Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
ELIZABETH THE DISINHERITED DAUGHTER
BY E. BEN. EZ-ER
PREFACE
This booklet is little more than a compilation. The materials were abundant
for a much larger book. Elizabeth's divine _experience_ was so striking, so
valuable to the cause of truth, that it has not been essentially abridged.
But the _results_ in biography, though well known to all who knew her, have
been cut down to the smallest dimensions that would allow that brilliant
experience to shine out.
Elizabeth had a lifelong conviction that God required the publication of
His remarkable dealings with her, and in her approach to the river of
death solemnly enjoined it upon her youngest son and executor. His own
convictions also agree with the requirement. Here are obvious reasons:
1. The early history of Methodism has suffered by the dropping out of
many striking illustrations of her power. By neglecting to record them
permanently while well authenticated, they are now beyond recovery. As this
providential work moves on gloriously, making world-wide history, these few
preserved incidents of her early triumph become more and more valuable by
the lapse of time.
2. Providentially this experience is too rare and too far back in American
Methodism to be lost out.
3. The controversy in which this experience was so strong a factor has not
become obsolete. The "horrible decrees" have indeed been very generally
driven from the pulpit, but not entirely. Our work as polemics will not
be finished until they leave the schools and the books, and cease to be
pillows for the multitudes who lull themselves to slumber over the notion
of "sovereign grace and waiting God's time," and cease to goad despondent
souls to despair, with the charge of being "from eternity passed by" as
unredeemed "reprobates."
E. ARNOLD.
_Thousand Island Park_, 1893.
CONTENTS
* * * * *
PART I.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
THAT STRANGE LETTER
CHAPTER II.
ELIZABETH'S ALIENATION FROM THE ANCESTRAL FAITH
CHAPTER III.
THAT ALARMING MESSAGE
CHAPTER IV.
ORDER OBEYED
CHAPTER V.
THE FIERY FURNACE
CHAPTER VI.
GREAT VICTORIES
* * * * *
PART II.--THE GREAT WOBK OF LIFE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
ELIZABETH AS MISTRESS OF THE "COTTAGE CHAPEL".
CHAPTER II.
RELIGIOUS PRIVILEGES AND ENJOYMENTS
CHAPTER III.
ELIZABETH AS AN EVANGELISTIC LABORER
CHAPTER IV.
REMOVAL TO A WILDERNESS COUNTRY
CHAPTER V.
VOLNEY, OSWEGO COUNTY, NEW YORK
CHAPTER VI.
HARDSHIPS OF THE NEW COLONY
CHAPTER VII.
THE QUARTERLY MEETINGS
CHAPTER VIII.
EXTENDS HER LABORS
CHAPTER IX.
AS A CAMP MEETING WORKER
CHAPTER X.
"THE CHAMBER ON THE WALL"
CHAPTER XI.
MRS. ELIZABETH ARNOLD AS A MOTHER
CHAPTER XII.
DOUBLE DILIGENCE
* * * * *
PART III.--RETIREMENT
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
HOMES OP EARLY METHODISTS
CHAPTER II.
JOSHUA ARNOLD
CHAPTER III.
SEPARATION
CHAPTER IV.
CONCLUSION
ELIZABETH, THE DISINHERITED DAUGHTER.
* * * * *
PART I.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
THAT STRANGE LETTER.
It was in the latter part of the eighteenth century. The dwelling was a
plain frame structure, spacious, and of the style of that day (the second
story projecting a few inches beyond the first), and was kept painted as
white as snow. It stood in the south suburb of the then little city of
Middletown, Conn., between two hills on the right bank of the Connecticut
River, at the bend called "the Cove." The first break in the happy family
circle was made by the departure of a daughter to another State to engage
in teaching. Few letters were written in those days, and the postal service
was a slow and small concern. But this absent school-teacher had written
with much care and vivacity to the dear circle at home as regularly as the
months came around. But now, for long, anxious weeks, no tidings from the
absent one had reached that saddened home at the Cove. "Why don't we get
a letter from Betsey?" was often asked by the fond parents, the loving
sisters, and thoughtful little brothers; but no satisfactory answer could
be given.
The father would hasten to the city as often as "mail day" returned and
watch for the ponderous stagecoach, but come back more moderately, with a
shadow upon his countenance, and "No letter!" "No letter!" would deepen the
sorrow of the circle. One day the son "Siah" was sent, and in an unusually
short time was seen coming over the hill with a speed so unlike a
disappointed lad that the watchful mother was "sure the dear boy had
tidings." Her lip trembled as she motioned to the father and called out,
"Where's Esther? Where's Sam? Call 'em all in. Siah's coming real fast;
I guess he's got a letter from Betsey!" "How he does ride!" says Hannah.
"Dear fellow, I most know he's got a letter!" "Yis, yis," says little
sharp-eyed Sam; "see, he holds suthin' white higher'n his head." Sure
enough, on comes the rider, flourishing in his hand the long-looked-for
message from the absent one!
It was but the work of a moment for the excited lad to leap upon the block,
throw the bridle over the post, and run in, letter in hand, vociferating,
"Don't ye worry any more about Betsey; she's all safe and sound. See, it's
in her own handwrite." "Yis, daddy, and stuck together with that same red
wax you gin her," says little Sam.
Ruth breaks the seal and finds a large sheet, and closely written. A glance
from the father brings the house to silence, and she begins to read. Never
a letter began with more tender words or in a sweeter spirit; but all
sounds so precise and awfully solemn that the voice of the reader falters;
tears fill the eyes of the mother and sisters; the father turns pale;
little Sam looks frightened and grips his mother's arm, while Josiah sobs
aloud. But the resolute reader moves steadily on, and only breaks down when
she reaches the name, "Your loving daughter and sister, Elizabeth Ward."
These words stung that proud father to the quick. To hear his darling's
name attached to _such_ a letter, and find his cherished plans thwarted
forever, was more than he could endure. He arose in a paroxysm of wrath and
left the house. The mother, watching him, became greatly alarmed, for she
had never seen him so angry.
As the boys lead the horse to the stable the girls take the letter to their
room, where they weep much, pray some, and read over and over again that
strange document.
CHAPTER II.
ELIZABETH'S ALIENATION FROM THE ANCESTRAL FAITH.
Elizabeth Ward was the eldest of six children. She had a tall, straight
form, rather stern and dignified airs, a keen black eye, and a beautiful
countenance, though rather on the masculine order. Her father, Samuel Ward,
was a wealthy farmer and stock grower and a skillful horseman. He had
determined to give this, his eldest daughter, a liberal education, and have
her assist in the instruction of her sisters. She proved so easy to learn,
and showed such aptitude and application in study, that he afforded her the
best opportunities given young ladies in New England at that day. And
in his pride of horsemanship he took much pains to make her a skillful
equestrienne, and never seemed prouder than when riding out with Elizabeth
by his side upon an elegant steed in costly equipage. To carry out
his notions for the perfection of her accomplishments, he sent her to
Pittsfield, Mass., among wealthy and cultured relatives, to devote a year
or two to association with elegant society. And to avoid that horror of the
real Yankee's dreams, "shiftlessness," she was to take up a small select
school for employment. There too, as at home, she must have a splendid
horse at her command, and no cost must be spared to make her equipage, as
well as wardrobe, as elegant as the best. Morning and evening rides must
be kept up for health and recreation, but not less to indulge a doting
father's pride.
She found her new situation very agreeable. Her relatives were educated and
fashionable, and soon became very dear to her heart. Her school consisted
of a suitable number of misses from wealthy families, as cheerful as the
larks and as gay as butterflies. Her opulent friends very readily entered
into her father's plans, and were especially delighted with her experience
and skill in horsemanship; and a sufficient number equipped and joined her
in this healthy movement to insure her the best of company in her morning
and evening rides. And her popularity as an equestrienne fed her pride,
and her gay letters home were full of it, and very agreeable to her proud
father. Nor did the rapid improvement of her associates in this elegant
accomplishment, under her teaching and example, escape the notice of their
fond parents and of their townsmen, and "The way that tall schoolmarm rides
is wonderful!" was spoken by many an observer, and many a young woman
envied the proud troop "their chance to learn how to ride a-horseback."
In the daily excursions of these gay cousins they sometimes passed, on
a retired street, the meeting place of "a new and strange people called
Methodists." Jesse Lee, George Roberts, Francis Asbury, and others, mighty
men of God, had just gone over New England like a thundering legion,
proclaiming everywhere a "free salvation for all, even for John Calvin's
'reprobates.'" They had glorious success, even in cold New England, and of
the fruit of the revivals which attended their labors formed many small but
excellent "societies." One of these was established in Pittsfield.
The sweet and moving singing of these people arrested the attention of our
heroine and her friends as they occasionally rode by; and, pausing in their
saddles to listen, enough of a tune would get into their heads and keep
ringing there to turn their course that way again. Catching a charming
tune, they "must get the words, at least a verse or two." So, from pausing
outside to listen, they grew bolder, tied their horses, and civilly sat
down inside, not only charmed with the songs, but curious to hear the
fervent prayers and testimonies and occasional shouts of this bright-faced
company. When their friends said anything against this people as being
"unpopular," or "despised," these young fashionables would sing them a
Methodist verse or two, and perhaps join in the ridicule by mimicking their
shouts. And yet in their sober judgment they honored these honest and
devout worshipers for their fervent piety and zeal, and wondered at their
rapturous joys. But they were quite mistaken in their confidence that an
occasional attendance upon worship so spiritual was perfectly safe. The
Holy Spirit dwelt with this people. These gay young attendants became the
subjects of mighty prayers and powerful exhortations. Bows, "drawn at a
venture," threw arrows with great force. The Spirit directed one to
the proud but honest heart of Elizabeth Ward, and she was "thoroughly
awakened." Perhaps in the few prayer meetings these young people had
dropped into within the past year they had imbibed more gospel truth than
in all their former lives. But the songs which had so captivated them, many
of which they had learned to sing, had struck those truths into the mind
indelibly, and had so enlisted the moral nature of Elizabeth that the Holy
Ghost had written convicting impressions upon the inner tablet of her
heart. She did not long resist this new "conscience of sins." She clearly
saw and deeply felt that she was a sinner, and on the way to ruin. In more
of desperation than hope she set out to "flee from the wrath to come."
In this state of alarm, she walked alone to the Methodist prayer meeting,
made known her convictions and purposes, and sought instruction and help.
She returned from that meeting feeling that she had almost entered a new
world. Gospel hope, now for the first time in her life, began to spring up
in her heart. She had settled the question of submission to her Maker, and
began to seek Him with purpose of heart, resolved to confess and forsake
her sins and seek pardon and peace in Jesus Christ. Still, as to several of
the counsels of her new religious instructors she was undecided, because
not yet convinced. They advised her to seek the Lord "by prayer and
supplication." To "ask," to "knock," to "call upon Him," and especially to
"cry unto the Lord with her voice." But she had been taught from infancy
that "none but the elect should pray; nor even they until regenerated by
sovereign grace;" and that "no woman should pray or speak in a public
assembly." But a heart overwhelmed with a crushing sense of sin at length
broke out, almost against her decision, and cried, "God be merciful to me
a sinner!" and such hope of relief sprang up while she prayed as to settle
the question of prayer; and thence on for weeks all the relief she found
was in prayer and confession; a few crumbs of comfort to encourage her to
persevere in seeking; for she began to wonder why she had not found peace,
when she had sought so long and tried to give up all for Christ.
One day, in the retirement of her room, her mirror revealed a gayety of
apparel that struck her as unsuitable for a poor, guilty sinner. The
fashions of that day were very profuse in ornamentation; and as she saw
herself in the glass, her eyes red and heavy with weeping, and yet her
attire as gay and vain as if prepared for a ball, she felt sure that her
mode of dress had all this time been a hindrance to her; and she then and
there concluded to reduce all to plainness, much like the people who had
led her to penitence. The pride of dress and equipage seemed now to be
about the last idol to give up, and, all of her own counsel, she did the
work very thoroughly; and as to her abundant jewelry, the result of her
spontaneous zeal was rather ludicrous. "Determined that it should never
prove a snare to any other poor soul as it had to her," she passed it all
under the hammer until there was nothing left but unseemly lumps of gold
and silver; the precious stones were utterly demolished.
From that work this hitherto gaudy maiden came out as plain as a Quakeress,
and hastened to the Methodist prayer meeting. Seeing her thus evidently
taught of the Holy Spirit, they took hold of her case with new courage as
she bowed with them crying for mercy. The prayers of the early Methodists
were something wonderful, and this broken-hearted penitent drank into their
wrestling spirit. They claimed for her the "exceeding great and precious
promises," with mighty faith; she claimed these promises with them. They
took hold on Jesus; she put her hand with theirs into His with a strong and
steady grip, and He accepted her.
The conversion of Elizabeth was instantaneous, and exceedingly clear and
powerful, and its assurance overwhelming. Her long night was at once turned
into day, and that clear daylight was also a blaze of glory. Her joy was
ecstatic. Her tall form, which had been gaudily adorned, but now attired
for the meek and lowly Saviour, was at times prostrated by divine power,
and her regenerated soul filled with the rapture of heaven. Night and day,
for weeks, her only relief from ecstasy was by settling into solid
peace, thus alternating from the quiet valley of "peace that passeth
understanding" to the glory-crowned hilltops of "joy unspeakable."
After a sufficient time had elapsed to demonstrate the genuineness and
unfading glory of her experience, Elizabeth wrote home a plain account of
it, concealing nothing. This was the astounding and alienating letter that
so stirred up things at the Cove.
CHAPTER III.
THAT ALARMING MESSAGE.
The Wards, at the Cove, continued to be much troubled over Elizabeth's
letter. Had a note or a messenger announced her serious illness, or her
elopement or sudden death, the first pang would have terminated in some
sort of relief, or at least a breathing place; but this letter was
suffocating, and the dense fog seemed to grow darker as it stretched into
the future. "A religious fanatic!" "A Methodist lunatic!" "Has our darling
set out upon such a life?"
"I'm afraid it will kill your father; it struck him dumb. I can't draw him
into any conversation about her; and he is so angry!" Thus the troubled
mother would talk and cry. The sisters and brothers listen to her, and,
without comprehending "the prospect so awful in Betsey's future life,"
would keep dumb, like "daddy," and cry, like "mammy."
Finding no relief at home, Mrs. Ward consulted their aged parson, "Priest
Huntington," and placed the ominous letter in his hands; and he took the
troublesome document home for professional analysis. It is not to be
supposed that the Holy Spirit left this letter to pass through such a
crucible alone. The experience it told was substantially His work, and
the hand that wrote it was not wholly without His guidance; and now the
cultured mind which examined it was that of a logical analyst, however
strong his prejudice. The old parson was struck with its simplicity
and soundness, and hastened to the Cove to "pronounce Miss Elizabeth's
experience genuine, and even wonderful," and that he believed her to be
"one of God's chosen vessels to bear witness of His sovereign grace."
So favorable an opinion from such an authority greatly relieved the
apprehensions of the family; all but the incensed father, who would neither
talk nor allow others to talk to him about the absent one for several
weeks.
All these were not only precious weeks to Elizabeth, but lengthened out a
most valuable epoch of her life. At length the wily parson succeeded
in getting to the stormy heart of this enraged and unhappy father, and
portrayed in glowing colors the clearness of Miss Elizabeth's "effectual
call" and "blessed hope," and managed to bridge over "that awful slough of
Methodism" by descanting gravely upon some of the "mysterious leadings of
sovereign grace." "And now, if our dear lamb of the Saviour can be rescued
from those deluded people and carefully instructed in 'the doctrines of
grace,' what an ornament she would be to our church with such a brilliant
experience, and such 'a burning and shining light!'"
Whether the hard heart of that father relented, or whether, weary of
brooding over his disappointed hopes of a worldly sort, his pride saw
prospect of indulgence in another direction, we leave it for subsequent
events to determine. The kind parson was successful, and Elizabeth was soon
ordered to return home.
CHAPTER IV.
ORDER OBEYED.
The order to "close up her school and return home" did not disguise the
anger of the father over the radical change in Elizabeth's religious
condition and associations. But she had ever yielded unquestioning
obedience to that father's commands; and so with all practicable dispatch
she now prepared to comply with the stern and precipitant demand.
It was painful to be suddenly torn from her agreeable relatives in
Pittsfield; for, although she had departed far from their notions of
doctrine, dress, and usage, and fully adopted the principles and spirit of
a new and despised people, they had never reproached her for her religion,
but, deeply impressed with the genuineness of her experience and sweetness
of her Christian spirit, had regarded and treated her with tenderness and
respect.
It was not easy to bid adieu to her pupils who clung to her with much
affection. But it was the hardest parting from the church which had led her
to the Saviour. But here, too, grace triumphed, and she spoke rapturously
of meeting that dear people "where parting will be no more;" and, catching,
as if by divine suggestion, a strong presentiment, she declared her
impression that even in this life they should enjoy each other's society
again--"even in this blessed place, where my sins were forgiven and I
have received such valuable lessons and enjoyed such glorious seasons of
communion with God and His people. Pray for me!"
"We will continue to pray for you, dear sister; and we too hope that our
heavenly Father may so order your lot that you may meet with us again in
the place of your espousal to Christ; but let us so live that we may all
meet in glory." And then they broke forth into song:
"Amen, amen, my soul replies;
I'm bound to meet you in the skies,
And claim my mansion there!"
CHAPTER V.
THE FIERY FURNACE.
Elizabeth's reception at her father's surprised her by its coolness and
reserve, as if she were a stranger or a visitor.
At once a happy thought struck her with great force: "If my religious
profession puts such a distance between me and all my father's family, the
throne of grace must, if possible, unite us." So, before retiring for the
first night's rest, she asked and obtained authority to set up a family
altar, and for some months at least one of that family enjoyed freedom of
spirit and tenderness of heart.
Parson Huntington visited her with much paternal kindness; and although, in
presence of her joyous piety, he often seemed embarrassed, yet he remained
true to his first conclusion as to the "effectual character of her call and
blessed hope." But the promised "teaching" found her a less tractable
pupil than he had hoped and led the father to hope. She ever treated his
instructions with profound respect, but seemed to be a dull learner. Alas,
that she was all the while imbibing more than they or she supposed! Still,
the predestinarian aliment did not set well on her palate, or nourish her
young and tender graces of spirit. Her father sought to confine her to that
sort of diet--at home, at church, everywhere; for his only hope of rescuing
her from Methodism seemed to center in a thorough course of Calvinian
instruction, excluding with rigid surveillance everything Arminian.
But she longed for the food her soul had fed upon with such relish and
profit; and, after a while, hearing that the little Methodist society of
Middletown held noon class meetings, not far from the church which she
was required to attend, she often managed to slip out during part of the
intermission and go and commune with that humble few in class meeting. This
fellowship, with a diligent attention to closet devotions and Scripture
study, and conducting family worship, kept up a subdued but living piety.
But at length her clandestine attendance of class meetings was discovered,
and father and parson were highly indignant, for they saw their cherished
hopes blasted, and, in their mortification, severer discipline was decided
upon. "She must be closely watched and confined at home; her favorite horse
taken from her; her conducting of family worship suspended; her familiarity
with her sisters" (who somewhat sympathized with her) "much abridged." The
kitchen maid was dismissed, and the tall, delicate Elizabeth was driven to
the drudgery of kitchen and washroom, and ordered to "be quiet and diligent
as a servant," under charge of having proved herself "unworthy of a
daughter's place in the family!" To this servile toil Elizabeth submitted
without a murmur, and patiently plodded on, her strong constitution and
heroic courage and steady faith bearing her up. But the accusation of
"ingratitude and disobedience" was so false and severe as to be very
depressing to her spirits. And, never having been inured to hard labor or
parental censure, these double tribulations were almost crushing; and to
help her courage she kept up the low, almost inaudible hum of the sweet
tunes she had so loved to sing among her chosen people, and, thus
abstracted, toiled on week after week.
Such patience proved provoking, especially as what could be detected of the
tunes, in the snatches heard, indicated to her father's enraged feelings a
stubborn attachment to that people from whom he was trying to wean her; so
even this little comfort was sternly denied her; and, while strength was
gradually giving way under her heavy burdens, she was compelled to toil on
in silence. Under all these sore trials not only her angry father but the
evil one kept up the accusation of "stubborn disobedience."
At length she broke down under her burdens and troubles. Health, courage,
and joy in the Lord gave way together. For the drill of Parson Huntington
in Calvinian theology for nearly a year past now came up, enforced by the
instructions of childhood, with fresh power; and she began to suspect
that she was one of the "ordained reprobates," "passed by and doomed from
eternity to endless ruin!" The whole system of "free grace," impartial
atonement, and the Spirit's assurance, in the light and joy of which she
had exulted for months in Pittsfield, and been so comforted in these
subsequent months of hardship and false accusation, strangely faded before
these childhood and recent instructions; and gradually this pupil of
Augustine and Calvin sank into the doctrinal abyss of the "horrible
decrees." Nor would her broken and depressed spirits allow these sudden
conclusions to affect her as abstract dogmas. They struck her, by Satanic
power, like lightning, as terribly personal realities. "I, even I,
Elizabeth Ward, have been awfully deceived! I am one of the reprobates! I
have preferred my father's commands to God's favor! I have committed the
'unpardonable sin!'"
How unaccountable is desponding unbelief! how ingenious and active under
diabolical management! The Holy Spirit quoted to this poor, despondent girl
"the precious promises," but she "refused to be comforted," and hastened to
pass them all over to "the elect." He called to mind her rich experiences.
They seemed to her far off in clouds of dim dreamland, and she called them
a reprobate's delusions, "sent" on purpose to make her "believe a lie that
she might be damned." He called her attention to the blessed word, to
prayer and praise. She promptly swept all such observances away from
reprobates to the ransomed "few," and, gnashing her teeth in anguish, sank
to _utter despair!_
We will not attempt to describe a conscious reprobate, "passed by" and
"ordained from eternity" to all eternity a lost soul! Such was the dark,
dank night that settled down upon Elizabeth as she sank under her burdens,
her temptations, and cruel, wicked unbelief. In this dismal, hopeless "hell
upon earth" she pined away for weeks and months, utterly shrinking from
Bible reading, prayer, song, or religious conversation, and studiously
guarding against religious reasoning, and even thought, as abominable for a
"reprobate."
It is not easy, in this age of religious liberty, to understand or
apologize for such intolerance as Mr. Ward and Parson Huntington exhibited
toward this innocent Methodist girl. But it should be remembered in
charity:
1. That that age was about a century nearer the long period of persecution
than this.
2. That a stern and terrible system of religious doctrines prevailed
throughout New England at that day, not fruitful in charity, nor respectful
toward any faith that differed from it.
3. That Methodism was new there then, and generally misunderstood, and such
of its features as were correctly read were intensely hated--even such as
are now admired and revered.
4. That parents, especially fathers, were then allowed by public opinion to
hold more control over the consciences of their children, and variations
from ancestral faith, and even ancestral error, not so frequent as now.
CHAPTER VI.
GREAT VICTORIES.
Seven months of despair had now worn slowly away. This poor supposed
"reprobate" had all that time been buffeted by Satan without mercy. She had
wasted to a skeleton. Her large, sharp eye had become heavy and lusterless,
and her ruddy cheek pale and sunken, and every expression sad and hopeless;
and the "enemy of all righteousness" got into a hurry to secure his prize,
and brought all his arts to bear upon the suggestion of suicide!
Such a temptation aroused her to a sense of her real danger--no longer the
victim of ingenious devices to harbor gloomy forebodings, but a wretched
sinner, about to destroy soul and body in hell, on the verge of destruction
to character, and all good influences by an act of her own! Desperately,
in spite of her dread of prayer, she cried to God against that dreadful
temptation, and instantly she had full victory over it. The eyes, long
dried in the desert of despair, were moistened with tears of wonder and
gratitude. Astonished at such a clear answer to prayer, she prayed again
for deliverance from Satan's power and all his enchantments, and they fled
away like the shadow of a cloud. Her dungeon flamed with light, before
which the horrible decrees also vanished, falling into line, and following
their author to the land of darkness, never to trouble her more.
The light shone on, more and more; and although at dead of night, her room
seemed to her to shine above the brightness of the sun at noonday; and the
doctrines of free grace seemed to flash about her with transcendent glory,
until investing her entire being. She knew she was not a reprobate; for God
had heard her desperate cry against that greatest of sins. She saw in God's
own light the blessed assurance that Jesus died for her and for all; and in
driving away the enemy and the dense cloud of error, that had long shrouded
her dungeon in Egyptian darkness, she clearly saw glorious demonstrations
of divine clemency in store for her. She deplored her unbelief, and humbly
sought forgiveness and full restoration; and there, and then, by faith in
Jesus, she accepted Him again as her Saviour.
Instantly her raptures returned, with more than their former power and
glory, and she went off into a perfect gale of ecstasy. Such sounds had
never been heard in that mansion before, and the family hastened to learn
the cause. There lay the wasted form upon what they thought to be the bed
of death. Her thin arms were stretched upward, and her pale hands came
together with frequency and energy quite remarkable. Her countenance seemed
lighted up with an unearthly glow, and her words were ready and full of
heavenly felicity, and uttered with a strength and sweetness of voice quite
beyond her power. All these evidences, added to the fact that their tender
and anxious questions remained unanswered, and their presence and weeping
seemed entirely unnoticed, struck them as demonstrations that "the angels
had come for poor, dear Betsey," and that in her triumphant flight from her
cruel sufferings "she had already passed beyond them, and would never speak
to them again."
After some time, however, she seemed to them to have been brought back
by their lamentations and self-accusations, and, hushing them to silent
attention, she assured them that this was "not dying," but "living, and
preparing to live," by a return of her first love and a glorious victory
over temptation and error.
From that blessed night her convalescence was much more rapid than anyone
had thought possible. Peace of mind is a marvelous restorer, especially
when despondency has driven health away.
On a beautiful morning, a few weeks after, Elizabeth was agreeably
surprised by an unexpected announcement made at the door of her room. She
had had remarkable liberty that morning in conducting family prayer, which
by consent of her parents she resumed soon after her recent victory. Her
father came to her door, and, in a voice which sounded so much like the
good days gone by, announced his plan for "a short ride." Her own horse was
at the block; and as the strong arms of her father placed her in the saddle
the noble beast gave signs of joy over her returning health.
The horseman by her side, in the ride of that and several following
mornings, seemed agitated by conflicting emotions, yet making special
efforts to be social and attentive. O, how she enjoyed those morning rides!
Yet now and then she felt, though she could scarcely tell why, that a
strange agitation, embarrassed her father's spirits. Was he trying to
muster courage to acknowledge his wrong in persecuting her? Was he really
"under concern" for his own soul? or was he unhappy because she was not
more gay and worldly? It was useless for her to conjecture; he was a
reticent man, and allowed no one to meddle with his thoughts.
She had now nearly regained her usual strength, and the time drew near for
her to attend church. One morning, after a pleasant ride of unusual length,
drawing near home, the father broke out in tremulous tones: "Now, Betsey,
you won't go with the Methodists any more, will you? I can't allow it--no
more at all. I command you to have nothing more to do with that people."
They had reached the block, and the agitated girl hastened to her room, and
most of the day and evening she was seeking the "wisdom that cometh from
above." She easily settled all questions but one. She saw clearly what
system of doctrines she must subscribe to and advocate and exemplify; what
means of grace she needed and must have and honor by her attendance; and
she knew where her heart centered, and where her covenant vows must be
taken and fellowship cultivated and enjoyed. All was plain as noonday
except her father's commands and her duty to him. This last problem she
laid before the Lord; and no sooner was it fully committed to him than the
Holy Spirit quoted the filial duty with a peculiar emphasis to her heart:
"Obey your parents in the Lord." "He that loveth father or mother more than
Me is not worthy of Me."
Her line of duty was now fully decided, cost what it might. Saturday
morning they were again in their saddles, and side by side, beginning a
long ride in silence. Elizabeth was desirous of telling her story and
kindly explaining her views of duty, and, obtaining permission, she began
at the beginning and rehearsed the dealings of God with her up to that
hour. She then declared her filial affection and her readiness to obey
implicitly in all matters where duty to God and conscience would permit.
Finally, she appealed to her father "not to hinder or embarrass her, seeing
the Lord had so marvelously rescued her from the power of the enemy and
snatched her from the very jaws of death and ruin."
All this time the stern man had kept silence. They were nearing home. He
opened his mouth and firmly told her that he "should at once and finally
disinherit her if she went to Methodist meeting again!"
No more was said. Elizabeth that day looked upon all the familiar objects
about that dear old home of her childhood as no longer hers in any sense.
Her pets, especially her noble horse; her home, in which she was born and
reared; the sick room, where she had suffered unutterable horrors and
gained such memorable victories; her own dear room, where she was finally
to spend that, her last night, as having any right there. She came, at
last, late in the evening, to sweet slumbers in the "peace that passeth
understanding."
Early Sunday morning she was plainly attired and slowly walking toward her
beloved church, a plain chapel in a part of the city of Middletown near two
miles from the Cove. There she feasted upon the word and publicly gave in
her name as a probationer in the Methodist Episcopal Church.
From that moment she was afloat--out on the broad sea of life, without
a home; a disowned, disinherited girl! She left home this morning, a
comfortable, stately, dear old home of wealth, elegance, and affection. She
must not return to it to-night. She was but yesterday an heiress. To-day
she is poor, a wanderer in the earth. But she has at last a church-home,
and her life really begins to-day. Father and mother have cast her off for
her religion, but "the Lord hath taken her up." She is not without friends.
Several doors are open for her. Almost before she knows she is homeless she
has resumed her work of teaching and has a delightful home in a Methodist
family.
Thus favorably situated for study, she takes up the doctrines of the Gospel
as believed and taught by the Methodists, and makes rapid proficiency.
Her pastor, one of the flaming heralds of early Methodism in New England,
furnished her with the best of reading, and all her associates in the
studies and active work of Zion wondered at the rapid progress of the
disinherited girl. Little could they realize how vividly those doctrines
shone in her heart as she came out of the "fiery furnace," and how
intensely interested she now was in principles which had cost her so much,
yet were worth, in her account, infinitely more, and well deserved to be
studied and propagated.
A young man belonging to the Methodists of that city now enters into our
narrative. He is above the ordinary size, about twenty-eight years of age,
and some four or five years before this was clearly converted under the
preaching of Bishop Asbury. He also is a teacher, and a very sound, logical
student of Methodist doctrines and usages.
It is not many months before it is noticed that a mutual attachment seems
to be springing up between this young man and Elizabeth, above the ordinary
sympathies of teachers and church classmates. And as they had been
acquainted from childhood, and fully understood each other's history and
families, and were members together of a society of plain people, they did
not consider a long courtship necessary. They were both of Yankee stock,
both escaping from Calvinism and ardently attached to Methodism, both
studious and competent to teach, and loved to teach, and both were active
workers in the church they ardently loved.
So Joshua Arnold, aged twenty-nine, and Elizabeth Ward, aged twenty-one,
were united in holy matrimony in the charming month of May, the last
year of the eighteenth century. Thus closed the maiden life and homeless
loneliness of the disinherited daughter.
She had been ruthlessly turned out of a stately mansion which she loved as
her birthplace and childhood home, disinherited from her rightful heirship
to several thousands, and disowned by her family, whose well-being she had
faithfully labored to promote, and all for no fault of hers, but wholly
for a matter of conscience and principle. But in less than a year she was
settled in life in a home of which she was mistress, with a worthy husband,
of church membership and affinities like her own, and in the free enjoyment
of church privileges and holy fellowships, for which her persecuted soul
had "panted as the hart panteth for the water brooks."
PART II.
THE GREAT WORK OF LIFE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
ELIZABETH AS MISTRESS OF THE "COTTAGE CHAPEL."
One of the most natural consultations of the newly married couple is the
plan of their first house. How chatty and cheery a pair of newly mated
birds appear, in counsel over their nest-building! This schoolmaster and
mistress are home from their toil and care for the day, and are again
devoting an evening to the scheme of their first dwelling. It is not a
large or magnificent concern, but it has already been neatly draughted,
carefully considered, and builders' estimates footed up. All seems to be
about right; but Elizabeth has gone off into a brown study. Her countenance
betrays unusual agitation, and her pensive eye is filled with tears. Her
husband supposes she is thinking of the mansion from which she has been
spurned, as contrasted with the humble dwelling they are planning, but she
hastens to correct the mistake and assure him that her musings were in the
opposite direction entirely. "I was thinking of our dear people, and how
much they need in this suburb of the town some place to hold meetings in.
And this thought struck my mind almost like an inspiration: Why not extend
our plan up high enough for an 'upper room' for meetings?" This notion,
carefully considered, not only in these consultations but in the prayers
that closed them, impressed them both as a divine suggestion. The house was
built accordingly. An outside staircase gave access to the upper story,
which was all finished off in a rough, cheap manner for a chapel, and
immediately and for a few years was occupied by the Methodist people of the
south part of Middletown and of the farms adjoining, for prayer meetings,
class meetings, and occasional exhortation and preaching.
Among the church privileges which had cost this disinherited daughter so
dearly few ever equaled in sweet enjoyment this cottage chapel arrangement.
She no longer had to steal away and snatch a few minutes once or twice a
month to associate with the advocates of free grace, as she once did, nor
be shut entirely away from their beloved society, as for nearly a year, in
that terrible season of persecution and despair. The church she loved came
to her door. Her home echoed their prayers, songs, testimonies, and shouts.
She lived, toiled, ate, and slept under the shadow of the hallowed "upper
room," so often, like the one in Jerusalem, "filled with the Holy Ghost."
She knew, as no one else could, how much such privileges had cost her, but
still insisted that they never cost a tithe of what they were worth. Nor
was the gratification of this ardent lover of Methodism the chief result of
this chapel arrangement. There the Church found asylum from persecution;
and if we may estimate the value of such a refuge from the alarm of the
enemy it must have proved a precious boon. Often were the pious band
obliged to come early and lock themselves in to escape the fury of the mob,
which would curse and mock without. But sometimes, unable to reach them or
seriously to annoy them by their howlings, they would vent their spite
upon the premises. Now it would be by breaking windows. Again, finding the
windows guarded with thick board blinds, they would tear down fences, fill
the well with wood, etc. In several instances it came out in one way and
another that some attendant of the "standing order" furnished the rum that
stimulated the rabble to make these attempts to drive off these "deceivers
of the last days, that should deceive the very elect." But "the more they
afflicted them the more they multiplied and grew;" so that in a few years
the place became "too strait for them." Even members of the mob of one
meeting would be "awakened" while listening for something to mock, and
scarcely able to restrain themselves, while with their comrades they would
come early to the next meeting, get fastened in with the pious and the
penitent, and, making humble confession, seek and find salvation, and
become lively members of the church they had persecuted.
Who can estimate the amount of good done in that "upper room" at the dawn
of the nineteenth century? "When God writeth up his people" of how many
will it be counted, "This man was born there?" Who can stand on the hill
where once stood that unpretending home with a "meeting house" on the top
of it, and look over to University Hill, crowned with those Methodist halls
of science and art, and see no connection between the humble seed-sowing
and the waving harvest?
Soon after the supersedure of this chapel loft Mrs. Elizabeth began to
reckon her work nearly done in Middletown; and, a good offer being about
that time made for their valuable situation, she began to hope and pray for
the accomplishment of a cherished longing to live near the place of her
spiritual birth.
Mr. Arnold had followed two lines of business from his majority: Teaching
through the long winters of New England, and coast trading summers. He was
brought up a farmer, but fancied that he had but little genius for that
vocation. After his marriage and settlement he shortened up his summer
sailing, giving himself time during spring and autumn to cultivate, or at
least plant and reap, his rich little place.
With the growing cares of the family the wife and mother was desirous to
"get him away from the water" and settle down upon a farm. As they pondered
the question, and committed it in prayer to Him whom they trusted to "set
the bounds of their habitations," they seemed to hear in gentle whispers,
"Ye have compassed this mountain long enough;" "Arise, for this is not your
rest."
So they concluded to sell out their first home, bid adieu to the beloved
church at Middletown, and try to find a home somewhere near Pittsfield,
Mass.