OLD-TIME HOSPITALITY IN THE SOUTHWEST.
The hospitality extended to ministers of the gospel by the people who
lived in the Brush was generous and large-hearted to a degree that
I have never known among any other class of people. They obeyed the
Scripture injunction, "Use hospitality without grudging." They were
"not forgetful to entertain strangers." I found their tables, their
beds, their stables, and indeed all the comforts of their rude homes,
always open for the rest and refreshment of myself and my indispensable
horse. We were as welcome to all these as to the water that bubbled
from their springs and "ran among the hills."
At the commencement of my itinerant life, on leaving the families where
I had spent a night or taken a meal, I used to propose to pay them, and
ask for my bill; but I found this gave offense. Many seemed to regard
it as a reflection on their generosity for me to intimate or suppose
that they would take pay for entertaining a preacher. I therefore
adopted a formula that saved me from all danger of wounding their
feelings, and relieved my character from all suspicion of a disposition
to avoid the payment of my bills. It was as follows: When about to
leave a family, I said to them, "I am indebted to you for a night's
entertainment," to which the general response was: "Not at all, sir.
Come and stay with us again, whenever you pass this way."
It was a very rare occurrence that I was permitted to cancel my
indebtedness by paying for what I had received.
In thanking them for their hospitality, as of course I always did on
leaving them, they made me feel that I had conferred a favor rather
than incurred an obligation by staying with them.
For years it was my custom to apply for entertainment at any house
wherever night overtook me, and I invariably received a cordial
welcome. This application for entertainment was always made according
to the custom of the people, and in their own vernacular, which I will
illustrate by an example.
In my horseback-journeyings I had reached the tall, dense, heavy
forests of the bottom-lands of the Mississippi River, about a dozen
miles from the Father of Waters. As the sun was about setting, I
came upon a large "dead'ning," where the underbrush had been cut out
and burned off, the large trees had been girdled and had died, and a
crop of corn had been raised among the dead forest-trees, before the
new-comer in this wilderness had been able to completely clear a field
around his newly-erected log-cabin. Turning off from the corduroy-road
upon which I had been traveling, I took a footpath, and, following
that, was soon as near the cabin as a high rail-fence would allow me to
approach on horseback. A short distance from this log-cabin was a still
smaller one occupied by a colored aunty and her family, and used for a
kitchen; and not far off still another log-building, used for a barn
and stable.
The most of my readers in the older sections of the country will
suppose that I had now only to dismount, hitch my horse, climb the
fence, rap at the door, and so gain admittance to my resting-place for
the night. Far otherwise. Only the most untraveled and inexperienced in
the Brush would undertake so rash an experiment.
Sitting upon my horse, I called out in a loud voice, "Hello there!"
That call was for the same purpose that the city pastor mounts the
stone steps and rings the bell at the door of his parishioner. It was
rather more effective.
A large pack of hounds and various other kinds of dogs responded with a
barking chorus, a group of black pickaninnies rushed from the adjacent
kitchen, followed to the door by their sable mother, with arms a-kimbo
and hands fresh from mixing the pone or corn-dodger for the family
supper; all, with distended eyes and mouth, and shining ivory, staring
at the stranger with excited and pleased curiosity. At almost the
same instant, the mistress of the incipient plantation approached the
door of her cabin, stockingless and shoeless, with a dress of woolsey
woven in her own loom by her own hands, and cut and made by her own
skill, with face not less pleased and excited than the others, and her
cordial greeting of "How d'y, stranger--how d'y, sir? 'Light, sir!
[alight]--'light, sir!"
Remaining upon my horse, I replied: "I am a stranger in these parts,
madam. I have ridden about fifty miles since morning and am very tired.
Can I get to stay with you to-night, madam?"
"Oh, yes," she replied, promptly, "if you can put up with our rough
fare. We never turn anybody away."
I told her I should be very glad to stay with her, and dismounted. The
dogs, who would otherwise have resisted my approach to the door by a
combined attack, obeyed their instructions not to harm me, and granted
me a safe entrance as a recognized friend.
Such was the universal training of the dogs, and such the uniform
method of approaching and gaining admittance to the houses of the
people in the Brush. My hostess informed me that her husband was at
work in the "dead'ning," but that he would soon be at home and take
care of my horse.
I told her that I could do that myself, and she sent her little son
along with me to the stable, where I bestowed that kind and, I may
say, affectionate care that one who journeys for years on horseback
learns to bestow upon his faithful horse. I then entered the cabin,
and received that warm welcome that awaits the traveler in our Western
wilds.
Shall I describe my home for the night? It was a new log-house, less
than twenty feet square, and advanced to a state of completeness beyond
many in which I had lodged, inasmuch as the large openings between the
logs had been filled with "chink and daubing." The chimney, built upon
the outside of the house, was made of split sticks, laid up in the
proper form, and thoroughly "daubed" with mud, so as to prevent them
from taking fire. A large opening cut through the logs communicated
with this chimney, and formed the ample fireplace. The roof was made
of "shakes"--pieces of timber rived out very much in the form of
staves, but not shaved at all. These were laid upon the roof like
shingles, except that they were not nailed on, but "weighted on"--kept
in their places by small timbers laid across each row of "shakes" over
the entire roof. These timbers were kept in their places by shorter
ones placed between them, transversely, up and down the roof. In this
manner the pioneer constructs a roof for his cabin, by his own labor,
without the expenditure of a dime for nails. With wooden hinges and
a wooden latch for his door, he needs to purchase little but glass
for his windows, to provide a comfortable home for his family. His
latch-string, made of hemp or flax that he has raised, or from the skin
of the deer which he has pursued and slain in the chase, which, as the
old song has it--
"Hangs outside the door,"
symbolizes the cordial welcome and abounding hospitality to be found
within.
At the end of the room opposite the fireplace there was a bed in each
corner, under one of which there was a "trundle-bed" for the children.
There was no chamber-floor or chamber above to obstruct the view of the
roof. There was no division into apartments, not even by hanging up
blankets, a device I have seen resorted to in less primitive regions.
From floor to roof, from wall to wall, all was a single "family" room,
which was evidently to be occupied by the family and myself in common.
A rough board table, some plain chairs, and a very few other articles
completed the inventory of household furniture of the pioneer's home to
which I had been welcomed.
Such a home was the birthplace of Lincoln, and many other of the
greatest, wisest, and best men that have ever blessed our country. Such
homes have been crowned with abundance, and have been the scenes of as
much real comfort and joy as any others in our land.
I have found that curiosity is a trait that is not monopolized by
any one section of country or class of people. It belongs to all
localities, and to all grades and kinds of people. I therefore, in
accordance with what a pretty wide experience had taught me was the
best course to pursue, proceeded at once to gratify the curiosity of
my hostess as to who her guest was, and what business had brought him
to this wild region. I told her my name, and that I was a Presbyterian
preacher, and an agent of the American Bible Society. This not only
satisfied her curiosity, but was very gratifying information to her,
and I received a renewed and cordial welcome to her home as a minister
of the gospel.
In the course of the ordinary conversation and questions that attend
such a meeting of strangers in the Brush, I learned that she and her
husband had emigrated from a county some hundreds of miles east, which
I had several times visited in the prosecution of my mission, and I
was able to give her a great deal of information in regard to her old
neighbors and friends. We were in the midst of an earnest conversation
in regard to these people, when her husband came in from his labors.
On being introduced to me, and informed in regard to my mission, he
repeated the welcome his wife had already given me to the hospitality
of their cabin.
Our supper was such as is almost universally spread in the wilds of
the Southwest. It consisted of an abundance of hot corn-bread, fried
bacon, potatoes, and coffee. A hard day's labor and a long day's ride
prepared us to do it equal justice.
The evening wore rapidly away in conversation. Such pioneers are not
dull, stupid men. Their peculiar life gives activity to mind as well
as body. My host was anxious and glad to hear from the great outside
active world, with which I had more recently mingled, and had questions
to ask and views to give as to what was going on in the political and
religious world.
At length our wearied bodies made a plea for rest that could not be
refused, and I was invited to conduct their family worship. This
invitation was extended in the language and manner peculiar to the
Southern and Southwestern sections of the country. This is universally
as follows:
The Bible and hymn-book are brought forward by the host, and laid upon
the table or stand, when he turns to the preacher and says, "Will you
take the books, sir?"
That is the invitation to lead the devotions of the family in singing
and prayer. It has been my happy lot to receive and respond to that
invitation--as I did that night--in many hundreds of families and in
some of the wildest portions of our land.
The method of extending an invitation to "ask a blessing" before a
meal is quite as peculiar. Being seated at the table, the host, turning
to the preacher, says, "Will you make a beginning, sir?"--all at table
reverently bowing their heads as he extends the invitation, and while
the blessing is being asked.
So, too, I have "made a beginning" at many a hospitable board in
many different States. I did not that night make the mistake that is
reported of an inexperienced home-missionary explorer, in similar
circumstances, who, laboring under the impression that "to retire" and
"to go to bed" were synonymous terms, said, "Madam, I will retire, if
you please."
"Retire!" she rejoined; "we never retires, stranger. We just goes to
bed."
Sitting with the family before the large fireplace, I said, "Madam, I
have ridden a long distance to-day, and am very tired."
"You can go to bed at any time you wish, sir," said she. "Just take the
left-hand bed."
I withdrew behind their backs to "lay my garments by," took the
left-hand bed, turned my face to the left-hand wall, and slept soundly
for the night.
When I awoke in the morning, husband and wife had arisen and left the
room, he to feed his team, and she to attend to her household duties in
the kitchen. After an early breakfast, and again leading their family
devotions, I bade them good-by, with many thanks for their kindness,
and with repeated invitations on their part to be sure to spend the
night with them should I ever come that way again. But I have never
seen them since.
I have very often recalled a hospitable reception in the Brush, of a
very different character, the recollection of which has always been
exceedingly pleasant to me. Wishing to visit a rough, wild, remote
region, at a season of the year when the roads were almost impassable
on account of the spring rains and the mud, I concluded to go the
greater part of the distance by steamboats, down one river and up
another, and then ride about fifty miles in a stage or mail-wagon.
The roads would scarcely be called roads at all in most parts of the
country, and I shall not be able to give to many of my readers any true
idea of the exceeding roughness of that ride. A considerable part of
the way was through the bottom-lands of one of the smaller Southwestern
rivers that swell the volume of the Mississippi. A recent freshet had
left the high-water mark upon the trees several feet higher than the
backs of our horses; and as we jolted over the small stumps and great
roots of the trees, from which the earth had been washed away by the
freshet, I was wearied, exceedingly wearied, by the rough road and
comfortless vehicle in which I traveled.
At length we came upon a very pleasant plantation, with a comfortable
house and surroundings, where the driver, a boy about fifteen years
old, told me he would feed his team, and we would get our dinner.
It was not an hotel. Mail-contractors in this region often make such
arrangements to procure feed for their horses and meals for the few
passengers that they carry, at private houses. As I entered the house
I was greeted with one of those calm, mild, sweet faces that one never
forgets. I should think that my hostess was between thirty-five and
forty years old. I was too weary to engage in much conversation, and
she was quiet, and said very little to me. As I observed her movements
about the room in preparing the dinner, I thought I had never seen a
face that presented a more perfect picture of contentment and peace.
I felt perfectly sure that she was a Christian--that her face bespoke
"the peace of God that passeth all understanding." When she invited the
driver and myself to take seats at the table, I said, "Shall I ask a
blessing, madam?"
With a smile she bowed assent, and, as I concluded and looked up, her
face was all radiant with joy, and she said excitedly, "You are a
preacher, sir!"
I replied, "Yes, madam."
"Well," she responded, "I am glad to see you. I love to see preachers.
I love to cook for them, and take care of them. I love to have them in
my house."
I told her who I was, explained the character of my mission, and
expressed, I trust with becoming warmth, my gratification at the
cordiality of her welcome.
"Oh," said she, "if I was a man, I know what I would do. I would do
nothing but preach. I'd go, and go, and go; and preach, and preach, and
preach. I wouldn't have anything to pester me. I wouldn't marry nary
woman in the world. I'd go, and go, and go--and preach, and preach, and
preach, until I could preach no longer; and then I'd lie down--close my
eyes--and--go on."
Was there ever a more graphic and truthful description of an earnest,
apostolic life? Was there ever a more simple, beautiful description of
a peaceful Christian death? They recall the statement of Paul, "This
_one thing_ I do"; and the story of Stephen, "And when he had said
this, he fell asleep."
The people who have spent their lives deep in the Brush, as this good
woman had, have no other idea of a preacher of the gospel but one whose
duty and mission it is to "go" and "preach." They have been accustomed
to hearing but one message, or at most a few messages, from their lips,
and then hear their farewell words, listen to their farewell songs,
shake hands with them, and see them take their departure to "go" and
"preach" to others who, like them, dwell in lone and solitary wilds.
Meetings and partings like these have originated and given their
peculiar power to such refrains as--
"Say, brothers, will you meet us--
Say, brothers, will you meet us--
Say, brothers, will you meet us
On Canaan's happy shore?
"By the grace of God we'll meet you--
By the grace of God we'll meet you--
By the grace of God we'll meet you
On Canaan's happy shore."
This woman knew little of the great world--had little that it calls
culture; her language was that of the people among whom she lived, and
was such as she had always been accustomed to hear; but her thoughts
were deep and pure, her "peace flowed like a river," and her communion
with God lifted her to companionship with the noblest and best of
earth. Though I spent but little more than an hour in her presence,
and many years have passed since that transient meeting, her picture
still hangs in the chamber of my memory, calm, pure, and saintly, and
breathing upon my spirit a perpetual benediction.