the same sermon I preached in my own pulpit in the morning. The arrangement worked so well that it lasted for six and a half years–until I resigned from my East Dennis church. During that period, more- over, I not only carried the two churches on my shoulders, holding three meetings each Sunday, but I entered upon and completed a course in the Boston Medical School, winning my M.D. in 1885, and I also lectured several times a month during the winter seasons. These were, therefore, among the most strenuous as well as the most interesting years of my existence, and I mention the strain of them only to prove my life-long contention, that congenial work, no matter how much there is of it, has never yet killed any one!
After my battle with the Free Religious Group things moved much more smoothly in the parish. Captain Crowell, instead of resenting my defiance of his ruling, helped to reconcile the divided factions in the church; and though, as I have said, twice afterward I submitted my resignation, in each case the fight I was making was for a cause which I firmly believed in and eventually won. My second resignation was brought about by the unwillingness of the church to have me exchange pulpits with the one minister on Cape Cod broad-minded enough to invite me to preach in his pulpit. I had done so, and had then sent him a return invitation. He was a gentleman and a scholar, but he was also a Uni- tarian; and though my people were willing to let me preach in his church, they were loath to let him preach in mine. After a surprising amount of dis- cussion my resignation put a different aspect on the matter; it also led to the satisfactory ruling that I could exchange pulpits not only with this minister, but with any other in good standing in his own church.
My third resignation went before the trustees in consequence of my protest from the pulpit against a small drinking and gambling saloon in East Dennis; which was rapidly demoralizing our boys. Theo- retically, only “soft drinks” were sold, but the gambling was open, and the resort was constantly filled with boys of all ages. There were influences back of this place which tried to protect it, and its owner was very popular in the town. After my first sermon I was waited upon by a committee, that warmly advised me to “let East Dennis alone” and confine my criticisms “to saloons in Boston and other big towns.” As I had nothing to do with Boston, and much to do with East Dennis, I preached on that place three Sundays in succession, and feeling became so intense that I handed in my resig- nation and prepared to depart. Then my friends rallied and the resort was suppressed.
That was my last big struggle. During the re- maining five years of my pastorate on Cape Cod the relations between my people and myself were wholly harmonious and beautiful. If I have seemed to dwell too much on these small victories, it must be remembered that I find in them such comfort as I can. I have not yet won the great and vital fight of my life, to which I have given myself, heart and soul, for the past thirty years–the campaign for woman suffrage. I have seen victories here and there, and shall see more. But when the ultimate triumph comes–when American women in every state cast their ballots as naturally as their husbands do–I may not be in this world to rejoice over it.
It is interesting to remember that during the strenuous period of the first few months in East Dennis, and notwithstanding the division in the congregation, we women of the church got together and repainted and refurnished the building, raising all the money and doing much of the work ourselves, as the expense of having it done was prohibitive. We painted the church, and even cut down and mod- ernized the pulpit. The total cost of material and furniture was not half so great as the original esti- mate had indicated, and we had learned a valuable lesson. After this we spent very little money for labor, but did our own cleaning, carpet-laying, and the like; and our little church, if I may be allowed to say so, was a model of neatness and good taste.
I have said that at the end of two years from the time of my appointment the long-continued war- fare in the church was ended. I was not immediate- ly allowed, however, to bask in an atmosphere of harmony, for in October, 1880, the celebrated con- test over my ordination took place at the Methodist Protestant Conference in Tarrytown, New York; and for three days I was a storm-center around which a large number of truly good and wholly sincere men fought the fight of their religious lives. Many of them strongly believed that women were out of place in the ministry. I did not blame them for this conviction. But I was in the ministry, and I was greatly handicapped by the fact that, although I was a licensed preacher and a graduate of the Boston Theological School, I could not, until I had been regularly ordained, meet all the functions of my office. I could perform the marriage service, but I could not baptize. I could bury the dead, but I could not take members into my church. That had to be done by the presiding elder or by some other minister. I could not administer the sacraments. So at the New England Spring Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, held in Boston in 1880, I formally applied for ordination. At the same time application was made by another woman– Miss Anna Oliver–and as a preliminary step we were both examined by the Conference board, and were formally reported by that board as fitted for ordination. Our names were therefore presented at the Conference, over which Bishop Andrews pre- sided, and he immediately refused to accept them. Miss Oliver and I were sitting together in the gal- lery of the church when the bishop announced his decision, and, while it staggered us, it did not really surprise us. We had been warned of this gentle- man’s deep-seated prejudice against women in the ministry.
After the services were over Miss Oliver and I called on him and asked him what we should do. He told us calmly that there was nothing for us to do but to get out of the Church. We reminded him of our years of study and probation, and that I had been for two years in charge of two churches. He set his thin lips and replied that there was no place for women in the ministry, and, as he then evidently considered the interview ended, we left him with heavy hearts. While we were walking slowly away, Miss Oliver confided to me that she did not intend to leave the Church. Instead, she told me, she would stay in and fight the matter of her ordination to a finish. I, however, felt differently. I had done considerable fighting during the past two years, and my heart and soul were weary. I said: “I shall get out, I am no better and no stronger than a man, and it is all a man can do to fight the world, the flesh, and the devil, without fighting his Church as well. I do not intend to fight my Church. But I am called to preach the gospel; and if I cannot preach it in my own Church, I will certainly preach it in some other Church!”
As if in response to this outburst, a young min- ister named Mark Trafton soon called to see me. He had been present at our Conference, he had seen my Church refuse to ordain me, and he had come to suggest that I apply for ordination in his Church– the Methodist Protestant. To leave my Church, even though urged to do so by its appointed spokes- man, seemed a radical step. Before taking this I appealed from the decision of the Conference to the General Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, which held its session that year in Cin- cinnati, Ohio. Miss Oliver also appealed, and again we were both refused ordination, the General Con- ference voting to sustain Bishop Andrews in his decision. Not content with this achievement, the Conference even took a backward step. It deprived us of the right to be licensed as local preachers. After this blow I recalled with gratitude the Reverend Mark Trafton’s excellent advice, and I immediately applied for ordination in the Methodist Protestant Church. My name was presented at the Conference held in Tarrytown in October, 1880, and the fight was on.
During these Conferences it is customary for each candidate to retire while the discussion of his in- dividual fitness for ordination is in progress. When my name came up I was asked, as my predecessors had been, to leave the room for a few moments. I went into an anteroom and waited–a half-hour, an hour, all afternoon, all evening, and still the battle raged. I varied the monotony of sitting in the ante- room by strolls around Tarrytown, and I think I learned to know its every stone and turn. The next day passed in the same way. At last, late on Saturday night, it was suddenly announced by my opponents that I was not even a member of the Church in which I had applied for ordination. The statement created consternation among my friends. None of us had thought of that! The bomb, timed to ex- plode at the very end of the session, threatened to destroy all my hopes. Of course, my opponents had reasoned, it would be too late for me to do anything, and my name would be dropped.
But it was not too late. Dr. Lyman Davis, the pastor of the Methodist Protestant Church in Tarry- town, was very friendly toward me and my ordina- tion, and he proved his friendship in a singularly prompt and efficient fashion. Late as it was, he immediately called together the trustees of his church, and they responded. To them I made my application for church membership, which they ac- cepted within five minutes. I was now a member of the Church, but it was too late to obtain any further action from the Conference. The next day, Sunday, all the men who had applied for ordination were ordained, and I was left out.
On Monday morning, however, when the Con- ference met in its final business session, my case was reopened, and I was eventually called before the members to answer questions. Some of these were extremely interesting, and several of the episodes that occurred were very amusing. One old gentle- man I can see as I write. He was greatly excited, and he led the opposition by racing up and down the aisles, quoting from the Scriptures to prove his case against women ministers. As he ran about he had a trick of putting his arms under the back of his coat, making his coat-tails stand out like wings and incidentally revealing two long white tape- strings belonging to a flannel undergarment. Even in the painful stress of those hours I observed with interest how beautifully those tape-strings were ironed!
I was there to answer any questions that were asked of me, and the questions came like hail- stones in a sudden summer storm.
“Paul said, `Wives, obey your husbands,’ ” shouted my old man of the coat-tails. “Suppose your hus- band should refuse to allow you to preach? What then?”
“In the first place,” I answered, “Paul did not say so, according to the Scriptures. But even if he did, it would not concern me, for I am a spinster.”
The old man looked me over. “You might marry some day,” he predicted, cautiously.
“Possibly,” I admitted. “Wiser women than I am have married. But it is equally possible that I might marry a man who would command me to preach; and in that case I want to be all ready to obey him.”
At this another man, a bachelor, also began to draw from the Scriptures. “An elder,” he quoted, “shall be the husband of one wife.” And he de- manded, triumphantly, “How is it possible for you to be the husband of a wife?”
In response to that I quoted a bit myself. “Paul said, `Anathema unto him who addeth to or taketh from the Scriptures,’ ” I reminded this gentleman; and added that a twisted interpretation of the Scriptures was as bad as adding to or taking from them, and that no one doubted that Paul was warning the elders against polygamy. Then I went a bit further, for by this time the absurd character of the questions was getting on my nerves.
“Even if my good brother’s interpretation is cor- rect,” I said, “he has overlooked two important points. Though he is an elder, he is also a bachelor; so I am as much of a husband as he is!”
A good deal of that sort of thing went on. The most satisfactory episode of the session, to me, was the downfall of three pert young men who in turn tried to make it appear that as the duty of the Con- ference was to provide churches for all its pastors, I might become a burden to the Church if it proved impossible to provide a pastorate for me. At that, one of my friends in the council rose to his feet.
“I have had official occasion to examine into the matter of Miss Shaw’s parish and salary,” he said, “and I know what salaries the last three speakers are drawing. It may interest the Conference to know that Miss Shaw’s present salary equals the combined salaries of the three young men who are so afraid she will be a burden to the Church. If, before being ordained, she can earn three times as much as they now earn after being ordained, it seems fairly clear that they will never have to support her. We can only hope that she will never have to sup- port them.”
The three young ministers subsided into their seats with painful abruptness, and from that time my opponents were more careful in their remarks. Still, many unpleasant things were said, and too much warmth was shown by both sides. We
gained ground through the day, however, and at the end of the session the Conference, by a large majority, voted to ordain me.
The ordination service was fixed for the following evening, and even the gentlemen who had most vigorously opposed me were not averse to making the occasion a profitable one. The contention had already enormously advertised the Conference, and the members now helped the good work along by sending forth widespread announcements of the result. They also decided that, as the attendance at the service would be very large, they would take up a collection for the support of superannuated ministers. The three young men who had feared I would become a burden were especially active in the matter of this collection; and, as they had no sense of humor, it did not seem incongruous to them to use my ordination as a means of raising money for men who had already become burdens to the Church.
When the great night came (on October 12, 1880), the expected crowd came also. And to the credit of my opponents I must add that, having lost their fight, they took their defeat in good part and grace- fully assisted in the services. Sitting in one of the front pews was Mrs. Stiles, the wife of Dr. Stiles, who was superintendent of the Conference. She was a dear little old lady of seventy, with a big, maternal heart; and when she saw me rise to walk up the aisle alone, she immediately rose, too, came to my side, offered me her arm, and led me to the altar.
The ordination service was very impressive and beautiful. Its peace and dignity, following the battle that had raged for days, moved me so deep- ly that I was nearly overcome. Indeed, I was on the verge of a breakdown when I was mercifully saved by the clause in the discipline calling for the pledge all ministers had to make–that I would not indulge in the use of tobacco. When this vow fell from my lips a perceptible ripple ran over the congregation.
I was homesick for my Cape Cod parish, and I returned to East Dennis immediately after my ordination, arriving there on Saturday night. I knew by the suppressed excitement of my friends that some surprise awaited me, but I did not learn what it was until I entered my dear little church the following morning. There I found the com- munion-table set forth with a beautiful new com- munion-service. This had been purchased during my absence, that I might dedicate it that day and for the first time administer the sacrament to my people.
VI
CAPE COD MEMORIES
Looking back now upon those days, I see my Cape Cod friends as clearly as if the interven- ing years had been wiped out and we were again to- gether. Among those I most loved were two widely differing types–Captain Doane, a retired sea-cap- tain, and Relief Paine, an invalid chained to her couch, but whose beautiful influence permeated the community like an atmosphere. Captain Doane was one of the finest men I have ever known–high- minded, tolerant, sympathetic, and full of under- standing, He was not only my friend, but my church barometer. He occupied a front pew, close to the pulpit; and when I was preaching without making much appeal he sat looking me straight in the face, listening courteously, but without interest. When I got into my subject, he would lean forward –the angle at which he sat indicating the degree of attention I had aroused–and when I was strongly holding my congregation Brother Doane would bend toward me, following every word I uttered with corresponding motions of his lips. When I resigned we parted with deep regret, but it was not until I visited the church several years afterward that he overcame his reserve enough to tell me how much he had felt my going.
“Oh, did you?” I asked, greatly touched. “You’re not saying that merely to please me?”
The old man’s hand fell on my shoulder. “I miss you,” he said, simply. “I miss you all the time. You see, I love you.” Then, with precipitate self- consciousness, he closed the door of his New England heart, and from some remote corner of it sent out his cautious after-thought. “I love you,” he re- peated, primly, “as a sister in the Lord.”
Relief Paine lived in Brewster. Her name seemed prophetic, and she once told me that she had always considered it so. Her brother-in-law was my Sun- day-school superintendent, and her family belonged to my church. Very soon after my arrival in East Dennis I went to see her, and found her, as she al- ways was, dressed in white and lying on a tiny white bed covered with pansies, in a room whose windows overlooked the sea. I shall never forget the picture she made. Over her shoulders was an exquisite white lace shawl brought from the other side of the world by some seafaring friend, and against her white pillow her hair seemed the blackest I had ever seen. When I entered she turned and looked toward me with wonderful dark eyes that were quite blind, and as she talked her hands played with the pansies around her. She loved pansies as she loved few human beings, and she knew their colors by touching them. She was then a little more than thirty years of age. At sixteen she had fallen down- stairs in the dark, receiving an injury that paralyzed her, and for fifteen years she had lain on one side, perfectly still, the Stella Maris of the Cape. All who came to her, and they were many, went away the better for the visit, and the mere mention of her name along the coast softened eyes that had looked too bitterly on life.
Relief and I became close friends. I was greatly drawn to her, and deeply moved by the tragedy of her situation, as well as by the beautiful spirit with which she bore it. During my first visit I regaled her with stories of the community and of my own experiences, and when I was leaving it occurred to me that possibly I had been rather frivolous. So I said:
“I am coming to see you often, and when I come I want to do whatever will interest you most. Shall I bring some books and read to you?”
Relief smiled–the gay, mischievous little smile I was soon to know so well, but which at first seemed out of place on the tragic mask of her face.
“No, don’t read to me,” she decided. “There are enough ready to do that. Talk to me. Tell me about our life and our people here, as they strike you.” And she added, slowly: “You are a queer minister. You have not offered to pray with me!”
“I feel,” I told her, “more like asking you to pray for me.”
Relief continued her analysis. “You have not told me that my affliction was a visitation from God,” she added; “that it was discipline and well for me I had it.”
“I don’t believe it was from God,” I said. “I don’t believe God had anything to do with it. And I rejoice that you have not let it wreck your life.”
She pressed my hand. “Thank you for saying that,” she murmured. “If I thought God did it I could not love Him, and if I did not love Him I could not live. Please come and see me VERY often– and tell me stories!”
After that I collected stories for Relief. One of those which most amused her, I remember, was about my horse, and this encourages me to repeat it here. In my life in East Dennis I did not occupy the lonely little parsonage connected with my church, but in- stead boarded with a friend–a widow named Cro- well. (There seemed only two names in Cape Cod: Sears and Crowell.) To keep in touch with my two churches, which were almost three miles apart, it became necessary to have a horse. As Mrs. Crowell needed one, too, we decided to buy the animal in partnership, and Miss Crowell, the daughter of the widow, who knew no more about horses than I did, undertook to lend me the support of her presence and advice during the purchase. We did not care to have the entire community take a passionate in- terest in the matter, as it would certainly have done if it had heard of our intention; so my friend and I departed somewhat stealthily for a neighboring town, where, we had heard, a very good horse was offered for sale. We saw the animal and liked it; but before closing the bargain we cannily asked the owner if the horse was perfectly sound, and if it was gentle with women. He assured us that it was both sound and gentle with women, and to prove the latter point he had his wife harness it to the buggy and drive it around the stable-yard. The animal behaved beautifully. After it had gone through its paces, Miss Crowell and I leaned confidingly against its side, patting it and praising its beauty, and the horse seemed to enjoy our attentions. We bought it then and there, drove it home, and put it in our barn; and the next morning we hired a man in the neighborhood to come over and take care of it.
He arrived. Five minutes later a frightful racket broke out in the barn–sounds of stamping, kicking, and plunging, mingled with loud shouts. We ran to the scene of the trouble, and found our “hired man” rushing breathlessly toward the house. When he was able to speak he informed us that we had “a devil in there,” pointing back to the barn, and that the new horse’s legs were in the air, all four of them at once, the minute he went near her. We insisted that he must have frightened or hurt her, but, sol- emnly and with anxious looks behind, he protested that he had not. Finally Miss Crowell and I went into the barn, and received a dignified welcome from the new horse, which seemed pleased by our visit. Together we harnessed her and, without the least difficulty, drove her out into the yard. As soon as our man took the reins, however, she reared, kicked, and smashed our brand-new buggy. We changed the man and had the buggy repaired, but by the end of the week the animal had smashed the buggy again. Then, with some natural resentment, we made a second visit to the man from whom we had bought her, and asked him why he had sold us such a horse.
He said he had told us the exact truth. The horse WAS sound and she WAS extremely gentle with women, but–and this point he had seen no reason to men- tion, as we had not asked about it–she would not let a man come near her. He firmly refused to take her back, and we had to make the best of the bar- gain. As it was impossible to take care of her our- selves, I gave some thought to the problem she pre- sented, and finally devised a plan which worked very well. I hired a neighbor who was a small, slight man to take care of her, and made him wear his wife’s sunbonnet and waterproof cloak whenever he ap- proached the horse. The picture he presented in these garments still stands out pleasantly against the background of my Cape Cod memories. The horse, however, did not share our appreciation of it. She was suspicious, and for a time she shied whenever the man and his sunbonnet and cloak appeared; but we stood by until she grew accustomed to them and him; and as he was both patient and gentle, she finally allowed him to harness and unharness her. But no man could drive her, and when I drove to church I was forced to hitch and un- hitch her myself. No one else could do it, though many a gallant and subsequently resentful man at- tempted the feat.
On one occasion a man I greatly disliked, and who I had reason to know disliked me, insisted that he could unhitch her, and started to do so, notwithstanding my protests and explanations. At his approach she rose on her hind-legs, and when he grasped her bridle she lifted him off his feet. His expression as he hung in mid-air was an extraordinary mixture of surprise and regret. The moment I touched her, however, she quieted down, and when I got into the buggy and gathered up the reins she walked off like a lamb, leaving the man staring after her with his eyes starting from his head.
The previous owner had called the horse Daisy, and we never changed the name, though it always seemed sadly inappropriate. Time proved, however, that there were advantages in the ownership of Daisy. No man would allow his wife or daughter to drive behind her, and no one wanted to borrow her. If she had been a different kind of animal she would have been used by the whole community, We kept Daisy for seven years, and our acquaintance ripened into a pleasant friendship.
Another Cape Cod resident to whose memory I must offer tribute in these pages was Polly Ann Sears–one of the dearest and best of my parish- ioners. She had six sons, and when five had gone to sea she insisted that the sixth must remain at home. In vain the boy begged her to let him follow his brothers. She stood firm. The sea, she said, should not swallow all her boys; she had given it five–she must keep one.
As it happened, the son she kept at home was the only one who was drowned. He was caught in a fish-net and dragged under the waters of the bay near his home; and when I went to see his mother to offer such comfort as I could, she showed that she had learned the big lesson of the experience.
“I tried to be a special Providence,” she moaned, “and the one boy I kept home was the only boy I lost. I ain’t a-goin’ to be a Providence no more.”
The number of funerals on Cape Cod was tragi- cally large. I was in great demand on these occa- sions, and went all over the Cape, conducting fune- ral services–which seemed to be the one thing people thought I could do–and preaching funeral sermons. Besides the victims of the sea, many of the resi- dents who had drifted away were brought back to sleep their last sleep within sound of the waves. Once I asked an old sea-captain why so many Cape Cod men and women who had been gone for years asked to be buried near their old homes, and his reply still lingers in my memory. He poked his toe in the sand for a moment and then said, slowly:
“Wal, I reckon it’s because the Cape has such warm, comfortable sand to lie down in.”
My friend Mrs. Addy lay in the Crowell family lot, and during my pastorate at East Dennis I preached the funeral sermon of her father, and later of her mother. Long after I had left Cape Cod I was frequently called back to say the last words over the coffins of my old friends, and the saddest of those journeys was the one I made in response to a telegram from the mother of Relief Paine. When I had arrived and we stood together beside the ex- quisite figure that seemed hardly more quiet in death than in life, Mrs. Paine voiced in her few words the feeling of the whole community–“Where shall we get our comfort and our inspiration, now that Relief is gone?”
The funeral which took all my courage from me, however, was that of my sister Mary. In its sudden- ness, Mary’s death, in 1883, was as a thunderbolt from the blue; for she had been in perfect health three days before she passed away. I was still in charge of my two parishes in Cape Cod, but, as it mercifully happened, before she was stricken I had started West to visit Mary in her home at Big Rapids. When I arrived on the second day of her illness, knowing nothing of it until I reached her, I found her already past hope. Her disease was pneumonia, but she was conscious to the end, and her greatest desire seemed to be to see me christen her little daughter and her husband before she left them. This could not be realized, for my brother- in-law was absent on business, and with all his haste in returning did not reach his wife’s side until after her death. As his one thought then was to carry out her last wishes, I christened him and his little girl just before the funeral; and during the ceremony we all experienced a deep conviction that Mary knew and was content.
She had become a power in her community, and was so dearly loved that on the day her body was borne to its last resting-place all the business houses in Big Rapids were closed, and the streets were filled with men who stood with bent, uncovered heads as the funeral procession went by. My father and mother, also, to whom she had given a home after they left the log-cabin where they had lived so long, had made many friends in their new environment and were affectionately known throughout the whole region as “Grandma and Grandpa Shaw.”
When I returned to East Dennis I brought my mother and Mary’s three children with me, and they remained throughout the spring and summer. I had hoped that they would remain permanently, and had rented and furnished a home for them with that end in view; but, though they enjoyed their visit, the prospect of the bleak winters of Cape Cod disturbed my mother, and they all returned to Big Rapids late in the autumn. Since entering upon my parish work it had been possible for me to help my father and mother financially; and from the time of Mary’s death I had the privilege, a very precious one, of seeing that they were well cared for and con- tented. They were always appreciative, and as time passed they became more reconciled to the career I had chosen, and which in former days had filled them with such dire forebodings.
After I had been in East Dennis four years I be- gan to feel that I was getting into a rut. It seemed to me that all I could do in that particular field had been done. My people wished me to remain, how- ever, and so, partly as an outlet for my surplus energy, but more especially because I realized the splendid work women could do as physicians, I be- gan to study medicine. The trustees gave me per- mission to go to Boston on certain days of each week, and we soon found that I could carry on my work as a medical student without in the least neglecting my duty toward my parish.
I entered the Boston Medical School in 1882, and obtained my diploma as a full-fledged physician in 1885. During this period I also began to lecture for the Massachusetts Woman Suffrage Association, of which Lucy Stone was president. Henry Black- well was associated with her, and together they de- veloped in me a vital interest in the suffrage cause, which grew steadily from that time until it became the dominating influence in my life. I preached it in the pulpit, talked it to those I met outside of the church, lectured on it whenever I had an oppor- tunity, and carried it into my medical work in the Boston slums when I was trying my prentice hand on helpless pauper patients.
Here again, in my association with the women of the streets, I realized the limitations of my work in the ministry and in medicine. As minister to soul and body one could do little for these women. For such as them, one’s efforts must begin at the very foundation of the social structure. Laws for them must be made and enforced, and some of those laws could only be made and enforced by women. So many great avenues of life were opening up before me that my Cape Cod environment seemed almost a prison where I was held with tender force. I loved my people and they loved me–but the big outer world was calling, and I could not close my ears to its summons. The suffrage lectures helped to keep me contented, however, and I was certainly busy enough to find happiness in my work.
I was in Boston three nights a week, and during these nights subject to sick calls at any hour. My favorite associates were Dr. Caroline Hastings, our professor of anatomy, and little Dr. Mary Safford, a mite of a woman with an indomitable soul. Dr. Safford was especially prominent in philanthropic work in Massachusetts, and it was said of her that at any hour of the day or night she could be found working in the slums of Boston. I, too, could fre- quently be found there–often, no doubt, to the dis- advantage of my patients. I was quite famous in three Boston alleys–Maiden’s Lane, Fellows Court, and Andrews Court. It most fortunately happened that I did not lose a case in those alleys, though I took all kinds, as I had to treat a certain number of surgical and obstetrical cases in my course. No doubt my patients and I had many narrow escapes of which we were blissfully ignorant, but I remember two which for a long time afterward continued to be features of my most troubled dreams.
The first was that of a big Irishman who had pneumonia. When I looked him over I was as much frightened as he was. I had got as far as pneu- monia in my course, and I realized that here was a bad case of it. I knew what to do. The patient must be carefully packed in towels wrung out of cold water. When I called for towels I found that there was nothing in the place but a dish-towel, which I washed with portentous gravity. The man owned but one shirt, and, in deference to my visit, his wife had removed that to wash it. I packed the patient in the dish-towel, wrapped him in a piece of an old shawl, and left after instructing his wife to repeat the process. When I reached home I remem- bered that the patient must be packed “carefully,” and I knew that his wife would do it carelessly. That meant great risk to the man’s life. My im- pulse was to rush back to him at once, but this would never do. It would destroy all confidence in the doctor. I walked the floor for three hours, and then casually strolled in upon my patient, finding him, to my great relief, better than I had left him. As I was leaving, a child rushed into the room, begging me to come to an upper floor in the same building.
“The baby’s got the croup,” she gasped, “an’ he’s chokin’ to death.”
We had not reached croup in our course, and I had no idea what to do, but I valiantly accompanied the little girl. As we climbed the long flights of stairs to the top floor I remembered a conversation I had overheard between two medical students. One of them had said: “If the child is strangling when it inhales, as if it were breathing through a sponge, then give it spongia; but if it is strangling when it breathes out, give it aconite.”
When I reached the baby I listened, but could not tell which way it was strangling. However, I happened to have both medicines with me, so I called for two glasses and mixed the two remedies, each in its own glass. I gave them both to the mother, and told her to use them alternately, every fifteen minutes, until the baby was better. The baby got well; but whether its recovery was due to the spongia or to the aconite I never knew.
In my senior year I fell in love with an infant of three, named Patsy. He was one of nine children when I was called to deliver his mother of her tenth child. She was drunk when I reached her, and so were two men who lay on the floor in the same room. I had them carried out, and after the mother and baby had been attended to I noticed Patsy. He was the most beautiful child I had ever seen–with eyes like Italian skies and yellow hair in tight curls over his adorable little head; but he was covered with filthy rags. I borrowed him, took him home with me, and fed and bathed him, and the next day fitted him out with new clothes. Every hour I had him tightened his hold on my heart-strings. I went to his mother and begged her to let me keep him, but she refused, and after a great deal of argument and entreaty I had to return him to her. When I went to see him a few days later I found him again in his horrible rags. His mother had pawned his new clothes for drink, and she was deeply under its in- fluence. But no pressure I could exert then or later would make her part with Patsy. Finally, for my own peace of mind, I had to give up hope of getting him–but I have never ceased to regret the little adopted son I might have had.
VII
THE GREAT CAUSE
There is a theory that every seven years each human being undergoes a complete physical reconstruction, with corresponding changes in his mental and spiritual make-up. Possibly it was due to this reconstruction that, at the end of seven years on Cape Cod, my soul sent forth a sudden call to arms. I was, it reminded me, taking life too easily; I was in danger of settling into an agreeable routine. The work of my two churches made little drain on my superabundant vitality, and not even the win- ning of a medical degree and the increasing demands of my activities on the lecture platform wholly eased my conscience. I was happy, for I loved my people and they seemed to love me. It would have been pleasant to go on almost indefinitely, living the life of a country minister and telling myself that what I could give to my flock made such a life worth while.
But all the time, deep in my heart, I realized the needs of the outside world, and heard its prayer for workers. My theological and medical courses in Boston, with the experiences that accompanied them, had greatly widened my horizon. Moreover, at my invitation, many of the noble women of the day were coming to East Dennis to lecture, bringing with them the stirring atmosphere of the conflicts they were waging. One of the first of these was my friend Mary A. Livermore; and after her came Julia Ward Howe, Anna Garlin Spencer, Lucy Stone, Mary F. Eastman, and many others, each charged with in- spiration for my people and with a special message for me, which she sent forth unknowingly and which I alone heard. They were fighting great battles, these women–for suffrage, for temperance, for social purity–and in every word they uttered I heard a rallying-cry. So it was that, in 1885, I suddenly pulled myself up to a radical decision and sent my resignation to the trustees of the two churches whose pastor I had been since 1878.
The action caused a demonstration of regret which made it hard to keep to my resolution and leave these men and women whose friendship was among the dearest of my possessions. But when we had all talked things over, many of them saw the situation as I did. No doubt there were those, too, who felt that a change of ministry would be good for the churches. During the weeks that followed my resignation I received many odd tributes, and of these one of the most amusing came from a young girl in the parish, who broke into loud protests when she heard that I was going away. To com- fort her I predicted that she would now have a man minister–doubtless a very nice man. But the young person continued to sniffle disconsolately.
“I don’t want a man,” she wailed. “I don’t like to see men in pulpits. They look so awkward.” Her grief culminated in a final outburst. “They’re all arms and legs!” she sobbed.
When my resignation was finally accepted, and the time of my departure drew near, the men of the community spent much of their leisure in discussing it and me. The social center of East Dennis was a certain grocery, to which almost every man in town regularly wended his way, and from which all the gossip of the town emanated. Here the men sat for hours, tilted back in their chairs, whittling the rungs until they nearly cut the chairs from under them, and telling one another all they knew or had heard about their fellow-townsmen. Then, after each session, they would return home and repeat the gossip to their wives. I used to say that I would give a dollar to any woman in East Dennis who could quote a bit of gossip which did not come from the men at that grocery. Even my old friend Cap- tain Doane, fine and high-minded citizen though he was, was not above enjoying the mild diversion of these social gatherings, and on one occasion at least he furnished the best part of the entertainment. The departing minister was, it seemed, the topic of the day’s discussion, and, to tease Captain Doane one young man who knew the strength of his friend- ship for me suddenly began to speak, then pursed up his lips and looked eloquently mysterious. As he had expected, Captain Doane immediately pounced on him.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the old man. “Hev you got anything agin Miss Shaw?”
The young man sighed and murmured that if he wished he could repeat a charge never before made against a Cape Cod minister, but–and he shut his lips more obviously. The other men, who were in the plot, grinned, and this added the last touch to Captain Doane’s indignation. He sprang to his feet. One of his peculiarities was a constant mis- use of words, and now, in his excitement, he outdid himself.
“You’ve made an incineration against Miss Shaw,” he shouted. “Do you hear–AN INCINERATION! Take it back or take a lickin’!”
The young man decided that the joke had gone far enough, so he answered, mildly: “Well, it is said that all the women in town are in love with Miss Shaw. Has that been charged against any other minister here?”
The men roared with laughter, and Captain Doane sat down, looking sheepish.
“All I got to say is this,” he muttered: “That gal has been in this community for seven years, and she ‘ain’t done a thing during the hull seven years that any one kin lay a finger on!”
The men shouted again at this back-handed trib- ute, and the old fellow left the grocery in a huff. Later I was told of the “incineration” and his elo- quent defense of me, and I thanked him for it. But I added:
“I hear you said I haven’t done a thing in seven years that any one can lay a finger on?”
“I said it,” declared the Captain, “and I’ll stand by it.”
“Haven’t I done any good?” I asked.
“Sartin you have,” he assured me, heartily. “Lots of good.”
“Well,” I said, “can’t you put your finger on that?”
The Captain looked startled. “Why–why– Sister Shaw,” he stammered, “you know I didn’t mean THAT! What I meant,” he repeated, slowly and solemnly, “was that the hull time you been here you ain’t done nothin’ anybody could put a finger on!”
Captain Doane apparently shared my girl parish- ioner’s prejudice against men in the pulpit, for long afterward, on one of my visits to Cape Cod, he ad- mitted that he now went to church very rarely.
“When I heard you preach,” he explained, “I gen’ally followed you through and I knowed where you was a-comin’ out. But these young fellers that come from the theological school–why, Sister Shaw, the Lord Himself don’t know where they’re comin’ out!”
For a moment he pondered. Then he uttered a valedictory which I have always been glad to recall as his last message, for I never saw him again.
“When you fust come to us,” he said, “you had a lot of crooked places, an’ we had a lot of crooked places; and we kind of run into each other, all of us. But before you left, Sister Shaw, why, all the crooked places was wore off and everything was as smooth as silk.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “and that was the time to leave –when everything was running smoothly.”
All is changed on Cape Cod since those days, thirty years ago. The old families have died or moved away, and those who replaced them were of a dif- ferent type. I am happy in having known and loved the Cape as it was, and in having gathered there a store of delightful memories. In later strenuous years it has rested me merely to think of the place, and long afterward I showed my continued love of it by building a home there, which I still possess. But I had little time to rest in this or in my Moylan home, of which I shall write later, for now I was back in Boston, living my new life, and each crowded hour brought me more to do.
We were entering upon a deeply significant period. For the first time women were going into industrial competition with men, and already men were in- tensely resenting their presence. Around me I saw women overworked and underpaid, doing men’s work at half men’s wages, not because their work was inferior, but because they were women. Again, too, I studied the obtrusive problems of the poor and of the women of the streets; and, looking at the whole social situation from every angle, I could find but one solution for women–the removal of the stigma of disfranchisement. As man’s equal before the law, woman could demand her rights, asking favors from no one. With all my heart I joined in the crusade of the men and women who were fight- ing for her. My real work had begun.
Naturally, at this period, I frequently met the members of Boston’s most inspiring group–the Emersons and John Greenleaf Whittier, James Free- man Clark, Reverend Minot Savage, Bronson Alcott and his daughter Louisa, Wendell Phillips, William Lloyd Garrison, Stephen Foster, Theodore Weld, and the rest. Of them all, my favorite was Whittier. He had been present at my graduation from the theo- logical school, and now he often attended our suffrage meetings. He was already an old man, nearing the end of his life; and I recall him as singularly tall and thin, almost gaunt, bending forward as he talked, and wearing an expression of great serenity and benignity. I once told Susan B. Anthony that if I needed help in a crowd of strangers that included her, I would immediately turn to her, knowing from her face that, whatever I had done, she would under- stand and assist me. I could have offered the same tribute to Whittier. At our meetings he was like a vesper-bell chiming above a battle-field. Garrison always became excited during our discussions, and the others frequently did; but Whittier, in whose big heart the love of his fellow-man burned as unquench- ably as in any heart there, always preserved his ex- quisite tranquillity.
Once, I remember, Stephen Foster insisted on having the word “tyranny” put into a resolution, stating that women were deprived of suffrage by the TYRANNY of men. Mr. Garrison objected, and the debate that followed was the most exciting I have ever heard. The combatants actually had to ad- journ before they could calm down sufficiently to go on with their meeting. Knowing the stimulating atmosphere to which he had grown accustomed, I was not surprised to have Theodore Weld explain to me; long afterward, why he no longer attended suffrage meetings.
“Oh,” he said, “why should I go? There hasn’t been any one mobbed in twenty years!”
The Ralph Waldo Emersons occasionally attended our meetings, and Mr. Emerson, at first opposed to woman suffrage, became a convert to it during the last years of his life–a fact his son and daughter omitted to mention in his biography. After his death I gave two suffrage lectures in Concord, and each time Mrs. Emerson paid for the hall. At these lectures Louisa M. Alcott graced the assem- bly with her splendid, wholesome presence, and on both occasions she was surrounded by a group of boys. She frankly cared much more for boys than for girls, and boys inevitably gravitated to her when- ever she entered a place where they were. When women were given school suffrage in Massachusetts, Miss Alcott was the first woman to vote in Concord, and she went to the polls accompanied by a group of her boys, all ardently “for the Cause.” My gen- eral impression of her was that of a fresh breeze blowing over wide moors. She was as different as possible from exquisite little Mrs. Emerson, who, in her daintiness and quiet charm, suggested an old New England garden.
Of Abby May and Edna Cheney I retain a general impression of “bagginess”–of loose jackets over loose waistbands, of escaping locks of hair, of bodies seemingly one size from the neck down. Both women were utterly indifferent to the details of their appearance, but they were splendid workers and leading spirits in the New England Woman’s Club. It was said to be the trouble between Abby May and Kate Gannett Wells, both of whom stood for the presidency of the club, that led to the beginning of the anti-suffrage movement in Boston. Abby May was elected president, and all the suffragists voted for her. Subsequently Kate Gannett Wells began her anti-suffrage campaign. Mrs. Wells was the first anti-suffragist I ever knew in this country. Before her there had been Mrs. Dahlgren, wife of Admiral Dahlgren, and Mrs. William Tecumseh Sher- man. On one occasion Elizabeth Cady Stanton chal- lenged Mrs. Dahlgren to a debate on woman suffrage, and in the light of later events Mrs. Dahlgren’s reply is amusing. She declined the challenge, explaining that for anti-suffragists to appear upon a public platform would be a direct violation of the principle for which they stood–which was the protection of female modesty! Recalling this, and the present hectic activity of the anti-suffragists, one must feel that they have either abandoned their principle or widened their views.
For Julia Ward Howe I had an immense admira- tion; but, though from first to last I saw much of her, I never felt that I really knew her. She was a woman of the widest culture, interested in every progressive movement. With all her big heart she tried to be a democrat, but she was an aristocrat to the very core of her, and, despite her wonderful work for others, she lived in a splendid isolation. Once when I called on her I found her resting her mind by reading Greek, and she laughingly admitted that she was using a Latin pony, adding that she was growing “rusty.” She seemed a little embarrassed by being caught with the pony, but she must have been reassured by my cheerful confession that if _I_ tried to read either Latin or Greek I should need an English pony.
Of Frances E. Willard, who frequently came to Boston, I saw a great deal, and we soon became close- ly associated in our work. Early in our friendship, and at Miss Willard’s suggestion, we made a com- pact that once a week each of us would point out to the other her most serious faults, and thereby help her to remedy them; but we were both too sane to do anything of the kind, and the project soon died a natural death. The nearest I ever came to carrying it out was in warning Miss Willard that she was constantly defying all the laws of personal hygiene. She never rested, rarely seemed to sleep, and had to be reminded at the table that she was there for the purpose of eating food. She was al- ways absorbed in some great interest, and oblivious to anything else, I never knew a woman who could grip an audience and carry it with her as she could. She was intensely emotional, and swayed others by their emotions rather than by logic; yet she was the least conscious of her physical existence of any one I ever knew, with the exception of Susan B. Anthony. Like “Aunt Susan,” Miss Willard paid no heed to cold or heat or hunger, to privation or fatigue. In their relations to such trifles both women were dis- embodied spirits.
Another woman doing wonderful work at this time was Mrs. Quincy Shaw, who had recently started her day nurseries for the care of tenement children whose mothers labored by the day. These nurseries were new in Boston, as was the kindergarten system she also established. I saw the effect of her work in the lives of the people, and it strengthened my growing conviction that little could be done for the poor in a spiritual or educational way until they were given a certain amount of physical comfort, and until more time was devoted to the problem of prevention. Indeed, the more I studied economic issues, the more strongly I felt that the position of most philan- thropists is that of men who stand at the bottom of a precipice gathering up and trying to heal those who fall into it, instead of guarding the top and pre- venting them from going over.
Of course I had to earn my living; but, though I had taken my medical degree only a few months before leaving Cape Cod, I had no intention of prac- tising medicine. I had merely wished to add a certain amount of medical knowledge to my mental equipment. The Massachusetts Woman Suffrage Association, of which Lucy Stone was president, had frequently employed me as a lecturer during the last two years of my pastorate. Now it offered me a salary of one hundred dollars a month as a lecturer and organizer. Though I may not have seemed so in these reminiscences, in which I have written as freely of my small victories as of my struggles and failures, I was a modest young person. The amount seemed too large, and I told Mrs. Stone as much, after which I humbly fixed my salary at fifty dollars a month. At the end of a year of work I felt that I had “made good”; then I asked for and received the one hundred dollars a month originally offered me.
During my second year Miss Cora Scott Pond and I organized and carried through in Boston a great suffrage bazaar, clearing six thousand dollars for the association–a large amount in those days. Elated by my share in this success, I asked that my salary should be increased to one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month–but this was not done. Instead, I received a valuable lesson. It was freely admitted that my work was worth one hundred and twenty-five dollars, but I was told that one hundred was the limit which could be paid, and I was re- minded that this was a good salary for a woman.
The time seemed to have come to make a practical stand in defense of my principles, and I did so by resigning and arranging an independent lecture tour. The first month after my resignation I earned three hundred dollars. Later I frequently earned more than that, and very rarely less. Eventually I lec- tured under the direction of the Slaton Lecture Bureau of Chicago, and later still for the Redpath Bureau of Boston. My experience with the Red- path people was especially gratifying. Mrs. Liver- more, who was their only woman lecturer, was grow- ing old and anxious to resign her work. She saw in me a possible successor, and asked them to take me on their list. They promptly refused, explain- ing that I must “make a reputation” before they could even consider me. A year later they wrote me, making a very good offer, which I accepted. It may be worth while to mention here that through my lecture-work at this period I earned all the money I have ever saved. I lectured night after night, week after week, month after month, in “Chautauquas” in the summer, all over the country in the winter, earning a large income and putting aside at that time the small surplus I still hold in preparation for the “rainy day” every working-woman inwardly fears.
I gave the public at least a fair equivalent for what it gave me, for I put into my lectures all my vitality, and I rarely missed an engagement, though again and again I risked my life to keep one. My special subjects, of course, were the two I had most at heart-suffrage and temperance. For Frances Willard, then President of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, had persuaded me to head the Franchise Department of that organization, suc- ceeding Ziralda Wallace, the mother of Gen. Lew Wallace; and Miss Susan B. Anthony, who was be- ginning to study me closely, soon swung me into active work with her, of which, later, I shall have much to say. But before taking up a subject as absorbing to me as my friendship for and association with the most wonderful woman I have ever known, it may be interesting to record a few of my pioneer experiences in the lecture-field.
In those days–thirty years ago–the lecture bu- reaus were wholly regardless of the comfort of their lecturers. They arranged a schedule of engagements with exactly one idea in mind–to get the lecturer from one lecture-point to the next, utterly regardless of whether she had time between for rest or food or sleep. So it happened that all-night journeys in freight-cars, engines, and cabooses were casual com- monplaces, while thirty and forty mile drives across the country in blizzards and bitter cold were equally inevitable. Usually these things did not trouble me. They were high adventures which I enjoyed at the time and afterward loved to recall. But there was an occasional hiatus in my optimism.
One night, for example, after lecturing in a town in Ohio, it was necessary to drive eight miles across country to a tiny railroad station at which a train, passing about two o’clock in the morning, was to be flagged for me. When we reached the station it was closed, but my driver deposited me on the platform and drove away, leaving me alone. The night was cold and very dark. All day I had been feeling ill and in the evening had suffered so much pain that I had finished my lecture with great difficulty. Now toward midnight, in this desolate spot, miles from any house, I grew alarmingly worse. I am not easily frightened, but that time I was sure I was going to die. Off in the darkness, very far away, as it seemed, I saw a faint light, and with infinite effort I dragged myself toward it. To walk, even to stand, was impossible; I crawled along the railroad track, collapsing, resting, going on again, whipping my will power to the task of keeping my brain clear, until after a nightmare that seemed to last through centuries I lay across the door of the switch-tower in which the light was burning. The switchman stationed there heard the cry I was able to utter, and came to my assistance. He carried me up to his signal-room and laid me on the floor by the stove; he had nothing to give me except warmth and shel- ter; but these were now all I asked. I sank into a comatose condition shot through with pain. Tow- ard two o’clock in the morning he waked me and told me my train was coming, asking if I felt able to take it. I decided to make the effort. He dared not leave his post to help me, but he signaled to the train, and I began my progress back to the station. I never clearly remembered how I got there; but I arrived and was helped into a car by a brakeman. About four o’clock in the morning I had to change again, but this time I was left at the station of a town, and was there met by a man whose wife had offered me hospitality. He drove me to their home, and I was cared for. What I had, it developed, was a severe case of ptomaine poisoning, and I soon re- covered; but even after all these years I do not like to recall that night.
To be “snowed in” was a frequent experience. Once, in Minnesota, I was one of a dozen travelers who were driven in an omnibus from a country hotel to the nearest railroad station, about two miles away. It was snowing hard, and the driver left us on the station platform and departed. Time passed, but the train we were waiting for did not come. A true Western blizzard, growing wilder every moment, had set in, and we finally realized that the train was not coming, and that, moreover, it was now impossible to get back to the hotel. The only thing we could do was to spend the night in the railroad station. I was the only woman in the group, and my fellow- passengers were cattlemen who whiled away the hours by smoking, telling stories, and exchanging pocket flasks. The station had a telegraph operator who occupied a tiny box by himself, and he finally invited me to share the privacy of his microscopic quarters. I entered them very gratefully, and he laid a board on the floor, covered it with an over- coat made of buffalo-skins, and cheerfully invited me to go to bed. I went, and slept peacefully until morning. Then we all returned to the hotel, the men going ahead and shoveling a path.
Again, one Sunday, I was snowbound in a train near Faribault, and this time also I was the only woman among a number of cattlemen. They were an odoriferous lot, who smoked diligently and played cards without ceasing, but in deference to my pres- ence they swore only mildly and under their breath. At last they wearied of their game, and one of them rose and came to me.
“I heard you lecture the other night,” he said, awkwardly, “and I’ve bin tellin’ the fellers about it. We’d like to have a lecture now.”
Their card-playing had seemed to me a sinful thing (I was stricter in my views then than I am to-day), and I was glad to create a diversion. I agreed to give them a lecture, and they went through the train, which consisted of two day coaches, and brought in the remaining passengers. A few of them could sing, and we began with a Moody and Sankey hymn or two and the appealing ditty, “Where is my wandering boy to-night?” in which they all joined with special zest. Then I delivered the lecture, and they listened attentively. When I had finished they seemed to think that some slight return was in order, so they proceeded to make a bed for me. They took the bottoms out of two seats, arranged them crosswise, and one man folded his overcoat into a pillow. Inspired by this, two others immediately donated their fur overcoats for upper and lower coverings. When the bed was ready they waved me toward it with a most hospitable air, and I crept in between the overcoats and slumbered sweetly until I was aroused the next morning by the welcome music of a snow-plow which had been sent from St. Paul to our rescue.
To drive fifty or sixty miles in a day to meet a lecture engagement was a frequent experience. I have been driven across the prairies in June when they were like a mammoth flower-bed, and in Jan- uary when they seemed one huge snow-covered grave–my grave, I thought, at times. Once during a thirty-mile drive, when the thermometer was twenty degrees below zero, I suddenly realized that my face was freezing. I opened my satchel, took out the tissue-paper that protected my best gown, and put the paper over my face as a veil, tucking it inside of my bonnet. When I reached my destination the tissue was a perfect mask, frozen stiff, and I had to be lifted from the sleigh. I was due on the lecture platform in half an hour, so I drank a huge bowl of boiling ginger tea and appeared on time. That night I went to bed expecting an attack of pneumonia as a result of the exposure, but I awoke next morning in superb condition. I possess what is called “an iron constitution,” and in those days I needed it.
That same winter, in Kansas, I was chased by wolves, and though I had been more or less inti- mately associated with wolves in my pioneer life in the Michigan woods, I found the occasion extreme- ly unpleasant. During the long winters of my girl- hood wolves had frequently slunk around our log cabin, and at times in the lumber-camps we had even heard them prowling on the roofs. But those were very different creatures from the two huge, starving, tireless animals that hour after hour loped behind the cutter in which I sat with another woman, who, throughout the whole experience, never lost her head nor her control of our frantic horses. They were mad with terror, for, try as they would, they could not outrun the grim things that trailed us, seemingly not trying to gain on us, but keeping al- ways at the same distance, with a patience that was horrible. From time to time I turned to look at them, and the picture they made as they came on and on is one I shall never forget. They were so near that I could see their eyes and slavering jaws, and they were as noiseless as things in a dream. At last, little by little, they began to gain on us, and they were almost within striking distance of the whip, which was our only weapon, when we reached the welcome outskirts of a town and they fell back.
Some of the memories of those days have to do with personal encounters, brief but poignant. Once when I was giving a series of Chautauqua lectures, I spoke at the Chautauqua in Pontiac, Illinois. The State Reformatory for Boys was situated in that town, and, after the lecture the superintendent of the Reformatory invited me to visit it and say a few words to the inmates. I went and spoke for half an hour, carrying away a memory of the place and of the boys which haunted me for months. A year later, while I was waiting for a train in the station at Shelbyville, a lad about sixteen years old passed me and hesitated, looking as if he knew me. I saw that he wanted to speak and dared not, so I nodded to him.
“You think you know me, don’t you?” I asked, when he came to my side.
“Yes’m, I do know you,” he told me, eagerly. “You are Miss Shaw, and you talked to us boys at Pontiac last year. I’m out on parole now, but I ‘ain’t forgot. Us boys enjoyed you the best of any show we ever had!”
I was touched by this artless compliment, and anxious to know how I had won it, so I asked, “What did I say that the boys liked?”
The lad hesitated. Then he said, slowly, “Well, you didn’t talk as if you thought we were all bad.”
“My boy,” I told him, “I don’t think you are all bad. I know better!”
As if I had touched a spring in him, the lad dropped into the seat by my side; then, leaning toward me, he said, impulsively, but almost in a whisper:
“Say, Miss Shaw, SOME OF US BOYS SAYS OUR PRAYERS!”
Rarely have I had a tribute that moved me more than that shy confidence; and often since then, in hours of discouragement or failure, I have reminded myself that at least there must have been something in me once to make a lad of that age so open up his heart. We had a long and intimate talk, from which grew the abiding interest I feel in boys to- day.
Naturally I was sometimes inconvenienced by slight misunderstandings between local committees and myself as to the subjects of my lectures, and the most extreme instance of this occurred in a town where I arrived to find myself widely advertised as “Mrs. Anna Shaw, who whistled before Queen Victoria”! Transfixed, I gaped before the bill- boards, and by reading their additional lettering discovered the gratifying fact that at least I was not expected to whistle now. Instead, it appeared, I was to lecture on “The Missing Link.”
As usual, I had arrived in town only an hour or two before the time fixed for my lecture; there was the briefest interval in which to clear up these pain- ful misunderstandings. I repeatedly tried to reach the chairman who was to preside at the entertain- ment, but failed. At last I went to the hall at the hour appointed, and found the local committee there, graciously waiting to receive me. Without wasting precious minutes in preliminaries, I asked why they had advertised me as the woman who had “whistled before Queen Victoria.”
“Why, didn’t you whistle before her?” they ex- claimed in grieved surprise.
“I certainly did not,” I explained. “Moreover, I was never called `The American Nightingale,’ and I have never lectured on `The Missing Link.’ Where DID you get that subject? It was not on the list I sent you.”
The members of the committee seemed dazed. They withdrew to a corner and consulted in whis- pers. Then, with clearing brow, the spokesman re- turned.
“Why,” he said, cheerfully, “it’s simple enough! We mixed you up with a Shaw lady that whistles; and we’ve been discussing the missing link in our debating society, so our citizens want to hear your views.”
“But I don’t know anything about the missing link,” I protested, “and I can’t speak on it.”
“Now, come,” they begged. “Why, you’ll have to! We’ve sold all our tickets for that lecture. The whole town has turned out to hear it.”
Then, as I maintained a depressed silence, one of them had a bright idea.
“I’ll tell you how to fix it!” he cried. “Speak on any subject you please, but bring in something about the missing link every few minutes. That will satis- fy ’em.”
“Very well,” I agreed, reluctantly. “Open the meeting with a song. Get the audience to sing `America’ or `The Star-spangled Banner.’ That will give me a few minutes to think, and I will see what can be done.”
Led by a very nervous chairman, the big audience began to sing, and under the inspiration of the music the solution of our problem flashed into my mind.
“It is easy,” I told myself. “Woman is the miss- ing link in our government. I’ll give them a suf- frage speech along that line.”
When the song ended I began my part of the en- tertainment with a portion of my lecture on “The Fate of Republics,” tracing their growth and decay, and pointing out that what our republic needed to give it a stable government was the missing link of woman suffrage. I got along admirably, for every five minutes I mentioned “the missing link,” and the audience sat content and apparently interested, while the members of the committee burst into bloom on the platform.
VIII
DRAMA IN THE LECTURE-FIELD
My most dramatic experience occurred in a city in Michigan, where I was making a
temperance campaign. It was an important lum- ber and shipping center, and it harbored much intemperance. The editor of the leading news- paper was with the temperance-workers in our fight there, and he had warned me that the liquor people threatened to “burn the building over my head” if I attempted to lecture. We were used to similar threats, so I proceeded with my preparations and held the meeting in the town skating-rink– a huge, bare, wooden structure.
Lectures were rare in that city, and rumors of some special excitement on this occasion had been circulated; every seat in the rink was filled, and several hundred persons stood in the aisles and at the back of the building. Just opposite the speak- er’s platform was a small gallery, and above that, in the ceiling, was a trap-door. Before I had been speaking ten minutes I saw a man drop through this trap-door to the balcony and climb from there to the main floor. As he reached the floor he shouted “Fire!” and rushed out into the street. The next instant every person in the rink was up and a panic had started. I was very sure there was no fire, but I knew that many might be killed in the rush which was beginning. So I sprang on a chair and shouted to the people with the full strength of my lungs:
“There is no fire! It’s only a trick! Sit down! Sit down!”
The cooler persons in the crowd at once began to help in this calming process.
“Sit down!” they repeated. “It’s all right! There’s no fire! Sit down!”
It looked as if we had the situation in hand, for the people hesitated, and most of them grew quiet; but just then a few words were hissed up to me that made my heart stop beating. A member of our local committee was standing beside my chair, speaking in a terrified whisper:
“There IS a fire, Miss Shaw,” he said. “For God’s sake get the people out–QUICKLY!”
The shock was so unexpected that my knees al- most gave way. The people were still standing, wavering, looking uncertainly toward us. I raised my voice again, and if it sounded unnatural my hearers probably thought it was because I was speak- ing so loudly.
“As we are already standing,” I cried, “and are all nervous, a little exercise will do us good. So march out, singing. Keep time to the music! Later you can come back and take your seats!”
The man who had whispered the warning jumped into the aisle and struck up “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” Then he led the march down to the door, while the big audience swung into line and followed him, joining in the song. I remained on the chair, beating time and talking to the people as they went; but when the last of them had left the building I almost collapsed; for the flames had begun to eat through the wooden walls and the clang of the fire- engines was heard outside.
As soon as I was sure every one was safe, however, I experienced the most intense anger I had yet known. My indignation against the men who had risked hundreds of lives by setting fire to a crowded building made me “see red”; it was clear that they must be taught a lesson then and there. As soon as I was outside the rink I called a meeting, and the Congre- gational minister, who was in the crowd, lent us his church and led the way to it. Most of the audience followed us, and we had a wonderful meeting, dur- ing which we were able at last to make clear to the people of that town the character of the liquor interests we were fighting. That episode did the temperance cause more good than a hundred ordinary meetings. Men who had been indifferent before became our friends and supporters, and at the fol- lowing election we carried the town for prohibition by a big majority.
There have been other occasions when our op- ponents have not fought us fairly. Once, in an Ohio town, a group of politicians, hearing that I was to lecture on temperance in the court-house on a certain night, took possession of the building early in the evening, on the pretense of holding a meeting, and held it against us. When, escorted by a com- mittee of leading women, I reached the building and tried to enter, we found that the men had locked us out. Our audience was gathering and filling the street, and we finally sent a courteous message to the men, assuming that they had forgotten us and re- minding them of our position. The messenger re- ported that the men would leave “about eight,” but that the room was “black with smoke and filthy with tobacco-juice. “We waited patiently until eight o’clock, holding little outside meetings in groups, as our audience waited with us. At eight we again sent our messenger into the hall, and he brought back word that the men were “not through, didn’t know when they would be through, and had told the women not to wait.”
Naturally, the waiting townswomen were deeply chagrined by this. So were many men in the out- side crowd. We asked if there was no other en- trance to the hall except through the locked front doors, and were told that the judge’s private room opened into it, and that one of our committee had the key, as she had planned to use this room as a dressing and retiring room for the speakers. After some discussion we decided to storm the hall and take possession. Within five minutes all the women had formed in line and were crowding up the back stairs and into the judge’s room. There we unlocked the door, again formed in line, and marched into the hall, singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers!”
There were hundreds of us, and we marched di- rectly to the platform, where the astonished men got up to stare at us. More and more women entered, coming up the back stairs from the street and filling the hall; and when the men realized what it all meant, and recognized their wives, sis- ters, and women friends in the throng, they sheep- ishly unlocked the front doors and left us in posses- sion, though we politely urged them to remain. We had a great meeting that night!
Another reminiscence may not be out of place. We were working for a prohibition amendment in the state of Pennsylvania, and the night before election I reached Coatesville. I had just com- pleted six weeks of strenuous campaigning, and that day I had already conducted and spoken at two big outdoor meetings. When I entered the town hall of Coatesville I found it filled with women. Only a few men were there; the rest were celebrating and campaigning in the streets. So I arose and said:
“I would like to ask how many men there are in the audience who intend to vote for the amendment to-morrow?”
Every man in the hall stood up.
“I thought so,” I said. “Now I intend to ask your indulgence. As you are all in favor of the amendment, there is no use in my setting its claims before you; and, as I am utterly exhausted, I suggest that we sing the Doxology and go home!”
The audience saw the common sense of my position, so the people laughed and sang the Doxol- ogy and departed. As we were leaving the hall one of Coatesville’s prominent citizens stopped me.
“I wish you were a man,” he said. “The town was to have a big outdoor meeting to-night, and the orator has failed us. There are thousands of men in the streets waiting for the speech, and the saloons are sending them free drinks to get them drunk and carry the town to-morrow.”
“Why,” I said, “I’ll talk to them if you wish.”
“Great Scott!” he gasped. “I’d be afraid to let you. Something might happen!”
“If anything happens, it will be in a good cause,” I reminded him. “Let us go.”
Down-town we found the streets so packed with men that the cars could not get through, and with the greatest difficulty we reached the stand which had been erected for the speaker. It was a gorgeous affair. There were flaring torches all around it, and a “bull’s-eye,” taken from the head of a locomotive, made an especially brilliant patch of light. The stand had been erected at a point where the city’s four principal streets meet, and as far as I could see there were solid masses of citizens extending into these streets. A glee-club was doing its best to help things along, and the music of an organette, an instrument much used at the time in campaign rallies, swelled the joyful tumult. As I mounted the platform the crowd was singing “Vote for Betty and the Baby,” and I took that song for my text, speaking of the helplessness of women and children in the face of intemperance, and telling the crowd the only hope of the Coatesville women lay in the vote cast by their men the next day.
Directly in front of me stood a huge and ex- traordinarily repellent-looking negro. A glance at him almost made one shudder, but before I had finished my first sentence he raised his right arm straight above him and shouted, in a deep and wonderfully rich bass voice, “Hallelujah to the Lamb!” From that point on he punctuated my speech every few moments with good, old-fashioned exclamations of salvation which helped to inspire the crowd. I spoke for almost an hour. Three times in my life, and only three times, I have made speeches that have satisfied me to the degree, that is, of making me feel that at least I was giving the best that was in me. The speech at Coatesville was one of those three. At the end of it the good-natured crowd cheered for ten minutes. The next day Coatesville voted for prohibition, and, rightly or wrongly, I have always believed that I helped to win that victory.
Here, by the way, I may add that of the two other speeches which satisfied me one was made in Chicago, during the World’s Fair, in 1893, and the other in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1912. The International Council of Women, it will be remembered, met in Chicago during the Fair, and I was invited to preach the sermon at the Sunday-morning session. The occasion was a very important one, bringing to- gether at least five thousand persons, including representative women from almost every country in Europe, and a large number of women ministers. These made an impressive group, as they all wore their ministerial robes; and for the first time I preached in a ministerial robe, ordered especially for that day. It was made of black crepe de Chine, with great double flowing sleeves, white silk under- sleeves, and a wide white silk underfold down the front; and I may mention casually that it looked very much better than I felt, for I was very nervous. My father had come on to Chicago especially to hear my sermon, and had been invited to sit on the platform. Even yet he was not wholly reconciled to my public work, but he was beginning to take a deep interest in it. I greatly desired to please him and to satisfy Miss Anthony, who was extremely anxious that on that day of all days I should do my best.
I gave an unusual amount of time and thought to that sermon, and at last evolved what I modestly believed to be a good one. I never write out a sermon in advance, but I did it this time, laboriously, and then memorized the effort. The night before the sermon was to be delivered Miss Anthony asked me about it, and when I realized how deeply in- terested she was I delivered it to her then and there as a rehearsal. It was very late, and I knew we would not be interrupted. As she listened her face grew longer and longer and her lips drooped at the corners. Her disappointment was so obvious that I had difficulty in finishing my recitation; but I finally got through it, though rather weakly toward the end, and waited to hear what she would say, hoping against hope that she had liked it better than she seemed to. But Susan B. Anthony was the frankest as well as the kindest of women. Reso- lutely she shook her head.
“It’s no good, Anna,” she said; firmly. “You’ll have to do better. You’ve polished and repolished that sermon until there’s no life left in it. It’s dead. Besides, I don’t care for your text.”
“Then give me a text,” I demanded, gloomily.
“I can’t,” said Aunt Susan.
I was tired and bitterly disappointed, and both conditions showed in my reply.
“Well,” I asked, somberly, “if you can’t even supply a text, how do you suppose I’m going to deliver a brand-new sermon at ten o’clock to-morrow morning?”
“Oh,” declared Aunt Susan, blithely, “you’ll find a text.”
I suggested several, but she did not like them. At last I said, “I have it–`Let no man take thy crown.’ ”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Miss Anthony. “Give us a good sermon on that text.”
She went to her room to sleep the sleep of the just and the untroubled, but I tossed in my bed the rest of the night, planning the points of the new sermon. After I had delivered it the next morning I went to my father to assist him from the platform. He was trembling, and his eyes were full of tears. He seized my arm and pressed it.
“Now I am ready to die,” was all he said.
I was so tired that I felt ready to die, too; but his satisfaction and a glance at Aunt Susan’s con- tented face gave me the tonic I needed. Father died two years later, and as I was campaigning in California I was not with him at the end. It was a comfort to remember, however, that in the twilight of his life he had learned to understand his most difficult daughter, and to give her credit for earnest- ness of purpose, at least, in following the life that had led her away from him. After his death, and imme- diately upon my return from California, I visited my mother, and it was well indeed that I did, for within a few months she followed father into the other world for which all of her unselfish life had been a preparation.
Our last days together were perfect. Her attitude was one of serene and cheerful expectancy, and I always think of her as sitting among the primroses and bluebells she loved, which seemed to bloom unceasingly in the windows of her room. I recall, too, with gratitude, a trifle which gave her a pleasure out of all proportion to what I had dreamed it would do. She had expressed a longing for some English heather, “not the hot-house variety, but the kind that blooms on the hills,” and I had succeeded in getting a bunch for her by writing to an English friend.
Its possession filled her with joy, and from the time it came until the day her eyes closed in their last sleep it was rarely beyond reach of her hand. At her request, when she was buried we laid the heather on her heart–the heart of a true and loyal woman, who, though her children had not known it, must have longed without ceasing throughout her New World life for the Old World of her youth.
The Scandinavian speech was an even more vital experience than the Chicago one, for in Stockholm I delivered the first sermon ever preached by a woman in the State Church of Sweden, and the event was preceded by an amount of political and journalistic opposition which gave it an international importance. I had also been invited by the Nor- wegian women to preach in the State Church of Norway, but there we experienced obstacles. By the laws of Norway women are permitted to hold all public offices except those in the army, navy, and church–a rather remarkable militant and spiritual combination. As a woman, therefore, I was denied the use of the church by the Minister of Church Affairs.
The decision created great excitement and much delving into the law. It then appeared that if the use of a State Church is desired for a minister of a foreign country the government can give such per- mission. It was thought that I might slip in through this loophole, and application was made to the government. The reply came that permission could be received only from the entire Cabinet; and while the Cabinet gentlemen were feverishly discussing the important issue, the Norwegian press became active, pointing out that the Minister of Church Affairs had arrogantly assumed the right of the entire Cabinet in denying the application. The charge was taken up by the party opposed to the government party in Parliament, and the Minister of Church Affairs swiftly turned the whole matter over to his conferees.
The Cabinet held a session, and by a vote of four to three decided NOT to allow a woman to preach in the State Church. I am happy to add that of the three who voted favorably on the question one was the Premier of Norway. Again the newspapers grasped their opportunity–especially the organs of the opposition party. My rooms were filled with reporters, while daily the excitement grew. The question was brought up in Parliament, and I was invited to attend and hear the discussion there. By this time every newspaper in Scandinavia was for or against me; and the result of the whole matter was that, though the State Church of Norway was not opened to me, a most unusual interest had been aroused in my sermon in the State Church of Sweden. When I arrived there to keep my engagement, not only was the wonderful structure packed to its walls, but the waiting crowds in the street were so large that the police had difficulty in opening a way for our party.
I shall never forget my impression of the church itself when I entered it. It will always stand forth in my memory as one of the most beautiful churches I have ever visited. On every side were monu- ments of dead heroes and statesmen, and the high, vaulted blue dome seemed like the open sky above our heads. Over us lay a light like a soft twilight, and the great congregation filled not only all the pews, but the aisles, the platform, and even the steps of the pulpit. The ushers were young women