_Rhoda._ I come to sit at your feet; to draw into my thirsty soul the teachings of your stupendous intellect. Glorious champion of my sex, I would wrest from proud man one of his boasted prerogatives. _Mrs. D._ Indeed! To what sphere of usefulness do you aspire? _Mrs. H._ She's ravin' about paregoric. She ought to be a doctor. _Rhoda._ I heard your glorious speech last night, and every fibre of my being thrilled beneath the touch of your matchless eloquence. You told us we had the ability to achieve success in any occupation where man could triumph. I want to be a butcher. _Mrs. H._ Heavens and airth! the woman's loony! _Rhoda._ Yes, a butcher; that I may give my children strong food, for which they hanker. Ah, the mighty butcher! the crafty butcher! the skilful butcher! I have gazed upon him with admiration. With what power he fells the mighty oxen and—and—things! How skilfully he sends to "green fields and pastures new" the sportive lambs! With what grace he seizes the portly hog, and, regardless of its piteous cries, ends its devouring life! Oh, glorious champion of our sex, teach me to excel in this great branch of usefulness, and fill the mouths of my babes! _Mrs. D._ Woman, have you escaped from a lunatic asylum? _Mrs. H._ Lor, Hannah Merria, she's 'sterricky. _Mrs. D._ The poor woman's mad. _Rhoda._ Mad? Then 'tis you who have made me so. You promise, and do not fulfil. Make me a butcher, or I will proclaim you a traitor to our cause, from the market-place, in the council-hall, from the house-tops. Champion of the sex! Bah! Give my children beef, pork, mutton, or "get you to a nunnery," quick. [_Exit_, R. _Mrs. D._ Poor woman, poor woman! _Mrs. H._ Nothin' but skin and bones (kee). This all comes of political circuses. O Hannah Merria! the millinariam won't come any sooner for all yer speechifyin'. Better stay to home. Lor sakes! who's this? (_Enter_ POLLIE, _disguised. Old-fashioned straw bonnet, bright ribbons; faded shawl of bright patterns; white cotton gloves, very large, upon hands._) _Pollie._ W-w-where is she,—the ch-ch-champion of our s-s-s-s-sex? _Mrs. D._ What do you wish, good woman? _Pollie._ 'T-t-tis she: I know th-th-th-that v-v-voice! D-d-dear Mrs. D-D-Duplex, last night you m-m-moved me with the f-f-f-force of your el-l-l-oquence. I have long b-b-blushed at our de-p-p-p-pendent situation: I have thrown off the c-ch-chain, and stand p-p-prepared to wrest from man one of his pr-p-proud p-p-p-p-prerogatives. _Mrs. H._ There's an awful waste of paregoric there. _Mrs. D._ And pray, my good woman, to what new field of labor do you aspire? _Pollie._ B-b-before I heard your v-voice, I listened to one that charmed my f-f-f-fancy. M-m-make me like him, and I will b-b-bless you. I would be an auc-sh-sh-shuneer.