A very well-known lawyer of Philadelphia was sitting in his private
office one morning when word was brought in to him that a young lady
wished to see him. The office-boy had never seen her before, and she
had not given her name, but she was very firm in her intention not to
be refused an interview.
"Show her in," said the lawyer, pushing back his chair with a bored
expression and a resolution to send the stranger away at short notice
if she was not a client. What was his surprise when a very young girl,
still wearing short dresses, was ushered in, and stood before him with
such an earnest expression in her bright eyes that she instantly
attracted him. Motioning her to take a seat, he asked her errand.
"I wish some copying to do," was the reply, in such a musical voice
that the lawyer became still more interested.
"Do you intend to do it yourself?" he asked.
She bowed assent. "Yes," she said. "We are in need of money and I must
help. I write a clear hand."
So pleased was he with her manner and her quiet words, "We are in need
of money and I must help," as well as touched by her self-reliance at
an age when girls are generally amusing themselves, that he gave her
some copying which he had intended to have done in the office. With a
grateful glance from her brilliant dark eyes, she thanked him, and,
promising to bring the work back as soon as possible, she left the
office.
As the door closed behind her the lawyer opened a drawer and took
from it a little faded photograph of a young girl with dark eyes and
curly hair, looked at it long and sadly, then replaced it in the
drawer and went on with his work.
On the following day, when the office-boy announced "the young lady
with the copying," she was summoned to his office at once and given a
hearty hand-clasp.
"I am glad to see you again," the lawyer said. "I had a daughter you
remind me of strongly. She died when she was twelve years old. Be
seated, please, and tell me a little about yourself. You are very
young to be doing such work as this. Is your father living, and why
are you not in school?"
Compelled by his kindly interest, the young girl talked as freely with
him as if he were an old friend. Her name, she said, was Anna
Elizabeth Dickinson, and she was born in Philadelphia, thirteen years
before, on the 28th of October. Her father, John Dickinson, and her
mother, who had been Mary Edmundson before her marriage, were both
persons who were interested in the vital questions of the day, and
Anna had been brought up in an atmosphere of refinement and of high
principles. All this her new friend learned by a series of friendly
questions, and Anna, having begun her story, continued with a degree
of frankness which was little less than surprising, after so short an
acquaintance. Her father had been a merchant, and had died when she
was two years old, leaving practically no income for the mother to
live on and bring up her five children. Both mother and father were
Quakers, she said, and she was evidently very proud of her father, for
her eyes flashed as she said: "He was a wonderful man! Of course, I
can't remember it, but mother has told me that the last night of his
life, when he was very sick, he went to an anti-slavery meeting and
made a remarkably fine speech. Yes, father was wonderful."
"And your mother?" queried her new friend.
Tears dimmed the young girl's eyes. "There aren't any words to
express mother," she said. "That is why I am trying to work at night,
or at least part of the reason," she added, with frank honesty. "We
take boarders and mother teaches in a private school, too, but even
that doesn't give enough money for six of us to live on, and she is so
pale and tired all the time." She added, with a toss of her curly
head: "And I must have money to buy books, too, but helping mother is
more important."
Entirely absorbed in her own narrative now, she continued to pour out
a flood of facts with such an eloquence and persuasive use of words
that her hearer was lost in amazement over a young girl who was so
fluent in her use of language. From her frank tale he gathered that
she had been a wayward, wilful, intense, and very imaginative child,
who, despite her evident devotion to her mother, had probably given
her many hours of worry and unhappiness. It was evident also that as a
younger child she had been considered an incorrigible pupil at school,
for she seemed to have always rebelled against discipline which she
thought unnecessary.
"They could punish me all they liked," she said, with flashing eyes.
"I would never obey a rule that had not been explained to me and that
wasn't fair--never! Teachers and mothers were always telling good
little girls not to play with me, and I was _glad_! Girls the teachers
call 'good' sometimes are not that at all; they just know how to hide
things from the teachers." As her hearer made no comment, but listened
with an amused smile curving his lips, Anna continued: "I _adore_
books, but, oh, how I hate school, when the rich girls laugh at my
clothes and then at me if I tell them that my mother is poor and we
work for all we have! It isn't fair, because we can't help it, and we
do the best we can. I never would say it to them in the world--never!
In the first school I went to they used to tease the children who
were timid, and bother them so much that they would forget their
lessons and get punished when it was not their fault. But _I_ looked
after them," declared Anna, proudly. "I fought their battles for them,
until the others left them alone, because they were afraid to fight
me, I was so strong. Oh, sir," she cried, "why can't people always be
fair and square, I wonder?"
As if mesmerized by the intensity of this remarkable young reformer,
the lawyer found himself repeating, "I wonder!" as if he had no
opinions on the subject, but at the same time he was doing some
thinking in regard to such a unique character as this one before him.
When she had finished speaking he rose and put a bundle of work in her
hand. "I will help you and your brave mother all I can," he said.
"While you are doing that copying I will speak to other lawyers, who,
I am sure, will give you more to do. I have looked over what you have
done, and can warmly recommend you as a copyist. I hope we shall have
many more long talks together."
So with her package under her arm, and a warm feeling of satisfaction
in her heart because she had found a new friend who said she could do
good work, she hurried home.
Almost from baby days it had been evident that Anna Dickinson was no
ordinary child, and how to curb the restless spirit and develop the
strong nature into a fine woman was a great problem for the already
over-burdened mother. Even as a young child Anna had an iron will, and
discipline, of which she later learned the value, so chafed her
independent nature that she was generally in a state of rebellion.
From her own story it was clear that she must have been a terror to
unjust teachers or pupils; but she did not mention the many devoted
friends she had gained by her championship of those who were not being
treated fairly according to her ideas. Hers was a strong, talented,
courageous, fearless nature, which was bound to be a great power for
good or evil. The scales were turned in the right direction by her
passionate love for her mother and an intense desire to lift some of
the burden of financial worry from her shoulders, as she saw Mrs.
Dickinson, with tireless industry, struggle to make ends meet, and to
feed, clothe, and educate her fatherless children. Her one
determination was to have them grow up into noble men and women, but
in Anna's early life it seemed as if the tumultuous nature would never
be brought to any degree of poise and self-control. She showed a
marked love of books, even when she was only seven years old, and
would take one of her mother's volumes of Byron's poems and, hiding
under a bed, where she would not be disturbed, read for hours.
When she was about twelve years old Anna went to the "Westover
Boarding-school of Friends," where she remained for almost two years,
and from which she went to the "Friends' Select School" in
Philadelphia, where she was still studying when she applied for
copying and found a new friend. Both of the schools were free Quaker
schools, as her mother could not afford to send her elsewhere, and in
both she stood high for scholarship, if not for deportment. In the
latter institution she was noted for never failing in a recitation,
although she was taking twelve subjects at one time, and was naturally
looked upon with awe and admiration by less brilliant pupils. A new
scholar once questioned her as to her routine of work, and the reply
left her questioner speechless with wonder.
"Oh, I haven't any," said Anna, with a toss of her curly head. "And I
don't study. I just go to bed and read, sometimes till one o'clock in
the morning--poetry, novels, and all sorts of things; then just before
I go to sleep I look my lessons over." Evidently the new-comer was a
bit doubtful of being able to follow her leader, for Anna added,
reassuringly: "Oh yes, you can, if you try. It's easy when you get the
habit!" and went off, leaving a much-amazed girl behind her.
At the time of her visit to the lawyer's office Anna begged to be
allowed to leave school to try and add to the family income, but her
practical mother persuaded her not to do this for at least a year or
so, and, seeing the wisdom of the advice, Anna remained in the
"Friends' School." So active was her mind that for weeks at a time she
did not sleep over five hours a night; the remaining time she spent in
doing all the copying she could get and in reading every book on which
she could lay her hands. Newspapers, speeches, tracts, history,
biography, poetry, novels and fairy-tales--she devoured them all with
eager interest. A favorite afternoon pastime of hers was to go to the
Anti-Slavery Office, where, curled up in a cozy corner, she would read
their literature or listen to arguments on the subject presented by
persons who came and went. At other times she would be seized with a
perfect passion for a new book, and would go out into the streets,
determined not to return home until she had earned enough to buy the
coveted prize. At such a time she would run errands or carry bundles
or bags for passengers coming from trains until she had enough money
for her book. Then she would hurry to a bookstore, linger long and
lovingly over the piles of volumes, and finally buy one, which she
would take home and devour, then take it to a second-hand bookshop and
sell it for a fraction of what it cost, and get another.
Among her other delights were good lectures, and she eagerly watched
the papers to find out when George William Curtis, Wendell Phillips,
or Henry Ward Beecher was going to lecture in the city; then she would
start out on a campaign to earn the price of a ticket for the lecture.
One day when she had read much about Wendell Phillips, but never
heard him, she saw that he was to lecture in Philadelphia on "The Lost
Arts." It happened that there was no copying for her to do at that
time, and she had no idea how to earn the twenty-five cents which
would give her the coveted admittance; but go to the lecture she must.
As she walked past a handsome residence she noticed that coal had just
been put in and the sidewalk left very grimy. Boldly ringing the bell,
she asked if she might scrub the walk, and as a result of her exertion
a triumphant young girl was the first person to present herself at the
hall that night, and quite the most thrilled listener among the throng
that packed the house to hear Wendell Phillips. Although her career
was so soon to find her out, little did Anna dream on that night, as
she listened spellbound to the orator of the occasion, that not far in
the future many of that audience were to be applauding a young girl
with dark eyes, curly hair, and such force of character and personal
magnetism that she was to sway her audiences even to a greater extent
than the man to whom she was listening.
When she was seventeen Anna left school for good, feeling that she
could not afford to give any more time to study while her mother
needed so many comforts and necessities which money could buy. So she
left the "Friends' Select School," and in her unselfish reason for
this, and the fact that she was forced to support herself and others
at such an early age, when she longed for a more thorough education,
lies an appeal for kindly criticism of her work rather than a verdict
of superficiality, which some gave who did not understand or
appreciate the nature, the inspiration, or the real genius of the
young and enthusiastic girl.
She was offered a position as teacher in a school in New Brighton,
Beaver County, and accepting it she spent a few months there, but as
she did not like it she applied for a district-school position that
was vacant in the same town. When she had made all but the final
arrangements with the committee she asked, "What salary do you give?"
A committeeman replied: "A man has had the position until now. We gave
him twenty-eight dollars a month, but we should not think of giving a
_girl_ more than sixteen." Something in his manner and words stung
Anna like a lash, and, drawing herself up to her full height, she
turned to leave the room.
"Sir," she said, "though I am too poor to-day to buy a pair of cotton
gloves, I would rather go in rags than degrade my womanhood by
accepting anything at your hands!" And off she went, to try her fate
in some other place and way, absolutely sure that in some unknown
manner she was to wrest success from the future. Young, inexperienced,
penniless, and with few friends, she passed weeks looking for a
situation in vain. At last she was offered work in a store, but when
she found that she must tell what was not true about goods to
customers rather than lose a sale, she put on her hat and left at
once, and again began her weary quest of work. Everywhere she found
that, if she had been a boy, she could have secured better positions
and pay than she could as a girl. Also in her wide range of reading
she discovered that many of the advantages of life and all of the
opportunities, at that time, were given to men rather than to women.
Her independent nature was filled with determination to do something
to alter this, if she ever had a chance. It came sooner than she would
have dared to hope.
One Sunday she was sitting at home, reading a newspaper, when she saw
a notice of a meeting to be held that afternoon in a certain hall by
the "Association of Progressive Friends," to discuss "Woman's Rights
and Wrongs." She would go. Having decided this, she went to the home
of a young friend and persuaded her to go, too, and together they
walked to the hall and were soon deeply engrossed in the arguments
presented by the speakers. The presiding officer of the afternoon was
a Doctor Longshore, who announced before the meeting began that at the
close of the formal discussion ladies were requested to speak, as the
subject was one in which they were especially interested.
"One after another, women rose and gave their views on the question.
Then, near the center of the house a girl arose whose youthful face,
black curls, and bright eyes, as well as her musical voice and subdued
but impressive manner, commanded the attention of the audience. She
spoke twice as long as each speaker was allowed, and right to the
point, sending a thrill of interest through her listeners, who
remembered that speech for many a long day. At the close of the
meeting more than one in the audience came forward and spoke to the
beaming girl, thanking her for her brilliant defense of her sex, and
asking her to surely come to the meeting on the following Sunday."
Flushed with triumph and excitement, she received the praise and
congratulations and promised to be present the next week. When the
time came she again rose and spoke in glowing language of the rights
and privileges which should be given to women as well as to men. As
soon as she sat down a tall, nervous man, with an air of proud
assurance that the world was made for his sex, rose and spoke firmly
against Anna's arguments, voicing his belief that men were by right
the lords and masters of creation. While he spoke he fixed his eyes on
Anna, as if enchanted by the sight of her rapidly crimsoning cheeks
and flashing eyes, which showed emotions at white heat. The moment he
finished she stood again, and this time, young and inexperienced
though she was, with little education and less knowledge of the great
world, she held her audience spellbound by the clear ideas which she
poured out in almost flawless English, and by her air of conviction
which carried belief in her arguments with it. She spoke clearly,
steadily, as she summed up all the wrongs she had been obliged to
suffer through a struggling girlhood, as well as all she had seen and
read about and felt in her soul to be true, although she had no
tangible proofs. On flowed the tide of her oratory in such an outburst
of real feeling that her hearers were electrified, amazed, by the rare
magnetism of this young and unknown girl. As she spoke she drew nearer
to the man, whose eyes refused now to meet her keen dark ones, and who
seemed deeply confused as she scored point after point in defense,
saying, "_You_, sir! said so and so," ... with each statement sweeping
away his arguments one by one until he had no ground left to stand on.
When her last word had been said and she took her seat amid a storm of
applause, he swiftly and silently rose and left the hall, to the great
amusement of the audience, whose sympathies were entirely with the
young girl who had stated her case so brilliantly.
"Who is she?" was the question asked on every side as the eager crowd
pushed its way out of the building, all curious to get a nearer view
of the youthful speaker. Doctor Longshore, who had opened the meeting,
as on the previous Sunday, was now determined to become acquainted
with Anna and find out what had gone into the making of such a
remarkable personality, and at the close of the meeting he lost no
time in introducing himself to her and making an engagement to go to
the Dickinson home to meet her family.
Before the time of his promised call--in fact, before Anna had even
mentioned her success as a speaker to her mother--while she was out
one day two gentlemen called at the house and inquired if Miss Anna
Dickinson lived there. Her mother's cheeks paled with fright, for she
feared Anna had been doing some unconventional thing which the
strangers had come to report. When they said they had heard her speak
at a public meeting and were so much pleased with her speech that they
had come to find out something about her home surroundings, Mrs.
Dickinson's brow cleared, and, leading them into the house, she spent
a pleasant half-hour with them, and was secretly delighted with their
comments on her daughter's first appearance in public. When Anna came
home Mrs. Dickinson took her to task for not telling her about such a
great event, and was surprised to see the real diffidence which the
girl showed when she was questioned about the meetings and her
speeches. A few days later Doctor Longshore called with her brother,
Elwood, and with their flattering assurances that her daughter was a
born speaker, and that she had already made some valuable points on a
vital subject, Mrs. Dickinson began to feel that all her worry over
Anna's turbulent childhood and restless girlhood had not been in vain,
that she was born to do great things, and from that time she took a
genuine pride in all the achievements of the young girl who came so
rapidly into public notice.
The Longshores took Anna into their hearts and home at once, and many
of her happiest hours were spent with them. "We felt toward her,"
Doctor Longshore said, "as if she were our own child. We were the
first strangers to show an interest in her welfare and future plans,
and she returned our friendship with confidence and love." She was
always so buoyant, so full of vitality and gayety, that her visits
were eagerly anticipated, and for hours at a time she would entertain
her new friends with vivid and droll accounts of her experiences at
home and in school and of her attempts to make money. And as she had
won her way into the hearts of her audience, at those first meetings,
so now she kept the Longshores enthralled, making them laugh at one
moment and cry at another. One night she had a horrible dream to
relate.
"I had been reading an account of the horrors of the slave system at
its worst," she said. "After going to bed, I was long in falling
asleep. Finally I slept and dreamed that I was a slave girl, and, oh,
the agony of the knowledge! The hot sun scorched my burning skin as I
toiled in the fields, with almost no clothing to soften the sun's
heat. I was hungry, but there was insufficient food. At last I was
dressed in clean, showy clothes and led to the auction-block, where I
was auctioned off to the highest bidder. He led me away in triumph to
even worse experiences, and when I woke up I could not throw off the
horror of the awful nightmare."
Seeing her tremble under the misery of the recollection, Doctor
Longshore soothed her by saying that the dream was a natural result of
the highly colored account she had been reading before going to sleep,
that all slaves were not by any means treated in such a cruel manner,
and at last she grew calm. But whenever in future she spoke on the
subject of slavery this terrible memory would come back to her so
vividly that it would intensify her power to speak with conviction.
For several Sundays she went regularly to the "Progressive Friends'"
meeting and spoke with unvarying success. Then she was invited to go
to Mullica Hill, New Jersey, to speak on the subject, "Woman's Work."
After discussing the matter with her mother and the Longshores, she
accepted the invitation and set herself to prepare the lecture which
she was to give. Then, on the first Sunday in April, the
seventeen-year-old orator went to her trial experience as an invited
speaker. By that time her praises had been widely sung, and when she
rose and saw her audience there was a sea of upturned, eager faces
looking into hers. Speaking from the depths of her own experience, she
held the audience in breathless silence for over an hour. There was,
it was said, an indescribable pathos in her full, rich voice that,
aside from what she said, touched the hearts of her hearers and moved
many to tears, while all were spellbound, and at the close of her
address no one moved. Finally a man rose and voiced the feeling of the
people.
"We will not disperse until the speaker promises to address us again
this evening," he said, and a burst of applause greeted his statement.
A starry-eyed girl stood and bowed her acknowledgment and agreed to
speak again. As the audience dispersed Anna heard some one say, "If
Lucretia Mott had made that speech it would be thought a great one."
As she promised, in the evening she spoke again on slavery, with equal
success. A collection which was taken up for her amounted to several
dollars, the first financial result of what was to be her golden
resource.
But Anna had no thought of doing public speaking as her only means of
earning her living. She continued to look for positions, but without
success. Finally she took a district school in Bucks County, at a
monthly salary of twenty-five dollars. So interested was she in the
"Progressive Friends'" Sunday meetings that she went home every second
week to attend them, and her speeches always won applause from an
audience that had learned to anticipate the impassioned statements of
the bright-eyed girl who was so much younger and so much more intense
than any other speaker.
And now she began to receive invitations to speak in other places. On
her eighteenth birthday she spoke in a small village about thirty
miles out of Philadelphia, when she fairly electrified her hearers by
the force of her arguments and the form in which she presented them.
She continued to teach, although during her summer vacation she made
many speeches in New Jersey. On one occasion she spoke in the open
air, in a beautiful grove where hundreds had come to hear "the girl
orator" give her views on temperance and slavery. Her earnestness and
conviction of the truth of what she said made a profound impression,
and even those who later criticized her speech as being the product of
an immature and superficial mind were held as by a spell while she
spoke, and secretly admired her while they openly ridiculed her
arguments. At another time she was asked to speak at the laying of the
corner-stone of a new Methodist church. The clergymen who gathered
together were inclined to be severe in their judgment of the remarks
of a "slip of a girl." Anna knew that and resolved to speak with more
than usual pathos and power. When she began her address amusement was
evident on the faces of the dignified men looking at her. Gradually
they grew more interested, the silence became intense, and when the
men rose to leave they were subdued, and some of them even were not
ashamed to be seen wiping away tears. One of them introduced himself
to her and with a cordial hand-shake said: "Miss Dickinson, I have
always ridiculed Woman's Rights, but, so help me God, I never shall
again."
But this time the young orator could not help feeling the power she
had to sway great masses of people, and with a thrill of joy she began
to believe that perhaps in this work which she loved above anything
else in the world she would some day find her vocation, for she was
already receiving commendation from men and women of a high order of
intelligence and being given larger contributions as a result of her
speeches.
The country was at that time in the beginning of its Civil War period,
and much was written and said on the issue of the hour. At a Kennett
Square meeting, where hot debates were held on the burning question of
the day, Anna was one of the speakers, and one of the press notices on
the following day said:
"... The next speaker was Miss Anna Dickinson, of Philadelphia,
handsome, of an expressive countenance, plainly dressed, and eloquent
beyond her years. After the listless, monotonous harangues of the
previous part of the day, the distinct, earnest tones of this juvenile
Joan of Arc were very sweet and charming. During her discourse, which
was frequently interrupted, Miss Dickinson maintained her presence of
mind, and uttered her radical sentiments with resolution and
plainness. Those who did not sympathize with her remarks were softened
by her simplicity and solemnity. Her speech was decidedly the speech
of the evening.... Miss Dickinson, we understand, is a member of the
Society of Friends, and her speech came in the shape of a retort to
remarks which were contrary to her own beliefs. With her usual
clear-cut conviction and glowing oratory, Miss Dickinson said that:
"'We are told to maintain constitutions because they are
constitutions, and compromises because they are compromises. But what
are compromises?' asked the young speaker, 'and what was laid down in
these constitutions? Eminent lawgivers have said that certain great
fundamental ideas of right are common to the world, and that all laws
of man's making which trample on those ideas are null and void--wrong
to obey, but right to disobey. The Constitution of the United States
sat upon the neck of those rights, recognizes human slavery, and makes
the souls of men articles of purchase and sale.'"
So clear of mind and expression was the young orator that her
statements sank as deeply into the minds of her hearers as if spoken
by a far more learned person, and from that time her intense nature
had found its true outlet, and her longing to provide her mother with
some of the comforts which had so long been denied her was soon to be
realized.
In that same year of her speech at Kennett Square, on an evening in
late February, she spoke in Concert Hall, Philadelphia, before an
audience of about eight hundred persons. For two hours she spoke,
without notes and with easy fluency. There were many well-known men
and women there, who were delighted with what they were pleased to
call a young girl's notable performance. But Anna herself was far from
pleased with her speech. Afterward, on reaching the Longshores', she
threw herself into a chair with an air of utter despondency, and, in
response to their praise, only shook her head.
"I am mortified," she declared. "I spoke too long, and what I said
lacked arrangement, order, and point. And before such an audience!"
This incident shows clearly that, despite all the flattery which was
showered on her at that time, she did not lose her sense of balance,
but knew with a keen instinct whether she had achieved her end or not.
And now winter was over and spring had come with its spirit of new
birth and fulfilment. And, as the buds began to swell and open, the
strong will and fresh young spirit of Anna Dickinson asserted itself
in a desire for more profitable daily work, for as yet she was not
able to give up other employment for the public speaking which brought
her in uneven returns. She disliked the confinement and routine of
teaching so much that she decided to try a new kind of work, and
secured a place in the Mint, where she described her duties vividly to
her interested friends.
"I sat on a stool," she said, "from seven o'clock in the morning to
six at night for twenty-eight dollars a month. The atmosphere of the
room was close and impure, as it was necessary to keep all windows and
doors closed in the adjusting-room, for the least draught of air would
vary the scales." Not a very congenial occupation for the independent
nature of the young orator, but, although she disliked the work, she
was very skilful at it, and soon became the fastest adjuster in the
Mint. But she could not bear the confinement of the adjusting-room
and changed to the coining-room, yet even that was impossible to a
spirit which had seen a vision of creative work and of ability to do
it. Then, too, she thoroughly disliked the men with whom she was
thrown and their beliefs, knowing them to be opposed to principles
which she held sacred; so when, in November, she made a speech on the
events of the war, in which she stated her views so frankly that when
they came to the ears of Government officials who did not agree with
her she was dismissed from the Mint, she was rather pleased than
troubled.
Through the remainder of the winter she continued to speak in various
suburbs of the city, not always to sympathetic audiences, for so
radical were some of her assertions, especially coming from the lips
of a mere girl, that she was hissed time and again for her assertions.
Despite this, she was becoming well known as a speaker of great
ability, and as the war went on, with its varying successes for the
North and South, she thought with less intensity on the subjects of
the future of the negro and the wrongs of women, and became more
deeply absorbed in questions of national importance, which was a
fortunate thing for her. She was enthusiastic, eloquent, young and
pretty, all of which characteristics made her a valuable ally for any
cause. Mr. Garrison, the noted Abolitionist, heard her speak twice,
and was so delighted with her manner and ability that he asked for an
introduction to her, and invited her to visit Boston and make his
house her home while there. She thanked him with pretty enthusiasm and
accepted, but before going to Boston was persuaded to give the lecture
in Philadelphia, for which she had been dismissed from the Mint. A
ten-cent admission was charged, and Judge Pierce, one of the early
advocates of Woman's Rights, presided and introduced the young
speaker. The house was crowded, and this time she was satisfied with
her lecture, while the eager Longshores and her mother were filled
with a just pride. After all expenses were paid she was handed a check
for a bigger sum of money than she had ever owned before. The largest
share of it was given at once to her mother, then, after a serious
discussion with Doctor Longshore, Anna decided to spend the remainder
on her first silk dress. Despite oratory and advanced views, the girl
of eighteen was still human and feminine, and it is to be doubted
whether any results of her labors ever gave her more satisfaction than
that bit of finery for her public appearances.
And now the young orator went to Boston, where through Mr. Garrison's
influence she was invited to speak in Theodore Parker's pulpit, as
leading reformers were then doing. She also spoke in the Music Hall on
"The National Crisis," and that lecture was the hardest trial she ever
experienced. For two days before it she could not sleep or eat, and
answered questions like one in a dream, and Mr. Garrison and those
friends who had been confident of her ability to hold any audience
began to feel extremely nervous. If she should make a failure now at
the beginning of her career, it would be critical for her future.
The night came, and with ill-concealed nervousness Anna put on the new
silk dress, shook her heavy curls into place, and with resolute
courage went to the hall, where, on mounting the platform, she noted
the most tremendous audience she had ever before faced. Mr. Garrison
opened the meeting by reading a chapter of the Bible, then he used up
as much time as possible in remarks, in order to make the best of a
bad situation, for he felt that she was not in a state of mind or body
to hold the coldly critical audience before her. While he read and
spoke poor Anna behind him waited to be presented, in an agony of
nervousness which she struggled not to show. Then came the singing of
the "Negro Boatman's Song of Whittier" by a quartet, accompanied by
the organ. At last, with an easy smile, which concealed his real
feelings, Mr. Garrison turned to introduce Anna, and she rose and
walked forward to the front of the platform, looking more immature and
girlish than ever before. Her first sentences were halting,
disconnected, her fingers twined and twisted nervously around the
handkerchief she held; then she saw a sympathetic upturned face in the
front row of the audience staring up at her. Something in the face
roused Anna to a determined effort. Throwing herself into her subject,
she soon was pouring out a passionate appeal for a broader national
life and action. Gone were fear and self-consciousness, gone all but
determination to make her audience feel as she felt, believe as she
believed, in the interest of humanity and the highest ideals. For over
an hour she held that coldly critical mass of New England hearers as
if by a magic spell, then the vast audience rose and gave vent to
their emotion by the singing of "America," and then persons of
distinction and wealth crowded around the speaker of the evening with
thanks and praise. To one and all the young orator, whose eyes were
still shining with enthusiasm, replied, simply: "I thank you. The
subject is very near my heart," and as those who met her turned away
they could not hide their amazement at the ability of a young person
who looked so immature in her girlish beauty and freshness.
This was the beginning of a period of success. She delivered the
Boston lecture in several other New England cities, and had many fine
press notices on it, one of which closed with the following sentences:
"Her whole appearance and manner were decidedly attractive, earnest,
and expressive. Her lecture was well arranged, logical, and
occasionally eloquent, persuasive, and pathetic."
That was the time when every woman with a tender heart and a chance to
show it for the benefit of the wounded soldiers served her
apprenticeship in some hospital, and Anna was one of them. With keen
sympathy she nursed and comforted the sick men, who told her freely
about their hardships and sufferings, as well as the motives which led
them to go into the army, and she learned their opinion of war and of
life on the battle-fields. From this experience she gained much
priceless material which she later used most successfully.
She was now beginning to be known as much for her youth and personal
charm as for the subject-matter of her lectures, and to her unbounded
joy in October, 1862, she received one hundred dollars and many
flattering press notices for a speech given before the Boston
Fraternity Lyceum. This success encouraged her to plan a series of
lectures to be given in various parts of the East, especially in New
England, from which she hoped to gain substantial results. But in
making her plans she had failed to reckon with the humor of the people
who under the stress of war had little interest even in the most
thrilling lectures, and she traveled from place to place with such
meager returns that she became perfectly disheartened, and, worse than
that, she was almost penniless.
When she had filled her last engagement of the series, for which she
was to receive the large sum of ten dollars, at Concord, New
Hampshire, she realized with a sinking heart that unless she could
turn the tide of her affairs quickly she must again seek another
occupation. The resolute girl was almost disheartened, and she
confessed to a friend later:
"No one knows how I felt and suffered that winter, penniless and
alone, with a scanty wardrobe, suffering with cold, weariness, and
disappointment. I wandered about on the trains day after day among
strangers, seeking employment for an honest living and failing to find
it. I would have gone home, but had not the means. I had borrowed
money to commence my journey, promising to remit soon; failing to do
so, I could not ask again. Beyond my Concord meeting, all was
darkness. I had no further plans."
With positive want staring her in the face, in debt for the trip which
she had taken on a venture, and shrinkingly sensitive in regard to her
inability to aid her mother more lavishly, there was need of quick
action. Alone in a boarding-house room, Anna reviewed her resources
and the material she had on hand for a new and more taking lecture.
"I have it!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, and taking up a pad
and pencil she hastily began to write a lecture in which she used the
material gained in her hospital experience. She called it "Hospital
Life." When she gave it on that night at Concord with a heavy heart it
proved to be the pivot on which her success as a lecturer swung to its
greatest height. As she drew her vivid pictures of the hospital
experience and horrors of war and slavery she melted her audience to
tears by her impassioned delivery. The secretary of the New Hampshire
Central Committee was in the audience and was enchanted as he heard
the young speaker for the first time. At the close of the lecture he
said to a friend:
"If we can get this girl to make that speech all through New
Hampshire, we can carry the Republican ticket in this State in the
coming election."
So impressed was he with Anna's powers of persuasion that he decided
to invite her to become a campaign speaker on his own responsibility,
if the State Committee did not think well of the idea. But that
committee was only too glad to adopt any plan to aid their cause. Anna
Dickinson, then only eighteen years old, was invited to become part of
the State machinery, to work on the side which appealed to her sense
of justice. Elated, excited, and enthusiastic, she accepted the offer
and began to speak early in March. What a work that was for the young
and inexperienced girl! In the month before election, twenty times she
stood before great throngs of eager persons and spoke, rousing great
enthusiasm by her eloquent appeals in the name of reason and fair
play.
Slight, pretty, and without any of the tricks of the professional
political speaker, her march through the State was a succession of
triumphs which ended in a Republican victory, and, though many of her
enemies called her "ignorant and illogical" as well as "noisy" in mind
and spirit, the adverse criticism was of no consequence in comparison
to the praise and success which far outweighed it.
The member in the first district, having no faith that a woman could
influence politics, sent word to the secretary, "Don't send that woman
down here to defeat my election."
The secretary replied, "We have work enough for her to do in other
districts without interfering with you!"
When the honorable member saw the furore Anna was creating he changed
his mind and begged the secretary to let her speak in his district.
The secretary replied: "It is too late; the program is arranged....
You would not have her when you could, now you cannot have her when
you will!"
That district was lost by a large majority, while the others went
strongly Republican, and it is interesting to note that when the good
news reached headquarters the Governor-elect himself personally sent
Anna thanks for her eloquent speeches, and to her amazement she was
serenaded, feasted, and praised in a way that would have turned the
head of a young woman who had been more interested in her own success
than in victory for a cause for which she stood. But that and the
money she could make and pass on to her mother were Anna's supreme
objects in whatever she undertook, and although she would have been
less than human if the praise and recognition had not pleased her,
yet her real joy lay in the good-sized checks which she could now add
to the family treasury.
"Having done such good work in the New Hampshire election, her next
field of endeavor was Connecticut, where the Republicans were
completely disheartened, for nothing, they said, could prevent the
Democrats from carrying the State. The issue was a vital one, and yet
so discouraged were the Connecticut politicians that they were about
to give up the fight without further effort, when it was decided to
try having the successful young girl speaker see what she could do for
them. Anna was only too delighted to accept the challenge, and at once
started on a round of stump-speaking and speechmaking, with all the
enthusiasm of her intense nature added to the inspiration of her
recent success in a neighboring State. The results were almost
miraculous. Two weeks of steady work not only turned the tide of
popular feeling, but created a perfect frenzy of interest in the young
orator. Even the Democrats, in spite of scurrilous attacks made on her
by some of their leaders, received her everywhere with the warmest
welcome, tore off their party badges, and replaced them by her
picture, while giving wild applause to all she said. The halls where
she spoke were so densely packed that the Republicans stayed away to
make room for the Democrats, and the women were shut out to leave room
for those who could vote."
Well had her mother's struggle to make a fine woman of her turbulent
daughter been repaid. Never was there such a furore over any orator in
the history of this country. The critical time of her appearance, the
excited condition of the people, her youth, beauty, and remarkable
voice, all heightened the effect of her genius. Her name was on every
lip. Ministers preached about her, prayed for her as a second Joan of
Arc raised up by God to save their State for the loyal party, and
through it the nation to freedom and humanity. And through all the
excitement and furore the youthful heroine moved with calm poise and a
firm determination toward her goal, attempting to speak clearly and
truthfully in regard to what were her sacred beliefs.
Election Day was at hand, and missionary work must not slacken even
for one moment. On the Saturday night before the fateful day Anna
spoke before an audience of over one thousand of the working-men of
Hartford, Connecticut. This was the last effort of the campaign, and
it was a remarkable tribute to a young woman's powers that the
committee of men were willing to rest their case on her efforts. A
newspaper account of the meeting said:
"Allyn Hall was packed as it never was before. The aisles were full of
men who stood patiently for more than three hours; the window-sills
had their occupants, every foot of standing room was taken, and in the
rear of the galleries men seemed to hang in swarms like bees. Such was
the view from the stage.... To such an audience Miss Dickinson spoke
for two hours and twenty minutes, and hardly a listener left the hall
during that time. Her power over the audience was marvelous. She
seemed to have that absolute mastery of it which Joan of Arc is
reported to have had over the French troops. They followed her with
that deep attention which is unwilling to lose a word, but greeted
her, every few moments, with the most wild applause.... The speech in
itself and its effect was magnificent--this strong adjective is the
proper one.... The work of the campaign is done. It only remains in
the name, we are sure, of all loyal men in this district to express to
Miss Dickinson heartfelt thanks for her splendid, inspiring aid. She
has aroused everywhere respect, enthusiasm and devotion, let us not
say to herself alone, but to the country; while such women are
possible in the United States, there isn't a spot big enough for her
to stand on that won't be fought for so long as there is a man left."
Even that achievement was not the height of the young orator's
attainment. Her next ovation was at Cooper Institute in New York City,
where she spoke in May of the same year. Faded newspaper accounts of
that meeting fill us with amazement that such a triumph could be, with
only a girl's indomitable will, an insufficient education and much
reading of books back of it.
"Long before the appointed hour for the lecture the hall was crowded.
The people outside were determined to get in at all hazards, ushers
were beaten down, those with tickets rushed in, and those without
tickets were pushed aside, while thousands went home unable to get
standing room even in the lobbies and outer halls.
"On the platform sat some of the most distinguished men of the day:
clergymen, lawyers, generals, admirals, leaders of the fashionable
set--all eager to do homage to the simple girl of whom the press said:
"'She is medium in height, slight in form, graceful in movement, her
head, well poised, adorned with heavy dark hair, displaying to
advantage a pleasant face which has all the signs of nervous force and
of vigorous mental life. In manner she is unembarrassed, without a
shade of boldness; her gestures are simple, her voice is of wonderful
power, penetrating rather than loud, as clear as the tone of metal,
and yet with a reed-like softness. Her vocabulary is simple, and in no
instance has there been seen a straining after effective expressions;
yet her skill in using ordinary language is so great that with a
single phrase she presents a picture and delivers a poem in a
sentence.'"
At the close of the meeting, which had been opened by Henry Ward
Beecher, he rose and said, with real emotion, "Let no man open his
lips here to-night; music is the only fitting accompaniment to the
eloquent utterances we have heard." Then the famous Hutchinson family
sang and closed the meeting with the John Brown song, in which the
vast audience joined with thrilling effect.
From that Cooper Institute meeting Anna received almost one thousand
dollars, an incredible amount for a simple speech to her unmercenary
spirit, but one which was to be duplicated many times before her
career was over.
After that meeting in New York her reputation as a public speaker was
established, despite the carping critics, and she continued to win
fresh laurels, not only for herself, but for vital issues. When doing
more campaigning in Pennsylvania she had to travel through the mining
districts, where her frank words were often ridiculed and she was
pelted with stones, rotten eggs, and other unpleasant missiles. But
she bore it all like a warrior, and made a remarkable record for
speeches in parts of the State where no man dared to go. Despite this
and the fact that the victorious party owed its success largely to the
young orator, the committee never paid her one cent for her
services--to their great discredit, probably having spent all their
campaign funds in some other less legitimate way and thinking they
could more easily defraud a girl than a more shrewd man.
Nothing daunted, she continued to speak wherever she could get a
hearing, and at last came an invitation to make an address in
Washington, D. C. Here indeed was a triumph! She hesitated long before
accepting the invitation, for it would be a trying ordeal, as among
her audience would be the President and many diplomats and high
government officials. But with sturdy courage she accepted, and as a
result faced, as she later said, the most brilliant audience ever
assembled to hear her speak. It was a unique sensation for the
dignitaries and men of mark to sit as listeners at the feet of this
slender girl, who was speaking on profound questions of the day; but
she made a deep impression, even on those who did not agree with her
opinions, and it was a proud moment of her life when at the close of
the meeting she met the President and his Cabinet. The Chief Executive
gladly granted her an interview for the following day, and like other
men of lesser rank, was carried out of himself as he watched the play
of expression, the light and shade on her mobile face, as they talked
together of the vital topics of the day.
Anna Dickinson was now an orator beyond a doubt; in fact, the only
_girl_ orator the country had ever known. More than that, she made use
of her eloquence, her magnetism, her flow of language, not for any
minor use, but in presenting to the public the great problems of her
day and in pleading for honor and justice, freedom and fullness of joy
for the individual, with such intensity of purpose as few men have
ever used in pleading a cause.
That she wrote and acted in a play dealing with one of the subjects
nearest her heart, and that she published a novel of the same kind,
added nothing to her fame. She was wholly an orator with an
instinctive knowledge of the way to play on the emotions of her
listeners. Her faults were the faults of an intense nature too early
obliged to grapple with hard problems; her virtues were those of a
strong, independent, unselfish nature. It has been said that she rose
to fame on the crest of three waves: the negro wave, the war wave, and
the woman wave. If that is so, then was her success as a public
speaker something of which to be proud, for to have spoken on such
subjects surely betokens a great nature. Anna Dickinson has been
called the "Joan of Arc" of her day and country. If she had not the
delicate spiritual vision of the Maid of France, she had her superb
courage in reaching up toward an ideal. What she was and what she
accomplished as an American girl, who was an orator at eighteen, gives
an incentive and a new enthusiasm to young Americans of the twentieth
century, for what girls have done girls can do, and we believe, with
that greatest of poets, that "the best is yet to be."