``But I don't know anything about the
missinglink,'' I protested, ``and I can't speak on it.''
``Now, come,'' they begged. ``Why, you'll have
to! We've sold all our tickets for that lecture.
The whole town has turned out to hear it.''
Then, as I maintained a
depressed silence, one
of them had a bright idea.
``I'll tell you how to fix it!'' he cried. ``Speak on
any subject you please, but bring in something about
the
missing link every few minutes. That will satis-
fy 'em.''
``Very well,'' I agreed,
reluctantly. ``Open the
meeting with a song. Get the
audience to sing
`America' or `The Star-spangled Banner.' That
will give me a few minutes to think, and I will see
what can be done.''
Led by a very
nervous chairman, the big
audiencebegan to sing, and under the
inspiration of the music
the
solution of our problem flashed into my mind.
``It is easy,'' I told myself. ``Woman is the miss-
ing link in our government. I'll give them a suf-
frage speech along that line.''
When the song ended I began my part of the en-
tertainment with a
portion of my lecture on ``The
Fate of Republics,'' tracing their growth and decay,
and pointing out that what our
republic needed to
give it a
stable government was the
missing link
of woman
suffrage. I got along
admirably, for every
five minutes I mentioned ``the
missing link,'' and
the
audience sat content and
apparently interested,
while the members of the committee burst into
bloom on the
platform.
VIII
DRAMA IN THE LECTURE-FIELD
My most
dramatic experience occurred in a
city in Michigan, where I was making a
temperancecampaign. It was an important lum-
ber and
shipping center, and it harbored much
in
temperance. The editor of the leading news-
paper was with the
temperance-workers in our
fight there, and he had warned me that the liquor
people threatened to ``burn the building over my
head'' if I attempted to lecture. We were used to
similar threats, so I proceeded with my preparations
and held the meeting in the town skating-rink--
a huge, bare,
wooden structure.
Lectures were rare in that city, and rumors of
some special
excitement on this occasion had been
circulated; every seat in the rink was filled, and
several hundred persons stood in the aisles and at
the back of the building. Just opposite the speak-
er's
platform was a small
gallery, and above that, in
the ceiling, was a trap-door. Before I had been
speaking ten minutes I saw a man drop through this
trap-door to the
balcony and climb from there to
the main floor. As he reached the floor he shouted
``Fire!'' and rushed out into the street. The next
instant every person in the rink was up and a panic
had started. I was very sure there was no fire,
but I knew that many might be killed in the
rush which was
beginning. So I
sprang on a chair
and shouted to the people with the full strength of
my lungs:
``There is no fire! It's only a trick! Sit down!
Sit down!''
The cooler persons in the crowd at once began to
help in this calming process.
``Sit down!'' they
repeated. ``It's all right!
There's no fire! Sit down!''
It looked as if we had the situation in hand, for
the people hesitated, and most of them grew quiet;
but just then a few words were hissed up to me that
made my heart stop
beating. A member of our local
committee was
standing beside my chair, speaking
in a terrified whisper:
``There IS a fire, Miss Shaw,'' he said. ``For God's
sake get the people out--QUICKLY!''
The shock was so
unexpected that my knees al-
most gave way. The people were still
standing,
wavering, looking
uncertainly toward us. I raised
my voice again, and if it sounded
unnatural my
hearers probably thought it was because I was speak-
ing so loudly.
``As we are already
standing,'' I cried, ``and are
all
nervous, a little exercise will do us good. So
march out, singing. Keep time to the music!
Later you can come back and take your seats!''
The man who had whispered the
warning jumped
into the aisle and struck up ``Jesus, Lover of My
Soul.'' Then he led the march down to the door,
while the big
audience swung into line and followed
him, joining in the song. I remained on the chair,
beating time and talking to the people as they went;
but when the last of them had left the building I
almost collapsed; for the flames had begun to eat
through the
wooden walls and the clang of the fire-
engines was heard outside.
As soon as I was sure every one was safe, however,
I
experienced the 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 Congre-
gational
minister, who was in the crowd, lent us his
church and led the way to it. Most of the
audiencefollowed us, and we had a wonderful meeting, dur-
ing 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 fol-
lowing
election we carried the town for
prohibitionby a big majority.
There have been other occasions when our op-
ponents 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 com-
mittee 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 re-
minding them of our position. The
messenger re-
ported 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 out-
side crowd. We asked if there was no other en-
trance 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 di-
rectly 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, sis-
ters, and women friends in the
throng, they sheep-
ishly unlocked the front doors and left us in posses-
sion, 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
prohibitionamendment in
the state of Pennsylvania, and the night before
election I reached Coatesville. I had just com-
pleted six weeks of
strenuouscampaigning, 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
amendmentto-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 Doxol-
ogy 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