Josiah Allen on the Woman QuestionHolley, Marietta
General
Josiah Allen on the Woman Question
Holley, Marietta
Feminism -- Fiction; Humorous stories; Sex role -- Fiction; Women's rights -- Fiction
I tell you agin it is a perilous and agonizin' epock of time for the
male sect at home and abroad. Men in America havin' to set curled up
on a bench by the side of the road, and see weak wimmen, underlin's,
a marchin' by 'em in the center of the street with brass bands and
banners a flyin'. And in England the highest official of the Empire
held by the collar and shook by a weak female jest like a spitball
thrower of a schoolboy, and couldn't resent it in court owin' to his
havin' so much dignity at the stake.
Oh, my downtrod sect! what are we a comin' to? I do git so wrought
up a meditatin' on the dretful things that are a happenin' to us men
nowdays, and how browbeat and how humiliated we are by our inferiors,
I git so cast down and deprested that my melancholy sperit has to
bust out in poetry. For some time I've had them feelin's. Now last
Christmas night I had such a spell, and I had to git out of bed and
put Samantha's crazy quilt round me (and it seemed as if that insane
quilt made me feel more high strung and wild) and go out in the settin'
room and ease my strugglin' sperit in verse.
Why, sometimes it seems if I didn't have this safety valve to my
bustin', swellin' emotions it seems almost as if I should have to be
hooped to keep myself together. But poetry kinder easies me a little.
Now last Saturday night I writ the follerin' verses as late as leven
P.M. We'd been to meetin' as usual, and had a splendid Christmas
dinner. Samantha, as I have mentioned prior and before this, with all
the weaknesses and shortcomin's of her inferior sect, is a masterly
cook. But it is all nonsense her thinkin' I et too much; I didn't eat
more'n four pieces of mince pie, and three helpin's of plum puddin',
besides the turkey and vegetables and salad and such. If a strong man
belongin' to a strong and superior sect can't stand that, it is a pity.
She insisted that it wuz a nightmair that sot on my chist and rid me
out of bed into the settin' room that time o' night. But it wuzn't no
such thing, it wuz my melancholy and deprested sperit that overcome me
a thinkin' of my sect and what wuzn't to be.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account