Baltimore Evening Sun (5 March 1913): 6.

The local suffragettes, with characteristic savagery, now demand the hide of Major Richard M. Sylvester, Superintendent of Police of Washington, as unguent and satisfaction for the psychic tortures they suffered during Monday’s great suffrage demonstration. They had to stand and wait while the cavalry from Fort Myer cleared the way for them. Several of them were roughly shouldered by liquorish militiamen. One of them was chucked under the chin. Some low vulgarian from New Jersey spat upon their Maryland flag. Sylvester must die for it. They will not rest content until they see him jobless, dishonored, ham-strung and starving.

There is, of course, no justice and less sense in this familiar yell for gore. Major Sylvester did the best he could, and if that best was not perfect, it was still far from wholly unavailing. His task was crushingly complex and baffling. On the one hand he had an inadequate force of rurales for the business before him, and on the other hand he had a crowd full of animal spirits and the joy of life. That he protected the suffragettes from actual injury, with so many patriots eager to see, huzzah and caress them, is the best of all proofs of his ardor and good faith.

He kept better order on inauguration day, of course; but that is no evidence against him. On inauguration day he was helped out by uniformed reinforcements from Baltimore, Philadelphia, Richmond and a dozen other towns. Again, he faced a crowd that was beginning to tire. Yet again, most of its more turbulent spirits were out of it and marching in the parade themselves. The kittenish militiamen of Monday were now under arms. The bibulous wardheelers were ranged in sedate battalions. It was a vastly easier job for the Major, and he naturally accomplished it with greater efficiency. But that is not saying that he failed in his duty Monday.

The truth is that the suffragette paraders, all things considered, were very well treated, and the more tolerant and reflective of them are perfectly willing to admit it. When I called at the parade headquarters in F street Monday night I found that the veteran campaigners assembled there were in the best of humor. They had no complaint to make. The crowd had been a bit turbulent at times, but its turbulence was friendly and all the floats and marchers had got through uninjured. A few girls had been chucked under the chin, but a chuck under the chin is not an act of hostility, and crusaders must be willing to suffer for the cause. The thing foremost in their minds was that they had made a vivid and lasting impression of earnestness upon 200,000 Americans and that the whole country had rung with their cavortings. They felt, and with justification, that they had done the best day’s work of their lives.

The trouble with the local complainants, of course, is that they want to be both suffragettes and ladies, a fantastic and impossible combination. On the one hand, they want to cling to the immemorial superstitions of ladies—regarding the common problems of government, for example—and on the other hand, they want to preserve the traditional privileges and prerogatives of ladies. Let them put all that madness behind them. When they venture, as suffragettes, into public disputation and slugging, they must be prepared to bear the burdens of that enterprise. Are they chucked under the chin? Then they must stand it for the cause. Are they shouldered and knocked down? Then they must get up again and shout hallelujah. Are they walloped? Then they must strike back, and with interest.

No; it is out of the question to go to war without losing men, and by the same token it is impossible to tackle men without finding some of them boozy and loutish. The suffragettes must learn to take the bitter with the sweet. They must be willing to sacrifice themselves, even to the extent of being chucked under the chin. After all, no permanent damage follows a chuck under the chin. It is quicker, easier and less dangerons than making speeches from cart-tails. It is far better than being disfranchised. In the long run, it must inevitably make votes—first the vote of the enchanted chucker, and then, perhaps, a vote for the heroic chuckee.

However, I do not specifically recommend it as a means of propaganda. On the contrary, I admit its psychic unpleasantness and urge its avoidance whenever possible. But the point is that the suffragettes must not make such a pother over trivialities. Their sisters in England have faced imprisonment, forced feeding and degrading labor. Their sisters in Russia have gone cheerfully to Siberia. If they would be worthy of their cause, they must submit to occasional insult without a too vociferous repining. Nothing valuable has ever been accomplished in this world by gabbling in parlors. Progress is a matter of hammering and perspiring, of suffering and going without. Civilization, in its very essence, is an armed revolt. Its symbols are blood and iron.

Ample arnica for a chuck or two under the chin, even for a clout or two over the head, was on tap Monday night at the anti-suffrage headquarters in F street, a block east of the quarters of the marchers. There was the camp of a routed army–an army that had left bag and baggage behind. A huge “For Rent” sign was in the window; beside it some cattish anti, just before fleeing, had posted this written libel:

There were but 4,672 in line.

Well, maybe the count was accurate. I don’t know. The procession passed the Treasury in an hour and a half. But more eloquent than its numbers, or even than its adventures, was the appearance of this abandoned stronghold of the opposition. In company with a couple of hikers, I peered through the windows. The floors were littered with unused literature. The chairs were overturned. The banners on the walls were hanging drunkenly. Some scared trooper, in getting away in a hurry, had upset the water cooler.

The two hikers took a long look, and then threw back their heads and laughed. They had been chucked under the chin that day, but the terrible experience was forgotten. They had lost their flags in the mob, but they were not bothering about flags. They were footsore and weary, bedraggled and dusty, but—well, you should have heard them laugh!

Slipping off their black gloves and spitting on their hands, the Honorary Pallbearers once more intone the solemn news that “the slum is unknown in Baltimore.”–Adv.