My admiration has always gone out to the person who can put himself in print and set down for historical purposes an exact record of his honest feelings and thoughts, even though they may seem to reflect upon many of his friends and helpers. I have not in this story hurt any one by intent. Because its thread has, of necessity, followed dramatic highlights, many people who played prominent parts have not been mentioned. These I have not forgotten, nor those numerous others who made smaller offerings. Some have pioneered in their special fields and localities; some have given generously and unfailingly of their financial help; some have volunteered in full measure their time and efforts as officers and Committee members; some have fought and labored by my side throughout the years; some have stepped in for only a brief but significant role. Although on the outskirts of the army, it is to these last as well as to those in the vanguard that the advance has been made. And particularly do I wish to thank those co-workers and members of the various staffs whose contributions can in no way be measured by their duties, and whose indefatigable, loyal devotion has been a bulwark of strength to me at all times.
It has been impossible to carry out my sincere desire to give personal and individual recognition and expression of gratitude to all. Neither a history of the birth control movement nor the part I have taken in it could be complete, however, did I not pay tribute to the integrity, valiance, courage, and clarity of vision of the men and women who, year after year, maintained their principles, and never swerved from them in a cause which belongs to all of us.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
| I. | FROM WHICH I SPRING | [11] |
| II. | BLIND GERMS OF DAYS TO BE | [24] |
| III. | BOOKS ARE THE COMPASSES | [33] |
| IV. | DARKNESS THERE AND NOTHING MORE | [46] |
| V. | CORALS TO CUT LIFE UPON | [58] |
| VI. | FANATICS OF THEIR PURE IDEALS | [68] |
| VII. | THE TURBID EBB AND FLOW OF MISERY | [86] |
| VIII. | I HAVE PROMISES TO KEEP | [93] |
| IX. | THE WOMAN REBEL | [106] |
| X. | WE SPEAK THE SAME GOOD TONGUE | [121] |
| XI. | HAVELOCK ELLIS | [133] |
| XII. | STORK OVER HOLLAND | [142] |
| XIII. | THE PEASANTS ARE KINGS | [153] |
| XIV. | O, TO BE IN ENGLAND | [169] |
| XV. | HIGH HANGS THE GAUNTLET | [179] |
| XVI. | HEAR ME FOR MY CAUSE | [192] |
| XVII. | FAITH I HAVE BEEN A TRUANT IN THE LAW | [210] |
| XVIII. | LEAN HUNGER AND GREEN THIRST | [224] |
| XIX. | THIS PRISON WHERE I LIVE | [238] |
| XX. | A STOUT HEART TO A STEEP HILL | [251] |
| XXI. | THUS TO REVISIT | [268] |
| XXII. | DO YE HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING? | [280] |
| XXIII. | IN TIME WE CAN ONLY BEGIN | [292] |
| XXIV. | LAWS WERE LIKE COBWEBS | [306] |
| XXV. | ALIEN STARS ARISE | [316] |
| XXVI. | THE EAST IS BLOSSOMING | [327] |
| XXVII. | ANCIENTS OF THE EARTH | [337] |
| XXVIII. | THE WORLD IS MUCH THE SAME EVERYWHERE | [349] |
| XXIX. | WHILE THE DOCTORS CONSULT | [358] |
| XXX. | NOW IS THE TIME FOR CONVERSE | [369] |
| XXXI. | GREAT HEIGHTS ARE HAZARDOUS | [376] |
| XXXII. | CHANGE IS HOPEFULLY BEGUN | [392] |
| XXXIII. | OLD FATHER ANTIC, THE LAW | [398] |
| XXXIV. | SENATORS, BE NOT AFFRIGHTED | [413] |
| XXXV. | A PAST WHICH IS GONE FOREVER | [431] |
| XXXVI. | FAITH IS A FINE INVENTION | [447] |
| XXXVII. | WHO CAN TAKE A DREAM FOR TRUTH? | [461] |
| XXXVIII. | DEPTH BUT NOT TUMULT | [478] |
| XXXIX. | SLOW GROWS THE SPLENDID PATTERN | [493] |
| INDEX | [497] |
MARGARET SANGER
Chapter One
FROM WHICH I SPRING
“‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said, very gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’”
LEWIS CARROLL
The streets of Corning, New York, where I was born, climb right up from the Chemung River, which cuts the town in two; the people who live there have floppy knees from going up and down. When I was a little girl the oaks and the pines met the stone walks at the top of the hill, and there in the woods my father built his house, hoping mother’s “congestion of the lungs” would be helped if she could breathe the pure, balsam-laden air.
My mother, Anne Purcell, always had a cough, and when she braced herself against the wall the conversation, which was forever echoing from room to room, had to stop until she recovered. She was slender and straight as an arrow, with head well set on sloping shoulders, black, wavy hair, skin white and spotless, and with wide-apart eyes, gray-green, flecked with amber. Her family had been Irish as far back as she could trace; the strain of the Norman conquerors had run true throughout the generations, and may have accounted for her unfaltering courage.