A woman of genius, sir.
What if her make-up _was_ limited? What if, when she was born, nature
_was_ economizing, and gave her only one eye, and she was lame and
hump-backed, and hadn't got any eyebrows and wore a wig; what of that?
It's to her credit, _I_ say. You saw her just as she was. No airs
_there_. And in this lay the great charm of H. DEATHBURY'S character.
Looking at her closely, you would see a fixed and stony eye and a
chronic scowl, and you would say: "Disposition a little morose; some man
has soured on her." Looking at her more closely, you would see under her
right arm a common blackboard, such as is used in schools, and over her
shoulder a canvas bag containing lumps of chalk, and you would say: "A
little eccentric; likes to write on the blackboard instead of talking.
Would make a nice wife. Looks, on the whole, like a country schoolma'am,
whom the boys have stoned out of town, with the fixtures of the
school-house tied to her." But she has talents. What is she, an
authoress? "Yes, she is." But, like other authoresses, she isn't
appreciated, and has returned to her legitimate occupation, the
Wash-Tub; but still doth she itch for fame, and so, between times, she
writes verbose essays on Female Suffrage, composed during the process
known as "wringing.
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