nonsensical conversation, and have also
admitted thoughts to occupy my mind which should have been far distant
from it, I do not consider myself as having committed any wilful
offense but perhaps the reason I cannot see my own defects is because
my heart is hardened."[10]

The girls studied a variety of subjects, arithmetic, algebra,
literature, chemistry, philosophy, physiology, astronomy, and
bookkeeping. Men came to the school to conduct some of the classes,
and Deborah Moulson was also assisted by several student teachers, one
of whom, Lydia Mott, became Susan's lifelong friend. Susan worked
hard, for she was a conscientious child, but none of her efforts
seemed to satisfy Deborah Moulson, who was a hard taskmaster. Her
reproofs cut deep, and once when Susan protested that she was always
censured while Guelma was praised, Deborah Moulson sternly replied,
"Thy sister Guelma does the best she is capable of, but thou dost not.
Thou hast greater abilities and I demand of thee the best of thy
capacity."[11]

Mail from home was a bright spot, bringing into those busy austere
days news of her friends, and when she read that one of them had
married an old widower with six children, she reflected sagely, "I
should think any female would rather live and die an old maid."[12]

Then came word that her father's business had been so affected by the
financial depression that the family would have to give up their home
in Battenville. Sorrowfully she wrote in her diary, "O can I ever
forget that loved residence in Battenville, and no more to call it
home seems impossible."[13] It helped little to realize that countless
other families throughout the country were facing the future penniless
because banks had failed, mills were shut down, and work on canals and
railroads had ceased. In April 1838, Daniel Anthony came to the
seminary to take his daughters home.

Susan felt keenly her father's sorrow over the failure of his business
and the loss of the home he had built for his family, and she resolved
at once to help out by teaching in Union Village, New York. In May
1838, she wrote in her diary, "On last evening ... I again left my
home to mingle with strangers which seems to be my sad lot. Separation
was rendered more trying on account of the embarrassing condition of
our business affairs, an inventory was expected to be taken today of
our furniture by assignees.... Spent this day in school, found it
small and quite disorderly.