d volume
of "The History of Woman Suffrage," I looked forward with pleasure to a
rest, in the Old World, beyond the reach and sound of my beloved Susan
and the woman suffrage movement. On May 27, 1892, I sailed with my
daughter Harriot on the _Chateau Leoville_ for Bordeaux. The many
friends who came to see us off brought fruits and flowers, boxes of
candied ginger to ward off seasickness, letters of introduction, and
light literature for the voyage. We had all the daily and weekly papers,
secular and religious, the new monthly magazines, and several novels. We
thought we would do an immense amount of reading, but we did very
little. Eating, sleeping, walking on deck, and watching the
ever-changing ocean are about all that most people care to do. The sail
down the harbor that bright, warm evening was beautiful, and, we
lingered on deck in the moonlight until a late hour.

I slept but little, that night, as two cats kept running in and out of
my stateroom, and my berth was so narrow that I could only lie in one
position--as straight as if already in my coffin. Under such
circumstances I spent the night, thinking over everything that was
painful in my whole life, and imagining all the different calamities
that might befall my family in my absence. It was a night of severe
introspection and intense dissatisfaction. I was glad when the morning
dawned and I could go on deck. During the day my couch was widened one
foot, and, at night, the cats relegated to other quarters.

We had a smooth, pleasant, uneventful voyage, until the last night,
when, on nearing the French coast, the weather became dark and stormy.
The next morning our good steamer pushed slowly and carefully up the
broad, muddy Gironde and landed us on the bustling quays of Bordeaux,
where my son Theodore stood waiting to receive us. As we turned to say
farewell to our sturdy ship--gazing up at its black iron sides
besprinkled with salty foam--a feeling of deep thankfulness took
possession of us, for she had been faithful to her trust, and had borne
us safely from the New World to the Old, over thousands of miles of
treacherous sea.

We spent a day in driving about Bordeaux, enjoying the mere fact of
restoration to _terra firma_ after twelve days' imprisonment on the
ocean. Maritime cities are much the same all the world over. The forests
of masts, the heavily laden drays, the lounging sailors, the rough
'longshoremen, and the dirty quays, are no more characte