Well--what then? manhood inquires, with his hat cocked defiantly, and his arms a-kimbo. What then? Only this: we women so wish you hadn't so disgusting and dirty a habit. Now reach out your hand, take a seat beside me, and let me talk to you about it.
In the first place, bear with a little egotism. I am not six feet high; I belong to no Woman's Rights Convention, if that be a crime in your eyes. I'm just a merry woman, four feet in stature, who would much rather love than hate everything and everybody in this lovely world, if I could; who had much rather have friends than enemies if I could, without muzzling my thoughts, or my pen.
If not--I am going to shut up my umbrella, and let the shower come. _I hate tobacco._ I am a clean creature, and it smells bad. Smells is a mild word; but I will use it, being a woman. I deny your right to smell bad in my presence, or the presence of any of our clean sisterhood. I deny your right to poison the air of our parlors, or our bed-rooms, with your breath, or your tobacco-saturated clothing, even though you _may_ be our husbands. Terrible creature! I think I hear you say; I am glad you are not my wife. So am I. How would you like it, had you arranged your parlor with dainty fingers, and were rejoicing in the sweet-scented mignonette, and violets, and heliotrope, in the pretty vase on your table--forgetting in your happiness that Bridget and Biddy had vexed your soul the greater part of the day--and in your nicely-cushioned chair, were resting your spirit even more than your body, to have a man enter, with that detestable bar-room odor, and spoil it all? Or worse: light a cigar or pipe in your very presence, and puff away as if it were the heaven to you which it appears to be to him. The "Guide to Women" would tell you that you should "let him smoke, for fear he might do worse." Suppose we try that boot on the other foot, and let women drink for the same reason? Of course you see, to begin with, that I consider woman as much an individual as her husband. With just as much right to an opinion, a taste, a smell, or a preference of any kind, as himself; and just as much right to express and maintain it, if she see fit. Now, to my belief, drinking would brutify her physically and morally no quicker than tobacco does him. Because a man is able to stand on his two legs, it does not follow that his perceptions are clear; that his temper is not irritable, or morose; that his vitality by long abuse is _not_ nearly exhausted, and that, when he should be in the prime and vigor of a glorious manhood. It does not follow that there are not empty chairs around his table, and little graves in the churchyard, for which he is responsible. It does not follow that a sharp answer, a careless indifference, has not taken the place of loving words and an earnest desire to contribute his share of sunlight in his home. When I say that tobacco _brutifies_ its devotees, I know what I am talking about. When a man carries his lighted pipe, or cigar, into the bed-room of a sick child, to whom pure air is life or death, we may infer that his selfishness in this regard has reached its climax. Or when he continues to smoke in the presence of his wife, knowing that sick headache is the sure result, we may draw the same inference. Not to mention that your smoker always selects the pleasantest window, or the best seat on a piazza, or the shadiest seat under a tree, forcing the ladies of the family, or the circle, wherever he is, to breathe this bad odor, or remove to some other locality. Nor does the bland "_I trust this is not unpleasant to you_" help the matter; while women, so much more magnanimous than men, receive this reward for their "polite" evasion of the subject.