University of Virginia Library

25. 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.

“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.