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Title: Eighty Years and More; Reminiscences 1815-1897

Author: Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #11982]
Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11982

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EIGHTY YEARS AND MORE;
REMINISCENCES 1815-1897 ***

EIGHTY YEARS AND MORE

REMINISCENCES 1815-1897

ELIZABETH CADY STANTON

"Social science affirms that woman's place in society marks the level of civilization."

I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME TO

SUSAN B. ANTHONY,
MY STEADFAST FRIEND FOR HALF A CENTURY.

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER

I. CHILDHOOD
II. SCHOOL DAYS
III. GIRLHOOD
IV. LIFE AT PETERBORO
V. OUR WEDDING JOURNEY
VI. HOMEWARD BOUND
VII. MOTHERHOOD
VIII. BOSTON AND CHELSEA
IX. THE FIRST WOMAN'S RIGHTS CONVENTION
X. SUSAN B. ANTHONY
XI. SUSAN B. ANTHONY (Continued)
XII. MY FIRST SPEECH BEFORE A LEGISLATURE
XIII. REFORMS AND MOBS
XIV. VIEWS ON MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE
XV. WOMEN AS PATRIOTS
XVI. PIONEER LIFE IN KANSAS—OUR NEWSPAPER "THE REVOLUTION"
XVII. LYCEUMS AND LECTURERS
XVIII. WESTWARD HO!
XIX. THE SPIRIT OF '76
XX. WRITING "THE HISTORY OF WOMAN SUFFRAGE"
XXI. IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE
XXII. REFORMS AND REFORMERS IN GREAT BRITAIN
XXIII. WOMAN AND THEOLOGY
XXIV. ENGLAND AND FRANCE REVISITED
XXV. THE INTERNATIONAL COUNCIL OF WOMEN
XXVI. MY LAST VISIT TO ENGLAND
XXVII. SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1832—THE WOMAN'S BIBLE
XXVIII. MY EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
INDEX OF NAMES

LIST OF PORTRAITS.

The Author, Frontispiece
Margaret Livingston Cady
Judge Daniel Cady
Henry Brewster Stanton
The Author and Daughter
The Author and Son
Susan B. Anthony
Elizabeth Smith Miller
Children and Grandchildren
The Author, Mrs. Blatch, and Nora
The Author, Mrs. Lawrence, and Robert Livingston Stanton

EIGHTY YEARS AND MORE.

CHAPTER I.

CHILDHOOD.

The psychical growth of a child is not influenced by days and years, but by the impressions passing
events make on its mind. What may prove a sudden awakening to one, giving an impulse in a certain
direction that may last for years, may make no impression on another. People wonder why the
children of the same family differ so widely, though they have had the same domestic discipline, the
same school and church teaching, and have grown up under the same influences and with the same
environments. As well wonder why lilies and lilacs in the same latitude are not all alike in color and
equally fragrant. Children differ as widely as these in the primal elements of their physical and
psychical life.
Who can estimate the power of antenatal influences, or the child's surroundings in its earliest years,
the effect of some passing word or sight on one, that makes no impression on another? The
unhappiness of one child under a certain home discipline is not inconsistent with the content of
another under this same discipline. One, yearning for broader freedom, is in a chronic condition of
rebellion; the other, more easily satisfied, quietly accepts the situation. Everything is seen from a
different standpoint; everything takes its color from the mind of the beholder.
I am moved to recall what I can of my early days, what I thought and felt, that grown people may
have a better understanding of children and do more for their happiness and development. I see so
much tyranny exercised over children, even by well-disposed parents, and in so many varied forms,
—a tyranny to which these parents are themselves insensible,—that I desire to paint my joys and
sorrows in as vivid colors as possible, in the hope that I may do something to defend the weak from
the strong. People never dream of all that is going on in the little heads of the young, for few adults
are given to introspection, and those who are incapable of recalling their own feelings under restraint
and disappointment can have no appreciation of the sufferings of children who can neither describe
nor analyze what they feel. In defending themselves against injustice they are as helpless as dumb
animals. What is insignificant to their elders is often to them a source of great joy or sorrow.
With several generations of vigorous, enterprising ancestors behind me, I commenced the struggle of
life under favorable circumstances on the 12th day of November, 1815, the same year that my father,
Daniel Cady, a distinguished lawyer and judge in the State of New York, was elected to Congress.
Perhaps the excitement of a political campaign, in which my mother took the deepest interest, may
have had an influence on my prenatal life and given me the strong desire that I have always felt to
participate in the rights and duties of government.
My father was a man of firm character and unimpeachable integrity, and yet sensitive and modest to
a painful degree. There were but two places in which he felt at ease—in the courthouse and at his
own fireside. Though gentle and tender, he had such a dignified repose and reserve of manner that,
as children, we regarded him with fear rather than affection.
My mother, Margaret Livingston, a tall, queenly looking woman, was courageous, self-reliant, and
at her ease under all circumstances and in all places. She was the daughter of Colonel James
Livingston, who took an active part in the War of the Revolution.
Colonel Livingston was stationed at West Point when Arnold made the attempt to betray that
stronghold into the hands of the enemy. In the absence of General Washington and his superior

officer, he took the responsibility of firing into the Vulture, a suspicious looking British vessel that
lay at anchor near the opposite bank of the Hudson River. It was a fatal shot for André, the British
spy, with whom Arnold was then consummating his treason. Hit between wind and water, the vessel
spread her sails and hastened down the river, leaving André, with his papers, to be captured while
Arnold made his escape through the lines, before his treason was suspected.
On General Washington's return to West Point, he sent for my grandfather and reprimanded him for
acting in so important a matter without orders, thereby making himself liable to court-martial; but,
after fully impressing the young officer with the danger of such self-sufficiency on ordinary
occasions, he admitted that a most fortunate shot had been sent into the Vulture, "for," he said, "we
are in no condition just now to defend ourselves against the British forces in New York, and the
capture of this spy has saved us."
My mother had the military idea of government, but her children, like their grandfather, were
disposed to assume the responsibility of their own actions; thus the ancestral traits in mother and
children modified, in a measure, the dangerous tendencies in each.
Our parents were as kind, indulgent, and considerate as the Puritan ideas of those days permitted,
but fear, rather than love, of God and parents alike, predominated. Add to this our timidity in our
intercourse with servants and teachers, our dread of the ever present devil, and the reader will see
that, under such conditions, nothing but strong self-will and a good share of hope and mirthfulness
could have saved an ordinary child from becoming a mere nullity.
The first event engraved on my memory was the birth of a sister when I was four years old. It was a
cold morning in January when the brawny Scotch nurse carried me to see the little stranger, whose
advent was a matter of intense interest to me for many weeks after. The large, pleasant room with
the white curtains and bright wood fire on the hearth, where panada, catnip, and all kinds of little
messes which we were allowed to taste were kept warm, was the center of attraction for the older
children. I heard so many friends remark, "What a pity it is she's a girl!" that I felt a kind of
compassion for the little baby. True, our family consisted of five girls and only one boy, but I did not
understand at that time that girls were considered an inferior order of beings.
To form some idea of my surroundings at this time, imagine a two-story white frame house with a
hall through the middle, rooms on either side, and a large back building with grounds on the side and
rear, which joined the garden of our good Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Simon Hosack, of whom I
shall have more to say in another chapter. Our favorite resorts in the house were the garret and cellar.
In the former were barrels of hickory nuts, and, on a long shelf, large cakes of maple sugar and all
kinds of dried herbs and sweet flag; spinning wheels, a number of small white cotton bags filled
with bundles, marked in ink, "silk," "cotton," "flannel," "calico," etc., as well as ancient masculine
and feminine costumes. Here we would crack the nuts, nibble the sharp edges of the maple sugar,
chew some favorite herb, play ball with the bags, whirl the old spinning wheels, dress up in our
ancestors' clothes, and take a bird's-eye view of the surrounding country from an enticing scuttle
hole. This was forbidden ground; but, nevertheless, we often went there on the sly, which only made
the little escapades more enjoyable.
The cellar of our house was filled, in winter, with barrels of apples, vegetables, salt meats, cider,
butter, pounding barrels, washtubs, etc., offering admirable nooks for playing hide and seek. Two
tallow candles threw a faint light over the scene on certain occasions. This cellar was on a level with
a large kitchen where we played blind man's buff and other games when the day's work was done.
These two rooms are the center of many of the merriest memories of my childhood days.

I can recall three colored men, Abraham, Peter, and Jacob, who acted as menservants in our youth.
In turn they would sometimes play on the banjo for us to dance, taking real enjoyment in our games.
They are all at rest now with "Old Uncle Ned in the place where the good niggers go." Our nurses,
Lockey Danford, Polly Bell, Mary Dunn, and Cornelia Nickeloy—peace to their ashes—were the
only shadows on the gayety of these winter evenings; for their chief delight was to hurry us off to
bed, that they might receive their beaux or make short calls in the neighborhood. My memory of
them is mingled with no sentiment of gratitude or affection. In expressing their opinion of us in after
years, they said we were a very troublesome, obstinate, disobedient set of children. I have no doubt
we were in constant rebellion against their petty tyranny. Abraham, Peter, and Jacob viewed us in a
different light, and I have the most pleasant recollections of their kind services.
In the winter, outside the house, we had the snow with which to build statues and make forts, and
huge piles of wood covered with ice, which we called the Alps, so difficult were they of ascent and
descent. There we would climb up and down by the hour, if not interrupted, which, however, was
generally the case. It always seemed to me that, in the height of our enthusiasm, we were invariably
summoned to some disagreeable duty, which would appear to show that thus early I keenly enjoyed
outdoor life. Theodore Tilton has thus described the place where I was born: "Birthplace is
secondary parentage, and transmits character. Johnstown was more famous half a century ago than
since; for then, though small, it was a marked intellectual center; and now, though large, it is an
unmarked manufacturing town. Before the birth of Elizabeth Cady it was the vice-ducal seat of Sir
William Johnson, the famous English negotiator with the Indians. During her girlhood it was an
arena for the intellectual wrestlings of Kent, Tompkins, Spencer, Elisha Williams, and Abraham Van
Vechten, who, as lawyers, were among the chiefest of their time. It is now devoted mainly to the
fabrication of steel springs and buckskin gloves. So, like Wordsworth's early star, it has faded into
the light of common day. But Johnstown retains one of its ancient splendors—a glory still fresh as at
the foundation of the world. Standing on its hills, one looks off upon a country of enameled meadow
lands, that melt away southward toward the Mohawk, and northward to the base of those grand
mountains which are 'God's monument over the grave of John Brown.'"
Harold Frederic's novel, "In the Valley," contains many descriptions of this region that are true to
nature, as I remember the Mohawk Valley, for I first knew it not so many years after the scenes
which he lays there. Before I was old enough to take in the glory of this scenery and its classic
associations, Johnstown was to me a gloomy-looking town. The middle of the streets was paved
with large cobblestones, over which the farmer's wagons rattled from morning till night, while the
sidewalks were paved with very small cobblestones, over which we carefully picked our way, so that
free and graceful walking was out of the question. The streets were lined with solemn poplar trees,
from which small yellow worms were continually dangling down. Next to the Prince of Darkness, I
feared these worms. They were harmless, but the sight of one made me tremble. So many people
shared in this feeling that the poplars were all cut down and elms planted in their stead. The
Johnstown academy and churches were large square buildings, painted white, surrounded by these
same sombre poplars, each edifice having a doleful bell which seemed to be ever tolling for school,
funerals, church, or prayer meetings. Next to the worms, those clanging bells filled me with the
utmost dread; they seemed like so many warnings of an eternal future. Visions of the Inferno were
strongly impressed on my childish imagination. It was thought, in those days, that firm faith in hell
and the devil was the greatest help to virtue. It certainly made me very unhappy whenever my mind
dwelt on such teachings, and I have always had my doubts of the virtue that is based on the fear of
punishment.
Perhaps I may be pardoned a word devoted to my appearance in those days. I have been told that I
was a plump little girl, with very fair skin, rosy cheeks, good features, dark-brown hair, and laughing

blue eyes. A student in my father's office, the late Henry Bayard of Delaware (an uncle of our recent
Ambassador to the Court of St. James's, Thomas F. Bayard), told me one day, after conning my
features carefully, that I had one defect which he could remedy. "Your eyebrows should be darker
and heavier," said he, "and if you will let me shave them once or twice, you will be much
improved." I consented, and, slight as my eyebrows were, they seemed to have had some expression,
for the loss of them had a most singular effect on my appearance. Everybody, including even the
operator, laughed at my odd-looking face, and I was in the depths of humiliation during the period
while my eyebrows were growing out again. It is scarcely necessary for me to add that I never
allowed the young man to repeat the experiment, although strongly urged to do so.
I cannot recall how or when I conquered the alphabet, words in three letters, the multiplication table,
the points of the compass, the chicken pox, whooping cough, measles, and scarlet fever. All these
unhappy incidents of childhood left but little impression on my mind. I have, however, most
pleasant memories of the good spinster, Maria Yost, who patiently taught three generations of
children the rudiments of the English language, and introduced us to the pictures in "Murray's
Spelling-book," where Old Father Time, with his scythe, and the farmer stoning the boys in his apple
trees, gave rise in my mind to many serious reflections. Miss Yost was plump and rosy, with fair
hair, and had a merry twinkle in her blue eyes, and she took us by very easy stages through the old-
fashioned school-books. The interesting Readers children now have were unknown sixty years ago.
We did not reach the temple of knowledge by the flowery paths of ease in which our descendants
now walk.
I still have a perfect vision of myself and sisters, as we stood up in the classes, with our toes at the
cracks in the floor, all dressed alike in bright red flannel, black alpaca aprons, and, around the neck,
a starched ruffle that, through a lack of skill on the part of either the laundress or the nurse who
sewed them in, proved a constant source of discomfort to us. I have since seen full-grown men,
under slighter provocation than we endured, jerk off a collar, tear it in two, and throw it to the winds,
chased by the most soul-harrowing expletives. But we were sternly rebuked for complaining, and if
we ventured to introduce our little fingers between the delicate skin and the irritating linen, our
hands were slapped and the ruffle readjusted a degree closer. Our Sunday dresses were relieved with
a black sprig and white aprons. We had red cloaks, red hoods, red mittens, and red stockings. For
one's self to be all in red six months of the year was bad enough, but to have this costume multiplied
by three was indeed monotonous. I had such an aversion to that color that I used to rebel regularly at
the beginning of each season when new dresses were purchased, until we finally passed into an
exquisite shade of blue. No words could do justice to my dislike of those red dresses. My
grandfather's detestation of the British redcoats must have descended to me. My childhood's
antipathy to wearing red enabled me later to comprehend the feelings of a little niece, who hated
everything pea green, because she had once heard the saying, "neat but not gaudy, as the devil said
when he painted his tail pea green." So when a friend brought her a cravat of that color she threw it
on the floor and burst into tears, saying, "I could not wear that, for it is the color of the devil's tail." I
sympathized with the child and had it changed for the hue she liked. Although we cannot always
understand the ground for children's preferences, it is often well to heed them.
I am told that I was pensively looking out of the nursery window one day, when Mary Dunn, the
Scotch nurse, who was something of a philosopher, and a stern Presbyterian, said: "Child, what are
you thinking about; are you planning some new form of mischief?" "No, Mary," I replied, "I was
wondering why it was that everything we like to do is a sin, and that everything we dislike is
commanded by God or someone on earth. I am so tired of that everlasting no! no! no! At school, at
home, everywhere it is no! Even at church all the commandments begin 'Thou shalt not.' I suppose
God will say 'no' to all we like in the next world, just as you do here." Mary was dreadfully shocked

at my dissatisfaction with the things of time and prospective eternity, and exhorted me to cultivate
the virtues of obedience and humility.
I well remember the despair I felt in those years, as I took in the whole situation, over the constant
cribbing and crippling of a child's life. I suppose I found fit language in which to express my
thoughts, for Mary Dunn told me, years after, how our discussion roused my sister Margaret, who
was an attentive listener. I must have set forth our wrongs in clear, unmistakable terms; for Margaret
exclaimed one day, "I tell you what to do. Hereafter let us act as we choose, without asking."
"Then," said I, "we shall be punished." "Suppose we are," said she, "we shall have had our fun at
any rate, and that is better than to mind the everlasting 'no' and not have any fun at all." Her logic
seemed unanswerable, so together we gradually acted on her suggestions. Having less imagination
than I, she took a common-sense view of life and suffered nothing from anticipation of troubles,
while my sorrows were intensified fourfold by innumerable apprehensions of possible exigencies.
Our nursery, a large room over a back building, had three barred windows reaching nearly to the
floor. Two of these opened on a gently slanting roof over a veranda. In our night robes, on warm
summer evenings we could, by dint of skillful twisting and compressing, get out between the bars,
and there, snugly braced against the house, we would sit and enjoy the moon and stars and what
sounds might reach us from the streets, while the nurse, gossiping at the back door, imagined we
were safely asleep.
I have a confused memory of being often under punishment for what, in those days, were called
"tantrums." I suppose they were really justifiable acts of rebellion against the tyranny of those in
authority. I have often listened since, with real satisfaction, to what some of our friends had to say of
the high-handed manner in which sister Margaret and I defied all the transient orders and strict rules
laid down for our guidance. If we had observed them we might as well have been embalmed as
mummies, for all the pleasure and freedom we should have had in our childhood. As very little was
then done for the amusement of children, happy were those who conscientiously took the liberty of
amusing themselves.
One charming feature of our village was a stream of water, called the Cayadutta, which ran through
the north end, in which it was our delight to walk on the broad slate stones when the water was low,
in order to pick up pretty pebbles. These joys were also forbidden, though indulged in as opportunity
afforded, especially as sister Margaret's philosophy was found to work successfully and we had
finally risen above our infantile fear of punishment.
Much of my freedom at this time was due to this sister, who afterward became the wife of Colonel
Duncan McMartin of Iowa. I can see her now, hat in hand, her long curls flying in the wind, her nose
slightly retroussé, her large dark eyes flashing with glee, and her small straight mouth so expressive
of determination. Though two years my junior, she was larger and stronger than I and more fearless
and self-reliant. She was always ready to start when any pleasure offered, and, if I hesitated, she
would give me a jerk and say, emphatically: "Oh, come along!" and away we went.
About this time we entered the Johnstown Academy, where we made the acquaintance of the
daughters of the hotel keeper and the county sheriff. They were a few years my senior, but, as I was
ahead of them in all my studies, the difference of age was somewhat equalized and we became fast
friends. This acquaintance opened to us two new sources of enjoyment—the freedom of the hotel
during "court week" (a great event in village life) and the exploration of the county jail. Our Scotch
nurse had told us so many thrilling tales of castles, prisons, and dungeons in the Old World that, to
see the great keys and iron doors, the handcuffs and chains, and the prisoners in their cells seemed
like a veritable visit to Mary's native land. We made frequent visits to the jail and became deeply

concerned about the fate of the prisoners, who were greatly pleased with our expressions of
sympathy and our gifts of cake and candy. In time we became interested in the trials and sentences
of prisoners, and would go to the courthouse and listen to the proceedings. Sometimes we would slip
into the hotel where the judges and lawyers dined, and help our little friend wait on table. The
rushing of servants to and fro, the calling of guests, the scolding of servants in the kitchen, the
banging of doors, the general hubbub, the noise and clatter, were all idealized by me into one of
those royal festivals Mary so often described. To be allowed to carry plates of bread and butter, pie
and cheese I counted a high privilege. But more especially I enjoyed listening to the conversations in
regard to the probable fate of our friends the prisoners in the jail. On one occasion I projected a few
remarks into a conversation between two lawyers, when one of them turned abruptly to me and said,
"Child, you'd better attend to your business; bring me a glass of water." I replied indignantly, "I am
not a servant; I am here for fun."
In all these escapades we were followed by Peter, black as coal and six feet in height. It seems to me
now that his chief business was to discover our whereabouts, get us home to dinner, and take us
back to school. Fortunately he was overflowing with curiosity and not averse to lingering a while
where anything of interest was to be seen or heard, and, as we were deemed perfectly safe under his
care, no questions were asked when we got to the house, if we had been with him. He had a long
head and, through his diplomacy, we escaped much disagreeable surveillance. Peter was very fond
of attending court. All the lawyers knew him, and wherever Peter went, the three little girls in his
charge went, too. Thus, with constant visits to the jail, courthouse, and my father's office, I gleaned
some idea of the danger of violating the law.
The great events of the year were the Christmas holidays, the Fourth of July, and "general training,"
as the review of the county militia was then called. The winter gala days are associated, in my
memory, with hanging up stockings and with turkeys, mince pies, sweet cider, and sleighrides by
moonlight. My earliest recollections of those happy days, when schools were closed, books laid
aside, and unusual liberties allowed, center in that large cellar kitchen to which I have already
referred. There we spent many winter evenings in uninterrupted enjoyment. A large fireplace with
huge logs shed warmth and cheerfulness around. In one corner sat Peter sawing his violin, while our
youthful neighbors danced with us and played blindman's buff almost every evening during the
vacation. The most interesting character in this game was a black boy called Jacob (Peter's
lieutenant), who made things lively for us by always keeping one eye open—a wise precaution to
guard himself from danger, and to keep us on the jump. Hickory nuts, sweet cider, and olie-koeks (a
Dutch name for a fried cake with raisins inside) were our refreshments when there came a lull in the
fun.
As St. Nicholas was supposed to come down the chimney, our stockings were pinned on a
broomstick, laid across two chairs in front of the fireplace. We retired on Christmas Eve with the
most pleasing anticipations of what would be in our stockings next morning. The thermometer in
that latitude was often twenty degrees below zero, yet, bright and early, we would run downstairs in
our bare feet over the cold floors to carry stockings, broom, etc., to the nursery. The gorgeous
presents that St. Nicholas now distributes show that he, too, has been growing up with the country.
The boys and girls of 1897 will laugh when they hear of the contents of our stockings in 1823. There
was a little paper of candy, one of raisins, another, of nuts, a red apple, an olie-koek, and a bright
silver quarter of a dollar in the toe. If a child had been guilty of any erratic performances during the
year, which was often my case, a long stick would protrude from the stocking; if particularly good,
an illustrated catechism or the New Testament would appear, showing that the St. Nicholas of that
time held decided views on discipline and ethics.

During the day we would take a drive over the snow-clad hills and valleys in a long red lumber
sleigh. All the children it could hold made the forests echo with their songs and laughter. The sleigh
bells and Peter's fine tenor voice added to the chorus seemed to chant, as we passed, "Merry
Christmas" to the farmers' children and to all we met on the highway.
Returning home, we were allowed, as a great Christmas treat, to watch all Peter's preparations for
dinner. Attired in a white apron and turban, holding in his hand a tin candlestick the size of a dinner
plate, containing a tallow candle, with stately step he marched into the spacious cellar, with Jacob
and three little girls dressed in red flannel at his heels. As the farmers paid the interest on their
mortgages in barrels of pork, headcheese, poultry, eggs, and cider, the cellars were well crowded for
the winter, making the master of an establishment quite indifferent to all questions of finance. We
heard nothing in those days of greenbacks, silver coinage, or a gold basis. Laden with vegetables,
butter, eggs, and a magnificent turkey, Peter and his followers returned to the kitchen. There, seated
on a big ironing table, we watched the dressing and roasting of the bird in a tin oven in front of the
fire. Jacob peeled the vegetables, we all sang, and Peter told us marvelous stories. For tea he made
flapjacks, baked in a pan with a long handle, which he turned by throwing the cake up and skillfully
catching it descending.
Peter was a devout Episcopalian and took great pleasure in helping the young people decorate the
church. He would take us with him and show us how to make evergreen wreaths. Like Mary's lamb,
where'er he went we were sure to go. His love for us was unbounded and fully returned. He was the
only being, visible or invisible, of whom we had no fear. We would go to divine service with Peter,
Christmas morning and sit with him by the door, in what was called "the negro pew." He was the
only colored member of the church and, after all the other communicants had taken the sacrament,
he went alone to the altar. Dressed in a new suit of blue with gilt buttons, he looked like a prince, as,
with head erect, he walked up the aisle, the grandest specimen of manhood in the whole
congregation; and yet so strong was prejudice against color in 1823 that no one would kneel beside
him. On leaving us, on one of these occasions, Peter told us all to sit still until he returned; but, no
sooner had he started, than the youngest of us slowly followed after him and seated herself close
beside him. As he came back, holding the child by the hand, what a lesson it must have been to that
prejudiced congregation! The first time we entered the church together the sexton opened a white
man's pew for us, telling Peter to leave the Judge's children there. "Oh," he said, "they will not stay
there without me." But, as he could not enter, we instinctively followed him to the negro pew.
Our next great fête was on the anniversary of the birthday of our Republic. The festivities were
numerous and protracted, beginning then, as now, at midnight with bonfires and cannon; while the
day was ushered in with the ringing of bells, tremendous cannonading, and a continuous popping of
fire-crackers and torpedoes. Then a procession of soldiers and citizens marched through the town, an
oration was delivered, the Declaration of Independence read, and a great dinner given in the open air
under the trees in the grounds of the old courthouse. Each toast was announced with the booming of
cannon. On these occasions Peter was in his element, and showed us whatever he considered worth
seeing; but I cannot say that I enjoyed very much either "general training" or the Fourth of July, for,
in addition to my fear of cannon and torpedoes, my sympathies were deeply touched by the sadness
of our cook, whose drunken father always cut antics in the streets on gala days, the central figure in
all the sports of the boys, much to the mortification of his worthy daughter. She wept bitterly over
her father's public exhibition of himself, and told me in what a condition he would come home to his
family at night. I would gladly have stayed in with her all day, but the fear of being called a coward
compelled me to go through those trying ordeals. As my nerves were all on the surface, no words
can describe what I suffered with those explosions, great and small, and my fears lest King George
and his minions should reappear among us. I thought that, if he had done all the dreadful things

stated in the Declaration of '76, he might come again, burn our houses, and drive us all into the
street. Sir William Johnson's mansion of solid masonry, gloomy and threatening, still stood in our
neighborhood. I had seen the marks of the Indian's tomahawk on the balustrades and heard of the
bloody deeds there enacted. For all the calamities of the nation I believed King George responsible.
At home and at school we were educated to hate the English. When we remember that, every Fourth
of July, the Declaration was read with emphasis, and the orator of the day rounded all his glowing
periods with denunciations of the mother country, we need not wonder at the national hatred of
everything English. Our patriotism in those early days was measured by our dislike of Great Britain.
In September occurred the great event, the review of the county militia, popularly called "Training
Day." Then everybody went to the race course to see the troops and buy what the farmers had
brought in their wagons. There was a peculiar kind of gingerbread and molasses candy to which we
were treated on those occasions, associated in my mind to this day with military reviews and
standing armies.
Other pleasures were, roaming in the forests and sailing on the mill pond. One day, when there were
no boys at hand and several girls were impatiently waiting for a sail on a raft, my sister and I
volunteered to man the expedition. We always acted on the assumption that what we had seen done,
we could do. Accordingly we all jumped on the raft, loosened it from its moorings, and away we
went with the current. Navigation on that mill pond was performed with long poles, but,
unfortunately, we could not lift the poles, and we soon saw we were drifting toward the dam. But we
had the presence of mind to sit down and hold fast to the raft. Fortunately, we went over right side
up and gracefully glided down the stream, until rescued by the ever watchful Peter. I did not hear the
last of that voyage for a long time. I was called the captain of the expedition, and one of the boys
wrote a composition, which he read in school, describing the adventure and emphasizing the
ignorance of the laws of navigation shown by the officers in command. I shed tears many times over
that performance.

CHAPTER II.

SCHOOL DAYS.
When I was eleven years old, two events occurred which changed considerably the current of my
life. My only brother, who had just graduated from Union College, came home to die. A young man
of great talent and promise, he was the pride of my father's heart. We early felt that this son filled a
larger place in our father's affections and future plans than the five daughters together. Well do I
remember how tenderly he watched my brother in his last illness, the sighs and tears he gave vent to
as he slowly walked up and down the hall, and, when the last sad moment came, and we were all
assembled to say farewell in the silent chamber of death, how broken were his utterances as he knelt
and prayed for comfort and support. I still recall, too, going into the large darkened parlor to see my
brother, and finding the casket, mirrors, and pictures all draped in white, and my father seated by his
side, pale and immovable. As he took no notice of me, after standing a long while, I climbed upon
his knee, when he mechanically put his arm about me and, with my head resting against his beating
heart, we both sat in silence, he thinking of the wreck of all his hopes in the loss of a dear son, and I
wondering what could be said or done to fill the void in his breast. At length he heaved a deep sigh
and said: "Oh, my daughter, I wish you were a boy!" Throwing my arms about his neck, I replied: "I
will try to be all my brother was."

Then and there I resolved that I would not give so much time as heretofore to play, but would study
and strive to be at the head of all my classes and thus delight my father's heart. All that day and far
into the night I pondered the problem of boyhood. I thought that the chief thing to be done in order
to equal boys was to be learned and courageous. So I decided to study Greek and learn to manage a
horse. Having formed this conclusion I fell asleep. My resolutions, unlike many such made at night,
did not vanish with the coming light. I arose early and hastened to put them into execution. They
were resolutions never to be forgotten—destined to mold my character anew. As soon as I was
dressed I hastened to our good pastor, Rev. Simon Hosack, who was always early at work in his
garden.
"Doctor," said I, "which do you like best, boys or girls?"
"Why, girls, to be sure; I would not give you for all the boys in Christendom."
"My father," I replied, "prefers boys; he wishes I was one, and I intend to be as near like one as
possible. I am going to ride on horseback and study Greek. Will you give me a Greek lesson now,
doctor? I want to begin at once."
"Yes, child," said he, throwing down his hoe, "come into my library and we will begin without
delay."

He entered fully into the feeling of suffering and sorrow which took possession of me when I
discovered that a girl weighed less in the scale of being than a boy, and he praised my determination
to prove the contrary. The old grammar which he had studied in the University of Glasgow was soon
in my hands, and the Greek article was learned before breakfast.
Then came the sad pageantry of death, the weeping of friends, the dark rooms, the ghostly stillness,
the exhortation to the living to prepare for death, the solemn prayer, the mournful chant, the funeral
cortège, the solemn, tolling bell, the burial. How I suffered during those sad days! What strange
undefined fears of the unknown took possession of me! For months afterward, at the twilight hour, I
went with my father to the new-made grave. Near it stood two tall poplar trees, against one of which
I leaned, while my father threw himself on the grave, with outstretched arms, as if to embrace his
child. At last the frosts and storms of November came and threw a chilling barrier between the living
and the dead, and we went there no more.
During all this time I kept up my lessons at the parsonage and made rapid progress. I surprised even
my teacher, who thought me capable of doing anything. I learned to drive, and to leap a fence and
ditch on horseback. I taxed every power, hoping some day to hear my father say: "Well, a girl is as
good as a boy, after all." But he never said it. When the doctor came over to spend the evening with
us, I would whisper in his ear: "Tell my father how fast I get on," and he would tell him, and was
lavish in his praises. But my father only paced the room, sighed, and showed that he wished I were a
boy; and I, not knowing why he felt thus, would hide my tears of vexation on the doctor's shoulder.
Soon after this I began to study Latin, Greek, and mathematics with a class of boys in the Academy,
many of whom were much older than I. For three years one boy kept his place at the head of the
class, and I always stood next. Two prizes were offered in Greek. I strove for one and took the
second. How well I remember my joy in receiving that prize. There was no sentiment of ambition,
rivalry, or triumph over my companions, nor feeling of satisfaction in receiving this honor in the
presence of those assembled on the day of the exhibition. One thought alone filled my mind. "Now,"
said I, "my father will be satisfied with me." So, as soon as we were dismissed, I ran down the hill,
rushed breathless into his office, laid the new Greek Testament, which was my prize, on his table
and exclaimed: "There, I got it!" He took up the book, asked me some questions about the class, the
teachers, the spectators, and, evidently pleased, handed it back to me. Then, while I stood looking
and waiting for him to say something which would show that he recognized the equality of the
daughter with the son, he kissed me on the forehead and exclaimed, with a sigh, "Ah, you should
have been a boy!"
My joy was turned to sadness. I ran to my good doctor. He chased my bitter tears away, and soothed
me with unbounded praises and visions of future success. He was then confined to the house with
his last illness. He asked me that day if I would like to have, when he was gone, the old lexicon,
Testament, and grammar that we had so often thumbed together. "Yes, but I would rather have you
stay," I replied, "for what can I do when you are gone?" "Oh," said he tenderly, "I shall not be gone;
my spirit will still be with you, watching you in all life's struggles." Noble, generous friend! He had
but little on earth to bequeath to anyone, but when the last scene in his life was ended, and his will
was opened, sure enough there was a clause saying: "My Greek lexicon, Testament, and grammar,
and four volumes of Scott's commentaries, I will to Elizabeth Cady." I never look at these books
without a feeling of thankfulness that in childhood I was blessed with such a friend and teacher.
I can truly say, after an experience of seventy years, that all the cares and anxieties, the trials and
disappointments of my whole life, are light, when balanced with my sufferings in childhood and
youth from the theological dogmas which I sincerely believed, and the gloom connected with
everything associated with the name of religion, the church, the parsonage, the graveyard, and the

solemn, tolling bell. Everything connected with death was then rendered inexpressibly dolorous. The
body, covered with a black pall, was borne on the shoulders of men; the mourners were in crape and
walked with bowed heads, while the neighbors who had tears to shed, did so copiously and
summoned up their saddest facial expressions. At the grave came the sober warnings to the living
and sometimes frightful prophesies as to the state of the dead. All this pageantry of woe and visions
of the unknown land beyond the tomb, often haunted my midnight dreams and shadowed the
sunshine of my days. The parsonage, with its bare walls and floors, its shriveled mistress and her
blind sister, more like ghostly shadows than human flesh and blood; the two black servants, racked
with rheumatism and odoriferous with a pungent oil they used in the vain hope of making their
weary limbs more supple; the aged parson buried in his library in the midst of musty books and
papers—all this only added to the gloom of my surroundings. The church, which was bare, with no
furnace to warm us, no organ to gladden our hearts, no choir to lead our songs of praise in harmony,
was sadly lacking in all attractions for the youthful mind. The preacher, shut up in an octagonal box
high above our heads, gave us sermons over an hour long, and the chorister, in a similar box below
him, intoned line after line of David's Psalms, while, like a flock of sheep at the heels of their
shepherd, the congregation, without regard to time or tune, straggled after their leader.
Years later, the introduction of stoves, a violoncello, Wesley's hymns, and a choir split the church in
twain. These old Scotch Presbyterians were opposed to all innovations that would afford their people
paths of flowery ease on the road to Heaven. So, when the thermometer was twenty degrees below
zero on the Johnstown Hills, four hundred feet above the Mohawk Valley, we trudged along through
the snow, foot-stoves in hand, to the cold hospitalities of the "Lord's House," there to be chilled to
the very core by listening to sermons on "predestination," "justification by faith," and "eternal
damnation."
To be restless, or to fall asleep under such solemn circumstances was a sure evidence of total
depravity, and of the machinations of the devil striving to turn one's heart from God and his
ordinances. As I was guilty of these shortcomings and many more, I early believed myself a
veritable child of the Evil One, and suffered endless fears lest he should come some night and claim
me as his own. To me he was a personal, ever-present reality, crouching in a dark corner of the
nursery. Ah! how many times I have stolen out of bed, and sat shivering on the stairs, where the hall
lamp and the sound of voices from the parlor would, in a measure, mitigate my terror. Thanks to a
vigorous constitution and overflowing animal spirits, I was able to endure for years the strain of
these depressing influences, until my reasoning powers and common sense triumphed at last over
my imagination. The memory of my own suffering has prevented me from ever shadowing one
young soul with any of the superstitions of the Christian religion. But there have been many
changes, even in my native town, since those dark days. Our old church was turned into a mitten
factory, and the pleasant hum of machinery and the glad faces of men and women have chased the
evil spirits to their hiding places. One finds at Johnstown now, beautiful churches, ornamented
cemeteries, and cheerful men and women, quite emancipated from the nonsense and terrors of the
old theologies.
An important event in our family circle was the marriage of my oldest sister, Tryphena, to Edward
Bayard of Wilmington, Delaware. He was a graduate of Union College, a classmate of my brother,
and frequently visited at my father's house. At the end of his college course, he came with his
brother Henry to study law in Johnstown. A quiet, retired little village was thought to be a good
place in which to sequester young men bent on completing their education, as they were there safe
from the temptations and distracting influences of large cities. In addition to this consideration, my
father's reputation made his office a desirable resort for students, who, furthermore, not only
improved their opportunities by reading Blackstone, Kent, and Story, but also by making love to the

Judge's daughters. We thus had the advantage of many pleasant acquaintances from the leading
families in the country, and, in this way, it was that four of the sisters eventually selected most
worthy husbands.
Though only twenty-one years of age when married, Edward Bayard was a tall, fully developed
man, remarkably fine looking, with cultivated literary taste and a profound knowledge of human
nature. Warm and affectionate, generous to a fault in giving and serving, he was soon a great favorite
in the family, and gradually filled the void made in all our hearts by the loss of the brother and son.
My father was so fully occupied with the duties of his profession, which often called him from
home, and my mother so weary with the cares of a large family, having had ten children, though
only five survived at this time, that they were quite willing to shift their burdens to younger
shoulders. Our eldest sister and her husband, therefore, soon became our counselors and advisers.
They selected our clothing, books, schools, acquaintances, and directed our reading and
amusements. Thus the reins of domestic government, little by little, passed into their hands, and the
family arrangements were in a manner greatly improved in favor of greater liberty for the children.
The advent of Edward and Henry Bayard was an inestimable blessing to us. With them came an era
of picnics, birthday parties, and endless amusements; the buying of pictures, fairy books, musical
instruments and ponies, and frequent excursions with parties on horseback. Fresh from college, they
made our lessons in Latin, Greek, and mathematics so easy that we studied with real pleasure and
had more leisure for play. Henry Bayard's chief pleasures were walking, riding, and playing all
manner of games, from jack-straws to chess, with the three younger sisters, and we have often said
that the three years he passed in Johnstown were the most delightful of our girlhood.
Immediately after the death of my brother, a journey was planned to visit our grandmother Cady,
who lived in Canaan, Columbia County, about twenty miles from Albany. My two younger sisters
and myself had never been outside of our own county before, and the very thought of a journey
roused our enthusiasm to the highest pitch. On a bright day in September we started, packed in two
carriages. We were wild with delight as we drove down the Mohawk Valley, with its beautiful river
and its many bridges and ferryboats. When we reached Schenectady, the first city we had ever seen,
we stopped to dine at the old Given's Hotel, where we broke loose from all the moorings of
propriety on beholding the paper on the dining-room wall, illustrating in brilliant colors the great
events in sacred history. There were the Patriarchs, with flowing beards and in gorgeous attire;
Abraham, offering up Isaac; Joseph, with his coat of many colors, thrown into a pit by his brethren;
Noah's ark on an ocean of waters; Pharaoh and his host in the Red Sea; Rebecca at the well, and
Moses in the bulrushes. All these distinguished personages were familiar to us, and to see them here
for the first time in living colors, made silence and eating impossible. We dashed around the room,
calling to each other: "Oh, Kate, look here!" "Oh, Madge, look there!" "See little Moses!" "See the
angels on Jacob's ladder!" Our exclamations could not be kept within bounds. The guests were
amused beyond description, while my mother and elder sisters were equally mortified; but Mr.
Bayard, who appreciated our childish surprise and delight, smiled and said: "I'll take them around
and show them the pictures, and then they will be able to dine," which we finally did.
On our way to Albany we were forced to listen to no end of dissertations on manners, and severe
criticisms on our behavior at the hotel, but we were too happy and astonished with all we saw to take
a subjective view of ourselves. Even Peter in his new livery, who had not seen much more than we
had, while looking out of the corners of his eyes, maintained a quiet dignity and conjured us "not to
act as if we had just come out of the woods and had never seen anything before." However, there are
conditions in the child soul in which repression is impossible, when the mind takes in nothing but its
own enjoyment, and when even the sense of hearing is lost in that of sight. The whole party awoke

to that fact at last. Children are not actors. We never had experienced anything like this journey, and
how could we help being surprised and delighted?
When we drove into Albany, the first large city we had ever visited, we exclaimed, "Why, it's
general training, here!" We had acquired our ideas of crowds from our country militia reviews.
Fortunately, there was no pictorial wall paper in the old City Hotel. But the decree had gone forth
that, on the remainder of the journey, our meals would be served in a private room, with Peter to
wait on us. This seemed like going back to the nursery days and was very humiliating. But eating,
even there, was difficult, as we could hear the band from the old museum, and, as our windows
opened on the street, the continual panorama of people and carriages passing by was quite as
enticing as the Bible scenes in Schenectady. In the evening we walked around to see the city lighted,
to look into the shop windows, and to visit the museum. The next morning we started for Canaan,
our enthusiasm still unabated, though strong hopes were expressed that we would be toned down
with the fatigues of the first day's journey.
The large farm with its cattle, sheep, hens, ducks, turkeys, and geese; its creamery, looms, and
spinning wheel; its fruits and vegetables; the drives among the grand old hills; the blessed old
grandmother, and the many aunts, uncles, and cousins to kiss, all this kept us still in a whirlpool of
excitement. Our joy bubbled over of itself; it was beyond our control. After spending a delightful
week at Canaan, we departed, with an addition to our party, much to Peter's disgust, of a bright,
coal-black boy of fifteen summers. Peter kept grumbling that he had children enough to look after
already, but, as the boy was handsome and intelligent, could read, write, play on the jewsharp and
banjo, sing, dance, and stand on his head, we were charmed with this new-found treasure, who
proved later to be a great family blessing. We were less vivacious on the return trip. Whether this
was due to Peter's untiring efforts to keep us within bounds, or whether the novelty of the journey
was in a measure gone, it is difficult to determine, but we evidently were not so buoyant and were
duly complimented on our good behavior.
When we reached home and told our village companions what we had seen in our extensive travels
(just seventy miles from home) they were filled with wonder, and we became heroines in their
estimation. After this we took frequent journeys to Saratoga, the Northern Lakes, Utica, and
Peterboro, but were never again so entirely swept from our feet as with the biblical illustrations in
the dining room of the old Given's Hotel.
As my father's office joined the house, I spent there much of my time, when out of school, listening
to the clients stating their cases, talking with the students, and reading the laws in regard to woman.
In our Scotch neighborhood many men still retained the old feudal ideas of women and property.
Fathers, at their death, would will the bulk of their property to the eldest son, with the proviso that
the mother was to have a home with him. Hence it was not unusual for the mother, who had brought
all the property into the family, to be made an unhappy dependent on the bounty of an uncongenial
daughter-in-law and a dissipated son. The tears and complaints of the women who came to my father
for legal advice touched my heart and early drew my attention to the injustice and cruelty of the
laws. As the practice of the law was my father's business, I could not exactly understand why he
could not alleviate the sufferings of these women. So, in order to enlighten me, he would take down
his books and show me the inexorable statutes. The students, observing my interest, would amuse
themselves by reading to me all the worst laws they could find, over which I would laugh and cry by
turns. One Christmas morning I went into the office to show them, among other of my presents, a
new coral necklace and bracelets. They all admired the jewelry and then began to tease me with
hypothetical cases of future ownership. "Now," said Henry Bayard, "if in due time you should be my
wife, those ornaments would be mine; I could take them and lock them up, and you could never

wear them except with my permission. I could even exchange them for a box of cigars, and you
could watch them evaporate in smoke."
With this constant bantering from students and the sad complaints of the women, my mind was
sorely perplexed. So when, from time to time, my attention was called to these odious laws, I would
mark them with a pencil, and becoming more and more convinced of the necessity of taking some
active measures against these unjust provisions, I resolved to seize the first opportunity, when alone
in the office, to cut every one of them out of the books; supposing my father and his library were the
beginning and the end of the law. However, this mutilation of his volumes was never accomplished,
for dear old Flora Campbell, to whom I confided my plan for the amelioration of the wrongs of my
unhappy sex, warned my father of what I proposed to do. Without letting me know that he had
discovered my secret, he explained to me one evening how laws were made, the large number of
lawyers and libraries there were all over the State, and that if his library should burn up it would
make no difference in woman's condition. "When you are grown up, and able to prepare a speech,"
said he, "you must go down to Albany and talk to the legislators; tell them all you have seen in this
office—the sufferings of these Scotchwomen, robbed of their inheritance and left dependent on their
unworthy sons, and, if you can persuade them to pass new laws, the old ones will be a dead letter."
Thus was the future object of my life foreshadowed and my duty plainly outlined by him who was
most opposed to my public career when, in due time, I entered upon it.
Until I was sixteen years old, I was a faithful student in the Johnstown Academy with a class of
boys. Though I was the only girl in the higher classes of mathematics and the languages, yet, in our
plays, all the girls and boys mingled freely together. In running races, sliding downhill, and
snowballing, we made no distinction of sex. True, the boys would carry the school books and pull
the sleighs up hill for their favorite girls, but equality was the general basis of our school relations. I
dare say the boys did not make their snowballs quite so hard when pelting the girls, nor wash their
faces with the same vehemence as they did each other's, but there was no public evidence of
partiality. However, if any boy was too rough or took advantage of a girl smaller than himself, he
was promptly thrashed by his fellows. There was an unwritten law and public sentiment in that little
Academy world that enabled us to study and play together with the greatest freedom and harmony.
From the academy the boys of my class went to Union College at Schenectady. When those with
whom I had studied and contended for prizes for five years came to bid me good-by, and I learned of
the barrier that prevented me from following in their footsteps—"no girls admitted here"—my
vexation and mortification knew no bounds. I remember, now, how proud and handsome the boys
looked in their new clothes, as they jumped into the old stage coach and drove off, and how lonely I
felt when they were gone and I had nothing to do, for the plans for my future were yet
undetermined. Again I felt more keenly than ever the humiliation of the distinctions made on the
ground of sex.
My time was now occupied with riding on horseback, studying the game of chess, and continually
squabbling with the law students over the rights of women. Something was always coming up in the
experiences of everyday life, or in the books we were reading, to give us fresh topics for argument.
They would read passages from the British classics quite as aggravating as the laws. They delighted
in extracts from Shakespeare, especially from "The Taming of the Shrew," an admirable satire in
itself on the old common law of England. I hated Petruchio as if he were a real man. Young Bayard
would recite with unction the famous reply of Milton's ideal woman to Adam: "God thy law, thou
mine." The Bible, too, was brought into requisition. In fact it seemed to me that every book taught
the "divinely ordained" headship of man; but my mind never yielded to this popular heresy.

CHAPTER III.

GIRLHOOD.
Mrs. Willard's Seminary at Troy was the fashionable school in my girlhood, and in the winter of
1830, with upward of a hundred other girls, I found myself an active participant in all the joys and
sorrows of that institution. When in family council it was decided to send me to that intellectual
Mecca, I did not receive the announcement with unmixed satisfaction, as I had fixed my mind on
Union College. The thought of a school without boys, who had been to me such a stimulus both in
study and play, seemed to my imagination dreary and profitless.
The one remarkable feature of my journey to Troy was the railroad from Schenectady to Albany, the
first ever laid in this country. The manner of ascending a high hill going out of the city would now
strike engineers as stupid to the last degree. The passenger cars were pulled up by a train, loaded
with stones, descending the hill. The more rational way of tunneling through the hill or going around
it had not yet dawned on our Dutch ancestors. At every step of my journey to Troy I felt that I was
treading on my pride, and thus in a hopeless frame of mind I began my boarding-school career. I had
already studied everything that was taught there except French, music, and dancing, so I devoted
myself to these accomplishments. As I had a good voice I enjoyed singing, with a guitar
accompaniment, and, having a good ear for time, I appreciated the harmony in music and motion
and took great delight in dancing. The large house, the society of so many girls, the walks about the
city, the novelty of everything made the new life more enjoyable than I had anticipated. To be sure I
missed the boys, with whom I had grown up, played with for years, and later measured my
intellectual powers with, but, as they became a novelty, there was new zest in occasionally seeing
them. After I had been there a short time, I heard a call one day: "Heads out!" I ran with the rest and
exclaimed, "What is it?" expecting to see a giraffe or some other wonder from Barnum's Museum.
"Why, don't you see those boys?" said one. "Oh," I replied, "is that all? I have seen boys all my life."
When visiting family friends in the city, we were in the way of making the acquaintance of their
sons, and as all social relations were strictly forbidden, there was a new interest in seeing them. As
they were not allowed to call upon us or write notes, unless they were brothers or cousins, we had, in
time, a large number of kinsmen.
There was an intense interest to me now in writing notes, receiving calls, and joining the young men
in the streets for a walk, such as I had never known when in constant association with them at school
and in our daily amusements. Shut up with girls, most of them older than myself, I heard many
subjects discussed of which I had never thought before, and in a manner it were better I had never
heard. The healthful restraint always existing between boys and girls in conversation is apt to be
relaxed with either sex alone. In all my intimate association with boys up to that period, I cannot
recall one word or act for criticism, but I cannot say the same of the girls during the three years I
passed at the seminary in Troy. My own experience proves to me that it is a grave mistake to send
boys and girls to separate institutions of learning, especially at the most impressible age. The
stimulus of sex promotes alike a healthy condition of the intellectual and the moral faculties and
gives to both a development they never can acquire alone.
Mrs. Willard, having spent several months in Europe, did not return until I had been at the seminary
some time. I well remember her arrival, and the joy with which she was greeted by the teachers and
pupils who had known her before. She was a splendid-looking woman, then in her prime, and fully
realized my idea of a queen. I doubt whether any royal personage in the Old World could have
received her worshipers with more grace and dignity than did this far-famed daughter of the

Republic. She was one of the remarkable women of that period, and did a great educational work for
her sex. She gave free scholarships to a large number of promising girls, fitting them for teachers,
with a proviso that, when the opportunity arose, they should, in turn, educate others.
I shall never forget one incident that occasioned me much unhappiness. I had written a very amusing
composition, describing my room. A friend came in to see me just as I had finished it, and, as she
asked me to read it to her, I did so. She enjoyed it very much and proposed an exchange. She said
the rooms were all so nearly alike that, with a little alteration, she could use it. Being very
susceptible to flattery, her praise of my production won a ready assent; but when I read her
platitudes I was sorry I had changed, and still more so in the denouement.
Those selected to prepare compositions read them before the whole school. My friend's was received
with great laughter and applause. The one I read not only fell flat, but nearly prostrated me also. As
soon as I had finished, one of the young ladies left the room and, returning in a few moments with
her composition book, laid it before the teacher who presided that day, showing her the same
composition I had just read. I was called up at once to explain, but was so amazed and confounded
that I could not speak, and I looked the personification of guilt. I saw at a glance the contemptible
position I occupied and felt as if the last day had come, that I stood before the judgment seat and had
heard the awful sentence pronounced, "Depart ye wicked into everlasting punishment." How I
escaped from that scene to my own room I do not know. I was too wretched for tears. I sat alone for
a long time when a gentle tap announced my betrayer. She put her arms around me affectionately
and kissed me again and again.
"Oh!" she said, "you are a hero. You went through that trying ordeal like a soldier. I was so afraid,
when you were pressed with questions, that the whole truth would come out and I be forced to stand
in your place. I am not so brave as you; I could not endure it. Now that you are through it and know
how bitter a trial it is, promise that you will save me from the same experience. You are so good and
noble I know you will not betray me."
In this supreme moment of misery and disgrace, her loving words and warm embrace were like balm
to my bruised soul and I readily promised all she asked. The girl had penetrated the weak point in
my character. I loved flattery. Through that means she got my composition in the first place, pledged
me to silence in the second place, and so confused my moral perceptions that I really thought it
praiseworthy to shelter her from what I had suffered. However, without betrayal on my part, the
trick came to light through the very means she took to make concealment sure. After compositions
were read they were handed over to a certain teacher for criticism. Miss —— had copied mine, and
returned to me the original. I had not copied hers, so the two were in the same handwriting—one
with my name outside and one with Miss ——'s.
As I stood well in school, both for scholarship and behavior, my sudden fall from grace occasioned
no end of discussion. So, as soon as the teacher discovered the two compositions in Miss ——'s
writing, she came to me to inquire how I got one of Miss ——'s compositions. She said, "Where is
yours that you wrote for that day?"
Taking it from my portfolio, I replied, "Here it is."
She then asked, "Did you copy it from her book?"
I replied, "No; I wrote it myself."
"Then why did you not read your own?"

"We agreed to change," said I.
"Did you know that Miss —— had copied that from the book of another young lady?"
"No, not until I was accused of doing it myself before the whole school."
"Why did you not defend yourself on the spot?"
"I could not speak, neither did I know what to say."
"Why have you allowed yourself to remain in such a false position for a whole week?"
"I do not know."
"Suppose I had not found this out, did you intend to keep silent?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Did Miss —— ask you to do so?"
"Yes."
I had been a great favorite with this teacher, but she was so disgusted with my stupidity, as she
called my timidity, that she said:
"Really, my child, you have not acted in this matter as if you had ordinary common sense."
So little do grown people, in familiar surroundings, appreciate the confusion of a child's faculties,
under new and trying experiences. When poor Miss ——'s turn came to stand up before the whole
school and take the burden on her own shoulders she had so cunningly laid on mine, I readily shed
the tears for her I could not summon for myself. This was my first sad lesson in human duplicity.
This episode, unfortunately, destroyed in a measure my confidence in my companions and made me
suspicious even of those who came to me with appreciative words. Up to this time I had accepted all
things as they seemed on the surface. Now I began to wonder what lay behind the visible conditions
about me. Perhaps the experience was beneficial, as it is quite necessary for a young girl, thrown
wholly on herself for the first time among strangers, to learn caution in all she says and does. The
atmosphere of home life, where all disguises and pretensions are thrown off, is quite different from a
large school of girls, with the petty jealousies and antagonisms that arise in daily competition in
their dress, studies, accomplishments, and amusements.
The next happening in Troy that seriously influenced my character was the advent of the Rev.
Charles G. Finney, a pulpit orator, who, as a terrifier of human souls, proved himself the equal of
Savonarola. He held a protracted meeting in the Rev. Dr. Beaman's church, which many of my
schoolmates attended. The result of six weeks of untiring effort on the part of Mr. Finney and his
confreres was one of those intense revival seasons that swept over the city and through the seminary
like an epidemic, attacking in its worst form the most susceptible. Owing to my gloomy Calvinistic
training in the old Scotch Presbyterian church, and my vivid imagination, I was one of the first
victims. We attended all the public services, beside the daily prayer and experience meetings held in
the seminary. Our studies, for the time, held a subordinate place to the more important duty of
saving our souls.
To state the idea of conversion and salvation as then understood, one can readily see from our
present standpoint that nothing could be more puzzling and harrowing to the young mind. The
revival fairly started, the most excitable were soon on the anxious seat. There we learned the total

depravity of human nature and the sinner's awful danger of everlasting punishment. This was
enlarged upon until the most innocent girl believed herself a monster of iniquity and felt certain of
eternal damnation. Then God's hatred of sin was emphasized and his irreconcilable position toward
the sinner so justified that one felt like a miserable, helpless, forsaken worm of the dust in trying to
approach him, even in prayer.
Having brought you into a condition of profound humility, the only cardinal virtue for one under
conviction, in the depths of your despair you were told that it required no herculean effort on your
part to be transformed into an angel, to be reconciled to God, to escape endless perdition. The way
to salvation was short and simple. We had naught to do but to repent and believe and give our hearts
to Jesus, who was ever ready to receive them. How to do all this was the puzzling question. Talking
with Dr. Finney one day, I said:
"I cannot understand what I am to do. If you should tell me to go to the top of the church steeple and
jump off, I would readily do it, if thereby I could save my soul; but I do not know how to go to
Jesus."
"Repent and believe," said he, "that is all you have to do to be happy here and hereafter."
"I am very sorry," I replied, "for all the evil I have done, and I believe all you tell me, and the more
sincerely I believe, the more unhappy I am."
With the natural reaction from despair to hope many of us imagined ourselves converted, prayed and
gave our experiences in the meetings, and at times rejoiced in the thought that we were Christians—
chosen children of God—rather than sinners and outcasts.
But Dr. Finney's terrible anathemas on the depravity and deceitfulness of the human heart soon
shortened our newborn hopes. His appearance in the pulpit on these memorable occasions is
indelibly impressed on my mind. I can see him now, his great eyes rolling around the congregation
and his arms flying about in the air like those of a windmill. One evening he described hell and the
devil and the long procession of sinners being swept down the rapids, about to make the awful
plunge into the burning depths of liquid fire below, and the rejoicing hosts in the inferno coming up
to meet them with the shouts of the devils echoing through the vaulted arches. He suddenly halted,
and, pointing his index finger at the supposed procession, he exclaimed:
"There, do you not see them!"
I was wrought up to such a pitch that I actually jumped up and gazed in the direction to which he
pointed, while the picture glowed before my eyes and remained with me for months afterward. I
cannot forbear saying that, although high respect is due to the intellectual, moral, and spiritual gifts
of the venerable ex-president of Oberlin College, such preaching worked incalculable harm to the
very souls he sought to save. Fear of the judgment seized my soul. Visions of the lost haunted my
dreams. Mental anguish prostrated my health. Dethronement of my reason was apprehended by
friends. But he was sincere, so peace to his ashes! Returning home, I often at night roused my father
from his slumbers to pray for me, lest I should be cast into the bottomless pit before morning.
To change the current of my thoughts, a trip was planned to Niagara, and it was decided that the
subject of religion was to be tabooed altogether. Accordingly our party, consisting of my sister, her
husband, my father and myself, started in our private carriage, and for six weeks I heard nothing on
the subject. About this time Gall and Spurzheim published their works on phrenology, followed by
Combe's "Constitution of Man," his "Moral Philosophy," and many other liberal works, all so
rational and opposed to the old theologies that they produced a profound impression on my brother-

in-law's mind. As we had these books with us, reading and discussing by the way, we all became
deeply interested in the new ideas. Thus, after many months of weary wandering in the intellectual
labyrinth of "The Fall of Man," "Original Sin," "Total Depravity," "God's Wrath," "Satan's
Triumph," "The Crucifixion," "The Atonement," and "Salvation by Faith," I found my way out of
the darkness into the clear sunlight of Truth. My religious superstitions gave place to rational ideas
based on scientific facts, and in proportion, as I looked at everything from a new standpoint, I grew
more and more happy, day by day. Thus, with a delightful journey in the month of June, an entire
change in my course of reading and the current of my thoughts, my mind was restored to its normal
condition. I view it as one of the greatest crimes to shadow the minds of the young with these
gloomy superstitions; and with fears of the unknown and the unknowable to poison all their joy in
life.
After the restraints of childhood at home and in school, what a period of irrepressible joy and
freedom comes to us in girlhood with the first taste of liberty. Then is our individuality in a measure
recognized and our feelings and opinions consulted; then we decide where and when we will come
and go, what we will eat, drink, wear, and do. To suit one's own fancy in clothes, to buy what one
likes, and wear what one chooses is a great privilege to most young people. To go out at pleasure, to
walk, to ride, to drive, with no one to say us nay or question our right to liberty, this is indeed like a
birth into a new world of happiness and freedom. This is the period, too, when the emotions rule us,
and we idealize everything in life; when love and hope make the present an ecstasy and the future
bright with anticipation.
Then comes that dream of bliss that for weeks and months throws a halo of glory round the most
ordinary characters in every-day life, holding the strongest and most common-sense young men and
women in a thraldom from which few mortals escape. The period when love, in soft silver tones,
whispers his first words of adoration, painting our graces and virtues day by day in living colors in
poetry and prose, stealthily punctuated ever and anon with a kiss or fond embrace. What dignity it
adds to a young girl's estimate of herself when some strong man makes her feel that in her hands rest
his future peace and happiness! Though these seasons of intoxication may come once to all, yet they
are seldom repeated. How often in after life we long for one more such rapturous dream of bliss, one
more season of supreme human love and passion!
After leaving school, until my marriage, I had the most pleasant years of my girlhood. With frequent
visits to a large circle of friends and relatives in various towns and cities, the monotony of home life
was sufficiently broken to make our simple country pleasures always delightful and enjoyable. An
entirely new life now opened to me. The old bondage of fear of the visible and the invisible was
broken and, no longer subject to absolute authority, I rejoiced in the dawn of a new day of freedom
in thought and action.
My brother-in-law, Edward Bayard, ten years my senior, was an inestimable blessing to me at this
time, especially as my mind was just then opening to the consideration of all the varied problems of
life. To me and my sisters he was a companion in all our amusements, a teacher in the higher
departments of knowledge, and a counselor in all our youthful trials and disappointments. He was of
a metaphysical turn of mind, and in the pursuit of truth was in no way trammeled by popular
superstitions. He took nothing for granted and, like Socrates, went about asking questions. Nothing
pleased him more than to get a bevy of bright young girls about him and teach them how to think
clearly and reason logically.
One great advantage of the years my sisters and myself spent at the Troy Seminary was the large
number of pleasant acquaintances we made there, many of which ripened into lifelong friendships.
From time to time many of our classmates visited us, and all alike enjoyed the intellectual fencing in

which my brother-in-law drilled them. He discoursed with us on law, philosophy, political economy,
history, and poetry, and together we read novels without number. The long winter evenings thus
passed pleasantly, Mr. Bayard alternately talking and reading aloud Scott, Bulwer, James, Cooper,
and Dickens, whose works were just then coming out in numbers from week to week, always
leaving us in suspense at the most critical point of the story. Our readings were varied with
recitations, music, dancing, and games.
As we all enjoyed brisk exercise, even with the thermometer below zero, we took long walks and
sleighrides during the day, and thus the winter months glided quickly by, while the glorious summer
on those blue hills was a period of unmixed enjoyment. At this season we arose at five in the
morning for a long ride on horseback through the beautiful Mohawk Valley and over the
surrounding hills. Every road and lane in that region was as familiar to us and our ponies, as were
the trees to the squirrels we frightened as we cantered by their favorite resorts.
Part of the time Margaret Christie, a young girl of Scotch descent, was a member of our family
circle. She taught us French, music, and dancing. Our days were too short for all we had to do, for
our time was not wholly given to pleasure. We were required to keep our rooms in order, mend and
make our clothes, and do our own ironing. The latter was one of my mother's politic requirements, to
make our laundry lists as short as possible.
Ironing on hot days in summer was a sore trial to all of us; but Miss Christie, being of an inventive
turn of mind, soon taught us a short way out of it. She folded and smoothed her undergarments with
her hands and then sat on them for a specified time. We all followed her example and thus utilized
the hours devoted to our French lessons and, while reading "Corinne" and "Télémaque," in this
primitive style we ironed our clothes. But for dresses, collars and cuffs, and pocket handkerchiefs,
we were compelled to wield the hot iron, hence with these articles we used all due economy, and my
mother's object was thus accomplished.
As I had become sufficiently philosophical to talk over my religious experiences calmly with my
classmates who had been with me through the Finney revival meetings, we all came to the same
conclusion—that we had passed through no remarkable change and that we had not been born again,
as they say, for we found our tastes and enjoyments the same as ever. My brother-in-law explained
to us the nature of the delusion we had all experienced, the physical conditions, the mental
processes, the church machinery by which such excitements are worked up, and the impositions to
which credulous minds are necessarily subjected. As we had all been through that period of
depression and humiliation, and had been oppressed at times with the feeling that all our professions
were arrant hypocrisy and that our last state was worse than our first, he helped us to understand
these workings of the human mind and reconciled us to the more rational condition in which we now
found ourselves. He never grew weary of expounding principles to us and dissipating the fogs and
mists that gather over young minds educated in an atmosphere of superstition.
We had a constant source of amusement and vexation in the students in my father's office. A
succession of them was always coming fresh from college and full of conceit. Aching to try their
powers of debate on graduates from the Troy Seminary, they politely questioned all our theories and
assertions. However, with my brother-in-law's training in analysis and logic, we were a match for
any of them. Nothing pleased me better than a long argument with them on woman's equality, which
I tried to prove by a diligent study of the books they read and the games they played. I confess that I
did not study so much for a love of the truth or my own development, in these days, as to make
those young men recognize my equality. I soon noticed that, after losing a few games of chess, my
opponent talked less of masculine superiority. Sister Madge would occasionally rush to the defense
with an emphatic "Fudge for these laws, all made by men! I'll never obey one of them. And as to the

students with their impertinent talk of superiority, all they need is such a shaking up as I gave the
most disagreeable one yesterday. I invited him to take a ride on horseback. He accepted promptly,
and said he would be most happy to go. Accordingly I told Peter to saddle the toughest-mouthed,
hardest-trotting carriage horse in the stable. Mounted on my swift pony, I took a ten-mile canter as
fast as I could go, with that superior being at my heels calling, as he found breath, for me to stop,
which I did at last and left him in the hands of Peter, half dead at his hotel, where he will be laid out,
with all his marvelous masculine virtues, for a week at least. Now do not waste your arguments on
these prigs from Union College. Take each, in turn, the ten-miles' circuit on 'Old Boney' and they'll
have no breath left to prate of woman's inferiority. You might argue with them all day, and you could
not make them feel so small as I made that popinjay feel in one hour. I knew 'Old Boney' would
keep up with me, if he died for it, and that my escort could neither stop nor dismount, except by
throwing himself from the saddle."
"Oh, Madge!" I exclaimed; "what will you say when he meets you again?"
"If he complains, I will say 'the next time you ride see that you have a curb bit before starting.'
Surely, a man ought to know what is necessary to manage a horse, and not expect a woman to tell
him."
Our lives were still further varied and intensified by the usual number of flirtations, so called, more
or less lasting or evanescent, from all of which I emerged, as from my religious experiences, in a
more rational frame of mind. We had been too much in the society of boys and young gentlemen,
and knew too well their real character, to idealize the sex in general. In addition to our own
observations, we had the advantage of our brother-in-law's wisdom. Wishing to save us as long as
possible from all matrimonial entanglements, he was continually unveiling those with whom he
associated, and so critically portraying their intellectual and moral condition that it was quite
impossible, in our most worshipful moods, to make gods of any of the sons of Adam.
However, in spite of all our own experiences and of all the warning words of wisdom from those
who had seen life in its many phases, we entered the charmed circle at last, all but one marrying into
the legal profession, with its odious statute laws and infamous decisions. And this, after reading
Blackstone, Kent, and Story, and thoroughly understanding the status of the wife under the old
common law of England, which was in force at that time in most of the States of the Union.

CHAPTER IV.

LIFE AT PETERBORO.
The year, with us, was never considered complete without a visit to Peterboro, N.Y., the home of
Gerrit Smith. Though he was a reformer and was very radical in many of his ideas, yet, being a man
of broad sympathies, culture, wealth, and position, he drew around him many friends of the most
conservative opinions. He was a man of fine presence, rare physical beauty, most affable and
courteous in manner, and his hospitalities were generous to an extreme, and dispensed to all classes
of society.
Every year representatives from the Oneida tribe of Indians visited him. His father had early
purchased of them large tracts of land, and there was a tradition among them that, as an equivalent
for the good bargains of the father, they had a right to the son's hospitality, with annual gifts of
clothing and provisions. The slaves, too, had heard of Gerrit Smith, the abolitionist, and of Peterboro
as one of the safe points en route for Canada. His mansion was, in fact, one of the stations on the
"underground railroad" for slaves escaping from bondage. Hence they, too, felt that they had a right
to a place under his protecting roof. On such occasions the barn and the kitchen floor were utilized
as chambers for the black man from the southern plantation and the red man from his home in the
forest.
The spacious home was always enlivened with choice society from every part of the country. There
one would meet members of the families of the old Dutch aristocracy, the Van Rensselaers, the Van
Vechtens, the Schuylers, the Livingstons, the Bleeckers, the Brinkerhoffs, the Ten Eycks, the
Millers, the Seymours, the Cochranes, the Biddles, the Barclays, the Wendells, and many others.
As the lady of the house, Ann Carroll Fitzhugh, was the daughter of a wealthy slaveholder of
Maryland, many agreeable Southerners were often among the guests. Our immediate family
relatives were well represented by General John Cochrane and his sisters, General Baird and his
wife from West Point, the Fitzhughs from Oswego and Geneseo, the Backuses and Tallmans from
Rochester, and the Swifts from Geneva. Here one was sure to meet scholars, philosophers,
philanthropists, judges, bishops, clergymen, and statesmen.
Judge Alfred Conkling, the father of Roscoe Conkling, was, in his late years, frequently seen at
Peterboro. Tall and stately, after all life's troubled scenes, financial losses and domestic sorrows, he
used to say there was no spot on earth that seemed so like his idea of Paradise. The proud, reserved
judge was unaccustomed to manifestations of affection and tender interest in his behalf, and when
Gerrit, taking him by both hands would, in his softest tones say, "Good-morning," and inquire how
he had slept and what he would like to do that day, and Nancy would greet him with equal warmth
and pin a little bunch of roses in his buttonhole, I have seen the tears in his eyes. Their warm
sympathies and sweet simplicity of manner melted the sternest natures and made the most reserved
amiable. There never was such an atmosphere of love and peace, of freedom and good cheer, in any
other home I visited. And this was the universal testimony of those who were guests at Peterboro. To
go anywhere else, after a visit there, was like coming down from the divine heights into the valley of
humiliation.
How changed from the early days when, as strict Presbyterians, they believed in all the doctrines of
Calvin! Then, an indefinite gloom pervaded their home. Their consciences were diseased. They
attached such undue importance to forms that they went through three kinds of baptism. At one time
Nancy would read nothing but the Bible, sing nothing but hymns, and play only sacred music. She

felt guilty if she talked on any subject except religion. She was, in all respects, a fitting mate for her
attractive husband. Exquisitely refined in feeling and manner, beautiful in face and form, earnest and
sincere, she sympathized with him in all his ideas of religion and reform. Together they passed
through every stage of theological experience, from the uncertain ground of superstition and
speculation to the solid foundation of science and reason. The position of the Church in the anti-
slavery conflict, opening as it did all questions of ecclesiastical authority, Bible interpretation, and
church discipline, awakened them to new thought and broader views on religious subjects, and
eventually emancipated them entirely from the old dogmas and formalities of their faith, and lifted
them into the cheerful atmosphere in which they passed the remainder of their lives. Their only
daughter, Elizabeth, added greatly to the attractions of the home circle, as she drew many young
people round her. Beside her personal charm she was the heiress of a vast estate and had many
admirers. The favored one was Charles Dudley Miller of Utica, nephew of Mrs. Blandina Bleecker
Dudley, founder of the Albany Observatory. At the close of his college life Mr. Miller had not only
mastered the languages, mathematics, rhetoric, and logic, but had learned the secret windings of the
human heart. He understood the art of pleasing.
These were the times when the anti-slavery question was up for hot discussion. In all the
neighboring towns conventions were held in which James G. Birney, a Southern gentleman who had
emancipated his slaves, Charles Stuart of Scotland, and George Thompson of England, Garrison,
Phillips, May, Beriah Greene, Foster, Abby Kelly, Lucretia Mott, Douglass, and others took part.
Here, too, John Brown, Sanborn, Morton, and Frederick Douglass met to talk over that fatal
movement on Harper's Ferry. On the question of temperance, also, the people were in a ferment. Dr.
Cheever's pamphlet, "Deacon Giles' Distillery," was scattered far and wide, and, as he was sued for
libel, the question was discussed in the courts as well as at every fireside. Then came the Father
Matthew and Washingtonian movements, and the position of the Church on these questions
intensified and embittered the conflict. This brought the Cheevers, the Pierponts, the Delevans, the
Nortons, and their charming wives to Peterboro. It was with such company and varied discussions
on every possible phase of political, religious, and social life that I spent weeks every year. Gerrit
Smith was cool and calm in debate, and, as he was armed at all points on these subjects, he could
afford to be patient and fair with an opponent, whether on the platform or at the fireside. These
rousing arguments at Peterboro made social life seem tame and profitless elsewhere, and the
youngest of us felt that the conclusions reached in this school of philosophy were not to be
questioned. The sisters of General Cochrane, in disputes with their Dutch cousins in Schenectady
and Albany, would end all controversy by saying, "This question was fully discussed at Peterboro,
and settled."
The youngsters frequently put the lessons of freedom and individual rights they heard so much of
into practice, and relieved their brains from the constant strain of argument on first principles, by the
wildest hilarity in dancing, all kinds of games, and practical jokes carried beyond all bounds of
propriety. These romps generally took place at Mr. Miller's. He used to say facetiously, that they
talked a good deal about liberty over the way, but he kept the goddess under his roof. One
memorable occasion in which our enthusiasm was kept at white heat for two hours I must try to
describe, though words cannot do it justice, as it was pre-eminently a spectacular performance. The
imagination even cannot do justice to the limp, woe-begone appearance of the actors in the closing
scene. These romps were conducted on a purely democratic basis, without regard to color, sex, or
previous condition of servitude.
It was rather a cold day in the month of March, when "Cousin Charley," as we called Mr. Miller, was
superintending some men who were laying a plank walk in the rear of his premises. Some half dozen
of us were invited to an early tea at good Deacon Huntington's. Immediately after dinner, Miss

Fitzhugh and Miss Van Schaack decided to take a nap, that they might appear as brilliant as possible
during the evening. That they might not be late, as they invariably were, Cousin Lizzie and I decided
to rouse them in good season with a generous sprinkling of cold water. In vain they struggled to
keep the blankets around them; with equal force we pulled them away, and, whenever a stray finger
or toe appeared, we brought fresh batteries to bear, until they saw that passive resistance must give
place to active hostility. We were armed with two watering pots. They armed themselves with two
large-sized syringes used for showering potato bugs. With these weapons they gave us chase
downstairs. We ran into a closet and held the door shut. They quietly waited our forthcoming. As
soon as we opened the door to peep out, Miss Fitzhugh, who was large and strong, pulled it wide
open and showered us with a vengeance. Then they fled into a large pantry where stood several pans
of milk.
At this stage Cousin Charley, hearing the rumpus, came to our assistance. He locked them in the
pantry and returned to his work, whereupon they opened the window and showered him with milk,
while he, in turn, pelted them with wet clothes, soaking in tubs near by. As they were thinly clad,
wet to the skin, and the cold March wind blew round them (we were all in fatigue costume in
starting) they implored us to let them out, which we did, and, in return for our kindness, they gave us
a broadside of milk in our faces. Cousin Lizzie and I fled to the dark closet, where they locked us in.
After long, weary waiting they came to offer us terms of capitulation. Lizzie agreed to fill their guns
with milk, and give them our watering pots full of water, and I agreed to call Cousin Charley under
my window until they emptied the contents of guns and pots on his head. My room was on the first
floor, and Miss Fitzhugh's immediately overhead. On these terms we accepted our freedom.
Accordingly, I gently raised the window and called Charley confidentially within whispering
distance, when down came a shower of water. As he stepped back to look up and see whence it
came, and who made the attack, a stream of milk hit him on the forehead, his heels struck a plank,
and he fell backward, to all appearance knocked down with a stream of milk. His humiliation was
received with shouts of derisive laughter, and even the carpenters at work laid down their hammers
and joined in the chorus; but his revenge was swift and capped the climax. Cold and wet as we all
were, and completely tired out, we commenced to disrobe and get ready for the tea party.
Unfortunately I had forgotten to lock my door, and in walked Cousin Charley with a quart bottle of
liquid blacking, which he prepared to empty on my devoted head. I begged so eloquently and
trembled so at the idea of being dyed black, that he said he would let me off on one condition, and
that was to get him, by some means, into Miss Fitzhugh's room. So I ran screaming up the stairs, as
if hotly pursued by the enemy, and begged her to let me in. She cautiously opened the door, but
when she saw Charley behind me she tried to force it shut. However, he was too quick for her. He
had one leg and arm in; but, at that stage of her toilet, to let him in was impossible, and there they
stood, equally strong, firmly braced, she on one side of the door and he on the other. But the
blacking he was determined she should have; so, gauging her probable position, with one desperate
effort he squeezed in a little farther and, raising the bottle, he poured the contents on her head. The
blacking went streaming down over her face, white robe, and person, and left her looking more like
a bronze fury than one of Eve's most charming daughters. A yard or more of the carpet was ruined,
the wallpaper and bedclothes spattered, and the poor victim was unfit to be seen for a week at least.
Charley had a good excuse for his extreme measures, for, as we all by turn played our tricks on him,
it was necessary to keep us in some fear of punishment. This was but one of the many outrageous
pranks we perpetrated on each other. To see us a few hours later, all absorbed in an anti-slavery or
temperance convention, or dressed in our best, in high discourse with the philosophers, one would
never think we could have been guilty of such consummate follies. It was, however, but the natural
reaction from the general serious trend of our thoughts.

It was in Peterboro, too, that I first met one who was then considered the most eloquent and
impassioned orator on the anti-slavery platform, Henry B. Stanton. He had come over from Utica
with Alvin Stewart's beautiful daughter, to whom report said he was engaged; but, as she soon after
married Luther R. Marsh, there was a mistake somewhere. However, the rumor had its advantages.
Regarding him as not in the matrimonial market, we were all much more free and easy in our
manners with him than we would otherwise have been. A series of anti-slavery conventions was
being held in Madison County, and there I had the pleasure of hearing him for the first time. As I had
a passion for oratory, I was deeply impressed with his power. He was not so smooth and eloquent as
Phillips, but he could make his audience both laugh and cry; the latter, Phillips himself said he never
could do. Mr. Stanton was then in his prime, a fine-looking, affable young man, with remarkable
conversational talent, and was ten years my senior, with the advantage that number of years
necessarily gives.
Two carriage-loads of ladies and gentlemen drove off every morning, sometimes ten miles, to one of
these conventions, returning late at night. I shall never forget those charming drives over the hills in
Madison County, the bright autumnal days, and the bewitching moonlight nights. The enthusiasm of
the people in these great meetings, the thrilling oratory, and lucid arguments of the speakers, all
conspired to make these days memorable as among the most charming in my life. It seemed to me
that I never had so much happiness crowded into one short month. I had become interested in the
anti-slavery and temperance questions, and was deeply impressed with the appeals and arguments. I
felt a new inspiration in life and was enthused with new ideas of individual rights and the basic
principles of government, for the anti-slavery platform was the best school the American people ever
had on which to learn republican principles and ethics. These conventions and the discussions at my
cousin's fireside I count among the great blessings of my life.
One morning, as we came out from breakfast, Mr. Stanton joined me on the piazza, where I was
walking up and down enjoying the balmy air and the beauty of the foliage. "As we have no
conventions," said he, "on hand, what do you say to a ride on horseback this morning?" I readily
accepted the suggestion, ordered the horses, put on my habit, and away we went. The roads were
fine and we took a long ride. As we were returning home we stopped often to admire the scenery
and, perchance, each other. When walking slowly through a beautiful grove, he laid his hand on the
horn of the saddle and, to my surprise, made one of those charming revelations of human feeling
which brave knights have always found eloquent words to utter, and to which fair ladies have always
listened with mingled emotions of pleasure and astonishment.
One outcome of those glorious days of October, 1839, was a marriage, in Johnstown, the 10th day of
May, 1840, and a voyage to the Old World.
Six weeks of that charming autumn, ending in the Indian summer with its peculiarly hazy
atmosphere, I lingered in Peterboro. It seems in retrospect like a beautiful dream. A succession of
guests was constantly coming and going, and I still remember the daily drives over those grand old
hills crowned with trees now gorgeous in rich colors, the more charming because we knew the time
was short before the cold winds of November would change all.
The early setting sun warned us that the shortening days must soon end our twilight drives, and the
moonlight nights were too chilly to linger long in the rustic arbors or shady nooks outside. With the
peculiar charm of this season of the year there is always a touch of sadness in nature, and it seemed
doubly so to me, as my engagement was not one of unmixed joy and satisfaction. Among all
conservative families there was a strong aversion to abolitionists and the whole anti-slavery
movement. Alone with Cousin Gerrit in his library he warned me, in deep, solemn tones, while
strongly eulogizing my lover, that my father would never consent to my marriage with an

abolitionist. He felt in duty bound, as my engagement had occurred under his roof, to free himself
from all responsibility by giving me a long dissertation on love, friendship, marriage, and all the
pitfalls for the unwary, who, without due consideration, formed matrimonial relations. The general
principles laid down in this interview did not strike my youthful mind so forcibly as the suggestion
that it was better to announce my engagement by letter than to wait until I returned home, as thus I
might draw the hottest fire while still in safe harbor, where Cousin Gerrit could help me defend the
weak points in my position. So I lingered at Peterboro to prolong the dream of happiness and
postpone the conflict I feared to meet.
But the Judge understood the advantage of our position as well as we did, and wasted no
ammunition on us. Being even more indignant at my cousin than at me, he quietly waited until I
returned home, when I passed through the ordeal of another interview, with another dissertation on
domestic relations from a financial standpoint. These were two of the most bewildering interviews I
ever had. They succeeded in making me feel that the step I proposed to take was the most
momentous and far-reaching in its consequences of any in this mortal life. Heretofore my
apprehensions had all been of death and eternity; now life itself was filled with fears and anxiety as
to the possibilities of the future. Thus these two noble men, who would have done anything for my
happiness, actually overweighted my conscience and turned the sweetest dream of my life into a
tragedy. How little strong men, with their logic, sophistry, and hypothetical examples, appreciate the
violence they inflict on the tender sensibilities of a woman's heart, in trying to subjugate her to their
will! The love of protecting too often degenerates into downright tyranny. Fortunately all these
sombre pictures of a possible future were thrown into the background by the tender missives every
post brought me, in which the brilliant word-painting of one of the most eloquent pens of this
generation made the future for us both, as bright and beautiful as Spring with her verdure and
blossoms of promise.
However, many things were always transpiring at Peterboro to turn one's thoughts and rouse new
interest in humanity at large. One day, as a bevy of us girls were singing and chattering in the parlor,
Cousin Gerrit entered and, in mysterious tones, said: "I have a most important secret to tell you,
which you must keep to yourselves religiously for twenty-four hours."
We readily pledged ourselves in the most solemn manner, individually and collectively.
"Now," said he, "follow me to the third story."
This we did, wondering what the secret could be. At last, opening a door, he ushered us into a large
room, in the center of which sat a beautiful quadroon girl, about eighteen years of age. Addressing
her, he said:
"Harriet, I have brought all my young cousins to see you. I want you to make good abolitionists of
them by telling them the history of your life—what you have seen and suffered in slavery."
Turning to us he said:
"Harriet has just escaped from her master, who is visiting in Syracuse, and is on her way to Canada.
She will start this evening and you may never have another opportunity of seeing a slave girl face to
face, so ask her all you care to know of the system of slavery."
For two hours we listened to the sad story of her childhood and youth, separated from all her family
and sold for her beauty in a New Orleans market when but fourteen years of age. The details of her
story I need not repeat. The fate of such girls is too well known to need rehearsal. We all wept

together as she talked, and, when Cousin Gerrit returned to summon us away, we needed no further
education to make us earnest abolitionists.
Dressed as a Quakeress, Harriet started at twilight with one of Mr. Smith's faithful clerks in a
carriage for Oswego, there to cross the lake to Canada. The next day her master and the marshals
from Syracuse were on her track in Peterboro, and traced her to Mr. Smith's premises. He was quite
gracious in receiving them, and, while assuring them that there was no slave there, he said that they
were at liberty to make a thorough search of the house and grounds. He invited them to stay and dine
and kept them talking as long as possible, as every hour helped Harriet to get beyond their reach;
for, although she had eighteen hours the start of them, yet we feared some accident might have
delayed her. The master was evidently a gentleman, for, on Mr. Smith's assurance that Harriet was
not there, he made no search, feeling that they could not do so without appearing to doubt his word.
He was evidently surprised to find an abolitionist so courteous and affable, and it was interesting to
hear them in conversation, at dinner, calmly discussing the problem of slavery, while public
sentiment was at white heat on the question. They shook hands warmly at parting and expressed an
equal interest in the final adjustment of that national difficulty.
In due time the clerk returned with the good news that Harriet was safe with friends in a good
situation in Canada. Mr. Smith then published an open letter to the master in the New York Tribune,
saying "that he would no doubt rejoice to know that his slave Harriet, in whose fate he felt so deep
an interest, was now a free woman, safe under the shadow of the British throne. I had the honor of
entertaining her under my roof, sending her in my carriage to Lake Ontario, just eighteen hours
before your arrival: hence my willingness to have you search my premises."
Like the varied combinations of the kaleidoscope, the scenes in our social life at Peterboro were
continually changing from grave to gay. Some years later we had a most hilarious occasion at the
marriage of Mary Cochrane, sister of General John Cochrane, to Chapman Biddle, of Philadelphia.
The festivities, which were kept up for three days, involved most elaborate preparations for
breakfasts, dinners, etc., there being no Delmonico's in that remote part of the country. It was
decided in family council that we had sufficient culinary talent under the roof to prepare the entire
menu of substantials and delicacies, from soup and salmon to cakes and creams. So, gifted ladies
and gentlemen were impressed into the service. The Fitzhughs all had a natural talent for cooking,
and chief among them was Isabella, wife of a naval officer,—Lieutenant Swift of Geneva,—who
had made a profound study of all the authorities from Archestratus, a poet in Syracuse, the most
famous cook among the Greeks, down to our own Miss Leslie. Accordingly she was elected
manager of the occasion, and to each one was assigned the specialty in which she claimed to excel.
Those who had no specialty were assistants to those who had. In this humble office—"assistant at
large"—I labored throughout.
Cooking is a high art. A wise Egyptian said, long ago: "The degree of taste and skill manifested by a
nation in the preparation of food may be regarded as to a very considerable extent proportioned to its
culture and refinement." In early times men, only, were deemed capable of handling fire, whether at
the altar or the hearthstone. We read in the Scriptures that Abraham prepared cakes of fine meal and
a calf tender and good, which, with butter and milk, he set before the three angels in the plains of
Mamre. We are told, too, of the chief butler and chief baker as officers in the household of King
Pharaoh. I would like to call the attention of my readers to the dignity of this profession, which some
young women affect to despise. The fact that angels eat, shows that we may be called upon in the
next sphere to cook even for cherubim and seraphim. How important, then, to cultivate one's gifts in
that direction!

With such facts before us, we stirred and pounded, whipped and ground, coaxed the delicate meats
from crabs and lobsters and the succulent peas from the pods, and grated corn and cocoanut with the
same cheerfulness and devotion that we played Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words" on the piano,
the Spanish Fandango on our guitars, or danced the minuet, polka, lancers, or Virginia reel.
During the day of the wedding, every stage coach was crowded with guests from the North, South,
East, and West, and, as the twilight deepened, carriages began to roll in with neighbors and friends
living at short distances, until the house and grounds were full. A son of Bishop Coxe, who married
the tall and stately sister of Roscoe Conkling, performed the ceremony. The beautiful young bride
was given away by her Uncle Gerrit. The congratulations, the feast, and all went off with fitting
decorum in the usual way. The best proof of the excellence of our viands was that they were all
speedily swept from mortal view, and every housewife wanted a recipe for something.
As the grand dinner was to come off the next day, our thoughts now turned in that direction. The
responsibility rested heavily on the heads of the chief actors, and they reported troubled dreams and
unduly early rising. Dear Belle Swift was up in season and her white soup stood serenely in a tin
pan, on an upper shelf, before the town clock struck seven. If it had not taken that position so early,
it might have been incorporated with higher forms of life than that into which it eventually fell.
Another artist was also on the wing early, and in pursuit of a tin pan in which to hide her precious
compound, she unwittingly seized this one, and the rich white soup rolled down her raven locks like
the oil on Aaron's beard, and enveloped her in a veil of filmy whiteness. I heard the splash and the
exclamation of surprise and entered the butler's pantry just in time to see the heiress of the Smith
estate standing like a statue, tin pan in hand, soup in her curls, her eyebrows and eyelashes,—collar,
cuffs, and morning dress saturated,—and Belle, at a little distance, looking at her and the soup on
the floor with surprise and disgust depicted on every feature. The tableau was inexpressibly comical,
and I could not help laughing outright; whereupon Belle turned on me, and, with indignant tones,
said, "If you had been up since four o'clock making that soup you would not stand there like a
laughing monkey, without the least feeling of pity!" Poor Lizzie was very sorry, and would have
shed tears, but they could not penetrate that film of soup. I tried to apologize, but could only laugh
the more when I saw Belle crying and Lizzie standing as if hoping that the soup might be scraped
off her and gathered from the floor and made to do duty on the occasion.
After breakfast, ladies and gentlemen, alike in white aprons, crowded into the dining room and
kitchen, each to perform the allotted task. George Biddle of Philadelphia and John B. Miller of
Utica, in holiday spirits, were irrepressible—everywhere at the same moment, helping or hindering
as the case might be. Dear Belle, having only partially recovered from the white-soup catastrophe,
called Mr. Biddle to hold the ice-cream freezer while she poured in the luscious compound she had
just prepared. He held it up without resting it on anything, while Belle slowly poured in the cream.
As the freezer had no indentations round the top or rim to brace the thumbs and fingers, when it
grew suddenly heavier his hands slipped and down went the whole thing, spattering poor Belle and
spoiling a beautiful pair of gaiters in which, as she had very pretty feet, she took a laudable pride. In
another corner sat Wealthea Backus, grating some cocoanut. While struggling in that operation, John
Miller, feeling hilarious, was annoying her in divers ways; at length she drew the grater across his
nose, gently, as she intended, but alas! she took the skin off, and John's beauty, for the remainder of
the festivities, was marred with a black patch on that prominent feature. One can readily imagine the
fun that must have transpired where so many amateur cooks were at work round one table, with all
manner of culinary tools and ingredients.
As assistant-at-large I was summoned to the cellar, where Mrs. Cornelia Barclay of New York was
evolving from a pan of flour and water that miracle in the pie department called puff paste. This, it

seems, can only be accomplished where the thermometer is below forty, and near a refrigerator
where the compound can be kept cold until ready to be popped into the oven. No jokes or nonsense
here. With queenly dignity the flour and water were gently compressed. Here one hand must not
know what the other doeth. Bits of butter must be so deftly introduced that even the rolling pin may
be unconscious of its work. As the artist gave the last touch to an exquisite lemon pie, with a
mingled expression of pride and satisfaction on her classic features, she ordered me to bear it to the
oven. In the transit I met Madam Belle. "Don't let that fall," she said sneeringly. Fortunately I did
not, and returned in triumph to transport another. I was then summoned to a consultation with the
committee on toasts, consisting of James Cochrane, John Miller, and myself. Mr. Miller had one for
each guest already written, all of which we accepted and pronounced very good.
Strange to say, a most excellent dinner emerged from all this uproar and confusion. The table, with
its silver, china, flowers, and rich viands, the guests in satins, velvets, jewels, soft laces, and bright
cravats, together reflecting all the colors of the prism, looked as beautiful as the rainbow after a
thunderstorm.
Twenty years ago I made my last sad visit to that spot so rich with pleasant memories of bygone
days. A few relatives and family friends gathered there to pay the last tokens of respect to our noble
cousin. It was on one of the coldest days of gray December that we laid him in the frozen earth, to
be seen no more. He died from a stroke of apoplexy in New York city, at the home of his niece, Mrs.
Ellen Cochrane Walter, whose mother was Mr. Smith's only sister. The journey from New York to
Peterboro was cold and dreary, and climbing the hills from Canastota in an open sleigh, nine
hundred feet above the valley, with the thermometer below zero, before sunrise, made all nature look
as sombre as the sad errand on which we came.
Outside the mansion everything in its wintry garb was cold and still, and all within was silent as the
grave. The central figure, the light and joy of that home, had vanished forever. He who had
welcomed us on that threshold for half a century would welcome us no more. We did what we could
to dissipate the gloom that settled on us all. We did not intensify our grief by darkening the house
and covering ourselves with black crape, but wore our accustomed dresses of chastened colors and
opened all the blinds that the glad sunshine might stream in. We hung the apartment where the
casket stood with wreaths of evergreens, and overhead we wove his favorite mottoes in living
letters, "Equal rights for all!" "Rescue Cuba now!" The religious services were short and simple; the
Unitarian clergyman from Syracuse made a few remarks, the children from the orphan asylum, in
which he was deeply interested, sang an appropriate hymn, and around the grave stood
representatives of the Biddles, the Dixwells, the Sedgwicks, the Barclays, and Stantons, and three
generations of his immediate family. With a few appropriate words from General John Cochrane we
left our beloved kinsman alone in his last resting place. Two months later, on his birthday, his wife,
Ann Carroll Fitzhugh, passed away and was laid by his side. Theirs was a remarkably happy union
of over half a century, and they were soon reunited in the life eternal.

CHAPTER V.

OUR WEDDING JOURNEY.
My engagement was a season of doubt and conflict—doubt as to the wisdom of changing a girlhood
of freedom and enjoyment for I knew not what, and conflict because the step I proposed was in
opposition to the wishes of all my family. Whereas, heretofore, friends were continually suggesting
suitable matches for me and painting the marriage relation in the most dazzling colors, now that
state was represented as beset with dangers and disappointments, and men, of all God's creatures as
the most depraved and unreliable. Hard pressed, I broke my engagement, after months of anxiety
and bewilderment; suddenly I decided to renew it, as Mr. Stanton was going to Europe as a delegate
to the World's Anti-slavery Convention, and we did not wish the ocean to roll between us.
Thursday, May 10, 1840, I determined to take the fateful step, without the slightest preparation for a
wedding or a voyage; but Mr. Stanton, coming up the North River, was detained on "Marcy's
Overslaugh," a bar in the river where boats were frequently stranded for hours. This delay compelled
us to be married on Friday, which is commonly supposed to be a most unlucky day. But as we lived
together, without more than the usual matrimonial friction, for nearly a half a century, had seven
children, all but one of whom are still living, and have been well sheltered, clothed, and fed,
enjoying sound minds in sound bodies, no one need be afraid of going through the marriage
ceremony on Friday for fear of bad luck. The Scotch clergyman who married us, being somewhat
superstitious, begged us to postpone it until Saturday; but, as we were to sail early in the coming
week, that was impossible. That point settled, the next difficulty was to persuade him to leave out
the word "obey" in the marriage ceremony. As I obstinately refused to obey one with whom I
supposed I was entering into an equal relation, that point, too, was conceded. A few friends were
invited to be present and, in a simple white evening dress, I was married. But the good priest
avenged himself for the points he conceded, by keeping us on the rack with a long prayer and
dissertation on the sacred institution for one mortal hour. The Rev. Hugh Maire was a little stout
fellow, vehement in manner and speech, who danced about the floor, as he laid down the law, in the
most original and comical manner. As Mr. Stanton had never seen him before, the hour to him was
one of constant struggle to maintain his equilibrium. I had sat under his ministrations for several
years, and was accustomed to his rhetoric, accent, and gestures, and thus was able to go through the
ordeal in a calmer state of mind.
Sister Madge, who had stood by me bravely through all my doubts and anxieties, went with us to
New York and saw us on board the vessel. My sister Harriet and her husband, Daniel C. Eaton, a
merchant in New York city, were also there. He and I had had for years a standing game of "tag" at
all our partings, and he had vowed to send me "tagged" to Europe. I was equally determined that he
should not. Accordingly, I had a desperate chase after him all over the vessel, but in vain. He had the
last "tag" and escaped. As I was compelled, under the circumstances, to conduct the pursuit with
some degree of decorum, and he had the advantage of height, long limbs, and freedom from skirts, I
really stood no chance whatever. However, as the chase kept us all laughing, it helped to soften the
bitterness of parting.

Fairly at sea, I closed another chapter of my life, and my thoughts turned to what lay in the near
future. James G. Birney, the anti-slavery nominee for the presidency of the United States, joined us
in New York, and was a fellow-passenger on the Montreal for England. He and my husband were
delegates to the World's Anti-slavery Convention, and both interested themselves in my anti-slavery
education. They gave me books to read, and, as we paced the deck day by day, the question was the
chief theme of our conversation.
Mr. Birney was a polished gentleman of the old school, and was excessively proper and punctilious
in manner and conversation. I soon perceived that he thought I needed considerable toning down
before reaching England. I was quick to see and understand that his criticisms of others in a general
way and the drift of his discourses on manners and conversation had a nearer application than he
intended I should discover, though he hoped I would profit by them. I was always grateful to anyone
who took an interest in my improvement, so I laughingly told him, one day, that he need not make
his criticisms any longer in that roundabout way, but might take me squarely in hand and polish me
up as speedily as possible. Sitting in the saloon at night after a game of chess, in which, perchance, I
had been the victor, I felt complacent and would sometimes say:
"Well, what have I said or done to-day open to criticism?"

So, in the most gracious manner, he replied on one occasion:
"You went to the masthead in a chair, which I think very unladylike. I heard you call your husband
'Henry' in the presence of strangers, which is not permissible in polite society. You should always
say 'Mr. Stanton.' You have taken three moves back in this game."
"Bless me!" I replied, "what a catalogue in one day! I fear my Mentor will despair of my ultimate
perfection."
"I should have more hope," he replied, "if you seemed to feel my rebukes more deeply, but you
evidently think them of too little consequence to be much disturbed by them."
As he found even more fault with my husband, we condoled with each other and decided that our
friend was rather hypercritical and that we were as nearly perfect as mortals need be for the wear
and tear of ordinary life. Being both endowed with a good degree of self-esteem, neither the praise
nor the blame of mankind was overpowering to either of us. As the voyage lasted eighteen days—for
we were on a sailing vessel—we had time to make some improvement, or, at least, to consider all
friendly suggestions.
At this time Mr. Birney was very much in love with Miss Fitzhugh of Geneseo, to whom he was
afterward married. He suffered at times great depression of spirits, but I could always rouse him to a
sunny mood by introducing her name. That was a theme of which he never grew weary, and, while
praising her, a halo of glory was to him visible around my head and I was faultless for the time
being. There was nothing in our fellow-passengers to break the monotony of the voyage. They were
all stolid, middle-class English people, returning from various parts of the world to visit their native
land.
When out of their hearing, Mr. Birney used to ridicule them without mercy; so, one day, by way of
making a point, I said with great solemnity, "Is it good breeding to make fun of the foibles of our
fellow-men, who have not had our advantages of culture and education?" He felt the rebuke and
blushed, and never again returned to that subject. I am sorry to say I was glad to find him once in
fault.
Though some amusement, in whatever extraordinary way I could obtain it, was necessary to my
existence, yet, as it was deemed important that I should thoroughly understand the status of the anti-
slavery movement in my own country, I spent most of my time reading and talking on that question.
Being the wife of a delegate to the World's Convention, we all felt it important that I should be able
to answer whatever questions I might be asked in England on all phases of the slavery question.
The captain, a jolly fellow, was always ready to second me in my explorations into every nook and
cranny of the vessel. He imagined that my reading was distasteful and enforced by the older
gentlemen, so he was continually planning some diversion, and often invited me to sit with him and
listen to his experiences of a sailor's life.
But all things must end in this mortal life, and our voyage was near its termination, when we were
becalmed on the Southern coast of England and could not make more than one knot an hour. When
within sight of the distant shore, a pilot boat came along and offered to take anyone ashore in six
hours. I was so delighted at the thought of reaching land that, after much persuasion, Mr. Stanton
and Mr. Birney consented to go. Accordingly we were lowered into the boat in an armchair, with a
luncheon consisting of a cold chicken, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine, with just enough wind to
carry our light craft toward our destination. But, instead of six hours, we were all day trying to reach

the land, and, as the twilight deepened and the last breeze died away, the pilot said: "We are now two
miles from shore, but the only way you can reach there to-night is by a rowboat."
As we had no provisions left and nowhere to sleep, we were glad to avail ourselves of the rowboat.
It was a bright moonlight night, the air balmy, the waters smooth, and, with two stout oarsmen, we
glided swiftly along. As Mr. Birney made the last descent and seated himself, doubtful as to our
reaching shore, turning to me he said: "The woman tempted me and I did leave the good ship."
However, we did reach the shore at midnight and landed at Torquay, one of the loveliest spots in that
country, and our journey to Exeter the next day lay through the most beautiful scenery in England.
As we had no luggage with us, our detention by customs officers was brief, and we were soon
conducted to a comfortable little hotel, which we found in the morning was a bower of roses. I had
never imagined anything so beautiful as the drive up to Exeter on the top of a coach, with four stout
horses, trotting at the rate of ten miles an hour. It was the first day of June, and the country was in all
its glory. The foliage was of the softest green, the trees were covered with blossoms, and the shrubs
with flowers. The roads were perfect; the large, fine-looking coachman, with his white gloves and
reins, his rosy face and lofty bearing and the postman in red, blowing his horn as we passed through
every village, made the drive seem like a journey in fairyland. We had heard that England was like a
garden of flowers, but we were wholly unprepared for such wealth of beauty.
In Exeter we had our first view of one of the great cathedrals in the Old World, and we were all
deeply impressed with its grandeur. It was just at the twilight hour, when the last rays of the setting
sun, streaming through the stained glass windows, deepened the shadows and threw a mysterious
amber light over all. As the choir was practicing, the whole effect was heightened by the deep tones
of the organ reverberating through the arched roof, and the sound of human voices as if vainly trying
to fill the vast space above. The novelty and solemnity of the surroundings roused all our religious
emotions and thrilled every nerve in our being. As if moved by the same impulse to linger there a
while, we all sat down, silently waiting for something to break the spell that bound us. Can one
wonder at the power of the Catholic religion for centuries, with such accessories to stimulate the
imagination to a blind worship of the unknown?
Sitting in the hotel that evening and wanting something to read, we asked the waiter for the daily
papers. As there was no public table or drawing room for guests, but each party had its own
apartment, we needed a little change from the society of each other. Having been, as it were, shut
from the outside world for eighteen days, we had some curiosity to see whether our planet was still
revolving from west to east. At the mention of papers in the plural number, the attendant gave us a
look of surprise, and said he would get "it." He returned saying that the gentleman in No. 4 had "it,"
but he would be through in fifteen minutes. Accordingly, at the end of that time, he brought the
newspaper, and, after we had had it the same length of time, he came to take it to another party. At
our lodging house in London, a paper was left for half an hour each morning, and then it was taken
to the next house, thus serving several families of readers.
The next day brought us to London. When I first entered our lodging house in Queen Street, I
thought it the gloomiest abode I had ever seen. The arrival of a delegation of ladies, the next day,
from Boston and Philadelphia, changed the atmosphere of the establishment, and filled me with
delightful anticipations of some new and charming acquaintances, which I fully realized in meeting
Emily Winslow, Abby Southwick, Elizabeth Neal, Mary Grew, Abby Kimber, Sarah Pugh, and
Lucretia Mott. There had been a split in the American anti-slavery ranks, and delegates came from
both branches, and, as they were equally represented at our lodgings, I became familiar with the
whole controversy. The potent element which caused the division was the woman question, and as
the Garrisonian branch maintained the right of women to speak and vote in the conventions, all my

sympathies were with the Garrisonians, though Mr. Stanton and Mr. Birney belonged to the other
branch, called political abolitionists. To me there was no question so important as the emancipation
of women from the dogmas of the past, political, religious, and social. It struck me as very
remarkable that abolitionists, who felt so keenly the wrongs of the slave, should be so oblivious to
the equal wrongs of their own mothers, wives, and sisters, when, according to the common law, both
classes occupied a similar legal status.
Our chief object in visiting England at this time was to attend the World's Anti-slavery Convention,
to meet June 12, 1840, in Freemasons' Hall, London. Delegates from all the anti-slavery societies of
civilized nations were invited, yet, when they arrived, those representing associations of women
were rejected. Though women were members of the National Anti-slavery Society, accustomed to
speak and vote in all its conventions, and to take an equally active part with men in the whole anti-
slavery struggle, and were there as delegates from associations of men and women, as well as those
distinctively of their own sex, yet all alike were rejected because they were women. Women,
according to English prejudices at that time, were excluded by Scriptural texts from sharing equal
dignity and authority with men in all reform associations; hence it was to English minds pre-
eminently unfitting that women should be admitted as equal members to a World's Convention. The
question was hotly debated through an entire day. My husband made a very eloquent speech in favor
of admitting the women delegates.
When we consider that Lady Byron, Anna Jameson, Mary Howitt, Mrs. Hugo Reid, Elizabeth Fry,
Amelia Opie, Ann Green Phillips, Lucretia Mott, and many remarkable women, speakers and
leaders in the Society of Friends, were all compelled to listen in silence to the masculine platitudes
on woman's sphere, one may form some idea of the indignation of unprejudiced friends, and
especially that of such women as Lydia Maria Child, Maria Chapman, Deborah Weston, Angelina
and Sarah Grimké, and Abby Kelly, who were impatiently waiting and watching on this side, in
painful suspense, to hear how their delegates were received. Judging from my own feelings, the
women on both sides of the Atlantic must have been humiliated and chagrined, except as these
feelings were outweighed by contempt for the shallow reasoning of their opponents and their
comical pose and gestures in some of the intensely earnest flights of their imagination.
The clerical portion of the convention was most violent in its opposition. The clergymen seemed to
have God and his angels especially in their care and keeping, and were in agony lest the women
should do or say something to shock the heavenly hosts. Their all-sustaining conceit gave them
abundant assurance that their movements must necessarily be all-pleasing to the celestials whose
ears were open to the proceedings of the World's Convention. Deborah, Huldah, Vashti, and Esther
might have questioned the propriety of calling it a World's Convention, when only half of humanity
was represented there; but what were their opinions worth compared with those of the Rev. A.
Harvey, the Rev. C. Stout, or the Rev. J. Burnet, who, Bible in hand, argued woman's subjection,
divinely decreed when Eve was created.
One of our champions in the convention, George Bradburn, a tall thick-set man with a voice like
thunder, standing head and shoulders above the clerical representatives, swept all their arguments
aside by declaring with tremendous emphasis that, if they could prove to him that the Bible taught
the entire subjection of one-half of the race to the other, he should consider that the best thing he
could do for humanity would be to bring together every Bible in the universe and make a grand
bonfire of them.
It was really pitiful to hear narrow-minded bigots, pretending to be teachers and leaders of men, so
cruelly remanding their own mothers, with the rest of womankind, to absolute subjection to the
ordinary masculine type of humanity. I always regretted that the women themselves had not taken

part in the debate before the convention was fully organized and the question of delegates settled. It
seemed to me then, and does now, that all delegates with credentials from recognized societies
should have had a voice in the organization of the convention, though subject to exclusion
afterward. However, the women sat in a low curtained seat like a church choir, and modestly listened
to the French, British, and American Solons for twelve of the longest days in June, as did, also, our
grand Garrison and Rogers in the gallery. They scorned a convention that ignored the rights of the
very women who had fought, side by side, with them in the anti-slavery conflict. "After battling so
many long years," said Garrison, "for the liberties of African slaves, I can take no part in a
convention that strikes down the most sacred rights of all women." After coming three thousand
miles to speak on the subject nearest his heart, he nobly shared the enforced silence of the rejected
delegates. It was a great act of self-sacrifice that should never be forgotten by women.
Thomas Clarkson was chosen president of the convention and made a few remarks in opening, but
he soon retired, as his age and many infirmities made all public occasions too burdensome, and
Joseph Sturge, a Quaker, was made chairman. Sitting next to Mrs. Mott, I said:
"As there is a Quaker in the chair now, what could he do if the spirit should move you to speak?"
"Ah," she replied, evidently not believing such a contingency possible, "where the spirit of the Lord
is, there is liberty."
She had not much faith in the sincerity of abolitionists who, while eloquently defending the natural
rights of slaves, denied freedom of speech to one-half the people of their own race. Such was the
consistency of an assemblage of philanthropists! They would have been horrified at the idea of
burning the flesh of the distinguished women present with red-hot irons, but the crucifixion of their
pride and self-respect, the humiliation of the spirit, seemed to them a most trifling matter. The action
of this convention was the topic of discussion, in public and private, for a long time, and stung many
women into new thought and action and gave rise to the movement for women's political equality
both in England and the United States.
As the convention adjourned, the remark was heard on all sides, "It is about time some demand was
made for new liberties for women." As Mrs. Mott and I walked home, arm in arm, commenting on
the incidents of the day, we resolved to hold a convention as soon as we returned home, and form a
society to advocate the rights of women. At the lodging house on Queen Street, where a large
number of delegates had apartments, the discussions were heated at every meal, and at times so
bitter that, at last, Mr. Birney packed his valise and sought more peaceful quarters. Having strongly
opposed the admission of women as delegates to the convention it was rather embarrassing to meet
them, during the intervals between the various sessions, at the table and in the drawing room.
These were the first women I had ever met who believed in the equality of the sexes and who did not
believe in the popular orthodox religion. The acquaintance of Lucretia Mott, who was a broad,
liberal thinker on politics, religion, and all questions of reform, opened to me a new world of
thought. As we walked about to see the sights of London, I embraced every opportunity to talk with
her. It was intensely gratifying to hear all that, through years of doubt, I had dimly thought, so freely
discussed by other women, some of them no older than myself—women, too, of rare intelligence,
cultivation, and refinement. After six weeks' sojourn under the same roof with Lucretia Mott, whose
conversation was uniformly on a high plane, I felt that I knew her too well to sympathize with the
orthodox Friends, who denounced her as a dangerous woman because she doubted certain dogmas
they fully believed.

As Mr. Birney and my husband were invited to speak all over England, Scotland, and Ireland, and
we were uniformly entertained by orthodox Friends, I had abundant opportunity to know the general
feeling among them toward Lucretia Mott. Even Elizabeth Fry seemed quite unwilling to breathe the
same atmosphere with her. During the six weeks that many of us remained in London after the
convention we were invited to a succession of public and private breakfasts, dinners, and teas, and
on these occasions it was amusing to watch Mrs. Fry's sedulous efforts to keep Mrs. Mott at a
distance. If Mrs. Mott was on the lawn, Mrs. Fry would go into the house; if Mrs. Mott was in the
house, Mrs. Fry would stay out on the lawn. One evening, when we were all crowded into two
parlors, and there was no escape, the word went round that Mrs. Fry felt moved to pray with the
American delegates, whereupon a profound silence reigned. After a few moments Mrs. Fry's voice
was heard deploring the schism among the American Friends; that sol many had been led astray by
false doctrines; urging the Spirit of All Good to show them the error of their way, and gather them
once more into the fold of the great Shepherd of our faith. The prayer was directed so pointedly at
the followers of Elias Hicks, and at Lucretia Mott in particular, that I whispered to Lucretia, at the
close, that she should now pray for Mrs. Fry, that her eyes might be opened to her bigotry and
uncharitableness, and be led by the Spirit into higher light. "Oh, no!" she replied, "a prayer of this
character, under the circumstances, is an unfair advantage to take of a stranger, but I would not
resent it in the house of her friends."
In these gatherings we met the leading Quaker families and many other philanthropists of different
denominations interested in the anti-slavery movement. On all these occasions our noble Garrison
spoke most effectively, and thus our English friends had an opportunity of enjoying his eloquence,
the lack of which had been so grave a loss in the convention.
We devoted a month sedulously to sightseeing in London, and, in the line of the traveler's duty, we
explored St. Paul's Cathedral, the British Museum, the Tower, various prisons, hospitals, galleries of
art, Windsor Castle, and St. James's Palace, the Zoological Gardens, the schools and colleges, the
chief theaters and churches, Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, and the Courts. We heard
the most famous preachers, actors, and statesmen. In fact, we went to the top and bottom of
everything, from the dome of St. Paul to the tunnel under the Thames, just then in the process of
excavation. We drove through the parks, sailed up and down the Thames, and then visited every
shire but four in England, in all of which we had large meetings, Mr. Birney and Mr. Stanton being
the chief speakers. As we were generally invited to stay with Friends, it gave us a good opportunity
to see the leading families, such as the Ashursts, the Alexanders, the Priestmans, the Braithwaites,
and Buxtons, the Gurneys, the Peases, the Wighams of Edinburgh, and the Webbs of Dublin. We
spent a few days with John Joseph Gurney at his beautiful home in Norwich. He had just returned
from America, having made a tour through the South. When asked how he liked America, he said, "I
like everything but your pie crust and your slavery."
Before leaving London, the whole American delegation, about forty in number, were invited to dine
with Samuel Gurney. He and his brother, John Joseph Gurney, were, at that time, the leading bankers
in London. Someone facetiously remarked that the Jews were the leading bankers in London until
the Quakers crowded them out.
One of the most striking women I met in England at this time was Miss Elizabeth Pease. I never saw
a more strongly marked face. Meeting her, forty years after, on the platform of a great meeting in the
Town Hall at Glasgow, I knew her at once. She is now Mrs. Nichol of Edinburgh, and, though on the
shady side of eighty, is still active in all the reforms of the day.
It surprised us very much at first, when driving into the grounds of some of these beautiful Quaker
homes, to have the great bell rung at the lodge, and to see the number of liveried servants on the

porch and in the halls, and then to meet the host in plain garb, and to be welcomed in plain language,
"How does thee do, Henry?" "How does thee do Elizabeth?" This sounded peculiarly sweet to me—
a stranger in a strange land. The wealthy English Quakers we visited at that time, taking them all in
all, were the most charming people I had ever seen. They were refined and intelligent on all subjects,
and though rather conservative on some points, were not aggressive in pressing their opinions on
others. Their hospitality was charming and generous, their homes the beau ideal of comfort and
order, the cuisine faultless, while peace reigned over all. The quiet, gentle manner and the soft tones
in speaking, and the mysterious quiet in these well-ordered homes were like the atmosphere one
finds in a modern convent, where the ordinary duties of the day seem to be accomplished by some
magical influence.
Before leaving London we spent a delightful day in June at the home of Samuel Gurney, surrounded
by a fine park with six hundred deer roaming about—always a beautiful feature in the English
landscape. As the Duchess of Sutherland and Lord Morpeth had expressed a wish to Mrs. Fry to
meet some of the leading American abolitionists, it was arranged that they should call at her
brother's residence on this occasion. Soon after we arrived, the Duchess, with her brother and Mrs.
Fry, in her state carriage with six horses and outriders, drove up to the door. Mr. Gurney was
evidently embarrassed at the prospect of a lord and a duchess under his roof. Leaning on the arm of
Mrs. Fry, the duchess was formally introduced to us individually. Mrs. Mott conversed with the
distinguished guests with the same fluency and composure as with her own countrywomen.
However anxious the English people were as to what they should say and do, the Americans were all
quite at their ease.
As Lord Morpeth had some interesting letters from the island of Jamaica to read to us, we formed a
circle on the lawn to listen. England had just paid one hundred millions of dollars to emancipate the
slaves, and we were all interested in hearing the result of the experiment. The distinguished guest in
turn had many questions to ask in regard to American slavery. We found none of that prejudice
against color in England which is so inveterate among the American people; at my first dinner in
England I found myself beside a gentleman from Jamaica, as black as the ace of spades. After the
departure of the duchess, dinner was announced. It was a sumptuous meal, most tastefully served.
There were half a dozen wineglasses at every plate, but abolitionists, in those days, were all converts
to temperance, and, as the bottles went around there was a general headshaking, and the right hand
extended over the glasses. Our English friends were amazed that none of us drank wine. Mr. Gurney
said he had never before seen such a sight as forty ladies and gentlemen sitting down to dinner and
none of them tasting wine. In talking with him on that point, he said:
"I suppose your nursing mothers drink beer?"
I laughed, and said, "Oh, no! We should be afraid of befogging the brains of our children."
"No danger of that," said he; "we are all bright enough, and yet a cask of beer is rolled into the cellar
for the mother with each newborn child."
Colonel Miller from Vermont, one of our American delegation, was in the Greek war with Lord
Byron. As Lady Byron had expressed a wish to see him, that her daughter might know something of
her father's last days, an interview was arranged, and the colonel kindly invited me to accompany
him. His account of their acquaintance and the many noble traits of character Lord Byron
manifested, his generous impulses and acts of self-sacrifice, seemed particularly gratifying to the
daughter. It was a sad interview, arranged chiefly for the daughter's satisfaction, though Lady Byron
listened with a painful interest. As the colonel was a warm admirer of the great poet, he no doubt
represented him in the best possible light, and his narration of his last days was deeply interesting.

Lady Byron had a quiet, reserved manner, a sad face, and a low, plaintive voice, like one who had
known deep sorrow. I had seen her frequently in the convention and at social teas, and had been
personally presented to her before this occasion. Altogether I thought her a sweet, attractive-looking
woman.
We had a pleasant interview with Lord Brougham also. The Philadelphia Anti-slavery Society sent
him an elaborately carved inkstand, made from the wood of Pennsylvania Hall, which was destroyed
by a pro-slavery mob. Mr. Birney made a most graceful speech in presenting the memento, and Lord
Brougham was equally happy in receiving it.
One of the most notable characters we met at this time was Daniel O'Connell. He made his first
appearance in the London convention a few days after the women were rejected. He paid a beautiful
tribute to woman and said that, if he had been present when the question was under discussion, he
should have spoken and voted for their admission. He was a tall, well-developed, magnificent-
looking man, and probably one of the most effective speakers Ireland ever produced. I saw him at a
great India meeting in Exeter Hall, where some of the best orators from France, America, and
England were present. There were six natives from India on the platform who, not understanding
anything that was said, naturally remained listless throughout the proceedings. But the moment
O'Connell began to speak they were all attention, bending forward and closely watching every
movement. One could almost tell what he said from the play of his expressive features, his
wonderful gestures, and the pose of his whole body. When he finished, the natives joined in the
general applause. He had all Wendell Phillips' power of sarcasm and denunciation, and added to that
the most tender pathos. He could make his audience laugh or cry at pleasure. It was a rare sight to
see him dressed in "Repeal cloth" in one of his Repeal meetings. We were in Dublin in the midst of
that excitement, when the hopes of new liberties for that oppressed people all centered on O'Connell.
The enthusiasm of the people for the Repeal of the Union was then at white-heat. Dining one day
with the "Great Liberator," as he was called, I asked him if he hoped to carry that measure.
"No," he said, "but it is always good policy to claim the uttermost and then you will be sure to get
something."
Could he have looked forward fifty years and have seen the present condition of his unhappy
country, he would have known that English greed and selfishness could defeat any policy, however
wise and far-seeing. The successive steps by which Irish commerce was ruined and religious feuds
between her people continually fanned into life, and the nation subjugated, form the darkest page in
the history of England. But the people are awakening at last to their duty, and, for the first time,
organizing English public sentiment in favor of "Home Rule." I attended several large, enthusiastic
meetings when last in England, in which the most radical utterances of Irish patriots were received
with prolonged cheers. I trust the day is not far off when the beautiful Emerald Isle will unfurl her
banner before the nations of the earth, enthroned as the Queen Republic of those northern seas!
We visited Wordsworth's home at Grasmere, among the beautiful lakes, but he was not there.
However, we saw his surroundings—the landscape that inspired some of his poetic dreams, and the
dense rows of hollyhocks of every shade and color, leading from his porch to the gate. The gardener
told us this was his favorite flower. Though it had no special beauty in itself, taken alone, yet the
wonderful combination of royal colors was indeed striking and beautiful. We saw Harriet Martineau
at her country home as well as at her house in town. As we were obliged to converse with her
through an ear trumpet, we left her to do most of the talking. She gave us many amusing experiences
of her travels in America, and her comments on the London Convention were rich and racy. She was
not an attractive woman in either manner or appearance, though considered great and good by all
who knew her.

We spent a few days with Thomas Clarkson, in Ipswich. He lived in a very old house with long
rambling corridors, surrounded by a moat, which we crossed' by means of a drawbridge. He had just
written an article against the colonization scheme, which his wife read aloud to us. He was so
absorbed in the subject that he forgot the article was written by himself, and kept up a running
applause with "hear!" "hear!" the English mode of expressing approbation. He told us of the severe
struggles he and Wilberforce had gone through in rousing the public sentiment of England to the
demand for emancipation in Jamaica. But their trials were mild, compared with what Garrison and
his coadjutors had suffered in America.
Having read of all these people, it was difficult to realize, as I visited them in their own homes from
day to day, that they were the same persons I had so long worshiped from afar!

CHAPTER VI.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

After taking a view of the wonders and surroundings of London we spent a
month in Paris. Fifty years ago there was a greater difference in the general
appearance of things between France and England than now. That countries
only a few hours' journey apart should differ so widely was to us a great
surprise. How changed the sights and sounds! Here was the old diligence,
lumbering along with its various compartments and its indefinite number of
horses, harnessed with rope and leather, sometimes two, sometimes three
abreast, and sometimes one in advance, with an outrider belaboring the poor
beasts without cessation, and the driver yelling and cracking his whip. The
uproar, confusion, and squabbles at every stopping place are overwhelming;
the upper classes, men and women alike, rushing into each other's arms,
embrace and kiss, while drivers and hostlers on the slightest provocation
hurl at each other all the denunciatory adjectives in the language, and with
such vehemence that you expect every moment to see a deadly conflict. But
to-day, as fifty years ago, they never arrive at that point. Theirs was and is
purely an encounter of words, which they keep up, as they drive off in
opposite directions, just as far as they can hear and see each other, with
threats of vengeance to come. Such an encounter between two Englishmen
would mean the death of one or the other.
All this was in marked contrast with John Bull and his Island. There the
people were as silent as if they had been born deaf and dumb. The English
stagecoach was compact, clean, and polished from top to bottom, the horses
and harness glossy and in order, the well-dressed, dignified coachman, who
seldom spoke a loud word or used his whip, kept his seat at the various
stages, while hostlers watered or changed the steeds; the postman blew his
bugle blast to have the mail in readiness, and the reserved passengers made
no remarks on what was passing; for, in those days, Englishmen were afraid
to speak to each other for fear of recognizing one not of their class, while to
strangers and foreigners they would not speak except in case of dire
necessity. The Frenchman was ready enough to talk, but, unfortunately, we

were separated by different languages. Thus the Englishman would not talk,
the Frenchman could not, and the intelligent, loquacious American driver,
who discourses on politics, religion, national institutions, and social gossip
was unknown on that side of the Atlantic. What the curious American
traveler could find out himself from observation and pertinacious seeking
he was welcome to, but the Briton would waste no breath to enlighten
Yankees as to the points of interest or customs of his country.
Our party consisted of Miss Pugh, Abby Kimber, Mr. Stanton, and myself. I
had many amusing experiences in making my wants known when alone,
having forgotten most of my French. For instance, traveling night and day
in the diligence to Paris, as the stops were short, one was sometimes in need
of something to eat. One night as my companions were all asleep, I went
out to get a piece of cake or a cracker, or whatever of that sort I could
obtain, but, owing to my clumsy use of the language, I was misunderstood.
Just as the diligence was about to start, and the shout for us to get aboard
was heard, the waiter came running with a piping hot plate of sweetbreads
nicely broiled. I had waited and wondered why it took so long to get a
simple piece of cake or biscuit, and lo! a piece of hot meat was offered me.
I could not take the frizzling thing in my hand nor eat it without bread,
knife, or fork, so I hurried off to the coach, the man pursuing me to the very
door. I was vexed and disappointed, while the rest of the party were
convulsed with laughter at the parting salute and my attempt to make my
way alone. It was some time before I heard the last of the "sweetbreads."
When we reached Paris we secured a courier who could speak English, to
show us the sights of that wonderful city. Every morning early he was at the
door, rain or shine, to carry out our plans, which, with the aid of our
guidebook, we had made the evening before. In this way, going steadily,
day after day, we visited all points of interest for miles round and sailed up
and down the Seine. The Palace of the Tuileries, with its many associations
with a long line of more or less unhappy kings and queens, was then in its
glory, and its extensive and beautiful grounds were always gay with crowds
of happy people. These gardens were a great resort for nurses and children
and were furnished with all manner of novel appliances for their
amusement, including beautiful little carriages drawn by four goats with
girls or boys driving, boats sailing in the air, seemingly propelled by oars,
and hobby horses flying round on whirligigs with boys vainly trying to

catch each other. No people have ever taken the trouble to invent so many
amusements for children as have the French. The people enjoyed being
always in the open air, night and day. The parks are crowded with
amusement seekers, some reading and playing games, some sewing,
knitting, playing on musical instruments, dancing, sitting around tables in
bevies eating, drinking, and gayly chatting. And yet, when they drive in
carriages or go to their homes at night, they will shut themselves in as tight
as oysters in their shells. They have a theory that night air is very injurious,
—in the house,—although they will sit outside until midnight. I found this
same superstition prevalent in France fifty years later.
We visited the Hôtel des Invalides just as they were preparing the
sarcophagus for the reception of the remains of Napoleon. We witnessed the
wild excitement of that enthusiastic people, and listened with deep interest
to the old soldiers' praises of their great general. The ladies of our party
chatted freely with them. They all had interesting anecdotes to relate of
their chief. They said he seldom slept over four hours, was an abstemious
eater, and rarely changed a servant, as he hated a strange face about him. He
was very fond of a game of chess, and snuffed continuously; talked but
little, was a light sleeper,—the stirring of a mouse would awaken him,—and
always on the watch-tower. They said that, in his great campaigns, he
seemed to be omnipresent. A sentinel asleep at his post would sometimes
waken to find Napoleon on duty in his place.
The ship that brought back Napoleon's remains was the Belle Poule (the
beautiful hen!), which landed at Cherbourg, November 30, 1840. The body
was conveyed to the Church of the Invalides, which adjoins the tomb. The
Prince de Joinville brought the body from Saint Helena, and Louis Philippe
received it.
At that time each soldier had a little patch of land to decorate as he pleased,
in which many scenes from their great battles were illustrated. One
represented Napoleon crossing the Alps. There were the cannon, the
soldiers, Napoleon on horseback, all toiling up the steep ascent, perfect in
miniature. In another was Napoleon, flag in hand, leading the charge across
the bridge of Lodi. In still another was Napoleon in Egypt, before the
Pyramids, seated, impassive, on his horse, gazing at the Sphinx, as if about
to utter his immortal words to his soldiers: "Here, forty centuries look down

upon us." These object lessons of the past are all gone now and the land
used for more prosaic purposes.
I little thought, as I witnessed that great event in France in 1840, that fifty-
seven years later I should witness a similar pageant in the American
Republic, when our nation paid its last tributes to General Grant. There are
many points of similarity in these great events. As men they were alike
aggressive and self-reliant. In Napoleon's will he expressed the wish that his
last resting place might be in the land and among the people he loved so
well. His desire is fulfilled. He rests in the chief city of the French republic,
whose shores are washed by the waters of the Seine. General Grant
expressed the wish that he might be interred in our metropolis and added:
"Wherever I am buried, I desire that there shall be room for my wife by my
side." His wishes, too, are fulfilled. He rests in the chief city of the
American Republic, whose shores are washed by the waters of the Hudson,
and in his magnificent mausoleum there is room for his wife by his side.
Several members of the Society of Friends from Boston and Philadelphia,
who had attended the World's Anti-slavery Convention in London, joined
our party for a trip on the Continent. Though opposed to war, they all took a
deep interest in the national excitement and in the pageants that heralded
the expected arrival of the hero from Saint Helena. As they all wore military
coats of the time of George Fox, the soldiers, supposing they belonged to
the army of some country, gave them the military salute wherever we went,
much to their annoyance and our amusement.
In going the rounds, Miss Pugh amused us by reading aloud the description
of what we were admiring and the historical events connected with that
particular building or locality. We urged her to spend the time taking in all
she could see and to read up afterward; but no, a history of France and
Galignani's guide she carried everywhere, and, while the rest of us looked
until we were fully satisfied, she took a bird's-eye view and read the
description. Dear little woman! She was a fine scholar, a good historian,
was well informed on all subjects and countries, proved an invaluable
traveling companion, and could tell more of what we saw than all the rest of
us together.

On several occasions we chanced to meet Louis Philippe dashing by in an
open barouche. We felt great satisfaction in remembering that at one time he
was an exile in our country, where he earned his living by teaching school.
What an honor for Yankee children to have been taught, by a French king,
the rudiments of his language.
Having been accustomed to the Puritan Sunday of restraint and solemnity, I
found that day in Paris gay and charming. The first time I entered into some
of the festivities, I really expected to be struck by lightning. The libraries,
art galleries, concert halls, and theaters were all open to the people. Bands
of music were playing in the parks, where whole families, with their
luncheons, spent the day—husbands, wives, and children, on an excursion
together. The boats on the Seine and all public conveyances were crowded.
Those who had but this one day for pleasure seemed determined to make
the most of it. A wonderful contrast with that gloomy day in London, where
all places of amusement were closed and nothing open to the people but the
churches and drinking saloons. The streets and houses in which Voltaire, La
Fayette, Mme. de Staël, Mme. Roland, Charlotte Corday, and other famous
men and women lived and died, were pointed out to us. We little thought,
then, of all the terrible scenes to be enacted in Paris, nor that France would
emerge from the dangers that beset her on every side into a sister republic.
It has been a wonderful achievement, with kings and Popes all plotting
against her experiment, that she has succeeded in putting kingcraft under
her feet and proclaimed liberty, equality, fraternity for her people.
After a few weeks in France, we returned to London, traveling through
England, Ireland, and Scotland for several months. We visited the scenes
that Shakespeare, Burns, and Dickens had made classic. We spent a few
days at Huntingdon, the home of Oliver Cromwell, and visited the estate
where he passed his early married life. While there, one of his great
admirers read aloud to us a splendid article in one of the reviews, written by
Carlyle, giving "The Protector," as his friend said, his true place in history.
It was long the fashion of England's historians to represent Cromwell as a
fanatic and hypocrite, but his character was vindicated by later writers.
"Never," says Macaulay, "was a ruler so conspicuously born for
sovereignty. The cup which has intoxicated almost all others sobered him."

We saw the picturesque ruins of Kenilworth Castle, the birthplace of
Shakespeare, the homes of Byron and Mary Chaworth, wandered through
Newstead Abbey, saw the monument to the faithful dog, and the large
dining room where Byron and his boon companions used to shoot at a
mark. It was a desolate region. We stopped a day or two at Ayr and drove
out to the birthplace of Burns. The old house that had sheltered him was
still there, but its walls now echoed to other voices, and the fields where he
had toiled were plowed by other hands. We saw the stream and banks where
he and Mary sat together, the old stone church where the witches held their
midnight revels, the two dogs, and the bridge of Ayr. With Burns, as with
Sappho, it was love that awoke his heart to song. A bonny lass who worked
with him in the harvest field inspired his first attempts at rhyme. Life, with
Burns, was one long, hard struggle. With his natural love for the beautiful,
the terrible depression of spirits he suffered from his dreary surroundings
was inevitable. The interest great men took in him, when they awoke to his
genius, came too late for his safety and encouragement. In a glass of whisky
he found, at last, the rest and cheer he never knew when sober. Poverty and
ignorance are the parents of intemperance, and that vice will never be
suppressed until the burdens of life are equally shared by all.
We saw Melrose by moonlight, spent several hours at Abbotsford, and
lingered in the little sanctum sanctorum where Scott wrote his immortal
works. It was so small that he could reach the bookshelves on every side.
We went through the prisons, castles, and narrow streets of Edinburgh,
where the houses are seven and eight stories high, each story projecting a
few feet until, at the uppermost, opposite neighbors could easily shake
hands and chat together. All the intervals from active sight-seeing we spent
in reading the lives of historical personages in poetry and prose, until our
sympathies flowed out to the real and ideal characters. Lady Jane Grey,
Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scots, Ellen Douglas, Jeanie and Effie Deans,
Highland Mary, Rebecca the Jewess, Di Vernon, and Rob Roy all alike
seemed real men and women, whose shades or descendants we hoped to
meet on their native heath.
Here among the Scotch lakes and mountains Mr. Stanton and I were
traveling alone for the first time since our marriage, and as we both enjoyed
walking, we made many excursions on foot to points that could not be
reached in any other way. We spent some time among the Grampian Hills,

so familiar to every schoolboy, walking, and riding about on donkeys. We
sailed up and down Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond. My husband was
writing letters for some New York newspapers on the entire trip, and aimed
to get exact knowledge of all we saw; thus I had the advantage of the
information he gathered. On these long tramps I wore a short dress,
reaching just below the knee, of dark-blue cloth, a military cap of the same
material that shaded my eyes, and a pair of long boots, made on the
masculine pattern then generally worn—the most easy style for walking, as
the pressure is equal on the whole foot and the ankle has free play. Thus
equipped, and early trained by my good brother-in-law to long walks, I
found no difficulty in keeping pace with my husband.
Being self-reliant and venturesome in our explorations, we occasionally
found ourselves involved in grave difficulties by refusing to take a guide.
For instance, we decided to go to the top of Ben Nevis alone. It looked to us
a straightforward piece of business to walk up a mountain side on a bee
line, and so, in the face of repeated warnings by our host, we started. We
knew nothing of zigzag paths to avoid the rocks, the springs, and swamps;
in fact we supposed all mountains smooth and dry, like our native hills that
we were accustomed to climb. The landlord shook his head and smiled
when we told him we should return at noon to dinner, and we smiled, too,
thinking he placed a low estimate on our capacity for walking. But we had
not gone far when we discovered the difficulties ahead. Some places were
so steep that I had to hold on to my companion's coat tails, while he held on
to rocks and twigs, or braced himself with a heavy cane. By the time we
were halfway up we were in a dripping perspiration, our feet were soaking
wet, and we were really too tired to proceed. But, after starting with such
supreme confidence in ourselves, we were ashamed to confess our fatigue
to each other, and much more to return and verify all the prognostications of
the host and his guides. So we determined to push on and do what we had
proposed. With the prospect of a magnificent view and an hour's delicious
rest on the top, we started with renewed courage. A steady climb of six
hours brought us to the goal of promise; our ascent was accomplished. But
alas! it was impossible to stop there—the cold wind chilled us to the bone
in a minute. So we took one glance at the world below and hurried down
the south side to get the mountain between us and the cold northeaster.

When your teeth are chattering with the cold, and the wind threatening to
make havoc with your raiment, you are not in a favorable condition to
appreciate grand scenery. Like the king of France with twice ten thousand
men, we marched up the hill and then, marched down again. We found
descending still more difficult, as we were in constant fear of slipping,
losing our hold, and rolling to the bottom. We were tired, hungry, and
disappointed, and the fear of not reaching the valley before nightfall pressed
heavily upon us. Neither confessed to the other the fatigue and
apprehension each felt, but, with fresh endeavor and words of
encouragement, we cautiously went on. We accidentally struck a trail that
led us winding down comfortably some distance, but we lost it, and went
clambering down as well as we could in our usual way. To add to our
misery, a dense Scotch mist soon enveloped us, so that we could see but a
short distance ahead, and not knowing the point from which we started, we
feared we might be going far out of our way. The coming twilight, too,
made the prospect still darker. Fortunately our host, having less faith in us
than we had in ourselves, sent a guide to reconnoiter, and, just at the
moment when we began to realize our danger of spending the night on the
mountain, and to admit it to each other, the welcome guide hailed us in his
broad accent. His shepherd dog led the way into the beaten path. As I could
hardly stand I took the guide's arm, and when we reached the bottom two
donkeys were in readiness to take us to the hotel.
We did not recover from the fatigue of that expedition in several days, and
we made no more experiments of exploring strange places without guides.
We learned, too, that mountains are not so hospitable as they seem nor so
gently undulating as they appear in the distance, and that guides serve other
purposes besides extorting money from travelers. If, under their guidance,
we had gone up and down easily, we should always have thought we might
as well have gone alone. So our experience gave us a good lesson in
humility. We had been twelve hours on foot with nothing to eat, when at last
we reached the hotel. We were in no mood for boasting of the success of
our excursion, and our answers were short to inquiries as to how we had
passed the day.
Being tired of traveling and contending about woman's sphere with the Rev.
John Scoble, an Englishman, who escorted Mr. Birney and Mr. Stanton on
their tour through the country, I decided to spend a month in Dublin; while

the gentlemen held meetings in Cork, Belfast, Waterford, Limerick, and
other chief towns, finishing the series with a large, enthusiastic gathering in
Dublin, at which O'Connell made one of his most withering speeches on
American slavery; the inconsistency of such an "institution" with the
principles of a republican government giving full play to his powers of
sarcasm. On one occasion, when introduced to a slaveholder, he put his
hands behind his back, refusing to recognize a man who bought and sold his
fellow-beings. The Rev. John Scoble was one of the most conceited men I
ever met. His narrow ideas in regard to woman, and the superiority of the
royal and noble classes in his own country, were to me so exasperating that
I grew more and more bellicose every day we traveled in company. He was
terribly seasick crossing the Channel, to my intense satisfaction. As he
always boasted of his distinguished countrymen, I suggested, in the midst of
one of his most agonizing spasms, that he ought to find consolation in the
fact that Lord Nelson was always seasick on the slightest provocation.
The poverty in Ireland was a continual trial to our sensibilities; beggars
haunted our footsteps everywhere, in the street and on the highways,
crouching on the steps of the front door and on the curbstones, and
surrounding our carriage wherever and whenever we stopped to shop or
make a visit. The bony hands and sunken eyes and sincere gratitude
expressed for every penny proved their suffering real. As my means were
limited and I could not pass one by, I got a pound changed into pennies, and
put them in a green bag, which I took in the carriage wherever I went. It
was but a drop in the ocean, but it was all I could do to relieve that
unfathomed misery. The poverty I saw everywhere in the Old World, and
especially in Ireland, was a puzzling problem to my mind, but I rejected the
idea that it was a necessary link in human experience—that it always had
been and always must be.
As we drove, day by day, in that magnificent Phoenix Park, of fifteen
hundred acres, one of the largest parks, I believe, in the world, I would
often put the question to myself, what right have the few to make a pleasure
ground of these acres, while the many have nowhere to lay their heads,
crouching under stiles and bridges, clothed in rags, and feeding on sea-weed
with no hope, in the slowly passing years, of any change for the better? The
despair stamped on every brow told the sad story of their wrongs. Those
accustomed to such everyday experiences brush beggars aside as they

would so many flies, but those to whom such sights are new cannot so
easily quiet their own consciences. Everyone in the full enjoyment of all the
blessings of life, in his normal condition, feels some individual
responsibility for the poverty of others. When the sympathies are not
blunted by any false philosophy, one feels reproached by one's own
abundance. I once heard a young girl, about to take her summer outing,
when asked by her grandmother if she had all the dresses she needed, reply,
"Oh, yes! I was oppressed with a constant sense of guilt, when packing, to
see how much I had, while so many girls have nothing decent to wear."
More than half a century has rolled by since I stood on Irish soil, and shed
tears of pity for the wretchedness I saw, and no change for the better has as
yet come to that unhappy people—yet this was the land of Burke, Grattan,
Shiel, and Emmett; the land into which Christianity was introduced in the
fifth century, St. Patrick being the chief apostle of the new faith. In the sixth
century Ireland sent forth missionaries from her monasteries to convert
Great Britain and the nations of Northern Europe. From the eighth to the
twelfth century Irish scholars held an enviable reputation. In fact, Ireland
was the center of learning at one time. The arts, too, were cultivated by her
people; and the round towers, still pointed out to travelers, are believed to
be the remains of the architecture of the tenth century. The ruin of Ireland
must be traced to other causes than the character of the people or the
Catholic religion. Historians give us facts showing English oppressions
sufficient to destroy any nation.
The short, dark days of November intensified, in my eyes, the gloomy
prospects of that people, and made the change to the Sirius of the Cunard
Line, the first regular Atlantic steamship to cross the ocean, most enjoyable.
Once on the boundless ocean, one sees no beggars, no signs of human
misery, no crumbling ruins of vast cathedral walls, no records of the
downfall of mighty nations, no trace, even, of the mortal agony of the
innumerable host buried beneath her bosom. Byron truly says:

"Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now."

When we embarked on the Sirius, we had grave doubts as to our safety and
the probability of our reaching the other side, as we did not feel that ocean

steamers had yet been fairly tried. But, after a passage of eighteen days,
eleven hours, and fifteen minutes, we reached Boston, having spent six
hours at Halifax. We little thought that the steamer Sirius of fifty years ago
would ever develop into the magnificent floating palaces of to-day—three
times as large and three times as swift. In spite of the steamer, however, we
had a cold, rough, dreary voyage, and I have no pleasant memories
connected with it. Our fellow-passengers were all in their staterooms most
of the time. Our good friend Mr. Birney had sailed two weeks before us,
and as Mr. Stanton was confined to his berth, I was thrown on my own
resources. I found my chief amusement in reading novels and playing chess
with a British officer on his way to Canada. When it was possible I walked
on deck with the captain, or sat in some sheltered corner, watching the
waves. We arrived in New York, by rail, the day before Christmas.
Everything looked bright and gay in our streets. It seemed to me that the
sky was clearer, the air more refreshing, and the sunlight more brilliant than
in any other land!

CHAPTER VII.

MOTHERHOOD.

We found my sister Harriet in a new home in Clinton Place (Eighth Street),
New York city, then considered so far up town that Mr. Eaton's friends were
continually asking him why he went so far away from the social center,
though in a few months they followed him. Here we passed a week. I
especially enjoyed seeing my little niece and nephew, the only
grandchildren in the family. The girl was the most beautiful child I ever
saw, and the boy the most intelligent and amusing. He was very fond of
hearing me recite the poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes entitled "The Height
of the Ridiculous," which I did many times, but he always wanted to see the
lines that almost killed the man with laughing. He went around to a number
of the bookstores one day and inquired for them. I told him afterward they
were never published; that when Mr. Holmes saw the effect on his servant
he suppressed them, lest they should produce the same effect on the
typesetters, editors, and the readers of the Boston newspapers. My
explanation never satisfied him. I told him he might write to Mr. Holmes,
and ask the privilege of reading the original manuscript, if it still was or
ever had been in existence. As one of my grand-nephews was troubled in
exactly the same way, I decided to appeal myself to Dr. Holmes for the
enlightenment of this second generation. So I wrote him the following
letter, which he kindly answered, telling us that his "wretched man" was a
myth like the heroes in "Mother Goose's Melodies":
"DEAR DR. HOLMES:
"I have a little nephew to whom I often recite 'The
Height of the Ridiculous,' and he invariably asks for the
lines that produced the fatal effect on your servant. He
visited most of the bookstores in New York city to find
them, and nothing but your own word, I am sure, will
ever convince him that the 'wretched man' is but a
figment of your imagination. I tried to satisfy him by

saying you did not dare to publish the lines lest they
should produce a similar effect on the typesetters,
editors, and the readers of the Boston journals.
"However, he wishes me to ask you whether you kept a
copy of the original manuscript, or could reproduce the
lines with equal power. If not too much trouble, please
send me a few lines on this point, and greatly oblige,
"Yours sincerely,
"ELIZABETH CADY STANTON."

"MY DEAR MRS. STANTON:
"I wish you would explain to your little nephew that the
story of the poor fellow who almost died laughing was
a kind of a dream of mine, and not a real thing that
happened, any more than that an old woman 'lived in a
shoe and had so many children she didn't know what to
do,' or that Jack climbed the bean stalk and found the
giant who lived at the top of it. You can explain to him
what is meant by imagination, and thus turn my
youthful rhymes into a text for a discourse worthy of
the Concord School of Philosophy. I have not my
poems by me here, but I remember that 'The Height of
the Ridiculous' ended with this verse:

"Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can."

"But tell your nephew he mustn't cry about it any more
than because geese go barefoot and bald eagles have no
nightcaps. The verses are in all the editions of my
poems.

"Believe me, dear Mrs. Stanton,
"Very Truly and Respectfully Yours,
"OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES."
After spending the holidays in New York city, we started for Johnstown in a
"stage sleigh, conveying the United States mail," drawn by spanking teams
of four horses, up the Hudson River valley. We were three days going to
Albany, stopping over night at various points; a journey now performed in
three hours. The weather was clear and cold, the sleighing fine, the scenery
grand, and our traveling companions most entertaining, so the trip was very
enjoyable. From Albany to Schenectady we went in the railway cars; then
another sleighride of thirty miles brought us to Johnstown. My native hills,
buried under two feet of snow, tinted with the last rays of the setting sun,
were a beautiful and familiar sight. Though I had been absent but ten
months, it seemed like years, and I was surprised to find how few changes
had occurred since I left. My father and mother, sisters Madge and Kate, the
old house and furniture, the neighbors, all looked precisely the same as
when I left them. I had seen so much and been so constantly on the wing
that I wondered that all things here should have stood still. I expected to
hear of many births, marriages, deaths, and social upheavals, but the village
news was remarkably meager. This hunger for home news on returning is
common, I suppose, to all travelers.
Our trunks unpacked, wardrobes arranged in closets and drawers, the
excitement of seeing friends over, we spent some time in making plans for
the future.
My husband, after some consultation with my father, decided to enter his
office and commence the study of the law. As this arrangement kept me
under the parental roof, I had two added years of pleasure, walking, driving,
and riding on horseback with my sisters. Madge and Kate were dearer to me
than ever, as I saw the inevitable separation awaiting us in the near future.
In due time they were married and commenced housekeeping—Madge in
her husband's house near by, and Kate in Buffalo. All my sisters were
peculiarly fortunate in their marriages; their husbands being men of fine
presence, liberal education, high moral character, and marked ability. These
were pleasant and profitable years. I devoted them to reading law, history,

and political economy, with occasional interruptions to take part in some
temperance or anti-slavery excitement.
Eliza Murray and I had classes of colored children in the Sunday school. On
one occasion, when there was to be a festival, speaking in the church, a
procession through the streets, and other public performances for the
Sunday-school celebration, some narrow-minded bigots objected to the
colored children taking part. They approached Miss Murray and me with
most persuasive tones on the wisdom of not allowing them to march in the
procession to the church. We said, "Oh, no! It won't do to disappoint the
children. They are all dressed, with their badges on, and looking forward
with great pleasure to the festivities of the day. Besides, we would not cater
to any of these contemptible prejudices against color." We were all
assembled in the courthouse preparatory to forming in the line of march.
Some were determined to drive the colored children home, but Miss Murray
and I, like two defiant hens, kept our little brood close behind us,
determined to conquer or perish in the struggle. At last milder counsels
prevailed, and it was agreed that they might march in the rear. We made no
objection and fell into line, but, when we reached the church door, it was
promptly closed as the last white child went in. We tried two other doors,
but all were guarded. We shed tears of vexation and pity for the poor
children, and, when they asked us the reason why they could not go in, we
were embarrassed and mortified with the explanation we were forced to
give. However, I invited them to my father's house, where Miss Murray and
I gave them refreshments and entertained them for the rest of the day.
The puzzling questions of theology and poverty that had occupied so much
of my thoughts, now gave place to the practical one, "what to do with a
baby." Though motherhood is the most important of all the professions,—
requiring more knowledge than any other department in human affairs,—
yet there is not sufficient attention given to the preparation for this office. If
we buy a plant of a horticulturist we ask him many questions as to its needs,
whether it thrives best in sunshine or in shade, whether it needs much or
little water, what degrees of heat or cold; but when we hold in our arms for
the first time, a being of infinite possibilities, in whose wisdom may rest the
destiny of a nation, we take it for granted that the laws governing its life,
health, and happiness are intuitively understood, that there is nothing new to
be learned in regard to it. Yet here is a science to which philosophers have,

as yet, given but little attention. An important fact has only been discovered
and acted upon within the last ten years, that children come into the world
tired, and not hungry, exhausted with the perilous journey. Instead of being
thoroughly bathed and dressed, and kept on the rack while the nurse makes
a prolonged toilet and feeds it some nostrum supposed to have much needed
medicinal influence, the child's face, eyes, and mouth should be hastily
washed with warm water, and the rest of its body thoroughly oiled, and then
it should be slipped into a soft pillow case, wrapped in a blanket, and laid to
sleep. Ordinarily, in the proper conditions, with its face uncovered in a cool,
pure atmosphere, it will sleep twelve hours. Then it should be bathed, fed,
and clothed in a high-necked, long-sleeved silk shirt and a blanket, all of
which could be done in five minutes. As babies lie still most of the time the
first six weeks, they need no dressing. I think the nurse was a full hour
bathing and dressing my firstborn, who protested with a melancholy wail
every blessed minute.
Ignorant myself of the initiative steps on the threshold of time, I supposed
this proceeding was approved by the best authorities. However, I had been
thinking, reading, observing, and had as little faith in the popular theories in
regard to babies as on any other subject. I saw them, on all sides, ill half the
time, pale and peevish, dying early, having no joy in life. I heard parents
complaining of weary days and sleepless nights, while each child, in turn,
ran the gauntlet of red gum, jaundice, whooping cough, chicken-pox,
mumps, measles, scarlet fever, and fits. They all seemed to think these
inflictions were a part of the eternal plan—that Providence had a kind of
Pandora's box, from which he scattered these venerable diseases most
liberally among those whom he especially loved. Having gone through the
ordeal of bearing a child, I was determined, if possible, to keep him, so I
read everything I could find on the subject. But the literature on this subject
was as confusing and unsatisfactory as the longer and shorter catechisms
and the Thirty-nine Articles of our faith. I had recently visited our dear
friends, Theodore and Angelina Grimke-Weld, and they warned me against
books on this subject. They had been so misled by one author, who assured
them that the stomach of a child could only hold one tablespoonful, that
they nearly starved their firstborn to death. Though the child dwindled, day
by day, and, at the end of a month, looked like a little old man, yet they still
stood by the distinguished author. Fortunately, they both went off, one day,

and left the child with Sister "Sarah," who thought she would make an
experiment and see what a child's stomach could hold, as she had grave
doubts about the tablespoonful theory. To her surprise the baby took a pint
bottle full of milk, and had the sweetest sleep thereon he had known in his
earthly career. After that he was permitted to take what he wanted, and "the
author" was informed of his libel on the infantile stomach.
So here, again, I was entirely afloat, launched on the seas of doubt without
chart or compass. The life and well-being of the race seemed to hang on the
slender thread of such traditions as were handed down by-ignorant mothers
and nurses. One powerful ray of light illuminated the darkness; it was the
work of Andrew Combe on "Infancy." He had, evidently watched some of
the manifestations of man in the first stages of his development, and could
tell, at least, as much of babies as naturalists could of beetles and bees. He
did give young mothers some hints of what to do, the whys and wherefores
of certain lines of procedure during antenatal life, as well as the proper care
thereafter. I read several chapters to the nurse. Although, out of her ten
children, she had buried five, she still had too much confidence in her own
wisdom and experience to pay much attention to any new idea that might be
suggested to her. Among other things, Combe said that a child's bath should
be regulated by the thermometer, in order to be always of the same
temperature. She ridiculed the idea, and said her elbow was better than any
thermometer, and, when I insisted on its use, she would invariably, with a
smile of derision, put her elbow in first, to show how exactly it tallied with
the thermometer. When I insisted that the child should not be bandaged, she
rebelled outright, and said she would not take the responsibility of nursing a
child without a bandage. I said, "Pray, sit down, dear nurse, and let us
reason together. Do not think I am setting up my judgment against yours,
with all your experience. I am simply trying to act on the opinions of a
distinguished physician, who says there should be no pressure on a child
anywhere; that the limbs and body should be free; that it is cruel to bandage
an infant from hip to armpit, as is usually done in America; or both body
and legs, as is done in Europe; or strap them to boards, as is done by
savages on both continents. Can you give me one good reason, nurse, why a
child should be bandaged?"
"Yes," she said emphatically, "I can give you a dozen."

"I only asked for one," I replied.
"Well," said she, after much hesitation, "the bones of a newborn infant are
soft, like cartilage, and, unless you pin them up snugly, there is danger of
their falling apart."
"It seems to me," I replied, "you have given the strongest reason why they
should be carefully guarded against the slightest pressure. It is very
remarkable that kittens and puppies should be so well put together that they
need no artificial bracing, and the human family be left wholly to the mercy
of a bandage. Suppose a child was born where you could not get a bandage,
what then? Now I think this child will remain intact without a bandage, and,
if I am willing to take the risk, why should you complain?"
"Because," said she, "if the child should die, it would injure my name as a
nurse. I therefore wash my hands of all these new-fangled notions."
So she bandaged the child every morning, and I as regularly took it off. It
has been fully proved since to be as useless an appendage as the vermiform.
She had several cups with various concoctions of herbs standing on the
chimney-corner, ready for insomnia, colic, indigestion, etc., etc., all of
which were spirited away when she was at her dinner. In vain I told her we
were homeopathists, and afraid of everything in the animal, vegetable, or
mineral kingdoms lower than the two-hundredth dilution. I tried to explain
the Hahnemann system of therapeutics, the philosophy of the principle
similia similibus curantur, but she had no capacity for first principles, and
did not understand my discourse. I told her that, if she would wash the
baby's mouth with pure cold water morning and night and give it a
teaspoonful to drink occasionally during the day, there would be no danger
of red gum; that if she would keep the blinds open and let in the air and
sunshine, keep the temperature of the room at sixty-five degrees, leave the
child's head uncovered so that it could breathe freely, stop rocking and
trotting it and singing such melancholy hymns as "Hark, from the tombs a
doleful sound!" the baby and I would both be able to weather the cape
without a bandage. I told her I should nurse the child once in two hours, and
that she must not feed it any of her nostrums in the meantime; that a child's
stomach, being made on the same general plan as our own, needed intervals
of rest as well as ours. She said it would be racked with colic if the stomach

was empty any length of time, and that it would surely have rickets if it
were kept too still. I told her if the child had no anodynes, nature would
regulate its sleep and motions. She said she could not stay in a room with
the thermometer at sixty-five degrees, so I told her to sit in the next room
and regulate the heat to suit herself; that I would ring a bell when her
services were needed.
The reader will wonder, no doubt, that I kept such a cantankerous servant. I
could get no other. Dear "Mother Monroe," as wise as she was good, and as
tender as she was strong, who had nursed two generations of mothers in our
village, was engaged at that time, and I was compelled to take an exotic. I
had often watched "Mother Monroe" with admiration, as she turned and
twisted my sister's baby. It lay as peacefully in her hands as if they were
lined with eider down. She bathed and dressed it by easy stages, turning the
child over and over like a pancake. But she was so full of the magnetism of
human love, giving the child, all the time, the most consoling assurance that
the operation was to be a short one, that the whole proceeding was quite
entertaining to the observer and seemingly agreeable to the child, though it
had a rather surprised look as it took a bird's-eye view, in quick succession,
of the ceiling and the floor. Still my nurse had her good points. She was
very pleasant when she had her own way. She was neat and tidy, and ready
to serve me at any time, night or day. She did not wear false teeth that
rattled when she talked, nor boots that squeaked when she walked. She did
not snuff nor chew cloves, nor speak except when spoken to. Our
discussions, on various points, went on at intervals, until I succeeded in
planting some ideas in her mind, and when she left me, at the end of six
weeks, she confessed that she had learned some valuable lessons. As the
baby had slept quietly most of the time, had no crying spells, nor colic, and
I looked well, she naturally came to the conclusion that pure air, sunshine,
proper dressing, and regular feeding were more necessary for babies than
herb teas and soothing syrups.
Besides the obstinacy of the nurse, I had the ignorance of physicians to
contend with. When the child was four days old we discovered that the
collar bone was bent. The physician, wishing to get a pressure on the
shoulder, braced the bandage round the wrist. "Leave that," he said, "ten
days, and then it will be all right." Soon after he left I noticed that the
child's hand was blue, showing that the circulation was impeded. "That will

never do," said I; "nurse, take it off." "No, indeed," she answered, "I shall
never interfere with the doctor." So I took it off myself, and sent for another
doctor, who was said to know more of surgery. He expressed great surprise
that the first physician called should have put on so severe a bandage.
"That," said he, "would do for a grown man, but ten days of it on a child
would make him a cripple." However, he did nearly the same thing, only
fastening it round the hand instead of the wrist. I soon saw that the ends of
the fingers were all purple, and that to leave that on ten days would be as
dangerous as the first. So I took that off.
"What a woman!" exclaimed the nurse. "What do you propose to do?"
"Think out something better, myself; so brace me up with some pillows and
give the baby to me."
She looked at me aghast and said, "You'd better trust the doctors, or your
child will be a helpless cripple."
"Yes," I replied, "he would be, if we had left either of those bandages on,
but I have an idea of something better."
"Now," said I, talking partly to myself and partly to her, "what we want is a
little pressure on that bone; that is what both those men aimed at. How can
we get it without involving the arm, is the question?"
"I am sure I don't know," said she, rubbing her hands and taking two or
three brisk turns round the room.
"Well, bring me three strips of linen, four double." I then folded one, wet in
arnica and water, and laid it on the collar bone, put two other bands, like a
pair of suspenders, over the shoulders, crossing them both in front and
behind, pinning the ends to the diaper, which gave the needed pressure
without impeding the circulation anywhere. As I finished she gave me a
look of budding confidence, and seemed satisfied that all was well. Several
times, night and day, we wet the compress and readjusted the bands, until
all appearances of inflammation had subsided.
At the end of ten days the two sons of Aesculapius appeared and made their
examination and said all was right, whereupon I told them how badly their

bandages worked and what I had done myself. They smiled at each other,
and one said:
"Well, after all, a mother's instinct is better than a man's reason."
"Thank you, gentlemen, there was no instinct about it. I did some hard
thinking before I saw how I could get a pressure on the shoulder without
impeding the circulation, as you did."
Thus, in the supreme moment of a young mother's life, when I needed
tender care and support, I felt the whole responsibility of my child's
supervision; but though uncertain at every step of my own knowledge, I
learned another lesson in self-reliance. I trusted neither men nor books
absolutely after this, either in regard to the heavens above or the earth
beneath, but continued to use my "mother's instinct," if "reason" is too
dignified a term to apply to woman's thoughts. My advice to every mother
is, above all other arts and sciences, study first what relates to babyhood, as
there is no department of human action in which there is such lamentable
ignorance.
At the end of six weeks my nurse departed, and I had a good woman in her
place who obeyed my orders, and now a new difficulty arose from an
unexpected quarter. My father and husband took it into their heads that the
child slept too much. If not awake when they wished to look at him or to
show him to their friends, they would pull him out of his crib on all
occasions. When I found neither of them was amenable to reason on this
point, I locked the door, and no amount of eloquent pleading ever gained
them admittance during the time I considered sacred to the baby's slumbers.
At six months having, as yet, had none of the diseases supposed to be
inevitable, the boy weighed thirty pounds. Then the stately Peter came
again into requisition, and in his strong arms the child spent many of his
waking hours. Peter, with a long, elephantine gait, slowly wandered over
the town, lingering especially in the busy marts of trade. Peter's curiosity
had strengthened with years, and, wherever a crowd gathered round a
monkey and hand organ, a vender's wagon, an auction stand, or the post
office at mail time, there stood Peter, black as coal, with "the beautiful boy
in white," the most conspicuous figure in the crowd. As I told Peter never to

let children kiss the baby, for fear of some disease, he kept him well aloft,
allowing no affectionate manifestations except toward himself.
My reading, at this time, centered on hygiene. I came to the conclusion,
after much thought and observation, that children never cried unless they
were uncomfortable. A professor at Union College, who used to combat
many of my theories, said he gave one of his children a sound spanking at
six weeks, and it never disturbed him a night afterward. Another Solomon
told me that a very weak preparation of opium would keep a child always
quiet and take it through the dangerous period of teething without a ripple
on the surface of domestic life. As children cannot tell what ails them, and
suffer from many things of which parents are ignorant, the crying of the
child should arouse them to an intelligent examination. To spank it for
crying is to silence the watchman on the tower through fear, to give
soothing syrup is to drug the watchman while the evils go on. Parents may
thereby insure eight hours' sleep at the time, but at the risk of greater trouble
in the future with sick and dying children. Tom Moore tells us "the heart
from love to one, grows bountiful to all." I know the care of one child made
me thoughtful of all. I never hear a child cry, now, that I do not feel that I
am bound to find out the reason.
In my extensive travels on lecturing tours, in after years, I had many varied
experiences with babies. One day, in the cars, a child was crying near me,
while the parents were alternately shaking and slapping it. First one would
take it with an emphatic jerk, and then the other. At last I heard the father
say in a spiteful tone, "If you don't stop I'll throw you out of the window."
One naturally hesitates about interfering between parents and children, so I
generally restrain myself as long as I can endure the torture of witnessing
such outrages, but at length I turned and said:
"Let me take your child and see if I can find out what ails it."
"Nothing ails it," said the father, "but bad temper."
The child readily came to me. I felt all around to see if its clothes pinched
anywhere, or if there were any pins pricking. I took off its hat and cloak to
see if there were any strings cutting its neck or choking it. Then I glanced at
the feet, and lo! there was the trouble. The boots were at least one size too
small. I took them off, and the stockings, too, and found the feet as cold as

ice and the prints of the stockings clearly traced on the tender flesh. We all
know the agony of tight boots. I rubbed the feet and held them in my hands
until they were warm, when the poor little thing fell asleep. I said to the
parents, "You are young people, I see, and this is probably your first child."
They said, "Yes." "You don't intend to be cruel, I know, but if you had
thrown those boots out of the window, when you threatened to throw the
child, it would have been wiser. This poor child has suffered ever since it
was dressed this morning." I showed them the marks on the feet, and called
their attention to the fact that the child fell asleep as soon as its pain was
relieved. The mother said she knew the boots were tight, as it was with
difficulty she could get them on, but the old ones were too shabby for the
journey and they had no time to change the others.
"Well," said the husband, "if I had known those boots were tight, I would
have thrown them out of the window."
"Now," said I, "let me give you one rule: when your child cries, remember it
is telling you, as well as it can, that something hurts it, either outside or in,
and do not rest until you find what it is. Neither spanking, shaking, or
scolding can relieve pain."
I have seen women enter the cars with their babies' faces completely
covered with a blanket shawl. I have often thought I would like to cover
their faces for an hour and see how they would bear it. In such
circumstances, in order to get the blanket open, I have asked to see the
baby, and generally found it as red as a beet. Ignorant nurses and mothers
have discovered that children sleep longer with their heads covered. They
don't know why, nor the injurious effect of breathing over and over the
same air that has been thrown off the lungs polluted with carbonic acid gas.
This stupefies the child and prolongs the unhealthy slumber.
One hot day, in the month of May, I entered a crowded car at Cedar Rapids,
Ia., and took the only empty seat beside a gentleman who seemed very
nervous about a crying child. I was scarcely seated when he said:
"Mother, do you know anything about babies?"
"Oh, yes!" I said, smiling, "that is a department of knowledge on which I
especially pride myself."

"Well," said he, "there is a child that has cried most of the time for the last
twenty-four hours. What do you think ails it?"
Making a random supposition, I replied, "It probably needs a bath."
He promptly rejoined, "If you will give it one, I will provide the necessary
means."
I said, "I will first see if the child will come to me and if the mother is
willing."
I found the mother only too glad to have a few minutes' rest, and the child
too tired to care who took it. She gave me a suit of clean clothes throughout,
the gentleman spread his blanket shawl on the seat, securing the opposite
one for me and the bathing appliances. Then he produced a towel, sponge,
and an india-rubber bowl full of water, and I gave the child a generous drink
and a thorough ablution. It stretched and seemed to enjoy every step of the
proceeding, and, while I was brushing its golden curls as gently as I could,
it fell asleep; so I covered it with the towel and blanket shawl, not willing to
disturb it for dressing. The poor mother, too, was sound asleep, and the
gentleman very happy. He had children of his own and, like me, felt great
pity for the poor, helpless little victim of ignorance and folly. I engaged one
of the ladies to dress it when it awoke, as I was soon to leave the train. It
slept the two hours I remained—how much longer I never heard.
A young man, who had witnessed the proceeding, got off at the same station
and accosted me, saying:
"I should be very thankful if you would come and see my baby. It is only
one month old and cries all the time, and my wife, who is only sixteen years
old, is worn out with it and neither of us know what to do, so we all cry
together, and the doctor says he does not see what ails it."
So I went on my mission of mercy and found the child bandaged as tight as
a drum. When I took out the pins and unrolled it, it fairly popped like the
cork out of a champagne bottle. I rubbed its breast and its back and soon
soothed it to sleep. I remained a long time, telling them how to take care of
the child and the mother, too. I told them everything I could think of in
regard to clothes, diet, and pure air. I asked the mother why she bandaged
her child as she did. She said her nurse told her that there was danger of

hernia unless the abdomen was well bandaged. I told her that the only
object of a bandage was to protect the navel, for a few days, until it was
healed, and for that purpose all that was necessary was a piece of linen four
inches square, well oiled, folded four times double, with a hole in the
center, laid over it. I remembered, next day, that I forgot to tell them to give
the child water, and so I telegraphed them, "Give the baby water six times a
day." I heard of that baby afterward. It lived and flourished, and the parents
knew how to administer to the wants of the next one. The father was a
telegraph operator and had many friends—knights of the key—throughout
Iowa. For many years afterward, in leisure moments, these knights would
"call up" this parent and say, over the wire, "Give the baby water six times a
day." Thus did they "repeat the story, and spread the truth from pole to
pole."

CHAPTER VIII.

BOSTON AND CHELSEA.

In the autumn of 1843 my husband was admitted to the bar and commenced
the practice of law in Boston with Mr. Bowles, brother-in-law of the late
General John A. Dix. This gave me the opportunity to make many pleasant
acquaintances among the lawyers in Boston, and to meet, intimately, many
of the noble men and women among reformers, whom I had long worshiped
at a distance. Here, for the first time, I met Lydia Maria Child, Abby Kelly,
Paulina Wright, Elizabeth Peabody, Maria Chapman and her beautiful
sisters, the Misses Weston, Oliver and Marianna Johnson, Joseph and
Thankful Southwick and their three bright daughters. The home of the
Southwicks was always a harbor of rest for the weary, where the anti-
slavery hosts were wont to congregate, and where one was always sure to
meet someone worth knowing. Their hospitality was generous to an
extreme, and so boundless that they were, at last, fairly eaten out of house
and home. Here, too, for the first time, I met Theodore Parker, John
Pierpont, John G. Whittier, Emerson, Alcott, Lowell, Hawthorne, Mr. and
Mrs. Samuel E. Sewall, Sidney Howard Gay, Pillsbury, Foster, Frederick
Douglass, and last though not least, those noble men, Charles Hovey and
Francis Jackson, the only men who ever left any money to the cause of
woman suffrage. I also met Miss Jackson, afterward Mrs. Eddy, who left
half her fortune, fifty thousand dollars, for the same purpose.
I was a frequent visitor at the home of William Lloyd Garrison. Though he
had a prolonged battle to fight in the rough outside world, his home was
always a haven of rest. Mrs. Garrison was a sweet-tempered, conscientious
woman, who tried, under all circumstances, to do what was right. She had
sound judgment and rare common sense, was tall and fine-looking, with
luxuriant brown hair, large tender blue eyes, delicate features, and affable
manners. They had an exceptionally fine family of five sons and one
daughter. Fanny, now the wife of Henry Villard, the financier, was the
favorite and pet. All the children, in their maturer years, have fulfilled the
promises of their childhood. Though always in straitened circumstances, the

Garrisons were very hospitable. It was next to impossible for Mr. Garrison
to meet a friend without inviting him to his house, especially at the close of
a convention.
I was one of twelve at one of his impromptu tea parties. We all took it for
granted that his wife knew we were coming, and that her preparations were
already made. Surrounded by half a dozen children, she was performing the
last act in the opera of Lullaby, wholly unconscious of the invasion
downstairs. But Mr. Garrison was equal to every emergency, and, after
placing his guests at their ease in the parlor, he hastened to the nursery, took
off his coat, and rocked the baby until his wife had disposed of the
remaining children. Then they had a consultation about the tea, and when,
basket in hand, the good man sallied forth for the desired viands, Mrs.
Garrison, having made a hasty toilet, came down to welcome her guests.
She was as genial and self-possessed as if all things had been prepared. She
made no apologies for what was lacking in the general appearance of the
house nor in the variety of the menu—it was sufficient for her to know that
Mr. Garrison was happy in feeling free to invite his friends. The impromptu
meal was excellent, and we had a most enjoyable evening. I have no doubt
that Mrs. Garrison had more real pleasure than if she had been busy all day
making preparations and had been tired out when her guests arrived.
The anti-slavery conventions and fairs, held every year during the holidays,
brought many charming people from other States, and made Boston a social
center for the coadjutors of Garrison and Phillips. These conventions
surpassed any meetings I had ever attended; the speeches were eloquent and
the debates earnest and forcible. Garrison and Phillips were in their prime,
and slavery was a question of national interest. The hall in which the fairs
were held, under the auspices of Mrs. Chapman and her cohorts, was most
artistically decorated. There one could purchase whatever the fancy could
desire, for English friends, stimulated by the appeals of Harriet Martineau
and Elizabeth Pease, used to send boxes of beautiful things, gathered from
all parts of the Eastern Continent. There, too, one could get a most
recherché luncheon in the society of the literati of Boston; for, however
indifferent many were to slavery per se, they enjoyed these fairs, and all
classes flocked there till far into the night. It was a kind of ladies' exchange
for the holiday week, where each one was sure to meet her friends. The fair
and the annual convention, coming in succession, intensified the interest in

both. I never grew weary of the conventions, though I attended all the
sessions, lasting, sometimes, until eleven o'clock at night. The fiery
eloquence of the abolitionists, the amusing episodes that occurred when
some crank was suppressed and borne out on the shoulders of his brethren,
gave sufficient variety to the proceedings to keep the interest up to high-
water mark.
There was one old man dressed in white, carrying a scythe, who imagined
himself the personification of "Time," though called "Father Lampson."
Occasionally he would bubble over with some prophetic vision, and, as he
could not be silenced, he was carried out. He usually made himself as limp
as possible, which added to the difficulty of his exit and the amusement of
the audience. A ripple of merriment would unsettle, for a moment, even the
dignity of the platform when Abigail Folsom, another crank, would shout
from the gallery, "Stop not, my brother, on the order of your going, but go."
The abolitionists were making the experiment, at this time, of a free
platform, allowing everyone to speak as moved by the spirit, but they soon
found that would not do, as those evidently moved by the spirit of mischief
were quite as apt to air their vagaries as those moved by the spirit of truth.
However, the Garrisonian platform always maintained a certain degree of
freedom outside its regular programme, and, although this involved extra
duty in suppressing cranks, yet the meeting gained enthusiasm by some
good spontaneous speaking on the floor as well as on the platform. A
number of immense mass meetings were held in Faneuil Hall, a large,
dreary place, with its bare walls and innumerable dingy windows. The only
attempt at an ornament was the American eagle, with its wings spread and
claws firmly set, in the middle of the gallery. The gilt was worn off its beak,
giving it the appearance, as Edmund Quincy said, of having a bad cold in
the head.
This old hall was sacred to so many memories connected with the early
days of the Revolution that it was a kind of Mecca for the lovers of liberty
visiting Boston. The anti-slavery meetings held there were often disturbed
by mobs that would hold the most gifted orator at bay hour after hour, and
would listen only to the songs of the Hutchinson family. Although these
songs were a condensed extract of the whole anti-slavery constitution and
by-laws, yet the mob was as peaceful under these paeans to liberty as a

child under the influence of an anodyne. What a welcome and beautiful
vision that was when the four brothers, in blue broadcloth and white collars,
turned down à la Byron, and little sister Abby in silk, soft lace, and blue
ribbon, appeared on the platform to sing their quaint ballads of freedom!
Fresh from the hills of New Hampshire, they looked so sturdy, so vigorous,
so pure, so true that they seemed fitting representatives of all the cardinal
virtues, and even a howling mob could not resist their influence. Perhaps,
after one of their ballads, the mob would listen five minutes to Wendell
Phillips or Garrison until he gave them some home thrusts, when all was
uproar again. The Northern merchants who made their fortunes out of
Southern cotton, the politicians who wanted votes, and the ministers who
wanted to keep peace in the churches, were all as much opposed to the anti-
slavery agitation as were the slaveholders themselves. These were the
classes the mob represented, though seemingly composed of gamblers,
liquor dealers, and demagogues. For years the anti-slavery struggle at the
North was carried on against statecraft, priestcraft, the cupidity of the
moneyed classes, and the ignorance of the masses, but, in spite of all these
forces of evil, it triumphed at last.
I was in Boston at the time that Lane and Wright, some metaphysical
Englishmen, and our own Alcott held their famous philosophical
conversations, in which Elizabeth Peabody took part. I went to them
regularly. I was ambitious to absorb all the wisdom I could, but, really, I
could not give an intelligent report of the points under discussion at any
sitting. Oliver Johnson asked me, one day, if I enjoyed them. I thought,
from a twinkle in his eye, that he thought I did not, so I told him I was
ashamed to confess that I did not know what they were talking about. He
said, "Neither do I,—very few of their hearers do,—so you need not be
surprised that they are incomprehensible to you, nor think less of your own
capacity."
I was indebted to Mr. Johnson for several of the greatest pleasures I enjoyed
in Boston. He escorted me to an entire course of Theodore Parker's lectures,
given in Marlborough Chapel. This was soon after the great preacher had
given his famous sermon on "The Permanent and Transient in Religion,"
when he was ostracised, even by the Unitarians, for his radical utterances,
and not permitted to preach in any of their pulpits. His lectures were

deemed still more heterodox than that sermon. He shocked the orthodox
churches of that day—more, even, than Ingersoll has in our times.
The lectures, however, were so soul-satisfying to me that I was surprised at
the bitter criticisms I heard expressed. Though they were two hours long, I
never grew weary, and, when the course ended, I said to Mr. Johnson:
"I wish I could hear them over again."
"Well, you can," said he, "Mr. Parker is to repeat them in Cambridgeport,
beginning next week." Accordingly we went there and heard them again
with equal satisfaction.
During the winter in Boston I attended all the lectures, churches, theaters,
concerts, and temperance, peace, and prison-reform conventions within my
reach. I had never lived in such an enthusiastically literary and reform
latitude before, and my mental powers were kept at the highest tension. We
went to Chelsea, for the summer, and boarded with the Baptist minister, the
Rev. John Wesley Olmstead, afterward editor of The Watchman and
Reflector. He had married my cousin, Mary Livingston, one of the most
lovely, unselfish characters I ever knew. There I had the opportunity of
meeting several of the leading Baptist ministers in New England, and, as I
was thoroughly imbued with Parker's ideas, we had many heated
discussions on theology. There, too, I met Orestes Bronson, a remarkably
well-read man, who had gone through every phase of religious experience
from blank atheism to the bosom of the Catholic Church, where I believe he
found repose at the end of his days. He was so arbitrary and dogmatic that
most people did not like him; but I appreciated his acquaintance, as he was
a liberal thinker and had a world of information which he readily imparted
to those of a teachable spirit. As I was then in a hungering, thirsting
condition for truth on every subject, the friendship of such a man was, to
me, an inestimable blessing. Reading Theodore Parker's lectures, years
afterward, I was surprised to find how little there was in them to shock
anybody—the majority of thinking people having grown up to them.
While living in Chelsea two years, I used to walk (there being no public
conveyances running on Sunday) from the ferry to Marlborough Chapel to
hear Mr. Parker preach. It was a long walk, over two miles, and I was so
tired, on reaching the chapel, that I made it a point to sleep through all the

preliminary service, so as to be fresh for the sermon, as the friend next
whom I sat always wakened me in time. One Sunday, when my friend was
absent, it being a very warm day and I unusually fatigued, I slept until the
sexton informed me that he was about to close the doors! In an unwary
moment I imparted this fact to my Baptist friends. They made all manner of
fun ever afterward of the soothing nature of Mr. Parker's theology, and my
long walk, every Sunday, to repose in the shadow of a heterodox altar. Still,
the loss of the sermon was the only vexatious part of it, and I had the
benefit of the walk and the refreshing slumber, to the music of Mr. Parker's
melodious voice and the deep-toned organ.
Mrs. Oliver Johnson and I spent two days at the Brook Farm Community
when in the height of its prosperity. There I met the Ripleys,—who were, I
believe, the backbone of the experiment,—William Henry Channing,
Bronson Alcott, Charles A. Dana, Frederick Cabot, William Chase, Mrs.
Horace Greeley, who was spending a few days there, and many others,
whose names I cannot recall. Here was a charming family of intelligent men
and women, doing their own farm and house work, with lectures, readings,
music, dancing, and games when desired; realizing, in a measure, Edward
Bellamy's beautiful vision of the equal conditions of the human family in
the year 2000. The story of the beginning and end of this experiment of
community life has been told so often that I will simply say that its failure
was a grave disappointment to those most deeply interested in its success.
Mr. Channing told me, years after, when he was pastor of the Unitarian
church in Rochester, as we were wandering through Mount Hope one day,
that, when the Roxbury community was dissolved and he was obliged to
return to the old life of competition, he would gladly have been laid under
the sod, as the isolated home seemed so solitary, silent, and selfish that the
whole atmosphere was oppressive.
In 1843 my father moved to Albany, to establish my brothers-in-law, Mr.
Wilkeson and Mr. McMartin, in the legal profession. That made Albany the
family rallying point for a few years. This enabled me to spend several
winters at the Capital and to take an active part in the discussion of the
Married Woman's Property Bill, then pending in the legislature. William H.
Seward, Governor of the State from 1839 to 1843, recommended the Bill,
and his wife, a woman of rare intelligence, advocated it in society. Together
we had the opportunity of talking with many members, both of the Senate

and the Assembly, in social circles, as well as in their committee rooms.
Bills were pending from 1836 until 1848, when the measure finally passed.
My second son was born in Albany, in March, 1844, under more favorable
auspices than the first, as I knew, then, what to do with a baby. Returning to
Chelsea we commenced housekeeping, which afforded me another chapter
of experience. A new house, newly furnished, with beautiful views of
Boston Bay, was all I could desire. Mr. Stanton announced to me, in
starting, that his business would occupy all his time, and that I must take
entire charge of the housekeeping. So, with two good servants and two
babies under my sole supervision, my time was pleasantly occupied.
When first installed as mistress over an establishment, one has that same
feeling of pride and satisfaction that a young minister must have in taking
charge of his first congregation. It is a proud moment in a woman's life to
reign supreme within four walls, to be the one to whom all questions of
domestic pleasure and economy are referred, and to hold in her hand that
little family book in which the daily expenses, the outgoings and incomings,
are duly registered. I studied up everything pertaining to housekeeping, and
enjoyed it all. Even washing day—that day so many people dread—had its
charms for me. The clean clothes on the lines and on the grass looked so
white, and smelled so sweet, that it was to me a pretty sight to contemplate.
I inspired my laundress with an ambition to have her clothes look white and
to get them out earlier than our neighbors, and to have them ironed and put
away sooner.
As Mr. Stanton did not come home to dinner, we made a picnic of our noon
meal on Mondays, and all thoughts and energies were turned to speed the
washing. No unnecessary sweeping or dusting, no visiting nor entertaining
angels unawares on that day—it was held sacred to soap suds, blue-bags,
and clotheslines. The children, only, had no deviation in the regularity of
their lives. They had their drives and walks, their naps and rations, in
quantity and time, as usual. I had all the most approved cook books, and
spent half my time preserving, pickling, and experimenting in new dishes. I
felt the same ambition to excel in all departments of the culinary art that I
did at school in the different branches of learning. My love of order and
cleanliness was carried throughout, from parlor to kitchen, from the front
door to the back. I gave a man an extra shilling to pile the logs of firewood

with their smooth ends outward, though I did not have them scoured white,
as did our Dutch grandmothers. I tried, too, to give an artistic touch to
everything—the dress of my children and servants included. My dining
table was round, always covered with a clean cloth of a pretty pattern and a
centerpiece of flowers in their season, pretty dishes, clean silver, and set
with neatness and care. I put my soul into everything, and hence enjoyed it.
I never could understand how housekeepers could rest with rubbish all
round their back doors; eggshells, broken dishes, tin cans, and old shoes
scattered round their premises; servants ragged and dirty, with their hair in
papers, and with the kitchen and dining room full of flies. I have known
even artists to be indifferent to their personal appearance and their
surroundings. Surely a mother and child, tastefully dressed, and a pretty
home for a framework, is, as a picture, even more attractive than a domestic
scene hung on the wall. The love of the beautiful can be illustrated as well
in life as on canvas. There is such a struggle among women to become
artists that I really wish some of their gifts could be illustrated in clean,
orderly, beautiful homes.
Our house was pleasantly situated on the Chelsea Hills, commanding a fine
view of Boston, the harbor, and surrounding country. There, on the upper
piazza, I spent some of the happiest days of my life, enjoying, in turn, the
beautiful outlook, my children, and my books. Here, under the very shadow
of Bunker Hill Monument, my third son was born. Shortly after this Gerrit
Smith and his wife came to spend a few days with us, so this boy, much
against my will, was named after my cousin. I did not believe in old family
names unless they were peculiarly euphonious. I had a list of beautiful
names for sons and daughters, from which to designate each newcomer;
but, as yet, not one on my list had been used. However, I put my foot down,
at No. 4, and named him Theodore, and, thus far, he has proved himself a
veritable "gift of God," doing his uttermost, in every way possible, to fight
the battle of freedom for woman.
During the visit of my cousin I thought I would venture on a small, select
dinner party, consisting of the Rev. John Pierpont and his wife, Charles
Sumner, John G. Whittier, and Joshua Leavitt. I had a new cook, Rose,
whose viands, thus far, had proved delicious, so I had no anxiety on that
score. But, unfortunately, on this occasion I had given her a bottle of wine
for the pudding sauce and whipped cream, of which she imbibed too freely,

and hence there were some glaring blunders in the menu that were
exceedingly mortifying. As Mr. Smith and my husband were both good
talkers, I told them they must cover all defects with their brilliant
conversation, which they promised to do.
Rose had all the points of a good servant, phrenologically and
physiologically. She had a large head, with great bumps of caution and
order, her eyes were large and soft and far apart. In selecting her,
scientifically, I had told my husband, in triumph, several times what a
treasure I had found. Shortly after dinner, one evening when I was out, she
held the baby while the nurse was eating her supper, and carelessly burned
his foot against the stove. Then Mr. Stanton suggested that, in selecting the
next cook, I would better not trust to science, but inquire of the family
where she lived as to her practical virtues. Poor Rose! she wept over her
lapses when sober, and made fair promises for the future, but I did not dare
to trust her, so we parted. The one drawback to the joys of housekeeping
was then, as it is now, the lack of faithful, competent servants. The hope of
co-operative housekeeping, in the near future, gives us some promise of a
more harmonious domestic life.
One of the books in my library I value most highly is the first volume of
Whittier's poems, published in 1838, "Dedicated to Henry B. Stanton, as a
token of the author's personal friendship, and of his respect for the
unreserved devotion of exalted talents to the cause of humanity and
freedom." Soon after our marriage we spent a few days with our gifted
Quaker poet, on his farm in Massachusetts.
I shall never forget those happy days in June; the long walks and drives, and
talks under the old trees of anti-slavery experiences, and Whittier's mirth
and indignation as we described different scenes in the World's Anti-slavery
Convention in London. He laughed immoderately at the Tom Campbell
episode. Poor fellow! he had taken too much wine that day, and when
Whittier's verses, addressed to the convention, were read, he criticised them
severely, and wound up by saying that the soul of a poet was not in him. Mr.
Stanton sprang to his feet and recited some of Whittier's stirring stanzas on
freedom, which electrified the audience, and, turning to Campbell, he said:
"What do you say to that?" "Ah! that's real poetry," he replied. "And John
Greenleaf Whittier is its author," said Mr. Stanton.

I enjoyed, too, the morning and evening service, when the revered mother
read the Scriptures and we all bowed our heads in silent worship. There
was, at times, an atmosphere of solemnity pervading everything, that was
oppressive in the midst of so much that appealed to my higher nature. There
was a shade of sadness in even the smile of the mother and sister, and a
rigid plainness in the house and its surroundings, a depressed look in
Whittier himself that the songs of the birds, the sunshine, and the bracing
New England air seemed powerless to chase away, caused, as I afterward
heard, by pecuniary embarrassment, and fears in regard to the delicate
health of the sister. She, too, had rare poetical talent, and in her Whittier
found not only a helpful companion in the practical affairs of life, but one
who sympathized with him in the highest flights of which his muse was
capable. Their worst fears were realized in the death of the sister not long
after. In his last volume several of her poems were published, which are
quite worthy the place the brother's appreciation has given them. Whittier's
love and reverence for his mother and sister, so marked in every word and
look, were charming features of his home life. All his poems to our sex
breathe the same tender, worshipful sentiments.
Soon after this visit at Amesbury, our noble friend spent a few days with us
in Chelsea, near Boston. One evening, after we had been talking a long time
of the unhappy dissensions among anti-slavery friends, by way of
dissipating the shadows I opened the piano, and proposed that we should
sing some cheerful songs. "Oh, no!" exclaimed Mr. Stanton, "do not touch a
note; you will put every nerve of Whittier's body on edge." It seemed, to
me, so natural for a poet to love music that I was surprised to know that it
was a torture to him.
From our upper piazza we had a fine view of Boston harbor. Sitting there
late one moonlight night, admiring the outlines of Bunker Hill Monument
and the weird effect of the sails and masts of the vessels lying in the harbor,
we naturally passed from the romance of our surroundings to those of our
lives. I have often noticed that the most reserved people are apt to grow
confidential at such an hour. It was under such circumstances that the good
poet opened to me a deeply interesting page of his life, a sad romance of
love and disappointment, that may not yet be told, as some who were
interested in the events are still among the living.

Whittier's poems were not only one of the most important factors in the
anti-slavery war and victory, but they have been equally potent in
emancipating the minds of his generation from the gloomy superstitions of
the puritanical religion. Oliver Wendell Holmes, in his eulogy of Whittier,
says that his influence on the religious thought of the American people has
been far greater than that of the occupant of any pulpit.
As my husband's health was delicate, and the New England winters proved
too severe for him, we left Boston, with many regrets, and sought a more
genial climate in Central New York.

CHAPTER IX.

THE FIRST WOMAN'S RIGHTS
CONVENTION.

In the spring of 1847 we moved to Seneca Falls. Here we spent sixteen
years of our married life, and here our other children—two sons and two
daughters—were born.
Just as we were ready to leave Boston, Mr. and Mrs. Eaton and their two
children arrived from Europe, and we decided to go together to Johnstown,
Mr. Eaton being obliged to hurry to New York on business, and Mr. Stanton
to remain still in Boston a few months. At the last moment my nurse
decided she could not leave her friends and go so far away. Accordingly my
sister and I started, by rail, with five children and seventeen trunks, for
Albany, where we rested over night and part of the next day. We had a very
fatiguing journey, looking after so many trunks and children, for my sister's
children persisted in standing on the platform at every opportunity, and the
younger ones would follow their example. This kept us constantly on the
watch. We were thankful when safely landed once more in the old
homestead in Johnstown, where we arrived at midnight. As our beloved
parents had received no warning of our coming, the whole household was
aroused to dispose of us. But now in safe harbor, 'mid familiar scenes and
pleasant memories, our slumbers were indeed refreshing. How rapidly one
throws off all care and anxiety under the parental roof, and how at sea one
feels, no matter what the age may be, when the loved ones are gone forever
and the home of childhood is but a dream of the past.
After a few days of rest I started, alone, for my new home, quite happy with
the responsibility of repairing a house and putting all things in order. I was
already acquainted with many of the people and the surroundings in Seneca
Falls, as my sister, Mrs. Bayard, had lived there several years, and I had
frequently made her long visits. We had quite a magnetic circle of
reformers, too, in central New York. At Rochester were William Henry
Channing, Frederick Douglass, the Anthonys, Posts, Hallowells, Stebbins,

—some grand old Quaker families at Farmington,—the Sedgwicks, Mays,
Mills, and Matilda Joslyn Gage at Syracuse; Gerrit Smith at Peterboro, and
Beriah Green at Whitesboro.
The house we were to occupy had been closed for some years and needed
many repairs, and the grounds, comprising five acres, were overgrown with
weeds. My father gave me a check and said, with a smile, "You believe in
woman's capacity to do and dare; now go ahead and put your place in
order." After a minute survey of the premises and due consultation with one
or two sons of Adam, I set the carpenters, painters, paper-hangers, and
gardeners at work, built a new kitchen and woodhouse, and in one month
took possession. Having left my children with my mother, there were no
impediments to a full display of my executive ability. In the purchase of
brick, timber, paint, etc., and in making bargains with workmen, I was in
frequent consultation with Judge Sackett and Mr. Bascom. The latter was a
member of the Constitutional Convention, then in session in Albany, and as
he used to walk down whenever he was at home, to see how my work
progressed, we had long talks, sitting on boxes in the midst of tools and
shavings, on the status of women. I urged him to propose an amendment to
Article II, Section 3, of the State Constitution, striking out the word "male,"
which limits the suffrage to men. But, while he fully agreed with all I had to
say on the political equality of women, he had not the courage to make
himself the laughing-stock of the convention. Whenever I cornered him on
this point, manlike he turned the conversation to the painters and carpenters.
However, these conversations had the effect of bringing him into the first
woman's convention, where he did us good service.
In Seneca Falls my life was comparatively solitary, and the change from
Boston was somewhat depressing. There, all my immediate friends were
reformers, I had near neighbors, a new home with all the modern
conveniences, and well-trained servants. Here our residence was on the
outskirts of the town, roads very often muddy and no sidewalks most of the
way, Mr. Stanton was frequently from home, I had poor servants, and an
increasing number of children. To keep a house and grounds in good order,
purchase every article for daily use, keep the wardrobes of half a dozen
human beings in proper trim, take the children to dentists, shoemakers, and
different schools, or find teachers at home, altogether made sufficient work
to keep one brain busy, as well as all the hands I could impress into the

service. Then, too, the novelty of housekeeping had passed away, and much
that was once attractive in domestic life was now irksome. I had so many
cares that the company I needed for intellectual stimulus was a trial rather
than a pleasure.
There was quite an Irish settlement at a short distance, and continual
complaints were coming to me that my boys threw stones at their pigs,
cows, and the roofs of their houses. This involved constant diplomatic
relations in the settlement of various difficulties, in which I was so
successful that, at length, they constituted me a kind of umpire in all their
own quarrels. If a drunken husband was pounding his wife, the children
would run for me. Hastening to the scene of action, I would take Patrick by
the collar, and, much to his surprise and shame, make him sit down and
promise to behave himself. I never had one of them offer the least
resistance, and in time they all came to regard me as one having authority. I
strengthened my influence by cultivating good feeling. I lent the men
papers to read, and invited their children into our grounds; giving them
fruit, of which we had abundance, and my children's old clothes, books, and
toys. I was their physician, also—with my box of homeopathic medicines I
took charge of the men, women, and children in sickness. Thus the most
amicable relations were established, and, in any emergency, these poor
neighbors were good friends and always ready to serve me.
But I found police duty rather irksome, especially when called out dark
nights to prevent drunken fathers from disturbing their sleeping children, or
to minister to poor mothers in the pangs of maternity. Alas! alas! who can
measure the mountains of sorrow and suffering endured in unwelcome
motherhood in the abodes of ignorance, poverty, and vice, where terror-
stricken women and children are the victims of strong men frenzied with
passion and intoxicating drink?
Up to this time life had glided by with comparative ease, but now the real
struggle was upon me. My duties were too numerous and varied, and none
sufficiently exhilarating or intellectual to bring into play my higher
faculties. I suffered with mental hunger, which, like an empty stomach, is
very depressing. I had books, but no stimulating companionship. To add to
my general dissatisfaction at the change from Boston, I found that Seneca
Falls was a malarial region, and in due time all the children were attacked

with chills and fever which, under homeopathic treatment in those days,
lasted three months. The servants were afflicted in the same way.
Cleanliness, order, the love of the beautiful and artistic, all faded away in
the struggle to accomplish what was absolutely necessary from hour to
hour. Now I understood, as I never had before, how women could sit down
and rest in the midst of general disorder. Housekeeping, under such
conditions, was impossible, so I packed our clothes, locked up the house,
and went to that harbor of safety, home, as I did ever after in stress of
weather.
I now fully understood the practical difficulties most women had to contend
with in the isolated household, and the impossibility of woman's best
development if in contact, the chief part of her life, with servants and
children. Fourier's phalansterie community life and co-operative households
had a new significance for me. Emerson says, "A healthy discontent is the
first step to progress." The general discontent I felt with woman's portion as
wife, mother, housekeeper, physician, and spiritual guide, the chaotic
conditions into which everything fell without her constant supervision, and
the wearied, anxious look of the majority of women impressed me with a
strong feeling that some active measures should be taken to remedy the
wrongs of society in general, and of women in particular. My experience at
the World's Anti-slavery Convention, all I had read of the legal status of
women, and the oppression I saw everywhere, together swept across my
soul, intensified now by many personal experiences. It seemed as if all the
elements had conspired to impel me to some onward step. I could not see
what to do or where to begin—my only thought was a public meeting for
protest and discussion.
In this tempest-tossed condition of mind I received an invitation to spend
the day with Lucretia Mott, at Richard Hunt's, in Waterloo. There I met
several members of different families of Friends, earnest, thoughtful
women. I poured out, that day, the torrent of my long-accumulating
discontent, with such vehemence and indignation that I stirred myself, as
well as the rest of the party, to do and dare anything. My discontent,
according to Emerson, must have been healthy, for it moved us all to
prompt action, and we decided, then and there, to call a "Woman's Rights
Convention." We wrote the call that evening and published it in the Seneca
County Courier the next day, the 14th of July, 1848, giving only five days'

notice, as the convention was to be held on the 19th and 20th. The call was
inserted without signatures,—in fact it was a mere announcement of a
meeting,—but the chief movers and managers were Lucretia Mott, Mary
Ann McClintock, Jane Hunt, Martha C. Wright, and myself. The
convention, which was held two days in the Methodist Church, was in
every way a grand success. The house was crowded at every session, the
speaking good, and a religious earnestness dignified all the proceedings.
These were the hasty initiative steps of "the most momentous reform that
had yet been launched on the world—the first organized protest against the
injustice which had brooded for ages over the character and destiny of one-
half the race." No words could express our astonishment on finding, a few
days afterward, that what seemed to us so timely, so rational, and so sacred,
should be a subject for sarcasm and ridicule to the entire press of the nation.
With our Declaration of Rights and Resolutions for a text, it seemed as if
every man who could wield a pen prepared a homily on "woman's sphere."
All the journals from Maine to Texas seemed to strive with each other to see
which could make our movement appear the most ridiculous. The anti-
slavery papers stood by us manfully and so did Frederick Douglass, both in
the convention and in his paper, The North Star, but so pronounced was the
popular voice against us, in the parlor, press, and pulpit, that most of the
ladies who had attended the convention and signed the declaration, one by
one, withdrew their names and influence and joined our persecutors. Our
friends gave us the cold shoulder and felt themselves disgraced by the
whole proceeding.
If I had had the slightest premonition of all that was to follow that
convention, I fear I should not have had the courage to risk it, and I must
confess that it was with fear and trembling that I consented to attend
another, one month afterward, in Rochester. Fortunately, the first one
seemed to have drawn all the fire, and of the second but little was said. But
we had set the ball in motion, and now, in quick succession, conventions
were held in Ohio, Indiana, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and in the City of
New York, and have been kept up nearly every year since.
The most noteworthy of the early conventions were those held in
Massachusetts, in which such men as Garrison, Phillips, Channing, Parker,
and Emerson took part. It was one of these that first attracted the attention

of Mrs. John Stuart Mill, and drew from her pen that able article on "The
Enfranchisement of Woman," in the Westminster Review of October, 1852.
The same year of the convention, the Married Woman's Property Bill,
which had given rise to some discussion on woman's rights in New York,
had passed the legislature. This encouraged action on the part of women, as
the reflection naturally arose that, if the men who make the laws were ready
for some onward step, surely the women themselves should express some
interest in the legislation. Ernestine L. Rose, Paulina Wright (Davis), and I
had spoken before committees of the legislature years before, demanding
equal property rights for women. We had circulated petitions for the
Married Woman's Property Bill for many years, and so also had the leaders
of the Dutch aristocracy, who desired to see their life-long accumulations
descend to their daughters and grandchildren rather than pass into the hands
of dissipated, thriftless sons-in-law. Judge Hertell, Judge Fine, and Mr.
Geddes of Syracuse prepared and championed the several bills, at different
times, before the legislature. Hence the demands made in the convention
were not entirely new to the reading and thinking public of New York—the
first State to take any action on the question. As New York was the first
State to put the word "male" in her constitution in 1778, it was fitting that
she should be first in more liberal legislation. The effect of the convention
on my own mind was most salutary. The discussions had cleared my ideas
as to the primal steps to be taken for woman's enfranchisement, and the
opportunity of expressing myself fully and freely on a subject I felt so
deeply about was a great relief. I think all women who attended the
convention felt better for the statement of their wrongs, believing that the
first step had been taken to right them.
Soon after this I was invited to speak at several points in the neighborhood.
One night, in the Quaker Meeting House at Farmington, I invited, as usual,
discussion and questions when I had finished. We all waited in silence for a
long time; at length a middle-aged man, with a broad-brimmed hat, arose
and responded in a sing-song tone: "All I have to say is, if a hen can crow,
let her crow," emphasizing "crow" with an upward inflection on several
notes of the gamut. The meeting adjourned with mingled feelings of
surprise and merriment. I confess that I felt somewhat chagrined in having
what I considered my unanswerable arguments so summarily disposed of,
and the serious impression I had made on the audience so speedily

dissipated. The good man intended no disrespect, as he told me afterward.
He simply put the whole argument in a nutshell: "Let a woman do whatever
she can."
With these new duties and interests, and a broader outlook on human life,
my petty domestic annoyances gradually took a subordinate place. Now I
began to write articles for the press, letters to conventions held in other
States, and private letters to friends, to arouse them to thought on this
question.
The pastor of the Presbyterian Church, Mr. Bogue, preached several
sermons on Woman's Sphere, criticising the action of the conventions in
Seneca Falls and Rochester. Elizabeth McClintock and I took notes and
answered him in the county papers. Gradually we extended our labors and
attacked our opponents in the New York Tribune, whose columns were open
to us in the early days, Mr. Greeley being, at that time, one of our most
faithful champions.
In answering all the attacks, we were compelled to study canon and civil
law, constitutions, Bibles, science, philosophy, and history, sacred and
profane. Now my mind, as well as my hands, was fully occupied, and
instead of mourning, as I had done, over what I had lost in leaving Boston, I
tried in every way to make the most of life in Seneca Falls. Seeing that
elaborate refreshments prevented many social gatherings, I often gave an
evening entertainment without any. I told the young people, whenever they
wanted a little dance or a merry time, to make our house their rallying
point, and I would light up and give them a glass of water and some cake.
In that way we had many pleasant informal gatherings. Then, in imitation of
Margaret Fuller's Conversationals, we started one which lasted several
years. We selected a subject each week on which we all read and thought;
each, in turn, preparing an essay ten minutes in length.
These were held, at different homes, Saturday of each week. On coming
together we chose a presiding officer for the evening, who called the
meeting to order, and introduced the essayist. That finished, he asked each
member, in turn, what he or she had read or thought on the subject, and if
any had criticisms to make on the essay. Everyone was expected to
contribute something. Much information was thus gained, and many spicy

discussions followed. All the ladies, as well as the gentlemen, presided in
turn, and so became familiar with parliamentary rules. The evening ended
with music, dancing, and a general chat. In this way we read and thought
over a wide range of subjects and brought together the best minds in the
community. Many young men and women who did not belong to what was
considered the first circle,—for in every little country village there is
always a small clique that constitutes the aristocracy,—had the advantages
of a social life otherwise denied them. I think that all who took part in this
Conversation Club would testify to its many good influences.
I had three quite intimate young friends in the village who spent much of
their spare time with me, and who added much to my happiness: Frances
Hoskins, who was principal of the girls' department in the academy, with
whom I discussed politics and religion; Mary Bascom, a good talker on the
topics of the day, and Mary Crowninshield, who played well on the piano.
As I was very fond of music, Mary's coming was always hailed with
delight. Her mother, too, was a dear friend of mine, a woman of rare
intelligence, refinement, and conversational talent. She was a Schuyler, and
belonged to the Dutch aristocracy in Albany. She died suddenly, after a
short illness. I was with her in the last hours and held her hand until the
gradually fading spark of life went out. Her son is Captain A.S.
Crowninshield of our Navy.
My nearest neighbors were a very agreeable, intelligent family of sons and
daughters. But I always felt that the men of that household were given to
domineering. As the mother was very amiable and self-sacrificing, the
daughters found it difficult to rebel. One summer, after general house-
cleaning, when fresh paint and paper had made even the kitchen look too
dainty for the summer invasion of flies, the queens of the household
decided to move the sombre cook-stove into a spacious woodhouse, where
it maintained its dignity one week, in the absence of the head of the home.
The mother and daughters were delighted with the change, and wondered
why they had not made it before during the summer months. But their
pleasure was shortlived. Father and sons rose early the first morning after
his return and moved the stove back to its old place. When the wife and
daughters came down to get their breakfast (for they did all their own work)
they were filled with grief and disappointment. The breakfast was eaten in
silence, the women humbled with a sense of their helplessness, and the men

gratified with a sense of their power. These men would probably all have
said "home is woman's sphere," though they took the liberty of regulating
everything in her sphere.

CHAPTER X.

SUSAN B. ANTHONY.

The reports of the conventions held in Seneca Falls and Rochester, N.Y., in
1848, attracted the attention of one destined to take a most important part in
the new movement—Susan B. Anthony, who, for her courage and executive

ability, was facetiously called by William Henry Channing, the Napoleon of
our struggle. At this time she was teaching in the academy at Canajoharie, a
little village in the beautiful valley of the Mohawk.
"The Woman's Declaration of Independence" issued from those conventions
startled and amused her, and she laughed heartily at the novelty and
presumption of the demand. But, on returning home to spend her vacation,
she was surprised to find that her sober Quaker parents and sister, having
attended the Rochester meetings, regarded them as very profitable and
interesting, and the demands made as proper and reasonable. She was
already interested in the anti-slavery and temperance reforms, was an active
member of an organization called "The Daughters of Temperance," and had
spoken a few times in their public meetings. But the new gospel of
"Woman's Rights," found a ready response in her mind, and, from that time,
her best efforts have been given to the enfranchisement of women.
As, from this time, my friend is closely connected with my narrative and
will frequently appear therein, a sketch of her seems appropriate.
Lord Bacon has well said: "He that hath wife and children hath given
hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises either of
virtue or mischief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the
public, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men; which, both in
affection and means, have married and endowed the public."
This bit of Baconian philosophy, as alike applicable to women, was the
subject, not long since, of a conversation with a remarkably gifted
Englishwoman. She was absorbed in many public interests and had
conscientiously resolved never to marry, lest the cares necessarily involved
in matrimony should make inroads upon her time and thought, to the
detriment of the public good. "Unless," said she, "some women dedicate
themselves to the public service, society is robbed of needed guardians for
the special wants of the weak and unfortunate. There should be, in the
secular world, certain orders corresponding in a measure to the grand
sisterhoods of the Catholic Church, to the members of which, as freely as to
men, all offices, civic and ecclesiastical, should be open." That this ideal
will be realized may be inferred from the fact that exceptional women have,
in all ages, been leaders in great projects of charity and reform, and that

now many stand waiting only the sanction of their century, ready for wide
altruistic labors.
The world has ever had its vestal virgins, its holy women, mothers of ideas
rather than of men; its Marys, as well as its Marthas, who, rather than be
busy housewives, preferred to sit at the feet of divine wisdom, and ponder
the mysteries of the unknown. All hail to Maria Mitchell, Harriet Hosmer,
Charlotte Cushman, Alice and Phoebe Gary, Louisa Alcott, Dr. Elizabeth
Blackwell, Frances Willard, and Clara Barton! All honor to the noble
women who have devoted earnest lives to the intellectual and moral needs
of mankind!
Susan B. Anthony was of sturdy New England stock, and it was at the foot
of Old Greylock, South Adams, Mass., that she gave forth her first
rebellious cry. There the baby steps were taken, and at the village school the
first stitches were learned, and the A B C duly mastered. When five winters
had passed over Susan's head, there came a time of great domestic
commotion, and, in her small way, the child seized the idea that permanence
is not the rule of life. The family moved to Battenville, N.Y., where Mr.
Anthony became one of the wealthiest men in Washington County. Susan
can still recall the stately coldness of the great house—how large the bare
rooms, with their yellow-painted floors, seemed, in contrast with her own
diminutiveness, and the outlook of the schoolroom where for so many
years, with her brothers and sisters, she pursued her studies under private
tutors.
Mr. Anthony was a stern Hicksite Quaker. In Susan's early life he objected
on principle to all forms of frivolous amusement, such as music, dancing, or
novel reading, while games and even pictures were regarded as meaningless
luxuries. Such puritanical convictions might have easily degenerated into
mere cant; but underlying all was a broad and firm basis of wholesome
respect for individual freedom and a brave adherence to truth. He was a
man of good business capacity, and a thorough manager of his wide and
lucrative interests. He saw that compensation and not chance ruled in the
commercial world, and he believed in the same just, though often severe,
law in the sphere of morals. Such a man was not apt to walk humbly in the
path mapped out by his religious sect. He early offended by choosing a
Baptist for a wife. For this first offense he was "disowned," and, according

to Quaker usage, could only be received into fellowship again by declaring
himself "sorry" for his crime in full meeting. He was full of devout
thankfulness for the good woman by his side, and destined to be thankful to
the very end for this companion, so calm, so just, so far-seeing. He rose in
meeting, and said he was "sorry" that the rules of the society were such that,
in marrying the woman he loved, he had committed offense! He admitted
that he was "sorry" for something, so was taken back into the body of the
faithful! But his faith had begun to weaken in many minor points of
discipline. His coat soon became a cause of offense and called forth another
reproof from those buttoned up in conforming garments. The petty forms of
Quakerism began to lose their weight with him altogether, and he was
finally disowned for allowing the village youth to be taught dancing in an
upper room of his dwelling. He was applied to for this favor on the ground
that young men were under great temptation to drink if the lessons were
given in the hotel; and, being a rigid temperance man, he readily consented,
though his principles, in regard to dancing, would not allow his own sons
and daughters to join in the amusement. But the society could accept no
such discrimination in what it deemed sin, nor such compromise with
worldly frivolity, and so Mr. Anthony was seen no more in meeting. But, in
later years, in Rochester he was an attentive listener to Rev. William Henry
Channing.
The effect of all this on Susan is the question of interest. No doubt she early
weighed the comparative moral effects of coats cut with capes and those cut
without, of purely Quaker conjugal love and that deteriorated with Baptist
affection. Susan had an earnest soul and a conscience tending to morbidity;
but a strong, well-balanced body and simple family life soothed her too
active moral nature and gave the world, instead of a religious fanatic, a
sincere, concentrated worker. Every household art was taught her by her
mother, and so great was her ability that the duty demanding especial care
was always given into her hands. But ever, amid school and household
tasks, her day-dream was that, in time, she might be a "high-seat" Quaker.
Each Sunday, up to the time of the third disobedience, Mr. Anthony went to
the Quaker meeting house, some thirteen miles from home, his wife and
children usually accompanying him, though, as non-members, they were
rigidly excluded from all business discussions. Exclusion was very pleasant
in the bright days of summer; but, on one occasion in December, decidedly

unpleasant for the seven-year-old Susan. When the blinds were drawn, at
the close of the religious meeting, and non-members retired, Susan sat still.
Soon she saw a thin old lady with blue goggles come down from the "high
seat." Approaching her, the Quakeress said softly, "Thee is not a member—
thee must go out." "No; my mother told me not to go out in the cold," was
the child's firm response. "Yes, but thee must go out—thee is not a
member." "But my father is a member." "Thee is not a member," and Susan
felt as if the spirit was moving her and soon found herself in outer coldness.
Fingers and toes becoming numb, and a bright fire in a cottage over the way
beckoning warmly to her, the exile from the chapel resolved to seek secular
shelter. But alas! she was confronted by a huge dog, and just escaped with
whole skin though capeless jacket. We may be sure there was much talk,
that night, at the home fireside, and the good Baptist wife declared that no
child of hers should attend meeting again till made a member. Thereafter,
by request of her father, Susan became a member of the Quaker church.
Later, definite convictions took root in Miss Anthony's heart. Hers is,
indeed, a sincerely religious nature. To be a simple, earnest Quaker was the
aspiration of her girlhood; but she shrank from adopting the formal
language and plain dress. Dark hours of conflict were spent over all this,
and she interpreted her disinclination as evidence of unworthiness. Poor
little Susan! As we look back with the knowledge of our later life, we
translate the heart-burnings as unconscious protests against labeling your
free soul, against testing your reasoning conviction of to-morrow by any
shibboleth of to-day's belief. We hail this child-intuition as a prophecy of
the uncompromising truthfulness of the mature woman. Susan Anthony was
taught simply that she must enter into the holy of holies of her own self,
meet herself, and be true to the revelation. She first found words to express
her convictions in listening to Rev. William Henry Channing, whose
teaching had a lasting spiritual influence upon her. To-day Miss Anthony is
an agnostic. As to the nature of the Godhead and of the life beyond her
horizon she does not profess to know anything. Every energy of her soul is
centered upon the needs of this world. To her, work is worship. She has not
stood aside, shivering in the cold shadows of uncertainty, but has moved on
with the whirling world, has done the good given her to do, and thus, in
darkest hours, has been sustained by an unfaltering faith in the final
perfection of all things. Her belief is not orthodox, but it is religious. In

ancient Greece she would have been a Stoic; in the era of the Reformation,
a Calvinist; in King Charles' time, a Puritan; but in this nineteenth century,
by the very laws of her being, she is a Reformer.
For the arduous work that awaited Miss Anthony her years of young
womanhood had given preparation. Her father, though a man of wealth,
made it a matter of conscience to train his girls, as well as his boys, to self-
support. Accordingly Susan chose the profession of teacher, and made her
first essay during a summer vacation in a school her father had established
for the children of his employés. Her success was so marked, not only in
imparting knowledge, but also as a disciplinarian, that she followed this
career steadily for fifteen years, with the exception of some months given in
Philadelphia to her own training. Of the many school rebellions which she
overcame, one rises before me, prominent in its ludicrous aspect. This was
in the district school at Center Falls, in the year 1839. Bad reports were
current there of male teachers driven out by a certain strapping lad. Rumor
next told of a Quaker maiden coming to teach—a Quaker maiden of peace
principles. The anticipated day and Susan arrived. She looked very meek to
the barbarian of fifteen, so he soon began his antics. He was called to the
platform, told to lay aside his jacket, and, thereupon, with much
astonishment received from the mild Quaker maiden, with a birch rod
applied calmly but with precision, an exposition of the argumentum ad
hominem based on the a posteriori method of reasoning. Thus Susan
departed from her principles, but not from the school.
But, before long, conflicts in the outside world disturbed our young teacher.
The multiplication table and spelling book no longer enchained her
thoughts; larger questions began to fill her mind. About the year 1850 Susan
B. Anthony hid her ferule away. Temperance, anti-slavery, woman suffrage,
—three pregnant questions,—presented themselves, demanding her
consideration. Higher, ever higher, rose their appeals, until she resolved to
dedicate her energy and thought to the burning needs of the hour. Owing to
early experience of the disabilities of her sex, the first demand for equal
rights for women found echo in Susan's heart. And, though she was in the
beginning startled to hear that women had actually met in convention, and
by speeches and resolutions had declared themselves man's peer in political
rights, and had urged radical changes in State constitutions and the whole
system of American jurisprudence; yet the most casual review convinced

her that these claims were but the logical outgrowth of the fundamental
theories of our republic.
At this stage of her development I met my future friend and coadjutor for
the first time. How well I remember the day! George Thompson and
William Lloyd Garrison having announced an anti-slavery meeting in
Seneca Falls, Miss Anthony came to attend it. These gentlemen were my
guests. Walking home, after the adjournment, we met Mrs. Bloomer and
Miss Anthony on the corner of the street, waiting to greet us. There she
stood, with her good, earnest face and genial smile, dressed in gray delaine,
hat and all the same color, relieved with pale blue ribbons, the perfection of
neatness and sobriety. I liked her thoroughly, and why I did not at once
invite her home with me to dinner, I do not know. She accuses me of that
neglect, and has never forgiven me, as she wished to see and hear all she
could of our noble friends. I suppose my mind was full of what I had heard,
or my coming dinner, or the probable behavior of three mischievous boys
who had been busily exploring the premises while I was at the meeting.
That I had abundant cause for anxiety in regard to the philosophical
experiments these young savages might try the reader will admit, when
informed of some of their performances. Henry imagined himself possessed
of rare powers of invention (an ancestral weakness for generations), and so
made a life preserver of corks, and tested its virtues on his brother, who was
about eighteen months old. Accompanied by a troop of expectant boys, the
baby was drawn in his carriage to the banks of the Seneca, stripped, the
string of corks tied under his arms, and set afloat in the river, the
philosopher and his satellites, in a rowboat, watching the experiment. The
baby, accustomed to a morning bath in a large tub, splashed about joyfully,
keeping his head above water. He was as blue as indigo and as cold as a
frog when rescued by his anxious mother. The next day the same victimized
infant was seen, by a passing friend, seated on the chimney, on the highest
peak of the house. Without alarming anyone, the friend hurried up to the
housetop and rescued the child. Another time the three elder brothers
entered into a conspiracy, and locked up the fourth, Theodore, in the smoke-
house. Fortunately, he sounded the alarm loud and clear, and was set free in
safety, whereupon the three were imprisoned in a garret with two barred
windows. They summarily kicked out the bars, and, sliding down on the
lightning rod, betook themselves to the barn for liberty. The youngest boy,

Gerrit, then only five years old, skinned his hands in the descent. This is a
fair sample of the quiet happiness I enjoyed in the first years of
motherhood.
It was 'mid such exhilarating scenes that Miss Anthony and I wrote
addresses for temperance, anti-slavery, educational, and woman's rights
conventions. Here we forged resolutions, protests, appeals, petitions,
agricultural reports, and constitutional arguments; for we made it a matter
of conscience to accept every invitation to speak on every question, in order
to maintain woman's right to do so. To this end we took turns on the
domestic watchtowers, directing amusements, settling disputes, protecting
the weak against the strong, and trying to secure equal rights to all in the
home as well as the nation. I can recall many a stern encounter between my
friend and the young experimenter. It is pleasant to remember that he never
seriously injured any of his victims, and only once came near fatally
shooting himself with a pistol. The ball went through his hand; happily a
brass button prevented it from penetrating his heart.
It is often said, by those who know Miss Anthony best, that she has been
my good angel, always pushing and goading me to work, and that but for
her pertinacity I should never have accomplished the little I have. On the
other hand it has been said that I forged the thunderbolts and she fired them.
Perhaps all this is, in a measure, true. With the cares of a large family I
might, in time, like too many women, have become wholly absorbed in a
narrow family selfishness, had not my friend been continually exploring
new fields for missionary labors. Her description of a body of men on any
platform, complacently deciding questions in which woman had an equal
interest, without an equal voice, readily roused me to a determination to
throw a firebrand into the midst of their assembly.
Thus, whenever I saw that stately Quaker girl coming across my lawn, I
knew that some happy convocation of the sons of Adam was to be set by the
ears, by one of our appeals or resolutions. The little portmanteau, stuffed
with facts, was opened, and there we had what the Rev. John Smith and
Hon. Richard Roe had said: false interpretations of Bible texts, the statistics
of women robbed of their property, shut out of some college, half paid for
their work, the reports of some disgraceful trial; injustice enough to turn
any woman's thoughts from stockings and puddings. Then we would get out

our pens and write articles for papers, or a petition to the legislature; indite
letters to the faithful, here and there; stir up the women in Ohio,
Pennsylvania, or Massachusetts; call on The Lily, The Una, The Liberator,
The Standard to remember our wrongs as well as those of the slave. We
never met without issuing a pronunciamento on some question. In thought
and sympathy we were one, and in the division of labor we exactly
complemented each other. In writing we did better work than either could
alone. While she is slow and analytical in composition, I am rapid and
synthetic. I am the better writer, she the better critic. She supplied the facts
and statistics, I the philosophy and rhetoric, and, together, we have made
arguments that have stood unshaken through the storms of long years;
arguments that no one has answered. Our speeches may be considered the
united product of our two brains.
So entirely one are we that, in all our associations, ever side by side on the
same platform, not one feeling of envy or jealousy has ever shadowed our
lives. We have indulged freely in criticism of each other when alone, and
hotly contended whenever we have differed, but in our friendship of years
there has never been the break of one hour. To the world we always seem to
agree and uniformly reflect each other. Like husband and wife, each has the
feeling that we must have no differences in public. Thus united, at an early
day we began to survey the state and nation, the future field of our labors.
We read, with critical eyes, the proceedings of Congress and legislatures, of
general assemblies and synods, of conferences and conventions, and
discovered that, in all alike, the existence of woman was entirely ignored.
Night after night, by an old-fashioned fireplace, we plotted and planned the
coming agitation; how, when, and where each entering wedge could be
driven, by which women might be recognized and their rights secured.
Speedily the State was aflame with disturbances in temperance and
teachers' conventions, and the press heralded the news far and near that
women delegates had suddenly appeared, demanding admission in men's
conventions; that their rights had been hotly contested session after session,
by liberal men on the one side, the clergy and learned professors on the
other; an overwhelming majority rejecting the women with terrible
anathemas and denunciations. Such battles were fought over and over in the
chief cities of many of the Northern States, until the bigotry of men in all
the reforms and professions was thoroughly exposed. Every right achieved,

to enter a college, to study a profession, to labor in some new industry, or to
advocate a reform measure was contended for inch by inch.
Many of those enjoying all these blessings now complacently say, "If these
pioneers in reform had only pressed their measures more judiciously, in a
more ladylike manner, in more choice language, with a more deferential
attitude, the gentlemen could not have behaved so rudely." I give, in these
pages, enough of the characteristics of these women, of the sentiments they
expressed, of their education, ancestry, and position to show that no power
could have met the prejudice and bigotry of that period more successfully
than they did who so bravely and persistently fought and conquered them.
Miss Anthony first carried her flag of rebellion into the State conventions of
teachers, and there fought, almost single-handed, the battle for equality. At
the close of the first decade she had compelled conservatism to yield its
ground so far as to permit women to participate in all debates, deliver
essays, vote, and hold honored positions as officers. She labored as
sincerely in the temperance movement, until convinced that woman's moral
power amounted to little as a civil agent, until backed by ballot and coined
into State law. She still never loses an occasion to defend co-education and
prohibition, and solves every difficulty with the refrain, "woman suffrage,"
as persistent as the "never more" of Poe's raven.

CHAPTER XI.

SUSAN B. ANTHONY—Continued.

It was in 1852 that anti-slavery, through the eloquent lips of such men as
George Thompson, Phillips, and Garrison, first proclaimed to Miss Anthony
its pressing financial necessities. To their inspired words she gave answer,
four years afterward, by becoming a regularly employed agent in the Anti-
slavery Society. For her espoused cause she has always made boldest
demands. In the abolition meetings she used to tell each class why it should
support the movement financially; invariably calling upon Democrats to
give liberally, as the success of the cause would enable them to cease
bowing the knee to the slave power.
There is scarce a town, however small, from New York to San Francisco,
that has not heard her ringing voice. Who can number the speeches she has
made on lyceum platforms, in churches, schoolhouses, halls, barns, and in
the open air, with a lumber wagon or a cart for her rostrum? Who can
describe the varied audiences and social circles she has cheered and
interested? Now we see her on the far-off prairies, entertaining, with
sterling common sense, large gatherings of men, women, and children,
seated on rough boards in some unfinished building; again, holding public
debates in some town with half-fledged editors and clergymen; next, sailing
up the Columbia River and, in hot haste to meet some appointment, jolting
over the rough mountains of Oregon and Washington; and then, before
legislative assemblies, constitutional conventions, and congressional
committees, discussing with senators and judges the letter and spirit of
constitutional law.
Miss Anthony's style of speaking is rapid and vehement. In debate she is
ready and keen, and she is always equal to an emergency. Many times in
traveling with her through the West, especially on our first trip to Kansas
and California, we were suddenly called upon to speak to the women
assembled at the stations. Filled with consternation, I usually appealed to
her to go first; and, without a moment's hesitation, she could always fill five

minutes with some appropriate words and inspire me with thoughts and
courage to follow. The climax of these occasions was reached in an
institution for the deaf and dumb in Michigan. I had just said to my friend,
"There is one comfort in visiting this place; we shall not be asked to speak,"
when the superintendent, approaching us, said, "Ladies, the pupils are
assembled in the chapel, ready to hear you. I promised to invite you to
speak to them as soon as I heard you were in town." The possibility of
addressing such an audience was as novel to Miss Anthony as to me; yet
she promptly walked down the aisle to the platform, as if to perform an
ordinary duty, while I, half distracted with anxiety, wondering by what
process I was to be placed in communication with the deaf and dumb,
reluctantly followed. But the manner was simple enough, when illustrated.
The superintendent, standing by our side, repeated, in the sign language,
what was said as fast as uttered; and by laughter, tears, and applause, the
pupils showed that they fully appreciated the pathos, humor, and argument.
One night, crossing the Mississippi at McGregor, Iowa, we were icebound
in the middle of the river. The boat was crowded with people, hungry, tired,
and cross with the delay. Some gentlemen, with whom we had been talking
on the cars, started the cry, "Speech on woman suffrage!" Accordingly, in
the middle of the Mississippi River, at midnight, we presented our claims to
political representation, and debated the question of universal suffrage until
we landed. Our voyagers were quite thankful that we had shortened the
many hours, and we equally so at having made several converts and held a
convention on the very bosom of the great "Mother of Waters." Only once
in all these wanderings was Miss Anthony taken by surprise, and that was
on being asked to speak to the inmates of an insane asylum. "Bless me!"
said she, "it is as much as I can do to talk to the sane! What could I say to
an audience of lunatics?" Her companion, Virginia L. Minor of St. Louis,
replied: "This is a golden moment for you, the first opportunity you have
ever had, according to the constitutions, to talk to your 'peers,' for is not the
right of suffrage denied to 'idiots, criminals, lunatics, and women'?"
Much curiosity has been expressed as to the love-life of Miss Anthony; but,
if she has enjoyed or suffered any of the usual triumphs or disappointments
of her sex, she has not yet vouchsafed this information to her biographers.
While few women have had more sincere and lasting friendships, or a more
extensive correspondence with a large circle of noble men, yet I doubt if

one of them can boast of having received from her any exceptional
attention. She has often playfully said, when questioned on this point, that
she could not consent that the man she loved, described in the Constitution
as a white male, native born, American citizen, possessed of the right of
self-government, eligible to the office of President of the great Republic,
should unite his destinies in marriage with a political slave and pariah. "No,
no; when I am crowned with all the rights, privileges, and immunities of a
citizen, I may give some consideration to this social institution; but until
then I must concentrate all my energies on the enfranchisement of my own
sex." Miss Anthony's love-life, like her religion, has manifested itself in
steadfast, earnest labors for men in general. She has been a watchful and
affectionate daughter, sister, friend, and those who have felt the pulsations
of her great heart know how warmly it beats for all.
As the custom has long been observed, among married women, of
celebrating the anniversaries of their wedding-day, quite properly the
initiative has been taken, in late years, of doing honor to the great events in
the lives of single women. Being united in closest bonds to her profession,
Dr. Harriet K. Hunt of Boston celebrated her twenty-fifth year of faithful
services as a physician by giving to her friends and patrons a large
reception, which she called her silver wedding. From a feeling of the
sacredness of her life work, the admirers of Susan B. Anthony have been
moved to mark, by reception and convention, her rapid-flowing years and
the passing decades of the suffrage movement. To the most brilliant
occasion of this kind, the invitation cards were as follows:
The ladies of the Woman's Bureau invite you to a
reception on Tuesday evening, February 15th, to
celebrate the fiftieth birthday of Susan B. Anthony,
when her friends will have an opportunity to show their
appreciation of her long services in behalf of woman's
emancipation.
No. 49 East 23d St., New York,
February 10, 1870.
Elizabeth B. Phelps,
Anna B. Darling,

Charlotte Beebe Wilbour.
In response to the invitation, the parlors of the bureau were crowded with
friends to congratulate Miss Anthony on the happy event, many bringing
valuable gifts as an expression of their gratitude. Among other presents
were a handsome gold watch and checks to the amount of a thousand
dollars. The guests were entertained with music, recitations, the reading of
many piquant letters of regret from distinguished people, and witty rhymes
written for the occasion by the Cary sisters. Miss Anthony received her
guests with her usual straightforward simplicity, and in a few earnest words
expressed her thanks for the presents and praises showered upon her. The
comments of the leading journals, next day, were highly complimentary,
and as genial as amusing. All dwelt on the fact that, at last, a woman had
arisen brave enough to assert her right to grow old and openly declare that
half a century had rolled over her head.
Of carefully prepared written speeches Miss Anthony has made few; but
these, by the high praise they called forth, prove that she can—in spite of
her own declaration to the contrary—put her sterling thoughts on paper
concisely and effectively. After her exhaustive plea, in 1880, for a Sixteenth
Amendment before the Judiciary Committee of the Senate, Senator
Edmunds accosted her, as she was leaving the Capitol, and said he
neglected to tell her, in the committee room, that she had made an
argument, no matter what his personal feelings were as to the conclusions
reached, which was unanswerable—an argument, unlike the usual platform
oratory given at hearings, suited to a committee of men trained to the law.
It was in 1876 that Miss Anthony gave her much criticised lecture on
"Social Purity" in Boston. As to the result she felt very anxious; for the
intelligence of New England composed her audience, and it did not still her
heart-beats to see, sitting just in front of the platform, her revered friend,
William Lloyd Garrison. But surely every fear vanished when she felt the
grand old abolitionist's hand warmly pressing hers, and heard him say that
to listen to no one else would he have had courage to leave his sick room,
and that he felt fully repaid by her grand speech, which neither in matter nor
manner would he have changed in the smallest particular. But into Miss
Anthony's private correspondence one must look for examples of her most
effective writing. Verb or substantive is often wanting, but you can always

catch the thought, and will ever find it clear and suggestive. It is a strikingly
strange dialect, but one that touches, at times, the deepest chords of pathos
and humor, and, when stirred by some great event, is highly eloquent.
From being the most ridiculed and mercilessly persecuted woman, Miss
Anthony has become the most honored and respected in the nation. Witness
the praises of press and people, and the enthusiastic ovations she received
on her departure for Europe in 1883. Never were warmer expressions of
regret for an absence, nor more sincere prayers for a speedy return,
accorded to any American on leaving his native shores. This slow awaking
to the character of her services shows the abiding sense of justice in the
human soul. Having spent the winter of 1882-83 in Washington, trying to
press to a vote the bill for a Sixteenth Amendment before Congress, and the
autumn in a vigorous campaign through Nebraska, where a constitutional
amendment to enfranchise women had been submitted to the people, she
felt the imperative need of an entire change in the current of her thoughts.
Accordingly, after one of the most successful conventions ever held at the
national capital, and a most flattering ovation in the spacious parlors of the
Riggs House, and a large reception in Philadelphia, she sailed for Europe.
Fortunate in being perfectly well during the entire voyage, our traveler
received perpetual enjoyment in watching the ever varying sea and sky. To
the captain's merry challenge to find anything so grand as the ocean, she
replied, "Yes, these mighty forces in nature do indeed fill me with awe; but
this vessel, with deep-buried fires, powerful machinery, spacious decks, and
tapering masts, walking the waves like a thing of life, and all the work of
man, impresses one still more deeply. Lo! in man's divine creative power is
fulfilled the prophecy, 'Ye shall be as Gods!'"
In all her journeyings through Germany, Italy, and France, Miss Anthony
was never the mere sight-seer, but always the humanitarian and reformer in
traveler's guise. Few of the great masterpieces of art gave her real
enjoyment. The keen appreciation of the beauties of sculpture, painting, and
architecture, which one would have expected to find in so deep a religious
nature, was wanting, warped, no doubt, by her early Quaker training. That
her travels gave her more pain than pleasure was, perhaps, not so much that
she had no appreciation of aesthetic beauty, but that she quickly grasped the
infinitude of human misery; not because her soul did not feel the heights to

which art had risen, but that it vibrated in every fiber to the depths to which
mankind had fallen. Wandering through a gorgeous palace one day, she
exclaimed, "What do you find to admire here? If it were a school of five
hundred children being educated into the right of self-government I could
admire it, too; but standing for one man's pleasure, I say no!" In the quarters
of one of the devotees, at the old monastery of the Certosa, at Florence,
there lies, on a small table, an open book, in which visitors register. On the
occasion of Miss Anthony's visit the pen and ink proved so unpromising
that her entire party declined this opportunity to make themselves famous,
but she made the rebellious pen inscribe, "Perfect equality for women, civil,
political, religious. Susan B. Anthony, U.S.A." Friends, who visited the
monastery next day, reported that lines had been drawn through this
heretical sentiment.
During her visit at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Sargent, in Berlin, Miss
Anthony quite innocently posted her letters in the official envelopes of our
Suffrage Association, which bore the usual mottoes, "No just government
can be formed without the consent of the governed," etc. In a few days an
official brought back a large package, saying, "Such sentiments are not
allowed to pass through the post office." Probably nothing saved her from
arrest as a socialist, under the tyrannical police regulations, but the fact that
she was the guest of the Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States.
My son Theodore wrote of Miss Anthony's visit in Paris: "I had never
before seen her in the role of tourist. She seemed interested only in
historical monuments, and in the men and questions of the hour. The
galleries of the Louvre had little attraction for her, but she gazed with deep
pleasure at Napoleon's tomb, Notre Dame, and the ruins of the Tuileries.
She was always ready to listen to discussions on the political problems
before the French people, the prospects of the Republic, the divorce
agitation, and the education of women. 'I had rather see Jules Ferry than all
the pictures of the Louvre, Luxembourg, and Salon,' she remarked at table.
A day or two later she saw Ferry at Laboulaye's funeral. The three things
which made the deepest impression on Miss Anthony, during her stay at
Paris, were probably the interment of Laboulaye (the friend of the United
States and of the woman movement); the touching anniversary
demonstration of the Communists, at the Cemetery of Père La Chaise, on
the very spot where the last defenders of the Commune of 1871 were

ruthlessly shot and buried in a common grave; and a woman's rights
meeting, held in a little hall in the Rue de Rivoli, at which the brave, far-
seeing Mlle. Hubertine Auchet was the leading spirit."
While on the Continent Miss Anthony experienced the unfortunate
sensation of being deaf and dumb; to speak and not to be understood, to
hear and not to comprehend, were to her bitter realities. We can imagine to
what desperation she was brought when her Quaker prudishness could hail
an emphatic oath in English from a French official with the exclamation,
"Well, it sounds good to hear someone even swear in old Anglo-Saxon!"
After two months of enforced silence, she was buoyant in reaching the
British Islands once more, where she could enjoy public speaking and
general conversation. Here she was the recipient of many generous social
attentions, and, on May 25, a large public meeting of representative people,
presided over by Jacob Bright, was called, in our honor, by the National
Association of Great Britain. She spoke on the educational and political
status of women in America, I of their religious and social position.
Before closing my friend's biography I shall trace two golden threads in this
closely woven life of incident. One of the greatest services rendered by
Miss Anthony to the suffrage cause was in casting a vote in the Presidential
election of 1872, in order to test the rights of women under the Fourteenth
Amendment. For this offense the brave woman was arrested, on
Thanksgiving Day, the national holiday handed down to us by Pilgrim
Fathers escaped from England's persecutions. She asked for a writ of habeas
corpus. The writ being flatly refused, in January, 1873, her counsel gave
bonds. The daring defendant finding, when too late, that this not only kept
her out of jail, but her case out of the Supreme Court of the United States,
regretfully determined to fight on, and gain the uttermost by a decision in
the United States Circuit Court. Her trial was set down for the Rochester
term in May. Quickly she canvassed the whole county, laying before every
probable juror the strength of her case. When the time for the trial arrived,
the District Attorney, fearing the result, if the decision were left to a jury
drawn from Miss Anthony's enlightened county, transferred the trial to the
Ontario County term, in June, 1873.
It was now necessary to instruct the citizens of another county. In this task
Miss Anthony received valuable assistance from Matilda Joslyn Gage; and,

to meet all this new expense, financial aid was generously given,
unsolicited, by Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Gerrit Smith, and other
sympathizers. But in vain was every effort; in vain the appeal of Miss
Anthony to her jurors; in vain the moral influence of the leading
representatives of the bar of Central New York filling the courtroom, for
Judge Hunt, without precedent to sustain him, declaring it a case of law and
not of fact, refused to give the case to the jury, reserving to himself final
decision. Was it not an historic scene which was enacted there in that little
courthouse in Canandaigua? All the inconsistencies were embodied in that
Judge, punctilious in manner, scrupulous in attire, conscientious in
trivialities, and obtuse on great principles, fitly described by Charles
O'Conor—"A very ladylike Judge." Behold him sitting there, balancing all
the niceties of law and equity in his Old World scales, and at last saying,
"The prisoner will stand up." Whereupon the accused arose. "The sentence
of the court is that you pay a fine of one hundred dollars and the costs of the
prosecution." Then the unruly defendant answers: "May it please your
Honor, I shall never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty," and more to the
same effect, all of which she has lived up to. The "ladylike" Judge had
gained some insight into the determination of the prisoner; so, not wishing
to incarcerate her to all eternity, he added gently: "Madam, the court will
not order you committed until the fine is paid."
It was on the 17th of June that the verdict was given. On that very day, a
little less than a century before, the brave militia was driven back at Bunker
Hill—back, back, almost wiped out; yet truth was in their ranks, and justice,
too. But how ended that rebellion of weak colonists? The cause of
American womanhood, embodied for the moment in the liberty of a single
individual, received a rebuff on June 17, 1873; but, just as surely as our
Revolutionary heroes were in the end victorious, so will the inalienable
rights of our heroines of the nineteenth century receive final vindication.
In his speech of 1880, before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard,
Wendell Phillips said—what as a rule is true—that "a reformer, to be
conscientious, must be free from bread-winning." I will open Miss
Anthony's accounts and show that this reformer, being, perhaps, the
exception which proves the rule, has been consistently and conscientiously
in debt. Turning over her year-books the pages give a fair record up to 1863.
Here began the first herculean labor. The Woman's Loyal League, sadly in

need of funds, was not an incorporated association, so its secretary assumed
the debts. Accounts here became quite lamentable, the deficit reaching five
thousand dollars. It must be paid, and, in fact, will be paid. Anxious, weary
hours were spent in crowding the Cooper Institute, from week to week, with
paying audiences, to listen to such men as Phillips, Curtis, and Douglass,
who contributed their services, and lifted the secretary out of debt. At last,
after many difficulties, her cash-book of 1863 was honorably pigeon-holed.
In 1867 we can read account of herculean labor the second. Twenty
thousand tracts are needed to convert the voters of Kansas to woman
suffrage. Traveling expenses to Kansas, and the tracts, make the debtor
column overreach the creditor some two thousand dollars. There is
recognition on these pages of more than one thousand dollars obtained by
soliciting advertisements, but no note is made of the weary, burning July
days spent in the streets of New York to procure this money, nor of the
ready application of the savings made by petty economies from her salary
from the Hovey Committee.
It would have been fortunate for my brave friend, if cash-books 1868, 1869,
and 1870 had never come down from their shelves; for they sing and sing,
in notes of debts, till all unite in one vast chorus of far more than ten
thousand dollars. These were the days of the Revolution, the newspaper, not
the war, though it was warfare for the debt-ridden manager. Several
thousand dollars she paid with money earned by lecturing, and with money
given her for personal use. One Thanksgiving was, in truth, a time for
returning thanks; for she received, canceled, from her cousin, Anson
Lapham, her note for four thousand dollars. After the funeral of Paulina
Wright Davis, the bereaved widower pressed into Miss Anthony's hand
canceled notes for five hundred dollars, bearing on the back the words, "In
memory of my beloved wife." One other note was canceled in recognition
of her perfect forgetfulness of self-interest and ready sacrifice to the needs
of others. When laboring, in 1874, to fill every engagement, in order to
meet her debts, her mother's sudden illness called her home. Without one
selfish regret, the anxious daughter hastened to Rochester. When recovery
was certain, and Miss Anthony was about to return to her fatiguing labors,
her mother gave her, at parting, her note for a thousand dollars, on which
was written, in trembling lines, "In just consideration of the tender sacrifice
made to nurse me in severe illness." At last all the Revolution debt was paid,

except that due to her generous sister, Mary Anthony, who used often
humorously to assure her she was a fit subject for the bankrupt act.
There is something humorously pathetic in the death of the Revolution—
that firstborn of Miss Anthony. Mrs. Laura Curtis Bullard generously
assumed the care of the troublesome child, and, in order to make the
adoption legal, gave the usual consideration—one dollar. The very night of
the transfer Miss Anthony went to Rochester with the dollar in her pocket,
and the little change left after purchasing her ticket. She arrived safely with
her debts, but nothing more—her pocket had been picked! Oh, thief, could
you but know what value of faithful work you purloined!
From the close of the year 1876 Miss Anthony's accounts showed favorable
signs as to the credit column. Indeed, at the end of five years there was a
solid balance of several thousand dollars earned on lecturing tours. But
alas! the accounts grow dim again—in fact the credit column fades away.
"The History of Woman Suffrage" ruthlessly swallowed up every vestige of
Miss Anthony's bank account. But, in 1886, by the will of Mrs. Eddy,
daughter of Francis Jackson of Boston, Miss Anthony received twenty-four
thousand dollars for the Woman's Suffrage Movement, which lifted her out
of debt once more.
In vain will you search these telltale books for evidence of personal
extravagance; for, although Miss Anthony thinks it true economy to buy the
best, her tastes are simple. Is there not something very touching in the fact
that she never bought a book or picture for her own enjoyment? The meager
personal balance-sheets show four lapses from discipline,—lapses that she
even now regards as ruthless extravagance,—viz.: the purchase of two
inexpensive brooches, a much needed watch, and a pair of cuffs to match a
point-lace collar presented by a friend. Those interested in Miss Anthony's
personal appearance long ago ceased to trust her with the purchase-money
for any ornament; for, however firm her resolution to comply with their
wish, the check invariably found its way to the credit column of those little
cash-books as "money received for the cause." Now, reader, you have been
admitted to a private view of Miss Anthony's financial records, and you can
appreciate her devotion to an idea. Do you not agree with me that a "bread-
winner" can be a conscientious reformer?

In finishing this sketch of the most intimate friend I have had for the past
forty-five years,—with whom I have spent weeks and months under the
same roof,—I can truly say that she is the most upright, courageous, self-
sacrificing, magnanimous human being I have ever known. I have seen her
beset on every side with the most petty annoyances, ridiculed and
misrepresented, slandered and persecuted; I have known women refuse to
take her extended hand; women to whom she presented copies of "The
History of Woman Suffrage," return it unnoticed; others to keep it without
one word of acknowledgment; others to write most insulting letters in
answer to hers of affectionate conciliation. And yet, under all the cross-fires
incident to a reform, never has her hope flagged, her self-respect wavered,
or a feeling of resentment shadowed her mind. Oftentimes, when I have
been sorely discouraged, thinking that the prolonged struggle was a waste
of force which in other directions might be rich in achievement, with her
sublime faith in humanity, she would breathe into my soul renewed
inspiration, saying, "Pity rather than blame those who persecute us." So
closely interwoven have been our lives, our purposes, and experiences that,
separated, we have a feeling of incompleteness—united, such strength of
self-assertion that no ordinary obstacles, difficulties, or dangers ever appear
to us insurmountable. Reviewing the life of Susan B. Anthony, I ever liken
her to the Doric column in Grecian architecture, so simply, so grandly she
stands, free from every extraneous ornament, supporting her one vast idea
—the enfranchisement of woman.
As our estimate of ourselves and our friendship may differ somewhat from
that taken from an objective point of view, I will give an extract from what
our common friend Theodore Tilton wrote of us in 1868:

"Miss Susan B. Anthony, a well-known, indefatigable,
and lifelong advocate of temperance, anti-slavery, and
woman's rights, has been, since 1851, Mrs. Stanton's
intimate associate in reformatory labors. These
celebrated women are of about equal age, but of the
most opposite characteristics, and illustrate the theory
of counterparts in affection by entertaining for each
other a friendship of extraordinary strength.
"Mrs. Stanton is a fine writer, but a poor executant;
Miss Anthony is a thorough manager, but a poor writer.
Both have large brains and great hearts; neither has any
selfish ambition for celebrity; but each vies with the
other in a noble enthusiasm for the cause to which they
are devoting their lives.
"Nevertheless, to describe them critically, I ought to say
that, opposites though they be, each does not so much
supplement the other's deficiencies as augment the
other's eccentricities. Thus they often stimulate each
other's aggressiveness, and, at the same time, diminish
each other's discretion.
"But, whatever may be the imprudent utterances of the
one or the impolitic methods of the other, the animating
motives of both are evermore as white as the light. The
good that they do is by design; the harm by accident.
These two women, sitting together in their parlors,
have, for the last thirty years, been diligent forgers of all
manner of projectiles, from fireworks to thunderbolts,
and have hurled them with unexpected explosion into
the midst of all manner of educational, reformatory,
religious, and political assemblies; sometimes to the
pleasant surprise and half welcome of the members,
more often to the bewilderment and prostration of
numerous victims; and, in a few signal instances, to the
gnashing of angry men's teeth. I know of no two more

pertinacious incendiaries in the whole country. Nor will
they, themselves deny the charge. In fact this noise-
making twain are the two sticks of a drum, keeping up
what Daniel Webster called 'The rub-a-dub of
agitation.'"

CHAPTER XII.

MY FIRST SPEECH BEFORE A
LEGISLATURE.

Women had been willing so long to hold a subordinate position, both in
private and public affairs, that a gradually growing feeling of rebellion
among them quite exasperated the men, and their manifestations of hostility
in public meetings were often as ridiculous as humiliating.
True, those gentlemen were all quite willing that women should join their
societies and churches to do the drudgery; to work up the enthusiasm in
fairs and revivals, conventions and flag presentations; to pay a dollar apiece
into their treasury for the honor of being members of their various
organizations; to beg money for the Church; to circulate petitions from door
to door; to visit saloons; to pray with or defy rumsellers; to teach school at
half price, and sit round the outskirts of a hall, in teachers' State
conventions, like so many wallflowers; but they would not allow them to sit
on the platform, address the assembly, or vote for men and measures.
Those who had learned the first lessons of human rights from the lips of
Henry B. Stanton, Samuel J. May, and Gerrit Smith would not accept any
such position. When women abandoned the temperance reform, all interest
in the question gradually died out in the State, and practically nothing was
done in New York for nearly twenty years. Gerrit Smith made one or two
attempts toward an "anti-dramshop" party, but, as women could not vote,
they felt no interest in the measure, and failure was the result.
I soon convinced Miss Anthony that the ballot was the key to the situation;
that when we had a voice in the laws we should be welcome to any
platform. In turning the intense earnestness and religious enthusiasm of this
great-souled woman into this channel, I soon felt the power of my convert
in goading me forever forward to more untiring work. Soon fastened, heart
to heart, with hooks of steel in a friendship that years of confidence and
affection have steadily strengthened, we have labored faithfully together.

From the year 1850 conventions were held in various States, and their
respective legislatures were continually besieged; New York was
thoroughly canvassed by Miss Anthony and others. Appeals, calls for
meetings, and petitions were circulated without number. In 1854 I prepared
my first speech for the New York legislature. That was a great event in my
life. I felt so nervous over it, lest it should not be worthy the occasion, that
Miss Anthony suggested that I should slip up to Rochester and submit it to
the Rev. William Henry Channing, who was preaching there at that time. I
did so, and his opinion was so favorable as to the merits of my speech that I
felt quite reassured. My father felt equally nervous when he saw, by the
Albany Evening Journal, that I was to speak at the Capitol, and asked me to
read my speech to him also. Accordingly, I stopped at Johnstown on my
way to Albany, and, late one evening, when he was alone in his office, I
entered and took my seat on the opposite side of his table. On no occasion,
before or since, was I ever more embarrassed—an audience of one, and that
the one of all others whose approbation I most desired, whose disapproval I
most feared. I knew he condemned the whole movement, and was deeply
grieved at the active part I had taken. Hence I was fully aware that I was
about to address a wholly unsympathetic audience. However, I began, with
a dogged determination to give all the power I could to my manuscript, and
not to be discouraged or turned from my purpose by any tender appeals or
adverse criticisms. I described the widow in the first hours of her grief,
subject to the intrusions of the coarse minions of the law, taking inventory
of the household goods, of the old armchair in which her loved one had
breathed his last, of the old clock in the corner that told the hour he passed
away. I threw all the pathos I could into my voice and language at this
point, and, to my intense satisfaction, I saw tears filling my father's eyes. I
cannot express the exultation I felt, thinking that now he would see, with
my eyes, the injustice women suffered under the laws he understood so
well.
Feeling that I had touched his heart I went on with renewed confidence,
and, when I had finished, I saw he was thoroughly magnetized. With
beating heart I waited for him to break the silence. He was evidently deeply
pondering over all he had heard, and did not speak for a long time. I
believed I had opened to him a new world of thought. He had listened long
to the complaints of women, but from the lips of his own daughter they had

come with a deeper pathos and power. At last, turning abruptly, he said:
"Surely you have had a happy, comfortable life, with all your wants and
needs supplied; and yet that speech fills me with self-reproach; for one
might naturally ask, how can a young woman, tenderly brought up, who has
had no bitter personal experience, feel so keenly the wrongs of her sex?
Where did you learn this lesson?" "I learned it here," I replied, "in your
office, when a child, listening to the complaints women made to you. They
who have sympathy and imagination to make the sorrows of others their
own can readily learn all the hard lessons of life from the experience of
others." "Well, well!" he said, "you have made your points clear and strong;
but I think I can find you even more cruel laws than those you have
quoted." He suggested some improvements in my speech, looked up other
laws, and it was one o'clock in the morning before we kissed each other
good-night. How he felt on the question after that I do not know, as he
never said anything in favor of or against it. He gladly gave me any help I
needed, from time to time, in looking up the laws, and was very desirous
that whatever I gave to the public should be carefully prepared.
Miss Anthony printed twenty thousand copies of this address, laid it on the
desk of every member of the legislature, both in the Assembly and Senate,
and, in her travels that winter, she circulated it throughout the State. I am
happy to say I never felt so anxious about the fate of a speech since.
The first woman's convention in Albany was held at this time, and we had a
kind of protracted meeting for two weeks after. There were several hearings
before both branches of the legislature, and a succession of meetings in
Association Hall, in which Phillips, Channing, Ernestine L. Rose,
Antoinette L. Brown, and Susan B. Anthony took part. Being at the capital
of the State, discussion was aroused at every fireside, while the comments
of the press were numerous and varied. Every little country paper had
something witty or silly to say about the uprising of the "strong-minded."
Those editors whose heads were about the size of an apple were the most
opposed to the uprising of women, illustrating what Sidney Smith said long
ago: "There always was, and there always will be a class of men so small
that, if women were educated, there would be nobody left below them."
Poor human nature loves to have something to look down upon!

Here is a specimen of the way such editors talked at that time. The Albany
Register, in an article on "Woman's Rights in the Legislature," dated March
7, 1854, says:
"While the feminine propagandists of women's rights
confined themselves to the exhibition of short petticoats
and long-legged boots, and to the holding of
conventions and speech-making in concert rooms, the
people were disposed to be amused by them, as they are
by the wit of the clown in the circus, or the
performances of Punch and Judy on fair days, or the
minstrelsy of gentlemen with blackened faces, on
banjos, the tambourine, and bones. But the joke is
becoming stale. People are getting cloyed with these
performances, and are looking for some healthier and
more intellectual amusement. The ludicrous is wearing
away, and disgust is taking the place of pleasurable
sensations, arising from the novelty of this new phase
of hypocrisy and infidel fanaticism.
"People are beginning to inquire how far public
sentiment should sanction or tolerate these unsexed
women, who would step out from the true sphere of the
mother, the wife, and the daughter, and taking upon
themselves the duties and the business of men, stalk
into the public gaze, and, by engaging in the politics,
the rough controversies and trafficking of the world,
upheave existing institutions, and overrun all the social
relations of life.
"It is a melancholy reflection that, among our American
women, who have been educated to better things, there
should be found any who are willing to follow the lead
of such foreign propagandists as the ringleted, gloved
exotic, Ernestine L. Rose. We can understand how such
a man as the Rev. Mr. May, or the sleek-headed Dr.
Channing, may be deluded by her into becoming one of
her disciples. They are not the first instances of

infatuation that may overtake weak-minded men, if they
are honest in their devotion to her and her doctrines; nor
would they be the first examples of a low ambition that
seeks notoriety as a substitute for true fame, if they are
dishonest. Such men there are always, and, honest or
dishonest, their true position is that of being tied to the
apron strings of some strong-minded woman, and to be
exhibited as rare specimens of human wickedness or
human weakness and folly. But that one educated
American should become her disciple and follow her
insane teachings is a marvel."
When we see the abuse and ridicule to which the best of men were
subjected for standing on our platform in the early days, we need not
wonder that so few have been brave enough to advocate our cause in later
years, either in conventions or in the halls of legislation.
After twelve added years of agitation, following the passage of the Property
Bill, New York conceded other civil rights to married women. Pending the
discussion of these various bills, Susan B. Anthony circulated petitions,
both for the civil and political rights of women, throughout the State,
traveling in stage coaches, open wagons, and sleighs in all seasons, and on
foot, from door to door through towns and cities, doing her uttermost to
rouse women to some sense of their natural rights as human beings, and to
their civil and political rights as citizens of a republic. And while expending
her time, strength, and money to secure these blessings for the women of
the State, they would gruffly tell her that they had all the rights they wanted,
or rudely shut the door in her face; leaving her to stand outside, petition in
hand, treating her with as much contempt as if she was asking alms for
herself. None but those who did that work in the early days, for the slaves
and the women, can ever know the hardships and humiliations that were
endured. But it was done because it was only through petitions—a power
seemingly so inefficient—that disfranchised classes could be heard in the
State and National councils; hence their importance.
The frivolous objections some women made to our appeals were as
exasperating as they were ridiculous. To reply to them politely, at all times,
required a divine patience. On one occasion, after addressing the legislature,

some of the ladies, in congratulating me, inquired, in a deprecating tone,
"What do you do with your children?" "Ladies," I said, "it takes me no
longer to speak, than you to listen; what have you done with your children
the two hours you have been sitting here? But, to answer your question, I
never leave my children to go to Saratoga, Washington, Newport, or
Europe, or even to come here. They are, at this moment, with a faithful
nurse at the Delevan House, and, having accomplished my mission, we
shall all return home together."
When my children reached the magic number of seven, my good angel,
Susan B. Anthony, would sometimes take one or two of them to her own
quiet home, just out of Rochester, where, on a well-cultivated little farm,
one could enjoy uninterrupted rest and the choicest fruits of the season.
That was always a safe harbor for my friend, as her family sympathized
fully in the reforms to which she gave her life. I have many pleasant
memories of my own flying visits to that hospitable Quaker home and the
broad catholic spirit of Daniel and Lucy Anthony. Whatever opposition and
ridicule their daughter endured elsewhere, she enjoyed the steadfast
sympathy and confidence of her own home circle. Her faithful sister Mary,
a most successful teacher in the public schools of Rochester for a quarter of
a century, and a good financier, who with her patrimony and salary had laid
by a competence, took on her shoulders double duty at home in cheering the
declining years of her parents, that Susan might do the public work in the
reforms in which they were equally interested. Now, with life's earnest work
nearly accomplished, the sisters are living happily together; illustrating
another of the many charming homes of single women, so rapidly
multiplying of late.
Miss Anthony, who was a frequent guest at my home, sometimes stood
guard when I was absent. The children of our household say that among
their earliest recollections is the tableau of "Mother and Susan," seated by a
large table covered with books and papers, always writing and talking about
the Constitution, interrupted with occasional visits from others of the
faithful. Hither came Elizabeth Oakes Smith, Paulina Wright Davis, Frances
Dana Gage, Dr. Harriet Hunt, Rev. Antoinette Brown, Lucy Stone, and
Abby Kelly, until all these names were as familiar as household words to
the children.

Martha C. Wright of Auburn was a frequent visitor at the center of the
rebellion, as my sequestered cottage on Locust Hill was facetiously called.
She brought to these councils of war not only her own wisdom, but that of
the wife and sister of William H. Seward, and sometimes encouraging
suggestions from the great statesman himself, from whose writings we often
gleaned grand and radical sentiments. Lucretia Mott, too, being an
occasional guest of her sister, Martha C. Wright, added the dignity of her
presence at many of these important consultations. She was uniformly in
favor of toning down our fiery pronunciamentos. For Miss Anthony and
myself, the English language had no words strong enough to express the
indignation we felt at the prolonged injustice to women. We found,
however, that, after expressing ourselves in the most vehement manner and
thus in a measure giving our feelings an outlet, we were reconciled to issue
the documents in milder terms. If the men of the State could have known
the stern rebukes, the denunciations, the wit, the irony, the sarcasm that
were garnered there, and then judiciously pigeonholed and milder and more
persuasive appeals substituted, they would have been truly thankful that
they fared no worse.
Senator Seward frequently left Washington to visit in our neighborhood, at
the house of Judge G.V. Sackett, a man of wealth and political influence.
One of the Senator's standing anecdotes, at dinner, to illustrate the purifying
influence of women at the polls, which he always told with great zest for
my especial benefit, was in regard to the manner in which his wife's sister
exercised the right of suffrage.
He said: "Mrs. Worden having the supervision of a farm near Auburn, was
obliged to hire two or three men for its cultivation. It was her custom,
having examined them as to their capacity to perform the required labor,
their knowledge of tools, horses, cattle, and horticulture, to inquire as to
their politics. She informed them that, being a widow and having no one to
represent her, she must have Republicans to do her voting and to represent
her political opinions, and it always so happened that the men who offered
their services belonged to the Republican party. I remarked to her, one day,
'Are you sure your men vote as they promise?' 'Yes,' she replied, 'I trust
nothing to their discretion. I take them in my carriage within sight of the
polls and put them in charge of some Republican who can be trusted. I see
that they have the right tickets and then I feel sure that I am faithfully

represented, and I know I am right in so doing. I have neither husband,
father, nor son; I am responsible for my own taxes; am amenable to all the
laws of the State; must pay the penalty of my own crimes if I commit any;
hence I have the right, according to the principles of our government, to
representation, and so long as I am not permitted to vote in person, I have a
right to do so by proxy; hence I hire men to vote my principles.'"
These two sisters, Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Seward, daughters of Judge
Miller, an influential man, were women of culture and remarkable natural
intelligence, and interested in all progressive ideas. They had rare common
sense and independence of character, great simplicity of manner, and were
wholly indifferent to the little arts of the toilet.
I was often told by fashionable women that they objected to the woman's
rights movement because of the publicity of a convention, the immodesty of
speaking from a platform, and the trial of seeing one's name in the papers.
Several ladies made such remarks to me one day, as a bevy of us were
sitting together in one of the fashionable hotels in Newport. We were
holding a convention there at that time, and some of them had been present
at one of the sessions. "Really," said I, "ladies, you surprise me; our
conventions are not as public as the ballroom where I saw you all dancing
last night. As to modesty, it may be a question, in many minds, whether it is
less modest to speak words of soberness and truth, plainly dressed on a
platform, than gorgeously arrayed, with bare arms and shoulders, to waltz in
the arms of strange gentlemen. And as to the press, I noticed you all
reading, in this morning's papers, with evident satisfaction, the personal
compliments and full descriptions of your dresses at the last ball. I presume
that any one of you would have felt slighted if your name had not been
mentioned in the general description. When my name is mentioned, it is in
connection with some great reform movement. Thus we all suffer or enjoy
the same publicity—we are alike ridiculed. Wise men pity and ridicule you,
and fools pity and ridicule me—you as the victims of folly and fashion, me
as the representative of many of the disagreeable 'isms' of the age, as they
choose to style liberal opinions. It is amusing, in analyzing prejudices, to
see on what slender foundation they rest." And the ladies around me were
so completely cornered that no one attempted an answer.

I remember being at a party at Secretary Seward's home, at Auburn, one
evening, when Mr. Burlingame, special ambassador from China to the
United States, with a Chinese delegation, were among the guests. As soon
as the dancing commenced, and young ladies and gentlemen, locked in each
other's arms, began to whirl in the giddy waltz, these Chinese gentlemen
were so shocked that they covered their faces with their fans, occasionally
peeping out each side and expressing their surprise to each other. They
thought us the most immodest women on the face of the earth. Modesty and
taste are questions of latitude and education; the more people know,—the
more their ideas are expanded by travel, experience, and observation,—the
less easily they are shocked. The narrowness and bigotry of women are the
result of their circumscribed sphere of thought and action.
A few years after Judge Hurlbert had published his work on "Human
Rights," in which he advocated woman's right to the suffrage, and I had
addressed the legislature, we met at a dinner party in Albany. Senator and
Mrs. Seward were there. The Senator was very merry on that occasion and
made Judge Hurlbert and myself the target for all his ridicule on the
woman's rights question, in which the most of the company joined, so that
we stood quite alone. Sure that we had the right on our side and the
arguments clearly defined in our minds, and both being cool and self-
possessed, and in wit and sarcasm quite equal to any of them, we fought the
Senator, inch by inch, until he had a very narrow platform to stand on. Mrs.
Seward maintained an unbroken silence, while those ladies who did open
their lips were with the opposition, supposing, no doubt, that Senator
Seward represented his wife's opinions.
When we ladies withdrew from the table my embarrassment may be easily
imagined. Separated from the Judge, I would now be an hour with a bevy of
ladies who evidently felt repugnance to all my most cherished opinions. It
was the first time I had met Mrs. Seward, and I did not then know the
broad, liberal tendencies of her mind. What a tide of disagreeable thoughts
rushed through me in that short passage from the dining room to the parlor.
How gladly I would have glided out the front door! But that was
impossible, so I made up my mind to stroll round as if self-absorbed, and
look at the books and paintings until the Judge appeared; as I took it for
granted that, after all I had said at the table on the political, religious, and
social equality of women, not a lady would have anything to say to me.

Imagine, then, my surprise when, the moment the parlor door was closed
upon us, Mrs. Seward, approaching me most affectionately, said:
"Let me thank you for the brave words you uttered at the dinner table, and
for your speech before the legislature, that thrilled my soul as I read it over
and over."
I was filled with joy and astonishment. Recovering myself, I said, "Is it
possible, Mrs. Seward, that you agree with me? Then why, when I was so
hard pressed by foes on every side, did you not come to the defense? I
supposed that all you ladies were hostile to every one of my ideas on this
question."
"No, no!" said she; "I am with you thoroughly, but I am a born coward;
there is nothing I dread more than Mr. Seward's ridicule. I would rather
walk up to the cannon's mouth than encounter it." "I, too, am with you,"
"And I," said two or three others, who had been silent at the table.
I never had a more serious, heartfelt conversation than with these ladies.
Mrs. Seward's spontaneity and earnestness had moved them all deeply, and
when the Senator appeared the first words he said were:
"Before we part I must confess that I was fairly vanquished by you and the
Judge, on my own principles" (for we had quoted some of his most radical
utterances). "You have the argument, but custom and prejudice are against
you, and they are stronger than truth and logic."

CHAPTER XIII.

REFORMS AND MOBS.

There was one bright woman among the many in our Seneca Falls literary
circle to whom I would give more than a passing notice—Mrs. Amelia
Bloomer, who represented three novel phases of woman's life. She was
assistant postmistress; an editor of a reform paper advocating temperance
and woman's rights; and an advocate of the new costume which bore her
name!
In 1849 her husband was appointed postmaster, and she became his deputy,
was duly sworn in, and, during the administration of Taylor and Fillmore,
served in that capacity. When she assumed her duties the improvement in
the appearance and conduct of the office was generally acknowledged. A
neat little room adjoining the public office became a kind of ladies'
exchange, where those coming from different parts of the town could meet
to talk over the news of the day and read the papers and magazines that
came to Mrs. Bloomer as editor of the Lily. Those who enjoyed the brief
reign of a woman in the post office can readily testify to the void felt by the
ladies of the village when Mrs. Bloomer's term expired and a man once
more reigned in her stead. However, she still edited the Lily, and her office
remained a fashionable center for several years. Although she wore the
bloomer dress, its originator was Elizabeth Smith Miller, the only daughter
of Gerrit Smith. In the winter of 1852 Mrs. Miller came to visit me in
Seneca Falls, dressed somewhat in the Turkish style—short skirt, full
trousers of fine black broadcloth; a Spanish cloak, of the same material,
reaching to the knee; beaver hat and feathers and dark furs; altogether a
most becoming costume and exceedingly convenient for walking in all
kinds of weather. To see my cousin, with a lamp in one hand and a baby in
the other, walk upstairs with ease and grace, while, with flowing robes, I
pulled myself up with difficulty, lamp and baby out of the question, readily
convinced me that there was sore need of reform in woman's dress, and I
promptly donned a similar attire. What incredible freedom I enjoyed for two
years! Like a captive set free from his ball and chain, I was always ready

for a brisk walk through sleet and snow and rain, to climb a mountain, jump
over a fence, work in the garden, and, in fact, for any necessary locomotion.
Bloomer is now a recognized word in the English language. Mrs. Bloomer,
having the Lily in which to discuss the merits of the new dress, the press
generally took up the question, and much valuable information was elicited
on the physiological results of woman's fashionable attire; the crippling
effect of tight waists and long skirts, the heavy weight on the hips, and high
heels, all combined to throw the spine out of plumb and lay the foundation
for all manner of nervous diseases. But, while all agreed that some change
was absolutely necessary for the health of women, the press stoutly
ridiculed those who were ready to make the experiment.
A few sensible women, in different parts of the country, adopted the
costume, and farmers' wives especially proved its convenience. It was also
worn by skaters, gymnasts, tourists, and in sanitariums. But, while the few
realized its advantages, the many laughed it to scorn, and heaped such
ridicule on its wearers that they soon found that the physical freedom
enjoyed did not compensate for the persistent persecution and petty
annoyances suffered at every turn. To be rudely gazed at in public and
private, to be the conscious subjects of criticism, and to be followed by
crowds of boys in the streets, were all, to the very last degree, exasperating.
A favorite doggerel that our tormentors chanted, when we appeared in
public places, ran thus:

"Heigh! ho! in rain and snow,
The bloomer now is all the go.
Twenty tailors take the stitches,
Twenty women wear the breeches.
Heigh! ho! in rain or snow,
The bloomer now is all the go."

The singers were generally invisible behind some fence or attic window.
Those who wore the dress can recall countless amusing and annoying
experiences. The patience of most of us was exhausted in about two years;
but our leader, Mrs. Miller, bravely adhered to the costume for nearly seven
years, under the most trying circumstances. While her father was in
Congress, she wore it at many fashionable dinners and receptions in

Washington. She was bravely sustained, however, by her husband, Colonel
Miller, who never flinched in escorting his wife and her coadjutors,
however inartistic their costumes might be. To tall, gaunt women with large
feet and to those who were short and stout, it was equally trying. Mrs.
Miller was also encouraged by the intense feeling of her father on the
question of woman's dress. To him the whole revolution in woman's
position turned on her dress. The long skirt was the symbol of her
degradation.
The names of those who wore the bloomer costume, besides those already
mentioned, were Paulina Wright Davis, Lucy Stone, Susan B. Anthony,
Sarah and Angelina Grimke, Mrs. William Burleigh, Celia Burleigh,
Charlotte Beebe Wilbour, Helen Jarvis, Lydia Jenkins, Amelia Willard, Dr.
Harriet N. Austin, and many patients in sanitariums, whose names I cannot
recall. Looking back to this experiment, I am not surprised at the hostility of
men in general to the dress, as it made it very uncomfortable for them to go
anywhere with those who wore it. People would stare, many men and
women make rude remarks, boys followed in crowds, with jeers and
laughter, so that gentlemen in attendance would feel it their duty to show
fight, unless they had sufficient self-control to pursue the even tenor of their
way, as the ladies themselves did, without taking the slightest notice of the
commotion they created. But Colonel Miller went through the ordeal with
coolness and dogged determination, to the vexation of his acquaintances,
who thought one of his duties as a husband was to prescribe his wife's
costume.
Though we did not realize the success we hoped for by making the dress
popular, yet the effort was not lost. We were well aware that the dress was
not artistic, and though we made many changes, our own good taste was
never satisfied until we threw aside the loose trousers and adopted buttoned
leggins. After giving up the experiment, we found that the costume in which
Diana the Huntress is represented, and that worn on the stage by Ellen Tree
in the play of "Ion," would have been more artistic and convenient. But we,
who had made the experiment, were too happy to move about unnoticed
and unknown, to risk, again, the happiness of ourselves and our friends by
any further experiments. I have never wondered since that the Chinese
women allow their daughters' feet to be encased in iron shoes, nor that the

Hindoo widows walk calmly to the funeral pyre; for great are the penalties
of those who dare resist the behests of the tyrant Custom.
Nevertheless the agitation has been kept up, in a mild form, both in England
and America. Lady Harberton, in 1885, was at the head of an organized
movement in London to introduce the bifurcated skirt; Mrs. Jenness Miller,
in this country, is making an entire revolution in every garment that belongs
to a woman's toilet; and common-sense shoemakers have vouchsafed to us,
at last, a low, square heel to our boots and a broad sole in which the five
toes can spread themselves at pleasure. Evidently a new day of physical
freedom is at last dawning for the most cribbed and crippled of Eve's
unhappy daughters.
It was while living in Seneca Falls, and at one of the most despairing
periods of my young life, that one of the best gifts of the gods came to me
in the form of a good, faithful housekeeper. She was indeed a treasure, a
friend and comforter, a second mother to my children, and understood all
life's duties and gladly bore its burdens. She could fill any department in
domestic life, and for thirty years was the joy of our household. But for this
noble, self-sacrificing woman, much of my public work would have been
quite impossible. If by word or deed I have made the journey of life easier
for any struggling soul, I must in justice share the meed of praise accorded
me with my little Quaker friend Amelia Willard.
There are two classes of housekeepers—one that will get what they want, if
in the range of human possibilities, and then accept the inevitable
inconveniences with cheerfulness and heroism; the other, from a kind of
chronic inertia and a fear of taking responsibility, accept everything as they
find it, though with gentle, continuous complainings. The latter are called
amiable women. Such a woman was our congressman's wife in 1854, and,
as I was the reservoir of all her sorrows, great and small, I became very
weary of her amiable non-resistance. Among other domestic trials, she had
a kitchen stove that smoked and leaked, which could neither bake nor broil,
—a worthless thing,—and too small for any purpose. Consequently half
their viands were spoiled in the cooking, and the cooks left in disgust, one
after another.

In telling me, one day, of these kitchen misadventures, she actually shed
tears, which so roused my sympathies that, with surprise, I exclaimed:
"Why do you not buy a new stove?" To my unassisted common sense that
seemed the most practical thing to do. "Why," she replied, "I have never
purchased a darning needle, to put the case strongly, without consulting Mr.
S., and he does not think a new stove necessary." "What, pray," said I, "does
he know about stoves, sitting in his easy-chair in Washington? If he had a
dull old knife with broken blades, he would soon get a new one with which
to sharpen his pens and pencils, and, if he attempted to cook a meal—
granting he knew how—on your old stove, he would set it out of doors the
next hour. Now my advice to you is to buy a new one this very day!"
"Bless me!" she said, "that would make him furious; he would blow me
sky-high." "Well," I replied, "suppose he did go into a regular tantrum and
use all the most startling expletives in the vocabulary for fifteen minutes!
What is that compared with a good stove 365 days in the year? Just put all
he could say on one side, and all the advantages you would enjoy on the
other, and you must readily see that his wrath would kick the beam." As my
logic was irresistible, she said, "Well, if you will go with me, and help
select a stove, I think I will take the responsibility."
Accordingly we went to the hardware store and selected the most approved,
largest-sized stove, with all the best cooking utensils, best Russian pipe, etc.
"Now," said she, "I am in equal need of a good stove in my sitting room,
and I would like the pipes of both stoves to lead into dumb stoves above,
and thus heat two or three rooms upstairs for my children to play in, as they
have no place except the sitting room, where they must be always with me;
but I suppose it is not best to do too much at one time." "On the contrary," I
replied, "as your husband is wealthy, you had better get all you really need
now. Mr. S. will probably be no more surprised with two stoves than with
one, and, as you expect a hot scene over the matter, the more you get out of
it the better."
So the stoves and pipes were ordered, holes cut through the ceiling, and all
were in working order next day. The cook was delighted over her splendid
stove and shining tins, copper-bottomed tea kettle and boiler, and warm
sleeping room upstairs; the children were delighted with their large

playrooms, and madam jubilant with her added comforts and that newborn
feeling of independence one has in assuming responsibility.
She was expecting Mr. S. home in the holidays, and occasionally weakened
at the prospect of what she feared might be a disagreeable encounter. At
such times she came to consult with me, as to what she would say and do
when the crisis arrived. Having studied the genus homo alike on the divine
heights of exaltation and in the valleys of humiliation, I was able to make
some valuable suggestions.
"Now," said I, "when your husband explodes, as you think he will, neither
say nor do anything; sit and gaze out of the window with that far-away, sad
look women know so well how to affect. If you can summon tears at
pleasure, a few would not be amiss; a gentle shower, not enough to make
the nose and eyes red or to detract from your beauty. Men cannot resist
beauty and tears. Never mar their effect with anything bordering on sobs
and hysteria; such violent manifestations being neither refined nor artistic.
A scene in which one person does the talking must be limited in time. No
ordinary man can keep at white heat fifteen minutes; if his victim says
nothing, he will soon exhaust himself. Remember every time you speak in
the way of defense, you give him a new text on which to branch out again.
If silence is ever golden, it is when a husband is in a tantrum."
In due time Mr. S. arrived, laden with Christmas presents, and Charlotte
came over to tell me that she had passed through the ordeal. I will give the
scene in her own words as nearly as possible. "My husband came yesterday,
just before dinner, and, as I expected him, I had all things in order. He
seemed very happy to see me and the children, and we had a gay time
looking at our presents and chatting about Washington and all that had
happened since we parted. It made me sad, in the midst of our happiness, to
think how soon the current of his feelings would change, and I wished in
my soul that I had not bought the stoves. But, at last, dinner was announced,
and I knew that the hour had come. He ran upstairs to give a few touches to
his toilet, when lo! the shining stoves and pipes caught his eyes. He
explored the upper apartments and came down the back stairs, glanced at
the kitchen stove, then into the dining room, and stood confounded, for a
moment, before the nickel-plated 'Morning Glory.' Then he exclaimed,
'Heavens and earth! Charlotte, what have you been doing?' I remembered

what you told me and said nothing, but looked steadily out of the window. I
summoned no tears, however, for I felt more like laughing than crying; he
looked so ridiculous flying round spasmodically, like popcorn on a hot
griddle, and talking as if making a stump speech on the corruptions of the
Democrats. The first time he paused to take breath I said, in my softest
tones: 'William, dinner is waiting; I fear the soup will be cold.' Fortunately
he was hungry, and that great central organ of life and happiness asserted its
claims on his attention, and he took his seat at the table. I broke what might
have been an awkward silence, chatting with the older children about their
school lessons. Fortunately they were late, and did not know what had
happened, so they talked to their father and gradually restored his
equilibrium. We had a very good dinner, and I have not heard a word about
the stoves since. I suppose we shall have another scene when the bill is
presented."
A few years later, Horace Greeley came to Seneca Falls to lecture on
temperance. As he stayed with us, we invited Mr. S., among others, to
dinner. The chief topic at the table was the idiosyncrasies of women. Mr.
Greeley told many amusing things about his wife, of her erratic movements
and sudden decisions to do and dare what seemed most impracticable.
Perhaps, on rising some morning, she would say: "I think I'll go to Europe
by the next steamer, Horace. Will you get tickets to-day for me, the nurse,
and children?" "Well," said Mr. S., "she must be something like our hostess.
Every time her husband goes away she cuts a door or window. They have
only ten doors to lock every night, now."
"Yes," I said, "and your own wife, too, Mrs. S., has the credit of some high-
handed measures when you are in Washington." Then I told the whole story,
amid peals of laughter, just as related above. The dinner table scene fairly
convulsed the Congressman. The thought that he had made such a fool of
himself in the eyes of Charlotte that she could not even summon a tear in
her defense, particularly pleased him. When sufficiently recovered to speak,
he said: "Well, I never could understand how it was that Charlotte suddenly
emerged from her thraldom and manifested such rare executive ability. Now
I see to whom I am indebted for the most comfortable part of my married
life. I am a thousand times obliged to you; you did just right and so did she,
and she has been a happier woman ever since. She now gets what she
needs, and frets no more, to me, about ten thousand little things. How can a

man know what implements are necessary for the work he never does? Of
all agencies for upsetting the equanimity of family life, none can surpass an
old, broken-down kitchen stove!"
In the winter of 1861, just after the election of Lincoln, the abolitionists
decided to hold a series of conventions in the chief cities of the North. All
their available speakers were pledged for active service. The Republican
party, having absorbed the political abolitionists within its ranks by its
declared hostility to the extension of slavery, had come into power with
overwhelming majorities. Hence the Garrisonian abolitionists, opposed to
all compromises, felt that this was the opportune moment to rouse the
people to the necessity of holding that party to its declared principles, and
pushing it, if possible, a step or two forward.
I was invited to accompany Miss Anthony and Beriah Green to a few points
in Central New York. But we soon found, by the concerted action of
Republicans all over the country, that anti-slavery conventions would not be
tolerated. Thus Republicans and Democrats made common cause against
the abolitionists. The John Brown raid, the year before, had intimidated
Northern politicians as much as Southern slaveholders, and the general
feeling was that the discussion of the question at the North should be
altogether suppressed.
From Buffalo to Albany our experience was the same, varied only by the
fertile resources of the actors and their surroundings. Thirty years of
education had somewhat changed the character of Northern mobs. They no
longer dragged men through the streets with ropes around their necks, nor
broke up women's prayer meetings; they no longer threw eggs and brickbats
at the apostles of reform, nor dipped them in barrels of tar and feathers, they
simply crowded the halls, and, with laughing, groaning, clapping, and
cheering, effectually interrupted the proceedings. Such was our experience
during the two days we attempted to hold a convention in St. James' Hall,
Buffalo. As we paid for the hall, the mob enjoyed themselves, at our
expense, in more ways than one. Every session, at the appointed time, we
took our places on the platform, making, at various intervals of silence,
renewed efforts to speak. Not succeeding, we sat and conversed with each
other and the many friends who crowded the platform and anterooms. Thus,
among ourselves, we had a pleasant reception and a discussion of many

phases of the question that brought us together. The mob not only
vouchsafed to us the privilege of talking to our friends without interruption,
but delegations of their own came behind the scenes, from time to time, to
discuss with us the right of free speech and the constitutionality of slavery.
These Buffalo rowdies were headed by ex-Justice Hinson, aided by younger
members of the Fillmore and Seymour families, and the chief of police and
fifty subordinates, who were admitted to the hall free, for the express
purpose of protecting our right of free speech, but who, in defiance of the
mayor's orders, made not the slightest effort in our defense. At Lockport
there was a feeble attempt in the same direction. At Albion neither hall,
church, nor schoolhouse could be obtained, so we held small meetings in
the dining room of the hotel. At Rochester, Corinthian Hall was packed long
before the hour advertised. This was a delicately appreciative, jocose mob.
At this point Aaron Powell joined us. As he had just risen from a bed of
sickness, looking pale and emaciated, he slowly mounted the platform. The
mob at once took in his look of exhaustion, and, as he seated himself, they
gave an audible simultaneous sigh, as if to say, what a relief it is to be
seated! So completely did the tender manifestation reflect Mr. Powell's
apparent condition that the whole audience burst into a roar of laughter.
Here, too, all attempts to speak were futile. At Port Byron a generous
sprinkling of cayenne pepper on the stove soon cut short all constitutional
arguments and paeans to liberty.
And so it was all the way to Albany. The whole State was aflame with the
mob spirit, and from Boston and various points in other States the same
news reached us. As the legislature was in session, and we were advertised
in Albany, a radical member sarcastically moved "That as Mrs. Stanton and
Miss Anthony were about to move on Albany, the militia be ordered out for
the protection of the city." Happily, Albany could then boast of a
Democratic mayor, a man of courage and conscience, who said the right of
free speech should never be trodden under foot where he had the right to
prevent it. And grandly did that one determined man maintain order in his
jurisdiction. Through all the sessions of the convention Mayor Thatcher sat
on the platform, his police stationed in different parts of the hall and outside
the building, to disperse the crowd as fast as it collected. If a man or boy
hissed or made the slightest interruption, he was immediately ejected. And
not only did the mayor preserve order in the meetings, but, with a company

of armed police, he escorted us, every time, to and from the Delevan House.
The last night Gerrit Smith addressed the mob from the steps of the hotel,
after which they gave him three cheers and dispersed in good order.
When proposing for the Mayor a vote of thanks, at the close of the
convention, Mr. Smith expressed his fears that it had been a severe ordeal
for him to listen to these prolonged anti-slavery discussions. He smiled, and
said: "I have really been deeply interested and instructed. I rather
congratulate myself that a convention of this character has, at last, come in
the line of my business; otherwise I should have probably remained in
ignorance of many important facts and opinions I now understand and
appreciate."
While all this was going on publicly, an equally trying experience was
progressing, day by day, behind the scenes. Miss Anthony had been
instrumental in helping a much abused mother, with her child, to escape
from a husband who had immured her in an insane asylum. The wife
belonged to one of the first families of New York, her brother being a
United States senator, and the husband, also, a man of position; a large
circle of friends and acquaintances was interested in the result. Though she
was incarcerated in an insane asylum for eighteen months, yet members of
her own family again and again testified that she was not insane. Miss
Anthony, knowing that she was not, and believing fully that the unhappy
mother was the victim of a conspiracy, would not reveal her hiding place.
Knowing the confidence Miss Anthony felt in the wisdom of Mr. Garrison
and Mr. Phillips, they were implored to use their influence with her to give
up the fugitives. Letters and telegrams, persuasions, arguments, and
warnings from Mr. Garrison, Mr. Phillips, and the Senator on the one side,
and from Lydia Mott, Mrs. Elizabeth F. Ellet, and Abby Hopper Gibbons,
on the other, poured in upon her, day after day; but Miss Anthony remained
immovable, although she knew that she was defying and violating the law
and might be arrested any moment on the platform. We had known so many
aggravated cases of this kind that, in daily counsel, we resolved that this
woman should not be recaptured if it were possible to prevent it. To us it
looked as imperative a duty to shield a sane mother, who had been torn
from a family of little children and doomed to the companionship of
lunatics, and to aid her in fleeing to a place of safety, as to help a fugitive

from slavery to Canada. In both cases an unjust law was violated; in both
cases the supposed owners of the victims were defied; hence, in point of
law and morals, the act was the same in both cases. The result proved the
wisdom of Miss Anthony's decision, as all with whom Mrs. P. came in
contact for years afterward, expressed the opinion that she was, and always
had been, perfectly sane. Could the dark secrets of insane asylums be
brought to light we should be shocked to know the great number of
rebellious wives, sisters, and daughters who are thus sacrificed to false
customs and barbarous laws made by men for women.

CHAPTER XIV.

VIEWS ON MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE.
The widespread discussion we are having, just now, on the subject of
marriage and divorce, reminds me of an equally exciting one in 1860. A
very liberal bill, introduced into the Indiana legislature by Robert Dale
Owen, and which passed by a large majority, roused much public thought
on the question, and made that State free soil for unhappy wives and
husbands. A similar bill was introduced into the legislature of New York by
Mr. Ramsey, which was defeated by four votes, owing, mainly, to the
intense opposition of Horace Greeley. He and Mr. Owen had a prolonged
discussion, in the New York Tribune, in which Mr. Owen got decidedly the
better of the argument.
There had been several aggravated cases of cruelty to wives among the
Dutch aristocracy, so that strong influences in favor of the bill had been
brought to bear on the legislature, but the Tribune thundered every morning
in its editorial column its loudest peals, which reverberated through the
State. So bitter was the opposition to divorce, for any cause, that but few
dared to take part in the discussion. I was the only woman, for many years,
who wrote and spoke on the question. Articles on divorce, by a number of
women, recently published in the North American Review, are a sign of
progress, showing that women dare speak out now more freely on the
relations that most deeply concern them.
My feelings had been stirred to their depths very early in life by the
sufferings of a dear friend of mine, at whose wedding I was one of the
bridesmaids. In listening to the facts in her case, my mind was fully made
up as to the wisdom of a liberal divorce law. We read Milton's essays on
divorce, together, and were thoroughly convinced as to the right and duty
not only of separation, but of absolute divorce. While the New York bill was
pending, I was requested, by Lewis Benedict, one of the committee who
had the bill in charge, to address the legislature. I gladly accepted, feeling
that here was an opportunity not only to support my friend in the step she
had taken, but to make the path clear for other unhappy wives who might
desire to follow her example. I had no thought of the persecution I was

drawing down on myself for thus attacking so venerable an institution. I
was always courageous in saying what I saw to be true, for the simple
reason that I never dreamed of opposition. What seemed to me to be right I
thought must be equally plain to all other rational beings. Hence I had no
dread of denunciation. I was only surprised when I encountered it, and no
number of experiences have, as yet, taught me to fear public opinion. What
I said on divorce thirty-seven years ago seems quite in line with what many
say now. The trouble was not in what I said, but that I said it too soon, and
before the people were ready to hear it. It may be, however, that I helped
them to get ready; who knows?
As we were holding a woman suffrage convention in Albany, at the time
appointed for the hearing, Ernestine L. Rose and Lucretia Mott briefly
added their views on the question. Although Mrs. Mott had urged Mrs. Rose
and myself to be as moderate as possible in our demands, she quite
unconsciously made the most radical utterance of all, in saying that
marriage was a question beyond the realm of legislation, that must be left to
the parties themselves. We rallied Lucretia on her radicalism, and some of
the journals criticised us severely; but the following letter shows that she
had no thought of receding from her position:
"Roadside, near Philadelphia,
"4th Mo., 30th, '61.
"My Dear Lydia Mott:
"I have wished, ever since parting with thee and our
other dear friends in Albany, to send thee a line, and
have only waited in the hope of contributing a little
'substantial aid' toward your neat and valuable
'depository.' The twenty dollars inclosed is from our
Female Anti-slavery Society.
"I see the annual meeting, in New York, is not to be
held this spring. Sister Martha is here, and was
expecting to attend both anniversaries. But we now
think the woman's rights meeting had better not be
attempted, and she has written Elizabeth C. Stanton to
this effect.

"I was well satisfied with being at the Albany meeting. I
have since met with the following, from a speech of
Lord Brougham's, which pleased me, as being as radical
as mine in your stately Hall of Representatives:
"'Before women can have any justice by the laws of
England, there must be a total reconstruction of the
whole marriage system; for any attempt to amend it
would prove useless. The great charter, in establishing
the supremacy of law over prerogative, provides only
for justice between man and man; for woman nothing is
left but common law, accumulations and modifications
of original Gothic and Roman heathenism, which no
amount of filtration through ecclesiastical courts could
change into Christian laws. They are declared unworthy
a Christian people by great jurists; still they remain
unchanged.'
"So Elizabeth Stanton will see that I have authority for
going to the root of the evil.
"Thine,
"LUCRETIA MOTT."
Those of us who met in Albany talked the matter over in regard to a free
discussion of the divorce question at the coming convention in New York. It
was the opinion of those present that, as the laws on marriage and divorce
were very unequal for man and woman, this was a legitimate subject for
discussion on our platform; accordingly I presented a series of resolutions,
at the annual convention, in New York city, to which I spoke for over an
hour. I was followed by Antoinette L, Brown, who also presented a series of
resolutions in opposition to mine. She was, in turn, answered by Ernestine
L. Rose. Wendell Phillips then arose, and, in an impressive manner
pronounced the whole discussion irrelevant to our platform, and moved that
neither the speeches nor resolutions go on the records of the convention. As
I greatly admired Wendell Phillips, and appreciated his good opinion, I was
surprised and humiliated to find myself under the ban of his disapprobation.
My face was scarlet, and I trembled with mingled feelings of doubt and fear

—doubt as to the wisdom of my position and fear lest the convention
should repudiate the whole discussion. My emotion was so apparent that
Rev. Samuel Longfellow, a brother of the poet, who sat beside me,
whispered in my ear, "Nevertheless you are right, and the convention will
sustain you."
Mr. Phillips said that as marriage concerned man and woman alike, and the
laws bore equally on them, women had no special ground for complaint,
although, in my speech, I had quoted many laws to show the reverse. Mr.
Garrison and Rev. Antoinette L. Brown were alike opposed to Mr. Phillips'
motion, and claimed that marriage and divorce were legitimate subjects for
discussion on our platform. Miss Anthony closed the debate. She said: "I
hope Mr. Phillips will withdraw his motion that these resolutions shall not
appear on the records of the convention. I am very sure that it would be
contrary to all parliamentary usage to say that, when the speeches which
enforced and advocated the resolutions are reported and published in the
proceedings, the resolutions shall not be placed there. And as to the point
that this question does not belong to this platform—from that I totally
dissent. Marriage has ever been a one-sided matter, resting most unequally
upon the sexes. By it man gains all; woman loses all; tyrant law and lust
reign supreme with him; meek submission and ready obedience alone befit
her. Woman has never been consulted; her wish has never been taken into
consideration as regards the terms of the marriage compact. By law, public
sentiment, and religion,—from the time of Moses down to the present day,
—woman has never been thought of other than as a piece of property, to be
disposed of at the will and pleasure of man. And at this very hour, by our
statute books, by our (so-called) enlightened Christian civilization, she has
no voice whatever in saying what shall be the basis of the relation. She must
accept marriage as man proffers it, or not at all.
"And then, again, on Mr. Phillips' own ground, the discussion is perfectly in
order, since nearly all the wrongs of which we complain grow out of the
inequality of the marriage laws, that rob the wife of the right to herself and
her children; that make her the slave of the man she marries. I hope,
therefore, the resolutions will be allowed to go out to the public; that there
may be a fair report of the ideas which have actually been presented here;
that they may not be left to the mercy of the secular press, I trust the

convention will not vote to forbid the publication of those resolutions with
the proceedings."
Rev. William Hoisington (the blind preacher) followed Miss Anthony, and
said: "Publish all that you have done here, and let the public know it."
The question was then put, on the motion of Mr. Phillips, and it was lost.
As Mr. Greeley, in commenting on the convention, took the same ground
with Mr. Phillips, that the laws on marriage and divorce were equal for man
and woman, I answered them in the following letter to the New York
Tribune.
"To the Editor of the New York Tribune:
"Sir: At our recent National Woman's Rights
Convention many were surprised to hear Wendell
Phillips object to the question of marriage and divorce
as irrelevant to our platform. He said: 'We had no right
to discuss here any laws or customs but those where
inequality existed for the sexes; that the laws on
marriage and divorce rested equally on man and
woman; that he suffers, as much as she possibly could,
the wrongs and abuses of an ill-assorted marriage.'
"Now it must strike every careful thinker that an
immense difference rests in the fact that man has made
the laws cunningly and selfishly for his own purpose.
From Coke down to Kent, who can cite one clause of
the marriage contract where woman has the advantage?
When man suffers from false legislation he has his
remedy in his own hands. Shall woman be denied the
right of protest against laws in which she had no voice;
laws which outrage the holiest affections of her nature;
laws which transcend the limits of human legislation, in
a convention called for the express purpose of
considering her wrongs? He might as well object to a
protest against the injustice of hanging a woman,

because capital punishment bears equally on man and
woman.
"The contract of marriage is by no means equal. The
law permits the girl to marry at twelve years of age,
while it requires several years more of experience on
the part of the boy. In entering this compact, the man
gives up nothing that he before possessed, he is a man
still; while the legal existence of the woman is
suspended during marriage, and, henceforth, she is
known but in and through the husband. She is nameless,
purseless, childless—though a woman, an heiress, and a
mother.
"Blackstone says: 'The husband and wife are one, and
that one is the husband.' Chancellor Kent, in his
'Commentaries' says: 'The legal effects of marriage are
generally deducible from the principle of the common
law, by which the husband and wife are regarded as one
person, and her legal existence and authority lost or
suspended during the continuance of the matrimonial
union.'
"The wife is regarded by all legal authorities as a feme
covert, placed wholly sub potestate viri. Her moral
responsibility, even, is merged in her husband. The law
takes it for granted that the wife lives in fear of her
husband; that his command is her highest law; hence a
wife is not punishable for the theft committed in the
presence of her husband. An unmarried woman can
make contracts, sue and be sued, enjoy the rights of
property, to her inheritance—to her wages—to her
person—to her children; but, in marriage, she is robbed
by law of all and every natural and civil right. Kent
further says: 'The disability of the wife to contract, so as
to bind herself, arises not from want of discretion, but
because she has entered into an indissoluble connection
by which she is placed under the power and protection

of her husband.' She is possessed of certain rights until
she is married; then all are suspended, to revive, again,
the moment the breath goes out of the husband's body.
(See 'Cowen's Treatise,' vol. 2, p. 709.)
"If the contract be equal, whence come the terms
'marital power,' 'marital rights,' 'obedience and restraint,'
'dominion and control,' 'power and protection,' etc.,
etc.? Many cases are stated, showing the exercise of a
most questionable power over the wife, sustained by the
courts. (See 'Bishop on Divorce,' p. 489.)
"The laws on divorce are quite as unequal as those on
marriage; yea, far more so. The advantages seem to be
all on one side and the penalties on the other. In case of
divorce, if the husband be not the guilty party, the wife
goes out of the partnership penniless. (Kent, vol. 2, p.
33; 'Bishop on Divorce,' p. 492.)
"In New York, and some other States, the wife of the
guilty husband can now sue for a divorce in her own
name, and the costs come out of the husband's estate;
but, in the majority of the States, she is still compelled
to sue in the name of another, as she has no means for
paying costs, even though she may have brought her
thousands into the partnership. 'The allowance to the
innocent wife of ad interim alimony and money to
sustain the suit, is not regarded as a strict right in her,
but of sound discretion in the court.' ('Bishop on
Divorce,' p. 581.)
"'Many jurists,' says Kent, 'are of opinion that the
adultery of the husband ought not to be noticed or made
subject to the same animadversions as that of the wife,
because it is not evidence of such entire depravity nor
equally injurious in its effects upon the morals, good
order, and happiness of the domestic life. Montesquieu,
Pothier, and Dr. Taylor all insist that the cases of

husband and wife ought to be distinguished, and that
the violation of the marriage vow, on the part of the
wife, is the most mischievous, and the prosecution
ought to be confined to the offense on her part. ("Esprit
des Lois," tom. 3, 186; "Traité du Contrat de Mariage,"
No. 516; "Elements of Civil Law," p. 254).'
"Say you, 'These are but the opinions of men'? On what
else, I ask, are the hundreds of women depending, who,
this hour, demand in our courts a release from
burdensome contracts? Are not these delicate matters
left wholly to the discretion of courts? Are not young
women from the first families dragged into our courts,
—into assemblies of men exclusively,—the judges all
men, the jurors all men? No true woman there to shield
them, by her presence, from gross and impertinent
questionings, to pity their misfortunes, or to protest
against their wrongs?
"The administration of justice depends far more on the
opinions of eminent jurists than on law alone, for law is
powerless when at variance with public sentiment.
"Do not the above citations clearly prove inequality?
Are not the very letter and spirit of the marriage
contract based on the idea of the supremacy of man as
the keeper of woman's virtue—her sole protector and
support? Out of marriage, woman asks nothing, at this
hour, but the elective franchise. It is only in marriage
that she must demand her right to person, children,
property, wages, life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness. How can we discuss all the laws and
conditions of marriage, without perceiving its essential
essence, end, and aim? Now, whether the institution of
marriage be human or divine, whether regarded as
indissoluble by ecclesiastical courts or dissoluble by
civil courts, woman, finding herself equally degraded in
each and every phase of it, always the victim of the

institution, it is her right and her duty to sift the relation
and the compact through and through, until she finds
out the true cause of her false position. How can we go
before the legislatures of our respective States and
demand new laws, or no laws, on divorce, until we have
some idea of what the true relation is?
"We decide the whole question of slavery by settling the
sacred rights of the individual. We assert that man
cannot hold property in man, and reject the whole code
of laws that conflicts with the self-evident truth of the
assertion.
"Again, I ask, is it possible to discuss all the laws of a
relation, and not touch the relation itself?
"Yours respectfully,
"Elizabeth Cady Stanton."
The discussion on the question of marriage and divorce occupied one entire
session of the convention, and called down on us severe criticisms from the
metropolitan and State press. So alarming were the comments on what had
been said that I began to feel that I had inadvertently taken out the
underpinning from the social system. Enemies were unsparing in their
denunciations, and friends ridiculed the whole proceeding. I was constantly
called on for a definition of marriage and asked to describe home life as it
would be when men changed their wives every Christmas. Letters and
newspapers poured in upon me, asking all manner of absurd questions, until
I often wept with vexation. So many things, that I had neither thought nor
said, were attributed to me that, at times, I really doubted my own identity.
However, in the progress of events the excitement died away, the earth
seemed to turn on its axis as usual, women were given in marriage, children
were born, fires burned as brightly as ever at the domestic altars, and family
life, to all appearances, was as stable as usual.
Public attention was again roused to this subject by the McFarland-
Richardson trial, in which the former shot the latter, being jealous of his
attentions to his wife. McFarland was a brutal, improvident husband, who

had completely alienated his wife's affections, while Mr. Richardson, who
had long been a cherished acquaintance of the family, befriended the wife in
the darkest days of her misery. She was a very refined, attractive woman,
and a large circle of warm friends stood by her through the fierce ordeal of
her husband's trial.
Though McFarland did not deny that he killed Richardson, yet he was
acquitted on the plea of insanity, and was, at the same time, made the legal
guardian of his child, a boy, then, twelve years of age, and walked out of the
court with him, hand in hand. What a travesty on justice and common sense
that, while a man is declared too insane to be held responsible for taking the
life of another, he might still be capable of directing the life and education
of a child! And what an insult to that intelligent mother, who had devoted
twelve years of her life to his care, while his worthless father had not
provided for them the necessaries of life!
She married Mr. Richardson on his deathbed. The ceremony was performed
by Henry Ward Beecher and Rev. O.B. Frothingham, while such men as
Horace Greeley and Joshua Leavitt witnessed the solemn service. Though
no shadow had ever dimmed Mrs. Richardson's fair fame, yet she was
rudely treated in the court and robbed of her child, though by far the most
fitting parent to be intrusted with his care.
As the indignation among women was general and at white heat with regard
to her treatment, Miss Anthony suggested to me, one day, that it would be a
golden opportunity to give women a lesson on their helplessness under the
law—wholly in the power of man as to their domestic relations, as well as
to their civil and political rights. Accordingly we decided to hold some
meetings, for women alone, to protest against the decision of this trial, the
general conduct of the case, the tone of the press, and the laws that made it
possible to rob a mother of her child.
Many ladies readily enlisted in the movement. I was invited to make the
speech on the occasion, and Miss Anthony arranged for two great meetings,
one in Apollo Hall, New York city, and one in the Academy of Music, in
Brooklyn. The result was all that we could desire. Miss Anthony, with
wonderful executive ability, made all the arrangements, taking on her own
shoulders the whole financial responsibility.

My latest thought on this question I gave in The Arena of April, 1894, from
which I quote the following:
"There is a demand just now for an amendment to the
United States Constitution that shall make the laws of
marriage and divorce the same in all the States of the
Union. As the suggestion comes uniformly from those
who consider the present divorce laws too liberal, we
may infer that the proposed national law is to place the
whole question on a narrower basis, rendering null and
void the laws that have been passed in a broader spirit,
according to the needs and experiences, in certain
sections, of the sovereign people. And here let us bear
in mind that the widest possible law would not make
divorce obligatory on anyone, while a restricted law, on
the contrary, would compel many, marrying, perhaps,
under more liberal laws, to remain in uncongenial
relations.
"As we are still in the experimental stage on this
question, we are not qualified to make a perfect law that
would work satisfactorily over so vast an area as our
boundaries now embrace. I see no evidence in what has
been published on this question, of late, by statesmen,
ecclesiastics, lawyers, and judges, that any of them have
thought sufficiently on the subject to prepare a well-
digested code, or a comprehensive amendment to the
national Constitution. Some view it as a civil contract,
though not governed by the laws of other contracts;
some view it as a religious ordinance—a sacrament;
some think it a relation to be regulated by the State,
others by the Church, and still others think it should be
left wholly to the individual. With this wide divergence
of opinion among our leading minds, it is quite evident
that we are not prepared for a national law.
"Moreover, as woman is the most important factor in
the marriage relation, her enfranchisement is the primal

step in deciding the basis of family life. Before public
opinion on this question crystallizes into an amendment
to the national Constitution, the wife and mother must
have a voice in the governing power and must be heard,
on this great problem, in the halls of legislation.
"There are many advantages in leaving all these
questions, as now, to the States. Local self-government
more readily permits of experiments on mooted
questions, which are the outcome of the needs and
convictions of the community. The smaller the area
over which legislation extends, the more pliable are the
laws. By leaving the States free to experiment in their
local affairs, we can judge of the working of different
laws under varying circumstances, and thus learn their
comparative merits. The progress education has
achieved in America is due to the fact that we have left
our system of public instruction in the hands of local
authorities. How different would be the solution of the
great educational question of manual labor in the
schools, if the matter had to be settled at Washington!
"The whole nation might find itself pledged to a scheme
that a few years would prove wholly impracticable. Not
only is the town meeting, as Emerson says, 'the cradle
of American liberties,' but it is the nursery of Yankee
experiment and wisdom. England, with its clumsy
national code of education, making one inflexible
standard of scholarship for the bright children of the
manufacturing districts and the dull brains of the
agricultural counties, should teach us a lesson as to the
wisdom of keeping apart state and national government.
"Before we can decide the just grounds for divorce, we
must get a clear idea of what constitutes marriage. In a
true relation the chief object is the loving
companionship of man and woman, their capacity for
mutual help and happiness and for the development of

all that is noblest in each other. The second object is the
building up a home and family, a place of rest, peace,
security, in which child-life can bud and blossom like
flowers in the sunshine.
"The first step toward making the ideal the real, is to
educate our sons and daughters into the most exalted
ideas of the sacredness of married life and the
responsibilities of parenthood. I would have them give,
at least, as much thought to the creation of an immortal
being as the artist gives to his landscape or statue.
Watch him in his hours of solitude, communing with
great Nature for days and weeks in all her changing
moods, and when at last his dream of beauty is realized
and takes a clearly defined form, behold how patiently
he works through long months and years on sky and
lake, on tree and flower; and when complete, it
represents to him more love and life, more hope and
ambition, than the living child at his side, to whose
conception and antenatal development not one soulful
thought was ever given. To this impressible period of
human life, few parents give any thought; yet here we
must begin to cultivate virtues that can alone redeem
the world.
"The contradictory views in which woman is
represented are as pitiful as varied. While the
Magnificat to the Virgin is chanted in all our cathedrals
round the globe on each returning Sabbath day, and her
motherhood extolled by her worshipers, maternity for
the rest of womankind is referred to as a weakness, a
disability, a curse, an evidence of woman's divinely
ordained subjection. Yet surely the real woman should
have some points of resemblance in character and
position with the ideal one, whom poets, novelists, and
artists portray.

"It is folly to talk of the sacredness of marriage and
maternity, while the wife is practically regarded as an
inferior, a subject, a slave. Having decided that
companionship and conscientious parenthood are the
only true grounds for marriage, if the relation brings out
the worst characteristics of each party, or if the home
atmosphere is unwholesome for children, is not the very
raison d'être of the union wanting, and the marriage
practically annulled? It cannot be called a holy relation,
—no, not a desirable one,—when love and mutual
respect are wanting. And let us bear in mind one other
important fact: the lack of sympathy and content in the
parents indicates radical physical unsuitability, which
results in badly organized offspring. If, then, the real
object of marriage is defeated, it is for the interest of the
State, as well as the individual concerned, to see that all
such pernicious unions be legally dissolved. Inasmuch,
then, as incompatibility of temper defeats the two great
objects of marriage, it should be the primal cause for
divorce.
"The true standpoint from which to view this question
is individual sovereignty, individual happiness. It is
often said that the interests of society are paramount,
and first to be considered. This was the Roman idea, the
Pagan idea, that the individual was made for the State.
The central idea of barbarism has ever been the family,
the tribe, the nation—never the individual. But the great
doctrine of Christianity is the right of individual
conscience and judgment. The reason it took such a
hold on the hearts of the people was because it taught
that the individual was primary; the State, the Church,
society, the family, secondary. However, a
comprehensive view of any question of human interest,
shows that the highest good and happiness of the
individual and society lie in the same direction.

"The question of divorce, like marriage, should be
settled, as to its most sacred relations, by the parties
themselves; neither the State nor the Church having any
right to intermeddle therein. As to property and
children, it must be viewed and regulated as a civil
contract. Then the union should be dissolved with at
least as much deliberation and publicity as it was
formed. There might be some ceremony and witnesses
to add to the dignity and solemnity of the occasion.
Like the Quaker marriage, which the parties conduct
themselves, so, in this case, without any statement of
their disagreements, the parties might simply declare
that, after living together for several years, they found
themselves unsuited to each other, and incapable of
making a happy home.
"If divorce were made respectable, and recognized by
society as a duty, as well as a right, reasonable men and
women could arrange all the preliminaries, often, even,
the division of property and guardianship of children,
quite as satisfactorily as it could be done in the courts.
Where the mother is capable of training the children, a
sensible father would leave them to her care rather than
place them in the hands of a stranger.
"But, where divorce is not respectable, men who have
no paternal feeling will often hold the child, not so
much for its good or his own affection, as to punish the
wife for disgracing him. The love of children is not
strong in most men, and they feel but little
responsibility in regard to them. See how readily they
turn off young sons to shift for themselves, and, unless
the law compelled them to support their illegitimate
children, they would never give them a second thought.
But on the mother-soul rest forever the care and
responsibility of human life. Her love for the child born
out of wedlock is often intensified by the infinite pity
she feels through its disgrace. Even among the lower

animals we find the female ever brooding over the
young and helpless.
"Limiting the causes of divorce to physical defects or
delinquencies; making the proceedings public; prying
into all the personal affairs of unhappy men and
women; regarding the step as quasi criminal; punishing
the guilty party in the suit; all this will not strengthen
frail human nature, will not insure happy homes, will
not banish scandals and purge society of prostitution.
"No, no; the enemy of marriage, of the State, of society
is not liberal divorce laws, but the unhealthy
atmosphere that exists in the home itself. A legislative
act cannot make a unit of a divided family."

CHAPTER XV.

WOMEN AS PATRIOTS.

On April 15, 1861, the President of the United States called out seventy-five
thousand militia, and summoned Congress to meet July 4, when four
hundred thousand men were called for, and four hundred millions of dollars
were voted to suppress the Rebellion.
These startling events roused the entire people, and turned the current of
their thoughts in new directions. While the nation's life hung in the balance,
and the dread artillery of war drowned, alike, the voices of commerce,
politics, religion, and reform, all hearts were filled with anxious
forebodings, all hands were busy in solemn preparations for the awful
tragedies to come.
At this eventful hour the patriotism of woman shone forth as fervently and
spontaneously as did that of man; and her self-sacrifice and devotion were
displayed in as many varied fields of action. While he buckled on his
knapsack and marched forth to conquer the enemy, she planned the
campaigns which brought the nation victory; fought in the ranks, when she
could do so without detection; inspired the sanitary commission; gathered
needed supplies for the grand army; provided nurses for the hospitals;
comforted the sick; smoothed the pillows of the dying; inscribed the last
messages of lave to those far away; and marked the resting places where the
brave men fell. The labor women accomplished, the hardships they
endured, the time and strength they sacrificed in the War that summoned
three million men to arms, can never be fully appreciated.
Indeed, we may safely say that there is scarcely a loyal woman in the North
who did not do something in aid of the cause; who did not contribute time,
labor, and money to the comfort of our soldiers and the success of our arms.
The story of the War will never be fully written if the achievements of
women are left untold. They do not figure in the official reports; they are
not gazetted for gallant deeds; the names of thousands are unknown beyond
the neighborhood where they lived, or the hospitals where they loved to

labor; yet there is no feature in our War more creditable to us as a nation,
none from its positive newness so well worthy of record.
While the mass of women never philosophize on the principles that underlie
national existence, there were those in our late War who understood the
political significance of the struggle; the "irrepressible conflict" between
freedom and slavery, between National and State rights. They saw that to
provide lint, bandages, and supplies for the army, while the War was not
conducted on a wise policy, was to labor in vain; and while many
organizations, active, vigilant, and self-sacrificing, were multiplied to look
after the material wants of the army, these few formed themselves into a
National Loyal League, to teach sound principles of government and to
impress on the nation's conscience that freedom for the slaves was the only
way to victory. Accustomed, as most women had been to works of charity
and to the relief of outward suffering, it was difficult to rouse their
enthusiasm for an idea, to persuade them to labor for a principle. They
clamored for practical work, something for their hands to do; for fairs and
sewing societies to raise money for soldier's families, for tableaux, readings,
theatricals—anything but conventions to discuss principles and to circulate
petitions for emancipation. They could not see that the best service they
could render the army was to suppress the Rebellion, and that the most
effective way to accomplish that was to transform the slaves into soldiers.
This Woman's Loyal League voiced the solemn lessons of the War: Liberty
to all; national protection for every citizen under our flag; universal
suffrage, and universal amnesty.
After consultation with Horace Greeley, William Lloyd Garrison, Governor
Andrews, and Robert Dale Owen, Miss Anthony and I decided to call a
meeting of women in Cooper Institute and form a Woman's Loyal League,
to advocate the immediate emancipation and enfranchisement of the
Southern slaves, as the most speedy way of ending the War, so we issued, in
tract form, and extensively circulated the following call:
"In this crisis of our country's destiny, it is the duty of
every citizen to consider the peculiar blessings of a
republican form of government, and decide what
sacrifices of wealth and life are demanded for its
defense and preservation. The policy of the War, our

whole future life, depend on a clearly defined idea of
the end proposed and the immense advantages to be
secured to ourselves and all mankind by its
accomplishment. No mere party or sectional cry, no
technicalities of constitutional or military law, no
mottoes of craft or policy are big enough to touch the
great heart of a nation in the midst of revolution. A
grand idea—such as freedom or justice—is needful to
kindle and sustain the fires of a high enthusiasm.
"At this hour, the best word and work of every man and
woman are imperatively demanded. To man, by
common consent, are assigned the forum, camp, and
field. What is woman's legitimate work and how she
may best accomplish it, is worthy our earnest counsel
one with another. We have heard many complaints of
the lack of enthusiasm, among Northern women; but
when a mother lays her son on the altar of her country,
she asks an object equal to the sacrifice. In nursing the
sick and wounded, knitting socks, scraping lint, and
making jellies the bravest and best may weary if the
thoughts mount not in faith to something beyond and
above it all. Work is worship only when a noble
purpose fills the soul. Woman is equally interested and
responsible with man in the final settlement of this
problem of self-government; therefore let none stand
idle spectators now. When every hour is big with
destiny, and each delay but complicates our difficulties,
it is high time for the daughters of the Revolution, in
solemn council, to unseal the last will and testaments of
the fathers, lay hold of their birthright of freedom, and
keep it a sacred trust for all coming generations.
"To this end we ask the Loyal Women of the Nation to
meet in the Church of the Puritans (Dr. Cheever's), New
York, on Thursday, the 14th of May next.

"Let the women of every State be largely represented in
person or by letter.
"On behalf of the Woman's Central Committee,
"Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
"Susan B. Anthony."
Among other resolutions adopted at the meeting were the following:
"Resolved, There never can be a true peace in this
Republic until the civil and political rights of all
citizens of African descent and all women are
practically established.
"Resolved, That the women of the Revolution were not
wanting in heroism and self-sacrifice, and we, their
daughters, are ready, in this War, to pledge our time, our
means, our talents, and our lives, if need be, to secure
the final and complete consecration of America to
freedom."
It was agreed that the practical work to be done to secure freedom for the
slaves was to circulate petitions through all the Northern States. For months
these petitions were circulated diligently everywhere, as the signatures
show—some signed on fence posts, plows, the anvil, the shoemaker's bench
—by women of fashion and those in the industries, alike in the parlor and
the kitchen; by statesmen, professors in colleges, editors, bishops; by
sailors, and soldiers, and the hard-handed children of toil, building railroads
and bridges, and digging canals, and in mines in the bowels of the earth.
Petitions, signed by three hundred thousand persons, can now be seen in the
national archives in the Capitol at Washington. Three of my sons spent
weeks in our office in Cooper Institute, rolling up the petitions from each
State separately, and inscribing on the outside the number of names of men
and women contained therein. We sent appeals to the President the House of
Representatives, and the Senate, from time to time, urging emancipation
and the passage of the proposed Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth
Amendments to the National Constitution. During these eventful months we

received many letters from Senator Sumner, saying, "Send on the petitions
as fast as received; they give me opportunities for speech."
Robert Dale Owen, chairman of the Freedman's Commission, was most
enthusiastic in the work of the Loyal League, and came to our rooms
frequently to suggest new modes of agitation and to give us an inkling of
what was going on behind the scenes in Washington. Those who had been
specially engaged in the Woman Suffrage movement suspended their
conventions during the war, and gave their time and thought wholly to the
vital issues of the hour. Seeing the political significance of the war, they
urged the emancipation of the slaves as the sure, quick way of cutting the
Gordian knot of the Rebellion. To this end they organized a national league,
and rolled up a mammoth petition, urging Congress so to amend the
Constitution as to prohibit the existence of slavery in the United States.
From their headquarters in Cooper Institute, New York city, they sent out
the appeals to the President, Congress, and the people at large; tracts and
forms of petition, franked by members of Congress, were scattered like
snowflakes from Maine to Texas. Meetings were held every week, in which
the policy of the Government was freely discussed, and approved or
condemned.
That this League did a timely educational work is manifested by the letters
received from generals, statesmen, editors, and from women in most of the
Northern States, fully indorsing its action and principles. The clearness to
thinking women of the cause of the War; the true policy in waging it; their
steadfastness in maintaining the principles of freedom, are worthy of
consideration. With this League abolitionists and Republicans heartily co-
operated. A course of lectures was delivered for its benefit in Cooper
Institute, by such men as Horace Greeley, George William Curtis, William
D. Kelly, Wendell Phillips, E.P. Whipple, Frederick Douglass, Theodore D.
Weld, Rev. Dr. Tyng, and Dr. Bellows. Many letters are on its files from
Charles Sumner, approving its measures, and expressing great satisfaction
at the large number of emancipation petitions being rolled into Congress.
The Republican press, too, was highly complimentary. The New York
Tribune said: "The women of the Loyal League have shown great practical
wisdom in restricting their efforts to one subject, the most important which
any society can aim at in this hour, and great courage in undertaking to do

what never has been done in the world before, to obtain one million of
names to a petition."
The leading journals vied with each other in praising the patience and
prudence, the executive ability, the loyalty, and the patriotism of the women
of the League, and yet these were the same women who, when demanding
civil and political rights, privileges, and immunities for themselves, had
been uniformly denounced as "unwise," "imprudent," "fanatical," and
"impracticable." During the six years they held their own claims in
abeyance to those of the slaves of the South, and labored to inspire the
people with enthusiasm for the great measures of the Republican party, they
were highly honored as "wise, loyal, and clear-sighted." But when the
slaves were emancipated, and these women asked that they should be
recognized in the reconstruction as citizens of the Republic, equal before
the law, all these transcendent virtues vanished like dew before the morning
sun. And thus it ever is: so long as woman labors to second man's endeavors
and exalt his sex above her own, her virtues pass unquestioned; but when
she dares to demand rights and privileges for herself, her motives, manners,
dress, personal appearance, and character are subjects for ridicule and
detraction.
Liberty, victorious over slavery on the battlefield, had now more powerful
enemies to encounter at Washington. The slaves set free, the master
conquered, the South desolate; the two races standing face to face, sharing
alike the sad results of war, turned with appealing looks to the general
government, as if to say, "How stand we now?" "What next?" Questions our
statesmen, beset with dangers, with fears for the nation's life, of party
divisions, of personal defeat, were wholly unprepared to answer. The
reconstruction of the South involved the reconsideration of the fundamental
principles of our Government and the natural rights of man. The nation's
heart was thrilled with prolonged debates in Congress and State legislatures,
in the pulpits and public journals, and at every fireside on these vital
questions, which took final shape in the three historic amendments to the
Constitution.
The first point, his emancipation, settled, the political status of the negro
was next in order; and to this end various propositions were submitted to
Congress. But to demand his enfranchisement on the broad principle of

natural rights was hedged about with difficulties, as the logical result of
such action must be the enfranchisement of all ostracized classes; not only
the white women of the entire country, but the slave women of the South.
Though our senators and representatives had an honest aversion to any
proscriptive legislation against loyal women, in view of their varied and
self-sacrificing work during the War, yet the only way they could open the
constitutional door just wide enough to let the black man pass in was to
introduce the word "male" into the national Constitution. After the generous
devotion of such women as Anna Carroll and Anna Dickinson in sustaining
the policy of the Republicans, both in peace and war, they felt it would
come with a bad grace from that party to place new barriers in woman's
path to freedom. But how could the amendment be written without the word
"male," was the question.
Robert Dale Owen being at Washington, and behind the scenes at the time,
sent copies of the various bills to the officers of the Loyal League, in New
York, and related to us some of the amusing discussions. One of the
committee proposed "persons" instead of "males." "That will never do,"
said another, "it would enfranchise wenches." "Suffrage for black men will
be all the strain the Republican party can stand," said another. Charles
Sumner said, years afterward, that he wrote over nineteen pages of foolscap
to get rid of the word "male" and yet keep "negro suffrage" as a party
measure intact; but it could not be done.
Miss Anthony and I were the first to see the full significance of the word
"male" in the Fourteenth Amendment, and we at once sounded the alarm,
and sent out petitions for a constitutional amendment to "prohibit the States
from disfranchising any of their citizens on the ground of sex." Miss
Anthony, who had spent the year in Kansas, started for New York the
moment she saw the proposition before Congress to put the word "male"
into the national Constitution, and made haste to rouse the women in the
East to the fact that the time had come to begin vigorous work again for
woman's enfranchisement.
Leaving Rochester, October 11, she called on Martha Wright at Auburn;
Phebe Jones and Lydia Mott at Albany; Mmes. Rose, Gibbons, Davis, at
New York city; Lucy Stone and Antoinette Brown Blackwell in New Jersey;
Stephen and Abby Foster at Worcester; Mmes. Severance, Dall, Nowell, Dr.

Harriet K. Hunt, Dr. M.E. Zackesewska, and Messrs. Phillips and Garrison
in Boston, urging them to join in sending protests to Washington against the
pending legislation. Mr. Phillips at once consented to devote five hundred
dollars from the "Jackson Fund" to commence the work. Miss Anthony and
I spent all our Christmas holidays in writing letters and addressing appeals
and petitions to every part of the country, and, before the close of the
session of 1865-66, petitions with ten thousand signatures were poured into
Congress.
One of my letters was as follows:
"To the Editor of the Standard:
"Sir: Mr. Broomall of Pennsylvania, Mr. Schenck of
Ohio, Mr. Jenckes of Rhode Island, and Mr. Stevens of
Pennsylvania, have each a resolution before Congress
to amend the Constitution.
"Article First, Section Second, reads thus:
'Representatives and direct taxes shall be apportioned
among the several States which may be included within
this Union, according to their respective numbers.'
"Mr. Broomall proposes to amend by saying, 'male
electors'; Mr. Schenck,'male citizens'; Mr. Jenckes,
'male citizens'; Mr. Stevens, 'male voters,' as, in process
of time, women may be made 'legal voters' in the
several States, and would then meet that requirement of
the Constitution. But those urged by the other
gentlemen, neither time, effort, nor State Constitutions
could enable us to meet, unless, by a liberal
interpretation of the amendment, a coat of mail to be
worn at the polls might be judged all-sufficient. Mr.
Jenckes and Mr. Schenck, in their bills, have the grace
not to say a word about taxes, remembering, perhaps,
that 'taxation without representation is tyranny.' But Mr.
Broomall, though unwilling that we should share in the
honors of government, would fain secure us a place in
its burdens; for, while he apportions representatives to

"male electors" only, he admits "all the inhabitants" into
the rights, privileges, and immunities of taxation.
Magnanimous M.C.!
"I would call the attention of the women of the nation to
the fact that, under the Federal Constitution, as it now
exists, there is not one word that limits the right of
suffrage to any privileged class. This attempt to turn the
wheels of civilization backward, on the part of
Republicans claiming to be the liberal party, should
rouse every woman in the nation to a prompt exercise
of the only right she has in the Government, the right of
petition. To this end a committee in New York have sent
out thousands of petitions, which should be circulated
in every district and sent to its representative at
Washington as soon as possible.
"Elizabeth Cady Stanton.
"New York, January 2, 1866."

CHAPTER XVI.

PIONEER LIFE IN KANSAS—OUR
NEWSPAPER, "THE REVOLUTION."

In 1867 the proposition to extend the suffrage to women and to colored men
was submitted to the people of the State of Kansas, and, among other
Eastern speakers, I was invited to make a campaign through the State. As
the fall elections were pending, there was great excitement everywhere.
Suffrage for colored men was a Republican measure, which the press and
politicians of that party advocated with enthusiasm.
As woman suffrage was not a party question, we hoped that all parties
would favor the measure; that we might, at last, have one green spot on
earth where women could enjoy full liberty as citizens of the United States.
Accordingly, in July, Miss Anthony and I started, with high hopes of a most
successful trip, and, after an uneventful journey of one thousand five
hundred miles, we reached the sacred soil where John Brown and his sons
had helped to fight the battles that made Kansas a free State.
Lucy Stone, Mr. Blackwell, and Olympia Brown had preceded us and
opened the campaign with large meetings in all the chief cities. Miss
Anthony and I did the same. Then it was decided that, as we were to go to
the very borders of the State, where there were no railroads, we must take
carriages, and economize our forces by taking different routes. I was
escorted by ex-Governor Charles Robinson. We had a low, easy carriage,
drawn by two mules, in which we stored about a bushel of tracts, two
valises, a pail for watering the mules, a basket of apples, crackers, and other
such refreshments as we could purchase on the way. Some things were
suspended underneath the carriage, some packed on behind, and some
under the seat and at our feet. It required great skill to compress the
necessary baggage into the allotted space. As we went to the very verge of
civilization, wherever two dozen voters could be assembled, we had a taste
of pioneer life. We spoke in log cabins, in depots, unfinished schoolhouses,
churches, hotels, barns, and in the open air.

I spoke in a large mill one night. A solitary tallow candle shone over my
head like a halo of glory; a few lanterns around the outskirts of the audience
made the darkness perceptible; but all I could see of my audience was the
whites of their eyes in the dim distance. People came from twenty miles
around to these meetings, held either in the morning, afternoon, or evening,
as was most convenient.
As the regular State election was to take place in the coming November, the
interest increased from week to week, until the excitement of the people
knew no bounds. There were speakers for and against every proposition
before the people. This involved frequent debates on all the general
principles of government, and thus a great educational work was
accomplished, which is one of the advantages of our frequent elections.
The friends of woman suffrage were doomed to disappointment. Those in
the East, on whom they relied for influence through the liberal newspapers,
were silent, and we learned, afterward, that they used what influence they
had to keep the abolitionists and Republicans of the State silent, as they
feared the discussion of the woman question would jeopardize the
enfranchisement of the black man. However, we worked untiringly and
hopefully, not seeing through the game of the politicians until nearly the
end of the canvass, when we saw that our only chance was in getting the
Democratic vote. Accordingly, George Francis Train, then a most effective
and popular speaker, was invited into the State to see what could be done to
win the Democracy. He soon turned the tide, strengthened the weak-kneed
Republicans and abolitionists, and secured a large Democratic vote.
For three months we labored diligently, day after day, enduring all manner
of discomforts in traveling, eating, and sleeping. As there were no roads or
guide-posts, we often lost our way. In going through cañons and fording
streams it was often so dark that the Governor was obliged to walk ahead to
find the way, taking off his coat so that I could see his white shirt and
slowly drive after him. Though seemingly calm and cool, I had a great
dread of these night adventures, as I was in constant fear of being upset on
some hill and rolled into the water. The Governor often complimented me
on my courage, when I was fully aware of being tempest-tossed with
anxiety. I am naturally very timid, but, being silent under strong emotions

of either pleasure or pain, I am credited with being courageous in the hour
of danger.
For days, sometimes, we could find nothing at a public table that we could
eat. Then passing through a little settlement we could buy dried herring,
crackers, gum arabic, and slippery elm; the latter, we were told, was very
nutritious. We frequently sat down to a table with bacon floating in grease,
coffee without milk, sweetened with sorghum, and bread or hot biscuit,
green with soda, while vegetables and fruit were seldom seen. Our nights
were miserable, owing to the general opinion among pioneers that a certain
species of insect must necessarily perambulate the beds in a young
civilization. One night, after traveling over prairies all day, eating nothing
but what our larder provided, we saw a light in a cottage in the distance
which seemed to beckon to us. Arriving, we asked the usual question,—if
we could get a night's lodging,—to which the response was inevitably a
hearty, hospitable "Yes." One survey of the premises showed me what to
look for in the way of midnight companionship, so I said to the Governor, "I
will resign in your favor the comforts provided for me to-night, and sleep in
the carriage, as you do so often." I persisted against all the earnest
persuasions of our host, and in due time I was ensconced for the night, and
all about the house was silent.
I had just fallen into a gentle slumber, when a chorus of pronounced grunts
and a spasmodic shaking of the carriage revealed to me the fact that I was
surrounded by those long-nosed black pigs, so celebrated for their courage
and pertinacity. They had discovered that the iron steps of the carriage made
most satisfactory scratching posts, and each one was struggling for his turn.
This scratching suggested fleas. Alas! thought I, before morning I shall be
devoured. I was mortally tired and sleepy, but I reached for the whip and
plied it lazily from side to side; but I soon found nothing but a constant and
most vigorous application of the whip could hold them at bay one moment.
I had heard that this type of pig was very combative when thwarted in its
desires, and they seemed in such sore need of relief that I thought there was
danger of their jumping into the carriage and attacking me. This thought
was more terrifying than that of the fleas, so I decided to go to sleep and let
them alone to scratch at their pleasure. I had a sad night of it, and never
tried the carriage again, though I had many equally miserable experiences
within four walls.

After one of these border meetings we stopped another night with a family
of two bachelor brothers and two spinster sisters. The home consisted of
one large room, not yet lathed and plastered. The furniture included a
cooking stove, two double beds in remote corners, a table, a bureau, a
washstand, and six wooden chairs. As it was late, there was no fire in the
stove and no suggestion of supper, so the Governor and I ate apples and
chewed slippery elm before retiring to dream of comfortable beds and well-
spread tables in the near future.
The brothers resigned their bed to me just as it was. I had noticed that there
was no ceremonious changing of bed linen under such circumstances, so I
had learned to nip all fastidious notions of individual cleanliness in the bud,
and to accept the inevitable. When the time arrived for retiring, the
Governor and the brothers went out to make astronomical observations or
smoke, as the case might be, while the sisters and I made our evening toilet,
and disposed ourselves in the allotted corners. That done, the stalwart sons
of Adam made their beds with skins and blankets on the floor. When all was
still and darkness reigned, I reviewed the situation with a heavy heart,
seeing that I was bound to remain a prisoner in the corner all night, come
what might. I had just congratulated myself on my power of adaptability to
circumstances, when I suddenly started with an emphatic "What is that?" A
voice from the corner asked, "Is your bed comfortable?" "Oh, yes," I
replied, "but I thought I felt a mouse run over my head." "Well," said the
voice from the corner, "I should not wonder. I have heard such squeaking
from that corner during the past week that I told sister there must be a
mouse nest in that bed." A confession she probably would not have made
unless half asleep. This announcement was greeted with suppressed
laughter from the floor. But it was no laughing matter to me. Alas! what a
prospect—to have mice running over one all night. But there was no
escape. The sisters did not offer to make any explorations, and, in my
fatigue costume, I could not light a candle and make any on my own
account. The house did not afford an armchair in which I could sit up. I
could not lie on the floor, and the other bed was occupied. Fortunately, I
was very tired and soon fell asleep. What the mice did the remainder of the
night I never knew, so deep were my slumbers. But, as my features were
intact, and my facial expression as benign as usual next morning, I inferred
that their gambols had been most innocently and decorously conducted.

These are samples of many similar experiences which we encountered
during the three months of those eventful travels.
Heretofore my idea had been that pioneer life was a period of romantic
freedom. When the long, white-covered wagons, bound for the far West,
passed by, I thought of the novelty of a six-months' journey through the
bright spring and summer days in a house on wheels, meals under shady
trees and beside babbling brooks, sleeping in the open air, and finding a
home, at last, where land was cheap, the soil rich and deep, and where the
grains, vegetables, fruit, and flowers grew bountifully with but little toil.
But a few months of pioneer life permanently darkened my rosy ideal of the
white-covered wagon, the charming picnics by the way, and the paradise at
last. I found many of these adventurers in unfinished houses and racked
with malaria; in one case I saw a family of eight, all ill with chills and fever.
The house was half a mile from the spring water on which they depended
and from which those best able, from day to day, carried the needed elixir to
others suffering with the usual thirst. Their narrations of all the trials of the
long journey were indeed heartrending.
In one case a family of twelve left their comfortable farm in Illinois, much
against the earnest protests of the mother; she having ten children, the
youngest a baby then in her arms. All their earthly possessions were stored
in three wagons, and the farm which the mother owned was sold before
they commenced their long and perilous journey. There was no reason for
going except that the husband had the Western fever. They were doing well
in Illinois, on a large farm within two miles of a village, but he had visions
of a bonanza near the setting sun. Accordingly they started. At the end of
one month the baby died. A piece of wood from the cradle was all they had
to mark its lonely resting place. With sad hearts they went on, and, in a few
weeks, with grief for her child, her old home, her kindred and friends, the
mother also died. She, too, was left alone on the far-off prairies, and the sad
pageant moved on. Another child soon shared the same fate, and then a span
of horses died, and one wagon, with all the things they could most easily
spare, was abandoned. Arrived at their destination none of the golden
dreams was realized. The expensive journey, the struggles in starting under
new circumstances, and the loss of the mother's thrift and management,
made the father so discouraged and reckless that much of his property was
wasted, and his earthly career was soon ended. Through the heroic energy

and good management of the eldest daughter, the little patrimony, in time,
was doubled, and the children well brought up and educated in the
rudiments of learning, so that all became respectable members of society.
Her advice to all young people is, if you are comfortably established in the
East, stay there. There is no royal road to wealth and ease, even in the
Western States!
In spite of the discomforts we suffered in the Kansas campaign, I was glad
of the experience. It gave me added self-respect to know that I could endure
such hardships and fatigue with a great degree of cheerfulness. The
Governor and I often laughed heartily, as we patiently chewed our gum
arabic and slippery elm, to think on what a gentle stimulus we were
accomplishing such wonderful feats as orators and travelers. It was
fortunate our intense enthusiasm for the subject gave us all the necessary
inspiration, as the supplies we gathered by the way were by no means
sufficiently invigorating for prolonged propagandism.
I enjoyed these daily drives over the vast prairies, listening to the
Governor's descriptions of the early days when the "bushwhackers and
jayhawkers" made their raids on the inhabitants of the young free State. The
courage and endurance of the women, surrounded by dangers and
discomforts, surpassed all description. I count it a great privilege to have
made the acquaintance of so many noble women and men who had passed
through such scenes and conquered such difficulties. They seemed to live in
an atmosphere altogether beyond their surroundings. Many educated
families from New England, disappointed in not finding the much talked of
bonanzas, were living in log cabins, in solitary places, miles from any
neighbors. But I found Emerson, Parker, Holmes, Hawthorne, Whittier, and
Lowell on their bookshelves to gladden their leisure hours.
Miss Anthony and I often comforted ourselves mid adverse winds with
memories of the short time we spent under Mother Bickerdyke's hospitable
roof at Salina. There we had clean, comfortable beds, delicious viands, and
everything was exquisitely neat. She entertained us with her reminiscences
of the War. With great self-denial she had served her country in camp and
hospital, and was with Sherman's army in that wonderful march to the sea,
and here we found her on the outpost of civilization, determined to start
what Kansas most needed—a good hotel. But alas! it was too good for that

latitude and proved a financial failure. It was, to us, an oasis in the desert,
where we would gladly have lingered if the opposition would have come to
us for conversion. But, as we had to carry the gospel of woman's equality
into the highways and hedges, we left dear Mother Bickerdyke with
profound regret. The seed sown in Kansas in 1867 is now bearing its
legitimate fruits. There was not a county in the State where meetings were
not held or tracts scattered with a generous hand. If the friends of our cause
in the East had been true and had done for woman what they did for the
colored man, I believe both propositions would have been carried; but with
a narrow policy, playing off one against the other, both were defeated. A
policy of injustice always bears its own legitimate fruit in failure.
However, women learned one important lesson—namely, that it is
impossible for the best of men to understand women's feelings or the
humiliation of their position. When they asked us to be silent on our
question during the War, and labor for the emancipation of the slave, we did
so, and gave five years to his emancipation and enfranchisement. To this
proposition my friend, Susan B. Anthony, never consented, but was
compelled to yield because no one stood with her. I was convinced, at the
time, that it was the true policy. I am now equally sure that it was a blunder,
and, ever since, I have taken my beloved Susan's judgment against the
world. I have always found that, when we see eye to eye, we are sure to be
right, and when we pull together we are strong. After we discuss any point
together and fully agree, our faith in our united judgment is immovable and
no amount of ridicule and opposition has the slightest influence, come from
what quarter it may.
Together we withstood the Republicans and abolitionists, when, a second
time, they made us the most solemn promises of earnest labor for our
enfranchisement, when the slaves were safe beyond a peradventure. They
never redeemed their promise made during the War, hence, when they urged
us to silence in the Kansas campaign, we would not for a moment entertain
the proposition. The women generally awoke to their duty to themselves.
They had been deceived once and could not be again. If the leaders in the
Republican and abolition camps could deceive us, whom could we trust?
Again we were urged to be silent on our rights, when the proposition to take
the word "white" out of the New York Constitution was submitted to a vote

of the people of the State, or, rather, to one-half the people, as women had
no voice in the matter. Again we said "No, no, gentlemen! if the 'white'
comes out of the Constitution, let the 'male' come out also. Women have
stood with the negro, thus far, on equal ground as ostracized classes, outside
the political paradise; and now, when the door is open, it is but fair that we
both should enter and enjoy all the fruits of citizenship. Heretofore ranked
with idiots, lunatics, and criminals in the Constitution, the negro has been
the only respectable compeer we had; so pray do not separate us now for
another twenty years, ere the constitutional door will again be opened."
We were persistently urged to give all our efforts to get the word "white"
out, and thus secure the enfranchisement of the colored man, as that, they
said, would prepare the way for us to follow. Several editors threatened that,
unless we did so, their papers should henceforth do their best to defeat
every measure we proposed. But we were deaf alike to persuasions and
threats, thinking it wiser to labor for women, constituting, as they did, half
the people of the State, rather than for a small number of colored men; who,
viewing all things from the same standpoint as white men, would be an
added power against us.
The question settled in Kansas, we returned, with George Francis Train, to
New York. He offered to pay all the expenses of the journey and meetings
in all the chief cities on the way, and see that we were fully and well
reported in their respective journals. After prolonged consultation Miss
Anthony and I thought best to accept the offer and we did so. Most of our
friends thought it a grave blunder, but the result proved otherwise. Mr. Train
was then in his prime—a large, fine-looking man, a gentleman in dress and
manner, neither smoking, chewing, drinking, nor gormandizing. He was an
effective speaker and actor, as one of his speeches, which he illustrated,
imitating the poor wife at the washtub and the drunken husband reeling in,
fully showed. He gave his audience charcoal sketches of everyday life
rather than argument. He always pleased popular audiences, and even the
most fastidious were amused with his caricatures. As the newspapers gave
several columns to our meetings at every point through all the States, the
agitation was widespread and of great value. To be sure our friends, on all
sides, fell off, and those especially who wished us to be silent on the
question of woman's rights, declared "the cause too sacred to be advocated
by such a charlatan as George Francis Train." We thought otherwise, as the

accession of Mr. Train increased the agitation twofold. If these fastidious
ladies and gentlemen had come out to Kansas and occupied the ground and
provided "the sinews of war," there would have been no field for Mr. Train's
labors, and we should have accepted their services. But, as the ground was
unoccupied, he had, at least, the right of a reform "squatter" to cultivate the
cardinal virtues and reap a moral harvest wherever he could.
Reaching New York, Mr. Train made it possible for us to establish a
newspaper, which gave another impetus to our movement. The Revolution,
published by Susan B. Anthony and edited by Parker Pillsbury and myself,
lived two years and a half and was then consolidated with the New York
Christian Enquirer, edited by the Rev. Henry Bellows, D.D. I regard the
brief period in which I edited the Revolution as one of the happiest of my
life, and I may add the most useful. In looking over the editorials I find but
one that I sincerely regret, and that was a retort on Mr. Garrison, written
under great provocation, but not by me, which circumstances, at the time,
forbade me to disown. Considering the pressure brought to bear on Miss
Anthony and myself, I feel now that our patience and forbearance with our
enemies in their malignant attacks on our good, name, which we never
answered, were indeed marvelous.
We said at all times and on all other subjects just what we thought, and
advertised nothing that we did not believe in. No advertisements of quack
remedies appeared in our columns. One of our clerks once published a
bread powder advertisement, which I did not see until the paper appeared;
so, in the next number, I said, editorially, what I thought of it. I was alone in
the office, one day, when a man blustered in. "Who," said he, "runs this
concern?" "You will find the names of the editors and publishers," I replied,
"on the editorial page." "Are you one of them?" "I am," I replied. "Well, do
you know that I agreed to pay twenty dollars to have that bread powder
advertised for one month, and then you condemn it editorially?" "I have
nothing to do with the advertising; Miss Anthony pays me to say what I
think." "Have you any more thoughts to publish on that bread powder?"
"Oh, yes," I replied, "I have not exhausted the subject yet." "Then," said he,
"I will have the advertisement taken out. What is there to pay for the one
insertion?" "Oh, nothing," I replied, "as the editorial probably did you more
injury than the advertisement did you good." On leaving, with prophetic
vision, he said, "I prophesy a short life for this paper; the business world is

based on quackery, and you cannot live without it." With melancholy
certainty, I replied, "I fear you are right."

CHAPTER XVII.

LYCEUMS AND LECTURERS.

The Lyceum Bureau was, at one time, a great feature in American life. The
three leading bureaus were in Boston, New York, and Chicago. The
managers, map in hand, would lay out trips, more or less extensive
according to the capacity or will of the speakers, and then, with a dozen or
more victims in hand, make arrangements with the committees in various
towns and cities to set them all in motion. As the managers of the bureaus
had ten per cent. of what the speakers made, it was to their interest to keep
the time well filled. Hence the engagements were made without the
slightest reference to the comfort of the travelers. With our immense
distances, it was often necessary to travel night and day, sometimes
changing cars at midnight, and perhaps arriving at the destination half an
hour or less before going on the platform, and starting again on the journey
immediately upon leaving it. The route was always carefully written out,
giving the time the trains started from and arrived at various points; but as
cross trains often failed to connect, one traveled, guidebook in hand, in a
constant fever of anxiety. As, in the early days, the fees were from one to
two hundred dollars a night, the speakers themselves were desirous of
accomplishing as much as possible.
In 1869 I gave my name, for the first time, to the New York Bureau, and on
November 14 began the long, weary pilgrimages, from Maine to Texas, that
lasted twelve years; speaking steadily for eight months—from October to
June—every season. That was the heyday of the lecturing period, when a
long list of bright men and women were constantly on the wing. Anna
Dickinson, Olive Logan, Kate Field,—later, Mrs. Livermore and Mrs.
Howe, Alcott, Phillips, Douglass, Tilton, Curtis, Beecher, and, several years
later, General Kilpatrick, with Henry Vincent, Bradlaugh, and Matthew
Arnold from England; these and many others were stars of the lecture
platform.

Some of us occasionally managed to spend Sunday together, at a good hotel
in some city, to rest and feast and talk over our joys and sorrows, the long
journeys, the hard fare in the country hotels, the rainy nights when
committees felt blue and tried to cut down our fees; the being compelled by
inconsiderate people to talk on the train; the overheated, badly ventilated
cars; the halls, sometimes too warm, sometimes too cold; babies crying in
our audiences; the rain pattering on the roof overhead or leaking on the
platform—these were common experiences. In the West, women with
babies uniformly occupied the front seats so that the little ones, not
understanding what you said, might be amused with your gestures and
changing facial expression. All these things, so trying, at the time, to
concentrated and enthusiastic speaking, afterward served as subjects of
amusing conversation. We unanimously complained of the tea and coffee.
Mrs. Livermore had the wisdom to carry a spirit lamp with her own tea and
coffee, and thus supplied herself with the needed stimulants for her
oratorical efforts. The hardships of these lyceum trips can never be
appreciated except by those who have endured them. With accidents to cars
and bridges, with floods and snow blockades, the pitfalls in one of these
campaigns were without number.

On one occasion, when engaged to speak at Maquoketa, Iowa, I arrived at
Lyons about noon, to find the road was blocked with snow, and no chance
of the cars running for days. "Well," said I to the landlord, "I must be at
Maquoketa at eight o'clock to-night; have you a sleigh, a span of fleet
horses, and a skillful driver? If so, I will go across the country." "Oh, yes,
madam!" he replied, "I have all you ask; but you could not stand a six-
hours' drive in this piercing wind." Having lived in a region of snow, with
the thermometer down to twenty degrees below zero, I had no fears of
winds and drifts, so I said, "Get the sleigh ready and I will try it."
Accordingly I telegraphed the committee that I would be there, and started.
I was well bundled up in a fur cloak and hood, a hot oak plank at my feet,
and a thick veil over my head and face. As the landlord gave the finishing
touch, by throwing a large buffalo robe over all and tying the two tails
together at the back of my head and thus effectually preventing me putting

my hand to my nose, he said, "There, if you can only sit perfectly still, you
will come out all right at Maquoketa; that is, if you get there, which I very
much doubt." It was a long, hard drive against the wind and through drifts,
but I scarcely moved a finger, and, as the clock struck eight, we drove into
the town. The hall was warm, and the church bell having announced my
arrival, a large audience was assembled. As I learned that all the roads in
Northern Iowa were blocked, I made the entire circuit, from point to point,
in a sleigh, traveling forty and fifty miles a day.
At the Sherman House, in Chicago, three weeks later, I met Mr. Bradlaugh
and General Kilpatrick, who were advertised on the same route ahead of
me. "Well," said I, "where have you gentlemen been?" "Waiting here for the
roads to be opened. We have lost three weeks' engagements," they replied.
As the General was lecturing on his experiences in Sherman's march to the
sea, I chaffed him on not being able, in an emergency, to march across the
State of Iowa. They were much astonished and somewhat ashamed, when I
told them of my long, solitary drives over the prairies from day to day. It
was the testimony of all the bureaus that the women could endure more
fatigue and were more conscientious than the men in filling their
appointments.
The pleasant feature of these trips was the great educational work
accomplished for the people through their listening to lectures on all the
vital questions of the hour. Wherever any of us chanced to be on Sunday,
we preached in some church; and wherever I had a spare afternoon, I talked
to women alone, on marriage, maternity, and the laws of life and health. We
made many most charming acquaintances, too, scattered all over our
Western World, and saw how comfortable and happy sensible people could
be, living in most straitened circumstances, with none of the luxuries of life.
If most housekeepers could get rid of one-half their clothes and furniture
and put their bric-a-brac in the town museum, life would be simplified and
they would begin to know what leisure means. When I see so many of our
American women struggling to be artists, who cannot make a good loaf of
bread nor a palatable cup of coffee, I think of what Theodore Parker said
when art was a craze in Boston. "The fine arts do not interest me so much
as the coarse arts which feed, clothe, house, and comfort a people. I would
rather be a great man like Franklin than a Michael Angelo—nay, if I had a

son, I should rather see him a mechanic, like the late George Stephenson, in
England, than a great painter like Rubens, who only copied beauty."
One day I found at the office of the Revolution an invitation to meet Mrs.
Moulton in the Academy of Music, where she was to try her voice for the
coming concert for the benefit of the Woman's Medical College. And what a
voice for power, pathos, pliability! I never heard the like. Seated beside her
mother, Mrs. W.H. Greenough, I enjoyed alike the mother's anxious pride
and the daughter's triumph. I felt, as I listened, the truth of what Vieuxtemps
said the first time he heard her, "That is the traditional voice for which the
ages have waited and longed." When, on one occasion, Mrs. Moulton sang
a song of Mozart's to Auber's accompaniment, someone present asked,
"What could be added to make this more complete?" Auber looked up to
heaven, and, with a sweet smile, said, "Nothing but that Mozart should have
been here to listen." Looking and listening, "Here," thought I, "is another
jewel in the crown of womanhood, to radiate and glorify the lives of all." I
have such an intense pride of sex that the triumphs of woman in art,
literature, oratory, science, or song rouse my enthusiasm as nothing else
can.
Hungering, that day, for gifted women, I called on Alice and Phebe Cary
and Mary Clemmer Ames, and together we gave the proud white male such
a serving up as did our souls good and could not hurt him, intrenched, as he
is, behind creeds, codes, customs, and constitutions, with vizor and
breastplate of self-complacency and conceit. In criticising Jessie
Boucherett's essay on "Superfluous Women," in which she advises men in
England to emigrate in order to leave room and occupation for women, the
Tribune said: "The idea of a home without a man in it!" In visiting the
Carys one always felt that there was a home—a very charming one, too—
without a man in it.
Once when Harriet Beecher Stowe was at Dr. Taylor's, I had the opportunity
to make her acquaintance. In her sanctum, surrounded by books and papers,
she was just finishing her second paper on the Byron family, and her sister
Catherine was preparing papers on her educational work, preparatory to a
coming meeting of the ladies of the school board. The women of the
Beecher family, though most of them wives and mothers, all had a definite
life-work outside the family circle, and other objects of intense interest

beside husbands, babies, cook stoves, and social conversations. Catherine
said she was opposed to woman suffrage, and if she thought there was the
least danger of our getting it, she would write and talk against it
vehemently. But, as the nation was safe against such a calamity, she was
willing to let the talk go on, because the agitation helped her work. "It is
rather paradoxical," I said to her, "that the pressing of a false principle can
help a true one; but when you get the women all thoroughly educated, they
will step off to the polls and vote in spite of you."
One night on the train from New York to Williamsport, Pennsylvania, I
found abundant time to think over the personal peculiarities of the many
noble women who adorn this nineteenth century, and, as I recalled them,
one by one, in America, England, France, and Germany, and all that they
are doing and saying, I wandered that any man could be so blind as not to
see that woman has already taken her place as the peer of man. While the
lords of creation have been debating her sphere and drawing their chalk
marks here and there, woman has quietly stepped outside the barren fields
where she was compelled to graze for centuries, and is now in green
pastures and beside still waters, a power in the world of thought.
These pleasant cogitations were cut short by my learning that I had taken
the wrong train, and must change at Harrisburg at two o'clock in the
morning. How soon the reflection that I must leave my comfortable berth at
such an unchristian hour changed the whole hue of glorious womanhood
and every other earthly blessing! However, I lived through the trial and
arrived at Williamsport as the day dawned. I had a good audience at the
opera house that evening, and was introduced to many agreeable people,
who declared themselves converted to woman suffrage by my ministrations.
Among the many new jewels in my crown, I added, that night, Judge
Bently.
In November, 1869, I passed one night in Philadelphia, with Miss Anthony,
at Anna Dickinson's home—a neat, three-story brick house in Locust Street.
This haven of rest, where the world-famous little woman came, ever and
anon, to recruit her overtaxed energies, was very tastefully furnished,
adorned with engravings, books, and statuary. Her mother, sister, and
brother made up the household—a pleasing, cultivated trio. The brother was
a handsome youth of good judgment, and given to sage remarks; the sister,

witty, intuitive, and incisive in speech; the mother, dressed in rich Quaker
costume, and though nearly seventy, still possessed of great personal
beauty. She was intelligent, dignified, refined, and, in manner and
appearance, reminded one of Angelina Grimké as she looked in her younger
days. Everything about the house and its appointments indicated that it was
the abode of genius and cultivation, and, although Anna was absent, the
hospitalities were gracefully dispensed by her family. Napoleon and
Shakespeare seemed to be Anna's patron saints, looking down, on all sides,
from the wall. The mother amused us with the sore trials her little orator
had inflicted on the members of the household by her vagaries in the world
of fame.
On the way to Kennett Square, a young gentleman pointed out to us the
home of Benjamin West, who distinguished himself, to the disgust of
broadbrims generally, as a landscape painter. In commencing his career, it is
said he made use of the tail of a cat in lieu of a brush. Of course Benjamin's
first attempts were on the sly, and he could not ask paterfamilias for money
to buy a brush without encountering the good man's scorn. Whether, in the
hour of his need and fresh enthusiasm, poor puss was led to the sacrificial
altar, or whether he found her reposing by the roadside, having paid the debt
of Nature, our informant could not say; enough that, in time, he owned a
brush and immortalized himself by his skill in its use. Such erratic ones as
Whittier, West, and Anna Dickinson go to prove that even the prim, proper,
perfect Quakers are subject to like infirmities with the rest of the human
family.
I had long heard of the "Progressive Friends" in the region round
Longwood; had read the many bulls they issued from their "yearly
meetings" on every question, on war, capital punishment, temperance,
slavery, woman's rights; had learned that they were turning the cold
shoulder on the dress, habits, and opinions of their Fathers; listening to the
ministrations of such worldlings as William Lloyd Garrison, Theodore
Tilton, and Oliver Johnson, in a new meeting house, all painted and
varnished, with cushions, easy seats, carpets, stoves, a musical instrument
—shade of George Fox, forgive—and three brackets with vases on the
"high seat," and, more than all that, men and women were indiscriminately
seated throughout the house.

All this Miss Anthony and I beheld with our own eyes, and, in company
with Sarah Pugh and Chandler Darlington, did sit together in the high seat
and talk in the congregation of the people. There, too, we met Hannah
Darlington and Dinah Mendenhall,—names long known in every good
work,—and, for the space of one day, did enjoy the blissful serenity of that
earthly paradise. The women of Kennett Square were celebrated not only
for their model housekeeping but also for their rare cultivation on all
subjects of general interest.
In November I again started on one of my Western trips, but, alas! on the
very day the trains were changed, and so I could not make connections to
meet my engagements at Saginaw and Marshall, and just saved myself at
Toledo by going directly from the cars before the audience, with the dust of
twenty-four hours' travel on my garments. Not being able to reach Saginaw,
I went straight to Ann Arbor, and spent three days most pleasantly in
visiting old friends, making new ones, and surveying the town, with its
grand University. I was invited to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Mr.
Seaman, a highly cultivated Democratic editor, author of "Progress of
Nations." A choice number of guests gathered round his hospitable board on
that occasion, over which his wife presided with dignity and grace. Woman
suffrage was the target for the combined wit and satire of the company, and,
after four hours of uninterrupted sharpshooting, pyrotechnics, and laughter,
we dispersed to our several abodes, fairly exhausted with the excess of
enjoyment.
One gentleman had the moral hardihood to assert that men had more
endurance than women, whereupon a lady remarked that she would like to
see the thirteen hundred young men in the University laced up in steel-
ribbed corsets, with hoops, heavy skirts, trains, high heels, panniers,
chignons, and dozens of hairpins sticking in their scalps, cooped up in the
house year after year, with no exhilarating exercise, no hopes, aims, nor
ambitions in life, and know if they could stand it as well as the girls.
"Nothing," said she, "but the fact that women, like cats, have nine lives,
enables them to survive the present régime to which custom dooms the
sex."
While in Ann Arbor I gave my lecture on "Our Girls" in the new Methodist
church—a large building, well lighted, and filled with a brilliant audience.

The students, in large numbers, were there, and strengthened the threads of
my discourse with frequent and generous applause; especially when I urged
on the Regents of the University the duty of opening its doors to the
daughters of the State. There were several splendid girls in Michigan, at that
time, preparing themselves for admission to the law department. As Judge
Cooley, one of the professors, was a very liberal man, as well as a sound
lawyer, and strongly in favor of opening the college to girls, I had no doubt
the women of Michigan would soon distinguish themselves at the bar. Some
said the chief difficulty in the way of the girls of that day being admitted to
the University was the want of room. That could have been easily obviated
by telling the young men from abroad to betake themselves to the colleges
in their respective States, that Michigan might educate her daughters. As the
women owned a good share of the property of the State, and had been
heavily taxed to build and endow that institution, it was but fair that they
should share in its advantages.
The Michigan University, with its extensive grounds, commodious
buildings, medical and law schools, professors' residences, and the finest
laboratory in the country, was an institution of which the State was justly
proud, and, as the tuition was free, it was worth the trouble of a long, hard
siege by the girls of Michigan to gain admittance there. I advised them to
organize their forces at once, get their minute guns, battering rams,
monitors, projectiles, bombshells, cannon, torpedoes, and crackers ready,
and keep up a brisk cannonading until the grave and reverend seigniors
opened the door, and shouted, "Hold, enough!"
The ladies of Ann Arbor had a fine library of their own, where their clubs
met once a week. They had just formed a suffrage association. My visit
ended with a pleasant reception, at which I was introduced to the chaplain,
several professors, and many ladies and gentlemen ready to accept the
situation. Judge Cooley gave me a glowing account of the laws of Michigan
—how easy it was for wives to get possession of all the property, and then
sunder the marriage tie and leave the poor husband to the charity of the cold
world, with their helpless children about him. I heard of a rich lady, there,
who made a will, giving her husband a handsome annuity as long as he
remained her widower. It was evident that the poor "white male," sooner or
later, was doomed to try for himself the virtue of the laws he had made for

women. I hope, for the sake of the race, he will not bear oppression with the
stupid fortitude we have for six thousand years.
At Flint I was entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Jenny. Mr. Jenny was a
Democratic editor who believed in progress, and in making smooth paths
for women in this great wilderness of life. His wife was a remarkable
woman. She inaugurated the Ladies' Libraries in Michigan. In Flint they
had a fine brick building and nearly two thousand volumes of choice books,
owned by the association, and money always in the treasury. Here, too, I
had a fine audience and gave my lecture entitled "Open the Door."
At Coldwater, in spite of its name, I found a warm, appreciative audience.
The president of the lyceum was a sensible young man who, after
graduating at Ann Arbor, decided, instead of starving at the law, to work
with his hands and brains at the same time. When all men go to their
legitimate business of creating wealth, developing the resources of the
country, and leave its mere exchange to the weaker sex, we shall not have
so many superfluous women in the world with nothing to do. It is evident
the time has come to hunt man into his appropriate sphere. Coming from
Chicago, I met Governor Fairchild and Senator Williams of Wisconsin. It
was delightful to find them thoroughly grounded in the faith of woman
suffrage. They had been devout readers of the Revolution ever since Miss
Anthony induced them to subscribe, the winter before, at Madison. Of
course a new glow of intelligence irradiated their fine faces (for they were
remarkably handsome men) and there was a new point to all their words.
Senator Williams, like myself, was on a lecturing tour. "Man" was his
theme, for which I was devoutly thankful; for, if there are any of God's
creatures that need lecturing, it is this one that is forever advising us. I
thought of all men, from Father Gregory down to Horace Bushnell, who
had wearied their brains to describe woman's sphere, and how signally they
had failed.
Throughout my lyceum journeys I was of great use to the traveling public,
in keeping the ventilators in the cars open, and the dampers in fiery stoves
shut up, especially in sleeping cars at night. How many times a day I
thought what the sainted Horace Mann tried to impress on his stupid
countrymen, that, inasmuch as the air is forty miles deep around the globe,
it is a useless piece of economy to breathe any number of cubic feet over

more than seven times! The babies, too, need to be thankful that I was in a
position to witness their wrongs. Many, through my intercessions, received
their first drink of water, and were emancipated from woolen hoods, veils,
tight strings under their chins, and endless swaddling bands. It is a startling
assertion, but true, that I have met few women who know how to take care
of a baby. And this fact led me, on one trip, to lecture to my fair
countrywomen on "Marriage and Maternity," hoping to aid in the
inauguration of a new era of happy, healthy babies.
After twenty-four hours in the express I found myself in a pleasant room in
the International Hotel at La Crosse, looking out on the Great Mother of
Waters, on whose cold bosom the ice and the steamers were struggling for
mastery. Beyond stretched the snow-clad bluffs, sternly looking down on
the Mississippi, as if to say, "'Thus far shalt thou come and no farther'—
though sluggish, you are aggressive, ever pushing where you should not;
but all attempts in this direction are alike vain; since creation's dawn, we
have defied you, and here we stand, to-day, calm, majestic, immovable.
Coquette as you will in other latitudes, with flowery banks and youthful
piers in the busy marts of trade, and undermine them, one and all, with your
deceitful wooings, but bow in reverence as you gaze on us. We have no
eyes for your beauty; no ears for your endless song; our heads are in the
clouds, our hearts commune with gods; you have no part in the eternal
problems of the ages that fill our thoughts, yours the humble duty to wash
our feet, and then pass on, remembering to keep in your appropriate sphere,
within the barks that wise geographers have seen fit to mark."
As I listened to these complacent hills and watched the poor Mississippi
weeping as she swept along, to lose her sorrows in ocean's depths, I thought
how like the attitude of man to woman. Let these proud hills remember that
they, too, slumbered for centuries in deep valleys down, down, when,
perchance, the sparkling Mississippi rolled above their heads, and but for
some generous outburst, some upheaval of old Mother Earth, wishing that
her rock-ribbed sons, as well as graceful daughters, might enjoy the light,
the sunshine and the shower—but for this soul of love in matter as well as
mind—these bluffs and the sons of Adam, too, might not boast the altitude
they glory in to-day. Those who have ears to hear discern low, rumbling
noises that foretell convulsions in our social world that may, perchance, in
the next upheaval, bring woman to the surface; up, up, from gloomy ocean

depths, dark caverns, and damper valleys. The struggling daughters of earth
are soon to walk in the sunlight of a higher civilization.
Escorted by Mr. Woodward, a member of the bar, I devoted a day to the
lions of La Crosse. First we explored the courthouse, a large, new brick
building, from whose dome we had a grand view of the surrounding
country. The courtroom where justice is administered was large, clean, airy
—the bench carpeted and adorned with a large, green, stuffed chair, in
which I sat down, and, in imagination, summoned up advocates, jurors,
prisoners, and people, and wondered how I should feel pronouncing
sentence of death on a fellow-being, or, like Portia, wisely checkmating the
Shylocks of our times. Here I met Judge Hugh Cameron, formerly of
Johnstown. He invited us into his sanctum, where we had a pleasant chat
about our native hills, Scotch affiliations, the bench and bar of New York,
and the Wisconsin laws for women. The Judge, having maintained a happy
bachelor state, looked placidly on the aggressive movements of the sex, as
his domestic felicity would be no way affected, whether woman was voted
up or down.
We next surveyed the Pomeroy building, which contained a large, tastefully
finished hall and printing establishment, where the La Crosse Democrat
was formerly published. As I saw the perfection, order, and good taste, in all
arrangements throughout, and listened to Mr. Huron's description of the life
and leading characteristics of its chief, it seemed impossible to reconcile the
tone of the Democrat with the moral status of its editor. I never saw a more
complete business establishment, and the editorial sanctum looked as if it
might be the abiding place of the Muses. Mirrors, pictures, statuary, books,
music, rare curiosities, and fine specimens of birds and minerals were
everywhere. Over the editor's table was a beautiful painting of his youthful
daughter, whose flaxen hair, blue eyes, and angelic face should have
inspired a father to nobler, purer, utterances than he was wont, at that time,
to give to the world.
But Pomeroy's good deeds will live long after his profane words are
forgotten. Throughout the establishment cards, set up in conspicuous places,
said, "Smoking here is positively forbidden." Drinking, too, was forbidden
to all his employés. The moment a man was discovered using intoxicating
drinks, he was dismissed. In the upper story of the building was a large,

pleasant room, handsomely carpeted and furnished, where the employés, in
their leisure hours, could talk, write, read, or amuse themselves in any
rational way.
Mr. Pomeroy was humane and generous with his employés, honorable in his
business relations, and boundless in his charities to the poor. His charity,
business honor, and public spirit were highly spoken of by those who knew
him best. That a journal does not always reflect the editor is as much the
fault of society as of the man. So long as the public will pay for gross
personalities, obscenity, and slang, decent journals will be outbidden in the
market. The fact that the La Crosse Democrat found a ready sale in all parts
of the country showed that Mr. Pomeroy fairly reflected the popular taste.
While multitudes turned up the whites of their eyes and denounced him in
public, they bought his paper and read it in private.
I left La Crosse in a steamer, just as the rising sun lighted the hilltops and
gilded the Mississippi. It was a lovely morning, and, in company with a
young girl of sixteen, who had traveled alone from some remote part of
Canada, bound for a northern village in Wisconsin, I promenaded the deck
most of the way to Winona, a pleased listener to the incidents of my young
companion's experiences. She said that, when crossing Lake Huron, she was
the only woman on board, but the men were so kind and civil that she soon
forgot she was alone. I found many girls, traveling long distances, who had
never been five miles from home before, with a self-reliance that was
remarkable. They all spoke in the most flattering manner of the civility of
our American men in looking after their baggage and advising them as to
the best routes.
As you approach St. Paul, at Fort Snelling, where the Mississippi and
Minnesota join forces, the country grows bold and beautiful. The town
itself, then boasting about thirty thousand inhabitants, is finely situated,
with substantial stone residences. It was in one of these charming homes I
found a harbor of rest during my stay in the city. Mrs. Stuart, whose
hospitalities I enjoyed, was a woman of rare common sense and sound
health. Her husband, Dr. Jacob H. Stuart, was one of the very first surgeons
to volunteer in the late war. In the panic at Bull Run, instead of running, as
everybody else did, he stayed with the wounded, and was taken prisoner

while taking a bullet from the head of a rebel. When exchanged, Beauregard
gave him his sword for his devotion to the dying and wounded.
I had the pleasure of seeing several of the leading gentlemen and ladies of
St. Paul at the Orphans' Fair, where we all adjourned, after my lecture, to
discuss woman's rights, over a bounteous supper. Here I met William L.
Banning, the originator of the Lake Superior and Mississippi Railroad. He
besieged Congress and capitalists for a dozen years to build this road, but
was laughed at and put off with sneers and contempt, until, at last, Jay
Cooke became so weary of his continual coming that he said: "I will build
the road to get rid of you."
Whittier seems to have had a prophetic vision of the peopling of this region.
When speaking of the Yankee, he says:

"He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls,
Upon his loaded wain;
He's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks,
With eager eyes of gain.

"I hear the mattock in the mine,
The ax-stroke in the dell,
The clamor from the Indian lodge,
The Jesuits' chapel bell!

"I hear the tread of pioneers
Of nations yet to be;
The first low wash of waves, where soon
Shall roll a human sea."

The opening of these new outlets and mines of wealth was wholly due to
the forecast and perseverance of Mr. Banning. The first engine that went
over a part of the road had been christened at St. Paul, with becoming
ceremonies; the officiating priestess being a beautiful maiden. A cask of
water from the Pacific was sent by Mr. Banning's brother from California,
and a small keg was brought from Lake Superior for the occasion. A glass
was placed in the hands of Miss Ella B. Banning, daughter of the president,
who then christened the engine, saying: "With the waters of the Pacific
Ocean in my right hand, and the waters of Lake Superior in my left,
invoking the Genius of Progress to bring together, with iron band, two great
commercial systems of the globe, I dedicate this engine to the use of the
Lake Superior and Mississippi Railroad, and name it William L. Banning."
From St. Paul to Dubuque, as the boats had ceased running, a circuitous
route and a night of discomfort were inevitable. Leaving the main road to
Chicago at Clinton Junction, I had the pleasure of waiting at a small country
inn until midnight for a freight train. This was indeed dreary, but, having
Mrs. Child's sketches of Mmes. De Staël and Roland at hand, I read of
Napoleon's persecutions of the one and Robespierre's of the other, until, by
comparison, my condition was tolerable, and the little meagerly furnished
room, with its dull fire and dim lamp, seemed a paradise compared with
years of exile from one's native land or the prison cell and guillotine. How

small our ordinary, petty trials seem in contrast with the mountains of
sorrow that have been piled up on the great souls of the past! Absorbed in
communion with them twelve o'clock soon came, and with it the train.
A burly son of Adam escorted me to the passenger car filled with German
immigrants, with tin cups, babies, bags, and bundles innumerable. The
ventilators were all closed, the stoves hot, and the air was like that of the
Black Hole of Calcutta. So, after depositing my cloak and bag in an empty
seat, I quietly propped both doors open with a stick of wood, shut up the
stoves, and opened all the ventilators with the poker. But the celestial
breeze, so grateful to me, had the most unhappy effect on the slumbering
exiles. Paterfamilias swore outright; the companion of his earthly
pilgrimage said, "We must be going north," and, as the heavy veil of
carbonic acid gas was lifted from infant faces, and the pure oxygen filled
their lungs and roused them to new life, they set up one simultaneous shout
of joy and gratitude, which their parents mistook for agony. Altogether there
was a general stir. As I had quietly slipped into my seat and laid my head
down to sleep, I remained unobserved—the innocent cause of the general
purification and vexation.
We reached Freeport at three o'clock in the morning. As the depot for
Dubuque was nearly half a mile on the other side of the town, I said to a
solitary old man who stood shivering there to receive us, "How can I get to
the other station?" "Walk, madam." "But I do not know the way." "There is
no one to go with you." "How is my trunk going?" said I. "I have a donkey
and cart to take that." "Then," said I, "you, the donkey, the trunk, and I will
go together." So I stepped into the cart, sat down on the trunk, and the old
man laughed heartily as we jogged along through the mud of that solitary
town in the pale morning starlight. Just as the day was dawning, Dubuque,
with its rough hills and bold scenery, loomed up. Soon, under the roof of
Myron Beach, one of the distinguished lawyers of the West, with a good
breakfast and sound nap, my night's sorrows were forgotten.
I was sorry to find that Mrs. Beach, though a native of New York, and born
on the very spot where the first woman's rights convention was held in this
country, was not sound on the question of woman suffrage. She seemed to
have an idea that voting and housekeeping could not be compounded; but I
suggested that, if the nation could only enjoy a little of the admirable

system with which she and other women administered their domestic
affairs, Uncle Sam's interests would be better secured. This is just what the
nation needs to-day, and women must wake up to the consideration that
they, too, have duties as well as rights in the State. A splendid audience
greeted me in the Opera House, and I gave "Our Girls," bringing many male
sinners to repentance, and stirring up some lethargic femmes coverts to a
state of rebellion against the existing order of things.
From Dubuque I went to Dixon, a large town, where I met a number of
pleasant people, but I have one cause of complaint against the telegraph
operator, whose negligence to send a dispatch to Mt. Vernon, written and
paid for, came near causing me a solitary night on the prairie, unsheltered
and unknown. Hearing that the express train went out Sunday afternoon, I
decided to go, so as to have all day at Mt. Vernon before speaking; but on
getting my trunk checked, the baggageman said the train did not stop there.
"Well," said I, "check the trunk to the nearest point at which it does stop,"
resolving that I would persuade the conductor to stop one minute, anyway.
Accordingly, when the conductor came round, I presented my case as
persuasively and eloquently as possible, telling him that I had telegraphed
friends to meet me, etc., etc. He kindly consented to do so and had my trunk
re-checked. On arriving, as there was no light, no sound, and the depot was
half a mile from the town, the conductor urged me to go to Cedar Rapids
and come back the next morning, as it was Sunday night and the depot
might not be opened, and I might be compelled to stay there on the platform
all night in the cold.
But, as I had telegraphed, I told him I thought someone would be there, and
I would take the risk. So off went the train, leaving me solitary and alone. I
could see the lights in the distant town and the dark outlines of two great
mills near by, which suggested dams and races. I heard, too, the distant
barking of dogs, and I thought there might be wolves, too; but no human
sound. The platform was high and I could see no way down, and I should
not have dared to go down if I had. So I walked all round the house,
knocked at every door and window, called "John!" "James!" "Patrick!" but
no response. Dressed in all their best, they had, no doubt, gone to visit
Sally, and I knew they would stay late. The night wind was cold. What
could I do? The prospect of spending the night there filled me with dismay.
At last I thought I would try my vocal powers; so I hallooed as loud as I

could, in every note of the gamut, until I was hoarse. At last I heard a
distant sound, a loud halloo, which I returned, and so we kept it up until the
voice grew near, and, when I heard a man's heavy footsteps close at hand, I
was relieved. He proved to be the telegraph operator, who had been a brave
soldier in the late war. He said that no message had come from Dixon. He
escorted me to the hotel, where some members of the Lyceum Committee
came in and had a hearty laugh at my adventure, especially that, in my
distress, I should have called on James and John and Patrick, instead of
Jane, Ann, and Bridget. They seemed to argue that that was an admission,
on my part, of man's superiority, but I suggested that, as my sex had not yet
been exalted to the dignity of presiding in depots and baggage rooms, there
would have been no propriety in calling Jane and Ann.
Mt. Vernon was distinguished for a very flourishing Methodist college,
open to boys and girls alike. The president and his wife were liberal and
progressive people. I dined with them in their home near the college, and
met some young ladies from Massachusetts, who were teachers in the
institution. All who gathered round the social board on that occasion were
of one mind on the woman question. Even the venerable mother of the
president seemed to light up with the discussion of the theme. I gave "Our
Girls" in the Methodist church, and took the opportunity to compliment
them for taking the word "obey" out of their marriage ceremony. I heard the
most encouraging reports of the experiment of educating the sexes together.
It was the rule in all the Methodist institutions in Iowa, and I found that the
young gentlemen fully approved of it.
At Mt. Vernon I also met Mr. Wright, former Secretary of State, who gave
me several interesting facts in regard to the women of Iowa. The State could
boast one woman who was an able lawyer, Mrs. Mansfield. Mrs. Berry and
Mrs. Stebbins were notaries public. Miss Addington was superintendent of
schools in Mitchell County. She was nominated by a convention in
opposition to a Mr. Brown. When the vote was taken, lo! there was a tie.
Mr. Brown offered to yield through courtesy, but she declined; so they drew
lots and Miss Addington was the victor. She once made an abstract of titles
of all the lands in the county where she lived, and had received an
appointment to office from the Governor of the State, who requested the
paper to be made out "L." instead of Laura Addington. He said it was
enough for Iowa to appoint women to such offices, without having it known

the world over. I was sorry to tell the Governor's secrets,—which I did
everywhere,—but the cause of womanhood made it necessary.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WESTWARD HO!

In the month of June, 1871, Miss Anthony and I went to California, holding
suffrage meetings in many of the chief cities from New York to San
Francisco, where we arrived about the middle of July, in time to experience
the dry, dusty season.
We tarried, on the way, one week in Salt Lake City. It was at the time of the
Godby secession, when several hundred Mormons abjured that portion of
the faith of their fathers which authorized polygamy. A decision had just
been rendered by the United States Supreme Court declaring the first wife
and her children the only legal heirs. Whether this decision hastened the
secession I do not know; however, it gave us the advantage of hearing all
the arguments for and against the system. Those who were opposed to it
said it made slaves of men. To support four wives and twenty children was
a severe strain on any husband. The women who believed in polygamy had
much to say in its favor, especially in regard to the sacredness of
motherhood during the period of pregnancy and lactation; a lesson of
respect for that period being religiously taught all Mormons.
We were very thankful for the privilege granted us of speaking to the
women alone in the smaller Tabernacle. Our meeting opened at two o'clock
and lasted until seven, giving us five hours of uninterrupted conversation.
Judge McKeon had informed me of the recent decisions and the legal
aspects of the questions, which he urged me to present to them fully and
frankly, as no one had had such an opportunity before to speak to Mormon
women alone. So I made the most of my privilege. I gave a brief history of
the marriage institution in all times and countries, of the matriarchate, when
the mother was the head of the family and owned the property and children;
of the patriarchate, when man reigned supreme and woman was enslaved;
of polyandry, polygamy, monogamy, and prostitution. We had a full and
free discussion of every phase of the question, and we all agreed that we
were still far from having reached the ideal position for woman in marriage,

however satisfied man might be with his various experiments. Though the
Mormon women, like all others, stoutly defend their own religion, yet they
are no more satisfied than any other sect. All women are dissatisfied with
their position as inferiors, and their dissatisfaction increases in exact ratio
with their intelligence and development.
After this convocation the doors of the Tabernacle were closed to our
ministrations, as we thought they would be, but we had crowded an
immense amount of science, philosophy, history, and general reflections
into the five hours of such free talk as those women had never heard before.
As the seceders had just built a new hall, we held meetings there every day,
discussing all the vital issues of the hour; the Mormon men and women
taking an active part.
We attended the Fourth of July celebration, and saw the immense
Tabernacle filled to its utmost capacity. The various States of the Union
were represented by young girls, gayly dressed, carrying beautiful flags and
banners. When that immense multitude joined in our national songs, and the
deep-toned organ filled the vast dome the music was very impressive, and
the spirit of patriotism manifested throughout was deep and sincere.
As I stood among these simple people, so earnest in making their
experiment in religion and social life, and remembered all the persecutions
they had suffered and all they had accomplished in that desolate, far-off
region, where they had, indeed, made "the wilderness blossom like the
rose," I appreciated, as never before, the danger of intermeddling with the
religious ideas of any people. Their faith finds abundant authority in the
Bible, in the example of God's chosen people. When learned ecclesiastics
teach the people that they can safely take that book as the guide of their
lives, they must expect them to follow the letter and the specific teachings
that lie on the surface. The ordinary mind does not generalize nor see that
the same principles of conduct will not do for all periods and latitudes.
When women understand that governments and religions are human
inventions; that Bibles, prayerbooks, catechisms, and encyclical letters are
all emanations from the brain of man, they will no longer be oppressed by
the injunctions that come to them with the divine authority of "Thus saith
the Lord."

That thoroughly democratic gathering in the Tabernacle impressed me more
than any other Fourth of July celebration I ever attended. As most of the
Mormon families keep no servants, mothers must take their children
wherever they go—to churches, theatres, concerts, and military reviews—
everywhere and anywhere. Hence the low, pensive wail of the individual
baby, combining in large numbers, becomes a deep monotone, like the
waves of the sea, a sort of violoncello accompaniment to all their holiday
performances. It was rather trying to me at first to have my glowing periods
punctuated with a rhythmic wail from all sides of the hall; but as soon as I
saw that it did not distract my hearers, I simply raised my voice, and, with a
little added vehemence, fairly rivaled the babies. Commenting on this trial,
to one of the theatrical performers, he replied: "It is bad enough for you, but
alas! imagine me in a tender death scene, when the most profound stillness
is indispensable, having my last gasp, my farewell message to loved ones,
accentuated with the joyful crowings or impatient complainings of fifty
babies." I noticed in the Tabernacle that the miseries of the infantile host
were in a measure mitigated by constant draughts of cold water, borne
around in buckets by four old men.
The question of the most profound interest to us at that time, in the Mormon
experiment, was the exercise of the suffrage by women. Emeline B. Wells,
wife of the Mayor of the city, writing to a Washington convention, in 1894,
said of the many complications growing out of various bills before
Congress to rob women of this right:
"Women have voted in Utah fourteen years, but,
because of the little word 'male' that still stands upon
the statutes, no woman is eligible to any office of
emolument or trust. In three successive legislatures,
bills have been passed, providing that the word 'male'
be erased; but, each time, the Governor of the Territory,
who has absolute veto power, has refused his signature.
Yet women attend primary meetings in the various
precincts and are chosen as delegates. They are also
members of county and territorial central committees,
and are thus gaining practical political experience, and
preparing themselves for positions of trust.

"In 1882 a convention was held to frame a constitution
to be submitted to the people and presented to the
Congress of the United States. Women were delegates
to this convention, and took part in all its deliberations,
and were appointed to act on committees with equal
privileges. It is the first instance on record, I think,
where women have been members and taken an active
part in a constitutional convention.
"Much has been said and written, and justly, too, of
suffrage for women in Wyoming; but, in my humble
opinion, had Utah stood on the same ground as
Wyoming, and women been eligible to office, as they
are in that Territory, they would, ere this, have been
elected to the legislative Assembly of Utah.
"It is currently reported that Mormon women vote as
they are told by their husbands. I most emphatically
deny the assertion. All Mormon women vote who are
privileged to register. Every girl born here, as soon as
she is twenty-one years old, registers, and considers it
as much a duty as to say her prayers. Our women vote
with the same freedom that characterizes any class of
people in the most conscientious acts of their lives."
These various questions were happily solved in 1895, when Utah became a
State. Its Constitution gives women the right to vote on all questions, and
makes them eligible to any office.
The journey over the Rocky Mountains was more interesting and wonderful
than I had imagined. A heavy shower the morning we reached the alkali
plains made the trip through that region, where travelers suffer so much,
quite endurable. Although we reached California in its hot, dry season, we
found the atmosphere in San Francisco delightful, fanned with the gentle
breezes of the Pacific, cooled with the waters of its magnificent harbor. The
Golden Gate does indeed open to the eye of the traveler one of the most
beautiful harbors in the world.

Friends had engaged for us a suite of apartments at the Grand Hotel, then
just opened. Our rooms were constantly decked with fresh flowers, which
our "suffrage children," as they called themselves, brought us from day to
day. So many brought tokens of their good will—in fact, all our visitors
came with offerings of fruits and flowers—that not only our apartments, but
the public tables were crowded with rare and beautiful specimens of all
varieties. We spoke every night, to crowded houses, on all phases of the
woman question, and had a succession of visitors during the day. In fact, for
one week, we had a perfect ovation. As Senator Stanford and his wife were
at the same hotel, we had many pleasant interviews with them.
While in San Francisco we had many delightful sails in the harbor and
drives to the seashore and for miles along the beach. We spent several hours
at the little Ocean House, watching the gambols of the celebrated seals.
These, like the big trees, were named after distinguished statesmen. One
very black fellow was named Charles Sumner, in honor of his love of the
black race; another, with a little squint in his eye, was called Ben Butler; a
stout, rotund specimen that seemed to take life philosophically, was named
Senator Davis of Illinois; a very belligerent one, who appeared determined
to crowd his confrères into the sea, was called Secretary Stanton. Grant and
Lincoln, on a higher ledge of the rocks, were complacently observing the
gambols of the rest.
California was on the eve of an important election, and John A. Bingham of
Ohio and Senator Cole were stumping the State for the Republican party. At
several points we had the use of their great tents for our audiences, and of
such of their able arguments as applied to woman. As Mr. Bingham's great
speech was on the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments, every
principle he laid down literally enfranchised the women of the nation. I met
the Ohio statesman one morning at breakfast, after hearing him the night
before. I told him his logic must compel him to advocate woman suffrage.
With a most cynical smile he said "he was not the puppet of logic, but the
slave of practical politics."
We met most of our suffrage coadjutors in different parts of California. I
spent a few days with Mrs. Elizabeth B. Schenck, one of the earliest
pioneers in the suffrage movement. She was a cultivated, noble woman, and
her little cottage was a gem of beauty and comfort, surrounded with

beautiful gardens and a hedge of fish-geraniums over ten feet high, covered
with scarlet flowers. It seemed altogether more like a fairy bower than a
human habitation. The windmills all over California, for pumping water,
make a very pretty feature in the landscape, as well as an important one, as
people are obliged to irrigate their gardens during the dry season. In August
the hills are as brown as ours in December.
Here, too, I first met Senator Sargent's family, and visited them in
Sacramento City, where we had a suffrage meeting in the evening and one
for women alone next day. At a similar meeting in San Francisco six
hundred women were present in Platt's Hall. We discussed marriage,
maternity, and social life in general. Supposing none but women were
present, as all were dressed in feminine costume, the audience were quite
free in their questions, and I equally so in my answers. To our astonishment,
the next morning, a verbatim report of all that was said appeared in one of
the leading papers, with most respectful comments. As I always wrote and
read carefully what I had to say on such delicate subjects, the language was
well chosen and the presentation of facts and philosophy quite
unobjectionable; hence, the information being as important for men as for
women, I did not regret the publication. During the day a committee of
three gentlemen called to know if I would give a lecture to men alone. As I
had no lecture prepared, I declined, with the promise to do so the next time
I visited California. The idea was novel, but I think women could do much
good in that way.
My readers may be sure that such enterprising travelers as Miss Anthony
and myself visited all the wonders, saw the geysers, big trees, the Yosemite
Valley, and the immense mountain ranges, piled one above another, until
they seemed to make a giant pathway from earth to heaven. We drove down
the mountain sides with Fox, the celebrated whip; sixteen people in an open
carriage drawn by six horses, down, down, down, as fast as we could go. I
expected to be dashed to pieces, but we safely descended in one hour,
heights we had taken three to climb. Fox held a steady rein, and seemed as
calm as if we were trotting on a level, though any accident, such as a hot
axle, a stumbling horse, or a break in the harness would have sent us down
the mountain side, two thousand feet, to inevitable destruction. He had
many amusing anecdotes to tell of Horace Greeley's trip to the Geysers. The
distinguished journalist was wholly unprepared for the race down the

mountains and begged Fox to hold up. Sitting in front he made several
efforts to seize the lines. But Fox assured him that was the only possible
way they could descend in safety, as the horses could guide the stage, but
they could not hold it.
At Stockton we met a party of friends just returning from the Yosemite, who
gave us much valuable information for the journey. Among other things, I
was advised to write to Mr. Hutchins, the chief authority there, to have a
good, strong horse in readiness to take me down the steep and narrow path
into the valley. We took the same driver and carriage which our friends had
found trustworthy, and started early in the morning. The dust and heat made
the day's journey very wearisome, but the prospect of seeing the wonderful
valley made all hardships of little consequence. Quite a large party were
waiting to mount their donkeys and mules when we arrived. One of the
attendants, a man about as thin as a stair rod, asked me if I was the lady
who had ordered a strong horse; I being the stoutest of the party, he readily
arrived at that conclusion, so my steed was promptly produced. But I knew
enough of horses and riding to see at a glance that he was a failure, with his
low withers and high haunches, for descending steep mountains. In addition
to his forward pitch, his back was immensely broad. Miss Anthony and I
decided to ride astride and had suits made for that purpose; but alas! my
steed was so broad that I could not reach the stirrups, and the moment we
began to descend, I felt as if I were going over his head. So I fell behind,
and, when the party had all gone forward, I dismounted, though my slender
guide assured me there was no danger, he "had been up and down a
thousand times." But, as I had never been at all, his repeated experiences
did not inspire me with courage. I decided to walk. That, the guide said, was
impossible. "Well," said I, by way of compromise, "I will walk as far as I
can, and when I reach the impossible, I will try that ill-constructed beast. I
cannot see what you men were thinking of when you selected such an
animal for this journey." And so we went slowly down, arguing the point
whether it were better to ride or walk; to trust one's own legs, or, by chance,
be precipitated thousands of feet down the mountain side.
It was a hot August day; the sun, in the zenith, shining with full power. My
blood was at boiling heat with exercise and vexation. Alternately sliding
and walking, catching hold of rocks and twigs, drinking at every rivulet,
covered with dust, dripping with perspiration, skirts, gloves, and shoes in

tatters, for four long hours I struggled down to the end, when I laid myself
out on the grass, and fell asleep, perfectly exhausted, having sent the guide
to tell Mr. Hutchins that I had reached the valley, and, as I could neither ride
nor walk, to send a wheelbarrow, or four men with a blanket to transport me
to the hotel. That very day the Mariposa Company had brought the first
carriage into the valley, which, in due time, was sent to my relief. Miss
Anthony, who, with a nice little Mexican pony and narrow saddle, had
made her descent with grace and dignity, welcomed me on the steps of the
hotel, and laughed immoderately at my helpless plight.
As hour after hour had passed, she said, there had been a general
wonderment as to what had become of me; "but did you ever see such
magnificent scenery?" "Alas!" I replied, "I have been in no mood for
scenery. I have been constantly watching my hands and feet lest I should
come to grief." The next day I was too stiff and sore to move a finger.
However, in due time I awoke to the glory and grandeur of that wonderful
valley, of which no descriptions nor paintings can give the least idea. With
Sunset Cox, the leading Democratic statesman, and his wife, we had many
pleasant excursions through the valley, and chats, during the evening, on the
piazza. There was a constant succession of people going and coming, even
in that far-off region, and all had their adventures to relate. But none quite
equaled my experiences.
We spent a day in the Calaveras Grove, rested beneath the "big trees," and
rode on horseback through the fallen trunk of one of them. Some vandals
sawed off one of the most magnificent specimens twenty feet above the
ground, and, on this the owners of the hotel built a little octagonal chapel.
The polished wood, with bark for a border, made a very pretty floor. Here
they often had Sunday services, as it held about one hundred people. Here,
too, we discussed the suffrage question, amid these majestic trees that had
battled with the winds two thousand years, and had probably never before
listened to such rebellion as we preached to the daughters of earth that day.
Here, again, we found our distinguished statesmen immortalized, each with
his namesake among these stately trees. We asked our guide if there were
any not yet appropriated, might we name them after women. As he readily
consented, we wrote on cards the names of a dozen leading women, and
tacked them on their respective trees. Whether Lucretia Mott, Lucy Stone,

Phoebe Couzins, and Anna Dickinson still retain their identity, and answer
when called by the goddess Sylvia in that majestic grove, I know not.
Twenty-five years have rolled by since then, and a new generation of
visitors and guides may have left no trace of our work behind them. But we
whispered our hopes and aspirations to the trees, to be wafted to the powers
above, and we left them indelibly pictured on the walls of the little chapel,
and for more mortal eyes we scattered leaflets wherever we went, and made
all our pleasure trips so many propaganda for woman's enfranchisement.
Returning from California I made the journey straight through from San
Francisco to New York. Though a long trip to make without a break, yet I
enjoyed every moment, as I found most charming companions in Bishop
Janes and his daughter. The Bishop being very liberal in his ideas, we
discussed the various theologies, and all phases of the woman question. I
shall never forget those pleasant conversations as we sat outside on the
platform, day after day, and in the soft moonlight late at night. We took up
the thread of our debate each morning where we had dropped it the night
before. The Bishop told me about the resolution to take the word "obey"
from the marriage ceremony which he introduced, two years before, into the
Methodist General Conference and carried with but little opposition. All
praise to the Methodist Church! When our girls are educated into a proper
self-respect and laudable pride of sex, they will scout all these old
barbarisms of the past that point in any way to the subject condition of
women in either the State, the Church, or the home. Until the other sects
follow her example, I hope our girls will insist on having their conjugal
knots all tied by Methodist bishops.
The Episcopal marriage service not only still clings to the word "obey," but
it has a most humiliating ceremony in giving the bride away. I was never
more struck with its odious and ludicrous features than on once seeing a
tall, queenly-looking woman, magnificently arrayed, married by one of the
tiniest priests that ever donned a surplice and gown, given away by the
smallest guardian that ever watched a woman's fortunes, to the feeblest,
bluest-looking little groom that ever placed a wedding ring on bridal finger.
Seeing these Lilliputians around her, I thought, when the little priest said,
"Who gives this woman to this man," that she would take the responsibility
and say, "I do," but no! there she stood, calm, serene, as if it were no affair
of hers, while the little guardian, placing her hand in that of the little groom,

said, "I do." Thus was this stately woman bandied about by these three puny
men, all of whom she might have gathered up in her arms and borne off to
their respective places of abode.
But women are gradually waking up to the degradation of these ceremonies.
Not long since, at a wedding in high life, a beautiful girl of eighteen was
struck dumb at the word "obey." Three times the priest pronounced it with
emphasis and holy unction, each time slower, louder, than before. Though
the magnificent parlors were crowded, a breathless silence reigned. Father,
mother, and groom were in agony. The bride, with downcast eyes, stood
speechless. At length the priest slowly closed his book and said, "The
ceremony is at an end." One imploring word from the groom, and a faint
"obey" was heard in the solemn stillness. The priest unclasped his book and
the knot was tied. The congratulations, feast, and all, went on as though
there had been no break in the proceedings, but the lesson was remembered,
and many a rebel made by that short pause.
I think all these reverend gentlemen who insist on the word "obey" in the
marriage service should be removed for a clear violation of the Thirteenth
Amendment to the Federal Constitution, which says there shall be neither
slavery nor involuntary servitude within the United States. As I gave these
experiences to Bishop Janes he laughed heartily, and asked me to repeat
them to each newcomer. Our little debating society was the center of
attraction. One gentleman asked me if our woman suffrage conventions
were as entertaining. I told him yes; that there were no meetings in
Washington so interesting and so well attended as ours.
As I had some woman-suffrage literature in my valise, I distributed leaflets
to all earnest souls who plied me with questions. Like all other things, it
requires great discretion in sowing leaflets, lest you expose yourself to a
rebuff. I never offer one to a man with a small head and high heels on his
boots, with his chin in the air, because I know, in the nature of things, that
he will be jealous of superior women; nor to a woman whose mouth has the
"prunes and prisms" expression, for I know she will say, "I have all the
rights I want." Going up to London one day, a few years later, I noticed a
saintly sister, belonging to the Salvation Army, timidly offering some
leaflets to several persons on board; all coolly declined to receive them.
Having had much experience in the joys and sorrows of propagandism, I

put out my hand and asked her to give them to me. I thanked her and read
them before reaching London. It did me no harm and her much good in
thinking that she might have planted a new idea in my mind. Whatever is
given to us freely, I think, in common politeness, we should accept
graciously.
While I was enjoying once more the comforts of home, on the blue hills of
Jersey, Miss Anthony was lighting the fires of liberty on the mountain tops
of Oregon and Washington Territory. All through the months of October,
November, and December, 1871, she was jolting about in stages, over rough
roads, speaking in every hamlet where a schoolhouse was to be found, and
scattering our breezy leaflets to the four winds of heaven.
From 1869 to 1873 Miss Anthony and I made several trips through Iowa,
Missouri, Illinois, and Nebraska, holding meetings at most of the chief
towns; I speaking in the afternoons to women alone on "Marriage and
Maternity." As Miss Anthony had other pressing engagements in Kansas
and Nebraska, I went alone to Texas, speaking in Dallas, Sherman, and
Houston, where I was delayed two weeks by floods and thus prevented
from going to Austin, Galveston, and some points in Louisiana, where I was
advertised to lecture. In fact I lost all my appointments for a month.
However, there was a fine hotel in Houston and many pleasant people,
among whom I made some valuable acquaintances. Beside several public
meetings, I had parlor talks and scattered leaflets, so that my time was not
lost.
As the floods had upset my plans for the winter, I went straight from
Houston to New York over the Iron Mountain Railroad. I anticipated a
rather solitary trip; but, fortunately, I met General Baird, whom I knew, and
some other army officers, who had been down on the Mexican border to
settle some troubles in the "free zone." We amused ourselves on the long
journey with whist and woman suffrage discussions. We noticed a
dyspeptic-looking clergyman, evidently of a bilious temperament, eying us
very steadily and disapprovingly the first day, and in a quiet way we warned
each other that, in due time, he would give us a sermon on the sin of card
playing.

Sitting alone, early next morning, he seated himself by my side, and asked
me if I would allow him to express his opinion on card playing. I said "Oh,
yes! I fully believe in free speech." "Well," said he, "I never touch cards. I
think they are an invention of the devil to lead unwary souls from all
serious thought of the stern duties of life and the realities of eternity! I was
sorry to see you, with your white hair, probably near the end of your earthly
career, playing cards and talking with those reckless army officers, who
delight in killing their fellow-beings. No! I do not believe in war or card
playing; such things do not prepare the soul for heaven." "Well," said I,
"you are quite right, with your views, to abjure the society of army officers
and all games of cards. You, no doubt, enjoy your own thoughts and the
book you are reading, more than you would the conversation of those
gentlemen and a game of whist. We must regulate our conduct by our own
highest ideal. While I deplore the necessity of war, yet I know in our Army
many of the noblest types of manhood, whose acquaintance I prize most
highly. I enjoy all games, too, from chess down to dominoes. There is so
much that is sad and stern in life that we need sometimes to lay down its
burdens and indulge in innocent amusements. Thus, you see, what is wise
from my standpoint is unwise from yours. I am sorry that you repudiate all
amusements, as they contribute to the health of body and soul. You are
sorry that I do not think as you do and regulate my life accordingly. You are
sure that you are right. I am equally sure that I am. Hence there is nothing
to be done in either case but to let each other alone, and wait for the slow
process of evolution to give to each of us a higher standard." Just then one
of the officers asked me if I was ready for a game of whist, and I excused
myself from further discussion. I met many of those dolorous saints in my
travels, who spent so much thought on eternity and saving their souls that
they lost all the joys of time, as well as those sweet virtues of courtesy and
charity that might best fit them for good works on earth and happiness in
heaven.
In the spring I went to Nebraska, and Miss Anthony and I again made a
Western tour, sometimes together and sometimes by different routes. A
constitutional convention was in session in Lincoln, and it was proposed to
submit an amendment to strike the word "male" from the Constitution.
Nebraska became a State in March, 1867, and took "Equality before the
law" as her motto. Her Territorial legislature had discussed, many times,

proposed liberal legislation for women, and her State legislature had twice
considered propositions for woman's enfranchisement. I had a valise with
me containing Hon. Benjamin F. Butler's minority reports as a member of
the Judiciary Committee of the United States House of Representatives, in
favor of woman's right to vote under the Fourteenth Amendment. As we
were crossing the Platte River, in transferring the baggage to the boat, my
valise fell into the river. My heart stood still at the thought of such a fate for
all those able arguments. After the great General had been in hot water all
his life, it was grievous to think of any of his lucubrations perishing in cold
water at last. Fortunately they were rescued. On reaching Lincoln I was
escorted to the home of the Governor, where I spread the documents in the
sunshine, and they were soon ready to be distributed among the members of
the constitutional convention.
After I had addressed the convention, some of the members called on me to
discuss the points of my speech. All the gentlemen were serious and
respectful with one exception. A man with an unusually small head,
diminutive form, and crooked legs tried, at my expense, to be witty and
facetious. During a brief pause in the conversation he brought his chair
directly before me and said, in a mocking tone, "Don't you think that the
best thing a woman can do is to perform well her part in the role of wife and
mother? My wife has presented me with eight beautiful children; is not this
a better life-work than that of exercising the right of suffrage?"
I had had my eye on this man during the whole interview, and saw that the
other members were annoyed at his behavior. I decided, when the opportune
moment arrived, to give him an answer not soon to be forgotten; so I
promptly replied to his question, as I slowly viewed him from head to foot,
"I have met few men, in my life, worth repeating eight times." The
members burst into a roar of laughter, and one of them, clapping him on the
shoulder, said: "There, sonny, you have read and spelled; you better go."
This scene was heralded in all the Nebraska papers, and, wherever the little
man went, he was asked why Mrs. Stanton thought he was not worth
repeating eight times.
During my stay in Lincoln there was a celebration of the opening of some
railroad. An immense crowd from miles about assembled on this occasion.
The collation was spread and speeches were made in the open air. The men

congratulated each other on the wonderful progress the State had made
since it became an organized Territory in 1854. There was not the slightest
reference, at first, to the women. One speaker said: "This State was settled
by three brothers, John, James, and Joseph, and from them have sprung the
great concourse of people that greet us here to-day." I turned, and asked the
Governor if all these people had sprung, Minerva-like, from the brains of
John, James, and Joseph. He urged me to put that question to the speaker;
so, in one of his eloquent pauses, I propounded the query, which was
greeted with loud and prolonged cheers, to the evident satisfaction of the
women present. The next speaker took good care to give the due meed of
praise to Ann, Jane, and Mary, and to every mention of the mothers of
Nebraska the crowd heartily responded.
In toasting "the women of Nebraska," at the collation, I said: "Here's to the
mothers, who came hither by long, tedious journeys, closely packed with
restless children in emigrant wagons, cooking the meals by day, and nursing
the babies by night, while the men slept. Leaving comfortable homes in the
East, they endured all the hardships of pioneer life, suffered, with the men,
the attacks of the Dakota Indians and the constant apprehension of savage
raids, of prairie fires, and the devastating locusts. Man's trials, his fears, his
losses, all fell on woman with double force; yet history is silent concerning
the part woman performed in the frontier life of the early settlers. Men
make no mention of her heroism and divine patience; they take no thought
of the mental or physical agonies women endure in the perils of maternity,
ofttimes without nurse or physician in the supreme hour of their need,
going, as every mother does, to the very gates of death in giving life to an
immortal being!"
Traveling all over these Western States in the early days, seeing the
privations women suffered, and listening to the tales of sorrow at the
fireside, I wondered that men could ever forget the debt of gratitude they
owed to their mothers, or fail to commemorate their part in the growth of a
great people. Yet the men of Nebraska have twice defeated the woman
suffrage amendment.
In 1874 Michigan was the point of interest to all those who had taken part
in the woman-suffrage movement. The legislature, by a very large majority,
submitted to a vote of the electors an amendment of the Constitution, in

favor of striking out the word "male" and thus securing civil and political
rights to the women of the State. It was a very active campaign. Crowded
meetings were held in all the chief towns and cities. Professor Moses Coit
Tyler, and a large number of ministers preached, every Sunday, on the
subject of woman's position. The Methodist conference passed a resolution
in favor of the amendment by a unanimous vote. I was in the State during
the intense heat of May and June, speaking every evening to large
audiences; in the afternoon to women alone, and preaching every Sunday in
some pulpit. The Methodists, Universalists, Unitarians, and Quakers all
threw open their churches to the apostles of the new gospel of equality for
women. We spoke in jails, prisons, asylums, depots, and the open air.
Wherever there were ears to hear, we lifted up our voices, and, on the wings
of the wind, the glad tidings were carried to the remote corners of the State,
and the votes of forty thousand men, on election day, in favor of the
amendment were so many testimonials to the value of the educational work
accomplished.
I made many valuable acquaintances, on that trip, with whom I have
maintained lifelong friendships. One pleasant day I passed in the home of
Governor Bagley and his wife, with a group of pretty children. I found the
Governor deeply interested in prison reform. He had been instrumental in
passing a law giving prisoners lights in their cells and pleasant reading
matter until nine o'clock. His ideas of what prisons should be, as unfolded
that day, have since been fully realized in the grand experiment now being
successfully tried at Elmira, New York.
I visited the State prison at Jackson, and addressed seven hundred men and
boys, ranging from seventy down to seventeen years of age. Seated on the
dais with the chaplain, I saw them file in to dinner, and, while they were
eating, I had an opportunity to study the sad, despairing faces before me. I
shall never forget the hopeless expression of one young man, who had just
been sentenced for twenty years, nor how ashamed I felt that one of my
own sex, trifling with two lovers, had fanned the jealousy of one against the
other, until the tragedy ended in the death of one and the almost lifelong
imprisonment of the other. If girls should be truthful and transparent in any
relations in life, surely it is in those of love, involving the strongest passions
of which human nature is capable. As the chaplain told me the sad story,
and I noticed the prisoner's refined face and well-shaped head, I felt that the

young man was not under the right influences to learn the lesson he needed.
Fear, coercion, punishment, are the masculine remedies for moral weakness,
but statistics show their failure for centuries. Why not change the system
and try the education of the moral and intellectual faculties, cheerful
surroundings, inspiring influences? Everything in our present system tends
to lower the physical vitality, the self-respect, the moral tone, and to harden
instead of reforming the criminal.
My heart was so heavy I did not know what to say to such an assembly of
the miserable. I asked the chaplain what I should say. "Just what you
please," he replied. Thinking they had probably heard enough of their sins,
their souls, and the plan of salvation, I thought I would give them the news
of the day. So I told them about the woman suffrage amendment, what I was
doing in the State, my amusing encounters with opponents, their arguments,
my answers. I told them of the great changes that would be effected in
prison life when the mothers of the nation had a voice in the buildings and
discipline. I told them what Governor Bagley said, and of the good time
coming when prisons would no longer be places of punishment but schools
of reformation. To show them what women would do to realize this
beautiful dream, I told them of Elizabeth Fry and Dorothea L. Dix, of Mrs.
Farnham's experiment at Sing Sing, and Louise Michel's in New Caledonia,
and, in closing, I said: "Now I want all of you who are in favor of the
amendment to hold up your right hands." They gave a unanimous vote, and
laughed heartily when I said, "I do wish you could all go to the polls in
November and that we could lock our opponents up here until after the
election." I felt satisfied that they had had one happy hour, and that I had
said nothing to hurt the feelings of the most unfortunate. As they filed off to
their respective workshops my faith and hope for brighter days went with
them. Then I went all through the prison. Everything looked clean and
comfortable on the surface, but I met a few days after a man, just set free,
who had been there five years for forgery. He told me the true inwardness
of the system; of the wretched, dreary life they suffered, and the brutality of
the keepers. He said the prison was infested with mice and vermin, and that,
during the five years he was there, he had never lain down one night to
undisturbed slumber. The sufferings endured in summer for want of air, he
said, were indescribable. In this prison the cells were in the center of the
building, the corridors running all around by the windows, so the prisoners

had no outlook and no direct contact with the air. Hence, if a careless
keeper forgot to open the windows after a storm, the poor prisoners panted
for air in their cells, like fish out of water. My informant worked in the
mattress department, over the room where prisoners were punished. He said
he could hear the lash and the screams of the victims from morning till
night. "Hard as the work is all day," said he, "it is a blessed relief to get out
of our cells to march across the yard and get one glimpse of the heavens
above, and one breath of pure air, and to be in contact with other human
souls in the workshops, for, although we could never speak to each other,
yet there was a hidden current of sympathy conveyed by look that made us
one in our misery."
Though the press of the State was largely in our favor, yet there were some
editors who, having no arguments, exercised the little wit they did possess
in low ridicule. It was in this campaign that an editor in a Kalamazoo
journal said: "That ancient daughter of Methuselah, Susan B. Anthony,
passed through our city yesterday, on her way to the Plainwell meeting,
with a bonnet on her head looking as if it had recently descended from
Noah's ark." Miss Anthony often referred to this description of herself, and
said, "Had I represented twenty thousand voters in Michigan, that political
editor would not have known nor cared whether I was the oldest or the
youngest daughter of Methuselah, or whether my bonnet came from the ark
or from Worth's."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE SPIRIT OF '76.

The year 1876 was one of intense excitement and laborious activity
throughout the country. The anticipation of the centennial birthday of the
Republic, to be celebrated in Philadelphia, stirred the patriotism of the
people to the highest point of enthusiasm. As each State was to be
represented in the great exhibition, local pride added another element to the
public interest. Then, too, everyone who could possibly afford the journey
was making busy preparations to spend the Fourth of July, the natal day of
the Republic, mid the scenes where the Declaration of Independence was
issued in 1776, the Government inaugurated, and the first national councils
were held. Those interested in women's political rights decided to make the
Fourth a woman's day, and to celebrate the occasion, in their various
localities, by delivering orations and reading their own declaration of rights,
with dinners and picnics in the town halls or groves, as most convenient.
But many from every State in the Union made their arrangements to spend
the historic period in Philadelphia. Owing, also, to the large number of
foreigners who came over to join in the festivities, that city was crammed to
its utmost capacity. With the crowd and excessive heat, comfort was
everywhere sacrificed to curiosity.
The enthusiasm throughout the country had given a fresh impulse to the
lyceum bureaus. Like the ferryboats in New York harbor, running hither and
thither, crossing each other's tracks, the whole list of lecturers were on the
wing, flying to every town and city from San Francisco to New York. As
soon as a new railroad ran through a village of five hundred inhabitants that
could boast a schoolhouse, a church, or a hotel, and one enterprising man or
woman, a course of lectures was at once inaugurated as a part of the
winter's entertainments.
On one occasion I was invited, by mistake, to a little town to lecture the
same evening when the Christy Minstrels were to perform. It was arranged,
as the town had only one hall, that I should speak from seven to eight

o'clock and the minstrels should have the remainder of the time. One may
readily see that, with the minstrels in anticipation, a lecture on any serious
question would occupy but a small place in the hearts of the people in a
town where they seldom had entertainments of any kind. All the time I was
speaking there was a running to and fro behind the scenes, where the
minstrels were transforming themselves with paints and curly wigs into
Africans, and laughing at each other's jests. As it was a warm evening, and
the windows were open, the hilarity of the boys in the street added to the
general din. Under such circumstances it was difficult to preserve my
equilibrium. I felt like laughing at my own comical predicament, and I
decided to make my address a medley of anecdotes and stories, like a string
of beads, held together by a fine thread of argument and illustration. The
moment the hand of the clock pointed at eight o'clock the band struck up,
thus announcing that the happy hour for the minstrels had come. Those of
my audience who wished to stay were offered seats at half price; those who
did not, slipped out, and the crowd rushed in, soon packing the house to its
utmost capacity. I stayed, and enjoyed the performance of the minstrels
more than I had my own.
As the lyceum season lasted from October to June, I was late in reaching
Philadelphia. Miss Anthony and Mrs. Gage had already been through the
agony of finding appropriate headquarters for the National Suffrage
Association. I found them pleasantly situated on the lower floor of No.
1431 Chestnut Street, with the work for the coming month clearly mapped
out. As it was the year for nominating candidates for the presidency of the
United States, the Republicans and Democrats were about to hold their
great' conventions. Hence letters were to be written to them recommending
a woman suffrage plank in their platforms, and asking seats for women in
the conventions, with the privilege of being heard in their own behalf. On
these letters our united wisdom was concentrated, and twenty thousand
copies of each were published.
Then it was thought pre-eminently proper that a Woman's Declaration of
Rights should be issued. Days and nights were spent over that document.
After many twists from our analytical tweezers, with a critical consideration
of every word and sentence, it was at last, by a consensus of the competent,
pronounced very good. Thousands were ordered to be printed, and were
folded, put in envelopes, stamped, directed, and scattered. Miss Anthony,

Mrs. Gage, and I worked sixteen hours, day and night, pressing everyone
who came in, into the service, and late at night carrying immense bundles to
be mailed. With meetings, receptions, and a succession of visitors, all of
whom we plied with woman suffrage literature, we felt we had
accomplished a great educational work.
Among the most enjoyable experiences at our headquarters were the
frequent visits of our beloved Lucretia Mott, who used to come from her
country home bringing us eggs, cold chickens, and fine Oolong tea. As she
had presented us with a little black teapot that, like Mercury's mysterious
pitcher of milk, filled itself for every coming guest, we often improvised
luncheons with a few friends. At parting, Lucretia always made a
contribution to our depleted treasury. Here we had many prolonged
discussions as to the part we should take, on the Fourth of July, in the public
celebration. We thought it would be fitting for us to read our Declaration of
Rights immediately after that of the Fathers was read, as an impeachment of
them and their male descendants for their injustice and oppression. Ours
contained as many counts, and quite as important, as those against King
George in 1776. Accordingly, we applied to the authorities to allow us seats
on the platform and a place in the programme of the public celebration,
which was to be held in the historic old Independence Hall. As General
Hawley was in charge of the arrangements for the day, I wrote him as
follows:
"1431 Chestnut Street, July 1, 1876.
"General Hawley.
"Honored Sir: As President of the National Woman's
Suffrage Association, I am authorized to ask you for
tickets to the platform, at Independence Hall, for the
celebration on the Fourth of July. We should like to
have seats for at least one representative woman from
each State. We also ask your permission to read our
Declaration of Rights immediately after the reading of
the Declaration of Independence of the Fathers is
finished. Although these are small favors to ask as

representatives of one-half of the nation, yet we shall be
under great obligations to you if granted.
"Respectfully Yours,
"Elizabeth Cady Stanton."
To this I received the following reply:
"U.S.C.C. Headquarters, July 2.
"Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton.
"Dear Madam: I send you, with pleasure, half a dozen
cards of invitation. As the platform is already crowded,
it is impossible to reserve the number of seats you
desire. I regret to say it is also impossible for us to
make any change in the programme at this late hour. We
are crowded for time to carry out what is already
proposed.
"Yours Very Respectfully,
"Joseph R. Hawley,
"President, U.S.C.C."
With this rebuff, Mrs. Mott and I decided that we would not accept the
offered seats, but would be ready to open our own convention called for that
day, at the First Unitarian church, where the Rev. William H. Furness had
preached for fifty years. But some of our younger coadjutors decided that
they would occupy the seats and present our Declaration of Rights. They
said truly, women will be taxed to pay the expenses of this celebration, and
we have as good a right to that platform and to the ears of the people as the
men have, and we will be heard.
That historic Fourth of July dawned at last, one of the most oppressive days
of that heated season. Susan B. Anthony, Matilda Joslyn Gage, Sara
Andrews Spencer, Lillie Devereux Blake, and Phoebe W. Couzins made
their way through the crowds under the broiling sun of Independence
Square, carrying the Woman's Declaration of Rights. This Declaration had
been handsomely engrossed by one of their number, and signed by the

oldest and most prominent advocates of woman's enfranchisement. Their
tickets of admission proved an "open sesame" through the military barriers,
and, a few moments before the opening of the ceremonies, these women
found themselves within the precincts from which most of their sex were
excluded.
The Declaration of 1776 was read by Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, about
whose family clusters so much historic fame. The moment he finished
reading was determined upon as the appropriate time for the presentation of
the Woman's Declaration. Not quite sure how their approach might be met,
not quite certain if, at this final moment, they would be permitted to reach
the presiding officer, those ladies arose and made their way down the aisle.
The bustle of preparation for the Brazilian hymn covered their advance. The
foreign guests and the military and civil officers who filled the space
directly in front of the speaker's stand, courteously made way, while Miss
Anthony, in fitting words, presented the Declaration to the presiding officer.
Senator Ferry's face paled as, bowing low, with no word he received the
Declaration, which thus became part of the day's proceedings. The ladies
turned, scattering printed copies as they deliberately walked down the
platform. On every side eager hands were outstretched, men stood on seats
and asked for them, while General Hawley, thus defied and beaten in his
audacious denial to women of the right to present their Declaration,
shouted, "Order, order!"
Passing out, these ladies made their way to a platform, erected for the
musicians, in front of Independence Hall. Here, under the shadow of
Washington's statue, back of them the old bell that proclaimed "liberty to all
the land and all the inhabitants thereof," they took their places, and, to a
listening, applauding crowd, Miss Anthony read the Woman's Declaration.
During the reading of the Declaration, Mrs. Gage stood beside Miss
Anthony and held an umbrella over her head, to shelter her friend from the
intense heat of the noonday sun. And thus in the same hour, on opposite
sides of old Independence Hall, did the men and women express their
opinions on the great principles proclaimed on the natal day of the
Republic. The Declaration was handsomely framed, and now hangs in the
Vice President's room in the Capitol at Washington.

These heroic ladies then hurried from Independence Hall to the church,
already crowded with an expectant audience, to whom they gave a full
report of the morning's proceedings. The Hutchinsons of worldwide fame
were present in their happiest vein, interspersing the speeches with
appropriate songs and felicitous remarks. For five long hours on that hot
midsummer day a crowded audience, many standing, listened with
profound interest and reluctantly dispersed at last, all agreeing that it was
one of the most impressive and enthusiastic meetings they had ever
attended.
All through our Civil War the slaves on the Southern plantations had an
abiding faith that the terrible conflict would result in freedom for their race.
Just so through all the busy preparations of the Centennial, the women of
the nation felt sure that the great national celebration could not pass without
the concession of some new liberties to them. Hence they pressed their
claims at every point, at the Fourth of July celebration in the exposition
buildings, and in the Republican and Democratic nominating conventions;
hoping to get a plank in the platforms of both the great political parties.
The Woman's Pavilion upon the centennial grounds was an afterthought, as
theologians claim woman herself to have been. The women of the country,
after having contributed nearly one hundred thousand dollars to the
centennial stock, found there had been no provision made for the separate
exhibition of their work. The centennial board, of which Mrs. Gillespie was
president, then decided to raise funds for the erection of a separate building,
to be known as the Woman's Pavilion. It covered an acre of ground, and was
erected at an expense of thirty thousand dollars—a small sum in
comparison with the money which had been raised by women and expended
on the other buildings, not to speak of the State and national appropriations,
which the taxes levied on them had largely helped to swell.
The Pavilion was no true exhibit of woman's art. Few women are, as yet,
owners of the business which their industry largely makes remunerative.
Cotton factories, in which thousands of women work, are owned by men.
The shoe business, in some branches of which women are doing more than
half the work, is under the ownership of men. Rich embroideries from
India, rugs of downy softness from Turkey, the muslin of Decca, anciently
known as "The Woven Wind," the pottery and majolica ware of P. Pipsen's

widow, the cartridges and envelopes of Uncle Sam, Waltham watches,
whose finest mechanical work is done by women, and ten thousand other
industries found no place in the pavilion. Said United States Commissioner
Meeker of Colorado, "Woman's work comprises three-fourths of the
exposition; it is scattered through every building; take it away, and there
would be no exposition."
But this pavilion rendered one good service to woman in showing her
capabilities as an engineer. The boiler, which furnished the force for
running its work, was under the charge of a young Canadian girl, Miss
Allison, who, from childhood, had loved machinery, spending much time in
the large saw and grist mills of her father, run by engines of two and three
hundred horse-power, which she sometimes managed for amusement. When
her name was proposed for running the pavilion machinery, it caused much
opposition. It was said that the committee would, some day, find the
pavilion blown to atoms; that the woman engineer would spend her time
reading novels instead of watching the steam gauge; that the idea was
impracticable and should not be thought of. But Miss Allison soon proved
her capabilities and the falseness of these prophecies by taking her place in
the engine room and managing its workings with perfect ease. Six power
looms, on which women wove carpets, webbing, silks, etc., were run by this
engine. At a later period the printing of The New Century for Woman, a
paper published by the centennial commission in the woman's building, was
done by its means. Miss Allison declared the work to be more cleanly, more
pleasant, and infinitely less fatiguing than cooking over a kitchen stove.
"Since I have been compelled to earn my own living," she said, "I have
never been engaged in work I like so well. Teaching school is much harder,
and one is not paid so well." She expressed her confidence in her ability to
manage the engines of an ocean steamer, and said that there were thousands
of small engines in use in various parts of the country, and no reason existed
why women should not be employed to manage them,—following the
profession of engineer as a regular business,—an engine requiring far less
attention than is given by a nursemaid or a mother to a child.
But to have made the Woman's Pavilion grandly historic, upon its walls
should have been hung the yearly protest of Harriet K. Hunt against
taxation without representation; the legal papers served upon the Smith
sisters when, for their refusal to pay taxes while unrepresented, their

Alderney cows were seized and sold; the papers issued by the city of
Worcester for the forced sale of the house and lands of Abby Kelly Foster,
the veteran abolitionist, because she refused to pay taxes, giving the same
reason our ancestors gave when they resisted taxation; a model of Bunker
Hill monument, its foundation laid by Lafayette in 1825, but which
remained unfinished nearly twenty years, until the famous German
danseuse, Fanny Ellsler, gave the proceeds of a public performance for that
purpose. With these should have been exhibited framed copies of all the
laws bearing unjustly upon women—those which rob her of her name, her
earnings, her property, her children, her person; also the legal papers in the
case of Susan B. Anthony, who was tried and fined for claiming her right to
vote under the Fourteenth Amendment, and the decision of Mr. Justice
Miller in the case of Myra Bradwell, denying national protection for
woman's civil rights; and the later decision of Chief Justice Waite of the
United States Supreme Court against Virginia L. Minor, denying women
national protection for their political rights; decisions in favor of State
rights which imperil the liberties not only of all women, but of every white
man in the nation.
Woman's most fitting contributions to the Centennial Exposition would
have been these protests, laws, and decisions, which show her political
slavery. But all this was left for rooms outside of the centennial grounds,
upon Chestnut Street, where the National Woman's Suffrage Association
hoisted its flag, made its protests, and wrote the Declaration of Rights of the
women of the United States.
To many thoughtful people it seemed captious and unreasonable for women
to complain of injustice in this free land, amidst such universal rejoicings.
When the majority of women are seemingly happy, it is natural to suppose
that the discontent of the minority is the result of their unfortunate
individual idiosyncrasies, and not of adverse influences in established
conditions. But the history of the world shows that the vast majority, in
every generation, passively accept the conditions into which they are born,
while those who demanded larger liberties are ever a small, ostracized
minority, whose claims are ridiculed and ignored. From our standpoint we
would honor any Chinese woman who claimed the right to her feet and
powers of locomotion; the Hindoo widows who refused to ascend the
funeral pyre of their husbands; the Turkish women who threw off their

masks and veils and left the harem; the Mormon women who abjured their
faith and demanded monogamic relations. Why not equally honor the
intelligent minority of American women who protest against the artificial
disabilities by which their freedom is limited and their development
arrested? That only a few, under any circumstances, protest against the
injustice of long-established laws and customs, does not disprove the fact of
the oppressions, while the satisfaction of the many, if real, only proves their
apathy and deeper degradation. That a majority of the women of the United
States accept, without protest, the disabilities which grow out of their
disfranchisement is simply an evidence of their ignorance and cowardice,
while the minority who demand a higher political status clearly prove their
superior intelligence and wisdom.
At the close of the Forty-seventh Congress we made two new demands:
First, for a special committee to consider all questions in regard to the civil
and political rights of women. We naturally asked the question, As Congress
has a special committee on the rights of Indians, why not on those of
women? Are not women, as a factor in civilization, of more importance
than Indians? Secondly, we asked for a room, in the Capitol, where our
committee could meet, undisturbed, whenever they saw fit. Though these
points were debated a long time, our demands were acceded to at last. We
now have our special committee, and our room, with "Woman Suffrage" in
gilt letters, over the door. In our struggle to achieve this, while our
champion, the senior Senator from Massachusetts, stood up bravely in the
discussion, the opposition not only ridiculed the special demand, but all
attempts to secure the civil and political rights of women. As an example of
the arguments of the opposition, I give what the Senator from Missouri said.
It is a fair specimen of all that was produced on that side of the debate. Mr.
Vest's poetical flights are most inspiring:
"The Senate now has forty-one committees, with a
small army of messengers and clerks, one-half of
whom, without exaggeration, are literally without
employment. I shall not pretend to specify the
committees of this body which have not one single bill,
resolution, or proposition of any sort pending before
them, and have not had for months. But, Mr. President,
out of all committees without business, and habitually

without business, in this body, there is one that, beyond
any question, could take jurisdiction of this matter and
do it ample justice. I refer to that most respectable and
antique institution, the Committee on Revolutionary
Claims. For thirty years it has been without business.
For thirty long years the placid surface of that
parliamentary sea has been without one single ripple. If
the Senator from Massachusetts desires a tribunal for a
calm, judicial equilibrium and examination—a tribunal
far from the 'madding crowd's ignoble strife'—a
tribunal eminently respectable, dignified and unique;
why not send this question to the Committee on
Revolutionary Claims? It is eminently proper that this
subject should go to that committee because, if there is
any revolutionary claim in this country, it is that of
woman suffrage. (Laughter.) It revolutionizes society; it
revolutionizes religion; it revolutionizes the
Constitution and laws; and it revolutionizes the
opinions of those so old-fashioned among us as to
believe that the legitimate and proper sphere of woman
is the family circle, as wife and mother, and not as
politician and voter—those of us who are proud to
believe that

"Woman's noblest station is retreat:
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight;
Domestic worth—that shuns too strong a light.

"Before that Committee on Revolutionary Claims why
could not this most revolutionary of all claims receive
immediate and ample attention? More than that, as I
said before, if there is any tribunal that could give
undivided time and dignified attention, is it not this
committee? If there is one peaceful haven of rest, never
disturbed by any profane bill or resolution of any sort, it
is the Committee on Revolutionary Claims. It is, in

parliamentary life, described by that ecstatic verse in
Watts' hymn—

"There shall I bathe my wearied soul
In seas of endless rest.
And not one wave of trouble roll
Across my peaceful breast.

"By all natural laws, stagnation breeds disease and
death, and what could stir up this most venerable and
respectable institution more than an application of the
strong-minded, with short hair and shorter skirts,
invading its dignified realm and elucidating all the
excellences of female suffrage. Moreover, if these
ladies could ever succeed in the providence of God in
obtaining a report from that committee, it would end
this question forever; for the public at large and myself
included, in view of that miracle of female
blandishment and female influence, would surrender at
once, and female suffrage would become constitutional
and lawful. Sir, I insist upon it that, in deference to this
committee, in deference to the fact that it needs this sort
of regimen and medicine, this whole subject should be
so referred."
This gives a very fair idea of the character of the arguments produced by
our opponents, from the inauguration of the movement. But, as there are no
arguments in a republican government in favor of an aristocracy of sex,
ridicule was really the only available weapon. After declaring "that no just
government can be formed without the consent of the governed," "that
taxation without representation is tyranny," it is difficult to see on what
basis one-half the people are disfranchised.

CHAPTER XX.

WRITING "THE HISTORY OF WOMAN
SUFFRAGE."

The four years following the Centennial were busy, happy ones, of varied
interests and employments, public and private. Sons and daughters
graduating from college, bringing troops of young friends to visit us; the
usual matrimonial entanglements, with all their promises of celestial bliss
intertwined with earthly doubts and fears; weddings, voyages to Europe,
business ventures—in this whirl of plans and projects our heads, hearts, and
hands were fully occupied. Seven boys and girls dancing round the fireside,
buoyant with all life's joys opening before them, are enough to keep the
most apathetic parents on the watch-towers by day and anxious even in
dreamland by night. My spare time, if it can be said that I ever had any, was
given during these days to social festivities. The inevitable dinners, teas,
picnics, and dances with country neighbors, all came round in quick
succession. We lived, at this time, at Tenafly, New Jersey, not far from the
publisher of the Sun, Isaac W. England, who also had seven boys and girls
as full of frolic as our own. Mrs. England and I entered into all their games
with equal zest. The youngest thought half the fun was to see our
enthusiasm in "blindman's buff," "fox and geese," and "bean bags." It thrills
me with delight, even now, to see these games!
Mr. England was the soul of hospitality. He was never more happy than
when his house was crowded with guests, and his larder with all the
delicacies of the season. Though he and Mr. Stanton were both connected
with that dignified journal, the New York Sun, yet they often joined in the
general hilarity. I laugh, as I write, at the memory of all the frolics we had
on the blue hills of Jersey.
In addition to the domestic cares which a large family involved, Mrs. Gage,
Miss Anthony, and I were already busy collecting material for "The History
of Woman Suffrage." This required no end of correspondence. Then my
lecturing trips were still a part of the annual programme. Washington

conventions, too, with calls, appeals, resolutions, speeches and hearings
before the Committees of Congress and State legislatures, all these came
round in the year's proceedings as regularly as pumpkin pies for
Thanksgiving, plum pudding for Christmas, and patriotism for Washington's
birthday. Those who speak for glory or philanthropy are always in demand
for college commencements and Fourth of July orations, hence much of
Miss Anthony's eloquence, as well as my own, was utilized in this way.
On October 18, 1880, I had an impromptu dinner party. Elizabeth Boynton
Harbert, May Wright Thompson (now Sewall), Phoebe W. Couzins, and
Arethusa Forbes, returning from a Boston convention, all by chance met
under my roof. We had a very merry time talking over the incidents of the
convention, Boston proprieties, and the general situation. As I gave them
many early reminiscences, they asked if I had kept a diary. "No," I said,
"not a pen scratch of the past have I except what might be gathered from
many family letters." They urged me to begin a diary at once; so I promised
I would on my coming birthday.
My great grief that day was that we were putting in a new range, and had
made no preparations for dinner. This completely upset the presiding genius
of my culinary department, as she could not give us the bounteous feast she
knew was expected on such occasions. I, as usual, when there was any lack
in the viands, tried to be as brilliant as possible in conversation; discussing
Nirvana, Karma, reincarnation, and thus turning attention from the
evanescent things of earth to the joys of a life to come,—not an easy feat to
perform with strong-minded women,—but, in parting, they seemed happy
and refreshed, and all promised to come again.
But we shall never meet there again, as the old, familiar oaks and the
majestic chestnut trees have passed into other hands. Strange lovers now
whisper their vows of faith and trust under the tree where a most charming
wedding ceremony—that of my daughter Margaret—was solemnized one
bright October day. All Nature seemed to do her utmost to heighten the
beauty of the occasion. The verdure was brilliant with autumnal tints, the
hazy noonday sun lent a peculiar softness to every shadow—even the birds
and insects were hushed to silence. As the wedding march rose soft and
clear, two stately ushers led the way; then a group of Vassar classmates,
gayly decked in silks of different colors, followed by the bride and groom.

An immense Saint Bernard dog, on his own account brought up the rear,
keeping time with measured tread. He took his seat in full view, watching,
alternately, the officiating clergyman, the bride and groom, and guests, as if
to say: "What does all this mean?" No one behaved with more propriety and
no one looked more radiant than he, with a ray of sunlight on his beautiful
coat of long hair, his bright brass collar, and his wonderful head. Bruno did
not live to see the old home broken up, but sleeps peacefully there, under
the chestnut trees, and fills a large place in many of our pleasant memories.
On November 12, 1880, I was sixty-five years old, and, pursuant to my
promise, I then began my diary. It was a bright, sunny day, but the frost
king was at work; all my grand old trees, that stood like sentinels, to mark
the boundary of my domain, were stripped of their foliage, and their
brilliant colors had faded into a uniform brown; but the evergreens and the
tall, prim cedars held their own, and, when covered with snow, their
exquisite beauty brought tears to my eyes. One need never be lonely mid
beautiful trees.
My thoughts were with my absent children—Harriot in France, Theodore in
Germany, Margaret with her husband and brother Gerrit, halfway across the
continent, and Bob still in college. I spent the day writing letters and
walking up and down the piazza, and enjoyed, from my windows, a
glorious sunset. Alone, on birthdays or holidays, one is very apt to indulge
in sad retrospections. The thought of how much more I might have done for
the perfect development of my children than I had accomplished, depressed
me. I thought of all the blunders in my own life and in their education.
Little has been said of the responsibilities of parental life; accordingly little
or nothing has been done. I had such visions of parental duties that day that
I came to the conclusion that parents never could pay the debt they owe
their children for bringing them into this world of suffering, unless they can
insure them sound minds in sound bodies, and enough of the good things of
this life to enable them to live without a continual struggle for the
necessaries of existence. I have no sympathy with the old idea that children
owe parents a debt of gratitude for the simple fact of existence, generally
conferred without thought and merely for their own pleasure. How seldom
we hear of any high or holy preparation for the office of parenthood! Here,
in the most momentous act of life, all is left to chance. Men and women,
intelligent and prudent in all other directions, seem to exercise no

forethought here, but hand down their individual and family idiosyncrasies
in the most reckless mariner.
On November 13 the New York Tribune announced the death of Lucretia
Mott, eighty-eight years old. Having known her in the flush of life, when all
her faculties were at their zenith, and in the repose of age, when her powers
began to wane, her withdrawal from among us seemed as beautiful and
natural as the changing foliage, from summer to autumn, of some grand old
oak I have watched and loved.
The arrival of Miss Anthony and Mrs. Gage, on November 20, banished all
family matters from my mind. What planning, now, for volumes, chapters,
footnotes, margins, appendices, paper, and type; of engravings, title,
preface, and introduction! I had never thought that the publication of a book
required the consideration of such endless details. We stood appalled before
the mass of material, growing higher and higher with every mail, and the
thought of all the reading involved made us feel as if our lifework lay
before us. Six weeks of steady labor all day, and often until midnight, made
no visible decrease in the pile of documents. However, before the end of the
month we had our arrangements all made with publishers and engravers,
and six chapters in print. When we began to correct proof we felt as if
something was accomplished. Thus we worked through the winter and far
into the spring, with no change except the Washington Convention and an
occasional evening meeting in New York city. We had frequent visits from
friends whom we were glad to see. Hither came Edward M. Davis, Sarah
Pugh, Adeline Thompson, Frederick Cabot of Boston, Dr. William F.
Channing, and sweet little Clara Spence, who recited for us some of the
most beautiful selections in her repertoire.
In addition we had numberless letters from friends and foes, some praising
and some condemning our proposed undertaking, and, though much alone,
we were kept in touch with the outside world. But so conflicting was the
tone of the letters that, if we had not taken a very fair gauge of ourselves
and our advisers, we should have abandoned our project and buried all the
valuable material collected, to sleep in pine boxes forever.
At this time I received a very amusing letter from the Rev. Robert Collyer,
on "literary righteousness," quizzing me for using one of his anecdotes in

my sketch of Lucretia Mott, without giving him credit. I laughed him to
scorn, that he should have thought it was my duty to have done so. I told
him plainly that he belonged to a class of "white male citizens," who had
robbed me of all civil and political rights; of property, children, and
personal freedom; and now it ill became him to call me to account for using
one of his little anecdotes that, ten to one, he had cribbed from some
woman. I told him that I considered his whole class as fair game for literary
pilfering. That women had been taxed to build colleges to educate men, and
if we could pick up a literary crumb that had fallen from their feasts, we
surely had a right to it. Moreover, I told him that man's duty in the world
was to work, to dig and delve for jewels, real and ideal, and lay them at
woman's feet, for her to use as she might see fit; that he should feel highly
complimented, instead of complaining, that he had written something I
thought worth using. He answered like the nobleman he is; susceptible of
taking in a new idea. He admitted that, in view of the shortcomings of his
entire sex, he had not one word to say in the way of accusation, but lay
prostrate at my feet in sackcloth and ashes, wondering that he had not taken
my view of the case in starting.
Only twice in my life have I been accused of quoting without giving due
credit. The other case was that of Matilda Joslyn Gage. I had, on two or
three occasions, used a motto of hers in autograph books, just as I had
sentiments from Longfellow, Lowell, Shakespeare, Moses, or Paul. In long
lyceum trips innumerable autograph books met one at every turn, in the
cars, depots, on the platform, at the hotel and in the omnibus. "A sentiment,
please," cry half a dozen voices. One writes hastily different sentiments for
each. In this way I unfortunately used a pet sentiment of Matilda's. So, here
and now, I say to my autograph admirers, from New York to San Francisco,
whenever you see "There is a word sweeter than Mother, Home, or Heaven
—that word is Liberty," remember it belongs to Matilda Joslyn Gage. I
hope, now, that Robert and Matilda will say, in their posthumous works,
that I made the amende honorable, as I always strive to do when friends
feel they have not been fairly treated.
In May, 1881, the first volume of our History appeared; it was an octavo,
containing 871 pages, with good paper, good print, handsome engravings,
and nicely bound. I welcomed it with the same feeling of love and
tenderness as I did my firstborn. I took the same pleasure in hearing it

praised and felt the same mortification in hearing it criticised. The most
hearty welcome it received was from Rev. William Henry Channing. He
wrote us that it was as interesting and fascinating as a novel. He gave it a
most flattering notice in one of the London papers. John W. Forney, too,
wrote a good review and sent a friendly letter. Mayo W. Hazeltine, one of
the ablest critics in this country, in the New York Sun, also gave it a very
careful and complimentary review. In fact, we received far more praise and
less blame than we anticipated. We began the second volume in June. In
reading over the material concerning woman's work in the War, I felt how
little our labors are appreciated. Who can sum up all the ills the women of a
nation suffer from war? They have all of the misery and none of the glory;
nothing to mitigate their weary waiting and watching for the loved ones
who will return no more.
In the spring of 1881, to vary the monotony of the work on the history, we
decided to hold a series of conventions through the New England States. We
began during the Anniversary week in Boston, and had several crowded,
enthusiastic meetings in Tremont Temple. In addition to our suffrage
meetings, I spoke before the Free Religious, Moral Education, and Heredity
associations. All our speakers stayed at the Parker House, and we had a very
pleasant time visiting together in our leisure hours. We were received by
Governor Long, at the State House. He made a short speech, in favor of
woman suffrage, in reply to Mrs. Hooker. We also called on the Mayor, at
the City Hall, and went through Jordan & Marsh's great mercantile
establishment, where the clerks are chiefly young girls, who are well fed
and housed, and have pleasant rooms, with a good library, where they sit
and read in the evening. We went through the Sherborn Reformatory Prison
for Women, managed entirely by women. We found it clean and
comfortable, more like a pleasant home than a place of punishment.
Mrs. Robinson, Miss Anthony, and I were invited to dine with the Bird
Club. No woman, other than I, had ever had that honor before. I dined with
them in 1870, escorted by "Warrington" of the Springfield Republican and
Edwin Morton. There I met Frank Sanborn for the first time. Frank Bird
held about the same place in political life in Massachusetts, that Thurlow
Weed did in the State of New York for forty years. In the evening we had a
crowded reception at the home of Mrs. Fenno Tudor, who occupied a fine
old residence facing the Common, where we met a large gathering of

Boston reformers. On Decoration Day, May 30, we went to Providence,
where I was the guest of Dr. William F. Channing. We had a very successful
convention there. Senator Anthony and ex-Governor Sprague were in the
audience and expressed great pleasure, afterward, in all they had heard. I
preached in Rev. Frederick Hinckley's church the previous Sunday
afternoon.
From Providence I hurried home, to meet my son Theodore and his bride,
who had just landed from France. We decorated our house and grounds with
Chinese lanterns and national flags for their reception. As we had not time
to send to New York for bunting, our flags—French and American—were
all made of bright red and blue cambric. The effect was fine when they
arrived; but, unfortunately, there came up a heavy thunderstorm in the night
and so drenched our beautiful flags that they became colorless rags. My
little maid announced to me early in the morning that "the French and
Americans had had a great battle during the night and that the piazza was
covered with blood." This was startling news to one just awakening from a
sound sleep. "Why, Emma!" I said, "what do you mean?" "Why," she
replied, "the rain has washed all the color out of our flags, and the piazza is
covered with red and blue streams of water." As the morning sun appeared
in all its glory, chasing the dark clouds away, our decorations did indeed
look pale and limp, and were promptly removed.
I was happily surprised with my tall, stately daughter, Marguerite Berry. A
fine-looking girl of twenty, straight, strong, and sound, modest and
pleasing. She can walk miles, sketches from nature with great skill and
rapidity, and speaks three languages. I had always said to my sons: "When
you marry, choose a woman with a spine and sound teeth; remember the
teeth show the condition of the bones in the rest of the body." So, when
Theodore introduced his wife to me, he said, "You see I have followed your
advice; her spine is as straight as it should be, and every tooth in her head as
sound as ivory." This reminds me of a young man who used to put my
stoves up for the winter. He told me one day that he thought of getting
married. "Well," I said, "above all things get a wife with a spine and sound
teeth." Stove pipe in hand he turned to me with a look of surprise, and said:
"Do they ever come without spines?"

In July, 1881, sitting under the trees, Miss Anthony and I read and discussed
Wendell Phillips' magnificent speech before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at
Harvard College. This society had often talked of inviting him, but was
afraid of his radical utterances. At last, hoping that years might have
modified his opinions and somewhat softened his speech, an invitation was
given. The élite of Boston, the presidents and college professors from far
and near, were there. A great audience of the wise, the learned, the
distinguished in State and Church assembled. Such a conservative audience,
it was supposed, would surely hold this radical in check. Alas! they were all
doomed, for once, to hear the naked truth, on every vital question of the
day. Thinking this might be his only opportunity to rouse some liberal
thought in conservative minds, he struck the keynote of every reform;
defended labor strikes, the Nihilists of Russia, prohibition, woman suffrage,
and demanded reformation in our prisons, courts of justice, and halls of
legislation. On the woman question, he said:
"Social science affirms that woman's place in society
marks the level of civilization. From its twilight in
Greece, through the Italian worship of the Virgin, the
dreams of chivalry, the justice of the civil law, and the
equality of French society, we trace her gradual
recognition, while our common law, as Lord Brougham
confessed, was, with relation to women, the opprobrium
of the age of Christianity. For forty years earnest men
and women, working noiselessly, have washed away the
opprobrium, the statute books of thirty States have been
remodeled, and woman stands, to-day, almost face to
face with her last claim—the ballot. It has been a weary
and thankless, though successful struggle. But if there
be any refuge from that ghastly curse, the vice of great
cities, before which social science stands palsied and
dumb, it is in this more equal recognition of women.
"If, in this critical battle for universal suffrage, our
fathers' noblest legacy to us and the greatest trust God
leaves in our hands, there be any weapon, which, once
taken from the armory, will make victory certain, it will
be as it has been in art, literature, and society,