“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.
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.