After the Albany meeting, Miss Anthony at once began preparations for the National Woman’s Rights Convention in New York in May.  The date was set, the Tabernacle secured and many of the speakers engaged, but in the meantime the affairs of the nation had become more and more complicated; the threatened secession of the Southern States had been accomplished; the long-expected, long-dreaded crisis seemed close at hand; the people were uncertain and bewildered in the presence of the dreadful catastrophe.  All thought, all interest, all action were centered in the new President.  The whole nation was breathlessly awaiting the declaration of Lincoln’s policy.  To call any kind of meeting which had an object other than that relating to the preservation of the Union seemed almost a sacrilege.  Letters poured in upon Miss Anthony urging her to relinquish all idea of a convention, but she never had learned to give up.  Even after the fall of Sumter and the President’s call for troops, the letters were still insisting that she declare the meeting postponed; but it was not until the abandonment of the Anti-Slavery Anniversary, which always took place the same week, and until she found there were absolutely no speakers to be had, that she finally yielded.

About this time she takes care of a sister with a baby, and writes Mrs. Stanton:  “O this babydom, what a constant, never-ending, all-consuming strain!  We should never ask anything else of the woman who has to endure it.  I realize more and more that rearing children should be looked upon as a profession which, like any other, must be made the primary work of those engaged in it.  It can not be properly done if other aims and duties are pressing upon the mother.”  And yet so great was her spirit of self-sacrifice that in this same letter she offers to take entire charge of Mrs. Stanton’s seven children while she makes a three months’ trip abroad.  At a later date, when caring for a young niece, she says:  “The dear little Lucy engrosses most of my time and thoughts.  A child one loves is a constant benediction to the soul, whether or not it helps to the accomplishment of great intellectual feats.”

The watchword of the Abolitionists ever had been “Peace.”  Under the leadership of Garrison, their policy had been one of non-resistance.  When war actually was precipitated, when the South had fired upon the stars and stripes and the tread of marching feet resounded through every northern city, they were amazed and bewildered.  Instinctively they turned to their great leaders for guidance.  In Music Hall, Boston, April 21, 1861, to an audience of over 4,000, Wendell Phillips made that masterly address, justifying “this last appeal to the God of Battles,” and declaring for War.  It was one of the matchless speeches of all history, and touched the keynote which soon swelled into a grand refrain from ocean to ocean.  But even then there were those who waited for the declaration of Garrison, the great pioneer of Abolitionism.  A letter written by Rev. Beriah Green to Miss Anthony, May 22, expresses the sentiment which pervaded the minds of many Abolitionists at this period: