The arrival of Miss Anthony and Mrs. Gage, on November 20, banished all family matters from my mind.  What planning, now, for volumes, chapters, footnotes, margins, appendices, paper, and type; of engravings, title, preface, and introduction!  I had never thought that the publication of a book required the consideration of such endless details.  We stood appalled before the mass of material, growing higher and higher with every mail, and the thought of all the reading involved made us feel as if our lifework lay before us.  Six weeks of steady labor all day, and often until midnight, made no visible decrease in the pile of documents.  However, before the end of the month we had our arrangements all made with publishers and engravers, and six chapters in print.  When we began to correct proof we felt as if something was accomplished.  Thus we worked through the winter and far into the spring, with no change except the Washington Convention and an occasional evening meeting in New York city.  We had frequent visits from friends whom we were glad to see.  Hither came Edward M. Davis, Sarah Pugh, Adeline Thompson, Frederick Cabot of Boston, Dr. William F. Channing, and sweet little Clara Spence, who recited for us some of the most beautiful selections in her repertoire.

In addition we had numberless letters from friends and foes, some praising and some condemning our proposed undertaking, and, though much alone, we were kept in touch with the outside world.  But so conflicting was the tone of the letters that, if we had not taken a very fair gauge of ourselves and our advisers, we should have abandoned our project and buried all the valuable material collected, to sleep in pine boxes forever.

At this time I received a very amusing letter from the Rev. Robert Collyer, on “literary righteousness,” quizzing me for using one of his anecdotes in my sketch of Lucretia Mott, without giving him credit.  I laughed him to scorn, that he should have thought it was my duty to have done so.  I told him plainly that he belonged to a class of “white male citizens,” who had robbed me of all civil and political rights; of property, children, and personal freedom; and now it ill became him to call me to account for using one of his little anecdotes that, ten to one, he had cribbed from some woman.  I told him that I considered his whole class as fair game for literary pilfering.  That women had been taxed to build colleges to educate men, and if we could pick up a literary crumb that had fallen from their feasts, we surely had a right to it.  Moreover, I told him that man’s duty in the world was to work, to dig and delve for jewels, real and ideal, and lay them at woman’s feet, for her to use as she might see fit; that he should feel highly complimented, instead of complaining, that he had written something I thought worth using.  He answered like the nobleman he is; susceptible of taking in a new idea.  He admitted that, in view of the shortcomings of his entire sex, he had not one word to say in the way of accusation, but lay prostrate at my feet in sackcloth and ashes, wondering that he had not taken my view of the case in starting.