THE Lyceum Bureau was， at one time， a great feature in American life. The three leading bureaus were in Boston， New York， and Chicago. The managers， map in hand， would lay out trips， more or less extensive according to the capacity or will of the speakers， and then， with a dozen or more victims in hand， make arrangements with the committees in various towns and cities to set them all in motion. As the managers of the bureaus had ten per cent. of what the speakers made， it was to their interest to keep the time well filled. Hence the engagements were made without the slightest reference to the comfort of the travelers. With our immense distances， it was often necessary to travel night and day， sometimes changing cars at midnight， and perhaps arriving at the destination half an hour or less before going on the platform， and starting again on the journey immediately upon leaving it. The route was always carefully written out， giving the time the trains started from and arrived at various points； but as cross trains often failed to connect， one traveled， guidebook in hand， in a constant fever of anxiety.
As， in the early days， the fees were from one to two hundred dollars a night， the speakers themselves were desirous of accomplishing as much as possible.
In 1869 I gave my name， for the first time， to the New York Bureau， and on November 14 began the long， weary pilgrimages， from Maine to Texas， that lasted twelve years； speaking steadily for eight months杅rom October to June杄very season. That was the heyday of the lecturing period， when a long list of bright men and women were constantly on the wing. Anna Dickinson， Olive Logan， Kate Field，杔ater， Mrs. Livermore and Mrs. Howe， Alcott， Phillips， Douglass， Tilton， Curtis， Beecher， and， several years later， General Kilpatrick， with Henry Vincent， Bradlaugh， and Matthew Arnold from England； these and many others were stars of the lecture platform.
Some of us occasionally managed to spend Sunday together， at a good hotel in some city， to rest and feast and talk over our joys and sorrows， the long journeys， the hard fare in the country hotels， the rainy nights when committees felt blue and tried to cut down our fees； the being compelled by inconsiderate people to talk on the train； the overheated， badly ventilated cars； the halls， sometimes too warm， sometimes too cold； babies crying in our audiences； the rain pattering on the roof overhead or leaking on the platform杢hese were common experiences. In the West， women with babies uniformly occupied the front seats so that the little ones， not understanding what you said， might be amused with your gestures and changing facial expression.
All these things， so trying， at the time， to concentrated and enthusiastic speaking， afterward served as subjects of amusing conversation. We unanimously complained of the tea and coffee. Mrs. Livermore had the wisdom to carry a spirit lamp with her own tea and coffee， and thus supplied herself with the needed stimulants for her oratorical efforts. The hardships of these lyceum trips can never be appreciated except by those who have endured them. With accidents to cars and bridges， with floods and snow blockades， the pitfalls in one of these campaigns were without number. ELIZABETH SMITH MILLER.
On one occasion， when engaged to speak at Maquoketa， Iowa， I arrived at Lyons about noon， to find the road was blocked with snow， and no chance of the cars running for days. "Well，" said I to the landlord， "I must be at Maquoketa at eight o'clock to-night； have you a sleigh， a span of fleet horses， and a skillful driver？ If so， I will go across the country." "Oh， yes， madam！" he replied， "I have all you ask； but you could not stand a six-hours' drive in this piercing wind." Having lived in a region of snow， with the thermometer down to twenty degrees below zero， I had no fears of winds and drifts， so I said， "Get the sleigh ready and I will try it."
Accordingly I telegraphed the committee that I would be there， and started.
I was well bundled up in a fur cloak and hood， a hot oak plank at my feet， and a thick veil over my head and face. As the landlord gave the finishing touch， by throwing a large buffalo robe over all and tying the two tails together at the back of my head and thus effectively preventing me putting my hand to my nose， he said， "There， if you can only sit perfectly still， you will come out all right at Maquoketa； that is， if you get there， which I very much doubt." It was a long， hard drive against the wind and through drifts， but I scarcely moved a finger， and， as the clock struck eight， we drove into the town. The hall was warm， and the church bell having announced my arrival， a large audience was assembled. As I learned that all the roads in Northern Iowa were blocked， I made the entire circuit， from point to point， in a sleigh， traveling forty and fifty miles a day.
At the Sherman House， in Chicago， three weeks later， I met Mr. Bradlaugh and General Kilpatrick， who were advertised on the same route ahead of me. "Well，" said I， "where have you gentlemen been？" "Waiting here for the roads to be opened. We have lost three weeks' engagements，" they replied.
As the General was lecturing on his experiences in Sherman's march to the sea， I chaffed him on not being able， in an emergency， to march across the State of Iowa. They were much astonished and somewhat ashamed， when I told them of my long， solitary drives over the prairies from day to day.
It was the testimony of all the bureaus that the women could endure more fatigue and were more conscientious than the men in filling their appointments.
