THE BAPTISM OF A SCOTCH BABY IN THE WILDS OF THE SOUTHWEST.
I wish to give my readers the details of a very pleasant incident
in my experiences, quite incidental to my special work. I visited a
small county-seat village in a very rough, wild region, where I had
been directed to call upon a Methodist gentleman, who would render me
efficient and cheerful aid in the prosecution of my labors. I met with
the reception that had been promised, and made arrangements to preach
"on the next day, which was the Sabbath." As the agents of the American
Bible Society are chosen from the different religious denominations,
they very naturally asked me with what church I was connected. When
told that I was a Presbyterian, the gentleman and his wife turned
at once to each other, a smile of unusual joy overspreading their
features, and the lady, who was the first to speak, said:
"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Dinwiddie will be gratified at last."
The conversation that followed, and other visits and conversations in
the neighborhood, fully explained their joy at seeing me. The gentleman
and lady alluded to were Scotch Presbyterians, who had been in this
country but a few years, and they were very anxious to have their
first-born child baptized by a minister of their own church. They, and
a venerable man eighty-four years old, who had recently come from a
distant part of the State to spend his declining years in the family
of a widowed daughter, were the only persons in the county connected
with that church, and they knew not when they might be favored with
a visit from one of their own ministers. But, judging from the past
history of the county, their prospects were dark indeed. A venerated
father in this church, who was alive at the time of my visit, but has
since gone to his reward, had preached in this county more than thirty
years before on one of his missionary excursions through the State. I
met those who had heard him preach and remembered his sermons. As far
as could be ascertained, he was the last Presbyterian clergyman who had
visited and preached in the county, and they knew not when to expect
another. I subsequently saw this venerable preacher, and received from
his own lips most interesting details of his explorations of these wild
regions so many years before.
A week or two passed before I was able to visit this family, during
which time I preached in rude log school-houses, in a ballroom, a
court-house, from a "stand" erected for the purpose in the forest,
and also standing on _terra firma_ at the foot of an oak-tree, the
congregation being seated upon benches, or on the ground, under the
shade of surrounding oaks. In the different neighborhoods that I
visited, I found the same general interest in behalf of this family
and their child. According to a Scottish custom, they would not call
their child by the name that had been chosen for it until that name had
been given to it in the sacred rite of baptism. When asked by their
neighbors the name of their child, they would reply, "Oh, she has no
name. She has not been baptized yet. We call her 'Baby,' or some pet
name." This seemed very strange to the people, and the dear little
child that was growing up _without a name_ became the object of general
sympathy and interest throughout the county.
There is quite a celebrated watering-place (where my mare won the two
hundred and fifty dollars) some fifteen miles from their forest home,
and it was thought that there might be some Presbyterian clergyman
among the visitors during the summer season, and a large number of
persons had promised this family that they would let them know if any
such clergyman arrived at the Springs, that they might send for him to
baptize their child.
As soon as I was able to do so, I set out to visit this Scotch family,
in whose history I had become very deeply interested. A Christian
brother, residing at the county-seat and belonging to another
denomination, kindly consented to accompany me, and show me the way to
their residence. Our route was not over a road that had been laid out
by a compass, but was the most of the way through the woods, winding
its zigzag course over hill, and valley, and stream, among the tall
monarchs of the forest. It was a hot day in August, but the dense
foliage above us, as we rode through the "aisles of the dim woods,"
protected us from the heat of the sun, and our ride was altogether a
pleasant one. After traveling some twelve or fifteen miles, we reached
a "dead'ning," and soon were at the door of the log-cabin we were
seeking.
I will not attempt to describe the joy of that young mother when
my attendant introduced me to her as a Presbyterian clergyman, and
explained the object of our visit. "Hope deferred maketh the heart
sick, but when the desire cometh it is a tree of life." Years had
passed since, a young and blooming bride, she had left the heathery
hills of Scotland for a home in our Western wilds; but, until that
moment, she had not seen a minister of the church of her home and her
choice since the day that her loved pastor had solemnized that rite in
which she gave herself to another, and sent her forth with the warm
blessings of a pastor's heart. The loneliness of their forest home in a
land of strangers was at length cheered by the tiny echo of a new and
welcome voice in their rude dwelling. For many long months the "joyful
mother" had gazed upon the sweet face of her lovely child, and longed,
with unutterable longings, to dedicate her first-born to God in his
own appointed ordinance. As the months rolled on and swelled to years,
the many friends of her home in Scotland mingled their sympathies with
hers; and the pastor, who could not forget the lamb that had thus gone
forth from his flock, expressed his strong desire to stretch his arms
across the broad Atlantic, and baptize this child of the forest into
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. At the
time of our arrival the husband and father was absent from his house,
attending to his flocks. He was a shepherd, and had selected his home
here because for a small sum he could purchase a large tract of land
over which his flocks might range. As his wife did not know in what
direction he had gone, and he could not easily be found, we determined
to wait until he should return.
In the mean time we learned that the young mother we had found in the
wilds of the Southwest was born in the East Indies, and had been sent
to Scotland when eight years old to be educated among her relatives.
We listened to the story of the religious privileges they had enjoyed
at home; heard of the old pastor who, for more than fifty years, had
watched over the same flock, a volume of whose sermons and sacramental
addresses made a part of their library, and learned to love the
youthful colleague and subsequent pastor. We were shown what was at the
same time a certificate of marriage and church-membership, certifying
that "William D---- and Mary R---- were lawfully married on ----, and
that they immediately thereafter started for America. They were then
both in full communion with the Church of Scotland, and entitled to all
church privileges." We were also shown that most appropriate of bridal
gifts from a pastor--a beautiful Bible, presented as a parting gift to
"Mrs. William D----, with best wishes for the temporal and spiritual
welfare of herself and her husband. II Chronicles, xv, 2; Psalms,
cxxxix, 1-12." How strikingly appropriate these references!
At length the father returned, and added his warm welcome and greeting
to that we had already received from the mother. They had both
evidently received that thorough religious training so peculiar to
their nation, and here, far away from their native heath, in their wild
forest home, it was exerting its influence, not only upon them, but
upon many around them. That very morning a neighbor had sent them word
that a Presbyterian clergyman (the writer) had preached at the Springs
a few days before, and at once a younger brother was dispatched with
a large farm-wagon, their only conveyance, to bring the stranger to
their home, that he might baptize their child. Our route in going, and
his in coming for me, were the same, but we failed to meet each other
on account of the numerous tracks through the woods. On reaching the
county-seat from which we had started in the morning, he learned that,
to the joy of the neighborhood, we had already left for the purpose of
baptizing the child. He immediately turned back, hastened home, and
reached there soon after the arrival of his brother. A neighbor, an
old acquaintance from their home in Scotland, and a family domestic,
now made our number just that of those to whom Noah, that "preacher of
righteousness," undoubtedly ministered after they entered the ark.
The necessary preparations for the baptism were soon made. In the
center of that low-roofed cabin a cloth of snowy whiteness was
spread upon a table, upon which a bowl of water was placed. That
little company then arose, and reverently stood while, after a brief
address to the parents, the simple, solemn ordinance of baptism was
administered, and parents, child, and friends far away, were commended
in prayer to a "covenant-keeping" God. The sacred stillness of that
calm evening hour, the associations of a home far away, and the tender
memories of the instructions of other years that clustered around
these strangers, rendered the simple service most impressive, and
pervaded all with solemn awe. We could but feel that he who had said
to Abraham, "I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee, in
their generations, forever," had "bowed the heavens and come down"; and
that he would ratify in heaven what had now been done on earth in the
name of the Sacred Trinity. The happy mother pressed her fair-faced,
beautiful child to her bosom with unwonted joy, and never did the sweet
name Mary sound sweeter than when, with maternal fondness, she gazed
into its clear blue eyes, and again and again, with alternate kisses,
called her "Sweet Mary," "My Mary."
This was my first baptism; and the privilege of administering this
Heaven-ordained rite, in circumstances like these, was compensation for
months and years of such toils as they must endure who labor amid the
moral desolations of our Western wilds.