un-Christian.”  Her mother, Martha Wright, who at first was inclined to blame, wrote in the spring of 1868:  “As regards the paper, its vigorous pages are what we need.  I regret the idiosyncrasies of Mr. Train, as they give occasion to the sons and daughters of the Philistines to rejoice, and the children of the uncircumcised only wanted a good excuse to triumph.  Shall you be at the May meeting?  I will not be there under any circumstances without you and Susan and our good friend Parker; so whatever may become of Mr. Train or of the paper, count me now and ever as your true and unswerving friend.”

The following graphic description, by the correspondent, Nellie Hutchinson, was published in the Cincinnati Commercial: 

There’s a peculiarly resplendent sign at the head of the third flight of stairs, and obeying its directions I march into the north corridor and enter The Revolution office.  Nothing so very terrible after all.  The first face that salutes my vision is a youthful one—­fresh, smiling, bright-eyed, auburn-crowned.  It belongs to one of the employes of the establishment, and its owner conducts me to a comfortable sofa, then trips lightly through a little door opposite to inform Miss Anthony of my presence.

I glance about me.  What editorial bliss is this!  Actually a neat carpet on the floor, a substantial round table covered by a pretty cloth, engravings and photographs hung thickly over the clear white walls.  Here is Lucretia Mott’s saintly face, beautiful with eternal youth; there Mary Wollstonecraft looking into futurity with earnest eyes.  In an arched recess are shelves containing books and piles of pamphlets, speeches and essays of Stuart Mill, Wendell Phillips, Higginson, Curtis.  Two screens extend across the front of the room, inclosing a little space around the two large windows which give light, air and glimpses of City Hall park.  Glancing around the corner we see editor Pillsbury seated at his desk by the further window.  Opposite is another desk covered with brown wrappers and mailing books.  Close against the screen stands yet another, at which sits the bookkeeper, an energetic young woman who ably manages all the business affairs of The Revolution.  There’s an atmosphere of womanly purity and delicacy about the place; everything is refreshingly neat and clean, and suggestive of reform.

Ah! here comes Susan—­the determined—­the invincible, the Susan who is possibly destined to be Vice-President or Secretary of State some of these days!  What a delicious thought!  I tremble as she steps rapidly toward me and I perceive in her hand a most statesmanlike roll of MSS.  The eyes scan me coolly and interrogatively but the pleasant voice gives me a yet pleasanter greeting.  There’s something very attractive, even fascinating in that voice—­a faint echo of the alto vibration—­the tone of power.  Her smile is very sweet and genial, and lights up the pale,