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,