trouble, and I faced it with difficulty, for I was very tired. Just as I
took my place in the pulpit, Captain Sears entered the church and walked
down the aisle--the Captain Sears who had left us at my invitation some
weeks before and had not since attended a church service. I was sure he
was there to make another attack on me while I was down, and, expecting
the worst, I wearily gave him his opportunity. The big old fellow
stood up, braced himself on legs far apart, as if he were standing on a
slippery deck during a high sea, and gave the congregation its biggest
surprise of the year.
He said he had come to make a confession. He had been angry with "the
gal" in the past, as they all knew. But he had heard about the sermon
she had preached that morning, and this time she was right. It was high
time quarreling and backbiting were stopped. They had been going on too
long, and no good could come of them. Moreover, in all the years he
had been a member of that congregation he had never until now seen
the pulpit occupied by a minister with enough backbone to uphold the
discipline of the church. "I've come here to say I'm with the gal," he
ended. "Put me down for my original subscription and ten dollars extra!"
So we had the old man back again. He was a tower of strength, and he
stood by me faithfully until he died. The trustees would not accept
my resignation (indeed, they refused to consider it at all), and the
congregation, when it had thought things over, apparently decided that
there might be worse things in the pulpit than "the gal." It was even
known to brag of what it called my "spunk," and perhaps it was this
quality, rather than any other, which I most needed in that particular
parish at that time. As for me, when the fight was over I dropped it
from my mind, and it had not entered my thoughts for years, until I
began to summon these memories.
At the end of my first six months in East Dennis I was asked to take on,
also, the temporary charge of the Congregational Church at Dennis, two
miles and a half away. I agreed to do this until a permanent pastor
could be found, on condition that I should preach at Dennis on Sunday
afternoons, using the same sermon I preached in my own pulpit in the
morning. The arrangement worked so well that it lasted for six and a
half years--until I resigned from my East Dennis church. During that
period, moreover, I not only carried the two churches on my shoulders,
holding three meetings each Sunday, but I entered upon and completed a
course in the Boston Medical School, winning my M.D. in 1885, and I also
lectured several times a month during the winter seasons. These were,
therefore, among the most strenuous as well as the most interesting
years of my existence, and I mention the strain of them only to prove my
life-long contention, that congenial work, no matter how much there is
of it, has never yet killed any one!
After my battle with the Free Religious Group things moved much more
smoothly in the parish. Captain Crowell, instead of resenting my
defiance of his ruling, helped to reconcile the divided factions in
the church; and though, as I have said, twice afterward I submitted my
resignation, in each case the fight I was making was for a cause which I
firmly believed in and eventually won. My second resignation was brought
about by the unwillingness of the church to have me exchange pulpits
with the one minister on Cape Cod broad-minded enough to invite me to
preach in his pulpit. I had done so, and had then sent him a return
invitation. He was a gentleman and a scholar, but he was also a
Unitarian; and though my people were willing to let me preach in his
church, they were loath to let him preach in mine. After a surprising
amount of discussion my resignation put a different aspect on the
matter; it also led to the satisfactory ruling that I could exchange
pulpits not only with this minister, but with any other in good standing
in his own church.
My third resignation went before the trustees in consequence of my
protest from the pulpit against a small drinking and gambling saloon
in East Dennis; which was rapidly demoralizing our boys. Theoretically,
only "soft drinks" were sold, but the gambling was open, and the resort
was constantly filled with boys of all ages. There were influences back
of this place which tried to protect it, and its owner was very popular
in the town. After my first sermon I was waited upon by a committee,
that warmly advised me to "let East Dennis alone" and confine my
criticisms "to saloons in Boston and other big towns." As I had nothing
to do with Boston, and much to do with East Dennis, I preached on that
place three Sundays in succession, and feeling became so intense that I
handed in my resignation and prepared to depart. Then my friends rallied
and the resort was suppressed.
That was my last big struggle. During the remaining five years of my
pastorate on Cape Cod the relations between my people and myself were
wholly harmonious and beautiful. If I have seemed to dwell too much on
these small victories, it must be remembered that I find in them such
comfort as I can. I have not yet won the great and vital fight of my
life, to which I have given myself, heart and soul, for the past thirty
years--the campaign for woman suffrage. I have seen victories here and
there, and shall see more. But when the ultimate triumph comes--when
American women in every state cast their ballots as naturally as their
husbands do--I may not be in this world to rejoice over it.
It is interesting to remember that during the strenuous period of the
first few months in East Dennis, and notwithstanding the division in
the congregation, we women of the church got together and repainted and
refurnished the building, raising all the money and doing much of the
work ourselves, as the expense of having it done was prohibitive. We
painted the church, and even cut down and modernized the pulpit. The
total cost of material and furniture was not half so great as the
original estimate had indicated, and we had learned a valuable lesson.
After this we spent very little money for labor, but did our own
cleaning, carpet-laying, and the like; and our little church, if I may
be allowed to say so, was a model of neatness and good taste.
I have said that at the end of two years from the time of my appointment
the long-continued warfare in the church was ended. I was not
immediately allowed, however, to bask in an atmosphere of harmony, for
in October, 1880, the celebrated contest over my ordination took place
at the Methodist Protestant Conference in Tarrytown, New York; and for
three days I was a storm-center around which a large number of truly
good and wholly sincere men fought the fight of their religious lives.
Many of them strongly believed that women were out of place in the
ministry. I did not blame them for this conviction. But I was in the
ministry, and I was greatly handicapped by the fact that, although I was
a licensed preacher and a graduate of the Boston Theological School, I
could not, until I had been regularly ordained, meet all the functions
of my office. I could perform the marriage service, but I could not
baptize. I could bury the dead, but I could not take members into my
church. That had to be done by the presiding elder or by some other
minister. I could not administer the sacraments. So at the New England
Spring Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, held in Boston in
1880, I formally applied for ordination. At the same time application
was made by another woman--Miss Anna Oliver--and as a preliminary
step we were both examined by the Conference board, and were formally
reported by that board as fitted for ordination. Our names were
therefore presented at the Conference, over which Bishop Andrews
presided, and he immediately refused to accept them. Miss Oliver and
I were sitting together in the gallery of the church when the bishop
announced his decision, and, while it staggered us, it did not really
surprise us. We had been warned of this gentleman's deep-seated
prejudice against women in the ministry.
After the services were over Miss Oliver and I called on him and asked
him what we should do. He told us calmly that there was nothing for
us to do but to get out of the Church. We reminded him of our years of
study and probation, and that I had been for two years in charge of two
churches. He set his thin lips and replied that there was no place
for women in the ministry, and, as he then evidently considered the
interview ended, we left him with heavy hearts. While we were walking
slowly away, Miss Oliver confided to me that she did not intend to leave
the Church. Instead, she told me, she would stay in and fight the matter
of her ordination to a finish. I, however, felt differently. I had done
considerable fighting during the past two years, and my heart and soul
were weary. I said: "I shall get out, I am no better and no stronger
than a man, and it is all a man can do to fight the world, the flesh,
and the devil, without fighting his Church as well. I do not intend to
fight my Church. But I am called to preach the gospel; and if I cannot
preach it in my own Church, I will certainly preach it in some other
Church!"
As if in response to this outburst, a young minister named Mark Trafton
soon called to see me. He had been present at our Conference, he had
seen my Church refuse to ordain me, and he had come to suggest that I
apply for ordination in his Church--the Methodist Protestant. To leave
my Church, even though urged to do so by its appointed spokesman, seemed
a radical step. Before taking this I appealed from the decision of the
Conference to the General Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church,
which held its session that year in Cincinnati, Ohio. Miss Oliver
also appealed, and again we were both refused ordination, the General
Conference voting to sustain Bishop Andrews in his decision. Not content
with this achievement, the Conference even took a backward step. It
deprived us of the right to be licensed as local preachers. After this
blow I recalled with gratitude the Reverend Mark Trafton's excellent
advice, and I immediately applied for ordination in the Methodist
Protestant Church. My name was presented at the Conference held in
Tarrytown in October, 1880, and the fight was on.
During these Conferences it is customary for each candidate to retire
while the discussion of his individual fitness for ordination is in
progress. When my name came up I was asked, as my predecessors had
been, to leave the room for a few moments. I went into an anteroom and
waited--a half-hour, an hour, all afternoon, all evening, and still
the battle raged. I varied the monotony of sitting in the anteroom by
strolls around Tarrytown, and I think I learned to know its every stone
and turn. The next day passed in the same way. At last, late on Saturday
night, it was suddenly announced by my opponents that I was not even
a member of the Church in which I had applied for ordination. The
statement created consternation among my friends. None of us had thought
of that! The bomb, timed to explode at the very end of the session,
threatened to destroy all my hopes. Of course, my opponents had
reasoned, it would be too late for me to do anything, and my name would
be dropped.
But it was not too late. Dr. Lyman Davis, the pastor of the Methodist
Protestant Church in Tarrytown, was very friendly toward me and my
ordination, and he proved his friendship in a singularly prompt and
efficient fashion. Late as it was, he immediately called together
the trustees of his church, and they responded. To them I made my
application for church membership, which they accepted within five
minutes. I was now a member of the Church, but it was too late to obtain
any further action from the Conference. The next day, Sunday, all the
men who had applied for ordination were ordained, and I was left out.
On Monday morning, however, when the Conference met in its final
business session, my case was reopened, and I was eventually called
before the members to answer questions. Some of these were extremely
interesting, and several of the episodes that occurred were very
amusing. One old gentleman I can see as I write. He was greatly excited,
and he led the opposition by racing up and down the aisles, quoting
from the Scriptures to prove his case against women ministers. As he
ran about he had a trick of putting his arms under the back of his coat,
making his coat-tails stand out like wings and incidentally revealing
two long white tapestrings belonging to a flannel undergarment. Even
in the painful stress of those hours I observed with interest how
beautifully those tape-strings were ironed!
I was there to answer any questions that were asked of me, and the
questions came like hailstones in a sudden summer storm.
"Paul said, 'Wives, obey your husbands,'" shouted my old man of the
coat-tails. "Suppose your husband should refuse to allow you to preach?
What then?"
"In the first place," I answered, "Paul did not say so, according to
the Scriptures. But even if he did, it would not concern me, for I am a
spinster."
The old man looked me over. "You might marry some day," he predicted,
cautiously.
"Possibly," I admitted. "Wiser women than I am have married. But it
is equally possible that I might marry a man who would command me to
preach; and in that case I want to be all ready to obey him."
At this another man, a bachelor, also began to draw from the Scriptures.
"An elder," he quoted, "shall be the husband of one wife." And he
demanded, triumphantly, "How is it possible for you to be the husband of
a wife?"
In response to that I quoted a bit myself. "Paul said, 'Anathema unto
him who addeth to or taketh from the Scriptures,'" I reminded this
gentleman; and added that a twisted interpretation of the Scriptures was
as bad as adding to or taking from them, and that no one doubted that
Paul was warning the elders against polygamy. Then I went a bit further,
for by this time the absurd character of the questions was getting on my
nerves.
"Even if my good brother's interpretation is correct," I said, "he has
overlooked two important points. Though he is an elder, he is also a
bachelor; so I am as much of a husband as he is!"
A good deal of that sort of thing went on. The most satisfactory episode
of the session, to me, was the downfall of three pert young men who in
turn tried to make it appear that as the duty of the Conference was to
provide churches for all its pastors, I might become a burden to the
Church if it proved impossible to provide a pastorate for me. At that,
one of my friends in the council rose to his feet.
"I have had official occasion to examine into the matter of Miss Shaw's
parish and salary," he said, "and I know what salaries the last three
speakers are drawing. It may interest the Conference to know that Miss
Shaw's present salary equals the combined salaries of the three young
men who are so afraid she will be a burden to the Church. If, before
being ordained, she can earn three times as much as they now earn after
being ordained, it seems fairly clear that they will never have to
support her. We can only hope that she will never have to support them."
The three young ministers subsided into their seats with painful
abruptness, and from that time my opponents were more careful in their
remarks. Still, many unpleasant things were said, and too much warmth
was shown by both sides. We gained ground through the day, however, and
at the end of the session the Conference, by a large majority, voted to
ordain me.
The ordination service was fixed for the following evening, and even the
gentlemen who had most vigorously opposed me were not averse to making
the occasion a profitable one. The contention had already enormously
advertised the Conference, and the members now helped the good work
along by sending forth widespread announcements of the result. They also
decided that, as the attendance at the service would be very large, they
would take up a collection for the support of superannuated ministers.
The three young men who had feared I would become a burden were
especially active in the matter of this collection; and, as they had no
sense of humor, it did not seem incongruous to them to use my ordination
as a means of raising money for men who had already become burdens to
the Church.
When the great night came (on October 12, 1880), the expected crowd came
also. And to the credit of my opponents I must add that, having lost
their fight, they took their defeat in good part and gracefully assisted
in the services. Sitting in one of the front pews was Mrs. Stiles, the
wife of Dr. Stiles, who was superintendent of the Conference. She was
a dear little old lady of seventy, with a big, maternal heart; and when
she saw me rise to walk up the aisle alone, she immediately rose, too,
came to my side, offered me her arm, and led me to the altar.
The ordination service was very impressive and beautiful. Its peace
and dignity, following the battle that had raged for days, moved me
so deeply that I was nearly overcome. Indeed, I was on the verge of a
breakdown when I was mercifully saved by the clause in the discipline
calling for the pledge all ministers had to make--that I would not
indulge in the use of tobacco. When this vow fell from my lips a
perceptible ripple ran over the congregation.
I was homesick for my Cape Cod parish, and I returned to East Dennis
immediately after my ordination, arriving there on Saturday night.
I knew by the suppressed excitement of my friends that some surprise
awaited me, but I did not learn what it was until I entered my dear
little church the following morning. There I found the communion-table
set forth with a beautiful new communion-service. This had been
purchased during my absence, that I might dedicate it that day and for
the first time administer the sacrament to my people.
VI. CAPE COD MEMORIES
Looking back now upon those days, I see my Cape Cod friends as clearly
as if the intervening years had been wiped out and we were again
together. Among those I most loved were two widely differing
types--Captain Doane, a retired sea-captain, and Relief Paine, an
invalid chained to her couch, but whose beautiful influence permeated
the community like an atmosphere. Captain Doane was one of the finest
men I have ever known--highminded, tolerant, sympathetic, and full of
understanding, He was not only my friend, but my church barometer. He
occupied a front pew, close to the pulpit; and when I was preaching
without making much appeal he sat looking me straight in the face,
listening courteously, but without interest. When I got into my subject,
he would lean forward--the angle at which he sat indicating the
degree of attention I had aroused--and when I was strongly holding my
congregation Brother Doane would bend toward me, following every word
I uttered with corresponding motions of his lips. When I resigned we
parted with deep regret, but it was not until I visited the church
several years afterward that he overcame his reserve enough to tell me
how much he had felt my going.
"Oh, did you?" I asked, greatly touched. "You're not saying that merely
to please me?"
The old man's hand fell on my shoulder. "I miss you," he said, simply.
"I miss you all the time. You see, I love you." Then, with precipitate
selfconsciousness, he closed the door of his New England heart, and from
some remote corner of it sent out his cautious after-thought. "I love
you," he repeated, primly, "as a sister in the Lord."
Relief Paine lived in Brewster. Her name seemed prophetic, and she once
told me that she had always considered it so. Her brother-in-law was my
Sunday-school superintendent, and her family belonged to my church. Very
soon after my arrival in East Dennis I went to see her, and found
her, as she always was, dressed in white and lying on a tiny white bed
covered with pansies, in a room whose windows overlooked the sea. I
shall never forget the picture she made. Over her shoulders was an
exquisite white lace shawl brought from the other side of the world by
some seafaring friend, and against her white pillow her hair seemed the
blackest I had ever seen. When I entered she turned and looked toward
me with wonderful dark eyes that were quite blind, and as she talked her
hands played with the pansies around her. She loved pansies as she loved
few human beings, and she knew their colors by touching them. She was
then a little more than thirty years of age. At sixteen she had fallen
downstairs in the dark, receiving an injury that paralyzed her, and
for fifteen years she had lain on one side, perfectly still, the Stella
Maris of the Cape. All who came to her, and they were many, went away
the better for the visit, and the mere mention of her name along the
coast softened eyes that had looked too bitterly on life.
Relief and I became close friends. I was greatly drawn to her, and
deeply moved by the tragedy of her situation, as well as by the
beautiful spirit with which she bore it. During my first visit I regaled
her with stories of the community and of my own experiences, and when I
was leaving it occurred to me that possibly I had been rather frivolous.
So I said:
"I am coming to see you often, and when I come I want to do whatever
will interest you most. Shall I bring some books and read to you?"
Relief smiled--the gay, mischievous little smile I was soon to know so
well, but which at first seemed out of place on the tragic mask of her
face.
"No, don't read to me," she decided. "There are enough ready to do that.
Talk to me. Tell me about our life and our people here, as they strike
you." And she added, slowly: "You are a queer minister. You have not
offered to pray with me!"
"I feel," I told her, "more like asking you to pray for me."
Relief continued her analysis. "You have not told me that my affliction
was a visitation from God," she added; "that it was discipline and well
for me I had it."
"I don't believe it was from God," I said. "I don't believe God had
anything to do with it. And I rejoice that you have not let it wreck
your life."
She pressed my hand. "Thank you for saying that," she murmured. "If I
thought God did it I could not love Him, and if I did not love Him I
could not live. Please come and see me VERY often--and tell me stories!"
After that I collected stories for Relief. One of those which most
amused her, I remember, was about my horse, and this encourages me to
repeat it here. In my life in East Dennis I did not occupy the lonely
little parsonage connected with my church, but instead boarded with a
friend--a widow named Crowell. (There seemed only two names in Cape Cod:
Sears and Crowell.) To keep in touch with my two churches, which were
almost three miles apart, it became necessary to have a horse. As Mrs.
Crowell needed one, too, we decided to buy the animal in partnership,
and Miss Crowell, the daughter of the widow, who knew no more about
horses than I did, undertook to lend me the support of her presence and
advice during the purchase. We did not care to have the entire community
take a passionate interest in the matter, as it would certainly have
done if it had heard of our intention; so my friend and I departed
somewhat stealthily for a neighboring town, where, we had heard, a very
good horse was offered for sale. We saw the animal and liked it; but
before closing the bargain we cannily asked the owner if the horse was
perfectly sound, and if it was gentle with women. He assured us that it
was both sound and gentle with women, and to prove the latter point
he had his wife harness it to the buggy and drive it around the
stable-yard. The animal behaved beautifully. After it had gone through
its paces, Miss Crowell and I leaned confidingly against its side,
patting it and praising its beauty, and the horse seemed to enjoy our
attentions. We bought it then and there, drove it home, and put it in
our barn; and the next morning we hired a man in the neighborhood to
come over and take care of it.