My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet's. Marietta Holley
they kinder quarell all day jest as brothers and sisters will. What agravates Thomas J. the worst is to call him “bub,” and Tirzah Ann don’t call him anything else unless she forgets herself.
He seems to think it is manly to have doubts about religeon. I put him through the catechism, and thought he was sound. But he seems to think it is manly to argue about free moral agency, foreordination, and predestination, and his father is jest fool enough to argue with him. Sez he last Saturday,
“Father, if it was settled beyond question six or seven thousand years ago that I was goin’ to be lost what good does it do for me to squirm? and if it was settled that I was goin’ to be saved, how be I goin’ to help myself?” sez he, “I believe we can’t help ourselves, what was meant to happen, will happen.”
Before his father had time to speak—Josiah is a slow spoken man, Tirzah Ann spoke up—
“Bub, if it was settled six or seven thousand years ago that I should take your new jockey club and hair oil, and use ’em all myself, why then I shall.”
“Tirzah Ann,” says he “If you should touch ’em it was foreordained from creation that you would get dreadfully hurt.” But I spoke up then for the first time, says I,
“You see Thomas J. that come to fighting you have moral agency enough—or immoral agency. Now,” says I, “I won’t hear another word from you, you Thomas J. are a young fool, and you Josiah Allen are a old one, now,” says I “go to the barn, for I want to mop.”
Tirzah Ann as I said is dreadful sentimental, I don’t know which side she took it from, though I mistrust that Josiah if he had any encouragement would act spoony. I am not the woman to encourage any kind of foolishness. I remember when we was first engaged, he called me “a little angel.” I jest looked at him calmly and says I,
“I weigh two hundred and 4 pounds,” and he didn’t call me so again.
TIRZAH ANN.
No! sentiment aint my style, and I abhor all kinds of shams and deceitfulness. Now to the table you don’t ketch me makin’ excuses. I should feel as mean as pusley if I did. Though once in a while when I have particuler company, and my cookin’ turns out bad, I kinder turn the conversation on to the sufferin’s of our four fathers in the Revolution, how they eat their katridge boxes and shoe leather. It don’t do us no hurt to remember their sufferin’s, and after talkin’ about eatin’ shoe leather most any kind of cake seems tender.
I spose that life runs along with Josiah and the children and me about as easy as it does with most men and female wimmen. We have got a farm of 75 acres of land all paid for. A comfortable story and a half yeller house—good barns, and a bran new horse barn, and health. Our door yard is large and shady with apple, and pear, and cherry trees; and Tirzah Ann has got posy beds under the winders that look first rate. And where there haint no posy beds nor shade trees, the grass grows smooth and green, and it is a splendid place to dry clothes. On the north side of the house is our orchard, the trees grow clear up to our kitchen winder, and when the north door is open in the spring of the year, and I stand there ironin’, the trees all covered with pink blows it is a pleasant sight. But a still pleasanter sight is it in the fall of the year to stand in the door and see Josiah and Thomas Jefferson pickin’ up barells of the great red and yeller grafts at a dollar a bushel. Beyond the orchard down a little bit of a side hill runs the clear water of the canal. In front of the house towards the south—but divided from it by a good sized door yard and a picket fence, runs the highway, and back of the house, if I do say it that ortn’t to, there is as good a garden as there is in these parts. For I set my foot down in the first ont, that I would have garden sass of all kinds, and strawberrys, and gooseberrys, and currant, and berry bushes, and glad enough is Josiah now to think that he heard to me. It took a little work of course, but I believe in havin’ things good to eat, and so does Josiah. That man has told me more’n a hundred times sense that “of all the sass that ever was made, garden sass was the best sass.” To the south of the house is our big meadow—the smell of the clover in the summer is as sweet as anything, our bees get the biggest part of their honey there, the grass looks beautiful wavin’ in the sunshine, and Josiah cut from it last summer 4 tons of hay to the acre.
AN UNMARRIED FEMALE.
I suppose we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was sayin’, a few days ago to Betsy Bobbet a neighborin’ female of ours—“Every Station house in life has its various skeletons. But we ort to try to be contented with that spear of life we are called on to handle.” Betsey haint married and she don’t seem to be contented. She is awful opposed to wimmen’s rights, she thinks it is wimmen’s only spear to marry, but as yet she can’t find any man willin’ to lay holt of that spear with her. But you can read in her daily life and on her eager willin’ countenance that she fully realizes the sweet words of the poet, “while there is life there is hope.”
Betsey haint handsome. Her cheek bones are high, and she bein’ not much more than skin and bone they show plainer than they would if she was in good order. Her complexion (not that I blame her for it) haint good, and her eyes are little and sot way back in her head. Time has seen fit to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly suffered her to keep, but she has got the best white ivory teeth money will buy; and two long curls fastened behind each ear, besides frizzles on the top of her head, and if she wasn’t naturally bald, and if the curls was the color of her hair they would look well. She is awful sentimental, I have seen a good many that had it bad, but of all the sentimental creeters I ever did see Betsey Bobbet is the sentimentalest, you couldn’t squeeze a laugh out of her with a cheeze press.
BETSEY BOBBET.
As I said she is awful opposed to wimmin’s havein’ any right only the right to get married. She holds on to that right as tight as any single woman I ever see which makes it hard and wearin’ on the single men round here. For take the men that are the most opposed to wimmin’s havin’ a right, and talk the most about its bein’ her duty to cling to man like a vine to a tree, they don’t want Betsey to cling to them, they won’t let her cling to ’em. For when they would be a goin’ on about how wicked it was for wimmin to vote—and it was her only spear to marry, says I to ’em “Which had you ruther do, let Betsey Bobbet cling to you or let her vote?” and they would every one of ’em quail before that question. They would drop their heads before my keen grey eyes—and move off the subject.
But Betsey don’t get discourajed. Every time I see her she says in a hopeful wishful tone, “That the deepest men of minds in the country agree with her in thinkin’ that it is wimmin’s duty to marry, and not to vote.” And then she talks a sight about the retirin’ modesty and dignity of the fair sect, and how shameful and revoltin’ it would be to see wimmen throwin’ ’em away, and boldly and unblushin’ly talkin’ about law and justice.
Why to hear Betsey Bobbet talk about wimmin’s throwin’ their modesty away you would think if they ever went to the political pole, they would have to take their dignity and modesty and throw ’em against the pole, and go without any all the rest of their lives.
Now I don’t believe in no such stuff as that, I think a woman can be bold and unwomanly in other things besides goin’ with a thick veil over her face, and a brass mounted parasol, once a year, and gently and quietly dropping a vote for a christian president, or a religeous and noble minded pathmaster.
She thinks she talks dreadful polite and proper, she says “I was cameing” instead of “I was coming,” and “I have saw” instead of “I have seen,” and “papah” for paper, and “deah” for dear. I don’t know much about grammer, but common sense goes a good ways. She writes