The Heroic Women of Early Indiana Methodism: An Address Delivered Before the Indiana Methodist Historical Society — A Reader’s Guide

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Authors: Goodwin, T. A. (Thomas Aiken), 1818-1906 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2008 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Speeches, addresses, etc.; Christian life; Women in church work -- Methodist Church; Methodist women -- Indiana -- Biography Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

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Words 10,300

Reading time 45 min

Text sections 1

For The Heroic Women of Early Indiana Methodism: An Address Delivered Before the Indiana Methodist Historical Society — A Reader’s Guide, the stored edition analysis reports 10,300 words, 45 min estimated reading time, and 1 detected text section.

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Source: Project Gutenberg record #24472

An 1889 address arguing that the unsung heroism of Indiana Methodist women—cooking, hosting, and sustaining circuit riders—exceeds the valor of the men typically celebrated. Goodwin uses classical allusion, blunt humor, and concrete domestic detail to reframe historical memory.

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EARLY INDIANA METHODISM.

AN ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE

Indiana Methodist Historical Society

REV. T. A. GOODWIN, D. D.

INDIANAPOLIS, IND.: INDIANAPOLIS PRINTING COMPANY. 1889.

The Heroic Women of Early Indiana Methodism.

"Arms and the _man_, _I_ sing," said the great Virgil, thousands of years ago, and all the little Virgils have been singing the man ever since. But who ever sings the woman? Occasionally a Debora or a Joan of Arc, a kind of a female monstrosity, comes to the front and receives recognition, but their conspicuousness is due more to the low level of their surroundings, than to their individual pre-eminence. They were out of their spheres in what gave them notoriety, and they have been so voted by universal consent through the ages. It was not specially to their credit that they successfully commanded armies, but it was to the unutterable shame of the men of their period that they had to, or let it go undone. No thanks to Betsey for killing the bear. She had to, or the bear would have killed the baby, but everlasting shame upon her worthless husband for making it necessary for her to do what he ought to have done. Betsey was out of her sphere when killing the bear, and so was the cowardly man when letting her do it.

The great Virgil graciously introduces a Dido into his song, but he does it apologetically, and only because it was necessary in order to make a love story out of it, and all the little Virgils--all the writers of love stories from that day to this--have treated her in literature as if she were indispensable to point a moral or to adorn a tale, and really fit for little else--that it was her mission to love and be loved, all of which was easy enough on her part; and that, having filled this mission, she ought to be happy and die contented, and to be held in everlasting remembrance. This outrage upon woman's rights and woman's worth has been carried so far that it has become common to assume that it is her prerogative to monopolize the love of the household--at least to possess and manage the greater part of it; and some women have heard this so often that they more than half believe it themselves, so that from away back men, and even some women, talk of a woman's love as being a little purer and a great deal stronger than a man's love. There is not a word of truth in it. It is one of the unfounded legends which have descended through the ages, transmitted from father to son, while the mothers and daughters, all unconscious of the great wrong they suffer by it, have never denied it. It is not only false, but it is absurd. How could it be true? A man is not lovable as a woman is. How can she love him as he loves her, who is the personification and incarnation of beauty and gentleness and sweetness? That is, some are, for it must be conceded that woman is like Jeremiah's figs, the good are very, very good, while the bad are very naughty--too bad for any use.

This wrong against woman has gone even farther than that. In the battles of life, however nobly she fights them, she receives no proper recognition. The man who fights well is a hero, but the woman who fights equally well, or even better, is only a hero_ine_. I despise the word because I detest the discrimination it implies. We do not call the devout Christian woman a saintess, nor the eloquent woman an oratrix, but the woman who excels in endurance and bravery and in the virtues that constitute a man a hero, is only a hero_ine_, as if heroism was a manly virtue, to which woman may lay no claim. I long ago expunged it from my vocabulary. It is entirely too femin_ine_ for me. Out upon such unjust discrimination!

This long and rather prosy introduction brings me to the theme of the evening--woman the greater hero in early Indiana Methodism.

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Goodwin opens with a pointed inversion of Virgil's Aeneid: 'Arms and the man, I sing,' he quotes, then asks, 'But who ever sings the woman?' The address, delivered before the Indiana Methodist Historical Society in 1889, immediately establishes a combative, witty tone. He dismisses conventional female heroines—Debora, Joan of Arc—as 'female monstrosities' whose fame stems from men's failures. The real heroines, he insists, are the women who cooked over open fires, hosted traveling preachers, and bore the 'very heaviest burdens' without recognition.

A Rhetorical Reversal of Epic Convention

Goodwin frames his argument by attacking literary tradition. Virgil's Dido, he claims, appears only 'apologetically' to serve a love story. The speaker extends this critique to all 'little Virgils' who treat women as 'indispensable to point a moral or to adorn a tale.' His language is deliberately provocative: he calls the notion of women's purer love 'one of the unfounded legends.' This rhetorical strategy—using classical allusion to undermine male-centric history—sets up his central claim: that the domestic labor of early Methodist women constitutes a higher heroism than battlefield exploits.

The Unseen Labor of Open-Fire Hospitality

The address pivots from literary critique to concrete description. Goodwin emphasizes the physical demands of hosting quarterly meetings and camp-meetings before 'the introduction of cooking stoves.' Meals were prepared over 'a huge log fire,' often without a crane. He enumerates the tasks: 'cooking for twenty to fifty,' caring for guests, providing beds. The speaker, who observed 'every type of church work' from bishops to circuit riders, declares that the 'highest and purest type of heroism' was shown by the women who set tables and cooked. He names specific households—Mrs. John Wilkins of Indianapolis, Mrs. Isaac Dunn at Lawrenceburg—as 'Methodist taverns' that preachers relied upon.

The Unwritten Roll of Unsung Heroes

Goodwin acknowledges that naming all these women is 'impossible,' yet he insists their contributions were 'wholly without compensation—even the moral compensation which comes from realizing that the eyes of approbation are upon you.' He contrasts their anonymous toil with the public acclaim given to male preachers. The address itself becomes a corrective: it records a few names from 'unwritten history' while admitting the vast majority remain unknown. This tension—between the desire to memorialize and the impossibility of full recovery—shapes the address's emotional force.

Domestic Work as a Test of Courage

The speaker explicitly equates domestic labor with military valor. The extra labor imposed on a housewife by an unscheduled preacher's arrival 'tested her heroism as a face to face encounter in battle tests the heroism of the soldier.' This analogy recurs throughout: the women are 'heroes,' their work 'heroic.' Yet Goodwin avoids sentimentalizing. He notes that the men who received hospitality were 'rated as the heroes,' while women's sacrifices were counted 'commonplace.' The address thus functions as a historical revaluation, arguing that the true measure of heroism lies not in public recognition but in essential, unacknowledged service.

Readers should note that Goodwin's address is not a comprehensive history but a selective, argument-driven tribute. He draws on personal observation and regional memory, not archival research. The excerpts reveal a speaker who uses humor, classical allusion, and blunt assertion to challenge his audience's assumptions. The address is best read as a primary document of late-nineteenth-century Methodist culture, revealing how one insider sought to reshape the denomination's collective memory by centering women's domestic labor.

The old address lingered because it celebrated meals cooked and beds warmed for circuit riders—quiet work that held the whole movement together. It reminded me of another quiet persistence in A Woman and the War — A Reader’s Guide, where duty happens in corners history overlooks. I keep thinking about how both books honor that unglamorous courage.