GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, April 1850

WOMAN'S RIGHTS.

BY HADDIE LANE.

"HADDIE," said my Aunt Debbie, laying aside the stocking she had been knitting, and interrupting me in a most animated discussion with Cousin Tom, "Haddie, what do you mean by the words 'Woman's Rights?' They have passed your lips at least a dozen times within the last ten minutes."

"Why, auntie, I was just wishing to exercise my 'rights' as Tom's physician, and I was vowing to give him such a dose of ratsbane as would rid the world for ever of such a pest."

"I am sorry, my Haddie, to hear you speak jestingly on such a grave subject; but get your bonnet, and join me in a walk through the village, and you will find, I hope, before we return, that you have numerous and noble rights. You will learn that which will make you tremble for yourself, lest you should misuse your talents."

Greatly wondering what Aunt Debbie could mean, I was soon equipped, and found her waiting in the hall. As we descended the steps together, I noticed a shade of sadness on her brow, her lips had lost their usual smile, and there was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke.

"Here, Miss Haddie, I shall want your help: which will you carry, the basket or the bundle?"

"Neither, Aunt Debbie," I replied, snatching up the basket, however. "Where are you going to take me, aunt?" I asked, after we had gone some distance. "This basket is not as light as it might be, and the bundle is of a respectable size."

My aunt answered by leading the way into a narrow lane, which I immediately recognized as leading to the cottage of Widow Green, whose daughter was one of my old playmates.

"Really, aunt, things seem so changed since I went to school. I have not heard from Mary Green this many a long day. I expect she is married—the bride of some rustic Ichabod or Peter."

"Haddie, can you—will you be grave for the next five minutes? I promised to tell you of woman's rights, and you should be serious."

She knocked at the door; a feeble voice bade us enter. I followed Aunt Debbie, who walked to a corner of the room. There, on a low bed, lay a wasted form, in whose dark eyes lurked a lingering resemblance to her who was once the village beauty. It was with difficulty that I checked the exclamation of surprise that sprang to my lips; but a glance from Aunt Debbie warned me, and I sat down silently by the bedside. Could that be Mary Green? The rosy cheeks, the laughing glances were gone. "So young to die!" I murmured. "Just my age."

"Come here, Haddie," said Aunt Debbie, cheerfully; "here is an old friend."

A sweet smile hovered on the sick girl's lips, as I bent over her.

"Changed—sadly changed!" she said.

"Yes, Mary, changed," said Aunt Debbie; "but gladly changed, from a thoughtless, giddy girl, to a true Christian; from a proud girl to a humble sufferer."

"True—most true, I trust," Mary answered. "Haddie, dear, I spoke only of my face. I am about to die, Haddie—I am in dreadful agony sometimes—yet, believe me, I would not be as I once was for all the wealth of worlds. I am far happier now than even in those merry days when we used to run races to the school-house, and wonder if queens were as gay as we. Your aunt, Haddie, has made me a Christian—has told me of my God."

A violent cough interrupted her. I feared that the spirit had flown as she fell back heavily on the pillow; but her eyes gently unclosed, and she was about to proceed, when Aunt Debbie spoke—

"Another time, Mary; not now."

She acquiesced.

Tearfully, but silently, I watched my aunt, now arranging the pillows, now holding a cup of water to Mary's parched lips; the, unbarring the window, she let in a glorious stream of sunlight to the room. Seating herself by the bedside, and taking one thin hand between her own, she read a chapter from the Bible. The words were simple, but they spoke of hope beyond the grave, of the glorious heaven where Mary so soon would be. My tears flowed fast; when my aunt, closing the book, knelt down on the earthen floor, motioning to me to do the same. The golden sunlight seemed to rest like a halo on my aunt's head, as her calm, clear voice uttered the words of prayer.

The thought flashed across my mind, this then is one of woman's duties—of woman's rights. Noble—truly noble! A glorious right, to smooth the thorny pillow of the dying, to point out the way of life to the troubled spirit, to cheer the fainting soul with words of hope.

We left the cottage as noiselessly as we had entered it. We walked on and on till we came to the last house in the village. Aunt Debbie opened the gate, scattering a flock of chickens who had taken up their quarters for the night thereon. What was that dirty object in the doorway? I always considered myself passionately fond of children; but I confess my heart revolted at the view of that unsightly object. Its face begrimed with dirt and tears, its uncombed curls in frightful confusion, it ran screaming to its mother; while Aunt Debbie, seeing my lip curl, whispered, "Shrink not here, Haddie; another of woman's rights."

A woman now came forth to greet us, whose distressed countenance was a sufficient appeal to our sympathies. Three or four little urchins were clinging to her skirts. I coaxed an acquaintance with the cleanest of them, while my aunt was occupied with the mother.

The poor woman's story was briefly told. Once possessed of affluence, she had been reduced to poverty by the failure of a bank, in which all her funds were vested. Sickness and death following close on the heels of poverty, she had been reduced to her present condition. Strangers in the village, they had been literally famishing, when a poor woman, herself a recipient of Aunt Debbie's bounty, brought information of them to my charitable aunt.

My basket was soon opened; the children gathered around it, and they made terrible inroads on the cold chicken and bread and butter. When their enormous appetites seemed somewhat appeased, which was not until the basket was completely lightened, Aunt Debbie opened her bundle.

"We must make these little ones look a little more respectable," said she.

The mother blushed as she told us that trouble had made her forget everything.

"Oh, never mind," said Aunt Debbie; "a little soap and plenty of fresh water will work wonders. Haddie will take charge of that little fellow with the long curls."

It was a tiresome task. I scrubbed, and rubbed, and pulled hair most unmercifully, but the rogues bore it all quietly; and when it was over, and they were arrayed in clean, whole dresses, what beauties they were! Their mother looked almost happy, with seeing her children look so bright; and when, at parting, Aunt Debbie promised to procure employment for her, and to take the eldest girl under her own care, I thought there would be no end to the "God bless you!"

My heart swelled as we turned homeward.

"Certainly, Aunt Debbie," said I, "this right makes you feel very happy; though I attribute part of my present feelings to joy at being rid of that basket."

Descending the hill, we came to the school-house. I caught sight of an old acquaintance through the window.

"Is Amy Henry the teacher, Aunt Debbie? That saucy girl, who used to play at tit-tat-to on her slate instead of doing her sums, and make such comical little heads on her copy-book; and"—

"Hush my dear; Amy is graver now, and would probably not relish hearing of her youthful follies. Shall we go in?"

"O no! I could never keep my countenance to hear Amy lecturing the class. We will stand here; they will not see us."

Amy was bending over a slate, while a little girl stood by her side with a terribly puzzled countenance. There was something so comic in her woe-begone visage, that Amy burst into a hearty laugh, and so did I. Of course, we were discovered, and forced in to occupy that post of honor, the visitors' seat. I watched her carefully, as she moved quietly among her scholars. Their bright glances showed how much they loved her; and I did not wonder at it, so patiently and kindly did she smooth away difficulties, so gently did she correct their faults, and her smile of approval was so sweet. She called up her class to recite; and they proved, by their answers, that her labor had not been lost. A brighter set of boys I never saw before.

When the school was dismissed, the scholars passed noiselessly from the room, so carefully had they been trained; but when they assembled on the green, there arose a tremendous shout. I stepped to the door to learn the cause. They were hurrahing for Miss Amy and Aunt Debbie.

My aunt spoke truly—another noble right, to gain the love, the almost adoration of those little hearts; to rouse the slumbering fires of genius; to mold their minds at her will—a glorious right, yet a fearful one.

We left the pale teacher in her now quiet school-room. I wanted her, nay, I urged her to walk home with me; but she smilingly refused, pointing to a huge bundle of quills to be mended, a large pile of copies to be set.

"Duty, duty—all right," said Aunt Debbie; "and then comes the pleasure of a visit from you, Amy, on Saturday, when the children will have a half holiday."

"Yes, Haddie, think of Saturday; and till then, good-by."

"Now, Haddie, for a race to the top of the hill," said Aunt Debbie.

I soon attained the summit, and called to my aunt to follow. We had stood there some time, drinking in the splendid sunset, when we heard voices in the adjoining wood.

"The wood-cutters, John Holm and his son, I suppose," said my aunt.

The sounds, which had at first been those of cheerful conversation, now became louder and angry.

"Oh! aunt, they are quarreling," I exclaimed.

Aunt Debbie stepped boldly into the forest. Guided by the sounds, we soon emerged from the tangled thicket into an open glade. There stood the two disputants. The old man's countenance was crimson with rage; the son stood with uplifted arm and quivering lip. His glittering ax shone in his hand. In an instant, Aunt Debbie was between them, a hand on the arm of each.

"Are ye men!" said she. "Would you sully this bright glade with an act of violence? Old man, would you strike your son—that boy who was once your pride? Your white hairs should have taught you wisdom. Do not stir up his anger, lest he be too sorely tempted. Son, would you stain your gleaming ax with your father's blood? Remember that he is your father. That word alone should secure your respect. But he has toiled for you; his frame has been bent with labor, his hair has whitened with toil for you—for you, his ungrateful son."

The young man's arm relaxed its hold, and his ax fell to the earth. But the old man still grasped his, and his face wore a sterner frown.

"John," my aunt continued, "can you imagine your sainted wife looking down from heaven, and beholding you with arm uplifted against her son, her living image?"

At the mention of his wife, the old man burst into a flood of tears; and, sitting down on the newly-fallen tree, he buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.

"Now go to him," said Aunt Debbie, touching the young man's arm; "go tell him you are penitent; ask his forgiveness, and all will be well."

He walked towards his father, and we left them. As we threaded our way through the thicket, now blinded by a branch from some impertinent tree, now scratched by a briar, now starting at a squirrel, I thought to myself—"Still another right—a peace-maker. Who but woman, helpless, unresisting woman is so formed to glide in gently among angry men, to calm their ruffled spirits, to weaken the strong arm and the hand heavy with passion? Who but woman can show them the noblest revenge—the revenge of kindness? A right so fearful must make every true woman tremble at the thought. Heaven send us strength to use it!"

As we descended the hill, I recognized the long avenue of cedars on our right, as leading to the house of Squire Carlton, as the magistrate was called. I had many a fine race down that avenue with Fanny Carlton; but I had not seen or heard anything of her for two years. True, before I left my native village for a fashionable boarding-school in a distant city, we two had plighted a solemn promise never to forget each other, and to write a long letter once a week; but amid the busy life of a school-girl and the excitement of new faces and new friends, I had forgotten, and Fanny was too proud to intrude her letters where she deemed herself neglected. My aunt, in answer to the question which fell fast from my lips, informed me that Mr. Carlton had been for a long time afflicted with the gout; that his temper, never remarkable for urbanity, had now become very irritable; that Fanny had given up her friends, her studies, and her amusements, devoting her whole time to her father, who repaid this devotion with reproofs and harshness.

"I see them, Aunt Debbie," I cried, "there on the lawn."

It was, indeed, Fanny; but my playmate was greatly altered—she had grown tall. Her complexion was exquisitely clear; and her hair, instead of falling to her waist in those careless curls which seemed like a gleam of sunshine floating through the air, was turned smoothly back from her forehead, and gathered into a knot behind. Her slight figure bent under the weight of the stately old man who leaned on her arm. They had observed us, and were coming slowly to meet us.

"We will wait for them here at the gate," said Aunt Debbie; "it is too late to go in."

I assented, and was stooping to gather some of the white violets with which the ground was covered, when an exclamation from my aunt startled me. Fanny and her father had approached nearly to where we stood, when the old man's foot struck against some obstacle in the path. He with difficulty suppressed a loud cry of pain; but, lifting his arm quickly, gave his daughter a blow so heavy that she reeled forward, and would have fallen but for a friendly cedar which stood near. She had been hastening towards us, her face beaming with pleasure; but at this shameful blow her color faded; an expression of pain crossed her face, and, bending upon me a look in which disappointment was mingled with mortification, she waved her hand and turned towards the house. We stood in silence, as if rooted to the spot. Mr. Carlton walked as fast as his foot would allow, muttering curses and imprecations; while Fanny seemed to have forgotten the blow, so tenderly did she support the old man, and so skillfully did she direct his steps.

"Wait a minute," said Aunt Debbie, after they had entered the house; "Fanny will soon be back, I fancy." And scarcely had the words passed her lips, when Fanny was at our side.

After the usual greetings, she reverted to her father's fall, blaming her own carelessness, but without mentioning her blow. She held her handkerchief to her forehead to hide the swelling. Aunt Debbie pressed her to spend the following day with us; but she declined, pleading an engagement.

"But you will come soon to see me?" said I; "on Saturday I shall expect you."

"I am afraid, dear Haddie," said she, confusedly, "that I cannot come at all; my father's indisposition requires my constant attention. I am doing penance, Haddie; I used to be such a rover. But my father likes me near him; and he has so few enjoyments, that I am glad I can help him to forget his sufferings."

A servant now came to inform Fanny that Mr. Carlton requested to see her immediately. With a smile and a half-suppressed sigh, she left us.

"Can this be one of woman's rights, Aunt Debbie?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, Haddie. Fanny is learning a lesson of self-denial, of patience; and though it may seem an unenviable right to you to be able to 'bless them that curse you,' we must think of 'the great reward' which Fanny will obtain in heaven."

We had now arrived at the gate of a small frame house. It was a perfect picture of cleanliness and order. A bright wood fire was crackling and sparkling on the hearth, and the burnished tins that lined the walls were glowing in the blaze. The little tea-table was set: my mouth watered at the sight of the bread, light as a snow-flake, the golden butter, and the dish of strawberries smothered in cream. In the doorway stood a young man, whose dress betokened him a laborer, who was tossing a laughing baby to the very ceiling. His wife, a rosy, good-humored lassie, was removing the newly-washed clothes from the line where they had been sunning themselves all day, and was placing them in a large basket at her side. They smiled their simple greeting, while my aunt said a few kind words to the young mother, and praised the laughing urchin.

"Rural felicity, is it not, aunt?" I asked, as soon as we were out of hearing.

"Yes, indeed, Haddie. And what will you say when I tell you this was all brought about through the agency of a darned stocking? I once heard a very learned lady say, with a sneer on her proud lip, 'To stay at home and darn your husband's stockings—phaw!—the aim of woman's existence!' "

"Oh, tell me all about it, aunty; I am in prime humor for a story."

"It will be but short, my dear. When Henry and Ellen Stuart were married, every one spoke of the excellent match—such a fine young man. The village seemed delighted with itself; but its congratulations did not last long. Soon it began to be whispered that Henry frequented the tavern; he was several times seen reeling home; and at last it became evident to every one that he was a confirmed drunkard. I expostulated, your grandfather lectured him severely, but with no effect. Their furniture piece by piece, was sold to gratify the cravings of his appetite. His wife's clothes and his own went one after another, and at last little remained but the bare walls. In spite of all this, Ellen managed to keep up appearances; she was always neatly and cleanly dressed, and tried to speak cheerfully of the future.

"One morning, after a greater debauch than usual, Henry Stuart lay on the heap of straw which served them as a couch, their bed having been sold long before. His heart was heavy; his conscience was busy, yet he lay there quietly. His wife, after arranging the room, sat down on a broken chair, and quietly began darning a very old and worn stocking. His pride was roused. This was not wont to be so. He watched her as he patiently drew the glittering needle through the fearful chasms Time had made; he looked at her dress—composed of the coarsest material—her face, its rosy freshness gone, and the sunny smile succeeded by a look of anxiety that made her seem almost old; the room bare of all its former comforts; and all this change he had wrought. He rose from the bed, signed the pledge, resumed his work with energy, and now behold him! By hard work and prudence, he has regained his former standing; and he still keeps the darned stocking, considering it as the dearest legacy he can leave to his daughter; and whenever he is tempted, he looks at it for a few minutes, and self is conquered. Which would you rather be, the proud, wealthy woman, sneering at household duties, and endeavoring wildly to revolutionize the world; or Ellen Stuart, humble and hard-working though she be, rejoicing in the thought that her patient forbearance and the blessed old stocking have wrought this change?"

"Not the virago, for the wealth of worlds."

As we passed through the village, the lights began to twinkle from the windows, and at the door of one small cottage, I could not resist the temptation to peep in. A young girl was seated by a small table, bending over some sewing. Her fingers flew; and well they might, for they were helping to bar the door against poverty. An old man sat in the chimney corner smoking a pipe; while his wife, with spectacles on nose, was busied with her knitting. Sweet Lizzie White, thine is indeed a life of toil. "Day in, day out," rain or sunshine, heat or cold, you must sew, sew on from morn till night. By Lizzie's labor the whole family live. She supports her aged parents and a blind orphan nephew. She never knows holiday—never shows her pretty face except at meeting; and yet few are happier. She sings like a bird; and it would be strange, indeed, to pass their humble dwelling and not hear her sweet voice caroling her simple song.

A blessed right it is to labor for those we love. It gives strength to the hands and warmth to the heart. To feel that you are useful, that the lives of others are cheered by your labor, is enough to make the most sluggish blood course quickly through the veins, to rouse the most sullen heart to action. To meet poverty nobly, to wrestle with it bravely, to subdue it gloriously, this, indeed, makes woman seem "a little lower than the angels."

When we reached our home, the hall was deserted; Aunt Debbie went to hunt my father, and I threw myself on a settee—my limbs wearied with my long walk, but my faculties wide awake, and my brain and heart full to overflowing. I heard voices in an adjoining room. It was my little nephew Harry, talking with his mother. She was telling her boy of God. The merry little fellow was hushed into silence by the solemnity of the theme; and when, a short time afterwards, he knelt and repeated his evening prayer—"God bless Harry, make him a good boy; God bless Aunt Haddie and Carlo"—I could restrain myself no longer, but burst into tears. I thought of my own mother, of her gentle counsels to her wayward daughter, of her noble character; and I wept still more. The last and best of woman's rights—a mother's love. To "shadow forth in your example what you wish your child to be," is, indeed, a right—often abused, it is true, and seldom clearly understood, but still a right, and a noble one. The little being who reposes so confidingly on your bosom will become whatever you choose to make him. If you mold his mind to high and lofty aspirations after truth, if you teach him to know his duty and to perform it, great, exceeding great will be your reward; but if you teach him to submit to passion's away, to sneer at everything that is right and good, to check every noble impulse, the sin be upon your own head.

That night, when Aunt Debbie entered my chamber to bestow the good-night kiss, I accosted her with—

"Aunt Debbie, you did not tell me of woman's rights—one right you omitted."

"What was it, my darling?"

"Hold down your head; I will tell you, if you will promise not to say anything to Tom."

"Well, I promise—only don't strangle me. What is it, my dear?"

"The—the right of conquest, aunty."

"Oh, fie! what a naughty girl!" and Aunt Debbie tripped lightly from the room.

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