THE CAMP-MEETING.
The holy sounds float up the dell
To fill my ravish’d ear,
And now the glorious anthems swell
Of worshipers sincere;
Of hearts bow’d in the dust that shed
Faith’s penitential tear.
MOTHERWELL.
The next day Norman was to go with his mother and aunt to a
camp-meeting. It had rained the night before, and the clouds were
gathering in rather a threatening manner, obscuring the heavens, and
forming in dark masses at several points on the horizon. It was thought
not very prudent to go, but the strong desire in Mrs. Lester’s face
overpowered the cooler judgment of the others.
“If it does not rain,” said Mrs. Lester, “those clouds will certainly be
better than the broad glare of sunshine we have had for some days past.”
The carriage drove up to the door, and calling for some friends who
lived near, they were soon on their way. The drive was very pleasant
through the Fox valley, with frequent groves and pretty views of the
river. They drove into the pretty town of St. Charles, across its fine
bridge, with its noble piers, through the town on the east of the river,
and after a little while into the deep woods in which the camp-meeting
was held. The road through the woods was very bad: deep mud, and several
sloughs, called in the west _slews_. All these critical spots were
happily passed, and reaching the grove they got out of the carriage and
walked on the camp-ground.
The gentleman who accompanied them brought the carriage cushions to put
on the plank seats, which were rather damp with the heavy rains of the
night previous. There were ministers in the elevated covered stand,
appropriated to them, and a large congregation gathered for a
love-feast. It was pleasant to hear them speak of the happiness of
religion, to see the calm peace on their countenances, and to listen to
their expressions of love to their Saviour, of faith in him, and fixed
resolve to live to his service.
An intermission of a few minutes before the public service gave Norman
an opportunity of looking about him. About thirty tents were pitched in
a circle, and in the center of the amphitheater thus formed, seats were
arranged for the congregation beneath the shade of fine noble trees that
spread wide their branches. One, beneath which the preachers’ stand was
placed, threw itself toward the other trees, that bent as if to meet it,
making a most picturesque group. At each corner of the area there was a
structure formed of four stout sticks, about five feet high, on which
rested a platform covered with turf. On these rude candelabras, at dark,
they kindled pine knots, to give light to the evening meetings and to
the encampment. How much Norman would like to have seen this wild
woodland thus illuminated, the broad glare flashing on the gathered
groups.
An excellent sermon was preached on “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and
so fulfill the law of Christ;” and then a young minister, with the sweet
expression of whose face Norman had been struck, got up and made an
address full of beauty. It was enforcing the law of kindness. He said
that when they drove to the camp-ground the day before they had got into
a slough on the road, and there they were fast, the horses remaining
quiet after some ineffectual attempts to move forward. The driver, he
was glad to say, betrayed no impatience, and did not swear at the delay.
Soon another wagon drove up, and the driver, seeing the difficulty they
were in, at once unhitched his own horses and drew them out. And that
was what, he said, we ought to do when we saw people in trouble, draw
them out if we had the power. He then spoke of the harsh judgment we
often form of others, because they are deficient in some point upon
which we lay stress. “Now,” he continued, “these trees that bend over us
are not rounded and full on every side; some have their wealth of
branches on one side, and some on another. And so Christians seldom
present full symmetry of growth. One brother has a great deal of
patience and very weak faith; and one sister has faith almost strong
enough to remove mountains and very little patience. Now we should
rather contemplate the excellences of our Christian friends than their
deficiencies.”
He exhorted the people not to be like those trees that are slow to yield
their fruit, whose fruit, hard and green, required a vigorous shake to
loosen its hold. “Rather,” said he, “be like those generous trees, borne
down with their golden fruit, blessing the eye, and the touch, and the
taste of all around—trees of blessing, making glad the heritage of God.”
He spoke of words of kindness and sympathy, how often they cheered the
heart of the desolate, and brightened the path of the wayfarer. How
often those who were collecting for benevolent objects were more cheered
with the kind words of one who had no money to give, than with the large
gifts of another, grudgingly bestowed.
One word of counsel he gave, rather at variance with ordinary
exhortation. He charged his hearers to try not to be first, but to be
second. “In your plans and pleasures think of some one before yourself;
prefer the comfort of some friend to your own; sacrifice your own ease
to promote the well-being of another, and you will tread in the
footsteps of Him who pleased not himself.”
Norman saw the tears in his Aunt Lester’s eyes, as he turned to look at
her, and he thought that she had learned that lesson well, that she was
always thinking of other people, and preferring their comfort to her
own.
The hymn, swelled by the united voices of that large congregation,
filled the grove with its solemn harmony, and then the words of the
benediction fell like dew upon them.
Norman had never been to a camp-meeting before, and the scene had all
the charm of novelty to him. He saw the people preparing their meals in
the rear of their tents, the fire made of dry sticks on the grounds, and
the kettle hung on a cross stick, placed in the notches of two upright
ones. The tables were spread in the tents, and soon surrounded by family
groups. A lady, who knew Norman’s aunt, invited them to dinner, after
which they returned to their seats, when the bell was rung for the
afternoon service.
The sermon was a good one, on “Gather up the fragments that remain, that
nothing may be lost.”
Norman did not remember much of the sermon; but one fact, given by the
minister who rose to exhort, made a great impression upon him.
“At a time of great religious interest,” said he, “when many persons,
awakened to a sense of their danger, were inquiring what they should do
to be saved, I spoke to three boys, and asked them if they could not, by
personal effort, lead some of their companions to the Saviour. One of
the boys, a tall and thoughtful lad, stood a little apart from the rest,
his eyes fixed on the ground, while I was talking to them. He said
nothing, but it was an hour of fixed resolve.
“Three days after one of the boys came to me, and said: ‘Sir, do you
remember the tall boy that stood near when you were talking to us?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘Well, sir, he has been trying ever since to
lead sinners to Christ; and he has persuaded three men, and two women,
and a little boy to give their hearts to the Saviour; and there he is,
sir, talking to that gray-haired man!’ I followed the direction of the
boy’s eye, and there stood the lad, his thoughtful face all aglow with
feeling, as he spoke earnestly to the old man, who shortly after came
forward, and knelt as a penitent at the altar of prayer. Who can
estimate the good thus accomplished by the earnest efforts of this lad;
and why may not every one follow his example, and make it his business
to lead souls to Christ?”
It was with reluctance they left this hallowed scene, where they had
been permitted to join the swell of holy song, and to hear so much that
was profitable; teachings that ought to make them better. Norman would
gladly have stayed for the evening services, to have seen those trees
gleaming out in the ruddy light, but they would not venture to travel
that road in the darkness. As it was they had a very pleasant drive
home, where they came just in time for tea.