ACT I.

Scene.—Monday at the Allen’s.—Mrs. Allen kneading bread. Tirzah Ann washing at the washtub.—Widder Doodle picking over beans.—Elder Peedick sitting in the corner arranging a book of manuscript sermons.

Wid. D. Oh how much these beans makes me think of Doodle. He died, Doodle did, and was a corpse just as quick as he died; but I never can forget that dear man, nor his linement never. And it hain’t no ways likely that I shall ever marry agin’.

Sam. Cheer up, Widder Doodle, cheer up. You’ll disturb the Elder, and he wants to get his sermons all pinned together before he starts; and Josiah is out after the horse now. I am glad you stayed over Sunday with us Elder.

Elder. I thank you, Madam. (He goes on with his work, speaking to himself): Let me see, where is the 20thly?

Wid. D. Could you forget your Josiah, if you lived to be his relict?

Sam. No; I loved Josiah Allen, though why I loved him, I know not. But in the immortal words of the poet, “Love will go where it is sent.” Yes, Tirzah Ann, I married your pa in mother’s parlor, on the 14th day of June, in a brown silk dress with a long boddist waist, from pure love. And that love has been like a beacon in our pathway ever since. Its pure light, though it has sputtered some, and in trying times, such as washing days and cleaning house, has burnt down pretty low—has never gone out. Tirzah Ann, look at your father’s wristbands and collar, and see if you can see any streaks of white on ’em. Now Tirzah Ann, you are inclined to be sentimental. You took it from your pa. Josiah Allen, if he was encouraged, would act spoony. I remember when we were first engaged he called me a little angel. I just looked at him and says I, I weigh 204 pounds by the stillyards; and he didn’t call me so agin. I guess he tho’t 204 pounds would make a pretty hefty angel. No, Tirzah Ann, sentiment hain’t my style; reason and common sense are my

themes. Now there is Betsey Bobbett: she is one of the sentimentolest creeters that ever I did see. She is awful opposed to women’s rights. She says it looks so sweet and genteel, somehow, for wimmin to not have any rights. She says it is wimmen’s only spear to marry. But as yet she hain’t found 4any man willin’ to lay hold of that spear with her. But she is always a talking about how sweet it is for wimmin to be like runnin’ vines, a clingin’ to man like ivy to a tree.

Elder. (in a stately way) Them are my sentiments, Mrs. Allen. As I remarked yesterday in my tenthly, “Marriage is wimmen’s only spear.” And as I remarked in my fourteenthly, “How sweet, how heavenly the sight, to see a lovely woman clinging like a sweet, twining, creeping vine to a man’s manly strength.”

Wid. D. It is pretty to see it; I love to cling; I used to cling to Doodle.

Elder. I wish I had known Doodle; he must have been a happy man.

Sam. But, Elder, how is a woman to cling if she hain’t nothin’ to cling to. What are the wimmen to do whose faces are as humbly as a plate of cold greens? Is such a woman to go out into the street and collar a man and order him to marry her? Now I say a woman hadn’t ort to marry unless she has a man to marry to—a man whose love satisfies her head and her heart; some men’s love hain’t worth nothin’. I wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for it by the car load. But I mean a man that suits her; a man she seems to belong to, just like North and South America jined by nater, unbeknown to them ever since creation. She’ll know him if she ever sees him, jest as I knew my Josiah, for their two hearts will suit each other jest like the two halves of a pair of shears. These are the marriages heaven signs the certificuts of; and this marryin’ for a home, or for fear of bein’ called a old maid is no more marriage in the sight of God, no more true marriage than the blush of a fashionable woman that is bought for ten cents an ounce and carried home in her pocket, is true modesty.

Elder. I can only repeat what I said yesterday in my 21stly. That it is flyin’ in the face of the Bible for a woman not to marry. It is heaven’s design that women should be a vine, and man a tree.

Wid. D. I always thought my Doodle was a tree. I knew he was.

Sam. Well Elder, your wife is jest dead with the tyfus, and I ask you this queston. Are you willing to let Betsey Bobbett cling to you? She believes jest as you do, and she is fairly dying to make a runnin’ vine of herself; and are you willing to be a tree?

Elder. Wall—as it were—Mrs. Allen—I—that is—the religious state of the country at present is—as it were—

Sam. Are you willing to be a tree?

Elder. I believe Mrs. Allen you are a strong Grant woman. Now I favor Blaine.

5Sam. Are you willing to be a tree?

Elder. I guess I’ll go to the barn and get my saddle bags.

Sam. I knew jest how it would be; I knew he wouldn’t be a tree.

Tirz. A. Wall; I don’t blame him mother. You ought to have seen Betsey last night to meetin’. She got up to talk, and she would look right at Elder Peedick, and then at the editor of the Augur, and at Simon Slimpsey, and says she: I know I am religious because I feel that I love the bretheren. I don’t blame him.

Sam. No, nor I nuther. I don’t want a man to be a tree, unless they want to, and I want them to use reason and not insist on every woman makin’ a vine of herself. But the Elder means middlin’ well, and he’d make a tolerable good husband for some woman.

Wid. D. It haint no ways likely I shall ever marry again. No other man’s linement can ever look to me like my Doodle’s linement.

Sam. But the Elder has belated us dreadfully with our Monday’s work. Here it is most night and we have only fairly got to work. But we can finish it in the morning. Yes, as I was a saying Tirzah Ann, Betsey hain’t handsome, her cheek bones are too high, and she, being not much more than skin and bone, they show more than if she was in good order. Time has seen fit to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly suffered her to keep. I have seen a good many that was sentimental that had it bad; but Betsey has got it the worst of anybody I ever did see, unless it is her brother Shakespeare, and he acts as spoony round you, Tirzah Ann, as any spoon on my buttery shelves. It worrys me.

Wid D. My Doodle used to act spoony, as spoony as—as a teaspoon.

Sam. Wall if I thought there was any danger, Tirzah Ann, of you falling in love with Shakespeare Bobbett, I’d give you a good thoroughwort puke. That will cure most anybody if you take it in time.

Tirz. A. Wall, I guess there hain’t no chance, mother.

Sam. Wall, mabby not. Now you wring the clothes out, Tirzah Ann, and hang ’em right up here on the line.

Tirz. A. They will look awfully, mother, hangin’ up here. We shall look as if we was settin’ in a wet calico tent.

Sam. I don’t care, Tirzah Ann, we are so beat out we shall go to bed as soon as it is dark.

Tirz. A. We shall have to any way, for father forgot to take 6the kerosine can, and there hain’t a lamp in the house that we can light. But oh, dear, how it does look here, mother. I never in my hull life see our house look as it does to-night. It would mortify me most to death if any body should come in.

Sam. Wall, there hain’t no danger of anybody comin’ Monday; and we will slick up the first thing in the morning. But bein’ up all night with Thomas Jefferson, and then havin’ to wait on the Elder, and doin’ our Monday’s work in the atternoon, has about used me up, and if you think you can finish up Tirzah Ann, I will soak my feet and go to bed. I am afraid I am goin’ to be awful sick. I feel sick to my stomach all of a sudden, and every bit of noise goes through my head like a sword.

Wid. D. Let me get you some warm water, Samantha. Here, put your feet right into it; and here, put your night-cap on. Oh dear me, how much that sickness to the stomach makes me think of Doodle. Do you feel better, Samantha?

Sam. I shan’t feel any better till I get to bed.

Tirz. A. Why, what is the matter father?

Josiah (groaning). Oh! I have been took with a dumb creek in my back. Give me some of that linement quick, and rub it onto my shoulders, Tirzah Ann. What is the matter with your mother? Is she sick?

Wid. D. Oh yes; Samantha is awful sick—took sudden—and there is Thomas J. up stairs sick abed. If there was ever a distressed house, this is the house.

Tirz. A. It looks distressed, anyway.

Wid. D. Josiah, won’t you try some of the Green Mounting salve?

Josiah. Oh! I don’t know; I can’t set down, or stand up; I am awful bad off. I want to get to bed as soon as I can.

Wid. D. Try the Green Mounting salve, brother Josiah; and oh how much that salve makes me think——(looking out the window)

Tirz. A. Why, for mercy’s sake! Who is coming? There is a whole house-full of folks on the door-step. (Tirzah Ann and the Widder Doodle runs out of the room, as the door opens, and ten or fifteen people come in, headed by Betsey Bobbett. Josiah tries to fix his shirt and vest round his shoulders before they get in but he can’t, so he dives under the table. Samantha stands her ground. She stands up and confronts them.)

Betsey B. We have come to surprise you! And in order to more sweetly surprise you, we have come Monday night, and come early. Will you not let us surprise you?

7Sam. No! no! We will not be surprised! You shan’t surprise us to-night! We won’t be surprised! Speak, Josiah; tell her; will we be surprised to-night?

Josiah. (Looking out from under the table spread) No; No; we will not be surprised.

Bet. B. You see dear friends she will not let us surprise her; we will go. (They all go out. Betsey goes last, and she turns around at the door and says) Maybe it is right and propah to serve a young girl, who has always been your friend, in this way. I have known you a long time Josiah Allen’s wife.

Sam. (Stepping out of the foot bath and shutting up the door) I have known you plenty long enough.

Josiah. (Coming out from under the table) Darn surprise parties, and darn——

Sam. Stop swearin’, Josiah Allen; I should think we was bad enough off without swearing. But I hate surprise parties as bad as you do. Betsey Bobbett has led ’em into one house where they had the small-pox, and one where they was makin’ preparations for a funeral. They are perfect nusances. It stands to reason so long as anybody has got a tongue, if they want to see their friends to their house, they 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. I hain’t proud, and never was called so, but I don’t want Tom, Dick, and Harry, that I never spoke to in my life, feel free to break into my house any time they please. I perfectly detest surprise parties; but you don’t ketch me swearin’ about it.

Jos. Wall; I will say darn Betsey Bobbett; there now, darn her; oh! my back; (slowly sitting down) I can’t sit down, nor stand down.

Sam. You went under the table quick enough when they come in.

Jos. Throw that in my face, will you? What could I do? My clothes all fallin’ of me.

Sam. Wall, Josiah, less be thankful that we are as well off as we be. Betsey might have insisted on surprisin’ us. Do you s’pose they will be mad?

Jos. I don’t know, nor care, but I hope they will.

ACT II.

Scene.—Widder Doodle and Tirzah Ann sitting at work tufting a bed spread.—Samantha comes in out of the garden.

Sam. I declare them hens makes me more trouble than all the rest of my work, keeps me a scarin’ ’em out of the garden all the time, and that pup hain’t good for anything.

Tirz. A. Father says all it wants is a little encouragement.

Sam. Encouragement! I should think as much. Yes I know your pa says that if he will run a little ahead of it when he is a settin’ it on to things, it will go on to one first rate. And I told him he had better take the pup in his arms and throw it at the hens mebby that would encourage it enough. But there they are; I must go and scare ’em off again.

Tirz. A. I’ll go mother. (She goes out clapping her hands and crying “Shoo; Shoo;” and the hens are heard cackling behind the scenes.)

Wid. D. Oh how much that pup makes me think of Doodle. My Doodle needed encouragement.

Tirz. A. (Coming back) Here comes Betsey Bobbett, mother.

All Say. Good morning, Betsey.

Bet. (Sadly) Good morning, Miss Allen; good morning, Tirzah Ann; good morning, Widder Doodle. (She sits down and takes out her tatting and commences to work)

Sam. Hain’t you well to-day, Betsey?

Bet. I feel deprested to-day; awfully deprested.

Sam. What is the matter?

Bet. I feel lonely; more lonely than I have felt for yeahs.

Sam. What is the matter, Betsey?

Bet. I had a dream last night, Josiah Allen’s wife.

Sam. What was it?

Bet. I dreamed I was married, Josiah Allen’s wife. I tell you it was hard, after dreamin’ that, to wake up to the cold realities and cares of this life; it was hard. I sot up in end of the bed and wept. (she weeps) I tried to get to sleep again and dream it ovah, but I could not.

Sam. Wall, to be sure, husbands are handy on 4th of Julys, and funeral processions. It looks kinder lonesome to see a woman streaming along alone; but they are contrary creeters, Betsey, when they are a mind to be. How do you like my new bed-spread?

Bet. It is beautiful.

Sam. Yes; it looks well enough now, but it most wore my fingers out a tuftin’ it.

9Bet. How sweet it must be to wear the fingers out for a deah companion. I would be willing to wear mine clear down to the bone. I made a vow, some yeahs ago, that I would make my deah future companion happy, for I would nevah, nevah fail to meet him with a sweet smile as he came home to me at twilight. I felt that was all he would require to make him happy. Do you think it was a rash vow, Josiah Allen’s wife?

Sam. Oh, I guess it won’t do any hurt. But if a man couldn’t have but one of the two, a smile or a supper, as he came home at night, I believe he would take the supper.

Wid. D. I know Doodle would. He had to have jest what he wanted to eat at jest the time he wanted it, or it would give him the palsy; he never had the palsy, but he always said that all that kept him from it was havin’ meat vittles, or anything else he wanted, jest the minute he wanted it. Oh, what a man that was; what a linement he had on him. It hain’t no ways likely I shall ever marry agin. No, I shan’t never see another man whose linement will look to me like Mr. Doodlese’s linement.

Sam. Yes, Betsey, I believe a man would take the supper instead of the smile.

Bet. Oh, deah! such cold practical ideahs are painful to me.

Sam. Wall, if you ever have the opportunity you try both ways; let your fire go out and you and your house look like fury, and nothing to eat, and you jest stand in the door and smile. And then again you have a nice supper—stewed oysters and cream biscuit and peaches, or something else first rate, and the table all set out as nice as a pink, and the kettle singing, and you dressed up pretty, and goin’ round the house in a sensible way, and you jest watch and see which of the two ways is the most agreeable to him.

Bet. Oh, food! food! what is food to the deathless emotions of the soul? What does the aching young heart care what food it eats? Let my dear futuah companion smile on me, and that is enough.

Sam. A man can’t smile on an empty stomach, Betsey. And a man can’t eat soggy bread with little chunks of saleratus in it, and clammy potatoes, and drink dish-water tea and muddy coffee and smile; or they might give one or two sickly, deathly smiles; but depend upon it, Betsey, they couldn’t keep it up. I have seen bread, Betsey Bobbett, that was enough to break down any man’s affection, unless he had firm principle to back it up, and love’s young dream has been drounded in thick muddy coffee before now. If there hain’t anything pleasant in a man’s home how can he be attached to it? Nobody can’t, man nor women, respect what hain’t respectable, nor love what 10hain’t lovable. Of course men have to be corrected sometimes. I correct Josiah frequently.

Bet. How any one blessed with a deah companion can speak about correcting them, is a mystery to me.

Sam. Men have to be corrected, Betsey; there wouldn’t be no living with them unless you did.

Bet. Well, you can entertain such views if you will, but as for me, I will be clinging; I will be respected by men. They do so love to have wimmen clinging, that I will, until I die, carry out this belief that is so sweet to them. Until I die, I will neveh let go of this speah.

Thos. J. (Aside) She has been brandishing that speah for fifty years.

Sam. There is them hens agin, Thos. Jefferson. You go and scare ’em out. (Exit Thos. Jefferson)

Bet. There is a gentleman coming.

Tirz. A. A peddler.

Ped. Young lady, can’t I sell you this beautiful lace neck-tie; real old point lace, and only 18 pence.

Tirz. A. Oh, mother, do buy it for me.

Sam. No, Tirzah Ann, no.

Ped. Then let me sell you this beautiful valuable ring. Most diamond dealers would want to make a profit of a hundred dollars or so on it, but I will let you have it for five shillings. It weighs over a hundred and 4 carets.

Sam. A hundred and 4 carrots; that is a likely story. Why, if the carrots was any size at all that would be over a bushel. No, Tirzah Ann, you can’t have the ring.

Ped. Can’t I sell you something, madam.

Wid. D. Oh, no, I am a widder; and it hain’t no ways likely I shall ever marry agin. (She weeps, wipes her eyes on her apron)

Ped. Here, I have got just what you want and need. See this beautiful mourning handkerchief. It is almost worth the agony of bein’ a widder to enjoy the privilege of mournin’ on such a handkerchief as that. It is richly worth 75 cents, but you may have it for 25, and what will you give?

Wid. D. I will give a quarter of a dollar.

Ped. Take it at your own price. Now Madam (turning to Samantha). Let me sell you this beautiful carpet; it is the pure ingrain.

Sam. Ingrain; so be you ingrain.

11Ped. I guess I know, for I bought it of old Ingrain himself. I give the old man 12 shillings a yard for it; but seeing it is you, and I like your looks so much, and it seems so much like home to me here, I will let you have it for 75 cents a yard; cheaper than dirt to walk on, or boards.

Sam. I don’t want it; I have got carpets enough.

Ped. Do you want it for 50 cents?

Sam. No!

Ped. Would 25 cents be any inducement to you?

Sam. No!

Ped. Would 18 cents tempt you?

Sam. Say another word to me about your old stair carpet if you dare; jest let me ketch you at it. Be I going to have you a trapsin’ all over the house after me? Am I going to be made crazy as a loon by you?

Bet. Oh, Josiah Allen’s wife, do not be so hasty; of course the gentleman wishes to dispose of his goods, else why should he be in the mercanteel business?

Ped. (Turning to Betsey, takes ear-rings out of his pocket) I carry these in my pocket for fear I will be robbed. I hadn’t ought to carry them round at all; a single man going alone around the country as I do; but I have got a pistol. (he takes a large pistol, the larger the better, from his pocket. Betsey shrieks and falls back terribly frightened) I have got a pistol, and let anybody tackle me for these ear-rings if they dare to.

Bet. Is their intrinsic worth so much?

Ped. It hain’t so much their neat value, although that is enormous, as who owned them informally. Whose ears do you suppose these have had hold of?

Bet. How can I tell, never having seen them before.

Ped. Jest so. You never was acquainted with them, but these very identical creeters used to belong to Miss Shakespeare. Yes, these belonged to Hamlet’s mother. Bill bought ’em at old Stratford.

Bet. Bill?

Ped. Yes, old Shakespeare. I have been with his family so much, that I have got into the habit of calling him Bill, jest as they do.

Bet. Then you have been there?