University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
RUSSELL BIGELOW'S SERMON.

TWO years have ripened Patty from the girl to the
woman. If Kike is happy in his self-abnegation,
Patty is not happy in hers. Pride has no balm in it.
However powerful it may be as a stimulant, it is poor
food. And Patty has little but pride to feed upon.
The invalid mother has now been dead a year, and
Patty is almost without companionship, though not
without suitors. Land brings lovers—land-lovers, if
nothing more—and the estate of Patty's father is not
her only attraction. She is a young woman of a
certain nobility of figure and carriage; she is not
large, but her bearing makes her seem quite commanding.
Even her father respects her, and all the
more does he wish to torment her whenever he finds
opportunity. Patty is thrifty, and in the early West
no attraction outweighed this wifely ordering of a
household. But Patty will not marry any of the
suitors who calculate the infirm health of her father
and the probable division of his estate, and who
mentally transfer to their future homes the thrift and
orderliness they see in Captain Lumsden's. By refusing
them all she has won the name of a proud girl.
There are times when out of sight of everybody

she weeps, hardly knowing why. And since her
mother's death she reads the prayer-book more than
ever, finding in the severe confessions therein framed
for us miserable sinners, and the plaintive cries of
the litany, a voice for her innermost soul.

Captain Lumsden fears she will marry and leave
him, and yet it angers him that she refuses to marry.
His hatred of Methodists has assumed the intensity
of a monomania since he was defeated for the legislature
partly by Methodist opposition. All his love
of power has turned to bitterest resentment, and every
thought that there may be yet the remotest possibility
of Patty's marrying Morton afflicts him beyond
measure. He cannot fathom the reason for her obstinate
rejection of all lovers; he dislikes her growing
seriousness and her fondness for the prayer-book.
Even the prayer-book's earnestness has something
Methodistic about it. But Patty has never yet been
in a Methodist meeting, and with this fact he comforts
himself. He has taken pains to buy her jewelry
and “artificials” in abundance, that he may, by
dressing her finely, remove her as far as possible from
temptations to become a Methodist. For in that time,
when fine dressing was not common and country
neighborhoods were polarized by the advent of Methodism
in its most aggressive form, every artificial flower
and every earring was a banner of antagonism to the
new sect; a well-dressed woman in a congregation
was almost a defiance to the preacher. It seemed to
Lumsden, therefore, that Patty had prophylactic ornaments
enough to save her from Methodism. And to all

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE CONNECTICUT PEDDLER.

[Description: 554EAF. Page 214. In-line engraving of a bearded man in a doorway holding two pails.] of these he added covert threats that if any child of his
should ever join these crazy Methodist loons, he would
turn him out of doors and never see him again. This
threat was always indirect—a remark dropped incidentally;
the pronoun which represented the unknown
quantity of a Methodist Lumsden was always masculine,
but Patty did not fail to comprehend.

One day there came to Captain Lumsden's door
that out-cast of
New England — a
tin-peddler. Western
people had never
heard of Yale
College or any other
glory of Connecticut
or New England.
To them it
was but a land that
bred pestilent peripatetic
peddlers of
tin-ware and wooden
clocks. Western
rogues would cheat
you out of your
horse or your farm
if a good chance offered, but this vile vender of
Yankee tins, who called a bucket a “pail,” and said
“noo” for new, and talked nasally, would work an
hour to cheat you out of a “fipenny bit.” The tin-peddler,
one Munson, thrust his sharpened visage in
at Lumsden's door and “made bold” to inquire if he

could git a night's lodging, which the Captain, like
other settlers, granted without charge. Having unloaded
his stock of “tins” and “put up” his horse, the
Connecticut peddler “made bold” to ask many leading
questions about the family and personal history
of the Lumsdens, collectively and individually. Having
thus taken the first steps toward acquaintance by
this display of an aggravating interest in the welfare
of his new friends, he proceeded to give elaborate
and truthful accounts — with variations — of his own
recent adventures, to the boundless amusement of the
younger Lumsdens, who laughed more heartily at the
Connecticut man's words and pronunciation than at
his stories. He said, among other things, that he had
ben to Jinkinsville t'other day to what the Methodis'
called a “basket meetin'.” But when he had proceeded
so far with his narrative, he prudently stopped
and made bold to inquire what the Captain thought
of these Methodists. The Captain was not slow to
express his opinion, and the man of tins, having thus
reassured himself by taking soundings, proceeded to
tell that they was a dreffle craoud of folks to that
meetin'. And he, hevin' a sharp eye to business, hed
went forrard to the mourner's bench to be prayed fer.
Didn't do no pertik'ler harm to hev folks pray fer ye,
ye know. Well, ye see, the Methodis' they wanted to
incourage a seeker, and so they all bought some tins.
Purty nigh tuck the hull load offen his hands! (And
here the peddler winked one eye at the Captain and
then the other at Patty.) Fer they was sech a dreffle
lot of folks there. Come to hear a young preacher
as is 'mazin' elo'kent—Parson Goodwin by name, and
he was a good one to preach, sartain.

This startled Patty and the Captain.

“Goodwin?” said the Captain; “Morton Goodwin?”

“The identikle,” said the peddler.

“Raised only half a mile from here,” said Lumsden,
“and we don't think much of him.”

“Neither did I,” said the peddler, trimming his
sails to Lumsden's breezes. “I calkilate I could
preach e'en a'most as well as he does, myself, and I
wa'n't brought up to preachin', nother. But he's got
a good v'ice fer singin'—sich a ring to't, ye see, and
he's got a smart way thet comes the sympathies over the
women folks and weak-eyed men, and sets 'em cryin'
at a desp'ate rate. Was brought up here, was he?
Du tell! He's powerful pop'lar.” Then, catching the
Captain's eye, he added: “Among the women, I
mean.”

“He'll marry some shouting girl, I suppose,” said
the Captain, with a chuckle.

“That's jist what he's going to do,” said the peddler,
pleased to have some information to give. Seeing
that the Captain and his daughter were interested in
his communication, the peddler paused a moment. A
bit of gossip is too good a possession for one to part
with too quickly.

“You guessed good, that time,” said the tinware
man. “I heerd say as he was a goin' to splice with a
gal that could pray like a angel afire. An' I heerd
her pray. She nearly peeled the shingles off the skewl-haouse.
Sich another excitement as she perjuced, I

never did see. An' I went up to her after meetin'
and axed a interest in her prayers. Don't do no
harm, ye know, to git sich lightnin' on yer own side!
An' I took keer to git a good look at her face, for
preachers ginerally marry purty faces. Preachers is a
good deal like other folks, ef they do purtend to be
better, hey? Well, naow, that Ann Elizer Meacham is
purty, sartain. An' everybody says he's goin' to marry
her; an' somebody said the presidin' elder mout tie
'em up next Sunday at Quartily Meetin', maybe. Then
they'll divide the work in the middle and go halves.
She'll pray and he'll preach.” At this the peddler
broke into a sinister laugh, sure that he had conciliated
both the Captain and Patty by his news. He now
proposed to sell some tinware, thinking he had worked
his audience up to the right state of mind.

Patty did not know why she should feel vexed at
hearing this bit of intelligence from Jenkinsville. What
was Morton Goodwin to her? She went around the
house as usual this evening, trying to hide all appearance
of feeling. She even persuaded her father to
buy half-a-dozen tin cups and some milk-buckets—she
smiled at the peddler for calling them pails. She was
not willing to gratify the Captain by showing him how
much she disliked the scoffing “Yankee.” But when
she was alone that evening, even the prayer-book had
lost its power to soothe. She was mortified, vexed,
humiliated on every hand. She felt hard and bitter,
above all, toward the sect that had first made a division
between Morton and herself, and cordially blamed
the Methodists for all her misfortunes.

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.[1] 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.

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 overstrained
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!”