Scene.—Betsey and Simon Slimpsey at home.—Eight or nine children in various stages of distress, faces tied up, etc.—Two cradles with children in them.—Betsey sewing.—Simon trying to take care of the children.

Jos. Good mornin’, Simon; good mornin’, Betsey.

Bet. (Haughtily.) Excuse my not getting up and setting you a chair, Josiah Allen. Being married, I don’t have to be so particular in my manners as I used to. Thank heavens! I can hold my head up now as high as anybody.

Jos. We heard you was all sick up here, and I thought I would come in and see how you was.

Bet. Are you not all coming to the reception to-night?

Jos. Yes, I ’spose so; and Samantha told me if there was anything she could do for the children, she would come earlier.

Simon. I wish she would come and see if something can’t be done for ’em. They have all got the mumps and measles, and colic, and everything. And she’s to work all the time on her ridin’ dress, and fixin for this doin’s of her’n. I tried to have her put it off till five or six of the children got better; but she won’t.

Bet. No; I told my husband, Mr. Slimpsey, that my dignity as a married woman was at stake. In common times it is well to attend to sickness, but now, dignity and style both demand that I receive to-night.

Jos. Wall; Samantha will come right over.

Bet. Tell her Mrs. Simon Slimpsey will be glad to see her; formally Bobbett. (Exit Josiah, and soon Samantha comes in followed by Miss Gowdy and Mrs. Elder Peedick.)

Miss G. How do you do, Betsey?

Bet. (Coldly, holding out her hand, but not rising.) I am glad you come early, Sophronia. I want you to feel free with me, just as if I was not married. I shall still associate with my old friends. I don’t mean to show out no more haughtiness than I can help. I have told my husband, Mr. Slimpsey, that I should not turn my back on all single women now, if I was rose above ’em in station. Help yourself to some chairs. (They sit down and Samantha and Mrs. Peedick each of them take up a child on their laps.)

Sam. How are the children now?

Simon. The seventh boy is worse, and the twin girls are took down with it. It would be a melancholy pleasure if you could do something for ’em.

Sam. Have they been sweat?

Bet. No; I told my husband, Mr. Slimpsey, that I would not sweat them until after our reception. Sweating children is more or less depressing in its effects, and I felt that I needed all my youthful spirits and energies to support the weight of dignity that will enwrap me on this occasion like a mantilly.

Mrs. Peedick. I sweat Doodle when he had the very oh lord, till the sweat run right off his linement, and blistered both his feet till he couldn’t stand up on em; and I shall probably try to make Elder Peedick jest as comfortable when he is sick. But, oh Doodle, Doodle; your relict never can forget you, never.

Sam. Chirk up Mrs. Peedick; don’t try to be a widder and a wife at the same time. Don’t try to be a mourner for one man and a bride to another man simultanius. It is jest as onresonable as it would be to try to set down and stand up at once. Betsey, have you give ’em any smart weed?

Bet. No; If my husband, Mr. Slimpsey, approves, I shall probably sleep up some after the reception, and after I complete this riding-dress. I have had to write a poem to read upon this occasion. ‘A Him of victory,’ and it has hindered me about my dress. I need it, for I shall want, to ride out and take the air as soon as the children get well, for even married people cannot breathe without air, and I want to finish this for my first appearance on horseback after marriage. I have nothing to wear suitable for a bride, and this pale-plue cambric trimmed with otter color, will be becomin’ to me, and very dressy. I knew a good deal would be expected of me in my changed circumstances. I shall probably attract a great deal of attention.

Miss G. I should think you would, ridin’ that old horse of your’n. His ribs look like wash-boards.

Sam. I should jest as lives ride a case-knife.

Miss G. Most dead with blind staggers and lame as he can be, a stumblin’ and a fallin’ all the time.

Bet. I got something now to sustain me and hold me up, if horses do fall under me. They may lame me, but I have got a dignity, now, Sophronia, that horses cannot give neither can they take away. I’m married now. (Simon groans.) I shall also appear at conference meeting next Sunday evening for the first time after marriage. There is one thing I feel as if I must say in public at once, and that is, that I believe in the perseverence of saints.

Miss G. Saints!

Bet. I will now go and make a few changes in my toilet for the occasion. (She goes out carrying her riding-dress)

Sam. I havn’t seen you before, Simon, since your marriage.

Simon. I knew it would come to this, Miss Allen; I told you how it would be. She always said it was her spear to marry, and I knew I should be the one; I always was the one.

Sam. Does she use you well, Simon?

Simon. She’s pretty hard on me. I hain’t had my way in anything sense the day she married me. She began to hold my nose to the grindstone, as the sayin’ is, before we had been married two hours; and she hain’t no house-heeper, or cook. I have had to live on pancakes ’most of the time since it took place, and they’re tougher than leather. I have been ’most tempted to cut some out of my boot-leg, to see if they wouldn’t be tenderer; but I never should hear the last of it if I did. She jaws me awfully, and orders me ’round as if I was a dog. If I was a yeller dog she couldn’t seem to look down on me more, and treat me any worse.

Sam. Wall; I always did mistrust them wimmen that don’t want any rights, only to cling and coo. But I don’t want to run anybody to their back. She thought it was her spear to marry.

Simon. I told you that spear of her’n would destroy me, and it has. (He weeps)

(Enter Betsey, with several pairs of ragged pantaloons to mend over her arm, and several sheets of foolscap paper in her hand.)

Bet. I thought perhaps I could get a few minutes to sew before the arrival of our guests. I have 7 pairs of pantaloons to mend before I retiah. Children wear out clothing so rapidly, and our children seem to make a specialty of ripping and tearing. We have been obleeged to put two of them to bed on that account, and they are swearing now violently in bed, at their step motheh, because I have not been able to mend their clothes in time for the reception.

Sam. Are you happy, Betsey?

Bet. I am at rest; more at rest than I have been for years!

Miss G. (Looking round at the sick children and taking up the ragged pantaloons and looking at them:) At rest!

Sam. Are you happy, Betsey?

Bet. I feel awful dignified. There is not any use in a woman’s trying to feel dignified until she is married. I have tried it and I know. I can truly say, Josiah Allen’s wife, that I never knew what dignity was until one week ago last Sunday night, at half-past 7 in the evening.

Sam. Are you happy, Betsey?

Bet. I have got somthing to lean on.

Sam. Don’t lean too hard, Betsey.

Bet. Why?

Sam. You may be sorry if you do. Do you love your husband, Betsey?

Bet. I don’t think love is necessary. I am married, and that is enough to satisfy any woman who is more or less reasonable—that is the main and important thing; as I have said, love and respect are miners.

Miss G. Miners!

Wid. D. My Doodle never called it a miner; and he worshiped the ground I walked on, and the neighbors all said he did; they said he loved the ground better than he did me, but he didn’t, he worshiped us both.

Sam. Miners, Betsey Bobbett.

Bet. Mrs. Betsey Bobbett Slimpsey.

Sam. Wall, Mrs. Betsey Slimpsey, there hain’t no more beautiful sight on earth than to see two human souls out of pure love to each other gently approaching each other as if they must; and, at last, all their hopes and thoughts and affections running together like two drops of water in a morning glory blow, and to see them nestling there, not caring for nobody outside the blow, bound up in each other till the sun evaporates ’em as it were, and draws ’em together up into the heavens, not separating ’em even up there. Why such a marriage as that is a sight that does men and angels good to look at. But when a woman sells herself, swops her purity, her self-respect, her truth and her soul, for any kind of barter, such as a home, a few thousand dollars, the name of being married, a horse and buggy, some jewelry, etc.; and not only sells herself, but worse than the Turk wimmen, goes ’round herself hunting up a buyer: crazy, wild-eyed, afraid she won’t find none. Suppose she does have a minister for a salesman—my contempt for such a female is inmitigable.

Miss G. And so is mine.

Wid. D. And so would my Doodleses have been; you could see that by his linement.

Sam. And I don’t want to hear such wimmen talk about infamy. For in what respect are they better than these other infamous wimmen we all despise? Do you ’spose their standin’ up in front of a minister and tellin’ a few lies, such as I promise to love a man I hate, and honor a man I despise, and obey a man I calculate to make toe the mark? Do you ’spose these few lies make ’em any purer in the sight of God? Marriage is like baptism, as I have said mor’n a hundred times. You have got to have the inward grace and the outward form to make it lawful and right. What good does the water do if your soul hain’t baptized with the love of God? It hain’t no better than fallin’ into the creek.

Bet. Some of us married folks feel differently, Josiah Allen’s wife. Let me read to you a short poem of 20 or 30 verses written recently by a married woman, by she that was formerly Betsey Bobbett, now Mrs. Simon Slimpsey. I am to read it to the reception to-night, but I think it will be well for me to read it over so I can deliver it more eloquently. Hear my Bridal Owed, hear my Him of Victory.

Sam. How can I be calm and hear it? Oh, John Rogers! and Foxes Martyrs! how I sympathize with you.

Mrs. P. Oh, Doodle! Doodle! what shall I do to do right?

Sam. (In a low tone) Nine children, and one at the breast! Thumb screws and grid-irons! (Speaking in her usual tone.) No, I will not ontie myself from this stake of martyrdom. I will cling to duty’s apron strings. Simon, if I was in your place, I should sweat the five biggest boys to-night, and most of the girls. I should give the twins and the smallest girls some strong smartweed tea, and I should let the rest of ’em be till the Dr. comes. Betsey I will hear the him. (Simon groans, and burys his face in his handkerchief. Betsey rises and reads:)

(Here two of the children pull at her dress and ask for water, and one says: Gimme a piece of bread’n butter. She tells them to get it themselves, and then resumes her reading.)

(One of the children calls out) Say, can’t you gimme somethin’ to eat, I’m most starved. (Another says) Won’t you lemme have some? Say, won’t you lemme? (Another, in a loud defiant tone) Gimme some; gimme some quick.

Bet. (To one of the children) Bring me my thimble. (He brings it and she puts it on and snaps their heads with it, and they cry and go into a corner and make up faces at her and one of them pinches the child in the cradle, and he kicks against it and yells.)

(Here Simon groans so loud that Betsey stops and says): Husband keep still and listen to your wife’s him of victory!

Mrs. Peedick. I think I shall have to go Betsey, it is getting late, and being a bride myself, I want to make some changes in my clothing. I shall wear my wedding dress. It is black and white lawn even checks. I wanted to look sort of bridy, and still I wanted to mourn a little at the same time. The white checks means Elder Peedick, the black checks stands for Doodle. For oh, what a man that was.

Sam. Miss Peedick if you don’t take my advice, you’ll see trouble ahead on you. When a widder man or a widder woman, embarks on a new voyage, let ’em burn the ship behind ’em that they sailed round in, in their former voyages. This trying to be a pardner and a mourner at one time is gaulin’ to man or woman. Mournin’ for Doodle was jest as honorable as anything could be; marryin’ Elder Peedick was another honorable job, and you ort to made up your mind which business would be the most happyfyin’ and proftable to you, and then foller it up with a willin’ mind, but don’t try to do both. Betsey, we will be here in good season. I have got a nice presant for you, but bein’ pretty hefty, I shan’t probably bring it to-night. It’s a piller case full of dried apples and a jar of butter. Josiah will bring a sack of flour.

Bet. Come, Mr. Slimpsey, stand up here by me and receive our bridal congratulations.

Simon. You know I can’t stand up, Betsey, not for any length of time, most dead with the rheumatiz.

Bet. My husband, you must.

Simon. Why can’t you stand up there alone and lemme be. I wish you would. I wanted you to go off on a weddin’ tower; you was crazy for one and I told you to go, and I’d stay to home and tend to things, and the longer you stayed the better I’d like it. But no, you wouldn’t go unless I went, and now you want to make me stand up there by you half the night, when you know it is all I can do to get up onto my feet any way. You don’t seem to have no mercy on me at all, orderin’ me round all the time.

(One of the children looking out:) There is a hull lot of folks a comin’.

Bet. Husband, you must get up; our bridal guests are arriving.

Simon. Wall then, give me my cane, and I’ll try it.

Bet. And your raiment is disordered; it looks bad.

Simon. It looks as well as I feel, I know that. (They stand up, Betsey haughtily erect, Simon leaning on his cane, and occasionally shedding tears. They all bring presents, the more ridiculous the better. Josiah brings a sack of flour; Dr. Bombus brings a large bottle of medicine; the Editor of the Augur a file of the Augurs etc. Thomas J. and Tirzah Ann comes in first, congratulates them)

Bet. (proudly) I thank you, Mr. Allen. I thank you Miss Allen.

Simon. (mournfully) I told your mother how it would be.

Bet. (hunching him, whispers) How you act! Do put on some style; thank him.

Simon. Much ob’eeged. I knew——(He stops and wipes his eyes. Betsey reproves him for his actions, and just then Elder Peedick and wife enter.)

Eld. P. My wife, Miss Peedick.

Simon. (Grasping her hand) Widder, you can feel for me; you heve seen trouble.

Mrs. P. Oh yes, I see trouble when I lost Doodle.

Eld. P. (frowning) Miss Peedick, the subject of Doodle, hain’t at all appropriate for the occasion. (Several come up and wish them joy, at last Shakespeare Bobbett.)

S. B. I wish you joy, Mr. Slimpsey.

Simon. Oh yes; keep on! keep it up!

Dr. B. Mr. and Mrs. Slimpsey, I wish you prosperity and health. I can safely promise you the latter (waving his hand towards the medicine.) Take it according to directions, 40 drops every half hour, and if you don’t get better send for me. Dies irae anno domini. Excuse dead language.

Simon. Oh yes; I’ll excuse it. I believe it is better off than we be. (Editor of Augur and bride come last.)

Ed. Accept my hearty congratulations. I can truly say that I never felt more heartfelt happiness and relief than on this occasion.

Simon. Well you may feel happy; well you may.

Ed. I am not a natural singer, in fact, my efforts in that direction have always been of such a nature as to cause sadness to my best friends; but on this occasion I feel like bursting forth into song. And we will now with the permission of Mr. and Mrs. Slimpsey, greet them with a bridal song.

Bet. Oh, yes; sing to us some rejoicing anthem, or some sweet, and tendeh love song.

Simon. Can’t you sing China?

Ed. Why, that is a funeral hymn, Mr. Slimpsey.

Simon. I know it has been used as such, but it seems as if it would be a sort of a melancholy pleasure to me to hear it now. But I hain’t peticular; sing anything—sing, if you feel like it.

Mrs. P. They sung China to Doodleses funeral.

Eld. P. (Looking very angry) Doodleses name hain’t no name to be used on this occasion, Miss Peedick. I wish to gracious that I could get five minutes rest from Doodle.

Mrs. P. Wall he had a beautiful linement on him.

Eld. P. (very cross) What if he had?

Mrs. P. But you have got a beautiful linement, too. You are what would be called very handsome.

Eld. P. (sweetly) You are a sensible woman, Miss Peedick. You are a lovely woman. Every day of your life you make me think more and more of the corpse. But I suppose they are waiting for me to pitch the tune. Being leader of the quire they naturally lean on me for harmony. So we will now sing the bridal song, kindly arranged for this happy occasion by the Editor of the Augur. (They all sing to the tune of the jubilee song, “Mary and Martha’s just gone along.”)

(Simon uncovers his face and says in a heart broken tone): Couldn’t you toll the bells? But I don’t want to make no trouble. I don’t feel like arguin’, ring ’em if you drather, ring ’em if you feel like it. (They pay no attention to him. and he covers his face with his handkerchief again and weeps aloud; they turn to the audience and sing):