Title: Twenty Years on Horseback, or Itinerating in West Virginia
Author: Weekley, W. M. (William Marion)
Language: English
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ITINERATING IN WEST VIRGINIA***


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[Illustration: BISHOP W. M. WEEKLEY, D.D.]


TWENTY YEARS ON HORSEBACK
OR ITINERATING IN WEST VIRGINIA

by

W. M. WEEKLEY, D.D.

Author of “Getting and Giving,”
“From Life to Life,” Etc.


   “Take thy part in suffering hardship as a good
   soldier of Christ Jesus.”—2 Tim. 2:3



Nineteen Hundred and Seven
United Brethren Publishing House
Dayton, Ohio

All Rights Reserved



Preface


It was not my purpose, in the preparation of this little volume, to make
it an autobiography, but rather a narration of incidents connected with
the twenty years of humble service which I tried to render the United
Brethren Church among the mountains of West Virginia.

These incidents present an all-round view, in outline, of the real life
and labors of the itinerant preacher, a third of a century ago, in an
isolated section, where the most simple and primitive customs prevailed.

While some of the things related will doubtless amuse the reader, others,
I trust, will lead to thoughtful reflection, and carry with them lessons
inspiring and helpful. The introduction should first be carefully read by
those who expect to be profited by a perusal of the pages which follow.
That good may come to the church, and glory to our Redeemer through this
unpretentious publication is the prayer of its

                                                                  AUTHOR.

Kansas City, Mo., May 1, 1907.



I have examined the manuscript of “Twenty Years on Horseback, or
Itinerating in West Virginia,” and cheerfully submit this note of
commendation.

The author, Bishop W. M. Weekley, D.D., I have known for more than thirty
years. He entered the ministry when young, with an undivided heart
and determined purpose. During the years he served the Church in that
State he traveled over almost the entire territory of the West Virginia
Conference. The country then was extremely primitive; but simple as the
mode of life was at that time, the field was an interesting, even an
enjoyable one for a minister who could endure hardness as a good soldier
of Christ. I am acquainted with nearly all the sections of the State
referred to, and am therefore familiar with many of the places, facts,
and persons mentioned, and can assure the reader that the author has
given a faithful account of these in his book. No statement is overdrawn
or warped for the sake of effect.

                                                             W. W. RYMER.

Columbus, Ohio, May 3, 1907.



An examination of the following pages caused me to live my early life
over again. Having spent twenty-three years in the ministry within the
bounds of the West Virginia Conference, and having been intimately
associated with the author of this volume during the most of that
period, I am very familiar with many of the places, persons, and events
mentioned, and can testify to the correctness of the record he makes,
and to the faithfulness of the pictures drawn. This book will stir the
thoughts and rekindle the fire within the old itinerants, and, as well, I
trust, arouse the young to larger activities in soul winning.

                                                              R. A. HITT.

Chillicothe, Ohio, May 4, 1907.



The author of this book and myself were boys together. We were born
and reared within four miles of each other, were converted in the
same church, and for years were members of the same Sunday school and
congregation. We were licensed to preach on the same charge, and spent
the earlier years of our ministry in the same conference together.
In many instances we traveled the same roads, preached in the same
communities, and mingled with the same people.

After having examined the contents of this volume in manuscript form,
I am sure it contains a faithful description of the varied conditions
which made up the life and experiences of the United Brethren itinerant
minister of that time among the hills and mountains of West Virginia.

                                                                  A. ORR.

Circleville, Ohio, April 30, 1907.



Contents


    PREFACE

    INTRODUCTION        9

    CHAPTER I          15

    CHAPTER II         27

    CHAPTER III        44

    CHAPTER IV         58

    CHAPTER V          70

    CHAPTER VI         86

    CHAPTER VII       100

    CHAPTER VIII      121



Illustrations


    BISHOP W. M. WEEKLEY (_Frontispiece_)

    W. M. WEEKLEY AT TWENTY YEARS OF AGE

    W. M. WEEKLEY AT THIRTY YEARS OF AGE

    TRAVELING A DISTRICT

    HOUSE WHERE BISHOP FIRST WENT TO HOUSEKEEPING



Introduction


The past lives through the printed page. The ages would be blank if books
were not made recording the events and achievements of men. No form of
history is more interesting and profitable than that which recites the
career of those who, obedient to their divine commission, proclaimed to
fellowmen the sweet message of Christ’s redeeming love. The completeness
of their consecration, their undaunted courage and persistency in the
face of many difficulties, and their marvelous success evidence in them
the presence of superhuman power. It is the genius of Christianity
to inspire and develop the unselfish and heroic in men. The splendid
specimens of self-sacrifice and moral courage, which adorn the pages of
Christian literature, charm the reader and inspire him to more Christlike
endeavor. These life-stories constitute a rich, priceless legacy for
present and future generations.

In this admirable volume, Bishop Weekley has modestly removed the
curtain from twenty years of his own strenuous ministerial life spent
in the mountains and valleys of West Virginia, and given the reader a
conception of what it meant to lift up the Christ and extend his kingdom
in that rugged region. The book is biographical in character, but since
“biography is the soul of history,” it is history in reality. The
scenes and events which he presents suggest the character of the work
which others had to do in laying the foundations of our Church in those
sections.

It would be difficult to find more striking examples of Christian
altruism and heroism anywhere in this country than the godly men who
preached the gospel among the mountains and in the valleys of the
Virginias in the early years of our denominational history. These men
embodied those elements of character and graces of the Spirit which
are essential to success in Christian work anywhere. Having heard the
call of God, and having felt the spell of the divine spirit, they
yielded themselves unreservedly to the gospel ministry. They possessed
strength of conviction, singleness of aim, earnestness of purpose, and
concentration of effort. As a rule these pioneer preachers had but one
business—that of the King. They were so absorbed in the saving of men and
women, and in extending the kingdom, that they gave but little attention
to present physical comforts and future needs. Many of them were without
property, and when they sang,

    “No foot of land do I possess,
    No cottage in this wilderness,”

there was a literalness about it which would have dismayed men of less
faith and consecration. Without seeking to enrich themselves in material
things they labored earnestly to bring the spiritual riches of heaven to
the hearts and homes of others.

They were busy men—men of action. They omitted no opportunities to
do good. Intervals of rest were few and far between. The modern
minister’s vacation was to them unknown. They met their “appointments”
with surprising regularity. Neither storm, nor distance, nor
weariness thwarted their plans. Their announcements were always made
conditionally—“no preventing providence”—but they never calculated for
providence to prevent them being on hand at the appointed place and
hour. The strain of toil was constant, but their iron resolution, and
the work itself, proved a strong tonic. The success of one service was
inspiration for the next. Visiting from house to house, exhorting the
people to faithful Christian living, distributing religious literature,
and preaching week days as well as Sundays made their lives full of heavy
tasks, all of which were performed with happy hearts. They possessed the
glowing and tireless zeal of the preaching friars of the Middle Ages, and
with many of them the clear flame of their zeal was undimmed until the
fire was turned to ashes.

They were men of thought as well as action. Their preparation was made in
the college of experience, in which they proved themselves apt students.
They studied few books and only the best. They cultivated and practised
the perilous art of reading on horseback. They pored over books and
papers in humble homes by flickering candle or pine-knot light long
after the family had retired. It is remarkable what extended knowledge
of the English Scriptures, methods of sermonizing, oratorical style and
forceful delivery these men acquired. They knew well, and by that surest
form of knowledge—the knowledge born of verified experience—all they
proclaimed in message to the people. There was freshness of thought,
aptness of illustration, and forcefulness of expression that was native
to them. The majestic forms of nature in the regions where they toiled
inspired in them the sublimest thoughts of God and his eternal truth. The
marvelous results of the sermons of such men as Markwood, Glossbrenner,
Bachtel, Warner, Nelson, Graham, Howe, Hott, and others proved them great
preachers in the highest and truest sense.

They were men of tact as well as thought, and adjusted themselves to the
conditions. They preached wherever the people would assemble—in leafy
grove, by the river bank, in the humble home, in the log schoolhouse,
in the village hall, in the vacant storeroom, and in the unpretentious
church-house. They did not always have the exhilarating and inspirational
effect of great crowds, but they preached “in demonstration of the
Spirit,” kindling the deepest emotions in their hearers, often arousing
them to tremendous intensity and causing waves of overpowering feeling to
sweep over them. Saints shouted the praises of God and penitents pleaded
for mercy. These heralds of the Cross employed none of the familiar
devices of modern times for securing crowds and reaching results. There
were no specially-prepared and widely-scattered handbills, no local
advertising committees, no daily newspapers with flashing headlines
and portraits, no great choral or orchestral attractions. What made
these fallible men so forceful and successful in winning others? The
explanation lies in the fact of their spiritual enduement. They wrought
in the name of Christ and under the influence of the Holy Spirit.

In no portion of our Zion have ministers made stronger and more lasting
impression upon the people. Whenever present in a home they were
the guests of honor. Their strong personalities and noble traits of
character, as well as their calling itself, won for them the esteem of
old and young. Parents named their children after them, and exhorted
their sons to find in them their models for manhood. In thus honoring
these noblemen of God they exalted the work of the ministry in the minds
of the young, and prepared the way for the Lord to call them into his
service. This may account, at least in part, for the great number who
have gone into the ministry from these mountain districts.

Let no one fancy that somber shadows rested continually upon the pathway
of these ministers. There was a joyous side to their ministerial life.
When together as a class, or among their parishioners, their stories
and jokes were abundant, spontaneous, and of the purest type. When they
met at institutes, camp-meetings, and conferences they enjoyed one round
of good cheer and solid comfort. Their services of song drowned all dull
cares. Their lives had shadows, but they refreshed themselves in the
rifts and glorious sunbursts.

The people to whom these men of God proclaimed the gospel were not, as a
rule, rich in material things, but they possessed great hearts, in which
love and kindness flowed as pure and refreshing as the streams of water
that rippled down the mountain side.

We rejoice that Bishop Weekley has given to the Church this book. Many
aged ministers, who once toiled in the Virginias, will live over again
the scenes of their lives as they read these pages. Young men will be
stimulated to more earnest endeavor as they learn of the hardships and
complete consecration of God’s servants in pioneer days. No one will
weary in reading this excellent volume. The good Bishop has written in
harmony with an established sentiment in book-making—“it is the chief of
all perfections in books to be plain and brief.”

                                                             W. O. FRIES.

_Dayton, Ohio._



CHAPTER I.


The Virginias have turned out more United Brethren preachers, perhaps,
than any other section of the same size between the oceans. These
pulpiteers have ranged in the scale of ability and efficiency from A
to Z. Some achieved distinction in one way and another; others, though
faithful and useful, were little known beyond their conference borders.
Nor have all remained among the mountains. Dozens and scores of them have
gone out into other parts of the Church. At this writing they are to be
found in no less than nineteen different conferences, and, as a class,
they are not excelled by any in devotion to the Church, in unremitting
toil, and in spiritual fervor and downright enthusiasm. Some—many who
spent their lives in building up the Zion of their choice among the
Virginia hills, have gone to glory. Among these heroes I may mention J.
Markwood, J. J. Glossbrenner, Z. Warner, J. Bachtel, J. W. Perry, J. W.
Howe, S. J. Graham, I. K. Statton, and J. W. Hott. Other names, perhaps
not so illustrious, but just as worthy, are to be found in God’s unerring
record. The historian will never tell all about them. Their labors,
sacrifices, and sufferings will never be portrayed by any human tongue,
no matter how eloquent, or by any pen, however versatile and fruitful it
may be. Footsore and weary, dust covered and battle scarred, they reached
the end of their pilgrimage and heard heaven’s “well done.” What a
blessed legacy they bequeathed to their sons and daughters in the gospel!

“Old Virginia” was, in part, the field chosen by Otterbein himself, and
by his devout colaborers. This was more than a hundred years ago. In 1858
the Parkersburg, now West Virginia Conference, was organized out of that
part of the mother conference lying west of the Alleghanies—a territory
three hundred miles long, roughly speaking, by two hundred in width. In
its physical aspects the country is exceedingly rough, and difficult
of travel. But the people, though mostly rural in their customs and
mode of living, and many of them poor, so far as this world’s goods are
concerned, are warm hearted, genial, and hospitable. When a preacher goes
to fill an appointment among “mountaineers,” he is not troubled with the
thought that perhaps nobody will offer him lodging, or willingly share
with him the bounties of his table. I have found things different in
other parts of the country.

[Illustration: W. M. WEEKLEY, Twenty Years of Age

Traveling Circuit]

The new conference was organized at Centerville, in Tyler County, by
Bishop Glossbrenner, in the month of March. Only a few ministers were
present, but they were brave and good, ready to do, and, if need be, to
die for their Lord. Five miles from this historic place the writer was
born on the eighteenth day of September, 1851.

My parents, though poor, were honest and honorable, and toiled
unceasingly to provide for and rear in respectability their ten children,
of whom I was the oldest.

The neighborhood was far above the average in its religious life and
moral worth. A man under the influence of liquor was seldom seen, and a
profane word was hardly ever heard. The United Brethren Church was by
far the leading denomination in all that country. The old log church
in which we all worshiped stood on father’s farm, and our home was the
stopping-place not only of preachers, but of many others who attended
divine service. At times our house was so crowded that mother was
compelled to make beds on the floor for the family, and not unfrequently
for others as well. But to her it was a great joy to perform such a
ministry for the gospel’s sake. Her loving hands could always provide for
others, no matter who they were, or how many. For the third of a century
father was the Sunday-school superintendent in the neighborhood, and,
for a longer period, teacher of the juvenile class. Thus he saw little
children pass up into other and older classes, and finally to manhood and
womanhood, when by and by their children came in and were given a place
in “Uncle Dan’s” class.

At the age of fourteen I was born the second time, and united with the
Church. The occasion was a great revival held by Rev. S. J. Graham,
of precious memory. Seeing my oldest sister, Sarah, bow at the altar,
greatly moved my young heart. A few moments later I observed father
coming back toward the door, and thinking perhaps he was wanting to speak
to me on the subject of religion, I immediately left the house. My state
of mind became awful. The next evening I saw mother pressing her way
toward me through the standing crowd. I knew what it meant, and sat down
with the hope of concealing myself from her; but how vain the effort!
What child ever hid himself away from a mother’s love? Putting her hand
on my head, she said, “William, won’t you be a Christian?” I made no
reply, but said to myself, “I can’t stand this; I must do something.” How
her appeal, plaintive and tender, made me weep! It was really the first
time she had ever come to me with such directness and warmth of heart.
To this very moment I can feel the touch of her hand and hear her loving
appeal. The next day I talked with other boys who were with me in school,
and asked them to accompany me to the “mourner’s bench,” which they did.

At that time the class, though in the country, numbered one hundred and
seventy souls. Three months later, I was appointed one of its stewards,
and with this office came my first experience in raising money for the
Church.

The next year I was elected assistant class-leader, and though young and
inexperienced, I rendered the very best service I possibly could.

My educational advantages up to this time had been only such as the
common schools afforded, with the addition of a close application to
study at the home fireside, aided by the historic “pine torch” and
“tallow candle.”

From the day of my conversion I could not escape the thought of
preaching. The duty of being a Christian was never set before me more
forcibly and clearly than was the duty of preaching; but I hesitated.
My ignorance, and lack of fitness otherwise for such a high calling,
appeared as insurmountable barriers. I could not understand why God
should pass by others, better in heart and far more capable, and choose
me. So the struggle went on. In the mean time I began to read such books
as I could secure. The Bible, “Smith’s Bible Dictionary,” and “Dick’s
Works,” constituted my library. The last named was rather heavy for a lad
only in his teens, but I rather enjoyed such studies. The first book I
ever purchased was “Religious Emblems,” which proved exceedingly helpful
to my young life.

When seventeen I preached my first sermon, or, perhaps I should say,
made my first public effort. It was in an old log church on Little
Flint Run, in Doddridge County. Brother Christopher Davis, a local
preacher, was holding a meeting, and at the close of the morning services
announced that I would preach at night. What a day that was to me! How
I tried to think and pray! When I reached the church I found it full,
with many standing in the aisle about the door. I felt so unprepared—so
utterly helpless—that I immediately retired to a secret place, where
I again besought the Lord for help. Returning, I started in with the
preliminaries, but was badly scared. No man can describe his feelings
under such circumstances. Many a preacher who scans these pages will
appreciate my situation. I spent a good part of the first fifteen minutes
mopping my face. I seemed to be in a sweat-box; but by the time I reached
my sermon, or whatever it might be called, the embarrassment was all
gone. I still remember the text: “And I will bring you into the land
concerning the which I did swear to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to
Jacob; and I will give it you for an heritage. I am the Lord.” It was
immense; but the most of young preachers begin just that way. At this
distance from the occasion, I do not recall anything I said, and am glad
I cannot. However, there was one redeeming feature about the effort,
and that was its brevity. In twenty minutes I had told all I knew,
and perhaps more. I have never been able to understand why the people
listened so patiently. They really seemed to be interested, but why, or
in what, I have never known. I have not tried that text since, and I do
not think I ever shall. It is too profound to even think of as the basis
of a discourse to common people.

Dr. J. L. Hensley, when pastor of Middle Island Circuit, early in the
sixties, had a somewhat singular experience in this same log church.
While preaching one Sabbath morning in midsummer from the text, “The seed
of the woman shall bruise the serpent’s head,” the people at his left
suddenly became excited, and looking around quickly for the cause, he
observed a snake, about two feet long, crawling in a crevice of the wall
near the pulpit. Reaching for his hickory cane, which he always carried,
he dealt the wily creature a blow which brought it tumbling to the floor,
remarking at the same time, “The seed of the woman shall bruise the
serpent’s head.” Thus in the midst of his discourse he was furnished an
illustration which made a profound impression upon his hearers, and aided
greatly in bringing the truth home to their hearts.

The presiding elder, Rev. S. J. Graham, my spiritual father, by authority
of a quarterly conference held at the Long Run appointment, October 23,
1869, gave me a permit to exercise in public for three months. Shortly
after this I was prostrated with lung fever, which soon developed the
most alarming aspects. Though the ailment was outgeneraled, the process
of recovery was slow. In fact, one of my lungs was so impaired that
consumption was feared. A noted physician, after carefully diagnosing my
case, frankly told me that nothing could be done for my lung; but I did
not believe a word he told me. I had decided that I would make preaching
my life work, and believed that God would give me a chance to try it.
It might be noted here that ten years later this same doctor was in his
grave, while I was a better specimen of physical manhood than he ever
was.

“Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it
to pass.” What will he bring to pass? The right thing, and in the right
way. Such has been my observation and experience in all the years that
have come and gone since the hand of affliction was so keenly felt.

December 25, 1869, I was granted quarterly conference license in a
regular way, and attended the annual conference which met in Hartford
City, Mason County, the following March. Much of the time while there I
was not able to walk from my stopping-place to the church, though not a
half dozen blocks distant. Some of the brethren feared that I would not
live to get back home again. But I wanted a circuit. With that end in
view I had gone to conference, and no amount of persuasion could turn me
aside from the one great purpose that had taken complete possession of
my soul. I was entering the work with a full knowledge of what it meant.
I had heard the brethren talk of their privations and abundant labors,
and, as well, of their victories and joy of heart. The report of the year
then closing was most suggestive. The eighteen fields of the conference
contained one hundred and sixty-seven preaching places, and had paid
twenty-four men a little less than $140 each upon an average, not
counting outside gifts. West Columbia Circuit paid its two pastors, Revs.
W. B. Hodge and I. M. Underwood, $400. The next highest was $339.19,
and was paid the brace of pastors who served the Glenville charge—Revs.
W. W. Knipple and Elias Barnard. The other sixteen pastorates ranged
from $267.15 down to $35, the last named amount having been received by
Rev. J. W. Boggess, on Hessville Mission. The Parkersburg District paid
Elder Graham $227.87, while West Columbia District only reached $152.85
for its superintendent, Rev. J. W. Perry. To the support of each of the
districts, however, the parent missionary board added $100.

When the Stationing Committee reported, my name was read out as the
junior preacher for Philippi Circuit, with Rev. A. L. Moore, pastor in
charge. This appointment was given, as more than one assured me in later
years, simply to satisfy my mind. No one expected me to go to it. As the
field already had a man, my failure to reach it would make no difference
in any way.

Returning home I told father what had been done, and that I must have
the necessary outfit for a circuit-rider; namely, a horse, a saddle and
bridle, and a pair of saddle-bags. No matter what else a man had, or did
not have, in those days, these things were essential to efficiency among
the mountains of West Virginia.

At once I began preparations for leaving home. Mother was thoughtful
enough to make me a pair of leggings which buttoned up at the sides and
reached above the knees. No one article made with hands was ever more
valuable to a Virginia itinerant than leggings.

Philippi Circuit was seventy-five miles distant among the mountains, and
would require, owing to the bad roads, two and a half days of hard travel
on horseback to reach it. At the appointed time, April 11, 1870, early in
the morning, I rode out of the old lane and up the hillside. All I had of
earthly possessions was in my saddle-bags. One end contained my library,
(Bible, Hymn-book, “Smith’s Bible Dictionary,” “Binney’s Theological
Compend,” “Religious Emblems,” and one volume of “Watson’s Institutes,”)
while in the other was stored my wardrobe, scant and plain. When far up
on the side of the hill I looked back and saw mother standing on the
porch. She had not ceased to watch me from the moment I started. Tears
unbidden filled my eyes, and with these came an appreciation of our home
that I had never experienced before. The home had been humble, to be
sure, but it was Christian. We had a family altar, from which the sweet
incense of prayer ascended daily to God. I could truthfully say:

    “Jesus, I my cross have taken,
    All to leave and follow thee.”

A mile distant I joined, by a prearranged plan, Rev. G. W. Weekley, my
uncle, and Rev. Isaac Davis, both of whom were also en route to their
distant fields of toil.

At the end of the second day we reached Glady Fork, on Lewis Circuit,
where my uncle lived. How weary after so long a ride! At that time my
health was still so precarious, and my strength so limited, that I could
not walk a hundred yards up grade without resting. To dismount from
my horse, open and close a gate, and then get back into the saddle,
exhausted me. Remaining over a few days with my uncle, I tried to preach
on Sunday morning, but found myself exhausted at the end of twenty-four
minutes. In a few days, however, I was sufficiently rested from my long
ride to journey on to my own circuit, where I soon found the preacher in
charge, and plans were discussed for the year’s work. This was historic
ground. It was an old United Brethren field, having been traveled by
Statton, Stickley, Warner, Hensley, and others, in the late fifties and
early sixties, when it included twenty or more preaching-places, spread
over portions of several counties.



CHAPTER II.


Philippi Circuit contained at this time the following appointments:
Romines Mills, Gnatty Creek, Peck’s Run, Indian Fork, Mt. Hebron, Green
Brier, and Zeb’s Creek. Later I added two more—one on Big Run, and
the other on Brushy Fort, at the home of “Mother” Simons. Two of the
preaching places lay “beyond” the Middle Fork River—a rolling, dashing
stream, fresh from the mountains, and at times dangerous to cross. It
was so clear that a silver piece the size of a quarter could be seen at
a depth of several feet. The first time I attempted to ford it I put my
life in jeopardy. Because the bottom could be seen distinctly, I imagined
it was not deep, but after a few paces I was in mid-side to my horse,
and going deeper every step. Perceiving the danger I was in, I tried to
turn my horse about, and did so only after the greatest effort, owing to
the almost irresistible current which was gradually bearing horse and
rider downward. Going to a house near by I made some inquiry about the
stream, and was told that if I had gone ten feet farther I should have
been swept away by the swift running waters. How grateful I was to God
for the deliverance. During the following winter my life was endangered
by floating ice at the same crossing-place. Brother Moore about the
same time, perhaps a little later, seeing he could not ford the stream,
decided to lead his horse across the ice at a point below the regular
crossing, where there was but little current; but when twenty feet from
the shore toward which he was headed, the ice gave way, and the faithful
animal went under. Having hold of the bridle rein, however, he managed to
keep his head above the water until a passage way was broken through to
dry land.

One instinctively shudders as he recalls the dangers which at times
thrust themselves suddenly across the pathway of the early preachers of
the Virginia and Parkersburg conferences when the fields were so large
and travel so excessive. Brother Moore informed me, as we looked over
the charge, that I would have to take the “outsiders” for my support, as
the circuit only paid $300, and he could not get along on less and pay
rent. It struck me that he was about right, so I readily agreed to his
proposition. Then what? Well, at each preaching place I found a “sinner”
who agreed to serve as my steward, and these men did well, everything
considered. For the year I received $97, including an overcoat and
several pairs of yarn socks.

At one of the appointments an unfortunate episode occurred over my
salary. The steward one day stepped over the line, and got after some
of the church-members for money. He very well knew they were abundantly
able to help, but they flatly refused. This so upset him, so I was told,
that he expressed his opinion of them in language far more vigorous than
polite. It is a joy, however, to note in this connection that some of
these stewards soon became Christians, and active helpers in the Church.

Out of the pittance I received, possibly all, or more than I was worth,
I added to my little library, which could easily be put in one end of
my saddle-bags when I left home, the following books: “Bible Not of
Man,” “Conversation of Jesus,” “Jesus on the Holy Mount,” “Pilgrim’s
Progress,” “Dying Thoughts,” “Bible Text Book,” “Jacobus on John,” “God’s
Word Written,” “Paley’s Theology,” “Our Lord’s Parables,” “Webster’s
Dictionary,” “Bible True,” “Rock of Our Salvation,” “Companion to the
Bible,” “Dictionary of the Bible,” “Credo,” “Rise and Progress of
Religion in the Soul,” and “Hand of God in History.” This, of course, was
not a lavish purchase of books, but it did pretty well for one with a
cash income of not more than $75.

We had some good revivals that year. Ninety-nine were received into
church fellowship, while many more were converted. At Indian Fork we held
meeting in a little log cabin, about twenty feet square, with a great
fire-place in one side. It is surprising to see how many people can be
crowded into so small a place when they are anxious to attend a revival.
Night after night for weeks this little room was packed like a sardine
case. But the outcome was glorious. Some of the best citizens of the
community were reached and won to Christ.

After a few services were held, and it was seen how insufficient the
little room was to accommodate the many who wanted to come, we put
on foot the project of building a church, and immediately set about
the work. The plan was so unique that the whole neighborhood became
interested. Some felled trees; others “scored and hewed” the logs; those
who had teams volunteered to haul them, while others still made shingles,
or helped with the foundation; “for the people had a mind to work.”
Before the meetings closed the house was up and ready for use—an edifice
which served as a place of worship for many years.

The people all over the circuit were kind and forbearing, and greatly
encouraged me by waiting on my ministry, and hearing what little I had
to say. I visited all classes of persons, rich and poor, and had all
kinds of experiences. In some homes I enjoyed the hospitality offered;
in others it was not so highly enjoyed, but keenly appreciated. At one
of the preaching points a certain brother insisted upon my going home
with him for dinner after the morning service, which I consented to do.
It was a rainy day. He lived in a cabin of one room on the hillside. On
either side of the dwelling was a shed. Under one of these he kept his
corn; under the other, where we entered the house, the hogs slept and the
chickens roosted. His only piece of regular furniture was a chair. As to
where and when he got it I did not inquire. Long poles reaching across
the room and fastened to the walls, with a forked stick under them in
the center, constituted a kind of double bedstead. When I entered the
door I observed a large “feather tick” piled upon these poles. Finally,
something moved under it, and then a boy of ten or twelve summers, almost
suffocated, crawled out and made for the door. His purpose, no doubt, was
to hide from the preacher when he saw him coming, but finding he could
not get his breath, decided to retreat to another place of concealment
where there was more fresh air. I did not eat much dinner. I told “mine
host” that I was not hungry, and, in fact, was not. They had only a
broken skillet in which to bake bread, fry meat, and “make gravy.” As
soon as possible I excused myself, and started for my next appointment.
Indeed, I was glad I had another one that day.

Many other amusing incidents occurred during the year. These always find
a place in the itinerant’s life, and it is well, perhaps, that they do,
as they offset in a measure his somber experiences. I am frank to confess
that it is easy for me to see the funny side of a happening, if it has
one, and to enjoy a joke though it be on myself.

In the early days of the West Virginia Conference, what was known as the
“plug hat” was much in evidence among preachers. Such “headwear” was a
distinguishing mark, hence no circuit-rider with proper self-respect, or
wishing to give tone to his calling, could afford to don anything else.
Being young, and somewhat ambitious to hold up the ministerial standard,
at least in appearance, I determined to secure one as soon as I could get
a few dollars ahead. However, the way opened for the gratification of my
wish sooner than I had expected. Brother Moses Simons had one he didn’t
care to wear, so I bantered him for a trade. It was in first-class
condition, but entirely too large for me. Even after putting a roll of
paper around under the lining, it came down nearly to my ears. What was I
to do? I must have a high-topped hat, but was not able to purchase a new
one. At last I decided to wear it, if my ears did occasionally protest
against its close proximity to them. It distinguished me from common
people for the next two years, and so answered well its purpose.

One day as I was riding up a little creek between two high hills I passed
a group of urchins who evidently were unused to preachers. They watched
me in utter silence till I had passed them a few yards, when one of them
piped out, “Lord, what a hat.” No doubt they had an interesting story to
relate to their parents when they returned to their humble cabin home.

Not long after this I met a gentleman, so-called, in the road, and bade
him the time of day, as was my custom. He returned the salutation with,
“How are you, hat?” and passed on without another word. To me this was
exceedingly offensive, for I was sure there was something in and under
the hat, and any such remark was an uncalled-for reflection upon my
dignity and the high calling I represented. I did not know the man, and
to the best of my knowledge have never seen him since, but to this day,
though removed from the event more than a third of a century, I harbor
the thought that if I ever do run across him I shall demand some sort of
reparation for the insult.

The annual conference met in Pennsboro, Bishop Weaver presiding. During
the year I had improved much in health, owing to my horseback exercise
and the great amount of singing I did, which doubtless had much to do
with the development of lung muscle.

At conference I went before the committee on applicants with eight
others, five of whom were referred back to their respective quarterly
conferences for further preparation. For some reason the examination was
unusually critical. One question propounded to each was, “Do you seek
admission into the conference simply to vote for a presiding elder?”
There was some doubt in my case on a doctrinal point, according to the
report of the chairman, Rev. W. Slaughter, an erratic old brother.
He said the boy was all right, except “a little foggy on depravity.”
Possibly I was, for I didn’t think much of that portion of our creed.
However, I see more in it, and of it, after all these years, than I did
then. In the light of my observations and experiences with men, I am not
inclined to deny the doctrine.

I was appointed by this conference to Lewis Circuit, an old, run down
field, embracing parts of three counties. Rev. Isaac Davis was sent
along as a helper “in the Lord.” We had grown up together in the same
neighborhood, and were members of the same congregation. He was a young
man of sterling moral qualities, and proved himself a loyal and valuable
coworker.

After spending a few days with our parents and friends, we started, early
in April, for the scene of toil to which we had been assigned for the
year. From the day we left home we ceased not to pray that the Lord of
the harvest would give us at least one hundred souls as trophies of his
grace, and to that end we labored constantly.

We found the following regular appointments: Glady Fork, Hinkleville,
Union Hill, Little Skin Creek, White Oak, Waterloo, Indian Camp,
Walkersville, Braxton, and Centerville. Soon we added two more, namely,
Bear Run and Laurel Run. The charge agreed to pay us $210, but fell a
little short, reaching only $170. Of this I received $90, and Brother
Davis the remaining $80. The assessment for missions was $25, and about
$10 for other purposes, which we regarded as a pretty high tax for
benevolences. Yet the entire amount was raised after a most vigorous and
thorough canvass of all the appointments. As I now remember, no one gave
more than twenty-five cents.

Our protracted meetings lasted more than six months, and resulted in
the reception of one hundred and one persons into church fellowship.
While in the revival at Hinkleville, a great shout occurred one night
over the conversion of some far-famed sinners, during which the floor of
the church gave way and went down some two feet. Before dismissing the
people, I announced that we would meet and make repairs the next day.
At the appointed time it seemed that nearly all the men and boys in the
country round about were on hand, ready to render what service they could
in repairing the house of the Lord.

This was a revival of far-reaching influence. The country for miles
around was thoroughly stirred. One of the leading men became interested
one night, and decided upon a new life. As he approached the church the
next day he heard us singing what was then a very popular song—“Will the
Angels Come?” The words and melody fairly charmed him, and kindled new
hope in a life that had been given over to sin. As he opened the church
door, the key of faith opened his heart’s door to the Savior, and he
rushed down the aisle to tell us of his wonderful experience. It was all
victory that morning. The conversion of such a man profoundly affected
the people, and led to many more decisions for Christ.

During this meeting my colleague arose one evening to preach. As he had
the test, with book, chapter, and verse all by heart, he did not open his
Bible, but began by saying, “You will find my text in Revelation, third
chapter, and twentieth verse.” Just then an apple fell through a hole in
his coat-pocket on to the floor. As he stooped to pick it up, another
fell out. Returning them to his pocket, he again started—“Revelation,
third chapter and twentieth verse,” when suddenly the two restless apples
dropped out again. After picking them up, he started in the third time,
“You will find my text in,”—but all was gone. He couldn’t even think of
Revelation. The audience was at the point of roaring, so in the midst
of his confusion he turned to me and said, “Brother Weekley, what is my
text? I don’t know what nor where it is.” I answered, “Behold, I stand
at the door and knock.” “Yes, yes,” he said, “I remember it now,” and
proceeded with his discourse, but did not recover that evening from the
knock-out blow he had received.

Preaching through such a long revival campaign was no easy thing, when
I had only a few sermons in stock, and these were all “home made.” I
think the material in them was all right, but the mechanical construction
was not according to any particular rule. I endeavored to give my
hearers plenty to eat, but I did not understand how to serve the food in
courses. It was like putting a lot of hominy, and pork, and cabbage, and
beans into the same dish, and saying to the people, “Here it is; help
yourselves.” But as a few sermons could not be made to last indefinitely,
I was compelled to apply myself to study, no little of which was done on
horseback. Every itinerant in West Virginia at that time had to do the
same thing. While this method of study was not the most desirable, it
nevertheless had its redeeming features. Ofttimes, after riding a dozen
or fifteen miles over rough, hilly roads, I would alight, hitch my horse,
and while the weary animal was resting, mount a log near by and practice
to my heart’s content the sermon I was preparing for my next appointment.
Again and again did I make the welkin ring as I preached to an audience
of great trees about me. Does this appear amusing to the reader? Do you
doubt that such experiences ever occurred? If so, ask some of the earlier
preachers of the conference who are yet living if they ever did such a
thing while circuit-riding among the mountains.

Did we ever feel lonesome as we traversed the forests or climbed the
hills? Not for a moment. It was an inspiring place to be. The birds sing
so sweetly there. The gurgling, murmuring streamlets are ever musical
as they steal their way along through gulches, over their rocky beds.
The scenery is sublime. Nature’s book stands wide open, and abounds with
richest lessons and illustrations. No wonder Glossbrenner and Markwood,
Warner and Howe, with a host of others, could preach! The very mountains
amid which they were born and reared conspired to make them lofty
characters, and majestic in their pulpit efforts. While Union Biblical
Seminary, and our colleges generally, are grand, helpful schools, let it
not be forgotten that “Brush College” is not without its advantages, and
should be given due credit for the inspiration and rugged manliness it
imparts to its students.

My home this year was with Brother James Hull, on the headwaters of
French Creek, fully forty miles from the nearest railroad station. Mother
Hull was one of God’s noble women. She professed sanctification, and
lived it every day. I can never forget her helpfulness to me, a mere
child in years and service. I must see her in heaven.

If I returned home after each Sabbath’s work, it required one hundred
and fifty miles travel to make one round of the circuit. My associate
also had a good home on another part of the charge; but unfortunately
for him, and for some others as well, his zeal led him into trouble.
Brother Mike Boyles, with whom he stayed, was a good, true man, and was
ever delighted to have a preacher with him. One Sunday he went to see a
friend a few miles distant, and innocently carried home on his horse a
large, nice, well-matured pumpkin. His purpose, no doubt, was to prepare
a special dish for his guest; but his preacher was not pleased with such
an infraction of the Sabbath law. A short while after this he discoursed
in the neighborhood church on the text, “I stand in doubt of you.” Among
other things, he said he stood in doubt of a church-member who would go
visiting on Sunday and carry “pumpkins” home with him. Brother Boyles
very naturally made the application a personal one, and ever afterward
refused to be reconciled.

During the year I married two couples. One of the men was a horse
buyer, and was considered “away up” financially. Of course I expected
no insignificant sum for my services; it ought to have been ten dollars
or more; but let the reader imagine, if he can, my disappointment,
if not disgust, when he handed me forty cents in “shinplasters.” By
“shinplasters” I mean a certain kind of currency which circulated
during our civil strife in the early sixties, in the form of five, ten,
twenty-five and fifty cent certificates.

Speaking of this wedding recalls the fact that it was on this circuit,
while visiting my uncle the year before, that I married my first couple.
I remember, too, that I approached the occasion with great trepidation.
It was an awful task. But the eventful hour finally came. The parsonage,
so called, where the nuptials were to be celebrated, was a log cabin of
one room. The kitchen, which stood several feet from the main building,
was the only place offered in which to arrange the toilet. At last
I stood before the young couple and began the ceremony, which I had
committed to memory. Yes, I had it sure, as I thought. I had gone over
it twenty times or more. In practising for the occasion I had joined
trees and fence stakes, and I know not what all, together; but at the
very moment when I needed it, and couldn’t get along without it, the
whole thing suddenly left me. There I was. After an extended pause and a
most harrowing silence I rallied, and began by saying, “We are gathered
together.” Just then my voice failed me; it seemed impossible to make
a noise, even. I fairly gasped for breath, for that was the one thing I
seemed to need most. At last the effort was renewed. How I got through I
never knew. I seemed to be in a mysterious realm, where the unknowable
becomes more incomprehensible, and when all the past and future seem to
unite in the present. Finally I wound up what seemed to be long-drawn out
affair, and pronounced the innocent couple man and wife. I am glad they
always considered themselves married. I have but little recollection of
what I did or said during the ordeal. In fact, I do not care to know,
since I am so far away from the occasion. Yes, that was my first wedding.

The year was not without its material enterprises, for we completed the
churches at Glady Fork and Waterloo, repaired one at Indian Camp, and
started a new one at Laurel Run. Some of these stand yet as moral and
religious centers, and, at times, through the intervening years, have
been the scenes of great spiritual awakenings.

Conference was held at New Haven, in Mason County, with Bishop D. Edwards
in the chair. While our report was thought to be fairly good, I asked for
a change, believing that I could do better work on another field. The
favor was granted, and Hessville Mission assigned me as my third charge.

At the close of this year there were thirty-one ministers employed in
the conference, whose aggregate salary was $4,551.77, or an average of
$147 each. The three presiding elders received, all told, $843.83. These
figures indicate something of the sacrifices made by the men who gave
themselves to the early work of building up the Church in the Virginias.
Greater heroism of the apostolic type was never displayed by any of
the sons of Otterbein, nor can any part of the country show greater
achievements for the work done.



CHAPTER III.


Hessville Mission embraced portions of Harrison and Marion counties, and
was made up of the following preaching places: Quaker Fork, Glade Fork,
Indian Run, Big Run, Little Bingamon, Ballard School-house, Salt Lick,
Plumb Run, and Paw-paw. In all this territory we did not own a single
church edifice. By fall I had added Dent’s Run, Bee Gum, and Glover’s
Gap, making twelve appointments in all. At the last named place I held
a revival in a union church. The meeting was good, and telling most
favorably upon some of the best families of the town, when an unknown
miscreant at an early morning hour applied the torch and reduced the
building to ashes. All I lost in the conflagration was my Bible and
hymn-book. Moving into a schoolhouse near by, the meeting was continued,
and a class organized. By the middle of the winter there had been
sixty-five accessions, but from that on till spring I had to lay by on
account of measles.

At Little Bingamon we had a great meeting. The entire community was
deeply stirred. “Aunt Susan” Martin was my main helper and standby.
While devout in life, and strong in faith, she had a blunt, honest way
of saying things which often amused the people. At this meeting two of
her children made a start. One was a son of some fifteen winters. He
literally wore himself out by his night and day pleadings at the altar,
and became so hoarse that he could scarcely talk. His mother was greatly
agitated over his condition, and grew exceedingly anxious to see the
intense struggle terminated. One evening she bowed at the altar with him
that she might, through instruction, show him a better way. She did not
believe that bodily exercise could be made to avail anything in seeking
salvation. Finally, for a moment, she lost her patience, and said, “Now,
if you don’t quit this kind of praying you will kill yourself. Stop it,
I tell you, or I’ll box your ears good. The Lord isn’t deaf, that you
should ‘holler’ so loud.” Then turning to her husband who, at the time,
was a professed moralist, though faithful in attending and supporting the
church services, she said: “George, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Not a word have you for this poor child. Now come and talk to him. To
stand and look on is no way to do.”

The dear sister was right, not only in thinking that the father ought
to help the son, but in protesting against unnecessary physical
demonstrations in seeking religion. It is not the loud praying or
constant pleading that saves men, but faith in the world’s Redeemer. Rev.
H. R. Hess, one of the leading ministers in the West Virginia Conference,
was soundly converted and received into the church during this meeting.

What a good home I had while on this charge! Brother Daniel Mason, a
father in Israel, whose life was as pure as a sunbeam, took me to his
home and heart, and treated me very much as the Shunammite did Elisha.
He built me a little room on his porch, and put therein a bed, bookcase,
table, and candlestick. The worth of such a place to a young minister is
next to incalculable. Twice a day he read the Word and prayed. He was on
good terms with his Lord, and talked to him with the greatest assurance.
Some of the sweetest memories of my earlier ministry cluster about this
Christian home. The fruition of the upper and better life he now enjoys
as the reward of his faith, service, and devotion while here below.

The circuit agreed to pay me $100, and kept its contract. The first
quarter I received $14.81, the second, $18.35; the third, $17.75; and
the last $49.05. The conference added $50, which pushed my support up
to $150. With this salary, much above the average for a single man, I
could afford to pay $21.50 for a new suit of clothes, and $4 for a new
“two-story” silk hat.

On my way to conference a few days were spent with friends in the home
neighborhood. Rev. E. Lorenz, father of the music writer, was living
and preaching in Parkersburg at this time. He had organized a German
congregation, and held services in the lecture-room of our English
church. The Committee on Entertainment sent me to stay with him during
the conference session which was held in the city. Thoughts of that
superlatively Christian home linger with me to this day. I shall never
forget how parents and children bowed together in prayer, morning and
evening, and how each took part in the devotions. Too much emphasis
cannot be placed upon the importance of prayer in the home. Nothing else,
on the human side, so anchors the family and builds up character. The
fact that the fire has died out on so many domestic altars is, itself,
proof that family religion does not receive the attention it once did.

At this conference I was permitted to pass the second and third years’
course of reading, which put me in the class to be ordained. I can never
blot from memory the prayer offered by the lamented Doctor Warner at the
ordination service. He seemed to pour out his very soul in petition to
God for the young men being set apart to the work of the ministry. I wept
like a child while he thus prayed, and anew pledged to Jesus and the
Church the service of my life.

Grafton at this time was constituted a mission station, and made my field
for the coming year. The town then (1873) had a population of about three
thousand souls, and was located mainly on a steep hillside. In fact, it
stands about the same way yet, though containing several thousand more
people. We had no church-house, and no organization, though there were
a few members scattered through the place. Seventy-five dollars were
appropriated by the conference toward my support. A preaching-place
called “Old Sandy,” some twelve miles distant, was also given me. Here
we had a gracious revival. I later took up two more points—Maple Run
and Glade Run—and organized a class at each. At the close of the year
these country classes were formed into a separate charge, and became
self-supporting.

[Illustration: W. M. WEEKLEY, Thirty Years of Age

Presiding Elder]

At Grafton the work progressed slowly, and with some difficulty for
a time. A friend gave us, free of charge, the use of a church-house
which, by some means, had fallen into his hands. The first thing was to
organize a Sabbath school, which started off well. When certain church
partisans saw the outlook, they offered to take part in the school,
and adroitly got possession of the offices. When I discovered the real
situation, I determined to bring the matter of control to an issue,
and did. I deliberately stated that I had been sent there to organize
a United Brethren Church and Sabbath school, and proposed to carry out
my instructions. I was pleased to have teachers and other helpers from
sister denominations join in the work, I added, but the school would be
reported to my conference. The result is easily imagined. Our friends,
so-called, suddenly dropped out, and from that day to this the identity
of the school has never been questioned.

The seventy-five dollars appropriated by the conference was about all
I received, and twenty-five dollars of that went in a lump to the
centennial fund. If a kind family had not taken me in, free of cost, I
could not have remained the year through. For the second year the support
given was about the same. The third year there were two of us to support,
hence a special effort had to be made to increase the pay. Three hundred
and twelve dollars was the amount actually received, eighty dollars of
which was paid on rent; but we lived well; no such thing as want seemed
to be within a thousand leagues of our humble home. We were thankful for
cheap furniture and home-made carpet. Yea, more, we were happy. God’s
ravens carried us our daily portion.

In the early spring of 1875, we began the erection of a chapel which
cost, lot and all, $2,800. But a part of it had to be built the second
time. Just as the frame was up and ready for roof and siding, a storm
passing that way piled it in a promiscuous heap. This occurred on the
seventeenth of July. Immediately, however, the work of reconstruction was
undertaken, and the edifice was completed in early fall, and dedicated by
Doctor Warner. Such experiences try a young man’s nerve and purpose, but
invariably prove a blessing when the difficulties accompanying them are
overcome.

That year I took up an appointment at the Poe School-house, two miles out
of town, and organized a class. In those days the preacher was expected
to look around for new openings, no matter where he was or how large his
field; there is no other way to expand. My criticism of many of our young
preachers to-day is that they do not try to enlarge their work. They seem
never to look beyond the nest into which the conference settles them.
They will live on half salary, and whine about it all year, rather than
get out and look up additional territory. Under fair conditions, the
young man who is devout and active can secure a good living on any field.
Faith and purpose and push will win every time. The year closed with
fifty-three members, and ninety-five in the Sunday school.

The conference again convened in Parkersburg, with David Edwards this
time as bishop—the last session he ever presided over.

At this period the battle in the Church over the secrecy question was
waxing warm. West Virginia had lined up on the liberal side. The bishop,
being pronouncedly “anti” in his views, determined to enforce the rules
of the Church in the matter of admitting applicants into the conference.
A brother who appeared for license was known to belong to some fraternal
order, so the good bishop held him up. This brought on a crisis. All
was excitement. Some things, it was clear, would have to be settled
then and there, and they were. Doctor Warner arose, in the midst of the
flurry, and demanded that the young brother be sent to the appropriate
committee, which he said was thoroughly competent to deal with the
question. The bishop was on his feet also with the fire of determination
fairly flashing in his eyes. However, when he fully realized that, with
an exception or two, the entire body was against him, he gracefully
yielded, thus happily bringing the unfortunate conflict to a close. By
morning, matters had again assumed a normal condition, and the bishop
kindly requested that all reference to the controversy be expunged from
the records.

Notwithstanding Bishop Edwards’ somewhat radical position on the secrecy
question, he was greatly loved by all our brethren, and by none was
his death more sincerely mourned. On Sunday he preached on Elijah’s
translation; a few days thereafter he was himself translated.

From Grafton I was sent to New Haven circuit, in Mason County, one
hundred and sixty miles west. To get there I was compelled to borrow
twenty-five dollars. Dr. J. L. Hensley kindly entertained us until
a house could be found; for as yet there was not a parsonage in the
conference. This was considered one of the best fields we had. The
first year it paid me four hundred and sixteen dollars, and the next,
four hundred and twenty-seven dollars, with a few presents in the shape
of vegetables, groceries, and the like. Of course, I paid rent out of
this—thirty-six dollars one year, and fifty the other. I had only four
appointments—New Haven, Bachtel, Union, and Vernon, and these were close
together. During the two years, one hundred and thirty were received
into the Church.

The next conference was held at Bachtel, which gave me my first
experience in caring for such a body. Bishop Weaver presided and preached
the word mightily on Sunday. He had been popular even since his first
visit to that section, in 1870. By request of Hon. George W. Murdock, a
wealthy business man in Hartford City, three miles west, he went down
there and preached in our church on Sunday evening. Mr. Murdock was an
ardent admirer of the bishop. Six years before he had entertained him in
his home, and was charmed by him as a preacher and conversationalist.
After spending the first hour with him, he slipped into the kitchen and
said: “Wife, he is the most wonderful man I ever met. Do come in and hear
him talk.” The old gentleman never forgot the bishop’s sermon on Sunday.
For weeks afterward he would talk about it in his store, and elsewhere,
sometimes in tears, nearly always ending with the observation, “He is a
wonderful man.” It might not be out of place to note here that the good
bishop more than once shared the benefactions of his wealthy friend.

During my second year on this charge, a peculiar and most trying
experience came to our home. A great revival was going on at the Union
appointment. The altar was nightly crowded with earnest seekers, some of
whom belonged to the best families in the community. Early one morning a
young man came hurriedly to the place where I was stopping, and calling
me out, said, “Mr. Weekley, I have been sent to tell you that your babe
is dead.” Hastening home I found the faithful mother watching at the side
of the withered flower, and anxiously awaiting my coming. How loving the
ministry of friends had been; nor did their tender interest abate a whit
until the little lifeless form was put away to sleep in the cemetery on
the hillside, in the family lot of Dr. Hensley.

The reader may be anxious to know what I did under the circumstances.
There was but one thing to do, that was to seek the guiding hand of
duty. Our little one was gone. Just as the thoughtful florist takes his
tender plants into their winter quarters before the frost appears, or
the chilling winds sweep the plains, so a wise, loving, merciful Father
had plucked up the little vine which had rooted itself so thoroughly and
deeply in our hearts, and transplanted it in his own heavenly garden.
Yes, Charley was safe; so I returned to my meeting with a tender spirit,
and the work continued with great power.

More than one preacher who reads this incident will recall the time,
or times, when he, too, passed under the cloud, and walked amid the
shadows. Again and again I have been made to feel that some people do
not sympathize with the minister and his wife, as they do with others,
when the death angel tarries and lays his withering hand upon a young
life. Somehow they seem to think that the cup, when administered to
the preacher’s family, is not so bitter—that the thorn does not pierce
so deeply. But I know better, and so do a thousand others. It is said
of Dr. Daniel Curry, a great man in Methodism in his day, that he was
so grieved over the death of his little boy that after returning home
from the cemetery he went into the back yard, and observing his little
tracks in the sand, got down on his hands and knees and kissed them.
Words cannot express my sympathy for the faithful pastor and his family,
and my admiration of that faith, devotion, and heroism which in so many
instances are necessary to keep them in the work.

Mason County was one of the first fields occupied by the ministers who
crossed the Alleghanies westward. Among these were G. W. Statton, J.
Bachtel, and Moses Michael. However, prior to this, preaching had been
kept up on the Virginia side by pastors of the Scioto Conference. The
main one was Jonas Frownfelter, whose name deserves a place alongside the
heroes enumerated in the eleventh chapter of Hebrews. On one occasion,
when the Ohio River was out of its banks, and too dangerous for the
ferryman to venture across, he plunged in a little below the town of
Syracuse, swam his horse across, and came out at Hartford City, a half
mile below, singing like a conqueror:

    “From every stormy wind that blows,
    From every swelling tide of woes,
    There is a calm, a sure retreat,” etc.

All honor to those who put their sweat, and tears, and blood into the
foundations of the conference, thus enabling others to build safely and
successfully.

Early in the fifties a paper known as the _Virginia Telescope_, was
started in West Columbia, ostensibly in the interest of the whole Church,
but later developments proved that the object was to organize a Southern
United Brethren Church, making the slavery question the basis of the
separation. When the presiding elder, G. W. Statton, became aware of its
purpose, he threw his official influence against its continuance, and
succeeded, by the aid of others, in eliminating it as a disturbing factor.

The reader will pardon me for taking up these early historical threads,
woven long before my day as an itinerant, but I have done so with the
view to preserving in permanent form interesting facts not generally
known, and nowhere written into the history of the Church.



CHAPTER IV.


In March of 1878, the conference assembled in Grafton, with Bishop J.
J. Glossbrenner as its presiding officer. At this session the brethren
greatly surprised me by electing me one of the presiding elders. No
thought of such a thing had ever entered my mind. I could not see the
propriety of putting a young man, not yet twenty-seven, over men of age,
ability, and experience, hence it was with no little diffidence that I
accepted the West Columbia District, in the bounds of which I had already
worked two years. The district contained only eleven charges, but these
were widely scattered, embracing all or parts of Cabell, Mason, Jackson,
Wood, Putnam, Kanawha, and Roane counties, and were as follows: Milton,
Point Pleasant, Cross Creek, Thirteen, Jackson, Red House, Fair Plain,
Sandy, New Haven, Wood, and Hartford City. Later, Walton was added.

The salary assessed the district was $425; out of this I had to pay
traveling expenses, provide a house to live in, and pay a hired girl.
Under such conditions I could afford a house of only three rooms. I
never believed in a preacher, or any one else, for that matter, living
beyond his income. Debt is an awful devil for the itinerant to contend
with, and should be avoided at all hazard. In all the years of my
ministry I have never left a pastoral charge or district owing any one
thereon a nickel. If a man is fit to be a preacher, debt will distract
his mind and put a thorn in his pillow; it cannot be otherwise with a
sensitive nature. God save our young men from the habit and curse of
debt-making.

No little of my travel, while on the district, was by boat on the Ohio
and Big Kanawha rivers. Only one of my fields was touched by a railroad,
and that was sixty miles from where I lived. My custom was to go by
boat to the point nearest the place of the quarterly meeting, and then
walk the remaining distance, whether it be five or twenty-five miles.
Often I might have secured conveyance for the asking, but I felt that it
was humiliating to be always annoying somebody for favors, nor have I
changed an iota in all these years in this regard. If a preacher wants
to make himself a nuisance among his parishioners, he can easily do so
by constantly making demands upon them which look to his own comfort and
that of his family. Many a time I walked from twelve to fifteen miles
in a day, held quarterly conference, and preached twice. Occasionally
the distance would stretch out to twenty miles. I did not mind the labor
so much as I did the suffering from sore feet; walking in the hot sun
or over frozen roads, hour after hour, often caused them to blister and
bleed. In these experiences I was not alone; many others, some of whom
yet live, suffered the same or kindred hardships.

In February of 1879 I was called home to my father’s. After a day or
two I tried to return, but upon reaching Parkersburg found the river
so frozen and clogged with ice that the boats could not run. It was
Thursday afternoon. My quarterly was at Oakhill, fully forty miles
distant, the next Saturday at two o’clock. The roads were badly frozen
and almost impassable. When I saw the situation I determined to make the
trip overland as best I could; if I could not find assistance along the
way, I would walk it. Leaving the city at four o’clock, I traveled on
till darkness overtook me, when I turned aside and knocked at the door
of a humble cabin and asked for lodging, which was cheerfully granted;
but I had made only a few miles. In addition to the rough roads, I was
burdened with a good-sized grip and overcoat. The next morning at daydawn
I resumed my journey. Once during the day I rode two or three miles in
somebody’s sled, but beyond this I got no help. Long after the dinner
hour I secured a cold lunch, which the reader may be assured was relished
by a tired, hungry man. An hour before sundown I reached Sandyville,
where a warm supper was enjoyed at a little hotel. Still I was fifteen
miles away from the point for which I was aiming, and felt that I could
go no farther without help; but a kind friend generously agreed to loan
me his horse to ride as far as Ripley, seat of justice for Jackson
County, from which place the mail-carrier was to lead it back the next
day; but the poor animal was shoeless, and went crippling along at a
snail’s gait over the rough ground.

Two miles distant I had to cross Sandy Creek, and found it partly frozen
over. It was too dark to discern the danger of fording the stream. After
repeated efforts, I succeeded in getting the horse on to the ice, but as
quick as a flash it fell broadside, pitching me—I never knew where nor
just how far; but the horse beat me up, turned its head homeward, and
disappeared in the darkness. What did I do? Well, what almost anybody
else would have done under like circumstances. I took the back track
and returned to the village where the animal belonged, and found that
it had returned in good order. The next morning my feet were so sore
that I could not wear my shoes, but was fortunate in securing a pair of
arctics in which to travel the rest of the journey. By noon Ripley was
reached, where conveyance was secured which enabled me to make the place
of meeting and call the conference on schedule time.

Some one may suggest that I was foolish for making such an effort to
reach the quarterly when nothing apparently unusual was at stake; maybe
I was, but such was my way of doing. I always believed that a preacher
ought to fill his engagements promptly unless providentially hindered,
and then he ought to be fair enough not to blame providence with too
much; but few days are ever too cold and stormy, or nights too dark to
keep a man from his appointments if he is anxious to preach the word
and minister to his people. I here record the fact, with feelings of
satisfaction and pride, that in more than a third of a century I have
not disappointed a dozen congregations. As I see it, a preacher succeeds
in his work just as business or other professional men succeed in their
respective callings. He must bestir himself, and permit no obstacle
to get between him and duty; any other policy means failure. At it
everywhere and all the time, and keeping everybody else at work, are the
only ways to win for the Church and maintain a good conscience before
God.

Conference met in Hartford City. The chart showed that a good year had
been enjoyed, 1,354 new members being reported. Of this number, 535 were
credited to West Columbia District.

The second year on the district was like unto the first—full of toil,
responsibility, and peril betimes.

As an indication of what was required of a presiding elder in order to
aid his pastors and keep the work of the district well in hand, I relate
the following experience: A rainy winter morning found me on Milton
Circuit—the last charge in the southwestern part of the conference. I had
an appointment that evening at Cross Creek, thirty-five miles east. The
mud in some places was knee deep to my horse, but on and on I traveled,
over hills and along meandering streams, sometimes walking myself up
and down steep places in order to relieve my weary horse. At last, when
it was nearly dark, I halted on the bank of the great Kanawha, opposite
the town of Buffalo. But how was I to get across the threatening stream?
The ice lay piled in great heaps on either shore; the man who tended the
ferry hesitated to come after me when I called to him, but he was given
to understand that in some way I must be gotten over. Finally he agreed
to make the attempt, and after hard rowing, landed me on the opposite
side but below the regular coming-out place, and where the ice was badly
gorged. Then the real difficulty of the venture was apparent. We had to
get the horse up over the great blocks of ice that lay at the water’s
edge, and it was to two of us an exciting time; no one can describe it on
paper. Holding on to the animal, pulling my best at the bridle-rein all
the while, the ferryman pushing with all his might, we finally scrambled
over the ice and through narrow passageways until a place of safety
was reached. How thankful I felt when it was all over, and how I loved
that horse! Doctor Warner used to tell how his faithful horse once swam
an angry stream, and that after the shore had been reached in safety
he dismounted, put his arms around the neck of his deliverer, kissed
his lips, and wept for joy. Itinerating in the early days of the West
Virginia Conference meant all this, and sometimes much more.

When I got to the church, two miles farther on, I found the congregation
waiting and ready to join in the service. It might be stated, in
this connection, that in those days the coming of the “elder” was an
extraordinary event, and seldom failed to bring out the entire community.

The following evening I had an engagement to preach at Mount Moriah,
still farther east some thirty miles. It rained the day through. A part
of the journey I followed a single trail, popularly known as a “hog
path.” Such a route relieved me somewhat from the mud, but, being in the
woods, I could not carry an umbrella over me, hence had to take the rain
as it came; but I must not disappoint the people. They had my word for
it that I would be there, and the promise must be sacredly kept. It was
a little after dark when I caught a glimpse of the lights in the old log
church; but, hold! I suddenly found myself up against another serious
difficulty—Parchment Creek was out of its banks. There seemed no show
for getting over except to plunge in and swim my horse. I hesitated;
already wet and cold, I was loath to make the attempt. I would have to
carry my saddle-bags on my shoulder if I saved my Bible, hymn-book, and
sermons; the water would come to my waist, to say the least. Then another
trouble appeared; it was too dark to see the road or landing-place on the
opposite side, and I might drift below it with the current and not get
out at all. While thus cogitating, I heard some boys talking on the other
side as they were going to church. Calling to them, I said, “Boys, can’t
you in some way help me over the creek?” “Who are you?” was the reply.
“I’m the preacher,” I answered, “and want to get to the church.” After
a short consultation among themselves, one of them shouted back, “All
right; we’ll bring the skiff after you.” Soon I heard them push out from
the shore, and in a few moments they landed near me. “Now,” said one,
“you get in here with Bill, and I’ll swim your hoss over,” and in less
time than it takes to pen the happenings, he was in the saddle on his
knees and starting for the water. Did he get over safely? Yes, indeed;
he entered the stream above the usual place of going in, hence the horse
swam, not against the current, but at an angle with it. In every way
possible I thanked those boys for their kindness to me, for they had
certainly kept me from putting my life in peril. If they are still living
and should happen to glance over these pages, they will readily recall
the event.

The church was nearly full of people, and I certainly enjoyed preaching
to them. The great Father had been graciously with me to guide my ways
and to protect my life. How glad I will be if, on the morning of the
eternal to-morrow, I shall find that the service that evening helped some
soul heavenward!

Rev. W. W. Rymer, over thirty years ago, nearly lost his life in this
same region on account of high waters. His horse either could not or
would not swim, but plunged furiously when beyond his depth. The heroic
itinerant stayed in the saddle as long as he could, but was finally
dislodged and went down. In the midst of it all he retained his presence
of mind and aimed for the nearest shore, which was not far away. Being
unable to swim, he crawled on the bottom a part of the way, and at
last found himself where he could stand with his head above the water.
The horse, fortunately, came out on the same side. Commenting on the
incident, Mr. Rymer says: “After my deliverance, it was clear to me
that I had been near death’s door, and also near heaven. Two thoughts
followed; one was: ‘If I had not escaped, I would now be in glory,’ and
I confess I felt good over the reflection. The other was: ‘No, it is
better that I got out, for if I had drowned, my parents would have had
great sorrow.’ I took it all to mean that my work was not yet done, and
soon experienced great peace of mind. Almost thirty-one years have come
and gone since then, but the ruling purpose of my heart all the while has
been to preach Jesus. Before thirty-one years more have rolled around,
I shall have gone through death’s river—yes, through to the other side,
where I shall see my Lord face to face.”

Let the reader be assured that there is a profound satisfaction in
looking back to those times of trial and suffering, of battle and
victory, when the ways of Providence were so plain, and when an
unspeakable jay crowned the years of toil and service.

After another ride of twelve miles from Mount Moriah, I reached my home
in Cottageville, near the Ohio River. How inexpressibly delightful to be
at home again with wife and little ones! What a heavenly place home is
when love and sunshine await the itinerant’s coming! While he ministers
to them, they also minister tenderly to him; such mutual love and
helpfulness is to be found nowhere else.

My support for the year consisted of $427.83 in salary and $22.41 in
presents. Fifty dollars of this went for house rent, and fully as much
more for traveling expenses. Beside these outlays, we kept hired help in
the home all the time.

Buckhannon, Upshur Country, was the seat of the next session of the
conference. The noble Bishop Glossbrenner was with us in the fullness of
the Spirit, and charmed us with the warmth and sweetness of his gospel
messages. As recording secretary, I edited a little “daily,” which gave
the proceedings of the conference. This was the first and last attempt of
the kind. Such an arrangement is nice, to be sure, and sounds well when
we talk about it, but it always costs more than it is worth. The town
papers are usually willing and anxious to report the work.

During the session a most amusing incident took place. A colored brother
by the name of Waldo came to me at the noon hour on Thursday, and asked
me to marry him that evening at eight o’clock. I said, “Waldo, I cannot
grant your request. We have an evening session of conference, and I must
be there. However, if you will put it off till nine o’clock, I will be on
hand.” But to such an arrangement he would not agree. The long-looked-for
moment could not be delayed. Eight o’clock was the hour about which
clustered the sweetest anticipations of his life. The goal toward which
he had striven must be reached and won on schedule time. So, with a
twinkle of the eye, characteristic of the negro, he exclaimed: “Good
Lawd! the thing’s gone too fah now; no putting it off.” Of course I had
to arrange for another secretary under circumstances so vitally essential
to the brother’s happiness and welfare. The reason why he chose me to
perform the ceremony, he said, was because I had converted him eight
years before.



CHAPTER V.


The third year on the district brought the usual routine of duties and
hardships. By the help of Brother John Dodds, who gave me fifty dollars,
I was enabled to purchase a horse and buggy, paying $125 for the entire
outfit. This arrangement relieved me of much walking. The horses and
mules occasionally used during the previous years were borrowed or hired.
My muleback riding, however, was suddenly broken off by a rather painful
incident which occurred one night. Striking a bit of good road, I spurred
the animal into a gallop, but something happened; its forelegs seemed to
give way, and it turned a complete somersault. With my arms extended, I
went on, like a flying-machine, several feet before I struck the ground.
The fall nearly killed me. I rolled about in agony for a while before
I thought of the mule, but when I was able to get up I observed the
treacherous beast leisurely eating grass in the fence corner near by, as
if nothing had happened. I never liked a mule after that, and, to the
best of my knowledge, have not been on one since.

I never thought it out of place to have a little innocent fun once in a
while. “Laugh and grow fat,” is an old adage which has more in it than
some people suppose. A long, wry face is a poor sign of piety. To assume
a look of seriousness, as though religion were made up of clouds and
shadows and disappointments, is a false representation of the Christian
life. If any person on earth has a right to be cheerful and to smile all
over his face, it is the one who honestly endeavors to serve God, and has
his eyes throneward all the while. Yes—

    “A little nonsense now and then
    Is relished by the wisest men.”

Certainly, then, there is nothing wrong in those not so wise enjoying it.

One blustery March day, after a long, irksome ride over the hills, I was
passing a farm-house where two young lads were chopping wood. Here is an
opportunity, I thought, to have a little sport; so, reining in my horse,
I called, “Say, boys, can you tell me how far it is to where I want to
go?” In an instant one of them replied, “Yes, sir; three lengths of a
fool; get off and measure.” It was no time to talk back, or to interpose
objections to such rudeness with a presiding elder. I had gotten myself
into the difficulty, so had to get out as gracefully as possible. Bidding
them the time of day, I passed on, descanting in an undertone upon the
subject of depravity, and wondering what was to become of the rising
generation. Since then I have deemed it wise to approach the average boy
somewhat cautiously, as one never knows when or in what direction his gun
will go off.

About this time, and perhaps in connection with this trip, I had an
amusing experience with a brother who appeared before the quarterly
conference for license to preach. When asked to state his views on
depravity, he frankly admitted that he did not fully understand the
doctrine, but said he believed that man was “_teetotally deprived_.”
Before the examination was over the conference was clear in its judgment
that it could not afford to credential a man who was _deprived_ of common
sense.

During the year it was my privilege and pleasure to convey the greetings
of my conference first to the West Virginia Conference of the Methodist
Episcopal Church, and then to the Baptist Association of the State. Both
were large, influential bodies, and received with marked cordiality the
messenger sent by the United Brethren.

While our people of the conference were loyal, and believed in a robust,
aggressive denominationalism, they were free from that narrow, bigoted
sectarianism which is so unlike the religion we profess. They were
cordial and generous in their treatment of others, and always ready to
grasp the hand of fellowship, no matter by whom extended. They believed
in _union_, and do yet. As far back as 1870, the following was spread
upon the conference minutes:

“WHEREAS, The tendency of the times is toward a more intimate union
among the various religious denominations of the country; and, whereas,
negotiations are now going on between the Evangelical Association and the
United Brethren in Christ, looking toward their union; therefore,

“_Resolved_, That we, as a conference, entertain the idea of such a union
most favorably, and hope that it can be effected on terms alike honorable
to both denominations.”

Bishop Glossbrenner again presided at the next session of conference,
which convened in Parkersburg. The aggregate salary reported by my
district for pastoral support was $2,036, and for the presiding elder,
$411.21. The thirty-four pastors in the entire conference received, all
told, $6,535, or an average each of $192. Think of it, ye who scan these
lines! Men of God working twelve months for a pittance; men of brains
and character, of devotion and heroism; think, too, of their families!
The wife and mother at home continually, with but few social, or other
advantages; the little ones barefooted the year ’round, and sometimes
far removed from school and church—all that the husband and father might
preach, and win sinners to the Cross. Glorious record, this! the dear
Lord has it in his book.

Does some one ask how our men died? Like conquerors. Awhile before
conference William H. Diddle, my predecessor on the district, and a
comrade in toil, was called to the heavenly home. The end was beautiful,
and found his soul in rapture. When far out in the river he shouted back,
“Do not be excited. If this is death, I am not afraid to die.” His life
had been as pure as a sunbeam. His unselfishness was a marvel to many. He
literally gave himself for the good of others, and thus became one with
his divine Christ, both in sacrifice and service. As he entered the gates
I think Jesus said: “Stand back, Gabriel; stand back, Michael; stand
back, all ye angelic hosts, and make room for one who must be next only
to myself.” What a change from a poor, three-hundred-dollar circuit!

For the fourth time I was sent back to the district, but I returned with
the feeling that this must be the last year. In my report to conference
I had asked to be relieved from district work, but the brethren did not
see fit to grant the request.

I am, and always have been opposed to long terms of office. The duties
entailed by positions of trust usually are such as to interfere with
systematic study. This is the main reason why many officials narrow down
in their pulpit work to a few sermons. They do not have time to prepare
new discourses. Then there is a tendency among those who hold office,
whether in the annual conference or general Church, to develope a spirit
of bossism, which is incompatible with United Brethrenism. Perhaps the
men in office are not so much at fault as is the system which keeps
them there. They somehow get the notion that they must have a finger in
everything, and that nothing can be done exactly right without them.
There may be, and are notable exceptions, of course, but they are few and
widely separated.

Having been elected to the General Conference, with Z. Warner and E.
Harper as associates, I attended the meeting of that body which occurred
in Lisbon, Iowa, the following May. This was all new to me, but the
conference was hardly so interesting as were the vast prairies of
Illinois and Iowa, and the marvelous products of the great farms to be
seen on every hand. In feeding our horses and cattle in West Virginia,
we almost invariably allotted to each just so many ears of corn. Even the
swine we expected to butcher were given a daily allowance; but in Iowa I
was surprised to see chickens, hogs, cattle, and everything else given
free access to the compile. But such is their way of doing out West. The
rich soil is transmuted into corn, the corn into pork and beef, and these
into gold, which has developed on the material side a wonderful country.

During each of the four years I spent on the district, we held a
ministerial institute. This portable school of the prophets was suggested
by Rev. E. Harper, now a presiding elder in North Nebraska, as far back
as 1875. A whole week at a time would be spent in hearing recitations and
lectures, and the work was most thorough. Our studies embraced Old and
New Testament history, systematic theology, Christian ethics, homiletics,
church history, mental and moral philosophy, English grammar, the English
Bible, etc. Some of the textbooks used were gone through again and again
in the course of a few years. We used charts, maps, the blackboard—in
fact, everything that would aid in the study of the Word, quicken a
desire for knowledge, and increase the preacher’s efficiency in the
pulpit. Dr. Warner was at first our main preceptor; and what a teacher
he was! thorough, clear, and enthusiastic; he knew what he wanted to say,
and how to say it. He was mighty in the Scriptures; and as a pulpiteer
and platform speaker had no equal in his conference, and perhaps nowhere
else in the Church. Later, others took part in the work of instruction,
which greatly pleased him, relieving him of much of the burden assumed in
the outset.

A resolution was adopted to the effect that any preacher who wilfully
absented himself from these gatherings, designed especially for his
mental and moral improvement, should be left without work until all
others had been employed. This policy was drastic, to be sure, but in the
end it proved a blessing to our ministry. Much of the clerical material
we had on hand was exceedingly raw, but genuine, nevertheless, and
susceptible of being wrought into a highly-finished and useful product.
One young brother affirmed, publicly, that the crucifixion occurred
seventy years before the flood; another, in preaching on Daniel in the
lion’s den, said he didn’t know how he got to Babylon unless he had been
shipwrecked. Both of these were good men, and one of them proved very
successful as an itinerant. Cases of such dense ignorance were rare, of
course, but to such brethren the institute was of incalculable value,
as history, geography, chronology, and other features of biblical study
were made a specially. But let no one be deceived into thinking that
all, or a majority were illiterates. Far from it Some were giants in
the pulpit, and were heard with gladness by the multitudes. One after
another, other conferences took up the institute idea, until it prevails
to-day in one form or another in nearly all the conferences, and no
doubt will remain a permanent fixture in the methods of the Church. The
plan is a good one, and commends itself especially to young men who are
striving for self-improvement in the pulpit, and along lines of practical
work. However, before the institute should come the _college_ and
_seminary_. At a time like the present, when money is abundant, and the
beneficiary aid of the church may be drawn upon, every one looking toward
the ministry should seek and secure the help proffered by these great
institutions. The character and mission of any denomination depend upon
the type of its preachers. The United Brethren Church is no exception to
this rule.

Grafton was the seat of the next conference, Bishop J. Dickson directing
its business. The year had been fairly successful in various ways, but
the salaries remained exceedingly low. Over the conference they average
$202.88. My own was $433.18, with the addition of $74.50 in presents. Of
the thirty-seven charges reported, only two paid as much as $400; five
paid from $300 to $350; eleven from $200 to $300; while all the rest fell
below $200. But the brethren were ready and willing to try it again. The
secretary says at the close of the proceedings: “The unanimity among the
preachers and delegates, and the deep solicitude manifested by all for
the prosperity of the conference, made the entire session remarkably
pleasant.” Referring to the Sabbath evening service, he adds: “At the
close a number of the ministers made brief remarks relative to their past
hardships, and bespoke the prayers of the conference for success during
the coming year. This part of the service was deeply affecting.” Yes, I
remember the occasion well. Dr. Landis, of the Seminary, was present, and
wept with the rest of us, as he listened to the story of more than one
who was willing to “endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.”

The following will indicate the courageous attitude of the conference on
questions of moral reform:

“WHEREAS, the use of tobacco is expensive, filthy, unnecessary, and,
therefore, an evil, and,

“WHEREAS, it is especially unbecoming for ministers of the gospel to
surrender to an acquired appetite, defile the body, the temple of the
Holy Ghost, and thus, by example, encourage the young to do likewise; and,

“WHEREAS, this evil cannot be remedied so long as ministers freely and
openly indulge in it, therefore,

“_Resolved_, 1. That from this time forward no person be granted license
to preach by this Annual Conference who persists in the use of tobacco.

“_Resolved_, 2. That all licentiates who indulge this habit be required
to give it up before taking upon themselves the vows of ordination.”

The significance of this action will be more fully appreciated when it
is understood that West Virginia is a tobacco-producing States and that
its use, in one form or another, is pretty general among the people. A
report on temperance, which mercilessly arraigned the liquor traffic, and
its political abetters, was also adopted. Here is a sentence or two from
it: “Believing as we do that prohibition is both humane and holy, we can
have no sympathy for a policy, or a Christianity that ignores it at the
ballot-box.” Men who were willing to work for a pittance, which meant
that they and their families were to go scantily fed, and half clothed,
all for the sake of redeeming their native State, could not be expected
to condone the offenses of the liquor dealer, or to have decent respect
for those who did.

[Illustration: House Where the Bishop First Went to Housekeeping and
Where His First Child Was Born, Grafton, W. Va.]

The next two years were spent in Parkersburg. During the first we had a
blessed revival which continued several weeks; in all, more than seventy
joined the Church. But during the second year the work was hindered by
circumstances beyond human control. A great sorrow came to our home. By
degrees the shadows deepened, until the mother of my three children bade
us a final adieu, and pushed out into the unseen. God pity and help the
itinerant to whom such an experience comes! But my own mother, now of
such precious memory, was ready to take the little ones, and to bestow
upon them that wealth of care and love which never fails to enrich the
life.

The next year was given to the financial management of the West Virginia
Normal and Classical Academy, located at Buckhannon. While the school
did excellent work for a few years, it eventually went down for want
of material support. In view of the losses and disappointments and
alienations caused by its failure, I am not sure that the conference
did a wise thing in starting it. Little colleges have their advantages,
I grant, but trying to operate one at every crossroads on faith and
enthusiasm, is too much of a good thing.

By consent of the conference I agreed to give a few months to the
business management and associate editorship of the _West Virginia
Freeman_, the State prohibition organ. During this period I made a
partial canvass of the State in the interest of a prohibition amendment
then pending. It would require a whole chapter to tell of my experiences
with the old political partisans, some of whom fairly went into spasms at
the very mention of prohibition. Our presidential candidate, John P. St.
John, had defeated James G. Blaine, so the Republicans affirmed; hence
they were ready to vote against anything, or anybody, the angel Gabriel
not excepted, who believed on any point as St. John did. Many of these
were Christians, so-called, and some of them members of my own Church. I
knew them well; and be it said to their everlasting shame, that they went
against the amendment, just as did every whiskyite in the State.

Under our system of government the ballot has in it a moral element, and
therefore will meet us at the bar of final reckoning. It not only has
to do with our political, industrial, and educational affairs, but with
the church and family as well. What show will a man have at the last
day whose ballot has constantly belied his profession as a Christian?
I have never been able to understand how he could enthrone his Lord
in the affairs of state by voting a ticket perfectly satisfactory to
the drunkard-maker. It remains for an allwise God to determine what
disposition shall be made of these vicious ballots when the judgment day
comes. Personally, I have no respect for, or confidence in any United
Brethren or member of any other church who, knowingly, votes for a man
for any office who is opposed to my Christ and the cause for which he
stands.

Being ever ready to “speak my piece” against the saloon and its allies,
I was constantly stirring up a “hornet’s nest” over the business. When I
spoke against it, whether in public or private, I never hesitated to pay
my respects to the machine politician, since I regarded him and rum as
closely related. As the result, some of the newspapers and office-seekers
got after me with a vengeance. This I confess was to my liking, since
I felt sure I was making at least some kind of impression upon them.
Then it gave me a chance to answer their criticisms, and puncture their
fallacies. The following extract from one of my replies may be of
interest to the reader. The principle laid down will always hold good:

“All at once the saloonist and politician are becoming greatly concerned
over the question of ‘pure and undefiled religion’; and well they may,
for if religion is effectually taken into politics they will as certainly
go out. This they fully understand, hence yell themselves hoarse in
trying to divert attention when the pulpit begins to let the light in
upon their devilish business. While a man is a minister of the gospel, he
is also a citizen in common with other men. The fact that he pays taxes,
lives under, and is subject to the laws of our commonwealth, makes him
such. Then most assuredly he has the same right as other men to be heard
upon great political issues that affect the well-being of his country. If
not, why not? Touching all moral and political affairs which have to do
with the home, the individual, and the general good of the community, the
pulpit has ever stood at the front, and so it ever will, unless it sells
out to the saloon.

“The truth is, under a government like ours, presumably Christian,
all political questions have a moral phase, and to a greater or less
extent involve the question of religion. In other words, every question
in politics touches at some point the work of the pulpit, therefore
it is right and proper for the minister to discuss before his people,
prudently, of course, the moral bearings of all these issues. There is
nothing that the liquor ring, and old-line politicians would rather do
than to stifle the utterances of the pulpit, for well they know that the
molding of sentiment, and the training of the moral forces by which the
eternal God proposes to overthrow and dash in pieces their strength, must
there begin.”

In May of this year, 1885, I attended my second General Conference, which
met at Fostoria, Ohio, in company with Z. Warner, E. Harper, and S. J.
Graham. The occasion was an historic one. Radicalism was given a black
eye; the forces of the Church were realigned, and the clouds which had so
long hung over our Zion were pierced by the sunlight of a new day.



CHAPTER VI.


The time of holding the annual conference having been changed from
spring to fall, the next session was held at the Simmons’ chapel, in
Lewis County. I was again made presiding elder, stationed on Parkersburg
District, and soon moved to Pennsboro, where my headquarters remained for
the next four years. My diocese extended from Parkersburg to Irondale, a
distance, east and west, of one hundred and sixteen miles, and from the
Ohio River on the north far interior to the south. The fields embraced
were Parkersburg Station, Parkersburg Circuit, Volcano, Pennsboro, Troy,
Middle Island, Littles Mills, Grafton, Irondale, Hessville, Tanner,
Sylvan Mills, and Smithton.

A vast amount of hard work, I soon discovered, would be necessary to make
anything like a commendable showing in a territory so large and difficult
to cultivate. The first duty with me was to care for my preachers. It
was my notion then, and my views have not changed in all these years,
that if a presiding elder wants his men to do good work he must, first of
all, do his best for them financially. If the salary was insufficient,
and it nearly always was, as I have shown many times over, it had to be
supplemented in one way or another. If the stewards were worthless, I
asked them to resign. If they did not know how to collect, I went along
and instructed them as best I could. In some cases we would canvass
the entire neighborhood with a two-horse team and wagon, and gather up
flour, corn, potatoes, chickens, meat, eggs, sorghum, butter—in a word,
anything and everything that could be used at the parsonage, or exchanged
for groceries. When nothing better could be done, I would load up my own
horse with flour and meat and lead him to the preacher’s home with his
precious cargo of provisions. Then what a good time we would have! Some
who are yet at work in the conference were helped in this way. I also
found it profitable to have the people on each field, if at all possible,
make the pastor a present of a new suit of clothes each year. The plan is
usually a popular one, and in most cases can be worked, if placed in the
hands of the right persons. It is the equivalent of just so much extra
cash to the preacher. But with some it may be a query as to how I managed
the indifferent pastor. Sometimes one way, and sometimes another. Every
presiding elder, I suppose, has his own methods. My plan was first to
aid and encourage him all I possibly could. I tried to prove to him, in a
substantial way, that I was his friend, and wanted to help him make his
work a success. If, after all this, he persisted in being a failure, I
frankly told him he would have to drop out. Such a step requires courage,
I know, but it must be taken once in a while. No railroad company
or any other business concern would think of employing inefficient,
untrustworthy men; such a policy would be suicidal; nor can an elder
afford to supply his fields with those who are utterly devoid of fitness
for a work so high and responsible.

A man may be a “good fellow” in many respects, and promise to support
his elder if continued in active service, but these things should have
no weight in the matter of appointments. The welfare of the church
should always be considered before that of the individual. If either
must go down, let it be the preacher. Why put him in a position to
chill, discourage, and perhaps wreck a whole charge? Nor should a man be
employed if inefficient by reason of age or poor health. The fact that a
minister was once successful is no reason for continuing him indefinitely
in the pastorate. A record of usefulness, I know, is a crown of glory to
any old, worn-out toiler, but with such glory he ought to be satisfied.
I have always hoped, and still do, that I may have sense and grace enough
to retire of my own accord before my conference is compelled to put me on
the shelf. The church, however, should provide a comfortable living for
her servants when they can no longer remain at the front. They deserve
such recognition, and to withhold it is to sin against them and the God
whose they are, and whom they have served.

With reference to the presiding elder, or superintendent, I will further
say that he is the most useful and important man we have if he does his
duty faithfully; otherwise he is the biggest bore in the church. He is
not a success if he does mere routine work and nothing more. He must
reach out. He must be larger than his district, yet strive all the while
to make it as big as himself. He must keep things going. If resourceful,
he will always find a way to inspire and profit his men, if there is
anything in them to respond to his efforts. If he is not a general, he is
not fit for the place. He must go panoplied with helmet and breast-plate,
shield and sword, ready to fight, preach, or die, on a moment’s notice.
How the church and pastor are to be pitied when compelled to suffer three
or four official visits during the year from an old, dry stick, destitute
of sympathy and enthusiasm.

The year was not without its incidents, both serious and amusing. During
one of my quarterlies held in the Big Fishing Creek region a fight
occurred among some of the toughs as they went from church on Saturday
evening. In an article to the county paper I took occasion to criticise,
rather sharply, such behavior, and emphasized the fact that the officers
of law ought to do their duty in all such cases. In fact, the derelict
officials were as severely arraigned as were the offending pugilists.

Three months later I was in that section again; after the Sabbath morning
services, at Mt. Olive, I went to Laurel, some miles away, to fill an
evening appointment. After riding quite a distance along a high ridge,
which overlooks all the country around it, I turned down a little ravine
which lead to Laurelrun; but suddenly my cogitations were interrupted by
a big, burly sixfooter, who knew of my coming and was waiting for me.
Stepping in front of my horse, he blurted out, “Are you the feller what
wrote that piece in the paper about me?” I replied that I did not know
who he was, or what “piece” he referred to. “I’m one of them fighters
you wrote about in the _Star_,” he said, “but what you writ wasn’t true,
so I thought I would wait for you here.” In the meantime we were both
moving slowly down the hill, and he was at my side. If ever I did hard,
double-quick thinking, it was then. I knew what he was there for, and a
general mix-up seemed inevitable. I at once decided on a policy. I would
talk him out of any evil intent he might have, if it were possible to do
so; if not, and nothing else would suffice, I would get off my horse and
stay with him just as many rounds as I could, with the hope that somebody
might come along and help me out, if help was needed. I began to explain
how and where I got my information, and how I felt over such unbecoming
conduct on the way from divine worship. At this point he interjected the
remark that my informant was a liar, using adjectives and expletives
which would not look well in print. But I kept on with my speech,
using all the eloquence and fervor at my command. I expatiated on the
sacredness of worship, and portrayed in the most vivid colors possible
the beauty and praiseworthiness of the young man who honors the gospel,
and loves and lives in peace with all men. Though there was blood in his
eye at the start, I soon observed that I was gaining on him. By and by
he began to sanction what I said. It was clear that I had his attention,
so I kept on talking something good to him until he finally stopped me
as abruptly as when we first met, saying, “Wal, I guess I’le go back.
I kinder thought I’d like to ax you about it. Good-by.” What a feeling
of relief came to me as the fellow disappeared. A scrap, and possibly
something worse, had been avoided. I at once decided, however, that the
country editor thereafter would have to look elsewhere for information
when such brawls occurred. Such a narrow escape from—I did not know
what—convinced me that at least in that particular locality the work of a
newspaper correspondent was incompatible with that of a presiding elder.

It was on one of my visits to this same field that I made some of our
own dear people very cross over a little verse, purely original, which I
wrote on the blackboard. Nearly everybody used tobacco in some form. Many
of the women were snuff dippers, and smoked the pipe, while nearly all
the men either chewed or smoked, or did both. The stanza ran thus:

    Who can chew the dirty stuff,
      In the sacred place of prayer?
    Who can smoke or rub snuff,
      And feel that God is there?

Years afterward, I was told that some were still talking about that bit
of poetry.

The district paid a salary of $496.53 to the elder. Out of this he paid
for house rent and car fare, $110. The thirty-seven pastors of the
conference received an average of $140 each. The highest salary, $480,
was received by Rev. R. A. Hitt, on Parkersburg Station, $100 of which
was put into rent. The good Lord only knows how he managed to keep his
family in respectability, entertain his many visitors, and meet other
legitimate expenses, on the pittance of $380. And the same query may
be raised in the case of nearly all his colaborers; but they somehow
succeeded in making ends meet. As one of them expressed it, “When my wife
scrapes the bottom of the flour barrel, God always takes notice.” “This
is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith.” In addition
to the aggregate salary received, the “presents” amounted to $1,276.28,
or about $34, upon an average, to each pastor. The net increase in the
membership of the conference was 564, an excellent showing. But the most
vexing problem was financial. Times were hard, money scarce, and the
people generally poor. Yet we believed and wrought in expectation of
larger things. Thank God, they are coming.

Pennsboro was the seat of the next conference session. Bishop Weaver
presided. Perhaps the most striking event of the occasion was the
presence of Dr. Lewis Davis, of Union Biblical Seminary. It was his
first appearance among us. Probably the wide difference between his views
and those of the conference on the secrecy question had kept him from
making an earlier visit; but his presence was highly appreciated by us
all, and in turn he greatly enjoyed the courtesies accorded him by the
brethren. As I bade him good-by at the train, he said, “Didn’t we have a
glorious time? I am glad I came. Wish I had come long ago.”

The second year on the district was more trying and laborious than
the first. The preacher placed in charge of Volcano Circuit resigned
before the holidays, and not being able to secure a suitable supply,
I decided to keep up the work myself in connection with the duties of
the district. The nearest point was ten miles from my home, and the
farthest twenty-five; this gave me seven preaching-places; namely, Zion,
Volcano, St. Paul, Long Run, Big Run, Harmony Grove, and Freeport. I
could give the charge only an occasional Sabbath, hence was compelled
to do my preaching and visiting among the people on week days. I held
three revivals, preached eighty-three sermons, and collected all the
conference benevolences; for this extra service I received $150. Serving
as pastor and presiding elder both, kept me from home nearly all the
time. It was no uncommon thing to reach home late at night, and then
leave early the next morning; but to work was a pleasure and joy; I did
not mind the loss of sleep. There was not enough terror in the storm,
or “warring elements,” to prevent the filling of my engagements. No day
was too cold, or night too dark to travel, if, by so doing something
could be done toward lifting up the district. I hope there is no egotism
in what I here say. _There is none._ I simply state the facts. I lay no
claim to superior devotion over my brethren who worked at my side, and
were loyal to the core. No others but brave, true men can succeed among
the mountains, or anywhere else for that matter; but in some places more
faith and courage and sacrifice are necessary than in others.

How I pitied my family. They were alone almost constantly year in and
year out. Under such circumstances it was impossible for me to know my
children well, or for them to know their father. This statement may be a
revelation to many. If any are in doubt as to its correctness, let them
ask the opinion of those who have done district work for years at a time.

I never left home without first commending my loved ones to the care of
the sleepless Eye; nor did I at any time while absent forget them in my
devotions.

Too much cannot be said for the faithful wife of the itinerant. But
alas! her worth, I fear, is not appreciated by the church as it
deserves to be. People watch and criticise her, to be sure, as they do
but few other women, but as a rule she is not accorded a very large
place in the achievements of her husband. Indeed, I sometimes fear the
minister himself does not realize her true relation to his success in
soul-winning. God only knows her anxiety and heart-yearnings as she
struggles with the problems of the home in the absence of her husband.
What a care the children are to her! But she toils on, as best she can
with the means, sometimes sadly limited, at her command.

The fact is, many a successful preacher to-day would be out of the work
but for his devoted wife. When ready to quit, and turn aside to some
other occupation more lucrative, she put her womanly heart up against
his, and urged him on to duty.

Said one of these noble helpers: “Husband, I know we are poor. Our
carpets are old and faded, and our furniture is scant and plain. I know
our dear children are barefooted, and can’t go to school; but I want
you to keep on preaching.” With a faith unfaltering, and a courage
invincible, she was willing to stay in the field—ready to serve, ready
to sacrifice, ready to die, and, thank God, ready for heaven.

Her interest in her husband, God’s servant, knows no abatement. Day and
night she is before the throne in his behalf; and are not her petitions
heard? If not, whose will be? We must not deceive ourselves. She has a
divinely-appointed place in the work of redemption, and one of tremendous
significance—_a helper in soul-saving_. Her reward is sure. As she stands
by her husband’s side on coronation morning, she, too, will hear heaven’s
“well done” for the loyal, royal part she has taken, and the service she
has rendered in the “ministry of reconciliation.”

In the earlier days of the conference, district work was exceedingly
laborious, because of the vast mountainous territory to be traversed. If
some of the circuits embraced from ten to twenty appointments, extending
over portions of three or four counties, it is evident that the presiding
elder had his hands full in superintending twelve or fifteen of these
fields. The journeys on horseback were long and fatiguing; it was no
uncommon thing to change horses at the end of a twenty-five mile ride
through the mud, or over the frozen roads. In the midst of one of these
long trips, Dr. Warner once stopped a few minutes in Pennsboro, at the
home of Mrs. Caroline Sigler, one of God’s jewels, and after putting
his tired animal away, mounted a fresh one and started on toward his
appointment, eating a piece of cold corn-bread. As the good woman looked
after him she could not keep the tears back. She knew something of the
hardships which had fallen to his lot; yet those hardships were borne
with a martyr’s courage for the sake of the Church he loved, and in which
he died.

On a certain Friday morning I was to leave for my second quarterly on
Littles Mills charge, a circuit with which the reader is already familiar
because of the happenings I have related in connection with it. The
distance was some thirty-five miles. The day brought with it a fearful
snow-storm, which seemed to make it unwise for me to attempt the trip
on horseback; but I meant to hold the meeting. Wife and children said,
“Don’t go this time.” Others interjected: “You are foolish. Nobody will
expect you.” But they were mistaken. The people did look for me. Taking
the train in the evening I went to Parkersburg, forty miles, and the
next day to New Martinsville, fifty-seven miles, and then walked sixteen
miles, partly Saturday evening, and the balance of the way the next
morning, arriving in time for the 10:30 services. I was glad I went The
pastor needed me, and anxiously awaited my coming. I should never have
felt right over the matter if I had disappointed him.



CHAPTER VII.


In the days of which I write, a quarterly meeting was a great event, and
to many it was a rare privilege to see and hear the “elder.” During the
summer and fall, especially, the attendance in many instances would be
immense. Not unfrequently the women and children present would more than
fill the house, which made it necessary to seek a “shady bower,” if one
could be found. If convenient, the seats were removed from the church
and used in the grove, but often this could not be done. More than once
I have backed up against a tree, or mounted a log, and preached to a
crowd scattered over a quarter acre of ground. On one of these occasions
a young girl, of fifteen summers, perhaps, but large for her age, went
to a house nearby and got a bucket of fresh water, and bringing it to
me in the midst of my discourse, asked me if I would have a drink. I
paused long enough to accept the courtesy, and, after thanking her for
her thoughtfulness and kindness, continued my talk. Such an infraction of
the rules governing divine worship to-day in many sections would greatly
amuse the people, no doubt, and perhaps greatly annoy the preacher; but
it was seldom noticed by speaker or congregation a third of a century ago
among the mountains. When there was no grove near, or the atmosphere was
too chilly, or the ground too damp to hold out-door services, we were
sometimes sorely defeated by the crowds that came. I here give in full an
article which I furnished the _Telescope_ on the peculiar provocations of
the elder:

“To be a presiding elder in the Parkersburg Conference means to travel
over a large territory, and to do a vast amount of hard work on small
pay; but all this is nothing compared with some other things that we
have to endure. It is no uncommon thing in this country for a presiding
elder to make a failure in the pulpit because of some circumstance, or
a combination of circumstances over which he can have but little or no
control.

“Many of the houses in which we worship are by far too small to
accommodate the congregations that generally gather on quarterly meeting
occasion. Indeed, many of our meetings are held in schoolhouses, only
intended to seat fifty or seventy-five scholars. Now put two hundred
persons, or more, into such a space, standing the most of them around the
wall, and in the aisles, and then distribute from fifty to one hundred
around the house on the outside, each striving to get his head in at a
window, and any one, though he be unused to such things, can see the
difficulty of preaching under such circumstances. If the people listen
with interest they must be comfortably situated.

“In many country districts away from the railroad, the time kept by the
people varies so materially that it is next to impossible to get them
together at the same hour. No two clocks agree, hence the people begin
to assemble at ten o’clock in the morning and keep on _assembling_ till
noon. At the appointed hour the elder announces the first hymn, and then
leads in prayer. During these opening exercises, perhaps twenty-five
persons have come upon the ground, and as soon as the _amen_ is heard
they make a rush for seats.

“Another hymn is sung, and still they come. The text is finally
announced, but what of it? The people keep on coming. The middle of
the sermon, by and by, is reached, and the preacher is still annoyed;
not for three minutes at any time has he had an open field. Only one
more proposition to discuss; it is the most important one. His strength
has been reserved mainly for it; but just as he begins to lay it open,
having secured the attention of the audience, the door creaks and in
come a half dozen women. A general stir follows. The seats are all full;
something must be done, so a half dozen men get up and surrender their
places. Still the people come. The preacher is on the home stretch,
but is badly disheartened. He has preached to the people, to be sure,
but a good part of the time to the backs of their heads. Not half of
those present when he began can tell what his text is. Indeed, he is
so confused sometimes that he hardly knows himself what it is. He has
just one more illustration to give. He hopes to make it tell, and is
succeeding well. The audience for a moment is silent as death; but of a
sudden the door opens again and a few more try to enter. In an instant
every eye is turned, and the thread of thought is dropped, and the
preacher sits down disgusted and dissatisfied.

“Of course it is not always this way, but frequently such is the case. On
such occasions the people go home no wiser than when they came. Having
been to _meetin’_ is the only pleasing thought enjoyed.

“Too many dogs go to church. I am not much of a friend to the canine race
at home, much less at church. Dogs piously inclined are the meanest dogs
in existence. If they would go under the house or even under the benches
in the house, it would not matter so much, but they will not do that.
They walk up and down the aisle, and dare even to enter the pulpit where
the presiding elder is. All this attracts attention, and detracts from
the sermon. Once in a while a dog fight occurs during service, and two
or three men have to interfere to adjust the difficulty. If the elder
intimates that the congregation or neighborhood is a little too _doggish_
to suit him, somebody gets mad and calls him a ‘stuck up’ sort of a man.
‘Beware of dogs,’ said Paul. Many a good sermon has been spoiled by them.
In West Virginia, especially, they are disturbing elements. I would favor
a war of extermination.

“But things are much better with us now than they were twenty-five
years ago. We have larger and better houses of worship, and fewer dogs
in proportion to population. We expect a great improvement in the next
quarter of a century.”

It was not an uncommon thing to see a glorious revival start at the
quarterly meeting. The love-feast, which almost invariably occurred
on Sunday morning before the sermon, was usually an occasion of deep
interest. How the old veterans would talk! How eloquent some of them
were in their simplicity! How they relished such spiritual feasts! for
such they were; and no wonder they were enjoyed by some, for they had
traveled, maybe on foot, twenty miles or more to get there. To such the
day was a veritable Pentecost. Sometimes in the midst of the sermon or
sacramental service, “hallelujahs” would be heard. Yes, once in a while
the people shouted, and nobody objected to the noise or excitement. I
am no prophet, but will risk the statement that when the church gets so
far along that no more hosannah’s are heard, it will be about time to
reconstruct things and start anew.

A red-hot testimony-meeting in many of our city churches, on the
quarterly communion occasion, would make the recurrence of the day and
the coming of the elder an event of greater significance than it seems to
be at present. Such a service would doubtless lubricate the machinery of
the church, and make the work go better. The present plan of enlarging
districts has its commendatory features, to be sure, and in some respects
it works well, yet the old _régime_, which made it possible for the elder
to be present at all the quarterlies, had its advantages.

A word here respecting the genuine hospitality of the people might not
be out of place; this, however, is characteristic of Southerners. The
presiding elder was not compelled to put up with the pastor all the time
because nobody else wanted or invited him; far from it. A half dozen
or more at a time would claim him as their guest. Instead of wondering
where he would or could go, he was puzzled to know which of the many
invitations to accept. How it embarrasses a man to be in a neighborhood
where no one seems to want him. Or, if entertainment is proffered he may
be further embarrassed by a question mark at the end of the invitation,
“Well, are you going with me?” or, “If you’ve no place else to go, come
with us.” I have been chilled many, many times since leaving the mountain
State by just such half-hearted treatment.

Nor were the presiding elder’s official duties performed without an
occasional break caused by a wag or ignoramus. Rev. G. W. Weekley was
traveling a circuit in Gilmer County with Rev. E. Harper as his elder.
At a certain meeting the latter was presiding with his usual grace and
dignity while the pastor, being a stickler for law, was making the
Discipline the rule of his business conduct. A young man was before
them for license to preach. He seemed to be all right, and had made a
favorable impression upon his pastor. “You will please state before the
chair and conference,” said the pastor to the applicant, “what your
reasons are for desiring permission to preach the gospel.” In an instant
the young brother was on his feet. The question was easy, he thought,
and so his answer was clear-cut. “Well,” he said, “I always had a desire
to see the country, and I thought that being a preacher would give me a
chance to do so.”

Then it was that the elder wilted and the preacher collapsed, and the
quarterly conference looked blank, while the dear young brother felt
himself the hero of the occasion.

We met at the Bethel church in Mason County, in September of 1887, to
make reports and to review the work of another year. Bishop Kephart was
with us for the first, and Dr. Warner for the last time. To show our
appreciation of Dr. Warner, the conference gave him a purse containing
$25.00 in silver. My district paid, in salary and presents, $526.20, out
of which $153 was expended for rent and car fare; 3,720 miles had been
traveled by rail, 941 on horseback, and 415 on foot. The average salary
in the conference was a fraction over $200. Including “presents,” which
were considerable in some cases, only one charge, Parkersburg Station,
went above $500. One other, Pennsboro, reached $400; eight got above
$300, while seventeen paid less than $200 each. The financial report
generally was much better than that of the previous year. The aggregate
increase in ministerial support on Parkersburg District was $600. Slowly
but surely we were pushing ahead and making progress, but at a cost known
only to those who were on the field.

The third year on the district was similar to the preceding one, fraught
with toil and responsibilities, but not without its spicery, which often
did much to enliven the routine work required. One of the first things
I did was to secure a horse and buggy. By using the carriage when the
roads would admit of it I relieved myself of a good deal of horseback
riding. During the winter and early spring no sort of vehicle could be
used because of the bad, and sometimes dangerous condition of the public
thoroughfares. Nor is the situation in this respect very much different
at present from what it was forty years ago. Great changes have been
wrought in other regards, but the roads, for the most part, remain the
same, and will so continue through the centuries to come.

I had a somewhat provoking experience, once upon a time, as I journeyed
with my uncle from Troy to West Union, a distance of twenty-five miles.
As the roads were exceedingly muddy I was concerned more than usual
about a new suit I was wearing, having pinned the skirts of my clerical
coat around my waist in order to keep them clean. We finally struck a
place where the thin mud was half knee-deep to the horses. Midway in
this mud-hole was a good-sized rock, but not being visible, my steed
stumbled over it onto his knees, running his nose into the mud up to the
eyes. When he went down I went over his head, and into the puddle face
foremost. Fearing that the animal would get on me, I suddenly rolled
over and then bounded to my feet. What a picture I presented! I am sure
I was no subject for artist or poet. My sleeves were full of mud and
water to the elbows, my hat and umbrella both were submerged, and, to
add to my chagrin, when I looked up at my uncle, from whom I had a right
to expect at least a little sympathy, he was lying over on his horse’s
neck laughing his best. Going to a stream nearby, I took off my coat and
plunged it into the water many times over, much like washing and wringing
a bed quilt, until the worst of the mud was off. But such an experience
was a mere incident with a mountaineer. When my clothes got dry and the
mud was brushed off they seemed to be all right, and I went on with my
work just as though the awful mix-up had not occurred.

During the year a great sorrow came to the conference. On the 24th of
January the news was flashed over the wires that Doctor Warner was dead.
In the next week’s _Telescope_ “Delta” referred to the sad event as
follows:

“The announcement of Dr. Warner’s death has cast a deep sadness over the
conference. No other conference can feel his loss as we feel it. In a
peculiar sense he was ours. No man ever had the hold upon our preachers
that he had. We can scarcely realize that he has gone from us to return
no more. He may have made mistakes in some things, like other men, but
he was a good man. That his soul during his last earthly hours should he
‘wonderfully filled with the peace of God,’ is just what we might have
expected. For thirty years he endured the hardships of a West Virginia
itinerant, sometimes traveling day and night, and making the greatest
sacrifices to build up the church he loved. Naught but devotion to God’s
cause ever led him to do so much for it. But his work now is done.
Perhaps we should not grieve over his departure, but we cannot help doing
so. The entire conference weeps. Said a brother, ‘Why didn’t the Lord
take me, and spare Brother Warner?’ This expression serves to show how
keenly his loss is felt.”

Bishop N. Castle held the next conference at New Haven. During the
session I received a telegram that I had been nominated by the
prohibitionists of the fourth district for Congress, a compliment which
I appreciated all the more because the honor came unsought. Yes, I was
a prohibitionist, and am yet, and expect to remain one until something
better claims my support. The four hundred votes cast for the ticket
in the district represented a thoughtful, moral, courageous element of
which I have always been proud. Only such people, as a rule, vote the
prohibition ticket. As I entered upon the fourth year of district work I
determined it should be my last, at least for a while. I had been kept
away from my books already too long, and consciously realized that,
while I might be gaining a little some ways, I was losing in others. The
church cannot find its highest ideals in men who live wholly outside
their libraries. It is study—familiarity with the thoughts and methods
of others—that broadens a preacher. The map studied by many of us is
too small, and needs to be enlarged so as to extend the vision. If we
would see and know things, we must look and search after them. The man
is exceedingly unfortunate who, having eyes, refuses to see, and having
intelligence, neglects the acquisition of knowledge. My advice to the
young man at the threshold of the ministry is, “Buy good books and read
them; study your discourses thoroughly and with an eye to somebody’s
salvation, and then give the people the very best that God has put in
you.”

This was a good year for the district. As it was to be the last,
I determined to make the best record possible for my successor, to
duplicate or excel. To succeed meant to go all the time. Distance, bad
weather, dangerous roads, swollen streams, or any other circumstances
were seldom allowed to get in the way. When Lincoln was asked if he
thought the war would close during his administration, he replied, “I
don’t know, sir, I don’t know.” “What, then, is your purpose?” was
further asked, to which the characteristic answer was given, “Peg away,
sir, peg away.” It is this, everlasting “pegging away”—forcing one’s way
through difficulties, and surmounting obstacles—that wins, not only in
West Virginia, but everywhere else.

Buxton wrote: “The longer I live the more deeply I am convinced that
that which makes the difference between one man and another—between the
weak and powerful, the great and insignificant—is _energy_, invincible
determination, a purpose once formed, and then victory or death.” I
quote Buxton’s words because they are gold, and have in them the ring of
triumph.

[Illustration: TRAVELING A DISTRICT]

The year brought its usual harvest of incidents—some serious, others
laughable and amusing. It is well to have a streak of fun occasionally
flash across our pathway to enliven a journey, or some task to which we
have set our hands.

One bleak Monday morning in December I was riding along a high ridge in
Wetzel County on my way home from a quarterly just held in that region.
To my right a few rods I observed a young man husking corn. He was
evidently working his best to keep warm, and, of course, not in a very
good condition to be fooled with by a stranger; but I thought I must say
something, and run the risk of an explosion. Reining up my horse and
getting his attention, I called to him, “Go it; that’s the way I got my
start.” “Yes,” he said, with lightning speed, “and a thunderin’ start you
got,” and then made the fodder rattle so that if I had replied he could
not have heard me. To be honest, I had not the disposition to talk back,
for nothing suggested itself at the moment as an appropriate response;
but for the next mile I laughed over the episode and considered myself
fortunate that nothing more serious had happened.

I might add that not far from this place Rev. S. J. Graham, years before,
suddenly found himself in a kind of menagerie one frosty morning. In
those days laymen would frequently make long trips with the preacher or
elder; spending several days from home. They thought less about business
and more about the church than some do at present. On the occasion
referred to, Brother N. Kuykendoll was with the elder. One night they
lodged with a friend in his little log cabin of one room. Of course
they were well treated and given the best the humble home could afford.
Their host arose early next morning and built a fire in an old-fashioned
fire-place, which admitted of a “back log” and “fore sticks” before the
“kindling” was put in. Soon the shanty was warm. The lay brother awoke
first, and, glancing about the room, said to his bed-fellow in a low
tone: “Brother Graham, get up; the millennium has come.” The preacher
raised himself on his elbow and looked, and sure enough there was a
strange mixture of animals lying on the hearth before the fire—a pet
lamb, a pet pig, a huge dog, and two or three cats. Years afterward I
heard these brethren talk and laugh over the experience with as much zest
as if it had occurred only the week before.

To indicate something of the work done this year, and that had to be done
to carry out the program of a presiding elder, I here insert a few pages
of a brief diary which I kept:

January 1, I wrote: “I now begin a new year. God help me. My time,
strength, soul—all must be given to the work of the church. With my
family I took dinner with Brother C. R. Brown, a precious man.”

2.—“Worked on a sermon on coveteousness. Got ‘Sweet Sicily’ and read it.”

3.—“Voted for town corporation officers. Wrote a number of letters.
Brother Poling came in the evening, and spent the night with me.”

4.—“Worked hard on my sermon on coveteousness.”

5.—“Went to Parkersburg in the forenoon, and held business meeting at
night. All was pleasant. Lodged with Pastor Martin.”

6.—“Preached from 1 Cor. 13:12 in the morning. Good meeting. Audience
melted to tears. Attended Sabbath school at 2:30 p. m., conducted the
quarterly experience meeting at six, and preached again at 7:30. House
full of people.”

7.—“Returned home on early train. With wife went to hear Methodist
preacher at night.”

8.—“At home, studying and answering correspondence.”

10.—“Went to Parkersburg again. Dined with Brother J. H. Spence. Assisted
in meeting at night.”

11.—“With the pastor visited eleven families. Large crowd at evening
service.”

12.—“Went to Red Hill, six miles distant, and held quarterly at 2:00 p.
m. Preached in the evening.”

13.—“Preached at 10:30 a. m. from Titus 2:9. Good feeling. Large
sacramental service. Shout in the camp. Pastor Devol leaped for joy.
Preached again at night.”

14.—“Came to the city and returned home. All well.”

15.—“In study all day. Attended M. E. Church at night. An interesting
revival in progress.”

16.—“At home preparing for dedication.”

18.—“Left home on early train, and reached Buckhannon at 4:00 p. m. Went
to Mt. Washington, eight miles in the country, and preached at night on
the ‘Prodigal Son.’ Thirteen seekers at the altar and four more asked
prayers. Lodged with Brother Reese.”

19.—“Rode fourteen miles to ‘Uncle Jimmy’ Hull’s for dinner, and then
went to Union Hill where I preached at night. Met Elder Graham.”

20.—“Rained hard. Congregation small. Raised $85. At night tried it
again. Good feeling. Secured $68.50 more and dedicated church. Opposition
from another church.”

21.—“Rode sixteen miles to Buckhannon through a fearful snow-storm. Went
to Weston on train and rode seven miles in the country.”

23.—“Returned home. Found all well.”

I now turn to the March record because it has to do with one of the sad
things which not unfrequently comes to the itinerant.

15.—“I started at noon for Troy Circuit, reached Auburn late in the
evening.”

16.—“Visited Father Williams and wife. The latter has been in bed three
years. Read the Word and prayed with them. Both got happy. Sung a hymn or
two for them. Held quarterly at 2 p. m., and preached on ‘Stephen, the
First Martyr.’ A good time.”

17.—“Sunday. Held prayer-meeting at 10 a. m., and preached at 11. Large
communion. Big shout in the camp. Collection $20. Talked again at night.
One of the best quarterlies I ever held.”

I pause here. On Monday evening Father Perry came, and preached for us.
After returning from church he turned to me and tenderly said, “Now,
Brother Weekley, I have a little news for you. As I came through your
town this noon I was told that your youngest child was critically ill.
The doctor regards her case as dangerous. I would have told you sooner,
but I knew it would so trouble you that you could not enjoy the service.
I knew also that you would not dare start home in the night, and thus
endanger your life. So I waited. Now leave her with God; get what rest
you can, and then be off by daylight in the morning.” But I got no rest.
It was a long, long night of tossing and anxious waiting. At day dawn
I started. The muddy roads were frozen over, but not sufficiently to
bear up my horse. A part of the time I walked. It seemed I could make
no headway at all, and didn’t make much in some places. When within two
miles of home, I called at a farm-house and inquired if they had heard
from my family, and they told me they had not. This brought me relief,
for I was sure they would have heard the news if the child were dead. At
1 p. m. I landed safely and found, sure enough, that a blessed Providence
had kept the black-winged angel from our home.

How such harrowing experiences try the very soul of the over-worked,
half-paid, care-worn man of God, who must spend all his time and strength
away from home in some obscure field! They test the material that enters
into his composition. To put the Cross and sinful souls before one’s own
family requires great faith—faith in the Redeemer, faith in his church,
and faith in the winning, victorious power of the gospel; and this is
what every itinerant in West Virginia had to have.

To indicate the nature and work of our preachers’ institute. I return to
my diary and give the items of a few days.

July 9.—“At home preparing for institute which meets to-morrow.”

10.—“Went to Smithton, and took charge of institute. Rev. H. T. Athey
assisted some. Lessons were in Old Testament history and homiletics.
Revs. H. T. Athey, H. R. Hess, R. M. Hite, G. A. Davis, J. P. Piggott,
and W. H. Albert were present.”

11.—“Met at 8 a. m. Recitations. Hess gave a talk on the ‘Apocalypse.’
Davis preached at 7 p. m. Good sermon.”

12.—“Recitations as usual. Davis made an address on ‘Prayer.’ Good. Hite
read a paper on ‘Fore-ordination.’ Discussed. Piggott preached well at
night.”

13.—“Recitations as usual. I read a paper on ‘Divorce and Adultery.’ Also
presented a diagram of Solomon’s Temple. Hess preached. Good meeting.”

14.—“Sunday. I preached at 11 a. m. Large crowd in grove. Good liberty,
and good attention. Athey preached at 3:00 p. m., and did well. Returned
home.”

The records of a few days immediately following may also be of interest.

24.—“Drove with my family to father’s, fifteen miles distant.”

25.—“Started for Hessville quarterly. Drove thirty-seven miles to Father
Mason’s.”

26.—“Drove to Bee Gum Station fifteen miles further east. Good meeting in
afternoon. Preached at night.”

27.—“Sunday. Discoursed at 10:30 a. m. on ‘The New Testament Church.’
Preached again at three o’clock on ‘Benevolence and Honesty.’ Led song
service. Drove fifteen miles back to Brother Mason’s.”

28.—“Left at 6 a. m. and drove thirty-seven miles to father’s.”

But it is needless to further reproduce here the jottings made long years
ago. The brief memorandum given is but a fair index to the activities
of the entire twelve months, or, I might say, to the forty-eight months
spent on the district.



CHAPTER VIII.


Buckhannon was again the seat of conference, and was in charge of Bishop
Weaver. This was his last visit to West Virginia. My district reported
about 600 conversions and accessions to the church. The average salary
for the pastors of the conference was $230. After paying house rent and
car fare, I had $365.79 left for the support of a family of five, and
with which to purchase books, papers, and stationery; but I did not
complain; it was more than the average circuit-rider was getting. On
this little sum we seemed to live fairly well, and imagined ourselves as
respectable as anybody in the town.

In looking over my report, I see at its close the following significant
statement: “Now, brethren, suffer a word more. I kindly and earnestly
request that you relieve me from district work. Eight years out of the
past eleven have been given to this kind of service. While I certainly
appreciate what you have done for me, I must say that I am tired of the
place, and am anxious that some one else take it. All there is in it,
whether money, distinction, responsibility, or hard work, I cheerfully
surrender to some one else, with the earnest wish that he may prove more
efficient than I have been, and that under his labors enlarged blessings
may come to the district.”

This was my last year as a presiding elder in the dear old conference.

It is now many years since I was transferred to another field, but almost
daily my thoughts go back to my native home, and to the twenty years of
unceasing toil given to the building up of the church in that mountainous
region. Indeed, I could scarcely get away. It was no easy matter to sever
the relations of a life-time. In looking over my brief record of daily
happenings I find that July 16, 1889, while pastor at Buckhannon I wrote:

“Received a letter to-day from Rev. C. Wendle, urging me to come to Rock
River Conference. Bishop Kephart also writes in like manner. Do not know
what to do, but must do right. Lord help me.” October 3, I expressed my
thoughts and feelings as follows:

“At home trying to pack our goods. What a task it is! Is God in this? I
do hope so. It is so hard to leave West Virginia. These hills and valleys
all seem sacred to me.”

The last time I visited my parents before removing West, I was deeply
affected to see how frail they seemed, and thus referred to it: “Parents
are getting old. How they are bending beneath the weight of years! Alas,
how short life is! Twenty years ago when I left home father had no gray
hairs. Now his head is white as wool. Mother! what a faithful soul!
How self-sacrificing! Anything to help her children and make herself a
blessing to others. Heaven is anxious to get such an angel. May earth
keep her yet a long while.”

These excerpts from my diary indicate that it cost me something—a
heart-struggle, at least, to turn my back upon scenes and associations
which were as sacred as life itself. But in making the change I felt I
was following the leadings of Providence, and that all would be well in
the end.

The fellowship of the brethren I left behind was sweet. Those who looked
on were compelled to say, “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for
brethren to dwell together in unity.” There was as little jealousy and
self-seeking and rivalry in the conference as I ever found anywhere. We
all were poor, and could sing like the old Methodist pioneer on his four
weeks’ circuit:

    “No foot of land do I possess,
    No cottage in the wilderness;
      A poor wayfaring man,
    I lodge awhile in tents below;
    Or gladly wander to and fro,
      Till I my Canaan gain.

    “Nothing on earth I call my own;
    A stranger to the world unknown,
      I all their goods despise;
    I trample on their whole delight,
    And seek a country out of sight,
      A country in the skies.

    “There is my house and portion fair;
    My treasure and my heart are there,
      And my abiding home;
    For me my elder brethren stay,
    And angels beckon me away,
      And Jesus bids me come.”

There was another verse we all cherished, and often sung it, as it seemed
so appropriate:

    “A tent or a cottage, why should I care?
    They’re building a palace for me over there;
    Though exiled from home, yet still I may sing,
    ‘All glory to God, I’m the child of a King.’”

In all my travels throughout the Church I have never found any conference
that could sing as the West Virginians did. Diddle, Harper, Graham,
Orr, Hitt, Holden, and Wood were among the earlier men. Later their
places were taken by Cunningham, Piggott, Sallaz, Slaughter, Carder, and
Robinson. But it is hardly fair to name a few. All could sing; and so
they can to-day.

Singing was an inspiring feature of every conference gathering. It made
the air electric, and caused high voltage pressure. We would sing on the
train, on the boat, at the hotel—everywhere. On our way from conference,
in 1879, we all stopped at a hotel in Weston for dinner. As usual, the
singers were lined up in a little while, and fairly shook the old inn
with some of their latest and freshest selections. Before we quit, the
town was thoroughly stirred up. People left their business places and
came to listen. Women and children stood in the doors of their homes, or
looked out at the windows, and wondered what it all meant. Two young men,
some blocks away, heard the singing and started on a run for the hotel.
As they passed some parties one of them was heard to say, “I’ll bet five
hundred dollars they are Brethren preachers.”

Professor Diddle, assisted by others, published the _West Virginia Lute_
in 1868, which had a tremendous sale, both among our people and those
of other churches. Then Baltzell’s music, probably _Golden Songs_, came
next among our own publications. This was also a popular book, and one of
great merit. While it contained many imperfections, it was nevertheless
thoroughly “orthodox” from our view-point. The author was not a
scientific music writer. He did not grind his songs out at the organ in
a mechanical way, but manufactured them in his heart. Such music always
takes. There is something about it that gets hold of the soul and stirs
its deepest emotions. I do not understand what that something is, but it
is there, all the same.

It was a very common remark among the people of other churches: “If you
want to hear singing, get a lot of Brethren preachers together.” We had
no organs or pianos in any of the churches, with skilled performers to
lead the audience. To aid in getting the “pitch,” a “tunningfork,” or
horn was used—a clever little device which every leader carried. But few
of the brethren, however, understood the grammar of music. They had had
no special training—but no difference; they could sing anyhow. They were
not poets, but had the poetic touch. I have heard these men of God again
and again sing until the audience was fairly entranced, and until the
fire of joy was kindled to a flame in their own hearts. They were rivals
of Israel’s shepherd king, and wrought things more marvelous than he,
through the melodies they sang.

While their music was not classical, it seldom failed to strike fire.
The people liked it, and were charmed, encouraged, and, in a thousand
instances, saved by it. Mr. Alexander, the great revival singer, has the
right view of things. He writes: “Musicians often say to me, ‘Why do
you not use classical music, above the style of gospel songs?’ I reply,
‘When you can show me similar effects following such high-class music
in moving the hearts of men and women, I will use it fast enough. Until
then I shall keep to gospel songs, which have a wonderful way of reaching
everybody, because they touch the soul.”

Volume, fervor, soul, enthusiasm, is what we want in all our church
music. Away, forever, with that operatic nonsense which the artistic
would introduce into our present-day religious services.

What glorious revivals were promoted. Like cyclones they seemed, at
times, to lay everything low in their course. How sinners wept and
repented! How saints shouted aloud for joy! “Wild fire!” does some one
suggest? May be it was; but it achieved wonderful results. The present
ministry of the conference, with a great majority of the true and tried
laymen who constitute the very backbone of the church, were converted in
just such meetings; and it is quite likely that the leading ministers
and laymen of every other conference in our Zion were converted under
like circumstances. Call it “wild fire” if you will, but I would like to
see a good deal more of it.

A revival that arouses a whole community and brings fifty or a hundred,
or perhaps two hundred into the kingdom, some of whom become prominent
preachers of the word, while others become very pillars in the church,
is not to be ignored or decried by those who are too slow and formal and
dull to create a stir. Better have a little “wild fire” than no fire at
all.

Personally, I believe in excitement. Nothing worth thinking about is ever
accomplished in its absence. We cannot relish food, or enjoy sleep, until
first excited by hunger or fatigue. Why should not the church manifest as
much zeal and enthusiasm in her work as political parties or commercial
clubs do in theirs? I am tired of that contemptible sentiment which
stands ready, everywhere, and all the time, to denounce everything that
has to do with the emotions. Religion, I readily grant, does not consist
of noise and bluster. It means vastly more than that. Nor does it consist
in sitting around like so many lifeless knots on a log.

We are told that it is the lightning and not thunder that kills. True
enough, but lightning in the absence of thunder is harmless. Lightning
makes the thunder.

In our work but little was said about the new theology, or higher
criticism. Watson and Ralston in their theologies, and Smith and Clark
and Lange and Barnes in their expositions, seldom referred to the
new-fangled theories which confuse and chill and curse some of the
churches to-day. We all believed that Moses wrote the Pentateuch, and
Paul the Epistle to the Hebrews; and personally I have never had any
reason for changing my views. It had never occurred to us to put Job and
Jonah on the fictitious list. We actually believed and preached that
they lived and wrought, one in the land of Uz, and the other in Nineveh,
after escaping from the whale’s belly. We tried to tell of the awfulness
of sin, as well as the joys of religion. We believed in a heaven, and
would often talk and sing and preach about it until we felt ourselves
within its very suburbs. When Jesus said, “And these shall go away into
everlasting punishment,” we supposed he meant it, and no one attempted
to put an artificial bottom in the “bottomless pit.” We divided our
time pretty well between Sinai and Zion. The decalogue and beatitudes
were included, ofttimes, in the framework of the same sermon. We knew
there were some inaccuracies in the authorized version, but nothing
sufficiently serious to affect the fundamentals of Christianity. We
were justified, as we thought, in preaching the whole Bible, as it was
commonly understood and interpreted, because in doing so we were blessed
and sinners were saved.

The “mourners’ bench” was always a part of the program in our revival
work. While no one insisted that a man must be saved at the bench,
if saved at all, we believed, nevertheless, that coming forward and
bowing at the altar was a good way of confessing sin, and of plighting
fidelity to Jesus Christ. I would not serve as pastor of a people who
objected to the use of an altar. If some of the unsaved wanted to seek
their Lord elsewhere, and in some other way, I should not object; but I
should insist upon it that those who wanted to come forward for prayers
should have the privilege of doing so. It is refreshing to see how
simple and direct Dr. Torry, “Billy” Sunday, and “Gipsey” Smith are in
their methods, and the wonderful results that follow. They do not mince
matters. They go to the people with a burning message from the Throne,
and deliver it, no matter what anybody may think or say about it. With
sledge-hammer blows they drive it home to the hearts of their hearers,
that no man can be saved until he confesses his sins and his Savior.
They follow, largely, the old line of revival work—and _succeed_.

The preacher who cannot build a fire in his church is a failure. In no
other way can he attract attention. The church of God has been used to
fire from the beginning. Moses got a good warming-up before the burning
bush on Horeb; so did Elijah, and others, on Carmel. The disciples were
not ready to preach or the church to work until a burning Pentecost came,
and fire-flakes fell from heaven upon them. We need great revivals, and
can have them, if we are willing to pay the price.

One serious hindrance to the work is the fact that too many profess to
have found a “new way.” They council moderation, and would have us go
about the business with that cold, mathematical precision which the
astronomer employs in measuring the heavens. As the result, many of
our revival efforts turn out to be very _moderate_ affairs. They are
self-constituted appointees to shut off steam and put down the breaks,
and they succeed. What we need is more steam; that is, purpose, push,
and power. And I rejoice in the thought that the thing for which we have
waited and prayed is at hand. The semi-skepticism and indifference which
have so handicapped the work of evangelism in the last twenty-five years,
are giving place to larger activities and simpler methods. We are facing
the morning light. The reaction and readjustment will bring in a new era
of moral and spiritual triumphs in soul-winning.

The church at large knows but little about the excessive labors and
sacrifices of the earlier ministry in West Virginia. My heart still weeps
as I think of what some of the brethren endured. But, brave souls they
were, they did it because they loved the church and her Christ.

Only three or four remain who were in the conference when I joined
thirty-seven years ago. Four others—Revs. E. Harper, I. M. Underwood, A.
Orr, and Dr. J. L. Hensley—have located in other conferences, but the
great majority have gone to heaven. From hillside and mountain-top they
ascended to a place of honor by their Lord, to live in the white light of
the throne forever.

    “Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land,
      So free from all sorrow and pain;
    With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands,
      To meet one another again.”

Does any one inquire to know the real secret of their power? It is
not easily explained. They had intellectual girth, but this was only
incidental to their success. Their surroundings were inspiring, their
spirits exuberant, their physical endurance tremendous, their zeal
unflagging, but the secret lay deeper; these were only tributary. It
seems to me that the one quality which exalted them, and gave them the
mastery over men was _reality_. They were _genuine_. God counted them
among his captains, and they were loyal to the last. _Duty_ and _destiny_
were to them overwhelming suggestions. In them were wrapped up the
present and the eternal hereafter.

I can still hear Brother Graham singing as he rode through storm and
heat, carrying aloft the banners of the church:

    “Above the waves of earthly strife;
    Above the ills and cares of life;
    Where all is peaceful, bright and fair,
    My home is there, my home is there.”

Chevaliers, divine!

    “Their burning zeal no langour knew,
    For Christ, his cause, his tempted few;
    At home, abroad, where’er their lot,
    Their much-loved theme they ne’er forgot.”

“One soweth and another reapeth,” is the divine law. The foundations
of the church among the Virginia hills and mountains were laid amid
self-givings, known only to Him who gave to his servants their marching
orders, and who accompanied them every foot of the way. A better day has
come to the conference. The fields of labor have been greatly reduced in
size, pastoral support has been improved, educational advantages have
been increased, which means so much to the itinerant’s family, and in
other respects conditions made many-fold better.

The present membership is 15,000 divided among sixty circuits and
stations. Two hundred and six church edifices, worth $243,869, are
reported, and thirty-eight parsonages valued at $31,939.

The territory embraces four districts. While the number of presiding
elders might be diminished, it would not be wise to try the experiment of
giving one superintendent charge of the whole conference. The country is
too rough, the distances too great, and the public facilities for travel
too meager for one man to do it all.

The average salary paid the pastors in 1906 was $379.45, including
house rent and special gifts. Three of the charges went to between $800
and $900; one paid from $600 to $650, and eight others over $500 each.
The presiding elders averaged $563.97. For all purposes $50,589.49 was
collected. These figures show that in spite of the adverse circumstances
with which we have had to battle for the last half century, real progress
has been made. But more ought to be done in the next fifteen years than
has been accomplished in the last fifty.

Some portions of the State are becoming immensely wealthy through the oil
and mining industries. Our people are sharing in the general prosperity,
and many of them are growing rich. The commercial possibilities of the
State are great and promising as its hidden treasures are brought to the
surface, and put on the world’s market. The work of the present ministry
is to broaden the benefactions of our membership by teaching them the
true meaning of Christian stewardship and the obligations which it
imposes. In proportion as this is done, salaries will be increased more
and more, the offerings to the various benevolent societies multiplied,
and larger sums provided for Otterbein University and Union Biblical
Seminary.

There is quite a stretch of time between the penning of these lines and
the day I started for my first circuit. Thirty-seven years is a good
while. My experiences have been numerous and varied. The way at times has
been rough, the tasks difficult, and the responsibilities great, but,
after all, if I had my life to live over _I should spend it in the gospel
ministry, and start again in West Virginia_.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Twenty Years on Horseback, or Itinerating in West Virginia" ***

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