Part 14
It happened that upon the very next Sunday Russell Bigelow was to preach. Far and wide over the West had traveled the fame of this great preacher, who, though born in Vermont, was wholly Western in his impassioned manner. "An orator is to be judged not by his printed discourses, but by the memory of the effect he has produced," says a French writer; and if we may judge of Russell Bigelow by the fame that fills Ohio and Indiana even to this day, he was surely an orator of the highest order. He is known as the "indescribable." The news that he was to preach had set the Hissawachee Settlement afire with eager curiosity to hear him. Even Patty declared her intention of going, much to the Captain's regret. The meeting was not to be held at Wheeler's, but in the woods, and she could go for this time without entering the house of her father's foe. She had no other motive than a vague hope of hearing something that would divert her; life had grown so heavy that she craved excitement of any kind. She would take a back seat and hear the famous Methodist for herself. But Patty put on all of her gold and costly apparel. She was determined that nobody should suspect her of any intention of "joining the church." Her mood was one of curiosity on the surface, and of proud hatred and quiet defiance below.
No religious meeting is ever so delightful as a meeting held in the forest; no forest is so satisfying as a forest of beech; the wide-spreading boughs--drooping when they start from the trunk, but well sustained at the last--stretch out regularly and with a steady horizontalness, the last year's leaves form a carpet like a cushion, while the dense foliage shuts out the sun. To this meeting in the beech, woods Patty chose to walk, since it was less than a mile away.* As she passed through a little cove, she saw a man lying flat on his face in prayer. It was the preacher. Awe-stricken, Patty hurried on to the meeting. She had fully intended to take a seat in the rear of the congregation, but being a little confused and absent-minded she did not observe at first where the stand had been erected, and that she was entering the congregation at the side nearest to the pulpit. When she discovered her mistake it was too late to withdraw, the aisle beyond her was already full of standing people; there was nothing for her but to take the only vacant seat in sight. This put her in the very midst of the members, and in this position she was quite conspicuous; even strangers from other settlements saw with astonishment a woman elegantly dressed, for that time, sitting in the very midst of the devout sisters--for the men and women sat apart. All around Patty there was not a single "artificial," or piece of jewelry. Indeed, most of the women wore calico sunbonnets. The Hissawachee people who knew her were astounded to see Patty at meeting at all. They remembered her treatment of Morton, and they looked upon Captain Lumsden as Gog and Magog incarnated in one. This sense of the conspicuousness of her position was painful to Patty, but she presently forgot herself in listening to the singing. There never was such a chorus as a backwoods Methodist congregation, and here among the trees they sang hymn after hymn, now with the tenderest pathos, now with triumphant joy, now with solemn earnestness. They sang "Children of the Heavenly King," and "Come let us anew," and "Blow ye the trumpet, blow," and "Arise my soul, arise," and "How happy every child of grace!" While they were singing this last, the celebrated preacher entered the pulpit, and there ran through the audience a movement of wonder, almost of disappointment. His clothes were of that sort of cheap cotton cloth known as "blue drilling," and did not fit him. He was rather short, and inexpressibly awkward. His hair hung unkempt over the best portion of his face--the broad projecting forehead. His eyebrows were overhanging; his nose, cheek-bones and chin large. His mouth was wide and with a sorrowful depression at the corners, his nostrils thin, his eyes keen, and his face perfectly mobile. He took for his text the words of Eleazar to Laban,--"Seeking a bride for his master," and, according to the custom of the time, he first expounded the incident, and then proceeded to "spiritualize" it, by applying it to the soul's marriage to Christ. Notwithstanding the ungainliness of his frame and the awkwardness of his postures, there was a gentlemanliness about his address that indicated a man not unaccustomed to good society. His words were well-chosen; his pronunciation always correct; his speech grammatical. In all of these regards Patty was disappointed.
* I give the local tradition of Bigelow's text, sermon, and the accompanying incident.
But the sermon. Who shall describe "the indescribable"? As the servant, he proceeded to set forth the character of the Master. What struck Patty was not the nobleness of his speech, nor the force of his argument; she seemed to see in the countenance that every divine trait which he described had reflected itself in the life of the preacher himself. For none but the manliest of men can ever speak worthily of Jesus Christ. As Bigelow proceeded he won her famished heart to Christ. For such a Master she could live or die; in such a life there was what Patty needed most--a purpose; in such a life there was a friend; in such a life she would escape that sense of the ignobleness of her own pursuits, and the unworthiness of her own pride. All that he said of Christ's love and condescension filled her with a sense of sinfulness and meanness, and she wept bitterly. There were a hundred others as much affected, but the eyes of all her neighbors were upon her. If Patty should be converted, what a victory!
And as the preacher proceeded to describe the joy of a soul wedded forever to Christ--living nobly after the pattern of His life--Patty resolved that she would devote herself to this life and this Saviour, and rejoiced in sympathy with the rising note of triumph in the sermon. Then Bigelow, last of all, appealed to courage and to pride--to pride in its best sense. Who would be ashamed of such a Bridegroom? And as he depicted the trials that some must pass through in accepting Him, Patty saw her own situation, and mentally made the sacrifice. As he described the glory of renouncing the world, she thought of her jewelry and the spirit of defiance in which she had put it on. There, in the midst of that congregation, she took out her earrings, and stripped the flowers from the bonnet. We may smile at the unnecessary sacrifice to an over-strained literalism, but to Patty it was the solemn renunciation of the world--the whole-hearted espousal of herself, for all eternity, to Him who stands for all that is noblest in life. Of course this action was visible to most of the congregation--most of all to the preacher himself. To the Methodists it was the greatest of triumphs, this public conversion of Captain Lumsden's daughter, and they showed their joy in many pious ejaculations. Patty did not seek concealment. She scorned to creep into the kingdom of heaven. It seemed to her that she owed this publicity. For a moment all eyes were turned away from the orator. He paused in his discourse until Patty had removed the emblems of her pride and antagonism. Then, turning with tearful eyes to the audience, the preacher, with simple-hearted sincerity and inconceivable effect, burst out with, "Hallelujah! I have found a bride for my Master!"
_CHAPTER XXIV_
DRAWING THE LATCH-STRING IN.
Up to this point Captain Lumsden had been a spectator--having decided to risk a new attack of the jerks that he might stand guard over Patty. But Patty was so far forward that he could not see her, except now and then as he stretched his small frame to peep over the shoulders of some taller man standing in front. It was only when Bigelow uttered these exulting words that he gathered from the whispers about him that Patty was the center of excitement. He instantly began to swear and to push through the crowd, declaring that he would take Patty home and teach her to behave herself. The excitement which he produced presently attracted the attention of the preacher and of the audience. But Patty was too much occupied with the solemn emotions that engaged her heart, to give any attention to it.
"She is my daughter, and she's _got_ to learn to obey," said Lumsden in his quick, rasping voice, pushing energetically toward the heart of the dense assemblage with the purpose of carrying Patty off by force. Patty heard this last threat, and turned round just at the moment when her father had forced his way through the fringe of standing people that bordered the densely packed congregation, and was essaying, in his headlong anger, to reach her and drag her forth.
The Methodists of that day generally took pains to put themselves under the protection of the law in order to avoid disturbance from the chronic rowdyism of a portion of the people. There was a magistrate and a constable on the ground, and Lumsden, in penetrating the cordon of standing men, had come directly upon the country justice, who, though not a Methodist, had been greatly moved by Bigelow's oratory, and who, furthermore, was prone, as country justices sometimes are, to exaggerate the dignity of his office. At any rate, he was not a little proud of the fact that this great orator and this assemblage of people had in some sense put themselves under the protection of the Majesty of the Law as represented in his own important self. And for Captain Lumsden to come swearing and fuming right against his sacred person was not only a breach of the law, it was--what the justice considered much worse--a contempt of court. Hence ensued a dialogue:
_The Court_--Captain Lumsden, I am a magistrate. In interrupting the worship of Almighty God by this peaceful assemblage you are violating the law. I do not want to arrest a citizen of your standing; but if you do not cease your disturbance I shall be obliged to vindicate the majesty of the law by ordering the constable to arrest you for a breach of the peace, as against this assembly. (J. P. here draws himself up to his full stature, in the endeavor to represent the dignity of the law.)
_Outraged Father_--Squire, I'll have you know that Patty Lumsden's my daughter, and I have a right to control her; and you'd better mind your own business.
_Justice of the Peace_ (lowering his voice to a solemn and very judicial bass)--Is she under eighteen years of age?
_By-stander_ (who doesn't like Lumsden)--She's twenty.
_Justice_--If your daughter is past eighteen, she is of age. If you lay hands on her I'll have to take you up for a salt and battery. If you carry her off I'll take her back on a writ of replevin. Now, Captain, I could arrest you here and fine you for this disturbance; and if you don't leave the meeting at once I'll do it.
Here Captain Lumsden grew angrier than ever, but a stalwart class-leader from another settlement, provoked by the interruption of the eloquent sermon and out of patience with "the law's delay," laid off his coat and spat on his hands preparatory to ejecting Lumsden, neck and heels, on his own account. At the same moment an old sister near at hand began to pray aloud, vehemently: "O Lord, convert him! Strike him down, Lord, right where he stands, like Saul of Tarsus. O Lord, smite the stiff-necked persecutor by almighty power!"
This last was too much for the Captain. He might have risked arrest, he might have faced the herculean class-leader, but he had already felt the jerks and was quite superstitious about them. This prayer agitated him. He was not ambitious to emulate Paul, and he began to believe that if he stood still a minute longer he would surely be smitten to the ground at the request of the sister with a relish for dramatic conversions. Casting one terrified glance at the old sister, whose confident eyes were turned toward heaven, Lumsden broke through the surrounding crowd and started toward home at a most undignified pace.
Patty's devout feelings were sadly interrupted during the remainder of the sermon by forebodings. But she had a will as inflexible as her father's, and now that her will was backed by convictions of duty it was more firmly set than ever. Bigelow announced that he would "open the door of the church," and the excited congregation made the forest ring with that hymn of Watts' which has always been the recruiting song of Methodism. The application to Patty's case produced great emotion when the singing reached the stanzas:
"Must I be carried to the skies On flowery beds of ease, While others fought to win the prize And sailed through bloody seas?
"Are there no foes for me to face? Must I not stem the flood? Is this vile world a friend to grace To help me on to God?"
At this point Patty slowly rose from the place where she had been sitting weeping, and marched resolutely through the excited crowd until she reached the preacher, to whom she extended her hand in token of her desire to become a church-member. While she came forward, the congregation sang with great fervor, and not a little sensation:
"Since I must fight if I would reign, Increase my courage, Lord; I'll bear the toil, endure the pain, Supported by thy word."
After many had followed Patty's example the meeting closed. Every Methodist shook hands with the new converts, particularly with Patty, uttering words of sympathy and encouragement. Some offered to go home with her to keep her in countenance in the inevitable conflict with her father, but, with a true delicacy and filial dutifulness, Patty insisted on going alone. There are battles which are fought better without allies.
That ten minutes' walk was a time of agony and suspense. As she came up to the house she saw her father sitting on the door-step, riding-whip in hand. Though she knew his nervous habit of carrying his raw-hide whip long after he had dismounted--a habit having its root in a domineering disposition--she was not without apprehension that he would use personal violence. But he was quiet now, from extreme anger.
"Patty," he said, "either you will promise me on the spot to give up this infernal Methodism, or you can't come in here to bring your praying and groaning into my ears. Are you going to give it up?"
"Don't turn me off, father," pleaded Patty. "You need me. I can stand it, but what will you do when your rheumatism comes on next winter? Do let me stay and take care of you. I won't bother you about my religion."
"I won't have this blubbering, shouting nonsense in my house," screamed the father, frantically. He would have said more, but he choked. "You've disgraced the family," he gasped, after a minute.
Patty stood still, and said no more.
"Will you give up your nonsense about being religious?"
Patty shook her head.
"Then, clear out!" cried the Captain, and with an oath he went into the house and pulled the latch-string in. The latch-string was the symbol of hospitality. To say that "the latch-string was out" was to open your door to a friend; to pull it in was the most significant and inhospitable act Lumsden could perform. For when the latch-string is in, the door is locked. The daughter was not only to be a daughter no longer, she was now an enemy at whose approach the latch-string was withdrawn.
Patty was full of natural affection. She turned away to seek a home. Where? She walked aimlessly down the road at first. She had but one thought as she receded from the old house that had been her home from infancy----
The latch-string was drawn in.
_CHAPTER XXV._
ANN ELIZA.
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."