Josiah Allen's Wife as a P. A. and P. I.: Samantha at the Centennial. / Designed As a Bright and Shining Light, to Pierce the Fogs of Error and Injustice That Surround Society and Josiah, and to Bring More Clearly to View the Path That Leads Straight on to Virtue and Happiness.

by Marietta Holley

Says she, bitterly: “Can’t you say sunthin’ more than that?”

“Yes,” says I, “I can, and will; it is mean as pusly, and meaner.”

Says she, “What do you think of their meetin’ here and glorifyin’ the sentiment up to the heavens in words, ‘true government consists in the consent of the governed’ and tramplin’ it practically down to the dust under their feet? What do you think of this great ado over grantin’ the makin’ of our laws to the Irishman jest out of prison, whom they dislike and despise—and denyin’ these rights to intelligent, native-born citizens, whom they love and respect? What do you think of their taxin’ the Christian and earnest souled woman, worth half a million, and leave it to men, not worth the shoes they wear to the pole, the ignorant, and the vicious, to vote how that money shall be used; she, by the work of her hands or brains, earnin’ property to be used in this way, in makin’ and enforcin’ laws she despises and believes to be ruinous, and unjust in the sight of God and man. What do you think of this?” says she.

Says I, with a calm but firm dignity: “I think pusly is no meaner.”

“Oh!” says she, turnin’ her nose in the direction of the Main Buildin’ and shakin’ her brown lisle thread fist at it, “how I despise men! Oh, how sick I be of ’em!” And she went on for a long length of time, a callin’ ’em every name I ever heerd men called by, and lots I never heerd on, from brutal whelps, and roarin’ tyrants, down to lyin’ sneakin’ snipes; and for every new and awful name she’d give ’em, I’d think to myself: why, my Josiah is a man, and Father Smith was a man, and lots of other relatives, and 4 fathers on my father’s side. And so says I:

“Sister, what is the use of your runnin’ men so?” says I, mildly, “it is only a tirin’ yourself; you never will catch ’em, and put the halter of truth onto ’em, while you are a runnin’ ’em so fearfully; it makes ’em skittish and baulky.” Says I, “Men are handy in a number of ways, and for all you seem to despise ’em so, you would be glad to holler to some man if your horse should run away, or your house git a fire, or the ship go to sinkin’, or anything.”

Says she, “Men are the most despiseable creeters that ever trod shoe leather.”

“Well,” says I, calmly, “take wimmen as a race, mom, and they don’t cherish such a deadly aversion to the other sect as you seem to make out they do; quite the reverse and opposite. Why, I have seen wimmen act so, a follerin’ of ’em up, pursuin’ of ’em, clingin’ to ’em, smilin’ almost vacantly at ’em; I have seen ’em act and behave till it was more sickenin’ than thoroughwort to my moral stomach.” Says I, “I cherish no such blind and almost foolish affection for ’em as a sect, (one, I almost worship) but I have a firm, reasonable, meetin’-house esteem for ’em, as a race. A calm, firm regard, unmoved and stiddy as a settin’ hen; I see their faults, plainly, very—as my Josiah will testify and make oath to; and I also see their goodnesses, their strength, their nobilities, and their generosities—which last named are as much more generous than ourn, as their strength is stronger.”

Says I, “Pause a moment, mom, in your almost wild career of runnin’ men down, to think what they have done; look round the world with your mind’s eye, and see their work on land and sea. See the nations they have founded; see the cities stand where there used to be a wilderness: see the deserts they have made to blossom like a rosy; see the victories they have got over time and space,—talkin’ from one end of the world to the other in a minute, and travellin’ almost as quick, through mountains and under the water, and every thing. See how old ocian herself—who used to roar defiance at ’em—was made by ’em to bile herself up into steam to git the victory over herself. And in spite of the thunder that tried to scare ’em out, see how they have drawrd the lightnin’ out of the heavens to be their servant. Look there,” says I, pintin’ my forefinger eloquently towards the main Halls: Machinery, Agricultural—and so 4th—“see the works of that sect you are runnin’ so fearfully; see their time-conquerin’, labor-savin’ inventions, see—”

“I won’t see,” says she, firmly, and bitterly. “I won’t go near any of their old machines; I’ll stand by my sect, I’ll stick to the Woman’s Pavilion. I haint been nigh Machinery Hall, nor the Main Buildin’, nor the Art Gallery, nor I won’t neither.”