We were working for a prohibition amendment in the state of Pennsylvania, and the night before election I reached Coatesville. I had just com- p leted six weeks of strenuous campaigning, and that day I had already conducted and spoken at two big outdoor meetings. When I entered the town hall of Coatesville I found it filled with women. Only a few men were there; the rest were celebrating and campaigning in the streets. So I arose and said:
``I would like to ask how many men there are in the audience who intend to vote for the amendment to-morrow?''
Every man in the hall stood up.
``I thought so,'' I said. ``Now I intend to ask your indulgence. As you are all in favor of the amendment, there is no use in my setting its claims before you; and, as I am utterly exhausted, I s uggest 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- o gy and departed. As we were leaving the hall one of Coatesville's prominent citizens stopped me.
``I wish you were a man,'' he said. ``The town was to have a big outdoor meeting to-night, and the orator has failed us. There are thousands of men in the streets waiting for the speech, and the saloons are sending them free drinks to get them drunk and carry the town to-morrow.''
``Why,'' I said, ``I'll talk to them if you wish.''
``Great Scott!'' he gasped. ``I'd be afraid to let you. Something might happen!''
``If anything happens, it will be in a good cause,''
I reminded him. ``Let us go.''
Down-town we found the streets so packed with men that the cars could not get through, and with the greatest difficulty we reached the stand which had been erected for the speaker. It was a gorgeous affair. There were flaring torches all around it, and a ``bull's-eye,'' taken from the head of a locomotive, made an especially brilliant patch of light. The stand had been erected at a point where the city's four principal streets meet, and as far as I could see there were solid masses of citizens extending into these streets. A glee-club was doing its best to help things along, and the music of an organette, an instrument much used at the time in campaign rallies, swelled the joyful tumult. As I mounted the platform the crowd was singing ``Vote for Betty and the Baby,'' and I took that song for my text, speaking of the helplessness of women and children in the face of intemperance, and telling the crowd the only hope of the Coatesville women lay in the vote cast by their men the next day.
Directly in front of me stood a huge and ex- t raordinarily repellent-looking negro. A glance at him almost made one shudder, but before I had finished my first sentence he raised his right arm straight above him and shouted, in a deep and wonderfully rich bass voice, ``Hallelujah to the Lamb!'' From that point on he punctuated my speech every few moments with good, old-fashioned exclamations of salvation which helped to inspire the crowd. I spoke for almost an hour. Three times in my life, and only three times, I have made speeches that have satisfied me to the degree, that is, of making me feel that at least I was giving the best that was in me. The speech at Coatesville was one of those three. At the end of it the good-natured crowd cheered for ten minutes. The next day Coatesville voted for prohibition, and, rightly or wrongly, I have always believed that I helped to win that victory.
Here, by the way, I may add that of the two other speeches which satisfied me one was made in Chicago, during the World's Fair, in 1893, and the other in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1912. The International Council of Women, it will be remembered, met in Chicago during the Fair, and I was invited to preach the sermon at the Sunday-morning session. The occasion was a very important one, bringing to- g ether at least five thousand persons, including representative women from almost every country in Europe, and a large number of women ministers.
These made an impressive group, as they all wore their ministerial robes; and for the first time I p reached in a ministerial robe, ordered especially for that day. It was made of black crepe de Chine, with great double flowing sleeves, white silk under- s leeves, and a wide white silk underfold down the front; and I may mention casually that it looked very much better than I felt, for I was very nervous.
My father had come on to Chicago especially to hear my sermon, and had been invited to sit on the platform. Even yet he was not wholly reconciled to my public work, but he was beginning to take a deep interest in it. I greatly desired to please him and to satisfy Miss Anthony, who was extremely anxious that on that day of all days I should do my best.
I gave an unusual amount of time and thought to that sermon, and at last evolved what I modestly believed to be a good one. I never write out a sermon in advance, but I did it this time, laboriously, and then memorized the effort. The night before the sermon was to be delivered Miss Anthony asked me about it, and when I realized how deeply in- t erested she was I delivered it to her then and there as a rehearsal. It was very late, and I knew we would not be interrupted. As she listened her face grew longer and longer and her lips drooped at the corners. Her disappointment was so obvious that I had difficulty in finishing my recitation; but I finally got through it, though rather weakly toward the end, and waited to hear what she would say, hoping against hope that she had liked it better than she seemed to. But Susan B. Anthony was the frankest as well as the kindest of women. Reso- l utely she shook her head.
``It's no good, Anna,'' she said; firmly. ``You'll have to do better. You've polished and repolished that sermon until there's no life left in it. It's dead.
Besides, I don't care for your text.''
``Then give me a text,'' I demanded, gloomily.
``I can't,'' said Aunt Susan.
I was tired and bitterly disappointed, and both conditions showed in my reply.
