He can do many other things; and what he cannot do, he pretends to have a knowledge of. His trades and qualities are thus detailed, because his vanity will undoubtedly lead to a display of them. His master-vice, or rather, the parent of all his vices, is a fondness for strong drink, though sometimes he will abstain for months. His clothes cannot be described, but he carried away few or none, and ’tis expected will appear shabbily. He is an artful fellow, and if taken up will tell a most plausible story, and possibly show a forged pass.
In 1806 the Connecticut Courant contained the following, which gives an unpleasant idea of what many wives might say in reply to the warning advertisements of desperate husbands if they only thought it worth while, or rather if they thought of it at all:—
East Windsor, U.S.
THOMAS Hutchins has advertised, that I have absented myself from his bed and board, and forbid all persons trusting me on his account, and cautioned all persons against making me any payment on his account. I now advertise the public, that the same Thomas Hutchins came as a fortune-teller into this town about a year ago, with a recommendation, which, with some artful falsehoods, induced me to marry him. Of the four wives he had before me, the last he quarrelled away; how the other three came by their deaths, he can best inform the public: but I caution all widows or maidens against marrying him, be their desire for matrimony ever so strong. Should he make his advances under a feigned name, they may look out for a little, strutting, talkative, feeble, meagre, hatchet-faced fellow, with spindle shanks, and a little warped in the back. Thankful Hutchins.
There are a good many more notices in the American papers which show that conjugal infelicity is no great rarity over there. The following exquisite effusion appeared in the Port Gibson Correspondent in November 1825:—
O matrimony! thou art like
To Jeremiah’s figs—
The good are very good indeed,
The bad—too sour for pigs!
WHEREAS, thank God! my wife Rachel has left my bed and board for the hereafter mentioned provocation: this is to give notice that I will pay no debts of her contracting after this date.—We were married young; the match was not of our own choosing, but a made-up one between our parents. “My dear,” says her mother, with a nose like a gourdhandle, to her best beloved, “now if we can get our neighbour Charles to consent to a marriage between our Rachel and his son, we shall have no more care upon our hands, and live the rest of our days in undisturbed repose.” Here my beloved began to whimper; the truth is, she loved tenderly, loved another—and they knew it; he had no property, however, and that was their only idea of happiness: but she could not conceive how they could feast in joy upon her misery. “Hold your tongue,” says her surly father, “don’t you think your parents know better how to direct your attachments than you do yourself?” “Yes, my dear,” says the mother, “you should always be governed by your parents—they are old and experienced and you are too young to think for yourself.” The old dad and mam forgot that they were a runaway love match at the age of nineteen. But poor Rachel said not a word for she was afraid of her daddy’s cowhide, that he had used sixteen years on nobody’s back but his daughter’s. She seemed reckless of her fate, was almost stupid, and did not know that she could alter it for the worse. My father, by persuasion and argument, dazzled my fancy with the eight negroes that would be her portion, “which,” said he, “put upon the quarter section which I shall give you, will render you independent, and you are a fool if you do not live happily with such an angel.”—“Angel!” said I, but I said no more, for my dad (in peace rest his ashes!) would have flown into a passion with the rapidity that powder catches fire; and its ebullition, like the blaze, would scorch me, I well knew.—We were married. I thought, as her father had ruled her with so tough a whip, I could do it with a hickory switch, and for my leniency gain her everlasting gratitude. We have now lived together six years, and have had no offspring except a hearty quarrel every little while. In truth I found her more spirited than I imagined; she was always ready to tally word for word, and blow for blow; but I never used a switch till the other day, always taking my open hand. The other day, coming home from work, very much fatigued and hungry, I found my wife in rather an unusual fit of passion, scolding some pigs that had overset the buttermilk. “Rachel,” says I, “make me some coffee.”—“Go to ——!” says she. I could not stand this; I had never heard her swear before. “I will chastise you for that,” says I. “Villain,” said she, “I’m determined to bear no more of your ill usage. Instead of using the mild and conciliating language which a husband ought to use, you always endeavour to beat me into measures—touch me with that whip, I will leave your house, and take my niggers with me too, so I will.” She had said such things so often that I did not regard her, and belaboured her handsomely. The next morning after I had gone out to work, away she bundles sure enough, and when I came home at noon, I found the house emptied of bag and baggage, and all the negroes taken but the three that were at work with me. I have lived happily since, however; and she may keep all she took, if she will stay at her crooked-nose mammy’s and never trouble my house again.
J. Johnstone.
Laurence County, Miss.
Nov. 1, 1825.
This is a vigorous specimen of condensation, and contains, according to the present standard, quite enough plot for a three-volume novel, with special opportunities for essays on the horrors of slavery. If any rising authoress—we will give way to a lady—should happen to stumble across this book, and see her opportunity, we will waive all rights, as, after trying to sketch out the story, it was abandoned in despair, owing to our inability to keep our wandering attention from the next advertisement, which gives a companion picture, though the complaint is this time laid by the woman:—