During the visit of my cousin I thought I would venture on a small, select dinner party, consisting of the Rev. John Pierpont and his wife, Charles Sumner, John G. Whittier, and Joshua Leavitt.  I had a new cook, Rose, whose viands, thus far, had proved delicious, so I had no anxiety on that score.  But, unfortunately, on this occasion I had given her a bottle of wine for the pudding sauce and whipped cream, of which she imbibed too freely, and hence there were some glaring blunders in the menu that were exceedingly mortifying.  As Mr. Smith and my husband were both good talkers, I told them they must cover all defects with their brilliant conversation, which they promised to do.

Rose had all the points of a good servant, phrenologically and physiologically.  She had a large head, with great bumps of caution and order, her eyes were large and soft and far apart.  In selecting her, scientifically, I had told my husband, in triumph, several times what a treasure I had found.  Shortly after dinner, one evening when I was out, she held the baby while the nurse was eating her supper, and carelessly burned his foot against the stove.  Then Mr. Stanton suggested that, in selecting the next cook, I would better not trust to science, but inquire of the family where she lived as to her practical virtues.  Poor Rose! she wept over her lapses when sober, and made fair promises for the future, but I did not dare to trust her, so we parted.  The one drawback to the joys of housekeeping was then, as it is now, the lack of faithful, competent servants.  The hope of co-operative housekeeping, in the near future, gives us some promise of a more harmonious domestic life.

One of the books in my library I value most highly is the first volume of Whittier’s poems, published in 1838, “Dedicated to Henry B. Stanton, as a token of the author’s personal friendship, and of his respect for the unreserved devotion of exalted talents to the cause of humanity and freedom.”  Soon after our marriage we spent a few days with our gifted Quaker poet, on his farm in Massachusetts.

I shall never forget those happy days in June; the long walks and drives, and talks under the old trees of anti-slavery experiences, and Whittier’s mirth and indignation as we described different scenes in the World’s Anti-slavery Convention in London.  He laughed immoderately at the Tom Campbell episode.  Poor fellow! he had taken too much wine that day, and when Whittier’s verses, addressed to the convention, were read, he criticised them severely, and wound up by saying that the soul of a poet was not in him.  Mr. Stanton sprang to his feet and recited some of Whittier’s stirring stanzas on freedom, which electrified the audience, and, turning to Campbell, he said:  “What do you say to that?” “Ah! that’s real poetry,” he replied.  “And John Greenleaf Whittier is its author,” said Mr. Stanton.