A few brief extracts from the proceedings of the Woman's Rights Convention will sufficiently disclose their crack-brained and detestable projects: [here follow quotations from earlier stories--the Tribune's as well as its own--from Lucretia Mott, Mrs. [Abby] Price, Mrs. [Ernestine] Rose, Abby Kelly, Mr. [James M.] Buffum, [Wendell] Phillips, Mr Hubby Kelly Foster [Stephen S. Foster], Mr. Elizur Wright's letter, Samuel J. May's letter, Letter of L.A. Hine (twice), and finally Wendell Phillips' resolutions.]
These resolutions were adopted as the platform of the society, and half a dozen committees were appointed to keep this delectable association in harness.
The tail end of this gathering of abolition infidels, and deluded blue stockings [i.e., pedantic women], it appears, was extremely delicious. [The following would appear to be based almost entirely upon the account in the New-York Daily Tribune of October 26 with editorial commentary added.] Sojourner Truth, a lady of color, being a sojourner in the convention, and being called upon to speak the truth, did so by declaring that woman, in the first place, had put every thing wrong, by eating the forbidden fruit, and that she must now set everything to rights again. Frederick Douglas figured largely. He had learned to take his rights. He had been turned out of railroad cars and steamboats, knocked on the head, and kicked and cuffed like a dog, but he didn't mind it. He urged that the ladies should also take their rights--not wait for them to be doled out occasionally, but to take them! [William] Lloyd Garrison felt that the spirit of God had brooded over the Convention, and that the word of God had been spoken, and was affected to tears with this blasphemous hypocrisy. Sarah Tyndale recommended the women to be encouraged, for it appeared that she herself had been remarkably successful in the crockery business. Mrs. Mott said Mrs. Tyndale had visited all the houses of bad repute in Philadelphia, and had established a retreat for the Mary Magdalenes [prostitutes], three hundred of whom she had reclaimed, and given useful employment. Very good for Mrs. Tyndale. Mrs. Mercy, a female physician, of Providence, came also bravely up to the rescue. Mrs. Lucy Stone was very ambitious. She wanted woman put ahead, so that when she died, it should not be written upon her grave-stone that she was the "relict" [widow] of somebody. Mr. Hubby Kelly Foster was not satisfied with the Bible doctrine of the inferiority of woman; of course not, when his spouse, Abby Kelly Foster, was at his elbow. Mrs. Lucretia Mott, the ruling spirit of the establishment, thought that St. Paul, being an old bachelor, was a perfect ninny, and didn't know anything about women, was no sort of a judge, and not entitled to respect, in recommending "Wives, be obedient to your husbands." St. Paul, after all, was only a barbarian, full of the ignorance and prejudice of that time of day. Mrs. Mott, in winding up the conventicle, was affecting and solemn to an extraordinary degree. Quoting from the sainted Channing, she said:- "Mighty powers are at work, and who shall stay them?" She said the sainted Channing, because of the good works he had done. It seemed to her, after his death, as she sat alone in her room, thinking of him, his presence was with her, and the halo of his divinity round about her. In regard to this movement, she said, he or she who is least in the kingdom, is greater than these. She alluded to the writings of Jane Eyre, Harriet Martineau, Mary Howitt, in terms of approbation and as a sign of promise; to Catherine Beecher's appeal, twenty years ago, on behalf of women. Then she passed to her closing remarks. Are we not now separating from each other with grateful hearts? The day spring from on high hath visited us. We have met around this altar of humanity, and though no vocal prayers have been offered, she trusted an oblation had arisen from our hearts. "And now, Lord, let thy servants depart in peace; for our eyes have seen thy salvation."
Oh, most stupid presumption. "There is no peace for the wicked," as you will find out, old lady; but "they shall be cast into hell fire, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth."
Now let us see what all this balderdash, clap-trap, moonshine, rant, cant, fanaticism, and blasphemy, means. One of their poetesses, worthy to have been appropriate for the $200 Jenny Lind song says [?], in a poem submitted to the Convention, says:
Such are some of the leading geniuses of this assemblage. Their platform of principles comprises in behalf of women of color:
The right to vote--the right to hold office--the right to be doctors, lawyers, professors, et cetera--the right to visit oyster houses and all other places--the right to fight when necessary--the right to do as they please.
And they recommend all womankind to put on the breeches--to refuse obedience, and to do just whatever they like. It will refine, improve, and elevate society.
And they declare their disbelief in the Bible, their contempt of St. Paul and the Apostles, a savage and vindictive agency in the doctrines of abolition, amalgamation and disunion; a desire for civil war, promiscuous intercourse of sexes and colors, and the reign of the goddess of reason. There is not a lunatic asylum in the country, wherein, if the inmates were called together in sit in convention, they would not exhibit more sense, reason, decency and delicacy, and less of lunacy, blasphemy, and horrible sentiments, than this hybrid, mongrel, pie-bald, crack-brained, pitiful, disgusting and ridiculous assemblage. And there we drop them, and may God have mercy on their miserable souls. Amen.
 A reference to a poem by John Keats:
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants, pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a church-yard tomb.
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees;
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the moon.
But every morn, of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited mats o' rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen,
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere --
She died full long agone!