The news of the great railroad accident
And of the sudden death of Percival,
Coming so soon upon intelligence
Of his rare fortune in the legacy
From Kenrick, occupied the public mind
For a full day at least, and then was whelmed
In other marvels rushing thick upon it.
The mother and the daughter, who still bore
The name of Percival, came back from Paris
At once, on getting the unlooked-for news.
When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed,
Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the house
To her so full of sacred memories,
She was accosted by an officer
Who told her he had put his seal on all
The papers, plate, and jewelry belonging
To the late Albert Percival,—and asked
If in her keeping were a watch and ring,
Also some money, found upon his person:
If so, would she please give them up, and he,
Who had authority to take them, would
Sign a receipt for all such property,
And then the rightful heir could easily
Dispose of it, as might seem best to her.

"The rightful heir?" gasped Linda, taking in
Not readily the meaning of the words,—
"Do you not know that I'm the rightful heir
And only child of Albert Percival?"
"Pardon me," said the officer, "the child,
Recognized by the law, is not yourself,
But Harriet Percival, the only heir,—
For so the court adjudges,—and to her
All property, both personal and real,
Must be made over. She, no doubt, will deal
Kindly in your peculiar case, and make
A suitable provision—"

"Hold!" cried Linda,
Her nostrils' action showing generous blood
As clearly as some matchless courser shows it
After a mighty race,—"Your business,
But not your comments! And yet, pardon me—
I'm hasty,—you meant well; but you would have me
Render you up the watch and pocket-book
Found on my father's person, and delivered
To me his daughter. That I'll only do,
When more authority than you have shown
Compels me, and my lawyer bids me yield."
"Here is my warrant," said the officer,
"And my instructions are explicit." Then,
The spirit of the gentleman disdaining
The action he was sent for, he rejoined:
"But the law's letter shall not make me do
An incivility, perhaps a wrong.
And so, relying on your truth, I leave you,
Assured that you'll be ready to respond
To all the law can ask. And now, good day!"

Left to her own decisions, Linda sought
At once the best advice; and such had been
Her training, that she was not ignorant
Who among counsellors were trusted most
In special ways. Kindly and patiently
Her case was taken up and thoroughly
Sifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!
So craftily had every step been taken,
With such precaution and such legal care,—
So diligently had the mesh been woven,
Enclosing Percival and all of his,—
That nothing could be done except put off
The payment of the Kenrick legacy
For some six months,—when it was all made over
To the reputed child, already rich
Through the law's disposition of the sums
Which Percival had been compelled to pay.

After the legal test, with brave composure
Linda surveyed her lot. Enough was left,
From sale of jewels that had been her mother's,
For a few months' support, with frugal care.
Claim to these jewels and the money found
Upon her mother's person had been laid
Too eagerly by the contesting party,
Who said that Percival, in dying last,
Was heir to the effects; but since the claim
Could only be upheld by proving marriage,
The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.

One day as Linda stood with folded hands
Before her easel, on which lay a painting
Of flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,—
The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal,
With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,—
A knock aroused her, and the opened door
Disclosed a footman, clad in livery,
Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady might
Come up to see the pictures. "Certainly,"
Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs,
A lady came whose blazonry of dress
And air of self-assured, aggressive wealth
Spoke one well pleased to awe servility.

As when by some forecasting sense the dove
Knows that the hawk, though out of sight and still,
Is hovering near, even so did Linda feel
An enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman,
Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent life
Leaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty,
Was she who first had cast the bitterness
Into that cup of youth which Linda's father
Was made to taste so long.

And yet (how strangely,
In this mixed web of life, the strands of good
Cross and inweave the evil!) to that wrong
Might he have tracked a joy surpassing hope,—
The saving angel who, in Linda's mother,
Had so enriched his being;—might have tracked
(Mysterious thought!) Linda herself, his child,
The crown of every rapture, every hope

The lady, known as Madame Percival,
Seated herself and turned a piercing look
On Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect,
With calm and serious look regarding her.
The lady was the first to lower her eyes;
She then, with some embarrassment, remarked:
"So! you're an artist! Will you let me see
Some of your newest paintings?" Linda placed
Three of her choicest pieces on the easel,
And madame raised her eyeglass, looked a moment,
Said, "Very pretty," and then, breaking through
Further constraint, began: "You may not know me;
My name is Percival; you, I suppose,
Bear the same name by courtesy. 'Tis well:
The law at last has taught you possibly
Our relative positions. Of the past
We will say nothing; no hard thought is left
Against you in my heart; I trust I know
The meaning of forgiveness; what is due
To Christian charity. In me, although
The church has but a frail, unworthy child,
Yet would I help my enemy; remove her
From doubtful paths, and see her fitly placed
With her own kindred for protection due.
Hear my proposal now, in your behalf:
If you will go to England, where your aunts
And relatives reside,—and first will sign
A paper promising you'll not return,
And that you never will resume your suit,—
I will advance your passage-money, and
Give you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?"

The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart,
Paused as if language were too weak for it,
When, in that pause, the opening of the door
Disclosed a lady younger than the first,
Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde,
And of a figure small and delicate.
"Now, Harriet!" cried the elder of the two,
Annoyed, if not alarmed, "you promised me
You would not quit the carriage."—"Well, what then?
I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?
Whom have we here? The name upon the door
Is Percival; and there upon the wall
I see a likeness of my father. So!
You, then, are Linda Percival! the child
For whom he could abandon me, his first!
Come, let me look at you!"—"Nay, Harriet,
This should not be. Come with me to the carriage;
Come! I command you."—"Pooh! And pray, who cares
For your commands? I move not till I please.
We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you."

"Excuse me," Linda answered quietly,
"But I see no resemblance to my father
In you. Your features, form, complexion, all
Are quite unlike."—"Silence! We've had enough."
"What did she say?" cried Harriet. "Do not heed
A word of hers; leave her and come with me."
"She said, I bear no likeness to my father:
You heard her!"—"'Twas in malice, Harriet.
Of course she would say that."—"But I must have
That photograph of him upon the wall:
'Tis unlike any that I've ever seen."
And with the word she took it from the nail
And would have put it in her pocket, had not
Linda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.

Darker her dark face grew, when Harriet
Saw herself baffled; taking out her purse
She drew from it a thousand-dollar bill,
And said, "Will this procure it?"—"Harriet!
You're mad to offer such a sum as that."
"Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!
I ask you, Linda Percival, if you
Will take two thousand dollars for that portrait?"
And Linda answered: "I'll not take your money:
The portrait you may have without a price;
I'm not without a copy."—"Well, I take it;
But mark you this: I shall not hate you less
For this compliance; nay, shall hate you more;
For I do hate you with a burning hatred,
And all the more for that smooth Saxon face,
With its clear red and white and Grecian outline;
That likeness to my father (I can see it),
Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.
Pray, Madame Percival, where did I get
This swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair,
And you are far from being a quadroon?
Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please."

"There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?
That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold,
Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!
Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing,
She drew away her daughter, and the door
Closed quickly on the two. But Linda stood
In meditation rapt, as thought went back
To the dear parents who had sheltered her;
Contrasting their ingenuous love sincere
And her own filial reverence, with the scene
She just had witnessed. So absorbed she was
In visions of the past, she did not heed
The opening of the door, until a voice
Broke in upon her tender revery,
Saying, "I've come again to get your answer
To my proposal." Tranquillized, subdued
By those dear, sacred reminiscences,
Linda, with pity in her tone, replied:
"Madame, I cannot entertain your offer."
"And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimed
The imperious lady.—"I'm not bound to give
My reasons, madame."—"Come, I'll make the sum
Ten thousand dollars."—"Money could not alter
My mind upon the subject."—"Look you, Linda;
You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed,
Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty,
Reckless in use of money when her whims
Are to be gratified, and yet at times
Sordid as any miser,—she'll not stop
At artifice, or violence, or crime,
To injure one she hates—and you she hates!
Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leave
This country, go to England;—close at once
With my most liberal offer."

"Madame, no!
This is my home, my birthplace, and the land
Of all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations;
While I have work to do, here lies my field:
I cannot quit America. Besides,
Since candor now is best, I would not take
A dole from you to save myself from starving."
The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied:
"Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street,
As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.
I've done my part. Me no one can accuse
Of any lack of charity or care.
For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.
After that time, expect no further grace."
And, with a frown which tried to be disdain,
But which, rebuked and humbled, fell before
The pitying candor of plain Innocence,
Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.

These interviews had made our Linda feel
How quite alone in the wide world she stood.
A letter came, after her parents' death,
From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requesting
A loan of fifty pounds, and telling all
The family distresses and shortcomings:
How this one's husband had proved not so rich
As was expected; how another's was
A tyrant and a niggard, so close-fisted
He parcelled out with his own hands the sugar
For kitchen use; and how another's still,
Though amply able to receive their mother,
A widow now, had yet refused to do it,
And even declined to make a contribution
For her support. And so the gossip ran.
The picture was not pleasant. With a sigh
Not for herself, but others, Linda penned
A letter to her aunt, relating all
The events that made her powerless to aid
Her needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter,
Then sat and thought awhile.

"And now for duty!"
She cried, and rose. She could not think of duty
Except as something grateful to her parents.
They were a presence so securely felt,
And so related to her every act,—
Their love was still so vigilant, so real,
That to do what, and only what, she knew
They would approve, was duty paramount;
And their approval was the smile of God!
Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,—
This was her simple summing-up of duties
Immediately before her, and to be
Fulfilled without more parleying or delay.
She found that by the labor of a month
In painting flowers from nature, she could earn
Easily sixty dollars. This she did
For two years steadily. Then came a change.
From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches,
Which from their novelty and careful finish
At first had found a ready sale, were now
In less demand. Linda was not aware
That these elaborate works, to nature true,
Had been so multiplied in copies, made
By hand, or printed by the chromo art,
As to be sold at prices not one fifth
As high as the originals had cost.
Hence her own genius winged the storm and lent
The color to the cloud, that overhung
Her prospect, late so hopeful and serene.

Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means,
Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!
One summer day, a day reminding her
Of days supremely beautiful, immortal,
(Since hallowed by undying love and joy),
A little girl, the step-child, much endeared,
Of a poor artisan who dwelt near by
On the same floor with Linda, came to her
And said: "You promised me, Miss Percival,
That some fine day you'd take me in the cars
Where I could see the grass and pluck the flowers."
"Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day,
If you will get permission from your father,"
Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.
Gladly the father gave consent; and so,
Clad in her best, the little damsel sat,
While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and made
The preparations needful.

"What is that?"
Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawer
In which a case of polished ebony
Glittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!"
"And is the pistol loaded?"—"I believe so."
"And will you take it with you?"—"Well, my dear,
I did not think to do so: would you have me?"
"Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthers
Lurk in the woods, you know."—"I'll take it, Rachel;
We call this a revolver. See! Four times
I can discharge it." At a block of wood
She aimed and fired; then carefully reloaded
The piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.

Some ten miles from the city, at a place
Rich in diversity of wood and water,
They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.
Never was day so lovely! Never grass
So green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look,
Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluck
As many as I want?"—"Ay, that's a harebell."
"And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!
Tell me its name."—"A columbine. It grows
In clefts of rocks. That's an anemone:
We call it so because the leaves are torn
So easily by the wind; for anemos
Is Greek for wind."—"Oh! here's a buttercup!
I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.
Isn't the dandelion beautiful?
And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?"
"That's a wild rose."—"What, does the rose grow wild?
But is not that delightful? A wild rose!
And I can take as many as I want!
I did not dream the country was so fine.
How very happy must the children be
Who live here all the time! 'Tis better far
Than any garden; for, Miss Percival,
The flowers are here all free, and quite as pretty
As garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever bird
So sweetly sing?"—"That was a wood-thrush, dear."
"O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!
Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"—"A squirrel."
"Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?
How I would like a nut to throw to him!
What are these little red things in the grass?"
"Wild strawberries, my dear."—"Wild strawberries!
And can I eat them?"—"Yes, we'll take a plate
And pick it full, and eat them with our dinner."
"O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberries
That we have picked ourselves!"

And so the day
Slid on to noon; and then, it being hot,
They crossed a wall into a skirting wood,
And there sat down upon a rocky slab
Covered with dry brown needles of the pine,
And ate their dinner while the birds made music.
"'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken:
"How nice this dinner! What an appetite
I'm having all at once! My father says
That I must learn to eat: I soon could learn
In such a place as this! I wish my father
Himself would eat; he works too hard, I fear;
He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.
See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraid
He pays for me more than he can afford,
Seeing he has a mother to support
And a blind sister; for, Miss Percival,
I'm but his step-child, and my mother died
Two years ago; then my half-sister died,
His only little girl, and now he says
That I am all he has in the wide world
To love and cherish dearly,—all his treasure.
What would I give if I could bring him here
To these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"

So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessert
Of berries being ended, Linda sat
On the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses off
Or looked up through the branches of the pines
At the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.
From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the child
Darted through leafy lanes, when, all at once,
A scream roused Linda.

To her feet she sprang!
Instinctively (but not without a shudder)
She grasped the little pistol she had brought
At the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,
And, at a sudden bend, encountered three
Young lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,
Another lifted Rachel in his arms,
And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.
The three stood side by side as if to bar
The path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.
The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"
She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don't
Fool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said:
"And so, my lady—" But before the word
Was out there was a little puff of smoke,
With an explosion, not encouraging,—
And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.
Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,
Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,
Till she drew near the leader of the gang,
Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,
While with the other he held Rachel fast,
Placing her as a shield before his breast.

But Linda did not waver. Dropping into
The old position that her father taught her
When to the shooting-gallery they went,
She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,
Told her she had not missed her aim,—the jaw
The ruffian left exposed. One moment more,
Rachel was in her arms. Taking a path
Transverse, they hit the public road and entered
The railroad station as the train came in.
When they were safely seated, and the engine
Began to throb and pant, a sudden pallor
Spread over Linda's visage, and she veiled
Her face and fainted; yet so quietly,
But one among the passengers observed it;
And he came up, and taking Rachel's place
Supported Linda; from a lady near
Borrowed some pungent salts restorative,
And finding soon the sufferer was herself,
Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.
But at the city station, when arrived,
This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:
"Here stands my private carriage; but to-day
I need it not. Let my man take you home."
Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,
And she and Rachel all at once were riding
With easy bowling motion down Broadway.

The evening papers had this paragraph:
"In Baker's Woods this morning two young men
Were fired on by a female lunatic
Without a provocation, and one wounded.
The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,
With his accustomed skill and promptitude,
Performed the operation; and the patient
Is doing well. We learn the unhappy woman—
She had with her a child—is still at large."
"I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.
She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,
Wiped it, and reverently put it by.

Three summers and an autumn had rolled on
Since the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.
Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,
And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streets
Of the great city, men and women went,
Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.
The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemen
Told each importunate beggar to move on.
In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,
But which the up-town movement now had left
A street for journeymen and small mechanics,
Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,
A female figure might be seen to enter
A lodging-house, and passing up two flights
Unlock a door that showed a small apartment
Neat, with two windows looking on the rear,
A small recess with a low, narrow bed,
A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.
'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blue
Flashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.

Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,—
But with a certain grace no modiste's art
Could have contrived. Youthful she was, and yet
A gravity not pertinent to youth
Gave to her face the pathos of that look
Which a too early thoughtfulness imparts;
And this was Linda,—Linda little changed,
Though nearer by four years to womanhood
Than when we parted from her in the shadow
Of a great woe.

Preoccupied she seemed
Now with some painful thought, and in a slow,
Half-automatic manner she replenished
With scanty bits of coal her little stove;
Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,
Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;
Motionless sat awhile till she drew forth
A pocket-book, and from it took a letter,
And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt:
It now has run three months, and if to-morrow
It is not paid, we must seek legal help."
A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father—
Some twenty dollars only! And yet Linda
Saw not the way to pay it on the morrow.
He, the poor artisan, on whose account
She had incurred the liability,
Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,
In the small room near by, with little Rachel
His only watcher. What could Linda do?
At length, with lips compressed, and up and down
Moving her head as if to give assent
To some resolve, now fixed, she took her seat
At the piano,—from her childhood's days
So tenderly endeared, and every chord
Vibrating to some memory of her mother!
"Old friend,"—she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.

When little Rachel, by her father sent,
Came in to take her lesson the next day,
Behold, no instrument was in the room!
What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda,
"Our music for a little while. Perhaps
I soon shall have my dear piano back."
Then they went in to see the sufferer.
A smile lit up his face,—a grateful smile,
That lent a beauty even to Disease,
Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:

"Is not the air
Quite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air."
"So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.
Dear lady—but you've been a friend indeed!
In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.
All that I have is in it. Take and use it.
A fellow-workman brought me yesterday
Fifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed:
Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.
To-morrow some one of my friends will come
To see to what the morrow may require.
You've done so much, dear lady, I refrain
From asking more."—"Ask all that you would have."
"My little Rachel—she will be alone,
All, all alone in this wide, striving world:
An orphan child without a relative!
Could you make interest to have her placed
In some asylum?"—"Do not doubt my zeal
Or my ability to have it done.
And should good fortune come to me, be sure
Rachel shall have a pleasant home in mine."
"That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both.
Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.
... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.
That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your mother
How good and diligent and kind you are;
How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes;
And what a nurse you've been,—how true and tender.
Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quick
To shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates.
Close your young eyes on all impurity.
Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer.
Love only what is good. Ah! darling child,
I hoped to shield you up to womanhood,
But God ordains it otherwise. May He
Amid the world's thick perils be your Guide!
There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well.
Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival."
And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.

"O, thank you! Every word is true—I know it.
Sense hides it now, but has not always hid.
Remember, Rachel, that I say it here,
Weighing my words: I know it all is true.
God bless you both. I'm very, very happy.
My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile."
Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him,
Silently watching. Linda then arose
And placed her hand above his heart: 'twas still.
Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leaves
And renders up its fragrance to the air,
From the closed mortal senses had he risen.

One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear:
Sat and discoursed—so piously! so wisely!
She held a letter in her hand; a letter
Signed Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord;
A man of forty—ay, a gentleman;
Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing;
Rich and retired from active business;
A member of the Church, but tolerant;
A man sincere, cordial, without a flaw
In habits or in general character;
Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence.
Long had he looked on Linda, and at last
Had studied her intently; knew her ways,
Her daily occupations; whom she saw,
And where she went. He had an interest
Beyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge;
The letter was an offer of his hand.
Of Linda's parentage and history
He nothing knew, and nothing sought to know.
He took her as she was; was well content,
With what he knew, to run all other risks.
The letter was a good one and a frank;
It came to Linda in her pinch of want,
Discouragement, and utter self-distrust.
And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:

"You're getting thin; you find success in art
Is not a thing so easy as you fancied.
Five years you've worked at what you modestly
Esteem your specialty. Your specialty!
As if a woman could have more than one,—
And that—maternity! I do not speak
Of the six years you gave your art before
You strove to make it pay. Methinks you see
Your efforts are a failure. What's the end
Of all your toil? Not enough money saved
For the redemption of your pawned piano!
Truly a cheerful prospect is before you:
To hear your views would edify me greatly."

"Yes, I am thinner than I was; but then
I can afford to be—so that's not much.
As for success—if we must measure that
By the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you.
Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days,
And little can I show in evidence;
And sometimes—sometimes, I am sick at heart,
And almost lose my faith in woman's power
To paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking,
As well as man can do. What would you have?"

"Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it!
Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour,
That would leave woman free to go all ways
A man may go! Why, look you, even in art,
Most epicene of all pursuits in life,
How man leaves woman always far behind!
Give up your foolish striving; and let Nature
And the world's order have their way with you."

"Small as the pittance is, yet I could earn
More, ten times, by my brush than by my needle."

"Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections.
Ambition spoils her—spoils her as a woman."

"Spoils her for whom?"

"For man."

"Then woman's errand
Is not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement,
But she must simply qualify herself
To be a mate for man: no obligation
Resting on man to qualify himself
To be a mate for woman?"

"Ay, the man
Lives in the intellect; the woman's life
Is that of the affections, the emotions;
And her anatomy is proof of it."

"So have I often heard, but do not see.
Some women have I known, who could endure
Surgical scenes which many a strong man
Would faint at. We have had this dubious talk
Of woman's sphere far back as history goes:
'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it;
Let free experience, education prove it!
Why is it that the vilest drudgeries
Are put on woman, if her sphere be that
Of the affections only, the emotions?
He represents the intellect, and she
The affections only! Is it always so?
Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville,
De Staël, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur,
Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude.
Use other arguments, if me you'd move.
Besides, I see not that your system makes
Any provision for that numerous class
To whom the affections are an Eden closed,—
The women who are single and compelled
To drudge for a precarious livelihood!
What of their sphere? What of the sphere of those
Who do not, by the sewing of a shirt,
Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they venture
On an employment social custom makes
Peculiarly a man's,—that they become
Unwomanly! Go make them smile at that,—
Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile."

"I see that you're befogged, my little woman,
Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day!
Leave it, and settle down as woman should.
What has been always, must be to the end.
Always has woman been subordinate
In mind, in body, and in power, to man.
Let rhetoricians rave, and theorists
Spin their fine webs,—bow you to holy Nature,
And plant your feet upon the eternal fact."

"The little lifetime of the human race
You call—eternity! The other day
One of these old eternal wrongs was ended
Rather abruptly; yet good people thought
'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal.
Because abuses have existed always,
May we not prove they are abuses still?
If for antiquity you plead, why not
Tell us the harem is the rule of nature,
The one solution of the woman problem?"

"Does not St. Paul—"

"Excuse me. Beg no questions.
St. Paul to you may be infallible,
But Science is so unaccommodating,
If not irreverent, she'll not accept
His ipse dixit as an axiom.
Here, in our civilized society,
Is an increasing host of single women
Who do not find the means of livelihood
In the employments you call feminine.
What shall be done? And my reply is this:
Let every honest calling be as proper
For woman as for man; throw open all
Varieties of labor, skilled or rough,
To woman's choice and woman's competition.
Let her decide the question of the fitness.
Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd rather
Do that than scrub a floor or wash and iron.
And, above all, let her equality
Be barred not at the ballot-box; endow her
With all the rights a citizen can claim;
Give her the suffrage;[7] let her have—by right
And not by courtesy—a voice in shaping
The laws and institutions of the land.
And then, if after centuries of trial,
All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure,
The social scheme will readjust itself
On the old basis, and the world shall be
The wiser for the great experiment."

"But is sex nothing? Shall we recognize
No bounds that Nature clearly has defined,
Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one,
Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?
The rearing of young children and the care
Of households,—can we doubt where these belong?
Woman is but the complement of man
And not a monstrous contrariety.
Co-worker she, but no competitor!"

"All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubt
That perfect freedom is the best condition
For bringing out all that is best in woman
As well as man? Free culture, free occasion,
Higher responsibility, will make
A higher type of femininity,
Ay, of maternal femininity,—
Not derogate from that which now we have,
And which, through laws and limitations old,
Is artificial, morbid, and distort,
Except where Nature works in spite of all.
'Woman is but the complement of man!'
Granted. But why stop there? And why not add,
Man, too, is but the complement of woman?
And both are free! And Nature never meant,
For either, harder rule than that of Love,
Intelligent, and willing as the sun."

"Ah! were men angels, women something more,
Your plan might work; but now, in married life,
One must be absolute; and who can doubt
That Nature points unerringly to man?"

"Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.
Marriage should be a partnership of equals:
But now the theory would seem to be,
Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order!
Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!
I don't believe it; woman, too, can think,
Give her the training and the means of knowledge.
'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the child
Must claim her energies; and all her training
Must be to qualify the wife and mother:
For one force loses when another gains,
Since Nature is a very strict accountant;
And what you give the thinker or the artist,
You borrow from the mother and the wife.'
With equal truth, why not object to man
That what he gives the judge or politician
He borrows from the husband and the father?
The wife and mother best are qualified
When you allow the woman breadth of culture,
Give her an interest in all that makes
The human being's welfare, and a voice
In laws affecting her for good or ill.
To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer'
Is not the whole intent of womanhood.
Even of maternity 'tis not the height
To produce many children, but to have
Such as may be a blessing to their kind.
Let it be woman's pure prerogative,
Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure
(Which now too often is her only law),
To rule herself by her own highest instincts,
As her own sense of duty may approve,—
Holding that law for her as paramount
Which may best harmonize her whole of nature,
Educe her individuality,
Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8]
But by a self-development entire."

"Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!
You hold a crumpled letter in your hand;
You know the writer; you esteem, respect him;
And you've had time to question your own heart.
What does it say? You blush,—you hesitate,—
That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out:
If culture is your aim, how opportune
A chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!
Would you help others? He will help you do it.
Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care,
Or cheered by travel, shall you see restored
Your early bloom and freshness. Would you find
In love a new and higher life? You start!
Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,—
A sentimentalist, forever groping
After the unattainable, the cloudy.
Come, be a little practical; consider
Your present state: look on that row of nails
Recipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet,
All out of fashion by at least a month;
That rusty water-proof you call a cloak;
Those boots with the uneven heels; that pair
Of woollen gloves; this whole absurd array,
Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty,
But does not win the victory. Look there!
Would not a house on the great avenue
Be better than these beggarly surroundings?
Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?"

"Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!
Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of that
You're not entirely irresistible.
Your plea is simply that which lends excuse
To the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn.
I've done my utmost to persuade myself
That I might love this man,—in time might love:
But all my arguments, enforced by yours,
Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"