It was a lovely Monday forenoon some three or four weeks after my voyage. I was a sittin’ near the open back door enjoyin’ the pleasant prospect, and also washin’ some new potatoes for dinner. Truly it was a fair scene. The feathered hens was a singin’ in their innocent joy as they scratched the yieldin’ turf after bugs and worms. Old “Hail the Day” was proudly struttin’ round, standin’ first on one foot and then on the other, and crowin’ joyfully in his careless freedom and glee. The breezes blew sweetly from the west, and I thought with joy that my clothes on the clothes line would be ready to iron by the time I got dinner out of the way. The sun shone down out of a blue and cloudless sky, and I looked pensively at my green gages, and thought fondly how the sun was a ripenin’ ’em. All nature was peaceful and serene, and my mind as I gently scraped the large fair potatoes, and thought how good they was goin’ to be with the baked lamb I had got in the oven, was as peaceful and serene as the same. Suddenly I heard the gate click to and I saw old Mr. Bobbet comin’ up to the house. He seemed dreadfully agitated, and I could hear him talkin’ to himself. He came right into the door and took his hat off in one hand, holdin’ his crooked cane in the other and swung ’em both over his head to once, and says he,

“It’s done! It’s done!”

“What’s done,” says I droppin’ my knife onto the floor.

“Betsey’s gone!” shouted he, and he run out the door like a luny.

I was a most skairt to death, and remained motionless nigh onto a minute, when I heard Josiah comin’ in. Little did I dream what a blow was comin’ onto me. He come and stood right in front of me, and I thought at the time, he looked at me dreadful curious, but I kep’ on a scrapin’ my potatoes, (I had got ’em most done.)

Finally all at once Josiah spoke up and says he,

“Betsey Bobbett is married.”

I dropped the pan of potatoes right down onto the floor for I was as weak as a weak white cat. “Who! Josiah Allen! who! is the man?”

“Simon Slimpsey,” says he, “They was married last night—as I was comin’ by the old cider mill——”

“I see all through it,” says I mournfully. “He and seven or eight of his children have been sick, and Betsey would go and take care of ’em.”

“Yes,” says Josiah, “As I was comin’ past the old cider mill——”

Says I with spirit, “It ought to be looked into. He was a helpless old man, and she has took the advantage of him.” I went on warmly, for I thought of his gloomy fourbodin’s, and I always felt for the oppressted and imposed upon. I had went on I presume as much as 2 minutes and a ½ when Josiah says he,

“I wouldn’t take on so about it Samantha, anybody to hear you talk would think you was a perfect farrago.”

Says I, “If I was a goin’ to abuse my wife and call her names I would do it accordin’ to grammar, you mean “virtigo” Josiah.”

“Wall I said virtigo, didn’t I?” Josiah never will own that he is in the wrong.

“And I didn’t say you was a virtigo Samantha, only anybody would take you for a virtigo, that didn’t know you.”

I remained almost lost in sad thoughts for pretty nigh ½ a minute, and then I says, in mournful tones,

“Have you heard any of the particulars Josiah? Have you seen any of the relatives? was the old man any more reconciled to the last?”

“Yes,” says Josiah, “As I was comin’ by the old cider mill—”

“Wall do for conscience sake come by the old cider mill, and be done with it,” says I, feelin’ worried out in my mind and by the side of myself.

“How be I goin’ to get by Samantha? you are so agravatin’, you’ll never let me finish a story peacible, and I should think it was about dinner time.”

“So ’tis,” says I, soothin’ly, hangin’ on the tea-kettle, and puttin’ the potatoes over the stove in the summer kitchen. For a long and arduous study of the sect has convinced me that good vittles are more healin’ than oil to pour onto a man’s lacerated feelin’s. And the same deep study has warned me never to get mad at the same time Josiah does, on these 2 great philisofical laws, hangs all the harmony of married life. Then I stepped out onto the stoop agin, and says to him in calm, affectionate accents,

“What is it about the old cider mill, Josiah?”

“Nothin’” says he, “Only I met one of the first mourners—I mean one of old Slimpsey’s sisters there, and she told me about it, she said that sense the Editer of the Auger was married, and sense Betsey had got back from New York she had acted like a wild critter. She seemed to think it was now or never. The awful doom of not bein’ married at all, seemed to fall upon her, and craze her with wild horror. And findin’ Slimpsey who was a weak sort of a man any way, and doubly weakened now by age and inflamatory rheumatism, she went and took care of him, and got the upper hand of him, made him a victim and married him, at his own house, Sunday night at half past seven.”

I was so lost in sorrowful thought as Josiah continued the mournful tale, that Josiah says, in a soothin’ tone,

“You ought to try to be reconciled to it Samantha, it seems to be the Lord’s will that she should marry him.”

“I don’t believe in layin’ every mean low lived thing to the Lord, Josiah, I lay this to Betsey Bobbet;” and I agin plunged down into gloomy thought, and was roused only by his concludin’ words,

“Seems to me Samantha, you might have a few griddle cakes, the bread—I see this mornin’—was gettin’ kinder dry.”

Mechanically I complied with his request, for my thoughts wasn’t there, they was with the afflicted, and down trodden.

One week after this I was goin’ up the post office steps, and I come face to face with Simon Slimpsey. He had grown 23 years older durin’ the past week. But he is a shiftless, harmless critter hurtin’ himself more’n any body else. He was naturally a small boned man. In the prime of his manhood he might have come up to Betsey’s shoulders, but now withered by age and grief the highest hat was futile to bring him up much above her belt ribbon. He looked sad indeed, my heart bled for him. But with the instinctive delicacy inherient to my sect, I put on a jokeuler tone, and says I, as I shook hands with him,

“How do you do, Simon? I hain’t seen you before, sense you was married, Simon Slimpsey.”

He looked at me almost wildly in the face, and says he in a despairin’ tone,

“I knew it would come to this, Miss Allen! I knew it. I told you how it would be, you know I did. She always said it was her spear to marry, I knew I should be the one, I always was the one.”

“Don’t she use you well, Simon Slimpsey?”

“She is pretty hard on me,” says he. “I hain’t had my way in anything sense the day she married me. She begun to ‘hold my nose to the grindstone,’ as the saying is, before we had been married 2 hours. And she hain’t no housekeeper, nor cook, I have had to live on pancakes most of the time sense it took place, and they are tougher than leather; I have been most tempted to cut some out of my boot legs to see if they wouldn’t be tenderer, but I never should hear the end of it, if I did. She jaws me awfully, and orders me round as if I was a dog, a yeller dog—” he added despairin’ly, “if I was a yeller dog, she couldn’t seem to look down on me any more, and treat me any worse.”

Says I, “I always did mistrust these wimmen that talk so much about not wantin’ any rights, and clingin’ and so forth. But,” says I, not wantin’ to run anybody to thier backs, “she thought it was her spear to marry.”

“I told you,” says he, in agonizin’ tones, “I told you that spear of hern would destroy me, and it has.”

He looked so sorrowful that I says to him in still more jokeuler tones than I had yet used, “Chirk up Simon Slimpsey, I wish you joy.” I felt that he needed it indeed. He give me an awful look that was jest about half reproach, and half anguish, and I see a tear begin to flow. I turned away respectin’ his feelin’s. As he went down the steps slowly, I see him put his hands in his pockets, as if searchin’ for his handkerchief, seemin’ly in vain. But he had on a long blue broadcloth swallow tailed coat that he was married in the first time long years ago, and as he went round the corner he took up the skirts of his coat and wiped his eyes. I said to myself with a deep sithe, “And this is woman’s only spear.” And the words awakened in my breast as many as 19 or 20 different emotions, and I don’t know but more.

I murmured mewsin’ly to myself, “It seems to me, if I was a woman I should about as lives be a constable.”

While I was still mewsin’, Betsey, his wife tore down the street, in a distracted way, and paused before me.

“Have you seen my husband?” says she, “can you tell a distracted wife—have you seen her husband Simon Slimpsey?”

She looked wild, as if she feared a catastrophe, and she cried out, loosin’ holt of her self control, in a firm constable like tone,

“He shall not escape me! I will telegraph to the next station house! I will have the creek dragged! the woods shall be scoured out!” says she.

“Be calm, and compose yourself,” says I frigidly, “Simon Slimpsey has gone up towards his house.”

She heaved a deep sithe of content, and triumph agin brooded down upon her eye-brow as she follered on after him.

I hadn’t no idee of callin’ on her, I wouldn’t, but the next day, Simon Slimpsey went by on his old white horse. It is a very dejected lookin’ horse in the face, besides carryin’ a couple of wash-boards in its sides, in the line of ribs. Thomas Jefferson says, “What gives it its mournful expression, it is mournin’ for the companions of its youth.” Says he, “you know Noah saved a pair of everything,” and says he, “his poor companion passed away several thousand years ago.” That boy worrys me, I don’t know what he is comin’ to. Slimpsey’s old horse haint more’n 35 or 40 years old, I don’t believe. They say Betsey is makin’ a pale blue cambric ridin’ dress, and is goin’ to ride him a horse back this fall. It don’t seem to me there would be much fun in it, he is so lame, besides havin’ a habit of fallin’ frequently with the blind staggers; howsomever it’s none of my business.

But as I was a sayin’ I stood silently in the door, to see old Slimpsey go by a horseback, and I thought to myself as I pensively turned out my tea grounds, (I was a gettin’ dinner) how much—how much it looks like a night mare that has broke out of its lawful night pastures, and is runnin’ away with a pale and harassed victim. So haggard and melancholy did they both look. And I sithed. I hadn’t much more’n got through sithin’, when he rode up, and says he,

“The seventh boy is worse, and the twin girls are took down with it, it would be a melankoly pleasure Miss Allen if you could go up.” I went.

Betsey had got the most of ’em to sleep, and was settin’ between a few cradles, and trundle beds, and high chairs all filled with measles, and a few mumps. Betsey’s teeth was out, and her tow frizzles lay on the table with a lot of paper—so I mistrusted she had been writin’ a poem. But she was now engaged in mendin’ a pair of pantaloons, the 8th pair—she told me—she had mended that day, for Simon Slimpsy was a poor man, and couldn’t afford to buy new ones. They was a hard and mournful lookin’ pair, and says I to her—in a tone in which pity and contempt was blended about half and half—

“Betsey are you happy?”

“I am at rest,” says she, “more at rest than I have been for years.”

“Are you happy?” says I, lookin’ keenly at her.

“I feel real dignified,” says she, “There isn’t no use in a woman trying to be dignified till she is married, for she can’t. I have tried it and I know. I can truly say Josiah Allen’s wife, that I neveh knew what dignity was, until one week ago last Sunday night at half past seven in the evenin’,” says she, turnin’ over the pantaloons, and attactin’ a ghastly hole of about 7 by 9 dimensions in the left knee.

I sot silently in my chair like a statute, while she remarked thus, and as she paused, I says to her agin, fixing my mild but stern grey eyes upon her weary form, bendin’ over the dilapitated folds of the 8th.

“Are you happy Betsey?”

“I have got something to lean on,” says she.

I thought of the fragile form bendin’ over the lean and haggard horse, and totterin’ away, withered by age and grief, in the swallow tailed coat, and says I in a pityin’ accent,

“Don’t lean too hard Betsey.”

“Why?” says she.

Says I, in a kind of a blind way, “You may be sorry if you do,” and then I says to her in clear and piercin’ accents these words,

“Do you love your husband Betsey?”

“I don’t think love is necessary,” says she, “I am married, which is enough to satisfy any woman who is more or less reasonable, that is the main and important thing, and as I have said, love and respect, and so forth are miners as—”

“Miners!” says I in a tone of deep indignity, “Miners! Betsey Bobbet—”

“Mrs Betsey Bobbet Slimpsey,” says she correctin’ of me proudly, as she attacted another mournful lookin’ hole as big as my two hands,

“Well! Betsey Slimpsey!” says I, beginnin’ agin, and wavin’ my right hand in a eloquent wave, “There hain’t no more beautiful sight on earth than to see two hunan soles, out of pure love to each other, gently approachin’ each other, as if they must. And at last all thier hopes and thoughts, and affections runnin’ in together, so you can’t seperate ’em nohow, jest like two drops of rain water, in a mornin’ glory blow. And to see ’em nestlin’ there, not carin’ for nobody outside the blow, contented and bound up in each other, till the sun evaporates ’em, (as it were) and draws ’em up together into the heaven, not seperatin’ of ’em 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, swaps her purity, her self respect, her truth, and her sole, for barter of any kind, such as a house and lot, a few thousand dollars, the name of bein’ married, a horse and buggy, some jewellry, and etcetery, and not only sells herself, but worse than the Turk wimmen goes round herself, huntin’ up a buyer, crazy, wild eyed, afraid she won’t find none—when she does find one, suppose she does have a minister for salesman, my contempt for that female is unmitigable.”

Betsey still looked so wrapped up in dignity, as she bravely attacted the seat of another pair of trousers, that it fairly made me mad. Insted of that proud and triumphant mean I wanted her to look some stricken, and I resumed in a tone of indignaty, almost burnin’ enough to set fire to her apron,

“Nor I don’t want these wimmen that have sold themselves for a certificate with a man’s name on it—I don’t want to hear ’em talk about infamy; haint they infamous themselves? What have they done different from these other bad wimmen, only they have got a stiddy place, and a little better wages, such as respectability in the eyes of fools and etcetery. Do you suppose that a woman standin’ up in front of a minister and tellin’ a few pesky lies, such as, ‘I promise to love a man I hate, and respect a man that hain’t respectable, and honor and obey a man I calculate to make toe the mark’—do you suppose these few lies makes her any purer in the eyes of God, than if she had sold herself without tellin’ ’em, as the other infamous wimmen did? Not any. Marriage is like baptism, as I have said more’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 sole haint baptised with the love of God? It haint no better than fallin’ into the creek.”

I paused, spotted in the face from conflictin’ emotions, and Betsey begun in a haughty triumphant tone,

“Woman’s speah—”

Which words and tone combined with recollections of the aged sufferer in the blue swallow tailed coat, so worked on my indignation, that I walked out of the house without listenin’ to another word, and put on my bunnet out in the door yard.

But I hollered back to her from the bars—for Josiah Allen’s wife haint one to desert duty in any crisis—“that the four youngest boys ought to be sweat, and take some saffern tea, and I should give the five girls, and the twins, some catnip, and I’d let the rest of ’em be, till the docter come.”

I haint seen Betsey since, for she is havin’ a hard time of it. She has to work like a dog. For Simon Slimpsey bein’ so poor, and not bein’ no calculator, it makes it hard for ’em to get along. And the old man seems to have lost what little energy he had, since he was married, Betsey is so hard on him. He has the horrors awfully. Betsey takes in work, but they have a hard time to get along. Miss Gowdey says that Betsey told her that she didn’t mind workin’ so hard, but she did hate to give up writin’ poetry, but she didn’t get no time for it. So as is generally the case, a great good to the world has come out of her sufferin’.

I guess she haint wrote but one piece sense she was married and they was wrote I suppose the day I ketched her with her teeth out, for they come out in the next week’s Gimlet, for just as quick as the Editor of the Auger was married, Betsey changed her politix and wrote agin as formally for the Gimlet.

The following are some of the verses she wrote: