“Well, now, suppose your wife got after you like that, how would you use those studies to keep her quiet? What’s the use of an education if it don’t help you keep peace in the family?”
So I unwisely told John that he ought to tell his wife that a woman by law obtained her citizenship from her husband. That citizenship was the essence of politics; therefore the wife should by law belong to her husband’s party. I am older now in years, and I know better than to give any man arguments in a debate with his wife. The Maine election, however, had made us desperate. So John marched in with a very confident step and elaborated my arguments. He was quite impressive when he assured her that the law declared that a woman acquired her political principles from her husband. It did not work, however.
“Don’t you tell me! I didn’t marry any principles at all when I married you. How is a man going to give any principles to his wife when he never had any to give? My father was a Democrat, and I take my politics from him. He was the best man that ever lived, and you know it. I inherit my politics, I do—I didn’t marry them!”
The truth is that Sarah’s father was an old war Democrat who came near being tarred and feathered by his neighbors, but one of the saving graces of modern civilization is the fact that a woman’s father is always an immortal—never needing any defense—his virtues being self-evident, while her husband is a de-mortal who can hardly hope to become a good citizen except through long years of patient service! His only hope lies in the future when he has a daughter of his own.
And Henry Wilkins, Sarah’s brother, was running for county clerk. We held a caucus at the blacksmith shop, where John and I and two farmers were elected delegates to the county convention. We all went to the county seat one Saturday afternoon to nominate a ticket. The last we heard from Sarah was:
“Now, Henry, if you get nominated on that renegade ticket, I know one man that won’t vote for you and that’s John Crandall. I won’t let him vote if he has to stay in bed all day!”
Contrary to what some of the “antis” say woman has always exercised political power.
When we got to town we found the “drug-store ring” in control. This was a little group of politicians led by Jacob Spaulding. It was the “Tammany Hall” of Oak County. This ring had decided to nominate an undertaker from the west side of the county for clerk. Most of the farmers were all ready to quit when Jake Spaulding said the word, for he usually handed out the little political jobs. I was young and inexperienced in politics and ready for a fight. It hurt me to see that great crowd of farmers ready to give up the fight when a big, fat brute like Jake Spaulding and a few of his creatures shook their heads. So I called our delegates together and proposed that we go right in where Jake was and “talk turkey” to him. Strange, but John Crandall was the only outspoken supporter I had. John was bossed at home until he was like a lamb, but get him out among men and the pent-up feelings in the lamb expanded that innocent animal into a lion. So we had our way, and about 25 of us marched down the street to the courthouse, where in the sheriff’s room the county committee was making up the ticket.
You would have thought the destinies of the nation were at stake as we filed into that room. Half of our delegates were ready to quit when Jake Spaulding glared at us over his spectacles.