THE GREAT CAUSE
There is a theory that every seven years each human being undergoes a complete physical reconstruction, with corresponding changes in his mental and spiritual make-up. Possibly it was due to this reconstruction that, at the end of seven years on Cape Cod, my soul sent forth a sudden call to arms. I was, it reminded me, taking life too easily;
I was in danger of settling into an agreeable routine.
The work of my two churches made little drain on my superabundant vitality, and not even the win- n ing of a medical degree and the increasing demands of my activities on the lecture platform wholly eased my conscience. I was happy, for I loved my people and they seemed to love me. It would have been pleasant to go on almost indefinitely, living the life of a country minister and telling myself that what I could give to my flock made such a life worth while.
But all the time, deep in my heart, I realized the needs of the outside world, and heard its prayer for workers. My theological and medical courses in Boston, with the experiences that accompanied them, had greatly widened my horizon. Moreover, at my invitation, many of the noble women of the day were coming to East Dennis to lecture, bringing with them the stirring atmosphere of the conflicts they were waging. One of the first of these was my friend Mary A. Livermore; and after her came Julia Ward Howe, Anna Garlin Spencer, Lucy Stone, Mary F.
Eastman, and many others, each charged with in- s piration for my people and with a special message for me, which she sent forth unknowingly and which I a lone heard. They were fighting great battles, these women--for suffrage, for temperance, for social purity--and in every word they uttered I heard a rallying-cry. So it was that, in 1885, I suddenly pulled myself up to a radical decision and sent my resignation to the trustees of the two churches whose pastor I had been since 1878.
The action caused a demonstration of regret which made it hard to keep to my resolution and leave these men and women whose friendship was among the dearest of my possessions. But when we had all talked things over, many of them saw the situation as I did. No doubt there were those, too, who felt that a change of ministry would be good for the churches. During the weeks that followed my resignation I received many odd tributes, and of these one of the most amusing came from a young girl in the parish, who broke into loud protests when she heard that I was going away. To com- f ort her I predicted that she would now have a man minister--doubtless a very nice man. But the young person continued to sniffle disconsolately.
``I don't want a man,'' she wailed. ``I don't like to see men in pulpits. They look so awkward.'' Her grief culminated in a final outburst. ``They're all arms and legs!'' she sobbed.
When my resignation was finally accepted, and the time of my departure drew near, the men of the community spent much of their leisure in discussing it and me. The social center of East Dennis was a certain grocery, to which almost every man in town regularly wended his way, and from which all the gossip of the town emanated. Here the men sat for hours, tilted back in their chairs, whittling the rungs until they nearly cut the chairs from under them, and telling one another all they knew or had heard about their fellow-townsmen. Then, after each session, they would return home and repeat the gossip to their wives. I used to say that I would give a dollar to any woman in East Dennis who could quote a bit of gossip which did not come from the men at that grocery. Even my old friend Cap- t ain Doane, fine and high-minded citizen though he was, was not above enjoying the mild diversion of these social gatherings, and on one occasion at least he furnished the best part of the entertainment.
The departing minister was, it seemed, the topic of the day's discussion, and, to tease Captain Doane one young man who knew the strength of his friend- s hip for me suddenly began to speak, then pursed up his lips and looked eloquently mysterious. As he had expected, Captain Doane immediately pounced on him.
``What's the matter with you?'' demanded the old man. ``Hev you got anything agin Miss Shaw?''
The young man sighed and murmured that if he wished he could repeat a charge never before made against a Cape Cod minister, but--and he shut his lips more obviously. The other men, who were in the plot, grinned, and this added the last touch to Captain Doane's indignation. He sprang to his feet. One of his peculiarities was a constant mis- u se of words, and now, in his excitement, he outdid himself.
``You've made an incineration against Miss Shaw,'' h e shouted. ``Do you hear--AN INCINERATION! Take it back or take a lickin'!''
The young man decided that the joke had gone far enough, so he answered, mildly: ``Well, it is said that all the women in town are in love with Miss Shaw. Has that been charged against any other minister here?''
The men roared with laughter, and Captain Doane sat down, looking sheepish.
``All I got to say is this,'' he muttered: ``That gal has been in this community for seven years, and she 'ain't done a thing during the hull seven years that any one kin lay a finger on!''
The men shouted again at this back-handed trib- u te, and the old fellow left the grocery in a huff.
Later I was told of the ``incineration'' and his elo- q uent defense of me, and I thanked him for it. But I added:
``I hear you said I haven't done a thing in seven years that any one can lay a finger on?''
``I said it,'' declared the Captain, ``and I'll stand by it.''
``Haven't I done any good?'' I asked.
``Sartin you have,'' he assured me, heartily.
``Lots of good.''
``Well,'' I said, ``can't you put your finger on that?''
The Captain looked startled. ``Why--why--Sister Shaw,'' he stammered, ``you know I didn't mean THAT! What I meant,'' he repeated, slowly and solemnly, ``was that the hull time you been here you ain't done nothin' anybody could put a finger on!''
