Grace Greenwood, Phoebe Couzins, and Other Advocates of the Cause.

Washington, January 18, 1870.

The National Woman Suffrage Convention was inaugurated last evening in Washington by a lecture on domestic life by Grace Greenwood. A respectable-sized audience, with young people largely in the preponderance, under the auspices of the Young Men’s Christian Association, welcomed the authorities to the platform, and listened with grace, respect, and occasional spice of applause, to the essay christened “Indoors.” With a handsome, gallant preamble, Mrs. Lippincott (better known to the world as Grace Greenwood), was introduced, and her lecture went far to prove that women “indoors” could accomplish far more for the benefit of the human race than on the platform. There was intellect enough in the talented woman to fill Lincoln Hall, but unfortunately physical power was wanting. Not over one-third of those present were within hearing of the speaker’s voice.

Nature has set her face against women as public speakers unless they have been trained for the stage, like Olive Logan. No woman’s voice can bear the tension of an hour and a quarter without becoming husky and even painful to the last degree, and the speaker of the evening was no exception to the rule. Grace Greenwood appeared upon the platform in heavy black silk, with scarlet trimmings, which well became her dark autumnal beauty. She has a face of character, like Fanny Kemble, which glows and pales according to the combustion within. She commenced her lecture by saying that “Horace Greeley has said that old-fashioned domestic life has taken its departure.” She said she hoped the time would come when the women would be developed mentally, morally, physically, but about that time the millennium would appear. She said woman, though denied the privilege of an equal chance to earn her own living, yet had the same chance on the scaffold, and the same swing at death. From English literature she abstracted what purported to be a description of the ideal woman. This creature was to be blessed with patience, a desire to stay at home, little learning. By no means was she to know how to spell correctly; as an accomplishment she was to know how to lisp. Then she drew a picture of Fanny Kemble as Lady Macbeth, a woman whose trained robe would sweep the men who concocted such pictures off the stage. At one time she intended to write a course of lectures to young men, but she did not say what deterred her from doing so. She gave us a glowing description of home, but regretted that the homes of the aristocracy were invaded by the “Jenkinses” and all the sacredness therein laid bare. Among those she denominated as Jenkins were the distinguished writers, George Alfred Townsend and Don Piatt. In painting the home she gave the “old maid” the most exalted position, and she decided that single life is not entirely bereft of comfort. The marriage relation, its joys, its sorrows, its struggles, were delineated with poetic fervor, and those who were fortunate enough to hear her pronounced the evening’s entertainment a success.

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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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.

But if the solemn women who represent the “cause” have a desire to see the world move they had only to look at the reporter’s desk and see the large yellow envelopes marked “New York Tribune.” Behind the papers might be seen Miss Nellie Hutchinson, who has earned the title of the “spicy little reporter of the Tribune.” Miss Nellie allows her hair to wander in “maiden meditation, fancy free.” Her jaunty military suit, trimmed with gilt cord and buttons, shows at once her determination to win a battle. She is said to be a strong advocate for the “cause,” and writes it up just as much as the Tribune will permit. As all valuable papers were handed to her by Miss Anthony from the platform, whilst your correspondent was left in the cold, she gives this fact as a slight proof of the kindness bestowed upon a lady who is engaged upon the Tribune. As the perusal of these papers was not shared by the correspondent of The Press, any omissions are requested to be overlooked.

In a few handsome words, Mrs. Stanton introduced Miss Phoebe Couzins, who began her brief address by quoting, “Westward the Star of Empire takes its way.” Then she told us that the East must look to her laurels, else she would wake up and find them stranded on the shores of the Western rivers. Had Phoebe read the Scotch Parson in an old number of the Atlantic Monthly on the subject of “veal,” she never would have gone so far sky-rockety on the subject of the Territory of Wyoming. Mrs. Stanton says the subject is settled out there once and forever.

Mrs. Paulina Davis read a letter from John Stuart Mill, in which he said he regretted not being able to respond to their kind invitation, but that he thought Americans abundantly able to take care of the cause. He then eulogized his wife, and said she had been the means of converting him.

Senator Pomeroy, the only man from Congress in the hall, followed with a few appropriate remarks. But considering that Mrs. Pomeroy was at home, and did not countenance the meeting with her presence, it looked something like those electioneering dodges which the best of politicians sometimes indulge in. Senator Pomeroy said he was no new convert to the “theme.” The Scotch parson advises young people never to talk about “themes,” but as Senator Pomeroy is no longer young, the advice of the parson cannot be meant for him. The Senator said he would not compel a woman to vote; he would simply remove the impediments in the way. He talked about “the mountains near where God dwells.” He said he had been waiting two months for petitions to be sent in. Mrs. Stanton interrupted him and said she had brought them. He said he was for carrying woman suffrage into the fundamental laws of the land. He would let a Chinese vote, only a Chinese could not be naturalized, and therefore could not vote. If a woman was convicted of crime, she must die. A woman had once been hung in Washington. This is the new year for the rallying question. He only hoped this convention would be a triumphant success.

Susan B. Anthony then came forward and attempted to read a letter from a Jersey “Honorable,” but the writing was so poor that she could not. Then she explained what the man meant, but by what process is known only to Susan herself.

Mrs. Cady Stanton came forward and said if the Republican party did not come forth and champion the cause, the Democrats would, and therefore infuse a new life into their decaying body. She also instanced a case where a Democrat had paid the fare of all the ladies in the omnibus that morning coming from the depot to the hotel.

The beautiful prayer delivered at the opening of the session by the Rev. Mr. May, from Syracuse, was worthy of a better cause. The few remarks which followed by the same man were more creditable to his heart than head; but he was sincere and honest, and one could not help but wish that more men like him could be found in the world.

The audience was made up mostly of women, but not the curled, dainty fashionables of the capital. Sad-faced, sorrowful women were there. A poor woman touched your correspondent on the arm, and asked if they “got places for women to work here.” Queenly Mrs. Davis was reading, regal in diamonds and point lace. The woman added, pointing to the speaker, “Do you think she can help me?”

Olivia.