Alice Sit-By-The-Fire
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary (octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquettish things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-reading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that, because the novelists do it.
MISS ANTHONY--But your honor will not deny me this one and only poor
privilege of protest against this high-handed outrage upon my citizen's
rights. May it please the Court to remember that since the day of my
arrest last November, this is the first time that either myself or any
person of my disfranchised class has been allowed a word of defense
before judge or jury--
JUDGE HUNT--The prisoner must sit down--the Court cannot allow it.
MISS ANTHONY--All of my prosecutors, from the 8th ward corner grocery
politician, who entered the complaint, to the United States Marshal,
Commissioner, District Attorney, District Judge, your honor on the
bench, not one is my peer, but each and all are my political sovereigns;
and had your honor submitted my case to the jury, as was clearly your
duty, even then I should have had just cause of protest, for not one of
those men was my peer; but, native or foreign born, white or black, rich
or poor, educated or ignorant, awake or asleep, sober or drunk, each and
every man of them was my political superior; hence, in no sense, my
peer. Even, under such circumstances, a commoner of England, tried
before a jury of Lords, would have far less cause to complain than
should I, a woman, tried before a jury of men. Even my counsel, the Hon.
Henry R. Selden, who has argued my cause so ably, so earnestly, so
unanswerably before your honor, is my political sovereign. Precisely as
no disfranchised person is entitled to sit upon a jury, and no woman is
entitled to the franchise, so, none but a regularly admitted lawyer is
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary (octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a dear). To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquettish things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself; not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-reading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that, because the novelists do it.