rough the
trial and arrived at Williamsport as the day dawned. I had a good
audience at the opera house that evening, and was introduced to many
agreeable people, who declared themselves converted to woman suffrage by
my ministrations. Among the many new jewels in my crown, I added, that
night, Judge Bently.

In November, 1869, I passed one night in Philadelphia, with Miss
Anthony, at Anna Dickinson's home--a neat, three-story brick house in
Locust Street. This haven of rest, where the world-famous little woman
came, ever and anon, to recruit her overtaxed energies, was very
tastefully furnished, adorned with engravings, books, and statuary. Her
mother, sister, and brother made up the household--a pleasing,
cultivated trio. The brother was a handsome youth of good judgment, and
given to sage remarks; the sister, witty, intuitive, and incisive in
speech; the mother, dressed in rich Quaker costume, and though nearly
seventy, still possessed of great personal beauty. She was intelligent,
dignified, refined, and, in manner and appearance, reminded one of
Angelina Grimke as she looked in her younger days. Everything about the
house and its appointments indicated that it was the abode of genius and
cultivation, and, although Anna was absent, the hospitalities were
gracefully dispensed by her family. Napoleon and Shakespeare seemed to
be Anna's patron saints, looking down, on all sides, from the wall. The
mother amused us with the sore trials her little orator had inflicted on
the members of the household by her vagaries in the world of fame.

On the way to Kennett Square, a young gentleman pointed out to us the
home of Benjamin West, who distinguished himself, to the disgust of
broadbrims generally, as a landscape painter. In commencing his career,
it is said he made use of the tail of a cat in lieu of a brush. Of
course Benjamin's first attempts were on the sly, and he could not ask
paterfamilias for money to buy a brush without encountering the good
man's scorn. Whether, in the hour of his need and fresh enthusiasm, poor
puss was led to the sacrificial altar, or whether he found her reposing
by the roadside, having paid the debt of Nature, our informant could not
say; enough that, in time, he owned a brush and immortalized himself by
his skill in its use. Such erratic ones as Whittier, West, and Anna
Dickinson go to prove that even the prim, proper, perfect Quakers are
subject to like infirmities with the rest of the human