"The fine arts do not interest me so much as the coarse arts which feed, clothe, house, and comfort a people.

I would rather be a great man like Franklin than a Michael Angelo--nay, if I had a son, I should rather see him a mechanic, like the late George Stephenson, in England, than a great painter like Rubens, who only copied beauty." One day I found at the office of the _Revolution_ an invitation to meet Mrs.Moulton in the Academy of Music, where she was to try her voice for the coming concert for the benefit of the Woman's Medical College.

And what a voice for power, pathos, pliability! I never heard the like.
Seated beside her mother, Mrs.W.H.Greenough, I enjoyed alike the mother's anxious pride and the daughter's triumph.

I felt, as I listened, the truth of what Vieuxtemps said the first time he heard her, "That is the traditional voice for which the ages have waited and longed." When, on one occasion, Mrs.Moulton sang a song of Mozart's to Auber's accompaniment, someone present asked, "What could be added to make this more complete ?" Auber looked up to heaven, and, with a sweet smile, said, "Nothing but that Mozart should have been here to listen." Looking and listening, "Here," thought I, "is another jewel in the crown of womanhood, to radiate and glorify the lives of all." I have such an intense pride of sex that the triumphs of woman in art, literature, oratory, science, or song rouse my enthusiasm as nothing else can.
Hungering, that day, for gifted women, I called on Alice and Phebe Cary and Mary Clemmer Ames, and together we gave the proud white male such a serving up as did our souls good and could not hurt him, intrenched, as he is, behind creeds, codes, customs, and constitutions, with vizor and breastplate of self-complacency and conceit.

In criticising Jessie Boucherett's essay on "Superfluous Women," in which she advises men in England to emigrate in order to leave room and occupation for women, the _Tribune_ said: "The idea of a home without a man in it!" In visiting the Carys one always felt that there was a home--a very charming one, too--without a man in it.
Once when Harriet Beecher Stowe was at Dr.Taylor's, I had the opportunity to make her acquaintance.