In 1869 I gave my name, for the first time, to the New York Bureau, and on November 14 began the long, weary pilgrimages, from Maine to Texas, that lasted twelve years; speaking steadily for eight months—­from October to June—­every season.  That was the heyday of the lecturing period, when a long list of bright men and women were constantly on the wing.  Anna Dickinson, Olive Logan, Kate Field,—­later, Mrs. Livermore and Mrs. Howe, Alcott, Phillips, Douglass, Tilton, Curtis, Beecher, and, several years later, General Kilpatrick, with Henry Vincent, Bradlaugh, and Matthew Arnold from England; these and many others were stars of the lecture platform.

Some of us occasionally managed to spend Sunday together, at a good hotel in some city, to rest and feast and talk over our joys and sorrows, the long journeys, the hard fare in the country hotels, the rainy nights when committees felt blue and tried to cut down our fees; the being compelled by inconsiderate people to talk on the train; the overheated, badly ventilated cars; the halls, sometimes too warm, sometimes too cold; babies crying in our audiences; the rain pattering on the roof overhead or leaking on the platform—­these were common experiences.  In the West, women with babies uniformly occupied the front seats so that the little ones, not understanding what you said, might be amused with your gestures and changing facial expression.  All these things, so trying, at the time, to concentrated and enthusiastic speaking, afterward served as subjects of amusing conversation.  We unanimously complained of the tea and coffee.  Mrs. Livermore had the wisdom to carry a spirit lamp with her own tea and coffee, and thus supplied herself with the needed stimulants for her oratorical efforts.  The hardships of these lyceum trips can never be appreciated except by those who have endured them.  With accidents to cars and bridges, with floods and snow blockades, the pitfalls in one of these campaigns were without number.

[Illustration:  ELIZABETH SMITH MILLER.] [Illustration]

On one occasion, when engaged to speak at Maquoketa, Iowa, I arrived at Lyons about noon, to find the road was blocked with snow, and no chance of the cars running for days.  “Well,” said I to the landlord, “I must be at Maquoketa at eight o’clock to-night; have you a sleigh, a span of fleet horses, and a skillful driver?  If so, I will go across the country.”  “Oh, yes, madam!” he replied, “I have all you ask; but you could not stand a six-hours’ drive in this piercing wind.”  Having lived in a region of snow, with the thermometer down to twenty degrees below zero, I had no fears of winds and drifts, so I said, “Get the sleigh ready and I will try it.”  Accordingly I telegraphed the committee that I would be there, and started.  I was well bundled up in a fur cloak and hood, a hot oak plank at my feet, and a thick veil over my head and face.  As the landlord gave the finishing touch, by throwing a large