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My most dramatic experience occurred in a city in Michigan, where I was making a temperance
campaign. It was an important lumber and shipping center, and it harbored
much intemperance. The editor of the leading newspaper 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 speaker'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 almost 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 speaking 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 Congregational 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, during 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 following election we carried the town for
prohibition by a big majority.
There have been
other occasions when our opponents 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 committee 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 reminding
them of our position. The messenger reported 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 outside crowd.
We asked if there was no other entrance 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 directly 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, sisters, and
women friends in the throng, they sheepishly unlocked the front
doors and left us in possession, 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 completed 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 Doxology 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 extraordinarily 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 together 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 interested 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. Resolutely 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 contented 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 earnestness of purpose, at least, in following the
life that had led her away from him. After his death, and immediately 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 Norwegian 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 permission. 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 monuments 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 from the University of Upsala, wearing white university caps with black vizors, and sashes
in the university colors. The anthem was composed especially for
the occasion by the first woman cathedral organist in
Sweden--the organist of the cathedral in Gothenburg--and she had brought with
her thirty members of her choir, all of them
remarkable singers. The whole occasion was indescribably
impressive, and I realized in every fiber the necessity
of being worthy of it. Also, I experienced a
sensation such as I had never known before, and which I can
only describe as a seeming complete separation of
my physical self from my spiritual self. It
was as if my body stood aside and watched my soul enter
that pulpit.
There was no uncertainty, no
nervousness, though usually I am very nervous when I
begin to speak; and when I had finished I knew that I
had done my best. But all this is a long way from the early
days I was discussing, when I was making my first
diffident bows to lecture audiences and learning the
lessons of the pioneer in the lecture-field.
I was
soon to learn more, for in 1888 Miss Anthony
persuaded me to drop my temperance work and concentrate
my energies on the suffrage cause. For a long
time I hesitated. I was very happy in my
connection with the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, and I knew that Miss Willard was depending
on me to continue it. But Miss Anthony's
arguments were irrefutable, and she was herself, as
always, irresistible. "You can't win two causes at once,'' she
reminded me. "You're merely scattering your
energies. Begin at the beginning. Win suffrage for
women, and the rest will follow.''
As an added
argument, she took me with her on her Kansas campaign, and
after that no further arguments were needed. From
then until her death, eighteen years later, Miss
Anthony and I worked shoulder to shoulder. The most interesting lecture episode of our
first Kansas campaign was my debate with Senator
John J. Ingalls. Before this, however, on our
arrival at Atchison, Mrs. Ingalls gave a luncheon
for Miss Anthony, and Rachel Foster Avery and I were
also invited. Miss Anthony sat at the right of
Senator Ingalls, and I at his left, while Mrs.
Ingalls, of course, adorned the opposite end of her table. Mrs.
Avery and I had just been entertained for several
days at the home of a vegetarian friend who did not
know how to cook vegetables, and we were both
half starved. When we were invited to the
Ingalls home we had uttered in unison a joyous cry, "Now
we shall have something to eat!'' At the luncheon,
however, Senator Ingalls kept Miss Anthony and me
talking steadily. He was not in favor of suffrage
for women, but he wished to know all sorts of things
about the Cause, and we were anxious to have him know
them. The result was that I had time for only an
occasional mouthful, while down at the end of the table
Mrs. Avery ate and ate, pausing only to send me
glances of heartfelt sympathy. Also, whenever she
had an especially toothsome morsel on the end of
her fork she wickedly succeeded in catching my eye
and thus adding the last sybaritic touch to her
enjoyment.
Notwithstanding the wealth of knowledge we
had bestowed upon him, or perhaps because of it,
the following night Senator Ingalls made his
famous speech against suffrage, and it fell to my
lot to answer him. In the course of his remarks he
asked this question: "Would you like to add
three million illiterate voters to the large body of
illiterate voters we have in America to-day?'' The audience applauded light-heartedly, but I was disturbed
by the sophistry of the question. One of Senator
Ingalls's most discussed personal peculiarities was
the parting of his hair in the middle. Cartoonists and newspaper writers always made much of this, so
when I rose to reply I felt justified in mentioning
it.
"Senator Ingalls,'' I began,
"parts his
hair in the middle, as we all know, but he makes up for
it by parting his figures on one side. Last night
he gave you the short side of his figures. At the
present time there are in the United States about
eighteen million women of voting age. When the Senator asked whether you wanted three million additional
illiterate women voters, he forgot to ask also if you
didn't want fifteen million additional intelligent women
voters! We will grant that it will take the votes of
three million intelligent women to wipe out the
votes of three million illiterate women. But don't
forget that that would still leave us twelve million
intelligent votes to the good!'' The audience applauded as gaily as it
had applauded Senator Ingalls when he spoke on the
other side, and I continued: "Now women have always been generous to
men. So of our twelve million intelligent voters
we will offer four million to offset the votes of
the four million illiterate men in this country--and
then we will still have eight million intelligent
votes to add to the other intelligent votes which are
cast.''
The audience seemed to enjoy this.
"The anti-suffragists are fairly safe,'' I
ended, "as long as they remain on the plane of
prophecy. But as soon as they tackle mathematics they
get into trouble!'' Miss Anthony was much pleased by the wide publicity given to this debate, but Senator
Ingalls failed to share her enthusiasm. It was shortly after this encounter that I
had two traveling experiences which nearly cost
me my life.
One of them occurred in Ohio at the
time of a spring freshet. I know of no state that
can cover itself with water as completely as Ohio can,
and for no apparent reason. On this occasion it was breaking its own record. We had driven twenty
miles across country in a buggy which was barely
out of the water, and behind horses that at times were
almost forced to swim, and when we got near the
town where I was to lecture, though still on the
opposite side of the river from it, we discovered
that the bridge was gone. We had a good view of the
town, situated high and dry on a steep bank; but
the river which rolled between us and that town was a
roaring, boiling stream, and the only possible way to
cross it, I found, was to walk over a railroad
trestle, already trembling under the force of the water. There were hundreds of men on the river-bank watching the flood, and when they saw me
start out on the empty trestle they set up a cheer
that nearly threw me off. The river was wide and
the ties far apart, and the roar of the stream
below was far from reassuring; but in some way I
reached the other side, and was there helped off the
trestle by what the newspapers called "strong and
willing hands.''
Another time, in a desperate resolve to meet
a lecture engagement, I walked across the
railroad trestle at Elmira, New York, and when I was
half-way over I heard shouts of warning to turn
back, as a train was coming. The trestle was very
high at that point, and I realized that if I turned
and faced an oncoming train I would undoubtedly lose
my nerve and fall. So I kept on, as rapidly as
I could, accompanied by the shrieks of those who
objected to witnessing a violent death, and I reached
the end of the trestle just as an express-train
thundered on the beginning of it. The next instant a
policeman had me by the shoulders and was shaking me
as if I had been a bad child. "If you ever do such a thing again,'' he
thundered, "I'll lock you up!'' As soon as I could speak I assured him
fervently that I never would; one such experience was
all I desired.
Occasionally a
flash of humor, conscious or unconscious, lit up the gloom of a trying
situation. Thus, in Parkersburg, West Virginia, the
train I was on ran into a coal-car. I was sitting in a sleeper, leaning back comfortably with my feet on
the seat in front of me, and the force of the
collision lifted me up, turned me completely over, and
deposited me, head first, two seats beyond. On every
side I heard cries and the crash of human bodies
against unyielding substances as my
fellow-passengers flew through the air, while high and clear above
the tumult rang the voice of the conductor: "Keep your seats!'' he yelled.
"KEEP YOUR
SEATS!'' Nobody in our car was seriously hurt; but,
so great is the power of vested authority, no
one smiled over that order but me.
Many times my medical experience was useful. Once I was on a train which ran into a buggy
and killed the woman in it. Her little
daughter, who was with her, was badly hurt, and when the
train had stopped the crew lifted the dead woman
and the injured child on board, to take them to
the next station. As I was the only doctor among the passengers, the child was turned over to me. I
made up a bed on the seats and put the little
patient there, but no woman in the car was able to assist
me. The tragedy had made them hysterical, and on
every side they were weeping and nerveless. The
men were willing but inefficient, with the exception of one uncouth woodsman whose trousers were tucked
into his boots and whose hands were phenomenally
big and awkward. But they were also very
gentle, as I realized when he began to help me. I knew
at once that he was the man I needed,
notwithstanding his unkempt hair, his general ungainliness,
the hat he wore on the back of his head, and the
pink carnation in his buttonhole, which, by its very incongruity, added
the final accent to his unprepossessing appearance. Together we worked over the
child, making it as comfortable as we could. It was hardly necessary to tell my aide what I wanted
done; he seemed to know and even to anticipate my
efforts. When we reached the next station the dead
woman was taken out and laid on the platform, and
a nurse and doctor who had been telegraphed for were waiting to care for the little girl. She was
conscious by this time, and with the most exquisite
gentleness my rustic Bayard lifted her in his arms to
carry her off the train. Quite unnecessarily I motioned
to him not to let her see her dead mother. He was
not the sort who needed that warning; he had already
turned her face to his shoulder, and, with head
bent low above her, was safely skirting the spot
where the long, covered figure lay. Evidently the station was his destination,
too, for he remained there; but just as the train
pulled out he came hurrying to my window, took the carnation from his buttonhole, and without a
word handed it to me. And after the tragic hour
in which I had learned to know him the crushed
flower, from that man, seemed the best fee I had
ever received. |
