He Knew He Was Right

last by a husband and half-a-dozen children. In regard to Wallachia Petrie there was not, perhaps, much ground for such hope. She was so positively wedded to women’s rights in general, and to her own rights in particular, that it was improbable that she should ever succumb to any man;⁠—and where would be the man brave enough to make the effort? From circumstances Caroline Spalding had been the beloved of her heart since Caroline Spalding was a very little girl; and she had hoped that Caroline would through life have borne arms along with her in that contest which she was determined to wage against man, and which she always waged with the greatest animosity against men of the British race. She hated rank; she hated riches; she hated monarchy;⁠—and with a true woman’s instinct in battle, felt that she had a specially strong point against Englishmen, in that they submitted themselves to dominion from a woman monarch. And now the chosen friend of her youth⁠—the friend who had copied out all her poetry, who had learned by heart all her sonnets, who had, as she thought, reciprocated all her ideas, was going to be married⁠—and to be married to an English lord! She had seen that it was coming for some time, and had spoken out very plainly, hoping that she might still save the brand from the burning. Now the evil was done; and Caroline Spalding, when she told her news, knew well that she would have to bear some heavy reproaches.

“How many of us are there who never know whether we sell ourselves or not?” said Wallachia. “The senator who longs for office, and who votes this way instead of that in order that he may get it, thinks that he is voting honestly. The minister who calls himself a teacher of God’s word, thinks that it is God’s word that he preaches when he strains his lungs to fill his church. The question is this, Caroline;⁠—would you have loved the same man had he come to you with a woodman’s axe in his hand or a clerk’s quill behind his ear? I guess not.”

“As to the woodman’s axe, Wally, it is very well in theory; but⁠—”

“Things good in theory, Caroline, will be good also when practised. You may be sure of that. We dislike theory simply because our intelligences are higher than our wills. But we will let that pass.”

“Pray let it pass, Wally. Do not preach me sermons tonight. I am so happy, and you ought to wish me joy.”

“If wishing you joy would get you joy, I would wish it you while I lived. I cannot be happy that you should be taken from us whither I shall never see you again.”

“But you are to come to us. I have told him so, and it is settled.”

“No, dear; I shall not do that. What should I be in the glittering halls of an English baron? Could there be any visiting less fitting, any admixture less appropriate? Could I who have held up my voice in the Music Hall of Lacedaemon, amidst the glories of the West, in the great and free State of Illinois, against the corruption of an English aristocracy⁠—could I, who have been listened to by two thousand of my countrywomen⁠—and men⁠—while I spurned the unmanly, inhuman errors of primogeniture⁠—could I, think you, hold my tongue beneath the roof of a feudal lord!” Caroline Spalding knew that her friend could not hold her tongue, and hesitated to answer. There had been that fatal triumph of a lecture on the joint rights of men and women, and it had rendered poor Wallachia Petrie unfit for ordinary society.

“You might come there without talking politics, Wally,” said Caroline.

“No, Caroline; no. I will go into the house of no man in which the free expression of my opinion is debarred me. I will not sit even at your table with a muzzled tongue. When you are gone, Caroline, I shall devote myself to what, after all, must be the work of my life, and I shall finish the biographical history of our great hero in verse⁠—which I hope may at least be not ephemeral. From month to month I shall send you what I do, and you will not refuse me your friendly criticism⁠—and, perhaps, some slight meed of approbation⁠—because you are dwelling beneath the shade of a throne. Oh, Caroline, let it not be a upas tree!”

The Miss Petries of the world have this advantage⁠—an advantage which rarely if ever falls to the lot of a man⁠—that they are never convinced of error. Men, let them be ever so much devoted to their closets, let them keep their work ever so closely veiled from public scrutiny, still find themselves subjected to criticism, and under the necessity of either defending themselves or of succumbing. If, indeed, a man neither speaks, nor writes⁠—if he be dumb as regards opinion⁠—he passes simply as one of the crowd, and is in the way neither of convincing nor of being convinced; but a woman may speak, and almost write, as she likes, without danger of being wounded by sustained conflict. Who would have the courage to begin with such a one as Miss Petrie, and endeavour to prove to her that she is wrong from the beginning? A little word of half-dissent, a smile, a shrug, and an ambiguous compliment which is misunderstood, are all the forms of argument which can be used against her. Wallachia Petrie, in her heart of hearts, conceived that she had fairly discussed her great projects from year to year with indomitable eloquence and unanswerable truth⁠—and that none of her opponents had had a leg to stand upon. And this she believed because the chivalry of men had given to her sex that protection against which her life was one continued protest.

“Here he is,” said Caroline, as Mr. Glascock came up to them. “Try and say a civil word to him, if he speaks about