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.
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.