University of Virginia Library

MR. EDITOR,—If you ever read
the “Burroak Banner” (which you
will find among your exchanges, as
the editor publishes your prospectus
for six weeks every year, and
sends no bill to you) my name will
not be that of a stranger. Let me throw aside all affectation
of humility, and say that I hope it is already and not
unfavorably familiar to you. I am informed by those who
claim to know that the manuscripts of obscure writers are
passed over by you editors without examination—in short,
that I must first have a name, if I hope to make one. The
fact that an article of three hundred and seventy-five
pages, which I sent, successively, to the “North American
Review,” the “Catholic World,” and the “Radical,”
was in each case returned to me with my knot on the tape
by which it was tied, convinces me that such is indeed the
case. A few years ago I should not have meekly submitted
to treatment like this; but late experiences have
taught me the vanity of many womanly dreams.

You are acquainted with the part I took (I am sure
you must have seen it in the “Burroak Banner” eight
years ago) in creating that public sentiment in our favor
which invested us with all the civil and political rights of
men. How the editors of the “Revolution,” to which I
subscribe, and the conventions in favor of the equal rights
of women, recently held in Boston and other cities, have
failed to notice our noble struggle, is a circumstance for
which I will not try to account. I will only say—and it is
a hint which some persons will understand—that there are
other forms of jealousy than those which spring from love.

It is, indeed, incredible that so little is known, outside
the State of Atlantic, of the experiment—I mean the
achievement—of the last eight years. While the war
lasted, we did not complain that our work was ignored;
but now that our sisters in other States are acting as if in
complete unconsciousness of what we have done—now
that we need their aid and they need ours (but in different
ways), it is time that somebody should speak. Were
Selina Whiston living, I should leave the task to her pen;
she never recovered from the shock and mortification of
her experiences in the State Legislature, in '64—but I
will not anticipate the history. Of all the band of female
iconoclasts, as the Hon. Mr. Screed called us in jest—
it was no jest afterwards, his image being the first to go
down—of all, I say, “some are married, and some are
dead,” and there is really no one left so familiar with the
circumstances as I am, and equally competent to give a
report of them.

Mr. Spelter (the editor of the “Burroak Banner”)
suggests that I must be brief, if I wish my words to reach
the ears of the millions for whom they are designed; and
I shall do my best to be so. If I were not obliged to begin
at the very beginning, and if the interests of Atlantic
had not been swallowed up, like those of other little States,
in the whirlpool of national politics, I should have much
less to say. But if Mr. George Fenian Brain and Mrs.
Candy Station do not choose to inform the public of either
the course or the results of our struggle, am I to blame?
If I could have attended the convention in Boston, and
had been allowed to speak—and I am sure the distinguished
Chairwoman would have given me a chance—it
would have been the best way, no doubt, to set our case
before the world.

I must first tell you how it was that we succeeded in
forcing the men to accept our claims, so much in advance
of other States. We were indebted for it chiefly to the
skill and adroitness of Selina Whiston. The matter had
been agitated, it is true, for some years before, and as
early as 1856, a bill, drawn up by Mrs. Whiston herself,
had been introduced into the Legislature, where it received
three votes. Moreover, we had held meetings
in almost every election precinct in the State, and our Annual
Fair (to raise funds) at Gaston, while the Legislature
was in session, was always very brilliant and successful.
So the people were not entirely unprepared.

Although our State had gone for Fremont in 1856, by
a small majority, the Democrats afterwards elected their

Governor; and both parties, therefore, had hopes of success
in 1860. The canvass began early, and was very
animated. Mrs. Whiston had already inaugurated the
custom of attending political meetings, and occasionally
putting a question to the stump orator—no matter of which
party; of sometimes, indeed, taking the stump herself,
after the others had exhausted their wind. She was very
witty, as you know, and her stories were so good and so
capitally told, that neither Democrat nor Republican
thought of leaving the ground while she was upon the stand.

Now, it happened that our Congressional District was
one of the closest. It happened, also, that our candidate
(I am a Republican, and so is Mr. Strongitharm) was
rather favorably inclined to the woman's cause. It happened,
thirdly—and this is the seemingly insignificant
pivot upon which we whirled into triumph—that he, Mr.
Wrangle, and the opposing candidate, Mr. Tumbrill, had
arranged to hold a joint meeting at Burroak. This meeting
took place on a magnificent day, just after the oats-harvest;
and everybody, for twenty miles around, was
there. Mrs. Whiston, together with Sarah Pincher,
Olympia Knapp, and several other prominent advocates
of our cause, met at my house in the morning; and we
all agreed that it was time to strike a blow. The rest of
us magnanimously decided to take no part in the concerted
plan, though very eager to do so. Selina Whiston declared
that she must have the field to herself; and when
she said that, we knew she meant it.

It was generally known that she was on the ground.

In fact, she spent most of the time while Messrs. Wrangle
and Tumbrill were speaking, in walking about through
the crowds—so after an hour apiece for the gentlemen,
and then fifteen minutes apiece for a rejoinder, and the
Star Spangled Banner from the band, for both sides, we
were not a bit surprised to hear a few cries of “Whiston!”
from the audience. Immediately we saw the compact
gray bonnet and brown serge dress (she knew what would
go through a crowd without tearing!) splitting the wedge
of people on the steps leading to the platform. I noticed
that the two Congressional candidates looked at each
other and smiled, in spite of the venomous charges they
had just been making.

Well—I won't attempt to report her speech, though it
was her most splendid effort (as people will say, when it
was no effort to her at all). But the substance of it was
this: after setting forth woman's wrongs and man's tyranny,
and taxation without representation, and an equal chance,
and fair-play, and a struggle for life (which you know all
about from the other conventions), she turned squarely
around to the two candidates and said:

“Now to the practical application. You, Mr. Wrangle,
and you, Mr. Tumbrill, want to be elected to Congress.
The district is a close one: you have both counted the
votes in advance (oh, I know your secrets!) and there
isn't a difference of a hundred in your estimates. A very
little will turn the scale either way. Perhaps a woman's
influence—perhaps my voice—might do it. But I will
give you an equal chance. So much power is left to

woman, despite what you withhold, that we, the women
of Putnam, Shinnebaug, and Rancocus counties, are able
to decide which of you shall be elected. Either of you
would give a great deal to have a majority of the intelligent
women of the District on your side: it would already
be equivalent to success. Now, to show that we understand
the political business from which you have excluded
us—to prove that we are capable of imitating the
noble example of men—we offer to sell our influence, as
they their votes, to the highest bidder!”

There was great shouting and cheering among the
people at this, but the two candidates, somehow or other,
didn't seem much amused.

“I stand here,” she continued, “in the interest of my
struggling sisters, and with authority to act for them.
Which of you will bid the most—not in offices or material
advantages, as is the way of your parties, but in the way
of help to the Woman's Cause? Which of you will here
publicly pledge himself to say a word for us, from now
until election-day, whenever he appears upon the stump?',

There was repeated cheering, and cries of “Got 'em
there!” (Men are so vulgar).

I pause for a reply. Shall they not answer me?” she
continued, turning to the audience.

“Then there were tremendous cries of “Yes! yes!
Wrangle! Tumbrill!”

Mr. Wrangle looked at Mr. Tumbrill, and made a
motion with his head, signifying that he should speak.
Then Mr. Tumbrill looked at Mr. Wrangle, and made a

motion that he should speak. The people saw all this,
and laughed and shouted as if they would never finish.

Mr. Wrangle, on second thoughts (this is my private
surmise), saw that boldness would just then be popular;
so he stepped forward.

“Do I understand,” he said, “that my fair and eloquent
friend demands perfect political and civil equality
for her sex?”

“I do!” exclaimed Selina Whiston, in her firmest
manner.

“Let me be more explicit,” he continued. “You
mean precisely the same rights, the same duties, the
same obligations, the same responsibilities?”

She repeated the phrases over after him, affirmatively,
with an emphasis which I never heard surpassed.

“Pardon me once more,” said Mr. Wrangle; “the
right to vote, to hold office, to practise law, theology,
medicine, to take part in all municipal affairs, to sit on
juries, to be called upon to aid in the execution of the
law, to aid in suppressing disturbances, enforcing public
order, and performing military duty?”

Here there were loud cheers from the audience; and
a good many voices cried out: “Got her there!” (Men
are so very vulgar.)

Mrs. Whiston looked troubled for a moment, but she
saw that a moment's hesitation would be fatal to our
scheme, so she brought out her words as if each one
were a maul-blow on the butt-end of a wedge:

“All—that—we—demand!”

“Then,” said Mr. Wrangle, “I bid my support in
exchange for the women's! Just what the speaker demands,
without exception or modification—equal privileges,
rights, duties and obligations, without regard to
the question of sex! Is that broad enough?”

I was all in a tremble when it came to that. Somehow
Mr. Wrangle's acceptance of the bid did not inspire
me, although it promised so much. I had anticipated
opposition, dissatisfaction, tumult. So had Mrs.
Whiston, and I could see, and the crowd could see, that
she was not greatly elated.

Mr. Wrangle made a very significant bow to Mr.
Tumbrill, and then sat down. There were cries of
“Tumbrill!” and that gentleman—none of us, of course,
believing him sincere, for we knew his private views—
came forward and made exactly the same pledge. I will
do both parties the justice to say that they faithfully kept
their word; nay, it was generally thought the repetition
of their brief pleas for woman, at some fifty meetings
before election came, had gradually conducted them to
the belief that they were expressing their own personal
sentiments. The mechanical echo in public thus developed
into an opinion in private. My own political
experience has since demonstrated to me that this is a
phenomenon very common among men.

The impulse generated at that meeting gradually
spread all over the State. We—the leaders of the
Women's Movement—did not rest until we had exacted
the same pledge from all the candidates of both parties;

and the nearer it drew towards election-day, the more
prominence was given, in the public meetings, to the
illustration and discussion of the subject. Our State
went for Lincoln by a majority of 2763 (as you will find
by consulting the “Tribune Almanac”), and Mr. Wrangle
was elected to Congress, having received a hundred and
forty-two more votes than his opponent. Mr. Tumbrill
has always attributed his defeat to his want of courage
in not taking up at once the glove which Selina Whiston
threw down.

I think I have said enough to make it clear how the
State of Atlantic came to be the first to grant equal civil
and political rights to women. When the Legislature of
1860-'61 met at Gaston, we estimated that we might
count upon fifty-three out of the seventy-one Republican
Senators and Assemblymen, and on thirty-four out of the
sixty-five Democrats. This would give a majority of
twenty-eight in the House, and ten in the Senate. Should
the bill pass, there was still a possibility that it might be
vetoed by the Governor, of whom we did not feel sure.
We therefore arranged that our Annual Fair should be
held a fortnight later than usual, and that the proceeds
(a circumstance known only to the managers) should be
devoted to a series of choice suppers, at which we entertained,
not only the Governor and our friends in both
Houses, but also, like true Christians, our legislatorial
enemies. Olympia Knapp, who, you know, is so very
beautiful, presided at these entertainments. She put
forth all her splendid powers, and with more effect than

any of us suspected. On the day before the bill reached
its third reading, the Governor made her an offer of
marriage. She came to the managers in great agitation,
and laid the matter before them, stating that she was
overwhelmed with surprise (though Sarah Pincher always
maintained that she wasn't in the least), and asking their
advice. We discussed the question for four hours, and
finally decided that the interests of the cause would
oblige her to accept the Governor's hand. “Oh, I am so
glad!” cried Olympia, “for I accepted him at once.” It
was a brave, a noble deed!

Now, I would ask those who assert that women are
incapable of conducting the business of politics, to say
whether any set of men, of either party, could have
played their cards more skilfully? Even after the
campaign was over we might have failed, had it not been
for the suppers. We owed this idea, like the first, to the
immortal Selina Whiston. A lucky accident—as momentous
in its way as the fall of an apple to Newton, or
the flying of a kite to Dr. Franklin—gave her the secret
principle by which the politics of men are directed. Her
house in Whittletown was the half of a double frame
building, and the rear-end of the other part was the
private office of—but no, I will not mention the name—
a lawyer and a politician. He was known as a “wire-puller,”
and the other wire-pullers of his party used to
meet in his office and discuss matters. Mrs. Whiston
always asserted that there was a mouse-hole through the
partition; but she had energy enough to have made a
hole herself, for the sake of the cause.

She never would tell us all she overheard. “It is
enough,” she would say, “that I know how the thing is
done.”

I remember that we were all considerably startled when
she first gave us an outline of her plan. On my saying
that I trusted the dissemination of our principles would
soon bring us a great adhesion, she burst out with:

“Principles! Why if we trust to principles, we shall
never succeed! We must rely upon influences, as the
men do; we must fight them with their own weapons,
and even then we are at a disadvantage, because we cannot
very well make use of whiskey and cigars.”

We yielded, because we had grown accustomed to be
guided by her; and, moreover, we had seen, time and
again, how she could succeed—as, for instance, in the
Nelson divorce case (but I don't suppose you ever heard
of that), when the matter seemed nigh hopeless to all of
us. The history of 1860 and the following winter proves
that in her the world has lost a stateswoman. Mr.
Wrangle and Governor Battle have both said to me
that they never knew a measure to be so splendidly engineered
both before the public and in the State Legislature.

After the bill had been passed, and signed by the
Governor, and so had become a law, and the grand
Women's Jubilee had been held at Gaston, the excitement
subsided. It would be nearly a year to the next
State election, and none of the women seemed to care
for the local and municipal elections in the spring. Besides,

there was a good deal of anxiety among them in
regard to the bill, which was drawn up in almost
the exact terms used by Mr. Wrangle at the political
meeting. In fact, we always have suspected that he
wrote it. The word “male” was simply omitted from
all laws. “Nothing is changed,” said Mrs. Whiston,
quoting Charles X., “there are only 201,758 more citizens
in Atlantic!”

This was in January, 1861, you must remember;
and the shadow of the coming war began to fall over
us. Had the passage of our bill been postponed a
fortnight it would have been postponed indefinitely, for
other and (for the men) more powerful excitements followed
one upon the other. Even our jubilee was thinly
attended, and all but two of the members on whom
we relied for speeches failed us. Governor Battle, who
was to have presided, was at Washington, and Olympia,
already his wife, accompanied him. (I may add that she
has never since taken any active part with us. They
have been in Europe for the last three years.)

Most of the women—here in Burroak, at least—expressed
a feeling of disappointment that there was no
palpable change in their lot, no sense of extended liberty,
such as they imagined would come to transform them
into brighter and better creatures. They supposed that
they would at once gain in importance in the eyes of the
men; but the men were now so preoccupied by the
events at the South that they seemed to have forgotten
our political value. Speaking for myself, as a good

Union woman, I felt that I must lay aside, for a time, the
interests of my sex. Once, it is true, I proposed to
accompany Mr. Strongitharm to a party caucus at the
Wrangle House; but he so suddenly discovered that he
had business in another part of the town, that I withdrew
my proposition.

As the summer passed over, and the first and second
call for volunteers had been met, and more than met, by
the patriotic men of the State (how we blessed them!)
we began to take courage, and to feel, that if our new
civil position brought us no very tangible enjoyment,
at least it imposed upon us no very irksome duties.

The first practical effect of the new law came to light
at the August term of our County Court. The names of
seven women appeared on the list of jurors, but only
three of them answered to their names. One, the wife of
a poor farmer, was excused by the Judge, as there was no
one to look after six small children in her absence;
another was a tailoress, with a quantity of work on hand,
some of which she proposed bringing with her into Court,
in order to save time; but as this could not be allowed,
she made so much trouble that she was also finally let
off. Only one, therefore, remained to serve; fortunately
for the credit of our sex, she was both able and willing
to do so; and we afterward made a subscription, and
presented her with a silver fish-knife, on account of her
having tired out eleven jurymen, and brought in a verdict
of $5,000 damages against a young man whom she convicted
of seduction. She told me that no one would ever

know what she endured during those three days; but the
morals of our county have been better ever since.

Mr. Spelter told me that his State exchanges showed
that there had been difficulties of the same kind in all the
other counties. In Mendip (the county-town of which is
Whittletown, Mrs. Whiston's home) the immediate result
had been the decision, on the part of the Commissioners,
to build an addition at the rear of the Court-House, with
large, commodious and well-furnished jury-rooms, so
arranged that a comfortable privacy was secured to the
jury-women. I did my best to have the same improvement
adopted here, but, alas! I have not the ability of
Selina Whiston in such matters, and there is nothing to
this day but the one vile, miserable room, properly furnished
in no particular except spittoons.

The nominating Conventions were held in August,
also, and we were therefore called upon to move at once,
in order to secure our fair share. Much valuable time
had been lost in discussing a question of policy, namely,
whether we should attach ourselves to the two parties
already in existence, according to our individual inclinations,
or whether we should form a third party for ourselves.
We finally accepted the former proposition, and
I think wisely; for the most of us were so ignorant of
political tricks and devices, that we still needed to learn
from the men, and we could not afford to draw upon us
the hostility of both parties, in the very infancy of our
movement.

Never in my life did I have such a task, as in drumming,

a few women to attend the primary township meeting
ing for the election of delegates. It was impossible to make
them comprehend its importance. Even after I had done
my best to explain the technicalities of male politics, and
fancied that I had made some impression, the answer
would be: “Well, I'd go, I'm sure, just to oblige you,
but then there's the tomatoes to be canned”—or, “I'm so
behindhand with my darning and patching”—or, “John 'll
be sure to go, and there's no need of two from the same
house”—and so on, until I was mightily discouraged.
There were just nine of us, all told, to about a hundred
men. I won't deny that our situation that night, at the
Wrangle House, was awkward and not entirely agreeable.
To be sure the landlord gave us the parlor, and most of
the men came in, now and then, to speak to us; but
they managed the principal matters all by themselves, in
the bar-room, which was such a mess of smoke and stale
liquor smells, that it turned my stomach when I ventured
in for two minutes.

I don't think we should have accomplished much, but
for a 'cute idea of Mrs. Wilbur, the tinman's wife. She
went to the leaders, and threatened them that the women's
vote should be cast in a body for the Democratic candidates,
unless we were considered in making up the ticket.
That helped: the delegates were properly instructed, and
the County Convention afterward nominated two men and
one woman as candidates for the Assembly. That woman
was—as I need hardly say, for the world knows it—myself.
I had not solicited the honor, and therefore could

not refuse, especially as my daughter Melissa was then
old enough to keep house in my absence. No woman
had applied for the nomination for Sheriff, but there were
seventeen schoolmistresses anxious for the office of
County Treasurer. The only other nomination given to
the women, however, was that of Director (or rather, Directress)
of the Poor, which was conferred on Mrs. Bassett,
wife of a clergyman.

Mr. Strongitharm insisted that I should, in some wise,
prepare myself for my new duties, by reading various political
works, and I conscientiously tried to do so—but,
dear me! it was much more of a task than I supposed.
We had all read the debate on our bill, of course; but I
always skipped the dry, stupid stuff about the tariff, and
finance, and stay laws and exemption laws, and railroad
company squabbles; and for the life of me I can't see, to
this day, what connection there is between these things
and Women's Rights. But, as I said, I did my best,
with the help of Webster's Dictionary; although the further
I went the less I liked it.

As election-day drew nearer, our prospects looked
brighter. The Republican ticket, under the editorial
head of the “Burroak Banner,” with my name and Mrs.
Bassett's among the men's, was such an evidence, that
many women, notably opposed to the cause, said: “We
didn't want the right, but since we have it, we shall make
use of it.” This was exactly what Mrs. Whiston had foretold.
We estimated that—taking the County tickets all
over the State—we had about one-twentieth of the Republican

and one-fiftieth of the Democratic, nominations.
This was far from being our due, but still it was a good
beginning.

My husband insisted that I should go very early to
the polls. I could scarcely restrain a tear of emotion as
I gave my first ballot into the hands of the judges. There
were not a dozen persons present, and the act did not
produce the sensation which I expected. One man cried
out: “Three cheers for our Assemblywoman!” and they
gave them; and I thereupon returned home in the best
spirits. I devoted the rest of the day to relieving poorer
women, who could not have spared the time to vote, if I
had not, meanwhile, looked after their children. The last
was Nancy Black, the shoemaker's wife in our street, who
kept me waiting upon her till it was quite dark. When
she finally came, the skirt of her dress was ripped nearly
off, her hair was down and her comb broken; but
she was triumphant, for Sam Black was with her, and
sober. “The first time since we were married, Mrs.
Strongitharm!” she cried. Then she whispered to me,
as I was leaving: “And I've killed his vote, anyhow!”

When the count was made, our party was far ahead.
Up to this time, I think, the men of both parties had believed
that only a few women, here and there, would
avail themselves of their new right—but they were
roundly mistaken. Although only ten per cent. of the
female voters went to the polls, yet three-fourths of them
voted the Republican ticket, which increased the majority
of that party, in the State, about eleven thousand.

It was amazing what an effect followed this result.
The whole country would have rung with it, had we not
been in the midst of war. Mr. Wrangle declared that he
had always been an earnest advocate of the women's
cause. Governor Battle, in his next message, congratulated
the State on the signal success of the experiment,
and the Democratic masses, smarting under their defeat,
cursed their leaders for not having been sharp enough
to conciliate the new element. The leaders themselves
said nothing, and in a few weeks the rank and file recovered
their cheerfulness. Even Mrs. Whiston, with all her
experience, was a little puzzled by this change of mood.
Alas! she was far from guessing the correct explanation.

It was a great comfort to me that Mrs. Whiston was
also elected to the Legislature. My husband had just
then established his manufactory of patent self-scouring
knife-blades (now so celebrated), and could not leave;
so I was obliged to go up to Gaston all alone, when the
session commenced. There were but four of us Assemblywomen,
and although the men treated us with great
courtesy, I was that nervous that I seemed to detect
either commiseration or satire everywhere. Before I had
even taken my seat, I was addressed by fifteen or twenty
different gentlemen, either great capitalists, or great engineers,
or distinguished lawyers, all interested in various
schemes for developing the resources of our State by new
railroads, canals or ferries. I then began to comprehend
the grandeur of the Legislator's office. My voice could
assist in making possible these magnificent improvements,

and I promised it to all. Mr. Filch, President of the
Shinnebaug and Great Western Consolidated Line, was
so delighted with my appreciation of his plan for reducing
the freight on grain from Nebraska, that he must have
written extravagant accounts of me to his wife; for she
sent me, at Christmas, one of the loveliest shawls I ever
beheld.

I had frequently made short addresses at our public
meetings, and was considered to have my share of self-possession;
but I never could accustom myself to the
keen, disturbing, irritating atmosphere of the Legislature.
Everybody seemed wide-awake and aggressive, instead
of pleasantly receptive; there were so many “points of
order,” and what not; such complete disregard, among
the members, of each other's feelings; and, finally—a
thing I could never understand, indeed—such inconsistency
and lack of principle in the intercourse of the two
parties. How could I feel assured of their sincerity, when
I saw the very men chatting and laughing together, in
the lobbies, ten minutes after they had been facing each
other like angry lions in the debate?

Mrs. Whiston, also, had her trials of the same character.
Nothing ever annoyed her so much as a little
blunder she made, the week after the opening of the session.
I have not yet mentioned that there was already a
universal dissatisfaction among the women, on account
of their being liable to military service. The war seemed
to have hardly begun, as yet, and conscription was already
talked about; the women, therefore, clamored for an exemption

on account of sex. Although we all felt that this
was a retrograde movement, the pressure was so great that
we yielded. Mrs. Whiston, reluctant at first, no sooner
made up her mind that the thing must be done, than she
furthered it with all her might. After several attempts to
introduce a bill, which were always cut off by some “point
of order,” she unhappily lost her usual patience.

I don't know that I can exactly explain how it happened,
for what the men call “parliamentary tactics” always
made me fidgetty. But the “previous question”
turned up (as it always seemed to me to do, at the wrong
time), and cut her off before she had spoken ten words.

“Mr. Speaker!” she protested; “there is no question,
previous to this, which needs the consideration of
the house! This is first in importance, and demands
your immediate—”

“Order! order!” came from all parts of the house.

“I am in order—the right is always in order!” she exclaimed,
getting more and more excited. “We women
are not going to be contented with the mere show of our
rights on this floor; we demand the substance—”

And so she was going on, when there arose the most
fearful tumult. The upshot of it was, that the speaker
ordered the sergeant-at-arms to remove Mrs. Whiston;
one of the members, more considerate, walked across the
floor to her, and tried to explain in what manner she was
violating the rules; and in another minute she sat down,
so white, rigid and silent that it made me shake in my
shoes to look at her.

“I have made a great blunder,” she said to me, that
evening; “and it may set us back a little; but I shall recover
my ground.” Which she did, I assure you. She
cultivated the acquaintance of the leaders of both parties,
studied their tactics, and quietly waited for a good opportunity
to bring in her bill. At first, we thought it would
pass; but one of the male members presently came out
with a speech, which dashed our hopes to nothing. He
simply took the ground that there must be absolute equality
in citizenship; that every privilege was balanced by a
duty, every trust accompanied with its responsibility. He
had no objection to women possessing equal rights with
men—but to give them all civil rights and exempt them
from the most important obligation of service, would be,
he said, to create a privileged class—a female aristocracy.
It was contrary to the spirit of our institutions. The
women had complained of taxation without representation;
did they now claim the latter without the former?

The people never look more than half-way into a subject,
and so this speech was immensely popular. I will
not give Mrs. Whiston's admirable reply; for Mr. Spelter
informs me that you will not accept an article, if it should
make more than seventy or eighty printed pages. It is
enough that our bill was “killed,” as the men say (a brutal
word); and the women of the State laid the blame of
the failure upon us. You may imagine that we suffered
under this injustice; but worse was to come.

As I said before, a great many things came up in the
Legislature which I did not understand—and, to be candid,

did not care to understand. But I was obliged to
vote, nevertheless, and in this extremity I depended
pretty much on Mrs. Whiston's counsel. We could not
well go to the private nightly confabs of the members—
indeed, they did not invite us; and when it came to the
issue of State bonds, bank charters, and such like, I felt
as if I were blundering along in the dark.

One day, I received, to my immense astonishment, a
hundred and more letters, all from the northern part of
our county. I opened them, one after the other, and—
well, it is beyond my power to tell you what varieties of
indignation and abuse fell upon me. It seems that I had
voted against the bill to charter the Mendip Extension
Railroad Co. I had been obliged to vote for or against
so many things, that it was impossible to recollect them
all. However, I procured the printed journal, and, sure
enough! there, among the nays, was “Strongitharm.” It
was not a week after that—and I was still suffering in
mind and body—when the newspapers in the interest of
the Rancocus and Great Western Consolidated accused
me (not by name, but the same thing—you know how
they do it) of being guilty of taking bribes. Mr. Filch,
of the Shinnebaug Consolidated had explained to me so
beautifully the superior advantages of his line, that the
Directors of the other company took their revenge in this
vile, abominable way.

That was only the beginning of my trouble. What
with these slanders and longing for the quiet of our dear
old home at Burroak, I was almost sick; yet the Legislature

sat on, and sat on, until I was nearly desperate.
Then one morning came a despatch from my husband:
“Melissa is drafted—come home!” How I made the
journey I can't tell; I was in an agony of apprehension,
and when Mr. Strongitharm and Melissa both met me at
the Burroak Station, well and smiling, I fell into a hysterical
fit of laughing and crying, for the first time in my life.

Billy Brandon, who was engaged to Melissa, came forward
and took her place like a man; he fought none the
worse, let me tell you, because he represented a woman,
and (I may as well say it now) he came home a Captain,
without a left arm—but Melissa seems to have three arms
for his sake.

You have no idea what a confusion and lamentation
there was all over the State. A good many women were
drafted, and those who could neither get substitutes for
love nor money, were marched to Gaston, where the recruiting
Colonel was considerate enough to give them a
separate camp. In a week, however, the word came from
Washington that the Army Regulations of the United
States did not admit of their being received; and they
came home blessing Mr. Stanton. This was the end of
drafting women in our State.

Nevertheless, the excitement created by the draft did
not subside at once. It was seized upon by the Democratic
leaders, as part of a plan already concocted, which
they then proceeded to set in operation. It succeeded
only too well, and I don't know when we shall ever see
the end of it.

We had more friends among the Republicans at the
start, because all the original Abolitionists in the State
came into that party in 1860. Our success had been so
rapid and unforeseen that the Democrats continued their
opposition even after female suffrage was an accomplished
fact; but the leaders were shrewd enough to see that another
such election as the last would ruin their party in
the State. So their trains were quietly laid, and the
match was not applied until all Atlantic was ringing with
the protestations of the unwilling conscripts and the laments
of their families. Then came, like three claps of
thunder in one, sympathy for the women, acquiescence in
their rights, and invitations to them, everywhere, to take
part in the Democratic caucuses and conventions. Most
of the prominent women of the State were deluded for a
time by this manifestation, and acted with the party for
the sake of the sex.

I had no idea, however, what the practical result of
this movement would be, until, a few weeks before election,
I was called upon Mrs. Buckwalter, and happened
to express my belief that we Republicans were going to
carry the State again, by a large majority.

“I am very glad of it,” said she, with an expression
of great relief, “because then my vote will not be needed.”

“Why!” I exclaimed; “you won't decline to vote,
surely?”

“Worse than that,” she answered, “I am afraid I shall
have to vote with the other side.”

Now as I knew her to be a good Republican, I could

scarcely believe my ears. She blushed, I must admit,
when she saw my astonished face.

“I'm so used to Bridget, you know,” she continued,
“and good girls are so very hard to find, nowadays. She
has as good as said that she won't stay a day later than
election, if I don't vote for her candidate; and what am I
to do?”

“Do without!” I said shortly, getting up in my indignation.

“Yes, that's very well for you, with your wonderful
physique,” said Mrs. Buckwalter, quietly, “but think of me
with my neuralgia, and the pain in my back! It would
be a dreadful blow, if I should lose Bridget.”

Well—what with torch-light processions, and meetings
on both sides, Burroak was in such a state of excitement
when election came, that most of the ladies of my acquaintance
were almost afraid to go to the polls. I tried to get
them out during the first hours after sunrise, when I went
myself, but in vain. Even that early, I heard things that
made me shudder. Those who came later, went home resolved
to give up their rights rather than undergo a second
experience of rowdyism. But it was a jubilee for the servant
girls. Mrs. Buckwalter didn't gain much by her apostasy,
for Bridget came home singing “The Wearing of the
Green,” and let fall a whole tray full of the best china before
she could be got to bed.

Burroak, which, the year before, had a Republican
majority of three hundred, now went for the Democrats
by more than five hundred. The same party carried the

State, electing their Governor by near twenty thousand.
The Republicans would now have gladly repealed the
bill giving us equal rights, but they were in a minority,
and the Democrats refused to co-operate. Mrs. Whiston,
who still remained loyal to our side, collected information
from all parts of the State, from which it appeared that
four-fifths of all the female citizens had voted the Democratic
ticket. In New Lisbon, our great manufacturing
city, with its population of nearly one hundred thousand,
the party gained three thousand votes, while the accessions
to the Republican ranks were only about four hundred.

Mrs. Whiston barely escaped being defeated; her majority
was reduced from seven hundred to forty-three.
Eleven Democratic Assemblywomen and four Senatoresses
were chosen, however, so that she had the consolation
of knowing that her sex had gained, although her
party had lost. She was still in good spirits: “It will all
right itself in time,” she said.

You will readily guess, after what I have related, that
I was not only not re-elected to the Legislature, but that
I was not even a candidate. I could have born the outrageous
attacks of the opposite party; but the treatment
I had received from my own “constituents” (I shall always
hate the word) gave me a new revelation of the actual
character of political life. I have not mentioned half
the worries and annoyances to which I was subjected—
the endless, endless letters and applications for office, or
for my influence in some way—the abuse and threats when

I could not possibly do what was desired—the exhibitions
of selfishness and disregard of all great and noble principles—and
finally, the shameless advances which were
made by what men call “the lobby,” to secure my vote
for this, that, and the other thing. Why, it fairly made my
hair stand on end to hear the stories which the pleasant
men, whom I thought so grandly interested in schemes
for “the material development of the country,” told
about each other. Mrs. Filch's shawl began to burn my
shoulders before I had worn it a half a dozen times. (I
have since given it to Melissa, as a wedding-present).

Before the next session was half over, I was doubly
glad of being safe at home. Mrs. Whiston supposed that
the increased female representation would give her more
support, and indeed it seemed so, at first. But after her
speech on the Bounty bill, only two of the fifteen Democratic
women would even speak to her, and all hope of
concord of action in the interests of women was at an
end. We read the debates, and my blood fairly boiled
when I found what taunts and sneers, and epithets she
was forced to endure. I wondered how she could sit still
under them.

To make her position worse, the adjoining seat was
occupied by an Irishwoman, who had been elected by the
votes of the laborers on the new Albemarle Extension, in
the neighborhood of which she kept a grocery store.
Nelly Kirkpatrick was a great, red-haired giant of a woman,
very illiterate, but with some native wit, and good-hearted
enough, I am told, when she was in her right

mind. She always followed the lead of Mr. Gorham
(whose name, you see, came before hers in the call), and
a look from him was generally sufficient to quiet her when
she was inclined to be noisy.

When the resolutions declaring the war a failure were
introduced, the party excitement ran higher than ever.
The “lunch-room” (as they called it—I never went there
but once, the title having deceived me) in the basementstory
of the State House was crowded during the discussion,
and every time Nelly Kirkpatrick came up, her face
was a shade deeper red. Mr. Gorham's nods and winks
were of no avail—speak she would, and speak she did,
not so very incoherently, after all, but very abusively. To
be sure, you would never have guessed it, if you had read
the quiet and dignified report in the papers on her side,
the next day.

Then Mrs. Whiston's patience broke down. “Mr.
Speaker,” she exclaimed, starting to her feet, “I protest
against this House being compelled to listen to such a
tirade as has just been delivered. Are we to be disgraced
before the world—”

“Oh, hoo! Disgraced, is it?” yelled Nelly Kirkpatrick,
violently interrupting her, “and me as dacent a woman
as ever she was, or ever will be! Disgraced, hey?
Oh, I'll larn her what it is to blaggàrd her betters!”

And before anybody could imagine what was coming,
she pounced upon Mrs. Whiston, with one jerk ripped off
her skirt (it was silk, not serge, this time), seized her by
the hair, and gave her head such a twist backwards, that

the chignon not only came off in her hands, but as her
victim opened her mouth too widely in the struggle, the
springs of her false teeth were sprung the wrong way, and
the entire set flew out and rattled upon the floor.

Of course there were cries of “Order! Order!” and
the nearest members—Mr. Gorham among the first—
rushed in; but the mischief was done. Mrs. Whiston had
always urged upon our minds the necessity of not only being
dressed according to the popular fashion, but also as
elegantly and becomingly as possible. “If we adopt the
Bloomers,” she said, “we shall never get our rights, while
the world stands. Where it is necessary to influence men,
we must be wholly and truly women, not semi-sexed nondescripts;
we must employ every charm Nature gives us
and Fashion adds, not hide them under a forked extinguisher!”
I give her very words to show you her way
of looking at things. Well, now imagine this elegant
woman, looking not a day over forty, though she was—
but no, I have no right to tell it,—imagine her, I say, with
only her scanty natural hair hanging over her ears, her
mouth dreadfully fallen in, her skirt torn off, all in open
day, before the eyes of a hundred and fifty members (and
I am told they laughed immensely, in spite of the
scandal that it was), and, if you are human beings, you
will feel that she must have been wounded to the very
heart.

There was a motion made to expel Nelly Kirkpatrick,
and perhaps it might have succeeded—but the railroad
hands, all over the State, made a heroine of her, and her

party was afraid of losing five or six thousand votes;
so only a mild censure was pronounced. But there
was no end to the caricatures, and songs, and all
sorts of ribaldry, about the occurrence; and even our
party said that, although Mrs. Whiston was really and
truly a martyr, yet the circumstance was an immense
damage to them. When she heard that, I believe it killed
her. She resigned her seat, went home, never appeared
again in public, and died within a year. “My dear
friend,” she wrote to me, not a month before her death,
“I have been trying all my life to get a thorough knowledge
of the masculine nature, but my woman's plummet
will not reach to the bottom of that chaotic pit of selfishness
and principle, expedience and firmness for the right,
brutality and tenderness, gullibility and devilish shrewdness,
which I have tried to sound. Only one thing is
clear—we women cannot do without what we have
sometimes, alas! sneered at as the chivalry of the sex. The
question of our rights is as clear to me as ever; but we
must find a plan to get them without being forced to share,
or even to see, all that men do in their political lives. We
have only beheld some Principle riding aloft, not the
mud through which her chariot wheels are dragged. The
ways must be swept before we can walk in them—but how
and by whom shall this be done?”

For my part, I can't say, and I wish somebody would
tell me.

Well—after seeing our State, which we used to be
proud of, delivered over for two years to the control of a

party whose policy was so repugnant to all our feelings of
loyalty, we endeavored to procure, at least a qualification
of intelligence for voters. Of course, we didn't get it: the
exclusion from suffrage of all who were unable to read and
write might have turned the scales again, and given us
the State. After our boys came back from the war, we
might have succeeded—but their votes were over-balanced
by those of the servant-girls, every one of whom turned
out, making a whole holiday of the election.

I thought, last fall, that my Maria, who is German,
would have voted with us. I stayed at home and did the
work myself, on purpose that she might hear the oration
of Carl Schurz; but old Hammer, who keeps the lager-beer
saloon in the upper end of Burroak, gave a supper
and a dance to all the German girls and their beaux, after
the meeting, and so managed to secure nine out of ten of
their votes for Seymour. Maria proposed going away a
week before election, up into Decatur County, where, she
said, some relations, just arrived from Bavaria, had settled.
I was obliged to let her go, or lose her altogether, but I
was comforted by the thought that if her vote were lost
for Grant, at least it could not be given to Seymour. After
the election was over, and Decatur County, which we had
always managed to carry hitherto, went against us, the
whole matter was explained. About five hundred girls,
we were informed, had been colonized in private families,
as extra help, for a fortnight, and of course Maria was
one of them. (I have looked at the addresses of her letters,
ever since, and not one has she sent to Decatur). A

committee has been appointed, and a report made on the
election frauds in our State, and we shall see, I suppose,
whether any help comes of it.

Now, you mustn't think, from all this, that I am an
apostate from the principle of Women's Rights. No, indeed!
All the trouble we have had, as I think will be
evident to the millions who read my words, comes from
the men. They have not only made politics their monopoly,
but they have fashioned it into a tremendous, elaborate
system, in which there is precious little of either principle
or honesty. We can and we must “run the machine” (to
use another of their vulgar expressions) with them, until
we get a chance to knock off the useless wheels and thingumbobs,
and scour the whole concern, inside and out.
Perhaps the men themselves would like to do this, if they
only knew how: men have so little talent for cleaning-up.
But when it comes to making a litter, they're at home, let
me tell you!

Meanwhile, in our State, things are about as bad as
they can be. The women are drawn for juries, the same
as ever, but (except in Whittletown, where they have a separate
room,) no respectable woman goes, and the fines
come heavy on some of us. The demoralization among
our help is so bad, that we are going to try Co-operative
Housekeeping. If that don't succeed, I shall get brother
Samuel, who lives in California, to send me two Chinamen,
one for cook and chamber-boy, and one as nurse for
Melissa. I console myself with thinking that the end of
it all must be good, since the principle is right: but, dear

me! I had no idea that I should be called upon to go
through such tribulation.

Now the reason I write—and I suppose I must hurry
to the end, or you will be out of all patience—is to beg,
and insist, and implore my sisters in other States to lose
no more time, but at once to coax, or melt, or threaten
the men into accepting their claims. We are now so isolated
in our rights that we are obliged to bear more than
our proper share of the burden. When the States around
us shall be so far advanced, there will be a chance for new
stateswomen to spring up, and fill Mrs. Whiston's place,
and we shall then, I firmly believe, devise a plan to cleanse
the great Augean stable of politics by turning into it the
river of female honesty and intelligence and morality.
But they must do this, somehow or other, without letting
the river be tainted by the heaps of pestilent offal it must
sweep away. As Lord Bacon says (in that play falsely
attributed to Shakespeare)—“Ay, there's the rub!”

If you were to ask me, now, what effect the right of
suffrage, office, and all the duties of men has had upon
the morals of the women of our State, I should be puzzled
what to say. It is something like this—if you put a chemical
purifying agent into a bucket of muddy water, the
water gets clearer, to be sure, but the chemical substance
takes up some of the impurity. Perhaps that's rather too
strong a comparison; but if you say that men are worse
than women, as most people do, then of course we improve
them by closer political intercourse, and lose a little
ourselves, in the process. I leave you to decide the relative

loss and gain. To tell you the truth, this is a feature
of the question which I would rather not discuss; and I
see, by the reports of the recent Conventions, that all the
champions of our sex feel the same way.

Well, since I must come to an end somewhere, let it be
here. To quote Lord Bacon again, take my “round, unvarnished
tale,” and perhaps the world will yet acknowledge
that some good has been done by