make its pestilential influence felt. The dance thrives. The children
grow up strong, rough, ignorant. The justice of the peace marries
them. No minister comes. The hearts once tender and homesick, in the
forest grow cold and hardened. At funerals perhaps a godly woman
offers prayer. Papers are few and poor. Books are very scarce. In
winter the man is far off, with his older boys, in the lumber-camps,
earning money to buy seed, and supplies for present wants. The woman
pines in her lonely home. The man breaks down prematurely. Too many of
these pioneers end their days in insane asylums. It is the third
generation which lives comfortably on pleasant farms, or strangers
reap that whereon they bestowed no labor.
This may seem too dark a picture. Song and story have gilded the
pioneer life so that its realities are myths to most people. It is
better when a colony starts with money, horses, books, etc.; but it is
hard enough then. Few keep their piety. I visited a community where
nearly every family were church-members in their early homes; but,
after twenty years, only one family had kept up the fire upon the
altar. It is hard to break up such fallows. How different had a
minister gone with them, and a church been built!
The missionary has different material altogether to work on in the
natural born pioneer. I visited one family which had a black bear, two
hounds, some pet squirrels, cats, and a canary; over the fireplace
hung rifles, deer-horns, and other trophies of the chase. The man was
getting ready to move. At first his nearest neighbors were bears and
deer; but now a railway had come, also schools and churches. He said,
"'Tain't like it was at fust; times is hard; have to go miles for a
deer; folks is getting stuck up, wearing biled shirts, getting spring
beds and rockers, and then ye can't do nothin' but some one is making
a fuss. I shall cl'ar out of this!"
And he did, burying himself and family in the depths of the woods. The
homesteader often takes these deserted places, after paying a mere
trifle for the improvements.
Homesteaders are numerous, generally very poor, and are apt to have
large families. One man, who had eight hundred dollars, was looked
upon as a Rothschild. Many families had to leave part of their
furniture on the dock, as a pledge of payment for their passage or
freight-bill. But, homesteaders or colonists, all must work hard, be
strong, live on plain fare, and dress in coarse clothing. The
missionary among these people must do the same. A good brother told me
that, on a memorable cold New Year's Day, he went into the woods to
cut stove-wood, taking for his dinner a large piece of dry bread. By
noon it was frozen solid; but, said he, "I had good teeth, and it
tasted sweet." Another lived without bread for some time, being
thankful for corn-meal. Those who live far from the railways are often
brought to great straits, through stress of weather and the wretched
roads. Little can be raised at first; the work must be done in a
primitive way.
As it is with the farmer, so it is with the missionary. The breaking
of new ground is hard work. Everything at first seems delightful. The
people are glad, "seeing they have a Levite for their priest." They
promise well. The minister starts in with a brave heart, and commences
to underbrush and cut down the giant sins that have grown on such fat
soil. But as they come down, he, too, finds the thistles and mulleins;
jealousies, sectarian and otherwise, come in and hinder him, and it is
a long, weary way to the well-filled church, the thriving
Sunday-school, and the snug parsonage.
Often he fares like the early farmer. The pioneer preacher is seldom
seen in the pretty church, but a man of a later generation. The old
man is alive yet, and perhaps his good wife; but they are plain folks,
and belong to another day. Sometimes they look back with regret to the
very hardships they endured, now transfigured and glorified through
the mists of years. Should the reader think the picture too dark, here
are two condensed illustrations from Dr. Leach's "History of Grand
Traverse Region." Remember, this was only a few years ago, and where
to-day seventy thousand people dwell, on improved farms, and in
villages alive with business, having all the comforts, and not a few
of the luxuries, of civilized life.
In those early days, Mr. Limblin, finding he had but one bushel and a
half of corn left, and one dollar and a half in money, prevailed on a
Mr. Clark to take both corn and money to Traverse City, thirty miles
away, and get groceries with the money, and have the corn ground, Mr.
Clark to have half for the work. One ox was all the beast of burden
they had. Mr. Clark started with the corn on the back of the ox;
about half-way he exchanged for a pony and sled for the rest of the
road, leaving the ox with the Indians till his return. On his way
back, a fierce snowstorm hid the shores of the bay from view.
Presently he came to a wide crack in the ice; his pony, being urged,
made a spring, but only got his fore hoofs on the other side. Mr.
Clark sprang over and grasped the pony's ears, but, as he pulled, his
feet slipped, and down he came. His cries brought the Indians, who
rescued him and the pony. Exhausted, he crawled back to their camp.
But, alas! the corn-meal and groceries were at the bottom of the bay.
A sad scene it was to see his poor wife's tears on his arrival home.
Rev. Peter Daugherty, now of Wisconsin, was the first missionary in
these parts. He once missed his way; and night coming on, he saw that
he must sleep in the woods. The air was chill. Not daring to build a
fire for fear of the damage it might do to the dry woods, he cast
about for a shelter. Spying two headless barrels on the beach, with
much trouble he crawled into them, drawing them as close together as
he could, and so passed the night. He got up very early and finished
his journey. But do we have such places yet? and does the missionary
still have to expose himself? Yes, friends, there are scores of such
places in every frontier State and Territory; and strong men are
needed more than ever to break up new ground, and cause the desert and
solitary places to be glad and blossom as the rose. Send us such men!
XXVIII.
SOWING THE SEED.
The land is bound to grow its crop. The more the land has been
enriched, the greater will be that crop, of useful grain or rank
weeds. And the only way to keep the weeds from gaining the victory is
by sowing good seed and pulling the weeds. A friend in Detroit once
called my attention to the luxuriant weeds in a fenced lot we were
walking by. In the vacant lot close by, the weeds were stunted. In the
fenced lot a market gardener once lived. He had enriched the soil.
Our country is to have a rank growth of something. Rich in the blood
of many nationalities, with freedom well-nigh to license, what will
the harvest be if left without spiritual husbandry? Dr. Mulhall's
"Dictionary of Statistics" tells us how the crop looks now. The ratio
of murders to each million inhabitants has stood as follows in the
countries named: England, 711; Ireland, 883; France, 796; Germany,
837; and the United States, 2,460. Only Italy and Spain exceed us. Do
we wonder why the foreigner is worse here than at home? The answer is
easy. He has left the restraints of a watchful government; our liberty
is for him license. On the frontier he is exposed to the worst
influences, and for years has no religious instruction nor even
example. Is it strange that death reaps such a harvest? The sowers go
forth to sow. In due time that seed ripens to the harvest.
The _Police Gazette_ is sowing dragon's teeth most diligently. The log
shanties of the lumbermen are often papered with them. Nice primers
these for "young America"! Sober Maine sends streams of polluted
literature out here, with cheap chromo attachments, and the
Sunday-school lesson in them for an opiate. The infidel lecturer is
sowing his seed on the fruitful soil of runaway guilt. The callow
scientist is dropping seed long since _dropped_ in another way by real
scientists. The whole country is sown with newspapers of all grades,
and the crop is coming up. What shall the harvest be?
"Be not deceived, whatsoever a nation soweth, that shall it also
reap."
In a very large number of new settlements all the above agencies are
in active operation before the missionary arrives; and, oh, what a
field he finds! The farmer on the new farm cannot use the drill and
improved implements for the uneven places and stumps, but must needs
sow by hand, and sometimes between the log piles, a little here and a
little there, and then, between times, spend his strength
underbrushing.
So the missionary starts without a church building, choir, organ, or
even a membership, his pulpit a box in a vacant store, or in a
schoolhouse or railway depot, or some rude log house of the settler;
his audience is gathered from the four corners of the earth--
representatives of a dozen sects, backsliders in abundance, and
those who have run away from the light of civilized life. Many among
the latter have broken their marriage vows, and are now living in
unlawful wedlock.
I remember once preaching on this evil to an audience of less than
twenty, and was surprised at the close of the meeting to hear a woman
say, "Did you know you gave Mrs. ---- an awful crack on the knuckles
to-day?"
I said, "No!"
"Well, ye did, ye know."
Mentioning the circumstance with surprise to another, I received for
an answer, "Well, she needn't say nothin'; she's in the same boat
herself!"
Depressed in spirits, I told my troubles to a good lady who I knew was
"one of the salt of the earth," and noticing a smile come over her
face, I asked her what she was smiling at. She replied, "The third
was as bad as the other two!"
Just here is one of the greatest hindrances the missionary has to
contend with. I am not sure but it rivals the saloon. One missionary I
visited told me that in one little hamlet, on his field, there was not
a single family living in lawful wedlock. It is next to impossible to
do anything with the parents in such cases. But there is one bright
side to this dark picture. Almost without exception, they like to have
their children attend the Sabbath-school. Here is prolific soil in
which to sow good seed, and we cannot commence too soon.
We are living in rushing times. I have just read in a paper that one
town in Ontonagon County, one year and a half old, has three thousand
inhabitants, forty-five saloons, twelve hotels, two papers,
forty-eight stores, two opera houses, and an electric plant! With
villages springing up in every county, and the immense onflowing tide
from foreign shores, the lone missionary on the frontier ofttimes
would despair, but for the promise of the Master, the miracles of the
past, and the joy of hope's bright harvest in the future. And so,
"going forth weeping, bearing precious seed," he sows beside all
waters, with full expectations that "He shall come again rejoicing,
bringing His sheaves with Him."
That the reader may have an idea of the vastness of the field, and the
distances between the workers, I will jot down a few facts. In 1887
there were thirty Congregational churches in the three conferences of
Grand Traverse, Cheboygan, and Chippewa and Mackinac. These
conferences had an average width of sixty miles, and stretch from
Sherman, in the south of Grand Traverse Conference, for a hundred and
fifty-eight miles, as the bird flies, to Sugar Island, in the north of
Chippewa and Mackinac Conference.
No one can say we were crowded. My nearest neighbor was sixteen miles
away, the next thirty, and the next forty; and, unless a change has
come very lately, this is the only self-supporting church in the three
conferences--and that because it was settled thirty years prior to
many of the other churches. Ten years ago there were hundreds of miles
of unbroken forests where to-day are crowded summer resorts and busy
villages, filled with representatives of the most diverse
nationalities under the sun. I have preached to a good-sized audience
with not a single person in it that was born in the United States. And
the cry is, Still they come. Now send on your harvesters!
XXIX.
"HARVEST HOME."
After all the hopes and fears and toil of the summer, the farmer's
most beautiful sight is to see the last great load safe in the barn,
the stock fattening on the rich, sweet aftermath, the golden fruit in
the orchard, and the big, red, harvest moon smiling over all. This is
a frequent sight, despite poor crops and bad weather. The successful
farmer does not rely on one, but a variety of crops. Then, if the
season is bad for corn, it will be good for oats or wheat. Some crop
will repay his labor.
Here is a hint for the home missionary who goes forth to sow spiritual
seed. If he expects to get a crop of Congregationalists, he will often
lament over poor returns. Often the missionary finds himself in a
miscellaneous gathering, like that of Pentecost in its variety, and
no mere "ism" will crystallize them. One is of Paul, another of
Apollos or Cephas, and he must "determine not to know anything among
them save Christ and him crucified." He must drop minor points, and
adopt that plan on which all can agree.
Here is a bit of experience. In a community of seven hundred souls,
the following denominations were represented: Baptists, three kinds;
Presbyterians, two kinds; Methodists, four kinds; Christians, "Church
of God," Episcopalians, Roman Catholics, Seventh-day Adventists,
Lutherans of all branches, Quakers, and Congregationalists. One day I
found three married women making ready to keep house in what had been
a large store, the only vacant place in which to live; their husbands
were working and living in camp. I said, "I am glad to see you. I
suppose you are all Christians?"
To my surprise, they all cheerfully responded, "Yes."
"Well, that is good news," I said. "And to what church do you belong?"
"Church of God," was their answer.
"Good; so do I. Have you brought your letters?"
"No."
"But do you really belong to the 'Church of God'?" said one. "Well, I
_am_ glad to think we should find a 'Church of God' minister way up
here!"
This she said addressing the other women.
"Oh, well," said one, "he means that every church is a church of God!"
"Oh!" was the answer, with a shade of disappointment on her face.
"Well, well," I said, "is not that true?"
"Y-a-as; but it is not like ourn."
"What do you believe different from me?"
"Well, we believe in feet-washing for one thing, and in immersion."
"Oh, well, I think Christians should wash their feet too."
"Now, Elder, that ain't right to be making fun of Scripter; for
Christ told his disciples to wash one another's feet, and said, 'Happy
are ye if ye do these things.'"
I explained what I thought was the meaning of the lesson, but she
shook her head.
I said, "Are you happy?"
"Not very. I feel lonesome here."
"But is not Christ here too?"
"Oh, yes; but it is not home."
"Well, I am glad you belong to Christ, and hope you will unite with us
in fighting the common foe. Will you come to church, and bring the
children to our Sabbath-school?"
"Well, we shall do that."
As I was leaving one of them said, "There is a new-comer across the
street. She belongs to some church _outside_." By "outside" she meant
the old, settled parts. "You better call on her."
I did so, and said that I was the home missionary. I asked her how she
liked her new home?
"Not much. It is a dreadfully wicked place."
"Yes, that is true; and I hope you will lend a hand in the good work.
You are a Christian, I believe?"
"Yes; but I don't belong to your church."
"What church are you now a member of?"
"Well, there is only one of my kind in the State that I know of."
"You must feel lonesome at times; but in what do you differ from us?"
"Well, we believe in being immersed three times in succession, face
downwards. I intend doing what I can."
After giving her a cordial invitation to attend the church, I left the
good woman, saying I hoped I could depend on her being at church. But,
alas! trade became so brisk that the good sister had to work Sundays.
She felt very sorry, she said, but it did seem as if it was impossible
to live a Christian life in such a wicked place; and she had concluded
not to give her letter to the church until she could get into a
better community, where she would not have to work Sundays. I told her
I was surprised that one who had been so thoroughly cleansed should
have fallen away so quickly.
"Yes; but it is such a wicked place."
"I know; but you have only to be just a small Christian here to pass
for a first-class saint!"
She smiled sadly, and said she guessed she would wait.
A man that must have a "New England element" to work in will feel
depressed in such a field. But if, like Wesley, his field is the
world, or, like Paul, he can say to the people, "called to be saints,"
then he can thrust in the sickle and begin harvesting. We must not
only sow beside all waters, but reap too. Do not harvest the weeds and
the darnel, nor reject the barley because it is not wheat. Often in
the new settlements there are enough Christians to form the nucleus of
one church; whereas, if we wait to have a church for each sect, it
means waste of money and waste of men.
In one small town of less than three hundred people, where there were
many denominations represented, the company that owned nearly all the
land gave a lot and the lumber for a church. Most of the Christians
united, and a minister was secured. Some, however, would not join with
their brethren, but waited on the superintendent to get a lot for
themselves. He said, "Yes, we will give you all a lot and help you
build. Just as soon as this church becomes self-supporting we will
give the next strongest a lot, and so on to the end."
This is level-headed Christian business. If we want to reap the
harvest, we must "receive him that is weak in the faith." Hidden away
in trunks are hundreds of church letters that should be coaxed out.
Faithful preaching, teaching, and visiting, will bring a glorious
"Harvest Home." A goodly sight it is to see, under one roof, all these
different branches of the Lord's army worshipping the same Master,
rejoicing in the same hope, and realizing in a small degree that there
is neither Jew nor Greek, bond nor free, male nor female, but that all
are one in Christ Jesus.
XXX.
INJEANNY VS. HEAVEN.
The title to this chapter bears about the same relation to its
contents as the name of one sermon does to the other twenty in a given
volume. I gave it this title because it must have some heading;
everything has a heading. Graves have headstones.
No greater variety of character exists on the frontier than elsewhere,
but peculiar cases come to the surface oftener. Those women living in
the woods, who belonged to the "Church of God," are good
illustrations. They had some peculiar ideas about the Scriptures, but
it was much more refreshing to the missionary to find _peculiar_ views
than none at all. I often introduced myself to them with a text of
Scripture, and tried hard to induce them to move into the next village
for their children's sake. It was a much better place morally,
although but a mile distant. But the influence of an organized church,
with a good building and Sunday-school, made a greater difference than
the distance would seem to warrant. One day, as I was passing their
home, I shouted out, "Up, get you out of this place; for the Lord will
destroy this city!" The next day I was off on my way to the other side
of the State. As my journey well illustrates the difficulties of
travel in a new country, I will describe it.
At my first change of cars, I found that my train was delayed by a
fire along the track, so that I could not make my next connection with
a cross-country train. This troubled me, as it was Friday, and the
young minister whom I was about to visit was doing manual work on his
church building, and would probably be ill-prepared to preach himself.
I telegraphed him, and was just turning away when my eye caught sight
of a map, and I noticed that the road I was on and the road he was
on, although a hundred miles apart where I was then, gradually
approached until within thirteen miles of each other, one hundred
miles north. Remembering that a stage crossed at this point, I started
on the late train, which, like a human being, seldom makes up for lost
time, and was dropped into the pitch darkness about eleven P.M. The
red lights of the train were soon lost in the black forest; I felt
like Goldsmith's last man.
Two or three little lights twinkled from some log cabins. A small boy,
with a dilapidated mail-bag and a dirty lantern, stood near me. I
asked him if there was a hotel in town.
He said, "Yep."
Would he guide me to it?
"Yep."
I next inquired whether the stage made connections with the train on
the other road.
"Wal, yes, it gineraley does."
"Why, does it not to-morrow?"
"Guess not."
"Why?"
"Cos' of the ternado."
"Tornado?"
"Yes; didn't ye know we had a ternado?"
"No."
"Well, we did, ye know; tore the trees up hullsale, and just played
Ned. Rain cum down like suds."
"Well, can I get a buggy or wagon?"
"Guess not; both out in the woods; can't git home."
I felt sick at hearing this; for how to get across with two grips
filled with books, theological books too, troubled me. I slept little.
My room was bare; the rain pattering on the roof, the mosquitoes
inside, and my own thoughts, routed me out early Saturday morning. I
was pleased to find that the man had returned with the wagon, and
after much persuasion, I engaged him for five dollars to take me
across.
We started off with an axe. The old settlers laughed at our attempt,
but we were young. Over the fallen trees we went bumping along; but,
alas, we tried too big a maple, and out came the reach-pole and left
us balanced on the tree. After a tiring walk through the
"shin-tangles"--that is, ground hemlock--we reached the road, and
mounted bareback. We met some commercial travellers cutting their way
through, with a settler's help, passed a horse and buggy (minus a
driver), with a bottle of whiskey in the bottom. We then had the good
fortune to borrow a single wagon of a minister, who lived near on a
farm. Our horses had to walk in the water by the edge of the lake, and
the leeches fastened on them by the dozen. Finally we met the stage,
and knew our way was clear. We were drenched with the rain, but it was
clearing, and so we cheered up.
I asked the stage-driver whether I could catch the train.
He said, "Well, if ye _drive_, ye can."
The emphasis he put into the drive made us whip up. Presently the
village could be seen, a half-mile away. The engine was on the
turntable. How fast it went around! I was getting nervous. I asked the
man to get my grips out, while I got my ticket; and rushing into the
office, I snapped out, "Ticket for ----!"
The man turned his head with a jerk, and stared at me so intently that
I thought something was wrong. So I said, "What time does the train
start?"
"In about an hour."
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I felt like Sir Francis
Drake, when his vessel seemed to be going over in the Thames. "What!
have I sailed the ocean," said he, "to be drowned in a ditch?" So, I
thought, "Have I come a hundred miles out of my way, to miss the
train?"
I boarded the cars, cleaned my valises, and found the color running
from my book-covers. My boots were like brown paper, so sodden were
they. I dried myself by the stove; but my troubles were not over. The
train-boy called out the station at the water-tank. The rain was
pouring down; I was in for it again; so I walked down between the
freight cars, went to the hotel and dried myself again, and, after
dancing around the room on one foot to get my boots on, I started off
to find my man.
He was out of town! Expected home with a funeral soon. I was foolish
enough to make myself known as soon as he got off the cars, and he
coaxed me into taking charge of the funeral. Then for the third time I
was soaked, as we stood in the new cemetery, while a hymn of six
verses was rendered. But what flattened me worse than all was that the
young man had not received my second telegram, which I sent to relieve
his supposed excited feelings, and had not been troubled in the least,
but was going to make Fred. Robertson ("who being dead yet speaketh")
do duty for him. Tired out, I flung myself on a bed, and slept in
spite of--well never mind what. I had to change quarters next night,
for I was not so sleepy.
I received a letter from the student who had taken my charge, saying,
"----is burnt to the ground, and all north of the railway." In an
instant there flashed on my mind the words of the woman: "Up, get you
out," etc. The same words came home to the women as they saw their
homes going up in smoke.
"What did the elder say?" said they to one another.
The excitement of the fire brought on brain fever in the case of the
youngest child.
On my return, while trying to comfort the little one (who we thought
was dying), and telling her about heaven, she cried out in her
feebleness, "I don't want to go to heaven! I want to go to Injeanny."