Mrs. Victoria B. Brown, Meet Joseph Bert Smiley

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Mrs. Victoria B. Brown, Meet Joseph Bert Smiley

There were a lot of good quips about Mrs. Vic­to­ria B. Brown’s story of her oppres­sion of her hus­band of fifty years in the Wash­ing­ton Post, the most amus­ing being Rod Dreher’s line

If some­body starts a Go Fund Me account to pay for Mr. Brown’s tab at his local bar, I’ll kick in.

I thought about doing a long essay on it, pre­sum­ing he must be a good Catholic to stay with such a woman fifty years or per­haps that she see­ing fem­i­nism cow peo­ple for most of her life is now crack­ing as it like the pre-​2004 Red­sox at the very edge of final suc­cess. I even thought of wait­ing for Robert Stacy McCain’s inevitable arti­cle using the Wash­ing­ton Post piece to bol­ster his argu­ment for men to avoid fem­i­nists but that’s when the cogs of mem­ory awoke and I recalled a poem I once read from an old dusty book in the house which I was able to find online.

It’s by a 19th Cen­tury Amer­i­can Poet named Joseph Bert Smi­ley and he not only does bet­ter than I ever would on the sub­ject but proves the point I’ve often argu­ment that times and tech­nol­ogy might change but peo­ple don’t.

For Mrs. Vic­to­ria B. Brown of Penn­syl­va­nia, I give you Joseph Bert Smiley’s clas­sic: St. Peter at the Gate:

ST. PETER stood guard at the golden gate,
With a solemn mien and an air sedate,
When up to the top of the golden stair
A man and a woman, ascend­ing there,
Applied for admis­sion. They came and stood
Before St. Peter, so great and good,
In hopes the City of Peace to win,
And asked St. Peter to let them in.

The woman was tall, and lank, and thin,
With a scraggy beadlet upon her chin; 10
The man was short, and thick, and stout;
His stom­ach was built so it rounded out;
His face was pleas­ant, and all the while
He wore a kindly and genial smile.
The choirs in the dis­tance the echoes woke,
And the man kept still while the woman spoke:

Oh, thou who guardest the gate,” said she,
“We two come hither beseech­ing thee
To let us enter the heav­enly land,
And play our harps with the angel band.
Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt—
There is noth­ing from heaven to bar me out;
I have been to meet­ings three times a week,
And almost always I’d rise and speak.
I’ve told the sin­ners about the day
When they’d repent their evil way;

I have told my neigh­bors, I have told them all,
’Bout Adam and Eve, and the pri­mal fall;
I’ve shown them what they’d have to do
If they’d pass in with the cho­sen few;
I’ve marked their path of duty clear—
Laid out the plan for their whole career;
I’ve talked and talked to ’em, loud and long,
For my lungs are good and my voice is strong.

So, good St. Peter, you’ll clearly see
The gate of heaven is open to me.
But my old man, I regret to say,
Hasn’t walked exactly the nar­row way;
He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he’s got,
And I don’t know whether he will pass or not.
He never would pray with an earnest vim,
Or go to revival, or join in a hymn;
So I had to leave him in sor­row there,
While I, with the cho­sen, united in prayer.
He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,
While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord;
And if cucum­bers were all he got,
It’s a chance if he mer­ited them or not.

But oh, St. Peter, I love him so!
To the plea­sures of heaven please let him go!
I’ve done enough — a saint I’ve been.
Won’t that atone? Can’t you let him in?
By my grim gospel I know ’tis so,
That the unre­pen­tant must fry below;
But isn’t there some way that you can see,
That he may enter who’s dear to me?
It’s a nar­row gospel by which I pray,
But the cho­sen expect to find some way
Of coax­ing, or fool­ing, or brib­ing you,
So that their rela­tion can amble through.

And say, St. Peter, it seems to me
This gate isn’t kept as it ought to be.
You ought to stand by that open­ing there,
And never sit down in that easy chair.
And say, St. Peter, my sight is dimmed,
But I don’t like the way your whiskers are trimmed;
They’re cut too wide, and out­ward toss:
They’d look bet­ter nar­rower, cut straight across.
Well, we must be going our crowns to win,
So open, St. Peter, and we’ll pass in.”

St. Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff,
But spite of his office he had to laugh;
Then said, with a fiery gleam in his eye,
“Who’s tend­ing this gate­way — you, or I?”
And then he arose in his stature tall,
And pressed a but­ton upon the wall,
And said to the imp who answered the bell,
“Escort this lady around to hell!”

The man stood still as a piece of stone—
Stood sadly, gloomily there alone;
A life­long, set­tled idea he had
That his wife was good and he was bad.
He thought, if the woman went down below,
That he would cer­tainly have to go;
That if she went to the regions dim,
There wasn’t a ghost of a show for him.
Slowly he turned, by habit bent,
To fol­low wher­ever the woman went.

St. Peter, stand­ing on duty there,
Observed that the top of his head was bare.
He called the gen­tle­man back, and said,
“Friend, how long have you been wed?”
“Thirty years” (with a weary sigh),
And then he thought­fully added, “Why?”
St. Peter was silent. With head bent down,
He raised his hand and scratched his crown;
Then, seem­ing a dif­fer­ent thought to take,
Slowly, half to him­self, he spake:
“Thirty years with that woman there?
No won­der the man hasn’t any hair!
Swear­ing is wicked, smoke’s not good.
He smoked and swore — I should think he would.
Thirty years with that tongue so sharp!
Ho, Angel Gabriel! give him a harp—
A jew­eled harp with a golden string.
Good sir, pass in where the angels sing.
Gabriel, give him a seat alone—
One with a cush­ion, up near the throne;
Call up some angels to play their best;
Let him enjoy the music in rest;
See that on finest ambrosia he feeds;
He’s had about all the hell he needs.
It isn’t just hardly the thing to do,
To roast him on earth, and the future too.”
They gave him a harp with golden strings,
A glit­ter­ing robe, with a pair of wings,
And he said, as he entered the Realm of Day,
“Well, this beats cucum­ber, any­way!”
And so the Scrip­tures had come to pass
“The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.”

There were a lot of good quips about Mrs. Victoria B. Brown’s story of her oppression of her husband of fifty years in the Washington Post, the most amusing being Rod Dreher’s line

If somebody starts a Go Fund Me account to pay for Mr. Brown’s tab at his local bar, I’ll kick in.

I thought about doing a long essay on it, presuming he must be a good Catholic to stay with such a woman fifty years or perhaps that she seeing feminism cow people for most of her life is now cracking as it like the pre-2004 Redsox at the very edge of final success.  I even thought of waiting for Robert Stacy McCain’s inevitable article using the Washington Post piece to bolster his argument for men to avoid feminists but that’s when the cogs of memory awoke and I recalled a poem I once read from an old dusty book in the house which I was able to find online.

It’s by a 19th Century American Poet named Joseph Bert Smiley and he not only does better than I ever would on the subject but proves the point I’ve often argument that times and technology might change but people don’t.

For Mrs. Victoria B. Brown of Pennsylvania, I give you Joseph Bert Smiley’s classic:  St. Peter at the Gate:

ST. PETER stood guard at the golden gate,
With a solemn mien and an air sedate,
When up to the top of the golden stair
A man and a woman, ascending there,
Applied for admission. They came and stood
Before St. Peter, so great and good,
In hopes the City of Peace to win,
And asked St. Peter to let them in.

The woman was tall, and lank, and thin,
With a scraggy beadlet upon her chin; 10
The man was short, and thick, and stout;
His stomach was built so it rounded out;
His face was pleasant, and all the while
He wore a kindly and genial smile.
The choirs in the distance the echoes woke,
And the man kept still while the woman spoke:

“Oh, thou who guardest the gate,” said she,
“We two come hither beseeching thee
To let us enter the heavenly land,
And play our harps with the angel band.
Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt—
There is nothing from heaven to bar me out;
I have been to meetings three times a week,
And almost always I’d rise and speak.
I’ve told the sinners about the day
When they’d repent their evil way;

I have told my neighbors, I have told them all,
’Bout Adam and Eve, and the primal fall;
I’ve shown them what they’d have to do
If they’d pass in with the chosen few;
I’ve marked their path of duty clear—
Laid out the plan for their whole career;
I’ve talked and talked to ’em, loud and long,
For my lungs are good and my voice is strong.

So, good St. Peter, you’ll clearly see
The gate of heaven is open to me.
But my old man, I regret to say,
Hasn’t walked exactly the narrow way;
He smokes and he swears, and grave faults he’s got,
And I don’t know whether he will pass or not.
He never would pray with an earnest vim,
Or go to revival, or join in a hymn;
So I had to leave him in sorrow there,
While I, with the chosen, united in prayer.
He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,
While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord;
And if cucumbers were all he got,
It’s a chance if he merited them or not.

But oh, St. Peter, I love him so!
To the pleasures of heaven please let him go!
I’ve done enough—a saint I’ve been.
Won’t that atone? Can’t you let him in?
By my grim gospel I know ’tis so,
That the unrepentant must fry below;
But isn’t there some way that you can see,
That he may enter who’s dear to me?
It’s a narrow gospel by which I pray,
But the chosen expect to find some way
Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you,
So that their relation can amble through.

And say, St. Peter, it seems to me
This gate isn’t kept as it ought to be.
You ought to stand by that opening there,
And never sit down in that easy chair.
And say, St. Peter, my sight is dimmed,
But I don’t like the way your whiskers are trimmed;
They’re cut too wide, and outward toss:
They’d look better narrower, cut straight across.
Well, we must be going our crowns to win,
So open, St. Peter, and we’ll pass in.”

St. Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff,
But spite of his office he had to laugh;
Then said, with a fiery gleam in his eye,
“Who’s tending this gateway—you, or I?”
And then he arose in his stature tall,
And pressed a button upon the wall,
And said to the imp who answered the bell,
“Escort this lady around to hell!”

The man stood still as a piece of stone—
Stood sadly, gloomily there alone;
A lifelong, settled idea he had
That his wife was good and he was bad.
He thought, if the woman went down below,
That he would certainly have to go;
That if she went to the regions dim,
There wasn’t a ghost of a show for him.
Slowly he turned, by habit bent,
To follow wherever the woman went.

St. Peter, standing on duty there,
Observed that the top of his head was bare.
He called the gentleman back, and said,
“Friend, how long have you been wed?”
“Thirty years” (with a weary sigh),
And then he thoughtfully added, “Why?”
St. Peter was silent. With head bent down,
He raised his hand and scratched his crown;
Then, seeming a different thought to take,
Slowly, half to himself, he spake:
“Thirty years with that woman there?
No wonder the man hasn’t any hair!
Swearing is wicked, smoke’s not good.
He smoked and swore—I should think he would.
Thirty years with that tongue so sharp!
Ho, Angel Gabriel! give him a harp—
A jeweled harp with a golden string.
Good sir, pass in where the angels sing.
Gabriel, give him a seat alone—
One with a cushion, up near the throne;
Call up some angels to play their best;
Let him enjoy the music in rest;
See that on finest ambrosia he feeds;
He’s had about all the hell he needs.
It isn’t just hardly the thing to do,
To roast him on earth, and the future too.”
They gave him a harp with golden strings,
A glittering robe, with a pair of wings,
And he said, as he entered the Realm of Day,
“Well, this beats cucumber, anyway!”
And so the Scriptures had come to pass
“The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.”