I think the name should not be changed.  If you change it in deference to our wishes and against good advice, it would lay an obligation on us that we could ill endure.  Already I was feeling uneasy under the thought, and Mrs. Stowe actually said to me that she should prefer greatly to write as contributor and would do just as much work as if called editor.  She settled down on consenting to be corresponding editor; and Mrs. Davis and I will be assistant editors.  I will write for The Revolution and work for it just as hard as I can, sending out a circular through Connecticut asking contributions to it.

Later—­Since reading Mrs. Stanton on the Richardson-McFarland case, I feel disinclined to be associated with her in editorial work.  I want to say this very gently; but I have no time for circumlocution....

[Autograph:  Alice Cary]

The promised contributions did not materialize, and The Revolution received no aid of any description.  The struggle was bravely continued throughout the first five months of 1870.  The Cary sisters were devoted friends of Miss Anthony and deeply interested in the paper, and some of their sweetest poems had appeared in its columns.  Their beautiful home was just three blocks below The Revolution office, and she spent many hours with them.  These frequent calls, breakfasts and luncheons were much more delightful to her than their Sunday evening receptions, although at those were gathered the writers, artists, musicians, reformers and politicians of New York, besides eminent persons who happened to be in the city.  It was a literary center which never has been equalled since those lovely and cultured sisters passed away.  In her lecture on “Homes of Single Women,” Miss Anthony thus describes one of her visits: 

[Autograph:  Phoebe Cary]

I shall never forget the December Sunday morning when a note came from Phoebe asking, “Will you come round and sit with Alice while I go to church?” Of course I was only too glad to go; and it was there in the cheery sick-room, as I sat on a cushion at the feet of this lovely, large-souled, clear-brained woman, that she told me how ever and anon in the years gone by, as she was writing her stories for bread and shelter, her pen would run off into facts and philosophies of woman’s servitude that she knew would ruin her book with the publishers, but which, for her own satisfaction, she had carefully treasured, chapter by chapter, as her heart had thus overflowed.  “I am now,” she said, “financially free, where I could write my deepest and best thought for woman, and now I must die.  O, how much of my life I have been compelled to write what men would buy, not what my heart most longed to say, and what a clog to my spirit it has been.”

As she sat there, reading from those chapters, her sweet face, her lustrous eyes, her musical voice all aglow as with a live coal from off