forever, she wrote in her diary, “It was like signing my own death-warrant;” and in a letter to a friend she said, “I feel a great, calm sadness like that of a mother binding out a dear child that she could not support.”  To the public she kept the same brave, unruffled exterior, but in a private letter, written a short time afterwards, is told in a few sentences a story which makes the heart ache: 

My financial recklessness has been much talked of.  Let me tell you in what this recklessness consists:  When there was need of greater outlay, I never thought of curtailing the amount of work to lessen the amount of cash demanded, but always doubled and quadrupled the efforts to raise the necessary sum; rushing for contributions to every one who had professed love or interest for the cause.  If it were 20,000 tracts for Kansas, the thought never entered my head to stint the number—­only to tramp up and down Broadway for advertisements to pay for them.  If to meet expenses of The Revolution, it was not to pinch clerks or printers, but to make a foray upon some money-king.  None but the Good Father can ever begin to know the terrible struggle of those years.  I am not complaining, for mine is but the fate of almost every originator or pioneer who ever has opened up a way.  I have the joy of knowing that I showed it to be possible to publish an out-and-out woman’s paper, and taught other, women to enter in and reap where I had sown.

Heavy debts are still due, every dollar of which I intend to pay, and I am tugging away, lecturing amid these burning suns, for no other reason than to keep pulling down, hundred by hundred, that tremendous pile.  I sanguinely hope to cancel this debt in two years of hard work, and cheerfully look forward to the turning of every possible dollar into that channel.  If you today should ask me to choose between the possession of $25,000 and the immense work accomplished by my Revolution during the time in which I sank that amount, I should choose the work done—­not the cash in hand.  So, you see, I don’t groan or murmur—­not a bit of it; but for the good name of humanity, I would have liked to see the moneyed men and women rally around the seed-sowers.

Parker Pillsbury wrote her after he returned home:  “No one could do better than you have done.  If any complain, ask them what they did to help you carry the paper.  I am glad you are relieved of a load too heavy for you to bear.  Worry yourself no more.  Work of course you will, but let there be no further anxiety and nervousness.  Suffrage is growing with the oaks.  The whirling spheres will usher in the day of its triumph at just the right time, but your full meed of praise will have to be sung over your grave.”

The motto of The Revolution, “The True Republic—­Men, their rights and nothing more; women, their rights, and nothing less,” was succeeded by “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”  It was transformed into a literary and society journal, established in elegant headquarters at Brooklyn, inaugurated with a fashionable reception, and conducted by Mrs. Bullard for eighteen months, when she tired of it, or her father tired of advancing money, and it passed into other hands.