University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH MR. WOODBURY HEARS A WOMAN SPEAK.

In his intercourse with the society of his new home, Woodbury
found fewer distasteful circumstances to be overlooked,
than he had at first feared. The novelty of the experience
had its charm, and, as his mind recovered something of that
active interest in men which he had almost unlearned, he was
surprised to find how vital and absorbing his relations with
them became. From the very earnestness of his views, however,
he was reticent in the expression of them, and could with
difficulty accustom himself to the discussion, in mixed society, of
subjects which are usually only broached in the confidential intimacy
of friends. Not merely “Fate, free-will, foreknowledge
absolute,” but the privacy of individual faiths, doubts, and aspirations,
became themes of discussion; even the shrinking
sanctity of love was invaded, and the ability to converse
fluently was taken by the community of Ptolemy as a sign of
capacity to feel deeply on these subjects.

At the dinners and evening parties of the English, an intellectual
as well as a social propriety is strictly observed, and the
man who makes a habit of producing for general inspection,
his religious convictions or his moral experiences, is speedily
voted a bore. Maxwell Woodbury, whose long residence in
Calcutta had fixed his habits, in this respect, was at first more
amused than shocked, at the abandon with which spiritual
intimacies were exchanged, in the society of Ptolemy. He soon
learned, however, that much of this talk was merely a superficial
sentimentalism, and that the true sanctities of the speakers'

hearts were violated more in appearance than in fact. Nevertheless,
he felt no inclination to take part in conversation of
this character, and fell into the habit of assuming a mystical,
paradoxical tone, whenever he was forcibly drawn into the
discussion. Sometimes, indeed, he was tempted to take the
opposite side of the views advocated, simply in order to extort
more reckless and vehement utterances from their defenders.
It is not surprising, therefore, that his lack of earnestness,—as
it seemed to the others—was attributed by many to a stolid
indifference to humanity. Seth Wattles even went so far as
to say: “I should not wonder if he had made his money in
the accursed opium traffic.”

The two topics which, for him, possessed an intrinsically repellant
character, happened to be those which were at that
time most actively discussed: Spiritualism and Women's
Rights. He had seen the slight-of-hand of the Indian jugglers,
far more wonderful than any feats supernaturally performed
in the presence of mediums, and the professed communications
from the world of spirits struck him as being more inane
twaddle than that which fell from the lips of the living believers.
He had not lived thirty-six years without as much
knowledge of woman as a single man may profitably acquire;
and the better he knew the sex, the more tender and profound
became his regard. To him, in his strength, however, the relation
of protector was indispensable; the rudest blows of life
must first fall upon his shield. The idea of an independent
strength, existing side by side with his, yet without requiring
its support, was unnatural and repulsive. Aunt Dennison, in
her noble self-abnegation as wife and mother, was more queenly
in his eyes, than Mary Wollstonecraft or Madame de Staël.
It was difficult for him to believe how any truly refined and
feminine woman could claim for her sex a share in the special
occupations of man.

There is always a perverse fate which attracts one into the
very situations he wishes to avoid. On the evening when the
Sewing-Union met at Merryfield's, Woodbury happened to be

drawn into a group which contained Mrs. Waldo, Hannah
Thurston, and the host. The latter was speaking of a plan
for a Female Medical College.

“It is the first step,” said he, “and its success will overthrow
the dynasty of ideas, under which woman has been
crushed, as it were.” The phrase: “dynasty of ideas,” he
had borrowed from a recent lecturer.

“Well”, said Mrs. Waldo, musingly, “if it went no further
I should not have much to say against it, for we know that
women are the best nurses, and they may make tolerable doctors.
But I should prefer that somebody else than myself
made the beginning.”

“You are right,” remarked Woodbury; “it is not pleasant
to think of a woman standing at a dissecting-table, with a
scalpel in her hand, and a quarter of a subject before her.”

Hannah Thurston shuddered inwardly, but at once took up
the gauntlet. “Why not?” she asked. “Are not women
capable of this, and more than this, for the sake of knowledge
that will enable them to do good? Or is it because their
minds are too weak to grapple with the mysteries of science?”

Woodbury, to avoid a discussion to which he was so
strongly averse, assumed a gay, bantering tone. “In the
presence of ladies,” he said, smiling, and partly directing his
words to Mrs. Waldo, “there is only one way of answering
the latter question.”

Hannah Thurston was of too earnest a nature to endure
trifling—for such seemed his reply. Her gray eyes kindled
with an emotion a very little milder than contempt. “So!”
she exclaimed, “we must still endure the degradation of
hollow compliment. We are still children, and our noise can
be quieted with sugar-plums!”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Thurston!” Woodbury gravely
answered. “My apparent disrespect was but a shift to avoid
discussing a subject which I have never seriously considered,
and which, I will only say, seems to me a matter of instinct
rather than of argument. Besides,” he added, “I believe

Mrs. Waldo, as our dictatress, prohibits debate on these
occasions.”

The lady referred to immediately came to his assistance.
“I do prohibit it;” said she, with a magisterial wave of the
hand; “and you cannot object to my authority, Hannah,
since you have a chance to defend our sex, and cover with
confusion all such incorrigible bachelors as Mr. Woodbury, on
Thursday next. I'm sure he's a misanthrope, or—mis—whatever
you call it.”

“A misogynist?” Woodbury gayly suggested. “No, no,
Mrs. Waldo. Do not you, as a clergyman's wife, know that
there may be a devotional feeling so profound as to find the
pale of any one sect too narrow?”

Hannah Thurston looked earnestly at the speaker. What
did he mean?—was that also jest? she asked herself. She
was unaccustomed to such mental self-possession. Most of
the men she knew would have answered her with spirit, considering
that to decline a challenge thrown down by a woman
was equivalent to acknowledging the intellectual equality of
the sexes—this being the assertion which they most strenuously
resisted. Mr. Woodbury, however, had withdrawn as
a matter of taste and courtesy. She had given him the
opportunity of doing so, a little to her own discomfiture, and
was conscious that her self-esteem was wounded by the result.
She could not quite forgive him for this, though his manner,
she felt, compelled respect. At the risk of having her silence
misinterpreted, she made no reply.

Woodbury, who had not understood Mrs. Waldo's allusion,
took an opportunity, later in the evening, to ask for an explanation.

“I thought you had heard,” said she. “There is to be a
meeting in favor of Women's Rights, on Thursday afternoon,
at the Hall, in Ptolemy. Mr. Bemis, the great advocate of
the reform, is to be there, and I believe they expect Bessie
Stryker.”

“Who is Bessie Stryker?”

“Mr. Woodbury! It's well you did not ask Hannah Thurston
that question. You've been out of the country—I had
forgotten that; but I should think you must have heard of
her in Calcutta. She has travelled all over the country,
lecturing on the subject, and has made such a name as a
speaker that everybody goes to hear her. She is quite pretty,
and wears the new Bloomer dress.”

“Really, you excite my curiosity. I must attend this
meeting, if only to show Miss Thurston that I am above the
vulgar prejudice which I presume she imputes to me.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Woodbury. Hannah Thurston is not unjust,
whatever faults she may have. But you should know that she
has a dislike—morbid, it seems to me—of the compliments
which you men generally pay to us women. For my part, I
see no harm in them.”

“Both of you, at least, are candid,” replied Woodbury,
laughing, “and that trait, with me, covers a multitude of
weaknesses.”

Woodbury went to the meeting on the following Thursday,
much as he would have attended a Brahminical festival in
honor of the Goddess Unna-Purna. He felt no particular
interest in the subject to be treated, except a curiosity to know
how it could be rendered plausible to a semi-intelligent
auditory. Of Ptolemy, privately and socially, he had seen
something, but he had not yet mingled with Ptolemy in
public.

“The Hall,” as it was called (being the only one in the
place), was a brick building, situated on the principal street.
Its true name was Tumblety Hall, from the builder and owner,
Mr. Jabez Tumblety, who had generously bestowed his name
upon it in consideration of receiving ten per cent. on his investment,
from the lease of it to phrenologists, the dancing
school, Ethiopian Minstrels, exhibitors of laughing gas, lecturers
on anatomy (the last lecture exclusively for gentlemen),
jugglers, temperance meetings, caucuses of the Hunkers and
Barnburners, and, on Sundays, to the Bethesdeans in the

morning and the Spiritualists in the evening. Its internal
aspect was rather shabby. The roughly-plastered walls offered
too great a temptation for the pencils and charcoal of unfledged
artists, when bored by a windy orator. Various
grotesque heads, accompanied by names and dates, made up
for the absence of frescoes, but the talent thus displayed did
not seem to be appreciated, for under some of them was
written, in a later hand: “he is a fool.” The benches were
of unpainted pine, with long back-rails, which, where they
had not been split off by the weight of the leaning crowd,
were jagged with whittled notches. Along the further end
of the hall ran a platform, raised three feet above the floor,
and containing a table, three arm-chairs, and two settees. The
floor might have been swept, but had not recently been
washed, to judge from the stains of tobacco-juice by which it
was mottled.

When Woodbury entered, the seats were nearly all occupied,
an audience of five hundred persons being in attendance.
Most of them were evidently from the country; some, indeed,
who were favorably inclined to the cause, had come from Mulligansville
and Atauga City. All the loafers of Ptolemy were
there, of course, and occupied good seats. The few members
of the respectable, conservative, moneyed class, whose curiosity
drew them in, lingered near the door, on the edges of the
crowd, in order that they might leave whenever so disposed,
without attracting attention to their presence.

Mr. Merryfield occupied the middle chair on the platform,
with a heavy-faced, bald-templed, belligerent looking gentleman
on his right, and a middle-aged lady in black silk, on his left.
The settees were also occupied by persons of both sexes who
were interested in the cause. Among them was Hannah
Thurston.

A whispered consultation was carried on for some time
among the party on the platform, the belligerent gentleman
evidently having the most to say. Finally Mr. Merryfield
arose, thumped upon the table, and after waiting a minute

for the “she!” to subside, announced: “The meeting will now
come to order!”

The meeting being already in order, no effect was produced
by this announcement.

“As we have assembled together, as it were,” he continued,
“principally to listen to the noble advocates of the glorious
cause who are to appear before us, my friends suggest that—
that there should be no—that we should dispense, as it were,
with a regular organization, and proceed to listen to their
voices. The only—I would suggest, if the meeting is willing,
that we should appoint—that is, that a committee should be
named, as it were, to draw up resolutions expressing their—
our sense on the subject of Women's Rights. Perhaps,” he
added, turning around, “some one will make the motion.”

“I move that a committee of six be appointed!” “I second
the motion!” were heard, almost simultaneously.

“Those in favor of that motion will signify their assent by
saying `Aye!'” said Mr. Merryfield.

“Aye!” rang through the house with startling unanimity,
all the boys expressing their enthusiastic assent.

“Contrary—`No!'”

Dead silence.

“The Ayes have it. Who shall the Committee be composed
of.”

“Both sexes must be represented. Three men and three
women,” said the belligerent gentleman, suddenly, half rising
from his seat.

In a short time the members of the Committee were appointed,
and, there being no further business on hand, Mr. Merryfield
said: “I have now the pleasure, as it were, of introducing
to the audience the noble advocate of Women's Rights, Isaiah
Bemis, who—whose name is—is well known to you all as the
champion of his—I mean, her—persecuted sex.” Mr. Merryfield
was so disconcerted by the half-suppressed laughter which
followed this blunder, that the termination of his eulogium became
still more confused. “The name of Isaiah Bemis,” he

said, “does not need my condem — commendation. When
Woman shall fill her true spere, it will shine—will be written
among the martyrs of Reform, as it were, for Truth, crushed
to Earth, rises up in spite of—of—though the heavens fall!”

Mr. Bemis, who was no other than the gentleman of belligerent
aspect, already mentioned, at once arose, bowing
gravely in answer to a slight, hesitating, uncertain sound of
applause. The Ptolemy public had not listened for years to
speakers of all kinds, and on all subjects, without acquiring
some degree of critical perception. They both enjoyed and
prided themselves on their acumen, and a new man, whatever
his doctrines might be, was sure that he would find a full
house to receive him. If he possessed either eloquence or
humor, in any appreciable degree, he had no reason to complain
of his reception. The class of hearers to which we refer
did not consider themselves committed to the speaker's views
by their manifestations of applause. Off the platform, there
were not twenty advocates of Women's Rights in the whole
audience, yet all were ready to hear Mr. Bemis, and to approve
a good thing, if he should happen to say it.

A few minutes, however, satisfied them that he was not the
kind of speaker they coveted. He took for his text that maxim
of the Declaration of Independence, that “all governments derive
their just powers from the consent of the governed,” first
proved the absolute justice of the theory, and then exhibited
the flagrant violation of it in the case of woman. She is
equally obliged, with man, to submit to the laws, he said, but
has no voice in making them; even those laws which control
her property, her earnings, her children, her person itself, are
enacted without consultation with her. She not only loses her
name, but her individual privileges are curtailed, as if she belonged
to an inferior order of beings. The character of his
harangue was aggressive throughout. He referred as little
as possible, to any inherent difference in the destinies of sex;
men and women were simply human beings, and in Society, and
Law, and Government, there should be no distinction made

between them. There was a certain specious display of logic
in his address; the faulty links were glozed over, so that his
chain of argument appeared sound and strong, from end to
end. Granting his premises, indeed, which he assumed with
an air, as if they were beyond dispute—all the rest readily followed.
Those who believed with him, not perceiving the defect
in his basis, were charmed with the force and clearness of
his views.

A crowd feels, not reasons, and the auditors, after an hour
of this talk, began to manifest signs of weariness. Even
Woodbury, to whom the whole scene was a study—or, rather,
a show—only kept his place from a desire to hear the famous
Bessie Stryker.

Mr. Bemis at last sat down, and some further whispering
ensued. There was a slight hitch in the proceedings, it was
evident. In a few minutes, Mr. Merryfield again arose. “My
friends,” said he; “I regret to be able to state that we are
disappointed, as it were, in listening—in the arrival of Bessie
Stryker. We expected her in the afternoon stage coming from
Cephalonia, and was to have lectured there last night, but has
arrived without her. But I hope, nevertheless, that you will—
that it will be agreeable to you, as it were, to hear a few
words from our friend, Hannah Thurston, who requires—whom
you know already.”

Hearty signs of approbation greeted this announcement.
Thus appealed to, Hannah Thurston, who at first made a movement
of hesitation, rose, quietly removed her bonnet, and
walked forward to the table. Her face seemed a little paler
than usual, but her step was firm, and the hand which she
placed upon the table did not tremble. After a pause, as if
to collect and isolate her mind from external impressions, she
commenced speaking, in a voice so low that only its silver
purity of tone enabled her to be heard. Yet the slight tremulousness
it betrayed indicated no faltering of courage; it was
simply a vibration of nerves rather tensely strung.

“I will not repeat,” she began, “the arguments by which

the eloquent speaker has illustrated the wrongs endured by
woman, under all governments and all systems of law, whether
despotic or republican. These are considerations which lie
further from us; we are most concerned for those injuries
which require an immediate remedy. When we have removed
the social prejudices which keep our sex in a false position—
when we have destroyed the faith of the people in the tyrannical
traditions by which we are ruled—the chains of the law
will break of themselves. As a beginning to that end, woman
must claim an equal right to education, to employment, and reward.
These are the first steps in our reform, to reach the
sources of those evils which cause our greatest suffering. We
can endure a little longer, to be deprived of the permission to
vote and to rule, because the denial is chiefly an assault upon
our intelligence; but we need now—at once—and, my friends,
I am pleading for millions who cannot speak for themselves—
we need an equal privilege with man, to work and to be justly
paid. The distinction which is made, to our prejudice, renders
us weak and helpless, compared with our brethren, to whom
all fields are open, and who may claim the compensation which
is justified by their labor, without incurring ridicule or contempt.
They are even allowed to usurp branches which, if
the popular ideas of woman's weakness, and man's chivalry
towards her be true, should be left for us. Even admitting
that our sphere is limited—that there are only a few things
which we may properly do—is it generous, is it even just, that
man, who has the whole range of life to choose from, should
crowd us out from these few chances of earning our bread?
Or to force us to perform the same labor for a smaller remuneration,
because we are women? Could we not measure a
yard of calico as rapidly, or choose a shade of zephyr as correctly
as the elegant young men who stand behind the counter?
With our more sensitive physical organization, might
not all tasks requiring quickness, nicety of touch, and careful
arrangement, be safely confided to our hands?”

At this point the audience, which had quite lost its air of

weariness, broke into subdued but cordial applause. Hannah
Thurston's voice, as she acquired possession of her subject, increased
in strength, but at no time appeared to rise above a
conversational tone. Her manner also, was simply conversational.
The left hand slightly touched the table, as if she only
wished to feel a support at hand, not use it; while she now
and then, involuntarily, made a simple movement with the
right. The impression she produced was that of a woman
compelled by some powerful necessity or duty to appear
before a public assembly, not of one who coveted and enjoyed
the position. Woodbury was profoundly interested in the
speaker, and in her words. Both were equally new to him.

“What we now ask, therefore, my friends,” she continued,
“is that the simple justice be meted out to us, which we feel
that man—without adopting any of our views concerning the
true position of woman—is bound to give. We ask that his
boasted chivalry be put into practice, not merely in escorting
us to concerts, or giving us his seat in a railroad-car, or serving
us first at the table—or in all other ways by which the
reputation of chivalry and gallantry towards our sex is earned
at little cost; but in leaving open to us those places which he
confesses we are fitted to fill—in paying us, as teachers, clerks,
tailors, or operatives, the same wages for the same work which
men do!”

This was so simply and fairly stated, that the audience again
heartily approved. There was nothing, in fact, of the peculiar
doctrines of Women's Rights in what she said—nothing to
which they could not have individually assented, without compromising
their position in regard to the main point. Mr.
Bemis, however, drew down his heavy brows, and whispered
to the chairman: “Very good, so far as it goes, but timidly
stated. We must strike the evil at its root.”

After dwelling for some time on this aspect of the question,
and illustrating it by a number of examples, Hannah Thurston
went a step further.

“But we deny,” she said, “that Man has any natural right

to prescribe the bounds within which Woman may labor and
live. God alone has that right, and His laws govern both
sexes with the same authority. Man has indeed assumed it,
because he disbelieves in the intellectual equality of women.
He has treated her as an older child, to whom a certain amount
of freedom might be allowed, but whom it was not safe to
release entirely from his guardianship. He has educated her
in this belief, through all the ages that have gone by since the
creation of the world. Now and then, women have arisen, it
is true, to vindicate the equal authority of their sex, and have
nobly won their places in history; but the growth of the truth
has been slow—so slow, that to-day, in this enlightened maturity
of the world, we must plead and prove all that which
you should grant without our asking. It is humiliating that
a woman is obliged to collect evidence to convince men of her
equal intelligence. She, who is also included in the one word,
Man! Placed side by side with him in Paradise—Mother of
the Saviour who came to redeem his fallen race—first and
holiests among the martyrs and saints! Young men! Think
of your own mothers, and spare us this humiliation!”

These words, uttered with startling earnestness, produced a
marked sensation in the audience. Perhaps it was a peculiarity
springing from her Quaker descent, that the speaker's voice
gradually assumed the character of a musical recitative, becoming
a clear, tremulous chant, almost in monotone. This
gave it a sad, appealing expression, which touched the emotional
nature of the hearer, and clouded his judgment for the
time being. After a pause, she continued in her ordinary
tone:

“The pages of history do not prove the superiority of man.
When we consider the position which he has forced woman to
occupy, we should rather wonder that she has so often resisted
his authority, and won possession of the empire which he
had appropriated to himself. In the earliest ages he admitted
her capacity to govern, a power so high and important in its
nature, that we should be justified in claiming that it embraces

all other capacities, and in resting our defence on that alone.
Such women as Semiramis and Zenobia, Margaret of Denmark,
and Elizabeth of England, Maria Theresa, and Catharine of
Russia, are not the least—not second, even—among great
rulers. Jael and Judith, and the Maid of Orleans stand no
less high among the deliverers of nations, than Leonidas and
William Tell. The first poet who sang may have been Homer,
but the second was Sappho.[1] Even in the schools of Philosophy,
the ancients had their Hypatia, and the scholars of the
Middle Ages honored the learning of Olympia Morata. Men
claim the field of scientific research as being exclusively their
own; but the names of Caroline Herschel in England, and
Maria Mitchell in America, prove that even here women cannot
justly be excluded. Ah, my friends! when God calls a
human being to be the discoverer of His eternal laws, or the
illustrator of His eternal beauty, He does not stop to consider
the question of sex! If you grant human intellect at all to
Woman, you must grant the possibility of inspiration, of genius,
of a life divinely selected as the instrument of some great
and glorious work. Admitting this, you may safely throw
open to us all avenues to knowledge. Hampered as Woman
still is—circumscribed in her spheres of action and thought
(for her false education permanently distorts her habits of
mind)—she is yet, at present, far above the Saxon bondmen
from whom the most of you are descended. You know that
she has risen thus far, not only without injury to herself, but
to your advantage: why check her progress, here? Nay, why
check it any where? If Man's dominion be thereby limited,
would his head be less uneasy, if the crown he claims were
shared with another? Is not a friend better than a servant?
If Marriage were a partnership for Woman, instead of a clerkship,
the Head of the House would feel his burthen so much
the lighter. If the physician's wife were competent to prepare
his medicines, or the merchant's to keep his books, or the lawyer's
to draw up a bond, the gain would be mutual. For Woman,
to be a true helpmeet to Man, must know all that Man
knows; and, even as she is co-heir with him of Heaven—receiving,
not the legal `Third part,' but all of its infinite blessedness,—so
she should be co-proprietor of the Earth, equally
armed to subdue its iniquities, and prepare it for a better
future!”

With these words, Hannah Thurston closed her address.
As she quietly walked back to her seat and resumed her bonnet,
there was a stir of satisfaction among the audience, terminating
in a round of applause, which, however, she did not
acknowledge in any way. Although, in no part of the discourse,
had she touched the profounder aspects of the subject,
especially the moral distinctions of sex, she had given utterance
to many absolute truths, which were too intimately connected,
in her mind, with the doctrine she had adopted, for
her to perceive their real independence of it. Thus, most of
her hearers, while compelled to agree with her in many respects,
still felt themselves unconvinced in the main particular.
She was not aware of her own inability to discuss the question
freely, and ascribed to indifference or prejudice that reluctance
among men, which really sprang from their generous
consideration for her sex.

As for Woodbury, he had listened with an awakened interest
in her views, which, for the time, drew his attention
from the speaker's personality. Her first appearance had
excited a singular feeling of compassion—partly for the trial
which, he fancied, she must undergo, and partly for the
mental delusion which was its cause. It was some time before
he was reassured by her calmness and self-possession.
At the close, he was surprised to discover in himself a lurking
sensation of regret that she had not spoken at greater length.
“I was wrong the other night,” he thought. “This woman
is in severe earnest, and would have been less offended if I
had plumply declined her challenge, instead of evading it. I
have yet something to learn from these people.”

The Committee of Six now made their report. Seth Wattles,
who was one of the number, and had assumed to himself
the office of Chairman, read a string of Resolutions, setting
forth, That: Whereas, this is an Age of Progress, and no reform
should be overlooked in the Great Battle for the Right:
Therefore, Resolved—That we recognize in this movement
for the Equal Rights of Woman a cause without the support
of which no other cause can be permanently successful: and,
Resolved, That we will in every way help forward the good
work, by the Dissemination of Light and Information, tending
to set forth the claims of Woman before the Community: also,
Resolved, That we will circulate petitions to the State Legislature,
for the investment of Woman with all civil and political
rights: and, lastly, Resolved, That, we will use our best endeavors
to increase the circulation of The Monthly Hollyhock,
a journal devoted to the cause of Women's Rights.

Mr. Merryfield arose and inquired: “Shall the Report of
the Committee be adopted?” He fortunately checked himself
in time not to add: “as it were.”

“I move its adoption!” “I second the motion!” were immediately
heard from the platform.

“All who are in favor of adopting the Resolutions we have
just heard read, will signify their assent by saying `Aye!'”

A scattering, irregular fire of “Ayes” arose in reply. The
boys felt that their sanction would be out of place on this occasion,
with the exception of two or three, who hazarded their
voices, in the belief that they would not be remarked, in the
general vote. To their dismay, they launched themselves into
an interval of silence, and their shrill pipes drew all eyes to
their quarter of the house.

“Contrary,—`No!'”

The opponents of the movement, considering that this was
not their meeting, refrained from voting.

“Before the meeting adjourns,” said Mr. Merryfield, again
rising, “I must—I take the liberty to hope, as it were, that
the truths we have heard this day may spread—may sink

deeply into our hearts. We expect to be able to announce,
before long, a visit from Bessie Stryker, whose failure—whom
we have missed from among our eleg—eloquent champions.
But we trust she is elsewhere, and our loss is their gain. I
thank the audience for your attendance—attention, I should
say, and approbation of our glorious reform. As there is no
further business before the meeting, and our friends from Mulligansville
and Atauga City have some distance to return home,
we will now adjourn in time to reach their destination.”

At this hint the audience rose, and began to crowd out the
narrow door-way and down the steep staircase. Woodbury,
pushed and hustled along with the rest, was amused at the
remarks of the crowd: “He?—oh, he's a gassy old fellow!”
“Well, there's a good deal of truth in it!” “Bessie Stryker?
I'd rather hear Hannah Thurston any day!” “He didn't half
like it!” “She has a better right to say such things than he
has!”—and various other exclamations, the aggregate of which
led him to infer that the audience felt no particular interest in
the subject of Women's Rights, but had a kindly personal feeling
towards Hannah Thurston.