“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 free safe place for ’em to soar in. You ort to keep the angels from bein’ tormented and bruised and killed, etc.”