Another Communion service, probably before this, stands out vividly. It was when I was having doubts and waverings about acceptance as a child of God, when, in Methodist parlance, I was “falling from grace.” That day, sitting through the service, seeing altar-full after altar-full kneel, commune, rise, and “go in peace,” I had said to myself, “I will not go.” Steeling my heart, I sat upright, conscious of Mother’s questioning glances, but apparently unmoved. After the congregation had communed, the choir-members went to the altar-rail, and as the sparse gathering knelt there, and the last notes of the hymn died away, instead of immediately passing the bread and wine, the minister and the young evangelist paused to see if others would come. Although the evangelist made a moving appeal, still was I determined not to go and, anyhow, having waited so long, I was too embarrassed to go. The choir communed and left the altar. It was the last chance. No, the evangelist still stood there, and in a few earnest words besought any who were hanging back to come. I knew he meant me, still I tried to withstand. In conclusion he said, “While the choir is singing the next hymn, I know God will soften your heart and you will come”:
“Just as I am, without one plea,
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bidd’st me come to thee,
Oh, Lamb of God, I come, I come!”
Melted by the singing, broken and contrite, alone I went and knelt at the altar-rail. I can remember just how glad and gentle his voice sounded; and how soothing it was as the evangelist placed his hand upon my bowed head and prayed for the young sister who had tried in vain to turn away the Holy Spirit. One other girl, moved by my example, came sobbing to the altar, too—one who always followed my lead.
In justice to myself I must say that there was no pose this time. I did not want to be singled out in this way, for I abhorred betrayal of emotion in public; to be the centre of a scene like this was painful to me. Nevertheless, there was a great peace in my heart as I arose and returned to our pew.
When zealous young converts join the Methodist Church and “renounce the Devil and all his works,” they give little heed to such renunciation, only to learn later, as their religious fervour subsides, and their social needs assert themselves, that the Discipline regards card-playing and dancing as the works of his Satanic Majesty. I remember when my sister was inveigled by some unconverted boys and girls into playing cards, how I laboured with her with but poor results. She refrained for a time, but soon again succumbed to the pastime. It makes me smile to recall how long it took me to regard those wicked-looking cards as an innocent amusement. Not caring for them, however, they were never a temptation to me, and I found myself distinctly bored when by the occasional playing of Hearts I declared my independence. I never could learn Whist or Euchre. But dancing, because more pleasurable, seemed more wicked; and, little by little, I yielded to the seductions of the violin and the quadrille when, at an evening party, dancing would form the wind-up. But I never learned to dance well. Too self-conscious, the few times that I indulged in it in those days I suffered so from remorse that it was a questionable pleasure.
Toward spring, after the revival at which we had been converted, we attended a party given by a boy whose father owned the Masonic Hall. It was an innocent affair with dancing and light refreshments. I imagine we were home in our beds before midnight. But a few nights later, at a church sociable, one of the good sisters of the church, attacking a group of us, berated us soundly for attending a dance in a public hall, thus forsaking Christ and espousing the Devil and all his works. Her unjust, intemperate, and tactless accusations made me regard the whole matter more rationally than I had theretofore. Through gossip our little party had grown beyond all recognition. It was characterized as a public dance. Without any foundation whatever it had been asserted that we had had supper at the hotel—a thing reprehensible in itself; that wine had been passed; that Sister had tasted it, but that I had refused it. Whoever had so falsified had done it skilfully, as Kate was then more inclined to dip into the untried than I. But we had been near no hotel, and did not know the taste or sight of wine, except the unfermented “wine” used at Communion.
This rigour of our church discipline concerning amusements which I had come to regard as innocent pleasures, made me loth to continue belonging to a body placing such strictures upon its members. Many church members danced and played cards without compunction, but I was strenuously opposed to belonging to anything to which I could not heartily subscribe and obey to the letter. So when, a year or more later, I left home, I requested that my name be taken from the church books. Reluctant to accede to this request, the pastor urged me to take a church letter, but I refused, determined not to begin my new life by professing what I no longer believed or practised; I wanted to start with a clean slate, since I no longer conformed to the rulings of the church.