University of Virginia Library

When woman out of man was made,
Where she in ambush had been laid;
When, with Heaven's wisdom for a guide,
She crept forth from her husband's side,
Part of him, yet not all his own,
A dream of flesh and blood and bone
(And ever since has been, 'twould seem,
His cherished and evasive dream,
And—as I hardly need to mention—
The constant bone of his contention);
When, thrilled with intuition's lore,
She looked the situation o'er,
And saw how weak she was, compared
To him who with the world she shared;
Saw how each gesture of his hand
Her goings and comings might command;
Saw how, Heaven's purpose to fulfil,
Her motions leaned upon his will;
She made her mind up, that same hour,
That she must wield a different power;
That she must gain her motives' length,
By indirect and subtle strength.
And, glancing in a pool, saw she
Was so much handsomer than he,
She beauty's cord might round him tie,
And thus the lack of strength supply;
And so she made, with motive good,
Herself as handsome as she could.

Indeed (although I've sometimes thought
My thought oft thinks more than it ought)
I've thought sometimes that half the reason
She coaxed young Adam into treason
Against Divinity's command,
To take the apple from her hand,
Was her prophetic vision, staring
At herself, gorgeous dresses wearing,
When fig-trees, other trees, and all
The birds and beasts would come at call,
And by the aid of artists clever,
Would make her handsomer than ever.
Flounces and ribbons are a prize
In any regular lady's eyes;
And good appearance, in her heart,
Of good religion is a part.

This being truth, you'll easy know
Why 'tis that woman suffers so,
When nature takes a sudden whim,
And tricks her out in masculine trim,
Making her (if a little pun
Just slipped in here for my own fun
Won't lower me in your regard)
Mustached and bearded like her pard.
Some, lotions use, to stop its growth,
And peel off skin and whiskers both;
With tweezers uncombined with ruth,
Some draw them like an aching tooth;
To keep their dreadful secret sure,
Some surreptitiously procure
Razor and soap—sly, honest plan—
And meet the trouble like a man;
But each must always watch and doubt,
For fear their hair will find them out.
One such as this I knew of well
(Although her name I'd scorn to tell,
For not alone does queer old Nature's
Quaint mind have whims about our features;
We bearded ladies gossip smother,
And always stand up for each other):
This lady was a teacher fair—
A principal; and with great care
Watched close a school, it would appear did,
Composed of several girls, unbearded;
And strove, she said, they might not stray
One hair's-breadth from the narrow way.

But several neighboring student-boys,
Debarred by her from social joys,
Which they fallaciously deemed due
(The girls concurring in that view),
Marked slyly as their mischief's own,
This razor-wielding chaperon;
And in a sneaking manner then
Resolved to beard her in her den;
And on one Halloween they stole
A large and lurid barber-pole,
And, more in anger than in wit,
Beneath her window fastened it,
In such unprecedented way
'Twould not be moved till noon next day—
A target for by-passers' questions,
And sly tonsorial suggestions.
In fact, the symbol, as it proved,
Could never somehow quite be moved;
It was a shame ridiculous,
To treat a bearded lady thus!

And still if she, I can but say,
Had just let Nature have its way,
And not clipped off the strands it spun,
But helped them, as she might have done,
She could have been a first-class freak,
And made more money in a week,
Than in a whole scholastic year;—
But, then, we women folks are queer.

Until she moved some distance, where
Unknown yet was her face and hair;
And she, this guiltless shame above,
Could prosecute her work of love.
Her pupils day by day she taught
With precept kind and subtle thought,
And ne'er appeared with any trace
Of manhood on her thoughtful face;
Her mild, sharp practice not detected,
And, as she prayed, still unsuspected;
Although in various times and shapes
She'd several close hair-breadth escapes.
She did her work well as she could,
And all but rivals called it good.

And she had hoped to live her life
Alone, Industry's faithful wife;
And the staid, solemn comfort felt,
Of those to whom no man has knelt;
And who, no doubt, will e'er escape
All interference of that shape;
Was gathering fast the curious ways
That antique maiden life displays;
And settling down, the strands to weave,
Of a long quiet winter eve.

When, presto! came a comely man,
Who, by well-laid heroic plan,
And Love's sly, sinless, treacherous art,
Found means to trap her virgin heart!
And with imperious methods bland,
Humbly petitioned for her hand.

What now? Love promptly took the field,
And wildly pleaded her to yield;
Tired loneliness its woes enlarged,
And humbly begged to be discharged;
Old age peeped at her—most in sight—
And holloed “Yes!” with all his might;
Ambition made a lively speech,
Wherein he did not fail to reach
A rival maid her lover knew,
And artfully had held in view;
And Comfort—sweet her voice did blend—
Said, “Let me be your friend, my friend!”
But tired Despair, with hopeless frown,
Pointed a fateful finger down,
Where 'twixt the lovers had been laid
A sharp and fiercely gleaming blade;
And that was, as you'll easy guess,
A razor—mirror of distress!

What should she do then? Wed her lover?
Then he The Secret might discover,
And every sympathy refuse,
And she his scared affections lose.
And if she firmly answered “Nay,”
Then she would lose him anyway.
And so for weeks she vacillated
Whether to be or be not mated.

At last a bright idea occurred:
She wrote The Secret, every word,
Enclosed it to him in a letter,
And felt disconsolate, but better.
Then, like a prisoner mystery-fated,
She for his answer watched and waited.

She waited well; a week went by,
Also her hope of quick reply.
She waited long; a month appeared,
But brought no reference to her beard.
And 'twas a campaign every day,
Through student ranks to fight her way—
To train youth's talent into art,
Pipe off the gushes of the heart,
And proffer pearls of greatest price
In golden caskets of advice;
The tune of others' heart-strings taking,
The while her own were slowly breaking;
And, treading life's rough pathway o'er,
Shave regularly as before.

At last, one eve, a package came,
That bore her chaste baptismal name,
In a loved hand she knew so well!
And—let me now its contents tell:
A brush of rare and dainty mould;
A shaving-cup of purest gold;
A razor, in whose haft of jet
Large diamonds and pearls were set;
A hand-glass, whose fine ivory frame
In ruby letters bore her name;
And other things, such as form part
Of amateur tonsorial art;
Whose terms I cannot call to mind,
Using no utensils of that kind.

But maybe you have not surmised
The treasures she most dearly prized:
Her first love-letter! which contained
This flood of passion unrestrained:
“Dearest of maids! I now unfold
A secret until here untold:
When those wild students basely reared
A monument unto your beard,
Thus laying on your shrinking soul
A large ten-dollar barber-pole,
I was the barber, and reveal it,
From whom the scamps bought leave to steal it.
But seeing you bore with such sweet grace
Those coarse allusions to your face,
How bravely you ignored the slur,
How patient, meek, and kind you were,
And yet how like a stricken deer
You fled in grief, if not in fear,
I loved you deeply, and pursued;
Found, met, loved better still, and wooed.
Your facial gifts I loved—not braved;
Besides, you see, my mother shaved.
And, life being made financial summer
By uncle's death (a cold-snap plumber),
My being's sole object, I confess,
Is your joy, peace, and happiness.
Knowing the fact your letter stated,
Still for your word I hoped and waited;
And see you now one whose sweet heart
Would nothing keep from me apart.”

They married; and, in checkered cheer,
Lived happily for many a year.
She proved a solace in his life—
A faithful, kind, instructive wife;
And he from earth's rude contact saved her,
And every morning neatly shaved her.