California was called five hundred miles into the southern
part of the State to assist in organizing a Pilgrim church.
A good part of the proposing members being from his own
flock, their appeal was urgent, and was acceded to. An
infant organization of a few persons was brought together,
and christened the Pilgrim Church of Pomona. The
organization was effected in a public hall, loaned for the
occasion; the church's stipulated tenure of the premises
expiring at precisely 3 P.M., in order that the room might
be put in order for theatrical occupancy at night. The
accouchment was therefore naturally a hurried one. The
constituting services had to be abbreviated. Among the
things cast out was the sermon, which the visiting pastor
from the north had come five hundred miles to preach. Well,
sweet are the uses of adversity! Never, apparently, did loss
so small gain work so great. On the lack of that initiatory
sermon the Pilgrim Church of Pomona has most wonderfully
thriven. The church was poor at the outset. It possessed no
foot of ground, no house; only a Bible, a dozen hymn-books,
and as many zealous members. Over this featherless chick was
spread the brooding wing of the American Home Missionary
Society. 'It was a plucky bird,' said the wise-hearted
pastor, already on the ground. 'Here's a case where the
questionable old saw, "Half a loaf better than no bread,"
won't work at all. If this new well is to be driven, it must
be driven to the vein. If there is to be but surface
digging, let there be none. If the American Home Missionary
society will supply us with six hundred dollars for the
first six months, we'll make no promises, but we'll do the
best we can.' Well, the G. O. S.--Grand Old
Society--responded, and gave the six hundred for the desired
six months. At the expiration of that period the Pilgrim
Church of Pomona, located upon land and in a house of its
own, bade its temporary foster-mother a grateful good-by;
and, as it did so, put back into her hand two hundred of the
six hundred dollars which had been given. What has been the
outcome? That noble church, headed by a noble Massachusetts
pastor, has become in the matter of home missions at
least--but not in home missions only--the leading church of
Southern California. It has to-day an enrolment of two
hundred and twenty; has contributed this year three hundred
and fifty dollars to your society. Alert in all activities
of its own, it is a stimulus to all those of its neighbors.
It had not yet got formally organized--the audacious little
strutling!--before it had made a cool proposition to the
handful of Pilgrim churches then existing in Southern
California for the creation of a college; secured the
location in its own town; itself appointed the first board
of trust; and named it Pomona College. It never waited to be
hatched before it began to crow; and to such purpose that it
crowed up a college, which now owns two hundred acres of
choice land, has a subscription-list of twenty-five thousand
dollars for buildings, besides a present building costing
two hundred and five thousand dollars. It has in its senior
class eleven students, in its preparatory department
seventy-one; and in a recent revival interest numbers a
goodly group of converts; and, finally, the general
association of Southern California, at its meeting within a
month, committed its fifty churches fully to the subject of
Christian education, to the annual presentation of the
advantages and claims of Pomona College, and to an annual
collection for its funds. All this, brethren, out of one of
your flowing wells in three years."
XXI.
THE SABBATH ON THE FRONTIER.
We hear a good deal of talk about the American Sabbath, so that one
would think it was first introduced here; and, indeed, the American
Sabbath is our own patent. Not but what Scotland and rural England had
one somewhat like it; but the American Sabbath _par excellence_ is not
the Jewish Sabbath, or the European Sabbath, but the Sunday of Puritan
New England, which is generally meant when we hear of the American
Sabbath. But the American Sabbath of the frontier can never become the
European Sabbath without getting nearer to the New England type; for
in Europe people do go to church in the morning, if they attend the
beer-gardens in the afternoon. The Sabbath of the frontier has no
church, and the beer-garden is open all day.
Some reader will wonder what kind of a deacon a man would make who
worked on Sunday. Well, he might be better; but, remember, that for
one deacon who breaks the Sabbath, there are ten thousand who break
the tenth commandment, which is just as important. The fact is, you
must do the best you can under the circumstances, and wait for the
next generation to go up higher. It is no use finding fault with
candles for the poor light and the smell of the tallow. There is only
one way: you must light the gas; and it, too, must go when electricity
comes. You might as well expect concrete roads, Beethoven's
Symphonies, and the Paris opera, as to have all the conditions of New
England life to start with under such environments. Man has greater
power to accommodate himself to new conditions than the beasts that
perish; nevertheless, he is subject to them, at least for a time.
I know some will be thinking of the Pilgrim Fathers, staying in the
little Mayflower rather than break the Sabbath; but we must not
forget, that, as a rule, the frontiers are not peopled with Pilgrim
Fathers. It is true, the wildest settlers are not altogether bad; for
you could have seen on their prairie schooners within the last year
these words, "In God we trusted, in Kansas we busted;" which is much
more reverent than "Pike's Peak or bust," if not quite so terse.
This is not meant for sarcasm. These words were written in a county
that has been settled over two hundred and fifty years, and has not
had a murderer in its jail yet, where the people talk as if they were
but lately from Cornwall, where the descendants of Mayhew still
live,--Mayhew, who was preaching to the Indians before the saintly
Eliot.
We must remember, too, that the good men who first settled at Plymouth
could do things conscientiously that your frontiersman would be
shocked at. Think, too, of good John Hawkins sailing about in the ship
Jesus with her hold full of negroes, and pious New Englanders selling
slaves in Deerfield less than a hundred and ten years ago; of the
whipping-post and the persecuting of witches; and that these good men,
who would not break the Sabbath, often in their religious zeal broke
human hearts. No living man respects them more than I do. You cannot
sing Mrs. Hemans's words,
"The breaking waves dashed high,"
without the tears coming to these eyes; and one sight of Burial Hill
buries all hard thoughts I might have about their stern rule. They
were fitted for the times they lived in, and we must see to it that we
do our part in our time.
In my first field I well remember being startled at a tiny girl
singing out, "Hello, Elder!" and on looking up there was a batch of
youngsters from the Sunday-school playing croquet on Sunday afternoon.
"Hello!" said I; and I smiled and walked on. Wicked, was it not? I
ought to have lectured them? Oh, yes! and lost them. Were they playing
a year after? Not one of them. And, better still, the parents, who
were non-churchgoers, had joined the church.
The saloons and stores were open, and doing a big business, the first
year; but both saloons and stores were closed, side-doors too, after
that. Some of the saloon-keepers' boys, who played base-ball on
Sunday, were in the Sunday-school and members of a temperance society.
These saloon-keepers, and men who were not church-members, paid dollar
for dollar with the Christians who sent missionary money to support
the little church; and not only that, but paid into the benevolences
of the church from five to twenty-five dollars. There is no possible
way so good of getting men to be better as to get them to help in a
good cause. I know men who would not take money that came from the
saloon; but I did. I remembered the words, "The silver and the gold
are mine," and Paul's saying, "Ask no question for conscience' sake."
We might as well blame the Creator for growing the barley because of
its being put to a bad use, as to blame a man for using the money
because it came from a bad business. Men ought to use common sense,
even in religious things.
When a man hitches up his horse on Sunday morning and drives fifty
miles that day and preaches four times, we admire his zeal. There are
some who will not blame him if he hires a livery rig, who would
condemn him if he rode on the street-cars or railway. I well remember
a good man, who was to speak in a church a few miles away, saying to
me, "How shall we get there?" I said, "The street-cars go right past
the door."
"Oh! I can't ride in a street-car."
"Why? Make you sick?"
It never came into my head that the man meant he could not ride on
Sunday in a street-car.
"I will tell you," said he, "what we will do. I will get a livery
rig."
I was much amused, and bantered him, and said,--
"I don't know about breaking the Sabbath fifty per cent. I am willing
to plead limited liability with a hundred others in the street-car."
Just then a man drove up with a buggy who had been sent for us. It
seemed to take a load off my friend's mind. Now, there are men who
would condemn a man for this, and say he should walk; and I know men
who walk ten and twelve miles on Sunday. If that is not work I do not
know what is. This month I saw an article in a paper condemning the
young people who had to ride on Sunday to reach their meeting. The
writer would not have them travel, even in an emergency. I wonder when
the Pilgrims would have reached us on that basis. It is a far cry from
the Mayflower to the Lucania. Is the Sabbath greater than its Lord? I
was told of one preacher who was so particular that he sent word that
no appointment must be made for him that involved street-car or
railway travel. So a horse was driven ten miles to fetch him, and ten
miles to take him back. When the horse reached his stable that night
he had travelled forty miles to keep this man from breaking the
Sabbath. Who gave these brethren the right to work their horses this
way, and break the Sabbath? If Moses had a man stoned to death for
gathering sticks on the Sabbath, what right have you to be toasting
your shins over a register that your man-servant must keep going
evenly or catch it? In short, what right has any man to tamper with
one of the commandments to suit himself, and place the remainder
higher than love to his neighbor?
So long as the frontier Sabbath is what it is, it will be lawful to do
good on the Sabbath day. Far be it from me to undervalue the Sabbath.
I value it highly, but I value freedom more. The man who rides in his
carriage to church has no right to condemn my riding in the
street-car, and he who rides in the street-car has no right to judge
the man on the train. "Who art thou that judgest another man's
servant?" "One man esteemeth one day above another; another esteemeth
every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind."
"Stand fast, therefore, in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us
free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage."
[Illustration: OLDEST HOUSE IN THE UNITED STATES, SANTA FÉ, NEW
MEXICO.
_Page 220._]
XXII.
THE FRONTIER OF THE SOUTH-WEST.
The South-west is different from all other parts of the country. The
Anglo-Saxon is everywhere else in the ascendant. Here the Latin races
are dominant. It is astonishing to find so many oldest churches all
over the country. The superlative is a national trait. We have either
the oldest or the youngest, the greatest or the smallest, or the only
thing in the world. However, it is almost certain that the oldest
church and house are to be found in Santa Fé. The Church of San Miguel
was built seventy years before the landing of the Pilgrims, and the
house next to the church fifty years. It is the oldest settled, is the
farthest behind, has the most church-members per capita, and is the
most ignorant and superstitious part of the land. In one part
Mormonism holds sway. In the other, Roman Catholicism of two
centuries ago is still the prevailing religion.
It is a curious fact; but in this latter respect the North-east and
the South-west almost join hands; for Lower Canada sent us Old France,
and the South-west remains Old Spain. Here, as a man travels through
Western Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, only his Pullman car, and
especially his Pullman porter, makes him realize that he is in
America. In the eastern part of Texas the buzzards fill the air as
they are hovering over the dead cattle. In the western part the dead
cattle dry up and are blown away. Meat keeps indefinitely. There are
no flies there, few insects, and the flowers are almost odorless,
perhaps on account of the lack of insect-life. The very butcher-signs
look strange. Instead of the fat, meek ox on a sign, we have a mad
bull charging a Spanish matador.
Here comes a Mexican with a fifty-dollar hat on his head, and fifty
cents would almost buy the rest of his clothes. He marches by with
the strut of a drum-major. The best streets and the finest houses are
often not homes. The plains look as if they would not keep a cow
alive; and yet here in the South-west we find some of the finest
grazing-lands in the world, although it takes twenty-five acres to
feed a cow. But what of that? the acres are unlimited. The
black-tailed antelope are seen running from your train; while the
prairie-dog sits, like all small things, barking impudently, or, with
a few electric twists of his little tail he dives below, where a
rattlesnake and an owl keep his house in order, i.e., keep the
population down so that the progeny would not kill all the grass, and
so starve at last; with himself would go the cattle; so the economy of
nature keeps up its reputation everywhere. As some have said, when
salmon are scarce hens' eggs become dear; for the otter takes to the
land and kills the rabbits, and the weasel, finding his stores low,
visits the hen-coops--and up goes the price of eggs.
The minute-man in the South-west has a big field. He is often hundreds
of miles from his next church. He preaches to the cowboys one day, to
the Digger Indians or the blanket variety the next. He is off among
the miners, and sometimes in less than four hours he must change from
the cold mountain air to the heat which requires two roofs to the
house in order to keep it cool enough. He eats steak that has come one
thousand miles from the East, although ten thousand cattle are all
about him. He passes a million cows, and yet has to use condensed milk
for his coffee or go without.
He finds himself in the midst of the grandest scenery on the
continent. In his long journey he often finds himself sleeping on the
plain outside the teepees of his red brother, rather risking the
tarantulas, lizards, and rattlers that may come, than the thousands of
smaller nuisances that are sure to come if he goes under cover. He is
in the midst of a past age; and as he visits the pueblos, he would not
be surprised to see De Soto come forth, so Spanish are his
surroundings. The adobe building prevails everywhere, cool in summer,
warm in winter, and in this climate well nigh indestructible.
The priesthood are centuries removed from those of the East. Here he
will meet with men living in the Middle Ages, beating their backs with
cactus until the blood streams, and often dying under self-inflicted
blows. We often hear of America having no ruins, no ancient history.
This may be so in regard to time; but in regard to conditions we are
in the time of Boadicea of the ancient Briton, and in the South-west
are ruins of buildings that were inhabited when William was crowned at
Westminster. So great are the States of the South-west that the
counties are larger than New England States; and you may be stuck in a
blizzard in northern Texas, while people in the southern portion are
eating oranges out-doors with the oleanders for shade-trees.
I will close this chapter with a description given me in part by the
Rev. E. Lyman Hood, who was Superintendent of Missions in the
South-west until he was broken down by his arduous toil.
One evening he found himself at the opening of an immense cañon, on
the lofty tops of which the snow was perpetual. Sheltered beneath its
mighty walls, flowers of semi-tropical luxuriance flourished, and
birds of gorgeous plumage flitted here and there; while humming-birds,
like balls of metal, darted among the flowers. A little silver
streamlet ran down the cañon until lost in the blue distance; and here
our minute-man stood lost in reverent admiration. The sun was going
down in pomp of purple and gold; and the little stream changed its
colors with the clouds, until in a moment it became black; a cold wind
came down the cañon, the flowers closed their petals, and with a
twitter here and there the birds went to roost. And then our
minute-man looked up aloft, where the sun still gilded the great
cañon's shoulders until they glowed like molten metal, and kissed the
forehead of an Indian who stood like a statue waiting the sun's
setting. Another moment and it was gone, and our Indian stood like a
silhouette against the sky, when he at once wheeled toward the east,
and, stooping, lit a fire; then drawing his ragged blanket around him,
prepared to watch all night until the sun came up in the eastern
horizon, watching for the return of his Saviour Montezuma. And thus
far he has watched in vain.
A strange fact,--a poor tribe still waiting and watching for a Saviour
in a land where there are over twenty million church-members, some of
whom ride past him in their palace-cars to take a palatial steamer,
and travel thousands of miles to find a soul to save. Over twelve
denominations striving in Mexico to win souls, and scarcely a thing
done for the hundreds of thousands of Mexicans in our own land, and
over forty tribes of Indians. And all this in the year of our Lord
1895.
XXIII.
DARK PLACES OF THE INTERIOR.
I want to picture out in this chapter one of the hardest fields the
minute-man has to labor in. I think there are greater inequalities to
be found in our land than in any other, at least a greater variety of
social conditions. Times have changed much in the last twenty-five
years. The consolidating of great business concerns has made a wide
gulf between the employer and employee such as never before existed
outside of slavery.
It is not true to say that the rich are growing richer, and the poor
poorer; for the poor could not be poorer. There never was a time when
men were not at starvation-point in some places. We have to-day
thousands of men who never saw the owner of the property that they
work upon. There is a fearful distance between the gentlemen and
ladies in their four-in-hand turnout and the begrimed men who come up
into the daylight out of our great coal-mines, or those who handle the
heavy iron ore. I have seen men whose hands could be pared like a
horse's hoof without drawing the blood, who were going back to Germany
to stay,--men who had been lured over by the promise of big wages,
who, as they said, averaged "feefty cent a day." I have seen sixty and
seventy men living in a big hut, with two or three women cooking their
vegetables in a great iron kettle, and dipping them out with tin
ladles. I have seen little boys by the score working for a few cents a
day, and four, five, and seven families living in one house, and where
all the pay was store-pay, and did not average five dollars a week,
and where it was not safe to walk at night, and murder was
common,--and you could find within a few miles cities where there were
men who would say that the whole of the above was a lie.
When I first talked on these regions, I could think of nothing else;
and some good men advised me not to tell of what I had seen. It
smacked too much of socialism, they said. I remarked, "You will hear
of starving, bloodshed, and riot from that region before long." And so
they did. The State troops were called out more than once. And here in
the midst of this misery our minute-man went. Before the mines were
opened, a little stream of clear water flowed between green banks and
through flowery meads; cattle dotted the meadows, and peaceful
farm-houses nestled under the trees. But all this was soon changed.
The green sod was turned up, the clear stream became a muddy,
discolored torrent, and wretched little houses took the place of the
farm-houses. Low saloons abounded. Our minute-man was warned that his
life would be in danger. On the other hand, he was offered three times
the salary he was getting as a missionary if he would become a
foreman. But the man is one of the last of that noble army of
pioneers that count not their life dear.
When our man tried to find a place to preach, there was none save an
old dilapidated schoolhouse. The window-sashes were broken, the panels
of the door gone. The place was beyond a little stream, which had to
be crossed upon a log. It was nearly dark before his audience arrived.
The women, much as they wanted to go, were ashamed of the daylight.
Many of the young girls had on but one garment. The men were a
rough-looking lot. The place was lighted with candles in lanterns, the
flames of which fluttered with the draughts, and gutters of tallow ran
down. What a contrast to the church a few miles away, where the seats
were cushioned, and a quartet choir sang, "The Earth is the Lord's,"
with a magnificent organ accompaniment! What a gulf between these poor
souls and those who came in late, not because of poor clothes, but
because of fine ones! And yet I suppose they did not perceive it,
perhaps they did not know. But it does seem to me that when men hear
that "The Earth is the Lord's," it ought to make them think how small
a proportion of earth they will make when mingled with the dust from
which they came.
But to return to our meeting. Our man is not from the colleges, but is
a rare man (don't misunderstand me. Nothing is so much needed to-day
as well-educated men; and I am not one of those who think that it
spoils a razor to sharpen it); and he has not spoken long before the
tears fall fast, and many a poor fellow who once sang the songs of
Zion comes home to his Father's house. Still, they tell our man it is
not safe for him to come; but he does; and under great difficulties he
builds a church and parsonage. And then he tries to have a
reading-room. Naturally he thinks that the man who is making so much
money out of the earth will help him. He offers twenty-five dollars,
which our minute-man spurns. He is going to give double that out of
his meagre salary, and tells the man so; but the man's excuse is that
he pays four hundred dollars a year towards the church music. Think of
that. And he pays to hear that "The Earth is the Lord's," and still
does not hear. The little room is built and furnished without his
help, and saves many a poor fellow from drink.
Our man has several other places to preach in, each worse than the
other. In one town it is on Sunday afternoon, but he has to wait for
the room until the dance is over. In another town he builds a church;
and to this day may be seen the bullet-holes near the pulpit, where
men have shot at him, hoping to kill their best friend. As he is
passing along the street one day with a companion, a man runs across
the road from a saloon, plunges a knife into the heart of the man who
is walking with our minute-man, and he drops dead in his tracks. Amid
such scenes as this our hero still works. He has been the means of
stopping more than one strike; and one would think that the rich
companies would at least give more than they do to help these men at
the front, who would make Pinkerton's men and State troops
unnecessary.
In the meantime the men are here. Can we expect that these men, coming
from their huts on the Danube,--seeing our fine houses, the American
workingmen's children well clothed and attending school,--are going to
be content? Do we want them to be? The worst thing that could happen
to them and ourselves would be for them to be content with their
present condition. No greater danger could menace the Republic than
thousands of Europeans coming here to live, and remaining in their
present condition. We condemn them for coming and underworking our
men; and we condemn them when they want more, and are bound to get it.
Many say, "Keep them out." But there are several things in the way.
Rich corporations, mine-owners, and railways are bound to get them.
And would you keep the men from which we sprung in overcrowded Europe,
while we have a continent with but seventy millions? Is there any real
love in that which sends a missionary to Europe to save souls on the
Don, that will not let their bodies live on the Hudson? Do we believe
that "The Earth is the Lord's"? Let me close this chapter with a
quotation from Roger Williams's letter to the Town of Providence:--
"I have only one motion and petition which I earnestly pray the town
to lay to heart, as ever they look for a blessing from God on the
town, in your families, your corn and cattle, and your children after
you. It is this, that after you have got over the black brook of some
soul bondage yourselves, you tear not down the bridge after you, by
leaving no small pittance for distressed souls that come after you."
XXIV.
THE DANGEROUS NATIVE CLASSES.
We hear much about the dangerous foreigners that come to us, but
little about the dangerous native. There is not a type, whether of
poverty or ignorance, but what we can match it. Leaving out the negro,
we have over ninety per cent Anglo-Saxon in the South. Here we find a
strange lot of paradoxes,--the most American, the most ignorant, the
most religious, the most superstitious, and the most lawless. Take the
lowest class of Crackers, and we have the whole of the above combined,
with millions of mountain whites to match. Yet in this same South land
are the most gentlemanly, and the most lady-like, and the most
hospitable people in the country. The Cracker classes are descendants
of the English, but what kind of English? The offscourings of prison
and dockyards, sent over to work on the plantations before slave labor
was introduced.