most intense anger I had yet known. My indignation against the men who
had risked hundreds of lives by setting fire to a crowded building made
me "see red"; it was clear that they must be taught a lesson then and
there. As soon as I was outside the rink I called a meeting, and the
Congregational minister, who was in the crowd, lent us his church
and led the way to it. Most of the audience followed us, and we had a
wonderful meeting, during which we were able at last to make clear to
the people of that town the character of the liquor interests we were
fighting. That episode did the temperance cause more good than a hundred
ordinary meetings. Men who had been indifferent before became our
friends and supporters, and at the following election we carried the
town for prohibition by a big majority.
There have been other occasions when our opponents have not fought us
fairly. Once, in an Ohio town, a group of politicians, hearing that I
was to lecture on temperance in the court-house on a certain night,
took possession of the building early in the evening, on the pretense of
holding a meeting, and held it against us. When, escorted by a committee
of leading women, I reached the building and tried to enter, we found
that the men had locked us out. Our audience was gathering and filling
the street, and we finally sent a courteous message to the men, assuming
that they had forgotten us and reminding them of our position. The
messenger reported that the men would leave "about eight," but that the
room was "black with smoke and filthy with tobacco-juice." We waited
patiently until eight o'clock, holding little outside meetings in
groups, as our audience waited with us. At eight we again sent our
messenger into the hall, and he brought back word that the men were "not
through, didn't know when they would be through, and had told the women
not to wait."
Naturally, the waiting townswomen were deeply chagrined by this. So were
many men in the outside crowd. We asked if there was no other entrance
to the hall except through the locked front doors, and were told that
the judge's private room opened into it, and that one of our committee
had the key, as she had planned to use this room as a dressing and
retiring room for the speakers. After some discussion we decided to
storm the hall and take possession. Within five minutes all the women
had formed in line and were crowding up the back stairs and into the
judge's room. There we unlocked the door, again formed in line, and
marched into the hall, singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers!"
There were hundreds of us, and we marched directly to the platform,
where the astonished men got up to stare at us. More and more women
entered, coming up the back stairs from the street and filling the hall;
and when the men realized what it all meant, and recognized their wives,
sisters, and women friends in the throng, they sheepishly unlocked the
front doors and left us in possession, though we politely urged them to
remain. We had a great meeting that night!
Another reminiscence may not be out of place. We were working for a
prohibition amendment in the state of Pennsylvania, and the night
before election I reached Coatesville. I had just completed six weeks of
strenuous campaigning, and that day I had already conducted and spoken
at two big outdoor meetings. When I entered the town hall of Coatesville
I found it filled with women. Only a few men were there; the rest were
celebrating and campaigning in the streets. So I arose and said:
"I would like to ask how many men there are in the audience who intend
to vote for the amendment to-morrow?"
Every man in the hall stood up.
"I thought so," I said. "Now I intend to ask your indulgence. As you are
all in favor of the amendment, there is no use in my setting its claims
before you; and, as I am utterly exhausted, I suggest that we sing the
Doxology and go home!"
The audience saw the common sense of my position, so the people laughed
and sang the Doxology and departed. As we were leaving the hall one of
Coatesville's prominent citizens stopped me.
"I wish you were a man," he said. "The town was to have a big outdoor
meeting to-night, and the orator has failed us. There are thousands of
men in the streets waiting for the speech, and the saloons are sending
them free drinks to get them drunk and carry the town to-morrow."
"Why," I said, "I'll talk to them if you wish."
"Great Scott!" he gasped. "I'd be afraid to let you. Something might
happen!"
"If anything happens, it will be in a good cause," I reminded him. "Let
us go."
Down-town we found the streets so packed with men that the cars could
not get through, and with the greatest difficulty we reached the stand
which had been erected for the speaker. It was a gorgeous affair. There
were flaring torches all around it, and a "bull's-eye," taken from the
head of a locomotive, made an especially brilliant patch of light.
The stand had been erected at a point where the city's four principal
streets meet, and as far as I could see there were solid masses of
citizens extending into these streets. A glee-club was doing its best
to help things along, and the music of an organette, an instrument much
used at the time in campaign rallies, swelled the joyful tumult. As
I mounted the platform the crowd was singing "Vote for Betty and the
Baby," and I took that song for my text, speaking of the helplessness
of women and children in the face of intemperance, and telling the crowd
the only hope of the Coatesville women lay in the vote cast by their men
the next day.
Directly in front of me stood a huge and extraordinarily
repellent-looking negro. A glance at him almost made one shudder, but
before I had finished my first sentence he raised his right arm straight
above him and shouted, in a deep and wonderfully rich bass voice,
"Hallelujah to the Lamb!" From that point on he punctuated my speech
every few moments with good, old-fashioned exclamations of salvation
which helped to inspire the crowd. I spoke for almost an hour. Three
times in my life, and only three times, I have made speeches that have
satisfied me to the degree, that is, of making me feel that at least I
was giving the best that was in me. The speech at Coatesville was one
of those three. At the end of it the good-natured crowd cheered for ten
minutes. The next day Coatesville voted for prohibition, and, rightly or
wrongly, I have always believed that I helped to win that victory.
Here, by the way, I may add that of the two other speeches which
satisfied me one was made in Chicago, during the World's Fair, in 1893,
and the other in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1912. The International Council
of Women, it will be remembered, met in Chicago during the Fair, and
I was invited to preach the sermon at the Sunday-morning session. The
occasion was a very important one, bringing together at least five
thousand persons, including representative women from almost every
country in Europe, and a large number of women ministers. These made an
impressive group, as they all wore their ministerial robes; and for the
first time I preached in a ministerial robe, ordered especially for
that day. It was made of black crepe de Chine, with great double flowing
sleeves, white silk undersleeves, and a wide white silk underfold down
the front; and I may mention casually that it looked very much better
than I felt, for I was very nervous. My father had come on to Chicago
especially to hear my sermon, and had been invited to sit on the
platform. Even yet he was not wholly reconciled to my public work, but
he was beginning to take a deep interest in it. I greatly desired to
please him and to satisfy Miss Anthony, who was extremely anxious that
on that day of all days I should do my best.
I gave an unusual amount of time and thought to that sermon, and at last
evolved what I modestly believed to be a good one. I never write out
a sermon in advance, but I did it this time, laboriously, and then
memorized the effort. The night before the sermon was to be delivered
Miss Anthony asked me about it, and when I realized how deeply
interested she was I delivered it to her then and there as a rehearsal.
It was very late, and I knew we would not be interrupted. As she
listened her face grew longer and longer and her lips drooped at the
corners. Her disappointment was so obvious that I had difficulty in
finishing my recitation; but I finally got through it, though rather
weakly toward the end, and waited to hear what she would say, hoping
against hope that she had liked it better than she seemed to. But Susan
B. Anthony was the frankest as well as the kindest of women. Resolutely
she shook her head.
"It's no good, Anna," she said; firmly. "You'll have to do better.
You've polished and repolished that sermon until there's no life left in
it. It's dead. Besides, I don't care for your text."
"Then give me a text," I demanded, gloomily.
"I can't," said Aunt Susan.
I was tired and bitterly disappointed, and both conditions showed in my
reply.
"Well," I asked, somberly, "if you can't even supply a text, how do you
suppose I'm going to deliver a brand-new sermon at ten o'clock to-morrow
morning?"
"Oh," declared Aunt Susan, blithely, "you'll find a text."
I suggested several, but she did not like them. At last I said, "I have
it--'Let no man take thy crown.'"
"That's it!" exclaimed Miss Anthony. "Give us a good sermon on that
text."
She went to her room to sleep the sleep of the just and the untroubled,
but I tossed in my bed the rest of the night, planning the points of
the new sermon. After I had delivered it the next morning I went to my
father to assist him from the platform. He was trembling, and his eyes
were full of tears. He seized my arm and pressed it.
"Now I am ready to die," was all he said.
I was so tired that I felt ready to die, too; but his satisfaction and a
glance at Aunt Susan's contented face gave me the tonic I needed. Father
died two years later, and as I was campaigning in California I was not
with him at the end. It was a comfort to remember, however, that in the
twilight of his life he had learned to understand his most difficult
daughter, and to give her credit for earnestness of purpose, at least,
in following the life that had led her away from him. After his death,
and immediately upon my return from California, I visited my mother,
and it was well indeed that I did, for within a few months she followed
father into the other world for which all of her unselfish life had been
a preparation.
Our last days together were perfect. Her attitude was one of serene
and cheerful expectancy, and I always think of her as sitting among the
primroses and bluebells she loved, which seemed to bloom unceasingly in
the windows of her room. I recall, too, with gratitude, a trifle which
gave her a pleasure out of all proportion to what I had dreamed it
would do. She had expressed a longing for some English heather, "not
the hot-house variety, but the kind that blooms on the hills," and I had
succeeded in getting a bunch for her by writing to an English friend.
Its possession filled her with joy, and from the time it came until the
day her eyes closed in their last sleep it was rarely beyond reach of
her hand. At her request, when she was buried we laid the heather on her
heart--the heart of a true and loyal woman, who, though her children had
not known it, must have longed without ceasing throughout her New World
life for the Old World of her youth.
The Scandinavian speech was an even more vital experience than the
Chicago one, for in Stockholm I delivered the first sermon ever preached
by a woman in the State Church of Sweden, and the event was preceded
by an amount of political and journalistic opposition which gave it an
international importance. I had also been invited by the Norwegian
women to preach in the State Church of Norway, but there we experienced
obstacles. By the laws of Norway women are permitted to hold all public
offices except those in the army, navy, and church--a rather remarkable
militant and spiritual combination. As a woman, therefore, I was denied
the use of the church by the Minister of Church Affairs.
The decision created great excitement and much delving into the law.
It then appeared that if the use of a State Church is desired for a
minister of a foreign country the government can give such permission.
It was thought that I might slip in through this loophole, and
application was made to the government. The reply came that permission
could be received only from the entire Cabinet; and while the Cabinet
gentlemen were feverishly discussing the important issue, the Norwegian
press became active, pointing out that the Minister of Church Affairs
had arrogantly assumed the right of the entire Cabinet in denying
the application. The charge was taken up by the party opposed to the
government party in Parliament, and the Minister of Church Affairs
swiftly turned the whole matter over to his conferees.
The Cabinet held a session, and by a vote of four to three decided NOT
to allow a woman to preach in the State Church. I am happy to add that
of the three who voted favorably on the question one was the Premier of
Norway. Again the newspapers grasped their opportunity--especially the
organs of the opposition party. My rooms were filled with reporters,
while daily the excitement grew. The question was brought up in
Parliament, and I was invited to attend and hear the discussion there.
By this time every newspaper in Scandinavia was for or against me; and
the result of the whole matter was that, though the State Church of
Norway was not opened to me, a most unusual interest had been aroused in
my sermon in the State Church of Sweden. When I arrived there to keep
my engagement, not only was the wonderful structure packed to its walls,
but the waiting crowds in the street were so large that the police had
difficulty in opening a way for our party.
I shall never forget my impression of the church itself when I entered
it. It will always stand forth in my memory as one of the most beautiful
churches I have ever visited. On every side were monuments of dead
heroes and statesmen, and the high, vaulted blue dome seemed like the
open sky above our heads. Over us lay a light like a soft twilight, and
the great congregation filled not only all the pews, but the aisles, the
platform, and even the steps of the pulpit. The ushers were young women
from the University of Upsala, wearing white university caps with black
vizors, and sashes in the university colors. The anthem was composed
especially for the occasion by the first woman cathedral organist in
Sweden--the organist of the cathedral in Gothenburg--and she had brought
with her thirty members of her choir, all of them remarkable singers.
The whole occasion was indescribably impressive, and I realized in
every fiber the necessity of being worthy of it. Also, I experienced
a sensation such as I had never known before, and which I can only
describe as a seeming complete separation of my physical self from my
spiritual self. It was as if my body stood aside and watched my soul
enter that pulpit. There was no uncertainty, no nervousness, though
usually I am very nervous when I begin to speak; and when I had finished
I knew that I had done my best.
But all this is a long way from the early days I was discussing, when I
was making my first diffident bows to lecture audiences and learning the
lessons of the pioneer in the lecture-field. I was soon to learn more,
for in 1888 Miss Anthony persuaded me to drop my temperance work
and concentrate my energies on the suffrage cause. For a long time I
hesitated. I was very happy in my connection with the Woman's Christian
Temperance Union, and I knew that Miss Willard was depending on me to
continue it. But Miss Anthony's arguments were irrefutable, and she was
herself, as always, irresistible.
"You can't win two causes at once," she reminded me. "You're merely
scattering your energies. Begin at the beginning. Win suffrage for
women, and the rest will follow." As an added argument, she took me with
her on her Kansas campaign, and after that no further arguments were
needed. From then until her death, eighteen years later, Miss Anthony
and I worked shoulder to shoulder.
The most interesting lecture episode of our first Kansas campaign was
my debate with Senator John J. Ingalls. Before this, however, on our
arrival at Atchison, Mrs. Ingalls gave a luncheon for Miss Anthony, and
Rachel Foster Avery and I were also invited. Miss Anthony sat at the
right of Senator Ingalls, and I at his left, while Mrs. Ingalls, of
course, adorned the opposite end of her table. Mrs. Avery and I had just
been entertained for several days at the home of a vegetarian friend who
did not know how to cook vegetables, and we were both half starved. When
we were invited to the Ingalls home we had uttered in unison a joyous
cry, "Now we shall have something to eat!" At the luncheon, however,
Senator Ingalls kept Miss Anthony and me talking steadily. He was not in
favor of suffrage for women, but he wished to know all sorts of things
about the Cause, and we were anxious to have him know them. The result
was that I had time for only an occasional mouthful, while down at the
end of the table Mrs. Avery ate and ate, pausing only to send me glances
of heartfelt sympathy. Also, whenever she had an especially toothsome
morsel on the end of her fork she wickedly succeeded in catching my eye
and thus adding the last sybaritic touch to her enjoyment.
Notwithstanding the wealth of knowledge we had bestowed upon him, or
perhaps because of it, the following night Senator Ingalls made his
famous speech against suffrage, and it fell to my lot to answer him. In
the course of his remarks he asked this question: "Would you like to add
three million illiterate voters to the large body of illiterate voters
we have in America to-day?" The audience applauded light-heartedly,
but I was disturbed by the sophistry of the question. One of Senator
Ingalls's most discussed personal peculiarities was the parting of his
hair in the middle. Cartoonists and newspaper writers always made much
of this, so when I rose to reply I felt justified in mentioning it.
"Senator Ingalls," I began, "parts his hair in the middle, as we all
know, but he makes up for it by parting his figures on one side. Last
night he gave you the short side of his figures. At the present time
there are in the United States about eighteen million women of voting
age. When the Senator asked whether you wanted three million additional
illiterate women voters, he forgot to ask also if you didn't want
fifteen million additional intelligent women voters! We will grant that
it will take the votes of three million intelligent women to wipe out
the votes of three million illiterate women. But don't forget that that
would still leave us twelve million intelligent votes to the good!"
The audience applauded as gaily as it had applauded Senator Ingalls when
he spoke on the other side, and I continued:
"Now women have always been generous to men. So of our twelve million
intelligent voters we will offer four million to offset the votes of the
four million illiterate men in this country--and then we will still have
eight million intelligent votes to add to the other intelligent votes
which are cast." The audience seemed to enjoy this.
"The anti-suffragists are fairly safe," I ended, "as long as they remain
on the plane of prophecy. But as soon as they tackle mathematics they
get into trouble!"
Miss Anthony was much pleased by the wide publicity given to this
debate, but Senator Ingalls failed to share her enthusiasm.
It was shortly after this encounter that I had two traveling experiences
which nearly cost me my life. One of them occurred in Ohio at the time
of a spring freshet. I know of no state that can cover itself with water
as completely as Ohio can, and for no apparent reason. On this occasion
it was breaking its own record. We had driven twenty miles across
country in a buggy which was barely out of the water, and behind horses
that at times were almost forced to swim, and when we got near the town
where I was to lecture, though still on the opposite side of the river
from it, we discovered that the bridge was gone. We had a good view of
the town, situated high and dry on a steep bank; but the river which
rolled between us and that town was a roaring, boiling stream, and the
only possible way to cross it, I found, was to walk over a railroad
trestle, already trembling under the force of the water.
There were hundreds of men on the river-bank watching the flood, and
when they saw me start out on the empty trestle they set up a cheer that
nearly threw me off. The river was wide and the ties far apart, and
the roar of the stream below was far from reassuring; but in some way I
reached the other side, and was there helped off the trestle by what the
newspapers called "strong and willing hands."
Another time, in a desperate resolve to meet a lecture engagement, I
walked across the railroad trestle at Elmira, New York, and when I was
halfway over I heard shouts of warning to turn back, as a train was
coming. The trestle was very high at that point, and I realized that if
I turned and faced an oncoming train I would undoubtedly lose my nerve
and fall. So I kept on, as rapidly as I could, accompanied by the
shrieks of those who objected to witnessing a violent death, and I
reached the end of the trestle just as an express-train thundered on the
beginning of it. The next instant a policeman had me by the shoulders
and was shaking me as if I had been a bad child.
"If you ever do such a thing again," he thundered, "I'll lock you up!"
As soon as I could speak I assured him fervently that I never would; one
such experience was all I desired.
Occasionally a flash of humor, conscious or unconscious, lit up the
gloom of a trying situation. Thus, in Parkersburg, West Virginia, the
train I was on ran into a coal-car. I was sitting in a sleeper, leaning
back comfortably with my feet on the seat in front of me, and the force
of the collision lifted me up, turned me completely over, and deposited
me, head first, two seats beyond. On every side I heard cries and
the crash of human bodies against unyielding substances as my
fellow-passengers flew through the air, while high and clear above the
tumult rang the voice of the conductor:
"Keep your seats!" he yelled. "KEEP YOUR SEATS!"
Nobody in our car was seriously hurt; but, so great is the power of
vested authority, no one smiled over that order but me.
Many times my medical experience was useful. Once I was on a train which
ran into a buggy and killed the woman in it. Her little daughter, who
was with her, was badly hurt, and when the train had stopped the crew
lifted the dead woman and the injured child on board, to take them to
the next station. As I was the only doctor among the passengers, the
child was turned over to me. I made up a bed on the seats and put the
little patient there, but no woman in the car was able to assist me. The
tragedy had made them hysterical, and on every side they were weeping
and nerveless. The men were willing but inefficient, with the exception
of one uncouth woodsman whose trousers were tucked into his boots and
whose hands were phenomenally big and awkward. But they were also very
gentle, as I realized when he began to help me. I knew at once that
he was the man I needed, notwithstanding his unkempt hair, his general
ungainliness, the hat he wore on the back of his head, and the pink
carnation in his buttonhole, which, by its very incongruity, added the
final accent to his unprepossessing appearance. Together we worked over
the child, making it as comfortable as we could. It was hardly necessary
to tell my aide what I wanted done; he seemed to know and even to
anticipate my efforts.