ft 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