Eighty Years and More; Reminiscences 1815-1897
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