Ingersoll said that hell would be where men played tag and harps all
day, but just a few lines here will tell about some miseries that made a
hell. When you work like a brute from morning to night, the result but
another man’s joy and delight; when your wife growls late and early,
too, and never speaks well of what you do: That’s hell!
When she runs away with another man, though she knows you are doing the
best you can, you know it’s because your pay ain’t high, but you make up
your mind that it’s best to lie; so when folks ask you the reason why,
you say her old mother is going to die. Then, lo! the old woman turns up
that night, and your neighbors say: “He’s a liar, all right.” That’s
hell.
When some one you wouldn’t let wipe your feet tells to the vultures in
the street that to gain your affections they needn’t try, that he’s the
petted gink on the sly, and some old gossip who this has heard comes
round and tells you every word, your mind and soul are filled with
dismay, but because you’re a lady there’s nothing to say. And it’s hell.
When your dress and your hat cost you five, and you sewed on them nights
when half alive, but when you wear them the neighbors smile, and say to
each other, “just see that style--catch on to the Paris gown and hat;
where did she get coin to dress like that? That rig is a mighty costly
one--and I wonder her husband don’t catch on.” You smile as you trip
through the merry throng, smarting under an awful wrong. And it’s hell!
When you marry some mother’s angel pet, who away from coddling you
cannot get, just make up your mind to find a way to bear your burden day
by day. And when his misdoings are laid to you, you’ll say this old
world is all askew. And it’s hell!