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The Life and Work of Susan B. Anthony (Volume 1 of 2) by Ida Husted Harper

I >> Ida Husted Harper >> The Life and Work of Susan B. Anthony (Volume 1 of 2)




One cold day, the mother being detained at home, ten-year-old Susan
received permission to go with her father. When the business meeting
began, she curled up quietly in a corner by the stove, thinking to
escape detection, but was spied out by one of the elders, a woman with
green spectacles, who tip-toed down from the "high seat" and said, "Is
thee a member?" "No, but my father is," replied Susan. "That will not
do, thee will have to go out." "My mother told me to stay in." "Thy
mother doesn't manage things here." "But my father told me to stay in."
"Neither thy father nor thy mother can say what thee shall do here;
thee will have to go out;" and taking the child by the arm she led her
into the cold vestibule. After remaining there until almost frozen,
Susan decided to go to the nearest neighbor's. When she opened the gate
a big dog sprung fiercely upon her. Her screams brought out the family
and she was taken into the house, where it was found the only injury
was a large piece bitten out of the new Scotch plaid cloak which she
had gone to meeting on purpose to exhibit. The affair created
considerable excitement, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony were very indignant, and
it ended in the father's making a "request" that his children be made
members of the Society, which was done.

Daniel Anthony was by nature a broad, progressive man, and his family
were not brought up according to the strictest and narrowest
requirements of Quaker doctrine; while his wife, remembering the
liberal teachings of her Universalist father and her own girlish love
of youthful pastimes, went still further in making life pleasant for
the children. Through her influence the daughters secured many a pretty
article of wearing apparel, and, when there was a party whose hours
were later than the father approved, the mother managed to have them
spend the night with girls in the neighborhood.

When the family first moved to Battenville the children went to the
little old-fashioned district school taught by a man in winter and a
woman in summer. None of the men could teach Susan "long division" or
understand why a girl should insist upon learning it. One of the women
maintained discipline by means of her corset-board used as a ferule. As
soon as Mr. Anthony finished the brick store he set apart one room
upstairs for a private school, employed the best teachers to be had and
admitted only such children as he wished to associate with his own.
When the new house was built a large room was devoted to school
purposes. This was the first in that neighborhood to have a separate
seat for each pupil, and, although only a stool without a back, it was
a vast improvement on the long bench running around the wall, the same
height for big and little. The girls were taught sewing as carefully as
reading and spelling, and Susan was noted for her skill with the
needle. A sampler is still in existence which she made at the age of
eleven, a fine specimen of needle-work with the family record
surrounded by a wreath of strawberries all carefully wrought in
crewels. There is also a bedquilt, the pieces sewed together with the
fine "over-and-over" stitch, and there are ruffles hemmed with stitches
so tiny they scarcely can be distinguished. An early teacher was a
cousin, Nancy Howe,[4] who was followed by another cousin, Sarah
Anthony, a graduate of Rensselaer Quaker boarding-school. Among the
teachers was Mary Perkins, just graduated from Miss Grant's seminary at
Ipswich, Mass., and a pupil of Mary Lyon, founder of Mt. Holyoke. She
was their first fashionably educated teacher and taught them to recite
poems in concert, introduced school books with pictures, little black
illustrations of Old Dog Tray, Mary and Her Lamb, etc., and gave them
their first idea of calisthenics. She loved music, and wished to attend
the village singing-school. Lucy Anthony sympathized with this desire
and interceded for her, but Daniel decided it would be setting a bad
example to the children and they would be wanting to sing.[5]

Into this commodious home Lucy Anthony brought her aged father and
mother, and carefully tended them until the death of both within the
same year, aged eighty-four. In May, 1834, came the first great sorrow,
the death of little Eliza, aged two years, and the mother was
heart-broken. Her life was centered in her children, and she could not
be reconciled to giving up even one. After her own death, nearly fifty
years later, in her box of most sacredly guarded keepsakes, was found a
little faded pink dress of the dear child's which many times had been
moistened with the mother's tears.

The children continued to attend this private school, and as Guelma and
Susan reached the age of fifteen, each in turn was installed as teacher
in summer when there were only young pupils. The factory now was at the
height of prosperity; there was only one larger in all that part of the
country, and Daniel Anthony was looked upon as a wealthy man. He was
much criticised for allowing his daughters to teach, as in those days
no woman worked for wages except from pressing necessity; but he was
far enough in advance of his time to believe that every girl should be
trained to self-support. In 1837, writing to Guelma at boarding-school,
he urges her to accept the offer of the principal to remain through the
winter as an assistant:

I am fully of the belief that shouldst thou never teach school a
single day afterwards, thou wouldst ever feel to justify thy
course.... Thou wouldst seem to me to be laying the foundation for
thy far greater usefulness. Thy remaining through the winter, must,
however, be left solely to thyself, as it would be of little avail
for thee to stay and not be contented. Thy home, Guelma, is just
the same as when thou left it, and shouldst thou decide to spend
the winter months away, we will try to keep it the same until thy
return in the spring. Let me know if thou canst be content to
remain away a few months longer from thy mother's kitchen.

[Autograph:

Thy Father
Daniel Anthony]

In the winter of 1837, at the age of seventeen, Susan taught in the
family of Doris and Huldah Deliverge, at Easton, a few miles from
Battenville, for $1 a week and board. The next summer she taught a
district school at the neighboring village, Reid's Corners, for $1.50 a
week and "boarded round," and proud was she to earn what was then
considered excellent wages for a woman. In the fall she joined Guelma
at boarding-school. The little circular, yellow with age, reads:

DEBORAH MOULSON, having obtained an agreeable location in the
pleasant village of Hamilton, in the vicinity of Philadelphia,
intends, with the assistance of competent Teachers, to open
immediately a Seminary for Females....

Terms, $125 per annum, for boarding and tuition....

The inculcation of the principles of Humility, Morality and a love
of Virtue, will receive particular attention.

[Illustration:

THE BATTENVILLE HOME, BUILT IN 1833.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN 1897]

This was Susan's first long absence from home, and her letters and
journals give a good idea of the thoughts and feelings of a girl at
boarding-school in those days. She developed then the "letter-writing
habit," which has clung to her through life. The letters of that time
were laborious affairs, often consuming days in the writing, commencing
even to children, "Respected Daughter," or "Son," and rarely exceeding
one or two pages. They were written with a quill pen on foolscap paper,
and almost wholly devoted to the weather and the sickness in the
family. The amount of the latter would be appalling to modern
households. The women's letters were written in infinitesimal
characters, it being considered unladylike to write a large hand. The
Anthonys were exceptional letter-writers. It cost eighteen cents to
send a letter, but Daniel Anthony was postmaster at Battenville, and
his family had free use of the mails. If he had had postage to pay on
all of homesick Susan's epistles it would have cost him a good round
sum. The rules of the school required these to be written on the slate,
submitted to the teacher and then carefully copied by the pupil, so it
is not unusual to find that a letter was five or six days in
preparation. For the same reason it is impossible to tell how much
sincerity there is in the frequent references to the "dear teacher" and
the "most excellent school." The "stilted" style of Susan's letters is
most amusing.[6] A few extracts will illustrate:

I regret that Brothers and Sisters have not the privilege of
attending a school better adapted to their improvement, both in
Science and Morality; surely a District School (unless they have
recently reformed) is not an appropriate place for the cultivation
of the latter, although in the former they may make some partial
progress. Deborah has not determined to relinquish this school,
although she has not yet ascertained whether the income from it
will be equal to the expenditures; but if it should continue I
shall have a wish for Hannah and Mary to attend; as I think another
one can not be named so agreeable on all accounts as is Deborah
Moulson's at Hamilton.

[Autograph:

Much love to all the dear ones
I am your
Lucy Anthony]

One may imagine that Susan got several credit marks when her teacher
corrected this on the slate. The lecturer on philosophy and science
came up from Philadelphia, and Susan tells her parents that "he is
quite an interesting man," and that "his lecture on Philosophy was far
more entertaining than I had dared to anticipate." Of the science
lecture she says:

He had a microscope through which we had the pleasure of viewing
the dust from the wings of a butterfly, each minute particle of
which appeared as large as a common fly. He mentioned several very
interesting circumstances; but I must defer particularizing them
until I can have the privilege of verbally communicating them to my
dear friends at Battenville. Guelma joins with me in wishing love
distributed to all.

Again she writes:

Beloved Parents: The second Seventh day of my short stay in
Hamilton arrives and finds me scarcely capable of informing you how
the intervening moments have been employed; but I hope they have
not passed without some improvement. Indeed, we should all improve,
perceptibly too, were we to attend to the instructions which are
here given, for the advancement both of moral and literary
pursuits. May I improve in both; but it is far easier for us to
perceive where others should reform, than to observe and correct
our own imperfections, while perhaps our failings are completely
disgusting in the sight of others. I find it very difficult leaving
off old habits so as to have a vacuum for the formation of those
which are new and more advantageous.

My letter will be short this week and I can assign no other cause
than that my ideas do not freely flow. The difference in weather is
quite material between this and our northern clime. Snow commenced
falling about 12 o'clock to-day and continued till evening; but,
Father, it was not such a storm as the one in which we travelled
during the second day of our journey to the beautiful and
sequestered shades of Hamilton. The cause of my neglecting to write
last week was not the absence of this mind from home, but that it
is obliged to occupy every moment in studies.

A fire in Philadelphia gives her an opportunity for this bit of
description:

I was requested, 5th day evening last, about 7 o'clock, by one of
the scholars, to step out and view the Aurora Borealis, which she
said was extremely brilliant and beautiful. When there I looked
towards the north, but discovered no light, and then to the zenith,
which was indeed very magnificent; "but," said I, "that does not
look like the Aurora, it is more like the light from a fire," and
upon investigation we found it so to be. The light appeared in the
east, we walked in that direction, when we beheld the flames
bursting forth in stupendous grandeur. Not a bell was heard, all
was calm, with the exception of the minds of some of the scholars
whose parents resided in the city. The scene indeed would have been
to the eye extremely pleasing, were it not for the reflection that
some of our fellow-beings were about being deprived of a home, and
perhaps lives also. We learned a few minutes after witnessing this
phenomena that the fire was occasioned by the conflagration of a
large board yard near Market Street Bridge.

After many affectionate messages, she says:

I have not had but one real homesick fit and that was one week from
the night Father left us. I felt then as if I were taking leave of
him again; in fact the tears have come into my eyes as I write that
last sentence; but do not suppose I carry a gloomy countenance all
the time, far be it from that, yet oft I think seriously of home
and the endearing ties which bind us together. Father, we will look
at the sentiments, and not the Orthography and Grammar of thy
letters, in which I did discover some errors.

She frequently admits that her sister admonishes her, "Susan, thee
writes too much; thee should learn to be concise," but she delights in
letter-writing and says:

Most of the girls are taking a walk this First day afternoon, but I
did not feel like enjoying myself by accompanying them as well as
in holding sweet communion in writing with those inestimable
friends I so dearly love, and arranging those thoughts in a manner
congenial to our feelings.... The query naturally arises, at least
to the thoughtful mind, How has our time since the last Annual
revolution of the Earth been employed? Have our minds become
improved from passing occurences, or do they remain in that
dormant-like state which so often degrades the human soul?

She comes down from her lofty heights far enough to add, "It would have
afforded us the greatest pleasure imaginable to have dined on that
Goose in company with you on New Year's day." It is Susan's diary,
however, which affords the most satisfactory glimpses of her true
character, serious, devotional, deeply conscientious and strong in
affection:

Five weeks have been spent in Hamilton and to what purpose? Has my
mind advanced either in Virtue or Literature? I fear that every
moment has not been profitably spent. O, may this careless mind be
more watchful in the future! O, may the many warnings which we
every day receive, tend to make me more attentive to what is right!

We were cautioned by our dear Teacher to-day to beware of
self-esteem and of all signs that would indicate an untruth. We
were referred to the condition of Ananias and Sapphira, who
intended to deceive the Apostle. Would that I were wholly free from
that same Evil Spirit which tempted those persons in ancient times.
The Spirit of Truth must have dominion in the mind in order to
attain a state of happiness.

* * * * *

Resolves and resolves fill up my time. I resolve at night to do
better on the morrow, and when the morrow comes and I mingle with
my companions all the resolutions are obliterated.... In the
afternoon of Seventh day Deborah accompanied the scholars to Town
and visited the Academy of Arts and Sciences; beautiful indeed was
the sight. Nature, how bounteous and varied are thy works! On
beholding the splendid scene I was ready to exclaim, "O, Miracle of
Miracles," with the celebrated Naturalist when speaking of the
metamorphoses of insects.

Her eyes troubled her then, as all through life, and in grieving over
it she says: "Often does their non-conformance mortify this frail heart
when attempting to read in class.... I arose at half-past five this
morning. [January 15.] I find it so much more advantageous." But the
next day she sleeps till half-past six and laments the fact.

Received a severe reproof from Deborah this evening on account of
the listlessness which prevailed in the school, also the immorality
of some of the pupils' minds. O, that I could feel perfectly clear
of all the deviations which have been enumerated. O, Morality, that
I could say I possessed thy charms! O, the happiness of an innocent
mind, would that I could say mine was so, but it is too far from
it. I think so much of my resolutions to do better that even my
dreams are filled with these desires.

The sin thus bitterly bewailed consisted in neglecting to use "thee"
and "thou" in addressing her schoolmates. She would wake up in the
night and mourn over it. One would judge from Deborah's continual
lectures that the school was made up of a lot of desperately wicked
girls sent her to be reformed, instead of a band of demure and saintly
little Quaker maidens. On the 31st Susan writes:

Our class has not recited in Philosophy, Chemistry or Physiology,
nor have we read, since the 20th of this month, for the reason of
there being such a departure among the scholars from the paths of
rectitude.

Later she records that a new teacher has arrived "to relieve Deborah of
some of her bodily labors," that "he is a stern-looking man," and that
she was "somewhat mortified that she could not give him the desired
definition of compendiums."

The woman who sells molasses candy has been here, but when she
leaves she does not carry the confusion with her which she
causes.... Deborah requested eight of us larger girls to remain
last evening, for the purpose of reproving us. The cause was the
levity and mirthfulness which were displayed on Third day of the
week previous. She compared us to Judas Iscariot, who betrayed his
master with a kiss. She said there were those amongst us who would
surely have to suffer deep affliction for not attending to the
manifestations of truth within.--I have been guilty of much levity
and nonsensical conversation and have also permitted thoughts to
occupy my mind which should have been far distant, but I do not
consider myself as having committed any wilful offence. Perhaps the
reason I can not see my own defects is because my heart is
hardened. O, may it become more and more refined until nothing
shall remain but perfect purity.

* * * * *

2nd mo. 11th day.--First day evening Deborah came down and sat with
us. In a few moments she called for her Bible, and in a short time
she read, "Jesus wept;" and then, after a long pause, she said,
"There are those present who, if they do not attend to what has
been said to them, will have their strings shortened, even as short
as this verse." This she said after having inquired on what subject
Abraham Loire preached in the morning and none of us was able to
tell.

* * * * *

2nd mo. 12th day.--Deborah came down in the afternoon to examine
our writing. She looked at M.'s and gave her a severe reproof; she
then looked at C.'s and said nothing. I, thinking I had improved
very much, offered mine for her to examine. She took it and pointed
out some of the best words as those which were not well written,
and then she asked me the rule for dotting an i, and I acknowledged
that I did not know. She then said it was no wonder she had
undergone so much distress in mind and body, and that her time had
been devoted to us in vain. This was like an Electrical shock to
me. I rushed upstairs to my room where, without restraint, I could
give vent to my tears. She said the same as that I had been the
cause of the great obstruction in the school. If I am such a vile
sinner, I would that I might feel it myself. Indeed I do consider
myself such a bad creature that I can not see any who seems
worse.--And we had a new scholar to witness this scene!

Think of causing all this anguish and humiliation to a young girl
because she did not know the rule for dotting an i!

2nd mo. 15th day.--This day I call myself eighteen. It seems
impossible that I can be so old, and even at this age I find myself
possessed of no more knowledge than I ought to have had at twelve.
Dr. Allen, a Phrenologist, gave us a short lecture this morning and
examined a few heads, mine among them. He described only the good
organs and said nothing of the bad. I should like to know the whole
truth.

Susan relates with a good deal of satisfaction that she has written a
letter to a schoolmate at home, without putting it on the slate for the
teacher to see. A few days later Deborah sends for her. She "went down
with cheerfulness," but what was her astonishment to see Deborah with
the intercepted letter open in her hand! Susan closes her account of
the interview by saying, "Little did I think, when I was writing that
letter, that I was committing such an enormous crime."

Learning that a young friend had married a widower with six children,
she comments in her diary, "I should think any female would rather live
and die an old maid." She has a cold and cough for which Deborah gives
her a "Carthartick," followed by some "Laudanum in a silver spoon."
"The beautiful spring weather," she says, "inhales me with fresh
vigor." She sees some spiderwebs in the schoolroom and, her domestic
habits asserting themselves, gets a broom and mounts the desks to sweep
them down, "little thinking of the mortification and tears it was to
occasion." Finally she steps upon Deborah's desk and breaks the hinges
on the lid. That personage is informed by an assistant teacher and
arrives on the scene:

"Deborah, I have broken your desk." She appeared not to notice me,
walked over, examined the desk and asked the teacher who broke it.
"What! Susan Anthony step on my desk! I would not have set a child
upon it," she said, and much more which I can not write. "How came
you to step on it?" she asked, but I was too full to speak and
rushed from the room in tears. That evening, after we read in the
Testament, she said that where there was no desire for moral
improvement there would be no improvement in reading. There was one
by the side of her who had not desired moral improvement and had
made no advancement in Literature.

This deliberate cruelty to one whose heart was bursting with sorrow and
regret! "Never will this day be forgotten," says the diary. In speaking
of this incident Miss Anthony said: "Not once, in all the sixty years
that have passed, has the thought of that day come to my mind without
making me turn cold and sick at heart."

On one occasion when a composition had been severely criticised, Susan
blazed forth the inquiry why she always was censured and her sister
praised. "Because," was the reply, "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." Throughout this little record
are continual expressions of the pain of separation from the dear home,
of keen disappointment if the expected letter fails to come, and most
affectionate references to the beloved parents, brothers and sisters.
Even the austere Deborah is mentioned always with respect and kindness
for, notwithstanding her frequent censure, she inspired the girls with
love and reverence.

Subsequent events show that this lady was failing rapidly with
consumption. Among the old letters, one from an assistant teacher to
Daniel Anthony, dated 1839, a year after Susan left school, says: "The
tender chord that so long confined our beloved Deborah to this world
was broken on the 25th day of the 4th month, and we trust her happy
spirit took its flight to realms of eternal felicity." Deborah Moulson
was a cultured and estimable woman, but she represented the spirit of
that age toward childhood, one of chilling severity and constant
repression, when reproof was as liberally administered as praise was
conscientiously withheld.

[Footnote 4: Sixty-five years later, this cousin, Nancy Howe Clark,
aged eighty-seven, wrote Miss Anthony:

"The year I spent at your father's was the happiest of my whole long
life. How well I remember the sweet voices saying 'Cousin Nancy,' and
the affectionate way in which I was received by your dear father and
mother. It had never been my fortune before to live in a household with
an educated man at its head, and I felt a little shy of your father but
soon found there was no occasion. Although it was a period of great
financial depression, he always found time to be social and kindly in
his family. He seemed to have an eye for everything, his business, the
school and every good work. I considered your father and mother a model
husband and wife and found it hard to leave such a loving home."]

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