My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet's. Marietta Holley
upholdin’ Sister Gansey’s husband, and I wanted my words to apaul him, but I suppose he made a mistake, and thought I was admirin’ of him I looked so earnest at him, for he spoke up and says he,
“I see by your stiddy glance that you have discovered who I be. Yes Madam, you see before you the Editor of the Augur, but don’t be nervous, don’t let it affect you more than you can help, I am a mortal like yourself.”
I looked at him with my most majestic look, and he continued.
“The masses who devoured my great work ‘Logical Reveries on the Beauties of Slavery,’ are naturally anxious to see me. I don’t wonder at it, not at all.”
I was austerely silent and withdrawed to a winder and set down. But he followed me and continued on.
“That tract as you are doubtless aware, was written just before the war, and a weaker minded man might have been appalled by the bloodshed that followed its publication. But no! I said calmly, it was written on principle, and if it did bring ruin and bloodshed on the country, principle would in the end prevail. The war turned out different from what I hoped, chains broke that I could have wept to see break—but still I hung on to principle. Might I ask you Madam, exactly what your emotions were when you read ‘Logical Reveries’ for the first time? I suppose no President’s message was ever devoured as that was.”
“I never see nor heard of your ‘Logical Reveries,’ ” says I coldly. “And thank fortune nobody can accuse me of ever touchin’ a President’s message—unless they belie me.”
He rolled up his eyes toward the cielin’ and sithed hevily, and then says he, “Is it possible that in this enlightened community there is still such ignorance amongst the masses. I have got a copy in my pocket, I never go without one. And I will read it to you and it may be pleasant for you to tell your children and grandchildren in the future, that the author of “Logical Reveries on the Beauties of Slavery” told you with his own lips, how the great work came to be written. A poem was sent me intended as a satire on the beautiful and time hallowed system of slavery, it was a weak senseless mass of twaddle, but if the author could have foreseen the mighty consequences that flowed from it, he might well have trembled, for senseless as it was it roused the lion in me, and I replied. I divided my great work into two parts, first, that slavery was right, because the constitution didn’t say it was wrong, and then I viewed the subject in a Bible and moral light, but the last bein’ of less importance, of course I didn’t enlarge on it, but on the first I come out strong, there I shone. I will read you a little of the poem that was sent me, that you may understand the witherin’ allusions I make concernin’ it. I won’t read more than is necessary for that purpose, for you may get sleepy listenin’ to it, but you will wake up enough when I begin to read the “Logical Reveries,” I guess there couldn’t anybody sleep on them. The poem I speak of commenced in the following weak illogical way.
SLAVERY.
So held my eyes I could not see
The righteousness of slavery,
So blind was I, I could not see
The ripe fruit hang on wisdom’s tree;
But groping round its roots did range,
Murmuring ever, strange, oh strange
That one handful of dust should dare
Enslave another God had made,
From his own home and kindred tear,
And scourge, and fetter, steal and trade.
If ’twas because they were less wise
Than our wise race, why not arise,
And with pretext of buying teas,
Lay in full cargoes of Chinese.
Let Fee Fo Fum, and Eng, and Chen,
Grow wise by contact with wise men;
If weakness made the traffic right,
Why not arise in manhood’s might,
And bind old grandmothers with gyves,
And weakly children, and sick wives.
If ’twas the dark hue of their face,
Then why not free our noble race
Forever from all homely men?
With manly zeal, and outstretched hand,
Pass like a whirlwind o’er the land.
Let squint eyed, pug-nosed women be
Only a thing of memory.
Though some mistakes would happen then,
For many bond servants there are,
Fair faced, blue eyed, with silken hair.
How sweet, how pleasant to be sold
For notes in hand, or solid gold,
To benefit a brother
Both children of one father,
With each a different mother.
One mother fair and richly clothed,
One worn with toil and vain despair
Down sunken to a life she loathed;
Both children with proud saxon blood,
In one breast mixed with tropic flame,
One, heir to rank and broad estates
And one, without even a name.
Jest as he arrived to this crysis in the poem, Mr. Gansey came out into the aunty room, and told me he was ready to take my picture. The Editer seein’ he was obleeged to stop readin’ told me, he would come down to our house a visitin’ in sugarin’ time, and finish readin’ the poetry to me. I ketched holt of my principles to stiddy ’em, for I see they was a totterin’ and says to him with outward calmness,
“If you come fetch the twins.”
He said he would. I then told Mr. Gansey I was ready for the picture. I believe there haint nothin’ that will take the expression out of anybody’s eyes, like havin’ poetry read for a hour and a half, unless it is to have your head screwed back into a pair of tongs, and be told to look at nothin’ and wink at it as much as you are a mind to. Under both of these circumstances, it didn’t suprise me a mite that one of my eyes was took blind. But as Mr. Gansey said as he looked admirin’ly on it, with the exception of that one blind eye, it was a perfect and strikin’ picture. I paid him his dollar and started off home, and I hope now that Josiah and the children will be satisfied.
THE PICTURE.
OUR SURPRIZE PARTIES.
About one week after this picture eppysode, there was a surprise party appointed. They had been havin’ ’em all winter, and the children had been crazy to have me go to ’em—everybody went, old and young, but I held back. Says I: “I don’t approve of ’em, and I won’t go.”
But finally they got their father on their side; says he: “It won’t hurt you Samantha, to go for once.”
Says I: “Josiah, the place for old folks is to home; and I don’t believe in surprise parties anyway, I think they are perfect nuisances. It stands to reason if you want to see your friends, you can invite ’em, and if anybody is too poor to bake a cake or two, and a pan of cookies, they are too poor to go into company at all.” Says I: “I haint proud, nor never was called so, but I don’t want Tom, Dick and Harry,