The Story of a Pioneer
Anna Howard Shaw

Part 4 out of 6

from the University of Upsala, wearing white uni-
versity caps with black vizors, and sashes in the
university colors. The anthem was composed es-
pecially for the occasion by the first woman cathe-
dral organist in Sweden--the organist of the cathe-
dral in Gothenburg--and she had brought with her
thirty members of her choir, all of them remarkable

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,

``You can't win two causes at once,'' she reminded
me. ``You're merely scattering your energies. Be-
gin 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 ap-
plauded 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 news-
paper 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 ap-
plauded 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 break-
ing 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

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 half-
way 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

Occasionally a flash of humor, conscious or un-
conscious, 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 sleep-
er, 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 pas-
sengers, 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 un-
couth 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 in-
congruity, added the final accent to his unprepossess-
ing appearance. Together we worked over the child,
making it as comfortable as we could. It was hard-
ly necessary to tell my aide what I wanted done;
he seemed to know and even to anticipate my efforts.

When we reached the next station the dead woman
was taken out and laid on the platform, and a nurse
and doctor who had been telegraphed for were wait-
ing to care for the little girl. She was conscious by
this time, and with the most exquisite gentleness my
rustic Bayard lifted her in his arms to carry her off
the train. Quite unnecessarily I motioned to him
not to let her see her dead mother. He was not the
sort who needed that warning; he had already turned
her face to his shoulder, and, with head bent low
above her, was safely skirting the spot where the
long, covered figure lay.

Evidently the station was his destination, too,
for he remained there; but just as the train pulled
out he came hurrying to my window, took the car-
nation from his buttonhole, and without a word
handed it to me. And after the tragic hour in
which I had learned to know him the crushed flower,
from that man, seemed the best fee I had ever



In The Life of Susan B. Anthony it is mentioned
that 1888 was a year of special recognition of our
great leader's work, but that it was also the year
in which many of her closest friends and strongest
supporters were taken from her by death. A. Bron-
son Alcott was among these, and Louisa M. Alcott,
as well as Dr. Lozier; and special stress is laid on
Miss Anthony's sense of loss in the diminishing circle
of her friends--a loss which new friends and workers
came forward, eager to supply.

``Chief among these,'' adds the record, ``was Anna
Shaw, who, from the time of the International Coun-
cil in '88, gave her truest allegiance to Miss An-

It is true that from that year until Miss Anthony's
death in 1906 we two were rarely separated; and
I never read the paragraph I have just quoted with-
out seeing, as in a vision, the figure of ``Aunt Susan''
as she slipped into my hotel room in Chicago late
one night after an evening meeting of the Inter-
national Council. I had gone to bed--indeed, I was
almost asleep when she came, for the day had been
as exhausting as it was interesting. But notwith-
standing the lateness of the hour, ``Aunt Susan,''
then nearing seventy, was still as fresh and as full
of enthusiasm as a young girl. She had a great deal
to say, she declared, and she proceeded to say it--
sitting in a big easy-chair near the bed, with a rug
around her knees, while I propped myself up with
pillows and listened.

Hours passed and the dawn peered wanly through
the windows, but still Miss Anthony talked of the
Cause always of the Cause--and of what we two
must do for it. The previous evening she had been
too busy to eat any dinner, and I greatly doubt
whether she had eaten any luncheon at noon. She
had been on her feet for hours at a time, and she
had held numerous discussions with other women
she wished to inspire to special effort. Yet, after
it all, here she was laying out our campaigns for years
ahead, foreseeing everything, forgetting nothing, and
sweeping me with her in her flight toward our com-
mon goal, until I, who am not easily carried off my
feet, experienced an almost dizzy sense of exhilara-

Suddenly she stopped, looked at the gas-jets paling
in the morning light that filled the room, and for a
fleeting instant seemed surprised. In the next she
had dismissed from her mind the realization that we
had talked all night. Why should we not talk all
night? It was part of our work. She threw off
the enveloping rug and rose.

``I must dress now,'' she said, briskly. ``I've
called a committee meeting before the morning

On her way to the door nature smote her with a
rare reminder, but even then she did not realize that
it was personal. ``Perhaps,'' she remarked, tenta-
tively, ``you ought to have a cup of coffee.''

That was ``Aunt Susan.'' And in the eighteen
years which followed I had daily illustrations of her
superiority to purely human weaknesses. To her
the hardships we underwent later, in our Western
campaigns for woman suffrage, were as the airiest
trifles. Like a true soldier, she could snatch a mo-
ment of sleep or a mouthful of food where she found
it, and if either was not forthcoming she did not
miss it. To me she was an unceasing inspira-
tion--the torch that illumined my life. We went
through some difficult years together--years when
we fought hard for each inch of headway we gained
--but I found full compensation for every effort in
the glory of working with her for the Cause that was
first in both our hearts, and in the happiness of being
her friend. Later I shall describe in more detail the
suffrage campaigns and the National and Inter-
national councils in which we took part; now it is
of her I wish to write--of her bigness, her many-
sidedness, her humor, her courage, her quickness,
her sympathy, her understanding, her force, her
supreme common-sense, her selflessness; in short, of
the rare beauty of her nature as I learned to know it.

Like most great leaders, she took one's best work
for granted, and was chary with her praise; and even
when praise was given it usually came by indirect
routes. I recall with amusement that the highest
compliment she ever paid me in public involved her
in a tangle from which, later, only her quick wit
extricated her. We were lecturing in an especially
pious town which I shall call B----, and just before
I went on the platform Miss Anthony remarked,

``These people have always claimed that I am ir-
religious. They will not accept the fact that I am
a Quaker--or, rather, they seem to think a Quaker
is an infidel. I am glad you are a Methodist, for
now they cannot claim that we are not orthodox.''

She was still enveloped in the comfort of this re-
flection when she introduced me to our audience,
and to impress my qualifications upon my hearers
she made her introduction in these words:

``It is a pleasure to introduce Miss Shaw, who
is a Methodist minister. And she is not only ortho-
dox of the orthodox, but she is also my right bower!''

There was a gasp from the pious audience, and
then a roar of laughter from irreverent men, in
which, I must confess, I light-heartedly joined. For
once in her life Miss Anthony lost her presence of
mind; she did not know how to meet the situation,
for she had no idea what had caused the laughter.
It bubbled forth again and again during the eve-
ning, and each time Miss Anthony received the dem-
onstration with the same air of puzzled surprise.
When we had returned to our hotel rooms I explained
the matter to her. I do not remember now where
I had acquired my own sinful knowledge, but that
night I faced ``Aunt Susan'' from the pedestal of a
sophisticated worldling.

``Don't you know what a right bower is?'' I de-
manded, sternly.

``Of course I do,'' insisted ``Aunt Susan.'' ``It's
a right-hand man--the kind one can't do without.''

``It is a card,'' I told her, firmly--``a leading card
in a game called euchre.''

``Aunt Susan'' was dazed. ``I didn't know it had
anything to do with cards,'' she mused, mournfully.
``What must they think of me?''

What they thought became quite evident. The
newspapers made countless jokes at our expense,
and there were significant smiles on the faces in the
audience that awaited us the next night. When
Miss Anthony walked upon the platform she at
once proceeded to clear herself of the tacit charge
against her.

``When I came to your town,'' she began, cheer-
fully, ``I had been warned that you were a very
religious lot of people. I wanted to impress upon
you the fact that Miss Shaw and I are religious, too.
But I admit that when I told you she was my right
bower I did not know what a right bower was. I
have learned that, since last night.''

She waited until the happy chortles of her hearers
had subsided, and then went on.

``It interests me very much, however,'' she con-
cluded, ``to realize that every one of you seemed to
know all about a right bower, and that I had to come
to your good, orthodox town to get the informa-

That time the joke was on the audience.
Miss Anthony's home was in Rochester, New
York, and it was said by our friends that on the
rare occasions when we were not together, and I was
lecturing independently, ``all return roads led
through Rochester.'' I invariably found some ex-
cuse to go there and report to her. Together we
must have worn out many Rochester pavements,
for ``Aunt Susan's'' pet recreation was walking, and
she used to walk me round and round the city
squares, far into the night, and at a pace that made
policemen gape at us as we flew by. Some dis-
respectful youth once remarked that on these oc-
casions we suggested a race between a ruler and a
rubber ball--for she was very tall and thin, while
I am short and plump. To keep up with her I
literally bounded at her side.

A certain amount of independent lecturing was
necessary for me, for I had to earn my living. The
National American Woman Suffrage Association
has never paid salaries to its officers, so, when I be-
came vice-president and eventually, in 1904, presi-
dent of the association, I continued to work gratui-
tously for the Cause in these positions. Even Miss
Anthony received not one penny of salary for all
her years of unceasing labor, and she was so poor
that she did not have a home of her own until she
was seventy-five. Then it was a very simple one,
and she lived with the utmost economy. I decided
that I could earn my bare expenses by making one
brief lecture tour each year, and I made an arrange-
ment with the Redpath Bureau which left me
fully two-thirds of my time for the suffrage work
I loved.

This was one result of my all-night talk with Miss
Anthony in Chicago, and it enabled me to carry
out her plan that I should accompany her in most
of the campaigns in which she sought to arouse the
West to the need of suffrage for women. From that
time on we traveled and lectured together so con-
stantly that each of us developed an almost uncanny
knowledge of the other's mental processes. At any
point of either's lecture the other could pick it up
and carry it on--a fortunate condition, as it some-
times became necessary to do this. Miss Anthony
was subject to contractions of the throat, which for
the moment caused a slight strangulation. On such
occasions--of which there were several--she would
turn to me and indicate her helplessness. Then I
would repeat her last sentence, complete her speech,
and afterward make my own.

The first time this happened we were in Washing-
ton, and ``Aunt Susan'' stopped in the middle of a
word. She could not speak; she merely motioned
to me to continue for her, and left the stage. At the
end of the evening a prominent Washington man
who had been in our audience remarked to me, con-

``That was a nice little play you and Miss An-
thony made to-night--very effective indeed.''

For an instant I did not catch his meaning, nor
the implication in his knowing smile.

``Very clever, that strangling bit, and your going
on with the speech,'' he repeated. ``It hit the au-
dience hard.''

``Surely,'' I protested, ``you don't think it was a
deliberate thing--that we planned or rehearsed it.''

He stared at me incredulously. ``Are you going
to pretend,'' he demanded, ``that it wasn't a put-up

I told him he had paid us a high compliment, and
that we must really have done very well if we had
conveyed that impression; and I finally convinced
him that we not only had not rehearsed the episode,
but that neither of us had known what the other
meant to say. We never wrote out our speeches,
but our subject was always suffrage or some ramifica-
tion of suffrage, and, naturally, we had thoroughly
digested each other's views.

It is said by my friends that I write my speeches
on the tips of my fingers--for I always make my
points on my fingers and have my fingers named for
points. When I plan a speech I decide how many
points I wish to make and what those points shall
be. My mental preparation follows. Miss An-
thony's method was much the same; but very fre-
quently both of us threw over all our plans at the last
moment and spoke extemporaneously on some theme
suggested by the atmosphere of the gathering or by
the words of another speaker.

From Miss Anthony, more than from any one else,
I learned to keep cool in the face of interruptions
and of the small annoyances and disasters inevitable
in campaigning. Often we were able to help each
other out of embarrassing situations, and one incident
of this kind occurred during our campaign in South
Dakota. We were holding a meeting on the hottest
Sunday of the hottest month in the year--August--
and hundreds of the natives had driven twenty,
thirty, and even forty miles across the country to
hear us. We were to speak in a sod church, but it
was discovered that the structure would not hold half
the people who were trying to enter it, so we decided
that Miss Anthony should speak from the door, in
order that those both inside and outside might hear
her. To elevate her above her audience, she was
given an empty dry-goods box to stand on.

This makeshift platform was not large, and men,
women, and children were seated on the ground
around it, pressing up against it, as close to the
speaker as they could get. Directly in front of Miss
Anthony sat a woman with a child about two years
old--a little boy; and this infant, like every one else
in the packed throng, was dripping with perspiration
and suffering acutely under the blazing sun. Every
woman present seemed to have brought children with
her, doubtless because she could not leave them
alone at home; and babies were crying and fretting
on all sides. The infant nearest Miss Anthony fretted
most strenuously; he was a sturdy little fellow with
a fine pair of lungs, and he made it very difficult for
her to lift her voice above his dismal clamor. Sud-
denly, however, he discovered her feet on the dry-
goods box, about on a level with his head. They
were clad in black stockings and low shoes; they
moved about oddly; they fascinated him. With a
yelp of interest he grabbed for them and began
pinching them to see what they were. His howls
ceased; he was happy.

Miss Anthony was not. But it was a great relief
to have the child quiet, so she bore the infliction of
the pinching as long as she could. When endurance
had found its limit she slipped back out of reach,
and as his new plaything receded the boy uttered
shrieks of disapproval. There was only one way to
stop his noise; Miss Anthony brought her feet for-
ward again, and he resumed the pinching of her
ankles, while his yelps subsided to contented mur-
murs. The performance was repeated half a dozen
times. Each time the ankles retreated the baby
yelled. Finally, for once at the end of her patience,
``Aunt Susan'' leaned forward and addressed the
mother, whose facial expression throughout had
shown a complete mental detachment from the situa-

``I think your little boy is hot and thirsty,'' she
said, gently. ``If you would take him out of the
crowd and give him a drink of water and unfasten
his clothes, I am sure he would be more comfortable.''
Before she had finished speaking the woman had
sprung to her feet and was facing her with fierce

``This is the first time I have ever been insulted
as a mother,'' she cried; ``and by an old maid at
that!'' Then she grasped the infant and left the
scene, amid great confusion. The majority of those
in the audience seemed to sympathize with her.
They had not seen the episode of the feet, and they
thought Miss Anthony was complaining of the child's
crying. Their children were crying, too, and they
felt that they had all been criticized. Other women
rose and followed the irate mother, and many men
gallantly followed them. It seemed clear that
motherhood had been outraged.

Miss Anthony was greatly depressed by the epi-
sode, and she was not comforted by a prediction one
man made after the meeting.

``You've lost at least twenty votes by that little
affair,'' he told her.

``Aunt Susan'' sighed. ``Well,'' she said, ``if those
men knew how my ankles felt I would have won
twenty votes by enduring the torture as long as I did.''

The next day we had a second meeting. Miss
Anthony made her speech early in the evening, and
by the time it was my turn to begin all the children
in the audience--and there were many--were both
tired and sleepy. At least half a dozen of them
were crying, and I had to shout to make my voice
heard above their uproar. Miss Anthony remarked
afterward that there seemed to be a contest between
me and the infants to see which of us could make
more noise. The audience was plainly getting rest-
less under the combined effect, and finally a man in
the rear rose and added his voice to the tumult.

``Say, Miss Shaw,'' he yelled, ``don't you want
these children put out?''

It was our chance to remove the sad impression
of yesterday, and I grasped it.

``No, indeed,'' I yelled back. ``Nothing inspires
me like the voice of a child!''

A handsome round of applause from mothers and
fathers greeted this noble declaration, after which
the blessed babies and I resumed our joint vocal
efforts. When the speech was finished and we were
alone together, Miss Anthony put her arm around
my shoulder and drew me to her side.

``Well, Anna,'' she said, gratefully, ``you've cer-
tainly evened us up on motherhood this time.''

That South Dakota campaign was one of the
most difficult we ever made. It extended over nine
months; and it is impossible to describe the poverty
which prevailed throughout the whole rural com-
munity of the State. There had been three con-
secutive years of drought. The sand was like pow-
der, so deep that the wheels of the wagons in which
we rode ``across country'' sank half-way to the
hubs; and in the midst of this dry powder lay with-
ered tangles that had once been grass. Every one
had the forsaken, desperate look worn by the pioneer
who has reached the limit of his endurance, and the
great stretches of prairie roads showed innumerable
canvas-covered wagons, drawn by starved horses,
and followed by starved cows, on their way ``Back
East.'' Our talks with the despairing drivers of
these wagons are among my most tragic memories.
They had lost everything except what they had with
them, and they were going East to leave ``the wom-
an'' with her father and try to find work. Usually,
with a look of disgust at his wife, the man would
say: ``I wanted to leave two years ago, but the
woman kept saying, `Hold on a little longer.' ''

Both Miss Anthony and I gloried in the spirit of
these pioneer women, and lost no opportunity to
tell them so; for we realized what our nation owes
to the patience and courage of such as they were.
We often asked them what was the hardest thing to
bear in their pioneer life, and we usually received
the same reply:

``To sit in our little adobe or sod houses at night
and listen to the wolves howl over the graves of our
babies. For the howl of the wolf is like the cry of
a child from the grave.''

Many days, and in all kinds of weather, we rode
forty and fifty miles in uncovered wagons. Many
nights we shared a one-room cabin with all the mem-
bers of the family. But the greatest hardship we
suffered was the lack of water. There was very
little good water in the state, and the purest water
was so brackish that we could hardly drink it. The
more we drank the thirstier we became, and when
the water was made into tea it tasted worse than
when it was clear. A bath was the rarest of luxuries.
The only available fuel was buffalo manure, of which
the odor permeated all our food. But despite these
handicaps we were happy in our work, for we had
some great meetings and many wonderful experiences.

When we reached the Black Hills we had more of
this genuine campaigning. We traveled over the
mountains in wagons, behind teams of horses, visit-
ing the mining-camps; and often the gullies were so
deep that when our horses got into them it was al-
most impossible to get them out. I recall with
special clearness one ride from Hill City to Custer
City. It was only a matter of thirty miles, but it was
thoroughly exhausting; and after our meeting that
same night we had to drive forty miles farther over
the mountains to get the early morning train from
Buffalo Gap. The trail from Custer City to Buffalo
Gap was the one the animals had originally made in
their journeys over the pass, and the drive in that
wild region, throughout a cold, piercing October
night, was an unforgetable experience. Our host at
Custer City lent Miss Anthony his big buffalo over-
coat, and his wife lent hers to me. They also heated
blocks of wood for our feet, and with these pro-
tections we started. A full moon hung in the sky.
The trees were covered with hoar-frost, and the cold,
still air seemed to sparkle in the brilliant light.
Again Miss Anthony talked to me throughout the
night--of the work, always of the work, and of what
it would mean to the women who followed us; and
again she fired my soul with the flame that burned
so steadily in her own.

It was daylight when we reached the little sta-
tion at Buffalo Gap where we were to take the
train. This was not due, however, for half an hour,
and even then it did not come. The station was
only large enough to hold the stove, the ticket-office,
and the inevitable cuspidor. There was barely
room in which to walk between these and the wall.
Miss Anthony sat down on the floor. I had a few
raisins in my bag, and we divided them for breakfast.
An hour passed, and another, and still the train did
not come. Miss Anthony, her back braced against
the wall, buried her face in her hands and dropped
into a peaceful abyss of slumber, while I walked
restlessly up and down the platform. The train
arrived four hours late, and when eventually we had
reached our destination we learned that the min-
isters of the town had persuaded the women to give
up the suffrage meeting scheduled for that night, as
it was Sunday.

This disappointment, following our all-day and
all-night drive to keep our appointment, aroused
Miss Anthony's fighting spirit. She sent me out to
rent the theater for the evening, and to have some
hand-bills printed and distributed, announcing that
we would speak. At three o'clock she made the
concession to her seventy years of lying down for
an hour's rest. I was young and vigorous, so I
trotted around town to get somebody to preside,
somebody to introduce us, somebody to take up
the collection, and somebody who would provide
music--in short, to make all our preparations for
the night meeting.

When evening came the crowd which had assem-
bled was so great that men and women sat in the
windows and on the stage, and stood in the flies.
Night attractions were rare in that Dakota town,
and here was something new. Nobody went to
church, so the churches were forced to close. We
had a glorious meeting. Both Miss Anthony and I
were in excellent fighting trim, and Miss Anthony
remarked that the only thing lacking to make me
do my best was a sick headache. The collection we
took up paid all our expenses, the church singers
sang for us, the great audience was interested, and
the whole occasion was an inspiring success.

The meeting ended about half after ten o'clock,
and I remember taking Miss Anthony to our hotel
and escorting her to her room. I also remember
that she followed me to the door and made some
laughing remark as I left for my own room; but I
recall nothing more until the next morning when
she stood beside me telling me it was time for break-
fast. She had found me lying on the cover of my
bed, fully clothed even to my bonnet and shoes.
I had fallen there, utterly exhausted, when I entered
my room the night before, and I do not think I had
even moved from that time until the moment--
nine hours later--when I heard her voice and felt
her hand on my shoulder.

After all our work, we did not win Dakota that
year, but Miss Anthony bore the disappointment
with the serenity she always showed. To her a
failure was merely another opportunity, and I men-
tion our experience here only to show of what she
was capable in her gallant seventies. But I should
misrepresent her if I did not show her human and
sentimental side as well. With all her detachment
from human needs she had emotional moments, and
of these the most satisfying came when she was
listening to music. She knew nothing whatever
about music, but was deeply moved by it; and I re-
member vividly one occasion when Nordica sang
for her, at an afternoon reception given by a Chicago
friend in ``Aunt Susan's'' honor. As it happened,
she had never heard Nordica sing until that day;
and before the music began the great artiste and the
great leader met, and in the moment of meeting
became friends. When Nordica sang, half an hour
later, she sang directly to Miss Anthony, looking
into her eyes; and ``Aunt Susan'' listened with her
own eyes full of tears. When the last notes had been
sung she went to the singer and put both arms
around her. The music had carried her back to her
girlhood and to the sentiment of sixteen.

``Oh, Nordica,'' she sighed, ``I could die listening
to such singing!''

Another example of her unquenchable youth has
also a Chicago setting. During the World's Fair a
certain clergyman made an especially violent stand
in favor of closing the Fair grounds on Sunday.
Miss Anthony took issue with him.

``If I had charge of a young man in Chicago at this
time,'' she told the clergyman, ``I would much
rather have him locked inside the Fair grounds on
Sunday or any other day than have him going
about on the outside.''

The clergyman was horrified. ``Would you like
to have a son of yours go to Buffalo Bill's Wild West
Show on Sunday?'' he demanded.

``Of course I would,'' admitted Miss Anthony.
``In fact, I think he would learn more there than
from the sermons preached in some churches.''

Later this remark was repeated to Colonel Cody
(``Buffalo Bill''), who, of course, was delighted with
it. He at once wrote to Miss Anthony, thanking
her for the breadth of her views, and offering her a
box for his ``Show.'' She had no strong desire
to see the performance, but some of us urged her to
accept the invitation and to take us with her. She
was always ready to do anything that would give
us pleasure, so she promised that we should go the
next afternoon. Others heard of the jaunt and
begged to go also, and Miss Anthony blithely took
every applicant under her wing, with the result that
when we arrived at the box-office the next day
there were twelve of us in the group. When she
presented her note and asked for a box, the local
manager looked doubtfully at the delegation.

``A box only holds six,'' he objected, logically.
Miss Anthony, who had given no thought to that
slight detail, looked us over and smiled her seraphic

``Why, in that case,'' she said, cheerfully, ``you'll
have to give us two boxes, won't you?''

The amused manager decided that he would, and
handed her the tickets; and she led her band to
their places in triumph. When the performance be-
gan Colonel Cody, as was his custom, entered the
arena from the far end of the building, riding his
wonderful horse and bathed, of course, in the efful-
gence of his faithful spot-light. He rode directly
to our boxes, reined his horse in front of Miss An-
thony, rose in his stirrups, and with his characteris-
tic gesture swept his slouch-hat to his saddle-bow in
salutation. ``Aunt Susan'' immediately rose, bowed
in her turn and, for the moment as enthusiastic as a
girl, waved her handkerchief at him, while the big
audience, catching the spirit of the scene, wildly
applauded. It was a striking picture this meeting
of the pioneer man and woman; and, poor as I am,
I would give a hundred dollars for a snapshot of it.

On many occasions I saw instances of Miss An-
thony's prescience--and one of these was connected
with the death of Frances E. Willard. ``Aunt
Susan'' had called on Miss Willard, and, coming to
me from the sick-room, had walked the floor, beating
her hands together as she talked of the visit.

``Frances Willard is dying,'' she exclaimed, pas-
sionately. ``She is dying, and she doesn't know it,
and no one around her realizes it. She is lying there,
seeing into two worlds, and making more plans than
a thousand women could carry out in ten years.
Her brain is wonderful. She has the most extraor-
dinary clearness of vision. There should be a stenog-
rapher in that room, and every word she utters
should be taken down, for every word is golden.
But they don't understand. They can't realize that
she is going. I told Anna Gordon the truth, but she
won't believe it.''

Miss Willard died a few days later, with a sudden-
ness which seemed to be a terrible shock to those
around her.

Of ``Aunt Susan's'' really remarkable lack of self-
consciousness we who worked close to her had a
thousand extraordinary examples. Once, I remem-
ber, at the New Orleans Convention, she reached
the hall a little late, and as she entered the great
audience already assembled gave her a tremendous
reception. The exercises of the day had not yet
begun, and Miss Anthony stopped short and looked
around for an explanation of the outburst. It never
for a moment occurred to her that the tribute was
to her.

``What has happened, Anna?'' she asked at last.

``You happened, Aunt Susan,'' I had to explain.

Again, on the great ``College Night'' of the Balti-
more Convention, when President M. Carey Thomas
of Bryn Mawr College had finished her wonderful
tribute to Miss Anthony, the audience, carried away
by the speech and also by the presence of the vener-
able leader on the platform, broke into a whirlwind
of applause. In this ``Aunt Susan'' artlessly joined,
clapping her hands as hard as she could. ``This is
all for you, Aunt Susan,'' I whispered, ``so it isn't
your time to applaud.''

``Aunt Susan'' continued to clap. ``Nonsense,''
she said, briskly. ``It's not for me. It's for the
Cause--the Cause!''

Miss Anthony told me in 1904 that she regarded
her reception in Berlin, during the meeting of the
International Council of Women that year, as the
climax of her career. She said it after the unex-
pected and wonderful ovation she had received from
the German people, and certainly throughout her
inspiring life nothing had happened that moved her
more deeply.

For some time Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt, of
whose splendid work for the Cause I shall later have
more to say, had cherished the plan of forming an
International Suffrage Alliance. She believed the
time had come when the suffragists of the entire
world could meet to their common benefit; and Miss
Anthony, always Mrs. Catt's devoted friend and ad-
mirer, agreed with her. A committee was appointed
to meet in Berlin in 1904, just before the meeting
of the International Council of Women, and Miss
Anthony was appointed chairman of the committee.
At first the plan of the committee was not welcomed
by the International Council; there was even a sus-
picion that its purpose was to start a rival organiza-
tion. But it met, a constitution was framed, and
officers were elected, Mrs. Catt--the ideal choice
for the place--being made president. As a climax
to the organization, a great public mass-meeting had
been arranged by the German suffragists, but at the
special plea of the president of the International
Council Miss Anthony remained away from this
meeting. It was represented to her that the in-
terests of the Council might suffer if she and other
of its leading speakers were also leaders in the suf-
frage movement. In the interest of harmony, there
fore, she followed the wishes of the Council's presi-
dent--to my great unhappiness and to that of other

When the meeting was opened the first words of
the presiding officer were, ``Where is Susan B. An-
thony?'' and the demonstration that followed the
question was the most unexpected and overwhelm-
ing incident of the gathering. The entire audience
rose, men jumped on their chairs, and the cheering
continued without a break for ten minutes. Every
second of that time I seemed to see Miss Anthony,
alone in her hotel room, longing with all her big
heart to be with us, as we longed to have her. I
prayed that the loss of a tribute which would have
meant so much might be made up to her, and it was.
Afterward, when we burst in upon her and told her
of the great demonstration the mere mention of her
name had caused, her lips quivered and her brave
old eyes filled with tears. As we looked at her I
think we all realized anew that what the world called
stoicism in Susan B. Anthony throughout the years
of her long struggle had been, instead, the splendid
courage of an indomitable soul--while all the time
the woman's heart had longed for affection and
recognition. The next morning the leading Berlin
newspaper, in reporting the debate and describing
the spontaneous tribute to Miss Anthony, closed
with these sentences: ``The Americans call her
`Aunt Susan.' She is our `Aunt Susan,' too!''

Throughout the remainder of Miss Anthony's
visit she was the most honored figure at the Inter-
national Council. Every time she entered the great
convention-hall the entire audience rose and re-
mained standing until she was seated; each mention
of her name was punctuated by cheers; and the en-
thusiasm when she appeared on the platform to say
a few words was beyond bounds. When the Em-
press of Germany gave her reception to the officers
of the Council, she crowned the hospitality of her
people in a characteristically gracious way. As soon
as Miss Anthony was presented to her the Empress
invited her to be seated, and to remain seated, al-
though every one else, including the august lady
herself, was standing. A little later, seeing the in-
trepid warrior of eighty-four on her feet with the
other delegates, the Empress sent one of her aides
across the room with this message: ``Please tell my
friend Miss Anthony that I especially wish her to
be seated. We must not let her grow weary.''

In her turn, Miss Anthony was fascinated by the
Empress. She could not keep her eyes off that
charming royal lady. Probably the thing that most
impressed her was the ability of her Majesty as a
linguist. Receiving women from every civilized
country on the globe, the Empress seemed to address
each in her own tongue-slipping from one language
into the next as easily as from one topic to another.

``And here I am,'' mourned ``Aunt Susan,'' ``speak-
ing only one language, and that not very well.''

At this Berlin quinquennial, by the way, I preached
the Council sermon, and the occasion gained a cer-
tain interest from the fact that I was the first or-
dained woman to preach in a church in Germany.
It then took on a tinge of humor from the additional
fact that, according to the German law, as suddenly
revealed to us by the police, no clergyman was per-
mitted to preach unless clothed in clerical robes in
the pulpit. It happened that I had not taken my
clerical robes with me--I am constantly forgetting
those clerical robes!--so the pastor of the church
kindly offered me his robes.

Now the pastor was six feet tall and broad in pro-
portion, and I, as I have already confessed, am very
short. His robes transformed me into such an absurd
caricature of a preacher that it was quite impossible
for me to wear them. What, then, were we to do?
Lacking clerical robes, the police would not allow
me to utter six words. It was finally decided that
the clergyman should meet the letter of the law by
entering the pulpit in his robes and standing by my
side while I delivered my sermon. The law soberly
accepted this solution of the problem, and we offered
the congregation the extraordinary tableau of a
pulpit combining a large and impressive pastor
standing silently beside a small and inwardly con-
vulsed woman who had all she could do to deliver
her sermon with the solemnity the occasion re-

At this same conference I made one of the few
friendships I enjoy with a member of a European
royal family, for I met the Princess Blank of Italy,
who overwhelmed me with attention during my visit,
and from whom I still receive charming letters. She
invited me to visit her in her castle in Italy, and to
accompany her to her mother's castle in Austria,
and she finally insisted on knowing exactly why I
persistently refused both invitations.

``Because, my dear Princess,'' I explained, ``I am
a working-woman.''

``Nobody need KNOW that,'' murmured the Princess,

``On the contrary,'' I assured her, ``it is the first
thing I should explain.''

``But why?'' the Princess wanted to know.

I studied her in silence for a moment. She was a
new and interesting type to me, and I was glad to
exchange viewpoints with her.

``You are proud of your family, are you not?'' I
asked. ``You are proud of your great line?''

The Princess drew herself up. ``Assuredly,'' she

``Very well,'' I continued. ``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

The Princess sighed. I was a new type to her,
too, as new as she was to me; but I had the ad-
vantage of her, for I could understand her point of
view, whereas she apparently could not follow mine.
She was very gracious to me, however, showing me
kindness and friendship in a dozen ways, giving me
an immense amount of her time and taking rather
more of my time than I could spare, but never for-
getting for a moment that her blood was among the
oldest in Europe, and that all her traditions were in
keeping with its honorable age.

After the Berlin meeting Miss Anthony and I
were invited to spend a week-end at the home of
Mrs. Jacob Bright, that ``Aunt Susan'' might re-
new her acquaintance with Annie Besant. This
visit is among my most vivid memories. Originally
``Aunt Susan'' had greatly admired Mrs. Besant,
and had openly lamented the latter's concentration
on theosophical interests--when, as Miss Anthony
put it, ``there are so many live problems here in this
world.'' Now she could not conceal her disapproval
of the ``other-worldliness'' of Mrs. Besant, Mrs.
Bright, and her daughter. Some remarkable and,
to me, most amusing discussions took place among
the three; but often, during Mrs. Besant's most sus-
tained oratorical flights, Miss Anthony's interest
would wander, and she would drop a remark that
showed she had not heard a word. She had a great
admiration for Mrs. Besant's intellect; but she dis-
approved of her flowing and picturesque white robes,
of her bare feet, of her incessant cigarette-smoking;
above all, of her views. At last, one day.{sic} the climax
of the discussions came.

``Annie,'' demanded ``Aunt Susan,'' ``why don't
you make that aura of yours do its gallivanting in
this world, looking up the needs of the oppressed,
and investigating the causes of present wrongs?
Then you could reveal to us workers just what we
should do to put things right, and we could be
about it.''

Mrs. Besant sighed and said that life was short
and aeons were long, and that while every one would
be perfected some time, it was useless to deal with
individuals here.

``But, Annie!'' exclaimed Miss Anthony, patheti-
cally. ``We ARE here! Our business is here! It's
our duty to do what we can here.''

Mrs. Besant seemed not to hear her. She was in
a trance, gazing into the aeons.

``I'd rather have one year of your ability, backed
up with common sense, for the work of making this
world better,'' cried the exasperated ``Aunt Susan,''
``than a million aeons in the hereafter!''

Mrs. Besant sighed again. It was plain that she
could not bring herself back from the other world,
so Miss Anthony, perforce, accompanied her to it.

``When your aura goes visiting in the other
world,'' she asked, curiously, ``does it ever meet
your old friend Charles Bradlaugh?''

``Oh yes,'' declared Mrs. Besant. ``Frequently.''

``Wasn't he very much surprised,'' demanded Miss
Anthony, with growing interest, ``to discover that he
was not dead?''

Mrs. Besant did not seem to know what emotion
Mr. Bradlaugh had experienced when that revela-
tion came.

``Well,'' mused ``Aunt Susan,'' ``I should think
he would have been surprised. He was so certain
he was going to be dead that it must have been
astounding to discover he wasn't. What was he
doing in the other world?''

Mrs. Besant heaved a deeper sigh. ``I am very
much discouraged over Mr. Bradlaugh,'' she ad-
mitted, wanly. `` He is hovering too near this
world. He cannot seem to get away from his mun-
dane interests. He is as much concerned with par-
liamentary affairs now as when he was on this

``Humph!'' said Miss Anthony; ``that's the most
sensible thing I've heard yet about the other world.
It encourages me. I've always felt sure that if I
entered the other life before women were enfran-
chised nothing in the glories of heaven would in-
terest me so much as the work for women's freedom
on earth. Now,'' she ended, ``I shall be like Mr.
Bradlaugh. I shall hover round and continue my
work here.''

When Mrs. Besant had left the room Mrs. Bright
felt that it was her duty to admonish ``Aunt Susan''
to be more careful in what she said.

``You are making too light of her creed,'' she ex-
postulated. ``You do not realize the important
position Mrs. Besant holds. Why, in India, when
she walks from her home to her school all those she
meets prostrate themselves. Even the learned men
prostrate themselves and put their faces on the
ground as she goes by.''

``Aunt Susan's'' voice, when she replied, took on
the tones of one who is sorely tried. ``But why in
Heaven's name does any sensible Englishwoman
want a lot of heathen to prostrate themselves as she
goes up the street?'' she demanded, wearily. ``It's
the most foolish thing I ever heard.''

The effort to win Miss Anthony over to the theo-
sophical doctrine was abandoned. That night, after
we had gone to our rooms, ``Aunt Susan'' summed up
her conclusions on the interview:

``It's a good thing for the world,'' she declared,
``that some of us don't know so much. And it's a
better thing for this world that some of us think a
little earthly common sense is more valuable than
too much heavenly knowledge.''



On one occasion Miss Anthony had the doubt-
ful pleasure of reading her own obituary notices,
and her interest in them was characteristically naive.
She had made a speech at Lakeside, Ohio, during
which, for the first time in her long experience, she
fainted on the platform. I was not with her at the
time, and in the excitement following her collapse
it was rumored that she had died. Immediately
the news was telegraphed to the Associated Press
of New York, and from there flashed over the
country. At Miss Anthony's home in Rochester a
reporter rang the bell and abruptly informed her
sister, Miss Mary Anthony, who came to the door,
that ``Aunt Susan'' was dead. Fortunately Miss
Mary had a cool head.

``I think,'' she said, ``that if my sister had died
I would have heard about it. Please have your
editors telegraph to Lakeside.''

The reporter departed, but came back an hour
later to say that his newspaper had sent the tele-
gram and the reply was that Susan B. Anthony was

``I have just received a better telegram than that,''
remarked Mary Anthony. `` Mine is from my
sister; she tells me that she fainted to-night, but
soon recovered and will be home to-morrow.''

Nevertheless, the next morning the American
newspapers gave much space to Miss Anthony's
obituary notices, and ``Aunt Susan'' spent some in-
teresting hours reading them. One that pleased her
vastly was printed in the Wichita Eagle, whose editor,
Mr. Murdock, had been almost her bitterest op-
ponent. He had often exhausted his brilliant vo-
cabulary in editorial denunciations of suffrage and
suffragists, and Miss Anthony had been the special
target of his scorn. But the news of her death seemed
to be a bitter blow to him; and of all the tributes
the American press gave to Susan B. Anthony dead,
few equaled in beauty and appreciation the one
penned by Mr. Murdock and published in the Eagle.
He must have been amused when, a few days later,
he received a letter from ``Aunt Susan'' herself,
thanking him warmly for his changed opinion of her
and hoping that it meant the conversion of his soul
to our Cause. It did not, and Mr. Murdock, though
never again quite as bitter as he had been, soon
resumed the free editorial expression of his anti-
suffrage sentiments. Times have changed, however,
and to-day his son, now a member of Congress, is
one of our strongest supporters in that body.

In 1905 it became plain that Miss Anthony's
health was failing. Her visits to Germany and
England the previous year, triumphant though they
had been, had also proved a drain on her vitality;
and soon after her return to America she entered
upon a task which helped to exhaust her remaining
strength. She had been deeply interested in se-
curing a fund of $50,000 to enable women to enter
Rochester University, and, one morning, just after
we had held a session of our executive committee
in her Rochester home, she read a newspaper an-
nouncement to the effect that at four o'clock that
afternoon the opportunity to admit women to the
university would expire, as the full fifty thousand
dollars had not been raised. The sum of eight
thousand dollars was still lacking.

With characteristic energy, Miss Anthony under-
took to save the situation by raising this amount
within the time limit. Rushing to the telephone,
she called a cab and prepared to go forth on her
difficult quest; but first, while she was putting on
her hat and coat, she insisted that her sister, Mary
Anthony, should start the fund by contributing one
thousand dollars from her meager savings, and this
Miss Mary did. ``Aunt Susan'' made every second
count that day, and by half after three o'clock she
had secured the necessary pledges. Several of the
trustees of the university, however, had not seemed
especially anxious to have the fund raised, and at
the last moment they objected to one pledge for a
thousand dollars, on the ground that the man who
had given it was very old and might die before the
time set to pay it; then his family, they feared,
might repudiate the obligation. Without a word
Miss Anthony seized the pledge and wrote her name
across it as an indorsement. ``I am good for it,''
she then said, quietly, ``if the gentleman who signed
it is not.''

That afternoon she returned home greatly fa-
tigued. A few hours later the girl students who
had been waiting admission to the university came
to serenade her in recognition of her successful work
for them, but she was too ill to see them. She was
passing through the first stage of what proved to
be her final breakdown.

In 1906, when the date of the annual convention of
the National American Woman Suffrage Association
in Baltimore was drawing near, she became convinced
that it would be her last convention. She was right.
She showed a passionate eagerness to make it one
of the greatest conventions ever held in the history
of the movement; and we, who loved her and saw
that the flame of her life was burning low, also bent
all our energies to the task of realizing her hopes.
In November preceding the convention she visited me
and her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, in our home in
Mount Airy, Philadelphia, and it was clear that her
anxiety over the convention was weighing heavily
upon her. She visibly lost strength from day to
day. One morning she said abruptly, ``Anna, let's
go and call on President M. Carey Thomas, of
Bryn Mawr.''

I wrote a note to Miss Thomas, telling her of Miss
Anthony's desire to see her, and received an im-
mediate reply inviting us to luncheon the following
day. We found Miss Thomas deep in the work
connected with her new college buildings, over which
she showed us with much pride. Miss Anthony, of
course, gloried in the splendid results Miss Thomas
had achieved, but she was, for her, strangely silent
and preoccupied. At luncheon she said:

``Miss Thomas, your buildings are beautiful;
your new library is a marvel; but they are not the
cause of our presence here.''

``No,'' Miss Thomas said; ``I know you have
something on your mind. I am waiting for you to
tell me what it is.''

``We want your co-operation, and that of Miss
Garrett,'' began Miss Anthony, promptly, ``to make
our Baltimore Convention a success. We want you
to persuade the Arundel Club of Baltimore, the
most fashionable club in the city, to give a recep-
tion to the delegates; and we want you to arrange
a college night on the programme--a great college
night, with the best college speakers ever brought

These were large commissions for two extremely
busy women, but both Miss Thomas and Miss
Garrett--realizing Miss Anthony's intense earnest-
ness--promised to think over the suggestions and
see what they could do. The next morning we re-
ceived a telegram from them stating that Miss
Thomas would arrange the college evening, and that
Miss Garrett would reopen her Baltimore home,
which she had closed, during the convention. She
also invited Miss Anthony and me to be her guests
there, and added that she would try to arrange the
reception by the Arundel Club.

``Aunt Susan'' was overjoyed. I have never seen
her happier than she was over the receipt of that
telegram. She knew that whatever Miss Thomas
and Miss Garrett undertook would be accomplished,
and she rightly regarded the success of the conven-
tion as already assured. Her expectations were
more than realized. The college evening was un-
doubtedly the most brilliant occasion of its kind
ever arranged for a convention. President Ira
Remsen of Johns Hopkins University presided, and
addresses were made by President Mary E. Woolley
of Mount Holyoke, Professor Lucy Salmon of Vassar,
Professor Mary Jordan of Smith, President Thomas
herself, and many others.

From beginning to end the convention was prob-
ably the most notable yet held in our history.
Julia Ward Howe and her daughter, Florence Howe
Hall, were also guests of Miss Garrett, who, more-
over, entertained all the speakers of ``College Night.''
Miss Anthony, now eighty-six, arrived in Baltimore
quite ill, and Mrs. Howe, who was ninety, was taken
ill soon after she reached there. The two great
women made a dramatic exchange on the programme,
for on the first night, when Miss Anthony was un-
able to speak, Mrs. Howe took her place, and on the
second night, when Mrs. Howe had succumbed,
Miss Anthony had recovered sufficiently to appear
for her. Clara Barton was also an honored figure
at the convention, and Miss Anthony's joy in the
presence of all these old and dear friends was over-
flowing. With them, too, were the younger women,
ready to take up and carry on the work the old
leaders were laying down; and ``Aunt Susan,'' as
she surveyed them all, felt like a general whose
superb army is passing in review before him.
At the close of the college programme, when the
final address had been made by Miss Thomas, Miss
Anthony rose and in a few words expressed her
feeling that her life-work was done, and her con-
sciousness of the near approach of the end. After
that night she was unable to appear, and was indeed
so ill that she was confined to her bed in Miss Gar-
rett's most hospitable home. Nothing could have
been more thoughtful or more beautiful than the
care Miss Garrett and Miss Thomas bestowed on her.
They engaged for her one of the best physicians in
Baltimore, who, in turn, consulted with the leading
specialists of Johns Hopkins, and they also secured
a trained nurse. This final attention required
special tact, for Miss Anthony's fear of ``giving
trouble'' was so great that she was not willing to
have a nurse. The nurse, therefore, wore a house-
maid's uniform, and ``Aunt Susan'' remained wholly
unconscious that she was being cared for by one of
the best nurses in the famous hospital.

Between sessions of the convention I used to
sit by ``Aunt Susan's'' bed and tell her what was
going on. She was triumphant over the immense
success of the convention, but it was clear that
she was still worrying over the details of future
work. One day at luncheon Miss Thomas asked
me, casually:

``By the way, how do you raise the money to
carry on your work?''

When I told her the work was wholly dependent
on voluntary contributions and on the services of
those who were willing to give themselves gratui-
tously to it, Miss Thomas was greatly surprised.
She and Miss Garrett asked a number of practical
questions, and at the end of our talk they looked at
each other.

``I don't think,'' said Miss Thomas, ``that we have
quite done our duty in this matter.''

The next day they invited a number of us to
dinner, to again discuss the situation; and they
admitted that they had sat up throughout the
previous night, talking the matter over and trying
to find some way to help us. They had also dis-
cussed the situation with Miss Anthony, to her vast
content, and had finally decided that they would
try to raise a fund of $60,000, to be paid in yearly
instalments of $12,000 for five years--part of these
annual instalments to be used as salaries for the
active officers.
The mere mention of so large a fund startled us
all. We feared that it could not possibly be raised.
But Miss Anthony plainly believed that now the
last great wish of her life had been granted. She
was convinced that Miss Thomas and Miss Gar-
rett could accomplish anything--even the miracle
of raising $60,000 for the suffrage cause--and they
did, though ``Aunt Susan'' was not here to glory
over the result when they had achieved it.

On the 15th of February we left Baltimore for
Washington, where Miss Anthony was to cele-
brate her eighty-sixth birthday. For many years
the National American Woman Suffrage Associa-
tion had celebrated our birthdays together, as hers
came on the 15th of the month and mine on the
14th. There had been an especially festive banquet
when she was seventy-four and I was forty-seven,
and our friends had decorated the table with floral
``4's'' and ``7's''--the centerpiece representing ``74''
during the first half of the banquet, and ``47'' the
latter half. This time ``Aunt Susan'' should not
have attempted the Washington celebration, for she
was still ill and exhausted by the strain of the con-
vention. But notwithstanding her sufferings and
the warnings of her physicians, she insisted on being
present; so Miss Garrett sent the trained nurse to
Washington with her, and we all tried to make the jour-
ney the least possible strain on the patient's vitality.

On our arrival in Washington we went to the
Shoreham, where, as always, the proprietor took pains
to give Miss Anthony a room with a view of the
Washington monument, which she greatly admired.
When I entered her room a little later I found her
standing at a window, holding herself up with hands
braced against the casement on either side, and so
absorbed in the view that she did not hear my ap-
proach. When I spoke to her she answered with-
out turning her head.

``That,'' she said, softly, ``is the most beautiful
monument in the world.''

I stood by her side, and together we looked at it
in silence I realizing with a sick heart that ``Aunt
Susan'' knew she was seeing it for the last time.

The birthday celebration that followed our exec-
utive meeting was an impressive one. It was held
in the Church of Our Father, whose pastor, the Rev.
John Van Schaick, had always been exceedingly kind
to Miss Anthony. Many prominent men spoke.
President Roosevelt and other statesmen sent most
friendly letters, and William H. Taft had promised to
be present. He did not come, nor did he, then or
later, send any excuse for not coming--an omission
that greatly disappointed Miss Anthony, who had
always admired him. I presided at the meeting,
and though we all did our best to make it gay, a
strange hush hung over the assemblage a solemn
stillness, such as one feels in the presence of death.
We became more and more conscious that Miss
Anthony was suffering, and we hastened the exer-
cises all we could. When I read President Roose-
velt's long tribute to her, Miss Anthony rose to
comment on it.

``One word from President Roosevelt in his mes-
sage to Congress,'' she said, a little wearily, ``would
be worth a thousand eulogies of Susan B. Anthony.
When will men learn that what we ask is not praise,
but justice?''

At the close of the meeting, realizing how weak
she was, I begged her to let me speak for her. But
she again rose, rested her hand on my shoulder,
and, standing by my side, uttered the last words
she ever spoke in public, pleading with women to
consecrate themselves to the Cause, assuring them
that no power could prevent its ultimate success,
but reminding them also that the time of its coming
would depend wholly on their work and their loyalty.
She ended with three words--very fitting words
from her lips, expressing as they did the spirit of her

The next morning she was taken to her home in
Rochester, and one month from that day we con-
ducted her funeral services. The nurse who had
accompanied her from Baltimore remained with
her until two others had been secured to take her
place, and every care that love or medical science
could suggest was lavished on the patient. But
from the first it was plain that, as she herself had
foretold, ``Aunt Susan's'' soul was merely waiting
for the hour of its passing.

One of her characteristic traits was a dislike to
being seen, even by those nearest to her, when she
was not well. During the first three weeks of her
last illness, therefore, I did what she wished me to
do--I continued our work, trying to do hers as well
as my own. But all the time my heart was in her
sick-room, and at last the day came when I could
no longer remain away from her. I had awakened
in the morning with a strong conviction that she
needed me, and at the breakfast-table I announced
to her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, the friend who for
years has shared my home, that I was going at once
to ``Aunt Susan.''

``I shall not even wait to telegraph,'' I declared.
``I am sure she has sent for me; I shall take the
first train.''

The journey brought me very close to death. As
we were approaching Wilkes-Barre our train ran into
a wagon loaded with powder and dynamite, which
had been left on the track. The horses attached to
it had been unhitched by their driver, who had spent
his time in this effort, when he saw the train coming,
instead of in signaling to the engineer. I was on
my way to the dining-car when the collision occurred.
and, with every one else who happened to be stand-
ing, I was hurled to the floor by the impact; flash
after flash of blinding light outside, accompanied by
a terrific roar, added to the panic of the passengers.
When the train stopped we learned how narrow had
been our escape from an especially unpleasant form
of death. The dynamite in the wagon was frozen,
and therefore had not exploded; it was the ex-
plosion of the powder that had caused the flashes
and the din. The dark-green cars were burned
almost white, and as we stood staring at them, a
silent, stunned group, our conductor said, quietly,
``You will never be as near death again, and escape,
as you have been to-day.''

The accident caused a long delay, and it was ten
o'clock at night when I reached Rochester and Miss
Anthony's home. As I entered the house Miss
Mary Anthony rose in surprise to greet me.

``How did you get here so soon?'' she cried.
And then: ``We sent for you this afternoon. Susan
has been asking for you all day.''

When I reached my friend's bedside one glance
at her face showed me the end was near; and from
that time until it came, almost a week later, I re-
mained with her; while again, as always, she talked
of the Cause, and of the life-work she must now lay
down. The first thing she spoke of was her will,
which she had made several years before, and in
which she had left the small property she possessed
to her sister Mary, her niece Lucy, and myself, with
instructions as to the use we three were to make of
it. Now she told me we were to pay no attention
to these instructions, but to give every dollar of her
money to the $60,000 fund Miss Thomas and Miss
Garrett were trying to raise. She was vitally in-
terested in this fund, as its success meant that for
five years the active officers of the National Ameri-
can Woman Suffrage Association, including myself
as president, would for the first time receive salaries
for our work. When she had given her instructions
on this point she still seemed depressed.

``I wish I could live on,'' she said, wistfully.
``But I cannot. My spirit is eager and my heart
is as young as it ever was, but my poor old body is
worn out. Before I go I want you to give me a
promise: Promise me that you will keep the presi-
dency of the association as long as you are well
enough to do the work.''

``But how can I promise that?'' I asked. ``I can
keep it only as long as others wish me to keep

``Promise to make them wish you to keep it,''
she urged. ``Just as I wish you to keep it.''

I would have promised her anything then. So,
though I knew that to hold the presidency would tie
me to a position that brought in no living income,
and though for several years past I had already
drawn alarmingly upon my small financial reserve,
I promised her that I would hold the office as long
as the majority of the women in the association
wished me to do so. ``But,'' I added, ``if the time
comes when I believe that some one else can do
better work in the presidency than I, then let me
feel at liberty to resign it.''

This did not satisfy her.

``No, no,'' she objected. ``You cannot be the
judge of that. Promise me you will remain until
the friends you most trust tell you it is time to with-
draw, or make you understand that it is time.
Promise me that.''

I made the promise. She seemed content, and
again began to talk of the future.

``You will not have an easy path,'' she warned
me. ``In some ways it will be harder for you than it
has ever been for me. I was so much older than the
rest of you, and I had been president so long, that
you girls have all been willing to listen to me. It
will be different with you. Other women of your
own age have been in the work almost as long as you
have been; you do not stand out from them by age
or length of service, as I did. There will be inevi-
table jealousies and misunderstandings; there will
be all sorts of criticism and misrepresentation. My
last word to you is this: No matter what is done
or is not done, how you are criticized or misunder-
stood, or what efforts are made to block your path,
remember that the only fear you need have is the
fear of not standing by the thing you believe to be
right. Take your stand and hold it; then let come
what will, and receive blows like a good soldier.''

I was too much overcome to answer her; and
after a moment of silence she, in her turn, made me
a promise.

``I do not know anything about what comes to us
after this life ends,'' she said. ``But if there is a
continuance of life beyond it, and if I have any
conscious knowledge of this world and of what you
are doing, I shall not be far away from you; and in
times of need I will help you all I can. Who knows?
Perhaps I may be able to do more for the Cause
after I am gone than while I am here.''

Nine years have passed since then, and in each
day of them all it seems to me, in looking back, I
have had some occasion to recall her words. When
they were uttered I did not fully comprehend all
they meant, or the clearness of the vision that had
suggested them. It seemed to me that no position
I could hold would be of sufficient importance to
attract jealousy or personal attacks. The years have
brought more wisdom; I have learned that any one
who assumes leadership, or who, like myself, has
had leadership forced upon her, must expect to bear
many things of which the world knows nothing.
But with this knowledge, too, has come the memory
of ``Aunt Susan's'' last promise, and again and yet
again in hours of discouragement and despair I have
been helped by the blessed conviction that she was
keeping it.

During the last forty-eight hours of her life she
was unwilling that I should leave her side. So day
and night I knelt by her bed, holding her hand and
watching the flame of her wonderful spirit grow dim.
At times, even then, it blazed up with startling sud-
denness. On the last afternoon of her life, when she
had lain quiet for hours, she suddenly began to utter
the names of the women who had worked with her,
as if in a final roll-call. Many of them had preceded
her into the next world; others were still splendidly
active in the work she was laying down. But young
or old, living or dead, they all seemed to file past
her dying eyes that day in an endless, shadowy re-
view, and as they went by she spoke to each of them.

Not all the names she mentioned were known in
suffrage ranks; some of these women lived only in
the heart of Susan B. Anthony, and now, for the
last time, she was thanking them for what they had
done. Here was one who, at a moment of special
need, had given her small savings; here was another
who had won valuable recruits to the Cause; this
one had written a strong editorial; that one had
made a stirring speech. In these final hours it
seemed that not a single sacrifice or service, however
small, had been forgotten by the dying leader. Last
of all, she spoke to the women who had been on her
board and had stood by her loyally so long--Rachel
Foster Avery, Alice Stone Blackwell, Carrie Chap-
man Catt, Mrs. Upton, Laura Clay, and others.
Then, after lying in silence for a long time with her
cheek on my hand, she murmured: ``They are still
passing before me--face after face, hundreds and
hundreds of them, representing all the efforts of
fifty years. I know how hard they have worked
I know the sacrifices they have made. But it has
all been worth while!''

Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness she
seemed restless and anxious to say something, search-
ing my face with her dimming eyes.

``Do you want me to repeat my promise?'' I
asked, for she had already made me do so several
times. She made a sign of assent, and I gave her
the assurance she desired. As I did so she raised
my hand to her lips and kissed it--her last conscious
action. For more than thirty hours after that I
knelt by her side, but though she clung to my hand
until her own hand grew cold, she did not speak

She had told me over and over how much our long
friendship and association had meant to her, and the
comfort I had given her. But whatever I may have
been to her, it was as nothing compared with what
she was to me. Kneeling close to her as she passed
away, I knew that I would have given her a dozen
lives had I had them, and endured a thousand times
more hardship than we had borne together, for the
inspiration of her companionship and the joy of her
affection. They were the greatest blessings I have
had in all my life, and I cherish as my dearest treas-
ure the volume of her History of Woman Suffrage
on the fly-leaf of which she had written this in-


This huge volume IV I present to you with the love that
a mother beareth, and I hope you will find in it the facts about
women, for you will find them nowhere else. Your part will
be to see that the four volumes are duly placed in the libraries
of the country, where every student of history may have access
to them.

With unbounded love and faith,

That final line is still my greatest comfort. When
I am misrepresented or misunderstood, when I am
accused of personal ambition or of working for per-
sonal ends, I turn to it and to similar lines penned
by the same hand, and tell myself that I should not
allow anything to interfere with the serenity of my
spirit or to disturb me in my work. At the end of
eighteen years of the most intimate companionship,
the leader of our Cause, the greatest woman I have
ever known, still felt for me ``unbounded love and
faith.'' Having had that, I have had enough.

For two days after ``Aunt Susan's'' death she lay
in her own home, as if in restful slumber, her face
wearing its most exquisite look of peaceful serenity;
and here her special friends, the poor and the unfor-
tunate of the city, came by hundreds to pay their
last respects. On the third day there was a public
funeral, held in the Congregational church, and,
though a wild blizzard was raging, every one in
Rochester seemed included in the great throng of
mourners who came to her bier in reverence and
left it in tears. The church services were conducted
by the pastor, the Rev. C. C. Albertson, a lifelong
friend of Miss Anthony's, assisted by the Rev. Will-
iam C. Gannett. James G. Potter, the Mayor of
the city, and Dr. Rush Rhees, president of Rochester
University, occupied prominent places among the
distinguished mourners, and Mrs. Jerome Jeffries,
the head of a colored school, spoke in behalf of the
negro race and its recognition of Miss Anthony's
services. College clubs, medical societies, and re-
form groups were represented by delegates sent from
different states, and Miss Anna Gordon had come
on from Illinois to represent the Woman's National
Christian Temperance Union. Mrs. Catt delivered a
eulogy in which she expressed the love and recognition
of the organized suffrage women of the world for Miss
Anthony, as the one to whom they had all looked
as their leader. William Lloyd Garrison spoke of
Miss Anthony's work with his father and other anti-
slavery leaders, and Mrs. Jean Brooks Greenleaf
spoke in behalf of the New York State Suffrage
Association. Then, as ``Aunt Susan'' had requested,
I made the closing address. She had asked me to
do this and to pronounce the benediction, as well as
to say the final words at her grave.

It was estimated that more than ten thousand
persons were assembled in and around the church,
and after the benediction those who had been pa-
tiently waiting out in the storm were permitted to
pass inside in single file for a last look at their
friend. They found the coffin covered by a large
American flag, on which lay a wreath of laurel and
palms; around it stood a guard of honor composed
of girl students of Rochester University in their
college caps and gowns. All day students had
mounted guard, relieving one another at intervals.
On every side there were flowers and floral emblems
sent by various organizations, and just over ``Aunt
Susan's'' head floated the silk flag given to her by
the women of Colorado. It contained four gold
stars, representing the four enfranchised states,
while the other stars were in silver. On her breast
was pinned the jeweled flag given to her on her
eightieth birthday by the women of Wyoming--the
first place in the world where in the constitution of
the state women were given equal political rights
with men. Here the four stars representing the
enfranchised states were made of diamonds, the
others of silver enamel. Just before the lid was
fastened on the coffin this flag was removed and
handed to Mary Anthony, who presented it to me.
From that day I have worn it on every occasion of
importance to our Cause, and each time a state is
won for woman suffrage I have added a new diamond
star. At the time I write this--in 1914--there are

As the funeral procession went through the streets
of Rochester it was seen that all the city flags were
at half-mast, by order of the City Council. Many
houses were draped in black, and the grief of the
citizens manifested itself on every side. All the way
to Mount Hope Cemetery the snow whirled blind-
ingly around us, while the masses that had fallen
covered the earth as far as we could see a fitting
winding-sheet for the one who had gone. Under the
fir-trees around her open grave I obeyed ``Aunt
Susan's'' wish that I should utter the last words
spoken over her body as she was laid to rest:

``Dear friend,'' I said, ``thou hast tarried with us
long. Now thou hast gone to thy well-earned rest.
We beseech the Infinite Spirit Who has upheld thee
to make us worthy to follow in thy steps and to
carry on thy work. Hail and farewell.''



In my chapters on Miss Anthony I bridged the
twenty years between 1886 and 1906, omitting
many of the stirring suffrage events of that long
period, in my desire to concentrate on those which
most vitally concerned her. I must now retrace my
steps along the widening suffrage stream and de-
scribe, consecutively at least, and as fully as these
incomplete reminiscences will permit, other inci-
dents that occurred on its banks.

Of these the most important was the union in
1889 of the two great suffrage societies--the Ameri-
can Association, of which Lucy Stone was the presi-
dent, and the National Association, headed by Susan
B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. At a
convention held in Washington these societies were
merged as The National American Woman Suffrage
Association--the name our association still bears--
and Mrs. Stanton was elected president. She was
then nearly eighty and past active work, but she
made a wonderful presiding officer at our subsequent
meetings, and she was as picturesque as she was

Miss Anthony, who had an immense admiration
for her and a great personal pride in her, always
escorted her to the capital, and, having worked her
utmost to make the meeting a success, invariably
gave Mrs. Stanton credit for all that was accom-
plished. She often said that Mrs. Stanton was the
brains of the new association, while she herself was
merely its hands and feet; but in truth the two
women worked marvelously together, for Mrs.
Stanton was a master of words and could write and
speak to perfection of the things Susan B. Anthony
saw and felt but could not herself express. Usually
Miss Anthony went to Mrs. Stanton's house and
took charge of it while she stimulated the venerable
president to the writing of her annual address.
Then, at the subsequent convention, she would listen
to the report with as much delight and pleasure as
if each word of it had been new to her. Even after
Mrs. Stanton's resignation from the presidency--
at the end, I think, of three years--and Miss An-
thony's election as her successor, ``Aunt Susan'' still
went to her old friend whenever an important reso-
lution was to be written, and Mrs. Stanton loyally
drafted it for her.

Mrs. Stanton was the most brilliant conversa-
tionalist I have ever known; and the best talk I
have heard anywhere was that to which I used to
listen in the home of Mrs. Eliza Wright Osborne,
in Auburn, New York, when Mrs. Stanton, Susan
B. Anthony, Emily Howland, Elizabeth Smith
Miller, Ida Husted Harper, Miss Mills, and I were
gathered there for our occasional week-end visits.
Mrs. Osborne inherited her suffrage sympathies, for
she was the daughter of Martha Wright, who, with
Mrs. Stanton and Lucretia Mott, called the first
suffrage convention in Seneca Falls, New York. I
must add in passing that her son, Thomas Mott
Osborne, who is doing such admirable work in
prison reform at Sing Sing, has shown himself worthy
of the gifted and high-minded mother who gave him
to the world.

Most of the conversation in Mrs. Osborne's home
was contributed by Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony,
while the rest of us sat, as it were, at their feet.
Many human and feminine touches brightened the


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