Meanwhile, as the newspapers say, we anxiously await further developments. According to present appearances, the final adjustment lies mainly in the hands of women themselves. Men can hardly be expected to concede either rights or privileges more rapidly than they are claimed, or to be truer to women than women are to each other. True, the worst effect of a condition of inferiority is the weakness it leaves behind it; even when we say, "Hands off!" the sufferer does not rise. In such a case, there is but one counsel worth giving. More depends on determination than even on ability. Will, not talent, governs the world. From what pathway of eminence were women more traditionally excluded than from the art of sculpture, in spite of _Non me Praxiteles fecit, sed Anna Damer?_--yet Harriet Hosmer, in eight years, has trod its full ascent. Who believed that a poetess could ever be more than an Annot Lyle of the harp, to soothe with sweet melodies the leisure of her lord, until in Elizabeth Barrett's hands the thing became a trumpet? Where are gone the sneers with which army surgeons and parliamentary orators opposed Mr. Sidney Herbert's first proposition to send Florence Nightingale to the Crimea? In how many towns has the current of popular prejuduce against female orators been reversed by one winning speech from Lucy Stone! Where no logic can prevail, success silences. First give woman, if you dare, the alphabet, then summon her to her career; and though men, ignorant and prejudiced, may oppose its beginnings, there is no danger but they will at last fling around her conquering footsteps more lavish praises than ever greeted the opera's idol,--more perfumed flowers than ever wooed, with intoxicating fragrance, the fairest butterfly of the ball-room. THE MORNING STREET. I walk alone the Morning Street, Filled with the silence strange and sweet: All seems as lone, as still, as dead, As if unnumbered years had fled, Letting the noisy Babel be Without a breath, a memory. The light wind walks with me, alone, Where the hot day like flame was blown; Where the wheels roared and dust was beat, The dew is in the Morning Street. Where are the restless throngs that pour Along this mighty corridor While the noon flames? the hurrying crowd Whose footsteps make the city loud? The myriad faces? hearts that beat No more in the deserted street?-- Those footsteps, in their dream-land maze, Cross thresholds of forgotten days; Those faces brighten from the years In morning suns long set in tears; Those hearts--far in the Past they beat-- Are singing in _their_ Morning Street.