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WHO IS A. H. TLLLETT?
OME readers of The Golden Age who
have felt the touch of genius in Prof.
Ellett’s “Hints From History” have
been anxiously asking the above ques
tion. I shall attempt herein somewhat
to gratify the interest of those who are
asking it.
Tn the state of Mississippi it would
be a superfluous question, as nine-
I
tenths of the men, women and children, and all the
young ladies, in the state could answer it, hands
down.
Ellett was born in the State of Mississippi some
thing less than forty years ago. I should say, but
Ido not know the exact year of his birth. Even if
I had this information I would hardly feel at lib
erty to |wade it. as he is in the matrimonial mar
ket and an exact quotation of the age of the goods
Knighb affect the price of the stock.
ITen years ago Prof. Ellett was installed in the
chair of Pedagogy in Blue Mountain Female Col
lege, Blue Mountain, Miss. For eight consecutive
years he filled that position with the highest credit
to himself and to the institution. Then came the
tempter. The College of Physicians and Surgeons,
of Memphis, Tenn., fixed upon him as their Profes
sor of Physiology, and to make sure of the game at
first shot, they offered him a salary more than twice
as large as that he was receiving. The young man
fell ’
But the grace of God never fails the elect, and the
prodigal will not be forever content to eat husks
with the swine! The whirl of the city, the com
pany of men, and the glories of the dissecting room,
did not appeal to his poetic nature as did the
green hills, the bubbling springs, the laughing
brooks, the sighing woods, the singing birds and the
five hundred college girls of Blue Mountain. So
after one year he turned his back upon the offer
of a princely salary, respectfully requested Satan
to step to the rear and returned to his first love.
I have mixed with men throughout this nation
and several others, but I have rarely, if ever, met
a man of talents more varied or character more
admirable. ' of supreme modesty, he has at
the same time the self-poise and the motive power
to accomplish much. His nature is of the type that
we call poetical but he is free from the
idiosyncrasies that are supposed to be a part of
the poet. He is an accurate scholar, a thrilling ora
tor, a great commoner, and, if the occasion de
mands a humorist, he is there with the goods. Wher
ever placed, or whatever the demands, he is adjusta
ble, versatile, capable. From a Sunday school to
a camp hunt, from a hay ride to a parlor reception,
Memories of Half a Century
By H. P. Pitch.
SOMETHING ABOUT POTATOES.
UR ING one of my Canadian pastorates
I had a country church, seven miles
from town, where I preached every al
ternate Sabbath in the afternoon. Liv
ing very near to the church was a Mr.
W., an old man, some time past his
three score andttean —a good, moral,
upright man in his way, but the high
est of high churchmen. His hatred of
D
“those miserable dissenters” w r as as truly genuine
as that of any man I ever knew.; and if there were
any class of dissenters whom he hated more than
the other fellows, it was the Baptists. His abhor
rence of that “despised sect” was indeed truly
wonderful—and seemed to increase with advancing
years.
But the power of grace is also wonderful, and
when once it takes possession of a human soul it
sweeps away human prejudices and passions as
though they were cobwebs.
Mr, W. was known far and wide as a raiser of
‘Booth Lolvrey
he can be depended upon to make the occasion a
success.
As a Southerner he is an extremist, with vision a
bit distorted, but he is never vindictive. As a cit
izen, he is so intensely democratic that he borders
socialism. I have never known a man who had
a more superb faith in the people. I have seen
politicians spend much time and waste much energy
boasting of their faith in the people but Ellett’s
faith is not of that sort. It is the kind that is so
patent it does not need to be proclaimed. While
the people of his State have pleaded with him to be
come a candidate for State Superintendent of Ed
ucation, he has persistently declined to enter the
political arena.
This, briefly, is Ellett as I know him. My pen
picture is, I know, far from a perfect portrait, but
it hasn’t any false lines. Its lack is found in the
absence of many delicate features the portrayal of
which will require a greater artist.
fine potatoes. One day in midsummer I met him on
the street and on inquiry found he had some fine
“Peachblows,” which he said he would sell me for
thirty cents a bushel. I bought ten bushels, send
ing a team and the money for them.
The reader may not know that, about 1860, the
Canadian government changed our system of money
from pounds, shillings and pence —marked £ S. P.
—to dollars and cents, to conform to the American
system. The change caused some confusion to old
people. That caused trouble with Father W. I
heard no more of the potato deal, until the follow
ing fall, when I held a revival meeting in that coun
try church.
• One night Father W. came to the meeting*—the
first time I had ever seen him in the church. The
text that night was, “Is not this a brand plucked
from the fire?” As I proceeded with the sermon I
saw clearly that the Holy Spirit was convicting the
old man —indeed I never witnessed a clearer case of
conviction than he manifested.
A* the eJose of the service I walked down the
The Golden Age for April 23, 1908.
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Prof. .A. H. Ellett.
aisle, and found him still standing where he had sat
during the service. Reaching out my hand, I said,
“I am very glad, Father W., to see you here to
night. ’ ’
Refusing my offered hand, he answered, “Well,
sir, if I do get religion 1 shall not join your
church.” “0, well,” I replied, pleasantly, “you
are not ready to join any church yet; wait till
you are converted and you may change youl mind. ’ ’
“No I won’t,” he answered, ’cause you cheated me
Out of thirty cents on them pertaters.” “Why, how
was that, Father W. ? Did I not send you thirty
cents a bushel? That was your price.”
“Yes, but they were thirty pence a bushel, mid
you cheated me out of the difference between thirty
pellSe and thirty Cents-. ”
At oiiee t saw that the devil was making a fight
for a human soul, and I went to my room, at the
home of one of our deacons, to pray for divine guid
ance. Before going to sleep I had formed my
plan of battle. As scon as I had eaten my breakfast,
next morning, I went to Father W.’s home. He
met me very coldly—but I could easily note the con
flict raging in his soul.
“Father W.,” 1 sdid, “I liaVe beert thinking
over what yoti said last night about the pricC of
those potatoes, and I see you fire right. I Sup
posed you meant thirty cents a bushel, instead Os
thirty pence-. It was itty fault; 1 ought td liaVe in
quired mofe hatefully. Here is fifty cents, which
will pay both principal and interest of the differ
ence. It was not intentional on my part, but was
the result of this change in our money system.” He
took the money and seemed satisfied.
That night he was again at the meeting, and
when the invitation was given, came and knelt at
the altar of prayer. Next day, while out in his
field, he made a full surrender of himself to Christ,
and the Holy Spirit sealed him an “heir of God,
and a joint heir with Jesus Christ.” The next
Saturday, when the invitation was given, he was
the first person to come and offer himself as a can
didate for baptism and church membership. The
following day, in a beautiful, natural baptistry,
formed by the “race” at a neighboring millpond,
I buried him in the likeness of his Savior’s death™-
thus prefiguring his own death to sin and his resur
rection to a new life in Christ.
I shall never forget the scene. As the little wave
let passed over his head, with his hair white as
snow, his face seemed to shine like the face of his
Lord on the Mount of Transfiguration. As I raised
him from his baptismal grave, and wiped the water
from his face, he said, “Thank God, I am, indeed,
a brand plucked from the fire.”
The winter passed and the spring had come, when
one day there was a rap at my door, and one. of
the deacons of my country church entered and said
he had brought me “a few things”; and on look
ing out I saw Father W. and a great wagon load of
produce standing in the road.
The wagon unloaded, and dinner over, I said:
“Now, deacon, how much shall I credit the church
for this big load of provisions?”
“Not a cent,” he replied, “that is a donation.”
“Well,” I answered, “I certainly feel grateful
for this kind remembrance. It is indeed kind of
you. ’ ’
“Do not thank me,” said the deacon, “I only
brought it to you. Brother W. did all the work of
getting it up.”
Turning to Brother W., I said: “Surely, my
dear brother, I am largely indebted to you for this
kindness, it is certainly a gracious act of yours.”
“Please, Elder,” he answered, “do not mention
it. The truth of the matter is, I have always felt
a little mean about them pertaters.”
Dear old brother. Only a few months after that
I sat beside his death-bed. As I wiped the death
sweat from his face, I said: “Father W., you are
deep down in the waters of the river now; tell me,
does this new hope that you have proven only seven
months, sustain you in your dying hour?” His
lips moved, and, bending lower, I caught the last
words of the dying man: “Thank God, I am a
brand plucked from the fire, but oh, my wasted
life!” Then the angels opened the gate and he
passed beyond the bounds of mortal vision,
