now in school debates, now in amateur theatricals. It was as if the
Fates had her case particularly in hand at this time, for everything
seemed to further the secret longing that had possessed her ever since
the days when she had preached to the trees in the forest.
There was a growing sentiment in favor of licensing women to preach in
the Methodist Church, and Dr. Peck, the presiding elder of the Big
Rapids district, who was chief among the advocates of the movement, was
anxious to present the first woman candidate for the ministry. Meeting
the alert, ardent young student at the home of her teacher, Dr. Peck
took pains to draw her into conversation. Soon she was talking freely,
with eager animation, and her questioner was listening with interest,
nodding approval now and then. Then an amazing thing happened. Dr. Peck
looked at her smilingly and asked in an off-hand manner:
"Would you like to preach the quarterly sermon at Ashton?"
The young woman gasped; she stared at the good man in astonishment. Then
she realized that he was speaking in entire seriousness.
"Why," she stammered, "I can't preach a sermon!"
"Have you ever tried?" he asked.
"Never!" she began, and then as the picture of her childish self
standing on the stump in the sunlit woods flashed upon her, "Never to
human beings!" she amended.
Dr. Peck was smiling again. "Well," he said, "the door is open. Enter
or not, as you wish."
After much serious counsel with Miss Foot and with her own soul, Anna
Shaw determined to go in at the open door. For six weeks the preparation
of the first sermon engaged most of her waking thoughts, and even in her
dreams the text she had chosen sounded in her ears. It was, moreover, a
time of no little anguish of spirit because of the consternation with
which her family regarded her unusual "call." One might as well be
guilty of crime, it appeared, as to be so forward and unwomanly. Finding
it impossible to bring her to reason in any other way, they tried a
bribe. After a solemn gathering of the clans, it was agreed that if she
would give up this insane ambition to preach, they would send her to
college--to Ann Arbor--and defray all her expenses. The thought of Ann
Arbor was a sore temptation; but she realized that she could no more be
faithless to the vision that had been with her from childhood than she
could cease being herself.
The momentous first sermon was the forerunner of many others in
different places, and when at the conference the members were asked to
vote whether she should be licensed as a local preacher, the majority of
the ministers raised both hands!
She was, however, still regarded as the black sheep of the family, and
it was with a heavy spirit that she plodded on day by day with her
studies. Surely nobody was ever more in need of a friendly word than
was Anna Shaw at the time that Mary A. Livermore came to lecture in Big
Rapids. At the close of the meeting she was among those gathered in a
circle about the distinguished speaker, when some one pointed her out,
remarking that "there was a young person who wanted to preach in spite
of the opposition and entreaties of all her friends."
Mrs. Livermore looked into Anna Shaw's glowing eyes with sudden
interest; then she put her arm about her and said quietly, "My dear, if
you want to preach, go on and preach. No matter what people say, don't
let them stop you!"
Before Miss Shaw could choke back her emotion sufficiently to reply,
one of her good friends exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Livermore, don't say that
to her! We're all trying to stop her. Her people 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 almost there!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Livermore, looking thoughtfully at the white face that
was turned appealingly toward her, "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 do it."
"So they think I'm going to die!" cried Miss Shaw. "Well, I'm not! I'm
going to live and preach!"
[Illustration: _Photo by Brown Bros._
Anna Howard Shaw]
With renewed zeal and courage she turned again to her books, and, in the
autumn of 1873, entered Albion College. "With only eighteen dollars as
my entire capital," she said, "and not the least idea how I might add to
it, I was approaching the campus when I picked up a copper cent bearing
the date of my birth, 1848. It seemed to me a good omen, and I was sure
of it when within the week I found two more pennies exactly like it.
Though I have more than once been tempted to spend those pennies, I have
them still--to my great comfort!"
At college she was distinguished for her independence of thought and
for her alert, vigorous mind. When, on being invited to join the
literary society that boasted both men and women members instead of
the exclusively feminine group, she was assured that "women need to be
associated with men because they don't know how to manage meetings," she
replied with spirit:
"If they don't, it's high time they learned. I shall join the women, and
we'll master the art."
Her gift as a public speaker not only earned her a place of prominence
in her class through her able debates and orations, but it also
helped pay her way through college, since she received now and then
five dollars for a temperance talk in one of the near-by country
schoolhouses. But such sums came at uncertain intervals, and her board
bills came due with discouraging regularity. A gift of ninety-two
dollars, sent at Christmas by her friends in Big Rapids, alone made it
possible for her to get through the term.
Though the second year at Albion was comparatively smooth sailing
because her reputation had brought enough "calls" to preach and lecture
to defray her modest expenses, she decided to go to Boston University
for her theological course. She was able to make her way in the West;
why was it not possible to do the same in the place where she could get
the needed equipment for her life work?
But she soon found what it means to be alone and penniless in a large
city. Opportunities were few and hungry students were many. For the
first time in her life she was tempted to give up and own herself
beaten, when a sudden rift came in the clouds of discouragement. She
was invited to assist in holding a "revival week" in one of the Boston
churches.
It was soon evident that one could live on milk and crackers if only
hope were added. The week's campaign was a great success. If she herself
had not been able to feel the fervor and enthusiasm that the meetings
had aroused, she could have no doubt when the minister assured her that
her help had proved invaluable--that he greatly wished he were able
to give her the fifty dollars, which at the very lowest estimate she
deserved--but alas! he had nothing to offer but his heartfelt thanks!
When Miss Shaw passed out of the church her heart was indeed heavy. She
had failed! "I was friendless, penniless, and starving," she said, "but
it was not of these conditions that I thought then. The one overwhelming
fact was that I had been weighed and found wanting. I was not worthy."
All at once she felt a touch on her arm. An old woman who had evidently
been waiting for her to come out put a five-dollar bill in her hand. "I
am a poor woman, Miss Shaw," she said, "but I have all I need, and I
want to make you a little present, for I know how hard life must be for
you young students. I'm the happiest woman in the world to-night, and I
owe my happiness to you. You have converted my grandson, who is all I
have left, and he is going to lead a different life."
"This is the biggest gift I have ever had," cried Miss Shaw. "This
little bill is big enough to carry my future on its back!"
This was indeed the turning point. Here was enough for food and shoes,
but it was much more than that. It was a sign that she had her place in
the great world. There was need of what she could do, and there could be
no more doubt that _her_ needs would be met. Even though she could not
see the path ahead she would never lose heart again.
The succeeding months brought not only the means to live but also the
spirit to make the most of each day's living. "I graduated in a new
black silk gown," she said, "with five dollars in my pocket, which I
kept there during the graduation exercises. I felt special satisfaction
in the possession 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 dollars in cash."
Miss Shaw's influence as a preacher may be illustrated by a single
anecdote. In the months following her graduation she went on a trip to
Europe, a friend having left her a bequest for that express purpose.
While in Genoa she was asked to preach to the sailors in a gospel-ship
in the harbor; but when she appeared it was evident that the missionary
in charge had not understood that the minister he had invited was a
woman. He was unhappy and apologetic in his introduction, and the
weather-beaten tars, in their turn, looked both resentful and mocking.
It was certainly a trying moment when Miss Shaw began to speak. She had
never in her life felt more forlorn or more homesick, when all at once
the thought flashed through her that back of those unfriendly faces that
confronted her there were lonely souls just as hungry for home as she
was. Impulsively stepping down from the pulpit so that she stood on a
level with her hearers, she said:
"My friends, I hope you will forget everything that 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 preach--only to have a friendly talk, on a
text that 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, 'Blessed are the
homesick, for they shall go home.'"
Then out of the knowledge of sea-faring people which she had gained
during summer vacations when she had "filled in" for the absent pastor
of a little church on Cape Cod, she talked in a way that went straight
to the hearts of the rough men gathered there. When she saw that the
unpleasant grin had vanished from the face of the hardest old pirate
of them all, she said: "When I came here I intended to preach a sermon
on 'The Heavenly Vision.' Now I want to give you a glimpse of that in
addition to the vision we have had of home."
After her return to America, Miss Shaw was called as pastor to a church
at East Dennis, Cape Cod, and a few months later she was asked to hold
services at another church about three miles distant. These two charges
she held for seven happy years, rich in the opportunity for real service.
Feeling the need of knowing how to minister to the bodily needs of
those she labored among, Miss Shaw took a course at the Boston Medical
School, going to the city for a part of each week and graduating with
the degree of M.D. in 1885. When some one who knew about her untiring
work as leader and helper of the people to whom she preached, asked
her how it had been possible for her to endure so great a strain, she
replied cheerfully, "Congenial work, no matter how much there is of it,
has never yet killed any one."
During the time of her medical studies when Miss Shaw was serving as
volunteer doctor and nurse to the poor in the Boston slums, she became
interested in the cause of woman suffrage--"The Cause" it was to her
always in the years that succeeded. A new day had come with new needs.
She saw that everywhere there were changed conditions and grave problems
brought about by the entrance of women into the world of wage-earners;
and she became convinced that only through an understanding and sharing
of the responsibilities of citizenship by both men and women could the
best interests of each community be served. She, therefore, gave up her
church work on Cape Cod to become a lecturer in a larger field. For a
while she devoted part of her time to the temperance crusade until that
great leader of the woman's movement, Susan B. Anthony--"Aunt Susan," as
she was affectionately called--persuaded her to give all her strength to
the Cause.
Without an iron constitution and steady nerves, as well as an unfailing
sense of humor, she could never have met the hardships and strange
chances that were her portion in the years that succeeded. In order
to meet the appointments of her lecture tours she was constantly
traveling, often under the most untoward circumstances--now finding
herself snow-bound in a small prairie town; now compelled to cross a
swollen river on an uncertain trestle; now stricken with an attack of
ptomaine poisoning while "on the road," with no one within call except a
switchman in his signal-tower.
Perhaps more appalling than any or all of these tests was the occasion
when she arrived in a town to find that the lecture committee had
advertised her as "the lady who whistled before Queen Victoria," and
announced that she would speak on "The Missing link." When she ventured
to protest, the manager remarked amiably that they had "mixed her up
with a Shaw lady that whistles."
"But I don't know anything about the 'missing link'!" continued Miss
Shaw.
"Well, you see we chose that subject because they have been talking
about it in the Debating Society, and we knew it would arouse interest,"
she was assured. "Just bring in a reference to it every now and then,
and it'll be all right."
"Open the meeting with a song so that I can think for a minute and then
I'll see what can be done," said Miss Shaw pluckily. As the expectant
audience, led by the chairman, sang with patriotic fervor "The Star
Spangled Banner" and "America," the shipwrecked lecturer managed to
seize a straw of inspiration that turned in her grasp magically into a
veritable life-preserver. "It is easy," she said to herself. "Woman is
the missing link in our government. I'll give them a suffrage speech
along that line."
Miss Shaw has labored many years for the Cause. She worked with courage,
dignity, and unfailing common sense and good humor, in the day of small
things when the suffrage pioneers were ridiculed by both men and women
as a band of unwomanly "freaks" and fanatics. She has lived to see the
Cause steadily grow in following and influence, and State after State
(particularly those of the growing, progressive West) call upon women
to share equally with men many of the duties of citizenship and social
service. She has seen that in such States there is no disposition to
go back to the old order of things, and that open-minded people freely
admit that it is only a question of time until the more conservative
parts of the country will fall into line and equal suffrage become
nation wide.
Her days have been rich in happy work, large usefulness, and inspiring
friendships. Many honors have been showered upon her both in her
own country and abroad; but she has always looked upon the work
which she has been privileged to do as making the best--and the most
honorable--part of her life.
Once, while attending a general conference of women in Berlin, she won
the interest and real friendship of a certain Italian princess, who
invited her to visit at her castle in Italy and also to go with her to
her mother's castle in Austria. As Miss Shaw was firm in declining these
distinguished honors, the princess begged an explanation.
"Because, my dear princess," Miss Shaw explained, "I am a working-woman."
"Nobody need _know_ that," murmured the princess, calmly.
"On the contrary, it is the first thing I should explain," was the reply.
"But why?" demanded the princess.
"You are proud of your family, are you not?" asked Miss Shaw. "You are
proud of your great line?"
"Assuredly," replied the princess.
"Very well," continued Miss Shaw. "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."
Anna Howard Shaw's autobiography, which she calls "The Story of a
Pioneer," is an absorbingly interesting and inspiring narrative. It
gives with refreshing directness and wholesome appreciation the story
of her struggles and her work, together with revealing glimpses of some
of her comrades in the Cause; it is at once her own story and the story
of the pioneer days of the movement to which she gave her rich gifts of
mind and character. In conclusion she quotes a speech of a certain small
niece, who was overheard trying to rouse her still smaller sister to
noble indifference in the face of the ridicule of their playmates, who
had laughed when they had bravely announced that they were suffragettes.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself," she demanded, "to stop just because
you are laughed at once? Look at Aunt Anna! _She_ has been laughed at
for hundreds of years!"
"I sometimes feel," added the Champion of the Cause, "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 childish voice preaching to the trees in the Michigan woods.
But, long or short, the one sure thing is that, taking it all in all,
the fight has been 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 throughout life of working for that Cause."
THE MAKING OF A PATRIOT:
MARY ANTIN
Where is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
O yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
THE MAKING OF A PATRIOT
You know the story of "The Man without a Country"--the man who lost his
country through his own fault. Can you imagine what it would mean to be
a child without a country--to have no flag, no heroes, no true native
land to which you belong as you belong to your family, and which in turn
belongs to you? How would it seem to grow up without the feeling that
you have a big country, a true fatherland to protect your home and your
friends; to build schools for you; to give you parks and playgrounds,
and clean, beautiful streets; to fight disease and many dangers on land
and water for you?--This is the story of a little girl who was born in
a land where she had no chance for "life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness." Far from being a true fatherland, her country was like the
cruel stepmother of the old tales.
It was strange that one could be born in a country and yet have no
right to live there! Little Maryashe (or Mashke, as she was called,
because she was too tiny a girl for a big-sounding name) soon learned
that the Russia where she was born was not her own country. It seemed
that the Russians did not love her people, or want them to live in their
big land. And yet there they were! Truly it was a strange world.
"Why is Father afraid of the police?" asked little Mashke. "He has done
nothing wrong."
"My child, the trouble is that we can do nothing right!" cried her
mother, wringing her hands. "Everything is wrong with us. We have no
rights, nothing that we dare to call our own."
It seemed that Mashke's people had to live in a special part of the
country called the "Pale of Settlement." It was against the law to go
outside the Pale no matter how hard it was to make a living where many
people of the same manner of life were herded together, no matter how
much you longed to try your fortune in a new place. It was not a free
land, this Polotzk where she had been born. It was a prison with iron
laws that shut people away from any chance for happy living.
It is hard to live in a cage, be it large or small. Like a wild bird,
the free human spirit beats its wings against any bars.
"Why, Mother, why is it that we must not go outside the Pale?" asked
Mashke.
"Because the Czar and those others who have the power to make the laws
do not love our people; they hate us and all our ways," was the reply.
"But why do they hate us, Mother?" persisted the child with big, earnest
eyes.
"Because we are different; because we can never think like them and be
like them. Their big Russia is not yet big enough to give people of
another sort a chance to live and be happy in their own way."
Even in crowded Polotzk, though, with police spying on every side,
there were happy days. There were the beautiful Friday afternoons when
Mashke's father and mother came home early from the store to put off
every sign of the work-a-day world and make ready for the Sabbath. The
children were allowed to wear their holiday clothes and new shoes. They
stepped about happily while their mother hid the great store keys and
the money bag under her featherbed, and the grandmother sealed the oven
and cleared every trace of work from the kitchen.
How Mashke loved the time of candle prayer! As she looked at the pure
flame of her candle the light shone in her face and in her heart. Then
she looked at the work-worn faces of her mother and grandmother. All the
lines of care and trouble were smoothed away in the soft light. They had
escaped from the prison of this unfriendly land with its hard laws and
its hateful Pale. They were living in the dim but glorious Past, when
their father's fathers had been a free nation in a land of their own.
But Mashke could not escape from the prison in that way. She was young
and glad to be alive. Her candle shone for light and life to-day and
to-morrow and to-morrow! There were no bars that could shut away her
free spirit from the light.
How glad she was for life and sunlight on the peaceful Sabbath
afternoons when, holding to her father's hand, she walked beyond the
city streets along the riverside to the place where in blossoming
orchards birds sang of the joyful life of the air, and where in newly
plowed fields peasants sang the song of planting-time and the fruitful
earth. Her heart leaped as she felt herself a part of the life that
flowed through all things--river, air, earth, trees, birds, and happy,
toiling people.
It seemed to Mashke that most of her days were passed in
wondering--wondering about the strange world in which she found herself,
and its strange ways. Of course she played as the children about her
did, with her rag doll and her "jacks" made of the knuckle bones of
sheep; and she learned to dance to the most spirited tune that could be
coaxed from the teeth of a comb covered with a bit of paper. In winter
she loved to climb in the bare sledge, which when not actively engaged
in hauling wood could give a wonderful joy-ride to a party of happy
youngsters, who cared nothing that their sleigh boasted only straw and
burlap in place of cushions and fur robes, and a knotted rope in place
of reins with jingling bells.
But always, winter and summer, in season and out of season, Mashke
found herself wondering about the meaning of all the things that she
saw and heard. She wondered about her hens who gave her eggs and broth,
and feathers for her bed, all in exchange for her careless largess of
grain. Did they ever feel that the barnyard was a prison? She wondered
about the treadmill horse who went round and round to pump water for the
public baths. Did he know that he was cheated out of the true life of a
horse--work-time in cheerful partnership with man and play-time in the
pasture with the fresh turf under his road-weary hoofs? Did the women,
who toiled over the selfsame tasks in such a weary round that they
looked forward to the change of wash-day at the river where they stood
knee-deep in the water to rub and scrub their poor rags, know that they,
too, were in a treadmill?--Sometimes she could not sleep for wondering,
and would steal from her bed before daybreak to walk through the dewy
grass of the yard and watch the blackness turn to soft, dreamy gray.
Then the houses seemed like breathing creatures, and all the world was
hushed and very sweet. Was there ever such a wonder as the coming of a
new day?--As she watched it seemed that her spirit flew beyond the town,
beyond the river and the glowing sky itself--touching, knowing, and
loving all things. Her spirit was free!