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, summoning woman into the political arena. The literary

class, until within half a dozen years, has taken no note of this

great uprising; only to fling every obstacle in its way.

"The first glimpse we get of Saxon blood in history is that line of

Tacitus in his 'Germany,' which reads, 'In all grave matters they

consult their women.' Years hence, when robust Saxon sense has

flung away Jewish superstition and Eastern prejudice, and put under

its foot fastidious scholarship and squeamish fashion, some second

Tacitus from the valley of the Mississippi will answer to him of

the Seven Hills: 'In all grave questions, we consult our women.'

"If the Alps, piled in cold and silence, be the emblem of

despotism, we joyfully take the ever restless ocean for ours, only

pure because never still. To be as good as our fathers, we must be

better. They silenced their fears and subdued their prejudices,

inaugurating free speech and equality with no precedent on the

file. Let us rise to their level, crush appetite, and prohibit

temptation if it rots great cities; intrench labor in sufficient

bulwarks against that wealth which, without the tenfold strength of

modern incorporations, wrecked the Grecian and Roman states; and,

with a sterner effort still, summon woman into civil life, as

re-enforcement to our laboring ranks, in the effort to make our

civilization a success. Sit not like the figure on our silver coin,

looking ever backward.

"'New occasions teach new duties,

Time makes ancient good uncouth,

They must upward still and onward,

Who would keep abreast of truth.

Lo! before us gleam her watch fires--

We ourselves must pilgrims be,

Launch our _Mayflower_, and steer boldly

Through the desperate winter sea,

Nor attempt the future's portal

With the past's blood-rusted key.'"

That Harvard speech in the face of fashion, bigotry, and

conservatism--so liberal, so eloquent, so brave--is a model for every

young man, who, like the orator, would devote his talents to the best

interests of the race, rather than to his personal ambition for mere

worldly success.

Toward the end of October, Miss Anthony returned, after a rest of two

months, and we commenced work again on the second volume of the History.

November 2 being election day, the Republican carriage, decorated with

flags and evergreens, came to the door for voters. As I owned the house

and paid the taxes, and as none of the white males was home, I suggested

that I might go down and do the voting, whereupon the gentlemen who

represented the Republican committee urged me, most cordially, to do so.

Accompanied by my faithful friend, Miss Anthony, we stepped into the

carriage and went to the poll, held in the hotel where I usually went to

pay taxes. When we entered the room it was crowded with men. I was

introduced to the inspectors by Charles Everett, one of our leading

citizens, who said: "Mrs. Stanton is here, gentlemen, for the purpose of

voting. As she is a taxpayer, of sound mind, and of legal age, I see no

reason why she should not exercise this right of citizenship."

The inspectors were thunderstruck. I think they were afraid that I was

about to capture the ballot box. One placed his arms round it, with one

hand close over the aperture where the ballots were slipped in, and

said, with mingled surprise and pity, "Oh, no, madam! Men only are

allowed to vote." I then explained to him that, in accordance with the

Constitution of New Jersey, women had voted in New Jersey down to 1801,

when they were forbidden the further exercise of the right by an

arbitrary act of the legislature, and, by a recent amendment to the

national Constitution, Congress had declared that "all persons born or

naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction

thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they

reside" and are entitled to vote. I told them that I wished to cast my

vote, as a citizen of the United States, for the candidates for United

States offices. Two of the inspectors sat down and pulled their hats

over their eyes, whether from shame or ignorance I do not know. The

other held on to the box, and said "I know nothing about the

Constitutions, State or national. I never read either; but I do know

that in New Jersey, women have not voted in my day, and I cannot accept

your ballot." So I laid my ballot in his hand, saying that I had the

same right to vote that any man present had, and on him must rest the

responsibility of denying me my rights of citizenship.

All through the winter Miss Anthony and I worked diligently on the

History. My daughter Harriot came from Europe in February, determined

that I should return with her, as she had not finished her studies. To

expedite my task on the History she seized the laboring oar, prepared

the last chapter and corrected the proof as opportunity offered. As the

children were scattered to the four points of the compass and my husband

spent the winter in the city, we decided to lease our house and all take

a holiday. We spent a month in New York city, busy on the History to the

last hour, with occasional intervals of receiving and visiting friends.

As I dreaded the voyage, the days flew by too fast for my pleasure.