How shall I make you understand this book, reader of mine, who never
knew the influences that surrounded a Methodist of the old sort. Up
to this point I have walked by faith; I could not see how the present
generation could be made to comprehend the earnestness of their
grandfathers. But I have hoped that, none the less, they might dimly
perceive the possibility of a religious fervor that was as a fire in
the bones.
But now?
You have never been a young Methodist preacher of the olden time.
You never had over you a presiding elder who held your fate in his
hands; who, more than that, was the man appointed by the church to be
your godly counsellor. In the olden time especially, presiding
elders were generally leaders of men, the best and greatest men that
the early Methodist ministry afforded; greatest in the qualities most
prized in ecclesiastical organization--practical shrewdness,
executive force, and a piety of unction and lustre. How shall I make
you understand the weight which the words of such a man had when he
thought it needful to counsel or admonish a young preacher?
Our old friend Magruder, having shown his value as an organizer, had
been made an "elder," and just now he thought it his duty to have a
solemn conversation with the "preacher-in-charge" of Jenkinsville
circuit, upon matters of great delicacy. Magruder was not a man of
nice perceptions, and he was dimly conscious of his own unfitness for
the task before him. It was on the Saturday of a quarterly meeting.
He had said to the "preacher-in-charge" that he would like to have a
word with him, and they were walking side by side through the woods.
Neither of them looked at the other. The "elder" was trying in vain
to think of a point at which to begin; the young preacher was
wondering what the elder would say.
"Let us sit down here on this lind log, brother," said Magruder,
desperately.
When they had sat down there was a pause.
"Have you ever thought of marrying, brother Goodwin?" he broke out
abruptly at last.
"I have, brother Magruder," said Morton, curtly, not disposed to help
the presiding elder out of his difficulty. Then he added: "But not
thinking it a profitable subject for meditation, I have turned my
thoughts to other things."
"Ahem! But have you not taken some steps toward matrimony without
consulting with your brethren, as the discipline prescribes?"
"No, sir."
"But, Brother Goodwin, I understand that you have done a great wrong
to a defenceless girl, who is a stranger in a strange land."
"Do you mean Sister Ann Eliza Meacham?" asked Morton, startled by the
solemnity with which the presiding elder spoke.
"I am glad to see that you feel enough in the matter to guess who the
person is. You have encouraged her to think that you meant to marry
her. If I am correctly informed, you even advised Holston, who was
her lover, not to annoy her any more, and you assumed to defend her
rights in the lawsuit about a piece of land. Whether you meant to
marry her or not, you have at least compromised her. And in such
circumstances there is but one course open to a Christian or a
gentleman." The elder spoke severely.
[Illustration: ANN ELIZA.]
"Brother Magruder, I will tell you the plain truth," said Morton,
rising and speaking with vehemence. "I have been very much struck
with the eloquence of Sister Ann Eliza when she leads in prayer or
speaks in love-feast. I did not mean to marry anybody. I have
always defended the poor and the helpless. She told me her history
one day, and I felt sorry for her. I determined to befriend her."
Here Morton paused in some embarrassment, not knowing just how to
proceed.
"Befriend a woman! That is the most imprudent thing in the world for
a minister to do, my dear brother. You cannot befriend a woman
without doing harm."
"Well, she wanted help, and I could not refuse to give it to her.
She told me that she had refused Bob Holston five times, and that he
kept troubling her. I met Bob alone one day, and I remonstrated with
him pretty earnestly, and he went all round the country and said that
I told him I was engaged to Ann Eliza, and would whip him if he
didn't let her alone. What I did tell him was, that I was Ann
Eliza's friend, because she had no other, and that I thought, as a
gentleman, he ought to take five refusals as sufficient, and not wait
till he was knocked down by refusals."
"Why, my brother," said the elder, "when you take up a woman's cause
that way, you have got to marry her or ruin her and yourself, too.
If you were not a minister you might have a female friend or two; and
you might help a woman in distress. But you are a sheep in the midst
of--of--wolves. Half the girls on this circuit would like to marry
you, and if you were to help one of them over the fence, or hold her
bridle-rein for her while she gets on the horse, or talk five minutes
with her about the turnip crop, she would consider herself next thing
to engaged. Now, as to Sister Ann Eliza, you have given occasion to
gossip over the whole circuit."
"Who told you so?" asked Morton, with rising indignation.
"Why, everybody. I hadn't more than touched the circuit at Boggs'
Corners till I heard that you were to be married at this very
Quarterly Meeting. And I felt a little grieved that you should go so
far without any consultation with me. I stopped at Sister
Sims's--she's Ann Eliza's aunt I believe--and told her that I
supposed you and Sister Ann Eliza were going to require my aid pretty
soon, and she burst into tears. She said that if there had been
anything between you and Ann Eliza, it must be broken off, for you
hadn't stopped there at all on your last round. Now tell me the
plain truth, brother. Did you not at one time entertain a thought of
marrying Sister Ann Eliza Meacham?"
"I have thought about it. She is good-looking and I could not be
with her without liking her. Then, too, everybody said that she was
cut out for a preacher's wife. But I never paid her any attention
that could be called courtship. I stopped going there because
somebody had bantered me about her. I was afraid of talk. I will
not deny that I was a little taken with her, at first, but when I
thought of marrying her I found that I did not love her as one ought
to love a wife--as much as I had once loved somebody else. And then,
too, you know that nine out of every ten who marry have to locate
sooner or later, and I don't want to give up the ministry. I think
it's hard if a man cannot help a girl in distress without being
forced to marry her."
"Well, Brother Goodwin, we'll not discuss the matter further," said
the elder, who was more than ever convinced by Morton's admissions
that he had acted reprehensibly. "I have confidence in you. You
have done a great wrong, whether you meant it or not. There is only
one way of making the thing right. It's a bad thing for a preacher
to have a broken heart laid at his door. Now I tell you that I don't
know anybody who would make a better preacher's wife than Sister
Meacham. If the case stands as it does now I may have to object to
the passage of your character at the next conference."
This last was an awful threat. In that time when the preachers lived
far apart, the word of a presiding elder was almost enough to ruin a
man. But instead of terrifying Morton, the threat made him sullenly
stubborn. If the elder and the conference could be so unjust he
would bear the consequences, but would never submit.
The congregation was too large to sit in the school-house, and the
presiding elder accordingly preached in the grove. All the time of
his preaching Morton Goodwin was scanning the audience to see if the
zealous Ann Eliza were there. But no Ann Eliza appeared. Nothing
but grief could thus keep her away from the meeting. The more Morton
meditated upon it, the more guilty did he feel. He had acted from
the highest motives. He did not know that Ann Eliza's aunt--the
weak-looking Sister Sims--had adroitly intrigued to give his kindness
the appearance of courtship. How could he suspect Sister Sims or Ann
Eliza of any design? Old ministers know better than to trust
implicitly to the goodness and truthfulness of all pious people.
There are people, pious in their way, in whose natures intrigue and
fraud are so indigenous that they grow all unsuspected by themselves.
Intrigue is one of the Diabolonians of whom Bunyan speaks--a small
but very wicked devil that creeps into the city of Mansoul under an
alias.
A susceptible nature like Morton's takes color from other people. He
was conscious that Magruder's confidence in him was weakened, and it
seemed to him that all the brethren and sisters looked at him
askance. When he came to make the concluding prayer he had a sense
of hollowness in his devotions, and he really began to suspect that
he might be a hypocrite.
In the afternoon the Quarterly Conference met, and in the presence of
class-leaders, stewards, local preachers and exhorters from different
parts of the circuit, the once popular preacher felt that he had
somehow lost caste. He received fifteen dollars of the twenty which
the circuit owed him, according to the discipline, for three months
of labor; and small as was the amount, the scrupulous and now morbid
Morton doubted whether he were fairly entitled to it. Sometimes he
thought seriously of satisfying his doubting conscience by marrying
Ann Eliza with or without love. But his whole proud, courageous
nature rebelled against submitting to marry under compulsion of
Magruder's threat.
At the evening service Goodwin had to preach, and he got on but
poorly. He looked in vain for Miss Ann Eliza Meacham. She was not
there to go through the audience and with winning voice persuade
those who were smitten with conviction to come to the mourner's bench
for prayer. She was not there to pray audibly until every heart
should be shaken. Morton was not the only person who missed her. So
famous a "working Christian" could not but be a general favorite; and
the people were not slow to divine the cause of her absence. Brother
Goodwin found the faces of his brethren averted, and the grasp of
their hands less cordial. But this only made him sulky and stubborn.
He had never meant to excite Sister Meacham's expectations, and he
would not be driven to marry her.
The early Sunday morning of that Quarterly Meeting saw all the roads
crowded with people. Everybody was on horseback, and almost every
horse carried "double." At half-past eight o'clock the love-feast
began in the large school-house. No one was admitted who did not
hold a ticket, and even of those who had tickets some were turned
away on account of their naughty curls, their sinful "artificials,"
or their wicked ear-rings. At the moment when the love-feast began
the door was locked, and no tardy member gained admission. Plates,
with bread cut into half-inch cubes, were passed round, and after
these glasses of water, from which each sipped in turn--this meagre
provision standing ideally for a feast. Then the speaking was opened
by some of the older brethren, who were particularly careful as to
dates, announcing, for instance, that it would be just thirty-seven
years ago the twenty-first day of next November since the Lord "spoke
peace to my never-dying soul while I was kneeling at the mourner's
bench in Logan's school-house on the banks of the South Fork of the
Roanoke River in Old Virginny." This statement the brethren had
heard for many years, with a proper variation in date as the time
advanced, but now, as in duty bound, they greeted it again with pious
ejaculations of thanksgiving. There was a sameness in the
perorations of these little speeches. Most of the old men wound up
by asking an interest in the prayers of the brethren, that their
"last days might be their best days," and that their "path might grow
brighter and brighter unto the perfect day." Soon the elder sisters
began to speak of their trials and victories, of their "ups and
downs," their "many crooked paths," and the religion that "happifies
the soul." With their pathetic voices the fire spread, until the
whole meeting was at a white-heat, and cries of "Hallelujah!" "Amen!"
"Bless the Lord!" "Glory to God!" and so on expressed the fervor of
feeling. Of course, you, sitting out of the atmosphere of it and
judging coldly, laugh at this indecorous fervor. Perhaps it is just
as well to laugh, but for my part I cannot. I know too well how deep
and vital were the emotions out of which came these utterances of
simple and earnest hearts. I find it hard to get over an early
prejudice that piety is of more consequence than propriety.
Morton was looking in vain for Ann Eliza. If she were present he
could hardly tell it. Make the bonnets of women cover their faces
and make them all alike, and set them in meeting with faces resting
forward upon their hands, and then dress them in a uniform of
homespun cotton, and there is not much individuality left. If Ann
Eliza Meacham were present she would, according to custom, speak
early; and all that this love-feast lacked was one of her rapt and
eloquent utterances. So when the speaking and singing had gone on
for an hour, and the voice of Sister Meacham was not heard, Morton
sadly concluded that she must have remained at home, heart-broken on
account of disappointment at his neglect. In this he was wrong.
Just at that moment a sister rose in the further corner of the room
and began to speak in a low and plaintive voice. It was Ann Eliza.
But how changed!
She proceeded to say that she had passed through many fiery trials in
her life. Of late she had been led through deep waters of
temptation, and the floods of affliction had gone over her soul.
(Here some of the brethren sighed, and some of the sisters looked at
Brother Goodwin.) The devil had tempted her to stay at home. He had
tempted her to sit silent this morning, telling her that her voice
would only discourage others. But at last she had got the victory
and received strength to bear her cross. With this, her voice rose
and she spoke in tones of plaintive triumph to the end. Morton was
greatly affected, not because her affliction was universally laid at
his door, but because he now began to feel, as he had not felt
before, that he had indeed wrought her a great injury. As she stood
there, sorrowful and eloquent, he almost loved her. He pitied her;
and Pity lives on the next floor below Love.
As for Ann Eliza, I would not have the reader think too meanly of
her. She had resolved to "catch" Rev. Morton Goodwin from the moment
she saw him. But one of the oldest and most incontestable of the
rights which the highest civilization accords to woman is that of
"bringing down" the chosen man if she can. Ann Eliza was not
consciously hypocritical. Her deep religious feeling was genuine.
She had a native genius for devotion--and a genius for devotion is as
much a natural gift as a genius for poetry. Notwithstanding her
eloquence and her rare talent for devotion, her gifts in the
direction of honesty and truthfulness were few and feeble. A
phrenologist would have described such a character as possessing
"Spirituality and Veneration very large; Conscientiousness small."
You have seen such people, and the world is ever prone to rank them
at first as saints, afterwards as hypocrites; for the world
classifies people in gross--it has no nice distinctions. Ann Eliza,
like most people of the oratorical temperament, was not
over-scrupulous in her way of producing effects. She could sway her
own mind as easily as she could that of others. In the case of
Morton, she managed to believe herself the victim of misplaced
confidence. She saw nothing reprehensible either in her own or her
aunt's manœuvering. She only knew that she had been bitterly
disappointed, and characteristically blamed him through whom the
disappointment had come.
Morton was accustomed to judge by the standards of his time. Such
genuine fervor was, in his estimation, evidence of a high state of
piety. One "who lived so near the throne of grace," in Methodist
phrase, must be honest and pure and good. So Morton reasoned. He
had wounded such an one. He owed reparation. In marrying Ann Eliza
he would be acting generously, honestly and wisely, according to the
opinion of the presiding elder, the highest authority he knew. For
in Ann Eliza Meacham he would get the most saintly of wives, the most
zealous of Christians, the most useful of women. So when Mr.
Magruder exhorted the brethren at the close of the service to put
away every sin out of their hearts before they ventured to take the
communion, Morton, with many tears, resolved to atone for all the
harm he had unwittingly done to Sister Ann Eliza Meacham, and to
marry her--if the Lord should open the way.
But neither could he remain firm in this conclusion. His high spirit
resented the threat of the presiding elder. He would not be driven
into marriage. In this uncomfortable frame of mind he passed the
night. But Magruder being a shrewd man, guessed the state of
Morton's feelings, and perceived his own mistake. As he mounted his
horse on Monday morning, Morton stood with averted eyes, ready to bid
an official farewell to his presiding elder, but not ready to give
his usual cordial adieu to Brother Magruder.
"Goodwin," said Magruder, looking at Morton with sincere pity,
"forgive me; I ought not to have spoken as I did. I know you will do
right, and I had no right to threaten you. Be a man; that is all.
Live above reproach and act like a Christian. I am sorry you have
involved yourself. It is better not to marry, maybe, though I have
always maintained that a married man can live in the ministry if he
is careful and has a good wife. Besides, Sister Meacham has some
land."
So saying, he shook hands and rode away a little distance. Then he
turned back and said:
"You heard that Brother Jones was dead?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to send word to Brother Lumsden to take his place on
Peterborough circuit till Conference. I suppose some young exhorter
can be found to take Lumsden's place as second man on Pottawottomie
Creek, and Peterborough is too important a place to be left vacant."
"I'm afraid Kike won't stand it," said Morton, coldly.
"Oh! I hope he will. Peterborough isn't much more unhealthy than
Pottawottomie Creek. A little more intermittent fever, maybe. But
it is the best I can do. The work is everything. The men are the
Lord's. Lumsden is a good man, and I should hate to lose him,
though. He'll stop and see you as he comes through, I suppose. I
think I'd better give you the plan of his circuit, which I got the
other day." After adieux, a little more friendly than the first, the
two preachers parted again.
Morton mounted Dolly. The day was far advanced, and he had an
appointment to preach that very evening at the Salt Fork
school-house. He had never yet failed to suffer from a disturbance
of some sort when he had preached in this rude neighborhood; and
having spoken very boldly in his last round, he was sure of a
perilous encounter. But now the prospect of fighting with the wild
beasts of Salt Fork was almost enchanting. It would divert him from
graver apprehensions.
_CHAPTER XXVI._