Reading the American Past: Printed Page 242

DOCUMENT 12–5

A Farmer's View of His Wife

Widespread assumptions about the proper relations between husband and wife emerged from a conversation Eliza Farnham had with a newly married farmer on an Illinois riverboat. Born in New York, Farnham described her conversation in Life in Prairie Land (1846), a book about her experiences in Illinois in the late 1830s, shortly after her marriage. Farnham's account of the conversation disclosed her own views as well as those of the farmer.

Eliza Farnham

Conversation with a Newly Wed Westerner, 1846

The strange character of the feeling manifested by [the] husband, made me very desirous of drawing him into an expression of it in words before he left us, and as their landing-place would probably be reached on the third morning, I availed myself of a chance meeting . . . to engage him in conversation. A few words about the height of the water, the timber, and the prairies, served the purpose.

“You are going to become a prairie farmer?” I said.

“No, I've been one afore, I've got a farm up the river hyur that I've crapped twice a'ready; there's a good cabin on it, and it's about as good a place, I reckon, as can be found in these diggins.”

“Then you built a cage,” I said, “and went back for your bird to put in it?”

He looked at me, and his face underwent a contortion, of which words will convey but a faint idea. It was a mingled expression of pride and contempt, faintly disguised by a smile that was intended to hide them.

“Why, I don't know what you Yankees call a bird,” he replied, “but I call her a woman. I shouldn't make much account of havin a bird in my cabin, but a good, stout woman I should calculate was worth somethin. She can pay her way, and do a handsome thing besides, helpin me on the farm.”

Think of that, ye belles and fair-handed maidens! How was my sentiment rebuked!

“Well, we'll call her a woman, which is, in truth, much the more rational appellation. You intend to make her useful as well as ornamental to your home?”

“Why, yes; I calculate 'taint of much account to have a woman if she ain't of no use. I lived up hyur two year, and had to have another man's woman do all my washin and mendin and so on, and at last I got tired o' totin my plunder back and forth, and thought I might as well get a woman of my own. There's a heap of things beside these, that she'll do better than I can, I reckon; every man ought to have a woman to do his cookin and such like, 'kase it's easier for them than it is for us. They take to it kind o' naturally.”

I could scarcely believe that there was no more human vein in the animal, and determined to sound him a little deeper.

“And this bride of yours is the one, I suppose, that you thought of all the while you were making your farm and building your cabin? You have, I dare say, made a little garden, or set out a tree, or done something of the kind to please her alone?”

“No, I never allowed to get a woman till I found my neighbors went ahead of me with 'em, and then I should a got one right thar, but there wasn't any stout ones in our settlement, and it takes so long to make up to a stranger, that I allowed I mought as well go back and see the old folks, and git somebody that I know'd thar to come with me.”

“And had you no choice made among your acquaintances? was there no one person of whom you thought more than another?” said I.

“Yas, there was a gal I used to know that was stouter and bigger than this one. I should a got her if I could, but she'd got married and gone off over the Massissippi, somewhar.”

The cold-hearted fellow! it was a perfectly business matter with him.

“Did you select this one solely on account of her size?” said I.

“Why, pretty much,” he replied; “I reckon women are some like horses and oxen, the biggest can do the most work, and that's what I want one for.”

“And is that all?” I asked, more disgusted at every word. “Do you care nothing about a pleasant face to meet you when you go home from the field, or a soft voice to speak kind words when you are sick, or a gentle friend to converse with you in your leisure hours?”

“Why, as to that,” he said. “I reckon a woman ain't none the worse for talk because she's stout and able to work. I calculate she'll mind her own business pretty much, and if she does she won't talk a great deal to me; that ain't what I got her for.”

“But suppose when you get home she should be unhappy, and want to see her parents and other friends?”

“Why I don't allow she will; I didn't get her for that. ... I shall give her enough to eat and wear, and I don't calculate she'll be very daunsey if she gets that; if she is she'll git shet of it after a while.”

My indignation increased at every word.

“But you brought her away from her home to be treated as a human being, not as an animal or machine. Marriage is a moral contract, not a mere bargain of business. The parties promise to study each other's happiness, and endeavor to promote it. You could not marry a woman as you could buy a washing machine, though you might want her for the same purpose. If you take the machine there is no moral obligation incurred, except to pay for it. If you take the woman, there is. Before you entered into this contract I could have shown you a machine that would have answered your purpose admirably. It would have washed and ironed all your clothes, and when done, stood in some out-of-the-way corner till it was wanted again. You would have been under no obligation, not even to feed and clothe it, as you now are. It would have been the better bargain, would it not?”

“Why that would be according to what it cost in the fust place; but it wouldn't be justly the same thing as havin a wife, I reckon, even if it was give to you.”

“No, certainly not; it would free you from many obligations that you are under to a wife” (it was the first time, by the way, he had used the word), “and leave you to pursue your own pleasure without seeing any sorrowful or sour faces about you.”

“Oh, I calculate sour faces won't be of much account to me. If a woman'll mind her business, she may look as thunderin as a live airthquake, I shan't mind it. ... I reckon the Yankees may do as they like about them things, and I shall do jist the same. I don't think a woman's of much account anyhow, if she can't help herself a little and me too. If the Yankee women was raised up like the women here aar, they'd cost a heap less and be worth more.”

I turned away, saying that I trusted his wife would agree with him in these opinions, or they might lead to some unpleasant differences.

“Oh, as to that,” said he, “I reckon her pinions won't go fur anyhow; she'll think pretty much as I do, or not at all.”

From Eliza Farnham, Life in Prairie Land (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1846).

Questions for Reading and Discussion