FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER.
THE “WIDOW BEDOTT” AND “WIDOW SPRIGGINS.”
T was back in the early forties in “Neal’s Gazette” that the “Widow Bedott Table Talk” series of articles began to attract attention, and the question arose, Who is the Widow Bedott? for no one knew at that time that Mrs. Whitcher was the real author behind this nom-de-plume. James Neal himself—the well-known author of “Charcoal Sketches” and publisher of the magazine above referred to—was so struck with the originality and clearness of the first of the series when submitted that he sought a correspondence with the author, thinking it was a man, and addressed her as “My dear Bedott.” Mrs. Whitcher often insisted that she must cease to write, as her humorous sketches were not relished by some of her neighbors whom they touched, but Mr. Neal would not hear to it. In a letter of September 10, 1846, he wrote: “It is a theory of mine that those gifted with truly humorous genius like yourself are more useful as moralists, philosophers and teachers than whole legions of the gravest preachers. They speak more effectually to the general ear and heart, even though they who hear are not aware of the fact that they are imbibing wisdom.” Further on he adds: ‘I would add that Mr. Godey called on me to inquire as to the authorship of the “Bedott Papers,” wishing evidently to obtain you for a correspondent to the “Ladies’ Book.”’
For richness of humor and masterly handling of the Yankee dialect, certainly, the “Widow Bedott” and the “Widow Spriggins” occupy a unique space in humorous literature, and the influence she has exercised on modern humorists is more in evidence than most readers are aware of. Her husband, “Hezekiah Bedott,” is a character who will live alongside of “Josiah Allen” as one of the prominent heroes of the humorous literature of our country. In fact, no reader of both these authors will fail to suspect that Miss Marietta Holley used “Hezekiah” as a model for her “Josiah;” while the redoubtable widow herself was enough [♦]similar to “Samantha Allen” to have been her natural, as she, perhaps, was her literary, grandmother. Nor was Miss Holley alone in following her lead. Ever since the invention of “Hezekiah Bedott” by Mrs. Whitcher, an imaginary person of some sort, behind whom the author might conceal his own identity, has seemed to be a necessity to our humorists, as witness the noms-de-plume of “Artemus Ward,” “Josh Billings,” “Mark Twain,” etc., under which our greatest American humorists have written.
[♦] ‘similiar’ replaced with ‘similar’
Mrs. Whitcher was the daughter of Mr. Lewis Berry, and was born at Whitesboro, New York, 1811, and died there in 1852. As a child she was unusually precocious. Before she learned her letters, even before she was four years old, she was making little rhymes and funny stories, some of which are preserved by her relatives. Her education was obtained in the village school of Whitesboro, and she began to contribute at an early age stories and little poems to the papers. After she had won considerable literary fame she was married, in 1847, to the Rev. Benjamin W. Whitcher, pastor of the Protestant Episcopal Church at Elmira, New York, where she resided with her husband for a period of three years, continuing to contribute her humorous papers to the magazine, and taking as her models her acquaintances at Elmira, as she had been accustomed to do at Whitesboro. The people of Elmira, however, were not so ready to be victimized, and turned against her such shafts of persecution and even insult for her ludicrous pictures of them as to destroy her happiness and her husband’s usefulness as a minister to an extent that they were compelled to leave Elmira, and they removed to Whitesboro in 1850, where, as stated above, she died two years later.
Mrs. Whitcher was something of an artist as well as a writer and illustrated certain of her sketches with her own hands. During her life none of her works were published except in magazines and periodicals, but after her death these contributions were collected and published in book form; the first entitled “The Widow Bedott Papers,” appearing in 1855, with an introduction by Alice B. Neal. In 1857 came “The Widow Spriggins, Mary Allen and Other Sketches,” edited by Mrs. M. L. Ward Whitcher with a memoir of the author. We publish in connection with this sketch the poem “Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles” and also her own humorous comments on some of her poetry, about her husband Hezekiah, which she wrote to a friend, pausing as the various stanzas suggest, to throw in amusing side lights on neighborhood character and gossip.
WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES.
(FROM THE “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”)
REVEREND sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a lying there
Down sick with influenzy.
A body’d thought it was enough
To mourn your wife’s departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a follerin’ arter.
But sickness and affliction, are
Sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.
O I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cheer you up,
If’t wouldn’t create surprise.
It’s a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don’t despair;
That you may soon be movin’ again
Is constantly my prayer.
Both sick and well, you may depend
You’ll never be forgot
By your faithful and affectionate friend,
Priscilla Pool Bedott.
THE WIDOW’S POETRY ABOUT HEZEKIAH AND HER COMMENTS ON THE SAME.
(FROM “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”)
ES,—he was one o’ the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jenkins says (she ’twas Poll Bingham), she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that’s the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it’s jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his mem’ry, nobody wouldn’t think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I’ll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin’s; but I’ll try. It begins as follers:—
He never jawed in all his life,
He never was onkind,—
And (tho’ I say it that was his wife)
Such men you seldom find.
(That’s as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.)
I never changed my single lot,—
I thought ’twould be a sin—
(Though widder Jinkins says it’s because I never had a chance.) Now ’tain’t for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o’ chances or not, but there’s them livin’ that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o’ folks knows what was the nature o’ Majors Coon’s feelin’s towards me, tho’ his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up ’cause she knows the Major took her “Jack at a pinch,”—seein’ he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get,—but I goes on to say—
I never changed my single lot,
I thought ’twould be a sin,—
For I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott,
I never got married agin.
If ever a hasty word he spoke,
His anger dident last,
But vanished like tobacker smoke
Afore the wintry blast.
And since it was my lot to be
The wife of such a man,
Tell the men that’s after me
To ketch me if they can.
If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in—
That’s a fact,—he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,—widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she ’twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent went off to confrence meetin’, when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin’, and when he wa’n’t there, who was ther’, pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott,—and he was always ready and willin’ to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin’; why, I’ve knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o’ the pain in the spine of his back.
He had a wonderful gift, and he wa’n’t a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin,—so you see ’twas from a sense o’ duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh!—
If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in—
I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.
A wonderful tender heart he had,
That felt for all mankind,—
It made him feel amazin’ bad
To see the world so blind.
Whiskey and rum he tasted not—
That’s as true as the Scripturs,—but if you’ll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house how’t she’d seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I’m glad nobody don’t pretend to mind anything she says. I’ve knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth—besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I’ll tell you why if you won’t mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin’ to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin’-distracted after my husband herself, but it’s a long story, I’ll tell you about it some other time, and then you’ll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin’ me down. See,—where had I got to? Oh, I remember now,—
Whisky and rum he tasted not,—
He thought it was a sin,—
I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.
But now he’s dead! the thought is killin’,
My grief I can’t control—
He never left a single shillin’
His widder to console.
But that wa’n’t his fault—he was so out o’ health for a number o’ year afore he died, it ain’t to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin’—however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,—he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back,—begrudged folks their vittals when they come to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I’d hold my tongue about my neighbors’ husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,—used to swear like all possest when he got mad,—and I’ve heard my husband say (and he wa’n’t a man that ever said anything that wa’n’t true),—I’ve heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! “His widder to console,”—ther ain’t but one more verse, ’tain’t a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,—“What did you stop so soon for?”—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby’s she thought I’d better a’ stopt afore I’d begun,—she’s a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I’d like to see some poitry o’ hern,—I guess it would be astonishin’ stuff; and mor’n all that, she said there wa’n’t a word o’ truth in the hull on’t,—said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin’ lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunatic Arsenal. But that’s a painful subject, I won’t dwell on’t.
I conclude as follers:—
I’ll never change my single lot,—
I think ’twould be a sin,—
The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott
Don’t intend to git married agin.
Excuse my cryin’—my feelin’s always overcomes me so when I say that poitry—O-o-o-o-o-o!
