In March of 1878, the conference assembled in Grafton, with Bishop J.
J. Glossbrenner as its presiding officer. At this session the brethren
greatly surprised me by electing me one of the presiding elders. No
thought of such a thing had ever entered my mind. I could not see the
propriety of putting a young man, not yet twenty-seven, over men of age,
ability, and experience, hence it was with no little diffidence that I
accepted the West Columbia District, in the bounds of which I had already
worked two years. The district contained only eleven charges, but these
were widely scattered, embracing all or parts of Cabell, Mason, Jackson,
Wood, Putnam, Kanawha, and Roane counties, and were as follows: Milton,
Point Pleasant, Cross Creek, Thirteen, Jackson, Red House, Fair Plain,
Sandy, New Haven, Wood, and Hartford City. Later, Walton was added.
The salary assessed the district was $425; out of this I had to pay
traveling expenses, provide a house to live in, and pay a hired girl.
Under such conditions I could afford a house of only three rooms. I
never believed in a preacher, or any one else, for that matter, living
beyond his income. Debt is an awful devil for the itinerant to contend
with, and should be avoided at all hazard. In all the years of my
ministry I have never left a pastoral charge or district owing any one
thereon a nickel. If a man is fit to be a preacher, debt will distract
his mind and put a thorn in his pillow; it cannot be otherwise with a
sensitive nature. God save our young men from the habit and curse of
debt-making.
No little of my travel, while on the district, was by boat on the Ohio
and Big Kanawha rivers. Only one of my fields was touched by a railroad,
and that was sixty miles from where I lived. My custom was to go by
boat to the point nearest the place of the quarterly meeting, and then
walk the remaining distance, whether it be five or twenty-five miles.
Often I might have secured conveyance for the asking, but I felt that it
was humiliating to be always annoying somebody for favors, nor have I
changed an iota in all these years in this regard. If a preacher wants
to make himself a nuisance among his parishioners, he can easily do so
by constantly making demands upon them which look to his own comfort and
that of his family. Many a time I walked from twelve to fifteen miles
in a day, held quarterly conference, and preached twice. Occasionally
the distance would stretch out to twenty miles. I did not mind the labor
so much as I did the suffering from sore feet; walking in the hot sun
or over frozen roads, hour after hour, often caused them to blister and
bleed. In these experiences I was not alone; many others, some of whom
yet live, suffered the same or kindred hardships.
In February of 1879 I was called home to my father’s. After a day or
two I tried to return, but upon reaching Parkersburg found the river
so frozen and clogged with ice that the boats could not run. It was
Thursday afternoon. My quarterly was at Oakhill, fully forty miles
distant, the next Saturday at two o’clock. The roads were badly frozen
and almost impassable. When I saw the situation I determined to make the
trip overland as best I could; if I could not find assistance along the
way, I would walk it. Leaving the city at four o’clock, I traveled on
till darkness overtook me, when I turned aside and knocked at the door
of a humble cabin and asked for lodging, which was cheerfully granted;
but I had made only a few miles. In addition to the rough roads, I was
burdened with a good-sized grip and overcoat. The next morning at daydawn
I resumed my journey. Once during the day I rode two or three miles in
somebody’s sled, but beyond this I got no help. Long after the dinner
hour I secured a cold lunch, which the reader may be assured was relished
by a tired, hungry man. An hour before sundown I reached Sandyville,
where a warm supper was enjoyed at a little hotel. Still I was fifteen
miles away from the point for which I was aiming, and felt that I could
go no farther without help; but a kind friend generously agreed to loan
me his horse to ride as far as Ripley, seat of justice for Jackson
County, from which place the mail-carrier was to lead it back the next
day; but the poor animal was shoeless, and went crippling along at a
snail’s gait over the rough ground.
Two miles distant I had to cross Sandy Creek, and found it partly frozen
over. It was too dark to discern the danger of fording the stream. After
repeated efforts, I succeeded in getting the horse on to the ice, but as
quick as a flash it fell broadside, pitching me—I never knew where nor
just how far; but the horse beat me up, turned its head homeward, and
disappeared in the darkness. What did I do? Well, what almost anybody
else would have done under like circumstances. I took the back track
and returned to the village where the animal belonged, and found that
it had returned in good order. The next morning my feet were so sore
that I could not wear my shoes, but was fortunate in securing a pair of
arctics in which to travel the rest of the journey. By noon Ripley was
reached, where conveyance was secured which enabled me to make the place
of meeting and call the conference on schedule time.
Some one may suggest that I was foolish for making such an effort to
reach the quarterly when nothing apparently unusual was at stake; maybe
I was, but such was my way of doing. I always believed that a preacher
ought to fill his engagements promptly unless providentially hindered,
and then he ought to be fair enough not to blame providence with too
much; but few days are ever too cold and stormy, or nights too dark to
keep a man from his appointments if he is anxious to preach the word
and minister to his people. I here record the fact, with feelings of
satisfaction and pride, that in more than a third of a century I have
not disappointed a dozen congregations. As I see it, a preacher succeeds
in his work just as business or other professional men succeed in their
respective callings. He must bestir himself, and permit no obstacle
to get between him and duty; any other policy means failure. At it
everywhere and all the time, and keeping everybody else at work, are the
only ways to win for the Church and maintain a good conscience before
God.
Conference met in Hartford City. The chart showed that a good year had
been enjoyed, 1,354 new members being reported. Of this number, 535 were
credited to West Columbia District.
The second year on the district was like unto the first—full of toil,
responsibility, and peril betimes.
As an indication of what was required of a presiding elder in order to
aid his pastors and keep the work of the district well in hand, I relate
the following experience: A rainy winter morning found me on Milton
Circuit—the last charge in the southwestern part of the conference. I had
an appointment that evening at Cross Creek, thirty-five miles east. The
mud in some places was knee deep to my horse, but on and on I traveled,
over hills and along meandering streams, sometimes walking myself up
and down steep places in order to relieve my weary horse. At last, when
it was nearly dark, I halted on the bank of the great Kanawha, opposite
the town of Buffalo. But how was I to get across the threatening stream?
The ice lay piled in great heaps on either shore; the man who tended the
ferry hesitated to come after me when I called to him, but he was given
to understand that in some way I must be gotten over. Finally he agreed
to make the attempt, and after hard rowing, landed me on the opposite
side but below the regular coming-out place, and where the ice was badly
gorged. Then the real difficulty of the venture was apparent. We had to
get the horse up over the great blocks of ice that lay at the water’s
edge, and it was to two of us an exciting time; no one can describe it on
paper. Holding on to the animal, pulling my best at the bridle-rein all
the while, the ferryman pushing with all his might, we finally scrambled
over the ice and through narrow passageways until a place of safety
was reached. How thankful I felt when it was all over, and how I loved
that horse! Doctor Warner used to tell how his faithful horse once swam
an angry stream, and that after the shore had been reached in safety
he dismounted, put his arms around the neck of his deliverer, kissed
his lips, and wept for joy. Itinerating in the early days of the West
Virginia Conference meant all this, and sometimes much more.
When I got to the church, two miles farther on, I found the congregation
waiting and ready to join in the service. It might be stated, in
this connection, that in those days the coming of the “elder” was an
extraordinary event, and seldom failed to bring out the entire community.
The following evening I had an engagement to preach at Mount Moriah,
still farther east some thirty miles. It rained the day through. A part
of the journey I followed a single trail, popularly known as a “hog
path.” Such a route relieved me somewhat from the mud, but, being in the
woods, I could not carry an umbrella over me, hence had to take the rain
as it came; but I must not disappoint the people. They had my word for
it that I would be there, and the promise must be sacredly kept. It was
a little after dark when I caught a glimpse of the lights in the old log
church; but, hold! I suddenly found myself up against another serious
difficulty—Parchment Creek was out of its banks. There seemed no show
for getting over except to plunge in and swim my horse. I hesitated;
already wet and cold, I was loath to make the attempt. I would have to
carry my saddle-bags on my shoulder if I saved my Bible, hymn-book, and
sermons; the water would come to my waist, to say the least. Then another
trouble appeared; it was too dark to see the road or landing-place on the
opposite side, and I might drift below it with the current and not get
out at all. While thus cogitating, I heard some boys talking on the other
side as they were going to church. Calling to them, I said, “Boys, can’t
you in some way help me over the creek?” “Who are you?” was the reply.
“I’m the preacher,” I answered, “and want to get to the church.” After
a short consultation among themselves, one of them shouted back, “All
right; we’ll bring the skiff after you.” Soon I heard them push out from
the shore, and in a few moments they landed near me. “Now,” said one,
“you get in here with Bill, and I’ll swim your hoss over,” and in less
time than it takes to pen the happenings, he was in the saddle on his
knees and starting for the water. Did he get over safely? Yes, indeed;
he entered the stream above the usual place of going in, hence the horse
swam, not against the current, but at an angle with it. In every way
possible I thanked those boys for their kindness to me, for they had
certainly kept me from putting my life in peril. If they are still living
and should happen to glance over these pages, they will readily recall
the event.
The church was nearly full of people, and I certainly enjoyed preaching
to them. The great Father had been graciously with me to guide my ways
and to protect my life. How glad I will be if, on the morning of the
eternal to-morrow, I shall find that the service that evening helped some
soul heavenward!
Rev. W. W. Rymer, over thirty years ago, nearly lost his life in this
same region on account of high waters. His horse either could not or
would not swim, but plunged furiously when beyond his depth. The heroic
itinerant stayed in the saddle as long as he could, but was finally
dislodged and went down. In the midst of it all he retained his presence
of mind and aimed for the nearest shore, which was not far away. Being
unable to swim, he crawled on the bottom a part of the way, and at
last found himself where he could stand with his head above the water.
The horse, fortunately, came out on the same side. Commenting on the
incident, Mr. Rymer says: “After my deliverance, it was clear to me
that I had been near death’s door, and also near heaven. Two thoughts
followed; one was: ‘If I had not escaped, I would now be in glory,’ and
I confess I felt good over the reflection. The other was: ‘No, it is
better that I got out, for if I had drowned, my parents would have had
great sorrow.’ I took it all to mean that my work was not yet done, and
soon experienced great peace of mind. Almost thirty-one years have come
and gone since then, but the ruling purpose of my heart all the while has
been to preach Jesus. Before thirty-one years more have rolled around,
I shall have gone through death’s river—yes, through to the other side,
where I shall see my Lord face to face.”
Let the reader be assured that there is a profound satisfaction in
looking back to those times of trial and suffering, of battle and
victory, when the ways of Providence were so plain, and when an
unspeakable jay crowned the years of toil and service.
After another ride of twelve miles from Mount Moriah, I reached my home
in Cottageville, near the Ohio River. How inexpressibly delightful to be
at home again with wife and little ones! What a heavenly place home is
when love and sunshine await the itinerant’s coming! While he ministers
to them, they also minister tenderly to him; such mutual love and
helpfulness is to be found nowhere else.
My support for the year consisted of $427.83 in salary and $22.41 in
presents. Fifty dollars of this went for house rent, and fully as much
more for traveling expenses. Beside these outlays, we kept hired help in
the home all the time.
Buckhannon, Upshur Country, was the seat of the next session of the
conference. The noble Bishop Glossbrenner was with us in the fullness of
the Spirit, and charmed us with the warmth and sweetness of his gospel
messages. As recording secretary, I edited a little “daily,” which gave
the proceedings of the conference. This was the first and last attempt of
the kind. Such an arrangement is nice, to be sure, and sounds well when
we talk about it, but it always costs more than it is worth. The town
papers are usually willing and anxious to report the work.
During the session a most amusing incident took place. A colored brother
by the name of Waldo came to me at the noon hour on Thursday, and asked
me to marry him that evening at eight o’clock. I said, “Waldo, I cannot
grant your request. We have an evening session of conference, and I must
be there. However, if you will put it off till nine o’clock, I will be on
hand.” But to such an arrangement he would not agree. The long-looked-for
moment could not be delayed. Eight o’clock was the hour about which
clustered the sweetest anticipations of his life. The goal toward which
he had striven must be reached and won on schedule time. So, with a
twinkle of the eye, characteristic of the negro, he exclaimed: “Good
Lawd! the thing’s gone too fah now; no putting it off.” Of course I had
to arrange for another secretary under circumstances so vitally essential
to the brother’s happiness and welfare. The reason why he chose me to
perform the ceremony, he said, was because I had converted him eight
years before.