Ten o’clock, January 18, the hour and day appointed for the Woman Suffrage Convention, found Lincoln Hall decorated. Soon after a few women came in; slowly the number increased until a small and appreciative audience had gathered. Very few men were sprinkled around, but quite enough to receive the anathemas that were to be showered upon the whole sex. At just a quarter to 11 a side door from the platform opened and some of the shining lights of the “cause” came into view. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, majestic and beautiful as a snowy landscape, came forward with that grace as indescribable as it is incomparable. An elegant black silk and a camel’s hair scarf made up her perfect costume. At her right sat Mrs. Pauline Davis, of Providence, R. I., another exquisite picture of the snow. She was most daintily attired in blue satin and black velvet, and in the contemplation of this serene and noble picture the mind is reconciled to old age. Susan B. Anthony was there in black silk, with soft white lace around her throat, but even lace, frothy as sea-foam, failed to relieve that practical face. Just what a gnarled oak is amongst trees Susan B. Anthony is to her sex,--hard, obdurate, uncompromising. Josephine Griffin, best among women, was there at her post, one of the most earnest in the cause. Mrs. Wright, the sister of Mrs. Mott, brought a kind greeting from that venerable woman, who was kept at home by age and other infirmities. But the ornament of the platform was Phœbe Couzins, of St. Louis, a young law student of that distinguished city. Her elegant outfit was made of a light, neutral-tinted silk adorned with tiny flounces. A double-breasted jacket of blue velvet, with jaunty Lombardy hat to match, upon which a bird of paradise seemed to nestle from choice. Don’t we pity the judge when Phœbe shall plead before him! One flash from those eyes surmounted by the arched brows--but, stop, the illusion is not complete, the rosy lips are wanting. Henry Clay had a large mouth, and it did not prevent his becoming a great lawyer.
A description of Professor J. K. H. Wilcox, so prominently identified with the “cause,” is necessary, in order to show why, in some respects, the movement is retarded. This man is afflicted with a mild form of lunacy, after the form of George Francis Train, and, like every other decoction of weakness, becomes sickening from its insipidity. He is called professor, but the most minute inquiry fails to discover by what means he has earned this appellation. Like Train, whom he takes for his model, his object is notoriety, and it is safe to assume he will achieve a success. Professor Wilcox was entrusted with a message to his countrymen from Clara Barton, who is now residing abroad. A few simple words were sent to the late soldiers by this good woman, but why the paper should be read at a woman’s meeting only Professor Wilcox can disclose.