There was no church in Ashton, so I preached my sermon in its one little school-house, which was filled with a curious crowd, eager to look at and hear the girl who was defying all conventions by getting out of the pew and into the pulpit. There was much whispering and suppressed excitement before I began, but when I gave out my text silence fell upon the room, and from that moment until I had finished my hearers listened quietly. A kerosene- l amp stood on a stand at my elbow, and as I preached I trembled so violently that the oil shook in its glass globe; but I finished without breaking down, and at the end Dr. Peck, who had his own reasons for nervousness, handsomely assured me that my first sermon was better than his maiden effort had been.
It was evidently not a failure, for the next day he invited me to follow him around in his circuit, which included thirty-six appointments; he wished me to preach in each of the thirty-six places, as it was de- s irable to let the various ministers hear and know me before I applied for my license as a local preacher.
The sermon also had another result, less gratify- i ng. It brought out, on the following morning, the first notice of me ever printed in a newspaper.
This was instigated by my brother-in-law, and it was brief but pointed. It read:
A young girl named Anna Shaw, seventeen years old,[1] p reached at Ashton yesterday. Her real friends deprecate the course she is pursuing.
[1] A misstatement by the brother-in-law. Dr. Shaw was at this time twenty-three years old.--E. J.
The little notice had something of the effect of a lighted match applied to gunpowder. An ex- p losion of public sentiment followed it, the entire community arose in consternation, and I became a bone of contention over which friends and strangers alike wrangled until they wore themselves out.
The members of my family, meeting in solemn council, sent for me, and I responded. They had a proposition to make, and they lost no time in put- t ing it before me. If I gave up my preaching they would send me to college and pay for my entire course. They suggested Ann Arbor, and Ann Arbor tempted me sorely; but to descend from the pulpit I had at last entered--the pulpit I had visualized in all my childish dreams--was not to be considered.
We had a long evening together, and it was a very unhappy one. At the end of it I was given twenty- f our hours in which to decide whether I would choose my people and college, or my pulpit and the arctic loneliness of a life that held no family-circle. It did not require twenty-four hours of reflection to convince me that I must go my solitary way.
That year I preached thirty-six times, at each of the presiding elder's appointments; and the follow- i ng spring, at the annual Methodist Conference of our district, held at Big Rapids, my name was pre- s ented to the assembled ministers as that of a can- d idate for a license to preach. There was unusual interest in the result, and my father was among those who came to the Conference to see the vote taken.
During these Conferences a minister voted affirma- t ively on a question by holding up his hand, and negatively by failing to do so. When the question of my license came up the majority of the ministers voted by raising both hands, and in the pleasant excitement which followed my father slipped away.
Those who saw him told me he looked pleased; but he sent me no message showing a change of view- p oint, and the gulf between the family and its black sheep remained unbridged. Though the warmth of Mary's love for me had become a memory, the warmth of her hearthstone was still offered me. I a ccepted it, perforce, and we lived together like shadows of what we had been. Two friends alone of all I had made stood by me without qualification --Miss Foot and Clara Osborn, the latter my ``chum'' at Big Rapids and a dweller in my heart to this day.
In the mean time my preaching had not inter- f ered with my studies. I was working day and night, but life was very difficult; for among my school- m ates, too, there were doubts and much head-shaking over this choice of a career. I needed the sound of friendly voices, for I was very lonely; and suddenly, when the pressure from all sides was strongest and I was going down physically under it, a voice was raised that I had never dared to dream would speak for me. Mary A. Livermore came to Big Rapids, and as she was then at the height of her career, the entire countryside poured in to hear her. Far back in the crowded hall I sat alone and listened to her, thrilled by the lecture and tremulous with the hope of meeting the lecturer. When she had finished speaking I joined the throng that surged forward from the body of the hall, and as I reached her and felt the grasp of her friendly hand I had a sudden conviction that the meeting was an epoch in my life.
I was right. Some one in the circle around us told her that I wanted to preach, and that I was meeting tremendous opposition. She was interested at once.
She looked at me with quickening sympathy, and then, suddenly putting an arm around me, drew me close to her side.
``My dear,'' she said, quietly, ``if you want to preach, go on and preach. Don't let anybody stop you. No matter what people say, don't let them stop you!''
For a moment I was too overcome to answer her.
These were almost my first encouraging words, and the morning stars singing together could not have made sweeter music for my ears. Before I could recover a woman within hearing spoke up.
``Oh, Mrs. Livermore,'' she exclaimed, ``don't say that to her! We're all trying to stop her. Her peo- p le are wretched over the whole thing. And don't you see how ill she is? She has one foot in the grave and the other almost there!''
Mrs. Livermore turned upon me a long and deeply thoughtful look. ``Yes,'' she said at last, ``I see she has. But it is better that she should die doing the thing she wants to do than that she should die because she can't do it.''
Her words were a tonic which restored my voice.
``So they think I'm going to die!'' I cried. ``Well, I'm not! I'm going to live and preach!''
