she thinks women ought to speak up for themselves."
Charlotte chimed in. "You can hear her speak this afternoon. And then you can write a story about her for your newspaper, that is, if people in Boston are interested in what we are doing out here."
"They are more interested in how the Reverend Hopewell died." Daniel decided not to mention the men who had roughed up Rory. "Everyone in Boston is wondering who to blame. They certainly swooped up the papers yesterday with my story in it." Daniel tried not to sound boastful saying that.
"We all care deeply about Mr. Hopewell's death," Abigail spoke again. "But we are trying to carry on as he would have wished. He was a friend of Margaret Fuller's too. She published one of his essays in her new magazine,
The Dial
. He would have wanted us to welcome her to the Community."
"Come into the parlor, Mr. Gallagher. She will be speaking in a few minutes," Charlotte urged. She led the way into the parlor. About a dozen men and women sat in chairs around the room talking quietly to one another, while some of the older students sprawled on the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Ripley came into the room through the large, double doors. Between them walked a small woman holding a stick with eyeglasses on it and peering around the room. Miss Fuller was not beautiful, but she walked as though she were. Her glance swept the room, friendly and yet impersonal. As she took her chair at the front, she arranged her flowing dark red skirt around her and draped her black silk shawl gracefully across her shoulders. No one could look at anyone but her.
After taking her place at a table in the front of the room, Margaret Fuller leaned forward and began to speak.
"You have all suffered a dreadful loss," she said. "The unexpected death here at Brook Farm has shaken us all. In a community dedicated to building a better world, no one would expect such a terrible thing to happen. What could have brought such evil into our world?"
"It's all the outsiders we're letting into the neighborhood," interrupted the farmer. "It was one of those Irish tramps that killed the reverend. I don't care what the sheriff says. They're lazy, shiftless people who would rather lie than tell the honest truth."
Margaret Fuller frowned at the interruption, but she plunged ahead. "What do you expect of a people who have been oppressed for centuries? These are the faults of an oppressed race, which must require the aid of better circumstances through two or three generations to eradicate. Can you not appreciate their virtues? They have strong family ties, they are generous, and have indefatigable good-humor and ready wit. They are fundamentally one of the best nations of the world."
She paused and looked around at the audience, but no one said a word. Then she continued:
"If only the Irish were welcomed here, not to work merely, but to find intelligent sympathy as they struggle patiently and ardently for the education of their children! No sympathy could be better deserved, no efforts better timed. Will you not believe it, merely because that bog-bred youth you placed in the mud-hole tells you lies, and drinks to cheer himself in those endless diggings? You are short-sighted; you do not look to the future; you will not turn your head to see what may have been the influences of the past. You have not examined your own breast to see whether the monitor there has not commanded you to do your part to counteract these influences; and yet the Irishman appeals to you, eye to eye."
Mr. Platt didn't have any answer for that flow of eloquence. Daniel smiled to think how this little woman had silenced him, but he knew the farmer wasn't convinced. He still thought Rory O'Connor or someone like him had killed the Reverend.
For a while the ladies in the parlor listened to Miss Fuller and asked a few questions about Irish servants and the best way to educate them and help them learn to read and write and to act like Americans. Daniel became restless
Charlotte chimed in. "You can hear her speak this afternoon. And then you can write a story about her for your newspaper, that is, if people in Boston are interested in what we are doing out here."
"They are more interested in how the Reverend Hopewell died." Daniel decided not to mention the men who had roughed up Rory. "Everyone in Boston is wondering who to blame. They certainly swooped up the papers yesterday with my story in it." Daniel tried not to sound boastful saying that.
"We all care deeply about Mr. Hopewell's death," Abigail spoke again. "But we are trying to carry on as he would have wished. He was a friend of Margaret Fuller's too. She published one of his essays in her new magazine,
The Dial
. He would have wanted us to welcome her to the Community."
"Come into the parlor, Mr. Gallagher. She will be speaking in a few minutes," Charlotte urged. She led the way into the parlor. About a dozen men and women sat in chairs around the room talking quietly to one another, while some of the older students sprawled on the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Ripley came into the room through the large, double doors. Between them walked a small woman holding a stick with eyeglasses on it and peering around the room. Miss Fuller was not beautiful, but she walked as though she were. Her glance swept the room, friendly and yet impersonal. As she took her chair at the front, she arranged her flowing dark red skirt around her and draped her black silk shawl gracefully across her shoulders. No one could look at anyone but her.
After taking her place at a table in the front of the room, Margaret Fuller leaned forward and began to speak.
"You have all suffered a dreadful loss," she said. "The unexpected death here at Brook Farm has shaken us all. In a community dedicated to building a better world, no one would expect such a terrible thing to happen. What could have brought such evil into our world?"
"It's all the outsiders we're letting into the neighborhood," interrupted the farmer. "It was one of those Irish tramps that killed the reverend. I don't care what the sheriff says. They're lazy, shiftless people who would rather lie than tell the honest truth."
Margaret Fuller frowned at the interruption, but she plunged ahead. "What do you expect of a people who have been oppressed for centuries? These are the faults of an oppressed race, which must require the aid of better circumstances through two or three generations to eradicate. Can you not appreciate their virtues? They have strong family ties, they are generous, and have indefatigable good-humor and ready wit. They are fundamentally one of the best nations of the world."
She paused and looked around at the audience, but no one said a word. Then she continued:
"If only the Irish were welcomed here, not to work merely, but to find intelligent sympathy as they struggle patiently and ardently for the education of their children! No sympathy could be better deserved, no efforts better timed. Will you not believe it, merely because that bog-bred youth you placed in the mud-hole tells you lies, and drinks to cheer himself in those endless diggings? You are short-sighted; you do not look to the future; you will not turn your head to see what may have been the influences of the past. You have not examined your own breast to see whether the monitor there has not commanded you to do your part to counteract these influences; and yet the Irishman appeals to you, eye to eye."
Mr. Platt didn't have any answer for that flow of eloquence. Daniel smiled to think how this little woman had silenced him, but he knew the farmer wasn't convinced. He still thought Rory O'Connor or someone like him had killed the Reverend.
For a while the ladies in the parlor listened to Miss Fuller and asked a few questions about Irish servants and the best way to educate them and help them learn to read and write and to act like Americans. Daniel became restless
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