Bet. Mrs. Betsey Bobbett Slimpsey.
Sam. Wall, Mrs. Betsey Slimpsey, there hain’t no more beautiful sight on earth than to see two human souls out of pure love to each other gently approaching each other as if they must; and, at last, all their hopes and thoughts and affections running together like two drops of water in a morning glory blow, and to see them nestling there, not caring for nobody outside the blow, bound up in each other till the sun evaporates ’em as it were, and draws ’em together up into the heavens, not separating ’em even up there. Why such a marriage as that is a sight that does men and angels good to look at. But when a woman sells herself, swops her purity, her self-respect, her truth and her soul, for any kind of barter, such as a home, a few thousand dollars, the name of being married, a horse and buggy, some jewelry, etc.; and not only sells herself, but worse than the Turk wimmen, goes ’round herself hunting up a buyer: crazy, wild-eyed, afraid she won’t find none. Suppose she does have a minister for a salesman—my contempt for such a female is inmitigable.
Miss G. And so is mine.
Wid. D. And so would my Doodleses have been; you could see that by his linement.
Sam. And I don’t want to hear such wimmen talk about infamy. For in what respect are they better than these other infamous wimmen we all despise? Do you ’spose their standin’ up in front of a minister and tellin’ a few lies, such as I promise to love a man I hate, and honor a man I despise, and obey a man I calculate to make toe the mark? Do you ’spose these few lies make ’em any purer in the sight of God? Marriage is like baptism, as I have said mor’n a hundred times. You have got to have the inward grace and the outward form to make it lawful and right. What good does the water do if your soul hain’t baptized with the love of God? It hain’t no better than fallin’ into the creek.
Bet. Some of us married folks feel differently, Josiah Allen’s wife. Let me read to you a short poem of 20 or 30 verses written recently by a married woman, by she that was formerly Betsey Bobbett, now Mrs. Simon Slimpsey. I am to read it to the reception to-night, but I think it will be well for me to read it over so I can deliver it more eloquently. Hear my Bridal Owed, hear my Him of Victory.
Sam. How can I be calm and hear it? Oh, John Rogers! and Foxes Martyrs! how I sympathize with you.
Mrs. P. Oh, Doodle! Doodle! what shall I do to do right?
Sam. (In a low tone) Nine children, and one at the breast! Thumb screws and grid-irons! (Speaking in her usual tone.) No, I will not ontie myself from this stake of martyrdom. I will cling to duty’s apron strings. Simon, if I was in your place, I should sweat the five biggest boys to-night, and most of the girls. I should give the twins and the smallest girls some strong smartweed tea, and I should let the rest of ’em be till the Dr. comes. Betsey I will hear the him. (Simon groans, and burys his face in his handkerchief. Betsey rises and reads:)
Once grief did rave about my lonely head,