f women under all religions, and in all the so-called "Holy Books."

When Part I. of "The Woman's Bible" was finally published in November,
1895, it created a great sensation. Some of the New York city papers
gave a page to its review, with pictures of the commentators, of its
critics, and even of the book itself. The clergy denounced it as the
work of Satan, though it really was the work of Ellen Battelle Dietrick,
Lillie Devereux Blake, Rev. Phebe A. Hanaford, Clara Bewick Colby,
Ursula N. Gestefeld, Louisa Southworth, Frances Ellen Burr, and myself.
Extracts from it, and criticisms of the commentators, were printed in
the newspapers throughout America, Great Britain, and Europe. A third
edition was found necessary, and finally an edition was published in
England. The Revising Committee was enlarged, and it now consists of
over thirty of the leading women of America and Europe.[A]

The month of August, 1895, we spent in Peterboro, on the grand hills of
Madison County, nine hundred feet above the valley. Gerrit Smith's fine
old mansion still stands, surrounded with magnificent trees, where I had
played in childhood, chasing squirrels over lawn and gardens and wading
in a modest stream that still creeps slowly round the grounds. I
recalled as I sat on the piazza how one time, when Frederick Douglass
came to spend a few days at Peterboro, some Southern visitors wrote a
note to Mr. Smith asking if Mr. Douglass was to sit in the parlor and at
the dining table; if so, during his visit they would remain in their
own apartments. Mr. Smith replied that his visitors were always treated
by his family as equals, and such would be the case with Mr. Douglass,
who was considered one of the ablest men reared under "The Southern
Institution." So these ladies had their meals in their own apartments,
where they stayed most of the time, and, as Mr. Douglass prolonged his
visit, they no doubt wished in their hearts that they had never taken
that silly position. The rest of us walked about with him, arm in arm,
played games, and sang songs together, he playing the accompaniment on
the guitar. I suppose if our prejudiced countrywomen had been introduced
to Dumas in a French salon, they would at once have donned their bonnets
and ran away.

Sitting alone under the trees I recalled the different generations that
had passed away, all known to me. Here I had met the grandfather, Peter
Sken Smith, partner of John Jacob Astor. In their bargains