days it was customary to change one's gown again at midnight, I had an
opportunity to burst on the assemblage in two costumes--the 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,
understanding, reminiscent smiles which made it very hard for me to keep
soberly to my text.
In the near future I had reason to regret the extravagant 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 school-house, and was promptly asked
by my host to pay my board in advance. This, he explained, 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 collect my board in advance, at the rate of
three dollars a week for the season. When I presented myself at my new
boarding-place, 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 enforced exercise there was ample opportunity to reflect
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
threshing whenever they could get the machine. I remember seeing a
man ride up on horseback, shouting 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 machine 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 bugler--he 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 twenty-ninth
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
passing. 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
his going we had lost all that made life worth while.
The problem of living grew harder with everyday. We eked out our little
income in every way we could, taking as boarders the workers in the
logging-camps, 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 exisence{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 thirteen weeks each. It was an incessant
struggle to keep our land, to pay our taxes, and to live. Calico 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; and all around us we saw our struggle reflected in the lives
of our neighbors.
At long intervals word came to us of battles in which my father's
regiment--the Tenth Michigan Cavalry Volunteers--or 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 upon--years in which life had degenerated 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 anything,
I KNEW that I was going to college!
III. HIGH-SCHOOL AND COLLEGE DAYS
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 desperately 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 devote 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 fifty-six 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 clothing--the 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 decided, 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 money-making 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 preferred the digging
of ditches or the shoveling of coal; but the needle alone persistently
pointed out my way, and I was finally forced to take it.
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 sermon was delivered on Sunday morning, and I was, I think,
almost the earliest arrival of the great congregation which filled the
church. It was a wonderful 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 become 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 ambition. Her advice was as prompt as if she had studied my problem
for years.
"My child," she said, "give up your foolish idea of learning a trade,
and go to school. You can't do anything until you have an education. Get
it, and get it NOW."
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 college. 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 understanding;
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 immediate 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
helpless classmates when the spirit of eloquence moved me.
As an aid to public speaking I was taught to "elocute," 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 classmates, 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 audience I was so appalled by
its size and by the sudden 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 self-possession and received some
friendly applause at the end. Strangely enough, those first sensations
of "stage fright" have been experienced, in a lesser degree, 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 sensation at the pit of the stomach,
the weakness of the knees, that I felt in the hour of my debut. Now,
however, the nervousness passes after a moment or two.
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 poetry 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 interest of the presiding elder of our
district--Dr. 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 school-work, 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 inviting Dr. Peck and me to dinner.
Being unconscious of any significance in the occasion, I chatted
light-heartedly about the large issues of life and probably settled most
of them to my personal satisfaction. 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 with sudden seriousness:
"My quarterly meeting will be held at Ashton," he remarked, casually. "I
would like you to preach the quarterly sermon."
For a moment the earth seemed to slip away from my feet. I stared at
him in utter stupefaction. Then slowly I realized that, incredible as it
seemed, the man was in earnest.
"Why," I stammered, "_I_ can't preach a sermon!"
Dr. Peck smiled at me. "Have you ever tried?" he asked.
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 preaching alone in the forest, as I had so often preached to a
congregation of listening trees. I qualified my answer.
"Never," I said, "to human beings."
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 sudden sobering thought had come to me.
"But," I exclaimed, "I've never been converted. How can I preach to any
one?"
We both had the old-time 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 sermon 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 disgrace and a blotted page in the
Shaw record.
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 eternal life."
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 intention 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 one comfort in
Lucy Foot's presence and understanding sympathy.
There was no church in Ashton, so I preached my sermon in its one little
school-house, 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 thirty-six appointments; he wished me to preach in
each of the thirty-six places, as it was desirable 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 gratifying. It brought out,
on the following morning, the first notice of me ever printed in a
newspaper. This was instigated by my brother-in-law, and it was brief
but pointed. It read:
A young girl named Anna Shaw, seventeen years old, [1] preached at Ashton
yesterday. Her real friends deprecate the course she is pursuing.
[Footnote 1: A misstatement by the brother-in-law. Dr. Shaw was at
this time twenty-three years old.--E. J.]
The little notice had something of the effect of a lighted match applied
to gunpowder. An explosion 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 putting 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
entered--the pulpit I had visualized in all my childish dreams--was
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 family-circle. It did not
require twenty-four hours of reflection to convince me that I must go my
solitary way.
That year I preached thirty-six times, at each of the presiding
elder's appointments; and the following spring, at the annual Methodist
Conference of our district, held at Big Rapids, my name was presented to
the assembled ministers as that of a candidate 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 affirmatively 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 viewpoint, 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 interfered with my studies. I
was working day and night, but life was very difficult; for among my
schoolmates, too, there were doubts and much head-shaking 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 putting an arm
around me, drew me close to her side.
"My dear," she said, quietly, "if you want to preach, go on and preach.
Don't let anybody stop you. No matter what people say, don't let them
stop you!"
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 woman
within hearing spoke up.
"Oh, Mrs. Livermore," she exclaimed, "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!"
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 do it."
Her words were a tonic which restored my voice. "So they think I'm going
to die!" I cried. "Well, I'm not! I'm going to live and preach!"
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 lecturer, too."
I looked up at the brilliant Miss Dickinson with the trustfulness of
youth in my eyes. I remembered Mrs. Livermore and I thought all
great women 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.