I have little to say of spirit-rappers, women's-rights conventionists,
Bloomers, cruel husbands, or hen-pecked. But, if we may believe your own
serious as well as caricature writers, you have things up here of which we
down South know very little indeed. Sir, we have no young Bloomers, with
hat to one side, cigar in mouth, and cane tapping the boot, striding up to
a mincing young gentleman with long curls, attenuated waist, and soft
velvet face,--the boy-lady to say, "May I see you home, sir?" and the
lady-boy to reply, "I thank ye--no; pa will send the carriage." Sir, we of
the South don't understand your women's-rights conventions. Women have
their wrongs. "The Song of the Shirt,"--Charlotte Elizabeth,--many, many
laws,--tell her wrongs. But your convention ladies despise the Bible. Yes,
sir; and we of the South are afraid _of them_, and _for you_. When women
despise the Bible, what next? _Paris,--then the City of the Great Salt
Lake,--then Sodom, before_ and _after the Dead Sea_. Oh, sir, if slavery
tends in any way to give the _honour of chivalry_ to Southern young
gentlemen towards ladies, and the exquisite delicacy and heavenly
integrity and love to Southern maid and matron, it has then a glorious
blessing with its curse.

Sir, your inquisitorial committee, and the North so far as represented by
them, (a small fraction, I know,) have, I take it, caught a Tartar this
time. Boys say with us, and everywhere, I _reckon_, "You worry my dog, and
I'll worry your cat." Sir, it is just simply a _fixed fact: the South will
not submit to these questions_. No, not for an instant. We will not permit
you to approach us at all. If we are morbidly sensitive, you have made us
so. But you are directly and grossly violating the Constitution of the
Presbyterian Church. The book forbids you to put such questions; the book
forbids _you to begin discipline_; the book forbids your sending this
committee to help common fame bear testimony against us; the book guards