had been a diggin’ into me, unbeknown to me as it was, went clear
through me, and come out on the other side, (the side furtherest from
sister Minkley.) Then I knew the meanin’ of the strange feelin’ I had
felt. It was Father Allen’s coat—one that had fell to Josiah. Then I
knew the meanin’ of my companion’s mysterious demeanor, as he bore the
bundle from the barn. His plottin’s the week before, and his drawin’s
onto my sympathy, to keep me from puttin’ it into the carpet rags, when
I was fairly sufferin for blue in the fancy stripe, and refrained from
takin’ it, because he said it would hurt his feelin’s so. Oh the fearful
agony of that half a moment. What a storm was a ragin’ on the inside of
my mind. But with a almost terrible effort, I controlled myself, and
kep’ considerable calm on the outside. Truly, everybody has their own
private collection of skeletons; but that haint no sign they should go
abroad in public a rattlin’ their bones; it don’t help the skeletons any
nor their owners, and it haint nothin’ highlarious and happyfyin’ to the
public. I hadn’t no idee of lettin’ sister Minkley into the
clothes-press where my skeletons hung, knowin’ that she probable had a
private assortment of her own skeletons, that she could look at
unbeknown to me.
“What made you vote the wrong ticket?” Says I, “can’t you read?”
“No,” says he, “we can’t none of us read, my father, nor my brothers;
there is nine of us in all. My father and mother was first cousins,”
says he in a confidential tone; “and the rest of my brothers don’t know
only jest enough to keep out of the fire. I am the only smart one in the
family. But,” says he, “my brothers will all do jest as father and I
tell ’em to, and they will all vote a good many times a day, every
’lection; and we are all willin’ to do the fair thing and vote for the
one that will pay us the most. But not knowin’ how to read, we git
cheated,” says he with that bitter look, “there is so much corruption in
politics now-a-days.”
“I should think as much,” says I. And almost overcome by my emotions, I
spoke my mind out loud.
“There couldn’t be much worse goin’s on, anyway, if wimmen voted.”
“Wimmen vote!” says he in a awful scornful tone. “_Wimmen!_”
“Then you don’t believe in their votin’,” says I mekanically (as it
were) for I was agitated, very.
“No I don’t,” says he, in a bold, hauty tone. “Wimmen don’t _know_
enough to vote.”
I wouldn’t contend with him, and to tell the truth, though I haint
hauty, and never was called so, I was fairly ashamed to be catched
talkin’ with him, he looked so low and worthless. And I was glad enough
that that very minute brother Wesley Minkley came up a holdin’ out his
hand, and says he:
“How do you do sister Allen, seems to me you look some cast down. How do
you feel in your mind to-day, sister Allen?”
Bein’ very truthful, I was jest a goin’ to tell him that I felt
considerable strange. But I was glad indeed that he forgot to wait for
my answer, but went on, and says he:
“I heard the words the poor man uttered as I drew near, and I must say
that although he had the outward appearance of bein’ a shack—an idiotic
shiftless shack, as you may say,—still he uttered my sentiments. We will
wave the subject, however, of wimmen’s incapacity to vote.”
Elder Minkley is a perfect gentleman at heart, and he wouldn’t for
anything, tell me right out to my face that I didn’t know enough to
vote. I too am very lady-like when I set out, and I wasn’t goin’ to be
outdone by him, so I told him in a genteel tone, that I should think he
would want to wave off the subject, after perusin’ such a specimen of
male sufferage as had jest disappeared from our vision.
[Sidenote: SENATOR VYSE AND HIS VICTIM]
“Yes,” says Elder Minkley mildly, and in a gentlemanly way, “we will
wave it off. But Senator Vyse was a sayin’ to me jest now—he has come in
to vote, and we got to talkin’, the Senator and I did, about wimmen’s
votin’; and he is bitter ag’inst it. And I believe jest as the Senator
does, that woman’s sufferage would introduce an element into politics,
that would tottle it down from the foundation of justice and purity, on
which it now firmly rests.”
I didn’t say a word, but oh! what a strange agitated feelin’ I felt, to
hear brother Minkley go on—for that very Senator Vyse he was a talkin’
about, is a disgrace to Jonesville and the world. A meaner, licentiouser
man never trod shoe leather. He lives two or three miles out of
Jonesville, in a awful big, nice place; looks like a castle; he has
troops of servants, and a colored nigger to drive his horses, and is
considered a big-bug. And truly, if meanness makes a man feel big he has
reason enough to feel. I never could bear the sight on him, though he is
called handsome, and has dretful fascinatin’ ways. Bein’ so awful rich
(he owns township after township, and heaps of money) he is made as much
of as if he was made of pure gold from head to feet. But he’ll never git
me nor Josiah to make of him; Josiah’s morals are as sound as brass.
But brother Minkley went on a talkin’, and oh! how I went on a thinkin’:
“Senator Vyse says, that the nation would be so madded to have wimmen
try to vote, that it would rise up to a man, to defend the purity of the
pole. Ah! here comes the Senator to vote; look quick, Alzina Ann! stand
up close to me, and I’ll try to introduce you.”
Oh! how reverentially, and awe-struck everybody in the store looked at
the Senator as he came a sailin’ in, a lookin’ as big and hauty as if he
owned Jonesville and the hull world. I believe they would have strewed
palm leaves in his way, if they had any palms by ’em. He stopped a
minute to speak to brother Minkley and the Elder introduced his wife to
him, with an air as if he was a settlein’ a dowery on her, that would
make her rich for life. And sister Minkley looked on to him as
awe-stricken, and admirin’ly, as if he was a entire menagery of new and
curious animals, and she beholdin’ ’em for the first time on a free
ticket. And when he reached out his hand to shake hands with her, she
acted perfectly overcome with joy.
Then brother Minkley introduced the Senator to me, with considerable the
mean as if he was makin’ me a present of a nice house and lot, all paid
for. But when that Senator reached out his hand to shake hands with
Josiah Allen’s wife, that woman, nerved completely up with principle,
jest looked at him with a stiddy lofty mean, and gripped holt of her
brown alpaca overskirt, and never touched his hand. I wouldn’t. It was
white and delicate, and a great seal ring set with diamonds glittered on
it, but it was stained with crimes blacker than murder, enough sight; I
had jest as lives laid holt of a pisen serpent.
[Illustration: INTRODUCTION TO THE SENATOR.]
I am naturally well bred, and polite in my demeanor, and the politest
way is generally the quietest way; so ruther than make a fuss, I bowed
my head a very little, mebby half or three quarters of a inch. But oh!
what a majestic look there was on my eyebrow; what a terrible rebukin’
expression curved my nostrils; what a firmness, and a icyness there sot
throned on my upper lip. He felt it. His handsome false face turned red
as blood, as I calmly replied to brother Minkley’s last words. Says I:
“I agree with you brother Minkley in what you said. I think it would be
a first-rate plan to keep impure people from the pole, male or female.
It would be apt to thin the voters out considerable; it would be apt to
make it considerable lonesome for the pole. But howsumever, I should
approve of it highly and so would Josiah.”
Truly, if the coat fits anybody, let ’em put it on freely, without money
and without price. Senator Vyse felt what I said deeply, I know he did,
for I’ll be hanged if I ever see Josiah’s face look any meachener in his
meachinest times. I then coolly turned my back to ’em and looked out of
the winder; and the Senator and brother Minkley went up towards the pole
together, for the Elder seemed to think it would be a perfect treat to
see such a big man vote. And sister Minkley followed him with her eyes,
as admirin’ly as if he was a hull circus, side show and all.
When Senator Vyse and Brother Minkley moved off toward the pole, Sister
Minkley and I was left alone. We was in a little corner by the winder,
fenced in by a high counter and still more deeply secluded by a lofty
and almost precipitous pile of rag carpetin’, that towered up on the
nigh side of us. On the off side as I said was the counter.
My body stood there a lookin’ out of the winder, but my mind was nearly
lost in thought, a wanderin’ off into a complete wilderness of strange
and conflictin’ idees; little underbrushes of puzzlin’ contradictions,
runnin’ every which way, and hedgin’ my mind almost completely up, when
it tried to soar off free and noble; great high trees of the world’s
curious beliefs, and practices, and proceedin’s, castin’ a shadder black
as night down on the ever green mosses beneath ’em all. Sometimes my
tuckered out mind would git half a minute’s rest, reclinin’ as you may
say, on them mosses, that with tender, faithful fingers, touch with the
same repose, the ruins of castle and hovel; that are ever green in
sunshine and in shade; that quietly, silently—never hastin’, never
restin’, never tirin’—make a soft piller for all tired heads alike; the
lofty, and the lowly. Sometimes, as I say, I would rest half a moment in
the thought of that tender Mercy and Compassion. And little wild flowers
of sweet thoughts and consolations, would kinder peep up at me, and
hopes, and prophecies of truth and justice would shine out like glorious
stars; and I’d git perhaps for three quarters of a moment or so, all lit
up and a feelin’ awful well. Then my mind would soar off again,
considerable of a ways, and some of them runnin’ vines of curious idees
and customs, that was a tanglin’ up the tree tops, would trip it up, and
down it would come again—all the harder from fallin’ from such a height.
Good land! what a hard time it was a havin’. All of a sudden sister
Minkley spoke up, for she too, it seems, had been a lookin’ out of the
winder, entirely unbeknown to me.
Says she, “I believe jest as Wesley and Senator Vyse does. Look at that
creeter across the street. What would become of the nation if such
things was permitted to vote?”
And she pinted with her gingham umberell across the street to a girl
that was sometimes in Jonesville, and sometimes in the city. A girl,
that every time I looked at her, made my cheeks blush with shame for
her, and my eyes brim over with tears for her. I don’t believe there was
ever a dry eye in my head when I looked at that girl, because I had
heerd her story, the hull thing, from one that knew. And that was one
very great reason, why I turned my back to Senator Vyse, and wouldn’t
touch his hand; the mean, contemptible, creeter.
[Illustration: YOUNG WOMANHOOD.]
This very girl when she was a child, was left to his care by her dyin’
mother and she grew up as pretty as a half blown rose bud, and jest as
innocent; an orphan, unbeknowin’ to the world, its glory, and its
wickedness. And he learnt it all to her, all its glory, and all its
wickedness; for she thought, innocent young lamb, that a new world of
light and glory had swung down from heaven a purpose for him and her, in
them days when he ransacked heaven and earth to find tender ways and
tender words enough to tell his love for her, his admiration for her
beauty, her brightness, her grace, her sweet confidin’ innocence. And so
he held her heart, her life in his hands, and she would have been
thankful to have laid them down for the handsome villain, if he had told
her to. And holdin’ her heart as he did, he broke it. Holdin’ her life
as he did, he ruined it. By every hellish art that could be called to
aid him, he deliberately committed this sin. Brought her down from
innocence and happiness, to ruin, wretchedness, disgrace, despair,
drink, the streets. And then he was unanimously chosen by a majority of
the people to make wise laws, such as legalizing sin and iniquity, and
other noble statutes, for the purifyin’ of the nation. And she,—why, as
she is too low and worthless for anything else, she is used as a capital
illustration to enforce the fact, that wimmen like her are too sinful to
vote.
Says I speakin’ right out, loud and very eloquent: “Sister Minkley, as
sure as there is a God in heaven, such injustice will not be permitted
to go on forever.”
I s’pose I skairt her, speakin’ out so sudden like, and she not knowin’
what performances had been a performin’ in my mind. And she murmured
again almost mekanically:
“It would be the awfulest thing I ever hearn on, for such creeters to
vote.”
Says I, “That old torment can vote can’t he, the one that brought her
where she is?”
“No doubt but what _she_ was to blame,” says sister Minkley drawin’ her
lips down in a real womanly way.
“Who said she wasn’t!” says I in real excited axents. “But this I will
contend for, that her sin compared to his, wasn’t so much as a morphine
powder to a barrell of flour.”
“She no need to have sunk down to where she is now,” says sister Minkley
speakin’ again, in a real prudent, womanly tone.
[Illustration: FALLEN.]
Says I, “Sister Minkley, when that girl found out that the man she loved
better than her own soul, that she looked up to as a God, as wimmen
will, when she found that that man had betrayed her, ruined her, do you
s’pose she had any faith left in God or man? The hull world reeled with
her, and she went down with the shock. How low she went down, you nor I
shall never know. And may the God above, who is able to keep us all from
temptation, keep your childern and mine, sister Minkley.”
“Amen!” says sister Minkley jest as solemn as if she was to
camp-meetin’. For danger never looks so dangerous, nor ruin so ruinous,
as when a mother thinks of her own childern fallin’ onto it.
Says I, “Sister Minkley when I think it might have been my Tirzah Ann,
what feelin’s I feel.”
“And jest so I feel,” says she. Sister Minkley does dretful well by her
childern, thinks a sight on ’em, and the mother in her was touched.
Says I, “Sister Minkley, that girl had a mother once. A mother’s hand to
guide her upwards—to lay on her brow when it ached. A mother’s love to
keep her from temptation. A mother’s arms to hold her from evil, from
coldness, from blame. A mother’s heart to rest on, when tired, tired out
with the world. Less try to feel for her a little as that faithful heart
would, if it wasn’t put away under the grasses.”
Says I, almost eloquently, “It don’t look well sister Minkley for
mother’s hands that have held little trustin’ baby fingers in them, to
be pinted out in mockery, or stun bruised in stunnin’ such as she. No!
rather let them be lifted up to high heavens in prayer for ’em, or
reached in help to ’em, or wipin’ away tears of pity and sorrow for ’em.
Let mothers think for one half or even one third of a moment, what if
death had unloosed their own claspin’ lovin’ hands from the baby
fingers—tender trustin’ little fingers,—and so many different hands in
the world reached out to clasp ’em, and they so weak, so confidin’, and
so woefully ignorant what hands to lay holt of, little helpless, foolish
lambs, that love guarded, love watched in safe homes, need such wise
guidance, and prayers, and tears, and watchfulness—what would become of
them wanderin’ alone in a world full of wolves, temptation, starvation,
and more’n forty other old whelps, some of the fiercest ones so covered
up with honest lookin’ wool, that the keenest spectacles are powerless
for the time bein’ to tell ’em from sheep. Little white lambs travelin’
alone so dangerous and black a road, how can they keep themselves white
unless God keeps ’em. We mothers ort to think _such_ thoughts sister
Minkley, and pray prayers daily, not alone for our own childern, but for
all of Gods little ones—for all of these poor wanderers; askin’ for
heavenly wisdom and strength to save them, win them back to a better
life.”
[Illustration: THE LITTLE INNOCENT.]
“Amen,” says sister Minkley, speakin’ up jest as prompt and serene as if
she was carryin’ on a conference meetin’. She is as well meanin’ a woman
as I ever see, and bein’ a Methodist by perswasion ‘Amens’ come jest as
natural to her as the breath she breathes. They are truly her theme; but
she means well.
Says I goin’ on and resumin’:
“After that girl gave her freshness and beauty to the little face that
lay for a few months on her bosom—dear to her, dearer to her in all her
shame and guilt, than her life, because she could see _his_ features in
it—then Senator Vyse grew tired of her.
[Illustration: GRIEF AND REMORSE.]
“And then her baby died. Perhaps God knew she was not fit to guide a
deathless life, so he took to himself the little white soul. And she
missed it. Missed the little constant hands that clung to her
trustingly—the innocent eyes that never looked at her scornfully, and
the little loving head that nestled fearlessly on her guilty breast.
[Illustration: “TOOK TO DRINKIN’.”]
“And then, the Senator bein’ very tired of her, and havin’ found a newer
face that he liked better, turned her out doors, and she went ravin’
wild, they say, run off into the woods, tried to kill herself. They took
her to the hospittle, and when she got over her wildness, she would set
by the winder all day, pale as a ghost, jest for the chance of seein’
him ridin’ by—for she couldn’t kill her love for him, that was one of
the hardest things for her; she couldn’t strangle it out no more’n she
could kneel down and pray the sun out of the sky, because she had had a
sunstroke. And what did she do to try to forget him and her agony? She
took to drinkin’, and fell lower and lower; so low, that nothin’ but
God’s mercy can ever reach down to her.”
Says I, “Her face used to be as innocent and sweet as your baby’s face,
your little Katy; and look at it now, if you want to see what this man
has done. Look at the shame there, where there used to be fearlessness
and trust; look at the wretchedness, where there used to be happiness;
look at the vicious look, the guilty look, where there was innocence and
purity; see how she is shunned and despised by those who used to love
and respect her; consider the gulf his hands have dug, deep as eternity,
between her and the old life she weeps over but can never return to. If,
when she was sweet, and innocent, and trustin’, and fitter for heaven
than she ever will be again—when she was first left to his care—he had
killed her with his own hands, it wouldn’t have been half the crime he
has done now, for then he would only have harmed her body, not her
immortal soul.
“And what seems to me the most pitiful thing, sister Minkley, is, he
ruined that girl through the best part of her nater—her trust, her
affection. Jest as a young deer is led to its death by an old panther
mockin’ the voice of its dam, jest so did this old human panther lead
this innocent young creeter astray by mockin’ the voice of love,—that
holiest of voices—lead her down to destruction through her tenderness,
her love for him. And now, after he has stole her happiness, her
innocence, her purity, her self-respect, and the respect of others, all
her earthly hopes of happiness and her hopes of heaven; after she has
lost _all_ for his sake; after he has committed this crime against her,
the greatest that man can commit, he crows over her and feels above her;
says, ‘_you_ can’t vote, but _I_ can; oh yes, I am all right because I
am a man.’ Good land! sister Minkley, how mad it makes me to see such
injustice and iniquity.”
But sister Minkley’s mind had got to travelin’ again the ways of the
world, and she spoke out in a sort of a preachin’ tone—I s’pose she
kinder catched it from Brother Minkley, unbeknown to her:
“Listen to the voice of Solomon concernin’ strange wimmen. ‘She layeth
in wait as for a prey. She increaseth the trangressions amongst men. My
son rejoice with the wife of thy youth, be thou ravished always with her
love. Beware of strange wimmen! Her feet go down to death. Her steps
take hold on hell!’”
I was agitated and almost by the side of myself, and I spoke out quick
like, before I had time to think how it would sound.
Says I, “That very same strange woman that Solomon was bewarin’ his son
about, was innocent once, and in the first on’t some man led her astray,
and I shouldn’t wonder a mite if it was old Solomon himself.”
“Good gracious!” says sister Minkley, “Why’e!”
Says I, “I mean well sister Minkley; and there can’t nobody go ahead of
me in honorin’ Solomon for what was honorable in him, and admirin’ what
was admirable in him. He bilt one of the biggest meetin’ housen’s that
ever was bilt, did lots of good, and some of his words are truly like
‘apples of gold in pitchers of silver,’ chuck full of wisdom and
goodness. But I must speak the truth if I speak at all sister Minkley,
especially where my sect is concerned. As you probable know, private
investigation into the wrongs of my sect and tryin’ to right them
wrongs, is at present my mission and my theme, (and also promiscous
advisin’.) And I must say, that I think Solomon talked to his son a
little too much about bewarin’ of strange wimmen, and exhortin’ him to
stick to the wife of his youth, when he had ten hundred wimmen by him
all the time, and then wasn’t satisfied but started off to git a couple
more—upwards of a thousand wimmen. Good gracious! sister Minkley; I
should have thought some of ’em would have looked strange to him.”
“Why sister Allen! why’e!”
“I mean well, sister Minkley; I mean first rate. And I’ll bet a cent if
you should speak your mind right out, you would say that you don’t
uphold Solomon in all his doin’s no more’n I do. He was altogether too
familiar with wimmen, Solomon was, to suit _me_. Marryin’ seven hundred
of ’em. Good land! And folks make a great fuss now-a-days if a man
marries two; claps him right into jail quicker’n a wink, and good enough
for him; he ort to go. One woman at a time is my theme, and that is the
theme of the new testament, and what that says is good enough for me or
anybody else; it is God’s own words to us sister Minkley.”
I had been dretful kinder agitated in tone, I felt so deeply what I
said. But I continued on in some milder axents, but impressive as
impressive could be—for I was a talkin’ on principle, and I keep a tone
by me all the time on purpose for that, a dretful deep, lofty, eloquent
tone; and I used it now, as I went on and proceeded.
As I said sister Minkley, I have made the subject of wimmen my theme for
quite a number of years—ever sense the black African and the mortgage on
our farm was released. I have meditated on what wimmen has done, and
what she haint done; what treatment she has received, and what she haint
received. Why sometimes, sister Minkley, when I have got onto that
theme, my mind has soared to that extent that you wouldn’t have any idee
of, if you never had seen anything done in the line of soarin’. It has
sailed back to the year one, and sailed onwards through the centuries
that lie between to that golden year we both believe in sister Minkley.
It has soared clear from the east to the west, and seen sad eyed Eastern
wimmen with veiled faces, toys, or beasts of burden, not darin’ to
uncover their faces to the free air and light of heaven, because man
willed it so. It has seen Western wimmen, long processions of savages,
the wimmen carryin’ the babies, the house, and household furniture on
their backs, while the men, unburdened and feathered out nobly, walked
in front of ’em, smoking calmly, and meditatin’ on the inferiority of
wimmen.
I never contended that wimmen was perfect, far from it. You have heerd
me say in the past, that I thought wimmen was meaner than pusly about
some things. I say so still. My mind haint changed about wimmen, nor
about pusly. But justice is what I have been a contendin’ for; justice,
and equal rights, and a fair dividin’ of the burdens of life is my
theme; and I say they haint been used well.
[Illustration: ABOUT A FAIR THING.]
Now in the year one, when Adam and Eve eat that apple, jest as quick as
Adam swallowed it—probable he most choked himself with the core, he was
in such a awful hurry to get his mouth clear, so he could lay the blame
onto Eve. “The woman did tempt me, and I did eat.”
“But thank fortin, he didn’t make out much, for Eternal Goodness, which
is God, is forever on the side of Right. And Adam and Eve—as any two ort
to be who sin together—got turned out of Eden, side by side, out of the
same gate, into the same wilderness; and the flaming sword that kept Eve
back from her old life of beauty and innocence, kept Adam back, too.
Sister Minkley, that is my theme. When two human souls turn the Eden of
their innocence into a garden of guilt, punish ’em both alike, and don’t
turn her out into the wilderness alone; don’t flash the flamin’ sword of
your righteous indignation in her eyes and not in hisen.