[13] Among the letters was the following from Senator John J. Ingalls: "I see by the papers that you are about to depart for Europe. Though I do not sympathize with the opinions whose advocacy has made you famous, yet I am not insensible to the great value of the example of your courageous and self-denying labors to the cause of American womanhood. I hope that none but prosperous gales may follow your ship, that your visit may be happy, and that your life may be spared till your aspirations are realized."
CHAPTER XXXII.
MISS ANTHONY'S EUROPEAN LETTERS.
1883.
No pen so well as Miss Anthony's own, can describe her delightful tour abroad, and although her letters were dashed off while travelling from point to point, or at the close of a hard day's sight-seeing, and the entries in the diary are a mere word, they tell in a unique way her personal impressions. Because of limited space descriptions of scenery will be omitted in order to leave room for opinions of people and events.
On Board the British Prince, February 24.
My Dear Mrs. Spofford: Here we are at noon, Friday, steaming down Delaware Bay. We got along nicely until 3 p. m. yesterday, when we came to a standstill. "Stuck in the mud," was the report. There we lay until eight, when with the incoming tide we made a fruitless attempt to get over the bar; then had to steam back up the river to anchor, and lie there until nine this morning—twenty-four hours almost in sight of the loved ones! It is a break from all fastenings to friends to be thus cut loose from the wharf and wafted out into the waters. These long hours of delay have given me time to think of those left behind, and how very far short I have come of doing and saying all I should have done and said....
From the diary:
Feb. 24.—The weather lovely; saloon cozy and pleasant with piano, flowers and canaries. There are only seven passengers, among them a Catholic priest, a dear little three-year-old child and a baby. We sent twenty letters on shore, written during the day we have been detained.
Feb. 25.—Today dawns with no possibility of communicating with a soul outside the ship, a lonely feeling indeed; but I am determined to get all the good I can to mind and body out of this trip, and as little harm as possible.
Feb. 26.—I sit at the captain's right hand at table. The sea is perfectly smooth; I wonder if this broad expanse can be rolled up into mountains.
4 p.m.—The wind and waves are beginning to roar. The priest shows signs of surrender.
Mar. 2.—Sea calm and dishes no longer have to be fastened to table. It seems like freedom again. I can think of nothing beyond shipboard, can see no moves to be made when we reach Liverpool.
Mar. 4.—Winds fair, sea smooth, whole company at breakfast. Captain Burton read the church service. Rachel played the piano and led the singing.