One bright, beautiful day, I had got my mornin’s work all done up, and had sot doun to double some carpet yarn, and Josiah sot behind the stove, blackin’ his boots, when Betsey come in for a mornin’s call. She hadn’t sot but a few minutes when says she,
“I saw you was not doun to the lecture night before last, Josiah Allen’s wife. I was sorry that I attended to it, but my uncle’s people where I was visitin’ went, and so I went with them. But I did not like it, I do not believe in wimmin’s havin’ any rights. I think it is real bold and unwomanly in her to want any rights. I think it is not her speah, as I remarked last night to our deah New Preacher. As we was a coming out, afteh the lecture, the fringe of my shawl ketched on to one of the buttons of his vest, and he could not get it off—and I did not try to, I thought it was not my place—so we was obleeged to walk close togatheh, cleah through the hall, and as I said to him, afteh I had enquired if he did not find it very lonesome here, says I, ‘It is not wimmin’s speah to vote,’ and says I, ‘do you not think it is woman’s nature naturally to be clingin’?’ ‘I do,’ says he, ‘Heaven knows I do.’ And he leaned back with such a expression of stern despaih on to his classic features, that I knew he felt it strongly. And I said the truth. I do not believe wimmin ought to vote.”
“Nor I nuther,” says Josiah, “she haint got the rekrisite strength to vote, she is too fraguile.”
Jest at this minute the boy that draws the milk came along, and Josiah, says he to me, “I am in my stockin’ feet, Samantha, can’t you jest step out and help Thomas Jefferson on with the can?”
Says I, “If I am too fraguile to handle a paper vote, Josiah Allen, I am too fraguile to lift 100 and 50 pounds of milk.”
He didn’t say nothin’, but he slipped on his rubbers and started out, and Betsey resumed, “It is so revoltin’ to female delicacy to go to the poles and vote; most all of the female ladies that revolve around in the high circles of Jonesville aristocracy agree with me in thinkin’ it is real revoltin’ to female delicacy to vote.”
FEMALE DELICACY
“Female delicacy!” says I, in a austeer tone. “Is female delicacy a plant that withers in the shadder of the pole, but flourishes in every other condition only in the shadder of the pole?” says I in a tone of witherin’ scorn. “Female delicacy flourishes in a ball room, where these sensitive creeters with dresses on indecently low in the neck, will waltz all night with strange men’s arms round their waists,” says I. “You have as good as throwed it in my face, Betsey Bobbet, that I haint a modest woman, or I would be afraid to go and vote; but you ketch me with a low neck dress on, Betsey Bobbet, and you will ketch me on my way to the Asylum, and there haint a old deacon, or minister, or presidin’ Elder in the Methodist church, that could get me to waltz with ’em, let alone waltzin’ with promiscuus sinners. And,” says I in the deep, calm tone of settled principle, “if you don’t believe it, bring on your old deacons and ministers, and presidin’ Elders, and try me.”
“You are gettin’ excited, Samantha,” says Josiah.