yet it’s so hard to bear. It seems jest as if I’d go wild ef I had it to stand another day. Yet except fer this one thing Samuel’sthe best husband a woman could ask fer. He is perfect temperate in all his habits, liberal an’ open-handed as the day is long, an’ as kind an’ considerate as any one could wish fer. (Farmer H.looks out at the lawyer exultingly.) But—but—
Law. P.But what?
Mrs. H.Oh, thosedreadfultantrums of his’n! They come on without any apparent reason at all, an’ he’s like to a crazy man.
Law. P.And you oppose him and aggravate him when he gets in these moods, possibly?
Mrs. H.(Sadly.) Oh, no! What good wouldthatdo? or rather, what harm wouldn’t it do? I jest stand them as best I may, an’ pray the Good Power above for strength to hold my tongue, an’ bear the affliction which he has seen fit to visit me with. (Farmer H.looks out again with an incredulous, shamefaced expression, and seems about to speak, but the lawyer motions him back.)
Law. P. And you say absolutely nothing?
Mrs. H.I never hev given way to my tongue yet; ef I onceshould, or to the feelin’ that he rouses in me at sech times, I almost think I shouldstrikehim. (Farmer H.again advances, but is motioned back.)
Law. P.Wouldn’t that serve him right?
Mrs. H.(Surprised.) Strike Samuel? I’d never forgive myself ef I did. Yet, it is so hard; you can’t tell! It really seems as ef the harder I tried to hold my tongue an’ keep the peace, the worse he got, until sometimes I ’most think he’d like tokillme!
Law. P.Oh, surely not! His wicked temper would not, or could not, carry itself to such an extent against such an angel of peace. But, I cannot find words to express my opinion of such a brute. I cannot find strong enough terms to convey my condemnation. A man who will seek willfully to quarrel with a wife who is gentleness and meekness itself, to say nothing of the other cardinal virtues, is a selfish heartless piece of humanity, unworthy of the name of man, and deserves nothing better than the public whipping-post, which, unhappily—
Mrs. H.Stop! I will not allow you to speak of Samuel in such a manner! He may hev his little faults as all men do—
Far. H.(Rushing out). Yes, let him say every durned thing he kin of me, Betsey! I deserve it all, an’ a hundred times more—(Mrs. Hanks gives a scream and almost sinks to the floor, but her husband catches her)—when I think of what a howlin’ idjit I’ve b’en all these years. The whippin’-post ain’t half severe enough.
Mrs. H.Oh, youneverwas that, Samuel!
Far. H.Yes I was, an’ be, up to this very minute; but I be goin’ to make a clean breast of it or bu’st. Here I hev b’en thinkin’ an’ sayin’ that you didn’t quarrel with me nor answer me back, because ye didn’tknowenough—
Mrs. H.Oh, Samuel, howcouldyou?
Far. H.An’ thet you was a perfect fool, with no spunk in ye, an’ here you’ve b’en with the spunk all bottled up, an’ never darin’ to let her loose for fear o’ makin’mewuss, an’ doin’ wrong yourself! Oh! I’m the wickedest kind of a sinner, Betsey. (Groans). I don’t wonder you want to git a bill ag’inst me; an’ this here lawyer’ll be sure to git ye one, as he sees you deserve it fast enough, an’ I don’t blame neither o’ ye.
Mrs. H.But I don’twantit, Samuel. Now you see jest how it is, an’ that I never allowed to r’ile you, I’m sure ’twill all be right. (Turning to Lawyer P). An’ you won’t let what I’ve said turn you ag’inst him, will you? You can see for yourself that he never could hev meant it.
Law. P.And he never was such a man as he proves at this very time when he humbles himself to confess how wrong he has been, and acknowledges the true worth of his devotedwife whom he has so long misjudged or misunderstood.
Far. H.You’re right thar, Lawyer Porter. I can’t find the words to tell what a blamed fool I’ve been; yet, ef you’ll believe it, I feel lighter o’ heart this blessed minute than I hev in a month o’ Sundays before. An’ to think that an hour ago I was actually hankerin’ after a bill ag’in ye, Betsey! I don’t desarve ye should forgive me, like this, but I give ye my word o’ honor that the next time a tantrum strikes me I’ll hev it out down in the meddar with that old Jersey bull o’ mine.
(Curtain falls.)
Characters:
Scene.—A house in the country.Mrs. Touchwoodat a wash-tub hard at work.
EnterInquisitor.
Inquisitor.
Good morning, madam. Is the head of the family at home?
Mrs. Touchwood.Yes, sir,I’m at home.
Inq.Haven’t you a husband?
Mrs. T.Yes, sir, but he ain’t the head of the family, I’d have you to know.
Inq.How many persons have you in your family?
Mrs. T.Why, bless me, sir, what’s that to you? You’re mighty inquisitive, I think.
Inq.I’m the man that takes the census.
Mrs. T.If you was a man in yoursensesyou wouldn’t ask such impertinent questions.
Inq.Don’t be offended, old lady, but answer my questions as I ask them.
Mrs. T.“Answer a fool according to his folly!”—you know what the Scripture says.Oldlady, indeed!
Inq.Beg your pardon, madam; but I don’t care about hearing Scripture just at this moment I’m bound to go according to law and not according to gospel.
Mrs. T.I should think you went neither according to law nor gospel. What business is it to you to inquire into folks’ affairs, Mr. Thingumbob?
Inq.The law makes it my business, good woman, and if you don’t want to expose yourself to its penalties, you must answer my questions.
Mrs. T.Oh, it’s the law, is it? That alters the case. But I should like to know what the law has to do with other people’s household matters?
Inq.Why, Congress made the law, and if it don’t please you, you must talk to them about it.
Mrs. T.Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, Congress is a fool, and you’re another.
Inq.Now, good lady, you’re a fine, good-looking woman; if you’ll give me a few civil answers I’ll thank you. What I wish to know first is, how many are there in your family?
Mrs. T.Let me see [counting on her fingers]; there’s I and my husband is one——
Inq.Two, you mean.
Mrs. T.Don’t put me out, now, Mr. Thinkummy. There’s I and my husband is one——
Inq.Are you always one?
Mrs. T.What’s that to you, I should like to know. But I tell you, if you don’t leave off interrupting me I won’t say another word.
Inq.Well, take your own way, and be hanged to you.
Mrs. T.I will take my own way, and no thanks to you. [Again counting her fingers.] There’s I and my husband is one; there’s John, he’s two; Peter is three, Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. And then there’s Mr. Jenkins and his wife and the twochildren is six; and there’s Jowler, he’s seven.
Inq.Jowler! Who’s he?
Mrs. T.Who’s Jowler! Why, who should he be but the old house dog?
Inq.It’s the number of persons I want to know.
Mrs. T.Very well, Mr. Flippergin, ain’t Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, and speak for yourself. I’m sure he’s as personable a dog as there is in the whole State.
Inq.He’s a very clever dog, no doubt. But it’s the number of human beings I want to know.
Mrs. T.Human! There ain’t a more human dog that ever breathed.
Inq.Well, but I mean the two-legged kind of beings.
Mrs. T.Oh, the two-legged, is it? Well, then, there’s the old rooster, he’s seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the bantam is nine——
Inq.Stop, stop, good woman, I don’t want to know the number of your fowls.
Mrs. T.I’m very sorry indeed, I can’t please you, such a sweet gentleman as you are. But didn’t you tell me—’twas the two-legged beings——
Inq.True, but I didn’t mean the hens.
Mrs. T.Oh, now I understand you. The old gobbler, he’s seven, the hen turkey is eight; and if you’ll wait a week there’ll be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs.
Inq.Blast your turkeys!
Mrs. T.Oh, don’t now, good Mr. Hipper-stitcher, I pray you don’t. They’re as honest turkeys as any in the country.
Inq.Don’t vex me any more. I’m getting to be angry.
Mrs. T.Ha! ha! ha!
Inq.[striding about the room in a rage.] Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of my skin.
Mrs T.If you do, I don’t know who will fly in.
Inq.You do all you can to anger me. It’s the two-legged creatures who talk I have reference to.
Mrs. T.Oh, now I understand you. Well then, our Poll Parrot makes seven and the black gal eight.
Inq.I see you will have your own way.
Mrs. T.You have just found out, have you! You are a smart little man!
Inq.Have you mentioned the whole of your family?
Mrs. T.Yes, that’s the whole—except the wooden-headed man in front.
Inq.Wooden-headed?
Mrs. T.Yes, the schoolmaster what’s boarding here.
Inq.I suppose if he has a wooden head he lives without eating, and therefore must be a profitable boarder.
Mrs. T.Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken there. He eats like a leather judgment.
Inq.How many servants are there in the family?
Mrs. T.Servants! Why, there’s no servants but me and my husband.
Inq.What makes you and your husband servants?
Mrs. T.I’m a servant to hard work, and he is a servant to rum. He does nothing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle; while I’m working, and stewing, and sweating from morning till night, and from night till morning.
Inq.How many colored persons have you?
Mrs. T.There’s nobody but Dinah, the black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter Sue.
Inq.Is your daughter a colored girl?
Mrs. T.I guess you’d think so if you was to see her. She’s always out in the sun—and she’s tanned up as black as an Indian.
Inq.How many white males are there in your family under ten years of age?
Mrs. T.Why, there ain’t none now; my husband don’t carry the mail since he’s taken to drink so bad. He used to carry two, but they wasn’t white.
Inq.You mistake, good woman; I meant male folks, not leather mails.
Mrs. T.Let me see; there’s none except little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins’ two little girls.
Inq.Males, I said, madam, not females.
Mrs. T.Well, if you don’t like them, you may leave them off.
Inq.How many white males are there between ten and twenty?
Mrs. T.Why, there’s nobody but John and Peter, and John ran away last week.
Inq.How many white males are there between twenty and thirty?
Mrs. T.Let me see—there’s the wooden-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his wife is two, and the black girl is three.
Inq.No more of your nonsense, old lady; I’m heartily tired of it.
Mrs. T.Hoity toity! Haven’t I a right to talk as I please in my own house?
Inq.You must answer the questions as I put them.
Mrs. T.“Answer a fool according to his folly”—you’re right, Mr. Hippogriff.
Inq.How many white males are there between thirty and forty?
Mrs. T.Why, there’s nobody but I and my husband—and he was forty-one last March.
Inq.As you count yourself among the males, I dare say you wear the breeches.
Mrs. T.Well, what if I do, Mr. Impertinence? Is that anything to you? Mind your own business, if you please.
Inq.Certainly—I did but speak. How many white males are there between forty and fifty?
Mrs. T.None.
Inq.How many between fifty and sixty?
Mrs. T.None.
Inq.Are there any between this and a hundred?
Mrs. T.None except the old gentleman.
Inq.What old gentleman? You haven’t mentioned any before.
Mrs. T.Why, gramther Grayling—I thought everybody knew gramther Grayling—he’s a hundred and two years old next August, if he lives so long—and I dare say he will, for he’s got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies.
Inq.Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons.
Mrs. T.Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain’t so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it’s only in a whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he’s as deaf as a horse-block.
Inq.How many dumb persons?
Mrs. T.Dumb! Why, there’s no dumb body in the house, except the wooden-headed man, and he never speaks unless he’s spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can’t make it out.
Inq.Are there any manufactures carried on here?
Mrs. T.None to speak on, except turnip sausages and tow cloth.
Inq.Turnip-sausages!
Mrs. T.Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that?
Inq.I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them?
Mrs. T.Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler.
Inq.Are they made of clear turnips?
Mrs. T.Now you’re terrible inquisitive. What would you give to know?
Inq.I’ll give you the name of being themost communicative and pleasant woman I’ve met with for the last half-hour.
Mrs. T.Well, now, you’re a sweet gentleman, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn’t look as if they were made of clear fat meat; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gentleman’s table; they fetch the highest price in the market.
Inq.Indeed! Have you a piano in the house?
Mrs. T.A piany! What’s that?
Inq.A musical instrument.
Mrs. T.Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one—you see. Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colushun down to Bosting, and down she went; an’ when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth—’spose that’s what you call a piany.
Inq.You seem to know what it is, then.
Mrs. T.Yes, sir. Have you anything more to ax?
Inq.Nothing more. Good morning, madam.
Mrs. T.Stop a moment; can’t you think of something else? Do now, that’s a good man. Wouldn’t you like to know what we’re a-going to have for dinner; or how many chickens our old white hen hatched at her last brood; or how many—
Inq.Nothing more—nothing more.
Mrs. T. Here, just look in the cupboard, and see how many red ants there are in the sugar-bowl; I haven’t time to count them myself.
Inq.Confound your ants and all your relations.
[Exit in a huff.
Characters.
The widow retires to the grove in the rear ofElder Sniffles’house, sits down on a log and sings in a plaintive voice.
Widow Bedott.
What peaceful hours I once enjoyed,All on a summer’s day!But O, my comfort was destroyed,When Shadrack crossed my way!I heerd him preach—I heerd him pray—I heerd him sweetly sing;Dear suz! how I did feel that day!It was a drefful thing!Full forty dollars would I giveIf we’d continnerd apart—For though he’s made my sperrit liveHe’s surely bust my heart!
What peaceful hours I once enjoyed,All on a summer’s day!But O, my comfort was destroyed,When Shadrack crossed my way!I heerd him preach—I heerd him pray—I heerd him sweetly sing;Dear suz! how I did feel that day!It was a drefful thing!Full forty dollars would I giveIf we’d continnerd apart—For though he’s made my sperrit liveHe’s surely bust my heart!
What peaceful hours I once enjoyed,All on a summer’s day!But O, my comfort was destroyed,When Shadrack crossed my way!
What peaceful hours I once enjoyed,
All on a summer’s day!
But O, my comfort was destroyed,
When Shadrack crossed my way!
I heerd him preach—I heerd him pray—I heerd him sweetly sing;Dear suz! how I did feel that day!It was a drefful thing!
I heerd him preach—I heerd him pray—
I heerd him sweetly sing;
Dear suz! how I did feel that day!
It was a drefful thing!
Full forty dollars would I giveIf we’d continnerd apart—For though he’s made my sperrit liveHe’s surely bust my heart!
Full forty dollars would I give
If we’d continnerd apart—
For though he’s made my sperrit live
He’s surely bust my heart!
She sighs profoundly, and theElderadvances unexpectedly.
W. B.Good gracious! is that you, Elder Sniffles! how youdidscare me! Never was so flustrated in all the days o’ my life! hadn’t the remotest idee o’ meetingyouhere—would’t a come for forty dollars if I’d a s’posed you ever meander’d here. I never was here afore—but was settin’ by my winder and I cast my eyes over here, and as I observed the lofty trees a wavin’ in the gentle blast, and heerd the feathered songsters a wobblin’ their mellancolly music, I felt quite a call to come over; it’s so retired and morantic—such an approbriate place to marvel round in, ye know, when a body feels low-sperrited and unconsolable, as I dew to-night. O, d-e-a-r!
E. S.Most worthy Mrs. Bedott, your evident depression fills me with unmitigated sympathy. Your feelings (if I may be permitted to judge from the language of your song, which I overheard)——
W. B.You didn’t though, Elder! the drefful suz! whatshallI dew! I wouldn’t a had you heerd that song for no money! I wish I hadn’t a come! I wish to gracious I hadn’t a come!
E. S.I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, it was unintentional on my part, entirely unintentional, but my contiguity to yourself and your proximity to me were such as rendered it impossible for me to avoid hearing you—
W. B.Well, it can’t be helped now; it’s no use crying for spilt milk, but I wouldn’t have you to think I know’dyouever came here.
E. S.On the contrary, this grove is a favorite resort of mine; it affords a congenial retreat after the exterminating and tremendous mental labors of the day. I not unfrequently spend the declining hours of the evening here, buried in the most profound meditations. On your entrance I was occupying my customary seat beneath that umbrageous mounting ash which you perceive a few feet from you; indeed, had not your mind been much pre-occupied you could scarcely have avoided discovering me.
W. B.Oh, granf’ther grievous! I wish I’d staid to hum! I was born for misfortin’ and nothin’ else! I wish to massy I’d staid to hum to-night! but I felt as if I’d like to come here once afore I leave the place. [She weeps.]
E. S.Ah! indeed! do you project leaving Scrabble Hill?
W. B.Yes, I dew; I calklate to go next week. I must hear you preach once more—oncemore, Elder, and then I’m gwine—somewhere—I don’t care where, nor I don’t care what becomes o’ me when I git there. [She sobs violently.]
E. S.O, Mrs. Bedott, you distress me beyond limitation—permit me to inquire the cause of this uncontrollable agony?
W. B.O, Elder Sniffles, you’re the last indiwidual that ought to ax such a question. O, Ishalldie! I shall give it up!
E. S.Madame, my interest in your welfare is intense; allow me to entreat you still more vehemently to unburden your mind; perhaps it is in my power to relieve you.
W. B.Relieve me! what an idee! O, Elder, youwillbe the death o’ me if you make me revulge my feelings so. An hour ago I felt as if I’d a died afore I’d a said what I hev said now, but you’ve draw’d it out o’ me.
E. S.Respected madame, you have as yet promulgated nothing satisfactory; permit me——
W. B.O, granf’ther grievous! must I come to’t? Well, then, if I must, I must, so to begin at the beginnin’. When I fust heern you preach, your sarmons onsettled my faith; but after a spell I was convinced by yer argefyin’, and gin up my ’roneus notions, and my mind got considerably carm. But how could I set Sabberday after Sabberday under the droppin’s o’ yer voice, and not begin to feel a mor’n ordinary interest in the speaker? I indevored not tew, but I couldn’t help it; ’twas in vain to struggle against the feelin’s that prepossest my buzzom. But it’s all over with me now! my felicitude is at an end! my sittiwation is hopeless! I shall go back to Wiggleton next week, and never truble you no more.
E. S.Ah, Mrs. Bedott, you alarm——
W. B.Yes, you never’ll see no more truble with Prissilly. I’m agwine back to Wiggleton. Can’t bear to go back thar, nother, on account o’ the indiwidduals that I come away to git rid of. There’s Cappen Canoot, he’s always been after me ever since my husband died, though I hain’t never gin him no incurridgement—but he won’t take no for an answer. I dread the critter’s attentions. And ’Squire Bailey—he’s wonderful rich—but thatain’t no recommendation to me, and I’ve told him so time and agin, but I s’pose he thinks I’ll come round bumby. And Deacon Crosby, he lost his partner a spell afore I come away; he was very much pleased with me; he’s a wonderful fine man—make a fust-rate husband. I kind o’ hesitated when he promulgated his sentiments tew me, told him I’d think on’t till I cum back—s’pose he’ll be at me as soon as I git there. I hate to disappoint Deacon Crosby, he’s such a fine man, and my dezeased companion sot so much by him, but then I don’t feel for him as I dew for——. He’s a Presbyterian, tew, and I don’t think ’twould be right to unite my destination to hisen.
E. S.Undoubtedly in your present state of feeling, the uncongeniality would render a union——
W. B.O, dear, dear, dear! I can’t bear to go back there and indure their attentions, but, thank fortune, they won’t bother me long—I shall go into a decline, I know I shall, as well as I want to know it. My trubles’ll soon be over—undoubtedly they’ll put up a monnyment to my memory—I’ve got the description all ready for it—it says:
Here sleeps Prissilly P. Bedott,Late relic of Hezekier,How mellancolly was her lot!How soon she did expire!She didn’t commit self-suicide,’Twas tribbilation killed her;O, what a pity she hadn’t a diedAfore she saw the elder!
Here sleeps Prissilly P. Bedott,Late relic of Hezekier,How mellancolly was her lot!How soon she did expire!She didn’t commit self-suicide,’Twas tribbilation killed her;O, what a pity she hadn’t a diedAfore she saw the elder!
Here sleeps Prissilly P. Bedott,Late relic of Hezekier,How mellancolly was her lot!How soon she did expire!
Here sleeps Prissilly P. Bedott,
Late relic of Hezekier,
How mellancolly was her lot!
How soon she did expire!
She didn’t commit self-suicide,’Twas tribbilation killed her;O, what a pity she hadn’t a diedAfore she saw the elder!
She didn’t commit self-suicide,
’Twas tribbilation killed her;
O, what a pity she hadn’t a died
Afore she saw the elder!
And O, Elder, you’ll visit my grave, won’t ye, and shed tew or three tears over it? ’Twould be a consolation tew me tew think you would.
E. S.In case I should ever have occasion to journey through that section of the country, and could consistently with my arrangements make it convenient to tarry for a short time at Wiggleton, I assure you it would afford me much pleasure to visit your grave, agreeably to your request.
W. B.O, Elder, how onfeelin’!
E. S.Unfeeling! did I not understand you correctly when I understood you to request me to visit your grave?
W. B.Yes, but I don’t see how you could be so carm, when I’m talkin’ about dyin’.
E. S.I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, I had not the slightest intention of manifesting a want of feeling in my remark. I should regard your demise as a most deplorable event, and it would afford me no small degree of satisfaction to prevent so melancholy a catastrophe were it in my power.
W. B.Well, I guess I’ll go hum. If Sally should know you was here a talkin’ with me, she’d make an awful fuss.
E. S.Indeed I see no reason to fear that my domestic should interfere in any of my proceedings.
W. B.O, lawful sakes! how numb you be, elder! I didn’t allude to Sal Blake—I meant Sal Hugle. She’t you’re ingaged tew.
E. S.Engaged to Miss Hugle! You alarm me, Mrs. Be——
W. B.Now don’t undertake to deny it, Elder; everybody says it’s a fact.
E. S.Well, then, it only remains for me to assert that everybody is laboring under an entire and unmitigated mistake.
W. B.You don’t say so, Elder! Well, I declare, I do feel relieved. I couldn’t endure the idea o’ stayin’ here to see that match go off. She’s so onworthy—so different from what your companion had ort to be—and so lazy—and makes such awful poitry; and then she hain’t worth a cent in the world. But I don’t want to say a word against her; for, if you ain’t ingaged now, mabby you will be. O, Elder! promise me, dew promise me now’t you won’t marry that critter.’Twould be a consolation to me when I’m far away on my dyin’ bed to know—[She weeps with renewed energy.] O, Elder, I’m afeared I’m a gwine to have the highsterics. I’m subjick to spasmotic affections when I’m excited and overcome.
E. S.You alarm me, Mrs. Bedott! I will hasten to the house and bring the sal volatile, which may restore you.
W. B.For the land’s sake, Elder, don’t go after Sal; she can’t dew nothin’ for me. It’ll only make talk, for she’ll tell it all round the village. Jest take that ar newspaper that sticks out o’ yer pocket, and fan me with it a leetle. There, I feel quite resusticated. I’m obliged tew ye; guess I can manage to get hum now. [She rises.] Farwell, Elder Sniffles! adoo! we part to meet no more!
E. S.Ah, Mrs. Bedott! do not speak in that mournful strain; you distress me beyond all mitigation. [He takes her hand.] Pray reseat yourself, and allow me to prolong the conversation for a short period. As I before observed, your language distresses me beyond all duration.
W. B.Dew you actually feel distressed at the idee o’ partin’ with me?
E. S.Most indubitably, Mrs. Bedott.
W. B.Well, then, what’s the use o’ partin’ at all? O, what have I said? what have I said?
E. S.Ahem—ahaw, allow me to inquire—are you in easy circumstances, Mrs. Bedott?
W. B.Well, not entirely yet, though I feel considerable easier’n what I did an hour ago.
E. S.Ahem! I imagine that you do not fully apprehend my meaning. I am a clergyman, a laborer in the vineyard of the Lord—as such you will readily understand I cannot be supposed to abound in the filthy lucre of this world; my remuneration is small—hence——
W. B.O, Elder, how can you s’pose I’d hesitate on account o’ your bein’ poor? Don’t think on’t—it only increases my opinion of you; money ain’t no objick to me.
E. S.I naturally infer from your indifference respecting the amount ofmyworldly possessions that you yourself have——
W. B.Don’t be oneasy, Elder, dear—don’t illude tew it again; depend on’t you’re jest as dear tew me, every bit and grain, as you would be if you owned all the mines in Ingy.
E. S.I will say no more about it.
W. B.So I s’pose we’re ingaged.
E. S.Undoubtedly.
W. B.We’re ingaged, and my tribbilation is at an end. [Her head drops on his shoulder.] O, Shadrack! what will Hugelina say when she hears on’t?
Francis M. Whitcher.
Scene I.—The sitting-room of theColefamily.Maryreading a newspaper.Grandmother Coleknitting.Aunt Marthacrocheting.Jackplaying with the balls inAunt Martha’swork-basket.
Mary Cole.
Oh, Aunt Martha! only hear this! it’s in theChronicle. What a splendid chance! I declare, I’ve a great mind to answer it myself!
Aunt M.What have you got hold of now? You’re allez a-making some powerful diskivery somewheres. What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and blue eyes gray?
Mary.No; it’s a matrimonial advertisement. What a splendid fellow this “C. G.” must be!
Aunt M.Oh, shaw! A body must be dreadfully put to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. Thank goodness! I never got in such a strait as that ’er. The Lord has marcyfully kept me thus fur from having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I shall be presarved to the end.
Jack Cole.Didn’t you ever have an offer, Aunt Mattie?
Aunt M.(indignantly.) Why, Jack Cole! What an idee! I’ve had more chances to change my condition than you’ve got fingers and toes. But I refused ’em all. A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks adrift—they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come over to our ’ouse, and I gave him to understand that he needn’t trouble himself; and he felt so mad that he went rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month was out.
Jack.Poor fellow! How he must have felt! And, Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at you a great deal in meeting, since you’ve got that pink feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to be a mother to his ten little ones?
Aunt M.(simpering). Law, Jack Cole! What a dreadful boy you be! (pinches his ear.) The deacon never thought of such a thing! But if it should please Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try and be resigned.
Granny Cole.Resigned? Who’s resigned? Not the President, has he? Well, I don’t blame him. I’d resign, too, if I was into his place. Nothing spiles a man’s character so quick as being President or Congress. Yer gran’father got in justice of the peace and chorus, once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed he didn’t want his repetition spiled.
Jack.Three cheers for Gran’father Cole!
Granny C.Cheers? What’s the matter with the cheers, now? Yer father had them bottomed last year, and this year they were new painted. What’s to pay with ’em now?
Mary(impatiently). Do listen, all of you, to this advertisement.
Aunt M.Mary Cole, I’m sorry your head is so turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn’t orter listen to it.
Mary.Oh, it won’t hurt you a bit, auntie. (reads) “A gentleman of about forty, very fine looking; tall, slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the acquaintance of a young lady with similar qualifications——”
Jack.A young lady with expressive eyes and side whiskers——
Mary.Do keep quiet, Jack Cole! (reads) “With similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable temper, with a view to matrimony. Address, with stamp to pay return postage—C. G.,Scrubtown; stating when and where an interview may be had.” There! what do you think of that?
Jack.Deacon Goodrich to a T. “C. G.” stands for Calvin Goodrich.
Aunt M.The land of goodness! Deacon Goodrich, indeed! a pillar of the church! advertising for a wife! No, no, Jack; it can’t be him! He’d never stoop so low!
Jack.But if all the women are as hard-hearted as you are, and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his ten little olive plants!
Granny C.Plants? Cabbage plants? ’Taint time to set them out yet. Fust of August is plenty airly enuff to set ’em for winter. Cabbages never begin to head till the nights come cold.
Jack.Poor Mr. C. G.! Why don’t you answer it, Aunt Mattie; and tell him you’ll darn his stockings for him, and comb that fair hair of his?
Aunt M.Jack Cole! if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll comb your hair for you in a way you won’t like. Me answering one of them low advertisements!Me, indeed! I hain’t so eager to get married as some folks I know. Brother Cyrus and I have lived all our lives in maiden meditation, fancy free—the only sensible ones of the family of twelve children; and it’s my idee that we shall continner on in that way.
Mary.Why, don’t you believe that Uncle Cyrus would get married if he could?
Aunt M.Your Uncle Cyrus! I tell you, Mary Cole, he wouldn’t marry the best woman that ever trod! I’ve hearn him say so a hundred times.
Mary.Won’t you answer this advertisement, auntie? I’ll give you a sheet of my nicest gilt-edge note-paper if you will!
Aunt M.(furiously). If you weren’t so big, Mary Jane Cole, I’d spank you soundly! I vow I would! Me answer it, indeed!
(Leaves the room in great indignation.)
Mary.Look here, Jack. What’ll you bet she won’t reply to that notice?
Jack.Nonsense! Wouldn’t she blaze if she could hear you?
Mary.I’ll wager my new curled waterfall against your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie replies to Mr. “C. G.” before to-morrow night.
Jack.Done! I shall wear a curled waterfall after to-morrow.
Mary.No, sir! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, who do you think “C. G.” is?
Jack.Really, I do not know; do you? Ah! I know you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that’s a darling.
Mary.Not I. I don’t expose secrets to a fellow who tells them all over town. Besides, it would spoil the fun.
Jack.Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the world! Tell me, please. (taking her hands.)
Mary.No, sir! You don’t get that out of me. Take care, now. Let go of my hands. I’m going up stairs to keep an eye on Aunt Mattie. She’s gone up now to write an answer to “C. G.” And if there is any fun by-and-by, Jack, if you’re a good boy you shall be there to see.
Granny C.To sea? Going to sea? Why, Jack Cole! you haint twenty-one yet, and the sea’s a dreadful place! There’s a sarpint lives in it as big as the Scrubtown meeting-’us’, and whales that swaller folks alive, clothes and all! I read about one in a book a great while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, and he didn’t set well on the critter’s stummuck, and up he come, lively as ever!
(Curtain falls.)
Scene II.—The garden of a deserted house, in the vicinity ofMr. Cole’s.MaryleadingJackcautiously along a shady path.
Mary.There; we’ll squat down behind this lilac bush. It’s nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this manner—“At eight o’clock this night I go to meet my destiny! In the deserted garden, under the old pear tree. How very romantic!” Hark! there she comes!
Jack.Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard tell of! Who would have believed that our staid old maid aunt would have been guilty of answering a matrimonial advertisement?
Mary.Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil the fun now, I’ll never forgive you. Keep your head still, and don’t fidget so.
Aunt Mattie(slowly walking down the path—soliloquizing.) Eight o’clock! It struck just as I started out. He ought to be here. Why does he tarry? If he aint punctual I’ll give him the mitten. I swow I will! Dear gracious! what a sitivation to be in! Me, at my time of life! though, to be shure, I haint so old as—as I might be. The dew’sa-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz in these thin shoes, if he don’t come quick. What if Jack and Mary should git hold of this? I never should hear the last of it! Never! I wouldn’t have ’em know it for a thousand dollars! Goodness me! What if itshouldbe the deacon? Them children of his’n is dreadful youngsters; but, the Lord helping me, I’d try to train ’em up in the way they should go. Hark! is that him a-coming? No; it’s a toad hopping through the carrot bed. My soul and body! what if he should want to kiss me? I’ll chew a clove for fear he should. I wonder if it would be properous to let him? But then I s’pose if it’s the deacon I couldn’t help myself. He’s an awfuldeetarmined man; and if I couldn’t help it I shouldn’t be to blame! Deary me! how I trimble! There he comes! I hear his step! What a tall man! ’Taint the deacon. He’s got a shawl on! Must be the new school-master! he wears a shawl! (a man approaches,Miss Mattiegoes up to him cautiously.) Is this Mr. C. G.?
C. G.Yes, it is; Is this Miss M. G.?
Aunt M.It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the dark to meet you?
C. G.Never! Ah, the happiness of this moment! For forty years I have been looking for thee! (puts his arm around her.)
Aunt M.Oh, dear me! dont! dont! my dear sir! I aint used to it! and it aint exactly proper out here in this old garden! It’s a dreadful lonely spot, and if people should see us they might talk.
C. G.Let ’em talk! They’ll talk still more when you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your veil and let me see your sweet face.
Aunt M.Yes, if you’ll remove that hat and let me behold your countenance.
C. G.Now, then; both together. (Aunt M.throws back her veil. C. G. removes his hat. They gaze at each other a moment in utter silence.)
Aunt M.Good gracious airth! ’tis brother Cyrus!
C. G.Jubiter Ammon! ’tis sister Martha!
Aunt M.Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon! Who’d ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cutting up such a caper as this? You old, bald-headed, gray-whiskered man! Forty years old! My gracious! You were fifty-nine last July!
C. G.Well, if I am, you’re two year older. So it’s as broad as ’tis long!
Aunt M.Why, I thought shure it was Deacon Goodrich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich.
C. G.Yes; and it stands for Cyrus Gordon, too. And Deacon Goodrich was married last night to Peggy Jones.
Aunt M.That snub-nosed, red-haired Peggy Jones! He’d ort to be flayed alive! Married again! and his wife not hardly cold! Oh, the desatefulness of men! Thank Providence I haint tied to one of the abominable sect.
C. G.Well, Martha, we’re both in the same boat. If you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it’s a terrible disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant Marion Giles, the pretty milliner.
Aunt M.Humph! What an old goose! She wouldn’t look at you! I heerd her laffing at your swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last Sunday. But I’m ready to keep silence if you will. Gracious! if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, shouldn’t we have to take it?
C. G.Hark! what’s that? (voice behind the lilac-bush sings:)