nvention of the
Free Soil party which was held in Worcester. I heard Charles Sumner and
Charles Allen speak. Sumner appealed to my sympathies, Allen to my
reason. Allen argued, Sumner was eloquent. Most young men in New England
had hitherto been admirers of Webster and Clay, and termed themselves
Whigs. The truth was they were called to whatever was eloquence. They
worshipped the greatness of sounding, patriotic periods. How we admired
Kossuth, and immediately paid him the shallow compliment of wearing a
Kossuth hat. I also thought I was a Whig, much to the sorrow of my
mother, whose sympathies were with the Abolitionists. After the Free
Soil convention I was a Free Soiler, and such I continued, casting my
first vote for John C. Fremont. At this time Worcester was the favorite
place for every kind of convention of the friends of progress.
Anti-slavery, Non-resistance and Women's Rights. I heard all the strange
and strong speakers and advocates on those free and lively platforms. I
heard Garrison, Phillips, May, Quincy, Pillsbury, the Fosters, Sojourner
Truth, Burleigh, Lucretia Mott, and Ernestine Rose. The last speaker, a
handsome, modishly dressed New York Jewess, converted me to the cause of
woman. In a short time I was an enthusiastic reformer all along the
line. Probably there has been no period in our history so charged with
new and revolutionary ideas as that from 1835 to 1850. It was a good
time to be alive and to be near the center of agitation in
Massachusetts. I heard both church and state and the whole structure of
society attacked. Whatever other reform might be under discussion these
were sure to receive the hardest blows; strike, and spare not, was the
watchword. For me the great event in my personal experience and
awakening at this period, was not especially connected with the reforms
that I have named. One small book very much in common with my former
limited reading and enthusiasms for celebrated men, shook me to the
center of my being. It was Emerson's Representative Men, recently
published. Carelessly looking over the volumes on Mr. Grout's counter in
Worcester, I took it up, attracted by its title, for I was always
hungering for stories of eminent men, always hoping to find the secret
of their greatness, that I might use it for my own advancement. I stood
and read a few pages, laid down the book, but felt that I must read it
through. After some battling between my purse and desire, desire won,
and I