It was with a beatin’ heart that I stood at the door of the shop where Horace’es papers are made. And though he haint printed ’em alone since he was run up, as he did more formally, they told me I would be apt to find him at his old office.

I was jest a goin’ to knock when a boy came out, and says I,

“Bub, I want to see Horace.”

“Horace who?” says he.

“Horace Greeley,” says I.

“Wall,” says he, “I will take up your card.”

I see then that he was a tryin’ to empose upon me. I haint naturally warlike, but I can stand up on my dignity, straight as a cob when I set out. Says I,

“I’ll have you know that I am a member of the Methodist meetin’ house.” Says I, warmly, “I don’t know one card from another, and I’m glad I don’t.” Says I, “I presume there are wimmin here in the village, as old as I be, that set up to play cards till 9 or 10 o’clock at night. But thank fortin’ I haint one of ’em.” Says I, “Young man, I detest card playin’, it ends in gamblin’. Now,” says I firmly, “you jest tell me where Horace is, or I’ll know the reason why!”

He see I wasn’t to be trifled with, any more. He muttered somethin’ about his not bearin’ the blame. But he went up stairs, and we followed tight to his heels, and the minute he opened the door we went in. Horace hadn’t dressed up much, for I spose he didn’t expect us. But if he had been dressed up in pink silk throughout, it wouldn’t have made no difference to my feelin’s as I ketched sight of that noble and benign face, that peaceful innocent mouth, that high forward, with the hair a curlin’ round the sides of it, like thin white clouds curlin’ round the side of a mountain in Ingun summer.

I use that figger of speech, because his face looked on the mountain plan, firm, and grand and decided. And I put in the Ingun summer, because you know jest how a mountain will look standin’ a considerable ways above you on the first of October—kind o’ mellow and peaceful and benign. But you realize all the time, that under all the green and shady growth of its mosses and evergreens, it has been growin’ gradual but stiddy through the centuries. Under all that viel of shinin’ blue gawze, wove out of mist one way, with a warp of sunshine, under all the mellow colerin’ the time of the year has give it, there is a good strong back bone of solid rock in the old mountain, that couldn’t be broke by all the hammers in creation.

That was jest my idee of his face, a mountain in Indgun summer, facin’ the sunrise. Standin’ up so high that it ketches a light on its forward before the world below gets lit up. Firm, solid principles with the edge took off of ’em, and kinder topped off with the experiences, and gradual convictions and discoveries of a noble life. And all softened down by the calmness and quiet of the time of day, and the fall of the year. That was the way Horace Greeley’s face looked to me as I got a full view of it as he set to his desk a writin’.

In the dead of night on my own peaceful goose feather bed at home, I had made a speech all up in my mind for that glorious occasion, when 2 firm and true principled minds should meet—which was Horace’s mind and mine. For though we conflict in some things, the good of the Human Race is as dear as our apples is, in our eyes. But at the first sight of that noble face, my emotions got up and overpowered me so, that I forgot every word of my speech, and all I could say was, in thick tones of feelin’ and principle,

“Horace, I have come.”

His face grew almost black with fear and anger. He sprang up, and waved me back with his right hand and shouted to me,

“It is in vain madam! you are the 94th woman who has been here to-day after office. Female lobsteress depart! Get thee behind me Sa—female!”

Says I with deep emotion, “Horace you don’t know me! I am not a female lobsteress! I am Josiah Allen’s wife.”

He came forward and shook hands with me, and says he, “I know you will excuse my vehemence, when I tell you, I am almost devoured by office seekers!” He cleared a path through the papers on the floor to some chairs, but as we set down, he continued in tremblin’ tones, for it seemed as if he couldn’t forget his troubles,

“Foxes and woodchucks have holes, but a candidate for the Presidency can’t find none small enough to hide in. I did,” says he sithin deeply, “I did have a few peaceful, happy hours in the suller of my dwellin’ house;” he paused, overcome by sad recolections, and says I, deeply sympathizin’ and interested,

“What broke it up Horace?”

“They found the out door suller way; so,” says he sithin agin, “I lost that peaceful haven.”

“Wall,” says I, tryin’ to soothe his agitation,

“You’re one in a high, noble place, Horace.”

[370]
[371]

“Yes!” says he, “but it places anybody under a very strong light—a very strong light. I have never done anything out of the way sense I was first born, but what I have seen it in the papers. I tore my pantaloons once,” says he, gloomily, “in gettin’ over the fence at the early age of 2 and a half, and I bit my mother once at the age of 7 months a nursin’, I could wish these two errors of my past to be forgotten by the world and overlooked, but in vain. I am taunted with ’em on every side. I never threw a boot jack at a tom cat in the dead of the night, but what my picture has been took in the act, I never swore a oath to myself in the depths of my own stomach, but what I have seen that unspoken oath in the papers. I never jawed Mrs. Greeley about my shirt buttons,” he continued, sadly, “in the depths of our secluded chamber, but what it has been illustrated with notes.”

As he spoke of jawin’ about shirt buttons, I says to myself, “How much! how much human nature is alike in all men,” and I says aloud,

“How much you remind me of Josiah.”

“Of Josiah!” says he, and that name seemed to make him remember himself, and to come nobly out of his gloomy reflections. “Josiah, he is your husband! Oh yes, Josiah Allen’s wife! I am glad to meet you, for although I couldn’t comply with the request your letter contained, yet it convinced me that you are a sincere friend to the human race.”

“Yes,” says I, “Horace, I am, and I want you to consider my request over agin.”

But he interrupted me hurriedly, seemin’ to want to turn my mind from that subject.

“What do you think of Fourier’s system, Josiah Allen’s wife?” says he, lookin’ at me languidly over his specks.

Says I, “I never see Mr. Fourier. How can I tell you any thing about the old man’s health, whether his system is all right, or whether he is enjoyin’ poor health. Horace, I come to talk with you on more important things.”

But he continued placidly, hopin’ to draw my mind off,

“What do you think of Darwin’s idees?”

“Darwin who?” says I. “Darwin Gowdey? I don’t know any other Darwin, and I never mistrusted that he had any idees, he is most a natural fool.”

Says he, “about our descendin’ from a monkey?”

Says I, with dignity, “I don’t know how it is with you, but I know that I couldn’t descend from a monkey, never bein’ on one’s back in my whole life.” Says I, “I never looked well in the saddle any way bein’ so hefty. But,” says I, in a liberal way, “if you, or anybody else wants to ride monkeys, you have the privilege, but I never had no leanin’ that way.” And agin, says I, in agitated tones, “you needn’t try to take my mind oft’en the deep and momentous subject on which it is sot, by talkin’ about ridin’ monkeys. Horace I have come clear down here to the village on purpose to ask you to examine your platform, and see if there hain’t no loose boards in it where some of the citizens of the United States, such as wimmen can fall through. Platforms, that are built over the deep waters, ought to be sound, and every board ought to be nailed down tight, so that nobody—not even the smallest and weakest—can fall through and get drownded.” Says I, “Your door step is most all good solid timber, but I feel there is one old, mouldy, worm eaten board that is loose in it.” And with emotion renderin’ my voice weak as a cat, says I, “Horace, I want you to examine your door step and lay down a new board, and I will help you do it. I come a purpose to.”

He see it was vain to turn the current of my thoughts round, and says he in a decided way,

“You must have become aware of my views from the contents of my letter. You got my letter?” says he in a enquirin’ tone.

“Yes,” says I, “we have framed it and got a glass over it, jest because it was your writin’, but there seemed to be a mistake in it; it seemed to be wrote to Josiah.”

Says he, “What did you make it out to be?”

Says I, “it seemed to run as follers—‘I don’t want to purchase any more shoats.’

“Josiah did have a uncommon kind of pigs, and we thought mebby you had heard that Josiah wanted to sell you one, though it was a mistake, for he swapped a couple with Deacon Gowdey for a yearlin’ heifer, and he didn’t have no more left than he wanted to keep over.”

He said we didn’t read it right. It read, ‘I don’t approve of any wimmen’s votes.’ And says he, leanin’ back in his chair, “That is the ground I take, I don’t believe in Wimmen’s Rights. I don’t see what rights they want—more’n they have now.”

Then I dove right into the subject that was the nearest to my heart (with the exception of Josiah) and says I, “Horace, we want the right of equal pay for equal laber. The right of not bein’ taxed without representation. The right of not bein’ compelled, if she is a rich woman, of lettin’ her property go to support public men, who are makin’ laws that are ruinin’ them she loves best, such as givin’ licences to ruin body and soul. The right to stand by the side of all good and true soles in the nation, and tryin’ to stop this evil spirit of intemperance and licentiousness that is runnin’ rampant through the land. The right to—”

I don’t know how much longer I should have gone on, but in the noble forgetfulness of yourself that always accompanies genius, I had riz up, and by an unguarded wave of my right hand a wavin’ in eloquence I tipped over my umberell. Horace picked it up (he is a perfect gentleman at heart) and says he, “Set down Josiah Allen’s wife, don’t fatigue yourself too much.”

Rememberin’ myself, I sot down, and Horace, pensively wipin’ his brow with his lead pencil, went on to say,

“I admit there is some truth in what you say, Josiah Allen’s wife. I admit, as a truthful man should, that whatever wimmen has laid thier hands to, such as churches, hospital work, foreign missionary work, ragged schools, Sunday schools, charity balls and fairs, and Good Templars, they have done more than men in thier efforts and good influence. They are more patient than men; they are not so strong, but they are more persistent. When they once get a plan in thier heads, they are awful to hold on—if they can’t accomplish it in one way, they will take another.”

Says I, “that is jest what Josiah says. He says, ‘I always have my own way.’”

“I admit, that whenever wimmen have been admitted in any public affairs, they have had a puryfyin’, and softnin’ and enoblin’ influence. But I deny that votin’ and havin’ a voice in public affairs is goin’ to better the condition of either wimmen or the nation.”

Says I, “Horace, the old White House needs puryfyin’ more than any horsepittle or meetin’ house in creation.” And says I, “Let wimmen lay to, and help clean house.” Says I, “let her try her hand for one year, and see what she can do.”

Says Horace, goin’ on placidly with his own thoughts, “It is not the change that would be wrought in public affairs I dread, so much as the change in the wimmen themselves, if they should mingle in the wild vortex of political life. I have two daughters, and rather than have them lose all thier delicacy, and enter political life and mount the rostrum, I would lay them in thier grave. I don’t believe,” says he, with great decision, “I don’t believe in wimmen leadin’ off into politics, and mountin’ the rostrum.”

I interupted him with a earnest tone; “you needn’t twit me of that, no more Horace. I don’t want to mount no rostrum. I had ruther give Josiah 20 curtain lectures than to give half of one to the public, there would be more solid satisfaction in it. But as far as indelicacy is concerned, it is no more immodest for a woman to lead off in politics than to lead off one of your indecent German waltzes with a man.” Says I, “you men think it hain’t indelicate for wimmen to go with you to balls, and to theatres, and into the wild vortex of the ocean a bathin’ with you—and to post offices, and to fires, and fairs, and horse races, and to church, and to heaven with you. But it is awful to go and drop a little slip of white paper into a box, once a year with you.”

Says Horace wavin’ off that idee, “Woman holds in her arms a more powerful ballot than she can in her hands. Let her mould her baby boy, so that in the future his mother will vote through him.”

Horace looked noble as he said this. His silver mounted spectacles shone with pure feelin’ and principle. “But,” says I, in a reasonable tone,

“How can wimmen mould children, if she haint got any to mould? I haint got any of my own, and lots of wimmen haint.” Says I, “such talk is unreasonable, how can she go to mouldin’, when she haint got the materials?”

“Let them influence thier husbands then,” says he, “the influence of wimmen over men, is wonderful, and they can in this way wield a almost sovereign power. And they do in many instances exert this indirect power in an eminent degree.”

Says I, finally, “I don’t believe in no underhand proceedin’, I never did. The idee of wimmen bein’ underhand, and go to mouldin’ men on the sly, I don’t believe in it.” Says I, “accordin’ to your own story Horace, wimmen have a influence in politics now.”

“Wall—yes—a sort of a indirect influence in thier families, as it were.”

Says I, “Horace can you look me straight in the spectacles and deny that there is wimmen’s influence in politics at Washington to-day?” Says I, “look at them female lobsteresses there.” Says I, “one handsome, brilliant, unprincipled bad woman will influence 14 common men where a modest humbly well wisher of her sect will one.” And says I, warmly, for the thought of these female lobsteresses always madded me—“I should be ashamed if I was in some of them Senators’ places, makin’ laws about the Mormans.”

I see my deep principle was a floatin’ me off into a subject where as a female I didn’t want to go, and so I choked back the words I was about to utter which was, “I had jest as lives jine a Morman, as to jine one of them.” I choked it back, and struggled for calmness, for I was excited. But I did say this,

“I think good wimmen ought to have a chance with bad ones in political affairs. For there is more good wimmen in the land than there is bad ones, but now the bad ones have it all thier own way.”

Horace wiped his brow gently with his lead pencil, and said in a thoughtful accent,

“There may be some truth in what you say Josiah Allen’s wife. I confess I never looked at it in exactly this light before.”

Says I, in a triumphant glad tone, “That is jest what I told Josiah.” Says I, “Josiah, Horace is all right, there never was a better meanin’ man on the face of the earth than Horace is. All he wants is to have some noble principled woman to set him right in this one thing.”

I see in a minute that I had made a mistake. Men hate to be dictated to by a woman, they hate to, like a dog. I see by his lowery brow that I had put the wrong foot forrerd. For the time bein’ the sage and the philosifer sunk down in his nature, and the man spoke in the usual manlike way.

“I say wimmen’s brains are too weak to grasp public matters. They have remarkable intuitions I grant. A woman’s insight or instinct or whatever you may term it, will, I grant, fly over a mountain and discover what is on the other side of it, while a man is gettin’ his gunpowder ready to make a tunnel through it. But they are not logical, they have not the firm grasp of mind, the clear comprehension requisite to a voter.”

Says I, “Horace, which has the firmest grasp—the clearest comprehension, a earnest intellegent christian woman, or a drunken Irishman?” Says I, “Understand me Horace, I don’t ask which would sell thier votes at the best lay, or vote the most times in one day—I dare say the man would get ahead of the woman in these respects, bein’ naturally more of a speculator—and also bein’ in practice. You know practice makes perfect. I don’t ask you this. But I ask you and I want you to answer me Horace, which would be in the best condition for votin’, Elizabeth Cady Stanton gettin’ up off of her religious knees in the mornin’ after family prayers, and walkin’—with the Constitution in one hand and the Bible in the other—coolly and sensibly to the pole, or Patrick oh Flanegan comin’ out of a drunken wake, and staggerin’ up against the pole with a whisky bottle in one hand and a club in the other, when he didn’t know nothin’ in the first place, and then had lost half or 3 quarters of that, in the liquer some clear minded, logical man give him, for votin’ a few dozen times for him?”

At this question Horace quailed a very little. But it was not the quail of a weak man, there was principle in that quail, and a determination to argue to the end, which is one of the charicterestics of that great and good man. She that was Samantha Smith also possesses some of this spirit.

“Set down, Josiah Allen’s wife and don’t fatigue yourself too much,” says Horace, for almost carried away by my emotions, I had riz’ up and stood on my feet agin.

And he went on, “You put the case in a very strong light Josiah Allen’s wife. That is one of the peculiar weaknesses of your sect. You don’t possess sufficient moderation. You exaggerate too much.”

Says I, “publishin’ a daily paper for 20 years, has a tendency to make any man a good judge of exaggeration, and if you see by my symptoms that I have got it, I haint a goin’ to deny it. But you haint answered my question yet Horace.”

Says he “Josiah Allen’s wife, my mind is firmly made up on this subject. And nothin’ upon earth will ever change it. I am fully convinced that woman’s enterin’ into public duties would result in makin’ her coarse and unfeminine, and make her lose her love for home and husband. And then, suppose she were eligible for public offices; imagine a lady blacksmith! a lady constable! a lady president! it is absurd, Josiah Allen’s wife.”

Says I, “Horace, you are too smart a man to bring up such poor arguments. You don’t see a little sickly, literary, consumptive, broken backed blacksmith or constable. Men choose the occupations most congenial, and suitable for them, and wimmen would do the same, anyway. Rosa Bonheur chooses to live out doors half the time among cattle and horses, and I presume she haint half so afraid of ’em as Mr. A. Tennyson would be. I have heerd Thomas Jefferson read about ’em both. I don’t suppose any woman would be compelled to be made a constable of, though if they was, I presume men would submit to be incarcerated by ’em as quick as they would by a male man.

“As for the idee of a lady president, I don’t know as it would be any more absurd than a lady queen. Victory sets up pretty easy in her high chair, there don’t seem to be anything very absurd about the Widder Albert. You say public duties makes a woman coarse, and forgetful of home and husband. Horace, look for one minute at the Widder Albert. Where will you find among your weak fashionable wimmen, so lovin’ a wife, so devoted a mother? Where will you find a bigger housefull of children, brought up better than hern? She has had more public duties to perform than goin’ once a year by the side of her husband, and votin’ for Justice and Temperance. But did these public duties, that she performed so well, wean her from her husband?” Says I, “did they take up her mind so that she didn’t almost break her heart when he died?” says I, “Do you think a honest desire to live a full life—to use every power that God has given you—to do your very best for God and humanity, do you think that this desire modestly and consistently carried into action, will make a woman coarse and unwomanly, any more than this present fashionable education, to flirt and simper and catch a rich husband?”

Says I, “You seem to think that votin’ is goin’ to be such a weight onto a woman that it will drag her right down from her home into public and political affairs and leave her there. Such talk is simple, for love and domestic happiness will be the other weight to the steelyards, as long as the world stands, and keep a woman’s heart and mind jest as straight as a string. Votin’ haint a goin’ to spile any woman at all, be she married, or be she single, and there is a class at the mercy of the world, fightin’ its hard battle alone—it will help them. The idee of its hurtin’ a woman to know a little somethin’, is in my mind awful simple. That was what the slaveholders said about the black Africans—it would hurt ’em to know too much. That is what Mr. Pope says to-day about his church members. But I say that any belief, or custom that relies on oppression and ignorance and weakness to help it on in any degree, ought to be exploded up. Beautiful weakness and simplicity, haint my style at all in the line of wimmen. I have seen beautiful simplicities before now, and they are always affected, selfish critters, sly, underhanded, their minds all took up with little petty gossip and plottin’s. Why they can’t set a teacup on the table in a open-hearted noble way. They have to plot on some byway to get it there, unbeknown to somebody. Their mouths have been drawed so into simpers, that they couldn’t laugh a open generous laugh to save their lives. Always havin’ some spear ready under their soft mantilly, to sweetly spear some other woman in the back. Horace, they haint my style. Beautiful weakness and simplicity may do for one evenin’ in a ball room. But it don’t wear well for all the cares and emergencies that come in a life of from 40 to 50 years. Was George Washington’s mother any the less a industrious equinomical and affectionate wife and mother, because she took a interest in public affairs?” And says I, with a lower and more modest tone, “Is Josiah Allen’s wife on that account any the less devoted to Josiah?”

He knew I was perfectly devoted to that man. He set mewsin’ silently for a time seemin’ly on somethin’ I had said heretofore, and finally he spoke up. “The case of Victory is very different. A crown that descends on a hereditary head is a different thing.”

“So ’tis,” says I, “But the difference is on the wrong side, for sposin’ it descends onto the head of a hereditary fool—or a hereditary mean woman. If a woman was voted for it would be for goodness, or some other good quality.”

Says Horace, wavin’ off that idee and pursuin’ after his own thoughts, “Man is sometimes mistaken in his honest beliefs, but Nature makes her laws unerringly. Nature intended the male of every species to take the preeminence. Nature designed man to be at the head of all public affairs. Nature never makes any mistakes.”

“Nature made queen bees Horace. Old Nature herself clapped the crown on to ’em. You never heard of king bees, did you? Industrious equinomical critters the bees are too. The public duties of that female don’t spile her, for where will you find house-work done up slicker than hern? Where will you find more stiddy, industrious, equinomical orderly doin’s through a whole nation than she has in hern? All her constituents up to work early in the mornin’, home at night too, jest as stiddy as the night comes. No foreign spys can come prowlin’ ’round her premises—speculators on other folks’es honey haint encouraged,—tobacco is obnoxious to ’em. Only one thing I don’t approve of, if food is skurce, if the females don’t get honey enough to last the whole hive, all winter, they slaughter the male bees in the fall to save honey. I don’t approve of it; but where will you find a great nater that haint got its peculiar excentricities? This is hern. She wants to dispose of the drones as they call the lazy husbands of the workin’ wimmen, and she thinks killin’ is the easiest way to dispose of ’em. I say plainly I don’t approve of it, it don’t seem exactly right to kill a husband to save winterin’ him, it would seem better to me to get divorces from ’em and set ’em up in business in a small way. But as I said, where is there a nater that haint got a weakness? this is hern. But aside from this where will you find a better calculator than she is? No dashin’ female lobsteresses pullin’ the wool over the eyes of her Senators. No old men bees gaddin’ ’round evenin’s when their confidin’ wives think they are a-bed dreamin’ about their lawful pardners—no wildcatishness, and smokin’ and drunkenness, and quarellin’ in her Congress. You can’t impeach her administration no how, for no clock work ever run smoother and honester. In my opinion there has a great many men set up in their high chairs that would have done well to pattern after this Executive female.”

As I finished, flushed with several different emotions, Horace rose up and grasped me by the hand, and says almost warmly,

“I am glad to have met you, Josiah Allen’s wife, you have presented the subject in a new, and eloquent light. I admire eloquence wherever I meet it.”

The praise of this great, and good man was like manny to an Isrealitess. My breast almost swelled with proud and triumphant emotions. But even then, in that blissful moment, I thought of Josiah, no rock was ever firmer than my allegience to that man, I withdrawed my hand gently from his’en, and I said to him, with a beamin’ face,

“You grasped holt of my hand, Horace, with the noblest and purest of feelin’s, but I don’t think Josiah would like to have me shake hands so often with any man.”

Says he, “I honor your sentiments, Josiah Allen’s wife, I think you are a firm principled woman, and a earnest, well wisher of your sect. But I do think you are in a error, I honestly think so. The Creator designed woman for a quiet, home life, it is there she finds her greatest happiness and content. God gave her jest those faculties that fit her for that life. God never designed her to go rantin’ round in public, preachin’ and lecturin’.”

Says I, “Horace, I agree with you in thinkin’ that home is the best place for most wimmen. But you say that wimmen have great influence, and great powers of perswasion, and why not use them powers to win men’s soles, and to influence men in the cause of Temperance and Justice, as well as to use ’em all up in teasin’ thier husbands to buy ’em a summer bunnet and a pair of earrings? And take such wimmen as Anna Dickinson—what under the sun did the Lord give her such powers of eloquence and perswasion for, if He didn’t calculate to have her use ’em? Why you would say a human bein’ was a fool, that would go to work and make a melodious piano, a calculatin’ to have it stand dumb forever, holdin’ back all the music in it not lettin’ any of it come out to chirk folks up, and make ’em better. When a man makes a cheese press, he don’t expect to get music out of it, it hain’t reasonable to expect a cheese press to play Yankee Doodle, and old Hundred. I, myself, wasn’t calculated for a preacher.

“I believe the Lord knows jest what He wants of his creeters here below from the biggest to the littlest. When He makes a grasshopper, He makes it loose jinted, on purpose to jump. Would that grasshopper be a fullfillin’ his mission and doin’ God’s will, if he should draw his long legs up under him, and crawl into a snail’s house and make a lame hermit of himself?”

Says Horace, in reasonable accents, “No, Josiah Allen’s wife, no, he wouldn’t.”

“Wall,” says I, “likewise with birds, if the Lord hadn’t wanted the sing to come out of thier throats, He wouldn’t have put it into ’em. And when the Lord has put eloquence, and inspiration, and enthusiasm into a human sole, you can’t help it from breakin’ out. I say it is right for a woman to talk, if she has got anything to say for God and humanity. I have heard men and wimmen both, talk when they hadn’t nothin’ to say, and it is jest as tiresome in a man, as it is in a woman in my opinion. Now I never had a call to preach, or if I had, I didn’t hear it, only to Josiah, I preach to him considerable, I have to. I should feel dreadful curious a standin’ up in the desk, and takin’ my text, I don’t deny it, but,” says I, in deep tones, “if the Lord calls a woman to preach—let her preach, Horace.”

“Paul says it is a shame for a woman to speak in public,” says Horace.

Oh what a rush of idees flowed under my foretop as Horace said this, but I spoke pretty calm, and says I,

“I hain’t nothin’ aginst Mr. Paul, I think he is a real likely old bachelder. But I put the words, and example of Jesus before them of any man, be he married, or be he single.”

“Men will quote Mr. Paul’s remarks concernin’ wimmen not preachin’, and say he was inspired when he said that, and I say to ’em, “how is it about folks not marryin’, he speaks full as pinted about that?” “Oh!” they say, “he wazzn’t inspired when he said that,” and I say to ’em, “how can you tell—when a man is 18 or 19 hundred years older than you be—how can you tell when he was inspired and when he wazzn’t, not bein’ a neighbor of his’en.” And after all, Mr. Paul didn’t seem to be so awful set on this subject, for he went right on to tell how a woman’s head ought to be fixed when she was a prayin’ and a prophecyin’. But in my opinion, all that talk about wimmen was meant for that church he was a writin’ to, for some reason confined to that time, and don’t apply to this day, or this village—and so with marryin’. When a man was liable to have his head cut off any minute, or to be eat up by lions, it wazzn’t convenient to marry and leave a widder and a few orphans. That is my opinion, other folks have thiern. But let folks quarell all they have a mind to, as to whether Mr. Paul was inspired when he wrote these things, or whether he wazzn’t, this we know, that Jesus is a divine pattern for us to follow, and He chose a woman to carry the glad tidin’s of His resurrection to the bretheren. There was one woman who received her commission to preach right from the Almighty.

“How dare any man to try to tie up a woman’s tongue, and keep her from speakin’ of Him, when she was His most tender and faithful friend when He was on earth. It was wimmen who brought little children that He might bless ’em. Did He rebuke ’em for thus darin’ to speak to Him publicly? No; but He rebuked the men who tried to stop ’em.

“It was a women who annointed His feet, wet ’em with her tears, and wiped ’em with the hairs of her head. It was very precious ointment—but none too precious for Him she loved so. Some logical clear minded men present, thought it was too costly to waste on Him. And again Jesus rebuked ’em for troublin’ the woman. It was in comfortin’ a woman’s lovin’ achin’ heart that Jesus wept. It was wimmen that stood by the cross to the very last and who stood by his grave weepin’, when even Joseph had rolled a great stun aginst it and departed. And it was wimmen who came to the grave agin in the mornin’ while it was yet dark. And it was a woman that He first revealed Himself to after He rose. What if Mary had hung back, and refused to tell of Him, and the glory she had seen. Would He have been pleased? No; when God calls a woman to tell of the wonders of His love and glory that He has revealed to her out of the darkness of this life, in the Lord’s name let her answer. But let her be certain that it is the Lord that is callin’ her, there is lots of preachers of both sects in my opinion that pretend the Lord is a callin’ ’em, when it is nothin’ but their own vanity and selfishness that is hollerin’ to ’em.”

For pretty near ½ or ¾ of a minute, Horace set almost lost in deep thought, and when he broke out agin it was on the old theme. He said “wedlock was woman’s true spear. In the noble position of wife and mother, there lay her greatest happiness, and her only true spear.” He talked pretty near nine minutes, I should think on this theme. And he talked eloquent and grand, I will admit, and never did I see spectacles shine with such pure fervor and sincerity as his’en. It impressed me deeply. Says he in conclusion, “Marriage is God’s own Institution. To be the wife of a good man, and the mother of his children, ought to be a woman’s highest aim, and purest happiness. Jest as it is man’s highest happiness to have a woman entirely dependant on him. It rouses his noblest and most generous impulses, it moves his heart to do and dare and his arm to labor—to have a gentle bein’ clingin’ to his manly strength.”

His eloquence so impressed me, that I had no words to reply to him. And for the first time sense I had begun to foller up the subject, my mind wavered back and forth, as Bunker Hill monument might, in a eloquent earthquake. I says to myself, “mebbe I am mistaken, mebbe marriage is woman’s only true spear.” I didn’t know what to say to him, my spectacles wandered about the room, and happened to light onto Betsey—(I had been so took up with my mission to Horace that I had forgot to introduce her) and as they lit, Horace, who saw I was deeply impressed, repeated something about “clingin’” and I says to him in a foolish and almost mechanical tone,

“Yes Horace, I have seen clingers, here is one.”

Betsey riz right up, and come forrerd, and made a low curchy to him, and set down tight to him, and says she,

“Beloved and admired Mr. Horace Greeley, I am Betsey Bobbet the poetess of Jonesville, and you speak my sentiments exactly. I think, and I know that wedlock is woman’s only true speah. I do not think wimmen ought to have any rights at all. I do not think she ought to want any. I think it is real sweet and genteel in her not to have any rights. I think that to be the clinging, devoted wife of a noble husband would be almost a heaven below. I do not think she ought to have any other trade at all only wedlock. I think she ought to be perfectly dependent on men, and jest cling to them, and oh how sweet it would be to be in that state. How happyfying to males and to females that would be. I do not believe in wimmen having their way in anything, or to set up any beliefs of their own. For oh! how beautiful and perfectly sweet a noble manly mind is. How I do love your intellect, dearest Mr. Horace Greeley. How is your wife’s health dear man? Haint I read in the papers that her health was a failing? And if she should drop off, should you think of entering again into wedlock? and if you did, should you not prefer a woman of genius, a poetess, to a woman of clay?”

Her breath give out here, and she paused. But oh what a change had come over Horace’s noble and benign face, as Betsey spoke. As she begun, his head was thrown back, and a eloquent philosofical expression set onto it. But gradually it had changed to a expression of dread and almost anger, and as she finished, his head sunk down onto his breast, and he sithed. I pitied him, and I spoke up to Betsey, says I, “I haint no more nor less than a clay woman, but I know enough to know that no man can answer 25 or 26 questions to once. Give Horace time to find and recover himself.”

Betsey took a bottle of hartshorn and a pair of scissors, outen her pocket, and advanced onto him, and says she in tender cooin’ tones. “Does your intellectual head ache? Let me bathe that lofty forwerd. And oh! dearest man, will you hear my one request that I have dreampt of day and night, will you—will you give me a lock of your noble hair?”

Horace rose up from his chair precipitately and come close to me and sot down, bringin’ me between him and Betsey, and then he says to her in a fearless tone, “You can’t have a hair of my head, I haint got much as you can see, but what little I have got belongs to my wife, and to America. My wife’s health is better, and in case of her droppin’ off, I shouldn’t never marry agin, and it wouldn’t be a poetess! though,” says he wipin’ his heated forwerd,

“I respect ’em as a Race.”

Betsey was mad. Says she to me, “I am a goin. I will wait for you to the depott.” And before I could say a word, she started off. As the door closed I says in clear tones, “Horace, I have watched you for years—a laberin’ for truth and justice and liftin’ up the oppressed, I have realized what you have done for the Black African. You have done more for that Race than any other man in America, and I have respected you for it, as much as if I was a Black African myself. But never! never did I respect you as I do this minute.” Says I, “if every married man and woman had your firm and almost cast iron principles, there wouldn’t be such a call for powder and bullets among married folks as there is now. You have riz in my estimation 25 cents within the last 7 or 8 minutes.”

Horace was still almost lost in thought, and he didn’t reply to me. He was a settin’ about half or 3 quarters of a yard from me, and I says to him mildly,

“Horace, it may be as well for you to go back now to your former place of settin’, which was about 2 and a half yards from me.” He complied with my request, mechanically as it was. But he seemed still to be almost lost in thought. Finally he spoke—as he wiped the sweat off that had started out onto his eye brow—these words,

“I am not afraid, nor ashamed to change my mind, Josiah Allen’s wife, when I am honestly convinced I have been in an error.” Says he, “It is cowards only that cling outwardly to thier old mouldy beliefs, for fear they shall be accused of being inconsistent and fickle minded.”

Says I, “That is just my opinion Horace! I have been cheated by pickin’ out a calico dress in the evenin’. Things look different by daylight, from what they do by candle light. Old beliefs that have looked first rate to you, may look different under the brighter light of new discoveries. As you rise higher above the earth you see stars you couldn’t ketch sight of in a suller way. And the world’s cry of fickle mindedness, may be the angels’ war whoop, settin’ us on to heavenly warfare’.”

Horace seemed agin to be almost lost in thought, and I waited respectfully, for him to find and recover himself. Finally he spake,

“I have been sincere Josiah Allen’s wife, in thinkin’ that matrimony was woman’s only spear, but the occurances of the past 25 or 30 minutes has convinced me that wimmen may be too zealous a carryin’ out that spear. I admit Josiah Allen’s wife, that any new state of public affairs that would make woman more independent of matrimony, less zealous, less reckless in handlein’ that spear, might be more or less beneficial both to herself, and to man.”

Here he paused and sithed. He thought of Betsey. But I spoke right up in glad and triumphant tones,

“Horace, I am ready to depart this minute for Jonesville. Now I can lay my head in peace upon my goose feather pillow.”

I riz up in deep emotion, and Horace he riz up too. It was a thrillin’ moment. At last he spoke in agitated tones, for he thought still of what he had jest passed through.

“My benefactor, I tremble to think what might have happened had you not been present.” And he ran his forefinger through his almost snowy hair.

“My kind preserver, I want to give you some little token of my friendship at parting. Will you accept as a slight token of my dethless gratitude, ‘What I know about Farming,’ and two papers of lettice seed?”

I hung back, I thought of Josiah. But Horace argued with me, says he, “I respect your constancy to Josiah, but intellect—spoken or written—scorns all the barriers of sex and circumstance, and is as free to all, as the sunshine that beats down on the just and the unjust, the Liberal Republicans and the Grant party, or the married and the single.” Says he, “take the book without any scruples, and as for the lettice seed, I can recommend it, I think Josiah would relish it.”

Says I, “On them grounds I will accept of it, and thank you.”

As we parted at the door, in the innocence of conscious rectitude, we shook hands, and says I, “Henceforth, Horace you will set up in a high chair in my mind, higher than ever before. Of course, Josiah sets first in my heart, and then his children, and then a few relations on my side, and on his’en. But next to them you will always set, for you have been weighed in the steelyards, and have been found not wantin’.”

He was to agitated to speak, I was awful agitated too. Our silver mounted spectacles met each other in a last glance of noble, firm principled sadness, and so Horace and I parted away from each other.