Our patriot fathers, of eloquent fame, Waged war against tangible forms; Aye, _their_ foes were men--and if ours were the same, _We_ might speedily quiet their storms; But, ah! their descendants enjoy not such bliss-- The assumptions of Britain were nothing to this. Could we but array all our force in the field, We'd teach these usurpers of power That their bodily safety demands they should yield, And in the presence of manhood should cower; But, alas! for our tethered and impotent state, Chained by notions of knighthood--we can but debate. Oh! shade of the prophet Mahomet, arise! Place woman again in "her sphere," And teach that her soul was not born for the skies, But to flutter a brief moment here. This doctrine of Jesus, as preached up by Paul, If embraced in its spirit, will ruin us all. --_Lords of Creation_. On reading the "Pastoral Letter," our Quaker poet, John Greenleaf Whittier, poured out his indignation on the New England clergy in thrilling denunciations. Mr. Whittier early saw that woman's only protection against religious and social tyranny, could be found in political equality. In the midst of the fierce conflicts in the Anti-Slavery Conventions of 1839 and '40, on the woman question _per se_, Mr. Whittier remarked to Lucretia Mott, "_Give woman the right to vote_, and you end all these persecutions by reform and church organizations." THE PASTORAL LETTER. So, this is all--the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fetter! When laymen think--when women preach-- A war of words--a "Pastoral Letter!" Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! Was it thus with those, your predecessors, Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes Their loving-kindness to transgressors? A "Pastoral Letter," grave and dull-- Alas! in hoof and horns and features, How different is your Brookfield bull, From him who bellows from St. Peter's! Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, Think ye, can words alone preserve them? Your wiser fathers taught the arm And sword of temporal power to serve them. Oh, glorious days--when Church and State Were wedded by your spiritual fathers! And on submissive shoulders sat Yours Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. No vile "itinerant" then could mar The beauty of your tranquil Zion, But at his peril of the scar Of hangman's whip and branding-iron. Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church Of heretic and mischief-maker. And priest and bailiff joined in search, By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker! The stocks were at each church's door, The gallows stood on Boston Common, A Papist's ears the pillory bore-- The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman!