The Story of a Pioneer........................................................................................................................................1

Anna Howard Shaw.................................................................................................................................1

I. FIRST MEMORIES.............................................................................................................................1

II. IN THE WILDERNESS ....................................................................................................................10

III. HIGHSCHOOL AND COLLEGE DAYS....................................................................................18

IV. THE WOLF AT THE DOOR ..........................................................................................................28

V. SHEPHERD OF A DIVIDED FLOCK............................................................................................36

VI. CAPE COD MEMORIES...............................................................................................................45

VII. THE GREAT CAUSE ....................................................................................................................50

VIII. DRAMA IN THE LECTUREFIELD.........................................................................................58

IX. ``AUNT SUSAN'' ............................................................................................................................65

X. THE PASSING OF ``AUNT SUSAN'' .............................................................................................75

XI. THE WIDENING SUFFRAGE STREAM.....................................................................................83

XII. BUILDING A HOME ....................................................................................................................90

XIII. PRESIDENT OF ``THE NATIONAL''........................................................................................98

XIV. RECENT CAMPAIGNS............................................................................................................103

XV. CONVENTION INCIDENTS.....................................................................................................106

XVI. COUNCIL EPISODES ...............................................................................................................111

XVII. VALE!.......................................................................................................................................115

My father's ancestors were the Shaws of Rothiemurchus, in Scotland, and the ruins of their castle may still be

seen on the island of LochanEilan, in the northern Highlands. It was never the picturesque castle of song

and story, this home of the fighting Shaws, but an austere fortress, probably built in Roman times; and even

today the crumbling walls which alone are left of it show traces of the relentless assaults upon them. Of

these the last and the most successful were made in the seventeenth century by the Grants and Rob Roy; and

it was into the hands of the Grants that the Shaw fortress finally fell, about 1700, after almost a hundred years

It gives me no pleasure to read the grisly details of their struggles, but I confess to a certain satisfac tion in

the knowledge that my ancestors made a good showing in the defense of what was theirs. Beyond doubt they

were brave fighters and strong men. There were other sides to their natures, however, which the high lights of

history throw up less appealingly. As an instance, we have in the family chronicles the bloodstained page of

Allen Shaw, the oldest son of the last Lady Shaw who lived in the fortress. It appears that when the father of

this young man died, about 1560, his mother married again, to the intense disapproval of her son. For some

time after the marriage he made no open revolt against the newcomer in the domestic circle; but finally, on

the pretext that his dog had been attacked by his stepfather, he forced a quarrel with the older man and the

two fought a duel with swords, after which the vic torious Allen showed a sad lack of chivalry. He not only

killed his stepfather, but he cut off that gentleman's head and bore it to his mother in her bed chamberan

action which was considered, even in that tolerant age, to be carrying filial resentment too far.

Probably Allen regretted it. Certainly he paid a high penalty for it, and his clan suffered with him. He was

outlawed and fled, only to be hunted down for months, and finally captured and executed by one of the

Grants, who, in further virtuous disap proval of Allen's act, seized and held the Shaw stronghold. The other

Shaws of the clan fought long and ably for its recovery, but though they were helped by their kinsmen, the

Mackintoshes, and though good Scotch blood dyed the gray walls of the fortress for many generations, the

castle never again came into the hands of the Shaws. It still entails certain obligations for the Grants,

however, and one of these is to give the King of England a snowball whenever he visits LochanEilan!

As the years passed the Shaw clan scattered. Many Shaws are still to be found in the Mackintosh country and

throughout southern Scotland. Others went to England, and it was from this latter branch that my father

sprang. His name was Thomas Shaw, and he was the younger son of a gentlemana word which in those

days seemed to define a man who devoted his time largely to gambling and horse racing. My grandfather,

like his father before him, was true to the traditions of his time and class. Quite naturally and simply he

squandered all he had, and died abruptly, leaving his wife and two sons penniless. They were not, however, a

helpless band. They, too, had their traditions, handed down by the fighting Shaws. Peter, the older son,

became a soldier, and died bravely in the Crimean War. My father, through some outside influence, turned

his attention to trade, learning to stain and emboss wall paper by hand, and developing this work until he

became the recognized expert in his field. Indeed, he progressed until he himself checked his rise by

inventing a machine that made his handwork un necessary. His employer at once claimed and utilized this

invention, to which, by the laws of those days, he was entitled, and thus the corner stone on which my father

had expected to build a fortune proved the rock on which his career was wrecked. But that was years later, in

For one, he had temporarily dropped his trade and gone into the flourandgrain business; and, for another,

he had married my mother. She was the daughter of a Scotch couple who had come to England and settled in

Alnwick, in Northumberland County. Her father, James Stott, was the driver of the royalmail stage between

Alnwick and New castle, and his accidental death while he was still a young man left my grandmother and

her eight children almost destitute. She was immediately given a position in the castle of the Duke of Nor

thumberland, and her sons were educated in the duke's school, while her daughters were entered in the school

My thoughts dwell lovingly on this grandmother, Nicolas Grant Stott, for she was a remarkable woman, with

a dauntless soul and progressive ideas far in advance of her time. She was one of the first Unitarians in

England, and years before any thought of woman suffrage entered the minds of her country women she

refused to pay tithes to the support of the Church of Englandan action which precipitated a

longdrawnout conflict between her and the law. In those days it was customary to assess tithes on every

pane of glass in a window, and a portion of the money thus collected went to the support of the Church. Year

after year my intrepid grandmother refused to pay these assessments, and year after year she sat pensively

upon her doorstep, watching articles of her furniture being sold for money to pay her tithes. It must have

been an impressive picture, and it was one with which the community became thoroughly familiar, as the

determined old lady never won her fight and never abandoned it. She had at least the comfort of public

sympathy, for she was by far the most popular woman in the country side. Her neighbors admired her

courage; perhaps they appreciated still more what she did for them, for she spent all her leisure in the homes

of the very poor, mending their clothing and teaching them to sew. Also, she left behind her a path of

cleanliness as definite as the line of foam that follows a ship; for it soon became known among her protegees

that Nicolas Stott was as much opposed to dirt as she was to the payment of tithes.

She kept her children in the schools of the duke and duchess until they had completed the entire course open

to them. A hundred times, and among many new scenes and strange people, I have heard my mother describe

her own experiences as a pupil. All the children of the dependents of the castle were expected to leave school

at fourteen years of age. During their course they were not allowed to study geography, because, in the sage

opinion of their elders, knowledge of foreign lands might make them dis contented and inclined to wander.

Neither was com position encouragedthat might lead to the writing of lovenotes! But they were

permitted to absorb all the reading and arithmetic their little brains could hold, while the art of sewing was

not only encouraged, but proficiency in it was stimulated by the award of prizes. My mother, being a rather

pre cocious young person, graduated at thirteen and carried off the first prize. The garment she made was a

linen chemise for the duchess, and the little needlewoman had embroidered on it, with her own hair, the

august lady's coat of arms. The offering must have been appreciated, for my mother's story always ended with

the same words, uttered with the same air of gentle pride, ``And the duchess gave me with her own hands my

Bible and my mug of beer!'' She never saw anything amusing in this association of gifts, and I always stood

behind her when she told the incident, that she might not see the disrespectful mirth it aroused in me.

My father and mother met in Alnwick, and were married in February, 1835. Ten years after his marriage

father was forced into bankruptcy by the passage of the corn law, and to meet the obliga tions attending his

failure he and my mother sold practically everything they possessedtheir home, even their furniture. Their

little sons, who were away at school, were brought home, and the family expenses were cut down to the

barest margin; but all these sacrifices paid only part of the debts. My mother, finding that her early gift had a

market value, took in sewing. Father went to work on a small salary, and both my parents saved every penny

they could lay aside, with the desperate determination to pay their remaining debts. It was a long struggle and

a painful one, but they finally won it. Before they had done so, however, and during their bleakest days, their

baby died, and my mother, like her mother before her, paid the penalty of being outside the fold of the

Church of England. She, too, was a Unitarian, and her baby, therefore, could not be laid in any consecrated

burialground in her neighborhood. She had either to bury it in the Potter's Field, with criminals, suicides,

and paupers, or to take it by stagecoach to Alnwick, twenty miles away, and leave it in the little Unitarian

church yard where, after her strenuous life, Nicolas Stott now lay in peace. She made the dreary journey

In 1846, my parents went to London. There they did not linger long, for the big, indifferent city had nothing

to offer them. They moved to New castleonTyne, and here I was born, on the four teenth day of

February, in 1847. Three boys and two girls had preceded me in the family circle, and when I was two years

old my younger sister came. We were little better off in Newcastle than in London, and now my father began

to dream the great dream of those days. He would go to America. Surely, he felt, in that land of infinite

promise all would be well with him and his. He waited for the final payment of his debts and for my younger

sister's birth. Then he bade us goodby and sailed away to make an American home for us; and in the spring

of 1851 my mother followed him with her six children, starting from Liverpool in a sailing vessel, the John

I was then little more than four years old, and the first vivid memory I have is that of being on ship board

and having a mighty wave roll over me. I was lying on what seemed to be an enormous red box under a

hatchway, and the water poured from above, almost drowning me. This was the beginning of a storm which

raged for days, and I still have of it a confused memory, a sort of nightmare, in which strange horrors figure,

and which to this day haunts me at intervals when I am on the sea. The thing that stands out most strongly

during that period is the white face of my mother, ill in her berth. We were with five hundred emigrants on

the lowest deck of the ship but one, and as the storm grew wilder an unreasoning terror filled our fellowpas

sengers. Too ill to protect her helpless brood, my mother saw us carried away from her for hours at a time, on

the crests of waves of panic that sometimes approached her and sometimes receded, as they swept through

the black hole in which we found our selves when the hatches were nailed down. No mad house, I am sure,

could throw more hideous pictures on the screen of life than those which met our childish eyes during the

appalling three days of the storm. Our one comfort was the knowledge that our mother was not afraid. She

was desperately ill, but when we were able to reach her, to cling close to her for a blessed interval, she was

On the second day the masts went down, and on the third day the disabled ship, which now had sprung a leak

and was rolling helplessly in the trough of the sea, was rescued by another ship and towed back to

Queenstown, the nearest port. The passengers, relieved of their anxieties, went from their extreme of fear to

an equal extreme of drunken celebration. They laughed, sang, and danced, but when we reached the shore

many of them returned to the homes they had left, declaring that they had had enough of the ocean. We,

however, remained on the ship until she was repaired, and then sailed on her again. We were too poor to

return home; indeed, we had no home to which we could return. We were even too poor to live ashore. But

we made some penny excursions in the little boats that plied back and forth, and to us children at least the

weeks of waiting were not without interest. Among other places we visited Spike Island, where the convicts

were, and for hours we watched the dreary shuttle of labor swing back and forth as the convicts car ried

pails of water from one side of the island, only to empty them into the sea at the other side. It was merely

``busy work,'' to keep them occupied at hard labor; but even then I must have felt some dim sense of the irony

Our second voyage on the John Jacob Westervelt was a very different experience from the first. By day a

glorious sun shone overhead; by night we had the moon and stars, as well as the racing waves we never

wearied of watching. For some reason, prob ably because of my intense admiration for them, which I

showed with unmaidenly frankness, I be came the special pet of the sailors. They taught me to sing their

songs as they hauled on their ropes, and I recall, as if I had learned it yesterday, one pleasing ditty: Haul on

When I sang ``haul'' all the sailors pulled their hardest, and I had an exhilarating sense of sharing in their

labors. As a return for my service of song the men kept my little apron full of ship sugar very black stuff

and probably very bad for me; but I ate an astonishing amount of it during that voy age, and, so far as I

The next thing I recall is being seriously scalded. I was at the foot of a ladder up which a sailor was carrying

a great pot of hot coffee. He slipped, and the boiling liquid poured down on me. I must have had some bad

days after that, for I was ter ribly burned, but they are mercifully vague. My next vivid impression is of

seeing land, which we sighted at sunset, and I remember very distinctly just how it looked. It has never

looked the same since. The western sky was a mass of crimson and gold clouds, which took on the shapes of

strange and beautiful things. To me it seemed that we were entering heaven. I remember also the doctors

com ing on board to examine us, and I can still see a line of big Irishmen standing very straight and holding

out their tongues for inspection. To a little girl only four years old their huge, open mouths looked appalling.

On landing a grievous disappointment awaited us; my father did not meet us. He was in New Bedford,

Massachusetts, nursing his grief and pre paring to return to England, for he had been told that the John

Jacob Westervelt had been lost at sea with every soul on board. One of the missionaries who met the ship

took us under his wing and con ducted us to a little hotel, where we remained until father had received his

incredible news and rushed to New York. He could hardly believe that we were really restored to him; and

even now, through the mists of more than half a century, I can still see the expression in his wet eyes as he

I can see, too, the toys he brought mea little saw and a hatchet, which became the dearest treas ures of my

childish days. They were fatidical gifts, that saw and hatchet; in the years ahead of me I was to use tools as

We went to New Bedford with father, who had found work there at his old trade; and here I laid the

foundations of my first childhood friendship, not with another child, but with my nextdoor neighbor, a

shipbuilder. Morning after morning this man swung me on his big shoulder and took me to his shipyard,

where my hatchet and saw had vio lent exercise as I imitated the workers around me. Discovering that my

tiny petticoats were in my way, my new friend had a little boy's suit made for me; and thus emancipated, at

this tender age, I worked unwearyingly at his side all day long and day after day. No doubt it was due to him

that I did not casually saw off a few of my toes and fingers. Cer tainly I smashed them often enough with

blows of my dull but active hatchet. I was very, very busy; and I have always maintained that I began to earn

my share of the family's living at the age of five for in return for the delights of my society, which seemed

never to pall upon him, my new friend al lowed my brothers to carry home from the ship yard all the wood

We remained in New Bedford less than a year, for in the spring of 1852 my father made another change,

taking his family to Lawrence, Massa chusetts, where we lived until 1859. The years in Lawrence were

interesting and formative ones. At the tender age of nine and ten I became interested in the Abolition

movement. We were Unitarians, and General Oliver and many of the prominent citi zens of Lawrence

belonged to the Unitarian Church. We knew Robert Shaw, who led the first negro regi ment, and Judge

Storrow, one of the leading New England judges of his time, as well as the Cabots and George A. Walton,

who was the author of Walton's Arithmetic and head of the Lawrence schools. Outbursts of war talk thrilled

me, and occasionally I had a little adventure of my own, as when one day, in visiting our cellar, I heard a

noise in the coalbin. I investigated and discovered a negro woman concealed there. I had been reading

Uncle Tom's Cabin, as well as listening to the conversation of my elders, so I was vastly stirred over the

negro question. I raced upstairs in a condition of awestruck and quivering excitement, which my mother

promptly suppressed by sending me to bed. No doubt she questioned my youthful discretion, for she almost

convinced me that I had seen nothing at allalmost, but not quite; and she wisely kept me close to her for

several days, until the escaped slave my father was hiding was safely out of the house and away. Discovery of

It was in Lawrence, too, that I received and spent my first twentyfive cents. I used an entire day in doing

this, and the occasion was one of the most delightful and memorable of my life. It was the Fourth of July, and

I was dressed in white and rode in a procession. My sister Mary, who also graced the procession, had also

been given twentyfive cents; and during the parade, when, for obvious reasons, we were unable to break

ranks and spend our wealth, the consciousness of it lay heavily upon us. When we finally began our shopping

the first place we visited was a candy store, and I recall dis tinctly that we forced the weary proprietor to

take down and show us every jar in the place before we spent one penny. The first banana I ever ate was

purchased that day, and I hesitated over it a long time. Its cost was five cents, and in view of that large

expenditure, the eating of the fruit, I was afraid, would be too brief a joy. I bought it, how ever, and the

experience developed into a tragedy, for, not knowing enough to peel the banana, I bit through skin and pulp

alike, as if I were eating an apple, and then burst into ears of disappointment. The beautiful conduct of my

sister Mary shines down through the years. She, wise child, had taken no chances with the unknown; but

now, moved by my despair, she bought half of my banana, and we divided the fruit, the loss, and the lesson.

Fate, moreover, had another turn of the screw for us, for, after Mary had taken a bite of it, we gave what was

left of the banana to a boy who stood near us and who knew how to eat it; and not even the large amount of

candy in our sticky hands enabled us to regard with calmness the subsequent happiness of that little boy.

Another experience with fruit in Lawrence illus trates the ideas of my mother and the character of the

training she gave her children. Our neighbors, the Cabots, were one day giving a great garden party, and my

sister was helping to pick strawberries for the occasion. When I was going home from school I passed the

berrypatches and stopped to speak to my sister, who at once presented me with two straw berries. She said

Mrs. Cabot had told her to eat all she wanted, but that she would eat two less than she wanted and give those

two to me. To my mind, the suggestion was generous and proper; in my life strawberries were rare. I ate one

berry, and then, overcome by an ambition to be generous also, took the other berry home to my mother, tell

ing her how I had got it. To my chagrin, mother was deeply shocked. She told me that the trans action was

all wrong, and she made me take back the berry and explain the matter to Mrs. Cabot. By the time I reached

that generous lady the berry was the worse for its journey, and so was I. I was only nine years old and very

sensitive. It was clear to me that I could hardly live through the humilia tion of the confession, and it was

indeed a bitter experience the worst, I think, in my young life, though Mrs. Cabot was both sympathetic and

understanding. She kissed me, and sent a quart of strawberries to my mother; but for a long time afterward I

could not meet her kind eyes, for I be lieved that in her heart she thought me a thief.

My second friendship, and one which had a strong influence on my afterlife, was formed in Lawrence. I was

not more than ten years old when I met this new friend, but the memory of her in afteryears, and the

impression she had made on my susceptible young mind, led me first into the ministry, next into medicine,

and finally into suffragework. Living next door to us, on Prospect Hill, was a beautiful and mysterious

woman. All we children knew of her was that she was a vivid and romantic figure, who seemed to have no

friends and of whom our elders spoke in whispers or not at all. To me she was a princess in a fairytale, for

she rode a white horse and wore a blue velvet ridinghabit with a blue velvet hat and a picturesquely

drooping white plume. I soon learned at what hours she went forth to ride, and I used to hover around our

gate for the joy of seeing her mount and gallop away. I realized that there was something unusual about her

house, and I had an idea that the prince was waiting for her somewhere in the far distance, and that for the

time at least she had escaped the ogre in the castle she left behind. I was wrong about the prince, but right

about the ogre. It was only when my unhappy lady left her castle that she was free.

Very soon she noticed me. Possibly she saw the adoration in my childish eyes. She began to nod and smile at

me, and then to speak to me, but at first I was almost afraid to answer her. There were stories now among the

children that the house was haunted, and that by night a ghost walked there and in the grounds. I felt an

extraordinary interest in the ghost, and I spent hours peering through our picket fence, trying to catch a

glimpse of it; but I hesitated to be on terms of neighborly intimacy with one who dwelt with ghosts.

One day the mysterious lady bent and kissed me. Then, straightening up, she looked at me queerly and said:

``Go and tell your mother I did that.'' There was something very compelling in her manner. I knew at once

that I must tell my mother what she had done, and I ran into our house and did so. While my mother was

considering the problem the situation presented, for she knew the character of the house next door, a note was

handed in to her a very pathetic little note from my mysterious lady, asking my mother to let me come and

see her. Long afterward mother showed it to me. It ended with the words: ``She will see no one but me. No

That night my parents talked the matter over and decided to let me go. Probably they felt that the slave next

door was as much to be pitied as the es capednegro slaves they so often harbored in our home. I made my

visit, which was the first of many, and a strange friendship began and developed be tween the woman of the

town and the little girl she loved. Some of those visits I remember as vividly as if I had made them yesterday.

There was never the slightest suggestion during any of them of things I should not see or hear, for while I was

with her my hostess became a child again, and we played together like children. She had wonderful toys for

me, and pictures and books; but the thing I loved best of all and played with for hours was a little stuffed hen

which she told me had been her dearest treasure when she was a child at home. She had also a stuffed puppy,

and she once mentioned that those two things alone were left of her life as a little girl. Besides the toys and

books and pic tures, she gave me icecream and cake, and told me fairytales. She had a wonderful

understanding of what a child likes. There were half a dozen women in the house with her, but I saw none of

Once, when we had become very good friends indeed and my early shyness had departed, I found courage to

ask her where the ghost was the ghost that haunted her house. I can still see the look in her eyes as they

met mine. She told me the ghost lived in her heart, and that she did not like to talk about it, and that we must

not speak of it again. After that I never mentioned it, but I was more deeply interested than ever, for a ghost

that lived in a heart was a new kind of ghost to me at that time, though I have met many of them since then.

During all our intercourse my mother never entered the house next door, nor did my mysterious lady enter

our home; but she con stantly sent my mother secret gifts for the poor and the sick of the neighborhood, and

she was always the first to offer help for those who were in trouble. Many years afterward mother told me she

was the most generous woman she had ever known, and that she had a rarely beautiful nature. Our depart

ure for Michigan broke up the friendship, but I have never forgotten her; and whenever, in my later work as

minister, physician, and suffragist, I have been able to help women of the class to which she belonged, I have

mentally offered that help for credit in the tragic ledger of her life, in which the clean and the blotted pages

One more incident of Lawrence I must describe before I leave that city behind me, as we left it for ever in

1859. While we were still there a number of Lawrence men decided to go West, and amid great public

excitement they departed in a body for Kansas, where they founded the town of Lawrence in that state. I

recall distinctly the public interest which attended their going, and the feeling every one seemed to have that

they were passing forever out of the civilized world. Their farewells to their friends were eternal; no one

expected to see them again, and my small brain grew dizzy as I tried to imagine a place so remote as their

destination. It was, I finally decided, at the uttermost ends of the earth, and it seemed quite possible that the

brave adventurers who reached it might then drop off into space. Fifty years later I was talking to a Cali

fornia girl who complained lightly of the monotony of a climate where the sun shone and the flowers

bloomed all the year around. ``But I had a de lightful change last year,'' she added, with anima tion. ``I

Nothing, I think, has ever made me feel quite so old as that remark. That in my life, not yet, to me at least, a

long one, I should see such an arc de scribed seemed actually oppressive until I realized that, after all, the

arc was merely a rainbow of time showing how gloriously realized were the hopes of the Lawrence pioneers.

The move to Michigan meant a complete up heaval in our lives. In Lawrence we had around us the fine

flower of New England civilization. We children went to school; our parents, though they were in very

humble circumstances, were associated with the leading spirits and the big movements of the day. When we

went to Michigan we went to the wilderness, to the wild pioneer life of those times, and we were all old

My father was one of a number of Englishmen who took up tracts in the northern forests of Michigan, with

the old dream of establishing a colony there. None of these men had the least practical knowledge of farming.

They were city men or followers of trades which had no connection with farm life. They went straight into

the thick timberland, in stead of going to the rich and waiting prairies, and they crowned this initial

mistake by cutting down the splendid timber instead of letting it stand. Thus bird'seye maple and other

beautiful woods were used as firewood and in the construction of rude cabins, and the greatest asset of the

Father preceded us to the Michigan woods, and there, with his oldest son, James, took up a claim. They

cleared a space in the wilderness just large enough for a log cabin, and put up the bare walls of the cabin

itself. Then father returned to Law rence and his work, leaving James behind. A few months later (this was

in 1859), my mother, my two sisters, Eleanor and Mary, my youngest brother, Henry, eight years of age, and

I, then twelve, went to Michigan to work on and hold down the claim while father, for eighteen months

longer, stayed on in Lawrence, sending us such remittances as he could. His second and third sons, John and

Every detail of our journey through the wilder ness is clear in my mind. At that time the railroad terminated

at Grand Rapids, Michigan, and we covered the remaining distanceabout one hundred milesby wagon,

riding through a dense and often trackless forest. My brother James met us at Grand Rapids with what, in

those days, was called a lumberwagon, but which had a horrible resem blance to a vehicle from the health

department. My sisters and I gave it one cold look and turned from it; we were so pained by its appearance

that we refused to ride in it through the town. Instead, we started off on foot, trying to look as if we had no

association with it, and we climbed into the un wieldy vehicle only when the city streets were far behind us.

Every available inch of space in the wagon was filled with bedding and provisions. As yet we had no

furniture; we were to make that for ourselves when we reached our cabin; and there was so little room for us

to ride that we children walked by turns, while James, from the beginning of the journey to its end, seven

To my mother, who was never strong, the whole experience must have been a nightmare of suffering and

stoical endurance. For us children there were compensations. The expedition took on the char acter of a high

adventure, in which we sometimes had shelter and sometimes failed to find it, some times were fed, but

often went hungry. We forded innumerable streams, the wheels of the heavy wagon sinking so deeply into the

streambeds that we often had to empty our load before we could get them out again. Fallen trees lay across

our paths, rivers caused long detours, while again and again we lost our way or were turned aside by

Our first day's journey covered less than eight miles, and that night we stopped at a farmhouse which was

the last bit of civilization we saw. Early the next morning we were off again, making the slow progress due to

the rough roads and our heavy load. At night we stopped at a place called Thomas's Inn, only to be told by the

woman who kept it that there was nothing in the house to eat. Her hus band, she said, had gone ``outside''

(to Grand Rapids) to get some flour, and had not returned but she added that we could spend the night, if

we chose, and enjoy shelter, if not food. We had provisions in our wagon, so we wearily entered, after my

brother had got out some of our pork and opened a barrel of flour. With this help the woman made some

biscuits, which were so green that my poor mother could not eat them. She had admitted to us that the one

thing she had in the house was saleratus, and she had used this ingredient with an unsparing hand. When the

``The old woman can sleep with me,'' she sug gested, ``and the girls can sleep on the floor. The boys will

have to go to the barn.'' She and her bed were not especially attractive, and mother decided to lie on the floor

with us. We had taken our bedding from the wagon, and we slept very well; but though she was usually

superior to small annoyances, I think my mother resented being called an ``old woman.'' She must have felt

At dawn the next morning we resumed our jour ney, and every day after that we were able to cover the

distance demanded by the schedule arranged before we started. This meant that some sort of shelter usually

awaited us at night. But one day we knew there would be no houses between the place we left in the morning

and that where we were to sleep. The distance was about twenty miles, and when twilight fell we had not

made it. In the back of the wagon my mother had a box of little pigs, and during the afternoon these had

broken loose and escaped into the woods. We had lost much time in finding them, and we were so exhausted

that when we came to a hut made of twigs and boughs we de cided to camp in it for the night, though we

knew nothing about it. My brother had unharnessed the horses, and my mother and sister were cooking

doughgoda mixture of flour, water, and soda, fried in a panwhen two men rode up on horse back and

called my brother to one side. Immedi ately after the talk which followed James harnessed his horses again

and forced us to go on, though by that time darkness had fallen. He told mother, but did not tell us children

until long afterward, that a man had been murdered in the hut only the night before. The murderer was still at

large in the woods, and the newcomers were members of a posse who were searching for him. My brother

needed no urging to put as many miles as he could between us and the sinister spot.

In that fashion we made our way to our new home. The last day, like the first, we traveled only eight miles,

but we spent the night in a house I shall never forget. It was beautifully clean, and for our eve ning meal its

mistress brought out loaves of bread which were the largest we had ever seen. She cut great slices of this

bread for us and spread maple sugar on them, and it seemed to us that never be fore had anything tasted so

The next morning we made the last stage of our journey, our hearts filled with the joy of nearing our new

home. We all had an idea that we were going to a farm, and we expected some resemblance at least to the

prosperous farms we had seen in New England. My mother's mental picture was, natu rally, of an English

farm. Possibly she had visions of red barns and deep meadows, sunny skies and daisies. What we found

awaiting us were the four walls and the roof of a goodsized loghouse, stand ing in a small cleared strip of

the wilderness, its doors and windows represented by square holes, its floor also a thing of the future, its

whole effect achingly forlorn and desolate. It was late in the afternoon when we drove up to the opening that

was its front entrance, and I shall never forget the look my mother turned upon the place. Without a word she

crossed its threshold, and, standing very still, looked slowly around her. Then something within her seemed

to give way, and she sank upon the ground. She could not realize even then, I think, that this was really the

place father had prepared for us, that here he expected us to live. When she finally took it in she buried her

face in her hands, and in that way she sat for hours without moving or speaking. For the first time in her life

she had for gotten us; and we, for our part, dared not speak to her. We stood around her in a frightened

group, talking to one another in whispers. Our little world had crumbled under our feet. Never before had we

Night began to fall. The woods became alive with night creatures, and the most harmless made the most

noise. The owls began to hoot, and soon we heard the wildcat, whose crya screech like that of a lost and

panicstricken childis one of the most appalling sounds of the forest. Later the wolves added their howls to

the uproar, but though darkness came and we children whimpered around her, our mother still sat in her

At last my brother brought the horses close to the cabin and built fires to protect them and us. He was only

twenty, but he showed himself a man dur ing those early pioneer days. While he was picketing the horses

and building his protecting fires my mother came to herself, but her face when she raised it was worse than

her silence had been. She seemed to have died and to have returned to us from the grave, and I am sure she

felt that she had done so. From that moment she took up again the burden of her life, a burden she did not lay

down until she passed away; but her face never lost the deep lines those first hours of her pioneer life had cut

That night we slept on boughs spread on the earth inside the cabin walls, and we put blankets before the holes

which represented our doors and windows, and kept our watchfires burning. Soon the other children fell

asleep, but there was no sleep for me. I was only twelve years old, but my mind was full of fancies. Behind

our blankets, swaying in the night wind, I thought I saw the heads and pushing shoul ders of animals and

heard their padded footfalls. Later years brought familiarity with wild things, and with worse things than

they. But tonight that which I most feared was within, not outside of, the cabin. In some way which I did not

understand the one sure refuge in our new world had been taken from us. I hardly knew the silent woman

who lay near me, tossing from side to side and staring into the darkness; I felt that we had lost our mother.

Like most men, my dear father should never have married. Though his nature was one of the sweetest I have

ever known, and though he would at any call give his time to or risk his life for others, in practical matters he

remained to the end of his days as irresponsible as a child. If his mind turned to practical details at all, it was

solely in their bear ing toward great developments of the future. To him an acorn was not an acorn, but a

Thus, when he took up his claim of three hundred and sixty acres of land in the wilderness of northern

Michigan, and sent my mother and five young chil dren to live there alone until he could join us eighteen

months later, he gave no thought to the manner in which we were to make the struggle and survive the

hardships before us. He had furnished us with land and the four walls of a log cabin. Some day, he reasoned,

the place would be a fine estate, which his sons would inherit and in the course of time pass on to their

sonsalways an Englishman's most iri descent dream. That for the present we were one hundred miles

from a railroad, forty miles from the nearest postoffice, and half a dozen miles from any neighbors save

Indians, wolves, and wildcats; that we were wholly unlearned in the ways of the woods as well as in the most

primitive methods of farming; that we lacked not only every comfort, but even the bare necessities of life;

and that we must begin, singlehanded and untaught, a struggle for existence in which some of the severest

forces of nature would be arrayed against usthese facts had no weight in my father's mind. Even if he had

witnessed my mother's despair on the night of our arrival in our new home, he would not have understood it.

From his viewpoint, he was doing a man's duty. He was working steadily in Lawrence, and, incidentally,

giving much time to the Abolition cause and to other big public movements of his day which had his interest

and sympathy. He wrote to us regu larly and sent us occasional remittances, as well as a generous supply of

improving literature for our minds. It remained for us to strengthen our bodies, to meet the conditions in

We faced our situation with clear and unalarmed eyes the morning after our arrival. The problem of food, we

knew, was at least temporarily solved. We had brought with us enough coffee, pork, and flour to last for

several weeks; and the one necessity father had put inside the cabin walls was a great fireplace, made of mud

and stones, in which our food could be cooked. The problem of our watersupply was less simple, but my

brother James solved it for the time by showing us a creek a long distance from the house; and for months we

carried from this creek, in pails, every drop of water we used, save that which we caught in troughs when the

We held a family council after breakfast, and in this, though I was only twelve, I took an eager and

determined part. I loved workit has always been my favorite form of recreationand my spirit rose to the

opportunities of it which smiled on us from every side. Obviously the first thing to do was to put doors and

windows into the yawning holes father had left for them, and to lay a board flooring over the earth inside our

cabin walls, and these duties we accomplished before we had occupied our new home a fortnight. There was

a small sawmill nine miles from our cabin, on the spot that is now Big Rapids, and there we bought our

lumber. The labor we supplied ourselves, and though we put our hearts into it and the results at the time

seemed beautiful to our partial eyes, I am forced to admit, in looking back upon them, that they halted this

side of perfection. We began by making three windows and two doors; then, inspired by these achievements,

we ambitiously constructed an attic and divided the ground floor with partitions, which gave us four rooms.

The general effect was temperamental and sketchy. The boards which formed the floor were never even

nailed down; they were fine, wide planks without a knot in them, and they looked so well that we merely

fitted them together as closely as we could and lightheartedly let them go at that. Neither did we properly

chink the house. Nothing is more comfortable than a log cabin which has been carefully built and finished;

but for some reasonprobably because there seemed always a more urgent duty calling to us around the

cornerwe never plastered our house at all. The result was that on many future winter mornings we awoke

to find ourselves chastely blanketed by snow, while the only warm spot in our livingroom was that directly

in front of the fireplace, where great logs burned all day. Even there our faces scorched while our spines

slowly congealed, until we learned to revolve before the fire like a bird upon a spit. No doubt we would have

worked more thoroughly if my brother James, who was twenty years old and our tower of strength, had

remained with us; but when we had been in our new home only a few months he fell and was forced to go

East for an operation. He was never able to return to us, and thus my mother, we three young girls, and my

youngest brotherHarry, who was only eight years oldmade our fight alone until father came to us, more

Mother was practically an invalid. She had a nervous affection which made it impossible for her to stand

without the support of a chair. But she sewed with unusual skill, and it was due to her that our clothes,

notwithstanding the strain to which we subjected them, were always in good condition. She sewed for hours

every day, and she was able to move about the house, after a fashion, by pushing herself around on a stool

which James made for her as soon as we arrived. He also built for her a more comfortable chair with a high

The division of labor planned at the first council was that mother should do our sewing, and my older sisters,

Eleanor and Mary, the housework, which was far from taxing, for of course we lived in the simplest manner.

My brothers and I were to do the work out of doors, an arrangement that suited me very well, though at first,

owing to our lack of experience, our activities were somewhat curtailed. It was too late in the season for

plowing or planting, even if we had possessed anything with which to plow, and, moreover, our socalled

``cleared'' land was thick with sturdy treestumps. Even during the second summer plowing was impossible;

we could only plant potatoes and corn, and follow the most primitive method in doing even this. We took an

ax, chopped up the sod, put the seed under it, and let the seed grow. The seed did grow, tooin the most

gratifying and encouraging manner. Our green corn and potatoes were the best I have ever eaten. But for the

We had, however, in their place, large quantities of wild fruitgooseberries, raspberries, and plums which

Harry and I gathered on the banks of our creek. Harry also became an expert fisherman. We had no hooks or

lines, but he took wires from our hoopskirts and made snares at the ends of poles. My part of this work was

to stand on a log and frighten the fish out of their holes by making horrible sounds, which I did with

impassioned earnestness. When the fish hurried to the surface of the water to investigate the appalling noises

they had heard, they were easily snared by our small boy, who was very proud of his ability to contribute in

During our first winter we lived largely on corn meal, making a little journey of twenty miles to the nearest

mill to buy it; but even at that we were better off than our neighbors, for I remember one family in our region

who for an entire winter lived solely on coarsegrained yellow turnips, gratefully changing their diet to leeks

Such furniture as we had we made ourselves. In addition to my mother's two chairs and the bunks which took

the place of beds, James made a settle for the livingroom, as well as a table and several stools. At first we

had our treecutting done for us, but we soon became expert in this gentle art, and I developed such skill that

in later years, after father came, I used to stand with him and ``heart'' a log.

On every side, and at every hour of the day, we came up against the relentless limitations of pioneer life.

There was not a team of horses in our entire region. The team with which my brother had driven us through

the wilderness had been hired at Grand Rapids for that occasion, and, of course, immediately returned. Our

lumber was delivered by oxteams, and the absolutely essential purchases we made ``outside'' (at the nearest

shops, forty miles away) were carried through the forest on the backs of men. Our mail was delivered once a

month by a carrier who made the journey in alter nate stages of horseback riding and canoeing. But we had

health, youth, enthusiasm, good appetites, and the wherewithal to satisfy them, and at night in our primitive

bunks we sank into abysses of dream less slumber such as I have never known since. Indeed, looking back

upon them, those first months seem to have been a longdrawnout and glorious picnic, interrupted only by

Naturally, our two greatest menaces were wild animals and Indians, but as the days passed the first of these

lost the early terrors with which we had associated them. We grew indifferent to the sounds that had made

our first night a horror to us all there was even a certain homeliness in themwhile we regarded with

accustomed, almost blase eyes the various furred creatures of which we caught distant glimpses as they slunk

through the forest. Their experience with other settlers had taught them cau tion; it soon became clear that

they were as eager to avoid us as we were to shun them, and by common consent we gave each other ample

elbowroom. But the Indians were all around us, and every settler had a collection of hairraising tales to tell

of them. It was generally agreed that they were dangerous only when they were drunk; but as they were drunk

whenever they could get whisky, and as whisky was constantly given them in exchange for pelts and game,

In my first encounter with them I was alone in the woods at sunset with my small brother Harry. We were

hunting a cow James had bought, and our young eyes were peering eagerly among the trees, on the alert for

any moving object. Suddenly, at a little distance, and coming directly toward us, we saw a party of Indians.

There were five of them, all men, walking in single file, as noiselessly as ghosts, their moccasined feet

causing not even a rustle among the dry leaves that carpeted the woods. All the horrible stories we had heard

of Indian cruelty flashed into our minds, and for a moment we were dumb with terror. Then I remembered

having been told that the one thing one must not do before them is to show fear. Harry was carrying a rope

with which we had expected to lead home our reluctant cow, and I seized one end of it and whispered to him

that we would ``play horse,'' pretending he was driving me. We pranced toward the Indians on feet that felt

like lead, and with eyes so glazed by terror that we could see nothing save a line of moving figures; but as we

passed them they did not give to our little impersonation of carefree children even the tribute of a

sideglance. They were, we realized, headed straight for our home; and after a few mo ments we doubled

on our tracks and, keeping at a safe distance from them among the trees, ran back to warn our mother that

As it happened, James was away, and mother had to meet her unwelcome guests supported only by her young

children. She at once prepared a meal, however, and when they arrived she welcomed them calmly and gave

them the best she had. After they had eaten they began to point at and demand ob jects they fancied in the

roommy brother's pipe, some tobacco, a bowl, and such triflesand my mother, who was afraid to annoy

them by refusal, gave them what they asked. They were quite sober, and though they left without expressing

any appreciation of her hospitality, they made her a second visit a few months later, bringing a large quantity

of venison and a bag of cranberries as a graceful return. These Indians were Ottawas; and later we became

very friendly with them and their tribe, even to the degree of attending one of their dances, which I shall

Our second encounter with Indians was a less agreeable experience. There were seven ``Mar quette

warriors'' in the next group of callers, and they were all intoxicated. Moreover, they had brought with them

several jugs of bad whisky the raw and crazeprovoking product supplied them by the furdealersand it

was clear that our cabin was to be the scene of an orgy. Fortunately, my brother James was at home on this

occasion, and as the evening grew old and the Indians, grouped together around the fire, became more and

more ir responsible, he devised a plan for our safety. Our attic was finished, and its sole entrance was by a

ladder through a trapdoor. At James's whispered command my sister Eleanor slipped up into the attic, and

from the back window let down a rope, to which he tied all the weapons we hadhis gun and several axes.

These Eleanor drew up and con cealed in one of the bunks. My brother then di rected that as quietly as

possible, and at long in tervals, one member of the family after another was to slip up the ladder and into the

attic, going quite casually, that the Indians might not realize what we were doing. Once there, with the ladder

drawn up after us and the trapdoor closed, we would be rea sonably safe, unless our guests decided to burn

The evening seemed endless, and was certainly nerveracking. The Indians ate everything in the house, and

from my seat in a dim corner I watched them while my sisters waited on them. I can still see the tableau they

made in the firelit room and hear the unfamiliar accents of their speech as they talked together. Occasionally

one of them would pull a hair from his head, seize his scalpingknife; and cut the hair with ita most

unpleasant sight! When either of my sisters approached them some of the Indians would make gestures, as if

capturing and scalping her. Through it all, however, the whisky held their close attention, and it was due to

this that we succeeded in reaching the attic unob served, James coming last of all and drawing the ladder

after him. Mother and the children were then put to bed; but through that interminable night James and

Eleanor lay flat upon the floor, watching through the cracks between the boards the revels of the drunken

Indians, which grew wild er with every hour that crawled toward sunrise. There was no knowing when they

would miss us or how soon their mood might change. At any moment they might make an attack upon us or

set fire to the cabin. By dawn, however, their whisky was all gone, and they were in so deep a stupor that, one

after the other, the seven fell from their chairs to the floor, where they sprawled un conscious. When they

awoke they left quietly and without trouble of any kind. They seemed a strangely subdued and chastened

band; probably they were wretchedly ill after their debauch on the adulterated whisky the traders had given

That autumn the Ottawa tribe had a great corn celebration, to which we and the other settlers were invited.

James and my older sisters attended it, and I went with them, by my own urgent invita tion. It seemed to me

that as I was sharing the work and the perils of our new environment, I might as well share its joys; and I

finally succeeded in making my family see the logic of this position. The central feature of the festivity was a

huge kettle, many feet in circumference, into which the Indians dropped the most extraordinary variety of

food we had ever seen combined. Deer heads went into it whole, as well as every kind of meat and vegetable

the members of the tribe could procure. We all ate some of this agreeable mixture, and later, with one

another, and even with the Indians, we danced gaily to the music of a tomtom and a drum. The affair was

extremely interesting until the whisky entered and did its unpleasant work. When our hosts be gan to fall

over in the dance and slumber where they lay, and when the squaws began to show the same ill effects of

During the winter life offered us few diversions and many hardships. Our creek froze over, and the water

problem became a serious one, which we met with increasing difficulty as the temperature steadily fell. We

melted snow and ice, and existed through the frozen months, but with an amount of discom fort which made

us unwilling to repeat at least that special phase of our experience. In the spring, therefore, I made a well.

Long before this, James had gone, and Harry and I were now the only out door members of our

workingforce. Harry was still too small to help with the well; but a young man, who had formed the

neighborly habit of rid ing eighteen miles to call on us, gave me much friendly aid. We located the well with

a switch, and when we had dug as far as we could reach with our spades, my assistant descended into the hole

and threw the earth up to the edge, from which I in turn removed it. As the well grew deeper we made a

halfway shelf, on which I stood, he throw ing the earth on the shelf, and I shoveling it up from that point.

Later, as he descended still farther into the hole we were making, he shoveled the earth into buckets and

passed them up to me, I passing them on to my sister, who was now pressed into service. When the

excavation was deep enough we made the wall of slabs of wood, roughly joined together. I recall that well

with calm content. It was not a thing of beauty, but it was a thoroughly practical well, and it remained the

During our first year there was no school within ten miles of us, but this lack failed to sadden Harry or me.

We had brought with us from Lawrence a box of books, in which, in winter months, when our outdoor work

was restricted, we found much comfort. They were the only books in that part of the country, and we read

them until we knew them all by heart. Moreover, father sent us regularly the New York Independent, and

with this admirable literature, after reading it, we papered our walls. Thus, on stormy days, we could lie on

the settle or the floor and read the Independent over again with increased interest and pleasure.

Occasionally father sent us the Ledger, but here mother drew a definite line. She had a special dis like for

that periodical, and her severest comment on any woman was that she was the type who would ``keep a dog,

make saleratus biscuit, and read the New York Ledger in the daytime.'' Our modest library also contained

several histories of Greece and Rome, which must have been good ones, for years later, when I entered

college, I passed my examination in ancient history with no other prep aration than this reading. There were

also a few arithmetics and algebras, a historical novel or two, and the inevitable copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin,

When the advantages of public education were finally extended to me, at thirteen, by the opening of a school

three miles from our home, I accepted them with growing reluctance. The teacher was a spinster fortyfour

years of age and the only genuine ``old maid'' I have ever met who was not a married woman or a man. She

was the real thing, and her name, Prudence Duncan, seemed the fitting label for her rigidly uncompromising

personality. I graced Prudence's school for three months, and then left it at her fervid request. I had walked

six miles a day through trackless woods and Western blizzards to get what she could give me, but she had

little to offer my awakened and critical mind. My reading and my Lawrence schoolwork had already taught

me more than Prudence knewa fact we both inwardryadmitted and fiercely resented from our different

viewpoints. Beyond doubt I was a pert and trying young person. I lost no opportunity to lead Prudence

beyond her intellectual depth and leave her there, and Prudence vented her chagrin not alone upon me, but

upon my little brother. I became a thorn in her side, and one day, after an especially unpleasant episode in

which Harry also figured, she plucked me out, as it were, and cast me for ever from her. From that time I

studied at home, where I was a much more valuable economic factor than I had been in school.

The second spring after our arrival Harry and I extended our operations by tapping the sugar bushes,

collecting all the sap, and carrying it home in pails slung from our yokeladen shoulders. To gether we

made one hundred and fifty pounds of sugar and a barrel of syrup, but here again, as al ways, we worked in

primitive ways. To get the sap we chopped a gash in the tree and drove in a spile. Then we dug out a trough

to catch the sap. It was no light task to lift these troughs full of sap and empty the sap into buckets, but we did

it success fully, and afterward built fires and boiled it down. By this time we had also cleared some of our

ground, and during the spring we were able to plow, dividing the work in a way that seemed fair to us both.

These were strenuous occupations for a boy of nine and a girl of thirteen, but, though we were not in

ordinately good children, we never complained; we found them very satisfactory substitutes for more normal

bucolic joys. Inevitably, we had our little tragedies. Our cow died, and for an entire winter we went without

milk. Our coffee soon gave out, and as a substitute we made and used a mixture of browned peas and burnt

rye. In the winter we were always cold, and the water problem, until we had built our well, was ever with us.

Father joined us at the end of eighteen months, but though his presence gave us pleasure and moral support,

he was not an addition to our executive staff. He brought with him a rockingchair for mother and a new

supply of books, on which I fell as a starving man falls upon food. Father read as eagerly as I, but much more

steadily. His mind was always busy with problems, and if, while he was laboring in the field, a new problem

presented itself to him, the imperishable curiosity that was in him made him scurry at once to the house to

solve it. I have known him to spend a planting season in figuring on the production of a certain number of

kernels of corn, instead of planting the corn and raising it. In the winter he was supposed to spend his time

clearing land for orchards and the like, but instead he pored over his books and problems day after day and

often half the night as well. It soon became known among our neigh bors, who were rapidly increasing in

number, that we had books and that father like to read aloud, and men walked ten miles or more to spend the

night with us and listen to his reading. Often, as his fame grew, ten or twelve men would arrive at our cabin

on Saturday and remain over Sunday. When my mother once tried to check this influx of guests by mildly

pointing out, among other things, the waste of candles represented by frequent allnight readings, every man

humbly appeared again on the following Saturday with a candle in each hand. They were not sensitive; and,

as they had brought their candles, it seemed fitting to them and to father that we girls should cook for them

Father's tolerance of idleness in others, however, did not extend to tolerance of idleness in us, and this led to

my first rebellion, which occurred when I was fourteen. For once, I had been in the woods all day, buried in

my books; and when I returned at night, still in the dream world these books had opened to me, father was

awaiting my coming with a brow dark with disapproval. As it happened, mother had felt that day some

special need of me, and father reproached me bitterly for being beyond reachan idler who wasted time

while mother labored. He ended a long arraignment by predicting gloomily that with such tendencies I would

The injustice of the criticism cut deep; I knew I had done and was doing my share for the family, and already,

too, I had begun to feel the call of my career. For some reason I wanted to preachto talk to people, to tell

them things. Just why, just what, I did not yet knowbut I had begun to preach in the silent woods, to stand

up on stumps and address the unresponsive trees, to feel the stir of aspiration within me.

When my father had finished all he wished to say, I looked at him and answered, quietly, ``Father, some day I

I can still see his slight, ironical smile. It drove me to a second prediction. I was young enough to measure

The amount staggered me even as it dropped from my lips. It was the largest fortune my imagination could

conceive, and in my heart I believed that no woman ever had possessed or would possess so much. So far as I

knew, too, no woman had gone to college. But now that I had put my secret hopes into words, I was

desperately determined to make those hopes come true. After I became a wage earner I lost my desire to

make a fortune, but the college dream grew with the years; and though my college career seemed as remote

as the most distant star, I hitched my little wagon to that star and never afterward wholly lost sight of its

When I was fifteen years old I was offered a situa tion as schoolteacher. By this time the com munity was

growing around us with the rapidity characteristic of these Western settlements, and we had nearer neighbors

whose children needed instruc tion. I passed an examination before a school board consisting of three

nervous and selfconscious men whose certificate I still hold, and I at once began my professional career on

the modest salary of two dollars a week and my board. The school was four miles from my home, so I

``boarded round'' with the families of my pupils, staying two weeks in each place, and often walking from

three to six miles a day to and from my little log schoolhouse in every kind of weather. During the first year

I had about fourteen pupils, of varying ages, sizes, and temperaments, and there was hardly a book in the

schoolroom except those I owned. One little girl, I remember, read from an almanac, while a second used a

In winter the schoolhouse was heated by a wood stove, to which the teacher had to give close personal

attention. I could not depend on my pupils to make the fires or carry in the fuel; and it was often necessary to

fetch the wood myself, sometimes for long distances through the forest. Again and again, after miles of

walking through winter storms, I reached the schoolhouse with my clothing wet through, and in these

soaked garments I taught during the day. In ``boarding round'' I often found myself in oneroom cabins, with

bunks at the end and the sole partition a sheet or a blanket, behind which I slept with one or two of the

children. It was the custom on these occasions for the man of the house to delicately retire to the barn while

we women got to bed, and to disappear again in the morning while we dressed. In some places the meals

were so badly cooked that I could not eat them, and often the only food my poor little pupils brought to

I earned my two dollars a week that year, but I had to wait for my wages until the dog tax was col lected in

the spring. When the money was thus raised, and the twentysix dollars for my thirteen weeks of teaching

were graciously put into my hands, I went ``outside'' to the nearest shop and joyously spent almost the entire

amount for my first ``party dress.'' The gown I bought was, I con sidered, a beautiful creation. In color it

was a rich magenta, and the skirt was elaborately braided with black cablecord. My admiration for it was

justi fied, for it did all a young girl's eager heart could ask of any gownit led to my first proposal.

The youth who sought my hand was about twenty years old, and by an unhappy chance he was also the least

attractive young person in the country sidethe laughingstock of the neighbors, the butt of his associates.

The night he came to offer me his heart there were already two young men at our home calling on my sisters,

and we were all sitting around the fire in the livingroom when my suitor appeared. His costume, like

himself, left much to be desired. He wore a blue flannel shirt and a pair of trousers made of flourbags. Such

trousers were not uncommon in our region, and the boy's mother, who had made them for him, had

thoughtfully selected a nice clean pair of sacks. But on one leg was the name of the firm that made the

flourA. and G. W. Greenand by a charming coincidence A. and G. W. Green happened to be the two

young men who were calling on my sisters! On the back of the bags, directly in the rear of the wearer, was

the simple legend, ``96 pounds''; and the striking effect of the young man's costume was completed by a

The vision fascinated my sisters and their two guests. They gave it their entire attention, and when the

newcomer signified with an eloquent ges ture that he was calling on me, and beckoned me into an inner

room, the quartet arose as one person and followed us to the door. Then, as we inhospit ably closed the

door, they fastened their eyes to the cracks in the livingroom wall, that they might miss none of the

entertainment. When we were alone my guest and I sat down in facing chairs and in depressed silence. The

young man was nervous, and I was both frightened and annoyed. I had heard suppressed giggles on the other

side of the wall, and I realized, as my selfcentered visitor failed to do, that we were not enjoying the privacy

the situation seemed to demand. At last the youth in formed me that his ``dad'' had just given him a cabin, a

yoke of steers, a cow, and some hens. When this announcement had produced its full effect, he straightened

An outburst of chortles from the other side of the wall greeted the proposal, but the ardent youth ignored it, if

indeed he heard it. With eyes staring straight ahead, he sat rigid, waiting for my answer; and I, anxious only

to get rid of him and to end the strain of the moment, said the first thing that came into my head. ``I can't,'' I

He rose quickly, with the effect of a halfclosed jackknife that is suddenly opened, and for an in stant

stood looking down upon me. He was six feet two inches tall, and extremely thin. I am very short, and, as I

looked up, his flourbag trousers seemed to join his yellow sash somewhere near the ceiling of the room. He

put both hands into his pockets and slowly delivered his valedictory. ``That's darned dis appointing to a

fellow,'' he said, and left the house. After a moment devoted to regaining my maidenly composure I returned

to the livingroom, where I had the privilege of observing the enjoyment of my sisters and their visitors.

Helpless with mirth and with tears of pleasure on their cheeks, the four rocked and shrieked as they recalled

the picture my gallant had presented. For some time after that incident I felt a strong distaste for sentiment.

Clad royally in the new gown, I attended my first ball in November, going with a party of eight that included

my two sisters, another girl, and four young men. The ball was at Big Rapids, which by this time had grown

to be a thriving lumber town. It was impossible to get a team of horses or even a yoke of oxen for the journey,

so we made a raft and went down the river on that, taking our party dresses with us in trunks. Unfortunately,

the raft ``hung up'' in the stream, and the four young men had to get out into the icy water and work a long

time before they could detach it from the rocks. Natu rally, they were soaked and chilled through, but they

When we reached Big Rapids we dressed for the ball, and, as in those days it was customary to change one's

gown again at midnight, I had an op portunity to burst on the assemblage in two cos tumesthe second

made of bedroom chintz, with a low neck and short sleeves. We danced the ``money musk,'' and the

``Virginia reel,'' ``hoeing her down'' (which means changing partners) in true pioneer style. I never missed a

dance at this or any subsequent affair, and I was considered the gayest and the most tireless young person at

our parties until I became a Methodist minister and dropped such worldly vanities. The first time I preached

in my home region all my former partners came to hear me, and listened with wide, understand ing,

In the near future I had reason to regret the ex travagant expenditure of my first earnings. For my second

year of teaching, in the same school, I was to receive five dollars a week and to pay my own board. I selected

a place two miles and a half from the schoolhouse, and was promptly asked by my host to pay my board in

advance. This, he ex plained, was due to no lack of faith in me; the money would enable him to go

``outside'' to work, leaving his family well supplied with provisions. I allowed him to go to the school

committee and col lect my board in advance, at the rate of three dol lars a week for the season. When I

presented myself at my new boardingplace, however, two days later, I found the house nailed up and

deserted; the man and his family had departed with my money, and I was left, as my committeemen

sympathetically remarked, ``high and dry.'' There were only two dollars a week coming to me after that, so I

walked back and forth between my home and my school, almost four miles, twice a day; and during this en

forced exercise there was ample opportunity to re flect on the fleeting joy of riches.

In the mean time war had been declared. When the news came that Fort Sumter had been fired on, and that

Lincoln had called for troops, our men were threshing. There was only one threshing machine in the region

at that time, and it went from place to place, the farmers doing their thresh ing whenever they could get the

machine. I re member seeing a man ride up on horseback, shout ing out Lincoln's demand for troops and

explaining that a regiment was being formed at Big Rapids. Before he had finished speaking the men on the

ma chine had leaped to the ground and rushed off to enlist, my brother Jack, who had recently joined us,

among them. In ten minutes not one man was left in the field. A few months later my brother Tom enlisted as

a buglerhe was a mere boy at the time and not long after that my father followed the example of his

sons and served until the war was ended. He had entered on the twentyninth of August, 1862, as an army

steward; he came back to us with the rank of lieutenant and assistant surgeon of field and staff.

Between those years I was the principal support of our family, and life became a strenuous and tragic affair.

For months at a time we had no news from the front. The work in our community, if it was done at all, was

done by despairing women whose hearts were with their men. When care had become our constant guest,

Death entered our home as well. My sister Eleanor had married, and died in childbirth, leaving her baby to

me; and the blackest hours of those black years were the hours that saw her pass ing. I can see her still, lying

in a stupor from which she roused herself at intervals to ask about her child. She insisted that our brother Tom

should name the baby, but Tom was fighting for his country, unless he had already preceded Eleanor through

the wide portal that was opening before her. I could only tell her that I had written to him; but before the

assurance was an hour old she would climb up from the gulf of unconsciousness with infinite effort to ask if

we had received his reply. At last, to calm her, I told her it had come, and that Tom had chosen for her little

son the name of Arthur. She smiled at this and drew a deep breath; then, still smiling, she passed away. Her

baby slipped into her vacant place and almost filled our heavy hearts, but only for a short time; for within a

few months after his mother's death his father married again and took him from me, and it seemed that with

The problem of living grew harder with every day. We eked out our little income in every way we could,

taking as boarders the workers in the log gingcamps, making quilts, which we sold, and losing no chance

to earn a penny in any legitimate manner. Again my mother did such outside sewing as she could secure, yet

with every month of our effort the gulf between our income and our expenses grew wider, and the price of the

bare necessities of exis ence{sic} climbed up and up. The largest amount I could earn at teaching was six

dollars a week, and our school year included only two terms of thir teen weeks each. It was an incessant

struggle to keep our land, to pay our taxes, and to live. Cal ico was selling at fifty cents a yard. Coffee was

one dollar a pound. There were no men left to grind our corn, to get in our crops, or to care for our live stock;

At long intervals word came to us of battles in which my father's regimentthe Tenth Michigan Cavalry

Volunteersor those of my brothers were engaged, and then longer intervals followed in which we heard no

news. After Eleanor's death my brother Tom was wounded, and for months we lived in terror of worse

tidings, but he finally recovered. I was walking seven and eight miles a day, and doing extra work before and

after school hours, and my health began to fail. Those were years I do not like to look back uponyears in

which life had de generated into a treadmill whose monotony was broken only by the grim messages from

the front. My sister Mary married and went to Big Rapids to live. I had no time to dream my dream, but the

star of my one purpose still glowed in my dark horizon. It seemed that nothing short of a miracle could lift

my feet from their plodding way and set them on the wider path toward which my eyes were turned, but I

never lost faith that in some manner the miracle would come to pass. As certainly as I have ever known

The end of the Civil War brought freedom to me, too. When peace was declared my father and brothers

returned to the claim in the wilderness which we women of the family had labored so des perately to hold

while they were gone. To us, as to others, the final years of the war had brought many changes. My sister

Eleanor's place was empty. Mary, as I have said, had married and gone to live in Big Rapids, and my mother

and I were alone with my brother Harry, now a boy of fourteen. After the return of our men it was no longer

necessary to de vote every penny of my earnings to the maintenance of our home. For the first time I could

begin to save a portion of my income toward the fulfilment of my college dream, but even yet there was a

long, arid stretch ahead of me before the college doors came even distantly into sight.

The largest salary I could earn by teaching in our Northern woods was one hundred and fiftysix dollars a

year, for two terms of thirteen weeks each; and from this, of course, I had to deduct the cost of my board and

clothingthe sole expenditure I allowed myself. The dollars for an education accumulated very, very slowly,

until at last, in desperation, weary of seeing the years of my youth rush past, bearing my hopes with them, I

took a sudden and radical step. I gave up teaching, left our cabin in the woods, and went to Big Rapids to live

with my sister Mary, who had married a successful man and who generously offered me a home. There, I had

de cided, I would learn a trade of some kind, of any kind; it did not greatly matter what it was. The sole

essential was that it should be a moneymaking trade, offering wages which would make it possible to add

more rapidly to my savings. In those days, almost fifty years ago, and in a small pioneer town, the fields open

to women were few and unfruitful. The needle at once presented itself, but at first I turned with loathing from

it. I would have pre ferred the digging of ditches or the shoveling of coal; but the needle alone persistently

Fate, however, as if weary at last of seeing me between her paws, suddenly let me escape. Before I had been

working a month at my uncongenial trade Big Rapids was favored by a visit from a Universalist woman

minister, the Reverend Marianna Thompson, who came there to preach. Her ser mon was delivered on

Sunday morning, and I was, I think, almost the earliest arrival of the great con gregation which filled the

church. It was a wonder ful moment when I saw my first woman minister enter her pulpit; and as I listened

to her sermon, thrilled to the soul, all my early aspirations to be come a minister myself stirred in me with

cumulative force. After the services I hung for a time on the fringe of the group that surrounded her, and at

last, when she was alone and about to leave, I found courage to introduce myself and pour forth the tale of my

``My child,'' she said, ``give up your foolish idea of learning a trade, and go to school. You can't do anything

Her suggestion was much to my liking, and I paid her the compliment of acting on it promptly, for the next

morning I entered the Big Rapids High School, which was also a preparatory school for col lege. There I

would study, I determined, as long as my money held out, and with the optimism of youth I succeeded in

confining my imagination to this side of that crisis. My home, thanks to Mary, was assured; the wardrobe I

had brought from the woods covered me sufficiently; to one who had walked five and six miles a day for

years, walking to school held no discomfort; and as for pleasure, I found it, like a heroine of fiction, in my

studies. For the first time life was smiling at me, and with all my young heart I smiled back.

The preceptress of the high school was Lucy Foot, a college graduate and a remarkable woman. I had heard

much of her sympathy and understand ing; and on the evening following my first day in school I went to her

and repeated the confidences I had reposed in the Reverend Marianna Thompson. My trust in her was

justified. She took an immedi ate interest in me, and proved it at once by putting me into the speaking and

debating classes, where I was given every opportunity to hold forth to help less classmates when the spirit

As an aid to public speaking I was taught to ``elo cute,'' and I remember in every mournful detail the

occasion on which I gave my first recitation. We were having our monthly ``public exhibition night,'' and the

audience included not only my class mates, but their parents and friends as well. The selection I intended to

recite was a poem entitled ``No Sects in Heaven,'' but when I faced my au dience I was so appalled by its

size and by the sud den realization of my own temerity that I fainted during the delivery of the first verse.

Sympathetic classmates carried me into an anteroom and revived me, after which they naturally assumed that

the entertainment I furnished was over for the evening. I, however, felt that if I let that failure stand against

me I could never afterward speak in public; and within ten minutes, notwithstanding the protests of my

friends, I was back in the hall and beginning my recitation a second time. The audience gave me its eager

attention. Possibly it hoped to see me topple off the platform again, but nothing of the sort occurred. I went

through the recitation with selfpossession and received some friendly applause at the end. Strangely enough,

those first sensations of ``stage fright'' have been experienced, in a lesser de gree, in connection with each of

the thousands of public speeches I have made since that time. I have never again gone so far as to faint in the

presence of an audience; but I have invariably walked out on the platform feeling the sinking sen sation at

the pit of the stomach, the weakness of the knees, that I felt in the hour of my debut. Now, however, the

From that night Miss Foot lost no opportunity of putting me into the foreground of our school affairs. I took

part in all our debates, recited yards of poe try to any audience we could attract, and even shone mildly in

our amateur theatricals. It was probably owing to all this activity that I attracted the in terest of the presiding

elder of our districtDr. Peck, a man of progressive ideas. There was at that time a movement on foot to

license women to preach in the Methodist Church, and Dr. Peck was ambitious to be the first presiding elder

to have a woman ordained for the Methodist ministry. He had urged Miss Foot to be this pioneer, but her

ambitions did not turn in that direction. Though she was a very devout Methodist, she had no wish to be the

shepherd of a religious flock. She loved her schoolwork, and asked nothing better than to remain in it.

Gently but persistently she directed the attention of Dr. Peck to me, and immediately things began to happen.

Without telling me to what it might lead, Miss Foot finally arranged a meeting at her home by in viting Dr.

Peck and me to dinner. Being uncon scious of any significance in the occasion, I chatted lightheartedly

about the large issues of life and probably settled most of them to my personal satis faction. Dr. Peck drew

me out and led me on, listened and smiled. When the evening was over and we rose to go, he turned to me

``My quarterly meeting will be held at Ashton,'' he remarked, casually. ``I would like you to preach the

For a moment the earth seemed to slip away from my feet. I stared at him in utter stupefaction. Then slowly I

I started to assure him vehemently that I never had. Then, as if Time had thrown a picture on a screen before

me, I saw myself as a little girl preach ing alone in the forest, as I had so often preached to a congregation of

Dr. Peck smiled again. ``Well,'' he told me, ``the door is open. Enter or not, as you wish.''

He left the house, but I remained to discuss his overwhelming proposition with Miss Foot. A sud den

``But,'' I exclaimed, ``I've never been converted. How can I preach to any one?''

We both had the oldtime idea of conversion, which now seems so mistaken. We thought one had to struggle

with sin and with the Lord until at last the heart opened, doubts were dispersed, and the light poured in. Miss

Foot could only advise me to put the matter before the Lord, to wrestle and to pray; and thereafter, for hours

at a time, she worked and prayed with me, alternately urging, pleading, instructing, and sending up petitions

in my behalf. Our last session was a dramatic one, which took up the entire night. Long before it was over we

were both worn out; but toward morning, either from exhaustion of body or exaltation of soul, I seemed to

see the light, and it made me very happy. With all my heart I wanted to preach, and I believed that now at last

I had my call. The following day we sent word to Dr. Peck that I would preach the ser mon at Ashton as he

had asked, but we urged him to say nothing of the matter for the present, and Miss Foot and I also kept the

secret locked in our breasts. I knew only too well what view my family and my friends would take of such a

step and of me. To them it would mean nothing short of personal dis grace and a blotted page in the Shaw

I had six weeks in which to prepare my sermon, and I gave it most of my waking hours as well as those in

which I should have been asleep. I took for my text: ``And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,

even so must the Son of Man be lifted up; that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have

It was not until three days before I preached the sermon that I found courage to confide my purpose to my

sister Mary, and if I had confessed my inten tion to commit a capital crime she could not have been more

disturbed. We two had always been very close, and the death of Eleanor, to whom we were both devoted, had

drawn us even nearer to each other. Now Mary's tears and prayers wrung my heart and shook my resolution.

But, after all, she was asking me to give up my whole future, to close my ears to my call, and I felt that I

could not do it. My decision caused an estrangement between us which lasted for years. On the day preceding

the delivery of my sermon I left for Ashton on the afternoon train; and in the same car, but as far away from

me as she could get, Mary sat alone and wept throughout the journey. She was going to my mother, but she

did not speak to me; and I, for my part, facing both alienation from her and the ordeal before me, found my

There was no church in Ashton, so I preached my sermon in its one little schoolhouse, which was filled with

a curious crowd, eager to look at and hear the girl who was defying all conventions by getting out of the pew

and into the pulpit. There was much whispering and suppressed excitement before I began, but when I gave

out my text silence fell upon the room, and from that moment until I had finished my hearers listened quietly.

A kerosene lamp stood on a stand at my elbow, and as I preached I trembled so violently that the oil shook

in its glass globe; but I finished without breaking down, and at the end Dr. Peck, who had his own reasons for

nervousness, handsomely assured me that my first sermon was better than his maiden effort had been. It was

evidently not a failure, for the next day he invited me to follow him around in his circuit, which included

thirtysix appointments; he wished me to preach in each of the thirtysix places, as it was de sirable to let

the various ministers hear and know me before I applied for my license as a local preacher.

The sermon also had another result, less gratify ing. It brought out, on the following morning, the first

notice of me ever printed in a newspaper. This was instigated by my brotherinlaw, and it was brief but

A young girl named Anna Shaw, seventeen years old,[1] preached at Ashton yesterday. Her real friends

[1] A misstatement by the brotherinlaw. Dr. Shaw was at this time twentythree years old.E. J.

The little notice had something of the effect of a lighted match applied to gunpowder. An ex plosion of

public sentiment followed it, the entire community arose in consternation, and I became a bone of contention

over which friends and strangers alike wrangled until they wore themselves out. The members of my family,

meeting in solemn council, sent for me, and I responded. They had a proposition to make, and they lost no

time in put ting it before me. If I gave up my preaching they would send me to college and pay for my entire

course. They suggested Ann Arbor, and Ann Arbor tempted me sorely; but to descend from the pulpit I had at

last enteredthe pulpit I had visualized in all my childish dreamswas not to be considered. We had a long

evening together, and it was a very unhappy one. At the end of it I was given twenty four hours in which to

decide whether I would choose my people and college, or my pulpit and the arctic loneliness of a life that

held no familycircle. It did not require twentyfour hours of reflection to convince me that I must go my

That year I preached thirtysix times, at each of the presiding elder's appointments; and the follow ing

spring, at the annual Methodist Conference of our district, held at Big Rapids, my name was pre sented to

the assembled ministers as that of a can didate for a license to preach. There was unusual interest in the

result, and my father was among those who came to the Conference to see the vote taken. During these

Conferences a minister voted affirma tively on a question by holding up his hand, and negatively by failing

to do so. When the question of my license came up the majority of the ministers voted by raising both hands,

and in the pleasant excitement which followed my father slipped away. Those who saw him told me he

looked pleased; but he sent me no message showing a change of view point, and the gulf between the family

and its black sheep remained unbridged. Though the warmth of Mary's love for me had become a memory,

the warmth of her hearthstone was still offered me. I accepted it, perforce, and we lived together like shadows

of what we had been. Two friends alone of all I had made stood by me without qualification Miss Foot and

Clara Osborn, the latter my ``chum'' at Big Rapids and a dweller in my heart to this day.

In the mean time my preaching had not inter fered with my studies. I was working day and night, but life

was very difficult; for among my school mates, too, there were doubts and much headshaking over this

choice of a career. I needed the sound of friendly voices, for I was very lonely; and suddenly, when the

pressure from all sides was strongest and I was going down physically under it, a voice was raised that I had

never dared to dream would speak for me. Mary A. Livermore came to Big Rapids, and as she was then at the

height of her career, the entire countryside poured in to hear her. Far back in the crowded hall I sat alone and

listened to her, thrilled by the lecture and tremulous with the hope of meeting the lecturer. When she had

finished speaking I joined the throng that surged forward from the body of the hall, and as I reached her and

felt the grasp of her friendly hand I had a sudden conviction that the meeting was an epoch in my life. I was

right. Some one in the circle around us told her that I wanted to preach, and that I was meeting tremendous

opposition. She was interested at once. She looked at me with quickening sympathy, and then, suddenly

``My dear,'' she said, quietly, ``if you want to preach, go on and preach. Don't let anybody stop you. No

For a moment I was too overcome to answer her. These were almost my first encouraging words, and the

morning stars singing together could not have made sweeter music for my ears. Before I could recover a

``Oh, Mrs. Livermore,'' she exclaimed, ``don't say that to her! We're all trying to stop her. Her peo ple are

wretched over the whole thing. And don't you see how ill she is? She has one foot in the grave and the other

Mrs. Livermore turned upon me a long and deeply thoughtful look. ``Yes,'' she said at last, ``I see she has.

But it is better that she should die doing the thing she wants to do than that she should die because she can't

Her words were a tonic which restored my voice. ``So they think I'm going to die!'' I cried. ``Well, I'm not!

I have always felt since then that without the inspiration of Mrs. Livermore's encouragement I might not have

continued my fight. Her sanction was a shield, however, from which the criticisms of the world fell back.

Fate's more friendly interest in my affairs that year was shown by the fact that she sent Mrs. Livermore into

my life before I had met Anna Dickinson. Miss Dickinson came to us toward spring and lectured on Joan of

Arc. Never before or since have I been more deeply moved by a speaker. When she had finished her address I

made my happy way to the front of the hall with the others who wished to meet the distinguished guest. It

was our local manager who introduced me, and he said, ``This is our Anna Shaw. She is going to be a

I looked up at the brilliant Miss Dickinson with the trustfulness of youth in my eyes. I remem bered Mrs.

Livermore and I thought all great wom en were like her, but I was now to experience a bitter

disillusionment. Miss Dickinson barely touched the tips of my fingers as she looked indifferently past the

side of my face. ``Ah,'' she said, icily, and turned away. In later years I learned how impossible it is for a

public speaker to leave a gracious impression on every life that for a moment touches her own; but I have

never ceased to be thankful that I met Mrs. Livermore before I met Miss Dickinson at the crisis in my career.

In the autumn of 1873 I entered Albion College, in Albion, Michigan. I was twentyfive years of age, but I

looked much youngerprobably not more than eighteen to the casual glance. Though I had made every

effort to save money, I had not been successful, for my expenses constantly outran my little income, and my

position as preacher made it necessary for me to have a suitable wardrobe. When the time came to enter

college I had exactly eighteen dollars in the world, and I started for Albion with this amount in my purse and

without the slightest notion of how I was to add to it. The money problem so pressed upon me, in fact, that

when I reached my destination at midnight and dis covered that it would cost fifty cents to ride from the

station to the college, I saved that amount by walking the entire distance on the railroad tracks, while my

imagination busied itself pleasantly with pictures of the engine that might be thundering upon me in the rear.

I had chosen Albion because Miss Foot had been educated there, and I was encouraged by an incident that

happened the morning after my arrival. I was on the campus, walking toward the main building, when I saw a

big copper penny lying on the ground, and, on picking it up, I discovered that it bore the year of my birth.

That seemed a good omen, and it was emphatically underlined by the finding of two exactly similar pennies

within a week. Though there have been days since then when I was sorely tempted to spend them, I have

those three pennies still, and I confess to a certain comfort in their possession!

As I had not completed my highschool course, my first days at Albion were spent in strenuous prep aration

for the entrance examinations; and one morn ing, as I was crossing the campus with a History of the United

States tucked coyly under my arm, I met the president of the college, Dr. Josclyn. He stopped for a word of

greeting, during which I be trayed the fact that I had never studied United States history. Dr. Josclyn at once

invited me into his office with, I am quite sure, the purpose of ex plaining as kindly as he could that my

preparation for college was insufficient. As an opening to the subject he began to talk of history, and we

talked and talked on, while unheeded hours were born and died. We discussed the history of the United

States, the governments of the world, the causes which led to the influence of one nation on another, the

philo sophical basis of the different national movements westward, and the like. It was the longest and by

far the most interesting talk I have ever had with a highly educated man, and during it I could actually feel

``I have something to give you,'' he said, and he wrote a few words on a slip of paper and handed the slip to

me. When, on reaching the dormitory, I opened it, I found that the president had passed me in the history of

the entire college course! This, moreover, was not the only pleasant result of our interview, for within a few

weeks President and Mrs. Josclyn, whose daughter had recently died, invited me to board with them, and I

My triumph in history was followed by the swift and chastening discovery that I was behind my as sociates

in several other branches. Owing to my father's early help, I was well up in mathematics, but I had much to

learn of philosophy and the languages, and to these I devoted many midnight candles.

Naturally, I soon plunged into speaking, and my first public speech at college was a defense of Xan tippe. I

have always felt that the poor lady was greatly abused, and that Socrates deserved all he received from her,

and more. I was glad to put myself on record as her champion, and my fellow students must soon have felt

that my admiration for Xantippe was based on similarities of tempera ment, for within a few months I was

Albion was a coeducational institution, and the brightest jewels in its crown were its three literary

societiesthe first composed of men alone, the sec ond of women alone, and the third of men and women

together. Each of the societies made friend ly advances to new students, and for some time I hesitated on the

brink of the new joys they offered, uncertain which to choose. A representative of the mixed society, who

``Women,'' he pompously assured me, ``need to be associated with men, because they don't know how to

On the instant the needle of decision swung around to the women's society and remained there, fixed.

``If they don't,'' I told the pompous young man, ``it's high time they learned. I shall join the women, and we'll

I did join the women's society, and I had not been a member very long before I discovered that when there

was an advantage of any kind to be secured the men invariably got it. While I was brooding somberly upon

this wrong an opportunity came to make a formal and effective protest against the men's highhanded

methods. The Quinquennial re union of all the societies was about to be held, and the special feature of this

festivity was always an oration. The simple method of selecting the orator which had formerly prevailed had

been for the young men to decide upon the speaker and then an nounce his name to the women, who

humbly con firmed it. On this occasion, however, when the name came in to us, I sent a message to our

brother society to the effect that we, too, intended to make a nomination and to send in a name.

At such unprecedented behavior the entire stu dent body arose in excitement, which, among the girls, was

combined with equal parts of exhilaration and awe. The men refused to consider our nominee, and as a

friendly compromise we suggested that we have a joint meeting of all the societies and elect the speaker at

this gathering; but this plan also the men at first refused, giving in only after weeks of argument, during

which no one had time for the calmer pleasures of study. When the joint meeting was finally held, nothing

was accomplished; we girls had one more member than the boys had, and we promptly reelected our

candidate, who was as promptly declined by the boys. Two of our girls were engaged to two of the boys, and

it was secretly planned by our brother society that during a second joint meeting these two men should take

the girls out for a drive and then slip back to vote, leaving the girls at some point sufficiently remote from

col lege. We discovered the plot, however, in time to thwart it, and at last, when nothing but the un

precedented tieup had been discussed for months, the boys suddenly gave up their candidate and nominated

This was not at all what I wanted, and I immedi ately declined to serve. We girls then nominated the young

man who had been first choice of our brother society, but he haughtily refused to accept the compliment. The

reunion was only a fortnight away, and the programme had not been printed, so now the president took the

situation in hand and peremptorily ordered me to accept the nomination or be suspended. This was a wholly

unexpected boomerang. I had wished to make a good fight for equal rights for the girls, and to impress the

boys with the fact of our existence as a society; but I had not desired to set the entire student body by the ears

nor to be forced to prepare and deliver an oration at the eleventh hour. Moreover, I had no suitable gown to

wear on so important an occasion. One of my classmates, however, secretly wrote to my sister, describing my

blushing honors and ex plaining my need, and my family rallied to the call. My father bought the material,

and my mother and Mary paid for the making of the gown. It was a white alpaca creation, trimmed with satin,

and the consciousness that it was extremely becoming sus tained me greatly during the mental agony of

pre paring and delivering my oration. To my family that oration was the redeeming episode of my early

My original fund of eighteen dollars was now supplemented by the proceeds of a series of lectures I gave on

temperance. The temperance women were not yet organized, but they had their speakers, and I was

occasionally paid five dollars to hold forth for an hour or two in the little country schoolhouses of our

region. As a licensed preacher I had no tuition fees to pay at college; but my board, in the home of the

president and his wife, was costing me four dollars a week, and this was the limit of my expenses, as I did my

own laundrywork. During my first college year the amount I paid for amuse ment was exactly fifty cents;

that went for a lec ture. The mental strain of the whole experience was rather severe, for I never knew how

much I would be able to earn; and I was beginning to feel the effects of this when Christmas came and

brought with it a gift of ninetytwo dollars, which Miss Foot had collected among my Big Rapids friends.

The following spring our brother James, who was now living in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, invited my sister

Mary and me to spend the summer with him, and Mary and I finally dug a grave for our little hatchet and

went East together with something of our oldtime joy in each other's so ciety. We reached St. Johnsbury

one Saturday, and within an hour of our arrival learned that my brother had arranged for me to preach in a

local church the following day. That threatened to spoil the visit for Mary and even to disinter the hatchet! At

first she positively refused to go to hear me, but after a few hours of reflection she announced gloom ily that

if she did not go I would not have my hair arranged properly or get my hat on straight. Moved by this

conviction, she joined the family parade to the church, and later, in the sacristy, she pulled me about and

pinned me up to her heart's content. Then, reluctantly, she went into the church and heard me preach. She

offered no tributes after our return to the house, but her protests ceased from that time, and we gave each

other the love and understanding which had marked our girlhood days. The change made me very happy; for

Mary was the salt of the earth, and next only to my longing for my mother, I had longed for her in the years

Every Sunday that summer I preached in or near St. Johnsbury, and toward autumn we had a big meeting

which the ministers of all the surrounding churches attended. I was asked to preach the ser mona high

complimentand I chose that impor tant day to make a mistake in quoting a passage from Scripture. I

asked, ``Can the Ethiopian change his spots or the leopard his skin?'' I realized at once that I had transposed

the words, and no doubt a look of horror dawned in my eyes; but I went on without correcting myself and

without the slightest pause. Later, one of the ministers congratulated me on this presence of mind.

``If you had corrected yourself,'' he said, ``all the young people would have been giggling yet over the spotted

At the end of the summer the various churches in which I had preached gave me a beautiful gold watch and

one hundred dollars in money, and with an exceedingly light heart I went back to college to begin my second

From that time life was less complex. I had enough temperancework and preaching in the country

schoolhouses and churches to pay my col lege expenses, and, now that my financial anxieties were

relieved, my health steadily improved. Sev eral times I preached to the Indians, and these occasions were

among the most interesting of my experiences. The squaws invariably brought their babies with them, but

they had a simple and effective method of relieving themselves of the care of the infants as soon as they

reached the church. The papooses, who were strapped to their boards, were hung like a garment on the back

wall of the building by a hole in the top of the board, which projected above their heads. Each papoose

usually had a bit of fat pork tied to the end of a string fastened to its wrist, and with these sources of

nourishment the infants occupied themselves pleasantly while the sermon was in progress. Frequently the

pork slipped down the throat of the papoose, but the struggle of the child and the jerking of its hands in the

strangulation that followed pulled the piece safely out again. As I faced the congregation I also faced the

papooses, to whom the indifferent backs of their mothers were presented; it seemed to me there was never a

time when some papoose was not choking, but no matter how much excitement or discomfort was going on

among the babies, not one squaw turned her head to look back at them. In that assemblage the emotions were

My most dramatic experience during this period occurred in the summer of 1874, when I went to a Northern

lumbercamp to preach in the pulpit of a minister who was away on his honeymoon. The stage took me

within twentytwo miles of my desti nation, to a place called Seberwing. To my dismay, however, when I

arrived at Seberwing, Saturday evening, I found that the rest of the journey lay through a dense woods, and

that I could reach my pulpit in time the next morning only by having some one drive me through the woods

that night. It was not a pleasant prospect, for I had heard appalling tales of the stockades in this region and of

the women who were kept prisoners there. But to miss the engagement was not to be thought of, and when,

after I had made several vain efforts to find a driver, a man appeared in a twoseated wagon and offered to

take me to my destination, I felt that I had to go with him, though I did not like his appearance. He was a

huge, muscular person, with a protruding jaw and a singularly evasive eye; but I reflected that his forbidding

expression might be due, in part at least, to the prospect of the long night drive through the woods, to which

It was already growing dark when we started, and within a few moments we were out of the little settlement

and entering the woods. With me I had a revolver I had long since learned to use, but which I very rarely

carried. I had hesitated to bring it nowhad even left home without it; and then, im pelled by some impulse

I never afterward ceased to bless, had returned for it and dropped it into my handbag.

I sat on the back seat of the wagon, directly behind the driver, and for a time, as we entered the darkening

woods, his great shoulders blotted out all perspective as he drove on in stolid silence. Then, little by little,

they disappeared like a rapidly fading negative. The woods were filled with Norway pines, hemlocks, spruce,

and tamaracksgreat, somber trees that must have shut out the light even on the brightest days. Tonight the

heavens held no lamps aloft to guide us, and soon the darkness folded around us like a garment. I could see

neither the driver nor his horses. I could hear only the sibilant whisper of the trees and the creak of our slow

Suddenly the driver began to talk, and at first I was glad to hear the reassuring human tones, for the

experience had begun to seem like a bad dream. I replied readily, and at once regretted that I had done so, for

the man's choice of topics was most unpleasant. He began to tell me stories of the stockadesgrim stories

with horrible details, re peated so fully and with such gusto that I soon realized he was deliberately

He replied with a series of oaths and shocking vulgarities, stopping his horses that he might turn and fling the

words into my face. He ended by snarling that I must think him a fool to imagine he did not know the kind of

woman I was. What was I doing in that rough country, he demanded, and why was I alone with him in those

``You know perfectly well who I am,'' I reminded him. ``And you understand that I am making this journey

tonight because I am to preach tomorrow morning and there is no other way to keep my appointment.''

``Well,'' he said, coolly, ``I'm damned if I'll take you. I've got you here, and I'm going to keep you here!''

I slipped my hand into the satchel in my lap, and it touched my revolver. No touch of human fingers ever

brought such comfort. With a deep breath of thanksgiving I drew it out and cocked it, and as I did so he

``I have a revolver,'' I replied, as steadily as I could. ``And it is cocked and aimed straight at your back. Now

Even as I spoke I felt my hair rise on my scalp with the horror of the moment, which seemed worse than any

nightmare a woman could experience. But the man was conquered by the knowledge of the waiting, willing

weapon just behind him. He laid his whip savagely on the backs of his horses and they responded with a leap

The rest of the night was a black terror I shall never forget. He did not speak again, nor stop, but I dared not

relax my caution for an instant. Hour after hour crawled toward day, and still I sat in the unpierced darkness,

the revolver ready. I knew he was inwardly raging, and that at any instant he might make a sudden jump and

try to get the revolver away from me. I decided that at his slightest movement I must shoot. But dawn came at

last, and just as its bluish light touched the dark tips of the pines we drove up to the log hotel in the settlement

I sat still. Even yet I dared not trust him. Moreover, I was so stiff after my vigil that I was not sure I could

He sullenly obeyed and aroused the hotelowner, and when the latter appeared I climbed out of the wagon

with some effort but without explanation. That morning I preached in my friend's pulpit as I had promised to

do, and the rough building was packed to its doors with lumbermen who had come in from the neighboring

camp. Their appearance caused great surprise, as they had never attended a service before. They formed a

most picturesque congregation, for they all wore brilliant lumbercamp clothingblue or red shirts with

yellow scarfs twisted around their waists, and gaycolored jackets and loggingcaps. There were forty or

fifty of them, and when we took up our collection they responded with much liberality and cheerful shouts to

The collection was the largest that had been taken up in the history of the settlement, but I soon learned that it

was not the spiritual comfort I offered which had appealed to the lumbermen. My driver of the night before,

who was one of their number, had told his pals of his experience, and the whole camp had poured into town

``Her sermon?'' said one of them to my landlord, after the meeting. ``Huh! I dunno what she preached. But,

say, don't make no mistake about one thing: the little preacher has sure got grit!''

When I returned to Albion College in the autumn of 1875 I brought with me a problem which tormented me

during my waking hours and chattered on my pillow at night. Should I devote two more years of my

vanishing youth to the com pletion of my college course, or, instead, go at once to Boston University, enter

I was now twentyseven years old, and I had been a licensed preacher for three years. My reputation in the

Northwest was growing, and by sermons and lectures I could certainly earn enough to pay the expenses of the

full college course. On the other hand, Boston was a new world. There I would be alone and practically

penniless, and the oppor tunities for work might be limited. Quite possibly in my final two years at Albion I

could even save enough money to make the experience in Boston less difficult, and the clear common sense I

had inherited from my mother reminded me that in this course lay wisdom. Possibly it was some in

heritance from my visionary father which made me, at the end of three months, waive these sage reflections,

pack my few possessions, and start for Boston, where I entered the theological school of the university in

It was an instance of stepping off a solid plank and into space; and though there is exhilaration in the

sensation, as I discovered then and at later crises in life when I did the same thing, there was also an amount

of subsequent discomfort for which even my lively imagination had not prepared me. I went through some

grim months in Boston months during which I learned what it was to go to bed cold and hungry, to wake

up cold and hungry, and to have no knowledge of how long these con ditions might continue. But not more

than once or twice during the struggle there, and then only for an hour or two in the physical and mental

depression attending malnutrition, did I regret coming. At that period of my life I believed that the Lord had

my small personal affairs very much on His mind. If I starved and froze it was His test of my worthi ness

for the ministry, and if He had really chosen me for one of His servants, He would see me through. The faith

that sustained me then has still a place in my life, and existence without it would be an infinitely more dreary

affair than it is. But I admit that I now call upon the Lord less often and less imperatively than I did before the

My class at the theological school was composed of fortytwo young men and my unworthy self, and before

I had been a member of it an hour I realized that women theologians paid heavily for the privilege of being

women. The young men of my class who were licensed preachers were given free accommo dations in the

dormitory, and their board, at a club formed for their assistance, cost each of them only one dollar and

twentyfive cents a week. For me no such kindly provision was made. I was not allowed a place in the

dormitory, but instead was given two dollars a week to pay the rent of a room outside. Neither was I admitted

to the economical comforts of the club, but fed myself according to my income, a plan which worked

admirably when there was an income, but left an obvious void when there was not.

With characteristic optimism, however, I hired a little attic room on Tremont Street and established myself

therein. In lieu of a window the room offered a pale skylight to the February storms, and there was neither

heat in it nor running water; but its possession gave me a pleasant sense of proprietorship, and the whole

experience seemed a high adventure. I at once sought opportunities to preach and lecture, but these were even

rarer than firelight and food. In Albion I had been practically the only licensed preacher available for

substitute and special work. In Boston University's three theological classes there were a hundred men, each

snatching eagerly at the slightest possibility of employment; and when, despite this competition, I received

and responded to an invitation to preach, I never knew whether I was to be paid for my services in cash or in

compliments. If, by a happy chance, the compensation came in cash, the amount was rarely more than five

dollars, and never more than ten. There was no help in sight from my family, whose early opposition to my

career as a minister had hotly flamed forth again when I started East. I lived, therefore, on milk and crackers,

and for weeks at a time my hunger was never wholly satis fied. In my home in the wilderness I had often

heard the wolves prowling around our door at night. Now, in Boston, I heard them even at high noon.

There is a special and almost indescribable de pression attending such conditions. No one who has not

experienced the combination of continued cold, hunger, and loneliness in a great, strange, indifferent city can

realize how it undermines the victim's nerves and even tears at the moral fiber. The selfhumiliation I

experienced was also intense. I had worked my way in the Northwest; why could I not work my way in

Boston? Was there, per haps, some lack in me and in my courage? Again and again these questions rose in

my mind and poisoned my selfconfidence. The one comfort I had in those black days was the knowledge

that no one suspected the depth of the abyss in which I dwelt. We were all struggling; to the indifferent

glanceand all glances were indifferentmy struggle was no worse than that of my classmates whose

After a few months of this existence I was almost ready to believe that the Lord's work for me lay outside of

the ministry, and while this fear was gripping me a serious crisis came in my financial affairs. The day

dawned when I had not a cent, nor any prospect of earning one. My stock of provisions consisted of a box of

biscuit, and my courage was flowing from me like blood from an opened vein. Then came one of the quick

turns of the wheel of chance which make for optimism. Late in the afternoon I was asked to do a week of

revival work with a minister in a local church, and when I accepted his invitation I mentally resolved to let

that week decide my fate. My shoes had burst open at the sides; for lack of carfare I had to walk to and from

the scene of my meetings, though I had barely strength for the effort. If my week of work brought me enough

to buy a pair of cheap shoes and feed me for a few days I would, I decided, continue my theological course. If

Never have I worked harder or better than during those seven days, when I put into the effort not only my

heart and soul, but the last flame of my dying vitality, We had a rousing revivalone of the good oldtime

affairs when the mourners' benches were constantly filled and the air resounded with alleluias. The

excitement and our success, mildly aided by the box of biscuit, sustained me through the week, and not until

the last night did I realize how much of me had gone into this final desperate charge of mine. Then, the

service over and the people departed, I sank, weak and trembling, into a chair, trying to pull myself together

before hearing my fate in the goodnight words of the minister I had assisted. When he came to me and

began to com pliment me on the work I had done, I could not rise. I sat still and listened with downcast

eyes, afraid to lift them lest he read in them something of my need and panic in this moment when my whole

At first his words rolled around the empty church as if they were trying to get away from me, but at last I

began to catch them. I was, it seemed, a most desirable helper. It had been a privilege and a pleasure to be

associated with me. Beyond doubt, I would go far in my career. He heartily wished that he could reward me

My tired heart fluttered at this. Probably my empty stomach fluttered, too; but in the next moment something

seemed to catch my throat and stop my breath. For it appeared that, notwith standing the enthusiasm and the

spiritual uplift of the week, the collections had been very disap pointing and the expenses unusually heavy.

He could not give me fifty dollars. He could not give me anything at all. He thanked me warmly and wished

I managed to answer him and to get to my feet, but that journey down the aisle from my chair to the church

door was the longest journey I have ever made. During it I felt not only the heartsick disappointment of the

moment, but the cumulative unhappiness of the years to come. I was friend less, penniless, and starving, but

it was not of these conditions that I thought then. The one over whelming fact was that I had been weighed

I stumbled along, passing blindly a woman who stood on the street near the church entrance. She stopped me,

timidly, and held out her hand. Then suddenly she put her arms around me and wept. She was an old lady,

and I did not know her, but it seemed fitting that she should cry just then, as it would have seemed fitting to

me if at that black moment all the people on the earth had broken into sudden wailing.

``Oh, Miss Shaw,'' she said, ``I'm the happiest woman in the world, and I owe my happiness to you. Tonight

you have converted my grandson. He's all I have left, but he has been a wild boy, and I've prayed over him

for years. Hereafter he is going to lead a different life. He has just given me his promise on his knees.''

``I am a poor woman,'' she went on, ``but I have enough, and I want to make you a little present. I know how

She pressed a bill into my fingers. ``It's very little,'' she said, humbly; ``it is only five dollars.''

I laughed, and in that exultant moment I seemed to hear life laughing with me. With the passing of the bill

from her hand to mine existence had become a new experience, wonderful and beautiful.

``It's the biggest gift I have ever had,'' I told her. ``This little bill is big enough to carry my future on its

I had a good meal that night, and I bought the shoes the next morning. Infinitely more sustaining than the

food, however, was the conviction that the Lord was with me and had given me a sign of His approval. The

experience was the turning point of my theological career. When the money was gone I succeeded in

obtaining more work from time to timeand though the grind was still cruelly hard, I never again lost hope.

The theological school was on Bromfield Street, and we students climbed three flights of stairs to reach our

classrooms. Through lack of proper food I had become too weak to ascend these stairs without sitting down

once or twice to rest, and within a month after my experience with the appreciative grandmother I was

discovered during one of these resting periods by Mrs. Barrett, the superintendent of the Woman's Foreign

Missionary Society, which had offices in our building. She stopped, looked me over, and then invited me into

her room, where she asked me if I felt ill. I assured her that I did not. She asked a great many additional

questions and, little by little, under the womanly sympathy of them, my reserve broke down and she finally

got at the truth, which until that hour I had succeeded in concealing. She let me leave without much com

ment, but the next day she again invited me into her office and came directly to the purpose of the interview.

``Miss Shaw,'' she said, ``I have been talking to a friend of mine about you, and she would like to make a

bargain with you. She thinks you are work ing too hard. She will pay you three dollars and a half a week for

the rest of this school year if you will promise to give up your preaching. She wants you to rest, study, and

I asked the name of my unknown friend, but Mrs. Barrett said that was to remain a secret. She had been given

a check for seventyeight dollars, and from this, she explained, my allowance would be paid in weekly

instalments. I took the money very gratefully, and a few years later I returned the amount to the Missionary

Society; but I never learned the identity of my benefactor. Her three dollars and a half a week, added to the

weekly two dollars I was allowed for room rent, at once solved the problem of living; and now that

mealhours had a meaning in my life, my health improved and my horizon brightened. I spent most of my

evenings in study, and my Sundays in the churches of Phil lips Brooks and James Freeman Clark, my

favorite ministers. Also, I joined the university's praying band of students, and took part in the missionary

work among the women of the streets. I had never forgotten my early friend in Lawrence, the beautiful

``mysterious lady'' who had loved me as a child, and, in memory of her, I set earnestly about the effort to help

unfortunates of her class. I went into the homes of these women, followed them to the streets and the

dancehalls, talked to them, prayed with them, and made friends among them. Some of them I was able to

help, but many were beyond help; and I soon learned that the effective work in that field is the work which is

During my vacation in the summer of 1876 I went to Cape Cod and earned my expenses by substituting in

local pulpits. Here, at East Dennis, I formed the friendship which brought me at once the greatest happiness

and the deepest sorrow of that period of my life. My new friend was a widow whose name was Persis Addy,

and she was also the daughter of Captain Prince Crowell, then the most prominent man in the Cape Cod

communitya bank president, a railroad director, and a citizen of wealth, as wealth was rated in those days.

When I returned to the theological school in the autumn Mrs. Addy came to Boston with me, and from that

time until her death, two years later, we lived together. She was immensely interested in my work, and the

friendly part she took in it diverted her mind from the be reavement over which she had brooded for years,

while to me her coming opened windows into a new world. I was no longer lonely; and though in my life

with her I paid my way to the extent of my small income, she gave me my first experience of an existence in

which comfort and culture, recreation, and leisurely reading were cheerful commonplaces. For the first time I

had some one to come home to, some one to confide in, some one to talk to, listen to, and love. We read

together and went to con certs together; and it was during this winter that I attended my first theatrical

performance. The star was Mary Anderson, in ``Pygmalion and Galatea,'' and play and player charmed me so

utterly that I saw them every night that week, sitting high in the gallery and enjoying to the utmost the

unfolding of this new delight. It was so glowing a pleasure that I longed to make some return to the giver of

it; but not until many years afterward, when I met Ma dame Navarro in London, was I able to tell her what

I did not long enjoy the glimpses into my new world, for soon, and most tragically, it was closed to me. In the

spring following our first Boston winter together Mrs. Addy and I went to Hingham, Massachusetts, where I

had been appointed tempo rary pastor of the Methodist Church. There Mrs. Addy was taken ill, and as she

grew steadily worse we returned to Boston to live near the best availa ble physicians, who for months

theorized over her malady without being able to diagnose it. At last her father, Captain Crowell, sent to Paris

for Dr. BrownSequard, then the most distinguished special ist of his day, and Dr. BrownSequard, when

he arrived and examined his patient, discovered that she had a tumor on the brain. She had had a great shock

in her lifethe tragic death of her husband at sea during their wedding tour around the world and it was

believed that her disease dated from that time. Nothing could be done for her, and she failed daily during our

second year together, and died in March, 1878, just before I finished my theological course and while I was

still temporary pastor of the church at Hingham. Every moment I could take from my parish and my studies I

spent with her, and those were sorrowful months. In her poor, tortured brain the idea formed that I, not she,

was the sick person in our family of two, and when we were at home together she insisted that I must lie

down and let her nurse me; then for hours she brooded over me, trying to relieve the agony she believed I was

experiencing. When at last she was at peace her father and I took her home to Cape Cod and laid her in the

graveyard of the little church where we had met at the beginning of our brief and beautiful friendship; and the

subsequent loneliness I felt was far greater than any I had ever suffered in the past, for now I had learned the

Three months after Mrs. Addy's death I grad uated. She had planned to take me abroad, and during our first

winter together we had spent count less hours talking and dreaming of our European wanderings. When she

found that she must die she made her will and left me fifteen hundred dollars for the visit to Europe, insisting

that I must carry out the plan we had made; and during her conscious periods she constantly talked of this and

made me promise that I would go. After her death it seemed to me that to go without her was impossible.

Every thing of beauty I looked upon would hold memories of her, keeping fresh my sorrow and

emphasizing my loneliness; but it was her last expressed desire that I should go, and I went.

First, however, I had graduatedclad in a brand new black silk gown, and with five dollars in my pocket,

which I kept there during the graduation exercises. I felt a special satisfaction in the pos session of that

money, for, notwithstanding the handicap of being a woman, I was said to be the only member of my class

who had worked during the entire course, graduated free from debt, and had a new outfit as well as a few

I graduated without any special honors. Pos sibly I might have won some if I had made the effort, but my

graduation year, as I have just explained, had been very difficult. As it was, I was merely a good average

student, feeling my isolation as the only woman in my class, but certainly not spurring on my men associates

by the display of any brilliant gifts. Naturally, I missed a great deal of class fellowship and class support, and

throughout my entire course I rarely entered my classroom with out the abysmal conviction that I was not

really wanted there. But some of the men were good humoredly cordial, and several of them are among my

friends today. Between myself and my family there still existed the breach I had created when I began to

preach. With the exception of Mary and James, my people openly regarded me, during my theological course,

as a dweller in outer darkness, and even my mother's love was clouded by what she felt to be my deliberate

Toward the end of my university experience, how ever, an incident occurred which apparently changed my

mother's viewpoint. She was now living with my sister Mary, in Big Rapids, Michigan, and, on the occasion

of one of my rare and brief visits to them I was invited to preach in the local church. Here, for the first time,

my mother heard me. Dutifully escorted by one of my brothers, she at tended church that morning in a state

of shivering nervousness. I do not know what she expected me to do or say, but toward the end of the sermon

it became clear that I had not justified her fears. The look of intense apprehension left her eyes, her features

relaxed into placidity, and later in the day she paid me the highest compliment I had yet re ceived from a

``I liked the sermon very much,'' she peacefully told my brother. ``Anna didn't say anything about hell, or

``What I mean,'' she explained, ``is that Anna didn't say anything objectionable in the pulpit!'' And with this

Between the death of my friend and my departure for Europe I buried myself in the work of the uni versity

and of my little church; and as if in answer to the call of my need, Mary E. Livermore, who had given me the

first professional encouragement I had ever received, reentered my life. Her husband, like myself, was

pastor of a church in Hingham, and whenever his finances grew low, or there was need of a fund for some

special purposeconditions that usually exist in a small churchhis brilliant wife came to his assistance

and raised the money, while her husband retired modestly to the background and regarded her with adoring

eyes. On one of these occasions, I remember, when she entered the pulpit to preach her sermon, she dropped

her bon net and coat on an unoccupied chair. A little later there was need of this chair, and Mr. Livermore,

who sat under the pulpit, leaned forward, picked up the garments, and, without the least trace of self

consciousness, held them in his lap throughout the sermon. One of the members of the church, who appeared

to be irritated by the incident, later spoke of it to him and added, sardonically, ``How does it feel to be merely

In reply Mr. Livermore flashed on him one of his charming smiles. ``Why, I'm very proud of it,'' he said, with

the utmost cheerfulness. ``You see, I'm the only man in the world who has that dis tinction.''

They were a charming couple, the Livermores, and they deserved far more than they received from a world to

which they gave so freely and so richly. To me, as to others, they were more than kind; and I never recall

them without a deep feeling of grati tude and an equally deep sense of loss in their passing.

It was during this period, also, that I met Frances E. Willard. There was a great Moody revival in progress in

Boston, and Miss Willard was the right hand assistant of Mr. Moody. To her that revival must have been

marked with a star, for during it she met for the first time Miss Anna Gordon, who became her lifelong

friend and her biographer. The meetings also laid the foundation of our friend ship, and for many years Miss

On the second or third night of the revival, dur ing one of the ``mixed meetings,'' attended by both women

and men, Mr. Moody invited those who were willing to talk to sinners to come to the front. I went down the

aisle with others, and found a seat near Miss Willard, to whom I was then introduced by some one who knew

us both. I wore my hair short in those days, and I had a little fur cap on my head. Though I had been

preaching for several years, I looked absurdly youngfar too young, it soon became evident, to interest Mr.

Moody. He was already moving about among the men and women who had responded to his invitation, and

one by one he invited them to speak, passing me each time until at last I was left alone. Then he took pity on

me and came to my side to whisper kindly that I had misunderstood his invitation. He did not want young

girls to talk to his people, he said, but mature women with worldly experi ence. He advised me to go home

to my mother, adding, to soften the blow, that some time in the future when there were young girls at the

I made no explanations to him, but started to leave, and Miss Willard, who saw me departing, fol lowed and

stopped me. She asked why I was going, and I told her that Mr. Moody had sent me home to grow. Frances

Willard had a keen sense of humor, and she enjoyed the joke so thoroughly that she finally convinced me it

was amusing, though at first the humor of it had escaped me. She took me back to Mr. Moody and explained

the situation to him, and he apologized and put me to work. He said he had thought I was about sixteen. After

The time had come to follow Mrs. Addy's wishes and go to Europe, and I sailed in the month of June

following my graduation, and traveled for three months with a party of tourists under the direction of Eben

Tourgee, of the Boston Conservatory of Music. We landed in Glasgow, and from there went to England,

Belgium, Holland, Germany, France, and last of all to Italy. Our company in cluded many clergymen and a

nevertobeforgotten widow whose lighthearted attitude toward the mem ory of her departed spouse

furnished the comedy of our first voyage. It became a pet diversion to ask her if her husband still lived, for

she always answered the question in the same mournful words, and with the same manner of irrepressible

``Oh no!'' she would chirp. ``My dear departed has been in our Heavenly Father's house for the past eight

At its best, the vacation without my friend was tragically incomplete, and only a few of its incidents stand out

with clearness across the fortysix years that have passed since then. One morning, I re member, I preached

an impromptu sermon in the Castle of Heidelberg before a large gathering; and a little later, in Genoa, I

preached a very different sermon to a wholly different congregation. There was a gospelship in the harbor,

and one Saturday the pastor of it came ashore to ask if some American clergyman in our party would preach

on his ship the next morning. He was an oldtime, orthodox Presbyterian, and from the tips of his

broadsoled shoes to the severe part in the hair above his sancti monious brow he looked the type. I was not

pres sent when he called at our hotel, and my absence gave my fellowclergymen an opportunity to play a

joke on the gentleman from the gospelship. They assured him that ``Dr. Shaw'' would preach for him, and

the pastor returned to his post greatly pleased. When they told me of his invitation, however, they did not add

that they had neglected to tell him Dr. Shaw was a woman, and I was greatly elated by the compliment I

Our entire party of thirty went out to the gospel ship the next morning, and when the pastor came to meet

us, lank and forbidding, his austere lips vainly trying to curve into a smile of welcome, they intro duced me

to him as the minister who was to deliver the sermon. He had just taken my hand; he dropped it as if it had

burned his own. For a mo ment he had no words to meet the crisis. Then he stuttered something to the effect

that the situation was impossible that his men would not listen to a woman, that they would mob her, that it

would be blasphemous for a woman to preach. My asso ciates, who had so lightheartedly let me in for this

unpleasant experience, now realized that they must see me through it. They persuaded him to allow me to

With deep reluctance the pastor finally accepted me and the situation; but when the moment came to

introduce me, he devoted most of his time to heartfelt apologies for my presence. He explained to the sailors

that I was a woman, and fervidly assured them that he himself was not responsible for my appearance there.

With every word he ut tered he put a brick in the wall he was building be tween me and the crew, until at

last I felt that I could never get past it. I was very unhappy, very lonely, very homesick; and suddenly the

thought came to me that these men, notwithstanding their sullen eyes and forbidding faces, might be lonely

and homesick, too. I decided to talk to them as a woman and not as a minister, and I came down from the

pulpit and faced them on their own level, look ing them over and mentally selecting the hardest specimens

of the lot as the special objects of my appeal. One old fellow, who looked like a pirate with his redrimmed

eyes, weatherbeaten skin, and fimbriated face, grinned up at me in such sardonic challenge that I walked

``My friends, I hope you will forget everything Dr. Blank has just said. It is true that I am a minister, and that

I came here to preach. But now I do not intend to preachonly to have a friendly talk, on a text which is not

in the Bible. I am very far from home, and I feel as homesick as some of you men look. So my text is,

In my summers at Cape Cod I had learned some thing about sailors. I knew that in the inprepos sessing

congregation before me there were many boys who had run away from home, and men who had left home

because of family troubles. I talked to the young men first, to those who had forgotten their mothers and

thought their mothers had for gotten them, and I told of my experiences with waiting, heavyhearted

mothers who had sons at sea. Some heads went down at that, and here and there I saw a boy gulp, but the old

fellow I was par ticularly anxious to move still grinned up at me like a malicious monkey. Then I talked of

the sailor's wife, and of her double burden of homemaking and anxiety, and soon I could pick out some of the

hus bands by their softened faces. But still my old man grinned and squinted. Last of all I described the

whalers who were absent from home for years, and who came back to find their children and their

grandchildren waiting for them. I told how I had seen them, in our New England coast towns, covered, as a

ship is covered with barnacles, by grandchildren who rode on their shoulders and sat astride of their necks as

they walked down the village streets. And now at last the sneer left my old man's loose lips. He had

grandchildren somewhere. He twisted un easily in his seat, coughed, and finally took out a big red

``When I came here,'' I added, ``I intended to preach a sermon on `The Heavenly Vision.' Now I want to give

I ended with a bit of the sermon and a prayer, and when I raised my head the old man of the sar donic grin

I took his hard old fist, and then, seeing that many of the other sailors were beginning to move hospitably but

At the words they surged forward, and the affair became a reception, during which I shook hands with every

sailor of my congregation. The next day my hand was swollen out of shape, for the sailors had gripped it as if

they were hauling on a hawser; but the experience was worth the discomfort. The best moment of the

morning came, however, when the pastor of the ship faced me, goggleeyed and mar veling.

``I wouldn't have believed it,'' was all he could say. ``I thought the men would mob you.''

``Well,'' I said, ``if it is unnatural for women to talk to men, we have been living in an unnatural world for a

long time. Moreover, if it is unnatural, why did Jesus send a woman out as the first preach er?''

He waived a discussion of that question by invit ing us all to his cabin to drink wine with himand as we

were ``total abstainers,'' it seemed as un natural to us to have him offer us wine as a woman's preaching had

The next European incident on which memory throws a highlight was our audience with Pope Leo XIII. As

there were several distinguished Americans in our party, a private audience was ar ranged for us, and for

days before the time appointed we nervously rehearsed the etiquette of the oc casion. When we reached the

Vatican we were marched between rows of Swiss Guards to the Throne Room, only to learn there that we

were to be received in the Tapestry Room. Here we found a very impressive assemblage of cardinals and

Vatican officials, and while we were still lost in the beauty of the picture they made against the room's superb

background, the approach of the Pope was announced. Every one immediately knelt, except a few persons

who tried to show their democracy by standing; but I am sure that even these individuals felt a thrill when the

slight, exquisite figure appeared at the door and gave us a general benediction. Then the Pope passed slowly

down the line, offering his hand to each of us, and radiating a charm so gracious and so human that few failed

to respond to the appeal of his engaging personality. There was nothing fleshly about Leo XIII. His body was

so frail, so wraithlike, that one almost expected to see through it the magnificent tapestries on the walls. But

from the moment he appeared every eye clung to him, every thought was concentrated upon him. This effect

I think he would have produced even if he had come among us unrecognized, for through the thin shell that

I had previously remarked to my friends that kissing the Pope's ring after so many other lips had touched it

did not appeal to me as hygienic, and that I intended to kiss his hand instead. When my op portunity came I

kept my word; but after I had kissed the venerable hand I remained kneeling for an instant with bowed head,

a little aghast at my daring. The gentle Father thought, however, that I was waiting for a special blessing. He

gave it to me gravely and passed on, and I devoted the next few hours to ungodly crowing over the associ

In Venice we attended the great fete celebrating the first visit of King Humbert and Queen Mar gherita. It

was also the first time Venice had en tertained a queen since the Italian union, and the seaqueen of the

Adriatic outdid herself in the gor geousness and the beauty of her preparations. The Grand Canal was like a

flowing rainbow, reflecting the brilliant decorations on every side, and at night the moonlight, the music, the

chiming churchbells, the colored lanterns, the gay voices, the lapping waters against the sides of countless

gondolas made the experience seem like a dream of a new and un believably beautiful world. Forty

thousand per sons were gathered in the Square of St. Mark and in front of the Palace, and I recall a pretty

incident in which the gracious Queen and a little street urchin figured. The small, ragged boy had crept as

close to the royal balcony as he dared, and then, unobserved, had climbed up one of its pillars. At the moment

when a sudden hush had fallen on the crowd this infant, overcome by patriotism and a glimpse of the royal

lady on the balcony above him, suddenly piped up shrilly in the silence. `` Long live the Queen!'' he cried.

The gracious Margherita heard the childish voice, and, amused and interested, leaned over the bal cony to

see where it came from. What she saw doubtless touched the motherheart in her. She caught the eye of the

tattered urchin clinging to the pillar, and radiantly smiled on him. Then, prob ably thinking that the King

was absorbing the at tention of the great assemblage, she indulged in a little diversion. Leaning far forward,

she kissed the tip of her lace handkerchief and swept it caressingly across the boy's brown cheek, smiling

down at him as unconsciously as if she and the enraptured young ster were alone together in the world. The

next instant she had straightened up and flushed, for the watchful crowd had seen the episode and was wild

with enthusiasm. For ten minutes the people cheered the Queen without ceasing, and for the next few days

they talked of little but the spontaneous, girlish action which had delighted them all.

One more sentimental record, and I shall have reached another milestone. As I have said, my friend Mrs.

Addy left me in her will fifteen hundred dollars for my visit to Europe, and before I sailed her father, who

was one of the best friends I have ever had, made a characteristically kind proposition in connection with the

little fund. Instead of giving me the money, he gave me two railroad bonds, one for one thousand dollars, the

other for five hundred dollars, and each drawing seven per cent. interest. He suggested that I deposit these

bonds in the bank of which he was president, and borrow from the bank the money to go abroad. Then, when

I re turned and went into my new parish, I could use some of my salary every month toward repaying the

loan. These monthly payments, he explained, could be as small as I wished, but each month the interest on

the amount I paid would cease. I glad ly took his advice and borrowed seven hundred dollars. After I

returned from Europe I repaid the loan in monthly instalments, and eventually got my bonds, which I still

own. They will mature in 1916. I have had one hundred and five dollars a year from them, in interest, ever

since I received them in 1878 more than twice as much interest as their face valueand every time I have

gone abroad I have used this interest toward paying my passage. Thus my friend has had a share in each of

the many visits I have made to Europe, and in all of them her memory has been vividly with me.

With my return from Europe my real career as a minister began. The year in the pulpit at Hing ham had

been merely tentative, and though I had succeeded in building up the church membership to four times what

it had been when I took charge, I was not reappointed. I had paid off a small church debt, and had had the

building repaired, painted, and carpeted. Now that it was out of its difficulties it offered some advantages to

the occupant of its pul pit, and of these my successor, a man, received the benefit. I, however, had small

ground for com plaint, for I was at once offered and accepted the pastorate of a church at East Dennis, Cape

Cod. Here I went in October, 1878, and here I spent seven of the most interesting years of my life.

On my return from Europe, as I have said, I took up immediately and most buoyantly the work of my new

parish. My previous occupation of various pulpits, whether long or short, had always been in the role of a

substitute. Now, for the first time, I had a church of my own, and was to stand or fall by the record made in it.

The ink was barely dry on my diploma from the Boston Theological School, and, as it happened, the little

church to which I was called was in the hands of two warring factions, whose battles furnished the most

fervid interest of the Cape Cod community. But my in experience disturbed me not at all, and I was bliss

fully ignorant of the division in the congregation. So I entered my new field as trustfully as a child enters a

garden; and though I was in trouble from the beginning, and resigned three times in startling succession, I

My appointment did not cause even a lull in the warfare among my parishioners. Before I had crossed the

threshold of my church I was made to realize that I was shepherd of a divided flock. Exactly what had caused

the original breach I never learned; but it had widened with time, until it seemed that no peacemaker could

build a bridge large enough to span it. As soon as I arrived in East Dennis each faction tried to pour into my

ears its bitter criticisms of the other, but I made and consistently followed the safe rule of refusing to listen to

either side, I announced publicly that I would hear no verbal charges whatever, but that if my two flocks

would state their troubles in writing I would call a board meeting to discuss and pass upon them. This they

both resolutely refused to do (it was apparently the first time they had ever agreed on any point); and as I

steadily declined to listen to complaints, they devised an original method of putting them before me.

During the regular Thursdaynight prayermeet ing, held about two weeks after my arrival, and at which,

of course, I presided, they voiced their diffi culties in public prayer, loudly and urgently calling upon the

Lord to pardon such and such a liar, men tioning the gentleman by name, and such and such a slanderer,

whose name was also submitted. By the time the prayers were ended there were few un tarnished

reputations in the congregation, and I knew, perforce, what both sides had to say.

The following Thursday night they did the same thing, filling their prayers with intimate and sur prising

details of one another's history, and I en dured the situation solely because I did not know how to meet it. I

was still young, and my theo logical course had set no guideposts on roads as new as these. To interfere

with souls in their com munion with God seemed impossible; to let them continue to utter personal attacks

in church, under cover of prayer, was equally impossible. Any course I could follow seemed to lead away

from my new parish, yet both duty and pride made prompt action neces sary. By the time we gathered for

the third prayer meeting I had decided what to do, and before the services began I rose and addressed my

erring chil dren. I explained that the character of the prayers at our recent meetings was making us the

laughing stock of the community, that unbelievers were ridiculing our religion, and that the discipline of the

church was being wrecked; and I ended with these words, each of which I had carefully weighed:

``Now one of two things must happen. Either you will stop this kind of praying, or you will re main away

from our meetings. We will hold prayer meetings on another night, and I shall refuse ad mission to any

As I had expected it to do, the announcement created an immediate uproar. Both factions sprang to their feet,

trying to talk at once. The storm raged until I dismissed the congregation, telling the members that their

conduct was an insult to the Lord, and that I would not listen to either their protests or their prayers. They

went unwillingly, but they went; and the excitement the next day raised the sick from their beds to talk of it,

and swept the length and breadth of Cape Cod. The following Sunday the little church held the largest

attendance in its history. Seemingly, every man and woman in town had come to hear what more I would say

about the trouble, but I ignored the whole matter. I preached the sermon I had pre pared, the subject of

which was as remote from church quarrels as our atmosphere was remote from peace, and my congregation

dispersed with expres sions of such artless disappointment that it was all I could do to preserve a dignified

That night, however, the war was brought into my camp. At the evening meeting the leader of one of the

factions rose to his feet with the obvious pur pose of starting trouble. He was a retired seacap tain, of the

ruthless type that knocks a man down with a belayingpin, and he made his attack on me in a

characteristically ``straight from the shoulder'' fashion. He began with the proposition that my morning

sermon had been ``entirely contrary to the Scriptures,'' and for ten minutes he quoted and mis quoted me,

``And this gal comes to this church and under takes to tell us how we shall pray. That's a high handed

measure, and I, for one, ain't goin' to stand it. I want to say right here that I shall pray as I like, when I like,

and where I like. I have prayed in this heavenly way for fifty years before that gal was born, and she can't

By this time the whole congregation was aroused, and cries of ``Sit down!'' ``Sit down!'' came from every

side of the church. It was a hard moment, but I was able to rise with some show of dignity. I was hurt through

``No,'' I said, ``Captain Sears has the floor. Let him say now all he wishes to say, for it is the last time he will

Captain Sears, whose exertions had already made him apoplectic, turned a darker purple. ``What's that?'' he

``I mean,'' I replied, ``that I do not intend to allow you or anybody else to interfere with my meetings. You are

a seacaptain. What would you do to me if I came on board your ship and started a mutiny in your crew, or

Captain Sears did not reply. He stood still, with his legs far apart and braced, as he always stood when

``You would put me ashore or in irons,'' I re minded him. ``Now, Captain Sears, I intend to put you ashore. I

am the master of this ship. I have set my course, and I mean to follow it. If you rebel, either you will get out

As it happened, I had put my ultimatum in the one form the old man could understand. He sat down without a

word and stared at me. We sang the Doxology, and I dismissed the meeting. Again we had omitted prayers.

The next day Captain Sears sent me a letter recalling his subscription tow ard the support of the church; and

for weeks he remained away from our services, returning under conditions I will mention later. Even at the

time, however, his attack helped rather than hurt me. At the regular meeting the following Thursday night no

personal criticisms were included in the prayers, and eventually we had peace. But many battles were lost and

Captain Sears's vacant place among us was promptly taken by another captain in East Dennis, whose name

was also Sears. A few days after my encounter with the first captain I met the second on the street. He had

never come to church, and I stopped and invited him to do so. He replied with simple candor.

``I ain't comin','' he told me. ``There ain't no gal that can teach me nothin'.''

``Perhaps you are wrong, Captain Sears,'' I re plied. ``I might teach you something.''

``Humph!'' muttered the old man. ``The Lord don't want none of your tolerance, and neither do I.''

I laughed. ``He doesn't object to tolerance,'' I said. ``Come to church. You can talk, too; and the Lord will

To my surprise, the captain came the following Sunday, and during the seven years I remained in the church

he was one of my strongest supporters and friends. I needed friends, for my second battle was not slow in

following my first. There was, in deed, barely time between in which to care for the wounded.

We had in East Dennis what was known as the ``Free Religious Group,'' and when some of the members of

my congregation were not wrangling among themselves, they were usually locking horns with this group. For

years, I was told, one of the prime diversions of the ``Free Religious'' faction was to have a dance in our town

hall on the night when we were using it for our annual church fair. The rules of the church positively

prohibited danc ing, so the worldly group took peculiar pleasure in attending the fair, and during the

evening in getting up a dance and whirling about among us, to the horror of our members. Then they spent

the re mainder of the year boasting of the achievement. It came to my ears that they had decided to follow

this pleasing programme at our Christmas church celebration, so I called the church trustees together and put

``We must either enforce our discipline,'' I said, ``or give it up. Personally I do not object to danc ing, but, as

the church has ruled against it, I intend to uphold the church. To allow these people to make us ridiculous

year after year is impossible. Let us either tell them that they may dance or that they may not dance; but

Captain Crowell, the father of my dead friend Mrs. Addy, and himself my best man friend, was a strong

supporter of the Free Religious Group. When its members raced to him with the news that I had said they

could not dance at the church's Christmas party, Captain Crowell laughed good humoredly and told them to

dance as much as they pleased, cheerfully adding that he would get them out of any trouble they got into.

Knowing my friendship for him, and that I even owed my church appointment to him, the Free Religious

people were certain that I would never take issue with him on dancing or on any other point. They made all

their preparations for the dance, therefore, with entire confidence, and boasted that the affair would be the

gayest they had ever arranged. My people began to look at me with sympathy, and for a time I felt very sorry

for myself. It seemed sufficiently clear that ``the gal'' was to have more trouble.

On the night of the party things went badly from the first. There was an evident intention among the worst of

the Free Religious Group to embarrass us at every turn. We opened the exercises with the Lord's Prayer,

which this element loudly applauded. A live kitten was hung high on the Christmas tree, where it squalled

mournfully beyond reach of rescue, and the young men of the outside group threw cake at one another across

the hall. Finally tiring of these innocent diversions, they began to prepare for their dance, and I protested. The

``Captain Crowell,'' I replied, ``has no authority whatever in this matter. The church trustees have decided

It was interesting to observe how rapidly the men of my congregation disappeared from that hall. Like

shadows they crept along the walls and vanished through the doors. But the preparations for the dance went

merrily on. I walked to the middle of the room and raised my voice. I was always listened to, for my hearers

always had the hope, usually realized, that I was about to get into more trouble.

``You are determined to dance,'' I began. ``I cannot keep you from doing so. But I can and will make you

regret that you have done so. The law of the State of Massachusetts is very definite in re gard to religious

meetings and religious gatherings. This hall was engaged and paid for by the Wesleyan Methodist Church, of

which I am pastor, and we have full control of it tonight. Every man and woman who interrupts our

exercises by attempting to dance, or by creating a disturbance of any kind, will be arrested tomorrow

Surprise at first, then consternation, swept through the ranks of the Free Religious Group. They denied the

existence of such a law as I had mentioned, and I promptly read it aloud to them. The leaders went off into a

corner and consulted. By this time not one man in my parish was left in the hall. As a result of the

consultation in the corner, a committee of the wouldbe dancers came to me and suggested a compromise.

``No,'' I declared. ``On the contrary, I shall have the women arrested first! For the women ought to be

standing with me now in the support of law and order, instead of siding with the hoodlum element you

That settled it. No girl or woman dared to go on the dancingfloor, and no man cared to revolve merrily by

himself. A whisper went round, how ever, that the dance would begin when I had left. When the clock

struck twelve, at which hour, ac cording to the town rule, the hall had to be closed, I was the last person to

leave it. Then I locked the door myself, and carried the key away with me. There had been no Free Religious

On the following Sunday morning the attendance at my church broke all previous records. Every seat was

occupied and every aisle was filled. Men and women came from surrounding towns, and strange horses were

tied to all the fences in East Dennis. Every person in that church was looking for excitement, and this time

my congregation got what it expected. Before I began my sermon I read my resignation, to take effect at the

discretion of the trustees. Then, as it was presumably my last chance to tell the people and the place what I

thought of them, I spent an hour and a half in fer vidly doing so. In my study of English I had ac quired a

fairly large vocabulary. I think I used it all that morningcertainly I tried to. If ever an erring congregation

and community saw themselves as they really were, mine did on that occasion. I was heartsick, discouraged,

and full of resentment and indignation, which until then had been pent up. Under the arraignment my people

``What I am saying hurts you, but in your hearts you know you deserve every word of it. It is high time you

saw yourselves as you area disgrace to the religion you profess and to the community you live in.''

I was not sure the congregation would let me finish, but it did. My hearers seemed torn by conflicting

sentiments, in which anger and curios ity led opposing sides. Many of them left the church in a white fury,

but othersmore than I had expectedremained to speak to me and assure me of their sympathy. Once on

the streets, different groups formed and mingled, and all day the little town rocked with arguments for and

Night brought another surprisingly large attend ance. I expected more trouble, and I faced it with difficulty,

for I was very tired. Just as I took my place in the pulpit, Captain Sears entered the church and walked down

the aislethe Captain Sears who had left us at my invitation some weeks before and had not since attended a

church service. I was sure he was there to make another attack on me while I was down, and, expecting the

worst, I wearily gave him his opportunity. The big old fel low stood up, braced himself on legs far apart, as

if he were standing on a slippery deck during a high sea, and gave the congregation its biggest surprise of the

He said he had come to make a confession. He had been angry with ``the gal'' in the past, as they all knew.

But he had heard about the sermon she had preached that morning, and this time she was right. It was high

time quarreling and backbiting were stopped. They had been going on too long, and no good could come of

them. Moreover, in all the years he had been a member of that congre gation he had never until now seen

the pulpit oc cupied by a minister with enough backbone to up hold the discipline of the church. ``I've

come here to say I'm with the gal,'' he ended. ``Put me down for my original subscription and ten dollars

So we had the old man back again. He was a tower of strength, and he stood by me faithfully until he died.

The trustees would not accept my resignation (indeed, they refused to consider it at all), and the congregation,

when it had thought things over, apparently decided that there might be worse things in the pulpit than ``the

gal.'' It was even known to brag of what it called my ``spunk,'' and perhaps it was this quality, rather than any

other, which I most needed in that particular parish at that time. As for me, when the fight was over I dropped

it from my mind, and it had not entered my thoughts for years, until I began to summon these memories.

At the end of my first six months in East Dennis I was asked to take on, also, the temporary charge of the

Congregational Church at Dennis, two miles and a half away. I agreed to do this until a per manent pastor

could be found, on condition that I should preach at Dennis on Sunday afternoons, using 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

yearsuntil 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 lifelong contention, that congenial

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

broadminded 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

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 yearsthe

campaign for woman suffrage. I have seen victories here and there, and shall see more. But when the ultimate

triumph comeswhen American women in every state cast their ballots as naturally as their husbands doI

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,

carpetlaying, and the like; and our little church, if I may be allowed to say so, was a model of neatness and

I have said that at the end of two years from the time of my appointment the longcontinued 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 stormcenter 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 Oliverand 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 deepseated prejudice

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

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

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 waiteda halfhour, 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

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

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 coattails 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

I was there to answer any questions that were asked of me, and the questions came like hail stones in a

``Paul said, `Wives, obey your husbands,' '' shouted my old man of the coattails. ``Suppose your hus band

``In the first place,'' I answered, ``Paul did not say so, according to the Scriptures. But even if he did, it would

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

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

``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

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

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

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

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

makethat I would not indulge in the use of tobacco. When this vow fell from my lips a perceptible ripple

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 muniontable set forth with a beautiful new com munionservice. This had been

purchased during my absence, that I might dedicate it that day and for the first time administer the sacrament

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

typesCaptain Doane, a retired seacap 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 knownhigh 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 arousedand 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

``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 afterthought. ``I love you,'' he re peated, primly, ``as a sister

Relief Paine lived in Brewster. Her name seemed prophetic, and she once told me that she had always

considered it so. Her brotherinlaw was my Sun dayschool 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

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 am coming to see you often, and when I come I want to do whatever will interest you most. Shall I bring

Relief smiledthe gay, mischievous little smile I was soon to know so well, but which at first seemed out of

``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

Relief continued her analysis. ``You have not told me that my affliction was a visitation from God,'' she

``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

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 frienda 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 stableyard. 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

He arrived. Five minutes later a frightful racket broke out in the barnsounds 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 brandnew 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,

butand this point he had seen no reason to men tion, as we had not asked about itshe 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 hindlegs, and when he grasped her bridle she lifted him off his feet. His expression as he hung in

midair 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

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,

Another Cape Cod resident to whose memory I must offer tribute in these pages was Polly Ann Searsone

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 fiveshe must keep one.

As it happened, the son she kept at home was the only one who was drowned. He was caught in a fishnet

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

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 serviceswhich seemed to be the one thing people thought I

could doand 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

seacaptain 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

``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

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 inlaw 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 restingplace 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 logcabin 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

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

I entered the Boston Medical School in 1882, and obtained my diploma as a fullfledged 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

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 mebut 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

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 thereoften, no doubt, to the dis advantage of my

patients. I was quite famous in three Boston alleysMaiden'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

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 dishtowel, 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 dishtowel, 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

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 seenwith 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 heartstrings. 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 himbut I have never ceased to

There is a theory that every seven years each human being undergoes a complete physical reconstruction,

with corresponding changes in his mental and spiritual makeup. 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

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 womenfor suffrage, for temperance, for social purityand in every word they uttered I heard

a rallyingcry. 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

ministerdoubtless 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

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 fellowtownsmen.

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 highminded 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,

``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, butand 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

``You've made an incineration against Miss Shaw,'' he shouted. ``Do you hearAN INCINERATION! Take

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?''

``All I got to say is this,'' he muttered: ``That gal has been in this community for seven years, and she 'ain't

The men shouted again at this backhanded 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?''

The Captain looked startled. ``Whywhy 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

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

acomin' out. But these young fellers that come from the theological schoolwhy, Sister Shaw, the Lord

For a moment he pondered. Then he uttered a valedictory which I have always been glad to recall as his last

``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

``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

womenthe 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

Naturally, at this period, I frequently met the members of Boston's most inspiring groupthe 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

vesperbell chiming above a battlefield. Garrison always became excited during our discussions, and the

others frequently did; but Whittier, in whose big heart the love of his fellowman burned as unquench ably

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

``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 lifea 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

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 antisuffrage movement in

Boston. Abby May was elected president, and all the suffragists voted for her. Subsequently Kate Gannett

Wells began her antisuffrage campaign. Mrs. Wells was the first antisuffragist 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 antisuffragists to appear upon a public platform would be a direct violation of the principle for which

they stoodwhich was the protection of female modesty! Recalling this, and the present hectic activity of

the antisuffragists, 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

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

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 associationa large amount in those days. Elated by my share in

this success, I asked that my salary should be increased to one hundred and twentyfive dollars a monthbut

this was not done. Instead, I received a valuable lesson. It was freely admitted that my work was worth one

hundred and twentyfive dollars, but I was told that one hundred was the limit which could be paid, and I

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 lecturework 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 workingwoman 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 heartsuffrage 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

In those daysthirty years agothe lecture bu reaus were wholly regardless of the comfort of their

lecturers. They arranged a schedule of engagements with exactly one idea in mindto get the lecturer from

one lecturepoint to the next, utterly regardless of whether she had time between for rest or food or sleep. So

it happened that allnight journeys in freightcars, 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

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 switchtower 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 signalroom 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 buffaloskins, 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

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

``I heard you lecture the other night,'' he said, awkwardly, ``and I've bin tellin' the fellers about it. We'd like

Their cardplaying had seemed to me a sinful thing (I was stricter in my views then than I am today), 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

tonight?'' 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 snowplow 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 flowerbed, and in Jan uary when they seemed one huge snowcovered gravemy grave,

I thought, at times. Once during a thirtymile drive, when the thermometer was twenty degrees below zero, I

suddenly realized that my face was freezing. I opened my satchel, took out the tissuepaper 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 lumbercamps 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

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

``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

The lad hesitated. Then he said, slowly, ``Well, you didn't talk as if you thought we were all bad.''

As if I had touched a spring in him, the lad dropped into the seat by my side; then, leaning toward me, he

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

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

``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,

``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

``I'll tell you how to fix it!'' he cried. ``Speak on any subject you please, but bring in something about the

``Very well,'' I agreed, reluctantly. ``Open the meeting with a song. Get the audience to sing `America' or

`The Starspangled 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

``It is easy,'' I told myself. ``Woman is the miss ing link in our government. I'll give them a suf frage

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

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 temperanceworkers 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 skatingrink a huge, bare,

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

trapdoor. Before I had been speaking ten minutes I saw a man drop through this trapdoor 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

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

``There IS a fire, Miss Shaw,'' he said. ``For God's sake get the people outQUICKLY!''

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

``As we are already standing,'' I cried, ``and are all nervous, a little exercise will do us good. So march out,

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

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

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 courthouse 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 tobaccojuice. ``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

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

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

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

``I would like to ask how many men there are in the audience who intend to vote for the amendment

``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

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 tonight, and the orator has

failed us. There are thousands of men in the streets waiting for the speech, and the saloons are sending them

``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.''

Downtown 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'seye,'' 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 gleeclub

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

Directly in front of me stood a huge and ex traordinarily repellentlooking 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, oldfashioned 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 goodnatured crowd cheered

for ten minutes. The next day Coatesville voted for prohibition, and, rightly or wrongly, I have always

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

Sundaymorning 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

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

``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.''

``Well,'' I asked, somberly, ``if you can't even supply a text, how do you suppose I'm going to deliver a

I suggested several, but she did not like them. At last I said, ``I have it`Let no man take thy crown.' ''

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

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

hothouse variety, but the kind that blooms on the hills,'' and I had succeeded in getting a bunch for her by

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

heartthe heart of a true and loyal woman, who, though her children had not known it, must have longed

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 churcha rather remarkable militant and spiritual combination. As a woman, therefore,

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

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 opportunityespecially 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

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 from the University of Upsala, wearing white

uni versity caps with black vizors, and sashes in the university colors. The anthem was composed es

pecially for the occasion by the first woman cathe dral organist in Swedenthe organist of the cathe dral

in Gothenburgand 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 lecturefield. 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

``You can't win two causes at once,'' she reminded me. ``You're merely scattering your energies. Be gin 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,

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 today?'' The audience ap plauded lightheartedly, 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 news paper writers always made much of this, so

``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

The audience applauded as gaily as it had ap plauded Senator Ingalls when he spoke on the other side, and I

``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 countryand then we will still have

eight million intelligent votes to add to the other intelligent votes which are cast.'' The audience seemed to

``The antisuffragists are fairly safe,'' I ended, ``as long as they remain on the plane of prophecy. But as soon

Miss Anthony was much pleased by the wide publicity given to this debate, but Senator Ingalls failed to share

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 break ing 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,

There were hundreds of men on the riverbank 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 expresstrain

thundered on the beginning of it. The next instant a policeman had me by the shoulders and was shaking me

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 un conscious, lit up the gloom of a trying situation. Thus, in

Parkersburg, West Virginia, the train I was on ran into a coalcar. I was sitting in a sleep er, 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 fellowpassengers flew through the air, while high and

Nobody in our car was seriously hurt; but, so great is the power of vested authority, no one smiled over that

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 pas sengers, 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 un couth 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 in congruity, added the final

accent to his unprepossess ing appearance. Together we worked over the child, making it as comfortable as

we could. It was hard ly necessary to tell my aide what I wanted done; he seemed to know and even to

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 wait ing 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

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 car nation 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

In The Life of Susan B. Anthony it is mentioned that 1888 was a year of special recognition of our great

leader's work, but that it was also the year in which many of her closest friends and strongest supporters were

taken from her by death. A. Bron son Alcott was among these, and Louisa M. Alcott, as well as Dr. Lozier;

and special stress is laid on Miss Anthony's sense of loss in the diminishing circle of her friendsa loss

``Chief among these,'' adds the record, ``was Anna Shaw, who, from the time of the International Coun cil

It is true that from that year until Miss Anthony's death in 1906 we two were rarely separated; and I never

read the paragraph I have just quoted with out seeing, as in a vision, the figure of ``Aunt Susan'' as she

slipped into my hotel room in Chicago late one night after an evening meeting of the Inter national Council.

I had gone to bedindeed, I was almost asleep when she came, for the day had been as exhausting as it was

interesting. But notwith standing the lateness of the hour, ``Aunt Susan,'' then nearing seventy, was still as

fresh and as full of enthusiasm as a young girl. She had a great deal to say, she declared, and she proceeded to

say it sitting in a big easychair near the bed, with a rug around her knees, while I propped myself up with

Hours passed and the dawn peered wanly through the windows, but still Miss Anthony talked of the Cause

always of the Causeand of what we two must do for it. The previous evening she had been too busy to eat

any dinner, and I greatly doubt whether she had eaten any luncheon at noon. She had been on her feet for

hours at a time, and she had held numerous discussions with other women she wished to inspire to special

effort. Yet, after it all, here she was laying out our campaigns for years ahead, foreseeing everything,

forgetting nothing, and sweeping me with her in her flight toward our com mon goal, until I, who am not

Suddenly she stopped, looked at the gasjets paling in the morning light that filled the room, and for a

fleeting instant seemed surprised. In the next she had dismissed from her mind the realization that we had

talked all night. Why should we not talk all night? It was part of our work. She threw off the enveloping rug

``I must dress now,'' she said, briskly. ``I've called a committee meeting before the morning session.''

On her way to the door nature smote her with a rare reminder, but even then she did not realize that it was

personal. ``Perhaps,'' she remarked, tenta tively, ``you ought to have a cup of coffee.''

That was ``Aunt Susan.'' And in the eighteen years which followed I had daily illustrations of her superiority

to purely human weaknesses. To her the hardships we underwent later, in our Western campaigns for woman

suffrage, were as the airiest trifles. Like a true soldier, she could snatch a mo ment of sleep or a mouthful of

food where she found it, and if either was not forthcoming she did not miss it. To me she was an unceasing

inspira tionthe torch that illumined my life. We went through some difficult years togetheryears when

we fought hard for each inch of headway we gained but I found full compensation for every effort in the

glory of working with her for the Cause that was first in both our hearts, and in the happiness of being her

friend. Later I shall describe in more detail the suffrage campaigns and the National and Inter national

councils in which we took part; now it is of her I wish to writeof her bigness, her many sidedness, her

humor, her courage, her quickness, her sympathy, her understanding, her force, her supreme commonsense,

her selflessness; in short, of the rare beauty of her nature as I learned to know it.

Like most great leaders, she took one's best work for granted, and was chary with her praise; and even when

praise was given it usually came by indirect routes. I recall with amusement that the highest compliment she

ever paid me in public involved her in a tangle from which, later, only her quick wit extricated her. We were

lecturing in an especially pious town which I shall call B, and just before I went on the platform Miss

``These people have always claimed that I am ir religious. They will not accept the fact that I am a

Quakeror, rather, they seem to think a Quaker is an infidel. I am glad you are a Methodist, for now they

She was still enveloped in the comfort of this re flection when she introduced me to our audience, and to

impress my qualifications upon my hearers she made her introduction in these words:

``It is a pleasure to introduce Miss Shaw, who is a Methodist minister. And she is not only ortho dox of the

There was a gasp from the pious audience, and then a roar of laughter from irreverent men, in which, I must

confess, I lightheartedly joined. For once in her life Miss Anthony lost her presence of mind; she did not

know how to meet the situation, for she had no idea what had caused the laughter. It bubbled forth again and

again during the eve ning, and each time Miss Anthony received the dem onstration with the same air of

puzzled surprise. When we had returned to our hotel rooms I explained the matter to her. I do not remember

now where I had acquired my own sinful knowledge, but that night I faced ``Aunt Susan'' from the pedestal

``Of course I do,'' insisted ``Aunt Susan.'' ``It's a righthand manthe kind one can't do without.''

``Aunt Susan'' was dazed. ``I didn't know it had anything to do with cards,'' she mused, mournfully. ``What

What they thought became quite evident. The newspapers made countless jokes at our expense, and there

were significant smiles on the faces in the audience that awaited us the next night. When Miss Anthony

walked upon the platform she at once proceeded to clear herself of the tacit charge against her.

``When I came to your town,'' she began, cheer fully, ``I had been warned that you were a very religious lot

of people. I wanted to impress upon you the fact that Miss Shaw and I are religious, too. But I admit that

when I told you she was my right bower I did not know what a right bower was. I have learned that, since last

She waited until the happy chortles of her hearers had subsided, and then went on.

``It interests me very much, however,'' she con cluded, ``to realize that every one of you seemed to know all

about a right bower, and that I had to come to your good, orthodox town to get the informa tion.''

That time the joke was on the audience. Miss Anthony's home was in Rochester, New York, and it was said

by our friends that on the rare occasions when we were not together, and I was lecturing independently, ``all

return roads led through Rochester.'' I invariably found some ex cuse to go there and report to her. Together

we must have worn out many Rochester pavements, for ``Aunt Susan's'' pet recreation was walking, and she

used to walk me round and round the city squares, far into the night, and at a pace that made policemen gape

at us as we flew by. Some dis respectful youth once remarked that on these oc casions we suggested a race

between a ruler and a rubber ballfor she was very tall and thin, while I am short and plump. To keep up

A certain amount of independent lecturing was necessary for me, for I had to earn my living. The National

American Woman Suffrage Association has never paid salaries to its officers, so, when I be came

vicepresident and eventually, in 1904, presi dent of the association, I continued to work gratui tously for

the Cause in these positions. Even Miss Anthony received not one penny of salary for all her years of

unceasing labor, and she was so poor that she did not have a home of her own until she was seventyfive.

Then it was a very simple one, and she lived with the utmost economy. I decided that I could earn my bare

expenses by making one brief lecture tour each year, and I made an arrange ment with the Redpath Bureau

This was one result of my allnight talk with Miss Anthony in Chicago, and it enabled me to carry out her

plan that I should accompany her in most of the campaigns in which she sought to arouse the West to the

need of suffrage for women. From that time on we traveled and lectured together so con stantly that each of

us developed an almost uncanny knowledge of the other's mental processes. At any point of either's lecture

the other could pick it up and carry it ona fortunate condition, as it some times became necessary to do

this. Miss Anthony was subject to contractions of the throat, which for the moment caused a slight

strangulation. On such occasionsof which there were severalshe would turn to me and indicate her

helplessness. Then I would repeat her last sentence, complete her speech, and afterward make my own.

The first time this happened we were in Washing ton, and ``Aunt Susan'' stopped in the middle of a word.

She could not speak; she merely motioned to me to continue for her, and left the stage. At the end of the

evening a prominent Washington man who had been in our audience remarked to me, con fidentially:

``That was a nice little play you and Miss An thony made tonightvery effective indeed.''

For an instant I did not catch his meaning, nor the implication in his knowing smile.

``Very clever, that strangling bit, and your going on with the speech,'' he repeated. ``It hit the au dience

``Surely,'' I protested, ``you don't think it was a deliberate thingthat we planned or rehearsed it.''

He stared at me incredulously. ``Are you going to pretend,'' he demanded, ``that it wasn't a putup job?''

I told him he had paid us a high compliment, and that we must really have done very well if we had conveyed

that impression; and I finally convinced him that we not only had not rehearsed the episode, but that neither

of us had known what the other meant to say. We never wrote out our speeches, but our subject was always

suffrage or some ramifica tion of suffrage, and, naturally, we had thoroughly digested each other's views.

It is said by my friends that I write my speeches on the tips of my fingersfor I always make my points on

my fingers and have my fingers named for points. When I plan a speech I decide how many points I wish to

make and what those points shall be. My mental preparation follows. Miss An thony's method was much the

same; but very fre quently both of us threw over all our plans at the last moment and spoke

extemporaneously on some theme suggested by the atmosphere of the gathering or by the words of another

From Miss Anthony, more than from any one else, I learned to keep cool in the face of interruptions and of

the small annoyances and disasters inevitable in campaigning. Often we were able to help each other out of

embarrassing situations, and one incident of this kind occurred during our campaign in South Dakota. We

were holding a meeting on the hottest Sunday of the hottest month in the yearAugust and hundreds of

the natives had driven twenty, thirty, and even forty miles across the country to hear us. We were to speak in

a sod church, but it was discovered that the structure would not hold half the people who were trying to enter

it, so we decided that Miss Anthony should speak from the door, in order that those both inside and outside

might hear her. To elevate her above her audience, she was given an empty drygoods box to stand on.

This makeshift platform was not large, and men, women, and children were seated on the ground around it,

pressing up against it, as close to the speaker as they could get. Directly in front of Miss Anthony sat a

woman with a child about two years olda little boy; and this infant, like every one else in the packed

throng, was dripping with perspiration and suffering acutely under the blazing sun. Every woman present

seemed to have brought children with her, doubtless because she could not leave them alone at home; and

babies were crying and fretting on all sides. The infant nearest Miss Anthony fretted most strenuously; he

was a sturdy little fellow with a fine pair of lungs, and he made it very difficult for her to lift her voice above

his dismal clamor. Sud denly, however, he discovered her feet on the dry goods box, about on a level with

his head. They were clad in black stockings and low shoes; they moved about oddly; they fascinated him.

With a yelp of interest he grabbed for them and began pinching them to see what they were. His howls

Miss Anthony was not. But it was a great relief to have the child quiet, so she bore the infliction of the

pinching as long as she could. When endurance had found its limit she slipped back out of reach, and as his

new plaything receded the boy uttered shrieks of disapproval. There was only one way to stop his noise; Miss

Anthony brought her feet for ward again, and he resumed the pinching of her ankles, while his yelps

subsided to contented mur murs. The performance was repeated half a dozen times. Each time the ankles

retreated the baby yelled. Finally, for once at the end of her patience, ``Aunt Susan'' leaned forward and

addressed the mother, whose facial expression throughout had shown a complete mental detachment from the

``I think your little boy is hot and thirsty,'' she said, gently. ``If you would take him out of the crowd and give

him a drink of water and unfasten his clothes, I am sure he would be more comfortable.'' Before she had

finished speaking the woman had sprung to her feet and was facing her with fierce indignation.

``This is the first time I have ever been insulted as a mother,'' she cried; ``and by an old maid at that!'' Then

she grasped the infant and left the scene, amid great confusion. The majority of those in the audience seemed

to sympathize with her. They had not seen the episode of the feet, and they thought Miss Anthony was

complaining of the child's crying. Their children were crying, too, and they felt that they had all been

criticized. Other women rose and followed the irate mother, and many men gallantly followed them. It

Miss Anthony was greatly depressed by the epi sode, and she was not comforted by a prediction one man

``Aunt Susan'' sighed. ``Well,'' she said, ``if those men knew how my ankles felt I would have won twenty

The next day we had a second meeting. Miss Anthony made her speech early in the evening, and by the time

it was my turn to begin all the children in the audienceand there were manywere both tired and sleepy.

At least half a dozen of them were crying, and I had to shout to make my voice heard above their uproar.

Miss Anthony remarked afterward that there seemed to be a contest between me and the infants to see which

of us could make more noise. The audience was plainly getting rest less under the combined effect, and

``No, indeed,'' I yelled back. ``Nothing inspires me like the voice of a child!''

A handsome round of applause from mothers and fathers greeted this noble declaration, after which the

blessed babies and I resumed our joint vocal efforts. When the speech was finished and we were alone

``Well, Anna,'' she said, gratefully, ``you've cer tainly evened us up on motherhood this time.''

That South Dakota campaign was one of the most difficult we ever made. It extended over nine months; and

it is impossible to describe the poverty which prevailed throughout the whole rural com munity of the State.

There had been three con secutive years of drought. The sand was like pow der, so deep that the wheels of

the wagons in which we rode ``across country'' sank halfway to the hubs; and in the midst of this dry

powder lay with ered tangles that had once been grass. Every one had the forsaken, desperate look worn by

the pioneer who has reached the limit of his endurance, and the great stretches of prairie roads showed

innumerable canvascovered wagons, drawn by starved horses, and followed by starved cows, on their way

``Back East.'' Our talks with the despairing drivers of these wagons are among my most tragic memories.

They had lost everything except what they had with them, and they were going East to leave ``the wom an''

with her father and try to find work. Usually, with a look of disgust at his wife, the man would say: ``I wanted

to leave two years ago, but the woman kept saying, `Hold on a little longer.' ''

Both Miss Anthony and I gloried in the spirit of these pioneer women, and lost no opportunity to tell them so;

for we realized what our nation owes to the patience and courage of such as they were. We often asked them

what was the hardest thing to bear in their pioneer life, and we usually received the same reply:

``To sit in our little adobe or sod houses at night and listen to the wolves howl over the graves of our babies.

Many days, and in all kinds of weather, we rode forty and fifty miles in uncovered wagons. Many nights we

shared a oneroom cabin with all the mem bers of the family. But the greatest hardship we suffered was the

lack of water. There was very little good water in the state, and the purest water was so brackish that we

could hardly drink it. The more we drank the thirstier we became, and when the water was made into tea it

tasted worse than when it was clear. A bath was the rarest of luxuries. The only available fuel was buffalo

manure, of which the odor permeated all our food. But despite these handicaps we were happy in our work,

When we reached the Black Hills we had more of this genuine campaigning. We traveled over the mountains

in wagons, behind teams of horses, visit ing the miningcamps; and often the gullies were so deep that

when our horses got into them it was al most impossible to get them out. I recall with special clearness one

ride from Hill City to Custer City. It was only a matter of thirty miles, but it was thoroughly exhausting; and

after our meeting that same night we had to drive forty miles farther over the mountains to get the early

morning train from Buffalo Gap. The trail from Custer City to Buffalo Gap was the one the animals had

originally made in their journeys over the pass, and the drive in that wild region, throughout a cold, piercing

October night, was an unforgetable experience. Our host at Custer City lent Miss Anthony his big buffalo

over coat, and his wife lent hers to me. They also heated blocks of wood for our feet, and with these pro

tections we started. A full moon hung in the sky. The trees were covered with hoarfrost, and the cold, still

air seemed to sparkle in the brilliant light. Again Miss Anthony talked to me throughout the nightof the

work, always of the work, and of what it would mean to the women who followed us; and again she fired my

It was daylight when we reached the little sta tion at Buffalo Gap where we were to take the train. This was

not due, however, for half an hour, and even then it did not come. The station was only large enough to hold

the stove, the ticketoffice, and the inevitable cuspidor. There was barely room in which to walk between

these and the wall. Miss Anthony sat down on the floor. I had a few raisins in my bag, and we divided them

for breakfast. An hour passed, and another, and still the train did not come. Miss Anthony, her back braced

against the wall, buried her face in her hands and dropped into a peaceful abyss of slumber, while I walked

restlessly up and down the platform. The train arrived four hours late, and when eventually we had reached

our destination we learned that the min isters of the town had persuaded the women to give up the suffrage

This disappointment, following our allday and allnight drive to keep our appointment, aroused Miss

Anthony's fighting spirit. She sent me out to rent the theater for the evening, and to have some handbills

printed and distributed, announcing that we would speak. At three o'clock she made the concession to her

seventy years of lying down for an hour's rest. I was young and vigorous, so I trotted around town to get

somebody to preside, somebody to introduce us, somebody to take up the collection, and somebody who

would provide musicin short, to make all our preparations for the night meeting.

When evening came the crowd which had assem bled was so great that men and women sat in the windows

and on the stage, and stood in the flies. Night attractions were rare in that Dakota town, and here was

something new. Nobody went to church, so the churches were forced to close. We had a glorious meeting.

Both Miss Anthony and I were in excellent fighting trim, and Miss Anthony remarked that the only thing

lacking to make me do my best was a sick headache. The collection we took up paid all our expenses, the

church singers sang for us, the great audience was interested, and the whole occasion was an inspiring

The meeting ended about half after ten o'clock, and I remember taking Miss Anthony to our hotel and

escorting her to her room. I also remember that she followed me to the door and made some laughing remark

as I left for my own room; but I recall nothing more until the next morning when she stood beside me telling

me it was time for break fast. She had found me lying on the cover of my bed, fully clothed even to my

bonnet and shoes. I had fallen there, utterly exhausted, when I entered my room the night before, and I do not

think I had even moved from that time until the moment nine hours laterwhen I heard her voice and felt

After all our work, we did not win Dakota that year, but Miss Anthony bore the disappointment with the

serenity she always showed. To her a failure was merely another opportunity, and I men tion our experience

here only to show of what she was capable in her gallant seventies. But I should misrepresent her if I did not

show her human and sentimental side as well. With all her detachment from human needs she had emotional

moments, and of these the most satisfying came when she was listening to music. She knew nothing whatever

about music, but was deeply moved by it; and I re member vividly one occasion when Nordica sang for her,

at an afternoon reception given by a Chicago friend in ``Aunt Susan's'' honor. As it happened, she had never

heard Nordica sing until that day; and before the music began the great artiste and the great leader met, and in

the moment of meeting became friends. When Nordica sang, half an hour later, she sang directly to Miss

Anthony, looking into her eyes; and ``Aunt Susan'' listened with her own eyes full of tears. When the last

notes had been sung she went to the singer and put both arms around her. The music had carried her back to

Another example of her unquenchable youth has also a Chicago setting. During the World's Fair a certain

clergyman made an especially violent stand in favor of closing the Fair grounds on Sunday. Miss Anthony

``If I had charge of a young man in Chicago at this time,'' she told the clergyman, ``I would much rather have

him locked inside the Fair grounds on Sunday or any other day than have him going about on the outside.''

The clergyman was horrified. ``Would you like to have a son of yours go to Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show

``Of course I would,'' admitted Miss Anthony. ``In fact, I think he would learn more there than from the

Later this remark was repeated to Colonel Cody (``Buffalo Bill''), who, of course, was delighted with it. He at

once wrote to Miss Anthony, thanking her for the breadth of her views, and offering her a box for his

``Show.'' She had no strong desire to see the performance, but some of us urged her to accept the invitation

and to take us with her. She was always ready to do anything that would give us pleasure, so she promised

that we should go the next afternoon. Others heard of the jaunt and begged to go also, and Miss Anthony

blithely took every applicant under her wing, with the result that when we arrived at the boxoffice the next

day there were twelve of us in the group. When she presented her note and asked for a box, the local manager

``A box only holds six,'' he objected, logically. Miss Anthony, who had given no thought to that slight detail,

``Why, in that case,'' she said, cheerfully, ``you'll have to give us two boxes, won't you?''

The amused manager decided that he would, and handed her the tickets; and she led her band to their places

in triumph. When the performance be gan Colonel Cody, as was his custom, entered the arena from the far

end of the building, riding his wonderful horse and bathed, of course, in the efful gence of his faithful

spotlight. He rode directly to our boxes, reined his horse in front of Miss An thony, rose in his stirrups, and

with his characteris tic gesture swept his slouchhat to his saddlebow in salutation. ``Aunt Susan''

immediately rose, bowed in her turn and, for the moment as enthusiastic as a girl, waved her handkerchief at

him, while the big audience, catching the spirit of the scene, wildly applauded. It was a striking picture this

meeting of the pioneer man and woman; and, poor as I am, I would give a hundred dollars for a snapshot of

On many occasions I saw instances of Miss An thony's prescienceand one of these was connected with

the death of Frances E. Willard. ``Aunt Susan'' had called on Miss Willard, and, coming to me from the

sickroom, had walked the floor, beating her hands together as she talked of the visit.

``Frances Willard is dying,'' she exclaimed, pas sionately. ``She is dying, and she doesn't know it, and no

one around her realizes it. She is lying there, seeing into two worlds, and making more plans than a thousand

women could carry out in ten years. Her brain is wonderful. She has the most extraor dinary clearness of

vision. There should be a stenog rapher in that room, and every word she utters should be taken down, for

every word is golden. But they don't understand. They can't realize that she is going. I told Anna Gordon the

Miss Willard died a few days later, with a sudden ness which seemed to be a terrible shock to those around

Of ``Aunt Susan's'' really remarkable lack of self consciousness we who worked close to her had a thousand

extraordinary examples. Once, I remem ber, at the New Orleans Convention, she reached the hall a little

late, and as she entered the great audience already assembled gave her a tremendous reception. The exercises

of the day had not yet begun, and Miss Anthony stopped short and looked around for an explanation of the

Again, on the great ``College Night'' of the Balti more Convention, when President M. Carey Thomas of

Bryn Mawr College had finished her wonderful tribute to Miss Anthony, the audience, carried away by the

speech and also by the presence of the vener able leader on the platform, broke into a whirlwind of

applause. In this ``Aunt Susan'' artlessly joined, clapping her hands as hard as she could. ``This is all for you,

``Aunt Susan'' continued to clap. ``Nonsense,'' she said, briskly. ``It's not for me. It's for the Causethe

Miss Anthony told me in 1904 that she regarded her reception in Berlin, during the meeting of the

International Council of Women that year, as the climax of her career. She said it after the unex pected and

wonderful ovation she had received from the German people, and certainly throughout her inspiring life

For some time Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt, of whose splendid work for the Cause I shall later have more to

say, had cherished the plan of forming an International Suffrage Alliance. She believed the time had come

when the suffragists of the entire world could meet to their common benefit; and Miss Anthony, always Mrs.

Catt's devoted friend and ad mirer, agreed with her. A committee was appointed to meet in Berlin in 1904,

just before the meeting of the International Council of Women, and Miss Anthony was appointed chairman of

the committee. At first the plan of the committee was not welcomed by the International Council; there was

even a sus picion that its purpose was to start a rival organiza tion. But it met, a constitution was framed,

and officers were elected, Mrs. Cattthe ideal choice for the placebeing made president. As a climax to

the organization, a great public massmeeting had been arranged by the German suffragists, but at the special

plea of the president of the International Council Miss Anthony remained away from this meeting. It was

represented to her that the in terests of the Council might suffer if she and other of its leading speakers were

also leaders in the suf frage movement. In the interest of harmony, there fore, she followed the wishes of the

When the meeting was opened the first words of the presiding officer were, ``Where is Susan B. An thony?''

and the demonstration that followed the question was the most unexpected and overwhelm ing incident of

the gathering. The entire audience rose, men jumped on their chairs, and the cheering continued without a

break for ten minutes. Every second of that time I seemed to see Miss Anthony, alone in her hotel room,

longing with all her big heart to be with us, as we longed to have her. I prayed that the loss of a tribute which

would have meant so much might be made up to her, and it was. Afterward, when we burst in upon her and

told her of the great demonstration the mere mention of her name had caused, her lips quivered and her brave

old eyes filled with tears. As we looked at her I think we all realized anew that what the world called stoicism

in Susan B. Anthony throughout the years of her long struggle had been, instead, the splendid courage of an

indomitable soulwhile all the time the woman's heart had longed for affection and recognition. The next

morning the leading Berlin newspaper, in reporting the debate and describing the spontaneous tribute to Miss

Anthony, closed with these sentences: ``The Americans call her `Aunt Susan.' She is our `Aunt Susan,' too!''

Throughout the remainder of Miss Anthony's visit she was the most honored figure at the Inter national

Council. Every time she entered the great conventionhall the entire audience rose and re mained standing

until she was seated; each mention of her name was punctuated by cheers; and the en thusiasm when she

appeared on the platform to say a few words was beyond bounds. When the Em press of Germany gave her

reception to the officers of the Council, she crowned the hospitality of her people in a characteristically

gracious way. As soon as Miss Anthony was presented to her the Empress invited her to be seated, and to

remain seated, al though every one else, including the august lady herself, was standing. A little later, seeing

the in trepid warrior of eightyfour on her feet with the other delegates, the Empress sent one of her aides

across the room with this message: ``Please tell my friend Miss Anthony that I especially wish her to be

In her turn, Miss Anthony was fascinated by the Empress. She could not keep her eyes off that charming

royal lady. Probably the thing that most impressed her was the ability of her Majesty as a linguist. Receiving

women from every civilized country on the globe, the Empress seemed to address each in her own

tongueslipping from one language into the next as easily as from one topic to another.

``And here I am,'' mourned ``Aunt Susan,'' ``speak ing only one language, and that not very well.''

At this Berlin quinquennial, by the way, I preached the Council sermon, and the occasion gained a cer tain

interest from the fact that I was the first or dained woman to preach in a church in Germany. It then took on

a tinge of humor from the additional fact that, according to the German law, as suddenly revealed to us by the

police, no clergyman was per mitted to preach unless clothed in clerical robes in the pulpit. It happened that

I had not taken my clerical robes with meI am constantly forgetting those clerical robes!so the pastor of

Now the pastor was six feet tall and broad in pro portion, and I, as I have already confessed, am very short.

His robes transformed me into such an absurd caricature of a preacher that it was quite impossible for me to

wear them. What, then, were we to do? Lacking clerical robes, the police would not allow me to utter six

words. It was finally decided that the clergyman should meet the letter of the law by entering the pulpit in his

robes and standing by my side while I delivered my sermon. The law soberly accepted this solution of the

problem, and we offered the congregation the extraordinary tableau of a pulpit combining a large and

impressive pastor standing silently beside a small and inwardly con vulsed woman who had all she could do

At this same conference I made one of the few friendships I enjoy with a member of a European royal family,

for I met the Princess Blank of Italy, who overwhelmed me with attention during my visit, and from whom I

still receive charming letters. She invited me to visit her in her castle in Italy, and to accompany her to her

mother's castle in Austria, and she finally insisted on knowing exactly why I persistently refused both

I studied her in silence for a moment. She was a new and interesting type to me, and I was glad to exchange

``You are proud of your family, are you not?'' I asked. ``You are proud of your great line?''

``Very well,'' I continued. ``I am proud, too. What I have done I have done unaided, and, to be frank with

you, I rather approve of it. My work is my patent of nobility, and I am not willing to associate with those

from whom it would have to be concealed or with those who would look down upon it.''

The Princess sighed. I was a new type to her, too, as new as she was to me; but I had the ad vantage of her,

for I could understand her point of view, whereas she apparently could not follow mine. She was very

gracious to me, however, showing me kindness and friendship in a dozen ways, giving me an immense

amount of her time and taking rather more of my time than I could spare, but never for getting for a moment

that her blood was among the oldest in Europe, and that all her traditions were in keeping with its honorable

After the Berlin meeting Miss Anthony and I were invited to spend a weekend at the home of Mrs. Jacob

Bright, that ``Aunt Susan'' might re new her acquaintance with Annie Besant. This visit is among my most

vivid memories. Originally ``Aunt Susan'' had greatly admired Mrs. Besant, and had openly lamented the

latter's concentration on theosophical interestswhen, as Miss Anthony put it, ``there are so many live

problems here in this world.'' Now she could not conceal her disapproval of the ``otherworldliness'' of Mrs.

Besant, Mrs. Bright, and her daughter. Some remarkable and, to me, most amusing discussions took place

among the three; but often, during Mrs. Besant's most sus tained oratorical flights, Miss Anthony's interest

would wander, and she would drop a remark that showed she had not heard a word. She had a great

admiration for Mrs. Besant's intellect; but she dis approved of her flowing and picturesque white robes, of

her bare feet, of her incessant cigarettesmoking; above all, of her views. At last, one day.{sic} the climax of

``Annie,'' demanded ``Aunt Susan,'' ``why don't you make that aura of yours do its gallivanting in this world,

looking up the needs of the oppressed, and investigating the causes of present wrongs? Then you could reveal

to us workers just what we should do to put things right, and we could be about it.''

Mrs. Besant sighed and said that life was short and aeons were long, and that while every one would be

``But, Annie!'' exclaimed Miss Anthony, patheti cally. ``We ARE here! Our business is here! It's our duty to

``I'd rather have one year of your ability, backed up with common sense, for the work of making this world

better,'' cried the exasperated ``Aunt Susan,'' ``than a million aeons in the hereafter!''

Mrs. Besant sighed again. It was plain that she could not bring herself back from the other world, so Miss

``When your aura goes visiting in the other world,'' she asked, curiously, ``does it ever meet your old friend

``Wasn't he very much surprised,'' demanded Miss Anthony, with growing interest, ``to discover that he was

Mrs. Besant did not seem to know what emotion Mr. Bradlaugh had experienced when that revela tion

``Well,'' mused ``Aunt Susan,'' ``I should think he would have been surprised. He was so certain he was going

to be dead that it must have been astounding to discover he wasn't. What was he doing in the other world?''

Mrs. Besant heaved a deeper sigh. ``I am very much discouraged over Mr. Bradlaugh,'' she ad mitted,

wanly. `` He is hovering too near this world. He cannot seem to get away from his mun dane interests. He is

as much concerned with par liamentary affairs now as when he was on this plane.''

``Humph!'' said Miss Anthony; ``that's the most sensible thing I've heard yet about the other world. It

encourages me. I've always felt sure that if I entered the other life before women were enfran chised nothing

in the glories of heaven would in terest me so much as the work for women's freedom on earth. Now,'' she

ended, ``I shall be like Mr. Bradlaugh. I shall hover round and continue my work here.''

When Mrs. Besant had left the room Mrs. Bright felt that it was her duty to admonish ``Aunt Susan'' to be

``You are making too light of her creed,'' she ex postulated. ``You do not realize the important position Mrs.

Besant holds. Why, in India, when she walks from her home to her school all those she meets prostrate

themselves. Even the learned men prostrate themselves and put their faces on the ground as she goes by.''

``Aunt Susan's'' voice, when she replied, took on the tones of one who is sorely tried. ``But why in Heaven's

name does any sensible Englishwoman want a lot of heathen to prostrate themselves as she goes up the

The effort to win Miss Anthony over to the theo sophical doctrine was abandoned. That night, after we had

``It's a good thing for the world,'' she declared, ``that some of us don't know so much. And it's a better thing

for this world that some of us think a little earthly common sense is more valuable than too much heavenly

On one occasion Miss Anthony had the doubt ful pleasure of reading her own obituary notices, and her

interest in them was characteristically naive. She had made a speech at Lakeside, Ohio, during which, for the

first time in her long experience, she fainted on the platform. I was not with her at the time, and in the

excitement following her collapse it was rumored that she had died. Immediately the news was telegraphed to

the Associated Press of New York, and from there flashed over the country. At Miss Anthony's home in

Rochester a reporter rang the bell and abruptly informed her sister, Miss Mary Anthony, who came to the

``I think,'' she said, ``that if my sister had died I would have heard about it. Please have your editors telegraph

The reporter departed, but came back an hour later to say that his newspaper had sent the tele gram and the

``I have just received a better telegram than that,'' remarked Mary Anthony. `` Mine is from my sister; she

tells me that she fainted tonight, but soon recovered and will be home tomorrow.''

Nevertheless, the next morning the American newspapers gave much space to Miss Anthony's obituary

notices, and ``Aunt Susan'' spent some in teresting hours reading them. One that pleased her vastly was

printed in the Wichita Eagle, whose editor, Mr. Murdock, had been almost her bitterest op ponent. He had

often exhausted his brilliant vo cabulary in editorial denunciations of suffrage and suffragists, and Miss

Anthony had been the special target of his scorn. But the news of her death seemed to be a bitter blow to him;

and of all the tributes the American press gave to Susan B. Anthony dead, few equaled in beauty and

appreciation the one penned by Mr. Murdock and published in the Eagle. He must have been amused when, a

few days later, he received a letter from ``Aunt Susan'' herself, thanking him warmly for his changed opinion

of her and hoping that it meant the conversion of his soul to our Cause. It did not, and Mr. Murdock, though

never again quite as bitter as he had been, soon resumed the free editorial expression of his anti suffrage

sentiments. Times have changed, however, and today his son, now a member of Congress, is one of our

In 1905 it became plain that Miss Anthony's health was failing. Her visits to Germany and England the

previous year, triumphant though they had been, had also proved a drain on her vitality; and soon after her

return to America she entered upon a task which helped to exhaust her remaining strength. She had been

deeply interested in se curing a fund of $50,000 to enable women to enter Rochester University, and, one

morning, just after we had held a session of our executive committee in her Rochester home, she read a

newspaper an nouncement to the effect that at four o'clock that afternoon the opportunity to admit women to

the university would expire, as the full fifty thousand dollars had not been raised. The sum of eight thousand

With characteristic energy, Miss Anthony under took to save the situation by raising this amount within the

time limit. Rushing to the telephone, she called a cab and prepared to go forth on her difficult quest; but first,

while she was putting on her hat and coat, she insisted that her sister, Mary Anthony, should start the fund by

contributing one thousand dollars from her meager savings, and this Miss Mary did. ``Aunt Susan'' made

every second count that day, and by half after three o'clock she had secured the necessary pledges. Several of

the trustees of the university, however, had not seemed especially anxious to have the fund raised, and at the

last moment they objected to one pledge for a thousand dollars, on the ground that the man who had given it

was very old and might die before the time set to pay it; then his family, they feared, might repudiate the

obligation. Without a word Miss Anthony seized the pledge and wrote her name across it as an indorsement.

``I am good for it,'' she then said, quietly, ``if the gentleman who signed it is not.''

That afternoon she returned home greatly fa tigued. A few hours later the girl students who had been

waiting admission to the university came to serenade her in recognition of her successful work for them, but

she was too ill to see them. She was passing through the first stage of what proved to be her final breakdown.

In 1906, when the date of the annual convention of the National American Woman Suffrage Association in

Baltimore was drawing near, she became convinced that it would be her last convention. She was right. She

showed a passionate eagerness to make it one of the greatest conventions ever held in the history of the

movement; and we, who loved her and saw that the flame of her life was burning low, also bent all our

energies to the task of realizing her hopes. In November preceding the convention she visited me and her

niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, in our home in Mount Airy, Philadelphia, and it was clear that her anxiety over

the convention was weighing heavily upon her. She visibly lost strength from day to day. One morning she

said abruptly, ``Anna, let's go and call on President M. Carey Thomas, of Bryn Mawr.''

I wrote a note to Miss Thomas, telling her of Miss Anthony's desire to see her, and received an im mediate

reply inviting us to luncheon the following day. We found Miss Thomas deep in the work connected with her

new college buildings, over which she showed us with much pride. Miss Anthony, of course, gloried in the

splendid results Miss Thomas had achieved, but she was, for her, strangely silent and preoccupied. At

``Miss Thomas, your buildings are beautiful; your new library is a marvel; but they are not the cause of our

``No,'' Miss Thomas said; ``I know you have something on your mind. I am waiting for you to tell me what it

``We want your cooperation, and that of Miss Garrett,'' began Miss Anthony, promptly, ``to make our

Baltimore Convention a success. We want you to persuade the Arundel Club of Baltimore, the most

fashionable club in the city, to give a recep tion to the delegates; and we want you to arrange a college night

on the programmea great college night, with the best college speakers ever brought together.''

These were large commissions for two extremely busy women, but both Miss Thomas and Miss

Garrettrealizing Miss Anthony's intense earnest nesspromised to think over the suggestions and see

what they could do. The next morning we re ceived a telegram from them stating that Miss Thomas would

arrange the college evening, and that Miss Garrett would reopen her Baltimore home, which she had closed,

during the convention. She also invited Miss Anthony and me to be her guests there, and added that she

``Aunt Susan'' was overjoyed. I have never seen her happier than she was over the receipt of that telegram.

She knew that whatever Miss Thomas and Miss Garrett undertook would be accomplished, and she rightly

regarded the success of the conven tion as already assured. Her expectations were more than realized. The

college evening was un doubtedly the most brilliant occasion of its kind ever arranged for a convention.

President Ira Remsen of Johns Hopkins University presided, and addresses were made by President Mary E.

Woolley of Mount Holyoke, Professor Lucy Salmon of Vassar, Professor Mary Jordan of Smith, President

From beginning to end the convention was prob ably the most notable yet held in our history. Julia Ward

Howe and her daughter, Florence Howe Hall, were also guests of Miss Garrett, who, more over, entertained

all the speakers of ``College Night.'' Miss Anthony, now eightysix, arrived in Baltimore quite ill, and Mrs.

Howe, who was ninety, was taken ill soon after she reached there. The two great women made a dramatic

exchange on the programme, for on the first night, when Miss Anthony was un able to speak, Mrs. Howe

took her place, and on the second night, when Mrs. Howe had succumbed, Miss Anthony had recovered

sufficiently to appear for her. Clara Barton was also an honored figure at the convention, and Miss Anthony's

joy in the presence of all these old and dear friends was over flowing. With them, too, were the younger

women, ready to take up and carry on the work the old leaders were laying down; and ``Aunt Susan,'' as she

surveyed them all, felt like a general whose superb army is passing in review before him. At the close of the

college programme, when the final address had been made by Miss Thomas, Miss Anthony rose and in a few

words expressed her feeling that her lifework was done, and her con sciousness of the near approach of the

end. After that night she was unable to appear, and was indeed so ill that she was confined to her bed in Miss

Gar rett's most hospitable home. Nothing could have been more thoughtful or more beautiful than the care

Miss Garrett and Miss Thomas bestowed on her. They engaged for her one of the best physicians in

Baltimore, who, in turn, consulted with the leading specialists of Johns Hopkins, and they also secured a

trained nurse. This final attention required special tact, for Miss Anthony's fear of ``giving trouble'' was so

great that she was not willing to have a nurse. The nurse, therefore, wore a house maid's uniform, and

``Aunt Susan'' remained wholly unconscious that she was being cared for by one of the best nurses in the

Between sessions of the convention I used to sit by ``Aunt Susan's'' bed and tell her what was going on. She

was triumphant over the immense success of the convention, but it was clear that she was still worrying over

When I told her the work was wholly dependent on voluntary contributions and on the services of those who

were willing to give themselves gratui tously to it, Miss Thomas was greatly surprised. She and Miss

Garrett asked a number of practical questions, and at the end of our talk they looked at each other.

``I don't think,'' said Miss Thomas, ``that we have quite done our duty in this matter.''

The next day they invited a number of us to dinner, to again discuss the situation; and they admitted that they

had sat up throughout the previous night, talking the matter over and trying to find some way to help us. They

had also dis cussed the situation with Miss Anthony, to her vast content, and had finally decided that they

would try to raise a fund of $60,000, to be paid in yearly instalments of $12,000 for five yearspart of these

annual instalments to be used as salaries for the active officers. The mere mention of so large a fund startled

us all. We feared that it could not possibly be raised. But Miss Anthony plainly believed that now the last

great wish of her life had been granted. She was convinced that Miss Thomas and Miss Gar rett could

accomplish anythingeven the miracle of raising $60,000 for the suffrage causeand they did, though

On the 15th of February we left Baltimore for Washington, where Miss Anthony was to cele brate her

eightysixth birthday. For many years the National American Woman Suffrage Associa tion had celebrated

our birthdays together, as hers came on the 15th of the month and mine on the 14th. There had been an

especially festive banquet when she was seventyfour and I was fortyseven, and our friends had decorated

the table with floral ``4's'' and ``7's''the centerpiece representing ``74'' during the first half of the banquet,

and ``47'' the latter half. This time ``Aunt Susan'' should not have attempted the Washington celebration, for

she was still ill and exhausted by the strain of the con vention. But notwithstanding her sufferings and the

warnings of her physicians, she insisted on being present; so Miss Garrett sent the trained nurse to

Washington with her, and we all tried to make the jour ney the least possible strain on the patient's vitality.

On our arrival in Washington we went to the Shoreham, where, as always, the proprietor took pains to give

Miss Anthony a room with a view of the Washington monument, which she greatly admired. When I entered

her room a little later I found her standing at a window, holding herself up with hands braced against the

casement on either side, and so absorbed in the view that she did not hear my ap proach. When I spoke to

I stood by her side, and together we looked at it in silence I realizing with a sick heart that ``Aunt Susan''

The birthday celebration that followed our exec utive meeting was an impressive one. It was held in the

Church of Our Father, whose pastor, the Rev. John Van Schaick, had always been exceedingly kind to Miss

Anthony. Many prominent men spoke. President Roosevelt and other statesmen sent most friendly letters,

and William H. Taft had promised to be present. He did not come, nor did he, then or later, send any excuse

for not comingan omission that greatly disappointed Miss Anthony, who had always admired him. I

presided at the meeting, and though we all did our best to make it gay, a strange hush hung over the

assemblage a solemn stillness, such as one feels in the presence of death. We became more and more

conscious that Miss Anthony was suffering, and we hastened the exer cises all we could. When I read

``One word from President Roosevelt in his mes sage to Congress,'' she said, a little wearily, ``would be

worth a thousand eulogies of Susan B. Anthony. When will men learn that what we ask is not praise, but

At the close of the meeting, realizing how weak she was, I begged her to let me speak for her. But she again

rose, rested her hand on my shoulder, and, standing by my side, uttered the last words she ever spoke in

public, pleading with women to consecrate themselves to the Cause, assuring them that no power could

prevent its ultimate success, but reminding them also that the time of its coming would depend wholly on

their work and their loyalty. She ended with three wordsvery fitting words from her lips, expressing as

The next morning she was taken to her home in Rochester, and one month from that day we con ducted her

funeral services. The nurse who had accompanied her from Baltimore remained with her until two others had

been secured to take her place, and every care that love or medical science could suggest was lavished on the

patient. But from the first it was plain that, as she herself had foretold, ``Aunt Susan's'' soul was merely

One of her characteristic traits was a dislike to being seen, even by those nearest to her, when she was not

well. During the first three weeks of her last illness, therefore, I did what she wished me to doI continued

our work, trying to do hers as well as my own. But all the time my heart was in her sickroom, and at last the

day came when I could no longer remain away from her. I had awakened in the morning with a strong

conviction that she needed me, and at the breakfasttable I announced to her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, the

friend who for years has shared my home, that I was going at once to ``Aunt Susan.''

``I shall not even wait to telegraph,'' I declared. ``I am sure she has sent for me; I shall take the first train.''

The journey brought me very close to death. As we were approaching WilkesBarre our train ran into a

wagon loaded with powder and dynamite, which had been left on the track. The horses attached to it had been

unhitched by their driver, who had spent his time in this effort, when he saw the train coming, instead of in

signaling to the engineer. I was on my way to the diningcar when the collision occurred. and, with every one

else who happened to be stand ing, I was hurled to the floor by the impact; flash after flash of blinding light

outside, accompanied by a terrific roar, added to the panic of the passengers. When the train stopped we

learned how narrow had been our escape from an especially unpleasant form of death. The dynamite in the

wagon was frozen, and therefore had not exploded; it was the ex plosion of the powder that had caused the

flashes and the din. The darkgreen cars were burned almost white, and as we stood staring at them, a silent,

stunned group, our conductor said, quietly, ``You will never be as near death again, and escape, as you have

The accident caused a long delay, and it was ten o'clock at night when I reached Rochester and Miss

Anthony's home. As I entered the house Miss Mary Anthony rose in surprise to greet me.

``How did you get here so soon?'' she cried. And then: ``We sent for you this afternoon. Susan has been

When I reached my friend's bedside one glance at her face showed me the end was near; and from that time

until it came, almost a week later, I re mained with her; while again, as always, she talked of the Cause, and

of the lifework she must now lay down. The first thing she spoke of was her will, which she had made

several years before, and in which she had left the small property she possessed to her sister Mary, her niece

Lucy, and myself, with instructions as to the use we three were to make of it. Now she told me we were to

pay no attention to these instructions, but to give every dollar of her money to the $60,000 fund Miss Thomas

and Miss Garrett were trying to raise. She was vitally in terested in this fund, as its success meant that for

five years the active officers of the National Ameri can Woman Suffrage Association, including myself as

president, would for the first time receive salaries for our work. When she had given her instructions on this

``I wish I could live on,'' she said, wistfully. ``But I cannot. My spirit is eager and my heart is as young as it

ever was, but my poor old body is worn out. Before I go I want you to give me a promise: Promise me that

you will keep the presi dency of the association as long as you are well enough to do the work.''

``But how can I promise that?'' I asked. ``I can keep it only as long as others wish me to keep it.''

``Promise to make them wish you to keep it,'' she urged. ``Just as I wish you to keep it.''

I would have promised her anything then. So, though I knew that to hold the presidency would tie me to a

position that brought in no living income, and though for several years past I had already drawn alarmingly

upon my small financial reserve, I promised her that I would hold the office as long as the majority of the

women in the association wished me to do so. ``But,'' I added, ``if the time comes when I believe that some

one else can do better work in the presidency than I, then let me feel at liberty to resign it.''

``No, no,'' she objected. ``You cannot be the judge of that. Promise me you will remain until the friends you

most trust tell you it is time to with draw, or make you understand that it is time. Promise me that.''

``You will not have an easy path,'' she warned me. ``In some ways it will be harder for you than it has ever

been for me. I was so much older than the rest of you, and I had been president so long, that you girls have all

been willing to listen to me. It will be different with you. Other women of your own age have been in the

work almost as long as you have been; you do not stand out from them by age or length of service, as I did.

There will be inevi table jealousies and misunderstandings; there will be all sorts of criticism and

misrepresentation. My last word to you is this: No matter what is done or is not done, how you are criticized

or misunder stood, or what efforts are made to block your path, remember that the only fear you need have

is the fear of not standing by the thing you believe to be right. Take your stand and hold it; then let come

I was too much overcome to answer her; and after a moment of silence she, in her turn, made me a promise.

``I do not know anything about what comes to us after this life ends,'' she said. ``But if there is a continuance

of life beyond it, and if I have any conscious knowledge of this world and of what you are doing, I shall not

be far away from you; and in times of need I will help you all I can. Who knows? Perhaps I may be able to do

Nine years have passed since then, and in each day of them all it seems to me, in looking back, I have had

some occasion to recall her words. When they were uttered I did not fully comprehend all they meant, or the

clearness of the vision that had suggested them. It seemed to me that no position I could hold would be of

sufficient importance to attract jealousy or personal attacks. The years have brought more wisdom; I have

learned that any one who assumes leadership, or who, like myself, has had leadership forced upon her, must

expect to bear many things of which the world knows nothing. But with this knowledge, too, has come the

memory of ``Aunt Susan's'' last promise, and again and yet again in hours of discouragement and despair I

During the last fortyeight hours of her life she was unwilling that I should leave her side. So day and night I

knelt by her bed, holding her hand and watching the flame of her wonderful spirit grow dim. At times, even

then, it blazed up with startling sud denness. On the last afternoon of her life, when she had lain quiet for

hours, she suddenly began to utter the names of the women who had worked with her, as if in a final

rollcall. Many of them had preceded her into the next world; others were still splendidly active in the work

she was laying down. But young or old, living or dead, they all seemed to file past her dying eyes that day in

Not all the names she mentioned were known in suffrage ranks; some of these women lived only in the heart

of Susan B. Anthony, and now, for the last time, she was thanking them for what they had done. Here was

one who, at a moment of special need, had given her small savings; here was another who had won valuable

recruits to the Cause; this one had written a strong editorial; that one had made a stirring speech. In these final

hours it seemed that not a single sacrifice or service, however small, had been forgotten by the dying leader.

Last of all, she spoke to the women who had been on her board and had stood by her loyally so longRachel

Foster Avery, Alice Stone Blackwell, Carrie Chap man Catt, Mrs. Upton, Laura Clay, and others. Then,

after lying in silence for a long time with her cheek on my hand, she murmured: ``They are still passing

before meface after face, hundreds and hundreds of them, representing all the efforts of fifty years. I know

how hard they have worked I know the sacrifices they have made. But it has all been worth while!''

Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness she seemed restless and anxious to say something, search ing

``Do you want me to repeat my promise?'' I asked, for she had already made me do so several times. She

made a sign of assent, and I gave her the assurance she desired. As I did so she raised my hand to her lips and

kissed ither last conscious action. For more than thirty hours after that I knelt by her side, but though she

She had told me over and over how much our long friendship and association had meant to her, and the

comfort I had given her. But whatever I may have been to her, it was as nothing compared with what she was

to me. Kneeling close to her as she passed away, I knew that I would have given her a dozen lives had I had

them, and endured a thousand times more hardship than we had borne together, for the inspiration of her

companionship and the joy of her affection. They were the greatest blessings I have had in all my life, and I

cherish as my dearest treas ure the volume of her History of Woman Suffrage on the flyleaf of which she

This huge volume IV I present to you with the love that a mother beareth, and I hope you will find in it the

facts about women, for you will find them nowhere else. Your part will be to see that the four volumes are

duly placed in the libraries of the country, where every student of history may have access to them.

That final line is still my greatest comfort. When I am misrepresented or misunderstood, when I am accused

of personal ambition or of working for per sonal ends, I turn to it and to similar lines penned by the same

hand, and tell myself that I should not allow anything to interfere with the serenity of my spirit or to disturb

me in my work. At the end of eighteen years of the most intimate companionship, the leader of our Cause, the

greatest woman I have ever known, still felt for me ``unbounded love and faith.'' Having had that, I have had

For two days after ``Aunt Susan's'' death she lay in her own home, as if in restful slumber, her face wearing

its most exquisite look of peaceful serenity; and here her special friends, the poor and the unfor tunate of the

city, came by hundreds to pay their last respects. On the third day there was a public funeral, held in the

Congregational church, and, though a wild blizzard was raging, every one in Rochester seemed included in

the great throng of mourners who came to her bier in reverence and left it in tears. The church services were

conducted by the pastor, the Rev. C. C. Albertson, a lifelong friend of Miss Anthony's, assisted by the Rev.

Will iam C. Gannett. James G. Potter, the Mayor of the city, and Dr. Rush Rhees, president of Rochester

University, occupied prominent places among the distinguished mourners, and Mrs. Jerome Jeffries, the head

of a colored school, spoke in behalf of the negro race and its recognition of Miss Anthony's services. College

clubs, medical societies, and re form groups were represented by delegates sent from different states, and

Miss Anna Gordon had come on from Illinois to represent the Woman's National Christian Temperance

Union. Mrs. Catt delivered a eulogy in which she expressed the love and recognition of the organized

suffrage women of the world for Miss Anthony, as the one to whom they had all looked as their leader.

William Lloyd Garrison spoke of Miss Anthony's work with his father and other anti slavery leaders, and

Mrs. Jean Brooks Greenleaf spoke in behalf of the New York State Suffrage Association. Then, as ``Aunt

Susan'' had requested, I made the closing address. She had asked me to do this and to pronounce the

It was estimated that more than ten thousand persons were assembled in and around the church, and after the

benediction those who had been pa tiently waiting out in the storm were permitted to pass inside in single

file for a last look at their friend. They found the coffin covered by a large American flag, on which lay a

wreath of laurel and palms; around it stood a guard of honor composed of girl students of Rochester

University in their college caps and gowns. All day students had mounted guard, relieving one another at

intervals. On every side there were flowers and floral emblems sent by various organizations, and just over

``Aunt Susan's'' head floated the silk flag given to her by the women of Colorado. It contained four gold stars,

representing the four enfranchised states, while the other stars were in silver. On her breast was pinned the

jeweled flag given to her on her eightieth birthday by the women of Wyomingthe first place in the world

where in the constitution of the state women were given equal political rights with men. Here the four stars

representing the enfranchised states were made of diamonds, the others of silver enamel. Just before the lid

was fastened on the coffin this flag was removed and handed to Mary Anthony, who presented it to me. From

that day I have worn it on every occasion of importance to our Cause, and each time a state is won for woman

suffrage I have added a new diamond star. At the time I write thisin 1914there are twelve.

As the funeral procession went through the streets of Rochester it was seen that all the city flags were at

halfmast, by order of the City Council. Many houses were draped in black, and the grief of the citizens

manifested itself on every side. All the way to Mount Hope Cemetery the snow whirled blind ingly around

us, while the masses that had fallen covered the earth as far as we could see a fitting windingsheet for the

one who had gone. Under the firtrees around her open grave I obeyed ``Aunt Susan's'' wish that I should

``Dear friend,'' I said, ``thou hast tarried with us long. Now thou hast gone to thy wellearned rest. We

beseech the Infinite Spirit Who has upheld thee to make us worthy to follow in thy steps and to carry on thy

In my chapters on Miss Anthony I bridged the twenty years between 1886 and 1906, omitting many of the

stirring suffrage events of that long period, in my desire to concentrate on those which most vitally concerned

her. I must now retrace my steps along the widening suffrage stream and de scribe, consecutively at least,

and as fully as these incomplete reminiscences will permit, other inci dents that occurred on its banks.

Of these the most important was the union in 1889 of the two great suffrage societiesthe Ameri can

Association, of which Lucy Stone was the presi dent, and the National Association, headed by Susan B.

Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. At a convention held in Washington these societies were merged as

The National American Woman Suffrage Associationthe name our association still bears and Mrs.

Stanton was elected president. She was then nearly eighty and past active work, but she made a wonderful

presiding officer at our subsequent meetings, and she was as picturesque as she was efficient.

Miss Anthony, who had an immense admiration for her and a great personal pride in her, always escorted her

to the capital, and, having worked her utmost to make the meeting a success, invariably gave Mrs. Stanton

credit for all that was accom plished. She often said that Mrs. Stanton was the brains of the new association,

while she herself was merely its hands and feet; but in truth the two women worked marvelously together, for

Mrs. Stanton was a master of words and could write and speak to perfection of the things Susan B. Anthony

saw and felt but could not herself express. Usually Miss Anthony went to Mrs. Stanton's house and took

charge of it while she stimulated the venerable president to the writing of her annual address. Then, at the

subsequent convention, she would listen to the report with as much delight and pleasure as if each word of it

had been new to her. Even after Mrs. Stanton's resignation from the presidency at the end, I think, of three

yearsand Miss An thony's election as her successor, ``Aunt Susan'' still went to her old friend whenever

an important reso lution was to be written, and Mrs. Stanton loyally drafted it for her.

Mrs. Stanton was the most brilliant conversa tionalist I have ever known; and the best talk I have heard

anywhere was that to which I used to listen in the home of Mrs. Eliza Wright Osborne, in Auburn, New York,

when Mrs. Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, Emily Howland, Elizabeth Smith Miller, Ida Husted Harper, Miss

Mills, and I were gathered there for our occasional weekend visits. Mrs. Osborne inherited her suffrage

sympathies, for she was the daughter of Martha Wright, who, with Mrs. Stanton and Lucretia Mott, called the

first suffrage convention in Seneca Falls, New York. I must add in passing that her son, Thomas Mott

Osborne, who is doing such admirable work in prison reform at Sing Sing, has shown himself worthy of the

Most of the conversation in Mrs. Osborne's home was contributed by Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony, while

the rest of us sat, as it were, at their feet. Many human and feminine touches brightened the lofty discussions

that were constantly going on, and the varied characteristics of our leaders cropped up in amusing fashion.

Mrs. Stanton, for example, was rarely accurate in giving figures or dates, while Miss Anthony was always

very exact in such matters. She frequently corrected Mrs. Stanton's statements, and Mrs. Stanton usually took

the interruption in the best possible spirit, promptly admitting that ``Aunt Susan'' knew best. On one occasion

I re call, however, she held fast to her opinion that she was right as to the month in which a certain inci

``No, Susan,'' she insisted, ``you're wrong for once. I remember perfectly when that happened, for it was at

Aunt Susan, though somewhat staggered by the force of this testimony, still maintained that Mrs. Stanton

must be mistaken, whereupon the latter repeated, in exasperation, ``I tell you it happened when I was

weaning Harriet.'' And she added, scornfully, ``What event have you got to reckon from?''

Mrs. Stanton had wonderful blue eyes, which held to the end of her life an expression of eternal youth.

During our conventions she usually took a little nap in the afternoon, and when she awoke her blue eyes

always had an expression of pleased and innocent surprise, as if she were gazing on the world for the first

timethe round, unwinking, interested look a baby's eyes have when something attractive is held up before

Let me give in a paragraph, before I swing off into the bypaths that always allure me, the consecutive

suffrage events of the past quarter of a century. Having done this, I can dwell on each as casually as I choose,

for it is possible to describe only a few incidents here and there; and I shall not be depart ing from the story

Of the preliminary suffrage campaigns in Kansas, made in company with ``Aunt Susan,'' I have al ready

written, and it remains only to say that dur ing the second Kansas campaign yellow was adopted as the

suffrage color. In 1890, '92, and '93 we again worked in Kansas and in South Dakota, with such indefatigable

and brilliant speakers as Mrs. Catt (to whose efforts also were largely due the winning of Colorado in '93),

Mrs. Laura Johns of Kansas, Mrs. Julia Nelson, Henry B. Blackwell, Dr. Helen V. Putnam of Dakota, Mrs.

Emma Smith DeVoe, Rev. Olympia Browne of Wisconsin, and Dr. Mary Seymour Howell of New York. In

'94, '95, and '96 special efforts were devoted to Idaho, Utah, Cali fornia, and Washington, and from then on

The Colorado victory gave us two full suffrage states, for in 1869 the Territory of Wyoming had en

franchised women under very interesting conditions, not now generally remembered. The achievement was

due to the influence of one woman, Esther Morris, a pioneer who was as good a neighbor as she was a

suffragist. In those early days, in homes far from physicians and surgeons, the women cared for one another

in sickness, and Esther Morris, as it happened, once took full and skilful charge of a neighbor during the

difficult birth of the latter's child. She had done the same thing for many other women, but this woman's

husband was especially grateful. He was also a member of the Legislature, and he told Mrs. Morris that if

there was any measure she wished put through for the women of the territory he would be glad to introduce it.

She immediately took him at his word by asking him to introduce a bill enfranchising women, and he

The Legislature was Democratic, and it pounced upon the measure as a huge joke. With the amiable purpose

of embarrassing the Governor of the ter ritory, who was a Republican and had been appointed by the

President, the members passed the bill and put it up to him to veto. To their combined horror and amazement,

the young Governor did nothing of the kind. He had come, as it happened, from Salem, Ohio, one of the first

towns in the United States in which a suffrage convention was held. There, as a boy, he had heard Susan B.

Anthony make a speech, and he had carried into the years the impression it made upon him. He signed that

bill; and, as the Legislature could not get a two thirds vote to kill it, the disgusted members had to make the

best of the matter. The following year a Democrat introduced a bill to repeal the measure, but already public

sentiment had changed and he was laughed down. After that no further effort was ever made to take the ballot

When the territory applied for statehood, it was feared that the womansuffrage clause in the con stitution

might injure its chance of admission, and the women sent this telegram to Joseph M. Carey:

``Drop us if you must. We can trust the men of Wyoming to enfranchise us after our territory be comes a

Mr. Carey discussed this telegram with the other men who were urging upon Congress the admission of their

``We may stay out of the Union a hundred years, but we will come in with our women.''

In 1894 we conducted a campaign in New York, when an effort was made to secure a clause to en franchise

women in the new state constitution; and for the first time in the history of the womansuf frage movement

many of the influential women in the state and city of New York took an active part in the work. Miss

Anthony was, as always, our leader and greatest inspiration. Mrs. John Brooks Greenleaf was state president,

and Miss Mary Anthony was the most active worker in the Roches ter headquarters. Mrs. Lily Devereaux

Blake had charge of the campaign in New York City, and Mrs. Marianna Chapman looked after the Brooklyn

sec tion, while a most stimulating sign of the times was the organization of a committee of New York

women of wealth and social influence, who estab lished their headquarters at Sherry's. Among these were

Mrs. Josephine Shaw Lowell, Mrs. Joseph H. Choate, Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi, Mrs. J. Warren Goddard, and

Mrs. Robert Abbe. Miss Anthony, then in her seventyfifth year, spoke in every county of the state sixty in

all. I spoke in forty, and Mrs. Catt, as always, made a superb record. Miss Har riet May Mills, a graduate of

Cornell, and Miss Mary G. Hay, did admirable organization work in the dif ferent counties. Our

disappointment over the re sult was greatly soothed by the fact that only two years later both Idaho and Utah

swung into line as full suffrage states, though California, in which we had labored with equal zeal, waited

Among these campaigns, and overlapping them, were our annual conventionseach of which I at tended

from 1888 onand the national and inter national councils, to a number of which, also, I have given

preliminary mention. When Susan B. An thony died in 1906, four American states had granted suffrage to

woman. At the time I write1914the result of the American women's work for suffrage may be briefly

Number of State Year Won Electoral Votes Wyoming 1869 3 Colorado 1893 6 Idaho 1896 4 Utah 1896 4

Washington 1910 7 California 1911 13 Arizona 1912 3 Kansas 1912 10 Oregon 1912 5 Alaska 1913

PRESIDENTIAL AND MUNICIPAL SUFFRAGE FOR WOMEN Number of State Year Won Electoral

Number Goes to of Elec State House Senate Voters toral Votes Iowa 8126 3115 1916 13 Massachusetts

16939 342 1915 18 New Jersey 494 153 1915 14 New York 1255 402 1915 45 North Dakota 7729

To tabulate the wonderful work done by the conventions and councils is not possible, but a con secutive list

First National Convention, Washington, D.C., 1887. First International Council of Women, Washington,

D.C., 1888. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1889. National Suffrage Convention,

Washington, D.C., 1890. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1891. National Suffrage

Convention, Washington, D.C., 1892. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1893. International

Council, Chicago, 1893. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1894. National Suffrage

Convention, Atlanta, Ga., 1895. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1896. National Suffrage

Convention, Des Moines, Iowa, 1897. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1898. National

Suffrage Convention, Grand Rapids, Mich., 1899. International Council, London, England, 1899. National

Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1900. National Suffrage Convention, Minneapolis, Minn., 1901.

National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1902. National Suffrage Convention, New Orleans, La.,

1903. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C., 1904. International Council of Women, Berlin,

Germany, 1904. Formation of Intern'l Suffrage Alliance, Berlin, Germany, 1904. National Suffrage

Convention, Portland, Oregon, 1905. National Suffrage Convention, Baltimore, Md., 1906. International

Suffrage Alliance, Copenhagen, Denmark, 1906. National Suffrage Convention, Chicago, III., 1907.

International Suffrage Alliance, Amsterdam, Holland, 1908. National Suffrage Convention, Buffalo, N. Y.,

1908. New York Headquarters established, 1909. National Suffrage Convention, Seattle, Wash., 1909.

International Suffrage Alliance, London, England, 1909. National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C.,

1910. International Council, Genoa, Italy, 1911. National Suffrage Convention, Louisville, Ky., 1911.

International Suffrage Alliance, Stockholm, Sweden, 1911. National Suffrage Convention, Philadelphia, Pa.,

1912. International Council, The Hague, Holland, 1913 National Suffrage Convention, Washington, D.C.;

1913. International Suffrage Alliance, Budapest, Hungary, 1913. National Suffrage Convention, Nashville,

The winning of the suffrage states, the work in the states not yet won, the conventions, gatherings, and

international councils in which women of every nation have come together, have all combined to make this

quarter of a century the most brilliant period for women in the history of the world. I have set forth the record

baldly and without com ment, because the bare facts are far more eloquent than words. It must not be

forgotten, too, that these great achievements of the progressive women of today have been accomplished

against the opposi tion of a large number of their own sexwho, while they are out in the world's arena

fighting against progress for their sisters, still shatter the eardrum with their incongruous warcry,

``Woman's place is in the home!'' Of our South Dakota campaign in 1890 there re mains only one incident

which should have a place here: We were attending the Republican state nominating convention at

MitchellMiss Anthony, Mrs. Catt, other leaders, and myselfhaving been told that it would be at once the

largest and the most interesting gathering ever held in the state as it proved to be. All the leading politicians

of the state were there, and in the wake of the white men had come tribes of Indians with their camp outfits,

their wives and their childrenthe groups forming a picturesque circle of tents and tepees around the town.

It was a great occasion for them, an Indian powwow, for by the law all Indians who had lands in severalty

were to be permitted to vote the fol lowing year. They were present, therefore, to study the ways of the

The crowd was so great that it was only through the courtesy of Major Pickler, a member of Con gress and a

devoted believer in suffrage, that Miss Anthony, Mrs. Catt, and the rest of us were able to secure passes to the

convention, and when we reached the hall we were escorted to the last row of seats on the crowded platform.

As the space be tween us and the speakers was filled by rows upon rows of men, as well as by the band and

their in struments, we could see very little that took place. Some of our friends pointed out this condition to

the local committee and asked that we be given seats on the floor, but received the reply that there was

``absolutely no room on the floor except for dele gates and distinguished visitors.'' Our persistent friends

then suggested that at least a front seat should be given to Miss Anthony, who certainly came under the head

of a ``distinguished visitor''; but this was not doneprobably because a large number of the best seats were

filled by Russian la borers wearing badges inscribed ``Against Woman Suffrage and Susan B. Anthony.''

We remained, perforce, in our rear seats, finding such interest as we could in the back view of hundreds of

Just before the convention was called to order it was announced that a delegation of influential In dians was

waiting outside, and a motion to invite the red men into the hall was made and carried with great enthusiasm.

A committee of leading citizens was appointed to act as escort, and these gentlemen filed out, returning a few

moments later with a party of Indian warriors in full war regalia, even to their gay blankets, their feathered

headdresses, and their paint. When they appeared the band struck up a stirring march of welcome, and the

en tire audience cheered while the Indians, flanked by the admiring committee, stalked solemnly down the

All we could see of them were the brilliant feathers of their warbonnets, but we got the full effect of their

reception in the music and the cheers. I dared not look at Miss Anthony during this remarkable scene, and

she, craning her venerable neck to get a glimpse of the incident from her obscure corner, made no comment

to me; but I knew what she was thinking. The following year these Indians would have votes. Courtesy,

therefore, must be shown them. But the women did not matter, the politi cians reasoned, for even if they

were enfranchised they would never support the element represented at that convention. It was not surprising

that, notwithstanding our hard work, we did not win the state, though all the conditions had seemed most

favorable; for the state was new, the men and women were working side by side in the fields, and there was

After the election, when we analyzed the vote county by county, we discovered that in every county whose

residents were principally Americans the amendment was carried, whereas in all counties populated largely

by foreigners it was lost. In cer tain countiesthose inhabited by Russian Jews the vote was almost

solidly against us, and this not withstanding the fact that the wives of these Rus sian voters were doing a

man's work on their farms in addition to the usual women's work in their homes. The fact that our Cause

could be defeated by ignorant laborers newly come to our country was a humiliating one to accept; and we

realized more forcibly than ever before the difficulty of the task we had assumeda task far beyond any ever

under taken by a body of men in the history of democratic government throughout the world. We not only

had to bring American men back to a belief in the fundamental principles of republican government, but we

had also to educate ignorant immigrants, as well as our own Indians, whose degree of civiliza tion was

The Kansas campaign, which Miss Anthony, Mrs. Catt, Mrs. Johns, and I conducted in 1894, held a special

interest, due to the Populist movement. There were so many problems before the people prohibition, free

silver, and the Populist propaganda that we found ourselves involved in the bitterest campaign ever fought

out in the state. Our desire, of course, was to get the indorsement of the differ ent political parties and

religious bodies, We suc ceeded in obtaining that of three out of four of the Methodist Episcopal

conferencesthe Congrega tional, the Epworth League, and the Christian En deavor Leagueas well as

that of the State Teachers' Association, the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, and various other

religious and philanthropic societies. To obtain the indorsement of the polit ical parties was much more

difficult, and we were facing conditions in which partial success was worse than complete failure. It had long

been an un written law before it became a written law in our National Association that we must not take

partisan action or line up with any one political party. It was highly important, therefore, that either all parties

The Populist convention was held in Topeka be fore either the Democratic or Republican convention, and

after two days of vigorous fighting, led by Mrs. Anna Diggs and other prominent Populist women, a suffrage

plank was added to the platform. The Populist party invited me, as a minister, to open the convention with

prayer. This was an innova tion, and served as a wedge for the admission of women representatives of the

Suffrage Association to address the convention. We all did so, Miss Anthony speaking first, Mrs. Catt

second, and I last; after which, for the first time in history, the Doxology was sung at a political convention.

At the Democratic convention we made the same appeal, and were refused. Instead of indorsing us, the

Democrats put an antisuffrage plank in their platformbut this, as the party had little standing in Kansas,

probably did us more good than harm. Trouble came thick and fast, however, when the Republicans, the

dominant party in the state, held their convention; and a mighty struggle began over the admission of a

suffrage plank. There was a Woman's Republican Club in Kansas, which held its convention in Topeka at the

same time the Republicans were holding theirs. There was also a Mrs. Judith Ellen Foster, who, by stirring up

op position in this Republican Club against the in sertion of a suffrage plank, caused a serious split in the

convention. Miss Anthony, Mrs. Catt, and I, of course, urged the Republican women to stand by their sex,

and to give their support to the Republi cans only on condition that the latter added suffrage to their

platform. At no time, and in no field of work, have I ever seen a more bitter conflict in prog ress than that

which raged for two days during this Republican women's convention. Liquordealers, jointkeepers,

``bootleggers,'' and all the lawless element of Kansas swung into line at a special con vention held under

the auspices of the Liquor League of Kansas City, and cast their united weight against suffrage by threatening

to deny their votes to any candidate or political party favoring our Cause. The Republican women's

convention finally adjourned with nothing accomplished except the passing of a resolution mildly requesting

the Re publican party to indorse woman suffrage. The result was, of course, that it was not indorsed by the

It was at the time of these campaigns that I was elected VicePresident of the National Association and

Lecturer at Large, and the latter office brought in its train a glittering variety of experiences. On one occasion

an episode occurred which ``Aunt Susan'' never afterward wearied of describing. There was a wreck

somewhere on the road on which I was to travel to meet a lecture engagement, and the trains going my way

were not running. Look ing up the track, however, I saw a train coming from the opposite direction. I at

``At least it's going SOMEWHERE!'' I replied, tersely, as the train stopped, and I climbed the steps.

Looking back when the train had started again, I saw ``Aunt Susan'' standing in the same spot on the platform

and staring after it with incredulous eyes; but I was right, for I discovered that by going up into another state I

could get a train which would take me to my destination in time for the lecture that night. It was a fine

illustration of my pet theory that if one intends to get somewhere it is better to start, even in the wrong

Again and again in our work we had occasion to marvel over men's lack of understanding of the views of

women, even of those nearest and dearest to them; and we had an especially striking illustra tion of this at

one of our hearings in Washington. A certain distinguished gentleman (we will call him Mr. H) was

chairman of the Judiciary, and after we had said what we wished to say, he remarked:

``Your arguments are logical. Your cause is just. The trouble is that women don't want suffrage. My wife

As it happened for this unfortunate gentleman, his wife was present at the hearing and sitting beside Miss

Anthony. She listened to his words with sur prise, and then whispered to ``Aunt Susan'':

``How CAN he say that? _I_ want suffrage, and I've told him so a hundred times in the last twenty years.''

``Tell him again NOW,'' urged Miss Anthony. ``Here's your chance to impress it on his memory.''

``Whyyes! He can think what he pleases, but he has no right to publicly misrepresent me.''

The assent, hesitatingly begun, finished on a sud den note of firmness. Miss Anthony stood up.

``It may interest Mr. H,'' she said, ``to know that his wife DOES wish to vote, and that for twenty years

she has wished to vote, and has often told him so, though he has evidently forgotten it. She is here beside me,

Mr. H stammered and hesitated, and finally decided to laugh. But there was no mirth in the sound he

made, and I am afraid his wife had a bad quarter of an hour when they met a little later in the privacy of their

Among other duties that fell to my lot at this period were numerous suffrage debates with promi nent

opponents of the Cause. I have already re ferred to the debate in Kansas with Senator Ingalls. Equaling this

in importance was a bout with Dr. Buckley, the distinguished Methodist debater, which had been arranged for

us at Chautauqua by Bishop Vincent of the Methodist Church. The bishop was not a believer in suffrage, nor

was he one of my admirers. I had once aroused his ire by replying to a sermon he had delivered on ``God's

Women,'' and by proving, to my own satisfaction at least, that the women he thought were God's women had

done very little, whereas the work of the world had been done by those he believed were not ``God's

Women.'' There was considerable interest, there fore, in the BuckleyShaw debate he had arranged; we all

knew he expected Dr. Buckley to wipe out that old score, and I was determined to make it as difficult as

possible for the distinguished gentleman to do so. We held the debate on two succeeding days, I speaking one

afternoon and Dr. Buckley replying the following day. On the evening before I spoke, however, Dr. Buckley

made an indiscreet remark, which, blown about Chautauqua on the light breeze of gossip, was generally

As the hall in which we were to speak was enor mous, he declared that one of two things would cer tainly

happen. Either I would scream in order to be heard by my great audience, or I would be un able to make

myself heard at all. If I screamed it would be a powerful argument against women as public speakers; if I

could not be heard, it would be an even better argument. In either case, he sum med up, I was doomed to

failure. Following out this theory, he posted men in the extreme rear of the great hall on the day of my

lecture, to report to him whether my words reached them, while he him self graciously occupied a front seat.

Bishop Vin cent's antagonistic feeling was so strong, however, that though, as the presiding officer of the

occasion, he introduced me to the audience, he did not wait to hear my speech, but immediately left the

hall and this little slight added to the public's interest in the debate. It was felt that the two gentlemen were

not quite ``playing fair,'' and the champions of the Cause were especially enthusiastic in their efforts to make

up for these failures in courtesy. My friends turned out in force to hear the lecture, and on the breast of every

one of them flamed the yellow bow that stood for suffrage, giving to the vast hall something of the effect of a

When Dr. Buckley rose to reply the next day these friends were again awaiting him with an equal ly jocund

display of the suffrage color, and this did not add to his serenity. During his remarks he made the serious

mistake of losing his temper; and, unfortunately for him, he directed his wrath toward a very old man who

had thoughtlessly applauded by pounding on the floor with his cane when Dr. Buckley quoted a point I had

``Yes,'' admitted the venerable citizen, briskly, though a little startled by the manner of the ques tion.

``Old man,'' shouted Dr. Buckley, ``I'll make you take that back if you've got a grain of sense in your head!''

The insult cost him his audience. When he realized this he lost all his selfpossession, and, as the Buffalo

Courier put it the next day, ``went up and down the platform raving like a Billingsgate fishwife.'' He lost the

debate, and the supply of yellow ribbon left in the surrounding counties was purchased that night to be used

in the suffrage celebration that followed. My friends still refer to the occasion as ``the day we wiped up the

earth with Dr. Buckley''; but I do not deserve the im plied tribute, for Dr. Buckley would have lost his case

without a word from me. What really gave me some satisfaction, however, was the respective degree of

freshness with which he and I emerged from our combat. After my speech Miss Anthony and I were given a

reception, and stood for hours shaking hands with hundreds of men and women. Later in the evening we had

a dinner and another reception, which, lasting, as they did, until midnight, kept us from our repose. Dr.

Buckley, poor gentle man, had to be taken to his hotel immediately after his speech, given a hot bath,

rubbed down, and put tenderly to bed; and not even the sympathetic heart of Susan B. Anthony yearned over

It was also at Chautauqua, by the way, though a number of years earlier, that I had my much mis quoted

encounter with the minister who deplored the fashion I followed in those days of wearing my hair short. This

young man, who was rather a pompous person, saw fit to take me to task at a table where a number of us

``Miss Shaw,'' he said, abruptly, ``I have been asked very often why you wear your hair short, and I have not

been able to explain. Of course'' this kindly'' I know there is some good reason. I ventured to advance

the theory that you have been ill and that your hair has fallen out. Is that it?''

``No,'' I told him. ``There is a reason, as you suggest. But it is not that one.''

``I am rather sensitive about it,'' I explained. ``I don't know that I care to discuss the subject.''

``True,'' I conceded. ``Well, then, among friends, I will admit frankly that it is a birthmark. I was born with

That was the last time my short hair was criticized in my presence, but the young minister was right in his

disapproval and I was wrong, as I subsequently realized. A few years later I let my hair grow long, for I had

learned that no woman in public life can afford to make herself conspicuous by any eccen tricity of dress or

appearance. If she does so she suffers for it herself, which may not disturb her, and to a greater or less degree

It is not generally known that the meeting of the International Council of Women held in Chicago during the

World's Fair was suggested by Miss Anthony, as was also the appointment of the Exposition's ``Board of

Lady Managers.'' ``Aunt Susan'' kept her name in the background, that she might not array against these

projects the opposi tion of those prejudiced against woman suffrage. We both spoke at the meetings,

however, as I have already explained, and one of our most chastening experiences occurred on ``Actress

Night.'' There was a great demand for tickets for this occasion, as every one seemed anxious to know what

kind of speeches our leading women of the stage would make; and the programme offered such magic names

as Helena Modjeska, Julia Marlowe, Georgia Cayvan, Clara Morris, and others of equal appeal. The hall was

soon filled, and to keep out the increasing throng the doors were locked and the waiting crowd was directed

As it happened, Miss Anthony and I were among the earliest arrivals at the main hall. It was the first evening

we had been free to do exactly as we pleased, and we were both in high spirits, looking forward to the

speeches, congratulating each other on the good seats we had been given on the plat form, and rallying the

speakers on their stage fright; for, much to our amusement, we had found them all in mortal terror of their

audience. Georgia Cayvan, for example, was so nervous that she had to be strengthened with hot milk before

she could speak, and Julia Marlowe admitted freely that her knees were giving way beneath her. They really

had something of an ordeal before them, for it was de cided that each actress must speak twice going

immediately from the hall to the overflow meeting and repeating there the speech she had just made. But in

the mean time some one had to hold the im patient audience in the second hall, and as it was a duty every

one else promptly repudiated, a row of suddenly imploring faces turned toward Miss An thony and me. I

admit that we responded to the appeal with great reluctance. We were SO com fortable where we

wereand we were also deeply interested in the first intimate glimpse we were having of these stars in the

dramatic sky. We saw our duty, however, and with deep sighs we rose and departed for the second hall,

where a glance at the waiting throng did not add to our pleasure in the prospect before us.

When I walked upon the stage I found myself facing an actually hostile audience. They had come to look at

and listen to the actresses who had been promised them, and they thought they were being deprived of that

privilege by an interloper. Never before had I gazed out on a mass of such unresponsive faces or looked into

so many angry eyes. They were exchanging views on their wrongs, and the gen eral buzz of conversation

continued when I appeared. For some moments I stood looking at them, my hands behind my back. If I had

tried to speak they would undoubtedly have gone on talking; my si lence attracted their attention and they

began to wonder what I intended to do. When they had stopped whispering and moving about, I spoke to

``I think,'' I said, slowly and distinctly, ``that you are the most disagreeable audience I ever faced in my life.''

``Never,'' I went on, ``have I seen a gathering of people turn such ugly looks upon a speaker who has

sacrificed her own enjoyment to come and talk to them. Do you think I want to talk to you?'' I de manded,

warming to my subject. ``I certainly do not. Neither does Miss Anthony want to talk to you, and the lady who

spoke to you a few moments ago, and whom you treated so rudely, did not wish to be here. We would all

much prefer to be in the other hall, listening to the speakers from our com fortable seats on the stage. To

entertain you we gave up our places and came here simply because the committee begged us to do so. I have

only one thing more to say. If you care to listen to me courteously I am willing to waste time on you; but

don't imagine that I will stand here and wait while you criticize the management.''

By this time I felt as if I had a child across my knee to whom I was administering maternal chastise ment,

and the uneasiness of my audience underlined the impression. They listened rather sulkily at first; then a few

of the bestnatured among them laughed, and the laugh grew and developed into applause. The experience

had done them good, and they were a chastened band when Clara Morris appeared, and I gladly yielded the

All the actresses who spoke that night delivered admirable addresses, but no one equaled Madame Modjeska,

who delivered exquisitely a speech writ ten, not by herself, but by a friend and country woman, on the

condition of Polish women under the regime of Russia. We were all charmed as we listened, but none of us

dreamed what that address would mean to Modjeska. It resulted in her banish ment from Poland, her native

land, which she was never again permitted to enter. But though she paid so heavy a price for the revelation, I

do not think she ever really regretted having given to America the facts in that speech.

During this same period I embarked upon a high adventure. I had always longed for a home, and my heart

had always been loyal to Cape Cod. Now I decided to have a home at Wianno, across the Cape from my old

parish at East Dennis. Deepseated as my homemaking aspiration had been, it was realized largely as the

result of chance. A special hobby of mine has always been auction sales. I dearly love to drop into

auctionrooms while sales are in progress, and bid up to the dangerpoint, taking care to stop just in time to

let some one else get the offered article. But of course I sometimes failed to stop at the psychological

moment, and the result was a sudden realization that, in the course of the years, I had accumulated an

extraordinary number of articles for which I had no shelter and no possible use.

The crown jewel of the collection was a bedroom set I had picked up in Philadelphia. Usually, cautious

friends accompanied me on my auction room expeditions and restrained my ardor; but this time I got away

alone and found myself bidding at the sale of a solid bogwood bedroom set which had been exhibited as a

showpiece at the World's Fair, and was now, in the words of the auctioneer, ``going for a song.'' I sang the

song. I offered twenty dollars, thirty dollars, forty dollars, and other excited voices drowned mine with higher

bids. It was very thrilling. I offered fifty dollars, and there was a horrible silence, broken at last by the

auctioneer's final, ``Going, going, GONE!'' I was mis tress of the bogwood bedroom seta set wholly out

of harmony with everything else I possessed, and so huge and massive that two men were re quired to lift

the headboard alone. Like many of the previous treasures I had acquired, this was a white elephant; but,

unlike some of them, it was worth more than I had paid for it. I was offered sixty dollars for one piece alone,

but I coldly refused to sell it, though the tribute to my judgment warmed my heart. I had not the faintest idea

what to do with the set, however, and at last I confided my dilemma to my friend, Mrs. Ellen Dietrick, who

sagely advised me to build a house for it. The idea intrigued me. The bogwood furniture needed a home, and

The result of our talk was that Mrs. Dietrick promised to select a lot for me at Wianno, where she herself

lived, and even promised to supervise the building of my cottage, and to attend to all the other details

connected with it. Thus put, the temptation was irresistible. Besides Mrs. Dietrick, many other delightful

friends lived at Wiannothe Garrisons, the Chases of Rhode Island, the Wymans, the Wel lingtonsa

most charming community. I gave Mrs. Dietrick full authority to use her judgment in every detail connected

with the undertaking, and the cottage was built. Having put her hand to this plow of friendship, Mrs. Dietrick

did the work with characteristic thoroughness. I did not even visit Wianno to look at my land. She selected it,

bought it, engaged a woman architectLois Howe of Bostonand followed the latter's work from be

ginning to end. The only stipulation I made was that the cottage must be far up on the beach, out of sight of

everybodyreally in the woods; and this was easily met, for along that coast the trees came almost to the

The cottage was a great success, and for many years I spent my vacations there, filling the place with young

people. From the time of my sister Mary's death I had had the general oversight of her two daughters, Lola

and Grace, as well as of Nicolas and Eleanor, the two motherless daughters of my brother John. They were all

with me every sum mer in the new home, together with Lucy Anthony, her sister and brother, Mrs. Rachel

Foster Avery, and other friends. We had special fishing costumes made, and wore them much of the time. My

nieces wore knickerbockers, and I found vast content ment in short, heavy skirts over bloomers. We lived

out of doors, boating, fishing, and clamming all day long, and, as in my early pioneer days in Michigan, my

part of the work was in the open. I chopped all the wood, kept the fires going, and looked after the grounds.

Rumors of our carefree and unconventional life began to circulate, and presently our Eden was in vaded by

the only serpent I have ever found in the newspaper worlda girl reporter from Boston. She telegraphed that

she was coming to see us; and though, when she came, we had been warned of her propensities and received

her in conventional attire, formally entertaining her with tea on the veranda, she went away and gave free

play to a hectic fancy. She wrote a sensational fullpage article for a Sun day newspaper, illustrated with

pictures showing us all in knickerbockers. In this striking work of art I carried a fish net and pole and wore a

handkerchief tied over my head. The article, which was headed THE ADAMLESS EDEN, was almost

libelous, and I admit that for a long time it dimmed our enjoy ment of our beloved retreat. Then, gradually,

my old friends died, Mrs. Dietrick among the first; others moved away; and the character of the entire region

changed. It became fashionable, privacy was no longer to be found there, and we ceased to visit it. For five

In 1908 I built the house I now occupy (in Moylan, Pennsylvania), which is the realization of a desire I have

always hadto build on a tract which had a stream, a grove of trees, great boulders and rocks, and a hill site

for the house with a broad outlook, and a railroad station conveniently near. The friend who finally found the

place for me had begun his quest with the pessimistic remark that I would better wait for it until I got to

Paradise; but two years later he telegraphed me that he had discovered it on this planet, and he was right. I

have only eight acres of land, but no one could ask a more ideal site for a cottage; and on the place is my

beloved forest, including a grove of three hundred firs. From every country I have visited I have brought back

a tiny tree for this little forest, and now it is as full of memories as of beauty.

To the surprise of my neighbors, I built my house with its back toward the public road, facing the valley and

the stream. ``But you will never see anybody go by,'' they protested. I answered that the one person in the

house who was necessarily in terested in passersby was my maid, and she could see them perfectly from

the kitchen, which faced the road. I enjoy my views from the broad veranda that overlooks the valley, the

Every suffragist I have ever met has been a lover of home; and only the conviction that she is fighting for her

home, her children, for other women, or for all of these, has sustained her in her public work. Looking back

on many campaign experi ences, I am forced to admit that it is not always the privations we endure which

make us think most tenderly of home. Often we are more overcome by the attentions of wellmeaning

friends. As an example of this I recall an incident of one Oregon campaign. I was to speak in a small city in

the southern part of the state, and on reaching the station, hot, tired, and covered with the grime of a

midsummer journey, I found awaiting me a delegation of citizens, a brassband, and a white carriage drawn

by a pair of beautiful white horses. In this carriage, and devotedly escorted by the citi zens and the band, the

latter playing its hardest, I was driven to the City Hall and there met by the mayor, who delivered an address,

after which I was crowned with a laurel wreath. Subsequently, with this wreath still resting upon my

perspiring brow, I was again driven through the streets of the city; and if ever a woman felt that her place was

An almost equally trying occasion had San Fran cisco for its setting. The city had arranged a Fourth of July

celebration, at which Miss Anthony and I were to speak. Here we rode in a carriage deco rated with

flowersyellow roseswhile just in front of us was the mayor in a carriage gorgeously fes tooned with

purple blossoms. Behind us, for more than a mile, stretched a procession of uniformed policemen, soldiers,

and citizens, while the sidewalks were lined with men and women whose enthusiastic greetings came to Miss

Anthony from every side. She was enchanted over the whole experience, for to her it meant, as always, not a

personal tribute, but a triumph of the Cause. But I sat by her side acutely miserable; for across my shoulders

and breast had been draped a huge sash with the word ``Orator'' emblazoned on it, and this was further

embellished by a striking rosette with streamers which hung nearly to the bottom of my gown. It is almost

unnecessary to add that this remarkable decoration was furnished by a committee of men, and was also worn

by all the men speakers of the day. Possibly I was overheated by the sash, or by the emotions the sash aroused

in me, for I was stricken with pneumonia the following day and experienced my first serious illness, from

On our way to California in 1895 Miss Anthony and I spent a day at Cheyenne, Wyoming, as the guests of

Senator and Mrs. Carey, who gave a dinner for us. At the table I asked Senator Carey what he considered the

best result of the enfranchisement of Wyoming women, and even after the lapse of twenty years I am able to

give his reply almost word for word, for it impressed me deeply at the time and I have since quoted it again

``There have been many good results,'' he said, ``but the one I consider above all the others is the great

change for the better in the character of our candidates for office. Consider this for a moment: Since our

women have voted there has never been an embezzlement of public funds, or a scandalous misuse of public

funds, or a disgraceful condition of graft. I attribute the better character of our public officials almost entirely

``Those are inspiring facts,'' I conceded, ``but let us be just. There are three men in Wyoming to every

woman, and no candidate for office could be elected unless the men voted for him, too. Why, then, don't they

``Because,'' explained Senator Carey, promptly, ``women are politically an uncertain factor. We can go

among men and learn beforehand how they are going to vote, but we can't do that with women; they keep us

guessing. In the old days, when we went into the caucus we knew what resolutions put into our platforms

would win the votes of the ranch men, what would win the miners, what would win the men of different

nationalities; but we did not know how to win the votes of the women until we began to nominate our

candidates. Then we im mediately discovered that if the Democrats nomi nated a man of immoral

character for office, the women voted for his Republican opponent, and we learned our first big lessonthat

whatever a candi date's other qualifications for office may be, he must first of all have a clean record. In the

old days, when we nominated a candidate we asked, `Can he hold the saloon vote?' Now we ask, `Can he

hold the women's vote?' Instead of bidding down to the saloon, we bid up to the home.''

Following the dinner there was a large public meeting, at which Miss Anthony and I were to speak. Mrs.

Jenkins, who was president of the Suffrage Association of the state, presided and introduced us to the

assemblage. Then she added: ``I have intro duced you ladies to your audience. Now I would like to

introduce your audience to you.'' She be gan with the two Senators and the member of Con gress, then

introduced the Governor, the Lieutenant Governor, the state Superintendent of Education, and numerous

city and state officials. As she went on Miss Anthony grew more and more excited, and when the

introductions were over, she said: ``This is the first time I have ever seen an audience assembled for woman

suffrage made up of the public officials of a state. No one can ever persuade me now that men respect women

without political power as much as they respect women who have it; for certainly in no other state in the

Union would it be possible to gather so many public officials under one roof to listen to the addresses of

The following spring we again went West, with Mrs. Catt, Lucy Anthony, Miss Hay and Miss Sweet, her

secretary, to carry on the Pacific coast campaign of '96, arranged by Mrs. Cooper and her daughter Harriet, of

Oaklandboth women of re markable executive ability. Headquarters were se cured in San Francisco,

and Miss Hay was put in charge, associated with a large group of California women. It was the second time

in the history of campaignsthe first being in New Yorkthat all the money to carry on the work was

The last days of the campaign were extremely interesting, and one of their important events was that the Hon.

Thomas Reed, then Speaker of the House of Representatives, for the first time came out publicly for suffrage.

Mr. Reed had often ex pressed himself privately as in favor of the Cause but he had never made a public

statement for us. At Oakland, one day, the indefatigable and irresisti ble ``Aunt Susan'' caught him off his

guard by per suading his daughter, Kitty Reed, who was his idol, to ask him to say just one word in favor of

our amendment. When he arose we did not know whether he had promised what she asked, and as his speech

progressed our hearts sank lower and lower, for all he said was remote from our Cause. But he ended with

``There is an amendment of the constitution pending, granting suffrage to women. The women of California

ought to have suffrage. The men of California ought to give it to themand the next speaker, Dr. Shaw, will

The word was spoken. And though it was not a very strong word, it came from a strong man, and therefore

Election day, as usual, brought its surprises and revelations. Mrs. Cooper asked her Chinese cook how the

Chinese were votingi. e., the nativeborn Chinamen who were entitled to voteand he re plied, blithely,

``All Chinamen vote for Billy McKee and `NO' to women!'' It is an interesting fact that every Chinese vote

All day we went from one to another of the polling places, and I shall always remember the picture of Miss

Anthony and the wife of Senator Sargent wan dering around the polls arm in arm at eleven o'clock at night,

their tired faces taking on lines of deeper depression with every minute; for the count was against us.

However, we made a fairly good show ing. When the final counts came in we found that we had won the

state from the north down to Oak land, and from the south up to San Francisco; but there was not a

sufficient majority to overcome the adverse votes of San Francisco and Oakland. With more than 230,000

votes cast, we were defeated by only 10,000 majority. In San Francisco the saloon element and the most

aristocratic section of the city made an equal showing against us, while the section occupied by the middle

workingclass was largely in favor of our amendment. I dwell es pecially on this campaign, partly because

such splen did work was done by the women of California, and also because, during the same election, Utah

and Idaho granted full suffrage to women. This gave us four suffrage statesWyoming, Colorado, Utah, and

It was during this California campaign, by the way, that I unwittingly caused much embarrass ment to a

worthy young man. At a massmeeting held in San Francisco, Rabbi Vorsanger, who was not in favor of

suffrage for women, advanced the heart ening theory that in a thousand years more they might possibly be

ready for it. After a thousand years of education for women, of physically de veloped women, of uncorseted

women, he said, we might have the ideal woman, and could then begin to talk about freedom for her.

When the rabbi sat down there was a shout from the audience for me to answer him, but all I said was that the

ideal woman would be rather lonely, as it would certainly take another thousand years to develop an ideal

man capable of being a mate for her. On the following night Prof. Howard Griggs, of Stanford University,

made a speech on the modern womana speech so admirably thought out and delivered that we were all

delighted with it. When he had finished the audience again called on me, and I rose and proceeded to make

what my friends frank ly called ``the worst break'' of my experience. Rabbi Vorsanger's ideal woman was

still in my mind, and I had been rather hard on the men in my reply to the rabbi the night before; so now I

hastened to give this clever young man his full due. I said that though the rabbi thought it would take a

thousand years to make an ideal woman, I believed that, after all, it might not take as long to make the ideal

man. We had something very near it in a speaker who could reveal such ability, such chivalry, and such

That night I slept the sleep of the just and the wellmeaning, and it was fortunate I did, for the morning

newspapers had a surprise for me that called for steady nerves and a sense of humor. Across the front page of

every one of them ran startling headlines to this effect: DR. SHAW HAS FOUND HER IDEAL MAN The

Professor Griggs was young enough to be my son, and he was already married and the father of two beautiful

children; but these facts were not per mitted to interfere with the free play of fancy in journalistic minds. For

a week the newspapers were filled with all sorts of articles, caricatures, and editorials on my ideal man, which

caused me much annoyance and some amusement, while they plunged Professor Griggs into an abysmal

gloom. In the end, however, the experience proved an excellent one for him, for the publicity attending his

speech made him decide to take up lecturing as a profession, which he eventually did with great success. But

neither of us has yet heard the last of the Ideal Man episode. Only a few years ago, on his return to California

after a long absence, one of the leading Sunday newspapers of the state heralded Professor Griggs's arrival by

publishing a fullpage article bearing his photograph and mine and this flam boyant heading:

SHE MADE HIM And Dr. Shaw's Ideal Man Became the Idol of American Women and Earns $30,000 a

We had other unusual experiences in California, and the display of affluence on every side was not the least

impressive of them. In one town, after a heavy rain, I remember seeing a number of little boys scraping the

dirt from the gutters, washing it, and finding tiny nuggets of gold. We learned that these boys sometimes

made two or three dollars a day in this way, and that the streets of the town I think it was

Marysvillecontained so much gold that a syndicate offered to level the whole town and repave the streets

in return for the right to wash out the gold. This sounds like the kind of thing Ameri cans tell to trustful

visitors from foreign lands, but it is quite true. Nuggets, indeed, were so numerous that at one of our

meetings, when we were taking up a collec tion, I cheerfully suggested that our audience drop a few into the

box, as we had not had a nugget since we reached the state. There were no nuggets in the subsequent

collection, but there was a note which read: ``If Dr. Shaw will accept a gold nugget, I will see that she does

not leave town without one.'' I read this aloud, and added, ``I have never refused a gold nugget in my life.''

The following day brought me a pin made of a very beautiful gold nugget, and a few days later another

Californian produced a cluster of smaller nuggets which he had washed out of a panful of earth and insisted

on my accepting half of them. I was not accustomed to this sort of generosity, but it was characteristic of the

spirit of the state. No where else, during our campaign experiences, were we so royally treated in every way.

As a single example among many, I may mention that Mrs. Leland Stanford once happened to be on a train

with us and to meet Miss Anthony. As a result of this chance encounter she gave our whole party passes on

all the lines of the Southern Pacific Rail road, for use during the entire campaign. Similar generosity was

shown us on every side, and the ques tion of finance did not burden us from the beginning to the end of the

In our Utah and Idaho campaigns we had also our full share of new experiences, and of these perhaps the

most memorable to me was the sermon I preached in the Mormon Tabernacle at Salt Lake City. Before I left

New York the Mormon women had sent me the invitation to preach this sermon, and when I reached Salt

Lake City and the socalled ``Gentile'' women heard of the plan, they at once invited me to preach to the

``Gentiles'' on the evening of the same Sunday, in the Salt Lake City Opera House.

On the morning of the sermon I approached the Mormon Tabernacle with much more trepidation than I

usually experienced before entering a pulpit. I was not sure what particular kind of trouble I would get into,

but I had an abysmal suspicion that trouble of some sort lay in wait for me, and I shivered in the anticipation

of it. Fortunately, my anxiety was not long drawn out. I arrived only a few moments before the hour fixed for

the sermon, and found the congregation already assembled and the Tabernacle filled with the beautiful music

of the great organ. On the platform, to which I was escorted by several leading dignitaries of the church, was

the characteristic Mormon arrangement of seats. The first row was occupied by the deacons, and in the center

of these was the pulpit from which the deacons preach. Above these seats was a second row, oc cupied by

ordained elders, and there they too had their own pulpit. The third row was occupied by, the bishops and the

highest dignitaries of the church, with the pulpit from which the bishops preach; and behind them all, an

As I am an ordained elder in my church, I oc cupied the pulpit in the middle row of seats, with the deacons

below me and the bishops just behind. Scattered among the congregation were hundreds of ``Gentiles'' ready

to leap mentally upon any con cession I might make to the Mormon faith; while the Mormons were equally

on the alert for any implied criticism of them and their church. The problem of preaching a sermon which

should offer some appeal to both classes, without offending either, was a perplexing one, and I solved it to

the best of my ability by delivering a sermon I had once given in my own church to my own people. When I

had finished I was wholly uncertain of its effect, but at the end of the services one of the bishops leaned

toward me from his place in the rear, and, to my mingled horror and amusement, offered me this tribute,

I thanked him, but inwardly I was aghast. What had I said to give him such an impression? I racked my brain,

but could recall nothing that justified it. I passed the day in a state of nervous apprehension, fully expecting

some frank criticism from the ``Gen tiles'' on the score of having delivered a Mormon sermon to ingratiate

myself into the favor of the Mormons and secure their votes for the constitu tional amendment. But nothing

of the kind was said. That evening, after the sermon to the ``Gen tiles,'' a reception was given to our party,

and I drew my first deep breath when the wife of a well known clergyman came to me and introduced her

``My husband could not come here tonight, but he heard your sermon this morning. He asked me to tell you

how glad he was that under such unusual conditions you held so firmly to the teachings of Christ.''

The next day I was still more reassured. A re ception was given us at the home of one of Brigham Young's

daughters, and the receivingline was graced by the presiding elder of the Methodist Episcopal Church. He

was a bluff and jovial gen tleman, and when he took my hand he said, warmly, ``Well, Sister Shaw, you

certainly gave our Mormon friends the biggest dose of Methodism yesterday that they ever got in their lives.''

After this experience I reminded myself again that what Frances Willard so frequently said is true; All truth is

our truth when it has reached our hearts; we merely rechristen it according to our individual creeds.

During the visit I had an interesting conversation with a number of the younger Mormon women. I was to

leave the city on a midnight train, and about twenty of them, including four daughters of Brig ham Young,

came to my hotel to remain with me until it was time to go to the station. They filled the room, sitting around

in schoolgirl fashion on the floor and even on the bed. It was an unusual op portunity to learn some things

``There are some questions I would like to ask you,'' I began, ``and one or two of them may seem impertinent.

But they won't be asked in that spiritand please don't answer any that embarrass you.''

``First of all,'' I said, ``I would like to know the real attitude toward polygamy of the present gen eration of

There was not one in the group. ``But,'' I insisted, ``if you really believe in polyg amy, why is it that some of

There was a moment of silence, while each woman looked around as if waiting for another to answer. At last

``In my case, I alone was to blame. For years I could not force myself to consent to my husband's taking

another wife, though I tried hard. By the time I had overcome my objection the law was passed prohibiting

A second member of the group hastened to tell her story. She had had a similar spiritual struggle, and just as

she reached the point where she was willing to have her husband take another wife, he died. And now the

room was filled with eager voices. Four or five women were telling at once that they, too, had been reluctant

in the beginning, and that when they had reached the point of consent this, that, or another cause had kept the

husbands from marrying again. They were all so passion ately in earnest that they stared at me in puzzled

``What fortunate women you all were!'' I ex claimed, teasingly. ``Not one of you arrived at the point of

consenting to the presence of a second wife in your home until it was impossible for your hus band to take

They flushed a little at that, and then laughed with me; but they did not defend themselves against the tacit

charge, and I turned the conversation into less personal channels. I learned that many of the Mormon young

men were marrying girls outside of the Church, and that two sons of a leading Mormon elder had married and

At this time the Mormon candidate for Congress (a man named Roberts) was a bitter opponent of woman

suffrage. The Mormon women begged me to challenge him to a debate on the subject, which I did, but Mr.

Roberts declined the challenge. The ground of his refusal, which he made public through the newspapers, was

chastening to my spirit. He explained that he would not debate with me because he was not willing to lower

In 1900 Miss Anthony, then over eighty, decided that she must resign the presidency of our Nation al

Association, and the question of the successor she would choose became an important one. It was conceded

that there were only two candidates in her mindMrs. Carrie Chapman Catt and myself and for several

months we gave the suffrage world the unusual spectacle of rivals vigorously pushing each other's claims.

Miss Anthony was devoted to us both, and I think the choice was a hard one for her to make. On the one

hand, I had been vicepresident at large and her almost constant companion for twelve years, and she had

grown ac customed to think of me as her successor. On the other hand, Mrs. Catt had been chairman of the

organization committee, and through her splendid executive ability had built up our organization in many

states. From Miss Anthony down, we all recognized her steadily growing powers; she had, moreover,

In my mind there was no question of her superior qualification for the presidency. She seemed to me the

logical and indeed the only possible successor to Miss Anthony; and I told ``Aunt Susan'' so with all the

eloquence I could command, while simul taneously Mrs. Catt was pouring into Miss Anthony's other ear a

series of impassioned tributes to me. It was an unusual situation and a very pleasant one, and it had two

excellent results: it simplified ``Aunt Susan's'' problem by eliminating the element of per sonal ambition,

I will admit here for the first time that in urging Mrs. Catt's fitness for the office I made the greatest sacrifice

of my life. My highest ambition had been to succeed Miss Anthony, for no one who knew her as I did could

At the convention in Washington that year she formally refused the nomination for reelection, as we had all

expected, and then, on being urged to choose her own successor, she stepped forward to do so. It was a

difficult hour, for her fiery soul re sented the limitations imposed by her wornout body, and to such a

worker the most poignant ex perience in life is to be forced to lay down one's work at the command of old

age. On this she touched briefly, but in a trembling voice; and then, in furtherance of the understanding

between the three of us, she presented the name of Mrs. Catt to the convention with all the pride and hope a

Her faith was fully justified. Mrs. Catt made an admirable president, and during every moment of the four

years she held the office she had Miss Anthony's wholehearted and enthusiastic support, while I, too, in my

continued office of vicepresident, did my utmost to help her in every way. In 1904, however, Mrs. Catt was

elected president of the International Suffrage Alliance, as I have mentioned before, and that same year she

resigned the presi dency of our National Association, as her health was not equal to the strain of carrying the

Miss Anthony immediately urged me to accept the presidency of the National Association, which I was now

most unwilling to do; I had lost my ambition to be president, and there were other rea sons, into which I

need not go again, why I felt that I could not accept the post. At last, however, Miss Anthony actually

commanded me to take the place, and there was nothing to do but obey her. She was then eightyfour, and, as

it proved, within two years of her death. It was no time for me to rebel against her wishes; but I yielded with

the heaviest heart I have ever carried, and after my election to the presidency at the national convention in

Washing ton I left the stage, went into a dark corner of the wings, and for the first time since my girlhood

In the work I now took up I found myself much alone. Mrs. Catt was really ill, and the strength of ``Aunt

Susan'' must be saved in every way. Neither could give me much help, though each did all she should have

done, and more. Mrs. Catt, whose husband had recently died, was in a deeply despondent frame of mind, and

seemed to feel that the future was hopelessly dark. My own panacea for grief is work, and it seemed to me

that both physically and mentally she would be helped by a wise combination of travel and effort. During my

lifetime I have cherished two ambitions, and only two: the first, as I have already confessed, had been to

succeed Miss Anthony as president of our association; the second was to go around the world, carrying the

womansuffrage ideal to every country, and starting in each a suffrage society. Long before the inception of

the International Suf frage Alliance I had dreamed this dream; and, though it had receded as I followed it

through life, I had never wholly lost sight of it. Now I realized that for me it could never be more than a

dream. I could never hope to have enough money at my disposal to carry it out, and it occurred to me that if

Mrs. Catt undertook it as president of the Inter national Suffrage Alliance the results would be of the

In my first visit to her after her husband's death I suggested this plan, but she replied that it was impossible

for her to consider it. I did not lose thought of it, however, and at the next International Conference, held in

Copenhagen in 1907, I suggested to some of the delegates that we introduce the matter as a resolution, asking

Mrs. Catt to go around the world in behalf of woman suffrage. They approved the suggestion so heartily that I

followed it up with a speech setting forth the whole plan and Mrs. Catt's peculiar fitness for the work. Several

months later Mrs. Catt and Dr. Aletta Jacobs, presi dent of the Holland Suffrage Association, started on

their world tour; and not until after they had gone did I fully realize that the two great personal am bitions of

my life had been realized, not by me, but by another, and in each case with my enthusiastic cooperation.

In 1904, following my election to the presidency, a strong appeal came from the Board of Managers of the

exposition to be held in Portland, Oregon, urging us to hold our next annual convention there during the

exposition. It was the first time an important body of men had recognized us in this manner, and we gladly

responded. So strong a political factor did the men of Oregon recognize us to be that every political party in

the state asked to be represented on our platform; and one entire evening of the convention was given over to

the representatives chosen by the various parties to indorse the suffrage movement. Thus we began in Oregon

Next to ``Suffrage Night,'' the most interesting feature of the exposition to us was the unveiling of the statue

of Saccawagea, the young Indian girl who led the Lewis and Clark expedition through the dangerous passes

of the mountain ranges of the Northwest until they reached the Pacific coast. This statue, presented to the

exposition by the women of Oregon, is the belated tribute of the state to its most dauntless pioneer; and no

one can look upon the noble face of the young squaw, whose out stretched hand points to the ocean, without

marvel ing over the ingratitude of the nation that ignored her supreme service. To Saccawagea is due the

opening up of the entire western country. There was no one to guide Lewis and Clark except this Indian, who

alone knew the way; and she led the whole party, carrying her papoose on her back. She was only sixteen, but

she brought every man safely through an experience of almost unparalleled hardship and danger, nursing

them in sickness and setting them an example of unfaltering courage and endurance, until she stood at last on

the Pacific coast, where her statue stands now, pointing to the wide sweep of the Columbia River as it flows

This recognition by women is the only recognition she ever received. Both Lewis and Clark were sin cerely

grateful to her and warmly recommended her to the government for reward; but the government allowed her

absolutely nothing, though each man in the party she had led was given a large tract of land. Tradition says

that she was bitterly disap pointed, as well she might have been, and her Indian brain must have been sadly

puzzled. But she was treated little worse than thousands of the white pioneer women who have followed her;

and standing: there today on the bank of her river, she still seems sorrowfully reflective over the strange

The Oregon campaign of 1906 was the carrying out of one of Miss Anthony's dearest wishes, and we who

loved her set about this work soon after her death. In the autumn preceding her passing, head quarters had

been established in Oregon, and Miss Laura Gregg had been placed in charge, with Miss Gale Laughlin as

her associate. As the money for this effort was raised by the National Association, it was decided, after some

discussion, to let the National Association develop the work in Oregon, which was admittedly a hard state to

As a beginning, the Legislature had failed to sub mit an amendment; but as the initiative and referen dum

was the law in Oregon, the amendment was sub mitted through initiative patent. The task of se curing the

necessary signatures was not an easy one, but at last a sufficient number of signatures were secured and

verified, and the authorities issued the necessary proclamation for the vote, which was to take place at a

special election held on the 5th of June. Our campaign work had been carried on as extensively as possible,

but the distances were great and the workers few, and as a result of the strain upon her Miss Gregg's health

All this was happening during Miss Anthony's last illness, and it added greatly to our anxieties.

She instructed me to go to Oregon immediately after her death and to take her sister Mary and her niece Lucy

with me, and we followed these orders within a week of her funeral, arriving in Portland on the third day of

April. I had at tempted too much, however, and I proved it by fainting as I got off the train, to the horror of

the friendly delegation waiting to receive us. The Portland women took very tender care of me, and in a few

days I was ready for work, but we found conditions even worse than we had expected. Miss Gregg had

collapsed utterly and was unable to give us any information as to what had been done or planned, and we had

to make a new foundation. Miss Laura Clay, who had been in the Portland work for a few weeks, proved a

tower of strength, and we were soon aided further by Ida Porter Boyer, who came on to take charge of the

publicity department. During the final six weeks of the campaign Alice Stone Blackwell, of Boston, was also

with us, while Kate Gordon took under her special charge the or ganization of the city of Portland and the

parlor meeting work. Miss Clay went into the state, where Emma Smith DeVoe and other speakers were

also working, and I spent my time between the office headquarters and ``the road,'' often working at my desk

until it was time to rush off and take a train for some town where I was to hold a night meeting. Miss Mary

and Miss Lucy Anthony confined them selves to officework in the Portland headquarters, where they gave

us very valuable assistance. I have always believed that we would have carried Oregon that year if the

disaster of the California earthquake had not occurred to divert the minds of Western men from interest in

On election day it seemed as if the heavens had opened to pour floods upon us. Never before or since have I

seen such incessant, relentless rain. Nevertheless, the women of Portland turned out in force, led by Mrs.

Sarah Evans, president of the Oregon State Federation of Women's Clubs, while all day long Dr. Pohl took

me in her automobile from one pollingplace to another. At each we found representative women patiently

enduring the drench ing rain while they tried to persuade men to vote for us. We distributed sandwiches,

courage, and in spiration among them, and tried to cheer in the same way the women watchers, whose

appointment we had secured that year for the first time. Two women had been admitted to every

pollingplacebut the way in which we had been able to secure their pres ence throws a highlight on the

difficulties we were meeting. We had to persuade men candidates to select these women as watchers; and the

only men who allowed themselves to be persuaded were those running on minority tickets and hopeless of

election the prohibitionists, the socialists, and the candi dates of the labor party.

The result of the election taught us several things. We had been told that all the prohibitionists and socialists

would vote for us. Instead, we discovered that the percentage of votes for woman suffrage was about the

same in every party, and that whenever the voter had cast a straight vote, without inde pendence enough to

``scratch'' his ticket, that vote was usually against us. On the other hand, when the ticket was ``scratched'' the

Another interesting discovery was that the early morning vote was favorable to our Cause the vote cast by

workingmen on their way to their employ ment. During the middle of the forenoon and after noon, when

the idle class was at the polls, the vote ran against us. The late vote, cast as men were returning from their

Also, for the first time in the history of any cam paign, the antisuffragists had organized against us.

Portland held a small body of women with anti suffrage sentiments, and there were others in the state who

formed themselves into an antisuffrage society and carried on a more or less active warfare. In this

campaign, for the first time, obscene cards directed against the suffragists were circulated at the polls; and

while I certainly do not accuse the Oregon antisuffragists of circulating them, it is a fact that the cards were

distributed as coming from the antisuffragistsundoubtedly by some vicious element among the men

which had its own good rea son for opposing us. The ``antis'' also suffered in this campaign from the

``pernicious activity'' of their spokesmana lawyer with an unenviable reputation. After the campaign was

In 1907 Mrs. O. H. P. Belmont began to show an interest in suffrage work, and through the influence of

several leaders in the movement, notably that of Mrs. Ida Husted Harper, she decided to assist in the

establishment of national headquarters in the State of New York. For a long time the associa tion's

headquarters had been in Warren, Ohio, the home of Mrs. Harriet Taylor Upton, then national treasurer, and

it was felt that their removal to a larger city would have a great influence in develop ing the work. In 1909

Mrs. Belmont attended as a delegate the meeting of the International Suffrage Alliance in London, and her

interest in the Cause deepened. She became convinced that the head quarters of the association should be in

New York City, and at our Seattle convention that same year I presented to the delegates her generous offer

to pay the rent and maintain a press department for two years, on condition that our national head quarters

This proposition was most gratefully accepted, and we promptly secured headquarters in one of the most

desirable buildings on Fifth Avenue. The wisdom of the change was demonstrated at once by the

extraordinary growth of the work. During our last year in Warren, for example, the proceeds from the sale of

our literature were between $1,200 and $1,300. During the first year in New York our returns from such sales

were between $13,000 and $14,000, and an equal growth was evident in our other departments.

At the end of two years Mrs. Belmont ceased to support the press department or to pay the rent, but her

timely aid had put us on our feet, and we were able to continue our splendid progress and to meet our

The special event of 1908 was the successful com pletion of the fund President M. Carey Thomas of Bryn

Mawr and Miss Mary Garrett had promised in 1906 to raise for the Cause. For some time after Miss

Anthony's death nothing more was said of this, but I knew those two indefatigable friends were not idle, and

``Aunt Susan'' had died in the blessed conviction that their success was certain. In 1907 I received a letter

from Miss Thomas telling me that the project was progressing; and later she sent an outline of her plan,

which was to ask a certain number of wealthy persons to give five hundred dollars a year each for a term of

years. In all, a fund of $60,000 was to be raised, of which we were to have $12,000 a year for five years;

$4,500 of the $12,000 was to be paid in salaries to three active officers, and the remaining $7,500 was to go

toward the work of the association. The entire fund was to be raised by May 1, 1908, she added, or the plan

I was on a lecture tour in Ohio in April, 1908, when one night, as I was starting for the hall where the lecture

was to be given, my telephone bell rang. ``Long distance wants you,'' the operator said, and the next minute a

voice I recognized as that of Miss Thomas was offering congratulations. ``The last dollar of the $60,000,'' she

I was so overcome by the news that I dropped the receiver and shook in a violent nervous attack, and this

trembling continued throughout my lecture. It had not seemed possible that such a burden could be lifted

from my shoulders; $7,500 a year would greatly aid our work, and $4,500 a year, even though divided among

three officers, would be a most wel come help to each. As subsequently arranged, the salaries did not come

to us through the National Association treasury; they were paid directly by Miss Thomas and Miss Garrett as

custodians of the fund. So it is quite correct to say that no salaries have ever been paid by the National

Three years later, in 1911, another glorious sur prise came to me in a very innocentlooking letter. It was

one of many in a heavy mail, and I opened it absentmindedly, for the day had been problemfilled.

The writer stated very simply that she wished to put a large amount into my hands to invest, to draw on, and

to use for the Cause as I saw fit. The matter was to be a secret between us, and she wished no subsequent

accounting, as she had entire faith in my ability to put the money to the best possible use.

The proposition rather dazed me, but I rallied my forces and replied that I was infinitely grateful, but that the

amount she mentioned was a large one and I would much prefer to share the responsibility of dis bursing it.

Could she not select one more person, at least, to share the secret and act with me? She re plied, telling me

to make the selection, if I insisted on having a confidante, and I sent her the names of Miss Thomas and Miss

Garrett, suggesting that as Miss Thomas had done so much of the work in con nection with the $60,000

fund, Miss Garrett might be willing to accept the detail work of this fund. My friend replied that either of

these ladies would be perfectly satisfactory to her. She knew them both, she said, and I was to arrange the

I used this money in subsequent state campaigns, and I am very sure that to it was largely due the winning of

Arizona, Kansas, and Oregon in 1912, and of Montana and Nevada in 1914. It enabled us for the first time to

establish headquarters, se cure an office force, and engage campaign speakers. I also spent some of it in the

states we lost then but will win laterOhio, Wisconsin, and Michigan using in all more than fifteen

thousand dollars. In September, 1913, I received another check from the same friend, showing that she at

``It goes to you with my love,'' she wrote, ``and my earnest hopes for further successnot the least of this a

crowning of your faithful, earnest, splendid work for our beloved Cause. How blessed it is that you are our

I had talked to this woman only twice in my life, and I had not seen her for years when her first check came;

so her confidence in me was an even greater gift than her royal donation toward our Cause.

The interval between the winning of Idaho and Utah in 1896 and that of Washington in 1910 seemed very

long to lovers of the Cause. We were working as hard as everharder, indeed, for the opposition against us

was growing stronger as our opponents realized what triumphant woman suf frage would mean to the

underworld, the grafters, and the whited sepulchers in public office. But in 1910 we were cheered by our

Washington victory, followed the next year by the winning of California. Then, with our splendid banner year

of 1912 came the winning of three statesArizona, Kansas, and Oregonpreceded by a campaign so full of

To begin, we conducted in 1912 the largest num ber of campaigns we had ever undertaken, working in six

states in which constitutional amendments were pendingOhio, Michigan, Wisconsin, Oregon, Arizona, and

Kansas. Personally, I began my work in Ohio in August, with the modest aspiration of speaking in each of the

principal towns in every one of these states. In Michigan I had the invaluable assistance of Mrs. Lawrence

Lewis, of Philadelphia, and I visited at this time the region of my old home, greatly changed since the days of

my girlhood, and talked to the old friends and neighbors who had turned out in force to welcome me. They

showed their further interest in the most satisfactory way, by carrying the amendment in their part of the

At least four and five speeches a day were expected, and as usual we traveled in every sort of conveyance,

from freightcars to eighty horsepower French auto mobiles. In Eau Clair, Wisconsin, I spoke at the races

immediately after the passing of a procession of cattle. At the end of the procession rode a wom an in an

oxcart, to represent pioneer days. She wore a calico gown and a sunbonnet, and drove her oxteam with

genuine skill; and the last touch to the picture she made was furnished by the presence of a beautiful biplane

which whirred lightly in the air above her. The obvious comparison was too good to ignore, so I told my

hearers that their women today were still riding in oxteams while the men soared in the air, and that

women's work in the world's service could be properly done only when they too were allowed to fly.

In Oregon we were joined by Miss Lucy Anthony. There, at Pendleton, I spoke during the great ``round up,''

holding the meeting at night on the street, in which thousands of horsemencowboys, Indians, and

ranchmenwere riding up and down, blowing horns, shouting, and singing. It seemed impossible to interest

an audience under such con ditions, but evidently the men liked variety, for when we began to speak they

quieted down and closed around us until we had an audience that filled the streets in every direction and as

far as our voices could reach. Never have we had more courteous or enthusiastic listeners than those wild and

happy horsemen. Best of all, they not only cheered our sentiments, but they followed up their cheers with

their votes. I spoke from an automobile, and when I had finished one of the cowboys rode close to me and

asked for my New York address. ``You will hear from me later,'' he said, when he had made a note of it. In

time I received a great linen banner, on which he had made a superb penandink sketch of himself and his

horse, and in every corner sketches of scenes in the different states where women voted, together with

drawings of all the details of cowboy equipment. Over these were drawn the words:

In California Mr. Edwards presented me with the money to purchase the diamond in Miss Anthony's flag pin

representing the victory of his state the preceding year; and in Arizona one of the high lights of the

campaign was the splendid effort of Mrs. Frances Munds, the state president, and Mrs. Alice Park, of Palo

Alto, California, who were carry ing on the work in their headquarters with tre mendous courage, and, as it

seemed to me, almost unaided. Mrs. Park's specialty was the distribu tion of suffrage literature, which she

circulated with remarkable judgment. The Governor of Arizona was in favor of our Cause, but there were so

few active workers available that to me, at least, the winning of the state was a happy surprise.

In Kansas we stole some of the prestige of Champ Clark, who was making political speeches in the same

region. At one station a brassband and a great gathering were waiting for Mr. Clark's train just as our train

drew in; so the local suffragists per suaded the band to play for us, too, and I made a speech to the inspiring

accompaniment of ``Hail to the Chief.'' The passengers on our train were great ly impressed, thinking it was

all for us; the crowd at the station were glad to be amused until the great man came, and I was glad of the

In the Soldiers' Home at Leavenworth I told the old men of the days when my father and brothers left us in

the wilderness, and my mother and I cared for the home while they fought at the frontand I have always

believed that much of the large vote we received at Leavenworth was cast by those old soldiers.

No one who knows the conditions doubts that we really won Michigan that year as well as the three other

states, but strange things were done in the count. For example, in one precinct in Detroit forty more votes

were counted against our amend ment than there were voters in the district. In other districts there were

seven or eight more votes than voters. Under these conditions it is not sur prising that, after the vigorous

recounting following the first widespread reports of our success, Michi gan was declared lost to us.

The campaign of 1914, in which we won Montana and Nevada, deserves special mention here. I must express

also my regret that as this book will be on the presses before the campaign of 1915 is ended, I cannot include

As a beginning of the 1914 campaign I spent a day in Chicago, on the way to South Dakota, to take my part

in a movingpicture suffrage play. It was my first experience as an actress, and I found it a taxing one. As a

modest beginning I was ordered to make a speech in thirtythree secondssomething of a task, as my usual

time allowance for a speech is one hour. The manager assured me, however, that a speech of thirtythree

seconds made twentyseven feet of filmenough, he thought, to convert even a lieutenantgovernor!

The Dakota campaigns, as usual, resolved them selves largely into feats of physical endurance, in which I

was inspired by the fine example of the state presidentsMrs. John Pyle of South Dakota and Mrs. Clara V.

Darrow of North Dakota. Every day we made speeches from the rear platform of the trains on which we were

travelingsometimes only two or three, sometimes half a dozen. One day I rode one hundred miles in an

automobile and spoke in five different towns. Another day I had to make a journey in a freightcar. It was,

with a few ex ceptions, the roughest traveling I had yet known, and it took me six hours to reach my

destination. While I was gathering up hairpins and pulling my self together to leave the car at the end of

``Oh, a hundred miles up and down,'' grinned the conductor, and the exchange of persiflage cheered us both.

Though we did not win, I have very pleasant memories of North Dakota, for Mrs. Darrow ac companied me

during the entire campaign, and took every burden from my shoulders so efficiently that I had nothing to do

In Montana our most interesting day was that of the State Fair, which ended with a suffrage parade that I was

invited to lead. On this occasion the suffragists wished me to wear my cap and gown and my doctor's hood,

but as I had not brought those garments with me, we borrowed and I proudly wore the cap and gown of the

Unitarian minister. It was a small but really beautiful parade, and all the cos tumes for it were designed by

the state president, Miss Jeannette Rankin, to whose fine work, by the way, combined with the work of her

In Butte the big strike was on, and the town was under martial law. A large banquet was given us there, and

when we drove up to the clubhouse where this festivity was to be held we were stopped by two armed

guards who confronted us with stern faces and fixed bayonets. The situation seemed so absurd that I burst

into happy laughter, and thus deeply offended the earnest young guards who were grasping the fixed

bayonets. This sad memory was wiped out, however, by the interest of the banquet a very delightful affair,

In Nevada the most interesting feature of the campaign was the splendid work of the women. In each of the

little towns there was the same spirit of ceaseless activity and determination. The presi dent of the State

Association, Miss Anne Martin, who was at the head of the campaign work, accom panied me one Sunday

when we drove seventy miles in a motor and spoke four times, and she was also my companion in a

wonderful journey over the mountains. Miss Martin was a tireless and worthy leader of the fine workers in

In Missouri, under the direction of Mrs. Walter McNabb Miller, and in Nebraska, where Mrs. E. Draper

Smith was managing the campaign, we had some inspiring meetings. At Lincoln Mrs. William Jennings

Bryan introduced me to the biggest audi ence of the year, and the programme took on a special interest from

the fact that it included Mrs. Bryan's debut as a speaker for suffrage. She is a tall and attractive woman with

an extremely pleasant voice, and she made an admirable speechclear, terse, and much to the point, putting

herself on record as a strong supporter of the womansuffrage movement. There was also an amusing

aftermath of this occa sion, which Secretary Bryan himself confided to me several months later when I met

him in Atlantic City. He assured me, with the deep sincerity he assumes so well, that for five nights after my

speech in Lincoln his wife had kept him awake listening to her report of itand he added, solemnly, that he

A less pleasing memory of Nebraska is that I lost my voice there and my activities were sadly inter rupted.

But I was taken to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Francis A. Brogan, of Omaha, and supplied with a trained nurse,

a throat specialist, and such care and comfort that I really enjoyed the enforced restknowing, too, that the

In Missouri one of our most significant meetings was in Bowling Green, the home of Champ Clark, Speaker

of the House. Mrs. Clark gave a reception, made a speech, and introduced me at the meeting, as Mrs. Bryan

had done in Lincoln. She is one of the brightest memories of my Missouri experience, for, with few

exceptions, she is the most entertaining woman I have ever met. Subsequently we had an allday motor

journey together, during which Mrs. Clark rarely stopped talking and I even more rarely stopped laughing.

From 1887 to 1914 we had a suffrage convention every year, and I attended each of them. In pre ceding

chapters I have mentioned various convention episodes of more or less importance. Now, looking back over

them all as I near the end of these remi niscences, I recall a few additional incidents which had a bearing on

later events. There was, for example, the muchdiscussed at tack on suffrage during the Atlanta convention

of 1895, by a prominent clergyman of that city whose name I mercifully withhold. On the Sunday pre

ceding our arrival this gentleman preached a sermon warning every one to keep away from our meetings, as

our effort was not to secure the franchise for women, but to encourage the intermarriage of the black and

white races. Incidentally he declared that the suffragists were trying to break up the homes of America and

degrade the morals of women, and that we were all infidels and blasphemers. He ended with a personal attack

on me, saying that on the previous Sunday I had preached in the Epworth Memorial Methodist Church of

Cleveland, Ohio, a sermon which was of so blasphemous a nature that nothing could purify the church after it

As usual at our conventions, I had been announced to preach the sermon at our Sunday conference, and I

need hardly point out that the reverend gentle man's charge created a deep public interest in this effort. I had

already selected a text, but I im mediately changed my plans and announced that I would repeat the sermon

I had delivered in Cleve land and which the Atlanta minister considered so blasphemous. The

announcement brought out an audience which filled the Opera House and called for a squad of police officers

to keep in order the street crowd that could not secure entrance. The assemblage had naturally expected that I

would make some reply to the clergyman's attack, but I made no reference whatever to him. I merely re

At the conclusion of the service one of the trustees of my reverend critic's church came and apologized for his

pastor. He had a high regard for him, the trustee said, but in this instance there could be no doubt in the mind

of any one who had heard both sermons that of the two mine was the tolerant, the reverent, and the Christian

one. The attack made many friends for us, first because of its injustice, and next because of the

The Atlanta convention, by the way, was ar ranged and largely financed by the Misses Howard three

sisters living in Columbus, Georgia, and each an officer of the Georgia Woman Suffrage Association. It is a

remarkable fact that in many of our Southern states the suffrage movement has been led by three sisters. In

Kentucky the three Clay sisters were for many years leaders in the work. In Texas the three Finnegan sisters

did splendid work; in Loui siana the Gordon sisters were our stanchest allies, while in Virginia we had the

invaluable aid of Mary Johnston, the novelist, and her two sisters. We used to say, laughingly, if there was a

failure to organize any state in the South, that it must be due to the fact that no family there had three sisters

From the Atlanta convention we went directly to Washington to attend the convention of the National

Council of Women, and on the first day of this council Frederick Douglass came to the meet ing. Mr.

Douglass had a special place in the hearts of suffragists, for the reason that at the first con vention ever held

for woman suffrage in the United States (at Seneca Falls, New York) he was the only person present who

stood by Elizabeth Cady Stan ton when she presented her resolution in favor of votes for women. Even

Lucretia Mott was startled by this radical step, and privately breathed into the ear of her friend, ``Elizabeth,

thee is making us ridiculous!'' Frederick Douglass, however, took the floor in defense of Mrs. Stanton's

Therefore, when the presiding officer of the council, Mrs. May Wright Sewall, saw Mr. Douglass enter the

convention hall in Washington on this particular morn ing, she appointed Susan B. Anthony and me a com

mittee to escort him to a seat on the platform, which we gladly did. Mr. Douglass made a short speech and

then left the building, going directly to his home. There, on entering his hall, he had an attack of heart failure

and dropped dead as he was removing his overcoat. His death cast a gloom over the con vention, and his

funeral, which took place three days later, was attended by many prominent men and women who were

among the delegates. Miss Anthony and I were invited to take part in the funeral services, and she made a

The event had an aftermath in Atlanta, for it led our clerical enemy to repeat his charges against us, and to

offer the funeral of Frederick Douglass as proof that we were hand in glove with the negro race.

Under the gracious direction of Miss Kate Gordon and the Louisiana Woman Suffrage Association, we held

an especially inspiring convention in New Orleans in 1903. In no previous convention were arrangements

more perfect, and certainly nowhere else did the men of a community cooperate more gen erously with the

women in entertaining us. A club of men paid the rent of our hall, chartered a steam boat and gave us a ride

on the Mississippi, and in many other ways helped to make the occasion a suc cess. Miss Gordon, who was

chairman of the programme committee, introduced the innovation of putting me before the audience for

twenty minutes every evening, at the close of the regular session, as a target for questions. Those present

were privileged to ask any questions they pleased, and I answered themif I could.

We were all conscious of the dangers attending a discussion of the negro question, and it was under stood

among the Northern women that we must take every precaution to avoid being led into such discussion. It had

not been easy to persuade Miss Anthony of the wisdom of this course; her way was to face issues squarely

and out in the open. But she agreed that we must respect the convictions of the Southern men and women

On the opening night, as I took my place to answer questions, almost the first slip passed up bore these

What is your purpose in bringing your convention to the South? Is it the desire of suffragists to force upon us

the social equality of black and white women? Political equality lays the foundation for social equality. If you

give the ballot to women, won't you make the black and white woman equal politically and therefore lay the

I laid the paper on one side and did not answer the question. The second night it came to me again, put in the

Evidently you do not dare to answer this question. There fore our conclusion is that this is your purpose.

``Here,'' I said, ``is a question which has been asked me on three successive nights. I have not answered it

because we Northern women had de cided not to enter into any discussion of the race question. But now I

am told by the writer of this note that we dare not answer it. I wish to say that we dare to answer it if you dare

to have it answered and I leave it to you to decide whether I shall answer it or not.''

I read the question aloud. Then the audience called for the answer, and I gave it in these words, quoted as

``If political equality is the basis of social equality, and if by granting political equality you lay the

foundation for a claim of social equality, I can only answer that you have already laid that claim. You did not

wait for woman suffrage, but disfranchised both your black and your white women, thus making them

politically equal. But you have done more than that. You have put the ballot into the hands of your black

men, thus making them the political superiors of your white women. Never before in the history of the world

``The women of the South are not alone,'' I said, ``in their humiliation. All the women of America share it

with them. There is no other nation in the world in which women hold the position of political degradation

our American women hold today. German women are governed by German men; French women are

governed by French men. But in these United States American women are gov erned by every race of men

under the light of the sun. There is not a color from white to black, from red to yellow, there is not a nation

from pole to pole, that does not send its contingent to govern American women. If American men are willing

to leave their women in a position as degrading as this they need not be surprised when American women

For a full moment after I had finished there was absolute silence in the audience. We did not know what

would happen. Then, suddenly, as the truth of the statement struck them, the men began to applaudand the

Another episode had its part in driving the suf frage lesson home to Southern women. The Legis lature had

passed a bill permitting taxpaying women to vote at any election where special taxes were to be imposed for

improvements, and the first election following the passage of this bill was one in New Orleans, in which the

question of better drainage for the city was before the public. Miss Gordon and the suffrage association

known as the Era Club entered enthusiastically into the fight for good drainage. According to the law women

could vote by proxy if they preferred, instead of in person, so Miss Gordon drove to the homes of the old

con servative Creole families and other families whose women were unwilling to vote in public, and she

collected their proxies while incidentally she showed them what position they held under the law.

With each proxy it was necessary to have the signa ture of a witness, but according to the Louisiana law no

woman could witness a legal document. Miss Gordon was driven from place to place by her colored

coachman, and after she had secured the proxy of her temporary hostess it was usually discovered that there

was no man around the place to act as a wit ness. This was Miss Gordon's opportunity. With a smile of great

sweetness she would say, ``I will have Sam come in and help us out''; and the colored coachman would get

down from his box, and by scrawling his signature on the proxy of the aristo cratic lady he would give it the

legal value it lacked. In this way Miss Gordon secured three hundred proxies, and three hundred very

conservative women had an opportunity to compare their legal standing with Sam's. The drainage bill was

The special incident of the Buffalo convention of 1908 was the receipt of a note which was passed up to me

as I sat on the platform. When I opened it a check dropped outa check so large that I was sure it had been

sent by mistake. However, after asking one or two friends on the platform if I had read it correctly, I

announced to the audience that if a certain amount were subscribed immediately I would reveal a secreta

very interesting secret. Audiences are as curious as individuals. The amount was at once subscribed. Then I

held up a check for $10,000, given for our campaign work by Mrs. George Howard Lewis, in memory of

Susan B. An thony, and I read to the audience the charming letter that accompanied it. The money was used

during the campaigns of the following yearpart of it in Washington, where an amendment was already

In a previous chapter I have described the estab lishment of our New York headquarters as a result of the

generous offer of Mrs. O. H. P. Belmont at the Seattle convention in 1909. During our first year in these

beautiful Fifth Avenue rooms Mrs. Pankhurst made her first visit to America, and we gave her a reception

there. This, however, was before the adoption of the destructive methods which have since marked the

activities of the band of militant suffragists of which Mrs. Pankhurst is president. There has never been any

sympathy among American suffragists for the militant suffrage movement in England, and personally I am

wholly opposed to it. I do not believe in war in any form; and if violence on the part of men is undesirable in

achieving their ends, it is much more so on the part of women; for women never appear to less advan tage

than in physical combats with men. As for militancy in America, no generation that attempted it could win.

No victory could come to us in any state where militant methods were tried. They are undignified,

The Washington convention of 1910 was graced by the presence of President Taft, who, at the in vitation of

Mrs. Rachel Foster Avery, made an address. It was understood, of course, that he was to come out strongly

for woman suffrage; but, to our great disappointment, the President, a most charming and likable gentleman,

seemed unable to grasp the significance of the occasion. He began his address with fulsome praise of women,

which was accepted in respectful silence. Then he got round to woman suffrage, floundered helplessly,

became confused, and ended with the most unfortunately chosen words he could have uttered: ``I am op

posed,'' he said, ``to the extension of suffrage to women not fitted to vote. You would hardly expect to put the

The dropping of these remarkable words into a suffrage convention was naturally followed by an oppressive

silence, which Mr. Taft, now wholly bereft of his selfpossession, broke by saying that the best women

In his audience were many women from suffrage stateshighminded women, wives and mothers, who had

voted for Mr. Taft. The remarks to which they had just listened must have seemed to them a poor return.

Some one hissedsome man, some womanno one knows which except the culprit and a demonstration

started which I immediately silenced. Then the President finished his address. He was very gracious to us

when he left, shaking hands with many of us, and being especially cordial to Senator Owens's aged mother,

who had come to the convention to hear him make his maiden speech on woman suffrage. I have often

wondered what he thought of that speech as he drove back to the White House. Probably he regretted as

In 1912, at an official board meeting at Bryn Mawr, Mrs. Stanley McCormack was appointed to fill a vacancy

on the National Board. Sub sequently she contributed $6,000 toward the pay ment of debts incident to our

temporary connec tion with the Woman's Journal of Boston, and did much efficient work for us, To me,

personally, the entrance of Mrs. Stanley McCormack into our work has been a source of the deepest grati

fication and comfort. I can truly say of her what Susan B. Anthony said of me, ``She is my right bower.'' At

Nashville, in 1914, she was elected first vicepresident, and to a remarkable degree she has since relieved me

of the burden of the technical work of the presidency, including the oversight of the work at headquarters. To

this she gives all her time, aided by an executive secretary who takes charge of the routine work of the

association. She has thus made it possible for me to give the greater part of my time to the field in which such

To Mrs. Medill McCormack also we are indebted for most admirable work and enthusiastic support. At the

Washington (D.C.) convention in 1913 she was made the chairman of the Congressional Com mittee, with

Mrs. Antoinette Funk, Mrs. Helen Gardner of Washington, and Mrs. Booth of Chicago as her assistants. The

results they achieved were so brilliant that they were unanimously reelected to the same positions this year,

with the addition of Miss Jeannette Rankin, whose energy and service had helped to win for us the state of

It was largely due to the work of this Congress ional Committee, supported by the large number of states

which had been won for suffrage, that we secured such an excellent vote in the Lower House of Congress on

the bill to amend the national Con stitution granting suffrage to the women of the United States. This

measure, known as the Susan B. Anthony bill, had been introduced into every Congress for fortythree years

by the National Woman Suffrage Association. In 1914, for the first time, it was brought out of committee,

debated, and voted upon in the Lower House. We received 174 votes in favor of it to 204 against it. The

previous spring, in the same Congress, the same bill passed the Senate by 35 votes for it to 33 votes against it.

The most interesting features of the Washington convention of 1913 were the labor massmeetings led by

Jane Addams and the hearing before the Rules Committee of the Lower House of Con gressthe latter the

first hearing ever held be fore this Committee for the purpose of securing a Committee on Suffrage in the

Lower House to correspond with a similar committee in the Sen ate. For many years we had had hearings

be fore the Judiciary Committee of the Lower House, which was such a busy committee that it had neither

time nor interest to give to our measure. We there fore considered it necessary to have a special com mittee

of our own. The hearing began on the morning of Wednesday, the third of December, and lasted for two

hours. Then the antisuffragists were given time, and their hearing began the following day, continued

throughout that day and during the morning of the next day, when our National Association was given an

opportunity for rebuttal argument in the afternoon. It was the longest hear ing in the history of the suffrage

During the session of Congress in 1914 another strenuous effort was made to secure the appoint ment of a

special suffrage committee in the Lower House. But when success began to loom large be fore us the

Democrats were called in caucus by the minority leader, Mr. Underwood, of Alabama, and they downed our

measure by a vote of 127 against it to 58 for it. This was evidently done by the Democrats because of the fear

that the united votes of Republican and Progressive members, with those of certain Democratic members,

would carry the measure; whereas if this caucus were called, and an unfavorable vote taken, ``the gentlemen's

agree ment'' which controls Democratic party action in Congress would force Democrats in favor of

suffrage to vote against the appointment of the committee, which of course would insure its defeat.

The caucus blocked the appointment of the com mittee, but it gave great encouragement to the suf fragists

of the country, for they knew it to be a tacit admission that the measure would receive a favor able vote if it

Another feature of the 1913 convention was the new method of electing officers, by which a primary vote

was taken on nominations, and afterward a regular ballot was cast; one officer was added to the members of

the official board, making nine instead of eight, the former number. The new officers elected were Mrs.

Breckenridge of Kentucky, the greatgranddaughter of Henry Clay, and Mrs. Catherine RuutzRees of

Greenwich, Connecticut. The old officers were reelectedMiss Jane Addams as first vicepresident, Mrs.

Breckenridge and Mrs. RuutzRees as second and third vicepresidents, Mrs. Mary Ware Dennett as

corresponding secre tary, Mrs. Susan Fitzgerald as recording secretary, Mrs. Stanley McCormack as

treasurer, Mrs. Joseph Bowen of Chicago and Mrs. James Lees Laidlaw of New York City as auditors.

It would be difficult to secure a group of women of more marked ability, or betterknown workers in various

lines of philanthropic and educational work, than the members composing this admirable board. At the

convention of 1914, held in Nashville, several of them resigned, and at present (in 1914) the ``National's''

affairs are in the hands of this in spiring group, again headed by the muchcriticized and chastened writer of

Mrs. Stanley McCormack, first vicepresident. Mrs. Desha Breckenridge, second vicepresident. Dr.

Katharine B. Davis, third vicepresident. Mrs. Henry Wade Rogers, treasurer. Mrs. John Clark,

corresponding secretary. Mrs. Susan Walker Fitzgerald, recording secretary. Mrs. Medill McCormack, } }

In a book of this size, and covering the details of my own life as well as the development of the great Cause,

it is, of course, impossible to mention by name each woman who has worked for us though, indeed, I

would like to make a roll of honor and give them all their due. In looking back I am sur prised to see how

little I have said about many women with whom I have worked most closelyRachel Foster Avery, for

example, with whom I lived happily for several years; Ida Husted Harper, the historian of the suffrage

movement and the biographer of Miss Anthony, with whom I made many delightful voy ages to Europe;

Alice Stone Blackwell, Rev. Mary Saffard, Jane Addams, Katharine Waugh McCul lough, Ella Stewart,

Mrs. Mary Wood Swift, Mrs. Mary S. Sperry, Mary Cogshall, Florence Kelly, Mrs. Ogden Mills Reid and

Mrs. Norman White house (to mention only two of the younger ``live wires'' in our New York work),

Sophonisba Breck enridge, Mrs. Clara B. Arthur, Rev. Caroline Bart lett Crane, Mrs. James Lees Laidlaw,

Mrs. Raymond Brown, the splendidly executive president of our New York State Suffrage Association, and

my bene factress, Mrs. George Howard Lewis of Buffalo. To all of them, and to thousands of others, I make

I have said much of the interest attending the international meetings held in Chicago, London, Berlin, and

Stockholm. That I have said less about those in Copenhagen, Geneva, The Hague, Budapest, and other cities

does not mean that these were less important, and certainly the wonderful women leaders of Europe who

First, however, the difference between the Suf frage Alliance meetings and the International Coun cil

meetings should be explained. The Council meetings are made up of societies from the various nations which

are auxiliary to the International Councilthese societies representing all lines of women's activities,

whether educational, industrial, or social, while the membership, including more than eleven million women,

represents probably the largest organization of women in the world. The International Suffrage Alliance

represents the suf frage interest primarily, whereas the International Council has only a suffrage department.

So popu lar did this International Alliance become after its formation in Berlin by Mrs. Catt, in 1904, that at

the Copenhagen meeting, only three years later, more than sixteen different nations were represented by

It was unfortunate, therefore, that I chose this occasion to make a spectacular personal failure in the pulpit. I

had been invited to preach the con vention sermon, and for the first time in my life I had an interpreter. Few

experiences, I believe, can be more unpleasant than to stand up in a pul pit, utter a remark, and then wait

patiently while it is repeated in a tongue one does not understand, by a man who is putting its gist in his own

words and quite possibly giving it his own interpretative twist. I was very unhappy, and I fear I showed it, for

I felt, as I looked at the faces of those friends who understood Danish, that they were not getting what I was

giving them. Nor were they, for I afterward learned that the interpreter, a good orthodox brother, had given

the sermon an ultraorthodox bias which those who knew my creed certainly did not recognize. The whole

During the Copenhagen meeting we were given a banquet by the City Council, and in the course of his

speech of welcome one of the city fathers airily remarked that he hoped on our next visit to Copen hagen

there would be women members in the Council to receive us. At the time this seemed merely a pleasant jest,

but two years from that day a bill was enacted by Parliament granting municipal suf frage to the women of

Denmark, and seven women were elected to the City Council of Copenhagen. So rapidly does the woman

Recalling the International Council of 1899 in London, one of my most vivid pictures has Queen Victoria for

its central figure. The English court was in mourning at the time and no public audiences were being held; but

we were invited to Windsor with the understanding that, although the Queen could not formally receive us,

she would pass through our lines, receiving Lady Aberdeen and giving the rest of us an opportunity to

courtesy and obtain Her Majesty's recognition of the Cause. The Queen arranged with her chamberlain that

we should be given tea and a collation; but before this refreshment was served, indeed immediately after our

arrival, she entered her familiar little ponycart and was driven slowly along lines of bowing women who

Among us was a group of Indian women, and these, dressed in their native costumes, contributed a

picturesque bit of brilliant color to the scene as they deeply salaamed. They arrested the eye of the Queen,

who stopped and spoke a few cordial words to them. This gave the rest of us an excellent opportunity to

observe her closely, and I admit that my English blood stirred in me suddenly and loyally as I studied the

plump little figure. She was dressed entirely and very simply in black, with a quaint flat black hat and a black

cape. The only bit of color about her was a blackandwhite parasol with a gold handle. It was, however, her

face which held me, for it gave me a wholly different impression of the Queen from those I had received from

her photographs. Her pictured eyes were always rather cold, and her pictured face rather haughty; but there

was a very sweet and winning softness in the eyes she turned upon the Indian women, and her whole

expression was unexpectedly gentle and benignant. Behind her, as a personal attendant, strode an enormous

EastIndian in full native costume, and closely surrounding her were gentlemen of her house hold, each in

By this time my thoughts were on my courtesy, which I desired to make conventional if not grace ful; but

nature has not made it easy for me to double to the earth as Lady Aberdeen and the In dian women were

doing, and I fear I accomplished little save an exhibition of good intentions. The Queen, however, was getting

into the spirit of the occasion. She stopped to speak to a Canadian representative, and she would, I think, have

ended by talking to many others; but, just at the psycho logical moment, a woman rushed out of the line,

seized Her Majesty's hand and kissed itand Vic toria, startled and possibly fearing a general on slaught,

Another picture I recall was made by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Countess of Aberdeen, and the Countess

of Warwick standing together to receive us at the foot of the marble stairway in Sutherland House. All of

them literally blazed with jewels, and the Countess of Aberdeen wore the famous Aber deen emerald. At

Lady Battersea's reception I had my first memorial meeting with Mary Anderson Navarro, and was able to

thank her for the pleasure she had given me in Boston so long ago. Then I reproached her mildly for taking

herself away from us, pointing out that a great gift had been given her which she should have continued to

``Come and see my baby,'' laughed Madame Navarro. ``That's the best argument I can offer to refute yours.''

At the same reception I had an interesting talk with James Bryce. He had recently written his American

Commonwealth, and I had just read it. It was, therefore, the first subject I introduced in our conversation. Mr.

Bryce's comment amused me. He told me he had quite changed his opinion toward the suffrage aspirations of

women, because so many women had read his book that he really believed they were intelligent, and he had

come to feel much more kindly toward them. These were not his exact words, but his meaning was

unmistak able and his mental attitude artlessly sincere. And, on reflection, I agree with him that the

American Commonwealth is something of an intellectual hurdle for the average human mind.

In 1908 the International Council was held in Geneva, and here, for the first time, we were shown, as

entertainment, the dances of a countrythe scene being an especially brilliant one, as all the dancers wore

their native costumes. Also, for the first time in the history of Geneva, the buildings of Parliament were

opened to women and a woman's organization was given the key to the city. At that time the Swiss women

were making their fight for a vote in church matters, and we helped their cause as much as we could. Today

many Swiss women are permitted to exercise this rightthe first political privilege free Switzerland has

The International Alliance meeting in Amster dam in 1909 was the largest held up to that time, and much of

its success was due to Dr. Aletta Jacobs, the president of the National Suffrage Association of Holland. Dr.

Jacobs had some wonderful helpers among the women of her country, and she herself was an ideal

leaderpatient, enthusiastic, and tire less. That year the governments of Australia, Nor way, and Finland

paid the expenses of the delegates from those countriesa heartening innovation. One of the interesting

features of the meeting was a cantata composed for the occasion and given by the Queen's Royal Band, under

the direction of a womanCatharine van Rennes, one of the most distinguished composers and teachers in

Holland. She wrote both words and music of her cantata and directed it admirably; and the musicians of the

Queen's Band entered fully into its spirit and played like men inspired. That night we had more music, as well

The same year, in June, we held the meeting of the International Council in Toronto, and, as Canada has

never been eagerly interested in suffrage, an un successful effort was made to exclude this subject from the

programme. I was asked to preside at the suffrage meetings on the artless and obvious theory that I would

thus be kept too busy to say much. I had hoped that the Countess of Aberdeen, who was the president of the

International Council, would take the chair; but she declined to do this, or even to speak, as the Earl of

Aberdeen had recently been appointed Viceroy of Ireland, and she desired to spare him any embarrassment

which might be caused by her public activities. We recognized the wisdom of her decision, but, of course,

regretted it; and I was therefore especially pleased when, on suffrage night, the countess, accompanied by her

aides in their brilliant uniforms, entered the hall. We had not been sure that she would be with us, but she

entered in her usual charming and gra cious manner, took a seat beside me on the platform, and showed a

As the meeting went on I saw that she was grow ing more and more enthusiastic, and toward the end of the

evening I quietly asked her if she did not wish to say a few words. She said she would say a very few. I had

put myself at the end of the programme, intending to talk about twenty minutes; but before beginning my

speech I introduced the countess, and by this time she was so enthusiastic that, to my great delight, she used

up my twenty minutes in a capital speech in which she came out vigorously for woman suffrage. It gave us

the best and timeliest help we could have had, and was a great impetus to the movement.

In London, at the Alliance Council of 1911, we were entertained for the first time by a suffrage organization

of men, and by the organized actresses of the nation, as well as by the authors.

In Stockholm, the following year, we listened to several of the most interesting women speakers in the

worldSelma Lagerlof, who had just received the Nobel prize, Rosica Schwimmer of Hungary, Dr.

Augsburg of Munich, and Mrs. Philip Snowden of England. Miss Schwimmer and Mrs. Snowden have since

become familiar to American audiences, but until that time I had not heard either of them, and I was

immensely impressed by their ability and their different methodsMiss Schwimmer being all force and fire,

alive from her feet to her fingertips, Mrs. Snowden all quiet reserve and dignity. Dr. Augsburg wore her hair

short and dressed in a most eccentric manner; but we forgot her appearance as we listened to her, for she was

Selma Lagerlof's speech made the great audience weep. Men as well as women openly wiped their eyes as

she described the sacrifice and suffering of Swedish women whose men had gone to America to make a home

there, and who, when they were left behind, struggled alone, waiting and hoping for the message to join their

husbands, which too often never came. The speech made so great an impres sion that we had it translated

and distributed among the Swedes of the United States wherever we held meetings in Swedish localities.

Miss Lagerlof interested me extremely, and I was delighted by an invitation to breakfast with her one

morning. At our first meeting she had seemed rather cold and shya little ``difficult,'' as we say; but when

we began to talk I found her frank, cor dial, and full of magnetism. She is selfconscious about her English,

but really speaks our language very well. Her great interest at the time was in improving the condition of the

peasants near her home. She talked of this work and of her books and of the Council programme with such

At the Hague Council in 1913 I was the guest of Mrs. Richard Halter, to whom I am also indebted for a

beautiful and wonderful motor journey from end to end of Holland, bringing up finally in Amster dam at the

home of Dr. Aletta Jacobs. Here we met two young Holland women, Miss Boissevain and Rosa Manus, both

wealthy, both anxious to help their countrywomen, but still a little uncertain as to the direction of their

efforts. They came to Mrs. Catt and me and asked our advice as to what they should do, with the result that

later they organized and put through, largely unaided, a national ex position showing the development of

women's work from 1813 to 1913. The suffrageroom at this ex position showed the progress of suffrage in

all parts of the world; but when the Queen of Holland visited the building she expressed a wish not to be

detained in this room, as she was not interested in suffrage. The Prince Consort, however, spent much time in

it, and wanted the whole suffrage movement explained to him, which was done cheerfully and thoroughly by

Miss Boissevain and Miss Manus. The fol lowing winter, when the Queen read her address from the throne,

she expressed an interest in so changing the Constitution of Holland that suffrage might possibly be extended

to women. We felt that this change of heart was due to the suffrageroom arranged by our two young

Immediately after these days at Amsterdam we started for Budapest to attend the International Alliance

Convention there, and incidentally we in dulged in a series of twoday conventions en route one at

Berlin, one at Dresden, one at Prague, and one at Vienna. At Prague I disgraced myself by being in my hotel

room in a sleep of utter exhaustion at the hour when I was supposed to be responding to an address of

welcome by the mayor; and the highlight of the evening session in that city falls on the intellectual brow of

a Bohemian lady who in sisted on making her address in the Czech language, which she poured forth for

exactly one hour and fifteen minutes. I began my address at a quarter of twelve and left the hall at midnight.

Later I learned that the last speaker began her remarks at a quarter past one in the morning.

It may be in order to add here that Vienna did for me what Berlin had done for Susan B. Anthony it gave

me the ovation of my life. At the conclusion of my speech the great audience rose and, still stand ing,

cheered for many minutes. I was immensely surprised and deeply touched by the unexpected tribute; but any

undue elation I might have ex perienced was checked by the memory of the skepti cal snort with which

one of my auditors had received me. He was very German, and very, very frank. After one pained look at me

He was halfway down the aisle when the opening words of my address caught up with him and stopped

him. Whatever their meaning may have been, it was at least carried to the far ends of that great hall, for the

old fellow had piqued me a bit and I had given my voice its fullest volume. He crowded into an already

The meeting at Budapest was a great personal triumph for Mrs. Catt. No one, I am sure, but the almost adored

president of the International Suf frage Alliance could have controlled a convention made up of women of

so many different nationalities, with so many different viewpoints, while the con fusion of languages made

a general understanding seem almost hopeless. But it was a great success in every wayand a delightful

feature of it was the hospitality of the city officials and, indeed, of the whole Hungarian people. After the

convention I spent a week with the Contessa Iska Teleki in her chateau in the Tatra Mountains, and a

friendship was there formed which ever since has been a joy to me. Together we walked miles over the

moun tains and along the banks of wonderful streams, while the countess, who knows all the folklore of

her land, told me stories and answered my innumerable questions. When I left for Vienna I took with me a

basket of tiny firtrees from the tops of the Tatras; and after carrying the basket to and around Vienna,

Florence, and Genoa, I finally got the trees home in good condition and proudly added them to the ``Forest of

In looking back over the ten years of my adminis tration as president of the National American Woman

Suffrage Association, there can be no feeling but gratitude and elation over the growth of the work. Our

membership has grown from 17,000 women to more than 200,000, and the number of auxiliary societies has

Instead of the oldtime experience of one campaign in ten years, we now have from five to ten campaigns

each year. From an original yearly expenditure of $14,000 or $15,000 in our campaign work, we now expend

from $40,000 to $50,000. In New York, in 1915, we have already received pledges of $150,000 for the New

York State campaign alone, while Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and New Jersey have made pledges in

In 1906 full suffrage prevailed in four states; we now have it in twelve. Our movement has advanced from its

academic stage until it has become a vital political factor; no reform in the country is more heralded by the

press or receives more attention from the public. It has become an issue which engages the attention of the

entire nationand toward this result every woman work ing for the Cause has contributed to an inspiring

degree. Splendid teamwork, and that alone, has made our present success possible and our eventual triumph

in every state inevitable. Every officer in our organization, every leader in our campaigns, every speaker,

I do not claim anything so fantastic and Utopian as universal harmony among us. We have had our troubles

and our differences. I have had mine. At every annual convention since the one at Wash ington in 1910

there has been an effort to depose me from the presidency. There have been some splendid fighters among

my opponentsfine and highminded women who sincerely believe that at sixtyeight I am getting too old

for my big job. Possibly I am. Certainly I shall resign it with alacrity when the majority of women in the

organiza tion wish me to do so. At present a large majority proves annually that it still has faith in my

Looking back over the period covered by these reminiscences, I realize that there is truth in the grave charge

that I am no longer young; and this truth was once voiced by one of my little nieces in a way that brought it

strongly home to me. She and her small sister of six had declared themselves suffragettes, and as the first

result of their conver sion to the Cause both had been laughed at by their schoolmates. The younger child

came home after this tragic experience, weeping bitterly and declar ing that she did not wish to be a

suffragette any morean exhibition of apostasy for which her wise sister of eight took her roundly to task.

``Aren't you ashamed of yourself,'' she demanded, ``to stop just because you have been laughed at once?

I sometimes feel that it has indeed been hundreds of years since my work began; and then again it seems so

brief a time that, by listening for a moment, I fancy I can hear the echo of my child ishvoice preaching to

But long or short, the one sure thing is that, taking it all in all, the struggles, the discouragements, the failures,

and the little victories, the fight has been, as Susan B. Anthony said in her last hours, ``worth while.'' Nothing

bigger can come to a human being than to love a great Cause more than life itself, and to have the privilege

As for life's other gifts, I have had some of them, too. I have made many friendships; I have looked upon the

beauty of many lands; I have the assur ance of the respect and affection of thousands of men and women I

have never even met. Though I have given all I had, I have received a thousand times more than I have given.

Neither the world nor my Cause is indebted to me but from the depths of a full and very grateful heart I