When I admit that these reminiscences are real, it will at once be
inferred that I am a preacher's son. The general reputation of my
class has been bad since the day of Eli; but I affirm and maintain
that reason does not bear out this verdict, however obstinate
experience may be. For why should the best parents have the worst
children? and that our itinerant sires were godly and self-sacrificing
men the most prodigal of their boys must confess. No flippant or
errant example rises before me when I take my father's portrait in my
hand and recall the humility and heroism of his life. A stern and
angular face, out of whose saliences look two ruddy windows, lit by a
steadfast cheerfulness, is thinly thatched by hairs of iron-gray, and
around the long loose throat a bunch of frosted beard sparkles as if
the painter's pencil had fastened there in reverence. I do not need to
study the bent, broad shoulders and thin sinewy limbs to measure the
hardness and steepness of his path; he climbed it like a bridegroom,
humming quaint snatches of hymns to lull his human waywardnesses, and
all the fever and errantry of our own vain career shrink abashed
before his high devotion.
That I have turned out a rover is not odd; for the travelling
preacher's son is cradled upon the highway. Three months after my
birth we "moved" a hundred miles; by my sixteenth year we had made
eleven migrations.
We children little sympathize with our weak and sickly mother on these
occasions, but look forward to a change of abode as something very
novel and desirable. We count the days between Christmas and April,
after which the annual "Conference" assembles in the distant city, and
we see our father, in his best black suit, quit the parsonage door
with an anxious face, cut to the heart by his wife's farewell, "May
they give you a good place, Thomas!"
Then come letters--one, two, three: "The bishops are friendly;" "The
Presiding Elder has promised to do the best for us that he can;" "The
influential Doctor Bim has praised our missionary sermon, and Brother
Click, the Secretary, has applauded our Charge's large subscription to
the _Advocate_;" "Our character has passed even the severe approval of
the great theologian, Steep;" "Take courage, my dear, and hope for the
best!"
The membership, meanwhile, are dropping in by couples to say kindly
words to our mother, whom they pity, and it is rumored that they are
collecting a purse to help us on our way. At last our father returns,
striving to hide his solicitude in a smile, for no fate to which they
could consign himself would scathe that grisly servant of his Master;
but for his family, who do not altogether share the spirit of his
mission, he has a little fear. He kisses us all in order, from the
least to the biggest, commencing and ending with our mother, and
playfully prevaricates as to our "appointment," the name of which we
noisily demand, until his wife says timidly,
"Where do they send us, Thomas?"
He tries to smile and trifle, but the possibility of her discontent
gives him so great pain that we children perceive it.
"How would you like to go to Greensburg?"
"Not _Greensburg_!" she says, with a sudden paleness.
"Isn't it a good circuit?" he says smilingly; "they paid the last
preacher three hundred dollars, and his marriage fees were a hundred
more. They say he saved fifty dollars a year!"
"Oh, Thomas, I thought I had fortitude, but this--"
"Is only to test your faith," he cries. "A poor preacher's wife should
be willing to go anywhere--even to Greensburg; but that is not our
appointment, dear; we move to Swan Neck."
Then the fun begins in earnest. The church people come to look at our
contribution bedquilts, and help us pack up the blue earthenware. The
legs of the prodigious box, yclept a milk chest, are summarily
amputated and laid away in it, with the parental library, which, we
are sorry to say, is equally doubtful in point of both ornament and
use. The good gossips slyly peep into the covers of Matthew Henry, and
regard their retiring pastor as a more learned man than they had
suspected, while the black letter-press of Lorenzo Dow, and John
Bunyan, and Fox's "Book of Martyrs" touches them like so much
necromancy. The faithful old clock, whose disorders are crises in our
humdrum pastoral year, is stopped and disjointed, much to our marvel,
and all the spare straw in the barn is brought to protect the large
gilt-edged cups and saucers, which say upon their edges, "To our
pastor," and "To our pastor's wife." The thin rag carpets are folded
away; the potatoes in the bin are sold to Brother Bibb, the grocer,
and to a very few of the select sisters we present a can of our
preserved quinces, with directions how to prepare them. Poor Em., the
black domestic, drops so many tears upon the parlor stove as she
carries it out to the wagon that the fresh blackening she has so
industriously given it goes for nothing; for Em. is to be discharged,
and the fact troubles her, though a preacher's servant has little to
eat and plenty to do.
At last the old parsonage is quite bare and deserted, though our
successors, box and baggage, have moved in upon us, much to the
annoyance of the females, who see with jealousy that the new arrival
gets the lion's share of attention, and that Brother Tipp, whose
class-book we took from him, and who has backbitten us ever since, is
courteous as a dancing-master with our rival. We shall talk for six
years to come--that is, our mother--of Bangs's, the new-comer's,
impudence in feeding his horse on our oats, and shall never speak of
him as Brother Bangs, but simply call him _Bangs_, emphasized. We are
not even sure that he will not turn his poultry loose before ours has
been secured, and we boys, with great zeal, run down the roosters and
ducks, giving them, if the truth must be told, longer chase than is
necessary. The aged muscovy, we are sorry to say, lames himself in the
retreat, and the only goose on the premises hides among Powell's, the
neighbor's, so that we cannot tell which from which. However, the
property is tied up at last in the several wagons; Sister Phoenix's
lunch has been eaten, and our father, the itinerant, in his
shirt-sleeves, stands up, with pain and perspiration on his brow, to
bid his flock good-by.
"Now, brethren," he says, with a quiver at his throat, "my time is
passing; I have finished the work appointed for me to do. Renew the
kindnesses you have done me and my little ones upon the good steward
who is to replace me. My heart weeps to cut the bonds which have held
us so long together; but in this world I am a pilgrim and a stranger.
Let us all pray!"
As his shrill, broken voice goes up in a mingled wail and hosanna, we
children peep by stealth into the working faces of the bystanders, and
our own grow tearful, till our little sister cries aloud, and our
mother falls into some fond matron's arms.
Immediately our wagons are on the way. The clustering village roofs
and the church spire sink down behind. We are too full of excitement
to share the silence of our elders, and the passing objects while us
to laughter and debate.
Swan Neck is a representative circuit. It lies, as everybody knows,
somewhere upon the Eastern shore--that landmark and stronghold of
Methodism. The parsonage is in Crochettown, the county-seat, and the
circuit comprises half a dozen churches down the neck, among the pine
forests and on the bay side. Our father tells our mother on the way of
the advantages of the place, till we take it to be quite a metropolis.
He says that Wiggins, whom we succeed, gives a first-rate account of
it. One of the members (Judd) is a judge, and our church, in short,
rules the roast thereabout, and makes the Episcopalians stand around,
not to speak of the Baptists, who try as usual to edge us out.
The boys ask with glowing cheeks if there is a river at Crochettown,
and are thrown into ecstasy by the reply that a large steamboat
touches there twice a week, and that there is a drawbridge. We are
less interested in the statement that the schools are good, but hear
with delight the history of one Dumple, an innkeeper, who persecutes
our church and sells quantities of "rum" to our young men. William,
the son of Wiggins, our predecessor, was once seen in the bar-room and
reported to his father, who fetched him home by _posse comitatus_, and
found that he smelled strongly of soda water.
As we go along the road in this way, our furniture mean time having
been shipped by water, a very compact and knotty young man rides up
behind us upon a nag which we at once identify as church property. The
sleekness of the flanks betokens his conversance with other people's
corn-cribs, and he has a habit of shying at all the farm-house gates
as if habituated to stopping whenever he liked and staying to dinner.
His Perseus has a semi-gallant, semi-verdant way of lifting his hat,
and his voice is hard as his knuckles.
"Woa, Sal!" he says (all preachers drive mares, it may be
interpolated), "have I the pleasure of addressing Brother Ryder?"
"The same, sir."
"My name is Chough, sir; the annual Conference has done me the favor
of associating my name with yours at Swan Neck."
"Oh, ho! You are my colleague; my wife, Brother Chough!"
The wife runs Brother Chough over immediately, who looks very red and
awkward, and she gives her estimate of him in an undertone. It will be
bad for Chough if he is at all airish or scholastic, or individual in
his opinions, for between a senior pastor's wife and his young
assistant there is an hereditary distrust; conceit has no show at all
in a young itinerant.
But Chough wisely confines his remarks to asking questions about the
bishops, and agrees with us that Doctor Bim's address on the church
extension cause was sound as the Fathers, and finally gives us his own
extraction, which we trace to the respectable Choughs of Caroline
County, and at once fraternize with him.
Those were happy days for us children! Cornfield and barn and negro
quarter rolled by us like things of fable. We watched the squirrels in
the scrubwood as never again we shall take interest in human
companionship, and stopped at farm-house troughs to water our nag with
keener joy than that with which we have since gazed upon far blue seas
or soft cis-alpine lakes and rivers.
At last we reach the place; the complement of free negro cabins lies
on its outskirts; we ask the way to the Methodist preacher's
residence, and learning with feigned surprise that "he has just gone
an' lef town for good," cross a sandy creek and bridge, climb a hill,
and stop at our future threshold.
It is an ancient edifice of brick; a pigmy stable stands beside it,
with a gate intervening, and in the rear we have a lot big enough to
graze one frugal horse, and a garden sufficiently large to employ us
boys. Our father starts off immediately to find the keys; but in the
face of a gathering of small lads in pinafores and jack-knives, who
come to gaze at us, we scale the gate, enter a back shutter, and cry
a welcome to our mother from the second-story front.
We hastily scan the several chambers to claim all that we find in the
drawers and closets; are gratified to observe the bow-gun and
shinney-sticks of the young Wigginses departed, and quite fall out
among ourselves over the wooden effigy of an Indian which has tumbled
down from the barn-top.
Soon the nearest neighbor of our persuasion arrives with our father,
and takes our mother and the baby away to his dwelling. A fat old
trustee and local preacher carries off ourself and sister, and we go
bashfully and wonderingly into the heart of the town, past the church,
past the market-house, past the tavern and court and public hall,
until the door of our host closes upon us, and our short sandy hairs
appear at the windows to scan the street and the people.
Yeasty, our host, is the only local preacher in Crochettown, where he
also keeps a store, but is said to be as rich as Croesus, and
miserly as get out; and he has a pretty daughter, Margot, who sweeps
into the room like a little queen, and, being older than ourselves,
patronizes us till we blush. She rattles off all the town talk, the
parties in the winter season, the terrible master of the academy, and
the handsomest boys, including Barret, who is dissipated and writes
poetry; the beauty of Marian Lee, who seems to be the terror of young
gentlemen, though Margot don't see any thing in her, the proud piece!
And so we pick up the history of the village with the diligence of
Froissart or Jean de Troyes, and eat last winter's apples by the ruddy
grate, listening to Margot, with our very round tow head upon our
sister's, filled with vague dreams of greatness and wealth, and old
Yeasty's silver half dollars piled up around us, and Margot to chat at
our side forever.
Oh! innocent days of itinerant urchinhood, your freshness comes no
more; we "move on" as of old--waifs in the wide circuit of this nomad
life--but with the hymns which lulled us in the neglected
meeting-house, the prophecies they told us of toil, duty, reverence,
and content, have floated into heaven whither our father has gone!
The bulk of our furniture being delayed, and our mother impatient of
accepting hospitality, we move into the great, bare parsonage house on
Saturday, and sit in the only furnished room. It grieves even
ourselves to see how this merry moving has thinned her anxious white
face, and therefore we forbear to fret her when we read the three long
Bible chapters she exacts. Josh, our brother, does not purposely
pronounce physician "physiken," as he is in the habit of doing, and
our sister remembers for once that ewe lamb is to be called "yo," and
not "e-we" in two syllables. The dinner is quite cold, but Josh, who
complains, is reminded of the poor Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, who
could not afford salt with his potatoes. Josh says that for his part
he don't like potatoes anyhow, and will not be comforted.
In the afternoon we present ourselves at Sunday-school, and as the
preacher's sons are supposed to be first-class ecclesiastical
scholars, are put in the Bible-class. Here we surprise everybody by
the quantity of verses we know by heart, and get many red and blue
tickets for our reward. It must be confessed that we had been twice
before paid for the same lesson, it being our perquisite to carry all
that we know from school to school. We see Margot among the girls,
swinging her feet under the seat as she hummingly commits her lesson
to memory, and as her feet are very pretty, they do not perhaps move
unconsciously. But Josh and we have quite a battle as to Margot, Josh
saying, "She's my girl," and we averring that "we know better--she's
mine," until finally our sister disposes of the matter by betraying us
to the little coquette, whereat we are both ashamed, and go home
hastily.
We feed and curry the horse by turns, and hunt eggs in the stable
with boisterous rivalry, and have quite a contest as to who shall go
down upon "the circuit" first, which is at last settled in favor of
the first person.
On the appointed Sunday we rise betimes, "gear up" the nag to the
sulky, and depositing a carpet-stool in the foot, sit upon it between
our father's legs, and trot out of town at a respectably slow gait to
clear the preacher of any suspicion of keeping a fast horse. Fairly
out of town, however, we switch up somewhat, ourself watching over the
dasher the clods and dust thrown from the mare's shoes, and our father
humming snatches of hymns, with his grave eyes twinkling.
We say "How de do," of course, to every passer-by, as it is the pride
of the profession to lead the etiquette of the country; and, passing
remarks upon the badness of the fences, the staunchness of the barns,
and the coziness of the dwellings, soon leave the cultivated high-road
for one of the by-ways which lead down the sparsely-settled "Neck."
The sombre pine forests gather about us; a squirrel or two runs across
the route, and a solitary crow caws in the tree-top; we hear the loud
"tap-tap-tap" of a woodpecker, and see through the sinuous aisles of
firs some groups of negroes pattering to church. The men take off
their hats obsequiously, and the women duck their heads, and our
father says benignantly, "Going to church, boys? that's right! I like
to see you honor the Great Master!" At which the younger Africans show
their teeth, and the more forward patriarchs reply, "Yes, massar,
bress de Lord!"
So the teams increase in number like the wayfarers, all with the same
object in view, until we see the church at last, standing behind a
line of whitewashed palings, flanked by less pretentious worm fences,
and in the rear a long shed for horses, open in front, shadows the few
tomb memorials of stone and stake.
Several lads and worldlings at the gate, slashing their boots with
riding-whips, make obeisance, while two or three plain old gentlemen
walk down to meet us, saying:
"Brother Ryder, we _pré_-sume! Welcome to Dodson's Corner, Brother
Ryder!"
We tie up the nag, loosen her bridle bit, and follow into the
meeting-house--a lofty building unplastered at the roof, whose open
eaves and shingles give place in summer to nests of wasps, and in the
winter to audacious birds, some of which swoop screaming to the
pulpit, and beat the window panes in futile flight. Two uncarpeted
aisles lead respectively to the men's side and the women's side--for,
far be it from us, primitive Methodists, to improve upon the
discipline of Wesley--and midway of each aisle, in square areas, stand
two high stoves, with branching pipes which radiate from their red-hot
cylinders of clay. The pulpit is a square unpainted barricade, with
pedestals on each side for a pair of oil-lamps; the cushions which
sustain the Bible are the gift of young unconverted ladies, and are
sacredly brought to the place of worship each Sunday morning and taken
away in the afternoon.
By the side of the stove the old stewards and the new minister stand
awhile talking over the moral _status_ of the country, the advances
made by the Baptists, and the amount of money contributed by Dodson's
Corner to the various funds of the church. The folk, meanwhile, drop
in by squads, the colored element filling the unsteady gallery in the
rear, until our father looks at his open-faced watch, and says:
"Bless my soul, brethren, it is time to begin the services!"
He ascends into the pulpit. We sit on what is known as the "Amen
side," with our thumb in our button-hole, and watch the process of the
chief steward, who is unlimbering his tuning-fork. He obtains the
pitch of the tune by rapping the pew with this, or, if his teeth be
sound, which is rare, touches the prongs with his incisors. Then his
head--whose baldness, we imagine, arises from the people in the rear
looking all the hair off--is thrown back resolutely, his jaws fly wide
open, he projects a tangible stream of music to the roof, to the alarm
of the birds, and comes to a dead halt at the end of the second
line--for here we have congregational singing, and even those without
hymn books may assist to swell the music. But very often the leader
breaks down; the vanguard of old ladies cannot keep up the tune;
volunteers make desperate efforts to rally the chorus, but retire
discomfited, and the pastor, in addition to praying, reading, and
preaching, must finally, in his worn, subdued voice, lead the forlorn
hope.
The sermon on this inaugural occasion may justly be termed a work of
art. It must be conclusive of the piety, learning, eloquence, and
sound doctrine of the preacher, and be by turns argumentative,
combative, stirring, pathetic, practical, and pictorial. The text has
about the same connection at first with the discourse that a campanile
has with a cathedral. A solid eulogium upon the book from which it is
taken gives occasion for some side-slashes at Voltaire, Hume, and
Gibbon; the deaths of these are contrasted with the obsequies of the
righteous, and the old-fashioned, material place of punishment is
reasserted and minutely described. The text is then said to naturally
resolve itself into three parts--the injunction, the direction, and
some practical illustrations. The injunction, it is further allowed,
re-subdivides itself, and these parts are each proclaimed in the form
of speech of "Once more." We are quite too old a hand at listening to
imagine that "once more" means _only_ once more, and start to
enumerate the beams in the roof, the panes in the windows, and the
gray hairs in the old gentleman's head before us. About the time that
we feel sleepy an anecdote arouses us: then the iteration of
expletives from the membership succeeds; we see that the owner of the
tuning-fork has fallen to sleep in so ingenious an attitude that he
would never have been detected but for his snore, and are amused by
the fashion one good lady has of slowly wagging her head as she drinks
in the discourse. A slight commotion in the gallery arises, which
gives a steward excuse to steal down the aisle and hasten to the scene
of disturbance; the final appeal, brimming with the poetry of mercy,
grace, patience, and salvation is said; we all kneel down upon the
hard cold floor while the last prayer is being made, and receive the
benediction, as if some invisible shadow of bright wings had fallen
upon the dust and fever of our lives.
To say that the first person is weary but vindicates the sagacity of
our father, who steals down to our side and whispers, "You may go out,
Fred, if you are tired." But curiosity compels us to remain after the
congregation is dismissed, that we may hear the class-meeting
experiences.
Those solemn corollaries to the service thrill me with their
recollection even now. The almost empty church echoing the sobs of the
weary, and heart-bruised, and spirit-broken; the pinched, hard faces
of the older people telling their bitter trials in bereavement,
misappreciation, and poverty. But bursting through all, that
unconquerable enthusiasm which lends to the face more than the glow of
intelligence, and to the heart more than the recompense of riches; the
timid utterance of the younger converts, outlining the rebellious
instincts of their tempted bodies, and their need of more faith,
grace, and help divine. While these speak in order, the bald-headed
chorister interpolates appropriate snatches of psalms, and the
preacher cries, "Patience, my brother! All will be well! Hope on, hope
ever!"
At last the impatient negroes in the gallery have their opportunity,
and roll down thunders of exuberant piety, which, by their natural,
almost inspired eloquence, pathos, and vehemence, stir even their
masters to ejaculations of praise.
How must such spiritually social reunions cheer the long, hard lives
of these poor, remote believers! He was a profound statesman who,
projecting a gospel for the lowly, devised the class-meeting as an
outlet for their suppressed emotions, sympathies, and sorrows.
However, it is all over, and there is quite a dispute after the
"class" as to who shall have the pastor's company to dinner. It is a
piece of fine diplomacy to determine this. Policy dictates the most
influential; feeling, the most reverend and poor. But the interest of
the church is paramount; a compliment or a promise appeases the vanity
of the humbler, and we follow the double team of the great landholder,
Tibbet, and are soon sitting before his roaring fire.
Itinerants are notoriously big eaters. Our father keeps a weather eye
on the provender as it is brought in smoking, and it being soon
apparent that the dinner is to be orthodox, if not apostolic, his
social attributes improve wonderfully. He breaks out in little spurts
of anecdote, not entirely secular, nor yet too didactic to be jovial.
They run upon young Brother Bolt, who once, after an unusual happy
"revival" night, to show his great faith, tried to leap over a creek
and doused himself to the ears; upon the great controversialist,
Whanger, who, being invited to preach in a "High Church" pulpit,
improved the occasion to trace apostolic succession as far back as
Pope Joan; upon the first intelligent contraband of his kind, whose
mistress affirmed that if one's ill deeds were numerically greater
than his good ones he would be--jammed, and if the contrary, saved,
and who responded, "Spose'n dey boff de same, missus?"
These are told with inimitable spirit and mimicry, as want of clerical
wit is a direct impeachment of the validity of one's "call" to preach;
and when the table is filled, and with outstretched hands the blessing
said, our father gets a universal compliment for his carving. There is
roast turkey, with rich stuffing, bright cranberry sauce, and savory
pies of pumpkin, mince, and persimmon, cider to wash down the mealy
ripeness of the sweet potato, and at the end transparent quinces
drowned in velvet cream. How glibly goes the time! We play with a
young miss, who shows us her library, in which, we are sorry to say, a
book about pirates deeply absorbs us. But at last the sulky comes to
the door; we say good-by with touched full hearts, and pass hummingly
to appointment No. 2.
This is "Sand Hill," perhaps, or "Mumpson Town," or "Ebenezer," or
"Dry Pond;" and when we have mustered again in the afternoon, and in
the evening for the third time, turn Sal's head toward the parsonage,
and sail along in the night, cold and worn, past fields of stubble,
over which the wind sweeps, past negro cabins, watching like human
things upon us, through dreary woods where the tall pines rock against
the stars and the clouds sail whitely by like witches going to a
rendezvous, past cheerful homes, gleaming light and rest and worldly
competence, the owners whereof have heard no deep command to carry the
gospel into wildernesses, or hearing disobeyed. And all the while our
father sings softly to himself, looking now and then at us who are his
cross, and again into the shining constellations which hide his crown.
But we "preacher's sons," by which name we are universally
distinguished, have our own crosses as well. It is generally agreed
that much ought to be expected of us and little obtained. Let one of
us play truant from school, or use a naughty word in play, or make
marbles a source of revenue, or fight on the common when provoked, or
steal a cherry, and the fact travels our town over like a telegram. We
once suffer greatly in repute by selling our neighbor's old iron and
brass to an itinerant pedler, and are alleged to have run up a debit
account of one dime with an old negro who sells spruce beer and "horse
cakes"--whereafter we fail.
The church people, much to our dissatisfaction, present us with
castaway coats and boots, which we are made to wear, and once or
twice, when we encounter Margot in this shape, we burst into tears
and run home to hide our wounded vanity in the stable loft. There, in
the "mow," while we devise bitter and futile conspiracies against
society, the mare, munching her fodder, looks up at us with patient
eyes, as if to say: "Am I not also mortified for the faith?" But we
are cut to the heart to think that Margot may contrast us with
better-dressed boys, and therefore think us of little spirit,
learning, and courage. It is for you, pretty coquette, that we carry
many scandals and scars! We do not quite love you, Margot; but we are
foolishly vain and sensitive, and your eyes are very beautiful!
Still we are acknowledged at school to be "smart." All preacher's sons
are so by common concession, and though we may not visit the circus,
like others, we get abundance of free tickets for concerts, panoramas,
and glass-blowers. Once, indeed, the great Chippewa chief,
Haw-waw-many-squaw, having thrown the town into consternation by
placards of himself scalping his enemies and smoking their tobacco,
makes a triumphal entry into the main street at full gallop, and
pitching his tent before the court-house, walks into the
parsonage--war plumes, moccasins, and all--gives us complimentary
seats, and eats the better half of our dinner. This incident is a
source of pride to ourself beyond any thing experienced by any urchin
besides. We boast of it frequently, and, being disliked therefor,
commit several impromptu scalpings on our own account.
Vagabonds unnumbered beg our hospitality, and get it. Some of these it
would be difficult to determine, either as to profession or
destination. Many of them are systematic pensioners upon the preacher,
and plead devotion to our denomination as a means of gaining our
hearts. They have the gossip of the "Conference" at their tongues'
ends, and lead our family devotion with the grace and hypocrisy of
Belial.
The weddings that we hold are frequent and various. Runaway couples
come to us, blushing and short-winded, satisfy us of their lawful age,
are united, and pass into the moon, leaving a five-dollar bill behind
them. We cannot quite find it in our hearts, even at this late day, to
forgive those numerous candidates for felicity who hold the par value
of a wedding ceremony to be no more than two dollars. Yet, though we
grieve to admit it, two dollars is the average fee. At one time the
negro population, anxious to be wived by a white preacher, makes
inroads upon us _en masse_ to the detriment of decorum and our
carpets. We summarily shut down upon this business when we find that
their fees come to but half a dollar a pair.
However, the year drifts by, and we are greatly concerned to know if
it is the sentiment of Swan Neck that we shall continue its pastor
another year. Old Yeasty, Margot's father, as we are aware, feels
himself slighted because we do not call upon him of Sundays to make
the closing prayers; for Yeasty's prayer is a sermon under another
name, and runs the morning into twilight; but a sly compliment that we
pay him in a diplomatic sermon at the end of the conference year
brings him round all right, and back we go to Swan Neck.
So with burying the dead and writing their obituaries; making the
babes pure with that holy sprinkling which gives them, dying early, to
a Christian immortality; launching our thunders upon the bold,
softening the hearts of the errant, mingling with our unbending creed
the more pliable ethics of worldly graces, and, in a word, walking
like Saint John on the savage border of civilization, to thrill the
brutal and unlettered with the tidings of one just day to come--our
itinerant lives drift on till the marble slab in the meeting-house
wall writes the itinerant's only human memorial.
We have dreamed our last. Burst from the narrow chrysalis which we
would gladly rebuild again, the seething, churning sea is before us
and around us; we only catch, like the strains of bells through the
fog, the hum of hymns, the drowsy murmur of the buzzing
Sabbath-school, and the nasal ring of the itinerant's summer sermon.
Margot is married to Chough, our whilom colleague, and makes her
migration in his Bedouin train, and does not know how once she
thrilled us. The tuning-fork is rusty, and the chorister in his coffin
may hear, if he can, his successor stirring the birds in the roof with
his sonorous melody. All are at rest, and we live on--moving, moving,
moving--so deeply fastened into our natures are our early instincts;
but every night we say the same parsonage prayer, and every morning
look upon the wall where hangs the grave, grim features we revere--the
Itinerant Preacher.