Samantha on the Woman Question by Marietta Holley (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

I felt glad to have this Senator do Serepta’s errents, but I didn’t like his looks. My land! talk about Serepta Pester bein’ disagreeable, he wuz as disagreeable as she any day. He wuz kinder tall and looked out of his eyes and wore a vest. He wuz some bald-headed, and wore a large smile all the while, it looked like a boughten one that didn’t fit him, but I won’t say it wuz. I presoom he’ll be known by this description. But his baldness didn’t look to me like Josiah Allen’s baldness, and he didn’t have the noble linement of the President, no indeed. He wuz dretful polite, good land! politeness is no name for it, but I don’t like to see anybody too good. He drawed a chair up for me and himself and asked me:

If he should have the inexpressible honor and delightful joy of aiding me in any way, if so to command him to do it or words to that effect. I can’t put down his second-hand smiles and genteel looks and don’t want to if I could.

But tacklin’ hard jobs as I always tackle ’em, I sot down calm in front of him with my umbrell on my lap and told him all of Serepta’s errents, and how I had brought ’em from Jonesville on my tower. I told over all her sufferin’s and wrongs from the Rings and from not havin’ her rights, and all her sister’s Azuba Clapsaddle’s, and her Aunt Cassandra Keeler’s, and Hulda and Drusilly’s and Abagail Flanderses injustices and sufferin’s. I did her errents as honorable as I’d love to have one done for me, I told him all the petickulars, and as I finished I said firmly:

“Now can you do Serepta Pesterses errents and will you?”

He leaned forward with that disagreeable boughten smile of hisen and took up one corner of my mantilly, it wuz cut tab fashion, and he took up the tab and said in a low insinuatin’ voice, lookin’ clost at the edge of the tab:

“Am I mistaken, or is this beautiful creation pipein’ or can it be Kensington tattin’?”

I drawed the tab back coldly and never dained a reply; agin he sez, in a tone of amiable anxiety, “Have I not heard a rumor that bangs are going out of style? I see you do not wear your lovely hair bang-like or a-pompadouris? Ah, women are lovely creatures, lovely beings, every one of ’em.” And he sithed, “You are very beautiful,” and he sithed agin, a sort of a deceitful lovesick sithe. I sot demute as the Spinks, and a chippin’ bird tappin’ his wing aginst her stuny breast would move it jest as much as he moved me by his talk or his sithes. But he kep’ on, puttin’ on a sort of a sad injured look as if my coldness wuz ondoin’ of him.

“My dear madam, it is my misfortune that the topics I introduce, however carefully selected by me, do not seem to be congenial to you. Have you a leanin’ toward Natural history, madam? Have you ever studied into the habits and traits of our American Wad?”

“What?” sez I. For truly a woman’s curosity, however parlyzed by just indignation, can stand only just so much strain. “The what?”

“The wad. The animal from which is obtained the valuable fur that tailors make so much use of.”

Sez I, “Do you mean waddin’ eight cents a sheet?”

“Eight cents a pelt—yes, the skins are plentiful and cheap, owing to the hardy habits of the animal.”

Sez I, “Cease instantly. I will hear no more.”

Truly, I had heard much of the flattery and little talk statesmen will use to wimmen, and I’d hearn of their lies, etc.; but truly I felt that the half had not been told. And then I thought out-loud and sez:

“I’ve hearn how laws of eternal right and justice are sot one side in Washington, D.C., as bein’ too triflin’ to attend to, while the Legislators pondered over and passed laws regardin’ hen’s eggs and bird’s nests. But this is goin’ too fur—too fur. But,” sez I firmly, “I shall do Serepta’s errents, and do ’em to the best of my ability, and you can’t draw off my attention from her wrongs and sufferin’s by talkin’ about wads.”

“I would love to obleege Serepta,” sez he, “because she belongs to such a lovely sect. Wimmen are the loveliest, most angelic creatures that ever walked the earth; they are perfect, flawless, like snow and roses.”

Sez I firmly, “They hain’t no such thing; they are disagreeable creeters a good deal of the time. They hain’t no better than men, but they ort to have their rights all the same. Now Serepta is disagreeable and kinder fierce actin’, and jest as humbly as they make wimmen, but that hain’t no sign she ort to be imposed upon; Josiah sez she hadn’t ort to have rights she is so humbly, but I don’t feel so.”

“Who is Josiah?” sez he.

Sez I, “My husband.”

“Ah, your husband! Yes, wimmen should have husbands instead of rights. They do not need rights; they need freedom from all cares and sufferin’. Sweet lovely beings! let them have husbands to lift them above all earthly cares and trials! Oh! angels of our homes!” sez he, liftin’ his eyes to the heavens and kinder shettin’ ’em, some as if he wuz goin’ into a spazzum. “Fly around, ye angels, in your native hants; mingle not with rings and vile laws, flee away, flee above them!”

And he kinder waved his hand back and forth in a floatin’ fashion up in the air, as if it wuz a woman flyin’ up there smooth and serene. It would have impressed some folks dretful, but it didn’t me. I sez reasonably:

“Serepta would have been glad to flew above ’em, but the Ring and the vile laws lay holt of her onbeknown to her and dragged her down. And there she is all bruised and broken-hearted by ’em. She didn’t meddle with the political Ring, but the Ring meddled with her. How can she fly when the weight of this infamous traffic is holdin’ her down?”

“Ahem!” sez he. “Ahem, as it were. As I was saying, my dear madam, these angelic angels of our homes are too ethereal, too dainty to mingle with rude crowds. We political men would fain keep them as they are now; we are willing to stand the rude buffetin’ of—of—voting, in order to guard these sweet delicate creatures from any hardships. Sweet tender beings, we would fain guard thee—ah, yes, ah, yes.”

Sez I, “Cease instantly, or my sickness will increase, for such talk is like thoroughwort or lobelia to my moral and mental stomach. You know and I know that these angelic tender bein’s, half-clothed, fill our streets on icy midnights, huntin’ up drunken husbands and fathers and sons. They are driven to death and to moral ruin by the miserable want liquor drinkin’ entails. They are starved, they are froze, they are beaten, they are made childless and hopeless by drunken husbands killin’ their own flesh and blood. They go down into the cold waves and are drowned by drunken captains; they are cast from railways into death by drunken engineers; they go up on the scaffold and die for crimes committed by the direct aid of this agent of Hell.

“Wimmen had ruther be flyin’ round than to do all this, but they can’t. If men really believed all they say about wimmen, and I think some on ’em do in a dreamy sentimental way—If wimmen are angels, give ’em the rights of angels. Who ever hearn of a angel foldin’ up her wings and goin’ to a poor-house or jail through the fault of somebody else? Who ever hearn of a angel bein’ dragged off to police court for fightin’ to defend her children and herself from a drunken husband that had broke her wings and blacked her eyes, got the angel into the fight and then she got throwed into the streets and imprisoned by it? Who ever hearn of a angel havin’ to take in washin’ to support a drunken son or father or husband? Who ever hearn of a angel goin’ out as wet-nurse to git money to pay taxes on her home to a Govermunt that in theory idolizes her, and practically despises her, and uses that money in ways abominable to that angel. If you want to be consistent, if you’re bound to make angels of wimmen, you ort to furnish a