HEROIC CHRISTIAN WORKERS IN THE SOUTHWEST.
It was a bright, dreamy, autumnal day, that I was making my way among
the bayous of one of the most sluggish of the rivers that enter and
swell the volume of the Mississippi. My ride since morning had been
very long and very lonely. It is a strange sort of life to ride on
horseback, week after week and month after month, over a new and
sparsely settled country. The most of such journeys are alone. One but
rarely meets with company, and then they usually travel together but a
short distance before their paths diverge and they separate. In these
long, solitary rides, any unusual scene or incident startles one as
from a dreamy reverie, and makes a lasting, an almost ineffaceable,
impression upon the memory.
[Illustration: A circuit rider in the Brush.]
I have very often recalled, and shall hardly forget while I live, a
most pleasing incident in this day's ride. I had recently traveled over
a wide scope of country including a half a dozen counties, where the
land was nearly as level as the numerous streams that flowed through
it. The soil was entirely alluvial, and very rich. Occasionally,
gentle elevations of a very few feet swelled above the surrounding
level, which were crowned with large oaks having short trunks and
heavy tops with wide-spreading branches. These oaks were usually
interspersed with smaller trees and underbrush. As I floundered through
a wet, marshy road, and struck a sandy path leading up one of these
elevations, I saw a number of horses hitched to the limbs of the
trees, and soon came up to a plain unpainted church or chapel. Its
only foundation was the few wooden blocks upon which it stood, and
the windows were without sash or glass, the shutters made of boards,
being thrown open to admit the light, and closed when the services
were ended. I rode under a tree, hitched my horse to a limb, and
entered the church as quietly as possible. The preacher had closed
his sermon, and was about concluding the services. It was the close
of a meeting which had continued several days, in which a number of
hardened and very hopeless sinners had been led to Christ. It was
his last appointment before leaving them for conference. The labors
of the year had left their impress upon his whole frame. He looked
wan and worn. He had breathed the malaria of the rivers, bayous, and
marshes, along which he had sought out these people in their homes,
and near which he had preached to them, until it had changed the color
of his flesh to a bloodless saffron hue. I never before or since saw
such a human face. It bespoke a body, soul, and spirit, heartily,
wholly, and irrevocably consecrated to his noble work. There was over
it that perfect calmness that succeeds long and intense anxiety and
excitement, when their end has been fully attained. As he spoke to
them of the labors of the year, and of his departure for conference,
he was the only one that seemed unmoved. His voice was low and calm
amid the weeping that was all around him. Among the most noted of the
converts was a woman who for years had done more than any other person
in the neighborhood to counteract the influence of the preachers who
had labored on that circuit, and to injure the little church. She was
famous as a fiddler, and the leader in getting up all the neighborhood
dances, and it was difficult for the young converts to withstand the
fascinations of her bow. In former years she had fiddled a great
many of them out of the class before their six months' probation had
expired. Now that she had at last been brought down, there was general
rejoicing. It was like the fall of some tall oak of the forest that
brings down many smaller trees with it. They could now sing, as I have
often heard them in their log-cabins:
"Shout! shout, we're gaining ground,
Oh, glory Halleluyah!
We'll shout old Satan's kingdom down,
Oh, glory Halleluyah!"
This woman sat in a chair near the pulpit (with her little babe lying,
smiling and playful, upon her lap), participating with the deepest
interest in all the services, and weeping among those most deeply
moved. At the conclusion of his remarks the preacher baptized this
little child, the mother giving to it the double name of himself and
his colleague on the circuit. His work thus ended, he sang alone, in a
clear, firm voice, a simple and beautiful parting hymn, that I can not
now repeat, with the refrain,
"Brothers, fare ye well,"
passing at the same time through the congregation and shaking hands
with the weeping class-leaders, stewards, local preachers, and other
brethren present. He then moved to the other side of the room, and sang
on in the same manner, changing the refrain to,
"Sisters, fare ye well,"
and shook hands with each one of them, he alone being perfectly calm
amid their convulsive weeping and sobs. The benediction was then
pronounced, and I withdrew as quietly as I had entered, and resumed my
journey. Such labors in such a region illustrate a moral heroism that
is both heroic and sublime.
REV. JAMES HAWTHORN, D.D.
I recall a very different experience with another type and class
of these heroic workers for the Master.[1] Many years before, he
mounted his horse and rode from his home in the Southwest, over the
Alleghany Mountains, onward to Philadelphia, and thence to Princeton,
New Jersey, where he sold his horse and spent three years in the
Theological Seminary. He had then returned, and spent his ministerial
life in preaching to feeble congregations that were able to pay but a
small salary for his services. At the time I first met him he preached
regularly on alternate Sabbaths to two congregations about twenty miles
apart. In those months in which there was a "fifth Sabbath," he usually
visited some yet smaller congregation, often at a greater distance,
for the purpose of preaching to them, and perhaps administering the
communion and baptizing their children. But this was only a small part
of the labor he performed. The compensation he received for these
services was entirely inadequate for the support of his family, and he
was obliged to supplement his salary by other and more arduous labors.
He spent five days each week in teaching a school in the basement of
his church. And they were not such days' work as are usually given to
teaching. Immemorial custom in that region had required of teachers
nearly as many hours' daily labor in the school-room as were given to
any other employment. Hence he usually began his labors in the school
at or before eight in the morning, and did not close until five, or
later, in the afternoon. His scholars were of all ages and grades
of attainment, and they pursued a great variety of studies. Many of
both sexes studied the higher English, classical, and mathematical
branches, and completed their education at this school. This diversity
in the ages of the scholars and the books they attempted to master
added greatly to his labors; but from early Monday morning until late
Friday afternoon he toiled faithfully in the school-room, term after
term and year after year. With all this teaching, he had the other
labors indispensably connected with such a school--the care of the
school-room, consultations with parents, the collection of bills,
and all the nameless calls and duties connected with its care and
government. When to the long rides and other labors as a pastor, and
the duties of a teacher, that I have enumerated, are added those of a
housekeeper in providing for his family, there would seem to be little
time left for the preparation of sermons. But these were thoroughly
studied, and very often fully written, in hours that most others would
have given to rest and sleep.
On a cold midwinter day I mounted my horse and rode with him some
twenty miles to his regular appointment on Saturday afternoon. When we
reached the log-school-house in the outskirts, of his congregation but
a small number had come out through the cold, and at his request I
preached to them. We then rode home with an old Presbyterian elder, the
cold constantly increasing in severity. His heart was much warmer than
his log-house. We slept in a room which he tried in vain to warm with
a large wood-fire. But the water we were to use in the morning froze
solid, though placed as near the fire as possible. After breakfast we
mounted our horses and rode a few miles to church, though it was so
cold that I nearly froze in going, and was obliged to stop on the way
to warm myself. I preached to a congregation of about forty, and we
reorganized the county Bible Society. Having kindly rendered me all
the aid in his power, he mounted his horse after dinner, and rode home
through the cold in order to be able to open his school promptly on
Monday morning. At other seasons of the year, when the weather was such
that the people could assemble for worship, he was accustomed to preach
at the church in the morning, and at some school-house like that in
which I had preached, in other and distant parts of the congregation,
late in the afternoon. He would then mount his horse and ride over the
roughest roads, often through mud, rain, and darkness, reaching home
late at night, so that without fail he might promptly open his school
the next morning. I inquired and learned of others the salary that
was _promised_ him for preaching in this manner to this congregation,
twenty miles from his home, twice each month. I would state the
amount, but I remember the story, told me by my genial friend, the late
Rev. Dr. William L. Breckenridge, of an Irishman who desired to have a
letter written home to Ireland from Kentucky, many years before, when
provisions were most abundant and cheap.
After mentioning a good many things that he wished him to write to his
friends in regard to America, he said:
"Tell them that I get all the meat I can eat three times a week."
"And what do you mean by that?" said his employer. "Don't you get all
the bacon you can eat three times a day?"
"Yes, your riverence," was the prompt reply.
"Well, then, what do you mean by writing to your friends in Ireland
that you get all the meat you can eat three times a week?"
"Faith," said Pat, "and _that_ is more than they will belave."
But these were not the hardest and most poorly remunerated of the
labors of my friend. In some of his visits to smaller congregations
on the "fifth Sabbath" his rides were much longer, and he encountered
difficulties and discouragements such as most Presbyterian ministers
have never dreamed of. I will relate a single case. A small church
some fifty miles distant was without a pastor, and for a long time
the sacrament of the Lord's Supper had not been administered to
them. Always ready to aid and cheer such struggling churches, he
promised to give them a "fifth Sabbath." I will here say that there
were hundreds of churches of different denominations in the Southwest
and South that did not have preaching every Sabbath. They enjoyed
this privilege but twice a month, once a month, or less frequently.
When their appointments for preaching were regular, the _number_ of
the Sabbath in the month was always specified, as, for instance, the
first and third Sabbaths might be the days selected for preaching
regularly at one church, and the second and fourth Sabbaths might be
appropriated to two other churches. Or the first, second, third, and
fourth Sabbaths might be the days fixed for regular preaching, once a
month, at four different places. And so of all week-day appointments
for preaching. They were always made for some day in the first, second,
third, or fourth week in the month. Hence the people did not need
to consult an almanac in regard to the day of the month, and there
was rarely any mistake or confusion in regard to these appointments.
Where several different denominations occupied the same court-house
or building for preaching on successive Sabbaths, this was a matter
of great importance. It always stirred bad blood when from design on
either part these appointments conflicted, or, in the language of the
Brush, "locked horns." From the simplicity of this method of making
appointments the people would learn for miles around, and remember
for months ahead, that a basket-meeting, sacramental meeting, or
camp-meeting would commence on the second Friday in August, or the
third Thursday in September, or any other day that was announced in
this manner. As the "fifth Sabbath" is of infrequent occurrence, young
preachers often took this day to visit their mothers and sweet-hearts,
and old preachers made missionary tours and visited neglected
neighborhoods and destitute churches. It was such a day and such a
work my worthy friend had promised the little church to which I have
alluded. After his accustomed labors for the week, he on Saturday
performed the long, rough horseback ride, and on Sabbath preached and
administered the communion to them. But it was not a pleasant service.
The day was cold; the church, like others I have described, had no
other foundation than blocks of wood; the hogs of the neighborhood had
made their bed under it, and they successfully disputed all efforts to
drive them from their warm shelter. Hence all the services of preaching
and the administration of the Lord's Supper were performed with the
accompaniment of their incessant squealing and fighting immediately
under the pulpit and communion-table. The long, cold ride home extended
into the darkness of midnight. How few have ever gratuitously performed
so laborious a service with so little to compensate, so much to sadden
and distress!
But such experiences were relieved by many of a far different
character. To many feeble churches his coming was anticipated by all
needed preparations, and he was greeted with great joy by the little
flock. They listened with delight to the truths that they loved as they
fell from his lips. Cheerful homes welcomed him and were gladdened by
his presence. To many scattered families of the church to which he
belonged his pastoral visits were all that they received, and they were
the more prized because such visits were so rare to them.
Faithful, laborious, self-denying man of God! his toils have not been
unrewarded in the past, and they will be abundantly honored in the
future.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The late Rev. James Hawthorn, D.D., of Princeton,
Kentucky. Every word of this record of his heroic labors was written
while he was yet alive, and I did not wish to startle or offend his
sensitiveness and modesty by giving his name to the public. But, now
that he has gone to his full and glorious reward on high, I am most
happy to pay this tribute of abounding veneration and love to this
noble servant of our common Master. As his compensation for his purely
missionary services was so very small, I once took the liberty of
suggesting that he should receive a stipend from the Presbyterian Board
of Home Missions. It was most respectfully, but positively declined.
That was the true Pauline spirit of the man.]