“In a word, then, aunty,” (’Bel forgot for a moment her pompous tone,) “the establishment of Woman’s Rights.” “Indeed!” (I thought I detected a pleased look even in my mother’s calm eye; and for myself I turned a _pirouette_. Why, I did not exactly know, but there was something in the words to tickle the ear.) “Indeed! and what has that to do with your exposing your health in such a storm as this?” (Ah! I was mistaken. My mother was older and wiser than ’Bel and I.) “Health! Never fear; we are not to be so whimsical as to mind those things any more. Since we have succeeded in making men acknowledge, not only our intellectual equality, but our entire fitness for the performance of all the duties which have hitherto devolved on them exclusively, we have set about establishing another point. Indeed, we never shall be secure in the possession of our _rights_ till this point is gained. We find that the general impression concerning our physical weakness and delicacy of constitution is of great disadvantage to us, a drawback on our enterprise, and we intend now to prove that we have as much muscular strength as the other sex. We are their equals _in every respect_; and if the truth be not willingly acknowledged, it must be done upon compulsion.” “Bless me, ’Bel!” But I broke off suddenly. _Could_ that be Cousin ’Bel? If so, how metamorphosed! What an unnatural expression had crept over her face! And how completely indurated were the once flexible muscles! “Our new theory concerning this,” resumed my cousin, “is that the imagination—” But I lost ’Bel’s explanation, for by this time I had dipped into the criticism, and the Great Reform, thrilling as the news had been, was forgotten. She talked on, and my mother replied, but their voices sounded like the murmur of a sea-shell I had no ear nor eye for any thing but the great iron-shod foot that had suddenly planted itself on my violet-bank. “Sentimental.” True; but is sentiment, pure sentiment, a sin? “Young-womanly.” Well, what else should the doings of a young woman be? “Commonplace.” Ay; so is the poetry written by God the world over. I did not profess to bring original creations—I but copied, here and there, a touch from the simple things I loved. “No depth of thought or strength of expression.” I read on. Heavier and thicker came down the stunning blows, till I could think of nothing so like it as Saturn among the poor frightened fairies. I finished, and lifted my hand to see if my head were safe.