Abigail Scott Duniway, editor of the New Northwest, was my first caller this morning.  I like her appearance and she will be business manager of my lectures.  The second caller was Mr. Murphy, city editor of the Herald, and the third Rev. T.L.  Eliot, of the Unitarian church, son of Rev. William Eliot, of St. Louis.  I am to take tea at his house next Monday.  I am not to speak until Wednesday, and thus give myself time to get my head straightened and, I hope, my line of argument.  Mrs. Duniway thinks I will find two months of profitable work in Oregon and Washington Territory, but I hardly believe it possible.  If meetings pay so as to give me hope of adding to my $350 in the San Francisco Bank (my share of the profits on Mrs. Stanton’s and my lectures, which we divided evenly), making it reach $2,000 or even $1,000 by December first, I shall plod away.

I miss Mrs. Stanton, still I can not but enjoy the feeling that the people call on me, and the fact that I have an opportunity to sharpen my wits a little by answering questions and doing the chatting, instead of merely sitting a lay figure and listening to the brilliant scintillations as they emanate from her never-exhausted magazine.  There is no alternative—­whoever goes into a parlor or before an audience with that woman does it at the cost of a fearful overshadowing, a price which I have paid for the last ten years, and that cheerfully, because I felt that our cause was most profited by her being seen and heard, and my best work was making the way clear for her.

Miss Anthony could not entirely recover from the disappointment of her reception in San Francisco, but a letter written to Mrs. Stanton, just before her first lecture in Oregon, shows no regrets but a wish that she had put the case even more strongly: 

I am awaiting my Wednesday night execution with fear and trembling such as I never before dreamed of, but to the rack I must go, though another San Francisco torture be in store for me....  The real fact is we ought to be ashamed of ourselves that we failed to say the whole truth and illustrate it too by the one terrible example in their jail.  That would have caused not me alone but both of us to be hissed out of the hall and hooted out of that Godless city—­Godless in its treading of womanhood under its heel.  I assure you, as I rolled on the ocean last week feeling that the very next strain might swamp the ship, and thinking over all my sins of omission and commission, there was nothing undone which haunted me like that failure to speak the word at San Francisco over again and more fully.  I would rather today have the satisfaction of having said the true and needful thing on Laura Fair and the social evil, with the hisses and hoots of San Francisco and the entire nation around me, than all that you or I could possibly experience from their united eulogies with that one word unsaid.  To my mind the failure