I declare for’t, sometimes when she is goin’ on, I have to call on the martyrs in my own mind almost wildly, call on every one I ever heerd of, to keep my principles stiddy, and keep me from sayin’ sunthin’ I should be sorry for. Sometimes when she is goin’ on for hours about “Doodle and his linement” and so forth, I set opposite to her with my knittin’ work in my hand, with no trace on the outside, of the almost fearful tempest goin’ on inside of me. There I’ll be, a bindin’ off my heel, or seamin’ two and one, or toein’ off, as the case may be; calm as a summer mornin’ on the outside, but on the inside I am a sayin’ over to myself in silent but almost piercin’ tones of soul agony: “John Rogers! Smithfield! nine children, one at the breast! Grid-irons! thum-screws! and so 4th, and so 4th!” It has a dretful good effect on me, I think over what these men endured for principle, and I will say to myself: “Josiah Allen’s wife, has not your heart almost burnt up within you a thinkin’ of these martyrs? Have you not in rapped moments had longin’s of the sole to be a martyr also? Lofty principle may boy the soul up triumphant, but there can’t be anybody burnt up without smartin’, and fire was jest as hot in them days as it is now, and no hotter. If David Doodle is the stake on which you are to be offered up, be calm Samantha—be calm.” [Illustration: WIDDER DOODLE.] So I would be a talkin’ to myself, and so she would be a goin’ on, and though I have suffered pangs that can’t be expressed about, my principles have grown more hefty from day to day. I begun to look more lofty in mean, and sometimes I have been that boyed up by hard principle, that jest to see what heights a human mind could git up on to, while the body was yet on the ground, I would begin myself about Doodle. And so, speakin’ in a martyr way, the Widder Doodle was not made in vain. She is a small boneded woman, dretful softly lookin’; and truly, her looks don’t belie her, for she seems to me _that_ soft, that if she should bump her head, I don’t see what is to hinder it from flattin’ right out like a piece of putty. I guess she was pretty good lookin’ in her day; on no other grounds can I account for it, that two men ever took after her. Her eyes are round as blue beads, and sort of surprised lookin’, she is light complected, and her mouth is dretful puckered up and drawed down. Josiah can’t bear her looks—he has told me so in confidence a number of times—but I told him I have seen wimmen that looked worse; and I have. “I have seen them that looked far better,” says he. “Who Josiah?” says I. Says he, “Father Smith’s daughter, Samantha.” Josiah thinks a sight of me, it seems to grow on him; and with me also, it is ditto and the same. [Illustration: “THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.”]