imney of a large square
brick house with a flat roof. Said house is situated on a high
hill with pleasant grounds about. At the present writing we are
on the opposite hill under the hospitable roof of "Sarah Coates,"
whose name appears in the reports of all the early Ohio
conventions. She is now Mrs. Harris. We arrived here this morning
at six o'clock, and found good Mr. Harris waiting for us at the
depot. He is one of the oldest and wealthiest inhabitants in the
county. They have a beautiful home, surrounded with every comfort
and luxury. Mrs. Harris is a noble woman, tall, fine-looking, and
moves about among her household gods like a queen. Although she
has a large family of black-eyed, rosy-cheeked children,
pictures, statuary, a cabinet of rare minerals, a conservatory of
beautiful plants, and a husband who thinks her but little lower
than the angels, she still demands the right to vote, and
occasionally indulges in the luxury of public speaking. She is
the moving spirit in every step of progress in Galena, and was
the President of the convention. We have had a most enthusiastic
meeting, three sessions, and house crowded throughout on an
admission fee of twenty-five cents. The women all over the West
are wide-awake. Theodore Tilton had just preceded us, and some
ladies laughingly told us that Theodore said they would
_certainly_ vote in _twenty years_!!

Let our cold-blooded Eastern reformers understand that ideas,
like grains, grow fast in the West, and that women here intend to
vote now, "right along," as the Hutchinsons sing. The editor of
the _Independent_ may talk of twenty years down on the Hudson
among the Rip Van Winkles in Spookey Hollow, to H. G. in New
York, or W. P. at the "Hub," but never to Western audiences, or
to the women of _The Revolution_. Why, Mr. Tilton, when you go to
the Senate some wise woman will sit on your right, and some black
man on your left. You are to pay the penalty of your theorizing
and be sandwiched between a woman and a black man in all the laws
and constitutions before five years pass over your curly head.
Twenty years! Why, Theodore, we expect to be walking the golden
streets of the New Jerusalem by that time, talking with Noah,
Moses, and Aaron, about the flood, the Pharaohs, the journey
throu