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Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
1998.
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Library of Congress Subject Headings,
By
Copyright 1912
by
G. C. RANKIN
TO
MY BELOVED WIFE WHO, FOR MORE THAN
THIRTY-FIVE
YEARS, HAS WALKED BY MY
SIDE
AND FAITHFULLY DONE HER PART
TO
MAKE MY WORK FOR THE CHURCH
SUCCESSFUL
AND EFFICIENT; WHO
HAS UNDERGONE THE
INCONVENIENCES
AND
RESPONSIBILITIES
OF
THE
ITINERANCY
WITHOUT
A MURMUR;
AND
TO
MY CHILDREN WHO HAVE ALWAYS BEEN
LOVING
AND OBEDIENT TO ME, WHOSE CONDUCT
SINCE THEY ARRIVED AT YEARS OF
RESPONSIBILITY
HAS NEVER CAUSED
ME
ANY PAIN OR SORROW, AND
WHOSE
CHARACTERS ARE
GOOD
AND UPRIGHT, THIS
BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
So I have grouped certain periods and certain incidents around myself and told the simple story without much accuracy of chronology. In doing so I have not tried to exaggerate whatever I may possess in the way of virtues; neither have I tried to extenuate the many weaknesses and foibles that necessarily belong to me, in common with all other men of my acquaintance.
There has never been anything artificial in my life or character. I have lived a very natural and a very human sort of life. It has touched almost every phase of experience common to the lot of honest poverty and self-sacrificing endeavor. It has gone up against the rough angles, the struggles, the hardships, the disappointments, the rebuffs, the failures and the successes that attend the efforts of the self-made man.
I have had to become, from sheer necessity, the architect of my own position and character in the world; and in the process of my efforts I have learned many lessons of some value to those whose lot in life forces them along a similar line of personal development. I have had to fight some sort of opposition,
some kind of obstruction, or some character of difficulty at every step of my progress. I owe nothing to fortune, to kindred or good luck; all that I am I owe to God and to the honest investment I have made of the health, the aspiration and the ability He has given me.
If I have accomplished anything in any sphere of human endeavor, I claim no special credit for it; I have simply tried to do my duty, though I am conscious of having fallen far short of my ideals.
Hence I have taken up more than half a century of life as I have lived it, and as I have seen it lived in others, and woven the result into the warp and woof of this volume.
It is a simple story, taken at a high temperature out of the furnace of a very intense experience.
The reader will find nothing mechanical or stilted in it; no effort at display, to attempt to pose as an artist in the use of my plot or pen; no exhibition of polished skill as an author; no high coloring of literary novelty; no innovation or sidelight flashes for stage effect; no play to the applauding galleries, and no plea for immunity from the criticisms of those who may wish to condemn me.
It is the simple unfolding of an earnest life, with its touches of humor and pathos, for the encouragement of struggling young men and for the entertainment and diversion of those in mature life who may chance to scan these pages.
G. C. RANKIN.
Dallas, Texas, June the First, Nineteen Twelve.
The Story of My Life
My father was the son of Thomas W. Rankin, and in his early life the latter was a hatter by trade, but afterwards a farmer. He lived two miles from Dandridge. He was of sturdy pioneer stock, with a mixture of Scotch and Irish blood in his veins. In his young manhood he served in the army with old Hickory Jackson, and he was in the battle with the Indians at Horseshoe Bend, along with Sam Houston, another noted character.
In my boyhood I used to hear the old gentleman relate his experiences in that famous battle; how the Indians were fortified behind breastworks reaching across the bend of the river, with nothing on either side and in the rear of them except the wide stream, and how with ladders in one hand and guns
in the other the soldiers charged them, and how the Indians fled and swam the river; but the most of them landed under a high cliff on the opposite side and were unable to scale the rocks and escape, and the soldier-marksmen picked them off one by one until not one was left to tell the tale.
He was sick at the time of the battle of New Orleans, and this was a cause of regret for the rest of his long life.
Squire Rankin was an old-time Whig, but he worshiped at the personal shrine of Andrew Jackson, and thought him the greatest warrior and statesman who had ever lived. When the grim old soldier ran for office, whether State or National, Squire Rankin waived his politics and supported him heartily. No man rejoiced more than he when the General was elected President of the United States and was installed at the White House. I have often heard him speak of that campaign and the excitement it provoked. Naturally he was on the opposite side, but when the political fortunes of old Hickory were at stake he stood by the General. He thought more of him personally than he did of Whiggery. He flung himself into it and was proud of the part he took in it locally. He never was able to figure out just how the General could have been elected without his aid and support.
In religion the old gentleman was a blue-stocking
Presbyterian of the strictest type. He swallowed its doctrines
He was a well-informed man in history, general literature
and current events. The Bible was his one book of unfailing
interest, and he knew it and the Shorter Catechism memoriter.
He was a close reader, and at odd times lived in his books and
periodicals. He knew the great men of that day and past days.
He could tell you all about them - and many of them he had
seen, and knew them personally. Then, too, he was the soul of
hospitality, and the leading preachers and prominent politicians
used to stop at his comfortable country home. It was a treat to
him to entertain them and talk with them. From them he
learned much, and his face brightened whenever they called to
spend the night with him. He had plenty of everything and
gave them a royal welcome.
For years and years he was the Justice of the Peace of his
precinct, and this is why he was called Squire Tommy Rankin
When the weather was good he would hold his court in his
front yard under the trees, but when it was inclement he would
hold it in his commodious workshop. But usually, if it were
possible, he would get the contending parties together,
lecture them on their duty as neighbors and prevail upon them
to make friends and go home and live together peaceably.
Often in this way he would have his prospective litigants settle
their troubles. He did not know much book-law, but he had a
keen sense of justice and knew what was right; and upon this
principle he decided most of the cases that came before him.
And he was rarely ever reversed, so he used to say. But it
was often the case that there was no appeal from his
settlement of those neighborhood troubles. He was known as a
peacemaker, and no one ever questioned the old man's honesty
and his inflexible purpose to do right.
His first wife was a devout Christian woman, with good
mind and a lofty spirit, but she died when my father was still
quite a boy. This was always a source of sorrow to him, as he
spoke in terms of great reverence of her.
My mother's father was named Shelton Clark. He was a
farmer by occupation and owned negroes and a fine plantation.
His large framed house was on the "big road", and it was
known far and wide as a place of great hospitality. His barn
was always full, his crib replete with cereals, his smokehouse
well supplied with meat, and his table groaned under the weight
of the best that the farm could supply. He was a man of great
common sense, well poised in character, strong and robust in
body, and very industrious. And while strictly moral, he was
not a professor of religion, neither was he a member of the
Church; but all the pioneer preachers of that day had a
welcome in his home. He was Irish in his race and
temperament. He was a quiet man in his disposition, but he
was as courageous as a lion; and when aroused he was not a
safe man to encounter. He was not an educated man, but he
was possessed of a strong native mind and had great strength
of character.
His good wife was one of the best women I have ever
known. She was also of Irish descent, rather low and stout,
had a striking face, red hair intermingled with gray; when I first
knew her she was a shouting Methodist, and the best old
grandmother in the world. Her husband died and left her with a
large family of children to raise, quite a number of negroes to
manage, and an estate to look after. All this she did well and
made a success of her undertaking. Her dear old face stands
out before me now just as it did in the years long gone, and I
esteem her affection for me as one of the dearest boons of my
young life. To me it was heaven to spend days and weeks with
her and enjoy her love and companionship.
Were it necessary I could go much further back in my
ancestral history; but the above will suffice. I have always
rejoiced in the fact that on both my paternal and maternal side
of the house I have inherited qualities of blood and brawn of
which I am justly proud. If anything dishonorable ever
occurred in the family record back through the history along
which I have been able to trace my origin, I have not been able
to discover it. Through the several generations where I have
made the search I have found them to be industrious, law-abiding
and upright people, and among them are found scores
of men and women of more than ordinary intellectual
endowments, high moral ideals and prominent leaders in
Church and State. If I was not well born it was not the fault of
my ancestors.
My father was far more than an ordinary man. For his day
he was well educated. He had a well-selected library, and he
was an ardent lover of good books. He patronized some of the
best periodicals of that day. He was studious and a well-informed
man. By vocation he was a farmer and managed the
large plantation interests of his wealthy uncle, Major Lawson
D. Franklin. On that plantation there were several hundred
slaves, and he took a large part in directing their labors and
controlling their conduct. At times some of them were vicious
and had to be handled roughly. In person he was more than six
feet tall, had a splendid head covered with coal-black hair, a
striking face lit up with a bluish-gray eye of wondrous
penetration, and his general bearing was that of a man born to
command. He had great pride of character, dressed well, and
he was a leader in the community where he lived. He was a
man of impulsive spirit, did not take well to unreasonable
opposition, and when angered his temper was of
an explosive character. The man who wantonly insulted him
had need to get ready for business on very short notice.
My father, in religion, was a Presbyterian, and a member of
that denomination. However, he was not a devoutly religious
man, but a very respectable communicant of the Church. He
was devoted to the externals of religion, believed in its truth
and patronized its enterprises; but he was lacking in the more
deeply spiritual experiences of religion. The intellectual by far
dominated the emotional in his moral and religious bent of mind
and character. He was the friend of all ministers and delighted
to entertain them in his home. There was no Church of his
denomination in our immediate community, and he mostly
attended services at the Methodist Church with my mother;
and he was a very close listener to the sermon.
He was a popular man among the people who knew him,
and often he was called into the counsel of his wide circle of
friends. He was a devoted member of the Masonic fraternity
and rarely ever missed his lodge meetings. He filled its highest
offices. He was elected Colonel of the county militia and gave
a great deal of thought to military matters. Hence he was
known throughout his section as Colonel Rankin. He had a
brilliant uniform in keeping with his rank, and when in full dress
and mounted upon his splendid steed he looked every inch like
a military chieftain. My mother was very proud of him, and as
a boy I thought him the greatest living man. He was courtly in
his manner and picturesque in his character.
My mother was a supremely modest woman. She was of
medium size, had auburn hair, soft-gray eyes and a face of
subdued sweetness and saintly expression. If she ever had a
coarse thought there was no mark of it in her countenance.
She had but very limited education, but she was a close
observer
and a persistent student of the Scriptures. She was
possessed of a large degree of innate refinement. From early
life she had her share of sorrow, and its effect upon her life
and character matured her into the ripeness of a very deep
religious faith. She was a Methodist of the old-fashioned type,
and there was a profound spirituality in her experience. She
accepted the teachings of the Bible without any question or
misgiving. If she ever had a doubt as to its inspiration and
authenticity I never heard her give the slightest expression to
it. In fact, I think she accepted the Scriptures just as though
God had opened the door of heaven and handed a copy of
them to her with his own hand. To her it was God's own word
and its commands were yea and amen.
She never missed Church service whenever it was within
her reach; and she went to listen, to learn, to be benefited.
God's house was to her a veritable sanctuary, its pulpit was her
oracle, its altars were heaven's shrine. Often she would
become filled to overflowing with divine unction, and more than
once I have heard her sweet, clear voice in outbursts of praise
and glad hallelujahs. But hers was not simply a Church
religion; it was a uniform, ever-flowing, perennial religion. In
her home she had her special place for private prayer and
there at special hours she would talk with God. Many a time
have I heard her softly-whispered ejaculations as she
communed with her unseen though ever-present Father. Her
life was an illustration of her faith and her neighbors took
knowledge of her that she had been with Jesus.
She was a model of patience and never gave way to anger.
She could bear more and resent less than any woman I have
ever known. She was a paragon of industry. She could spin,
weave, cut and make her clothing, and that of her husband
and children, and when the product left her hand an expert
tailor could hardly have made any improvement on it. She
was an admirable cook and knew how to supply her table with
things good and palatable. And with the voice of song she went
about her work as happy as the child of God. In much of her
latter life she was in poor health, and at times her weak body
would cast a spirit of gloom over her mellow face; but in the
main she was buoyant and hopeful. I shall have much more to
say about her in several chapters to follow; thus far I have only
indicated her traits and qualities in order that the reader may
know something of the heritage of my birth.
My father and mother were married at the home of her
mother after a lengthy courtship, as I have heard her relate time
and again. They at once went to housekeeping in a home he
had prepared in Jefferson County two miles from the town of
Dandridge. In front of their home ran the limpid French Broad
River, whose banks were fringed with birch and willow, and
whose rippling waters were as clear as crystal. Just beyond the
stream there stretched a magnificent piece of rich bottom land
to the foot of an irregular mountain range whose peaks seemed
to kiss the overarching sky. Back of the home were undulating
hills, covered with a luxuriant forest, in the branches of which
the wild birds sang by day and the somber whip-poor-wills
chanted their weird melodies by night. Amid these romantic
surroundings, with every touch of rural beauty and
attractiveness, nestled the comfortable home in which their
wedded life had its peaceful beginning. Material wealth was not
their possession, but they had plenty with which to begin, and
they were rich in the wealth of their love and in the prospect of
a life of happiness and inspiration. The whole surrounding made
it the fit habitation for love's young dream, and no wedded
couple ever entered upon their united career with brighter
prospects and with more glowing
anticipations. Hope regaled their experiences with creations of
pleasure and held before them pictures of enchantment and
fortune. Thus they settled down to the realities of domestic life
and addressed themselves at once to the duties of their new
relationship as husband and wife.
My birth and early life have some points of interest in this
connection. I was neither the first nor the second-born in that
quiet little home beside the swiftly-flowing river. The first to
come was a baby girl, bright and promising. Around her my
mother's affections clustered, and she was the light of her life.
But before her conscious little eyes rested upon the strange
world into which she had come, and just after she had made
her presence indispensable to my mother's happiness, the
angels came one dark, murky night and kissed her innocent
spirit away. Her body was deposited on the hilltop not far off,
the first spot to greet the sun in the morning and the last to
bid him adieu at eventide. The little cradle sat silent and vacant
in its accustomed place. This was the first sorrow that flung its
dark shadow athwart the threshold of that home, and it left
behind it a trail of maternal anguish. Thus, right in the beginning
of her domestic experience, my mother was made to realize
the bitter meaning of death. For months she was desolate.
Often, toward the close of day, she would wend her saddened
footsteps to that sunkissed mound and look up through her
tears, wondering why the good Father had bereft her and left
her sad and lonely. She was not rebellious, but the why of it
was a pathetic puzzle to her faith.
In the course of time another dear little baby girl appeared in
that home, and the look of sadness upon my mother's face
gave place to that of joy and gladness. She did not forget the
first-born, but the second was in some measure a recompense
for the loss her heart had sustained. Life again took
on hope and the future brightened in its expanse before
her. But those glad smiles were soon destined to recede
under another shadow, and the fitful light again faded into
darkness; for when the cup of her delight was just about full
the spirit of this smiling angel in human form took its flight to
the land beyond. Then, instead of one, there were two little
graves on the vernal hill, and my mother's heart was almost
buried in the tiny vaults that marked the sacred spot.
The heart is human, however strong its faith and however
resigned to its mysterious fate. It cannot help bleeding when
repeatedly bruised and torn. She was not in the least resentful.
Her trust was unshaken, but the unknown purpose in the
untoward visitations made her wonder why she was thus
smitten. But day by day she went to the Father above for
strength and guidance, and strove to cling the closer to the arm
that seemed to ply the chastening rod. Often I used to hear her
tell of her grief in those early days and, by and by, how she
became reconciled to a merciful Providence in his strange
dealings with her. She heard a voice whispering to her: "What
I do now thou knowest not, but thou shalt know hereafter."
She ceased to think of her loved and lost as sleeping on the
hilltop, but as living a conscious life with God.
It was under these circumstances of striving to bring herself
into perfect subjection to the will of the Father, and when her
deeper consecration to him became the inspiration of her life,
that I was born into the home. My first breath was, therefore,
in the atmosphere of faith in God's providence and increased
devotion to his service. Yea, my prenatal life was conceived
and nurtured by her at a time when her faith was keenest and
when her reliance upon divine strength was greatest. I came
into the world through the heart-sobs of prayer; and she
regarded my advent as God's own gift to her;
and she was happy and glad in the possession. Yes, I had a
royal welcome into this hard old world. I was needed to fill up
the measure of craving in a soul twice smitten and as the
reward of a faith that no sort of sorrow could sweep from its
anchorage.
How fortunate to be thus born! As a result, I cannot
remember when I was not religiously inclined. My nature was
bent that way, and my earliest thought dwelt upon God
instinctively. My recollection does not reach back to the time I
first prayed at my mother's knee. Her faith, in a certain sense,
was my faith and her God was my God. Like her, in my early
childhood I was a stranger to doubt. The Good Man, as my
mother would present God to me, was a reality from the
beginning; and heaven was as common to my early thinking as
was the home in which I lived. I did not regard my little sisters
as dead, and when my mother would lead me by the hand to
their resting-place, she told me they only went that way to the
better land. I believed it with all my innocent heart. What a
delightful condition of soul when no doubt drags its ugly form
across the pathway of faith! Later on in life I had the spell of
this absolute trustfulness rudely broken and it gave me the
shock of my life. I passed through struggle and conflict during
many disturbed nights and weary days before I recovered my
bearing; and when the recovery was realized my soul was
bruised and torn, some of the scars of which remain until this
good day.
Consecrated motherhood is the best and most valuable boon
in the life of a boy. It is the Angel of the Covenant whose
influence goes with him from the beginning to the close of his
earthly pilgrimage. However far he may drift in afterlife from
the lessons of his childhood, ever and anon he awakes to the
consciousness of the fact that right there in the far-off
background of his memory stands his mother looking
wistfully and tenderly into his face. Her purity of life he can
never cease to revere, and he can never free himself from the
touch of her long-vanished hand. When all other comforts flee
and other helpers cease, the fancied sound of her silent voice
continues to sink like sacred music in his throbbing heart. He
can never forget her prayer, her counsel, her godly admonition.
From my first recollection my mother treated me more like a
companion than a child. Rather, she treated me more like her
second self. Whether she bent over the garment with her
needle in hand, or walked back and forth at her revolving
spinning-wheel, or sent the shuttle singing through the warp of
the resounding loom, or stooped over the washtub on the early
Monday morning, or went quietly about the noonday meal, she
was never too busy or tired to hold converse with me. She had
a sweet voice of singular clearness and often she would sing
the songs of Zion to me. They were the old songs that she
sang, nearly all of which are obsolete now. They were songs
of pathetic strain and tune, rich in minor melodies. Her early
sorrows inclined her thought and feeling that way and the soft
stop played a large part in her music, her devotion, her thinking
and her manner of conversation.
I loved my father, of course, and had great respect for him,
but not in the same way that I loved my mother. He was busy
here and there with the affairs of life and my constant noise
and prattle did not always appeal to him as it did to her. I held
him in a sort of awe as he would come and go; but I felt as
easy and restful in my mother's presence as a birdling in its
sheltering nest. She opened her heart to me and I entered into
it as my door of hope and confidence. My talk and
questionings, though interminable, never seemed to weary or
worry her in the least.
She had an old trusted negro woman named Aunt Dinny,
and no kinder heart ever beat in a human bosom. She was an
old black mammy to me. In fact, she never showed any
difference in her affection between Jack and me. Jack was
her youngest child and he was three years older than I, and he
was the inseparable chum of my early childhood. The boy who
never had a country grandma, who never had an old black
mammy, and who never had a little negro chum will
never
know what he has missed; and whether living or dead, he still
has a great deal coming to him. It was my good fortune to
enjoy these three blessings. The memory of them is still
precious to me, and I often revert to them and find joy in their
recollection.
Jack was strongly attached to me. He really loved he
like a little brother. He was a funny-looking little negro. He had a
catfish mouth filled with white teeth, a flat nose, large lips, a
small head covered with short kinky hair, tall and slender, and
was as black as the ace of spades. In fact, as I afterwards
learned, he was gawky and angular and a grotesque
speciment
of humanity. But at that time .I saw no physical
defect
in his
personal make-up. He was my beau-ideal. My freedom about
the "big house" as the only white child gave me access to all
the good things, and Jack was monstrously fond of goodies. Of
course he loved me. And he was ready at a moment's notice
to render me any sort of service.
As a result, he would do anything for me, and nothing really
pleased him more than my visits to grandma's. As soon as I
arrived he would run, jump, turn somersaults and cut all sorts
of capers. There was nothing that he would not do for me. He
would get down on his all-fours and let me ride him about the
room, and he would improvise a harness and hitch himself to a
little wagon and pull me all about the premises. He would
sometimes mount the rungs of a ladder and skin cats by the
half hour to my delight, and do divers other things for my
amusement. So, on this particular visit, Jack was ready to
receive me and he gave me a boisterous welcome. For a week
I had the time of my life and was perfectly satisfied. Once or
twice grandma slipped down to see mother without letting me
know where she had gone.
But early one morning she had Uncle Martin to saddle old
Rufe and told me to tell Jack good-bye, for she was going to
take me home to see mother. Off we paced, and in a couple of
hours we were there and I rushed in to see mother. I was
surprised to find her in bed, but I ran up to where she was and
she drew me to her and kissed me. Then she threw back the
cover and told me to see what Dr. Crawford had brought me.
I looked, and there lay a tiny little baby brother! My
astonishment staggered me, and my curiosity ran up to fever
heat. I began to ask mother a hundred questions about that
youngster, and it was many a day before my curiosity
subsided. But I was overjoyed at the accession. But the
coming of a new baby to the home to this good day makes
about the same impression on the children. How fortunate that
this is true! The little strangers are not responsible for their
advent into this world and they are entitled to a welcome.
But my mother was a long time fully recovering and when
she did it was only partial. She was almost an invalid for two
years or more. As a result, I spent the most of that time at
grandma's, with an occasional visit home. Her house became a
sort of second home to me. She gave me every liberty, and no
boy ever had a happier time. The preachers would often stop
there, and once a month she would have public service in her
house. They were a companionable class of men and always
had a kind word for me. Grandma always told them that I was
her little preacher, and it pleased me immensely. At these
services the negroes were allowed to attend and to participate.
She had one old man who was mighty in prayer and
occasionally he was called on to lead, and he did it with fervor.
They all joined in the singing, and I have never heard such
Church music since that day.
Grandma was kind to her negroes. She clothed them well,
taught them to read, and they lived as well as the white folks.
She permitted them to have little patches of stuff of their own,
a few pigs and some chickens. Hence they usually had their
own change; and, in fact, they were better off than any of
them were afterwards, when they were set free. She never
sold one, but more than once she bought a man or a woman in
order to unite their families. From time to time, as she grew
older and her children married, she would give each one his or
her proportionate number of negroes. Some of her children did
not do as good a part by them as she did.
Among them all Aunt Dinny and Jack were my pick and
choice. She was so kind and motherly, and Jack was my second
self. Now and then, at night, after she had cleared off the
supper table, washed the dishes and put them away, she would
take me into her big warm arms, call Jack and go down to her
cabin, two hundred yards below the "big house". It was always a
pleasure to go down there and hear her talk and tell stories. She
would often gather the pickaninnies around her, and for an hour
tell some of the most startling things about "ghosts, hants,
hobgoblins and raw heads and bloody bones" that ever fell upon
childish ears. One who never heard the old negroes tell these
stories can scarcely realize what it meant on those occasions.
Negroes were then very superstitious and they believed in
"spooks" with all their sincerity.
Aunt Dinny believed in them as
much as she believed in the gospel. And she made me believe in
them, too. While she would tell of the doings of the ghosts and
"hants" my hair would stand on end and the cold rigors would
run up and down my spine. For she would often illustrate the
performances of these uncanny things by her facial expressions,
her peculiar noises and her bodily contortions. It was something
frightful! I could imagine that I saw the
"spirits" flitting about me
with their hollow eyes and pale faces.
I actually accepted these stories as the simple truth. They
were realities to my childish mind and heart. Aunt Dinny said
she had seen them and that was all the proof I desired. And
once in awhile I would see them, too! We invariably see the
things for which we are looking, for we largely make up the
world of feeling and imagination in which we live. I will give
you one example. Two miles up the road from grandma's there
was a place called "Dug Holler." It was a place a quarter of a
mile long, where the road went between the points of two
declining hills, and this part of it had been dug out so as to
make it a level road. Hence its name. On either side the hills
gradually rose high, and toward evening this "Dug Holler" was
somber and shadowy. Particularly was this true on a damp,
cloudy evening. According to an old tradition of the negroes,
"Dug Holler" was haunted, and they usually gave it a wide
berth after sundown.
As the story ran, it was said that at some time in the long
ago, one cold, drizzly evening just after sundown, a man was
riding through there on a gray horse and he was murdered.
And on every similar evening about the same time he always
appeared there on the side of the road without any head,
galloping that gray horse and making fearful noises. He was a
holy terror. It so happened one day, in my boyhood life, that I
had to go to mill on old Rufe and I was detained longer than I
had calculated. I finally got my grist and started home But it
was about dark and the evening was cool and drizzly, just such
a night when that haunt was said to materialize. I had to pass
through the place, for there was no way around it. As I came
up to its approach and looked into the gloom before me, my
heart leaped to my mouth and the cold sweat broke out on me.
I mustered all the courage possible, put the lash under Rufe's
flank, and made the dash like a cyclone! We
were fairly burning the wind and his old feet were beating a
gay tune as they hit the ground. I had not gone far into the
"holler" until I heard the brush crack above me on the side of
the hill and I glanced round to see what it was. To my horror
there galloped the white horse with the headless man on him,
and his groans were unearthly! I shut my eyes tightly, flung the
lash that much harder under old Rufe's sides, and the old horse
only touched the earth in high places. By and by I emerged at
the opposite end, but the quirt did not stop its operations until I
halted at the yard gate at grandma's. He was panting like a
steam locomotive and there was not a dry hair on his old body.
It was not long until the negroes were gathered round me
listening to my blood and thunder adventure. They grew very
much excited as I related the details of my experience, and
once in awhile they would chime in with: "I tole you so! Dat
chile's tellin' de trufe. I seed de same thing wid my own eyes."
And they would shake their heads, swing their bodies, and look
in the most significant way at each other. I was a veritable
hero, and I rather enjoyed it; but I am sure that old Rufe got no
pleasure out of the performance. However, that experience
satisfied me, and you can lay down your bottom penny that I
never again went through "Dug Holler" after nightfall, it made
no difference whether it was a drizzly evening or a moonlit
night! There is no doubt that I saw the ghost. I went in there to
see it and I was not disappointed.
The influence of those old ghost stories has followed me to
this day. I still have a suspicious dread of going through dismal
places after night. I do not enjoy, under such circumstances,
hearing strange and hideous noises. It always gives me the
shivers. I would rather walk a mile out of my way any time
after night than go by a graveyard. When I have
to pass such a place at night I always quicken my pace and
my pulse becomes uncomfortable. I do not like to see the new
moon in its changes for the first time through the branches of a
tree. When it so happens I find myself unconsciously going
through some mental gyrations akin to the bodily ones that I
performed when I was a boy. When I start on a journey and a
rabbit crosses the road in front of me my first impulse is to turn
around, make a cross in the road and spit over my left shoulder
at it, because Aunt Dinny always told me it was bad luck not to
do it. Yet I am not superstitious! I do not believe in ghosts and
hants, except such as I create in my own imagination. I know
that no such things exist. But the effect of those old negro
folklore stories lodged in my subconsciousness at a time when
I did believe in them; and despite my intelligence the law of
suggestion sometimes, under favorable circumstances, throws
the spell of those old stories over me and I have the rigors.
You need not laugh at me, for nearly all people feel queer
when they pass a lonely way and some one jumps out and
shouts "Spooks!"
Children are very imitative creatures. They do what they see
their parents or older people do. Jack and myself were adepts
at this sort of business. We were observant and took pleasure
in reproducing the incidents of older people. One night I had
the earache. Grandma saturated a bunch of cotton with sweet
oil and put it in my ear, but it did not relieve me. So she cut the
leg off of an old sock, filled it with warm ashes and laid that on
my ear and the pain subsided. A few days after that grandma
was taken sick and the old family doctor came to see her. He
sat down by her bed, looked at her tongue and felt her pulse.
He threw his saddlebags across his knee and took out a vial
with powders in it. He took some strips of paper, poured some
of the powders on each, rolled them up
and crimped the ends and left directions how to give them.
Grandma soon recovered.
After that, one morning, Aunt Dinny was down at the
cowgap, and Jack and myself were in the kitchen by the fire.
Jack suggested that we play sick man and doctor. He was the
sick man and I was the doctor. He stretched himself on a short
bench and I seated myself by him. I looked at his tongue, felt
his pulse and with an old pewter spoon I shoveled up some
flour, poured it on some slips of paper and crimped their ends;
for we had sat interestingly by and saw old Doctor Moore do
the same thing when grandma was sick. I administered a few
doses and soon had him on his feet. Then I suggested that he
have an attack of earache, and soon he was lying prone upon
the bench groaning for dear life. I took a wad of cotton, dipped
it into a plate of gravy and soused it into his ear. But this did not
relieve him. I did not have the sock leg, so I plunged the spoon
into what I thought was a bed of warm ashes and poured them
in on the cotton.
Then something happened, and it happened quickly. Jack
sprang from the bench with the agility of a gray squirrel,
knocked over a stack of soiled dishes and shattered them as
they fell, darted through the door like a streak of lightning and
disappeared through the orchard gate like a disembodied spirit,
yelling at the top of his voice! Grandma came rushing from the
sitting-room, Uncle Martin ran around the house from the
woodpile, and next, Aunt Dinny appeared from the cowgap in
time to see the hole that Jack cauterized in the air, and they
gave chase. Uncle Martin was the fleetest of foot and he soon
ran Jack down and brought him to bay. Grandma was next, and
then Aunt Dinny, and Jack was still emitting hideous yells.
Grandma cried out to him to know what in the world was the
matter! With the big tears running down his
black cheeks, he finally caught his breath and said between
sobs: "We was a playin' sick man and Doctor, and Goge po'd
hot ashes in my yar." Grandma jerked his hand down and saw
the smoking cotton and gravy, and hastened to gouge it out.
While the rim of his ear was slightly blistered, no serious
damage was done, because the cotton had protected the ear. In
the meantime I had run upstairs and crawled under the bed, for
I was frightened worse than Jack. I thought I had killed him, and
I was crying lustily. And as I heard them coming through the
gate with Jack, and listened to his sobs, I set up even a louder
howl. Jack soon told them in detail how the catastrophe had
occurred, and when they saw that no serious hurt had been
done, they all had a big laugh. But there was no laugh for Jack
and there was none for me. To both of us it was a serious
affair. Aunt Dinny heard my cries and she rushed upstairs,
looked under the bed and said: "Law massie, chile! Jack ain't
hurt. You come right out heah to yo Aunt Dinny and we'll go
and see Jack." I came out and she went down with me and
there was poor Jack looking a most forlorn sight. He looked up
at me and said: "Yo' didn't know dem ashes was hot, did yo',
Goge?" It was not long until Jack was well supplied with cake
and maple sugar from grandma's sideboard; but I never did
again practice medicine on Jack for the earache.
While I am writing about Jack I will skip over three or four
years and relate a final incident concerning him and myself.
Grandma gave Jack to her youngest son and he became
involved in debt. So he determined to sell the boy in order to
meet his obligations. Grandma did her utmost in the way of
protest and importunity, but it did no good. He had made up his
mind that the sale had to be consummated and he would listen
to neither argument nor appeal. It frequently
occurred in those days that such sales were made to negro
traders for purposes of speculation. This was the nightmare of
the negroes, for when they fell into such hands they were
driven off and sold to cotton planters down South and they
were never more heard of. So my young uncle satisfied his
conscience by telling grandma that he would not think of selling
Jack to speculators who would send him far away, but that he
would let a man only a few miles away, by the name of Andy
Ramsey, have him and this would keep him near his mother.
Grandma had to break the news to Aunt Dinny and it was
something that she greatly dreaded, for she was very much
attached to her old servant and it would pain her to witness her
grief. She put it off until the afternoon before Ramsey was to
come after Jack; and then she went to her little cabin and as
delicately as possible told her of what was going to happen. I
shall never forget the agonizing cry that came from her old
husky throat when it dawned on her that Jack was already sold
and would have to leave the next morning. Jack and myself
were playing in the yard and we heard the cry, but did not know
what it meant. I followed grandma back to the "big house" and
Jack went to his mamma's cabin. I begged grandma to tell me
what was the matter and when she told me I was stunned. In
the meantime Aunt Dinny had taken Jack into her arms and told
him. I went out to the cabin to mingle my tears with theirs, but
Jack was nowhere to be seen. I went to the yard, for I heard
his voice in lamentation. And there in the chimney corner, with
his face turned to the cold bricks, stood Jack sobbing most
piteously. I went up to him and put my head against him and we
cried ourselves almost sick. That was late in the evening, and
the next morning Ramsey was to come after him.
To me and to Jack that was a sorrowful night. Grandma
tried to comfort Aunt Dinny, but there was no comfort for her.
It was like Rachel weeping for her children because they were
not. True, she was an old black woman, with no sort of
education; but she had a heart and it was bleeding. Then and
there it dawned on me that Jack was a slave and could be sold
just like a horse or a cow. I could not understand it, for until
then it had never occurred to me that my chum was not as free
as myself. It was late before I went to sleep, and by morning I
had come to the conclusion that my uncle was about the
meanest man upon the earth. But he was not. It was one of the
customs of the age, and usually it was common, as I
afterwards learned. Poor Jack was the victim of an evil,
though a lawful institution. But in my young heart I learned to
hate it, because of its effect upon Jack and Aunt Dinny.
Nine o'clock arrived, but Ramsey had not come. I hoped that
he had died during the night and that he would never come. But
after awhile I gazed down the road and saw him coming over
the hill on his gray horse. My heart sank within me. Jack saw
him, too, and he ran crying down to his mamma's cabin, threw
himself into her arms and begged her not to let the man take
him. She tried to comfort him, but there was no comfort in her
own poor old heart, and she could impart none to the ignorant
little black boy. Ramsey went down and got him and spoke
kindly to him, telling him he would let him come back
occasionally to see his old mammy. He took him up behind him
and rode away, and I watched him as far as I could see him
and when he disappeared from view I buried my head in
grandma's lap and sobbed myself into hysterics. And grandma
cried, too, for she was a very tender-hearted woman.
For days I did not know what to do with myself. I would start
up at times and it seemed that I could see Jack around the
house; then again I imagined that I could hear his voice calling
me. But it was only a dream. He was gone and I was sad and
lonely. I could not think of Jack without bursting into tears, and
poor old Aunt Dinny never did get over the shock. She brooded
over her loss until she became melancholy. I never again saw a
smile on her face. She pined away and finally died of a broken
heart. These two events, the sale of Jack and the death of Aunt
Dinny, made up the sum total of my boyhood sorrow. To that
date I had known none. But these two black people had so
intertwined themselves with my life that they had become a part
of it, and I was incomplete without them. I was the only white
child about grandma's place and, except her, Aunt Dinny and
Jack were my sole companions. Now they were gone and
grandma's was no longer like home to me. It became the
lonesomest place in the world to me.
Slavery, as grandma conducted it, was not an evil. She and
her negroes were like one great family. She trusted them and
they rarely ever disobeyed or deceived her. They knew her so
well and she knew them so well that her wish was their law.
She managed them like a wise mother manages her children.
But the abuses of slavery rendered it an odious institution.
When it made goods and chattels out of husbands and wives
and children, it became brutal. But Southern people were not
responsible for the evil. Northern people first brought them
from their native Africa, or bought them from those who did
bring them by ship to this country. But the Northern climate
was not adapted to them, and they were not adapted to
Northern industry. The slave was adapted to a warm climate
and to plantation life. Hence the Northern
people soon realized this and shipped them South and sold them
to Southern people. As they multiplied they became more
useful on farms and public utilities; and after the cotton gin
was invented the negro became indispensable to the South.
Greed then got in its work and gradually slavery degenerated
into an evil both to the negroes and to the Southern people.
And out of it grew the bloodiest civil revolution that ever
shocked the moral sense of the world.
In the impact of that revolution slavery died, but with its
death the soil of our country was washed in the blood of
multiplied thousands of the bravest men that ever drew a
sword upon the field of battle. As an institution it is dead and
gone forever, and the old-time Southern slave, the very best
type of the negro race, is very nearly extinct today. A new
generation of negroes, as freemen, has come upon the scene
of action; and our children now have but a faint idea of what
slavery was, or of the old-time negro slave. But those of us
who lived back in those days, and had warm attachments for
the old black mammy and her angular black boy, often live
amid the memories of those extinct associations, and we
cherish them as the happiess
recollections of life.
I have thrown this chapter into this book that this generation
of our children may have some insight into the relations and
cherished friendships of a condition of things now gone
forever. I sometimes feel sad when I dwell upon these
memories. I indulge the hope that some sweet day, when I
cross the borderland where colors and distinctions are
unknown and where God is the Father of us all, in some way I
will meet Aunt Dinny and Jack under skies that never become
clouded, amid landscapes where the frost never falls, and
beside silvery streams that flow on forever.
Among them were people of intelligence and high ideals. No
country could boast of a finer grade of men and women than
lived and flourished in portions of that "Switzerland of
America." Their ministers and lawyers and politicians were
men of unusual talent. Some of the most eloquent men
produced in the United States were born and flourished in East
Tennessee.
Those evergreen hills and sun-tipped mountains, covered
with a verdant forest in summer and gorgeously decorated with
every variety of autumnal hue in the fall and winter; those
foaming rivers and leaping cascades; the scream of the eagle
by day and the weird hoot of the owl by night - all these
natural environments conspired to make men hardy and their
speech pictorial and romantic. As a result, there were among
them men of native eloquence, veritable sons of thunder in the
pulpit, before the bar, and on the hustings.
But far back from these better advantages of soil and
institutions of learning, in the gorges, on the hills, along the
ravines and amid the mountains, the great throbbing masses of
the people were of a different type and belonged almost to
another civilization. They were rugged, natural and picturesque.
With exceptions, they were not people of books; they did not
know the art of letters; they were simple, crude, sincere and
physically brave. They enjoyed the freedom of the hills, the
shadows of the rocks and the grandeur of the mountains. They
were a robust set of men and women, whose dress was mostly
homespun, whose muscles were tough, whose countenances
were swarthy, and whose rifles were their defense. They took
an interest in whatever transpired in their own localities and in
the more favored sections of their more fortunate neighbors.
They were social, and practiced the law of reciprocity long
before Uncle Sam tried to establish it between this country and
Canada.
Who among us, having lived in that garden spot of the
world, can ever forget the old-fashioned house-raisings, the
rough and tumble log-rollings, the frosty corn-shuckings, the
road-workings and the quilting-bees?
And when the day's work was over - then the
supper - after that the fiddle and the bow, and the old Virginia
reel. None but a registered East Tennessean, in his memory,
can do justice to experiences like those. No such things ever
happened in just that way anywhere on the face of the earth
except in that land of the skies.
Therefore, the man who even thinks of those East
Tennesseans as sluggards and ignoramuses who got
nothing out of
life is wide of the mark. They had sense of the horse kind; and
they were people of good though crude morals. No such thing
as a divorce was known among them. It was rare that one of
them ever went to jail in our section; and, if he did, he was
disgraced for life.
I never knew, in my boyhood, of but one man going to the
penitentiary and it was a shock to the whole country. While
they had their stills, made their own brandy, and did pretty
much as they pleased, yet in the main they were orderly and
law-abiding.
They were all born politicians and took the profoundest
interest in the elections. They depended largely for their ideas
of politics upon the politicians of that day who often passed
through the country and entertained them with speaking. They
would drop everything in order to hear some leading man
speak, and they were very evenly divided between the Whigs
and the Democrats. Leading men of that day, in times of great
political excitement would visit our locality and have all-day
speakings. They would have great barbecues and joint
discussions. Men like Andrew Johnson, Nat G. Taylor, Landon
C. Haynes, Thomas A. R. Nelson, W. G. Brownlow, Colonel
John Netherland, and men of lesser note, were familiar
characters on the hustings. I doubt if men of greater ability on
the platform than these could be found in any State in the
Union. They were well trained in the arts of public speech and
their eloquence was of the passionate and fiery character, and
they often lashed their respective followings into the wildest
excitement.
I have witnessed political upheavals, under the oratory of
those spellbinders, almost like a storm upon the bosom of an
angry ocean. Therefore, people in those hills and mountains
and valleys, sitting under the teachings of such leaders as
those of that day, were not ignorant of the politics of their
times. Even if many of them were ignorant of books and
papers, and if hundreds of them never ventured across the
borderline of their own counties, they were all apprised of what
was going on in the great political world of their day. They
learned from the living sources of wisdom, for they had the
advantages of the most eloquent expounders of Democracy
and Whiggery that the world afforded. The most stupid looking
hill-billie, and the veriest hairy-legged old mountaineer both
knew why he was a Democrat and why he was a Whig.
Yes, the native East Tennessean has always been a
well-informed man on the political issues of the day.
Now I am sure that after these explanatory remarks the
reader is prepared to appreciate my description of an old-time
election in East Tennessee. It was held in a cabin in one
corner of the yard surrounding my grandma's home. It involved
both National and State issues, and its local features added to
the interest. No such scenes are possible today as I witnessed
on that occasion. In fact, I doubt if they ever did occur
anywhere else except in that mountain region. Even there they
have become memories, but they are memories rare and worth
repeating.
It was on a cold drizzly day in November. The country for
months had been wrought into a frenzy of interest and the
party lines were tightly drawn. The hills and the mountains
disgorged themselves and the place was alive with the most
original class of men ever gathered at the polls. They were
there early and they remained until late. They kept coming, and
no one left; and by noon you could scarcely stir them with a
stick.
I was seated at the window in my grandma's front room
looking at them. Just to the right of the voting place, roped off
to itself, were the Whig headquarters. Near by it was a barrel
turned up on end with the head knocked in and three or four
long-handled gourds were hanging down in the contents. It was
homemade apple brandy. About the same distance to the left
the Democrats had their rallying point similarly hedged in, and
in the center the same sort of a barrel with the same long-handled
gourds. To those in sympathy with each party thus
represented these refreshments were as free as the water in
the stream near by. There were no election laws or officious
officers to interfere with their enjoyment. They were the freest
and easiest-going lot upon which my eyes ever gazed. The
leaders and the workers were busy, and when they would
succeed in voting some man their way a great shout would
rend the air.
Along toward noon many of them were under a heavy head
of steam and they were feeling their keeping. Then it was that
the fun began. One stern old hill-billie, with jean-pants and coat
on, and an old hat through the top of which his hair was waving
in the wind, became very boisterous. It took two or three of his
friends to hold him. By and by he broke away from them and
rushed out into the big road, and it was red clay and muddy. He
threw his old hat up in the air, jerked off his coat, rolled up his
sleeves, spit on his hands and shook himself vigorously. He
swore that he was Andy Johnson's jack and that the crowd had
no "blanked" Whig that could comb his mane. And then he
swaggered round and brayed like a wild ass of the desert. The
Whigs looked on for a moment, and then an old mountaineer
threw off his coat, exposing a hairy breast, jumped three feet
high and cracked his heels together like two clapboards, and
vowed that he was the "chap what could curry that jack."
The Whigs gathered around their man and the Democrats
about theirs, and preparations for the trial of strength were soon
in operation. They made a big ring in the mud, adopted a few
simple regulations, put the two combatants in it, and then
shouted: "Stand back, everybody, and gim'um a chance!" The
two bullies, well tanked up, went at each other after the manner
of a hammer-and-tongs and fist-and-skull fashion. But they
were too tipsy to do each other serious injury and they were
given uninterrupted scope. They grappled like two clumsy
grizzlies. They scratched, they punched, they bit, they pulled
hair, and they growled most ferociously. Round and round they
butted and pushed, until they were well-nigh exhausted. The
crowd stood around and cheered, alternately, as each side
received encouragement. But it became apparent that the old
mountaineer was outwinding the hill-billie, and finally the latter
went down in a heap with the former on top, with his thumbs in
his opponent's eyes. It was soon all over, and the bottom man
cried out "Nuff!"
The Whigs rushed in and pulled their man off. They took him
amid loud shouting to their headquarters, scraped some of the
mud off of him and washed the blood from his face, and gave
him a copious drink from a well-filled gourd. It was not long
until the champion began to swell with pride over his victory
and a feeling came over him that he could do up every
Democrat on the hill. No one seemed anxious to dispute it, and
this increased his dares and banters. He walked out into the
road in rather a dilapidated air, shook himself and gritted his
teeth and said: "I'm Brownlow's ram, and there ain't enough
Andy Johnson's jacks in the paster to take the cockleburs out'n
my wool." And he bent his huge body and shook his tangled
locks like the leader of the flock.
About that time a big hill-billie caught the inspiration from
the juice, and off went his coat and into the air went his hat,
and he exclaimed: "I'm the catamount what can claw the burs
out'n that old buck's wool." And in a twinkling of an eye they
were locked in each other's embrace. But the old mountaineer
was too exhausted from his other contest to hold out long, and
he was soon ready for the junkpile. Then in turn he cried out:
"Nuff!"
Thus at intervals between the voting spells that crowd
did not do anything the rest of the day but patronize those
barrels and devote the rest of the time to currying Andy
Johnson's jacks and shearing Brownlow's rams. When they
became too helpless to accept each other's banters, they were
a sight to behold. I never before or since saw as many men
with bloody noses, bitten ears, black eyes and muddy backs.
They looked more like subdued beasts than men. But, be it said
to their courage and good sense, there was not brought into
play during the whole of those pugilistic performances a
stone, a club, a knife or a gun. It was a contest of fists and
nothing else, except where the teeth happened to get in their
work. Hence there was no serious damage done to anybody,
and no ill feelings or feuds followed as a result. They drank
and fought it out, and that ended it. They seemed to have no
malice or ill will. It was a well understood part of the election
exhibition and when the curtain fell upon the ridiculous
comedy it became ancient history.
But when the day came to a close and the count began,
at least three-fourths of that crowd were completely out of
commission. They were lying around in the fence corners
like snoozing swine. What to do with them was a
responsibility left on grandma's hands, for all of them able to
perambulate went toward their homes. She could not take
them into her house. In the first place, there were too many
of them; and
in the second, they were not fit to enter a house where human beings
lived. So she got four or five of the negro men, lighted her lantern,
and had them dragged into the stable. This was ample and it was the
best she could do. Had they stayed out in that cold, drizzly night they
would have frozen, for before morning the rain ceased and a slight
freeze set in. In the stable they would at least sleep off their stupor
and wake up and be able to pull for home. So she stabled the last
hoof of them and securely barred the doors.
The next morning, before day, we heard them squalling like mad
panthers and pounding for dear life on the doors. They were sober,
cold, mad and boisterous. Failing with the doors, they began to climb
into the loft and to come down through the hay windows on the
outside, and for a half hour we could hear the echoes of their voices
coming back from the hills and gorges until the sound died away in
the grim distance.
The next morning the negroes had a job cleaning out that stable
and making it a fit place for the horses and mules. As to how the
election went, not many of them had any idea, and did not seem to
care. They had been to the election, had a big time, and they were
satisfied.
Along in the day Mrs. John Edington, the wife of one of the hill-
billies who took part in the previous day's proceedings, came down to
grandma's with her two boys. I knew them very well, for they
occasionally made pilgrimages to grandma's to sell her maple sugar in
the late winter. She had a distressed face and she asked grandma if
she had seen anything of John. She said he had left home early the
day before to come to the election and she had not seen nor heard of
him since. She was told that he was among those who had been
drinking a good deal, but that after dark he had left and we had not
seen anything further of him. She said she was greatly alarmed,
that she feared something dreadful had happened to him, and
that she had not slept any all night.
Grandma called up several negroes and told them they must
start out along all the byways and look for the lost man, and
she went along with some of them. Of course I went, too. We
searched the paths leading in her direction, and we looked on
the hillsides also. In an hour or so we heard Uncle Martin
away down the gorge toward a noted spring shout out, "Heah
he is!" We all began to converge at the spring and there lay
poor old John Edington with his head down in the water, cold
and stark in death. He had evidently lost his way and
wandered to the spring and lay down to get a drink and was
too boozy and cold to pull himself out and he drowned. We got
him out and laid him on his back and his cold, glassy eyes
vacantly gazed up into the heavens. As long as I live I shall
never forget the agonizing cries of that poor simple-hearted
woman. The two boys helped to fill the gorge with their
distressing lamentations.
I learned right there to despise whiskey-making and
whiskey-drinking and became an inveterate enemy to the
monster evil. My young eyes saw at once what it had done for
that poor woman and those two boys. It made a widow out of
her and it made orphans out of them. They let it alone, but it
did not let them alone. And just what it did for that poor
woman and those two boys in the good old days of which we
have heard so much, when everybody had whiskey and it
flowed like water, and at a time when the citizen was not
vexed by the officious prohibitionists who want to regulate
other people's habits, it has continued to do for unfortunate
women and children from that far-off day until the present
time. Its diabolical business is to send men to hell, and to make
widowhood and orphanage as common along the highways of
life
as the wild flowers that grew on the native hills and mountains
of East Tennessee in the long ago.
When I saw its work at that spring, in the presence of
ghastly death, I swore eternal enmity to it, and the increasing
years have only intensified my uncompromising opposition to
its mission among men. As long as I live my battle cry will be
heard: On with the battle against it!
One other institution of the hill country deserves a passing
notice, and that was the "Old Field School". It flourished in all
its glory in my early childhood. It no longer exists, but it was
prominent then. You sometimes see it caricatured by modern
amateurs for the amusement of those who occasionally get up
social or church entertainments; but, to appreciate it you had to
attend it and become a part of it. True, in certain communities,
back in those times, you would here and there find good
schools. Newport had one taught by a West Pointer, and it was
famous; but I am now speaking of the school in the hills and
the mountains. The first institution I ever attended was the "Old
Field School".
It was built of logs, and about twelve feet wide by twenty
long. It was located in a typical old field with a proverbial rail
fence around it. It was chinked and daubed, had a very rough
floor, and its benches were rude and undressed and had no
backs to them. It never heard of desks. The benches were
arranged crosswise. The teacher sat in front near an old-fashioned
jamb, answering for a fireplace. The chimney was a
stick-and-dirt structure and had to be propped to hold it in
place. About six feet across the back ran a wide, smooth
plank, just under a long window made by cutting out the upper
side and the lower side of two of the logs, and over the opening
was tightly stretched a piece of thick domestic, as there was
no glass to put in for windowpanes. This let in
the light. The pens used were made of goosequills and the ink
from the bark of swamp maple. This was the writing place
and those who took penmanship practiced it on this
writing-board.
The teacher was a thick, heavy-set man, with a rugged
face, stiff red hair and shaggy brows. To me he had a look of
terror. And this was enhanced by the fact that in the corner
near him stood three or four well-seasoned birch rods, and they
were not there for ornamental purposes. They were dominant
factors in the discipline of that school. The course of study was
limited, and the attainments of the teacher were neither
varied nor comprehensive. He taught "Readin', 'Rithmetic,
Spellin' and Writin'." Some sort of a reader was his text-book,
Fowler's 'Rithmetic to the Rule of Three, Webster's Blueback
Speller as far as the pictures, and a few sheets of foolscap
paper for copybooks made up the course. This school, for
about three or four months in the year, was taught by this
teacher from the time the memory of man ran not back to the
contrary; but no one was ever known to have graduated in its
curriculum.
I went to him two terms and never did learn my A, B, C's.
He would take up school early in the morning, give two hours
for dinner and playtime at noon, and close late in the evening.
The most interesting period in the whole day was playtime.
The rest of it was irksome and monotonous.
We had three games that monopolized our time and attention
- Antny-over, Cat and Bullpen; and, in my judgment, modern
baseball and football are no improvement on our old games.
The girls jumped the rope, and the rope was usually a long
grapevine, trimmed and dressed. All the boys and the
girls were a robust and jolly set. They would yawn and
stretch before noon and long for playtime. In the afternoon
they would do likewise and look to the closing time. If there
was a little confusion the old teacher would shout in
stentorian voice, "Silence!" And everything was quiet. There
was scarcely a day that two or three boys did not feel the
application of those birch rods, and when they were used it
was not for social purposes, but to punish. He never did whip
me, but he frightened me out of my senses two or three times.
Just before dismissing for dinner, and at the close in the
evening, he would announce in solemn manner, "Prepare for
the big spelling class." Every boy and girl who could spell
would grasp their blueback spellers and, at the top of their lusty
voices, they would begin - "P-u-b-li-ca-ti'n, Publication", and
you could hear them a quarter of a mile. After several minutes
of this jargon of noise and confusion he would shout, "Form in
line!" And around the whole room they would take their
places. These two occasions were the most interesting times of
school hours. They would turn each other down and this was
fun.
There was one prevailing custom that always added spice to
the school experience, and that was when some fellow not in
school would ride by and shout, "School butter!" This was a
challenge and it mattered not what was going on in school
hours, the whole outfit of boys would break from the
schoolroom and take after him, and sometimes a whole half a
day of the school would be given up to a performance of that
sort. This was no violation of the rules of the school, for it was
a dare that no schoolboys would take from an outsider. If they
succeeded in capturing the challenger, the penalty inflicted was
a repeated ducking in the river.
One day, as we all sat lazily in school, we saw a long, lank
young hill-billie ride by to mill. We expected him to give the
challenge, but he did not do it. But we knew he would do
it on his return and just after he had passed the schoolhouse.
We saw it in his dirty face as he gazed in at us. So at the
proper time we prepared for him. The road down below the
house ran directly along a stiff stream with a stake-and-rider
fence on the other side. We sent three or four boys a quarter of
mile down the road and had them hide in the weeds by the
road. We kept glancing up the road to see him return. By and
by we saw him on his old mule swinging along down the hill
with his big feet nearly touching the ground. As he passed the
door he glanced in with a sort of a significant look, and after he
had gotten a few steps and thought he was safe he swung his
old straw hat over his head and yelled at full voice, "School
butter! Rotten eggs for your supper!" And he put the strap to
the mule and away he went. The whole school dashed out and
took after him. He raised a cloud of dust in his rear, but directly
the boys down the road sprang out and we came in behind. He
saw he was gone. But he leaped off his mule, scaled the fence
like a deer and started through the field toward a swamp; but
we were hot on his trail. Ultimately he stopped and tried to bluff
us, but it was no use. We closed in on him and threw him down.
Two or three gathered hold of his arms and as many of his long
legs, and amid hilarity we carried and dragged him to the
stream and waded out with him. Time and again we soused him
under, and would let him up and banter him, and then dip him
again. The old teacher commanded us to let him go, but he was
a caution to behold. That was fun enough for us for one day,
but it was hard on the hill-billie. This was the
"Old Field School"
and these were some of its experiences. No wonder it served
its day and passed out. The wonder is that
it ever had a day!
It was then that a rider on a foaming steed came dashing up
to the gate and his face was pale and his manner nervous.
Without uttering a word of preliminary warning he said:
"George, your father is dead and you must go home at once."
Grandma appeared in time to hear the announcement, but
before she could ask for particulars he had turned and ridden
rapidly away. Never did a blow fall with duller thud upon the
heart of a boy. "Can it be possible?" was the first question that
addressed itself to my mind. Only a few days before I had left
home and he was in his usual health. But the announcement
could not well be doubted, and it was not long until grandma
and myself were hastening toward the scene of affliction and
sorrow. All along the journey I could not restrain the hope that
on arriving at home we would find the message untrue. How
could it be true? Thus for several miles my heart drifted
between hope and despair. After awhile we came in front of
the house and groups of men were seen standing in the yard.
This was confirmatory of the intelligence. We alighted and
entered the home, and the first thing to greet my eyes was the
outstretched linen underneath which was the body of my
father. Close by the side of it sat mother, stunned with grief, for
the death had come suddenly. She instinctively threw her arms
around me and said: "Poor little boy, you have no father to love
and care for you now." Her grief was inconsolable.
The night was a long, sleepless night and when the morning
came it brought no light of hope to that stricken home. The sun
moved as usual up the sky, and toward the noontide the silent
procession moved out toward the hill. How often we had gone
there before to offer love's token upon the pulseless mounds,
but never before under circumstances of such grief and
bereavement as these. The man of God offered a touching
prayer for the young widow and her three orphans, the coffin
was lowered by strong hands, the dirt soon filled the gaping
wound in the earth and the cruel grave had swallowed up our
hope. With hearts bleeding we lingered a moment and in
silence dropped hot tears upon the new-made tomb, and then
wended our way back toward the place we called home; but it
no longer felt like the home that we had once known. The
circle was broken and a portion of the light had gone out
forever. There was an aching void that no human presence
could fill. To the great busy world these scenes and
experiences did not amount to much; but to us it was big with
ominous significance. For the first time in my young life the
world looked cold and cheerless and words of human comfort
seemed like a hollow mockery.
I shall never forget the first night in that home of distress
and loneliness. After the frugal meal of the evening, of which
we had partaken but little, we gathered in the front room. It
was a silent place, except for the broken sobs of mother and
the sighs of my own breaking heart. She lighted the old tallow
candle and sat it upon the table and took down her old
calfskin-covered Bible. She turned to the twenty-third Psalm and read
through tearful eyes and faltering voice: "The Lord is my
shepherd, I shall not want;" and on to the end of the chapter.
And then she opened the book in the New Testament and read:
"Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also
in me. In my father's house are many mansions; if it were not
so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you; and if
I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive
you unto myself, that where I am there ye may be also." We
then knelt down in our family devotion, and she poured out
her heart into the ear of him who had said: "I will be the
husband to the widow and the father to the orphan." And we
found comfort.
In a few days the old administrator came around and settled
up the affairs of the little estate. When the debts were paid
there was but little left for the support of that once happy
family. There was no homestead law in those days, and it was
not long until what my father had accumulated was disposed of
to pay security debts, and we were without even a home. But
my mother's faith failed not. It had already been tried in the
furnace and, though shaken, it still survived. She firmly
believed that the God of all the earth would do right. So she
turned her face toward the future and bared her bosom to the
storms as she addressed herself to the stern duties of life.
What was she to do? Grandma told her she must come
home, but my uncle and family were living with her and
and
mother did not care to take my brother and myself there, as it
would place two families of children under the same roof, and
that would not be for the best. So she resolved to accept the
invitation for herself and my little sister - to send me and my
brother to my Grandfather Rankin. I was nearly twelve years
old and my brother five years younger. The old gentleman said
he would be glad to have us, and that was the disposition made
of us.
I was no stranger in that home, as I had been there a number
of times, but not as an orphan boy; and that made all the
difference. Grandfather was far advanced in life and he was
living with his second wife. They had four grown daughters.
My father had been forced away from that home when he was
in his 'teens by his disagreeable stepmother. She was a very
peculiar old lady even when I knew her. The only serious
mistake that my grandfather was ever known to have made
was when he married her. She was not in his class. She was a
Dutch woman and not one of the best types of her hardy race.
She was not religious, had no taste for books, spoke broken
English, and she was brusque and petulant. But she was the
most industrious woman I have ever known. She was a slave
to work. It was against her nature to see anybody idle about
her and she could find more for a boy to do
than any human being of my knowledge. She was a model
housekeeper and kept everything about her as clean and shiny as a
new pin. And she had brought up those four daughters in
her footsteps. Two of them were just like her for the world in
their dispositions and appearance. The other two were like
grandfather. I soon learned to love them, but not the other two
and the old lady. They were very repugnant to me and I was to
them. The dislike was cordial and mutual.
Think of a boy, brought up in my mother's and her mother's
home, having to come under the government of this new
regime. It was something terrible. They soon began to pick
at me, to tell me I had not been half raised, that I was lazy and
trifling. My hat was never in the right place, my shoes were
never cleaned, my hair was out of order, and my manners
sloven. They were constantly finding fault with me. It mattered
not how many cows I had to drive up and look after, how many
hogs to feed, how much wood to chop during the morning and
evening, nor how hard I had to work all day in the field, they
expected me to look like I had come out of a bandbox all the
time. They taxed their ingenuity to find something to keep me
employed and then fussed at me for the way it was done. I
heard my own name called so much in that old Dutch twang
until I learned to hate it. It was nothing but "Shorch, Shorch!"
every time I appeared about the house. They made no effort to
cultivate the better side of my nature. They treated me more
like a servant. At night when I was tired and sleepy in the
winter time they had me to sit up until nine o'clock and tack
carpet rags. They made life miserable for me on all parts of the
ground.
Grandfather was kind to me and considerate of me, yet
he was strict with me. I worked along with him in the field
when the weather was agreeable and when it was inclement I
helped him in his hatter's shop, for the Civil War was in
progress and he had returned at odd times to hatmaking. It was
my business in the shop to stretch foxskins and coonskins
across a wood-horse and with a knife, made for that purpose,
pluck the hair from the fur. I despise the odor of foxskins and
coonskins to this good day. He had me to walk two miles every
Sunday to Dandridge to Church service and Sunday-school,
rain or shine, wet or dry, cold or hot; yet he had fat horses
standing in his stable. But he was such a blue-stocking
Presbyterian that he never allowed a bridle to go on a horse's
head on Sunday. The beasts had to have a day of rest. Old
Doctor Minnis was the pastor, and he was the dryest and most
interminable preacher I ever heard in my life. He would stand
motionless and read his sermons from manuscript for one hour
and a half at a time and sometimes longer. Grandfather would
sit and never take his eyes off of him, except to glance at me to
keep me quiet. It was torture to me. When we would return
home he would put all the books like the life of Daniel Boone,
General Francis Marian and Davy Crockett high up on the top
shelf, and put me down at a table with the New Testament and
the Shorter Catechism. When through with them I could walk
around some, but was never allowed to whistle, to knock on the
fence or to throw a stone at a bird. It was the Sabbath and I
was expected to keep it holy. Yet old grandma paid no
attention to the Sabbath and went about her business a
good deal like any other day. Her daughters, however, had to
observe the day, for grandfather was a strict disciplinarian.
Everything about the place observed his Sunday regulations
except grandma. She was a privileged character. All this, I
presume, did me some good in my life and character, but it was
taught me in the severest way I had ever known. It was an
irksome sort of
religion and I used to wonder how grandfather enjoyed it, but
he seemed to get genuine pleasure out of it. It was that sort of
tuition that he had given to my father in his boyhood, and he
thought it good and wholesome for me. But on week days he
granted me a great deal more liberty. Had it not been for the
female members of the home I would have gotten along very
well, except on Sunday. Grandfather made it hard for me on
the Sabbath and they made it even harder for me during the
week. So life had but little for me worth living for during the
year and a half I spent in that household and on its premises.
As the months went by I became rebellious. Such discipline
began to sour my disposition and to make me resentful. I
resolved to get from under it. So one Sunday, coming
from Church service, myself and brother planned to make our
escape. That night we went to our room earlier than usual,
packed up all our belongings, and after everybody was asleep I
slipped out with the bundle, went up the road a short piece and
hid it behind a tree. We would have left that night, but we were
afraid to travel that far after dark. The next morning we were
out at the woodpile chopping wood when the bell rang for
breakfast. We pretended to be very busy finishing up a job, and
when they had all gotten in the dining-room we made a break
for dear life up the road; but old grandma happened to look out
and see us and she knew at a glance what we were doing. She
ran to the door and screamed at us, but we made tracks that
much faster. She saw we were gone, and the last we heard
from her was: "Never you show dem faces here no more." But
it was a needless injunction. More than forty-five years have
passed by since then, but I have never seen that place again,
neither did I ever lay eyes upon the face or the back of my old
Dutch step-grandmother. It was an everlasting
lasting adieu. I was entirely satisfied with my experience and
never had the slightest desire to repeat any part of it.
It was late in the evening when we got home, for it was
several miles and the weather was warm. Now, just what to
tell mother required some study and preparation. But by the
time I reached home I had my story complete, and it was the
whole truth and nothing but the truth. When we entered the
house I rushed into her arms and poured out my tale of sorrow
to her and to grandma. They listened with sympathy, and
grandma said that we had done exactly right; that she never
had thought it best to send us down there. It was not long until
we were seated at the table enjoying a good meal. It was like
heaven to us. We had gotten back where somebody loved us
and spoke kindly to us.
But my troubles were not over. My uncle did not want
me to live at grandma's because his wife objected to so many
children, as she put it, in one house. The fact is, she did not like
me because she could not boss me. It was mostly her fault, but
partly mine, I presume. I never did like to be bossed by outside
people. I resented it in my boyhood and I resent it to this good
day. It was born in my blood and I am not responsible for it. So
she and myself had an open collision, and my uncle told me I
must not live there any longer. My love for him was none too
great. I never had forgiven him for selling Jack to Andy
Ramsey. He was a cross-grained and narrow-minded man,
with a very disagreeable disposition. Grandma intervened, but it
was no use, for I had made up my mind that I would not live in
a home under such circumstances. I was then fourteen years
old and had some independence of my own. So I determined to
leave without a contest.
The snows of an East Tennessee winter were lying deep
upon the ground and the ice was frozen thick over the streams.
The branches of the forest were bending under their load and a
fierce December wind was sweeping over the hills. The
heavens were overcast with shifting clouds and the merry
twitter of the birds was hushed into silence. A day more forbidding
and unpropitious never flung the mantle of its subdued
light over the mountains and the valleys; but the day was no
more perturbed than my own feelings and thoughts, as step by
step I silently moved down the hill and out of sight of my
grandma's home. My eyes were blinded with cold tears and
occasionally a sob forced its way through my lips as I trudged
along. By and by I knocked at the door of a large, comfortable
farmhouse and was invited by a kind voice to come in. They
knew me and they knew my father in his lifetime; they had
some knowledge of the things in the home I had just left, and
they were in sympathy with me. He was a relative of
grandma's, owned a large farm lying along both banks of the
river, and also a good gristmill and sawmill. I was not strong
enough to do a man's work, but I had a man's willingness, and
my old kinsman told me that if I would be a good boy and learn
to work that I should not be without a home and something to
eat and to wear. For several months I remained with this kind
old man working for my board and clothes. It was small pay,
but the experience was worth much to me. I added to my
stock of industrious habits and learned more about farm life.
About this time my aged grandma died and this brought to
me another real sorrow, for she was one of the best and truest
friends I ever had. It did more - it made it necessary for my
mother to hunt another home. So she and myself applied to a
gentleman of large means and broad acres for a small house in
which to live and a few acres to cultivate. He had been a
lifelong friend of my father and offered us every assistance. In
fact, he said we could have the house for nothing and ten acres
of rich land to work; that he would furnish the horse, the feed
and the implements and give us half we could make. It was a
comfortable one-story house with two rooms. We moved into it,
happy to be once more united. My mother was skilled with her
needle and she was handy at all sorts of domestic work. I soon
found a good man on the same farm who went in with me and
we worked our crops together. We had a good cow and
moderate supplies for the season, and we were again happy
under our own roof. It was an humble roof, but it was home,
and mother was there to preside over it. It was a little heaven
on earth. Twenty years afterward I visited that community,
went into that old house, bared my head and felt that it was a
sacred place.
We made a fine crop of corn and my part of it was abundant
to run us through the year, and we had some for sale. For once
again I felt independent. The next season I made preparation
on a larger scale, rented from our old friend a more extensive
piece of good bottom land and determined to be my own boss
and work my crop by myself. We had a milch cow, mother
added to our needed comfort by the use of her needle, and we
were moderately well equipped to become self-sustaining. My
benefactor, who owned the large farm, gave me every
encouragement He told me to pick out my own mule, that he
would furnish the feed as before, supply the seed and the
utensils and in every way stand by me. Yes, he went so far as
to take me into his confidence and to tell me what he thought of
me. He said that I was the best boy and had the best habits of
industry of any boy he had ever had about him, and that he had
every confidence in my honesty and truthfulness, and that he
could trust me implicitly. He
even said that if I continued in the future as in the past
that he would aid me in any way, for he added: "I believe you
have the making of a man in you." My, but that made me
stand several inches taller!
I went home that night and told mother all about my
arrangements for the year and what our friend had said to me.
A smile of satisfaction came over her face and there was
something of her old-time look of happiness in her expression.
She seemed to take on hope and told me that she was very
proud of me and that she was so glad to have a boy so well
thought of and upon whom she could depend. Could anything
under the sun have caused me to disappoint such a mother?
Nay, verily! Under her care and godly tuition I had no very bad
habits. I had been thrown with most every sort of association
common to that community during the two previous years, and
temptations had been strong and alluring; but the influence of
that mother had been stronger and far more potent with me
than all other influences combined. The very fact that she
trusted me to the limit, and told me so, was a stimulus to live
right and maintain my integrity that no temptation could
overcome. She loved me and had confidence in me, and in turn
I was her comfort and her hope; and I was ready to die for
her.
All this stirred my better nature and made me resolve to be a
man sure enough. If other people could trust me and if my
mother saw something in me, I was certainly going to do my
part to merit such confidence and meet their expectations.
So when the early spring opened I began operations on my
own account and went to work with a will to put my ground in
good condition and plant my new crop. It was not many weeks
until my first planting was up and the second was in the
ground. Steadily the work progressed, the seasons were good
and the outlook fine. By the middle of June my growing corn
looked like a canebrake as it waved gracefully under the
breeze. I sat one morning on the fence and looked out over it. I
knew nearly every hill of it by name. I had lived in it by day and
had thought of it by night. It was my crop! My honest toil had
made it and my heart swelled with gratitude as I gazed over
the flattering prospect. My nature was stirred to its best
thought, its best purpose, its noblest resolve. After all, there was
something in store for me and I took courage and felt the
impulses of a strange inspiration. I began to actually think, and
my thought formed itself into purpose, and I began to have
dreams and visions. But in the midst of my reverie I came to
myself and realized that after all I was only a poor boy, without
fortune and but few friends, and that at best my prospect was
only that of a plodding toiler and that it was cruel to allow
baseless aspirations to kindle hopes that would be destined to
die in their borning. What could I do except to plow corn, hew
wood and draw water, and be the tenant of more fortunate
people? Of course I did not think in the terms in which I am
writing; but in my crude way and in my awkward fancy I started
a few aircastles and then exploded them. But there was
something latent in my conscious nature that was making effort
to assert its purpose. I did not understand it then, but as the
years passed by it finally became apparent to me. God was
touching the mysterious depths of my sleeping consciousness
and I knew it not!
During the most of that bloody war, East Tennessee was
disputed territory. It bordered on Kentucky and, when the
Confederates were not occupying it, the Federals were in
possession. The people themselves were very evenly divided,
just as they had been in matters political. Families were often
estranged and neighborhoods were rent asunder. Hundreds of
the men entered the Confederate service, and when the
conscript law went into force hundreds more of them crossed
over the border and joined the Union army.
A good many in the hill country did not enter either army, but
took to the woods; and while their sympathies were with the
old flag, they became, for the most part, outlaws. They
committed many depredations, especially upon the homes of
those in the Southern army. And they often precipitated trouble
with Confederate scouts, particularly those headed by conscript
officers.
It was almost worth a Southern man's life, whether a soldier
or a citizen, to venture near their habitations. They
belonged to the wild and reckless class at best, and as the war
gradually lifted all restraints of civil government they were a
desperate set of men and made themselves a holy terror.
They were deeply incensed at the conscript officers and let no
opportunity escape to give them serious trouble. They had
frequent collisions with them and bloody tragedy often
followed. Now and then some of those in the Union army
would venture back and give encouragement to this class of
men. It was a terrible state of things.
I remember one conscript officer who made himself very
offensive to these hill people. He did his utmost to capture
them and force them into the Confederate service. His name
was Captain James Hurley. He lived in East Tennessee and
knew them, and they knew him. He was also acquainted with
every nook and corner of that region. He had a grown son who
was one of the Confederate scouts, and sometimes, when at
home, he would accompany his father in his incursions into the
hill country after those men.
Captain Hurley, with his son and others, one day made a raid
in that section to round up some of them, and he took every
precaution against danger. He even had his little five-year-old
boy behind him as a protection, thinking that no sort of a foe
would want to injure a child. But he reckoned without his host.
He was returning from his search in the late afternoon, and
passed out of the hills into the main road above where we
lived. Just after he entered it he had to cross a small creek far
above which was an overhanging cliff - a forbidding-looking
place. Thinking that he had passed the danger line, he stopped
carelessly to let his horse drink, and the crack of several rifles
rang out on the evening air. One of the bullets pierced Captain
Hurley's heart, went through his
body and into the brain of his little boy. They never knew what
hurt them.
This produced a profound sensation. As they fled from their
hiding-places, followed by shots from the guns of the guards,
several of them were recognized by young Hurley. He swore
vengeance against them and their compatriots. He was a
daring character, and from that time on there were hot times in
the hill country of East Tennessee. Even when the Federal
army occupied the lower country young Hurley would dash into
those hills unexpectedly and commit deeds of crimson daring.
On one occasion, when it was thought that the
Confederates were clear out of the country, he appeared in
that wild section bent on trouble for those daredevil men. He
knew where they lived and he was acquainted with their
haunts. But as he was coming out of one of those gorges he
passed a cabin and, unexpectedly, one of them fired at the
squad and rushed from the house to the crest of the hill with
bullets making music in his ears. The hilltop was soon
surrounded with a soldier about every fifty yards apart.
Young Hurley, as we afterwards learned, was riding slowly
near the timber, standing in his stirrups, looking cautiously into
the underbrush for the escaped man. He passed near an oak
tree and heard something scrape the sides of it, and as he
threw his eye upon it toward the tree he was just in time to
see a huge Enfield rifle coming down upon him with its
gaping muzzle. He threw himself from his horse to the ground
just as the ball tore the seat of his saddle away. The man,
thinking he had killed him, broke over him toward a safer
retreat before the others could have time to overtake him.
But young Hurley was up and after him on foot like a wolf
after a deer. At the foot of the hill he disabled him
with a shot from his pistol and then ran up to him and saw one
of the very gang that had assassinated his father a few months
before. Though the poor fellow begged piteously for his life, the
infuriated pursurer emptied the remaining barrels of his pistol
into his quivering flesh. I learned these facts some years later
in another State from one of the scouts that participated in the
raid.
The father of this young man lived about two miles from my
grandma's and he, as well as the rest of us, had heard the
shooting and knew that something had happened. He was an
old man and believed that his son was killed. We went along
with him and searched into the night, but failed to make any
discovery. The next morning we renewed the effort and up in
the day found the body, but the wild hogs had partially
destroyed it.
Some time after that when Longstreet's army drove
Burnside and his hosts back toward Knoxville many of those
men were left in those hills. They lived there and took chances
on escaping by hiding in the caves and rugged places of the
country. Young Hurley found out where he thought a crowd of
them were being harbored by friends. He adopted a ruse to
capture and kill them. He dressed up one of his comrades in a
worn Federal uniform and sent him in there to play the part of
an escaped Federal prisoner, which he did successfully. He
approached a cabin in the locality of their hiding and completely
threw the woman off her guard. He told his tale and begged
that some one who knew the country should pilot him across
the line into the Yankee camp. She at once left him and
disappeared in the woods. Directly she returned with two of
the men heavily armed. At first they suspected him, but he
convinced them that he was a Federal and that he had suffered
badly at the hands of the Confederates and that he
had escaped and was anxious to rejoin his command. So they
accepted his story and took him to their ambuscade, opened a
trap door on the side of the hill and he entered a veritable den
of them. There were a dozen or more and they were the
denizens of the mountains, and some of them were the very
men the scouts had been trying to locate for months. They
were armed to the teeth. After nightfall two of them took him
along a by-path and put him over the river in a canoe, and then
out of danger, and left him. It was not long until he dropped
down the river at another landing, crossed and made haste to
report at his camp. By daylight the scout was ready for
business.
Led by the "escaped Federal soldier", they were not long in
finding the locality. They surrounded it, and the man who knew
the exact spot approached it and told them to come out, and
that their old enemy was there in force. There was nothing left
for them to do but to obey. There were ten or twelve of them.
They were tied with their hands behind them and made to
stand with their backs to the scouts. and as the word "fire"
was pronounced all those poor fellows leaped forward pierced
with bullets except one, who dashed down the hill into the
gorge and made his escape. After it was over it looked like a
slaughter pen.
These facts were also given to me in detail many years
after the war, in Georgia, by a member of that scout. The fact
itself I knew too sadly when it occurred. Twenty-odd years
later, when on a visit to my old haunts, I visited that gruesome
spot, and the excavation in the hillside where they were in
hiding was still recognized. I need not pursue this line of
tragedy any further, but I could relate many more just as
startling.
With this state of things in progress for two years,
criminating
and recriminating, it is easy to imagine the condition of
public sentiment when the war closed. Scores and scores of
men who entered the service of the Southern army were not
even permitted to return and settle up their business, much less
to live there again. They disappeared from view as completely
as though the earth had swallowed them up. I have met many
of them scattered about over Texas, leading peaceable and
successful lives. Some, however, who served in the
Confederate army at points far removed from their old homeplace,
thinking that no harm would be done them, did return; but
more than a few of them were badly treated, and in some
instances slain. This state of feeling did not exist in the hearts
of the better class of men who fought in the Union army. It
was largely confined to fellows of the baser sort. But even
among the better class personal prejudice was deep-seated and
lasted several years. And it extended to innocent men.
Some of our Southern Methodist preachers were persecuted,
though they took no part in the war. I remember two of them
that were scourged unmercifully. One of them was Rev. Henry
Neal and the other Rev. Jacob Smith. They were sent to
Blount County to preach and were there serving their charges
inoffensively. They were taken in hand by a lot of ruffians, tied
to a tree and whipped until physicians had to take pieces of
splinters and shreds of clothing from their lacerated backs. It
was months before they recovered from the abuse, and Mr.
Smith never did recover. He lost his voice as a result and
finally went to a premature grave. Strange to say, every one of
those desperadoes, sooner or later, came to a violent death. It
seemed that the curse of God followed them to untimely
graves.
But in the course of the years, after civil government was
again restored and public sentiment took its place behind the
officers of the law, this condition of the public mind passed
away and peace and order took the place of disorder and
confusion. Whatever else of the evil influence remained slunk
away into the dark places and contented itself with finding
expression in wildcat distilleries; and Uncle Sam is still having
trouble in some sections of that country with this lawless class.
But the great bulk of those East Tennesseans are among the
best and most devoted law-abiding people in this great country
of ours.
In late years that very section has been furnishing the leading
men of that State. Robert L. Taylor, three times Governor and
then Senior United States Senator, lived in the heart of East
Tennessee; and so does the Hon. Ben Hooper, the present able
Governor of the Commonwealth. And in prohibition sentiment
East Tennessee has long been in the lead. The old regime has
long ago passed from the experiences of that mountain section,
and a prosperous condition and a new order of things are
making that section one of the most intelligent and progressive
portions of the South.
Toward the close of the Civil War in that country I figured in
a sensational though somewhat amusing episode. While the
war was in progress that whole country was stripped of
everything in the way of livestock that either side to the contest
could lay their hands upon. Horses, cows, mules, hogs; in fact,
everything that a soldier could either ride, hitch to a wagon or
kill and eat was swept away. Some of the old men and the
boys and negroes would hide an animal out now and then in the
hills and thus save it, but these were the rare exceptions. They
took all that we had except two milch cows and a fine mare
and a splendid iron-gray mule. Old John, one of the trusted
negroes, and myself had charge of these
animals. We kept them secreted in a basin among surrounding
hills. We would pack feed to them by night and for months
they never saw the bottom lands or the barn.
The mare was well groomed by John. She was a coal-black,
sixteen hands high, well-made and a thing of beauty. She had
all the gaits, and she was gentle under the saddle or in the plow.
The mule was a fine type of his kind. He was fat, his color was
rich, his ears long and his body was shapely. He was my
especial charge. We looked to these to do service when the
war was over and crop times returned again. They were our
only hope. Hence we cared for them with great caution and
secrecy. Occasionally we would call up the dogs and go over
the hills apparently on a hunt so as not to excite the suspicion of
some straggling band of soldiers, but in reality we were on our
way to feed, water and curry those animals. We would mount
them and ride them around in that secluded spot for exercise.
Beyond that they saw nothing of the outside world for months.
Old John was the most suspicious and secretive negro I ever
knew, and he was the most deceitful and hypocritical old rascal
of my acquaintance. If any one asked him about livestock he
could look them straight in the face and tell them the most
plausible lie imaginable. He could do it with such apparent
frankness that I never knew a soldier to doubt his statements.
Well, the war was about over and we had a few oats and
some hay left, and from this supply we were drawing nightly.
John told my mother that he really thought there was not much
danger now, as there had not been a soldier seen passing
through there for several days. He said he believed that we
might with safety the next morning go out to the hills before
good day, ride the mare and the mule into the barn and carry
back some feed for them instead of packing it on our
backs,
and she gave her consent. So by four o'clock the next morning,
just as the day was peeping over the horizon, we were on the
backs of those animals riding them down the hill into the
barn lot.
Where we were then living was a romantic spot and full of
natural beauty. The river made a bend above where we lived
and circled around one of the most beautiful and fertile pieces
of bottom land upon which the eye ever rested. From the barn
to where the bend was made and where there was a ford it
was just one mile on a dead level. Our house was at the foot of
the hills and rather in the base of a natural circle formed by the
hills. The road came up in front of the house and passed around
in the shape of a horseshoe, and the barn was three hundred
yards below and, so to speak, between the corks of the shoe.
On either side the barn was closer to the road than it was to the
house, but the gate opened in front of the house leading down to
the barn. Between the road on either side there was a heavy
rail fence and a deep ditch or two.
It was just good daylight, but the sun was not quite up, and
John and myself were about ready to mount our steeds with a
big bundle of oats thrown across their withers, ready to return
to the hills beyond the house. John happened to look across the
patch lying between the road and the barn and his eyes almost
dropped down on his big cheek bones. I had not noticed
anything, and he exclaimed in a suppressed undertone: "Lo'dy a-
messy, Goge, look yander!" I glanced across the patch to the
road and there sat ten or a dozen Yankee soldiers upon their
horses, in bright uniforms, quietly looking at us. Doubtless they
had been there several minutes, but they were waiting for us to
start back toward the house so as to give chase after we
reached the road and before we could get into the hills. They
knew that if we ran toward the
river that they would have to gallop up the road to the house
nearly a quarter of a mile to get through the gate and take after
us and that would give us nearly half a mile the start.
Old John said quietly: "Gim-me yo foot." He grabbed it and
gave me a spring and I was on the mule's back in a jiffy, and he
leaped to the back of the mare and then shouted to me: "Put de
strap under dat mule's belly and foller me!" And he turned
toward the river and touched the mare under the flank with his
plow-line. That was enough. The oats were scattered in every
direction and that mare started like a streak of lightning down
the road toward the river. The old mule followed suit. It was a
race for life. The Yankees shouted at us to halt. And they fired
several rounds above our heads. The bullets whistled a peculiar
tune, but they only accelerated the velocity of the mare and the
mule. It was but a few moments until she was far down the
road ahead of me and she was literally burning the wind. It was
the first good run she had for months and the air of that fresh
April morning inspired her with additional life. The old mule was
doing his best, but compared with the mare he was making slow
speed. I glanced back to see what was taking place in the rear,
and by that time the Yankees had gotten through the gate and
they were coming like a thunder storm down the level road, but
I had a good lead and with my strap I was giving the old mule
additional reasons why he should accelerate his operations, and
he seemed to realize that it was an urgent case. He shook his
monstrous head and groaned like an elephant in distress, and he
seemed to measure off ten or fifteen feet at a leap. Two or
three carbines cracked behind me and the peculiar sing of the
balls made the air responsive. They were gaining on me, but I
was gaining on the river, too. I was being jolted to and fro
like a gray squirrel in the
storm-tossed branches of a tree, but I was swinging on his
shaggy mane for dear life with one hand and using the strap
vigorously with the other. By this time John had turned down
the bank of the river and disappeared. I knew that he was safe,
but my condition was perilous. The Yankees were coming and
I had a quarter of a mile to go to reach the stream. The old
mule was panting like a steam engine, but he was not only
holding his own but he seemed to enjoy it. Finally I reached the
bank of the river. He was going at such strides that I could not
turn him down the stream to enter the ford thirty yards below,
and he plunged several feet down the bank right into the river.
He threw the water all over me and liked to have emptied me
into the stream. He recovered himself, shook the water from
his long ears and he was soon in shallow depths sufficient to
again take up something like his former speed. John was
already out on the other side and had disappeared in the forest.
When I reached midstream one by one the Yankees came to
the bank over which I had just plunged. But they stopped. They
knew they could never overtake me in the river, and then on
the other side might not be safe. So they fired several shots
over my head and yelled at me like wild Indians. As I pulled out
on the opposite side they gave me a hearty cheer and made the
river banks resound with their laughter. Even if they did not get
the stock they seemed to have enjoyed the fun. But it scared
me out of about twelve months' growth.
I went on to one of my uncles who lived some distance
across the river, though I ran a slight risk of meeting Southern
scouts. Where old John went I did not learn for some days.
The next day I left the mule hid out near my uncle's and
ventured back home on foot. When I reached the house
mother was delighted to see me and find that I was safe. The
Yankees on their return assured her that I was not hurt and
they went on their way. I had a thrilling experience to relate to
her, but she had stood in the yard and witnessed the most of it.
She made sure that the horse and the mule were gone when
she first saw those fellows standing in the road and looking
across toward them at the barn.
It was three or four days before we heard anything from old
John. Early one morning he came slipping up the back of the
yard and peeped into the kitchen and said: "Miss Jane, dem
Yankees done gone? Da sho' skeered me out'en my sense!"
My uncle, to whom the animals belonged, congratulated us on
our escape, and when peace was declared a few weeks after
he was ready to pitch a crop in his effort to recoup his broken
fortune. But as long as I live I will never forget that race
across the bottoms to the river with those Yankees shouting
and shooting at me. My pulse beats faster to-day as I recount
the incidents and live over the experience again. But we saved
the mare and the mule, and that was glory enough for one day.
Old John and myself became fast friends. He was a mighty
coon hunter and he had two of the best coon dogs in all that
section. Many a time he and myself have gone out late at night
and started a coon. The dogs would put him up a large tree
and John, with his faithful axe, would chop till nearly daylight to
fell that tree. When it was ready to fall I would take the dogs
and go fifty feet beyond danger in the direction it was leaning
and when it would hit the ground with a crash I would turn the
dogs loose and sic them into the branches, and when they
found the coon, my, what a beautiful fight we would have!
Then in triumph we would carry our game home and a few
nights later John would have a coon supper. But right there I
drew the line. No coon for me.
Two miles from where we lived there was an extensive rock
quarry where stones were gotten out for bridge and building
purposes, and it was owned and conducted by an Englishman
whose name was Croft. We knew him very well and he
seemed to be a man of good heart and he was acquainted with
our condition. He was just past middle age, a good business
man and he employed quite a number of hands. Now since my
plans for farming were out of the question, we both
concluded that I had better apply to him for an
apprenticeship to become a stonemason. It would pay me a
reasonably good
salary while I was learning the trade and when I had once
finished it good wages would always be assured. Still she had
some misgiving as to the influence of such associations upon
my character. I assured her that she need not have any fears
on that score. But she had keen intuition and her mother-heart
saw possible danger.
The next morning I went out to the quarry and saw Mr. Croft
and laid my desire before him. He looked at me kindly and said
that he feared I was too young to undertake that sort of an
enterprise. I was sixteen years of age and rather well
developed for my years, and I felt like I could do nearly
anything that an ordinary man could do. I was insistent on my
proposition and told him that I was more than willing to make
the effort if he would open the way. He finally yielded to my
entreaty, for I was importunate; and he told me that he was
willing for me to make the experiment. My bosom swelled with
emotions at the thought of my success. He took me into his
office and explained to me what my duties would be. At first I
would simply carry tools from the works to the shop, get them
put in good condition and keep the workmen supplied with their
implements; then, after I had served at this the usual time, I
would be put to simple drilling and get stones ready for splitting;
and when I had learned to handle the drills well I would be put
to dressing the material; and that during the term of my
apprenticeship he would pay me seventy-five cents per day if I
would board myself. That was easy and it looked good to me.
Four dollars and fifty cents per week would amount to eighteen
dollars per month and, in my eyes, that was a good salary. With
what mother could do with her needle we could get along
swimmingly, for we already had supplies to do us for several
months, if not quite a year. It was glorious.
I hastened back home to tell mother and she was much pleased
with the arrangement. That night she talked it all over with me and
gave me wholesome advice as to my conduct, for she knew that the
vocation was a hard one and that it would throw me face to face with
many gross temptations, and that I would need to be on my guard.
She was more interested in my moral welfare than she was in my
material success. She knew also the rough class of people I would be
associated with and it was natural for her to be anxious about me.
The next morning, bright and early, with my little dinner-bucket on
my arm I was off for the rock quarry with a light heart and with high
hopes. My first day carrying tools from and to the shop was easy. In
fact, it was a sort of play for me. I really wanted to get through with
that part of my training and get a hammer and a drill in my hands. I
noticed the old workmen and there was nothing difficult about their
work and they seemed to like me. Most of them were grizzled Irishmen,
jolly fellows and full of fun. They always had something amusing to
say to me, and I rather enjoyed their easy and familiar way of jesting
with me. But they were a rough lot of men, with no refinement and
very coarse in their language. Then I recalled why it was that my
mother felt some concern about my association with them. At night
when I would go home she would ask me all about my work and the
men and how they treated me. She kept herself very well posted as to
my surroundings and the effect of the new life on me. These jolly old
Irishmen were not only coarse and vulgar in their speech, but they
were drinking men also. Usually, on Monday mornings, they were out
of repair and not fit for work until the day was half gone. They would
laugh and rehearse their Sunday experiences and tell me that I did
not know what fun was; that I ought to come over to the tavern and
spend some
time with them. The other employes
were negroes. They
worked at
the derrick and hauled the dressed stones to the river where the
railway bridge was in course of construction across the French Broad.
They were also a hard crowd. I was at home at night with my mother
and one visit to the tavern on Sunday more than satisfied me. I did not
want any more of that sort of observation.
Mr. Croft was kind to me and really liked me, but he had a boss by
the name of Tommy Thorn who did not like anybody. He was an old
man, stooped over with age and dissipation, small of stature and not
strong. He was cross-grained, mean-tempered and the most expert
cusser I ever heard talk. Profanity was his common vernacular. He had
reduced it to a science, and I have never met his equal as an adept in
the use of profane speech. The Irishmen could not hold him a candle in
the game of swearing. He swore when he was in good humor, which
was a rare state of temper for him, and he swore worse when he was in
a fit of anger; and he was usually mad at somebody or about
something. It was the exception when anything or anybody pleased
him. He was an old Englishman, a sort of a dilapidated old reprobate.
He had been all over the world and had mixed with all sorts of people.
But he was an experienced stonemason and he was gifted in his ability
to keep men at work and as to the best methods of constantly keeping
them busy. This is why Mr. Croft kept him, for in this capacity he was
indispensable. As Mr. Croft was a mild gentleman, and never used any
harsh language, I often thought that, as there was much about a rock
quarry to provoke a man, he kept old Tommy to do the cursing for him.
I never did hear him reprove or correct the old scalawag for his bad
language.
The old fellow seemed to have it in for me. It mattered
not what went wrong about the works he would light into me.
He would curse round and about the Irishmen when in his
violent moods, but never directly at them. I was a boy learning
a trade and he ran no risk in directing his ugly words at me. I
made very good progress and after I was there some months I
was a fairly good stonedresser for an apprentice. But I was not
an expert by any means. I was still a trifle awkward in the use
of the hammer and often I would strike my forefinger and
thumb and have the skin all knocked off of them. Old Tommy
ohserved this one day and with some of his select profanity he
told me it was a pity that I did not let the hammer fall on my
head instead of on my hand. When he turned to go to some
other part of the works one of the old Irishmen said to me: "Me
boy, ye has taken enough off'n the old divil and, be gorry, ye
ought to let drive your hammer at his old head." I felt like the
advice was good, but I was anxious to finish my trade and be
independent and so determined to submit to his abuse at all
hazards.
By and by I was well advanced in my work and thought I
was making good headway and I became much better pleased
with myself than old Tommy was pleased with me or my work.
He would find fault with it despite my effort to put up a good
job. The more I tried to please him the less pleased he became.
He was determined not to like me or anything I tried to do. The
brunt of his abuse kept falling on me, it made no difference
whether I was to blame or not. When others made him angry
he would vent his spleen on me. I grew tired of it. In fact, I had
been tired of it for some time, and the old Irishmen who were
always ready for a scrap gave me all sorts of private
encouragement. They would tell me what they did for an old
boss in the "auld country" and how it taught him some sense.
One day things went wrong in the yard and old Tommy
foamed at the mouth and raved like a maniac. He threw his
fiery old eyes on me and wanted to know why I was looking at
him, and with some of his choicest profanity he fairly grew livid
as he told me what he would do for me. It was more than I
could stand. I sprang from the rock upon which I was seated
and at work and with hammer drawn back I started toward him
with a vicious look in my eye. The Irishmen cheered me on, but
I did not need much cheering. The old fellow saw he was in for
it and before I got in striking distance of him he turned and ran
as hard as he could go to the office, and he told Mr. Croft that if
he did not drive me from the works he would not stay with him
another day. The old scamp was a coward and I proved it to the
Irishmen and they were delighted. But it cost me my job. Mr.
Croft called me in and told me that I ought not to have noticed
the old man; that he was fractious, and while very provoking, he
was harmless, and that I ought not to have replied to him. But
since I had come to an open rupture with him I would have to
go, for the old man was boss of the works and he had to be
obeyed. So that wound up my career as a stonemason.
As I left old Tommy fired some of his select profanity at me,
but he kept a good distance between us. I shouted back that if
I ever caught him out of the quarry any time in the future I
would settle with him in short order. The last I heard of the old
rascal he was looking daggers at me and swearing
vociferously. I threw my coat over my arm, picked up my
dinner-bucket and disappeared from the quarry. I was never
quite so angry in all my life. I had been somewhat at fault, but
it was the result of gross injustice and I hate injustice to this
good day. I resented it as a boy and I have always resented
it as a man.
By the time I had walked about a mile I had begun to cool
off and then I began to do some thinking, and the more I
thought of it the more mortified I became over my situation.
The fact is I was sorry that I had given way to my temper,
even under the mean provocation. I wondered what mother
would think when she learned the facts. She had so often
exhorted me about self-control and she always advised me to
submit to a wrong rather than to commit a second wrong in
resenting a first one. And now I had not only given way to a
hot temper, but I had endeavored to strike a man old enough
for my grandfather. But I could not recall the incident and there
was nothing left but to make the most of it. Before I reached
home, however, I determined not to tell much if anything about
the trouble and instead substitute another plan of life. I did not
want to distress her and then, too, I did not want to let her
know that I had been discharged. I could not believe that I had
done wrong, but then it made me feel badly to think that mother
would so regard it.
I loitered somewhat along the way in order to make my homecoming
not far from the usual hour. It was Saturday afternoon,
anyway, and when I arrived it did not excite inquiry. After
supper I had a heart-to-heart talk with her about the tough sort
of characters at the quarry and what a life of temptation it was
among them. I told her if that was the nature of it while I was
learning it, what would it be when I had finished my
apprenticeship and entered upon my life career as a
stonemason; that, among all of them whom I knew, not one of
them was my sort of a man; that I thought there was
something better in life for me than that of stonecutter,
anyway. I also rehearsed to her the story of old Tommy's
abuse toward me, and how hard it was to live in peace with
him; and that in view of all the facts I had a notion of stopping
my part of it right then. At first she took the opposite
view, but mildly so; for she did not see what else there was to
do at that time, and that as I had nearly finished my trade, why
not stick to it and prove to the world that one boy could make a
sober and upright stonemason. We argued the question quite
awhile, and when she saw that I was determined to give it up
she wanted to know what I thought of doing.
I reminded her of the fact that her brother, living in North
Georgia, had made us a visit nearly a year before and that he
wanted us to move down there and live on one of his farms,
and that he would help us out; but at that time we were doing
so well with our good friend, that we did not care to break up
and move so far. But now our friend was gone, and would it not
be well for us to take up my uncle's proposition and move to
Georgia? It would put us in a better community and under
better influences, and it might be that down there I would have
some chance to go to school. One thing certain I had no future
where we were then living, and this change could not
worst
our condition. It might improve it.
She finally accepted my view of the situation and asked me
when I thought we ought to make the move. I suggested that it
was then the first of September and our crop was on hand and
ready for the market, and that I had better go on down there
and make arrangements for her to follow, after she had sold
our corn; and if she agreed to it I would leave Monday
morning. So that was the agreement. I was to go at once to
Georgia.
Monday morning by four o'clock I was on a borrowed horse
with my brother behind me to take the animal back home, with
my belongings in an old-fashioned country satchel, a lunch
sufficient for three meals and on my way fifteen miles to
Mossy Creek to take the train. My destination from thence
was
Dalton, and from there several miles into the country near
Spring Place. I had never been that far from home in all my
life and it seemed a long way. Really I had never been on a
passenger train in my life. The whole experience was to be
brand new to me. With my belongings in that satchel I had a
Colt's navy pistol of a large make. It was an old weapon, and
what under the sun I wanted with it is a mystery to me to this
good day. I reached the station in time to catch the eleven-o'
clock train. I purchased my ticket and boarded the car for the
first time in my life. I had one lone lorn fifty-cent piece left in
my depleted purse, and that was the sum and substance of my
finances for the rest of the trip. As the train whizzed along I
looked first at the people and then through the window at the
country and thought over my journey and what was to come
of it.
Darkness came on and my loneliness was intense. I knew
nobody and nobody had spoken to me all day on that car,
except the conductor when he called for my ticket. At nine
o'clock we reached Dalton and disembarked. I had never been
in a hotel. I saw one not far from the depot and went to it. I
asked the clerk what he would charge me for a room that night
and he said fifty cents. That was exactly my pile! I called for
the accommodation, but before retiring I told him I wanted to
leave very early the next morning for Spring Place and that I
would pay him then, for no one would be up when I would
leave. He smiled and took the silver half dollar. I went to my
room, and solitude is no name for the room I occupied that
night. I was a stranger in a strange land. I knew nobody and
nobody knew or cared about me. After awhile I fell into a
sound sleep and awoke bright and early the next morning. It
was not good daylight. I arose and hastened downstairs, and
there sat the same clerk whom I had
paid the night before It had never dawned on me that a hotel
clerk sat up all night. He spoke to me and I inquired for the
Spring Place road. He gave me the direction, but suggested
that I had better have breakfast before beginning my journey;
but I knew better than he that I had nothing with which to pay
for it, and I was confident it could not be had without money. I
thanked him for his kindness and bade him good-bye in regular
old country style.
It was not long until I was in the road and making tracks
across the country to where my uncle lived. It was in 1866 and
the marks of Sherman's march to the sea were everywhere
visible. The country was very much out of repair and all around
Dalton the earth was marked with breastworks. Every hill
showed signs of war. Much of the fencing had not been
restored and here and there I could see blackened chimneys
still standing. After I had gotten out a few miles I stopped and
took that old pistol with its belt and scabbard out of my satchel
and buckled the war paraphernalia around my person on the
outside of my coat. Just why I did this I cannot explain. I must
have looked a caution in my homespun suit and rural air
trudging along that highway with that old army pistol fastened
around me. In going down a hill toward a ravine from which
there was another hill in front of me I met two men horseback.
They spoke to me and eyed me very curiously, but,
strang
to say,
I could not tell why. Why would not men eye such a
looking war arsenal as that? There were two others riding
down the hill in front of me, and as the
first two passed me they
stopped and looked back at the others and shouted: "Lookout,
boys, he is loaded!"
I trudged persistently along, for I was a great walker. By
and by I came to Conasauga River, a beautiful stream, and it
was about seventy-five yards wide or nearly so. I looked
up the stream and saw a shallow shoal not far away and I
soon wended my way to it, stripped off and forded it. By eleven
o'clock I was in the town of Spring Place, a country village of
three hundred people situated upon rolling red hills; and they
were just about as non-progressive as any people I have ever
met before or since. I walked up in front of the easy-going little
old tavern, with a rickety front porch, the place where the idlers
of the village gathered for gossip. Several of them were there,
and the leading man among them was the innkeeper, by the
name of O'Connell, a sloven Irishman of huge proportions. He
wore a pair of indifferent trousers, a soiled shirt whose bosom
was well bespattered with tobacco juice and an old linen duster.
Both corners of his mammoth mouth were smeared with the
weed. My appearance with that army gun fastened around me
touched off his fountain of humor and he threw back his shaggy
head and roared like the bray of a hungry donkey on a late
stubblefield. That was the signal and I soon found myself the
center of more fun than that little lazy old village had enjoyed in
many a day. They addressed all sorts of questions to me and
made me the butt of their stale ridicule until they were satisfied
and then, nothing daunted by my treatment, I asked the way to
my uncle's, calling him by name. One of them gave me the
directions, and it was three miles further on. As I moved off
they were still hilarious over my advent and I could hear them
for some time as I moved away.
In the course of an hour I was at my uncle's. He was
surprised to see me, but gave me a cordial welcome. The first
thing he did was to disarm me, and that ended my pistol-toting.
I have never had one about my person or home to this good
day. And I never will understand just why I had that one. A
good dinner refreshed me and I soon unfolded
my plans and they were satisfactory to my kind-hearted
kinsman. He was in the midst of cotton-picking and that
afternoon I went to the field and, with a long sack about my
waist, had my first experience in the cottonfield. I had seen
small patches of it in East Tennessee, but never before had I
seen fields of the staple. It was a new business to me, but I
had never tackled a job that I could not master, except to learn
the trade of a stonemason under old Tommy Thorn.
Well, as I have again referred to that old reprobate I will just
jump forward over several long years and relate the
circumstances of my last and final experience with him.
Nearly twenty years had gone by since my leaving the rock
quarry with vengeance in my heart. I had not thought of him in
a long time, but I had not entirely forgotten him. At the time
now mentioned I was pastor of Church Street Church,
Knoxville, Tennessee. One day it occurred to me to revisit the
old haunts of my boyhood. I still had relatives there. And as I
would be near the grave of my father I concluded to set up a
suitable memorial with which to mark his long-neglected grave.
As I was well acquainted through Conference association
with the Methodist pastor in charge of that work I
corresponded with him and he announced my coming and had
an appointment for me to preach at the old Bethcar Church. I
went up some days before and visited the neighborhood. Most
of the old people had gone to their last resting-place and the
young ones had grown up until I had to be introduced to them,
though many of them still remembered me as a boy among
them.
On Saturday before Sunday I sent an old negro, who knew
the location of the grave of my father, to the graveyard to put
it in good condition. He founud
another close to it and in
order to be sure of the right one he put both of them in repair.
Three or four relatives went with me to see that the stone was
properly set, and I noticed what appeared to be the new grave
close to the one so dear to me and asked about it. One of my
companions thought a moment and then said: "Oh, don't you
remember old Tommy Thorn, who used to boss old Brother
Croft's rock quarry? He was buried right there some years ago
and that old negro fixed it up along with your father's this
morning."
Then memory got into active operation. That Saturday
evening in the long ago and the old rock quarry came trooping
up and the scene of other days stood out before me in life-
measure. I heard the profanity of old Tommy; I recalled the
drawn hammer in my hand, and almost felt the stirring of the
anger that resented his injustice. I heard Mr. Croft tell me that
I was discharged, and I saw my form threading the wooded
path to my mother's humble cottage home. And then I thought
maybe that incident was providential after all. Had it not been
for old Tommy's dislike toward me and by discharge from the
stoneyard, what would have become of me? I realized that the
mortifying episode of the years long gone had been the turning
point in my life. Instead of its having wrought to my detriment,
it had changed the channel of my life into another and a better
current.
I turned to my friend and said: "Yes, I remember old
Tommy. He made an impression once upon my mind that I
shall never be able to forget. The probability is I owe more to
him than to most any other one man. He did not mean it for my
good, and it was not his purpose to aid Providence in looking
after me; but had he been kind and patient with me I would not
be here to-day as a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. And
when you first told me that this is his
grave my first impulse was to dig him up and move him to
another place. But - no, God has disposed of the poor old
fellow; and I hold no ill-will against him. The last time I saw
him I did not dream that in later years I would find him sleeping
so close to my father."
Just at that juncture this same friend looked up and said:
"Yonder comes old Brother Croft, too! He has changed a great
deal, but he is the same old man whom you used to know. I am
going to see if he will know you."
As I glanced around I saw an old gentleman with beard as
white as snow, his face wrinkled, his form bent and his step
halting and feeble. Of course he did not recognize me.
He said: 'What is going on here? Anybody dead? I had not
heard of it."
My friend told him that we were only repairing Colonel
Rankin's grave and putting a stone over it. And he then asked
him if he knew the man standing before him. He shook his
head. Then I was introduced to him. He at once recalled me
and said: "I remember your father well; he was a friend of
mine. I was here when he was buried. I also remember your
mother and your smaller brother and sister. You worked awhile
in my rock quarry, didn't you? But that has been a long time
ago. I am now an old and broken man. My family are nearly all
gone. I am most alone. Oh, how the years fly! And you are
now a preacher? Well, well; what changes come to us! We
never know what's in a boy. You are going to preach for us
tomorrow? Well, I am certainly glad to meet you again and I will
surely hear you in the morning. By the way, whose new grave
is that by your father's?"
I told him that I had just been informed that it was old
Tommy Thorn's. He looked surprised for the moment, but
recovered himself and said: "Why, it looks like a new grave
and I did not recognize it. Yes, I buried old Tommy there eight
years ago. He died at my house. I am the only friend he had
for years. He was a curious old fellow, but away down in his
heart he was not as bad as he seemed on the outside. Whiskey
ruined him. It will ruin any man who sticks to it. I knew him
back in England. He belonged to a good family and they were
friends of ours, and so I kept him many years. You remember
old Tommy, don't you?"
I told him that I had a very vivid recollection of the old man
and that I was surprised to find him after all these years
sleeping near my father. But that it was all right, for the grave
blotted out all old scores and the passing years had healed the
wounds that once gave pain.
The next day for miles the people came to the old Church in
throngs. It was a beautiful morning in May - an East
Tennessee morning in this beautiful springtime. The foliage and
the flowers were in their glory and the wildwoods were
resounding with the songs of the birds. Nearly all the faces
before me looked strange. The most of the people whom I
knew in the vanished years were sleeping near by in the
churchyard. Hallowed memories of other days crowded my
mind. There was a mellowness of sentiment in my heart and
my thoughts went upward to that other land where the good
had gathered, and an inspiration seized me. It was a great day
in old Bethcar Church. Old Brother Croft, in his feebleness,
came into the pulpit and clasped me in his arms and wept on
my shoulders. It was a time for praise and rejoicing.
Center Valley was the name of the Church and was two
miles from where he lived. Going to Church was something
rather new for me. While my mother was a strict member of
the Methodist Church and while she had brought me up under
very strict religious tutelage, yet since the death of my father
she had not lived within reach of her place of worship and she
had attended very rarely upon the service. Since I had left my
old grandfather's home I had known but little about Church-going.
And my recollection about his Church service did not
appeal to me. But, as I soon learned, my uncle was a very
religious man and very faithful in his Church duties. However,
it was something out of the ordinary for me. As to revivals, I
could not recall the last one I had attended. So I was not
enthusiastic in my desire to go to this one. I was an entire
stranger, was tired from the long
walk in the forenoon and that new experience in the cottonfield
had taxed me. I wanted to go to bed and get some needed rest.
But my uncle was insistent and I went more to please him than
out of any desire of my own.
After the team had been fed and we had been to supper we
put the mules to the wagon, filled it with chairs and we were
off to the meeting. When we reached the locality it was about
dark and the people were assembling. Their horses and wagons
filled up the cleared spaces and the singing was already in
progress. My uncle and his family went well up toward the
front, but I dropped into a seat well to the rear. It was an
old-fashioned Church, ancient in appearance, oblong in shape and
unpretentious. It was situated in a grove about one hundred
yards from the road. It was lighted with old tallow-dip candles
furnished by the neighbors. It was not a prepossessing-looking
place, but it was soon crowded and evidently there was a great
deal of interest. A cadaverous-looking man stood up in front
with a tuning fork and raised and led the songs. There were a
few prayers and the minister came in with his saddlebags and
entered the pulpit. He was the Rev. W. H. Heath, the circuit
rider. His prayer impressed me with his earnestness and there
were many amens to it in the audience. I do not remember his
text, but it was a typical revival sermon, full of unction and
power.
At its close he invited penitents to the altar and a great many
young people flocked to it and bowed for prayer. Many of
them became very much affected and they cried out
distressingly for mercy. It had a strange effect on me. It made
me nervous and I wanted to retire. Directly my uncle came
back to me, put his arm around my shoulder and asked me if I
did not want to be religious. I told him that I had always had
that desire, that mother had brought me up that way, and
really I did not know anything else. Then he wanted to know if
I had ever professed religion. I hardly understood what he
meant and did not answer him. He changed his question and
asked me if I had ever been to the altar for prayer, and I
answered him in the negative. Then he earnestly besought me
to let him take me up to the altar and join the others in being
prayed for. It really embarrassed me and I hardly knew what
to say to him. He spoke to me of my mother and said that
when she was a little girl she went to the altar and that Christ
accepted her and she had been a good Christian all these
years. That touched me in a tender spot, for mother always did
do what was right; and then I was far away from her and
wanted to see her. Oh, if she were there to tell me what to do!
By and by I yielded to his entreaty and he led forward to the
altar. The minister took me by the hand and spoke tenderly to
me as I knelt at the altar. I had gone more out of sympathy
than conviction, and I did not know what to do after I bowed
there. The others were praying aloud and now and then one
would rise shoutingly happy and make the old building ring with
his glad praise. It was a novel experience to me. I did not know
what to pray for, neither did I know what to expect if I did
pray. I spent the most of the hour wondering why I was there
and what it all meant. No one explained anything to me. Once
in awhile some good old brother or sister would pass my way,
strike me on the back and tell me to look up and believe and
the blessing would come. But that was not encouraging to me.
In fact, it sounded like nonsense and the noise was distracting
me. Even in my crude way of thinking I had an idea that
religion was a sensible thing and that people ought to become
religious intelligently and without all that hurrah. I presume that
my ideas were
the result of the Presbyterian training given to me by old
grandfather. By and by my knees grew tired and the skin was
nearly rubbed off my elbows. I thought the service never
would close, and when it did conclude with the benediction I
heaved a sigh of relief. That was my first experience at the
mourner's bench.
As we drove home I did not have much to say, but I listened
attentively to the conversation between my uncle and his wife.
They were greatly impressed with the meeting, and they spoke
first of this one and that one who had "come through" and what
a change it would make in the community, as many of them
were bad boys. As we were putting up the team my uncle
spoke very encouragingly to me; he was delighted with the step
I had taken and he pleaded with me not to turn back, but to
press on until I found the pearl of great price. He knew my
mother would be very happy over the start I had made. Before
going to sleep I fell into a train of thought, though I was tired
and exhausted. I wondered why I had gone to that altar and
what I had gained by it. I felt no special conviction and had
received no special impression, but then if my mother had
started that way there must be something in it, for she always
did what was right. I silently lifted my heart to God in prayer for
conviction and guidance. I knew how to pray, for I had come
up through prayer, but not the mourner's bench sort. So I
determined to continue to attend the meeting and keep on going
to the altar until I got religion.
Early the next morning I was up and in a serious frame of
mind. I went with the other hands to the cottonfield and at
noon I slipped off in the barn and prayed. But the more I
thought of the way those young people were moved in the
meeting and with what glad hearts they had shouted their
praises to God the more it puzzled and confused me. I could not
feel the conviction that they had and my heart did not feel
melted and tender. I was callous and unmoved in feeling and
my distress on account of sin was nothing like theirs. I did not
understand my own state of mind and heart. It troubled me, for
by this time I really wanted to have an experience like theirs.
When evening came I was ready for Church service and
was glad to go. It required no urging. Another large crowd was
present and the preacher was as earnest as ever. I did not give
much heed to the sermon. In fact, I do not recall a word of it. I
was anxious for him to conclude and give me a chance to go to
the altar. I had gotten it into my head that there was some real
virtue in the mourner's bench; and when the time came I was
one of the first to prostrate myself before the altar in prayer.
Many others did likewise. Two or three good people at intervals
knelt by me and spoke encouragingly to me, but they did not
help me. Their talks were mere exhortations to earnestness and
faith, but there was no explanation of faith, neither was there
any light thrown upon my mind and heart. I wrought myself up
into tears and cries for help, but the whole situation was dark
and I hardly knew why I cried, or what was the trouble with me.
Now and then others would arise from the altar in an ecstasy of
joy, but there was no joy for me. When the service closed I was
discouraged and felt that maybe I was too hardhearted and the
good Spirit could do nothing for me.
After we went home I tossed on the bed before going to
sleep and wondered why God did not do for me what he had
done for mother and what he was doing in that meeting for
those young people at the altar. I could not understand it. But I
resolved to keep on trying, and so dropped off to sleep.
The next day I had about the same experience and at night saw
no change in my condition. And so for several nights I repeated
the same distressing experience. The meeting took on such
interest that a day service was adopted along with the night
exercises, and we attended that also. And one morning while I
bowed at the altar in a very disturbed state of mind Brother
Tyson, a good local preacher and the father of Rev. J. F.
Tyson, now of the Central Conference, sat down by me and,
putting his hand on my shoulder, said to me: "Now I want you to
sit up awhile and let's talk this matter over quietly. I am sure
that you are in earnest, for you have been coming to this altar
night after night for several days. I want to ask you a few
simple questions." And the following questions were asked and
answered:
"My son, do you not love God?"
"I cannot remember when I did not love him."
"Do you believe on his Son, Jesus Christ?"
"I have always believed on Christ. My mother taught me
that from my earliest recollection."
"Do you accept him as your Savior?"
"I certainly do, and have always done so."
"Can you think of any sin that is between you and the
Savior?"
"No, sir; for I have never committed any bad sins."
"Do you love everybody?"
"Well, I love nearly everybody, but I have no ill-will toward
any one. An old man did me a wrong not long ago and I acted
ugly toward him, but I do not care to injure him."
"Can you forgive him?"
"Yes, if he wanted me to."
"But, down in your heart, can you wish him well?"
"Yes, sir; I can do that."
"Well, now let me say to you that if you love God, if you
accept Jesus Christ as your Savior from sin and if you love
your fellowmen and intend by God's help to lead a religious life,
that's all there is to religion. In fact, that is all I know about it."
Then he repeated several passages of Scriptures to me
proving his assertions. I thought a moment and said to him:
"But I do not feel like these young people who have been
getting religion night after night. I cannot get happy like them. I
do not feel like shouting."
The good man looked at me and smiled and said: "Ah, that's
your trouble. You have been trying to feel like them. Now you
are not them; you are yourself. You have your own quiet
disposition and you are not turned like them. They are excitable
and blustery like they are. They give way to their feelings.
That's all right, but feeling is not religion. Religion is faith and
life. If you have violent feeling with it, all good and well, but if
you have faith and not much feeling, why the feeling will take
care of itself. To love God and accept Jesus Christ as your
Savior, turning away from all sin, and living a godly life, is the
substance of true religion."
That was new to me, yet it had been my state of mind from
childhood. For I remembered that away back in my early life,
when the old preacher held services in my grandmother's
house one day and opened the door of the Church, I went
forward and gave him my hand. He was to receive me into full
membership at the end of six months' probation, but he let it
pass out of his mind and failed to attend to it.
As I sat there that morning listening to the earnest
exhortation of the good man my tears ceased, my distress left
me, light broke in upon my mind, my heart grew joyous, and
before I knew just what I was doing I was going all around
shaking hands with everybody, and my confusion and darkness
disappeared and a great burden rolled off my spirit. I felt
exactly like I did when I was a little boy around my mother's
knee when she told of Jesus and God and Heaven. It made my
heart thrill then, and the same old experience returned to me in
that old country Church that beautiful September morning
down in old North Georgia.
I at once gave my name to the preacher for
membership in the Church, and the following Sunday
morning, along with many others, he received me into full
membership in the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. It was
one of the most delightful days in my recollection. It was the
third Sunday in September, 1866, and those Church vows
became a living principle in my heart and life. During these
forty-five long years, with their alternations of sunshine and
shadow, daylight and darkness, success and failure, rejoicing
and weeping, fears within and fightings without, I have never
ceased to thank God for that autumnal day in the long ago
when my name was registered in the Lamb's Book of Life.
Throughout those years of vicissitude and conflict and
struggle I have had my ups and my downs, my doubts and
fears; but even in the midst of my fiercest temptations and
many discouragements I have always reverted to that day's
act as the wisest in my history. I made a complete surrender of
mind and heart, soul and body, to Christ and put the whole of
self upon his altar. As I look back I regret that my service has
been so feeble and inefficient, but in some respects it has been
the best I could do. In it all and through it all I look to Christ as
my merit and hope. Whatever have been my failures and my
imperfections and shortcomings the blood of Jesus Christ
cleanses me from sin. It is nothing of merit in
what I have done or tried to do, or failed to do; but it is His
transcending grace that saves me.
When I stood before that altar in the long vanished years,
young, inexperienced, without fortune or influential friends,
uneducated, far away from the scenes of my birth and boyhood
environment, with mysterious aspirations struggling in my heart
and strange sensations stirring in my spirit, life to me was a
prophecy. Its unfulfilled dreams and anticipations were hidden
in tile mists and the clouds of the unborn years. But to-day that
far-off outlook of prophecy has been unfolded and its record
has gone into history; and as I turn my eye toward the sunset
my conviction becomes deeper and deeper, and if I had a
thousand lives to live I would gladly dedicate them all to the
service of Christ.
True, I have nothing in the way of wealth or fortune to show
for my struggle and conflict and self-denial, but I have faith in
God and in his Son, Jesus Christ; and my hope of Heaven is
bright and glowing. These I would not exchange for the wealth
of the world and the transient glory of human vanity. Yes,
nearly half a century ago, poor, unknown and untrained, I
entered into vital connection with the Church of God in an
obscure rural neighborhood, and it was an occasion pregnant
with tremendous significance to me.
As we returned home the sun shone brighter, the birds sang
sweeter and the autumn-time looked richer than ever before.
My heart was light and my spirit buoyant. I had anchored my
soul in the haven of rest, and there was not a ripple upon the
current of my joy. That night there was no service and after
supper I walked out under the great old pine trees and held
communion with God. I thought of mother, and home, and
Heaven.
Before retiring I sat down and wrote mother all about my
experience and told her that I had made a public profession of
religion; that I had that day been received into the Church; that
I had made peace with God, and that I was happy in his
service. I told her that whatever his will concerning me
might be I was ready to obey, and that henceforth my life
would be that of a devoted Christian.
When I threw myself down to rest that night the thought
came to me: Life now is to be service as well as happiness. If
God has anything for me to do I must find it out and set myself
to the task. There is not much that I can do, but whatever it is I
must be about it. And then strange sensations moved me, like
those I experienced back in Tennessee as I sat upon the fence
one morning and looked out over my growing corn. This time I
suspected their meaning, but was not sure of their
interpretation. Like young Samuel, when sleeping near old Eli, I
heard a faint voice, but thought that it was only my imagination,
and then went into a sound sleep.
The next day I was busy about my farm work. My uncle had
been so kind to me, and took such an interest in me, that I
already felt very much at home. He trusted me from the word
go. It was not long until I led in all the work to be done, such as
breaking the ground for wheat, cleaning out the fence-rows,
ginning the cotton and taking it to market. In fact, I became
indispensable to him.
As the winter approached he went up and moved mother
down, and we were soon in our own rented home and happy in
our family union. She and myself took time about in conducting
family prayers, and we read the Bible together at spare times. I
attended prayer service regularly, though it was a walk of two
miles. In time I got to leading in the public devotions, and those
strange sensations in my deeper spiritual nature grew more
defined. We had a good country
Sunday-school, and I attended that with punctuality. When the
revival season approached I was present. We organized a
grove meeting just preceding every night service and though it
greatly embarrassed me they called on me to lead in prayer. I
did my best and had times of refreshing from the presence of
the Lord. It was a great joy to me to see the people go to the
altar and to talk to them.
Thus step by step I was led into active work in the Church. I
was exceedingly timid and to say anything in public was almost
like taking the breath out of me, but I did not shirk any duty.
Doubtless what I had to say was stammering and often void of
much meaning; for my education was limited, having been
neglected entirely since my father's death. I could read and
write and understood the rudiments of arithmetic.
My father had left a class of good books, such as histories
and biographies and a few religious volumes, and these I had
faithfully read. My uncle had a fairly good library and I had
access to that. Then we had bought an excellent class of books
for our Sunday-school library, and I drew one of them every
other Sunday. So I was reasonably well informed for my years
and opportunities.
I had always been fond of hearing intelligent men talk and
had picked up a good deal of information in that way. I had one
book of temperance lectures and I almost mastered it.
Fleetwood's Life of Christ was very interesting to me. All my
idle moments, which were not many except on nights and rainy
days, I devoted to reading. Of course the Bible was my staple.
Hence I was often called upon to make talks and to lead in
public prayer. In addition to these few advantages the young
men of the neighborhood, along with a few of the older ones,
organized a debating society and once a month
we would meet and have joint discussions. They were
awkward and often ludicrous affairs, but they accustomed us
to speak in public.
In the late spring the county Sunday-school organization
arranged for a union rally at the old campground and each
school was to have its banner and its orator. Center Valley
Sunday-school was noted in that section as an excellent school.
The young ladies made us a banner and I was elected orator.
When the day came we turned out in force, had marches and
counter-marches and had singing. Then we assembled under
the large pavilion for the addresses. Two of the ministers made
the leading addresses, and then the school orators were called
for and one other and myself were the only ones to respond.
His spech was short and inconsequential. Then I was
introduced. At first my heart was in my mouth, but I had taken
the last chapter in Fleetwood's Life of Christ, which was a
summing up of the progress and triumphant results of Christ's
kingdom in the world. I had run it through my own mental mold
as far as possible and had a right creditable oration. When once
I got well started and forgot myself I did rather more than
ordinary for a green country boy. Our school was delighted
with my effort and I received many compliments. It did one
thing for me, and that was to convince me that I could talk in
public, despite my timidity. By this time I was well known in our
entire community and somewhat throughout the county.
I was exceedingly fond of Church service. I would go with
our circuit preacher to his nearest appointments and was often
called upon to close the services with prayer. I never missed a
Quarterly Conference, and the Sunday service following it.
We had some fine men on our district. Rev. W. P. Harrison,
D. D., was one of them, and I used to ride twenty miles to
hear him preach. I then thought him the greatest preacher in
the world. He was the greatest I had ever heard. He was a
scholarly man, it seemed to me that he knew everything. He
had the look of a student. He was eloquent. His voice was soft
and tender and sweet. His manner was grace itself, and his
whole appearance was that of the orator. I shall never forget
one sermon I heard him preach at Hostler's Chapel. His text
was the first seven verses of the twelfth chapter of
Ecclesiastes, beginning with the verse: "Remember now thy
Creator in the days of thy youth." The outline and substance of
that sermon will abide with me forever.
Then, too, the old Murray County Campground was a
rallying place for the Methodists. Distinguished preachers used
to visit the meeting, such as Atticus G. Haygood, W. J. Scott,
H. Adams, R. W. Bigham, George W. Yarborough, George G.
Smith and a host of others. Their ministrations were an
inspiration to me and I feasted on their sermons many a day
after the meeting had closed.
I noticed in the Southern Christian Advocate that Bishop
George F. Pierce was to hold the District Conference at Dalton
and dedicate the new Methodist Church at that place at a date
not far in the future. I resolved to make it convenient to hear
him preach once during that gathering, for I felt confident that
no other Bishop would ever come that close to me again, and
the opportunity must not go by unimproved. So when
the time approached my arrangements were made. Early one
morning my wagon was loaded with a few products for sale,
and I was on my way for the occasion of my life.
I arrived in good time, disposed of my products and hitched
my team in the wagonyard and slipped around to the Church.
The conference had adjourned for recess just before
preaching. I hastened in to get me a seat, and then I began to
look for the Bishop. My expectations were high. Just what his
appearance would be I could not well imagine, but it would be
something extraordinary. I was confident that a Bishop was no
ordinary man.
Directly I saw the Presiding Elder enter with a man leaning
on his arm and I instinctively recognized Bishop Pierce. He was
the handsomest man physically I had ever seen. There was
something almost angelic in his face, and there was a charm in
his movement as he walked down the aisle. When he entered
the pulpit and announced his hymn, what a voice! There was a
rhythm that thrilled me. His prayer brought heaven and earth
together and it brought the audience into rapport with the
preacher. My whole nature was subdued. There was a mellowness
in my heart that I could not describe. And when he
took his text and began his sermon it was but a few minutes
until he had the congregation in the third heaven. Nothing like it
had ever fallen upon my ears. My feelings almost ran riot and I
fairly became unconscious of my surroundings. As he
proceeded the preachers got happy, a number of them shouted
aloud and it seemed to me that the scenes of the Day of
Pentecost were being repeated. When he swept into his
conclusion the whole audience almost lost self-control and
"heaven came down our souls to greet, and glory crowned the
mercy seat".
As soon as the benediction was pronounced I hastened out,
went to my team and started for home. My dream had come
true. I had heard a Bishop and even my expectations had been
surpassed. I had never imagined anything like I had heard that
day. When I reached home that night I had wonderful things to
tell mother. I went in the strength of that
meat for weeks to come.
It was not the exuberance of my youthful imagination that
had carried me away. It so turned out that I heard Bishop
Pierce in my maturer years, and his ministration made about
the same impression and produced the same effect upon the
audience. In many respects he was the most wonderful
preacher that American Methodism has ever produced. Not
the greatest in his scholarship, or in the profundity of his
thought, or in the analysis of his theme, but in that wonderful
something called eloquence. In voice, in magnetism, in ease, in
dignity, in diction, in the wealth of his imagery, he was without
a peer.
In this way and throughout these experiences God was
leading me and I knew it not. And as I would revert to these
few great sermons and their effect upon me those strange
feelings of which I have spoken would stir my heart and creep
into my mind. Just what they meant I could not fully divine. I
would think of them and would have longings to know why they
were ever and anon intruding themselves into my conscious
being.
One Sunday afternoon on my way back from a Quarterly
Conference, where we had licensed a young man to preach,
those unaccountable promptings arrested my attention more
and more. So that night I told mother about those strange
suggestions. She listened to me attentively and then remarked:
"My son, maybe the Lord is calling you to preach." And she
related the story of Samuel, and continued: "I have been
watching you closely and I have been impressed that there
was something on your mind, and I have suspected more than
once that God was dealing specially with you."
It almost appalled me. My pulse quickened and for several
moments I sat in silence. I had suspected as much myself
but concluded time and again that it was my imagination, for
such a thing looked almost absurd to me.
I would not allow myself to think of those peculiar
experiences only for the time being and then dismiss them. But
now mother had interpreted them to me, and the earnestness of
her words and her manner had driven the idea into the very
depths of my soul. The realization alarmed me. How could it be
true? I was only an ignorant boy, had not been to school since
the death of my father, and there was not the slightest prospect
for my being able to go to school. To think of being called to
preach, in view of the facts in my case, was more than I could
make myself believe to be true.
Finally I opened up my heart to mother and admitted to her
that I was afraid she had properly sized up the situation. But
how in the world could I think of entering the ministry? I not
only had no education and no hope of being able to go to
school, but that she needed every day of my toil in order to help
the family to live. She looked at me rather pleadingly and said:
"My son, if God has called you to the ministry he will surely
provide a way for you to prepare for it. You go along and do
your duty, doubting nothing, and do not resist him. Be prayerful
and obedient and watch the openings of Providence. He will be
sure to work it out for you in some way."
That was just like mother, for she never doubted. Her faith
was of that simple and tenacious kind. It was absolutely
childlike. With that conversation ringing in my ears and her
sublime faith standing out before me I retired that night and did
some of the most anxious thinking of my life. All those strange
sensations and mysterious thoughts that had troubled me for
months rushed in upon me and almost staggered me with their
directness. They took on the form of a command,
and I settled down in the firm belief that God wanted me to
preach. It was not long until all doubt was gone and the matter
was settled. But I kept those things in my own heart and told
them to no one but mother and the good Father above, whom I
was trusting implicitly. I did not think it best to say anything to
the Church about them, not even to my preacher. It would be
time enough to do this when Providence cleared up the way
and made it possible for me to make some preparation for so
stupendous a calling. If it should turn out that no way was
opened up before me, then the responsibility would not be mine,
and the whole matter could drop without any fault of my own.
That part of it was God's and I was determined to do my best
and let him take care of the impossible. That was mother's
advice, and I was sure that she knew what was best; and right
there I determined to rest my whole case. Then a hallowed
peace came into my heart. My mind had surcease from anxiety
and solicitude. The battle had been fought and the victory had
been won. It was a happy moment with me.
It made my heart swell with becoming gratitude, for there was
not a lazy bone in my body. I had developed into a strong and
robust fellow and felt that I was almost equal to any man's task.
We were up early, and with the rising of the sun we were in the
field with plow and hoe and from the dawn till the noon hour we
lost no time. An hour for dinner and we were back until eventide,
and then when night came on we slept the sleep of the just and
found refreshment. My, what an appetite we enjoyed, and
everything that mother cooked we relished and appropriated with
keen pleasure! We had no luxuries, but we lacked nothing in
the way of substantials.
There was an old gentleman living a mile from us who
taught a three months' primary school, and my sister
attended
it. His name was White, and he was a good school teacher for
children. At the close of that school, toward the last of June,
there was an exhibition in which the children were made to
show off their proficiency and their parents (mostly their
mothers) went out to encourage the little people. My mother
went over and when the exercises were completed she hurried
back home in order to have dinner ready for us. While at the
stable feeding the mule I heard her voice in song as she was
busying herself about the noon meal. But this was nothing
unusual, for she often sang the songs of Zion as her hands
were engaged in her daily tasks.
When I stepped into the kitchen her face was all aglow, and
she turned to me and said: "My son, I am very happy to-day. I
have found out how you can go to school, and as sure as you
are born Providence has made the opening. I felt all the time
that he would do it, but it has come sooner and in a way I did
not expect. But he is always better to us than our fears and his
mercies often astonish us. Sit down to dinner and I will tell you
the good news. It is too good to be true, but I believe it is true
and you will agree with me when I have told you. I have always
trusted God and he has never disappointed me. He has often led
me along ways that I would not have chosen, and he has
brought many experiences to me not according to my liking, but
he has never failed to make good in the end. All we have to do
is to render him our best service and then follow wherever he
leads. He will take care of the result. It is wonderful how he
answers my prayers. He does not always answer them in the
way I pray them, but he does answer them in his own time and
in his own way."
As we proceeded with the meal she related to me the newly-
discovered plan by which the way was to be opened for me
to go to school. I will let her tell it in her own simple way:
"I went over to Mr. White's school to hear your sister recite
and to come back with her. The schoolhouse was about full
of people. When everything was over Mr. White said that he
was glad to say there was present that morning a famous
teacher from Bradley County, Tennessee; that he was
visiting Mr Brewer's family, for Mr. Brewer years before
had been one of his students; and he was sure that the
people present would be glad to hear from Professor M. H.
B. Burkett.
"The old man arose and made one of the best speeches I
ever heard. He spoke on education; told what it was and how it
could be gotten. He said that it did not always take money to go
to school. If a boy had some money it was well and good, but
that if he was industrious and honest and truthful it was better.
The boy who was not educated would always spend his life as
a drawer of water and a hewer of wood for other people. It
was the educated man who knew how to be independent and
to plan and to think for himself. And that the time had come
when any boy who was any account would have to educate
himself. I was following him with all my heart, for I thought
something would turn up for your good. He said all that
anybody needed to get an education, if he had no money, was
grit and determinaton. If he knew how to work and was willing
the way was open.
"Right then I thought of you, and I knew that you had those
gifts. I could hardly wait for him to go on and explain fully
what he was driving at. And he said that he had a good
academy in Bradley County, Tennessee, some thirty-five miles
from there, out on a farm, and that he always took two or three
boys every year and let them work their way and go to school
to him. He pointed to Mr. Brewer and
said that was the way Sam did and he has made a pretty good
sort of a man. Then he concluded by saying that if any of us
knew a good, hard-working, honest boy in that community who
would be willing to go to his place next fall and work his way
through school, to send him up there and he would see him
through.
"My heart liked to have jumped out of my mouth. I said to
myself, I know that boy and he will sure be in that school when
it begins the next time. I did not stop to speak to him, for he did
not know me; but I rushed out and hastened home to have
dinner ready for you and to tell you what I had heard. It is
glorious!"
By the time she had finished I was as much excited as she
was. For a year I had felt those stirrings of heart, but I was like
a helpless bird beating its wings fruitlessly against the bars
trying to gain its liberty. In other words, there was looming up
before me during those anxious months a stone wall too high to
scale and too dense to break through. Every time I would go up
against it I would fall back helpless upon my own impotence
and settle down almost in despair. There was no opening in it
for me.
Day and night it stood there to vex me and prevent any
progress. How my heart had cried out for help to break through
it, or for some strong arm to lift me over its frowning heights.
But no help had come and no strong arm had gotten underneath
me. But at last I thought I saw a rent in that impassable wall. It
seemed to me that the light at last was breaking through it, and
that there was the touch of an unseen hand to strengthen me
for the task of passing it. Or, to revert to my other figure of
speech, though my wings felt sore from their helpless blows
against the bars of the cage, now those bars were pressing
apart, and just on the outside
I saw the beauties of the flowers and felt the inspiration of
coming liberty. I was almost ready to fly! My spirit was as light
as a feather.
That afternoon as I followed the plow I thought and thought
over that wonderful story related at the dinner table by mother.
It took complete possession of me. It ran through my mind like
the music of song. By and by the other side of it began to
appeal to me. I wondered if it were possible that mother, in her
gladness, had not misunderstood the old man, and why did she
not go up to him and tell him about me and get more of the
facts in detail. Then again I thought if he does take two or three
boys a term and let them work their way through, maybe he
will find them long before he can hear from me, and after all it
may be a dream.
Furthermore, how could a boy without a cent of money go to
a stranger and ask to be permitted to accept his conditions?
Surely such a boy will have to have a little money for books,
provision and tuition. I had none and he never heard tell of me,
and I did not know his address. So my heart began to oscillate
between hope and despair. Yet there was a possibility in the
hope and this encouraged me. It was the first time that even a
possibility had presented itself to me. So I resolved that I would
see what there was in it.
That night mother went over the whole field of that
possibility with me. She was actually enthusiastic and she
communicated some of her spirit to me. She swept all my
misgivings out of the way, even the need that she had for me
to make the living. She said by the first of September a good
part of the crop would be gathered, and my brother and herself
would attend to the rest of it. "Your uncle will give us some
assistance, and next year we can find somebody to go in with
us; and Thomas" (that was my brother's name)
"now understands work as well as you did back in
Tennessee. Oh, we will get along! So we will just work to
that end and when September comes everything will be ready
for you to go to that school." She made me see it that way, and
it was late that night before I closed my eyes in sleep.
A few Sunday afternoons later I dropped over to Mr.
Brewer's and had a long talk with him about Mr. Burkett and
his school. It had been some years since he had been under
him, but he felt confident that I could win my way in his school.
I told him nothing about my call to the ministry. That was a
secret known to me and mother and God. I learned that the old
gentleman was a local preacher in the Northern Methodist
Church, and I asked Mr. Brewer if that would make any
difference in my case. He did not think so. He advised me to
make all my plans during the next two months so that my
brother could finish up the crop, and that when I got ready to
go to come over and he would give me a letter of introduction
and commendation to the old professor.
That interview determined the question of my going to that
school. It settled it once and for all as far as I was concerned.
It was no longer an open question. It was the hand of
Providence leading me and I was resolved to follow that
leading. If there was any failure to develop it would not be upon
my part. And this was mother's view of it from the moment she
heard his speech. The whole thing was as clear to her mind as
the noonday sun. It was already a crystallized fact in her mind,
and in that way and with that sort of faith she discussed it.
The two summer months sped by and the cotton crop was
made and partially gathered. The corn was about matured and
its gathering provided for. Plans for the next year were in
contemplation and the arrangement was satisfactory. The
long-looked-for month of September approached, a date big
with meaning for me.
So one beautiful morning before good daylight I had told
mother and my brother and sister good-bye and, with a well-
filled satchel thrown across my shoulder, I was on my way to
"Student's Home", the name of Professor Burkett's school.
The distance was about thirty-five miles, but what was that
to a strong, determined country boy nearly eighteen years old
and weighing one hundred and forty-nine pounds! It was mere
moonshine. The day was a long one and by sunup I was well
on my journey. I did not have a cent of money in my pocket,
never had seen Professor Burkett and he had never heard tell
of me, yet I was measuring off tracks in a rapid way toward
his school.
As I trudged along through the dust of the road I had ample
time for thinking, and I thought very seriously. Would the old
man take me in my penniless condition and give me a chance?
Now and then a fear would force itself upon me and I would
become nervous. What would I say to him when I approached
him? Thus I developed my line of remarks to him. I went over
my speech time and again until I had it down pat. I knew
exactly what I was going to say to him.
About this time I was standing on the bank of the river that
crossed the road twelve miles from home and it looked rather
formidable. There was a farmhouse not far away and I had
some distant acquaintance with the people and they had a boat
and a canoe tied with a chain to a tree. But they charged to put
people across, and I had no money. The stream was a beautiful
one, clear and inviting. What a place for fishing and bathing!
But I was not out on a fishing expedition, nor for bathing
purposes. I wanted to get myself on the opposite side as
quickly as possible. I was not going to make known
my poverty to the owners of the boats, and the river was
deep at that point. So I started upstream to see if I could not
find a shallow place, and about half a mile I made the
discovery. There was nobody in sight so I got on the outside of
my homespun and, with my clothes and satchel across my
shoulder, I waded in and was soon on the other side. I lost a
little time in the operation, but it was not long until I regained
the road and struck my old gait. The road was a direct one and
I had no difficulty in keeping in the right way. The noon was
past and I was beyond the halfway mark by several miles.
Within an hour of sundown I stood on a Hillcrest and looked
down upon a beautiful valley. The view was enchanting. The
landscape stretched out for three or four miles beyond me and
the undulating foothills in the distance were throwing their
lengthening shadows back in my direction. The listlessness of a
rural haze threw its weird effect upon the scene, while far
away a railway train was speeding along, leaving a trail of
smoke in its wake.
About that time a man rode up from the opposite direction
and I asked him if he could tell me the location of Professor
Burkett's school. He pointed off toward a clump of trees some
two miles further down the valley and said it was just beyond
them. It was not long until I was standing at his gate about fifty
yards below his dwelling and his school building. A young man
standing near by told me to come in, but I requested him to ask
the old teacher to come down; I wanted to speak to him.
In a few minutes the old gentleman emerged from his door
and came hurriedly down toward where I was standing. He
was a man of medium height, quite fleshy, a little stooped from
age and habits of study, had a big head covered with straggling
gray hair and a long white beard. He wore glasses
and his manner was nervous and his speech jerky and rather
abrupt. His clothing was not the most tidy and he wore a long
linen duster. He eyed me closely, and no wonder! My suit of
clothing was crude, my coat fit me tightly, my trousers struck
me above my shoetops, my feet were large and incased in
brogans, my hair was rather long, my hands and face burned
as brown as a mummy's and my manners were rural to the last
degree. I was in great contrast to himself and he took me in at
a glance from head to foot. I found myself very much
embarrassed before I opened my mouth. I suppose it was only
a moment that he looked at me and I at him, though it seemed
like five or ten minutes.
"Burkett is my name; what can I do for you, sir?" were the
first words he blurted out at me. I replied: "Mr. Burkett, my
name is Rankin. I live in Murray County, Georgia, in the
neighborhood where you visited Mr. Brewer two months ago.
My mother is a widow. She heard your speech at the
schoolhouse that day when you said that if a poor boy who
knew how to work and was willing wanted an education you
would let him work his way through your school. Now I am
here without money, but I am used to work and I want to go
to school. What can you do for me?"
He looked me over again and the following dialogue ensued:
"You say you live near Sam Brewer's where I visited awhile
back ?"
"Yes, sir; and I have a recommendation from him. Here it is."
He read it and looked at me severely.
"Sam Brewer is a fine fellow, and he speaks very kindly of
you. Have you no money at all?"
"No, sir; not a dime.
"
"And you want to go to school?"
"Yes, sir; that is what I'm here for."
"Do you curse?"
"No, sir; I never swore an oath in my life."
"Do you chew tobacco?"
"No, sir; I never learned how."
"Do you smoke?"
"No, sir; I do not know its taste."
"Do you play cards?"
"No, sir; I don't know one from another."
"Do you know how to work?"
"Yes, sir. Look at these hands. That's all I do know."
"What can you do?"
"I can do anything on the farm. I can break ground, I can lay
a fence-worm; I can plant and plow; I can dig ditches and
chop wood; I can cradle wheat and oats. I can do anything of
that kind that you want done."
"And you are willing to work your way through?"
"Yes, sir. It is the desire of my heart to go to school and that's
the only way I can go."
"Are you a member of any Church?"
"Yes, sir; I am a member of the Methodist Church."
"And your mother heard that speech?"
"Yes, sir; and she went home and told me all about it. That's
the way I found out about you."
"Well, I do not remember meeting her."
"No, sir; she did not introduce herself to you. She just went
home as fast as she could to tell me."
"Well, come in. I think you are the boy I am looking for."
That was one of the happiest evenings of my life. I could
have shouted for very joy. He did not turn me away. He was
willing to give me a chance. My heart overflowed with
gratitude. I felt like I was walking on thin air. The desire
of my life was to be gratified. I was actually going to get to
go to school. I was nearly swept away with my emotions, and I
was never very emotional. But that was too much for me. It
touched the great deep of my nature.
I entered the old gentleman's home and deposited my
baggage, bathed my face and hands and was invited out to
supper. Just he and his wife and one daughter, about sixteen
years of age, constituted his family at that time. His wife was a
pale, delicate woman, with an incipient cancer on her face. She
was gentle and uniform in her nature and quiet in her speech,
just the opposite from her husband. He was the most excitable
and blustery old man I ever knew. She was a sort of balance-
wheel to him, but she did not always balance him. The
daughter's name was Nettie, and she was a cross between her
father and mother, rather good looking and richly endowed.
During the meal the old gentleman asked me a great many
more questions and seemed bent on finding out everything
possible about me. I frankly told him all I knew about myself. I
concealed nothing. After supper I felt like I knew him fairly
well, and he certainly knew me.
It was a beautiful night. The stars came out and bedecked
the heavens, and the moon threw her silvery light down upon
the earth, making it almost as light as day. The old gentleman
invited me out for a walk. He took me all over his farm
and told me all about how he wanted work done, and I scrupulously
took in and remembered all that he said. I was bent
on pleasing him. When we went back to the house and
were seated on the front porch he told me what he would do;
that he would let me have a shack of a dormitory, a sort of
one-room house with simple furniture in it, all for a dollar
per month. That I could occupy it, do my own cooking and
he would furnish me with work. I could work usually two hours
in the morning, an hour at noon and two hours in the evening,
and that he would allow me ten cents an hour, and that would
be fifty cents per day. On Saturday I could work all day and
make a dollar and a half, and he would let me have provisions
and books and tuition at a reasonable price and in that way go
to school. He wanted to know if I was willing to undertake the
enterprise on those terms. I replied that I most certainly was
ready, and that I would go to work the next morning and be
ready for school by the time it opened at nine o'clock. Thus we
made the agreement.
I knew that I could live, pay for my books and my tuition at
four dollars and a half per week without much trouble, but if I
fell short at the end of some month I could drop out a day now
and then and make it up; and in vacation I could get a little
ahead. The whole thing looked mighty good to me. I went over
to my shack near a number of others already occupied by boys
in school and I tumbled into the rude bunk the most delighted
eighteen-year-old chap in all that school. I slept through without
waking, for I was tired.
At four o'clock the next morning I heard his bugle sound for
rising. I soon found out that this was one of the inflexible rules.
Every boy had to rise at that hour and put in good time on his
books. He had an idea that the early hour was the best part of
the day for study, and he was correct. I had no books, so I
cleaned up my house, cooked a meager breakfast and by
daylight was at the barn feeding and currying his horse and
milking his cow. Then I lit into the woodpile and made the
sound of the axe ring out on the air. Before school opened I
had more than two hours to my credit.
There were two other boys there working their way
through also, but they had other jobs. All the others,
more
than seventy-five in number, were more fortunate, but they had
the utmost respect for the three of us who had to work. He
required this, even if they had been otherwise inclined. He had
a large number of girls, and they had comfortable
accommodations. But he allowed no communication between
the sexes except in the schoolroom and in his presence. He
was the strictest disciplinarian I have ever known. He was
almost a fanatic on the question. He would brook no infraction of
his rules. They were like the laws of the Medes and Persians,
they were to be obeyed in the spirit and in the letter. To
wantonly violate one of them was to incur the displeasure of a
man of iron will and ferocious temper when once provoked. He
was positively savage when disobedience was proven. If the
offender was too large for punishment he had to leave the
school without any respect to the order of his going, but if
under size and age the strap was put to him with strength and
vigor.
Professor Burkett was a self-made man. He had never been
to college and his advantage in any sort of school in his early
life was of the simplest sort. He took to teaching because he
loved it, and he learned as he taught. He was not technically an
educated man, neither was he systematically trained in his
habits of thought and study. He had acquired all that he knew
through main strength and awkwardness. Hence he was
lacking in those elements of refinement and culture that go to
finish the character of the really educated man. He was a
stranger to self-poise and self-control. His will was imperious,
and his manners brusque and at times rude. He was a bundle of
impulses and sometimes these would play havoc with his
judgment. Physically he was large; rotund and muscular, and in
his younger days he was evidently a man hard to meet in a
contest of strength. Age had weakened
his physical powers, but not his will and his impulsiveness. On
the contrary, he had become more of an autocrat, and
resistance very nearly set him wild. He simply ruled his school
with a rod of iron.
Yet the old Professor, in his equipment, was practically an
educated man. He was by nature richly endowed; he had a big
brain, quick perception, a prodigious memory and great driving
powers. He had mastered, in his way, all the branches of an
English education, had gone into mathematics as far as
trigonometry, and he had acquired a working knowledge of the
rudiments of Greek and Latin. He literally prided himself in
English grammar. Hence his course of study was substantial;
and with all his incongruities he was a man of kind heart and
tender sensibilities. When at his best he was a pleasant man to
deal with. When once you understood him and learned how to
cultivate his weak points, it was not a difficult matter to get
along with him. For he was vain and egotistical, and from this
side of his complex nature he was very accessible. Therefore I
was not long in understanding him, and I had but little trouble in
my efforts to manage him. I found out exactly how to get into
his good graces and through this medium I cultivated him most
assiduously.
The school was a revelation to me. There was nothing of the
old field type about it. In a large measure it was up-to-date and
furnished with all the modern appliances. He had a fairly good
cabinet of minerals and a very good elementary laboratory. He
had charts of every description; grammar charts, anatomy
charts, geology charts and a large array of geography maps. He
had good desks and seats, classrooms and a large chapel for
public exercises. It was a good, practical school. When his
classes were overly large he had an assistant teacher or
teachers. He knew the art of teaching
and the best methods for making pupils study. They simply
had to study. He was in deed and in truth a schoolmaster. No
other term was applicable to him.
After my first morning's work was done the bell rang and
the students marched in with the promptness and regularity of
soldiers. There was no semblance of confusion. It was like
clockwork. When they were all seated the old Professor, with
authoritative manner, took his place on the platform. He had his
secretary to call the roll. He then read a chapter from the
Bible, announced a hymn and it was sung with zest and in good
time. He led in a stately prayer. After that he announced, or
rather repeated, a few simple rules for the government of the
school, tapped the bell and the classes, with that same order,
repaired to their respective places.
I sat there taking in the proceedings, for he had not given
me a book or put me in a class. I was simply a spectator. I put
in the remainder of the school hours in that way. I learned
afterward that he wanted me to see the way things were done
before he put me to doing them. So after the school hours were
over he took me into his room, handed me my books and told
me the classes to which I was assigned. One was Emerson's
Mental Arithmetic; another one was Comstock's Natural
Philosophy, and still another one was Clark's Grammar. There
was a reader, a speller and a geography, but these were not
formidable. The former three staggered me. Mental arithmetic
bewildered me, and as to that book on philosophy, I looked at it
in amazement. Clark's Grammar was a Chinese puzzle to me.
It was a diagram system. I glanced at these books on my way
to my shack and I saw that I had work to do.
After a simple meal of my own preparing I lighted a dingy
lamp and tackled that arithmetic. The more I tried to analyze
its problems the less sense I could see in them. I laid it down
and picked up Comstock. It was the first book of the kind I had
ever seen, and it was a mystery to me. But when I opened that
book on grammar I simply shook my head and laid it down. Yet
that grammar, with its system of diagrams, was the pride of my
old teacher. He knew the whole of it memoriter, as I
afterwards learned. But to me it was without meaning. I
thought over the situation and became discouraged, and my
mind wandered over creation. I could not fix it on anything. I
walked out and got a little fresh air and then returned and
tumbled into my bed. I knew I could sleep if I could not do
anything else.
So when I entered the schoolroom the next morning fear and
trembling took hold of me. I feared the old Professor's
displeasure and I dreaded the exposure of my ignorance before
the class. But there was nothing left for me but to grit my teeth
and meet the issue. By and by the grammar class to which I
belonged was called and, to my surprise and chagrin, they were
nearly all little girls from twelve to fourteen years of age. They
had been in the school for a year or two and their memories
had been well cultivated. As far as they had gone they had the
letter of the book down fine.
I was almost a man in size. I felt like a crane among a flock
of tomtits. My embarrassment began to rise to fever heat. The
questions started and they were answered promptly, and then
came my turn. The old gentleman asked me to take a pointer
and indicate on the chart hanging on the wall the location of a
substantive. He had just as well have asked me to point out the
location of one of the planets in the solar system. I took the
pointer and pointed at the first thing on the chart that loomed up
before me. Strange to say, not a member of the class giggled at
me. My confusion became confounded. Then the Professor
shouted out: "Rachel, take that pointer from the greenhorn and
show him that part of speech!" She made the effort, but she
was not high enough to reach it, and then he commanded me to
lift her up so that she could reach it. I obeyed, but none but
myself will ever know my mortification.
Following this was arithmetic, and I had practically the same
class, and just about the same embarrassment. When the
philosophy class met most of them were larger and I felt a
trifle more at ease, but before the lesson was over I was
almost gone to pieces. I imagined that I was an object of
absolute pity in the eyes of the members of that class. They
seemed to be sorry for my embarrassment and my
backwardness. That experience finished up my first effort in
the classrooms that day. I felt positively relieved when the time
came for me to go to the barnlot and the woodpile.
When the sun disappeared I repaired to my dormitory almost
overwhelmed with discouragement. After all it seemed to me
that my school prospect was dimmed, and I almost doubted my
ability to do much in the way of education. It was not what I
had thought and the gravity of my situation was appalling. I
hastened to my shack, partook of a light
repast, closed the door, lighted my lamp and began to wonder.
The more I dwelt upon the experiences of the day the deeper
became my sense of humiliation and disgrace. I was very
nearly ready to give up in despair.
While lost in these unpleasant reflections there was the noise
of approaching footsteps coming in my direction and directly a
fierce rap on the door. When I responded the door opened and
in came Professor Burkett! His very presence produced a
tremor in my bosom. My first thought was that he had come
over, under the cover of night, to tell me that I had better go
back home. But instead he spoke to me in a cheerful voice and
asked me how I was feeling.
I broke down and almost cried as I told him the state of my
mind and heart. He laughed heartily and said: "Tut, tut, tut!
Why you have only learned the very lesson I wanted to teach
you - a lesson that all inexperienced youngsters have to learn
when they first enter my school. The first thing I try to do to
them is to take all their conceit out of them. In the first place
they have to learn that they know positively nothing, and
usually that is the hardest lesson to teach them. I am glad that
you are such an apt student. I am hopeful now of doing
something for you. In the second place they have to learn how
to study, and to acquire this lesson perfectly is also a very
difficult task. It is not learned in a day or a week or a month. It
takes a long time to master it. Now I see you have learned the
first lesson thoroughly and much sooner than I had suspected.
But you will be much longer learning the second one.
"To begin with, you must throw aside your false pride. You
think you disgraced yourself to-day in the presence of those
pupils and myself, but you did nothing of the kind. They had a
similar experience when they began with me and
they understand your situation thoroughly. You imagine that I
expected you to know those lessons, but you are mistaken. Had
you been able to master them, then there would be no necessity
for you to come to my school; but because you do not know
how to study them is the reason you are here. Really I am
much gratified with your beginning, and I now have hopes of
doing something for you. Cheer up and take heart and you will
soon know how to do things. Here are a couple of books; read
them and they will help you out. They were of great assistance
to me years ago. I owe much to them. Good-night."
And with this he left as abruptly as he had come.
After that interview my drooping spirit revived. It was not
long until I began to examine those two books. One of them
was "Todd's Student's Manual" and the other one was "Watts
On the Mind". I glanced through them, and the former at once
impressed me. It was an inspiration to me. It contained the
very principles that soon discovered myself to me, told me of
my faculties and how to use them and the best methods for
learning how to study. I retired, for I needed rest after my
day's experience. Bright and early the next morning I was
poring over my geography lesson and soon had some idea of it,
but the other books were hard for me to learn.
When school opened I was on hand. I listened attentively to
the morning lecture, and when my classes one by one were
called I took my seat as before, but just about as little prepared
for the ordeal. How I did dread it! My little classmates looked
like they were sorry for me. But imagine my relief when the
old gentleman informed me that I would not be asked any
questions that day; that he only wanted me to sit there and
listen to the others and to watch the use they
made of the diagrams and the chart. After each lesson the
Professor took special pains in explaining everything to me.
The simplicity of the work began to impress itself on me and I
saw through some of the problems with a degree of clearness.
That was Friday and I was beginning to feel some
encouragement, but it did not last long, for that afternoon the
whole student body assembled in the chapel for the close of the
week's exercises. A couple of hours were devoted to making
speeches and reading compositions. Professor Burkett had a
way of his own in conducting exercises of that character. In
fact, he had a way of his own in doing everything in his school.
After the set speeches and compositions had been delivered
he would call on students promiscuously and without a word of
warning to mount the stage and make an off-hand speech. It
was very amusing to hear a raw fellow attempt to speak
without any preparation. One of them appeared very awkward
and bunglesome and his failure produced much merriment. I
was enjoying the fun hugely.
But my fun was of short duration, for the old man threw his
eye around the room and said: "We will now hear from Mr.
Rankin, of Georgia." If a bomb had exploded under me my
surprise would not have been greater. I was dumbfounded. I
sat as one glued to his seat. The stermold
teacher would
take
no sort of excuse and he repeated his introduction of me with
frowning emphasis. There was no alternative and, with my
knees smiting each other from sheer fright, I mounted the
rostrum; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and I
was so completely filled with breath that I could not utter a
word.
The Professor told me to proceed and not to stand there like
a dummy. This brought down the house, but it left me
standing there as helpless as ever. In a broken voice I managed
to say: "Professor, I can't make a speech." "Well, then, you had
better make a bow and take your seat," retorted the old man;
and I never obeyed one of his commands with more alacrity.
As I bobbed my head and retired to my place they all cheered
me to the echo. I realized that I had made a spectacle of
myself and felt embarrassed, but I had one comfort, and that
was several others had not done much better than myself.
Misery loves company and I had good companionship.
After the adjournment of school quite a number of the boys
came around and congratulated me on my first effort at
speaking and reminded me of the fact that such experiences
were not uncommon in that school.
Among the students was a bright young fellow who had
been under the tuition of the old teacher three or four years
and he had been making a specialty of phrenology, and
occasionally the boys would congregate in one of the rooms
and Bob Rutherford would examine their heads, especially the
new boys. He would take the boy, measure his head, place his
hand upon the several bumps and call them by name and then
decide whether or not he had any aptitude for study or any
outlook for development.
I had to submit to this ordeal. It was not exactly hazing, but it
was on that order. I was somewhat credulous and disposed to
believe what was ordinarily told me and, in some sense, this
was a serious matter to me. It was made such by those who
witnessed the proceeding.
The fellow proceeded to measure my head from the
forehead to the back, and from one ear to the other, and then
he pressed his hands upon the protuberances carefully and
called them by name. He felt my pulse, looked carefully at my
complexion
and defined it, and then retired to make his calculations
in order to reveal my destiny.
I awaited his return with some anxiety, for I really attached
some importance to what his statement would be; for I had
been told that he had great success in that sort of work and
that his conclusion would be valuable to me. Directly he
returned with a piece of paper in his hand, and his statement
was short. It was to the effect that my head was of the tenth
magnitude with phyloprogenitiveness morbidly developed; that
the essential faculties of mentality were singularly deficient;
that my contour antagonized all the established rules of
phrenology, and that upon the whole I was better adapted to
the quietude of rural life rather than to the habit of letters.
Then the boys clapped their hands and laughed lustily, but
there was nothing of laughter in it for me. In fact, I took
seriously what Rutherford had said and thought the fellow
meant it all. He showed me a phrenological bust, with the
faculties all located and labeled, representing a perfect human
head, and mine did not look like that one. I had never dreamed
that the size or shape of the head had anything to do with a
boy's endowments or his ability to accomplish results, to say
nothing of his quality and texture of brain matter.
I went to my shack rather dejected. I took a small hand-
mirror and looked carefully at my head, ran my hands over it
and realized that it did not resemble, in any sense, the bust that
I had observed. The more I thought of the affair the worse I
felt. If my head was defective there was no remedy, and what
could I do? The next day I quietly went to the library and
carefully looked at the heads of pictures of Webster, Clay,
Calhoun, Napoleon, Alexander Stephens and various other
great men. Their pictures were all there in histories.
Among them all there was but one that gave me any
encouragement, and that was John C. Calhoun's. My head, so
far as I could observe, looked somewhat like his. Then I read a
great deal about him and concluded that if John C. Calhoun
had made the great man who figured, as he did, in National
affairs, there was some hope for me! But the mischief done
me by that foolish incident gave me anxiety for some time to
come.
As the days went by and the weeks passed I learned the art
of studying. As the old Professor had told me, it came slowly
but surely. It was not long, however, until I had mastered the
principles of the diagram system of Clark's Grammar and, to
my joy and comfort, I eliminated myself from that class of little
girls and reached the dignity of one whose members were
about my own age and size. And by dint of hard effort I
learned to analyze problems in arithmetic by methods purely
mental. More than that, I made proficiency in Comstock's
Philosophy, and geography was nothing more than child's play
to me.
In other words, my mind accustomed itself to sustained
efforts at study, and as the first year closed I was reckoned
among the successful students of the school. The young fellow
who had humorously discouraged me by his assumed
proficiency in phrenology became my fast friend and for one
year we occupied the same dormitory and the same bed.
Others of the more advanced classes accepted me on terms of
chummy relation and I shared in their confidence and respect.
It was the result of my determination to progress in my studies
and my attainments in the substance of my text-books Really I
became a familiar figure in all the walks of school life and took
my place in the contests for honors along all lines.
The old Professor learned to set store by me and I was
one of his confidential students. By and by he even permitted
me to take charge of a class now and then and do some
teaching as a tutor. I even acquired the habit of speaking in
public and usually had some part in the debates and orations
common to that school. Yes, the first scholastic year found me
at its close a very successful student and well established in
the institution.
I attended Church service twice a month at Picken's Chapel,
an uncomely wooden structure in the chinkapin bushes two
miles from the school. Occasionally I would venture further to
a quarterly meeting and hear the Presiding Elder on
Sunday.
It was my good fortune to form the acquaintance of a young
minister who worked as junior preacher on the circuit. He was
a student in Emory and Henry College, but his health had run
down and he dropped out a year to recuperate and was sent to
this work as assistant preacher. He was not through his junior
year in college. I heard him at his first appointment at Picken's
and I was greatly impressed with his ability. He was young,
sparemade, with a severe face, a strong but not musical voice,
with a distant sort of air apparently and wonderfully gifted in
the use of words, especially words of more than three
syllables. I regarded him as a prodigy.
At the close of the service I approached him and made his
acquaintance and soon found him to be really a very kind and
sociable young man. I did not open my heart to him, but he
found out some way that I was looking toward the ministry and
took more than a passing interest in me. While he was near my
age he had had better advantages than myself and I looked up
to him. This he recognized and appreciated.
As the year advanced and I became more and more
intimate
with him I concluded to ask Professor Burkett to permit me to
invite the young man to preach at the school chapel for the
benefit of the student body. I knew that the old gentleman was
very much prejudiced against most of the older Southern
Methodist ministers, for he was a strong Republican in politics
and a devoted Northern Methodist. Feeling ran pretty high
between these two Church organizations at that time.
So one day I broached the matter and told him of this young
man, and he made particular inquiry about him and became
interested in him. Then I said to him: "Suppose we have him
make us an appointment to preach some of these times in our
chapel?"
The old gentleman said he would be delighted to have him.
So the next time he came to Picken's I asked him to give us an
appointment some week night at the school chapel, and he
readily consented.
The appointment was made for the next Wednesday night. I
took great pains to advertise it and we invited in the people
living near us, and when the time came we had the house filled
with students and other people.
The old Professor received the young man graciously. I felt
some solicitude, for I had invited him and he was my preacher;
and I wanted him to do well for several reasons. I remember
his text as though it were but yesterday: "Words fitly spoken
are like apples of gold in pictures of silver" - one of the
proverbs of Solomon. It was a well-prepared sermon, delivered
with point and earnestness. The subject treated was the
importance of clean speech and the advantage of acquiring the
habit of using it in our young student life. The sermon made a
profound impression. Before some of us retired that night we
resorted to the dictionary to learn the meaning of
several rather extraordinary words he used in the progress of
his discourse. That is, they were extraordinary to us. Beside
that, however, he gave us many things to think about, and the
sermon must have been beyond the ordinary, for I remember
its outlines and substance to this day. It was a treat to hear
him.
The young preacher spent the night with the Professor and
until the next afternoon. I was busy with my errands at the odd
hours and with my classes at the school hours and did not get
to have any communication with him, but the old man
conversed extensively with him.
After he had gone and just after the school had closed I
went to the Professor's office. I wanted to find out what
impression the young man had made on the old gentleman's
mind and what his estimate of him was. I wanted to find out if
I had sized him up right, or was I merely carried away with my
infatuation for him.
The old gentleman was seated by his library table with a
large and well-worn volume upon his knee. I said to him:
"Professor, how do you like our young preacher? Do you
not think he is promising?"
The old man laid down the volume and took off his glasses
and said:
"Well, sir; I am much pleased with him. He is a young man
of very bright mind and fluent delivery. He speaks with ease
and his information is varied and comprehensive for one of his
years. You know he is not yet twenty, but he is more matured
than many middle-aged men. And the most remarkable thing
about him is his originality. I have just gone through with this
volume which is "Five Hundred Sketches and Skeletons of
Sermons" and there is not one word of that discourse he
delivered last night in this book! I am sure, sir,
that you will hear from that young man some of these
days." The old man's words have long since come true, for
that young man is Bishop James Atkins, D. D., of the
Methodist Episcopal Church, South. I acquired an intimate
fondness for him back there before we were twenty years of
age and I have every reason to believe that he reciprocated
it, and it matured into the most undying friendship and
brotherly love.
Some years after that we both became members of the
Holston Conference as co-pastors, and while I was pastor of
the Church in Asheville, North Carolina, he was President of
the Asheville Female College, back in the late eighties and
early nineties, and we were like brothers after the flesh.
Then he became President of Emory and Henry College and
I was transferred to Kansas City, Missouri, and for a time our
paths did not cross. But later on, when he and myself were
members of the same General Conference at Birmingham,
Alabama, and the vote for Bishop was taken, he had seventy-
six votes, and then dropped down to only one. After many
ballots and no election seemed possible from among those
leading in the vote, I took some part in bringing him back into
the race, and I was gratified when he was elected to the great
office of Bishop in the Church.
I expected good results from his work in this new relation
and I have not been disappointed. I rejoice, therefore, that it
was my good fortune to meet the young man in my early life
out in the bushes of Picken's Chapel, in Bradley County, East
Tennenessee, and there laid the foundation for a friendship that
will be as lasting as eternity.
During the vacation, in my second year at school, I returned
to my old home in Georgia to attend the Murray County
campmeeting I had made up my mind that I would ask the
Church to license me as a local preacher. My dear mother
received me with open arms and it was a joy to get back
home once more. However, I had kept in regular touch with
her through the mails. I knew everything transpiring at home
and she knew every detail of my school experience. But to
meet her again, face to face, was tinged with the breath of
heaven. She went with me to old Center Valley Church and
after the service a conference was called and my application
for a recommendation from my society to the Quarterly
Conference at the campground was made, and after remarks
from the preacher and a number of the older members the
application was unanimously granted.
That day marked another epoch in my life as a Christian. It
was right there at that altar that I had made a public profession
of religion and joined the Church, and those good people who
had watched me for the five following years gave me their
endorsement as a fit person for the ministry. Just what the
Quarterly Conference would do awaited to be seen, but the
people who knew me best had faith in me.
On Thursday of that same week the conference met at the
campground. I was on hand. Rev. H. Adams was the Presiding
Elder and Rev. H. H. Porter was the preacher in charge. The
conference was composed of countrymen, honest and true. I
stood my examination without trouble and retired. My case was
considered quite awhile. It meant something serious for those
men to license a young man to preach and turn him loose on
the ministry. But one of them came out and invited me in and I
returned with some fear and trembling. But my fears
disappeared when Brother Adams announced that my license
had been granted. I felt the responsibility sensibly enough, but
was gratified that I was accounted worthy by that conference
to preach the gospel as a local preacher.
The business was finished and the body adjourned, and
directly I was left alone in the preachers' tent. I noticed the
written ballots by which I had been licensed lying about on the
floor, and my curiosity prompted me to examine them, and to
my mortification I found three negative votes. This troubled
me. I could not understand it, and it was three years before I
did understand it.
After these years I preached in the town of Calhoun in an
adjoining county and was invited home by a good brother.
After dinner he said: "I owe you an apology. I was a member
of the Quarterly Conference that licensed you to preach and I
voted against you. I did it because you did not look to me like a
man who would ever be able to preach much, and I gave the
benefit of the doubt to the Church and put in a negative vote;
and two others did the same thing. But I now think we made a
mistake and I wanted to tell you so."
Then I understood why there were three negative votes
against me. Not long ago I was out in one of the far Western
counties dedicating a Church and a right old man told me the
very same thing about his vote when I was licensed. I was
gratified to learn that it was on account of my appearance and
not because of any defect in my character.
When I returned to school and took up my work I was sent
to an appointment some five miles from there to preach. I
wanted to get out of reach of Professor Burkett and the
students. It was at a typical country Church and a good
congregation was present. About the time I got through the
preliminaries the old Professor and several of the students
walked in and took their seats. My text was, "If any man will
come after me let him take up his cross and follow me". I
preached about twelve minutes and sat down. The old
Professor arose, took my text and preached a good sermon. He
knew I would
fail and he was present to save the day and to preach to the
people.
The following Sunday I had an appointment at Chatata, but
resolved to make larger preparation this time. I went to the
library and found a volume of sermons by Christmas Evans,
the eccentric Welsh preacher. In looking through it I found his
sermon on the text, "It is finished"; and, by the way, it is a
remarkable sermon. I carried the volume to the woods and
went over that sermon many times. Then I climbed upon a log
and delivered it to see how it would sound. It was all right.
However, I seated myself and looked through the book
generally and I found a sketch of his life prepared by his own
hand. It was an autobiography. I read it with interest and I
came across his experience at some great gathering in London
when he was put up to preach. He was a man of force and
power and he delivered a sermon of merit, taken bodily from a
volume of sermons. He astounded the natives. There was such
a clamor to hear the young Welshman again that he was
appointed to fill another important hour. But he had no other
sermon that he was willing to preach to those people and he
packed his grip and made his escape from London instanter. I
at once concluded that I had better let that fine sermon of
Christmas Evans drop right there, which I proceeded to do;
and that is the nearest I ever came to preaching the sermon of
any other man.
When Sunday came I was promptly at the Church and
entered the pulpit with less fear than on the previous occasion.
I had already broken the ice and my dread was not quite so
great. I took my text and plunged at once into its exposition, but
in fifteen minutes I was at the end of my row. I could not think
of another word to save my life, and I pronounced
the benediction and stepped from the pulpit. I felt badly enough,
but Leroy Bates, a big-hearted old countryman who really
wanted to encourage me, came around, put his big arm on my
shoulder and in the greatest sincerity said: "Don't be
discouraged, young brother, you may come out all right yet."
That about finished me, and I declined to go home with him for
dinner. Instead I struck the road as soon as possible and
returned to my uninviting shack with the determination that I
would let preaching alone until I had learned some sense.
But the innocency of my faith received a rude shock just
about this time. Professor Burkett had a fine yoke of oxen
and with these I did the hauling about the farm. One night they
got out and wandered on the railway track and a passing
train killed one of them. This broke up his team. He had a son
who was a distinguished lawyer, living in Chattanooga,
and he owned a fine farm in Meggs County, not far from
Decatur. On that farm he kept good stock. So he wrote to the
old gentleman that if he would send over to Decatur he would
be there at court and he would give him a horse. He gladly
accepted the proffer and he gave me direction and sent me on
the errand.
I reached Decatur that evening and made myself known to
Colonel Burkett. He took me to the tavern to spend the night.
Ten or twelve lawyers were attending court and they were
stopping at the tavern also. It was a warm evening and after
supper they were all sitting in the front yard talking. I was
seated near them - an unsophisticated boy. It seems that just
before that time, a month or so, a lawyer had left the bar and
entered the ministry of the Presbyterian Church. His name was
Wallace, and these lawyers were discussing his change from
the bar to the pulpit. Some of them seemed to think that he
acted wisely, because he was of a very serious turn of mind
and too religious to make a successful lawyer. Others thought
he had made a mistake and would regret it later on in life.
Then it was that Colonel Burkett assumed to speak. He was
a man of strong intellect, well trained and widely read. He was
not a religious man. The following is the substance of his
deliverance:
"Wallace has not only made a mistake, but he has acted
against common sense and reason. There is nothing in religion
except tradition on the outside and emotion on the inside. The
Bible is not a book to be believed. It is full of discrepancies and
contradictions. The Old Testament is horrible. There are things
in it that shock decency, to say nothing of a man's sense. The
New Testament comes to us by a sort of accident. When King
James appointed his commission to collate the manuscripts they
threw out some of
them and one or two of the present gospels came very nearly
being discarded. They were retained by a very narrow
majority. A number of the epistles, ascribed to Paul's
authorship, were never written by him and they are not entitled
to belief. They are a jumble of incongruous writings brought
down from an ignorant age, and they are not in keeping with
the intelligence of the race. The age has outlived them; they
belong to a period filled with ignorance and superstition. Christ,
if he ever lived, was a good man, but misguided and died as the
result of his fanaticism. Wallace has only written himself down
a fool by giving up a good law practice to enter the ministry."
Another leading member of the bar challenged the
statements of Colonel Burkett and took up each point, making
vigorous reply to him. The argument grew heated and
extended into the night.
But imagine the effect of all this on my innocent mind. It
knocked me into smithereens. I had never dreamed of anything
like that I had heard. It aroused all sorts of feelings and all
sorts of questionings. It flung me headforemost out into a
stormy sea without rudder or compass. The waves grew
tumultuous about me. I was almost engulfed.
Of course I did not open my mouth and no one seemed to
observe that I was sitting there. I arose and went to bed, but I
did not go to sleep. I tossed from side to side filled with fear
and misgivings. I thought of my mother and her faith; then it
occurred to me that mother was just like myself. She had never
seen anything of the world, had never read many books and
was not an educated woman. She, maybe, was liable to
mistakes. The man whom I had heard talk was an educated
man; he had informed himself in history; he had traveled; he
was a much smarter man than his father,
and maybe he knew things that the rest of us did not know. He
saw nothing in the Bible to call forth his faith and a number of
the others seemed to agree with him. He did not even accept
Christ as his Savior. And yet I was starting out to prepare
myself to preach this gospel and to hold up Christ to men and
women. Is it possible that after all there is nothing in it? Can it
be that the whole thing is a fable, as my learned friend had
argued? And I put in practically the whole night with these
disturbances and irritations running riot in my mind and heart. It
was one of the most miserable nights I ever spent in my life.
When morning came I was restless and tired and my
perturbation of mind was past description. I had but little
appetite for breakfast. When I was through Colonel Burkett
had the horse standing at the gate for me to take back. I
mounted the one I rode, leading the other one and I started
back home. All the way those same thoughts and fears had
complete possession of me; I was drifting hither and thither, but
could find no solid ground upon which to rest my faith and
hope. The subtle poison of skepticism had been injected into my
mind; it was finding its way into my blood, and the whole of me
was becoming infected.
I reached home, attended to my duties and went to my
dormitory. I told my friend, Rutherford, what I had heard and
how it had disturbed me. He laughed at me and said he thought
my eyes would get opened - that Colonel Burkett was right.
He said he had a book he wanted me to read and handed me
Thomas Paine's Age of Reason. Before retiring I glanced at
the book and found some of the very things that I had heard
the night before, but the book was so rank and offensive to me
that it rather disgusted me than otherwise. I threw it down and
tumbled into bed and from sheer
exhaustion fell to sleep. For some days I was rent and torn
with conflicting doubts and fears. Life became almost
unbearable. I could stand it no longer.
After awhile I went to Professor Burkett and threw open my
heart to him. I told him what I had heard in the conversation
among those lawyers, but did not tell him that his son was one
of the leaders in that tirade against the Bible. I asked him if it
were possible that what they said could be true. He began and
opened up the whole subject, rehearsed to me the views of
skeptics and infidels and then pointed out to me what effect
such views had upon life and character. He took up Thomas
Paine and pointed out his rank unbelief. Then he gave me an
account of his life of debauchery and the awful death he died.
He showed that Voltaire was a similar character and many
others that he mentioned. He concluded that part of it by saying
that such men led wicked lives, which the Bible and the Christ
condemned and that, in a large sense, this was why they rose
up in rebellion and became infidels. He explained to me how the
Bible was inspired, how it had come down through all the
ages and how it was believed by multiplied millions of the best
people living and dead; how it had built up human civilization
and developed institutions for the betterment of the race; that
infidelity had done nothing constructively for man; it had only
striven to undermine faith, to destroy, to blot out hope and to
produce despair. Then his deliverance on Christ, and what he
had done for the world, was elaborate and convincing. But he
said that he had not the time to go over the whole field; that he
had a little book that presented the matter in a nutshell, and he
reached up and pulled down a small volume and handed it to
me. He told me to read that and then he would give me
something more extensive.
I went to my room and opened the book; it was Watts'
Apology for the Bible. It took up every point made by the
infidel and answered it succinctly. It gave me the exact history
of the King James' translation of the Scriptures and threw a
flood of light upon that subject. It gave me some relief, but the
insidious virus of infidelity had gotten into my mental system
and I still had doubts and fears. I was not inclined to give up
my faith, or to go back on the Bible; I was simply fearful and
filled with doubts. There was a condition of intellectual
fermentation going on in my faculties and confusion and
misgiving were the result. Difficulties of a mental kind were
projecting their barriers in front of my pathway and I was
unable to surmount them or to remove them. In whatever
direction I would turn they were there to afflict me and to
hinder me.
I was fighting a severe battle and victory was nowhere in
sight. My faith remained intact, but it was clouded; my hope
was still anchored, but the wild winds and the stormy waves
were belaboring me. I was struggling to find a landing away
from the fury of the storm; I was striving to quell the ebullition
of my mental fermentation - yea, I was flinging my shoulders
with might and main against the formidable obstructions that
were blocking my progress.
I learned long afterward that I was only passing through that
crisis of doubt that comes to the experience of every honest
inquirer after the truth; yes, I had reached the point at which
the innocence of faith had its severest trial - the time when
the mind cries out after a more solid ground of hope than that
accepted in childhood; a foundation that is not only built upon
Christ, but that furnished a rational reason for the hope that is
within the bosom.
I have since learned that faith comes to a point; in its
larger development and culture, when it wants to challenge the
reason for its existence; when it desires to examine the
integrity of its credentials and reach conclusions that cannot be
shaken by every wind of doubt. But this fact I did not know at
the time I was passing through the fires of purification. I could
only know this fact after years of research and investigation.
During the critical process of this period of doubt and fear the
clouds were hanging low above me, and the adverse tempests
were beating pitilessly upon me.
In the meantime I clung to my faith and followed in the
glimmering light of my hope. With all my disturbance and
oftimes anguish of spirit I tenaciously held on to the Bible and
conscientiously gripped the hand of my Savior. I lost the
innocence of my faith, but acquired a broader and a more
rational trust; I saw the brilliancy of my childhood hope take on
a faded hue, but I anchored my desire in the haven of rest and
my expectation rose to sublimer heights as I emerged from the
gloom and looked out upon the expanse of an unfolding future.
As the years passed by and my mind became more matured
my reasoning, faculties grew stronger, my intellectual horizon
lifted its boundary circle and became more extended in its
scope, and I found myself able to digest more nourishing meats
and to cope with deeper and more perplexing problems.
In other words, I ceased to be a child in my faith and
became a full-grown man in my knowledge of God and his
methods of revealing his will to humanity. But the result came
to me at the end of a long struggle that tried the joints in my
harness, and that gave me careful investigation into the
elements that entered into the foundation of my faith and hope.
Therefore it has been many a long day since troublesome
doubts harassed and disturbed the state of my mind.
It was a fortunate coincidence that, along with those first
struggles, I had a strong and steady hand to lead me and a
wise and settled mind to help me solve the problems. In
addition to this the thought of my mother's prayers for me and
the influence of her godly tuition helped to strengthen and
sustain me.
Now comes the sequel to this story, which will require me to
skip over several years and give another incident closely related
to it. I was pastor of a city Church, in which city the State
University was located. By the student body I was elected to
preach the annual sermon before the Young Men's Christian
Association of the institution. They chose my subject for
me - "The Inspiration and Authenticity of the Scriptures". I had
three months in which to make the preparation and I devoted
much time to reading and research on the question. In addition
to this I drew heavily upon my resources already accumulated
from the extended investigation along this line superinduced by
my Decatur experience. When the time came to deliver it I had
done my best. In fact, I have recently re-read that sermon and,
after further years of study, I do not see where I could make
any improvement upon it. Abler men could put up a much
stronger discourse, but it was a finished sermon so far as my
ability was concerned.
I had an immense audience, not only of students, but of local
people and the faculty. I had liberty in its delivery, and such
was the appreciation of it by the University authorities that
they gave me the degree of Doctor of Divinity. This was
unmerited and not deserved, but I was not responsible for their
action. The sermon was published by request in the daily
papers of the city and given a wide reading. I received many
letters of appreciation from divers friends, and one of them
was from Colonel Burkett. He did not know me. The
fact is when I went on that errand to Decatur he did not ask
me my name and when I left him the next morning he had no
idea who I was. But I knew him. I will repeat a few of the
passages in that letter:
"I have read with interest your sermon on the 'Divine
Inspiration and Authenticity of the Scriptures', as published in
the daily press, and I write this apprecition of it for two
reasons. In the first place, I have gotten profit out of it. It has
given me light on the subject. I have read a great deal on that
question and have my peculiar views about it, but your
treatment of it has inclined me to re-examine my premises and
arguments and see if my conclusions are altogether sound. I
was brought up under religious tuition and my predilections
favor the Bible story; but my reason, in my more matured
manhood, rebelled against its validity. This has been my
position for years. But I must confess I get no pleasure out of
my doubts and infidelity. I really want to believe the Bible and
to have faith in a Savior. As far as my observations go the
Christian man is the happiest and the most useful of all men.
My heart wants to be a Christian, but my head will not give its
consent. But I am determined to make further inquiry into this
matter.
"In the second place, a friend of mine who knows you tells
me that you are a former student of my father, and this fact
quickens my interest in you and in the sermon. As I re-read it I
felt that it was my father preaching through you. He has long
since been gone, but I revere his memory and appreciate his
work. Since he was instrumental in helping to produce you I
am proud of you for his sake. My father was not a faultless
man, but he had a generous heart and a confiding faith, and his
work survives him in the poor boys whom he helped to get an
education. He lived to a good purpose and
spent his long life in helping others. His sacrifices were many,
but were he living his reward would be ample in the thought
that he had aided others to make the world better."
When I read that letter it occurred to me that Colonel Burkett
had unwittingly made that sermon possible. Had I not sat there
as an innocent youth on that September evening in the long ago
and heard his attacks upon the Bible and his doubts concerning
Christ, I perhaps would never have gone into so full an
investigation of that subject and preached that discourse. The
experience cost me an anguish that words can never express,
but out of it have come some of the most valuable lessons of
my ministry. It has caused me to have more sympathy with that
class of men who seem to want to know the truth, but whose
perverseness leads them to either doubt and discard it or to
treat it with indifference and let it go by default. My
observation is that men get no comfort out of their skepticism
and infidelity; that down in their hearts, in their better moments,
they want to accept the truth and be Christians.
To return to my school experience. I never did wilfully
disobey Professor Burkett's rules but once. Fortunately for me
I covered up my tracks so skillfully that to the day of his death
he never found it out. My friend Rutherford was about finishing
up his career at Student's Home. He had been there more than
the time required to graduate in the course of study. He taught
awhile. During the time he fell desperately in love with Maggie
Castillo, a beautiful young lady pupil. She was of medium
height, had a face of rare attraction, sparkling blue eyes and
her head was covered with a wealth of black curly hair. She
was the sort of a girl with whom an ardent young fellow could
not help falling in love. There was a winsomeness about her
personality that was hard
to resist. She was as bright as a star of the first magnitude. In
her studies, in her recitations, in her compositions and in her
popularity she excelled.
Her room was adjoining the Professor's residence and she
had a congenial companion. I was the only boy in that school
who had access to the premises. The others were barred. My
duties, as well as the confidence the old gentleman had in me,
gave me that privilege. Rutherford laid his case before me and
told me that I was the only man on the hill who could come to
his relief. He was almost desperate. I yielded on the principle
that all things are fair in love or war. I was convinced that
those two young people were absolutely necessary to the
completeness of their lives. So I became the confidential
go-between for those two youngsters; but in doing it I took my
own student life into my hands.
After I launched into it I often trembled at the risk, for it was
the hardest thing imaginable to carry on an episode of that sort
in the school without the old man finding it out. So many a
time, away late at night; yes, often in the early morning when
the ground was frozen, I took off my shoes and stealthily
threaded my way through the shrubbery and the rose bushes to
Maggie's window and gently tapped on the frame. She was the
most easily waked of any one I have ever known. She never
failed to respond. The window would quietly go up an inch or
so and, either in or out, would drop one of those sweet little
epistles so full of meaning. The next day in the classroom, right
under the old Professor's nose, I could see those two lovesick
people, through their eyes, carrying on a courtship that
communicated the thoughts of each to the other. I knew what
was in those clandestine letters. I could read their telepathic
communications just as accurately as though
I could hear their articulate speech. It used to interest me no
little, and the amusing as well as the fortunate thing was the old
gentleman, who thought nothing escaped him, was in blissful
ignorance of what was transpiring under his eyes.
Finally things came to a head. The plan was arranged for
their elopement and marriage. I arranged every detail, secured
the minister, fixed the place in a distant neighbor's home,
kidnapped Maggie, turned her over to Rutherford and then
dropped as completely out of the scheme as though I were no
part of it.
After she had been gone an hour by some means the
Professor got on to it. I have always suspected that it was
through some one who missed her late at night from the room.
He arose, sounded his bugle and that was the signal for
everybody to assemble in the chapel. He would sometimes do
this at the most unexpected hours of the night or day. He
lighted up the room and we were soon dressed and before him.
He was all excitement and unfolded what had happended.
Rutherford and Maggie Castillo were gone and he was in a
towering rage. He wanted an honest confession, for he was
determined to know who had aided them. Some one had a hand
in it and he wanted to know the guilty party or parties.
Everybody looked amazed. No one knew what to answer,
except that they knew nothing of it and were surprised to hear
the news. The fact is I was the only human being, except Bob
and Maggie, that knew one living thing about it; and I was
about the only one whom Professor Burkett failed to suspect. It
never once occurred to him that I had any connection with it.
He organized a committee and started out to find the young
couple; he was confident that they had gone to some neighbor's
house.
I was one of the trusted ones selected and, at my suggestion,
we started in exactly the opposite direction they had taken.
I knew where they had gone, but I did not intend that he should
find them that night. I knew that in less than an hour they
would be safely married, and then the old gentleman's wrath
would be impotent, so far as they were concerned.
After arousing a number of the neighbors, to their surprise
and disgust, we finally returned from a fool's errand and retired
for the rest of the night, which was not much of that night. The
next day the Professor learned all about where they went, and
at what time they were married and the preacher who
performed the ceremony. He was mad for days, but with all his
ability to ferret out violations of his rules and bring the guilty
parties to justice he never succeeded in getting one iota of
information about who planned that elopement and delivered
that girl to that lovesick young tutor. That was one secret that
baffled all his detective skill.
Well, while I did deceive the old gentleman and to some
extent abused his confidence, yet I have never had any
compunction of conscience about it; for I have never thought I
did wrong in breaking down the barriers erected by him to keep
Bob Rutherford and Maggie Castillo from the consummation of
their wedded bliss. They loved each other deeply and they
were entitled to its fruition.
At this particular time I was in my last year at that school.
The coming months were to be busy. In addition to my regular
work about the farm to keep up with my expenses I had the
books in the advanced class to master. I certainly feasted on no
idle bread as those months came and passed by. It was the
severest year of my life. It put a tax upon all my
powers of endurance. My fare was of the simplest kind and it
had to be prepared by my own hand. It was not nourishing and
I gradually ran down in health. The strain was too exacting and
symptoms of decline began to manifest themselves. I steadily
lost in weight and in appetite. My eyes took on a hollow look
and my face turned pale. I was reduced until I only tipped the
scale at one hundred and sixteen pounds. The day I entered
that school my weight was one hundred and forty-nine. I
became somewhat discouraged and began to doubt my ability
to keep up the struggle to the end. I was within two and a half
months of the close, but I could hardly put one foot before the
other. Yet I did not relax my efforts at study and my attempt to
keep up my duties about the place. The old Professor
expostulated with me, but I was too close to the end to stop. I
must finish at all hazards.
I had about reached the limit of my strength and was forced
to accept the old gentleman's proposition to stop my work
about the house and the farm and take board with him for the
last two months. This somewhat relieved the tension and I
renewed my diligence in my studies. I successfully mastered
the course of study and was right at the head of my class.
They elected me valedictorian, an honor that every aspiring
student appreciates. I also won a majority of the medals
offered for proficiency and was ready for the graduation day.
Three long years had passed away. They had been years of
toil, hardship, self-denial and deprivation. With a pen of iron
they had engraved the stages of their progress upon my mind
and heart, and their fearful strain was manifest in my sallow
cheeks and stooped form. Through all the long years since then
I have never ceased to look back to those as the three eventful
years in my life. They had presented obstacles to me of a
formidable character. At times they looked like Alpine
heights, rugged and forbidding; but I had managed to climb
them and at last stood on the summit and saw the sunlit plains
beyond. Through tears, sweat and heartaches I had passed the
crisis, but the experience had well-nigh cost my health and left
no phase of my character untested.
During the time I enjoyed no delicacy of diet, no elegance of
attire, no circle of association beyond my student acquaintance.
My table had been scant, my clothing coarse and uncouth. A
large part of my association had been with my books, my
chores, the four walls of my shack and the forest that moaned
in solitude about my rude habitation. But the experience had
developed my resources, extinguished the unsubstantial ardor
of my dreams and aircastles, taught me the hard lessons of
economy and burned into my consciousness the fact that the
only success worth the having bases itself alone upon the
imperishable merit of moral and intellectual worth.
True, these lessons had come to me through the medium of
many humiliating failures, repeated disappointments under the
merciless pressure of want and ambition; but they were worth
the price I paid for them. I had learned from actual experience
how to hope in despair, feel brave in times of fear, compass
success in the jaws of defeat, go forward in the face of
frowning obstructions and rise triumphant out of the apparent
wreck of failure and expiring hope.
My mind had gradually yielded to the wholesome tuition of
systematic training, my aspiration had been kindled into the
blaze of an inextinguishable yearning for the best and noblest in
life, and the whole current of my being had been swept by
these potent forces into the channel of a deeper and wider
stream of unfolding possibilities. My feelings, my desires, my
thoughts and my ambition had undergone a change. The
future was transfigured before me with the radiant light and
glory of a new world. I had put away childish things and had
become a full-grown man.
So that important day, known in school parlance as
Commencement Day, was on hand and I was ready for its
consummation. How many emotions rush from the silent
chambers of subconsciousness as memory carries one back to
that eventful day! It makes me feel now like the dews of youth
were once again upon my brow and the friends of far-off years
were again before me. This was a proud day for me. The sun
was bright and the earth looked as gladsome to me as on its
natal day when the morning stars sang together and the sons of
God shouted for joy. Springtime, like a vernal queen enamored
of sweet perfumes, was attired in her costume of opening buds,
half-grown leaves and variegated flowers.
From the country round about and from the town not far
away a large concourse of people had assembled to witness
the closing exercises of the school. Young men and beautiful
maidens, happy boys and laughing lassies, were full of the spirit
of the occasion. Cheerful words were reverberating through
the throng and smiles and good humor lighted up every face in
the audience. Whose is the heart that could not catch the
inspiration of such an occasion! Speech after speech was
delivered and each one met with well-merited applause.
At the close of the program came my time for the
valedictory. I walked upon the stage with my homespun suit
put in the best condition possible. After the first few moments
the excitement left me and I became unconscious of self and
my surroundings. My speech absorbed my whole thought and I
spoke with deliberation. As I reviewed with delicate
propriety my varied experiences at Student's Home, my long
and
pleasant relations with my classmates in study, their kindness
toward me in my unaided effort to succeed, the constant care
and oversight of our venerable teacher, a forecast of my
purpose and aim in the future, and finally pronouncing, in
pathetic tenderness, the word "Farewell", the audience
responded most generously with demonstrations of applause.
Most of them knew what it had cost me to win the honor of
that glad day.
Dear old Professor Burkett, kind-hearted and impulsive,
wept aloud as old Leroy Bates, the man who tried to comfort
me at Chatata that Sunday, climbed upon the stage and put his
big arms around me and said: "I know'd it was in you and
believed it would come out if you had half a chance. God bless
you, my boy."
Looking back at that day's performance from the present
time, the effort did not amount to much and there was really
but little, if anything, in the speech; but taking into account how
little I knew when I entered that school, how I had struggled to
overcome difficulties and having the sympathy of the student
body and most of the audience with me, all combined to make
it appear most favorably in my behalf.
But that demonstration of good-will did not turn my head, for
it had been won at too great a sacrifice, and I realized that the
goal of my ambition was far in the future. My work had only
begun. I had just advanced far enough to understand the
magnitude of the unfinished task. Instead of puffing me up, it
tended to humble me; and after remaining long enough to
receive the congratulations of my school friends and to say
good-bye to many of them, I bowed myself out and hastened to
my dormitory in the thicket to pack my belongings preparatory
to my departure. My work there was done. The little hut felt
dear to me.
I never was a man of much surplus sentiment, still I felt
attached to the shack. Many lonely nights I had spent within its
walls, and from its rude altars I had sent up many earnest
prayers through its clapboard roof to the throne of the Father.
No profane word had desecrated its hearthstone and no base
deed had ever polluted its archives. It had witnessed my secret
tears; it had heard my vows of faith; it had recorded my
poverty and want; it had registered my failures and my
successes, and it had reverberated with my songs in the
night-watches.
True, it had sheltered destitution, privation, actual want; but it
had been poverty without disgrace, privation without whining,
and complaint and want without degradation. It had given
hospitality to the purest of motives, the noblest of ambitions and
the loftiest purposes and aspirations. I felt some pain as I
stepped from the dingy doorway and closed its familiar old
shutter forever. It had been my silent friend in the days of my
sorest needs. Away from its dismal haunts I carried a
permanent sense of many bitter experiences, but these were
intermingled here and there with the delightful fragrance of
many pleasant reminiscences. I doffed my hat and gave it an
affectionate though an endless good-bye.
I wended my way back to the Professor's office and made
my final settlement with him. He had kept his books and I had
kept mine. They looked like veritable mosaics. Several pages
were filled with the result. Two hours work here, five there, a
week yonder and a month over there, and so on and so on to
the end of the chapter. His contained a pound of bacon, a quart
of sorghum, a peck of meal, a few potatoes, a little coffee
now and then, and so on ad infinitum.
We both had observed the monthly totals and it did not
require a great deal of time to foot up the results. I had
gotten everything from him - books, tuition, provisions and a
part of the time shack rent. I had paid for these in hourly and
daily labor; and when the settlement was complete I owed him
fifteen dollars. But I would not have owed him that amount
had it not been that my health gave way and I had to board
with him two months. It is a fact that during all that time I had
not paid him a single penny in the coin of the realm. I executed
my note to him for that balance still due, and I was ready for
the road.
My severest trial came when I bade Professor Burkett and
his good wife a final adieu. She was one of the best friends I
had at Student's Home. She had never spoken a cross or an
unkind word to me during my three years' stay in school. She
had been like a mother to me and I made myself almost a son
to her. The relation between us was tender and sacred. She
had helped me out many a time with a little butter, a loaf of
bread, a few eggs, a cup of milk or some other delicacy equally
as welcome.
She took me by the hand and said: "My boy, I am sorry to
see you leave us. You have been a good and hard-working
boy. I have never seen anything wrong in your conduct. You
have taken a great deal off of Mr. Burkett. He has often been
cross and spoken harshly to you. But you have quietly
submitted and been obedient. You have been good to me, and I
love you almost like a son. I have no fear of your future. Some
boys leave here at the end of their term and I never expect
anything of them. But you are not one of that kind. I am now
old and afflicted and have not much longer to stay here. Some
of these days you will come back to revisit the old scenes, but I
will not be here to greet you. I will be sleeping up yonder on the
hill. But when you come go up there and see the mound over
me and remember that I
loved you and wished you well."
That talk got close to me. It brought tears to my eyes. She
was so sincere and so true in her nature. As I told her good-bye
I realized that it was the last time I would ever see her.
And so it was. I brushed the tears from my eyes, cleared my
throat, recovered my self-control and turned to the old
Professor. He grasped my hand and, in a tender voice for him,
said:
"Rankin, I can endorse nearly everything my good wife has
said to you. True, you have had a hard time here, and once
in awhile I have been severe on you. But it was for your good.
I could have made it easier for you, but it would not have been
for the best. Luxuries never develop the strength of a man, and
smooth seas are not the training schools for sturdy sailors.
Privation, hardship and the stress of personal responsibility are
the tests of character. The man whose will-power and
determination enable him to master self and to triumph over
difficulties is the man who has an open sea before him. Such a
man never fails to make the landing, despite the storm and the
tempest. I could have helped you more and made your burden
lighter, but that is not my idea in the training of a boy.
"Now you are through with me, but your real work is only
begun. You have laid the foundation and you are prepared to
become the architect of your own fortune. You now have a
proper idea of the task ahead of you. You have been, in the
main, faithful and conscientious under my tuition, and if you
practice the same principles in the future you ought to be able
to make a man out of yourself. In after life I trust that you will
often revert to your experience at Student's Home and think
well of me. I have done the best I could for you. God bless
you; good-bye."
With mingled feelings of sadness and joy I flung my old grip
across my shoulder and pulled out up the lane and over the
hills toward home.
When I reached the crest from which I first had that man to
point out Student's Home to me that late September evening,
nearly three years before, I halted and looked back over the
scene. It was early in the afternoon and all nature was
rejoicing in the new-born spring. The house and the farm were
in full view. I could even see the pensive pine thicket where
my little old shack was snugly ensconced. What a change had
come over the spirit of my dream since the time I first stood
there and looked over the autumn panorama! I had made
tracks on every inch of that little farm. I had either stuck a
plow or a hoe or a spade in almost every foot of it. I had rebuilt
many of its fences; I had worked its successive crops, grubbed
up its sprouts, cut its wheat and oats, planted apple trees and
peach trees, had cultivated the flowers and shrubbery in its
yard. Yes, I was as well acquainted with the whole of it as I
was with my own spirit.
In turn for all that I had mastered the training necessary to
enable me to develop and cultivate whatever there was of
good in my being, and the thought gave me a measure of
satisfaction. But had I known when I stood there the few
years before all that I had found out in the meantime, would I
have had the courage to undertake it? I doubt it very seriously.
It is fortunate for us that the future holds its own secrets and
steadily refuses to divulge them to us until we are prepared for
them. This is a wise provision of Providence. Memory holds
for us in sacred trust the records of the past and hope holds out
the inducements of the future, and thus it is that we live one
day, one hour, one moment only at a time. Therefore we are
inspired to press forward
toward the dawn of the unborn years with desire and
expectation for the best they keep in store for us. Otherwise
we would give up the struggle in despair and drop by the
wayside. As it is, under this Providential arrangement we live
day by day and strive to make the most of our opportunity. I
am so glad that the future keeps its secrets.
I awoke from these Hillcrest reveries, mopped the gathering
perspiration from my brow and again quickened by footsteps.
Since then nearly forty-five years have swept by, but the
picture then sketched upon the canvas of my memory, instinct
with life and splendid in the charm and beauty of its delicate
colorings, is hanging before me to-day untarnished by the
mildew of time and undimmed by the alternations of the
sunshine and shadow of those passing years.
Toward nightfall I called at an old-fashioned farmhouse and
spent the night with friends who lived near where I tried to
preach my first sermon. It was a comfortable home and I was
accorded a warm welcome. The gentleman and his wife had
expressed an abiding interest in me two years before, and it
was delightful to be their guest. The family worship that
evening was tender and full of spiritual unction. There is no
hospitality like that of the old country home of other days. It
has nearly disappeared, but then it was one of the glories of our
humanity. The doors were thrown wide open, the best that the
farm afforded was upon the table, the royal old feather beds
and the sincere good-will of the household; it made life worth
living to spend a night in that sort of a home. What a night of
rest to my tired body and depleted energy! It was the essence
of luxury. No anxious thought, no harassing fear, no impending
lessons, no scant table, no dingy hut, no bugle to arouse me
from slumber at four in the morning! It was like a dream of the
better world. It was rest.
Then the welcome home. Was it not glorious? I had only
been there once in those long busy three years. To look into
mother's face, to see the tears of gladness course down her
withered cheeks, to behold her smile and to hear her voice was
like getting back to the promised land. We talked away into the
night, and the next morning I was ready to go to the field. But
no, my pallid face and my thin form and wasted strength, in
mother's esteem, needed some days of surcease from toil. I
had to take life easy for awhile. That was her order and I
obeyed. But the thought of being at home once more, with
loved ones about me, was almost too good to be true.
The best type of rest is found in a change from one
department of activity to another. It is this that brings profitable
relaxation to the tired body and the overtaxed mind. Life is real
and earnest, and there is no provision made for elegant leisure
within the sphere of an aspiring spirit. Persistent effort along
some department is one of the fundamental conditions of
development and progress. It is a principle demonstrated in the
history of mankind that if the stream of life is allowed to stand
still, even for a limited time, it will stagnate
and produce mental disease and moral weakness; but if
permitted to flow on in some well-selected channel it will
increase in capacity and strength and retain its freshness and
purity even to the period of old age and feebleness. Under such
conditions life reaches its highest altitudes and invests its
energies and efforts to the best and noblest advantage.
Therefore after the intervening of a few weeks I was not
content to remain inactive at home. It did not require very long
for my physical condition to take a rebound, and I was ready
for some active employment. The growing crop did not need
me, so I started out to find some order of employment. I went
into a remote section of the county and applied for and obtained
a country school. It was a five months' public school. It was in
a community where school teaching had been the bane of the
ordinary teacher's existence. It was in a very good community
of farming people, where there were quite a large number of
grown-up young people. They were not only backward in
matters of education, but they were strangers to home discipline
and control. They had been permitted to have their own way,
and they were hostile toward school government and restraints.
As an invariable result teachers had a hard row of stumps in
that school district. Many of the parents gave them no co-operation,
but took the part of their refractory children. I was
apprised of this state of things when I accepted the school, and
the local board put me on notice that I was chosen with a view
of not only teaching that school, but of controlling it; they were
tired of the failures that had been made by my predecessors. I
faithfully promised them that if they would stand by me there
would be discipline in that school and that its rules would be
enforced to the letter. They gave their pledge.
The first morning that school opened there were about sixty
present, and I proceeded to organize the work and to classify
the students. It took pretty much all day. Then I laid down a
few simple rules and put them on notice that I was there to do
them all the good possible and to aid them in getting a
reasonable knowledge of the books to be studied; that I would
expect every boy and girl to do his or her duty, not only in
preparing the lessons, but in aiding me to control the school; for
there could be no school without obedience and discipline. I
wanted to love all of them and I wanted them to love me, but I
was the teacher and had to be respected accordingly.
After a few weeks I soon detected the few larger boys and
girls who were not in school for study, but for mischief; and, as
I was a young fellow, they would make a rough house for me
whenever they saw proper. I sniffed trouble in the atmosphere
of that school and determined to meet it firmly and without
wavering. There were two who were the leaders - a large
boy and a large girl. They were neighborhood sweethearts. The
boy was named Morgan, and he was a strapping big country
bully; the girl was named Missouri, and she was about
seventeen, haughty and disrespectful. I bore with them
patiently and good humoredly and tried all my powers of
moral suasion.
Instead of this accomplishing the desired result it seemed to
impress them with the belief that I was afraid of them and was
doing my best to avoid trouble. I concluded at once to disabuse
their innocent minds. So that morning, on the way to school, I
provided myself with two or three good hickories and put them
in a conspicuous place near where I sat. I hoped that the sight
of them would have some restraining effect and supersede the
necessity of their use. As the youngsters filed in they eyed
those new pieces of extra furniture with a good
deal of curiosity and I saw Morgan wink at Missouri. It was
not long until her willfulness manifested itself. I called her up
before me and my tone of voice and manner indicated to her
that I meant business.
I said to her: "You are too large to whip; you are nearly a
grown young woman. But you seem determined not to keep
the rules of this school. Now you take this note and go home
and give it to your father and mother. It will tell them exactly
the state of your case. If they do not keep you at home, but
send you back here, then you will either obey me or you will
take the consequences. I am going to run this school if I have
to thrash every boy and girl in it."
She rather demurred, but I would take no protest or promise
from her. The next morning she returned and brought a note
from her father telling me to make her behave and that she
had been put under me for that purpose.
For a week she and Morgan were reasonably civil, but
evidently they held a council of war and agreed to break the
truce. One afternoon, just before the hour for closing and
without any apparent provocation, she got into one of her
tantrums and threw the whole school into confusion. I gathered
up one of those well-seasoned switches, gave her the left hand
of fellowship and the way I made the dust fly from her thin
shirtwaist was a sight to behold. When I had finished the job
she was in tears and moans. Morgan at once arose and said he
would see me just as soon as school closed. I picked up a
bench leg and as I made at him I remarked that he would not
be put to the trouble of seeing me when school closed; that I
would see him on the spot. He made tracks
from the house before I got a single blow at him. Then I
reduced the confusion to order, for it was general by this time.
The larger pupils looked amazed and the smaller ones were
frightened out of their wits. I told them that school would
promptly open the next morning and that I was prepared to
hold the fort against all comers.
The news spread that night throughout the whole community
and the next morning the members of my board called on me
to know the cause of the difficulty. I laid the facts before them
and they not only authorized the expulsion of Morgan and
Missouri, but voted me a resolution of thanks for my timely
effort to run that school. My fame as a schoolteacher spread
for miles and my name was on nearly everybody's lips. They
had never known anything just like it, and I awoke to find
myself a hero. I had no semblance of trouble in that school
again. My discipline was tiptop and the order fine. The County
Superintendent, who was an able Cumberland Presbyterian
minister, congratulated me at the close of the term on my
success and offered me nearly anything he had in the county.
I delighted in the school the rest of the term. I had some
bright boys and girls, and to see them develop was an
inspiration. One boy particularly appealed to me. He was about
fifteen years old, but rather small for his age. He was as bright
as a dollar. I used to go home with him to spend the night and
would give him extra help in his work. Along toward the close
of the school I said to him one day: "Bob, school will soon close
and I do not want you to stop your studies. You are gifted and
will make a scholar some day. Your father is able to send you
off to school and give you a chance, and I am going to talk to
him about it before I leave the neighborhood. What do you
think about it?"
He looked at me seriously and replied: "Professor, I do not
want to go to school any more. I have learned enough to
attend to business, and I am not going to make a
scholar; I
want to make money. I can read and write and figure very
well, and to be a money-maker I don't need any more
schooling."
Well, that settled it. Whenever a boy of that age makes up
his mind and fixes the standard of his ambition, it is my
experience and observation that you had just as well let him
alone. And it is also true that no boy rises higher than the ideal
he places before him. So Bob had all the learning he wanted,
and no more school for him.
Years went by; I had been to college and was a member of
the conference, and stationed in a city Church. To my surprise
I found Bob one of my members. He had accomplished his
undertaking; he had made money and was worth about one
hundred thousand dollars; but that told the tale. He was not
worth anything else to himself or anybody else. He had buried
his talent, all his talent except money-making, and that had
grown into a sort of morbid disease. He never amounted to
much in the race of life. He passed away many years ago and
his name is now practically forgotten. His ideal was low and
groveling and his ambition and life never rose above it.
While teaching that school I boarded with Uncle Sam
Connally. He was a fine old country gentleman, not educated,
but sensible and a good citizen. His wife was equally as fine an
old lady. They became attached to me and I to them. They
both called me by my given name. When the war began they
had five boys and every one of them was killed in battle. Not
one came back to comfort the old people. One of them left a
young widow and two pretty little girls, and they all lived with
Uncle Sam. The little girls were six and eight years of age.
They went to school to me. The young widow was beautiful
and attractive, but she was four or five years older than
myself. At this juncture there occurred an embarrassing
though somewhat amusing incident.
One Sunday morning in early October there was no Church
service in the community and Uncle Sam invited me to take a
walk with him down the creek to his other farm. He had a
good one where he was living, and the second one was two
miles below. It was not long until we had passed through the
gate on his lower farm, and we walked extensively over it. It
was a fine body of land and the brown corn and the opening
cotton looked inviting. Uncle Sam was a good farmer, though
he was getting along in years.
After awhile we were tired and climbed upon the fence to
take a rest. We were sitting there talking and directly the blunt
old man turned to me and said: "George, I am gettin' old and so
is the old 'oman. I've wore myself out farmin' and I'll soon have
to quit. I've got these two good farms and have nobody to
leave 'em to but Molly and the two children. They can't
manage 'em. Now why can't you and Molly come to an
understandin'? It would be a good thing for her and the children
and it would be a good thing for you, too. Not every poor young
man has a prospect like that."
I pulled on my studying cap, for I wanted to be particular
about my answer. I appreciated the young widow as a friend,
but had never thought of anything else, and I liked her two little
girls. I did not want to hurt Uncle Sam, and yet I was not
prepared to accept his generous proposition. Marrying at that
time was far from my thoughts. There had been nothing in my
conduct toward the young widow, or in her conduct toward
me, to justify Uncle Sam in trying to close out a deal of that
sort between us. It was a cold-blooded business proposition
pure and simple that he had made to me. I had to be adroit and
diplomatic in my reply. I had to save his friendship
for me and I had to save myself from the situation he was
about to thrust upon me.
So I opened my mouth slowly and deliberately and spoke
thusly: "Uncle Sam, I had not thought seriously about an
arrangement of that kind; I have been so busy with my school.
I see two possible barriers to that plan. In the first place, I am
not through with my education. I have about three, possibly
four, years ahead of me yet to devote to education. It would
hardly be the proper thing to enter into such an understanding
until I finish going to school. Then, in the next place I have an
idea how such a proposition as that would strike Miss Molly. I
do not believe that she would take to it at all. Hence it would be
better to go slow in any plans of that sort. Women are
sometimes peculiar, and if she should find out that you and
myself were negotiating a contract of that kind, and not even
consulting her about it, I am sure that she would resent it; and
then you and myself would be in a very embarrassing attitude
toward her."
Uncle Sam was rather guileless, and he looked at the matter
from such a practical standpoint that he was urgent, and he
assured me that he was confident it would be all right with
Molly. He suggested that I take the proposition under
advisement and to think of it seriously. It was a fine opportunity
for me, and it would solve his and his good wife's problems. In
this way I disposed of the matter, and it is my impression that
the young widow never heard of Uncle Sam's effort to bring
about an understanding between her and me; for in the course
of the next year she married a widower, and that permanently
settled my part of it without my having to incur any
responsibility.
During the fall I aided our old circuit preacher in two or
three meetings, and he was very much impressed with my
promise. He was the same man who had taken up my
application for license to preach. His name was Rev. H. H.
Porter. He was a local preacher, but spent much of his life
serving as a supply. He was not a man of any special
education. He had very good practical sense, had read a
number of substantial books and he was a good hortatory
preacher. In revivals he was excellent. But he was illiterate
and not a safe counselor for a young minister. He did not
appreciate the need of an education in the ministry. He took
my fluency for gifts and my ability to express myself for
education. He conceived the idea that I was wonderfully
endowed and that there were but few preachers among the
younger men in the conference anything like my equal. He
even went so far as to tell me that I had all the "larnin' I
needed"; that sinners were rushing pell-mell into the bad place
and that I ought to drop everything and "jump in and try to head
'em off".
Strange to say, he just about convinced me that what he said
was true. I thought the matter over prayerfully and when the
Presiding Elder came to the adjoining charge I dropped down
there and had a talk with him. I told him what Brother Porter
was advising me to do. He had me to preach that night and the
next day told me that the conference was in need of some
vigorous young men; that there was a place for me, and that if
I concluded to make the application to have Brother Porter
make the arrangements and it could be attended to at his
Quarterly Conference, which would be in a couple of weeks.
I reiterated the conversation to Brother Porter and he was
much pleased. The plan was completed to have me ask the
Quarterly Conference to recommend me to the approaching
session of the North Georgia Conference for admission on
trial. I agreed to it with decided misgiving. It broke into all
my plans for completing my education and I feared the
conference would not take me with only a high-school training.
I almost backed out as the time approached to make the
application, but Brother Porter was very persistent, and there
was no doubt in his mind whatever on the subject.
When the Quarterly Conference convened my application
was in order and duly presented. I stood the examination
without difficulty and retired, but I really hoped that the
members of that body would vote down the application. When
I was called in, however, Brother Adams announced to me that
my application had been favorably acted upon and that he
would hand me two or three books to read prior to going to the
conference. That settled it. I was going down to the North
Georgia Conference as an applicant for admission on trial into
the traveling ministry.
In the meantime I settled up my school affairs, mailed a
money-order to Professor Burkett to cancel that due bill left in
his hands, bought me a brand-new conference suit, the finest
one I had ever put on and had some cash left in my pocket. I
preached somewhere every Sunday, read the books given to
me by the elder and was ready for conference. Mother was
elated. It was the proudest time of her life. The idea of having
a son in the ministry was the consummation of her wish, the
fruition of all her hopes.
The time came and I was off for Athens to attend the
conference. I had never been anywhere much, and had seen
nothing beyond my little narrow horizon. So far as society and
the delicate proprieties of polite company were concerned I
was totally lacking in such accomplishments. I was a raw
country youth, with the habits and manners of rural life, only
three years of training in a plain, unpretentious school and
rather awkward and uncouth. I had none of the polish of
cultivated and really refined gentlemen and ladies.
We stopped over a few hours in Atlanta. That was the
largest place I had ever seen and I was wonderfully impressed
with it. We reached Athens late that afternoon. A great many
preachers had boarded the train and joined us. When we
reached the Church, a very imposing one to me, Dr. E. W.
Speer, the local pastor, was there to assign us to our homes. I
was read out to Ferdinand Phinesy. It was some distance to his
home, but when I reached it my eyes were dazzled. It was the
finest home in Athens, situated in ample grounds, for he was
the richest man in that section of the State. He had a number
of ministers as his guests, but outside of Dr. A. T. Mann, a
very distinguished preacher, the rest of us were members of
the rural route delivery class. We were good and true, but we
did not know much and we had never been accustomed to
quarters and style like we found in that palace. I was always a
close observer and rather cautious in my movements when not
certain of my ground, so I noticed those who were at ease in
the home and, by and by, caught on to the ways of the
household.
Mr. Phinesy was an elegant gentleman of the old school. He
had old ideas of Church work and service. He was a great
admirer of Bishop Pierce and accepted his views of things. He
was opposed to organs in the Church, and had no patience with
paid choirs and solos. Hence he had moved his attendance
from the big Church, where these things were in vogue, and
placed it in a small mission Church not far from his residence.
His family, however, attended uptown. He had a number of his
old ex-slaves living in their old well-built and whitewashed
houses. They were the aged, the maimed, the halt and the
blind; and he supported them. He
took the older guests around to see them and had prayers with
them. He was a very kind man. His wife was a much younger
woman than himself, highly cultivated and the perfection of
refinement. She was as gracious and considerate of me as if I
had been a man of some prominence instead of being young
and inexperienced. I sat next to her at the table and she often
addressed her remarks to me. I have often thought of what a
tactful hostess she was. Her son and daughter were models. It
was one of the finest homes of wealth that it has ever been my
good fortune to enter and abide within. It was but a day or two
until I felt as much at ease amid its splendors and gorgeousness
as though I had always been accustomed to it.
I took a green young preacher friend with me to dinner one
day and his boorishness greatly embarrassed me. He knew
nothing of the ways of polite society. Later on he and myself
were telling a circle of less favored young men in their
entertainment of the elegance and wealth of the home where I
was stopping and one of them said: "Yes, I have gotten on to
that. My host told us about Phinesy and his peculiarities. He
said that in selecting his guests to entertain at this conference
he asked the committee on entertainment to send him Dr.
Mann, and then to fill up his house with the odds and ends of
the conference not wanted by any other family; and I
understand that he has a wonderful aggregation under his roof.
He did not select me and I am glad of it."
That was a stunner, and the more I thought of the company
he entertained the more I was convinced that there was more
of truth than humor in the statement. But I enjoyed that
home and learned more of the ways and manners of
polite society while I remained with them than I had ever
learned in the previous experience of my life.
Now for my conference examination for admission on trial I
do not remember but one of the committeemen, Rev. W. R.
Foote. He did most of the examining. He was a highly educated
man, cold and distant, deliberate and accurate; and he took us
through a rigid process. I remember several of my classmates.
Among them were Rev. T. R. Pierce, a graduate of Emory
College, nephew of Bishop Pierce, afterwards a prominent
member of the North Texas Conference and my predecessor
on the tripod of the Texas Christian Advocate; W. P. Lovejoy,
also a graduate of Emory College and the oldest member of the
class, and long a leading Presiding Elder in his conference; W.
W. Wordsworth, a graduate of Randolph-Macon College, who
took high rank in the conference, but dropped out a few years
ago; J. D. Hammond, a graduate of the University of the State
and afterward long the Secretary of our General Board of
Education; and last but not least D. L. Anderson, a graduate of
Emory, who died a short time ago at the head of our great
Chinese University. These are some of the men whom I met in
that class and there were others. I looked at them, thought of
their fine equipment for work, revolved in my mind the fine
advantages they had enjoyed, and then I thought of my meager
preparation.
It was not long until, in my own eyes, I shriveled up into the
smallest specimen of a preacher who had ever knocked at the
door of that conference for admission. I became disgusted with
myself and wondered why I had permitted ignorant but dear
good old Brother Porter to persuade me to take such a step. I
ought to have followed the dictation of my own conscience and
judgment and gone on to school until I was ready, in some
measure, for such a step; but instead of that I had thrown my
own plans to the wind, and there I
was in the midst of that trained company unfit and illy
prepared for such grave responsibilities. I could but wish that
the conference would decline to accept me and tell me to go
back to school. But if they did take me I would travel one year,
ask to be discontinued and then pursue my original plan.
During the session of the conference I was all eyes and
ears. I saw and heard everything that transpired and everybody
that figured in the proceedings. It was all a revelation to me,
and I learned everything of which I was capable. I heard some
distinguished men preach. I did not miss a solitary sermon. I
heard the renowned Dr. Jesse Boring. His text was the parable
of Lazarus and the Rich Man. He was then quite old and
feeble, but the sermon was a masterpiece.
I heard Dr. A. A. Lipscomb, the celebrated Protestant
Methodist preacher, and at that time President of the State
University. I heard Dr. J. B. McFerrin, one of the most
remarkable men in Methodism. On Sunday morning I heard
Bishop W. M. Wightman, a preacher of rare scholarship, of
rich attainments, of charming eloquence, deep thought and
royal diction. He completely captivated me, and next to Bishop
Pierce I put him down as one of the greatest preachers I had
ever heard. It was my fortune to hear him many times in the
succeeding years, but I never found it necessary to revise my
judgment of his ability as a preacher. He was superlatively
great.
I was received into the conference on trial. A few nights
later I sat in that auditorium for the first time and listened to
nearly two hundred preachers receive their appointments. It
was a sublime spectacle. I have heard it hundreds of times
since then, and it is still my candid judgment that there is no
scene like it anywhere on the face of the earth. It challenges
the admiration of the world in its demonstration of the
principle that consecrated men of education, the equals of any
class under the sun, have so yielded themselves to the work of
the Church that they are willing to surrender their right to
choose their fields of labor and at the single command of one
man appointed to select their fields for them they sit and
cheerfully listen to the command to go, and, like trained
soldiers, march off to the field of conquest without a murmur or
a complaint.
Such a thing is not possible under any other Church
government in the world. What an impression that sight made
upon my plastic mind! It was simply sublime. I have witnessed
that same scene a hundred times since that night, and in no
instance has it failed to elicit my supreme admiration.
I became so interested that I actually forgot all about myself
and about the fact that I was to become a part of that moving
battalion. When the fact did dawn upon me I did not feel the
slightest concern about the place where I was to go. All I
wanted was a place to work and its location and condition
mattered no more to me than if I had been a carrier-pigeon
waiting to have the message attached to its feet.
Toward the close of the list the Dalton District was called
and toward the last Tilton and Resaca Mission was announced
and my name read out in connection with it. A song was sung,
the benediction pronounced and the next morning we began to
scatter to the four winds of the conference.
Tilton was only a few miles above Resaca, and these were
the two prominent points in my work. But it extended across to
another valley through which the old Selma, Rome and Dalton
Railway ran. Up and down these two valleys and across
blackjack hills intervening was my mission. There was not a
finished churchhouse on the work. There were three frames
that were weatherboarded and seated, but otherwise
incomplete and they were old. The reason that the
ravages of war had thus left them was that they served the
purpose of army hospitals. One of them, called Union Church,
not far from Resaca, was the scene of the bloodiest part of the
battle, and it looked like it had been struck by a thousand
minie-balls. It was literally peppered with holes and the dark
splotches still covered the floor, indicating the points where
many a poor fellow lay while his life blood ebbed away. There
were several large trees around it almost gnawed down by the
ravenous teeth of canister and shell. So my first work was rich
in history though poor in almost everything else.
I went directly from Athens to my work, and I was ready for
service the first Sunday after conference. I preached in
Resaca. I had no horse and, except when I borrowed one,
which was occasionally, I walked from one appointment to
another. I was not a circuit rider, but a circuit walker. I secured
board in the good home of Mr. and Mrs. J. H. Barnett,
members of my Resaca society. I was there semi-occasionally,
and they declined to receive a cent from me. It was well, for I
had the fewest number of cents to invest in board at any time
during the year.
I spent the most of my time out on my work among the
people. They were mostly poor and had but few
accommodations, but they were hospitable, generous
and kind. Not many of them had recovered from the effects of
the war. They did the best they could for me, but their best
was not much.
One of my appointments was called Cove City. Just why the
word "city" was attached to it I
was never able to understand.
The cove was there in all its glory, but it was as innocent of
anything akin to a city as one can imagine. The railroad passed
the place and it was a sort of a flag station,
but there was no town or village. The church was on the hill and it
was a log building. The logs were hewed and spliced and the
building was long and not very wide. It had two doors, one in
the end and the other in the side, though the side one was
nailed tight. It had very rough and uncomfortable seats, a big
jam in one end for a fireplace and big cracks between the logs
of the structure. In the other side there was an old-fashioned
bee-gum pulpit, a sort of a box arrangement. The top of it was
nearly to my neck. It had one open end and that was where
you entered it, and on the inside was a rude bench for the
benefit of the preacher. In the back of the pulpit in the wall
there was an open window with no shutter of any character.
The people entered the house from the end.
My first appointment at that place was late in November and
it was a raw, chilly day. There was no fire in the wide open old
fireplace. The blast was coming through the cracks in the walls
uncomfortably. But a large congregation came out, not simply
to the service, but to size up the sort of a preacher the
conference had sent them. It was a trying time for me, for my
effort was to be a sort of a trial sermon. At least it was an
initial sermon, and the good I was to do depended very much
upon the impression I made in the beginning. They had never
seen me before or heard tell of me until I was assigned to the
charge. But they were just as new to me as I was to them, so
they did not have much advantage of me in that respect.
I was on hand early and seated in the pulpit. From the
opening in the end of the pulpit I could see the people as they
entered and they could see me. I sat there and watched
them as they passed in, and they cast their eyes at me.
Among
them I noted an old woman. She was tall, angular, loosely
constructed in form, with grizzled thick hair piled about her
head, an old wrinkled face with a weather-beaten expression;
and she was clad in a faded green calico dress, and the
remnant of a lady's straw hat was in her hand. As soon as I
beheld her I recognized in her a personality all to herself. I felt
confident that if she had never been born the world would
have been minus her presence.
When she stepped upon the doorsill she dropped her old
steel-gray eyes upon me and for a moment looked me through. She
tossed her head slightly, walked by the pulpit and took her seat
in the north corner of the room where she could lean back
against the wall. I went through the preliminaries and took my
text and began operation. It was a text which I have since
found out that I did not understand, but it afforded me a basis
for extended remarks. I used it a little like a cowboy uses a
stob to which he fastens his lariat when he wants his pony to
graze. It gives him latitude. So I fastened on to that text and
grazed about it from all points of the compass. What I lacked in
my knowledge of it I more than made up in the length of time I
worked at it. Of course the exercise soon warmed me up and I
was unconscious of the cold wind pouring through those
capacious openings.
Then it was that my old woman friend reminded me of my
surroundings. Right in the midst of my climax she deliberately
picked up her old hat from the bench beside her, rose to her
feet and started toward the door. She looked like the tallest
woman I had ever seen. As she reached a point right in front
of the pulpit she checked up, looked at me and gave her head a
significant shake and said: "Now, lookie here, my young man,
ef you're a goin' to give it to us in that thar style I'll be
switched ef I ain't got 'nuff of you jest right now".
And she disappeared through the door and passed down the
hill. I was not only dumbfounded; I was pertified.
What she meant and who she was I had not the remotest
idea. Neither could I imagine what I had done to call forth such
a rebuke. My, but I felt spotted! I thought it possible that I had
ruined everything the first pass out of the box. One thing
certain, I was at the end of that discourse, and I hastily
announced a hymn and pronounced the benediction. There was
nothing else to be done under the circumstances. Thus my first
service at that point ended disastrously.
At the close a one-armed local preacher rushed round and
grasped my hand and introduced himself to me as Brother
Hickman, and said to me: "Do not pay no attention to that old
woman. She's Aunt Rachel Stone. She's half cracked, and
nobody don't notice what she says and does. We all know her.
She's a good old woman. You go to see her tomorrow and it'll
be all right." That helped me up considerably. Most of the older
people came around and spoke to me, and a number of them
invited me home with them.
Among those who came forward was a bright-looking little black-eyed
girl, with her hair like jet, with an intelligent face and graceful
movement; and I knew she did not belong to that neighborhood.
She looked to be about seventeen years old and I found out
afterward that she was a governess in the home of the leading
family in that community, but her home was in Dalton. Now, gentle
reader, keep your eye on that girl, for there will be more of her
further on in these chapters. She made an impression on me.
The next morning I made it convenient to hunt up the home
of Aunt Rachel Stone. She was one woman with whom I was
anxious to make fair weather. I wanted her to be on my side
ever afterward. It was not long until I found her
house. It was a homely structure, small and unprepossessing. I
knocked on the door and directly she appeared, threw the door
open, had a pair of large octagonal brass-rimmed specks
resting above her eyes upon her wrinkled forehead.
As soon as she saw me she laughed and said: "Why, it's our
young preacher! I'm shore glad to see you. I heard ye
yisterday; but, chile, I was too much froze to listen to sich
preachin' as that. Come right long in; I want to talk with ye."
The welcome thus accorded me put me on good terms with
her and for an hour I sat by her cozy fire and talked
I soon found that she was not nearly so half cracked as
Brother Hickman had given me to understand. The fact is, she
was naturally one of the brightest women in her class I ever
met. She was uncouth and uncultivated, and absolutely ignorant
of the proprieties of life; but she had dead loads of good horse
sense, and the most original genius of all my acquaintance. I
never tired of hearing her talk when once I succeeded in
winding her up and getting her started. She could say some of
the wittiest things and get them off in the most unique way of
any woman whom I have ever known. And she had the
kindest heart and could fix some of the most palatable things to
eat.
I have often thought that if Charles Dickens or Thackeray
could have gotten hold of Aunt Rachel Stone the world today
would be under obligation to them for a book the rarest in the
history of the literature of novels. There was a wealth of bright
ideas in her old mind. They were rough and unpolished just like
herself, but they were glittering even in their unpolished
brightness. She had the oddest way of taking off people whom
she wished to caricature and she could characterize them in
the most unheard-of expletives that ever fell on mortal
ears.
She was a clean housekeeper; she was a good farmer and
plowed and hoed and gathered her own crops. She had plenty
of everything about her in the way of homemade substantials.
That visit made her my fast friend and it mattered not
afterward whether it was cold or hot or whether I preached
short or long Aunt Rachel never again broke the end off of one
of my sermons.
There was an old man, a Hardshell Baptist preacher, who
lived across the mountain three or four miles from Cove City in
a basin known as the "Bearpen", whose name was Jack Davis,
and he was a good companion piece for Aunt Rachel. He
came over one Sunday and preached at the Cove City Church
and he made an attack on the Methodists. Among other things
he said: "The Methodists remind me, ah, of a old nigger whose
moster's old goose died, ah. He tole old Zeak to take'er out, ah,
behine the crib and bury'er, ah. The next mornin' the ole moster
was out thar, ah, and seed the ole goose a layin' thar with some
dirt sprinkled on 'er head, ah. He went back and jumped on
Zeak, ah, and axed him why he did not bury that thar goose,
ah? Zeak said, ah, that he had sprinkled some dirt, ah, on 'er
head, and that accordin' to Methodist baptism that was bein'
buried, ah."
That was as far as Aunt Rachel proposed to let him proceed
and she arose, shook her fist at him and shouted: "Old Jack
Davis! Yo ole heart is as rotten as one of them old frostbit
pumpkins down yonder in Armstead Leak's bottoms!" And she
gave him a wide berth. But that was her way of doing. When
things at Church did not go to suit her she rose and spoke right
out in meeting, it made no difference who was doing the
preaching.
I had another appointment far down the valley at a Church
known as Sugar Valley Church. It was an old framed hull.
At one of my appointments I announced that at the next
Sunday appointment at that place we would baptize infants,
and that I wanted all the children in the neighborhood that had
not been baptized to be brought out and we would have them
dedicated in baptism. I was unordained, but I arranged with
Rev. T. J. Simmons, a local preacher living near Tilton, to go
down with me, preach the sermon and baptize the infants.
I have never seen such a crowd of urchins from three
months old up to seven years. When Brother Simmons called
the parents with the children around the altar it brought nearly
the bulk of the congregation.
I carried the water around for him and he baptized them by
the score. Toward the close a young mother who had a
beautiful little baby girl presented her to the preacher. He took
the child in his arms and said: "Name this child." She thought a
moment and replied: "I'll let Brother Rankin name her." It took
me so completely by surprise that every girl name that I could
remember at once went out of my mind. The suspense became
painful, but I recalled the name of a young lady who lived in the
community and in my confusion I said we will name her "Miss
Bodie".
The congregation broke into a fit of laughter, for the young
lady was present and I had been seen in her company
occasionally. As soon as silence ensued Brother Simmons
baptized the child in that name. It completely took the breath
out of me, and I did not hear the last of it in that community
while I remained on that mission.
Three years ago I was in Bell County, Texas, in a local
option campaign and addressed a large massmeeting in Temple
one Sunday afternoon. At the close of the meeting a gentleman
came around and asked me if I had ever preached in
Sugar Valley, Georgia. I answered him in the affirmative. He
asked me if I recalled the time when Brother Simmons
baptized all those children one Sunday morning and that at the
request of one of the mothers I named one of the children
"Miss Bodie". I told him that I remembered the incident very
vividly though it had been about forty years ago.
"Well," he said, "Miss Bodie is my wife and we are living out
here just about a mile." That was the first and the last time I
ever named a baby girl for its mother at the time of its baptism.
I had many appointments on that charge. I preached in the
old buildings regularly, in the schoolhouses, in the private
homes, and in the summer under brush arbors and now and
then in the groves. I had many good revivals. I lived a great
deal in the humble homes of the people. I either spent a night
or took a meal with every white family within the bounds of the
work and repeated the experience in many of the homes.
I was surely a traveling preacher during the whole of that
year. It is useless, therefore, to say that I was popular with
them. Any preacher who visits his people, lives among them,
sleeps in their beds, eats at their tables and prays around their
firesides will be popular with them. They will love him and
stand by him whether he is much preacher or not. There has
not been a year since I have been with the Advocate that I
have not met one or more of the people whom I knew on that
hillside Georgia Mission.
I did not take up the course of study that year prescribed by
the conference. The reason was that I had already made up
my mind and did it before I left the Athens Conference that at
the end of the year I would ask a discontinuance and return
to school. There was a good school taught in Resaca
by a graduate of the State University, and I made arrangement
with him to recite at odd times my Latin and Greek, and
one or two other studies, so as not to fall too far behind; and in
this way I made some progress in my school studies.
It was a busy year from start to finish, and in the main it was
a happy year. Those people were so good and kind to me.
Many of them would have been willing almost to pluck out their
eyes for me. And among them I found many of the truest and
most exalted types of Christian experience and character that I
have ever known. It is a fact that among unsophisticated and
uneducated people it is often true that their religion is more
spiritual and Christ-like than among those who mix the world
with their Church membership.
Rev. W. J. Scott, D. D., was my Presiding Elder. He was a
large, fleshy man and his home was in Atlanta, but he spent the
most of his time on the district. He was a man of fine
literary attainment. He was a scholar, a reader, a profound
thinker and at times he was sublimely eloquent in his sermons.
Take him one discourse after another, he was one of the most
delightful preachers I have ever heard. But he was grouchy
and often disagreeable. He could get more enjoyment out of
being waited on than any man I ever met. Whenever he would
come to my Quarterly Conferences I had to give up my time to
looking after his wants. He took a great fancy to me and
seemed to be fond of me, for I left nothing undone to make his
visits pleasant to him.
I had a funny experience with him once. He wanted to make
a round of three weeks away back in the mountain section of
his district, through Pickens, Fannin and Gilmer Counties. He
arranged with Brother Simmons to fill my appointments and
appointed me to take charge of him on that round. It was not a
pleasant task. The best thing about
it was that I would get to hear him preach a great many
times. He was afraid of a horse and had mortal dread of a
dog. So I had to get an old, broken-down, bony horse to pull the
buggy. He would not ride behind any other sort. This to me
was a positive affliction. I never did love to drive that kind of
an animal. But he was Elder and he never knew but that I was
delighted. We traveled most every day, except Sundays, and
he preached every night along the route.
At one appointment, far out in the mountains, he preached
one of his finest sermons, and right in the midst of an eloquent
climax a hard-looking old mountaineer sprang to his feet and in
a stentorian voice shouted: "Wolf sign! Wolf sign!" It nearly
frightened the sense out of me and it threw Dr. Scott
completely off the line of his sermon. It spoiled the service. We
spent the rest of the night with a splendid family, and they told
us that the old man was a very religious man, but a typical
old mountain wolf hunter, and what he meant by "wolf sign"
was that there was game close at hand. That was the way he
expressed himself when the services reached a point at which
the tide of religion began to rise
It was his way of shouting.
But this is not the most amusing incident. We drove up a long
hill one afternoon and just before we started down the next
one, as was his custom, Dr. Scott had me stop the horse and
he got out and walked down. He was afraid that the harness
might break and, as he was so large, he might get hurt. He had
done this so often that I was getting tired of it. So I let the old
horse strike a trot and left him some distance behind. He had
on a tall silk hat and a tremendous sack coat and his trousers
were rather short. A quarter of a mile ahead of him the road
bent around a sort of an elbow and I saw a bench-legged fice
sitting there. I knew that
when Dr. Scott came near with his big hat and stepping high
the dog would tackle him. Just as I turned the bend out of sight
I whipped the old horse up a trifle. After awhile I heard the
Elder shouting at the top of his voice: "Oh, George! Begone!
Oh, George! Begone!" Directly I looked back and saw him
coming backward with the dog following him up and barking,
and he was punching at him with that silk hat and shouting for
me. Finally the dog desisted and the Elder came up puffing
almost out of breath and declared that he had never seen such
a vicious brute in his life and that he expected to be lacerated
beyond recognition by the animal.
I got him back into the buggy and kept him there the rest of
the trip. If at any time he asked me to let him out I always
suggested that a dog might be down the hill and that settled it at
once. On that trip he held a conference in Jasper, an old
mountain town. There I met Rev. Fred Allen of the Texas
Conference. He was on a visit to his sister's family. He talked
Texas to me until I made up my mind that if the favorable time
ever arrived I would come to Texas and spend the rest of my
ministry.
That trip was a great advantage to me. I not only met a
great many very excellent people, but better still, it gave me the
benefit of the company of that great man for three consecutive
weeks. I heard him preach a series of great sermons and it
broadened my conception of the gospel ministry. I engaged him
in almost constant conversation on various subjects, and it was
like sitting at the fountain of wisdom and deep experience. I
felt like I had been through a school of literature and theology.
It has always been a treat to me to get in the company of
great men. They have taught me much as a preacher.
When I returned I took up the thread of my work and
pushed things vigorously through the rest of the summer. About
that time a brilliant Baptist minister came within the bounds of
my work and located in the Sugar Valley neighborhood. He
conducted a great revival for them at that point and I attended
some of his services. He was a fine looking man and as sharp
as a steel trap. I soon regarded him as a marvelous preacher.
His elocution was superb, his voice perfectly modulated, his
sermons well prepared and his delivery was well-nigh
faultness. He was all the rage in that community.
I was so impressed with him that I arranged for him to
aid me in two of my meetings. He did so and his preaching was
most acceptable. I had never heard a man who could equal him
in reading a hymn. His prayers were soul-stirring. His appeals
to the unconverted were almost irresistible. He was so infinitely
beyond anything of which I was capable that I felt it was
almost a burlesque for me to try to preach when he was
present. There was not a thing offensive in his sermons to
other denominations, and that was something remarkable in
those times and on my charge; for a Baptist minister then was
usually noted for his public abuse of the Methodists. But not
one unbrotherly word fell from his lips. He was in deed and in
truth a genuine evangelist in his style of ministry.
He remained rather quietly in that neighborhood for two
months, except to preach occasionally, after those meetings
closed. Nobody could find out anything about him, where he
came from or what was his business among those quiet people.
He declined to discuss himself, his family or his object in
locating in Sugar Valley. He excited a great deal of curiosity
and inquiry; for those people, as backward as the most of
them were, realized that he was capable of filling a much more
inviting sphere. He did not look like any of them, and he
dressed far beyond the style and custom of his neighbors.
However, his conduct was proper and his manner of life
unobjectionable. He was an enigma. As he was a Baptist
preacher I did not give myself any concern about these
matters. He was cordial to me and his wife was an elegant
lady. They simply did not fit into the place they were then
occupying and that was the only trouble about them.
One day in the early fall he borrowed an excellent horse and
buggy, ostensibly to make a little trip into Tennessee to
attend to some business and drove off. He had won the
confidence of the community and the loan was made to him
without a misgiving. He went alone, leaving his wife in the
house they had rented as a home, and was to be back inside of
a week. That was the last ever heard of him. To this good day
his tracks have never been discovered. I was taught by that
incident that all is not gold that glitters.
At the close of the year my last Quarterly Conference was
held at Cove City. The stewards made their final settlement
with me and the different sums footed up sixty-three dollars.
That was the cash receipts for the year; that is, for my part of
the "quarterage". But my board had cost nothing, neither my
laundry nor mending. The good women had done this for me
gladly; and I had a grip full of socks, two or three pairs of yarn
gloves and several old-fashioned comforters knit and given to
me by the girls. And I had experienced a great time holding
meetings, filling my regular appointments and visiting among
their homes I was satisfied with the pay. It was the best they
could do, and I presume that it was very good pay for the sort
of preaching they had received.
I drove Dr. Scott into Dalton where he was to take the
train the next morning for Atlanta, where he lived and where
the Annual Conference was to convene the Wednesday
following. At Dalton in the presence of Rev. George G. Smith,
now one of the aged members of the North Georgia
Conference and a valued correspondent of the Texas Christian
Advocate, I told Dr. Scott to take my reports and present them
to the conference and ask for my discontinuance; that I had
made up my mind to go back to school and finish my education.
It surprised him very much and he pooh-poohed the idea. He
said the conference needed young men like myself and that I
had made a fine start; that it was his purpose to send me to the
Ringgold Circuit the next year; that it would pay me two
hundred and fifty or three hundred dollars. I expressed my
appreciation to him for his kind offer, but told him that my
purpose was fixed, my plans were all made and that it was of
no use to discuss the matter further. Brother Smith told me
that I was exactly right, that he was surprised to hear Dr.
Scott trying to dissuade me from so laudable a determination.
"Go on to school," he said, "and both you and the Church will be
the gainer."
I never met Dr. Scott but once after that. Several years had
passed and I had been invited by the board of First Church in
Atlanta to go down from Chattanooga, where I was stationed,
to preach for them one Sunday in the absence of Dr. H. Clay
Morrison, their pastor. Dr. Scott was one of my auditors, an old
and broken man on the retired list. He gave me very close
attention and then came forward after the benediction, took my
hand cordially and said:
"Well, George, I am so glad to have heard you and to meet
you again. I have kept up with you and felt a keen interest in
your progress. I guess you did right when you had me to ask
for your discontinuance as a probationer in our
conference so that you could go back to school. I opposed it
at the time, but you pursued the right course."
He has long ago gone up to the conference on high, but I
have always rejoiced in the fact that I spent that year under his
administration as my Presiding Elder. He was a great help to
me and a real inspiration to become a minister of whom the
Church would never be ashamed. He unconsciously became
one of my models, and some of the lessons he imparted to me
abide with me still.
Professor Hodge was a scholar. He had taken a university
course and he was young and ambitious. He knew how to
inspire students to study. He was a good disciplinarian, but
ruled more through kindness than otherwise. He took special
pains with me and gave me a good start in Greek and Latin and
Mathematics. I had already had the advantage of partial
training under him the previous year while I was traveling that
mission.
I took up permanent board in the good home of my old
Barnett friends. They would not take a cent of money from
me, but at my earnest solicitation they did let me take charge of
their barn, their woodpile and other little jobs about the house
and premises. They treated me like a son. Mr. Barnett was a
man of royal nature and genial disposition. Mrs. Barnett was a
German woman of the best type. She did not evince it in her
brogue or manner, for she had been born and
brought up in this country; but she did show it in her sturdy
disposition, her kindness of heart, her thriftiness of habit and
her incessant industry. Her husband always called her by the
pet name of "Dutchman", and she seemed to appreciate it. I put
in the whole year under their roof, and better people I have
never known. They have both long ago passed over to a rich
reward beyond.
My first open fight with the saloon began that year. It was at
Acworth some miles below. I attended a great temperance rally
and was one of the principal speakers. The first time I ever
saw my name in the public prints, in any extensive way, was
the written account of that meeting in the Atlanta Constitution.
The account of my part of it was not the most complimentary,
but I was recognized as a factor in the fight. And from that
time till the present my warfare upon the saloon has never
ceased. I had seen so much of its deviltry even then and since
then I have seen its woes, its sorrows, its ruin, its crime, its
bloodshed, written in letters of horrible history all along the
pathway of my observation. No one man has made the saloon
pay a heavier toll for its diabolism than myself. I have seen
hundreds of them bite the dust and go out of business.
While at this excellent school another domestic shadow, dark
and oppressive, fell upon my heart and across my pathway. My
only brother, who in the meantime had entered school and
made wonderful proficiency, was also in this school. He was
stricken with illness and died. He was eighteen years of age,
tall, handsome and intellectual. Had he lived he would have
made his mark at the bar. Early in the morning I was seated by
his bed where I had been all the long night through. He had
been unconscious; I had longed for a moment of returning
consciousness. I wanted one more word
from his manly lips. Just as day was breaking across the
eastern horizon he opened his eyes and looked up brightly into
my face. I asked how it was with him and he responded
clearly: "All right. I am not afraid to go. You complete your
education and devote your life to the ministry, and though
absent in body I will always take an interest in you." He closed
his eyes, gasped a few times and all was over. Ah! a thousand
times have I thought of him as the years of toil and burden and
conflict have gone by me.
Along in November of that fall, knowing that I was going to
try to enter college the next autumn, I concluded to run up to
Chattanooga, where the Holston Conference was in session,
and meet Dr. E. E. Wiley, President of Emory and Henry
College, and talk the matter over with him and have all the
arrangements made in advance. I wanted to graduate in that
old institution. It was the greatest college in Southern
Methodism at that time, and it was in the old conference where
I was born and brought up and the one I had determined to
enter when through the high school.
It was the second conference I ever attended. I knew a few
of its preachers. They had been in my grandmother's and my
father's home. Of course they did not remember me, but a boy
never forgets anything. Bishop Doggett was presiding. He was
the third Bishop I ever saw. I observed him closely. A Bishop
was the biggest human on earth in my estimation in those days.
They were more than human. I still have a great reverence for
them, but I have helped to make so many of them since then
that I do not regard them with the same awe-inspiring
reverence that I did in my young and impressible year.
I know them to be great men, entrusted with great
responsibility, but after all I have learned that they are simply
men
like the rest of us; and I find them usually to be brotherly and
approachable just like other consecrated Methodist ministers.
But back in those days I would not have gone into the presence
of one of them with any sort of familiarity of address any more
than I would an angel. I only stood or sat at a distance and
looked at them in wonder and astonishment. When they said
anything I heeded it as though an oracle had spoken. It was
yea and amen. To hear one of them preach was the occasion
of a lifetime.
Bishop Pierce had wonderfully enrapt me. Bishop Wightman,
though unlike Bishop Pierce in appearance and style of
eloquence, had enhanced my idea of the sanctity of a Bishop.
And there sat Bishop Doggett, presiding over the Holston
Conference, the equal of the other two in reputation and
saintliness. He was tall, slender and stately; a venerable face, a
marvelous voice and an eye peculiarly luminous. He was the
embodiment of the best qualities of the old Virginia gentleman;
imposing, grand, majestic, and every inch a Bishop, whether in
the chair, in the social circle, on the platform or in the pulpit. He
never seemed to unbend his dignity or appear in any way like a
common man. His utterances were measured and his diction
lofty at all times and on all occasions.
When I gazed upon him that morning as he presided over the
deliberations of that body my reverence for him was akin to
that of a superhuman being. I would have known he was a
Bishop anywhere upon the face of the earth. Yet it was
several years before he found out that there was such a man in
the world as myself. And even then I stood at a respectful
distance from him in feeling and manner. So did most
everybody else. He was Bishop Doggett, and yet it was just as
natural for him to be such as it was for me to be an ordinary
Methodist circuit rider.
On Sunday morning he preached his famous sermon on "Paul
on Mars Hill". It was Ciceronian in the sweep of its eloquence
and oratory. Every word fitted in its place with precision and
every period was polished and carved like a block of marble
prepared for its niche in the temple walls. As a pulpit oration it
was well-nigh faultness in its conception, its preparation and
delivery. Evidently it was a memoriter sermon, for I heard
him deliver it in later years and he did not vary in a word, a
sentence or a climax. But it was worth repeating, and it was
worthy of several hearings. It was one of the sermons in the
lifetime of even a great preacher. It had thought as well as
diction, and power as well as polish. It was not a dead oration;
it was instinct with life and aflame with outbursts of unction and
spiritual fervor. It swept that conference like a tempest.
While I am sketching Bishop Doggett and his dignity as a
preacher and Bishop I will relate an incident in my
observation of him at a much later period. I have spoken of his
episcopal bearing on all occasions and the reserve in his
manner in private and in public. This incident brought out the
loftiness of this dominant quality in his character. He was a
guest at Martha Washington College while the venerable Dr.
Dupree was President. A number of ministers and a few
laymen were present to pay their respects to him. He was the
center of the occasion.
Evening dinner was announced and Dr. Dupree lead the
way to the dining-room. It was in the basement of the building
and was reached by a stairway rather steep. Bishop Doggett
followed. When about two-thirds of the way down the stairs
he caught his foot and tripped and as he sank to the step it
threw his body, not severely, but rather gently forward and
he continued on down the few remaining steps on
his hands and knees. As he reached the bottom he galloped
three or four paces out into the room. Dr. Dupree and others
rushed around him to help him up and asked him if he was hurt.
He brushed the dust from his knees in a very dignified way and
said: "Well, no. I feel no sense of injury or discomfort from the
experience, but it was a very undignified performance for a
Bishop."
At that Chattanooga Conference I heard two other sermons
that made a very profound impression on me. One of them was
by Rev. Jno. M. McTeer, the old Presiding Elder and the
famous field preacher of the conference. It was on the text:
"How beautiful are the feet of them that bring glad tidings." As
a piece of pulpit declamation it was masterful and its religious
spirit moved on a high tide. It had been prepared and was
preached by the request of the conference.
The other one was by a boyish-looking fellow with yellow
hair, youthful face and twinkling eyes. He looked to be about
nineteen or twenty years of age. I wondered why such a
youngster was put up when there were so many distinguished
ministers present. But my wonder increased as he proceeded,
not that they had put him up, but at the marvelous gifts and
gorgeous flights of the young fellow's oratory. I afterward
learned that it was Rev. S. A. Steel, who at that time was a
student at Emory and Henry College. He was known far and
wide as the boy preacher of all that country. His eloquence
was something extraordinary for his years. He has since
become so well known, even to this generation of young
ministers, that I need not write more of him in this connection.
I renewed my acquaintance with Rev. W. W. Pyott, the man
who had the circuit when I was at Professor Burkett's school
and under whom Rev. James Atkins, Jr., was the assistant. I
told him the object of my visit and he said he
was well acquainted with Dr. E. E. Wiley, the President of
Emory and Henry College, and would gladly introduce me to
him and speak a good word for me. It was not long until we
met him. He was an ideal man in his appearance for such a
position. He was faultlessly dressed, of medium size well
proportioned, smoothly shaven face of wonderfully classic
mold, keen black eyes, a shapely head covered with short white
hair and a manner of dignity and reserve. I stated my case to
him and he listend
with interest to my story. But he was
cool,
deliberate and distant, and when I was through he said in a slow
but distinct tone:
"I am glad to meet you and I am glad that you want to
complete your education. No young man is prepared to begin
his work in the ministry until he hast at least taken a thorough
college course. We have a good school at Emory and Henry
and a number of young ministers are there in preparation. Your
tuition will not cost you anything, but your board and incidentals
will cost you in the neighborhood of two hundred dollars per
year. It will take you two, probably three, years to graduate.
That will depend upon how far advanced you are and your
ability to stand the examination. Now if you conclude to come
we will be glad to have you and we will do the best we can for
you."
I asked him if there would be any opportunity for my doing
anything about the college to help me make the two hundred
dollars. He said that he feared not, as there were those already
there who were filling those few places. That settled it with me,
and as we left him I told Brother Pyott that there was no hope
of my going to Emory and Henry College. He said to me: "Let's
hunt Dr. John H. Brunner. He has charge of Hiwassee College
and it's a good school, and I believe that he will arrange for
you to go there."
It was not long until I was introduced to him. He was a very
different looking man from Dr. Wiley. Really they were in
sharp contrast. He was a very tall, large man. He was perhaps
six feet two; had big bones well padded with solid muscles; had
large feet and hands, long arms, well developed head covered
with a sort of sandy hair; had mild eyes and a very amiable
face. He looked like a man of big heart and pleasant, sunny
disposition. His voice was soft and he assumed a sort of
fatherly attitude toward me as he listened sympathetically
to my statement. When I had finished he said to me:
"Where were you born and brought up?"
I had told him I was living forty or fifty miles down in
Georgia; that I was born in Jefferson County, Tennessee, but
was brought up mostly in Cocke County. He continued:
"Are you related to the late Colonel Creed W. Rankin?"
I told him he was my father. The tears came to his eyes as
he said:
"Let me take your hand again. Your father's house used
to be my home when I traveled the Newport Circuit. You
were an infant then. Your father and mother were great friends
of mine and so was your Grandmother Clark. I used to preach
in her house. That was a long time ago, but I still have a very
tender place in my heart for them. Yes, sir; we will arrange for
you to come to Hiwassee College next fall, money or no
money. You finish your plans where you are and I think you
will be able to enter the junior year, and I will be glad for you
to correspond with me in the meantime."
I thanked him heartily and as we left him I told my friend
that I would go to Hiwassee; that such a man as Dr.
Brunner
was the poor boy's friend. And
it was true, as the sequel will abundantly show.
I want to say a few more words about Rev. T. J. Simmons,
the friend who gave me much assistance on my first charge.
He was a man of more than ordinary natural gifts, and had he
gone into the traveling ministry in his early life and devoted
himself to it he would have had more than creditable success.
As a matter of fact he gave a good many years to the work of
traveling as a supply and his work was always successful.
He was good in revivals and had he given himself
even to that sort of work he might have become noted as an
evangelist. But he was a poor man with a large family and he
remained in the local ranks and did what good he could in
connection with his secular employment. He was a man of
overflowing humor and always saw the ridiculous in everything
and in everybody. He was companionable and never failed to
enliven the interest of every circle he entered. He was present
the day Aunt Rachel Stone played havoc with my sermon and
he never lost an opportunity after that to run it on me.
Brother Simmons was quick at repartee. I will give one
illustration of his quick wit. The bridge across the river was
being repaired and a portion of it gave way and precipitated a
number of workmen several feet into the water. One of them
was severely injured. An irreligious man by the name of Hill
met Brother Simmons in a crowd that very day an said to him:
"Tom, you had better be down yonder at the bridge and pray
for that fellow who got hurt awhile ago."
Brother Simmons as quick as lightning replied:
"Never mind, John. If that fellow is no worse hurt and as
badly scared as you were the night you were slightly
wounded when we were on picket duty in front of Altanta he
will follow your example and pray for himself."
John grinned, but had nothing more to say.
I never had a truer friend than Tom Simmons. He stood by
me on three occasions when the grave swallowed up the
remaining members of my family and spoke words of comfort
that I shall never forget. He had the heart of a brother in his
bosom and he was never known to go back on a friend. In later
years he moved to Texas, was a useful preacher, loved the
Church, was Mayor of Denton for one term, but died a year or
so ago and went to his reward. I will always revere his
memory.
About this time Rev. Sam Jones began to make a stir in the
conference. However, it was several years after that before
he became famous as a revivalist. He was on the DeSoto
Circuit just across the river from Rome and only a few miles
below my old charge. I knew him well in those days and a great
deal better in the years following. He created a sensation even
then. He was raw in the ministry and people hardly knew how
to take him, or what to make out of him. It was on this circuit
that he experienced the only lapse after his reformation and
conversion, but fortunately for him and the Church this one was
only temporary.
In all my acquaintance with him, and it was intimate, I never
heard him make the slightest reference to this episode.
It was doubtless a painful and a bitter experience, and he
proceeded to blot it from his memory. It was the result of
overtaxed nerves, and some indiscreet physician prescribed the
use of Hostetter's Bitters as a stimulant and a tonic. Sam Jones
at that time was the last man on earth to tamper with that sort
of a remedy. He took it and this tells the tale. I need not go
into particulars.
Fortunately for him, Rev. Simon Peter Richardson was his
Presiding Elder, and he proved the right man in the right place
at that time. Had a man of less sympathy and less judgment
been in charge of the district the world might not have heard of
Sam Jones. The old Elder was an eccentric character and had
a very original way of his own of saying and doing things. He
had a wonderful admiration for young Jones and saw in him
wondrous possibilities. He loved him like a father loves a son.
And he was strong and wise and a fine judge of human nature.
As soon as he heard of the misfortune he went at once to
the help of the young preacher. He did not go with a frown on
his face and a Discipline in his hand, but with a
heart full of love and kindness. As soon as he entered the
parsonage Sam Jones went to pieces and insisted upon
surrendering his credentials. He thought he had ruined everything.
But the old man hooted at the idea. He said:
"Sam, cheer up, my good fellow; your trouble is that you are
a very rundown and sick man. You need rest and proper
medical treatment. I am here to love you and to stand by you
until you get out of this and are again upon your feet. And when
you are at yourself we will talk this matter all over; but we will
not discuss it now. Stop thinking about it and get well, and you
will be all right. Just as soon as you are recovered I will go
around your circuit with you and make it right. God is good and
patient and he knows how to deal with you. Go to him in
prayer and I will vouch for the result before the people and
before the conference."
And he made his word good. Sam Jones regained his feet
and became one of the most remarkable men of his day and
generation.
Simon Peter Richardson was one of the most unique and
extraordinary men the Methodist ministry ever produced. He
was a bundle of oddities. He could say the most unheard-of
things in his sermons, make the people the maddest and then
put them back into a good humor quicker than any man I ever
heard preach. In person he was angular, had a movement, a
voice and a pulpit manner all his own. He was unlike anybody
else in the world. You could never anticipate him, and he
always said the unexpected. He was brusque and transparent,
and he was as bright as a piece of burnished silver. He sparkled
from every viewpoint. He had a tremendous brain, was a great
student and he was a master of Arminian theology.
He sometimes had discussions with ministers of other
denominations. If they treated him fairly and conformed to the
rules of public controversy he was an agreeable antagonist, but
if they undertook to carry their points by sophistry or to play for
the galleries for popular effect he simply stripped the leaves
from the switches with which he proceeded to scourge them,
and the process was something terrific.
I never grew tired of hearing Brother Richardson. Every
sentence that fell from his lips was something fresh and
startling. Whether in private conversation or in public discourse
he never lacked for interested auditors. Everybody wanted to
hear him when he visited his quarterly meetings. Even when
they did not agree with him in doctrine they were anxious to
listen to what he had to say.
There was never but one Simon Peter Richardson, and it is a
pity that his talents were restricted to such a comparatively
narrow sphere. Had he pushed himself out, like other peculiar
and striking characters I have known, he would have filled as
large a place in the public eye as Lorenzo Dow, Peter
Cartwright or Sam Jones. He had more native talent and a
bigger brain than either of them, and as a reader and a thinker
he surpassed them all. But he was not an ambitious man, cared
nothing for notoriety, was satisfied with the fields assigned him
by the Church and spent his life mostly in Florida and Georgia.
At the close of the term in the Resaca school I had finished
my task and was ready for the junior year in college. I had
informed myself as to what would be required to meet the
conditions, and I had studied to that end. Professor Hodge
gave me every possible assistance and he was of wonderful
help to me. All that I needed was a little more ready cash to
make both ends meet the first year at college. I had three
months before me and determined to make them count.
So I rolled up my sleeves, entered the field and got down to
business. I only needed fifty dollars and I knew I could make
it. I was at home in any sphere of hard work, and after close
application for ten months I needed the outdoor exercise. It
was an exhilaration to me to again use the plow and the hoe,
and it was not long until the pallor left my face and my ruddy
complexion returned. More than that, by the first of September
I had the amount necessary to supplement my limited funds,
and I was satisfied.
I had made good friends and they were well-to-do. They
were kind enough to tell me that if I needed help to call on
them, but from early life I had learned from Wesley's writings
that "debt, dirt and the devil" are the common enemies of man;
and I resolved to steer clear of all of them as far as possible. I
did not want to owe any man anything. And that has been the
rule of my life. With this principle firmly fixed in my mind I put
my money in my pocket, packed my trunk and was off for
Hiwassee College.
Just over the hill and near the roadside was the home of dear
old Dr. Brunner. It was an unpretentious frame structure,
two stories and painted white. It was an old house, but in good
repair. It was the old homestead of the Key family, and that
was the name of Mrs. Brunner's people. Her father was a
local preacher in his day - a grand old man, useful and
prosperous. It had opened its doors from the beginning to
Methodist ministers.
Old Father James Axley, a famous Methodist preacher of
the pioneer days, had been entertained there times without
number. He was a contemporary of Peter Cartwright, had
traveled in the Middle West and finally came South with
Bishop Asbury, and after years of toil in the vineyard settled
some miles from the Key home, and often visited it when he
preached in the community.
Old Brother Key entertained Dr. Brunner in his young days
and gave his daughter in marraige to the young minister, and in
the end the homestead had fallen to her.
Ex-Postmaster General D. M. Key, in President Hayes
Cabinet, was her brother, and had been brought up in that
home. He was afterward a distinguished Federal Judge. It was
an historic old home. The barn, the spring and the meadow
were near by. It was a typical country home of the good old
days. Undulating hills were not far away and they were
crowned with magnificent groves. There was an Arcadian look
about the environment. It was rural and quiet.
In the vale beyond just a half mile was the college building. It
was surrounded at no great distance by hills and oaken groves.
The intervening spaces were interspersed with fields and
wooded forests. Just below the site ran an East Tennessee
stream, not far from the banks of which was a copious spring
gushing from the hill. The building was a long two-story brick
with substantial apartments for chapel, study hall and
classrooms. It was neither majestic nor stately, but it was
substantial and useful.
The old boardinghouse was a few hundred yards away, a
bulky old-fashioned building, arranged in a sort of a livery-stable
style - long, with a hall running the whole length below
and above and small rooms on either side. The old gentleman,
Donald McKinzy, who kept it, was a rare character both in
appearance and in personality. But he suited his position as
though he had been born for it. He had a remarkable memory,
and hence he never kept books of any sort and made no
entries of any kind. He held all his business in his head, and the
strange thing was that he never forgot anything and made no
mistakes in his accounts.
The whole surroundings, buildings, fields, hills, groves and
country homes impressed me favorably. I have always been a
countryman by instinct and training and it has an infatuation for
me even to this good day. I saw at a glance that it was not the
place for young men seeking pleasure or recreation or
adventure. The wealthy and the men of high degree
would seek another place. But it was the place for sons of the
middle classes seeking good advantages under favorable and
inexpensive surroundings. It was the ideal place for the poor
boy whose business at college was to learn and who had but
little money to spend.
There was nothing to divert attention or to distract the
thought or to dissipate the mind. It was the place for solitude,
communion with nature and for sustained mental labor. The sky
was bright, the breezes exhilarating, the fare nourishing and the
course of study extensive and thorough. The teachers were
plain, well qualified and unostentatious men. They were
Young men from nearly a dozen States, just like himself
mostly, were there; something more than a hundred in number,
bent on work. With very few exceptions there was scarcely a
sorry fellow in the bunch. Each one knew what he was
destined to be and his plans were projected to that end. Some
were going to make ministers, others were looking to the bar, a
few were going to study medicine, some were preparing to
teach and a goodly number were going to become farmers. It
was the most determined, robust and hardy set of moral
fellows I have ever seen gathered together. Practically all of
them had a definite object before them. They knew exactly
why they were there and what they intended to do after they
had completed the course and entered upon life's duty. I
seriously doubt if there was ever just another such a bunch of
young men found in any institution of learning. It meant much
to be associated with them.
At the head of them stood old Dr. Brunner, plain,
unobtrusive, clean, lofty and as commanding as an old Roman.
He was large of body and of mind and the magnitude of his
spirit was the striking feature in his splendid personality. He
was every inch a man; quiet, strong, determined and cultured.
You could not look into his open face and imagine that an
impure thought had ever found lodgement in his mind; no
dissimulation, no double-dealing, no sinister purpose, no self-
aggrandizement in his nature, nor did he tolerate such qualities
in his student body. He loved them like sons and trusted them
like patriots. Woe betide the miscreant who ever betrayed his
confidence or imposed upon his indulgence! He was a great
man, a great teacher, a philosopher of the olden type.
I will never forget him as he arose in his stateliness the first
morning after the session was organized and delivered his first
of a series of daily talks to us. They were sententious,
monosyllabic, forceful and packed with wisdom. There was
nothing of eloquence or oratory or studied effect; they were
the simple epigrammatic utterances of a man who had traveled
far along the way of life, had read its books, experienced its
difficulties, mixed with its men and had thus matured himself in
the work of its practical affairs. He was the ideal man and
teacher to lead that bunch of determined, ambitious young men.
I shall always thank God that I was one of that crowd who
began training under him in the long, long ago. He completed in
my life and character all that had been made possible by the
helping hand of old Professor Burkett.
I entered the junior year after the examination and the class
was a large one. In Greek, in Latin, in Mathematics, in the
Sciences and in Literature I had the best of associates. They
were an inspiration to me. I have never seen such persistent
and good-natured rivalry. It was square, open,
honest, gentlemanly. No one cheated, no one sought an undue
advantage; it was wholesome and stimulating.
To dive into those books and touch elbows with those thrifty
fellows was like drinking from the fountain of life. It was a
mental stimulus that generated force and aspiration. We had
our two literary societies and they gave scope and opportunity
for the development and exercise of our gifts and graces as
public speakers. There we met in the arena and measured
swords in the intellectual combats of college life. How the
sparks used to fly in our society debates!
I had nothing to do, fortunately, but to devote myself to
study. By strict economy and frugality I had means barely
sufficient to meet my actual expense, and I measured the
worth of a dollar with scientific accuracy. My clothing was
plain, but simple; and board in that out-of-the-way country
place was exceedingly reasonable. There was no need and not
much opportunity for spending money foolishly, and there was
no boy there who was either able or desirous to indulge in
luxuries.
If I had the time or thought it would be interesting I could
take up the after-lives of many of that class and prove the
beneficial influence of their training by the success they scored
in the various pursuits awaiting them. A number of them
distinguished themselves in the ministry, in the profession of
law, in policits
and in the art of letters. Nearly every
year since
then I have met them here and there in the various walks of
life and I have found them invariably the best type of citizens,
useful and successful.
Hence I have always been impressed with the importance of
the place of the small college in the preparation of boys for
the duties and responsibilities of life. Such was the moral and
religious influence of the place that the faculty sent only
two boys home during my stay of two years in that school, and
they were city boys.
We had a good Church organization; it had been there
for years, and in it we found a snug Church home. We had a
dedication of the new building and Dr. David Sullins preached
the sermon. It was the first time I had ever seen him, though
he was one of the famous preachers of the hill country. He
was President of Sullins' College at Bristol at that time. College
boys have wonderful ideas of oratory and eloquence, and we
all knew something of Dr. Sullins' reputation, and our
expectations soared high when it was announced that he would
dedicate our College Church.
The day came and it was balmy and beautiful. The audience
was large, and when he entered the door we recognized him.
He was then in his prime; tall, wiry, symmetrically developed, a
head that would have done Apollo credit, auburn hair, a
splendid eye and graceful in every movement. His subject was:
"Man's Co-operative Part in the Salvation of the World." That
theme gave him access to every department of Scriptural
treatment, and he made ample use of the liberty thus accorded
him. What a rich voice! Its tones were like the rhythmic brook
and his inflections were as soft and elastic as the zephyrs of
spring. He took occasion in the progress of his sermon to take
up the different books of the Bible in order to show how God
used the temperaments, the intellect and predilections of men
as the media through which to make a revelation of the divine
to the human. When he came to the Psalms he dwelt upon that
passage: "As the hart panteth after the water brooks so
panteth my soul after thee, oh God." And he pointed out how
David, when chased and hounded by the enemy in after life,
thought of one of the pastoral incidents in his shepherd
experience. Then he
described a deer with the deep bay and hot breath of the
pursuing hounds upon its track; how it flew upon the wings of
the wind, up the mountain, down the gorge, across the field and
over the hill with dogs coming closer and closer as it became
heated and exhausted in the chase; and when it looked like the
little animal was ready to fall from weariness and thirst it
plunged into the stream and found refreshment from all peril as
it submerged its body and floated out of sight and danger; and
when he reached that thrilling period the boys forgot
themselves and broke out into a lusty hand-clapping. We had all
been in a deer chase many a time and the picture was so
life-like that we forgot we were in Church.
We had our annual revival and the meeting was a time of
refreshing from the presence of the Lord. We had a fine old
man, Uncle Jimmy Smith, as our pastor. He was not a learned
man, but he was genuinely religious, and he was a man of
striking personality. Nearly all those old hill preachers in
Holston had marks that differentiated them from nearly all
other men with whom I have been associated. They stood out
in some distinct way and had some special endowment that
gave to them a style of ministry all their own.
Uncle Jimmy was one of that type. He was a large and
rather bulky man; had a red head mingled with gray and his
hair was short and bristly. It looked like a heavy frost had
recently fallen upon it. His face was florid and looked as
though a dull razor had just gone over it. He had a rasping
voice. There was not an element of oratory or a strain of
eloquence in his makeup. He even had the old Hardshell twang
and was liberal with small white balls of spittle when he
warmed up to his subject. But he had ideas and he had religion,
and we all loved him. But his preaching was far from the
college boy's conception.
He was really embarrassed every time he appeared before
us. During the year I was with him at a District Conference.
Dr. E. E. Wiley was present. Uncle Jimmy made a speech on
some subject, but it was hard to tell what he was driving at. Dr.
Wiley concluded to have a little fun at the old man's expense
and he arose in a humorous manner to a point of order. The
chairman told him to state his point. Uncle Jimmy stopped short
and stood and looked at him. The Doctor in a very facetious
manner said:
"Mr. Chairman, I suggest that Brother Smith stop long
enough to show us the point."
The conference enjoyed the interruption, but Uncle Jimmy
was ready for him. When the merriment ceased the old man
went right on in the same vehement manner with which he
was speaking when interrupted and said:
"Mr. Cheerman, I can make pints, but I can't give men like
Dr. Wiley brains to see 'um."
It brought down the house, but it brought Dr. Wiley further
down than it did the house. He did good service on that circuit,
but the next year the conference sent a younger man. Uncle
Jimmy was disappointed, said he did not like to move, for it
made him seasick to ride on a train.
At the close of the college year I had made good progress,
passed all my examinations and was advanced to the senior
class. I went back to Georgia to spend my vacation. My
money was all gone and it was necessary for me to hustle
during the summer months in order to replenish my finances
for the next year.
I began to cast about for some sort of a job. One day Rev.
P. G. Reynolds, the pastor on the Calhoun Circuit, close to
where my uncle was then living, called over to see the family,
and when he found me there he said that I was the very
fellow he was looking for; that he wanted to begin a meeting at
Mount Horeb, several miles in the country, and that he wanted
me to go along and help him in the meeting.
Well, I had not fallen onto anything yet and thought I had just
as well go with him and give him a few days in the services,
thinking that something might turn up out there that I could do.
It was in a fine community of excellent people. They were
sturdy and well-to-do farmers. After the second day Brother
Reynolds was called home on account of sickness in his family
and turned the meeting over to me. I took hold of it in my
own way.
I organized twenty-five or thirty of the best members into an
evangelistic campaign, in squads of two and two, and gave
direction to them to visit every house within a radius of five
miles and hold prayers with the family and tell them about the
meeting, and to urge them to attend. I went with one of them.
It had its magic effect. That night the house was packed and
so was the altar. Then every day and night for ten days the
meeting reached a high tide. Nearly everybody in the
community out of the Church was converted. It was a great
meeting. Among them was a little bright-faced, sun-tanned boy
twelve or fourteen years of age. At the closing service I took
all their names to carry back to Brother Reynolds so that he
could return in a few days to receive them into the Church.
That little boy's name was W. W. Watts, now one of the
leading members of the Texas Conference.
As I stepped into the buggy to be driven back to town old
Brothers Watts, White and Stanton came up and expressed
their great appreciation of my services. It rather embarrassed
me, for I did not realize that I had done anything much. And
as they told me good-bye they handed me a sealed letter. I
thought it was given to me to mail when I reached town.
After I had gotten out three or four miles the brother who was
driving me said he was anxious to know what was in that letter.
The fact is, he already knew, but I was as ignorant of its
contents as a child. I had not the remotest suspicion. When I
told him we would drop it in the office when we got to town he
laughed and said:
"No, we won't, either. You open that letter; it is addressed
to you, boy."
I pulled it out and sure enough it was to me. I opened it and
it contained a note of thanks and three twenty-dollar bills! It
knocked the breath out of me, and to save my life I could not
keep from breaking down and crying like a child. Nobody out
there knew my condition except myself. I never dreamed of
receiving a cent from those people. How did they know it? I
never did find out unless either Brother Reynolds or the good
Lord gave them the information. It was a Godsend to me. It
solved my next year's problem. I knew that I could supplement
it with enough to almost carry me through the next year. It was
not long until I was at work making the necessary balance.
And when the vacation closed I was prepared to continue
my work.
Nearly every boy was back in his place and we had a very
large senior class. We at once got down to business. My, but it
was a year of application and progress! Dr. Brunner gave us
every encouragement. We went into those books like Trojans
and cleaned them up as fast as we reached them. We kept up
our society work. This was a great advantage. We made
progress in the art of public speech; and right here I want to
record one interesting incident. I might record many, but this
one will be illustrative of many. It will give the reader an idea
of the sort of material we had in that school.
There had come to the college a young fellow from one of
the remote rural districts of Georgia by the name of Clay. That
year he was a junior. He was an awkward fellow, bright,
opened-eyed and alert. He was a member of my society. As
the term advanced we had a joint discussion between
representative juniors in the two societies. Clay was one of
those from our side. I was appointed to take charge of him,
help him with his speech and groom him for the public
occasion. I began to prepare him, helped him to write his
speech, took him out every evening for a week prior to the
time, had him to mount a log and repeat his speech to me; and I
would criticise his gestures, his pronunciation and so on. The
evening before the discussion he did well and I complimented
him and told him that we ought to win on his effort if he would
do that well before the judges. He jumped up in the style of the
country boy, cracked his heels together and said he was sure to
do his part.
Then we sat down on the log and had a general talk. I asked
him what his plans were after he had finished the course, for
every boy there had his plans. He grew enthusiastic and said:
"I am going back to Georgia and locate in Marietta, my county
town, and study law. Then I am going to hang out my shingle
and practice until I make some money, then I am going to the
Legislature. The next year I will go to the State Senate and
become Speaker of that body, and then I am going to
Congress."
I looked at him and smiled and told him that he had cut out a
big job. "Yes, but you keep your eye on me," he said.
He asked me what my plan was. I told him I would join the
Holston Conference the following fall, consecrate myself to the
ministry and become a useful preacher. He said: "That's all
right, but there's not much money in it.
If you'll make a big one you'll have a wide opportunity to
distinguish yourself, but if you are only to be a one-horse
Methodist preacher it won't amount to much. I'd be a big one
or none."
I have long since forgotten how Clay acquitted himself that
night, or which side won the victory, but I have never forgotten
the inspiration that played in that young fellow's face as he
sat there and unfolded his plans to me. And now, diverging
from the time I am writing long enough to follow that boy out
several years in life, I will say that he carried out his plan to
the letter, and while Speaker of the Georgia Senate the
Legislature elected the successor to the late General John B.
Gordon and his name was Senator Alexander Stephens Clay!
He served two terms in the United States Senate and was just
entering upon his third when, two years ago, he was stricken
with illness and died, mourned by the whole State. He did what
he started out to do.
I spoke just now of old Father Axley, and while it is not
connected with my experience at college, yet the incident is
interesting and it did happen before my day right there in that
community, and I will record it. It was told me many years
afterward by Judge D. M. Key. The Judge was not a religious
man and did not set much store by things of that sort at that
time. He afterwards became a Churchman. It was far back in
his boyhood, and I will let him relate it:
"It was in the early summer after we had worked out the
crop a time or two when a protracted drouth
struck the
community. For weeks we had no rain, the creeks dried up, the
ground was turned to dust, the corn was twisted and almost
blistered, the grass was parched, we were suffering for water
and it looked like ruin and want were going to overtake us. My
father and the people generally became alarmed and they
appointed a day for fasting and prayer and sent for Father
Axley to come and conduct the services. We gathered just
below the college under the campground pavilion early. It was
Sunday morning. The people began to sing and pray. About ten
o'clock we looked up the road and saw the old man coming
along slowly through the dust on his horse. He rode up and
hitched and came into the pulpit. He was an old man and very
stern. Boys fought shy of him. There was something awfully
solemn in his face and manner. He made us think of the
Judgment.
"He arose and announced a hymn and called us to prayer. I
shall never forget that petition as long as I live. It was the most
fearful confession of the sins of the people that ever fell on
mortal ears. He told God that we were getting exactly what we
deserved, only it was not severe enough; that we had forfeited
all right to mercy or help; that we merited the damnation of
hell, and that we had no ground of hope until we had
sufficiently repented in sackcloth and ashes. It made the cold
chills creep over me and the cold sweat broke out on my face
as he proceeded. Then he changed his tactics and called the
attention of God to the innocent birds dying of thirst, to the
insects that were suffering, to the fishes in the pools that were
perishing and to the poor cattle that had committed no wrong,
and asked the Lord to turn his thought away from the
wickedness of man for the moment and have mercy upon the
innocent creatures suffering on account of man's ingratitude,
sinfulness and untold iniquities, and to send the early and the
latter rain to them. The men and the women and the children
cried aloud as they became overwhelmed with a sense of fear
and penitence under the awe-inspiring petition of the old man. I
have never witnessed just such a scene. His prayer must have
lasted over an hour.
"When he saw the effect he closed and told them now to
hasten home, that God would visit them with rain. I was
frightened out of my wits and I climbed over the fence and
started on a run through the field a near way home. When I
reached the top of the hill I heard it thunder and I looked and
saw a dark cloud rapidly approaching; before I reached the
gate the heavens seemed to open and the rain came down in
torrents and blinded me. Many of the people were so
thoroughly drenched that they were almost drowned. The
whole earth was soaked and we made fine crops. Now I do
not know whether the prayer of Father Axley had anything to
do with that rain or not, but these are the facts beyond doubt."
I have visited time and again the grave of Father Axley.
When Bishop McTyeire was writing the History of Methodism
he visited that section and I took him to that historic spot.
As he gazed at the long old grave he said it may not be
remembered by many, but James Axley came within four
votes once being elected to the Episcopacy.
Now returning to my school experience at Hiwassee, the
commencement occasion soon came round. It was a gala day.
We were in our best attire. The country smiled beautifully. The
crowd was large, as was always the case. The examinations
were passed, the speeches made, the honors announced, the
fatherly address delivered by Dr. Brunner, the diplomas given
and the degrees conferred, and we were all ready to say
good-bye and turn in the direction of home.
How different my feelings from those when I left Student's
Home! Then I was run down in health, worn by toil,
oppressed by burdens too heavy to bear, exhausted from
lack of proper nourishment, my work only begun, with
the hope of the future not overly bright and no visible
provision for the
next step in life. But I had gone through Hiwassee like a white
boy and had not repeated the experience of hardship, of
blistering toil, of trembling fears, of pressing want, of groveling
poverty, of sleepless nights through which I had passed in the
former school. I had completed the course with my head up,
my pocket reasonably supplied, my wants met, my hope
buoyant, my task completed and with my future inviting.
Yes, I was ready for the work of my life and my heart was
throbbing with the fullness of my purpose and desire to plunge
into it, and the loving benediction of dear old Dr. Brunner
resting upon my head and my heart.
I was as happy as a boy without a wish or a care. Like the
eagle long imprisoned in his narrow cage, when liberated
plumes his pinions and cleaves the air in his proud flight to greet
the king at the gates of day, so I was thrilled with the thought
that at last the bars of my prison doors were broken and I was
ready to try my strength in the intellectual heavens of a
newborn era.
My whole being was aflame with the feeling that my school
days were ended and that my face, luminous with the glow of
an enlarged hope, was then turning towards the goal of a long-
cherished ambition amid the sphere of life's chosen vocation.
So with a bounding spirit I bade the venerable President, the
indulgent professors and the congenial classmates a fond adieu
and hastened my footsteps toward the humble home where
there was a joyous welcome awaiting me.
It was a Presbyterian community and thickly settled. They
could not understand how I became a Methodist, but they had
me to preach on Sunday. I must have met several hundred
kinsmen. My grandfather's old home was only seven miles
away, but he was dead and my two favorite aunts were
married and gone. My old Dutch step-grandma was living, but
I had no desire to see her or to revisit the scenes of my
strenuous two years of boyhood life at that place.
From thence I visited school friends at Warrensburg, a
country town in Greene County, on the beautiful Nola Chucky;
and in company with three companionable young men we made
the journey by private conveyance. The road lay along the
tortuous banks of the French Broad, along an opening cut by
the stream through the Blue Ridge Range.
The railway now occupies the old roadbed, but then no steam
engine had ever sounded its shrill whistle through those
mountains and gorges. It was an inspiring trip through the
most romantic section of that far-famed "Land of the Sky".
The beauties and variable tints of an autumnal season were
scattered in profusion over the pristine forests, and it would
take the genius and the pen of an artist to do that picture
full justice.
On the evening of the third day we reached Asheville, a
picturesque town nestled amid the foothills of the frowning
Blue Ridge. At that time, far removed from easy access to the
outside world, the town had a life all its own; quiet, hospitable,
social and intelligent. And there were evidences of prosperity.
The Church was strong even then. That was my second view
of the Holston Conference, noted for its orators and eloquent
men. My interest was not so intense as at first, as I had gotten
somewhat used to such gatherings. Still my interest was great.
I gazed upon a number of aged men whom I had seen in the
years gone by at my grandmother's home, but they did not
remember me. I was timid and made myself known to but few
of them. Among the leaders at that time were Jno. M.
McTeer, George W. Miles, A. J. Frazier, Grincefield Taylor,
David Sullins, Frank Richardson, B. W. S. Bishop, C. T.
Carroll, E. E. Wiley, Carroll Long, S. W. Wheeler and others. I
eyed them and studied them with care.
Bishop Doggett, stately and majestic, presided. He was the
same superior-looking dignitary whom I saw in the chair at
Chattanooga. One day as he came out of the building near
where I stood I timidly approached him and introduced myself
to him, the first Bishop whose hand I had ever grasped. But he
was so dignified and measured that I felt overawed and
abashed and retreated from his presence as soon as possible.
On Sunday he preached a great sermon. He never preached
any other kind. His subject was the "Two Resurrections: the
Spiritual and the Bodily". And it was a masterful effort. Its
effect was wonderful. After his death a volume of those great
sermons was published by our House, but not even one edition
of them was exhausted. To me this is incomprehensible. No
such finished pulpit orations have ever been put into Southern
Methodist literature. But they failed utterly to strike a popular
chord when committed to cold, dead print.
I do not remember anything specially interesting that
transpired at that conference, except the reading of the
appointments. This part of any conference session is always
interesting. Along with a large class I was received into the
conference and I was read out junior preacher under Dr. J. H.
Keith, on the Marion Circuit, Smyth County, Virginia. I had
never heard of the place before, but the next morning with my
three companions I started back down the same road over
which we had come in order to reach the East Tennessee and
Virginia Railroad to take passage for my field of labor. All four
of us were assigned work back in Tennessee except myself.
With high hopes and buoyant spirits we discussed our plans and
prospects. I was transported with the thought that I had been
received into the conference and was given a place to work. It
made no difference to me if it was away up in Virginia where
everything and everybody were strange to me. It was an open
field and that was enough for me.
When I reached Marion I found it the shire town of
Smyth, situated in one of the most beautiful blue-grass
valleys in the world. A branch of the Holston River
flowed through it and the mountains in the distance and on
either side guarded its
sanctity like supernatural sentinels. It is one of the most
beautiful sections of country upon which my eyes have ever
gazed. Throughout the county I found the people well-to-do
farmers and cattlemen; thrifty, hardy, moral and intelligent
Many of them had been educated at Emory and Henry
College, not far below. The town itself was made up of most
excellent people.
The very afternoon that I arrived a man came in from
Greenwood Church to see if either one of the new preachers
had come. He said they had a good meeting in progress. I
joined him and held service that night. I remained a day or two
and dropped out long enough to go back to town and preach
Sunday morning. In the afternoon I went to Mount Carmel,
three miles up the valley, and preached. In the progress of my
discourse Uncle John Killinger, whom I did not know, got
happy and emitted a regular warwhoop that knocked me clear
off the track. He often did that, as I afterwards learned. That
night I held service again in town. I was given a splendid
reception. I was the first young preacher that they had ever
had on that circuit, and the young people took to me. On my
way home after service to spend the night with old Brother
Henry Sprinkle I overheard a conversation among some girls.
One of them said: "Well, he has knocked all our chance at him
out, for he distinctly said that 'he was determined not to know
anything among us except Christ and him crucified'." The
remark was a little irreverent, but it was witty.
My cash had run low, I had no horse and the railway did not
reach the remote portions of the work. So imagine my surprise
when one day a committee waited on me and presented me a
spanking black horse with a brand-new saddle, bridle and
saddlebags. He was a beauty. I was never so set
up in all my life. He was the pride of the valley. I learned to
love him like a brother. And my love for those good people had
no words to express itself. I did not spend much time in town,
but careered over that valley and those hills and among the
hospitable families on the work.
I finished the meeting at Greenwood and plunged into
another one down at Mount Zion. It was on the river out in
the mountains among a mining population. They worked the
Baryta mines. A few were substantial farmers. The meeting
developed a marvelous interest from the word go. The house
was crowded and the altar was filled with penitents at every
service. It was the noisiest meeting I ever attended. Sometimes
it was tumultuous.
One morning I wanted to talk to the penitents, but the
confusion was so great that I could not be heard. I finally
succeeded in getting them all quiet but one big fat German. In
spite of himself he would continue to shout out in a suppressed
voice: "Religion has a power in it." I remarked to him: "Yes,
Paul made that discovery several centuries ago." That touched
him off and he rejoined: "Vell, von ting vas sure and dat vas
Paul's head vas level von time." That started the thing off and I
made no further effort to quiet it.
In that meeting I had scores of conversions, but one of them
was the most remarkable in my experience. It was Z. N.
Harris. He was a heavy-set fellow, about forty years old, with
a striking face, a big head covered with reddish hair and a long,
flowing beard of the same complexion. He had the most
determined look upon his face that I had ever seen. At one of
the night services he was present - the first time he had ever
been seen at Church. To the surprise of everybody he came to
the altar and became greatly concerned. He said to me:
"Preacher, I am the hardest case you ever tackled.
I am as mean as the Devil. For years my life has been an
awful life. Do you reckon there's any chance for me?" I
encouraged him all I could, but he left without any comfort.
On my way home to spend the night with Brother Meek he
said: "That man Harris is the terror of this community. He
dropped in here a few years ago after the war and took up with
a woman and they have been living away up the river in a wild
sort of place. I believe he is a wildcat distiller. He is a
professional gambler. He spends much of his time following the
courts around when they are in session plying his trade. He is a
dangerous man and keeps the worst sort of a crowd about
him. Decent people never go near his home. If he is converted
in the meeting it will be a great blessing to us all."
The next morning Harris was back at service at the altar. He
seemed much troubled. At the close of the service I had
another talk with him. Among other things, I advised him to go
to town and get a license and let me marry him to the woman
who was then only his common-law wife. He wanted to know
if that would do any good, that they had four children. I
explained to him that it would be complying with God's law.
That night we had a great crowd. During the preliminaries
some one handed me the marriage license. I stated the nature
of the document and requested the parties to come forward,
and Harris from the men's side and the woman from the
women's side came to the altar. I proceeded to marry them and
the congregation certainly craned their necks and looked at
each other in astonishment. I preached from the text: "How
camest thou in, hither not having on the wedding garment?"
Harris and his wife were the first to prostrate themselves at the
mourner's bench. I have never seen greater
anguish. The people prayed and we talked to them until late.
By and by Mrs. Harris came through with a long, loud shout of
praise and it electrified the congregation. We had quite a
scene. Harris struggled on and about midnight he sprang from
his knees and made the welkin ring with his praises. It was the
old-time religion. The audience went wild and I stood in the
pulpit and watched them. It was hardly safe for me anywhere
else. It was a glorious scene.
At the close Harris came to me and said: "Preacher, you
must go home with me and spend the night." He mounted his
horse with his wife behind him and we started up the stream,
winding in and out along the many curves and indentures.
When we reached his residence it was situated in a natural
basin among the hills with a goodly section of open land around
him. It was a log house with two rooms and a loft. I went in
while he cared for the horses. He entered and stirred the fire
and seated himself and proceeded:
"Preacher, this is the first time that a good man has ever
been in this hut. Your sort are strangers here. Now I want to
wake up the kids and have 'em baptized. Then I want you to
dedicate this home. We've gone into this business and we want
to go the whole hog."
I baptized the four children and then in a prayer dedicated the
home. He took me up the ladder to the loft where there was a
strange sort of bed; and with all sorts of covering over me and
a fine opportunity to study astronomy through the cracks, I
never slept more delightfully in my life. The next morning he
gathered up several decks of cards and threw them into the fire
and he dumped three or four ugly-looking old army pistols and a
few savage knives into the stream. He went at the new life in
the most business-like sort of way. He told me much of his past
life, and it was as thrilling as a
romance mixed with the dramatic and the tragic. It would
make a book within itself and it would read like a yellow-back
novel, except it would contain the truth.
When Dr. Keith arrived upon the work I had more than one
hundred applicants ready for Church membership. They were
there and at other places. We made Z. N. Harris a steward
and a Sunday-school superintendent, and he became as zealous
in the cause of righteousness as he had been in his life of
wickedness. He never had but one setback, and that did not last
long. A bully in the neighborhood who did not like him, anyway,
took advantage of his Church relation to try to impose on him
one day and attacked him. The old habit got the upper hand of
Harris and that man had the rest of his life to repent of his
mistake. But it cost Harris his liberty for a season. He came
out of it all right and several years after that I asked the
preacher at conference, who had traveled that charge the
previous year, how Harris was doing, and he informed me that
he was the same earnest and devoted man to the Church.
We had a great year. Dr. Keith was a most lovable man and
he treated me with every kindness. We had good meetings at
all our societies. It was one of the happiest years of my life. I
had a great time with the good country people. It was in the
midst of sugar orchards. They made tree sugar, and many a
night I stood around the campfires and helped the young people
stir off syrup and tree sugar. I had great influence with them.
Some of the best friends of my life I made on that circuit. I
have namesakes to this day scattered over it. The good women
knit hose for me, the young ladies supplied me with yarn gloves
and nubias, the merchants furnished me with clothes, even
shoes were presented to me. I scarcely had a dollar of
expense. I had seventeen appointments
and usually I preached every other day and twice or
three times on Sunday. They gave me that fine horse and paid
me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash.
The year drew to a close. But before starting for conference
I must tell you about a special friend on that work and my
experience with him at his old father's home. His name was
Mitch Burkitt, but not related to my old Tennessee teacher. He
was tall and gangling, with claybank hair and complexion and
his long, shaggy beard was of a flaxen hue. His face was long
and bony. He was horridly ugly and not overly smart. But all
that he lacked in good looks and intelligence he more than
made up in goodness. He took a great fancy to me because I
was kind to his old father and used to go out to his home in
Brushy Mountain and hold service for him, since he was not
able to get out to the Church.
The first time I did this a funny thing happened to me. The
house was a log building, long and substantial, but unsightly.
And it occupied a lonesome-looking spot. The big room was
cleared after supper and planks were brought in to make
improvised seats. The neighbors had been invited and quite a
company gathered. After the service I noticed that a number
of the elderly and a few of the younger women lingered. After
awhile Mitch escorted me to the second floor by a rude sort of
stairway. I found one long room up there running the length of
the house. On either side there were two big fat feather beds
standing up high and one at the end. It was not long until I had
climbed up and tumbled into one of them head and ears and
pulled the good homemade blankets and quilts over me for a
night of rest.
I did not immediately fall to sleep, and after a short time
Mitch came up to the head of the stairs and softly called me.
I listened and heard nothing more from him, and as I lay
there quietly I heard two of those women tip upstairs as
noiselessly as two cats and stealthily undress and get into a bed
just across the room. Directly two others tipped up and did
likewise, and so on until all four of those beds were full. I lay
there as quietly as a mouse and fell into a sound sleep. I awoke
after daylight and was afraid to turn over, much less look out. I
was in an embarrassing predicament and wondered how on
earth I was to be extricated. But deliverance soon came. Mitch
came bounding awkwardly up the steps and shouted: "It's time
to roust out Br'er Rankins. Breakfast's 'bout ready." I threw
back the cover and all four of those beds were in the same
condition I had found them when I climbed the steps the night
before! Those good woman
had slipped out as noiselessly
before day as they had tome up the night before, made up the
beds and were gone. And nobody ever knew but myself that
they spent the night in that room with me in the home of old
Brother Burkitt.
I had one more experience with Mitch. It was at my last
appointment at Fulton's Chapel, the Church that he attended. I
had already prepared my farewell sermon and preached it at
the other places on the work. It was on the regulation
text - "Finally, brethren, farewell," etc.
It was tender and
touching. A large congregation greeted me. I preached
effectively and moved their sympathies greatly. It was a
sobbing time. They would look on my face no more and they
were in tears. At the close they flocked round me and shook
my hand tenderly and affectionately. They loved me.
After they were through Mitch, who had been standing off
blubbering, came round and grasped my hand and said: "Br'er
Rankins, it most breaks my heart to say good-bye. D'u reckon
I'll never see you no more?" I told him no, that I would not
return. Then he sobbed and said: "Ef I thought
you'd never come back I'd sho have you to preach my funeral
'fore you leave these here diggins."
Now this was the greatest compliment that he could have
paid me when it is remembered that in that country it was
common for a neighborhood to save up two or three funerals
sometimes for three or four years and then invite their favorite
minister back to preach them on some great day. But it so
happened that the next year I was sent to the adjoining circuit
and had one appointment not far from the Burkitt home and
preached to Mitch every time I went to that appointment. But
the ridiculousness of the experience made that the last farewell
sermon I ever tried to preach. The old custom, however, has
long ago passed out of use.
During that year I made the acquaintance of that celebrated
preacher, the Rev. W. E. Munsey, D. D., the most noted
preacher that the Holston Conference has ever produced. Our
District Conference, with Rev. George W. Miles in the chair,
met at Floyd Courthouse, and Munsey was present. His health
had recently failed under the strain of his pastorate in Baltimore
and he was back in the hill country to recuperate. While taking
this needed rest he would occasionally preach or lecture. It
was my privilege at this gathering to see much of him and to
hear one of his marvelous sermons. Though rundown in body
he was in the zenith of his fame as a preacher. His name was
on everybody's lips in all that section. He was the pulpit and
platform wonder of that day. No such man had ever appeared
before the listening throngs of that generation and his presence
inspired great interest and expectation.
He was a very peculiar-looking man. There was something
almost abnormal in his personal appearance. He was very tall
and slender. His arms and limbs were long and ungainly.
His head was not unusually large, rather cone-like in
shape and as innocent of hair as a peeled onion. It is said that
in his studious moments of abstraction it had been his habit for
years to pluck out his hair all unconscious of what he was
doing. I am prepared to believe this story, for while seated
behind him one morning at Church he was constantly trying to
get hold of his hair while listening to the sermon, but there was
none for his fingers to touch. It was all gone.
His eyes were small and deeply set, his nostrils and lips were
thin and his complexion almost saffron. He looked like a
walking skeleton. And in his absent-mindedness, when in
motion or in repose, he looked like a wild man. In the private
circle he was as simple as a child. There was nothing repellent
in his manner; anybody could approach him. He was confiding
and at times helpless in his disposition. Children were fond of
him, and I have seen him turn away from admiring grown
people and actually play with the little tots around the fireside.
He had a good sense of humor and occasionally would relate
an anecdote, but for the most part he was serious and somber.
Frequently he seemed lost in reverie and he looked like a
man living in dreamland. I observed him now and then as he sat
in the company of his friends, or as with a quick jerk he would
rise and walk back and forth across the floor, and he would be
wholly unconscious of his surroundings. To me he was the
most pleading and pathetic man I ever knew. When looking at
you in private conversation his eyes seemed to appeal to you
for sympathy and confidence.
His intellect was of an extraordinary type. He was
wonderfully gifted with genius. He possessed powers of
analysis of a high order. There was consecutiveness in his
thinking. He had the gift of penetration, and his ability to
concentrate
his attention surpassed anything I have ever known. He could
positively hold his thought upon a given subject just like a
physician holds the X-ray on the object of his examination. His
memory was positively prodigious. I doubt if he ever forgot
anything he read or heard. He combined the elements of the
poet, the logician, the philosopher, the orator - a combination
rarely found in one personality.
He was a profound student, a voracious reader, a systematic
thinker and an idealist of the loftiest character. No wonder he
was abnormal. In fact, there were times when he lived in close
proximity to the borderland of insanity. Hence the rules that
govern ordinary men were not applicable to him, and his
conduct could not always be judged by the same standards that
applied to normal men. He was the only one of his class.
As a preacher, it is difficult to describe Dr. Munsey. Often I
used to listen to him in wonder and astonishment and try to
study him, his style, his subject-matter, his magnetism, profound
thought, his unique vocabulary, his diction, his sublime flights of
oratory, his rhythmic eloquence and his poetic instinct; but he
gripped me with such a spell of influence and subtle force that
all my effort was impotent. I would sit and wonder and admire
until I was lost amid the mazes of the man's wondrous powers
of thought and speech and action. It was like the charm of
magic; at times it was oppressive.
At the District Conference, when I heard him the first time,
it was at the evening service and his subject was "The Lost
Soul", and it gave full play to his wondrous gifts and
marvelous powers. He had his manuscript before him, but
rarely ever made any use of it. During the first few minutes
his strange voice was rather husky and pitched on a high
key. His manner was nervous and jerky and he seemed ill at
ease.
His weird presence and his wild, unnatural look gave me the
creeps and I sat and looked and wondered. I had possessed the
same feeling in my boyhood days in passing a haunted house
after nightfall. But suddenly his whole presence and attitude
changed. He looked like another being. His form became erect,
his movements easy and graceful and his uncanny voice took
on all the mellifluent variations of the gamut. His eyes kindled
into a stranger luster, his countenance brightened with an
unearthly glow, his fiery thought broke forth like a volcano in
action, and his words poured out like smoking torrents of lava.
His imagination, bold, royal and creative, threw pictures of
awful grandeur before my eyes until I was dazzled into a spell
of oblivion. I was for the time being unconscious of the real
world in which I was living. I was transported to a new world,
a world of disembodied spirits, a frightful world, a world of
interminable night, a world far removed from God and hope, a
world whose dismal caverns were echoing and re-echoing with
the spectral cry, "Lost, lost, lost, lost!"
At this juncture a man fainted in the audience and broke
the terrible strain of tension, and when I came to myself and
looked around me we were all standing, as one person,
leaning toward the preacher in an attitude of expectancy. I had
read of such a scene, but that was the only time in my life that
I ever saw it and constituted a part of it.
This was Dr. W. E. Munsey, the product of the Holston
pulpit, the man who never went to school, yet the man who
had read everything and almost mastered every available
department of knowledge; the prodigy of the pulpit in the hill
country, the man with a meteoric career, whose end was so
sudden and so pathetic. I heard him in a private talk to a
crowd of us young preachers one day say:
"Boys, study to be great and useful preachers, but eschew a
reputation. My reputation as a preacher has been my snare.
People will not let me do otherwise than strive to meet
expectations, and to gratify them I have immolated myself upon
the altar of my reputation and genius. I have almost worshiped
at the shrine of my intellect; and to-day when I ought to be in
the prime of my useful manhood I am practically a walking
wreck physically and on the verge of ruin intellectually."
He spoke earnestly, but in answer to questions we asked
him. It was my fortune to hear him often, but it was not long
after that conversation until his aching nerves found surcease
from pain in the sleep of death, and the generous grave swept
away forever the clouds that gathered around the sunset of his
brilliant life.
The Methodist pulpit never saw his like before and it will
never behold his like again. He had no predecessor, and it is
certain that he will never have one to succeed him. Solitary,
unique and original, he stands out in history alone as the only
one of his type among all the preachers of world-wide
Methodism.
She belonged to an old South Carolina family and they were
Methodists from time immemorial. She was well educated,
refined and accustomed to the ways of polite society; but
above all she was devoutly religious and devoted to the
Church. As a result from that day until the present time she
has been a faithful wife, a self-sacrificing mother and an
earnest worker in the Church of Christ.
She accepted from the beginning all the hardships of the
itinerant ministry and she has gone with me from pillar to post
without murmuring or complaining. She has done her part to
make my service to the Church unreserved and complete. Her
children and her home have been her delight and her life and
mine have been a unit in our effort to bring up our household in
the fear of God and to make the gospel of his Son the chief
object in our thoughts and labors. She is
still my support and stay in the work which the Church has
committed to my hand.
Knoxville at that time was the leading city in East
Tennessee, even as it is to-day. It is situated on the French
Broad River and it is beautiful for location and the joy of all
that fertile section. Methodism was strong at that point and it
gave to the conference a royal entertainment.
Bishop McTyeire presided, and this was the first time I ever
saw him. He was a massive man in person, strong and solid,
rather slow in his movement and speech, with a great head
poised on a big neck. He looked more like a great jurist than a
Bishop. His voice was deep and commanding and he was the
acknowledge legal mind of the Church. He was an authority in
all matters of Church usage and parliamentary law.
As a preacher he was not fascinating in his style; he was
deliberate and ponderous. He was an expositor pure and
simple. He delighted in difficult texts and he always gave an
audience something worthy of their thought, but he was not
entertaining to the masses of his congregations. He was a
wonderfully instructive preacher, lucid in his thinking, profound
in his analysis, clear in his statements and comprehensive in his
treatment of his themes.
Some years before that he held the conference for the first
time, and around the table of a fashionable home the host, the
hostess and a number of guests were discussing the Bishop's
sermon and they had unanimously come to the conclusion that
he was a poor preacher. About that time the Rev. R. N. Price
walked in and joined the company at dinner. He was a very
original sort of man himself, but a trifle eccentric and witty. He
was also a man of more than ordinary mind and fine
attainments. The hostess said to him:
"Brother Price, we have just been discussing the Bishop
as a preacher and we have reached a unanimous verdict, but
before we announce it we want your opinion of him."
He replied: "Well, madam, he is a very poor preacher for
fools."
The verdict was reserved for another occasion and all
responded in a laugh. But Brother Price sized up Bishop
McTyeire as a preacher. He was supremely great in his
treatment of a text, but not popular in his manner of delivery.
He has long since passed away, but in history he stands out as
one of the greatest Bishops of Episcopal Methodism.
At this conference I saw for the first time Rev. O. P.
Fitzgerald, D. D., the editor of the Nashville Christian
Advocate. He wore a suit of clothes made of blue jeans. He
told us that it was presented to him by a good old North
Carolina woman and that he was proud of it. I must confess
that it did not impress me favorably. I got the idea that it was
for effect. I suppose I was wrong. I heard him preach, but the
sermon was ordinary; it was a good exhortation. But he was
the most popular editor the Nashville Christian Advocate has
ever had. We spoiled a fine editor when several years
afterwards we made him a Bishop. He was a good man, but
never a strong Bishop. He was an ideal editor.
Rev. J. B. McFerrin, the tribune of the people, was present, I
think in the interest of our Board of Missions. I had seen him
before, but not at close range. I met him this time and saw and
heard much of him. He was a remarkable man. In person he
was bulky, with a sort of a swinging motion when he walked,
had a peculiarly-shaped head with well-developed powers of
perception; a rugged face, a nasal twang in his voice, a winning
personality, and full of wit and humor. He was a self-made
man, a fine judge of human nature, acquainted
with the practical affairs of life and a most genial and
companionable man. He was not difficult to approach, and his
greatness never oppressed me.
It was my pleasure in after life to know him intimately, and
in many respects the Church never had a more consecrated
man. He was superlatively great in his simplicity. He was not
eloquent in his diction, but he was eloquent in his thought and in
his illustrations and in his magnetism. He never failed to
capture his congregations.
I passed my examinations and that year I was sent to the
Wytheville Station and Circuit. That was adjoining my former
charge. We reached the old parsonage on the pike just out of
Wytheville as Rev. B. W. S. Bishop moved out. Charley
Bishop was then a little tow-headed boy. He is now the
learned Regent of Southwestern University. The parsonage
was an old two-and-a-half-story structure with nine rooms and
it looked a little like Hawthorne's house with the seven gables.
It was the lonesomest-looking old house I ever saw. There
was no one there to meet us, for we had not notified anybody
of the time we would arrive.
Think of taking a young bride to that sort of a mansion! But
she was brave and showed no sign of disappointment. That
first night we felt like two whortleberries in a Virginia tobacco
wagonbed. We had room and to spare, but it was scantily
furnished with specimens as antique as those in Noah's ark.
But in a week or so we were invited out to spend the day with
a good family, and when we went back we found the doors
fastened just as we had left them, but when we entered a
bedroom was elegantly furnished with everything modern and
the parlor was in fine shape. The ladies had been there and
done the work. How much does the preacher owe to the good
women of the Church!
The circuit was a large one, comprising seventeen
appointments. They were practically scattered all over the
county. I preached every other day, and never less than twice
and generally three times on Sunday.
I had associated with me that year a young collegemate,
Rev. W. B. Stradley. He was a bright, popular fellow, and we
managed to give Wytheville regular Sunday preaching. Stradley
became a great preacher and died a few years ago while
pastor of Trinity Church, Atlanta, Georgia. We were true
yokefellows and did a great work on that charge, held fine
revivals and had large ingatherings.
The famous Cripple Creek Campground was on that work.
They have kept up campmeetings there for more than a
hundred years. It is still the great rallying point for the
Methodists of all that section. I have never heard such singing
and preaching and shouting anywhere else in my life. I met the
Rev. John Boring there and heard him preach. He was a well-known
preacher in the conference; original, peculiar, strikingly
odd, but a great revival preacher.
One morning in the beginning of the service he was to
preach and he called the people to prayer. He prayed loud and
long and told the Lord just what sort of a meeting we were
expecting and really exhorted the people as to their conduct on
the grounds. Among other things, he said we wanted no horse-
trading and then related that just before kneeling he had seen a
man just outside the encampment looking into the mouth of a
horse and he made such a peculiar sound as he described the
incident that I lifted up my head to look at him, and he was
holding his mouth open with his hands just as the man had done
in looking into the horse's mouth! But he was a man of power
and wrought well for the Church and for humanity.
The rarest character I ever met in my life I met at that
campmeeting in the person of Rev. Robert Sheffy, known as
"Bob" Sheffy. He was recognized all over Southwest Virginia
as the most eccentric preacher of that country. He was a local
preacher; crude, illiterate, queer and the oddest specimen
known among preachers. But he was saintly in his life, devout
in his experience and a man of unbounded faith. He wandered
hither and thither over that section attending meetings, holding
revivals and living among the people. He was great in prayer,
and Cripple Creek campground was not complete without
"Bob" Sheffy. They wanted him there to pray and work in the
altar.
He was wonderful with penitents. And he was great in
following up the sermon with his exhortations and appeals. He
would sometimes spend nearly the whole night in the straw
with mourners; and now and then if the meeting lagged he
would go out on the mountain and spend the entire night in
prayer, and the next morning he would come rushing into the
service with his face all aglow shouting at the top of his voice.
And then the meeting always broke loose with a floodtide.
He could say the oddest things, hold the most unique
interviews with God, break forth in the most unexpected
spasms of praise, use the homeliest illustrations, do the funniest
things and go through with the most grotesque performances of
any man born of woman.
It was just "Bob" Sheffy, and nobody thought anything of
what he did and said, except to let him have his own way and
do exactly as he pleased. In anybody else it would not have
been tolerated for a moment. In fact, he acted more like a
crazy man than otherwise, but he was wonderful in a
meeting. He would stir the people, crowd the mourner's
bench with crying penitents and have genuine conversions by
the score. I doubt if any man in all that conference has as
many souls to his credit in the Lamb's Book of Life as old
"Bob" Sheffy.
At the close of that year in casting up my accounts I found
that I had received three hundred and ninety dollars for my
year's work, and the most of this had been contributed in
everything except money. It required about the amount of cash
contributed to pay my associate and the Presiding Elder. I got
the chickens, the eggs, the butter, the ribs and backbones, the
corn, the meat, and the Presiding Elder and Brother Stradley
had helped us to eat our part of the quarterage. Well, we kept
open house and had a royal time, even if we did not get much
ready cash. We lived and had money enough to get a good suit
of clothes and to pay our way to conference. What more does
a young Methodist preacher need or want? We were satisfied
and happy, and these experiences are not to be counted as
unimportant assets in the life and work of a Methodist circuit
rider.
That year the conference met at Bristol, and Bishop
Wightman presided. I have already given my impressions of
him as a Bishop and a preacher. I have no desire to revise or
add to what I have written concerning him. On this occasion
he only enhanced my estimate of him.
There was nothing of special note in this gathering. The fact
is it made so little impression on me that I do not recall any
incident in it, except that I saw Dr. T. O. Summers for the first
time. He was the most widely-read and generally-informed
man I have ever known. He knew everything. He was a
rotund, jolly old Englishman, with a sunny disposition and a
very pleasant man to meet and to know. Young men felt very
much at home in his presence. He was familiar in
his intercourse with them and would say almost anything in a
jocular way to them.
At eleven o'clock he preached in one of the churches, and
the brother who was to preach at night was present to hear
him. The old Doctor took this as a compliment, and so at
night he went back to hear the brother. John Paulett, a friend,
went with him. The sermon was a very prosy affair and
innocent of any special interest. On the way back to his room
Paulett had the old Doctor's arm and said to him:
"What do you think of that sermon, Doctor?"
The old man immediately blurted out:
"Paulett, shut your month, sir."
They walked on about a block in quiet and he pressed
Paulett's arm tightly and said in a suppressed tone:
"Paulett, the brother needs to read Summers on the Gospel
of Mark very closely."
And he chuckled as they went on to his room.
That year I was appointed to the Sweetwater Female
District Institute and also to Athens Station, a few miles below.
This was a new school enterprise and needed organizing and I
agreed to take it for a year. They were building a new church
at Athens and wanted two services a month, so I had the
double work. I will not have much to say about the school
work, as it was routine business, and not very congenial to
me. I merely did my duty by it and at the close of the term
gave it up and devoted the rest of the year to the charge at
Athens.
I had one advantage in my Athens charge; I was thrown
with the Rev. Timothy Sullens, one of the most gifted and
saintly characters I have ever known. He started out in early
life in the conference and for twelve years he careered all
over that mountain section, on circuits, in stations and on
districts, one
of the most eloquent preachers of his day; but all at once he
had a stroke of paralysis and for forty-odd years he had been,
not exactly helpless, but in such a nervous state that he was
unable to do any active work.
When I knew him he was an old man, full of years, rich in
experience, bright in his hopes, interesting in his reminiscences.
He had associated in his early life with the historic men of
Methodism, and to sit and listen to him talk was a rare treat.
He had heard Bishop H. B. Bascom preach and often spoke of
the effect of his great sermons.
He was one of my wisest counselors. I learned more from
him about my duties as a young minister than any man with
whom I have ever been associated. Just before leaving for
conference he said to me:
"Never notice little things. Take it for granted that no one is
trying to offend you without severe provocation. Do not let
your feelings lie around lose like a cat's tail for people to step
on. The man who is always expecting his feelings to be hurt is
never disappointed. When you go to a home always labor
under the impression that the inmates are glad to see you, and
when you leave make yourself believe that they are sorry you
are gone. That sort of a preacher will always be welcomed, for
he will make himself so agreeable that people will love him."
The conference met that year in Cleveland, and Bishop
Doggett again presided. It was the time for the election of
delegates to the General Conference to meet in Atlanta. Rev.
John M. McTeer had always been prominent in the delegation,
and he had come to expect his election. He was a man of large
influence with the Bishops and some of the young preachers
thought they had suffered because of his partiality and
favoritism. So they concluded to rebuke the old man by
leaving him off the delegation, which they did. They took up
Rev. Frank Richardson and put him as chairman of the
delegation. And he has been in every General Conference
since then, except the one which met in St. Louis, Missouri, in
1890. It wounded Brother McTeer very deeply, but it broke the
spell of his influence over the conference. He was never the
same in that body.
That year I was sent to Abingdon, Virginia. It was my first full
station. While not a large and prominent charge, yet it was an
intelligent and an important one. Martha Washington College,
the official girls' school of the conference, was located in the
town. It was only nine miles below Emory and Henry College,
and the two institutions had given training to many of the
people of the town.
My congregation was made up largely of educated and well-informed
people. It was an old Virginia town, with many old
families of note living there. The Floyds, the Campbells, the
Prestons, the Litchfields, and others, were prominent folk. The
Church was not a stately building; simply an old substantial
brick, comfortable and commodious. The membership
approximated three hundred souls, and they were mostly
devout people and a good type of Methodists.
Martha Washington College was a noted school, largely
attended and one of the best in the connection. Pupils were
there, not only from the conference territory, but from various
States. Dr. Warren Dupree, one of the best types of the old
South Carolina citizenship, was the President. He was a
courtly gentleman of the old school; polite, cultured, high-toned
and genial. He was a great advantage to me, for he was used
to preachers and trained in Church work. While not a minister,
yet he would occasionally conduct service for me and make
most interesting talks. He was an ideal man for such a
position. His family was of the best class. They suited work of
that character.
But the man who was of most service to me was Rev. E. E.
Hoss, now one of our greatest Bishops. He had recently
returned from the Pacific Coast, had served Asheville Station
six months, and then had been elected to a professorship in
Martha Washington. He was not far from my own age, but he
had been out of school and in active work much longer. He
was a prominent preacher even then. He had a great library
and he was a close student of the best books. Though a young
man, he was one of the best read men of that day. He took me
under his wing and gave me access to his office and library.
Really his office became my study in the fore-noons, for he
was busy with his class work and I had control of it. And at
night we used to study together. He was a help and not a
drawback to me. He was an easy man to preach to; never
critical, but responsive and helpful. I had but a limited number
of books; he had them by the hundreds and on all subjects.
What a luxury that library was to me! And he often preached
for me, and he preached with wonderful power. I have often
felt that in the ardor of his younger days he was even a more
popular preacher than in his more mature years.
Professor Hoss, as we then called him, was a great student.
He literally devoured books, digested their contents, and his
capacious memory became a veritable storehouse of
knowledge. He gave large promise of coming greatness and
what he is to-day is the fulfillment of the expectation inspired
by his early promise as a student and a preacher. From the
beginning he had a wonderfully fertile brain and a mind of far-
reaching resourcefulness. I esteem it exceedingly fortunate for
me that I fell under his influences in the formative
period of my ministry. It gave me a mental impetus and put me
in touch with sources of information of more than ordinary
value.
I had a great revival of religion in my charge that year.
Scores were converted and added to the Church. The college
life was deeply touched by its power. Nearly all the young
ladies not already religious were won to Christ and the
influence of that meeting radiated to many homes in the
distance. The whole congregation received an uplift and the
worship became more spiritual.
This was a hard year on me. It imposed a mental draft upon
my powers to meet the demands of the pulpit and to measure
up to the responsibility of the charge. I had but a limited stock
of sermonic material on hand. My former charges had been
large circuits, where it had been necessary to prepare but a
couple of sermons a month. These would last me a whole
round, and when I changed from one charge to another I
repeated most of these sermons, instead of making new ones.
I was never greatly pressed in sermon-making. But in the
course of five or six months on this station I had exhausted
my supply and I was living from hand to mouth. Exhortations
and religious talks did not do there; I had to have sermons,
and measurably good ones at that.
For the remainder of the year I was in about the same condition
of an anxious housewife in the spring of the year
when the winter supply is about used up and the summer
harvest not yet matured for use. It was mostly nip and tuck,
and sometimes I was nipping without being able to tuck. My,
but I had to get down to the business of intellectual
replenishment! But it was the very stimulus that I needed.
I boarded that year with S. N. Honaker, a leading member
of my Church. He was not a cultured man, but he was a
successful business man. He had but little imagination; he was
too much of German in his temperament for that sort of
faculty. He was straightforward and a matter-of-fact man. He
liked a plain gospel sermon and had no appreciation of the
ornate or the pictorial. On night in my sermon I used an
illustration that was common in that day, though I have not
heard it in a long time.
My subject was "Influence", and I held up a glass of water
and said that if you were to drop a pebble into it the vibrations
would not cease until every particle of fluid in the glass had
been disturbed. And on the same principle, were you to throw
a stone into the ocean the same result would follow - the body
of water from shore to shore would be affected by it. And
then I made the application.
We walked back home together and I noticed that Brother
Honaker was in a deep study and had nothing to say. We sat
by the fire for a time and while the rest of us were talkative he
was silent. Finally he broke his silence and said:
"Brother Rankin, that was the biggest tale you told in that
sermon to-night that I ever heard in the pulpit."
I did not know to what he had reference and asked him,
"What tale?"
"Why, that tale about throwing that rock into the ocean.
Anybody with a speck of sense knows that if you were to
throw the whole of Washington County into the ocean it would
not jar it one hundred feet from where it went in. I've seen the
ocean and I know what I'm talking about."
That is the last time I ever used an illustration in the pulpit
that was qualified to make a deeper impression than the
application I wanted to make of it. The fact is, it is not a good
idea to make your illustrations too impressive, however true
and applicable they may be. It is not every man in the audience
who is capable of appreciating them. Sometimes, like Brother
Honaker, he hangs on what he conceives to be the magnitude
of the story and fails utterly to follow you in the legitimate use
you desire to make of it.
This was a profitable year to me; the most profitable thus far
in my ministry. I acquired a studious habit. I had it to do. I
learned to systematize my time and to husband my resources. I
really learned how to make sermons and revised and
readjusted by methods of sermonizing. Prior to that I had
prepared my sermons according to no homiletic rule. I was
busy traveling from one appointment to another and had but
little time to devote to consecutive thought.
I would take a text, get the meaning of it in my mind, think
at it as I had opportunity, mostly on horseback or afoot, preach
the result at some out-of-the-way place, and thus outline it; and
then think it over again and at my next appointment make some
improvement on it, and by accretion and experimentation I
would reduce it to some sort of shape and completeness by the
time I had gone my round. But this sort of sermonizing did not
avail me in the Abingdon Station. It had to go, and in its place a
real habit of sermon-making was substituted. I really learned
how to make sermons that year.
While at Abingdon a pathetic sorrow came to our little circle.
We had two children, the younger being born early in that year.
She was a beautiful little baby girl of only seven months. One
day she was taken ill and from day to day grew worse, and
early one morning the angels came and kissed her away. Her
little form was laid in a plot of ground in the cemetery beside
the dust of the little girl of Dr. W. E. Munsey to await the
resurrection of the just. It was a sad experience, but it
prepared me in my ministry to be helpful to those similarly
afflicted. We never know how best to comfort others until our
own hearts have been crushed and comforted.
I closed out the year successfully and had my reports all in
good shape. They had paid their assessments, my salary being
six hundred dollars. Back in that day no preacher was paid
more than a bare living. I had learned to put my demands
within the circle of my income and not go beyond it. So I was
square with the world. Nobody owed me anything and I owed
nobody a penny. Rather we had lived so economically that
we really had a few dollars ahead.
Talk about preachers and business; I know no class of men
who manage their finances with such skill and success as the
average Methodist preacher. Lawyers and doctors and
business men could not take the average preacher's salary
and manage it as wisely and to such good ends as he does.
I left Abingdon for conference with the assurance that I
would certainly return the next year. I greatly desired to return.
My work had been so pleasant, and in the main so successful,
that the people wanted me to return and I was anxious to serve
them another year. I had been in the conference four years
and had moved every year. True, I had been advanced each
year in the grade of my appointments, but I cared nothing for
things of that sort. I wanted the mental friction of another year
with that congregation and in Professor Hoss' library. Then my
pleasant associations and the attraction of that little new-made
grave had a perceptible pull upon our affections. We loved
Abingdon and her cultured and big-souled people. So I only
bade them a temporary adieu, knowing that it would be but a
week until I was back among them in my same relation as
pastor.
A very amusing incident occurred one day as the
proceedings were in progress. The name of Rev. W. S. Jordan
was called, and he was in Rev. John M. McTeer's district. As
the Presiding Elder arose to represent him the Bishop began to
nod, but the speaker did not observe it and said:
"Bishop, there is nothing in the way of a charge against the
brother, and yet, as is usual in his case, there is some slight
complaint. Brother Jordan is a small man with large ways. He
puts on airs and says and does things to which sensible and
sober people object. Some of the brethren have suggested that
a reprimand from the Bishop is in order and might cure him of
this fault, and I recommend that you call him to the altar and
exhort him on his improprieties."
The Secretary aroused the Bishop just in time for him to
hear the closing words of the Presiding Elder's remarks and he
only partly caught the nature of the trouble. He gradually lifted
his massive form from the chair and said:
"Brethren, let us come to the scratch!"
The conference roared and this gave the Secretary time to
hurriedly explain matters to him.
"Well, let the brother present himself at the bar of the
conference and the chair will discharge the duty."
Brother Jordan was a very diminutive man in size with a red
beard and mustache. He rose back in the room and slowly
walked down the aisle like a little boy at school going forward
to take his merited punishment. When he reached the altar
and stood with downcast eyes under the towering and massive
form of the Bishop the contrast between them was so striking
that the conference again broke into a fit of laughter. The old
Bishop was a man of fine humor and the ludicrous aspect of
the scene caused him to stand for a moment and chuckle with
suppressed merriment. Finally he assumed a dignified pose and
proceeded:
"My brother, variety is the spice of life. Without it our human
nature would be a very prosy affair. Dead monotony is
irksome and the man who falls into it stagnates socially and
religiously. God has given us variety because it adds zest and
freshness to our experience. The man is a very dull man
who does not appreciate variety. But when your variety
amounts to impropriety it is time for you to call a halt,
sir."
At that juncture the conference sent forth another peal of
mirthfulness and the old Bishop motioned Brother Jordan to his
seat. He was a very kind-hearted old man and really did not
want to hurt the young brother's feelings, and I think he turned
the whole thing into a burlesque on purpose.
On Sunday morning a great congregation crowded the
church to hear his sermon, for he had a great reputation as a
preacher. And notwithstanding his advanced age the fires of a
brilliant genius were still slumbering in his deep nature. All that
was necessary was for a great occasion to stir him into action,
and a large audience always seemed to inspire him. Such was
the case that morning.
At first he moved slowly and his mind plodded along in a sort
of prosaic manner. He was halting and hesitating like a man
feeling his way in order to make sure of a good beginning. In
other words, the trail seemed cold and he was cautiously
scenting his game. But he gradually warmed up to his subject
and he moved triumphantly into the heart of his theme. His
eyes lost their dullness, his ponderous form became easy in its
movements, his thought kindled into an inextinguishable blaze,
his voice articulated like deep-toned thunder, and all his gifts as
a natural-born orator came into brilliant play. , ,
He had large imaginative faculties, not those of the poet, but
the sublime kind, gorgeous and climacteric. I was reminded of
the rush of the mountain torrent pouring wildly over the
precipice down into abysmal caverns, sending back its
distant echoes like the resounding stroke of some colossal
Titan; or, to change the figure, it made one think of the
storm-god aroused from the slumbers and moving with thunderpeal
through the heavens and swooping in awful grandeur upon the
hills and the valleys, jarring you with frightful concussions and
blinding you with sudden flashes of splendor.
For an hour and a half he held his audience at will and they
followed every word he uttered with breathless interest, and
when he reached his conclusion and his voice died away into
silence there was a sigh of relaxation. The sermon, plus the
man, was something wonderful and inspiring. It was not
scholarly or learned, but it was deep and broad in its
thoughtfulness; its diction was not of the soft and culture type,
but it was rugged and suited to the personality of the man; his
subject-matter was not bookish or specially literary, but it was
aflame with intelligence and royal in the sweep of its
conception.
The Bishop was well read and his familiarity with the
doctrines and polity of the Church was extraordinary; and he
was sufficiently acquainted with general literature to give to his
pulpit ministrations the stamp of a man of education. He was
not a good parliamentarian, but as a preacher in the open field
of genius and oratory he was the greatest of his day and
generation. That was the first and the last time I was ever
privileged to hear him, but he left such an impression upon me
that he stands out before me to-day as one of the greatest
pulpit speakers in American Methodism.
When the time came for the reading of the appointments I
was as placid as a May morning. I knew where I was going
and was only waiting to hear the announcement in order to
take the train and return to my Abingdon charge. But I was
startled out of my wits when the old Bishop read:
"Church Street Station, George C. Rankin."
I never heard the announcement of another place or name.
It knocked me clear out of the proceedings. I came to myself,
however, when a lady just behind said:
"Well, I do not know who that man Rankin is, but one thing
certain, I do not intend to love him or have anything to do with
him. They had no business to send him here to take Brother
Burnett's place."
And she snubbed like a crying child. Brother J. S. Burnett
had just finished his third year at that charge, and many of
them expected him back; and this good woman was one of
them. I never have any fear, however, of the people who love
my predecessor; but I always fear the soreheads that have
given him trouble. If they loved him I have always found that
they soon learned to love me.
Church Street Church was the first appointment in the
conference and it had been served by its leading preachers.
Some years before that Rev. E. E. Hoss was its popular
pastor. He had gone from it to the Pacific Coast. After him Dr.
W. G. E. Cunnyngham had filled the appointment with great
acceptability, and then Dr. J. S. Burnett.
I was less than thirty years of age and had only been in the
conference four years. Beside that, the other leading
congregations were supplied with the strongest men in their
denominations. The First Methodist Episcopal Church, near me,
had Rev. N. G. Taylor, D. D., father of Governor Bob Taylor,
as its pastor. He was a man of age and experience and one of
the most eloquent of East Tennessee's orators. In early life he
had been a distinguished lawyer and a very popular politician.
He had served a term or two in Congress. Dr. James Parks,
the nestor of the Presbyterian pulpit, was at the First
Presbyterian Church; Dr. Sturgis, a very popular pastor, was at
the Second Presbyterian Church; and Dr. C. H. Strickland,
one of the eminent ministers of his denomination,
was at the First Baptist Church. These are a few of the
several high-class men whose churches were within a stone's
throw of Church Street Church.
The congregation was an old and cultured one, made up of
many of the leading citizens of that city of churches and
schools. A large number of professional men, doctors and
lawyers and schoolmen were my parishioners. The University
of Tennessee was located there, and it was manned by
teachers of great ability. The thought appalled me that I was to
be their pastor.
I had only had one station, and had no experience in city life
and customs. I was a man of the country, yet I was suddenly
dropped down in that leading city Church. That was certainly
one time when I was sent to an appointment against my will,
and one concerning which I had never had a dream. So far as I
was concerned it was purely Providential. I had a feeling of
helplessness, and was never driven with such a deep sense of
need into the presence of God. If a man ever required divine
assistance I was the man and that was the time. I felt that I
was adapted to Abingdon and had my heart bent on returning
to it and its people, but my plans were sadly disrupted. But why
should a Methodist preacher ever have plans about an
appointment?
The very next Sunday I was on the ground and in the pulpit,
and the very first pass out of the box I produced a very
unfavorable impression. A full house greeted me and I
presume had some sort of expectation, as not one of them had
ever heard me try to preach. I stood before them with an open
manuscript and read every word of it without taking my eyes
off of it, or without moving my hands except to turn the leaves
of each page as I finished it. It gave them a shock, for they
wanted a preacher, not a manuscript reader.
Within the next half hour I received more advice and
suggestion than any young preacher of my age in Tennessee.
Well, I was satisfied with the result. I had taken the curiosity
out of them, and the next Sunday they expressed themselves
delighted. I started them down at the bottom and it was not
much trouble after that to gradually lift them back to a sane
altitude. I plunged into my pastoral work every afternoon and
literally visited "from house to house", but my forenoons I
devoted to some of the closest application of my life. It was a
matter of necessity in order to meet the demands upon me and
compete with those other pulpits.
At one of my night services not long after my start in the city
I delivered a terrific sermon on the liquor traffic, and there
happened to be present on the occasion a leading wholesale
dealer and from the word go the "trade" had it in for me. I took
no back track, rather I lost no opportunity to set the saloons on
fire. And I thank God that I have lived to see the day when
every saloon in Knoxville has been driven from the confines of
the State.
My work was not lost; it helped to introduce the force that in
the end destroyed them. It was long after my day there that the
end came, but it came with the terror of the judgment. No
wonder, for the measure of its iniquity was full. I saw some of
the awfulest of its tragedies within the limits of my own
congregation that term of service.
A young man, the son of one of my best mothers, was
addicted to drink and one night he was murdered on the street
by another drinker. It was a sad day in that home when I
attended that funeral. Later on one of my young men and the
son of one of my University professor members, and he
himself a member of my Church, was found in his room dead
me morning with a clinched pistol in his hand and a bullet
through his brain. Drink caused the tragedy. It was grief in
that home when I tried to speak words of comfort. On the
following Sunday when I made that young man's life the
subject of a thrilling sermon I awoke the next morning to find
myself notorious as a preacher.
On another occasion a good lady member of my Church
had a drunken son and one evening he came in crazed from
the saloon. She reproved him and he struck her with a stick,
fractured her skull and she died almost instantly. When I
called to see him at the jail the next morning his anguish of
heart was something awful.
Just before my pastorate ended a prominent gentleman and
his son, husband and son of one of my prominent families,
became involved in a difficulty with a leading man on the
street and all three of them died with their boots on inside of
five minutes. Liquor inspired the trouble. I conducted the
funeral services and saw one grave swallow up both of them.
Can any one censure me for my opposition, lifelong in its
sweep, to the licensed liquor traffic?
Knoxville was the old home of the Brownlows. W. G.
Brownlow, the man who made the name famous in all that
section and throughout the Nation, was dead when I began my
ministry there, but I had known him years before that time. His
widow and two sons were living and I used to visit them. The
Brownlows were Methodists. He was a member of the
Holston Conference for some years once, but got into
journalism and politics and retired from the regular work. He
was one of the most remarkable men of his day. He was a
bold, daring and spectacular figure and was never so well
pleased as when pulling off some sensational stunt in Church
or State. He never had connection with the prosaic or the
monotonous. When in the ministry he made it hot for the
Presbyterians and the Baptists in all that country. His
controversies with Rev. J. R. Graves and with Rev. Frederick
Ross of the Baptist and the Presbyterian Churches will never
be forgotten in East Tennessee. He put the sum and substance
of those controversies in book form, known as "The Iron
Wheel Examined", and the book, now obsolete except when
found in a few old libraries, would not be allowed to go through
the United States mails under our present postal regulation.
There never was such a piece of literature like it put in print,
but it settled the contest for Methodism in East Tennessee. He
was the bitterest and most abusive man who ever put pen to
paper, or who ever mounted a public rostrum.
He was a Whig in politics and he was even more bitter in
politics than in religious contests. He and Andy Johnson used
to have terrific meetings on the stump, and the like of it was
never heard in that country. He and Landon C. Haynes, the
most eloquent orator in that mountain country, once met in joint
discussion and the result was a panic. They came together in
deadly personal encounter, and Brownlow shot Haynes in the
hip and he limped the rest of his life.
Old ex-Governor Fayette McMullin of Virginia once told me
of a personal difficulty between himself and Brownlow. He
said he dropped down into Tennessee at the invitation of James
K. Polk to speak at a barbecue near Rogersville. and
Brownlow was present and he had a pleasant chat with him.
After he went home some one sent him a marked copy of
Brownlow's Whig, and in his write-up of the occasion he said
McMullin carried his brand on his right hand. That if you would
examine his hand you would find his thumb and two forefingers
bitten off, and that this had occurred back in his life when he
drove wagons from Lynchburg to Bristol; that
one night he was stealing corn through the crack of a crib and
got his hand caught in a steel trap.
Well, that was the common report about the old man, but
Brownlow's write-up about it made him furious. He went back
to Tennessee to a campmeeting to settle with Brownlow; met
him one Sunday morning just outside of the gate and felled him
with a cane, but when Brownlow arose he had his pistol in his
hand and drew a bead on McMullin. The old fellow turned and
fled, but the pistol missed fire and that is all that saved his life.
Brownlow became Military Governor of Tennessee at the
close of the Civil War, and he was a little severe on returning
ex-Confederate soldiers. Some of them he handled without
gloves, and upon the heads of others he hung heavy penalties,
if eventually they could be apprehended.
One day while seated in his office the cards of Dr. John B.
McFerrin and Dr. A. L. P. Green were presented to him by
his porter. He looked at the cards and directed the porter to
escort them in. As they approached he arose and extended his
hand and said: "While the lamp holds out to burn the worst of
sinners may return."
They had refugeed from Tennessee when the Confederate
forces evacuated Nashville, and this was the occasion of their
first appearance since that eventful day. Brownlow knew them
and personally liked them and treated them with every consideration.
So his humor expressed itself along with his conviction
in the above quotation. I have often heard Dr. McFerrin
speak of that meeting with the old Military Governor of
Tennessee.
The last time I ever saw Brownlow was toward the close of
his term in the United States Senate. He was then old,
broken and very much shattered in health. He had had a
stroke of paralysis and it had left him in a palsied condition. I was in
Southwest Virginia and Rev. G. W. Miles, an erstwhile friend of
Brownlow, was my Presiding Elder. It was telegraphed one day along
the route that Brownlow was on the train bound for Washington and
his old friends dropped down to the depot to shake hands with him.
In those days he was in the Northern Methodist Church and such
had been his bitterness that not many of the Southern Methodist
ministers had any use for him. But Brother Miles and myself learned
of his presence on the approaching train and we went down to meet
him.
As the train slowed up we boarded the sleeper and found him lying
in a berth looking like a veritable mummy skeleton. As we approached
him he lifted himself up on one elbow and Brother Miles grasped his
hand and said: "How are you, Billy; I am sorry to see you looking so
well." He was shaking all over and in a highly nervous state, but his
rugged humor was equal to the occasion, for he smiled and said: "You
are the first Southern Methodist devil who has told me the truth since
I left Knoxville. Several have told me to-day that they were sorry to
see me looking so feeble, but I knew they were lying."
He presented a pitiable spectacle. His long and lank form was
emaciated, his complexion was very dark and muddy, his eyes black
and deeply sunken in his head, his nose was prominent, his
cavernous mouth occupied the lower part of his long thin face, and
his large ears stood out prominently from the sides of his
angularly-shaped head. He looked uncanny and unearthly.
He did not live a great while after that, and when he died at his old
home in Knoxville his funeral was the most largely attended of any
that ever occurred in that city of prominent
men. Despite his bitterness of speech and pen and his many
encounters with those with whom he differed, and his severity
toward many of his fellow-citizens just after the war, he was in
a general way popular among those where he lived.
Underneath his rugged and boisterous exterior he really had a
tender heart when at his best and did many acts of kindness to
his fellowman. But he was a bundle of contradictions and his
whole life was one of good and bad impulses alternately mixed.
His wife was one of the loveliest old ladies I ever met and she
was held in high esteem by a wide circle of friends.
For four years in succession I was sent to Church Street
Church until I served out my quadrennium. It was a severe
term of service, but one of great value to me. During the time I
took a sort of a postgraduate course in the literary department
of the State University in connection with my duties as pastor
and preacher.
Professor Joiner, a distinguished man in letters, rendered me
wonderful assistance in this department of training. He was a
master in the realm of English Literature and I lived next door
to him and had the benefit of many of his evenings. He took
great interest in me and I owe much to his personal influence
and supervision as a teacher in the sphere of polite learning.
The duties of that pulpit put great pressure upon me, but it
sprung me to my utmost. I did a vast amount of wholesome
reading and systematic studying. I had the confidence and
co-operation of my people and they gave me the most cordial
support. They were an excellent congregation, and among
them were some of the noblest families in the city. The Boyds,
the McClungs, the Crawfords, the Lyons, the Aults, the Van
Gilders, the McClelands, the Gaults, the Woodwards, the
Luttrells, and others too numerous to mention, gave
to me as fine a body of people as any man ever preached to.
Sam Crawford, as we called him, was Commandant in the
University and a man of royal nature. Henry Ault, sedate and
devoted, was as true as the needle to the poles in his devotion
to the Church. Matt McClung, big of body and kind of heart
was a strong support. Sam Luttrell, quiet but always at his
post of duty. Will Lyons, as clean as a woman and as
transparent as sunshine. Matt McCleland, jolly and sincere in
word and deed. Dr. John M. Boyd, brainy, wise and
attentive. Leon Jourlmon, critical, fastidious, but always
dependable. Colonel J. W. Gault, stately, majestic and
amiable. But why try to call the roll of such a band? Their
names would run into the hundreds. Some of them long ago
crossed over the river, but they live in my affections and
memory as among the choicest spirits to whom I have ever
ministered. But if the men so impressed me with their
devotion and kindness, what might I not say for the good
women who stood by me in that trying situation? Time would
fail me to sketch them in their tenderness and fidelity to me
and my family.
Grand old Church Street Church! Will I ever forget her
loyalty and her unfailing support ? Never; no, never! So
unpretentious, so devoted to the history and tradition of the best
type of Methodism, generous in her liberality, sparing in her
criticisms, indulgent in her tolerance and forbearance,
old-fashioned in her views and experience in matters religious,
without affectation, appreciative of the old story of the Cross,
responsive to every claim, intolerant only of innovations and
untried experiments, always jealous of the character of her
institutions, anxious to see Zion travail in the spiritual birth of
her sons and daughters, and ever hopeful of the ultimate
triumphs of the Kingdom of Jesus Christ throughout the world.
I have never served a better people and have never had
warmer
friends in all the circle of my wide associations. It was with
genuine sorrow that the time limit enforced the severance of
my delightful relation to them. For the four years I gave them
my constant prayer, the unstinted fruits of my best intellectual
endeavor and the investment of the sum total of my spiritual
capabilities; and the tax had been so severe that my health was
considerably impaired and my physical vitality greatly reduced.
My nerve-force was practically exhausted. It was well enough
for me that the time limit relieved me of the strain.
The night before I left for conference at the close of my last
year the good women presented my wife with a costly set of
beautiful china, and the Board of Stewards gave to me a
handsome gold watch with the inscription on the back case: "A
parting gift to Rev. G. C. Rankin from Church Street Church,
November 6, 1882." That was thirty years ago and that watch,
the token of their love, having worn out one set of works and
supplied with a new one, is hanging near my heart to-day to
remind me of the good friends of the years long gone.
I have said nothing in this chapter about the three intervening
conference sessions because there was nothing of special note
in their proceedings, and the Bishops who presided over them
were men whom I have already described in former chapters.
It so happened that the Holston Conference fell to the lot of the
same presiding officers oftener than any conference to which I
have ever belonged. This gave me a fine opportunity to see
much of Bishops Pierce, McTyeire, Doggett and Wightman.
They belonged to the old panel and they were giants in those
days. Their coming always excited interest and their work
produced deep impressions.
As masters of parliamentary law and as great pulpit and
platform men they stood out in bold relief at a time when the
Church needed a few men of transcendent strength and
prominence. The impress of their genius was deeply graven in
the constitution, the laws and the polity of our reorganized
Southern Methodism. They rendered a service only possible to
men of masterful intellects and far-reaching statesmanship.
Yes, that old panel of Bishops were Providential men, raised
up and called forth by the age and times in which they lived,
and they wrought their mighty works in the interest of our
Zion.
He is so well known to my readers that it is almost superfluous for
me to sketch him as a preacher and a presiding officer. For years he
has been, by common consent, recognized as one of the greatest
living preachers in Episcopal Methodism. He has intellectual faculties
of the highest order, and to these he has given the most thorough
training. In the range of his studies he has moved over the domain of
history, philosophy, theology and general literature. There is scarcely
any limit to his knowledge of men and of letters.
For a number of years he practiced law and was a distinguished
lawyer at the Baltimore bar. He is as familiar with the dead languages
almost as he is with the English, and in Church law he is an
acknowledged master. His mind moves along great highways of
thought, and there is a majesty and a grandeur about his style as a
preacher that brings his audiences
into awe and reverence when he stands in the pulpit. There is no
effort at oratorical display when he speaks; his manner is not very
attractive, his voice is neither sweet nor mellow, and his manner of
speech is deliberate and measured. He rarely ever makes use of an
illustration, and he eschews tropes and similes. He deals in profound
thought, and his style and language are in keeping with his greatness
of mind as a man and a public speaker.
Bishop Wilson has wonderful resourcefulness. I have heard him
scores of times, and in no instance have I ever heard him repeat
himself. He is always original and fresh in his pulpit messages to the
people. And at times he is superlatively eloquent.
As a presiding officer Bishop Wilson is par excellence. He is a born
and a trained parliamentarian. He is as much at home in the chair
presiding over a deliberative body as he is in the private circle in
friendly converse. His rulings are accepted as final and authoritative.
In his dealings with the Cabinet he follows the old lines and gives
large latitude to his counselors and advisers. He never deals in
favoritisms, creates no bickerings and leaves no afterclaps when the
conference session adjourns and he takes his departure.
Personally he is not what you could call a popular man. He is too
sincere, too positive and outspoken to put men generally on familiar
terms with him. He is rather distant and cool in his relations to men
generally. But when once you get close to him and come into touch
with his deeper nature, he is kind, considerate and brotherly. But on
the surface and in casual contact with him these exquisite traits and
qualities do not manifest themselves.
At the close of this Asheville Conference I was stationed at
Asheville, the very place suited to my run-down condition.
Its altitude, its healthful breezes, its freedom from malaria, its romantic
scenery, its crystal water, all combine to make it one of the health
resorts of America. For this reason especially I was delighted to find
myself stationed there. And those hospitable people suited me also.
But I shall say nothing in this connection about my term of service at
Asheville, for I did not remain but that year, and after an interval of
four years I was returned to finish out my quadrennium. In a later
chapter I will give some account of my Asheville experience.
At the close of the year I attended conference at Chattanooga with
no sort of thought but that I would return to my charge of one year.
The people desired it and my Presiding Elder had nothing else in
view. Bishop McTyeire was the presiding officer. The conference
proceedings were drifting along smoothly. Saturday the
appointments for Sunday were announced and I was slated to preach
the sermon at the ordination of Elders Sunday night. I attached no
sort of significance to that arrangement. Sunday morning the Bishop
preached one of his deep and severely thoughtful sermons. It was
instructive, but heavy and difficult to appropriate. But it was a
masterful piece of exposition.
In the afternoon I walked out for an airing and met one of that class
of brethren who make it their business to nose into appointments in
advance of their announcement and who are always busy finding out
where this man and that man and the other man are going to be sent,
and who seem to take great delight in reading the mind of the Bishop
concerning all such matters. You find them in every conference. They
are busybodies, known as conference gossips, and during the
session they are plucking you by the sleeve to take you to one side
in order to whisper a piece of newly-discovered news into your ear.
Well, this brother asked me what I knew. I knew nothing and
told him so. "Have you not heard the latest?" he said. I was
frank to tell him that I had heard nothing at all. Then he
volunteered to give me a storehouse of information about what
was going on in the Cabinet; and among other things he said
that I was slated for Market Street Church, Chattanooga; and
that was the explanation of my appointment to preach the
ordination sermon that night. The people wanted a chance to
hear me before the thing was sealed.
Well, of course that was news to me, and it was very
interesting news. And the thing about it was that this brother
usually managed to find out with some degree of accuracy
about such matters. Just how he did it I could not tell, but he
would pick up a little gossip here and a little more there, put
things together and get to a plausible conclusion. In this way he
and his sort in every conference keep themselves very well
posted about the Cabinet work.
Another thing that gave plausibility to the piece of news
concerning myself was that I knew he was anxious himself to
go to Market Street, for he had told me so some days before;
and on this interesting occasion he remarked to me that if I did
not want to be pulled up from Asheville and sent to
Chattanooga I had better get busy. As a matter of fact, I did
not want to be pulled up and moved, more especially on
account of my health than otherwise.
So I did get busy, and for the first time in my life called on
Bishop McTyeire, a hazardous thing for a young man to do. As
I entered his private room I met a committee of the Official
Board of Market Street Church coming out and two or three of
them spoke very cordially to me, something they had not done
before. This within itself was suspicious. Bishop McTyeire,
though an apparently stern man, was easily approached.
No one rarely ever changed his mind when once it was made
up; nevertheless he would receive you and listen to what you
had to say with patience. I did not amble, but stated exactly to
him what I had heard and then proceeded to give to him my
reasons why I was anxious to return to Asheville. I had laid in
my winter's wood, had my feed provided for my horse and
cow, and my health was improving. To come to that malarious
location in my rundown condition and take charge of that worse
rundown Church would finish me, and he had just as well sign
my death warrant as to send me to Chattanooga.
These things were not only true as I believed them, but I
could speak the more plainly about the change since it was a
considerable promotion to come from Asheville, the little
mountain town, to Chattanooga, the metropolis of the
conference. Had I been contending for something better than I
had it would have been different. But I was contending for the
small appointment when probably a much more influential one
was in contemplation for me.
Bishop McTyeire listened to me kindly and I thought I was
making an impression on him until he opened his sleepy-looking
eyes and said:
"How is my old friend Brother Sleuder getting on these times
at Asheville?"
I told him that ordinarily I would not mind discussing Brother
Sleuder with him, but under the circumstances I was not
interested in his case in the slightest degree; that I had another
object in view in seeking that talk with him. He caught the point
and smiled, and then he opened his great mouth and said
something:
"It is well enough to have your wood laid by for winter, and
to have your cow and horse feed provided. But these
comforts are only a few of the incidents in the life of an
itinerant. These can be disposed of to your successor. It is
also well enough to look after your health, but a Methodist
preacher, like a soldier, is a means to an end. If the Church
demands it, a Methodist preacher can even afford to die.
Death with him is only a question of time, anyway. He is
supposed always to be ready for it. This Church is a post of
honor as well as duty. It has done no good for a few years, and
I am looking for the man to take hold of it. If it should fall to
your lot you ought to rejoice and feel honored. So just compose
yourself and I will take care of you and the Church, too. Now
go in peace and make yourself an obedient son in the gospel."
I made haste to depart, for I knew what that old Bishop
meant by that talk. I have often wondered how under the sun I
ever mustered up courage to go to his room and have that talk
with him. It was monumental cheek on my part, and it was as
fruitless of favorable results as it was monumental.
The next night I was read out to Market Street Church,
Chattanooga, and at the close of the proceedings Bishop
McTyeire took me by the hand cordially and said:
"I have put you here on purpose. Take hold of things with a
strong grip, sell this old property, buy a lot on the hill and build a
house creditable to Southern Methodism. I will remember you
in my prayers, and may the good Lord give you wisdom and
strength to accomplish wonderful things in the midst of these
great possibilities."
This last talk gave me a warm feeling for that great man, but
the other one impressed me otherwise. The Church has never
had but one Bishop McTyeire.
Market Street Church was located on a fine business corner,
but it was a dingy old brick structure, out of date and
unattractive. It had more than two hundred members, most of
whom were women and children. The Sunday-school was
small and there was no evidence of enterprise or Church pride.
While the conference was in session it still owed its pastor
three hundred dollars on his salary; its old parsonage was
burned down and a rented house had to be provided.
Beside this, Chattanooga was a cosmopolitan city,
overgrown, crude, wicked and a mixture of Southern and
Northern people - a sort of mongrel population bent more on
trying to make money than to build up moral sentiment or
developing Church interests.
It was full of dirty saloons and dives, and its wickedness was
bold and aggressive. True, there were good people among
them, and quite a number of them were in that Church; but to
me it was a forbidding outlook.
I reached the city Tuesday after the next Sunday, and the
daily papers announced my arrival and that I would conduct
prayer service Wednesday night. There were six people at the
service and I had to pray twice in order to be able to call it a
prayer-meeting. And it was a bright, pleasant night, too.
I put in a few days studying the situation, and then called my
board together for a council of war. Several of them were
stanch business men, and they promised me their support and
co-operation. The next Sunday the house was two-thirds full,
and not so many at night.
I put in a few weeks looking over the field and taking an
inventory of the assets and liabilities, and then proceeded to
form, in my own mind, my plans of operation. It was necessary
to dispose of that property and secure an eligible site for a new
church. The other congregations, especially the Presbyterians
and Northern Methodists, had handsome structures under
way. So it was not long until we had gotten an
option on the lot we wanted, then we quietly got some real
estate agents at work.
As the year advanced we sold the old property for thirty-six
thousand dollars and closed the deal for the new lot for five
thousand dollars. Architects soon had plans for the new church
and the work of building was not long in taking shape. It
required nearly two years to complete the building, and for the
time being we worshiped in the old structure. In the meantime
we rebuilt the parsonage and had a comfortable place to live in.
The enterprise thus inaugurated put new life into my people
and my work began to look like something.
In the late spring I made an effort to get the ministers of the
city to join me in an invitation to get Sam Jones to visit
Chattanooga and hold a meeting for us. The city needed just
such a shaking up as he was qualified to give to it, but not one
of them would countenance the movement. Jones had then
been in Memphis and Knoxville and stirred the natives, and our
preachers were afraid to risk him in Chattanooga.
So I assumed all responsibility and extended him the
invitation. He readily accepted, for he was not the popular
evangelist that he afterward became. There was much
criticism and murmuring because I had arranged for him to
come. There was some of it in my own congregation. But the
bulk of them were with me. Our old Church was the only place
we had for him. The daily papers, especially the Times,
intimated what it would do for him if he made the same attacks
on Chattanooga society that he had done at other places. All
this gave him wide advertisement.
So when he came the face of the earth tried to get into that
dingy old house. For two hundred feet around it the space was
packed an hour before the night service was ready to begin. I
had tried to have a choir in readiness, but I never
saw one of them in place that night. They had waited too long
and there was no room for them. I took Sam Jones through a
window from the rear. A hush fell on the congregation as he
asked us to sing something. I started a hymn and got it too
high. Nobody joined me. I tried it again and got it too low, with
the same result. He turned to me and said:
"You can stop that music. I can take two free niggers down
in Georgia and beat all such singing."
The audience roared. They had come out to hear just such
as that and they enjoyed it. He then called them to prayer and I
never heard a sweeter prayer. He then looked down at the
string of reporters just under him in the altar and said:
"My, Lord! Am I to be nibbled to death by these tadpoles? I
understand that you are going to show me up. You are! Where
did you chaps spend last night? Where do you spend the most
of your nights? I know! Now you open up on me. I will preach
here at six in the morning, at eleven in the day, at three
to-morrow afternoon and again to-morrow night. You'll get one
shot a day at me, but I will get four at you and every time I fire
you'll hit the ground running. Now do your best, boys, and we'll
have some fun in Chattanooga while this meeting goes on, if we
do not have anything else."
Then he preached a very telling sermon. He went back to
the parsonage with me, for no one volunteered to entertain
him.
At six the next morning the house was crowded, and so it
was at the other services. The altar was crowded also with
penitents. The preachers then began to run over each other to
get into the meeting, throwing open their houses for
after-services. Everybody wanted to entertain him. The meeting
increased each hour in interest until it swept the city like a tidal
wave. It was deep, strong, irresistible, wonderful. It lasted ten
days, and the three Sundays following I received into
my Church one hundred and forty-eight members, nearly all of
whom were young men and middle-aged men. The other
congregations were likewise blessed.
It was the first great revival that the city had known. It put
Church work and religion twenty years in advance of what it
was at the beginning. It practically revolutionized the moral and
religious status of Chattanooga. It was one of the most
effective meetings that Sam Jones ever held. The newspapers
treated him royally. They put his sermons into the Associated
Press dispatches and sent them to the great dailies of the
country. From that moment Sam Jones was great in the
esteem of the public, in the pulpit and on the platform.
My Church work received a great impetus. Some of the
strongest men in the city came into my membership, and from
that day till the present they have been the bone and sinew of
Chattanooga Methodism. The church building went forward
rapidly, and one day when it was nearly completed Sam Jones
was passing through the city and stopped with me. As we
walked by the new building - a splendid structure it was - he
asked me who was going to dedicate it? I told him we had not
agreed on a man yet, but I guessed one of the Bishops.
"Yes," he said; "when you have a dirty job like that meeting
you wanted me to hold Sam Jones is all right. But when you
have a nice job like this you want a Bishop!"
A few nights after that my board met and I took up the
question of selecting the preacher to conduct the dedicatory
service, and with one voice they wanted Sam Jones! I knew
that it was a mistake, but the most of them were converts in his
late meeting and I could not well oppose them. They agreed on
Sam Jones. But I prepared to cover the retreat by getting them
to invite Dr. J. B. McFerrin and Dr. O. P. Fitzgerald to be
present and take charge of the dedicatory
service after the sermon, and they agreed to it. It looked like
putting those two distinguished men to a poor use, but it was
the best I could do.
The day and the occasion came round. A great congregation
filled the splendid structure. It was a thing of beauty, large,
commodious, out of debt and handsomely furnished. Sam Jones
was on hand. So were the two leading men already mentioned.
I had my fears of what he would do and say. He took his text:
"Bear ye one another's burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ."
For ten minutes it was touchingly beautiful. Then he paused
and looked round at the auditorium. No one knew what was
coming next.
"You fellows think that I am here to say nice things about
you for building this church, do you? Well, if you do you have
got the wrong sow by the yer!"
I knew we were gone. He looked down at the circle of the
Official Board as they sat round the altar.
"What do you fellows pay your preacher?"
Not one of them chirped.
"What do you pay him, Tom Snow? What is it, John Martin?"
The last named saw that an answer must come, and he said:
"Twelve hundred dollars."
Jones groaned until you could have heard him a block.
"A seventy-thousand-dollar Church and a twelve-hundred-
dollars preacher! My, what a spectacle! Well, I know that's all
Rankin's worth; but you ought to give the poor fellow
something. The few days I spent at his house in the beginning
of that meeting the Lord knows I'd been glad if somebody had
sent something round there."
And thus he continued to the end of his harangue. I was
never so crestfallen. The whole audience became hilarious at
my expense. I was relieved when he took his seat.
Dr. Fitzgerald came forward, and the dignity of the service
recovered itself. He made a beautiful talk. Dr. McFerrin took
charge and delivered one of his inimitable addresses. He spoke
of the time that he was a chaplain on the battlefield of
Chickamauga, the last Sunday that he was in that vicinity; and
he related one of the most touching incidents I ever heard
about how he walked over the battlefield trying to comfort the
dying; how he found a handsome young fellow in gray with his
life-blood ebbing away, and how he recognized in him the son
of one of his old Alabama friends; how the young man told him
to feel in his pocket and get out his Testament; how he found
his mother's name in it. As he prayed with him a young fellow
near by called out to him and said that he had his mother's
Testament, too. He turned and it was a boy in blue. As the old
Doctor told how he knelt there holding each young fellow's
hand as he prayed for them, and finally how the death struggle
was soon over with both of them, it broke the whole
congregation into tears. The application he made of the
incident was telling. Then he read the dedicatory service, and
the day was saved!
Was I correct in my estimate of Sam Jones' performance?
No! He knew what he was doing. The next day a wagon
drove up to the parsonage and left flour, lard, meat, sugar,
coffee and the like, enough to last us nearly the rest of the
year. And Monday night the stewards met and increased my
salary to eighteen hundred dollars! Did myself and wife forgive
Sam for that reference to us? Well, we will let you answer
that question.
Great, big-hearted Sam Jones! Only the books of the
Judgment will fully disclose the extent of the good he did in
his
own peculiar way. God had a work for him to do, and right well
did he do it before he went hence. Let the world criticise him
as it may, but the Lamb's Book of Life has more to his credit
than almost any score of those who wrought by his side in the
Master's vineyard. He was himself and nobody else; and let his
work testify as to whether he was blessed of God in his unique
ministry.
The saloons of Chattanooga were intolerable, and I
determined to make an aggressive warfare on them. They
were fearful in their influence on the working classes and on
the young men of the city. I prepared myself to speak with
some authority concerning them. So I quietly spent two nights
in them making an investigation of them. I did not assume much
disguise in this method of inquiry. It was not necessary,
especially in the working districts of the city. They lived such
an exclusive life of their own that nowhere did they recognize
me, except the latter part of the last night when I visited the
more prominent places in the business districts. I did not spend
a very great time in either place; just remained long enough to
see the character and number of patrons in them and their
manner of life and conduct. In this way I gathered a great deal
of first-hand information, and I was ready to speak, not from
hearsay, but from personal observation. When in a few of them
I was recognized, my presence created a panic.
After this tour of inspection I announced through the papers
that I would preach a series of sermons each Sunday night for
some weeks on "Two Nights in the Barrooms and What I
Saw". The announcement created a sensation, and during the
winter Sunday nights of 1886-87 my
congrgations
were limited to
the size and capacity of my auditorium. The Daily Times
published each sermon in their Monday morning issue
until I had completed the series. There were twenty-four
of them, and they were red-hot from start to finish. A
number of the papers, weekly as well as daily, reproduced
them; and they had much to do with the Legislature's
submitting the question of a prohibition State-wide
amendment to a vote of the people in September, 1887.
Twelve of these sermons were published in pamphlet
form and more than fifteen thousand copies of it were
scattered broadcast over the State. It brought me into much
prominence, and necessarily made me a striking figure in the
campaign that followed. For three months I gave myself up
almost exclusively to campaigning for the adoption of the
amendment, and I became the target for the abuse and
vilification of the liquor papers and their stump speakers.
The Chattanooga Times was especially villainous in its
attacks upon me, and left nothing unsaid that would counteract
my influence against the saloon. The libel laws of Tennessee
are very liberal in the latitude accorded to newspapers, and
their assaults upon me were terrific. They strove to put me in
every false light possible, and my only recourse was to get
back at them through circulars and on the platform.
I remember a particularly false and vicious attack of the
Times on me toward the close of the campaign, and I
announced through circulars that I would reply on Saturday
night at the temperance wigwam on the courthouse square.
There must have been four or five thousands people present
and I doubt if the Chattanooga Times will ever forget the
excoriation it received on that occasion. The editor, with
two stenographers, was present and took down every word I
spoke, but not one line of it ever appeared in the columns of
that prurient whiskey organ.
I had one very amusing joint discussion during the
progress
of that campaign. I had many of them, but this one was
peculiarly interesting. It happened on Walden's Ridge, about
eighteen miles from Chattanooga. Captain J. C. Hutcheson, of
Houston, Texas, had a summer residence out there, and after
the prohibition campaign in Texas that same year was over he
and his family went to their Walden Ridge summer home for
their vacation.
I knew nothing of him at that time, and he had never heard
tell of me. He had taken quite an active part in the campaign in
Texas and the antis had won by ninety-two thousand majority.
He was flushed with the victory, and the antis on the ridge got
him to make a speech for them on the subject and tell how they
had snowed the fanaticism under in Texas. He made the
appointment in a large house on a week night and challenged
any pro to meet him. An old man jumped on a flea-bitten gray
and galloped over the city to get me to meet the Texas Goliath.
Of course I was ready for that sort of a tilt. When the time
came I was on the ground, and after dark the Captain and his
family drove up. I was introduced to him and he received me
with a very patronizing and gracious manner. He made the
terms; he would speak an hour, give me an hour to reply and he
would take twenty minutes to make his rejoinder. It was
satisfactory and we went into the house. I knew the crowd, and
three-fourths of them were pros. He evidently took me for a
greenhorn out in that mountain section. He spent a good deal of
his hour crowing over their great Texas victory, and how they
had buried prohibition so deep that it would never again hear the
resurrection trumpet; that they were done with it forever. And
he told them how to dispose of it in a similar way in Tennessee.
He left down
a number of glaring gaps and made himself the most vulnerable
man I ever tackled in a joint discussion.
When I arose to reply he saw for the first time that the
crowd was against him. I determined to have a little fun at his
expense. I stated that the gentleman had spent the most of his
hour bragging about what he had done to help overwhelm
prohibition in Texas, but when it was remembered that every
man in Tennessee for the last fifty years who had done
something which made it necessary for him to leave the State
for the public good, had gone to Texas, and that all such men
from other States had found it necessary to do likewise; that
nobody was the least surprised that the majority against
prohibition in Texas was only ninety-two thousand. The only
surprise to people who knew the facts was that it had not been
twice that much. But Tennessee was not Texas. Then I threw
down the challenge to him to tell the audience whether or not
he was a native Texan. He sat there perfectly dumb. The
audience shouted:
"Make him tell; make him tell!"
Finally he rose and said:
"I was born in Virginia."
After the crowd got through shouting I said:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain himself says that he is
not a native Texan. Now I do not know why he left Virginia
for Texas, but I know why pople leave Tennessee for Texas -
it is for the good of Tennessee! Therefore is he not a nice
specimen to come all the way from the cow pastures of Texas
to teach Tennesseans their duty on moral questions? Why, he
ought to write the Governor of Virginia and request him to
suspend all writs temporarily against fugitives from that State,
so as to permit him to return to his native heath
and teach his new moral code to the State from whose
confines he moved a few years ago!"
The audience went wild, and from that time to the close I
had things my own way.
When the Captain arose to reply he was actually angry and
used a mild cuss word, and then an old lady back in the
audience sprang to her feet and shouted:
"May the good Lord send a thunderbolt this moment to kill
such a wretch on the spot!"
That practically broke up the meeting. A few years after
that I was sent to Houston, Texas, as pastor of Shearn
Memorial Church, and I saw from the papers that Captain
Hutcheson was a candidate for Congress from that district.
One day Rev. John E. Green and myself were standing off
the street corner and a gentleman came up and spoke to him
and shook hands with me also - just like all candidates
usually do. I recognized him, but he did not recognize me, but
remarked that my face was familiar. Green said:
"Captain Hutcheson, excuse me, this is Dr. Rankin, our
new pastor at Shearn Church."
A quizzical look came to his face and he said:
"Yes, I know him; and what have you done, sir, that you,
too, have come to Texas?"
The laugh was mutual, and we became fast friends.
Prohibition in Tennessee was defeated by twenty-five
thousand majority, but throughout East Tennessee, the section
for which I became responsible, it went pro by a good
majority. But the work was not lost, neither was the cause.
We sowed the seed and the harvest was gathered several
years later, and now Tennessee is a prohibition State.
I was worn out when the contest was over and I had only a
few weeks in which to finish up my work for conference -
the
end of my quadrennium. This I did and when the end of the
year came I was ready to render a good account.
I had had four of the hardest years of my life in that city by
the river, but my work was a vindication of what I had done.
There stood that handsome new building, with a membership of
over six hundred; it was paid out of debt, the Sunday-school
was quadrupled, the new parsonage was free of obligation, the
salary of the preacher had been practically doubled, and
Centenary Church was one of the dominant forces in the city,
and the first Church in the conference.
Two or three days before I left for conference I went in
home one day and to my surprise I found Bishop McTyeire
stretched out on the lounge in the parlor. He grasped my hand
and said:
"Well, you are not dead! You look like a man very much
alive, and yet you thought you would certainly die if I took
you up from Asheville and put you down here. I have just
been round to the church, and I see that you have done what
I told you to do. And you have done it well. Don't you see
that a preacher does not always know what is best for him
and his work? You have made yourself by coming to
Chattanooga."
I had made many friends in that city. Two-thirds of its
members had been taken into the Church under my ministry.
They were greatly attached to me, for notwithstanding the
strenuous life I had led, and had led them as well, they never
flickered in their support of me. They stood by me amid all
the attacks of the liquor demon and cheered me in every blow
I delivered upon his fiendish head. But it had been war to the
knife and the knife to the hilt.
When the time came to dissolve my relation with them,
notwithstanding my attachment for them, I felt that my work
was
done and I was ready for the change. I had been in war until I
actually wanted a season of peace. I felt like I had won an
honorable furlough, and I was ready to stack arms for the time
being and get away from the smell of gunpowder.
I had literally built myself into their life, and I had built their
life into mine. They had become a part of me. But the
conference came along and sent me to another charge and put
Dr. J. P. McFerrin in my stead.
Two years afterward I had occasion to visit my old Church,
and I was not long in finding out that they were getting along
even better than when I was their pastor! Then I sought to
comfort myself with the thought that I had done my work while
there so thoroughly that most any man could follow me and
succeed.
At least I learned that no one man is indispensable to the
success of the kingdom of Christ, and that it is a waste of time
for one preacher to grieve over the fate of his successor.
The Church will take care of that feature of the work.
During my quadrennium at Chattanooga Bishop J. C.
Keener held one session of our conference, and I had the
pleasure of his company in my home. He was somewhat
different from any of the other Bishops I have described, both
as a preacher and a presiding officer. He was well developed
physically; had a large frame, a florid complexion, light hair, a
smoothly-chiseled face of classic mold, a fine head and a
massive form.
He had all the marks of greatness. His training had been
excellent, his experience varied, and his natural endowments
original and lofty. He was possessed of a dreamy and a poetic
temperament and lived a good deal in the realm of the ideal.
He was not a practical man like Bishop McTyeire, but he was
just as great in his own way. He was more entertaining and
vivacious in his conversation and preaching. There was a
well-defined strain of genius in him, and occasionally he was
sparkling and refulgent in the pulpit.
In some of his public prayers he was a marvel. He was not
always the same in the pulpit. Often he would reach altitudes
of thought in the sweep of his imagination and dream dreams
and see visions that he was unable to make plain to his
auditors; and at times it was like trying to grasp the colors of
the rainbow for the average listener to follow him and clearly
perceive his conceptions of thought.
He towered amid spiritual realms too ethereal and
sublimated for ordinary mortals. But this was only occasional.
For the most part his sermons were as beautiful and inspiring
as prose poems. I heard him preach a few of this sort and I
have never heard them surpassed.
As a Bishop he was replete with variety, and he often gave
zest and brightness to the proceedings of the conference
sessions. There was nothing dull or routine in his manner of
presiding; and in the Cabinet, while pleasant and brotherly,
he usually determined matters to suit himself. But he was so
good-natured and masterful that no one seriously objected to
the finality of his actions.
In the private circle he was one of the most delightful men I
ever met. He loved children and flowers and music, and the
companionship of congenial friends was his delight.
Bishop McTyeire held the session of the conference the last
year I was at Chattanooga, and it met at Abingdon. It was my
good fortune to be entertained at the good home of Victor
Litchfield with him. He was then in the full maturity of his
great powers; in fact, he was just over the hill in the turn of his
life. He came into my room on Sunday morning only partly
dressed and had his Bible in his hands and remarked:
"I have just finished reading Paul's great exposition of the
doctrine of the resurrection, and it is grand beyond description.
What a revelation the apostle had of the glory of the
resurrection body! This chapter is the greatest that Paul ever
penned. As I find myself traveling toward the sunset these
words contain meanings for me of which I never dreamed in
my younger ministry."
And thus for half an hour I listened to a most instructive
exposition of the fifteenth chapter of Paul's first Epistle to the
Corinthians. When he was through I remarked to him that
some years previous in the volume of sermons known as "The
Methodist Pulpit, South", I had read his sermon on the
"Intermediate State", and that I had often wondered if in his
maturer years and closer study he had found it necessary to
change his views on that subject. He shook his head and said:
"No! On the contrary, I am more firmly convinced of the
truthfulness of the position taken in that discourse now than
when I first prepared it!"
On Monday morning I picked up the Daily Tribune,
published at Knoxville, and read the account of the Emma
Abbott episode at McKendree Church, Nashville, the day
before when young Dr. W. A. Candler preached his famous
sermon on "The Evils of the Modern Theater", and called the
Bishop's attention to it. He remarked:
"My, what an advertising stroke for her! Her performance
will be in every paper in America, and they will laud her
beyond the sky for her reply to the preacher. But it was an
unpardonable violation of the proprieties of the Church service.
However, she is a woman and that fact will obscure her
irreverence. Mark what I say! Some Nashville preacher will
be in the papers in twenty-four hours defending her course."
And his prediction came true. At the close of that session he
was kind enough to send me back to Asheville to finish up the
quadrennium which I had only begun four years before, when
he broke into it by sending me to Chattanooga at the end of my
first year. To me this was gratifying. It took me back there
with a richer experience and with better qualifications for
continuous work.
In many respects this was one of the most pleasant charges
of my ministry. It was a congregation of intelligent people,
cultivated and refined, and genuinely Methodistic in their
training and customs. They had a great deal of wealth among
them, and by this time they were liberal and possessed a good
Church spirit. There were responsibilities enough to keep a
pastor alert and active, yet there were no such responsibilities
as had taxed me in two city charges preceding this one.
It was an easy charge; the competition was not great and
Methodism had the right of way in the community. The
pastoral work was not difficult, and the pulpit work was
sufficiently inspiring to prompt one to his best effort. But they
were good people to preach to; attentive, appreciative and the
most hospitable people I ever served. It was whole-souled,
unstinted, mountain hospitality. They ministered to the comfort
of the parsonage family with full hands and overflowing hearts.
It was a positive luxury to minister to them. And there was a
good field for evangelistic work also.
Rev. James Atkins, Jr., was one of my parishioners. He was
President of Asheville Female College, and he was brotherly,
helpful and cordial. He was a man of keen intellect, broad
culture, extensive reading; and to be associated with him was
an inspiration.
I had in my congregation a very remarkable man, a local
preacher. His name was Rev. M. L. Pease. He had been a
member of one of the New York Conferences, but he founded
the Five Points Mission in New York, and took a local relation
to devote himself to that sort of work. But his health gave way
and he moved to Asheville and made it his home.
He was a great Sunday-school man, and for years he was
the Superintendent. He was a Yankee and knew how to make
money, but he was liberal with it, and he loved the Church. He
founded a mission school in his home for poor mountain girls,
and in this way rendered a valuable service to humanity. If
among them now and then he found one specially gifted, he
would send her to Vassar or some other great school and give
to her a very finished education.
He had his own peculiar ideas and was a little cranky, but
his heart was always in the right place, and I found him a most
useful man. But I had to humor his whims and pander
to his harmless vanity. He was a severe critic and very free
with his suggestions. You could tolerate this in him because he
was always ready to lead in any Church enterprise.
I want to mention one illustration of his good work among
needy girls. It is characteristic of him. There appeared in the
Southern Christian Advocate, which was then published in
Macon, Georgia, a written account of a girl back in the
mountains of North Georgia striving to educate herself. She
was the daughter of one of the local preachers at Cottaca. The
writer gave a sketch of her. Her Christian name was
"Estalena". It was given to her by the Indians. They came from
the Government Reservation near by her father's house when
she was a little baby, and she was so fair and beautiful that
they would point to her and say, "Estalena"; and in the Indian
vernacular it meant "Beautiful Lily'. It
was such
an appropriate
name that the parents gave it to her in baptism. She grew up
and had such advantages as her father could give to her in a
small school taught by himself until she was seventeen years of
age, and then she secured a little subscription
school back in the mountains and taught to make a
little money to go to school again.
The circuit preacher held service in her schoolhouse one
week day and became favorably impressed with her; found
that she was very religious and that she opened her school
every morning with a Bible reading and prayer. He found out
all the above facts about her and wrote them up for the
Southern Christian Advocate. That copy of the paper fell into
Brother Pease's hand and he at once wrote and got into
communication with her.
To make a long story short, she was soon in his school, went
through his course, and he sent her to Vassar and she became
a most accomplished young woman; and after that was the
honored wife of one of our leading ministers.
Many of my readers have heard the noted evangelist,
George R. Stuart, use her as an illustration in one of his
greatest sermons, showing how Christ, though rich, for our
sakes became
poor and adapted himself to our lowest conditions
that he might save us. He then showed how this lovely girl,
having been through this great college, her country folk
imagined that she would be above them now, in her high estate;
but instead of that she knew better than ever how to make
herself one of them, and gave her beautiful life to the good of
others. That was this lovely girl, Estalena Robinson.
Dear old Brother Pease has long been in his heavenly home,
and there were those there by the score to receive him into
everlasting habitations.
Asheville rapidly became a health resort. People of
pulmonary trouble from the North and the Northwest flocked
there in the winter season, and in the summer-time great
numbers from the heated South found those breezes
refreshing. This made the town noted, and it was always filled
with great crowds of visitors the year round. It increased the
labor of the pastors, for many of these sick and dying people
needed the consolations of the gospel; and it gave to me a wide
acquaintance with leading people from all sections of the
country. Many prominent ministers were among them.
One summer the Rev. George Waverly Briggs, then editor
of the Texas Christian Advocate, was one of the visitors, and I
met him for the first time. I had him to preach one Sunday, and
his sermon carried the people beyond themselves. There was
such a demand to hear him again that I prevailed upon him to
preach once more. This time it was well advertised and the
house was packed to its capacity and expectation ran high.
He was an exceedingly handsome man, and one of the most
gifted in the Church. His sermon was on the Prodigal Son, and
it was a gem. His delivery was perfect, his presence
commanding, and I have never seen a congregation more
bewitched. No wonder, for it was the perfection of oratory and
eloquence.
Apparently his future was pregnant with promise, and it
seemed that anything within the gift of the Church was within
his reach. His endowment was princely, his genius
transcendent, and had his consecration equaled his splendid
gifts, to what promotion might he not have aspired!
But, alas, alas! I always feel like shedding tears whenever I
think of George Waverly Briggs and the ill-fated shadow that
fell upon his brilliant promise. Yet he is more to be pitied than
condemned.
Noble in nature, gifted in intellect, refulgent in genius;
nevertheless he was weak in will-power, and in an evil moment
the serpent of the cup beguiled him; and, like a blazing meteor
sweeping through the heavens, his glorious light went down
into the appalling gloom of a starless night with no hope of
a comming morning.
I met that inimitable statesman, Senator Zebulon Vance, the
most gifted son of the old North State. He was a noted man in
the National galaxy and conspicuous in the United States
Senate. He was the most original and unique politician of his
day, and he belonged to that class of East Tennessee
politicians already described. He had been a prominent General
in the Confederate army, had twice been Governor of the
State, and was then one of the Senators from North Carolina.
He was a very large man, weighing nearly three hundred
pounds. He had a heavy countenance and looked like a man
without humor. He rarely ever smiled either in conversation or
on the rostrum, yet he was the most witty and humorous man I
ever heard talk or speak. No man could stand before him on
the hustings. Whatever he wanted his constituents
were ready to give it to him. They denied
him nothing. I used to hear
him at his best before his "Buncombe"
audiences and the effect was
positively indescribable. He handled them like a storm handles the
ocean.
As an illustration of his style I will give one incident. I was in
Baltimore in 1884 at the Centennial of Episcopal Methodism, and
during that session the local Democracy gave a tariff banquet to
leading members of Congress. It occurred at the Academy of Music.
Among those present were Allen G. Thurman, Daniel W. Voorhees,
Samuel J. Randall, John G. Carlisle, Zebulon Vance and many others.
The spectators sat in the balconies and heard the speeches. The
tariff question was new then to the masses; it was just becoming an
issue. The toastmaster introduced each speaker, and some of them
were eloquent; but no enthusiasm had been produced. It came
Senator Vance's turn, and he was introduced as the distinguished
gentleman from "Buncombe".
He began: "I have listened with much interest to these eloquent
gentlemen as they have spoken upon the tariff, but for the life of me I
have not learned anything much. They do not seem to understand
the subject. I have never heard but one man talk on the subject who
did understand it. He was one of my old 'Buncombe'
constituents. I
made a speech up there some time ago on the tariff and I guess I was
as about as clear on it as these great men to-night.
As I left the door
of the courthouse two of my constituents were discussing my
speech. One of them said: 'Smith, did Zeb make that
thar taarif clere to
you ?' Said Smith: 'No, he didn't. But I knowed
all about it afore he
spoke.' 'Well, what is it?' Smith said:
'Why, taarif means that goods has riz.'"
That stroke of humor brought down the house, and the more
you think about it the more you are convinced
that the "Buncombe"
definition of tariff is about complete.
While in Asheville I had another fight with the saloons. The only
ones in the county were in that city. They were mean and degraded,
as saloons always are. There is not a good one on the face of the
earth. We brought on an election and it was a warm one. The
campaign waxed hot and hotter, but the so-called "business men"
threw their influence toward the antis on business principles, and we
were defeated by a small majority. Some years after that they voted
the saloons out, and since then the State swept them out by a
constitutional amendment.
During my first year in my second term at Asheville I was fortunate
in having for my associate minister Rev. C. M. Bishop, fresh from
Emory and Henry College. He was a scholarly and a dignified young
preacher; cultured, refined and self-possessed. As the year advanced
he became quite attentive to one of my young lady members; really
she looked more like a girl than a young lady. Some of my more
sedate and elderly members thought he was carrying on a flirtation
with her and began to take notice of it. Especially Brother Pease took
this view of it. At our Sunday-school picnic Brother Bishop and the
young lady were quite devoted, and two of these elderly gentlemen
suggested that I call the young minister's attention to what they
regarded as a little out of place and undignified in his fondness for
this particular girl, as they styled her. I was loath to meddle in an
affair of that sort and protested, but they were quite insistent. That
was Saturday, and I took the suggestion under advisement.
Monday following I was seated in my home and Brother Bishop
approached up the sidewalk. That was my opportunity and I prepared
to mention the matter to him. After he was
seated alone with me, and before I had time to work up to the
unpleasant duty, he spoke to me in a sort of confidential way and
asked me if I would be at home on next Thursday evening. I answered
in the affirmative, and he told me that he and Miss Phoeby Jones were
to be married on that evening and he wanted me to perform the
ceremony! You could have knocked me down with a feather. She
looked so much like a girl I hardly thought of her as a woman, but it
relieved me of my embarrassment.
At the appointed time I officiated at their marriage, and a happy
marriage it proved for both of them. She was the woman he needed as
a minister, and he was the man suited to her; and their wedded lives
have been singularly blessed of God.
I had good success during all my years at Asheville, and my health
and strength wonderfully improved. Everything was congenial and
there was not one unpleasant jar in my relation as pastor and
preacher. The people were apparently well pleased and I was most
assuredly devoted to them. I had one of the best and most capable
Board of Stewards in the whole of my pastorates, and they attended
to business punctually and systematically.
Henry Pendland was my Treasurer, and I have never seen him
excelled. He handed my check to me every Monday morning as
regularly as clockwork, and his fellowship was truly royal.
The last conference session I attended at Holston was at
Morristown, eighty miles below Asheville, and at a point where the
North Carolina Railroad intersected the trunk line leading to
Knoxville. It was an ideal place to hold a conference, for it was about
an equal distance from all points of the territory.
It was at this session that I was elected a delegate to the
General Conference to meet the following May in St. Louis, Missouri.
This was an honor that I appreciated and one I did not expect.
I encountered my first and only woman scrape at this conference,
and it gave me the fright of my life. We had an ugly case of discipline,
and Rev. Frank Richardson and myself defended the accused
minister. I was stopping at the hotel and the trial took place each
night at the courthouse, a half mile away. I was rooming with a
minister upstairs, midway the building. The trial concluded Sunday
morning about half past one o'clock. We determined to finish it and
be done with it. It was an ugly affair. Our line of defense was that it
was a conspiracy upon the part of the woman in the case with
designing persons to ruin the minister. But the committee found him
guilty and expelled him from the ministry and membership of the
Church.
As I left the courthouse and walked down the street toward the
hotel I was in a deep, brown study and became unconscious of where
I was or where I was going. The thought uppermost in my mind was
that if this man was innocent and thus ruined by wicked persons,
whose character was safe? I walked on automatically until all at once I
found myself at the door of my room. It was locked and then I realized
where I was. As I stood there knocking a woman across the hall and
two or three rooms beyond put her head out at the door and said:
"Mr. Rankin, come to this room." It paralyzed me!
The thought came
to me: Is it possible that just after my experience at the courthouse a
woman here in this hotel, at two o'clock in the morning, is inviting me
to her room? The cold perspiration broke out on me, for I had always
been one of the most dignified and prudent of men in my association
with women. But once more she put her head out of the door and
invited me to
her room; and this time I recognized the voice of my wife! Without
letting me know anything about it she had run down from Asheville
to spend Sunday at conference and arrived after I had left the hotel
for the courthouse, and she was still awake waiting for me, so as to
let me know the room to which I had been changed. It was an hour
before my heart recovered its normal strokes.
I was returned to Asheville for the fourth time, and the next March
brought to me the most touching sorrow of my life. I received a
telegram telling me of the serious illness of my dear old mother, at
that time spending a few weeks at my uncle's near Calhoun, Georgia. I
hastened to her bedside and found her extremely low, but she was
conscious and gave me a look of maternal recognition. She grew
rapidly worse, went into a comatose state and the next morning just
as the sun climbed up the Eastern horizon she was gathered to her
long-sought home.
As the last breath left her body and her breast grew silent forever
I felt a sense of loneliness too appalling for description. During my
unconscious childhood she had watched over me and emptied her life
into mine; in my boyhood she had guarded my steps like an angel; in
the years of her desolate widowhood I had been her stay and
comfort; during the time I was struggling with poverty to obtain an
education she had bared her bosom and borne the brunt at home to
give me a chance, and through the years of my active ministry her
prayers and sympathies had been my inspiration.
But now her life's work was ended, her burdens had ceased, her
sorrows had come to a close, and there rested a heavenly calm upon
her dear old face that looked like the sweetness of unbroken repose.
She was dead! Her eyes could no longer
see me, her lips could no longer speak to me, her hand could no
longer touch me, her smile could greet me no more.
My heart was seized with an aching, tears blinded my eyes, and
my bosom was bursting with unheard sobs. I was lonely and lost
without her. She was actually gone!
It was in the early morning and merry birds were singing joyously
in the nearby woodland. All nature semed busy getting up from her
long, wintry sleep and robing herself in the habiliments of green, and
orange, and purple, and crimson; and through the uplifted window
the sunlight was streaming in and falling like a shower of gold upon
her undisturbed face. But she knew it not.
I stood and gazed and gazed upon her peaceful countenance and
longed for one more sound of her silent voice, for one more touch of
her vanished hand; but there was no response to my heart-cry! I
listened, and there was the silent footfall of the angels, and I heard
the far-off murmur of the surf of the great hallelujahs. I looked, and I
saw in the dim distance the flutter of white robes amid the balm-
breathing gardens of God; and I caught the echo of her triumphant
shout as she passed through the gates into the city of the immortal!
No, no. She was not dead, but alive forevermore! She was happy
with her Savior and her reunited loved ones, in a land where shadows
never fall, where the flowers never wither, where the inhabitants
never grow old, where ties are never broken, where the songs of the
redeemed resound from the glinted hilltops of the eternal!
My heart felt the ecstasy. They were all there but me! I looked
about me, and my eye caught sight of the old family Bible lying on
her work-table not far from her restful form. It was the same old book
that had been her companion through life. Yes, it was the same old
book that I saw her take down
that desolate evening when she returned in her young widowhood
from the burial of my father twenty-six years before, and from it then
read:
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. Let not your heart be
troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me."
I ran my hand through its pages. Its leaves were tearstained, its
corners were thumb-marked, and many of its rarest texts and
promises were interlined.
During those long and weary years of toil and poverty and
hardship this book had been her comfort, her consolation, her never-
failing hope. In its truths she had rested her faith; and in death an
unseen hand from its apocalyptic vision had reached forth and
brushed away the mists and fogs that gathered about the outgoing
of her life, and opened to her disembodied spirit the gates of gold!
Were there nothing else to convince me that this old book is the
sufficient guide to struggling humanity, as it toils through this
earthly pilgrimage to that land from out whose bourne no traveler
returns, the joy and support that my dear old mother got out of it is
enough to satisfy me.
To her it was divinely inspired, and when all other earthly helpers
vanished she found this her unfailing counselor and guide. It was her
hope in the days of her youth, it was her pillar of strength when her
home-life was founded, it nerved her heart when she threw around
her form the sables of comfortless widowhood, and when the warfare
was over it flung its heaven-born light athwart the sunless sea. What
would her life have been without it? What would my life be in its
absence?
As these tender reflections passed in rapid succession through my
mind I recalled the following poem, written some years ago by George
P. Morris, and I here reproduce it because of its sacred sentiment:
For
many generations past
Ah,
well do I remember those
And
read of what these pages said
My
father read this precious book
Her
angel face, I see it yet!
Thou
truest friend man ever knew,
The
mines of earth no treasures give
In addition to the Bishops I have already mentioned I saw Bishop
Granbery, the St. John of the Episcopal College. Scholarly, polished,
mild-mannered, evangelical and unobtrusive, he was one of the most
lovable men in the Church. And he was also a man of intellectual
parts, though not a towering preacher.
Bishop Hargrove was a man of fine appearance; educated,
business-like, amiable and the soul of courtesy. He was a good
presiding officer and a sensible preacher, but possessed none of the
attractions of the orator. His preaching was solid and substantial, but
not strikingly original.
Bishop Hendrix struck me as a man of impressive personality,
robust in body, forceful in mind, thoroughly equipped, progressive
and an indomitable student. As a preacher he is now numbered
among our great men, an ideal presiding officer and to the casual
observer a little austere and self-assertive.
Bishop Duncan looked effeminate. His face was that of the
cultured gentleman and his manner was nervous and irritating. In the
chair he was often sharp and rasping; in the pulpit he was eloquent
and rather attractive; in the private circle he was as gentle and tender
as a woman.
Bishop Galloway was even then, though young, the master spirit
in the pulpit. He had a most vivacious face, a magnetic manner, good
attainments and a matchless orator. He easily became the most
popular preacher among his generation of Bishops.
Bishop Key impressed me as a man of great saintliness of life and
character, of good intellectual parts, a deeply spiritual nature and an
accurate knowledge of practical affairs.
These with the members of the older panel filed into Centenary
Church and occupied the rostrum the morning that the General
Conference opened.
On the floor were some striking characters. Dr. A. S. Andrews, Dr.
John E. Edwards, Dr. A. G. Haygood, Dr. R. N. Sledd, Dr. John J.
Tigert, Dr. Warren A. Candler, Dr. E. E. Hoss, Dr. E. E. Wiley, Dr. Paul
Whitehead, Dr. A. Coke Smith and scores of others too numerous to
mention. In the main it was a strong body of men.
The conference soon got down to business and many of these
leaders began to figure in the proceedings of the session, and I had
an opportunity to hear them. But as I became more familiar with them
in public and in private I was more and more impressed with the fact
that, after all, they were only good Methodist preachers, and not so
far removed in their greatness from ordinary mortals.
Distance always lends enchantment to the view, and men do not
tower up so high when you get close to them and measure them with
men of their kind. As a result, while I have ever had the highest
appreciation of our leading men, I diminished
very considerably my innate disposition to worship at their
shrines as ideal heroes. That General Conference disabused
my mind of a great many of its preconceived fancies and
invested me with ideas of less grandeur and sublimity in my
estimate of great men.
I esteemed it a wonderful privilege to see and hear our
English representative, J. J. Waller of the Wesleyan Church.
He was a credit to the splendid body whose greetings he
brought. I was woefully disappointed in the fraternal delegates
from the Northern Methodist Church. Dr. Bristol, now one of
their Bishops, was the clerical representative, and he was an
airy, volatile sort of an orator, with inordinate self-esteem.
When Bishop Keener responded to the young man and
trimmed his comb so effectually, while it was almost a violation
of the proprieties of the occasion, I enjoyed it as one of the
most interesting episodes of the conference. When Governor
Patterson of Pennsylvania, their lay representative, spoke, it
was a very prosy and commonplace performance.
When the memorials were introduced and referred I thought
the Church would be destroyed. The changes suggested in our
economy were radical and revolutionary. Of course I had an
idea that coming from great men and leading conferences, they
would all be reported favorably and the most of them adopted.
I was confident that there would be but little of the Church left
by the time that General Conference was through with it. But
imagine my pleasant surprise when the Committee on Revisals
began to make their daily reports "non-concurring" in nine-
tenths of all those wild memorials. So I soon found that the
Church was safe, and it greatly relieved my fears and
anxieties.
When the time for electing Bishops came the interest
grew intense. We were to elect but two. The first ballot was
taken
and it was counted publicly. Atticus G. Haygood was elected.
He had been elected at Nashville eight years before, but
declined ordination. This time he accepted and became one of
our Bishops. The next ballot resulted in no election, but Dr. O.
P. Fitzgerald, Dr. R. N. Sledd and Dr. David Morton were in
the lead. The next time Dr. Fitzgerald was elected and the
agony was over. I witnessed their ordination and the ceremony
deeply impressed me. That General Conference changed the
boundaries of Holston, taking from it the Western North
Carolina territory and made another conference in the old
North State. Holston opposed the action, but it availed nothing.
This left me a member of the Western North Carolina
Conference, very much against my will, and I at once resolved
to transfer out of it. After I returned home I had a letter from
Bishop Key, who resided at Fort Worth, Texas, asking me to
transfer to Texas. I took the matter under advisement and in
the course of the summer I determined to comply with his
request. I had always wanted to come to Texas since my
meeting, in my early ministry, with Rev. Fred Allen of the
Texas Conference, in Jasper, Georgia. But when my letter
reached Fort Worth the Bishop had gone to Missouri to inspect
the work up there, as he was to hold those conferences. It
followed him and he received it in Kansas City, Missouri. The
next I heard from him he wrote me that he needed me there
and wanted me to go to Centenary Church in that city, and
hoped that I would not resist his desire to have me. I had not
then learned how to resist the authorities of the Church, and
have never learned it. So somewhat against my will to
Kansas City I went.
I was sorry to bid Holston adieu. It was the land of my
birth and the scene of my ministry thus far. I had been
treated beyond my deserts, and had filled its leading
appointments, and they were still open to me; but it seemed that
Providence was ordering otherwise. Every spot in that hill
country was dear to me, and my attachment to many of its
members was tender and abiding. It was no easy matter to
sever ties so sacred and try my fortunes in a strange land. And
if I had known then what I afterwards learned in the Southwest
Missouri Conference, I doubt if the change had been made, if
left to me. It was so different from my experience and
association in dear old Holston! Her men were so natural and
full of inspiration. I will here mention a few of them.
Rev. John M. McTeer was easily the field-preacher of the
conference. He was large and rugged in person, gifted with
natural powers of declamation, a voice of marvelous
sweetness and far-reaching compass and a Presiding Elder of
the old-time school. He served in that office longer than any
member of the body. He was not a very social man in his
disposition, rather grum and self-contained, but a man of great
forcefulness of character. He was not generally popular among
his brethren, and not always a prudent and discreet man.
Toward the close of his life he more than once became
involved in trouble. There were those who disliked him, and
much was made of his weaknesses, and his sun went down
somewhat dimmed. But in many respects he was a useful
minister of the gospel.
Rev. George W. Miles was a man of great physical energy
and endurance, not largely endowed intellectually, but a master
of details. He was a good judge of men, knew his limitations
and did more than an ordinary business on ordinary capital. He
had a pleasant disposition, strong will, persistent determination,
and he knew how to get the confidence of his brethren
and use it to good purpose. His weak point was in the pulpit,
but he made an untiring and useful Presiding Elder. He loved
the Church, reared a good family, closed out a successful
ministry and died in the triumphs of a bright faith.
Rev. Frank Richardson was in his prime in my day in the
conference. He was a man of wiry and well-knit physique, well
educated, of an intense temperament, a fine mind and a
preacher of splendid parts. He is one of the few men whom I
have known in my life to take a second growth after he had
passed middle manhood. When past fifty he was traveling an
obscure circuit and had but little influence in the conference.
But he began to rise and inside of five years he was one of the
formest men among his brethren, and from that day till his
death he was the most prominent and influential man in that
body. He lived beyond his fourscore years, but he was active in
body, alert in mind and a militant leader of the hosts of Zion. He
was always a trifle extreme, even a little revolutionary, and
somewhat sensitive in nature; but nobody ever failed to know
his mind on a given issue and his honesty of purpose was never
doubted by layman or minister. He was known familiarly as
"Uncle Frank", and he was greatly beloved by his brethren. His
life was one of consecration and success.
Rev. R. N. Price was always the original man in the
conference. Somewhat angular in person, with a big brain, a
rugged face, well-trained, extensively read, a crisp writer, a
unique preacher, and easily one of the most interesting men I
have ever known. At one time he was a popular and
successful pastor, but turned aside to editorial work, taught
some in the colleges, became literary in his habits, and he is
now the historian of his conference. His sharp and incisive
mind has not always held a perfect equipoise, and now and
then he has gone
off after a modern cult and pursued it to extreme conclusions.
That such a brain as he possesses, with its originality and
curious habits of inquiry, has been a bit eccentric and peculiar
is not a matter of surprise. But "Dick Price", as he has always
been known, has left his mark in the Holston Conference, and
his whole life has been one of purity and honor. He only lacked
a very little of being a great man in his position in the Church.
Dr. E. E. Wiley I have already mentioned, but he is entitled
to larger notice. As a preacher he stood in the front rank, not
in his oratory and eloquence, but in his clearness of perception,
his grasp of his subject, in his distinctness of utterance and his
masterful diction. He was for nearly half a century Presdent of
Emory and Henry College, and more young men passed
through his hands than any other one man in that section of
country. He was never in charge of a pastorate, but he was
always an active participant in the proceedings of the
conference. He was a Northern man by birth and education,
but in his prejudices he became one of the most intense
Southern men among us. And this brings me to an incident
characteristic of him.
He was educated in Wesleyan University at Middleton,
Connecticut. When he graduated he came South and accepted
a professorship at Emory and Henry. Just as he entered the
university the late Bishop Gilbert Haven went out of it into the
active work of the ministry and became a rampant abolitionist.
Just after the war he was elected to the Episcopacy and was
located in Atlanta, Georgia. He believed in negro equality, the
intermarriage of the races and such vagaries. He and Dr.
Wiley never met in their lves,
but they often exchanged public
compliments. The Doctor had no earthly use for Bishop Gilbert
Haven; and I heard him more than once
on the conference floor advise our preachers to have nothing to
do with him, not even to recognize him. He thought it was an
insult to the South for the Northern Church to send him among
us with his ultra views on the negro question.
While I was stationed in Knoxville Dr. N. G. Taylor invited
me to take tea with his family one evening, and when I entered
the house he introduced me to Bishop Haven. Had I known
that he was there maybe I would not have accepted the
invitation. Dr. Wiley had filled me with prejudice. The Bishop
was a stockily-built man, podgy and ungainly. He had a large
head covered with short reddish-gray hair and a bright,
sparkling face. He grasped my hand and received me with
much cordiality. I found him affable and delightful in personal
intercourse. He had been everywhere, and he had seen
everything, and he seemed to know all that there was to be
known. I had the evening of my life with him. As he bade me
good-bye he held my hand and said:
"How is my old friend Dr. Wiley? I have never met him, but
I have known him all my life. He and myself have always
been on opposite sides of questions, but I have great respect
for him. But he does not like me."
I told him of the Doctor, and he continued:
"I was up at Glade Springs the other day, four miles above
Emory, and I came very nearly walking down to see Wiley,
but I feared that my visit would not be welcome. I wanted to
tell him that three months ago I was in Africa, and one hot
Sunday morning I gathered a few straggling flowers and
walked three miles into the country to a lone graveyard and
found the grave of Mary Wiley Gardener, put the flowers
on it and bowed my head in gratitude for the gift of that noble
woman who died a martyr to our Church away over there in
the long ago. I wanted to tell Wiley about it. I will ask you to
do it for me the next time you see him."
A few weeks after that I met Dr. Wiley and told him I had a
message from Bishop Gilbert Haven for him. He looked
astonished and said:
"What word did he want to send me? I care nothing about
him. And I am surprised that you took tea with him: Our
preachers ought to let him severely alone."
I told him the Bishop said that he had come very nearly
calling to see him a few weeks before. The old Doctor said:
"Well, I am glad that he did not come."
But I said to him, listen to the message, that it was
interesting. Then I proceeded to give it to him in the Bishop's
language. He listened attentively and tears in his eyes he said:
"I wish he had come. I would take anybody into my home
and heart who would walk three miles through an African sun
to put flowers on the grave of my sister Mary. She was the
purest saint God ever gave to the Church. I wish Gilbert
Haven had called to see me."
After all his prejudice was only on the surface, and when
brushed away it amounted to nothing.
Rev. W. W. Bayes at one time gave promise of a ministry
somewhat like that of Dr. Munsey, but he did not reach that
towering height of the great mountain orator. He had a brilliant
mind, however, not systematically trained, but remarkable in its
poetic gift and in its dazzling imagination. He was for a long
time one of the star preachers of the conference, an earnest,
devout man, full of faith and eminently useful in his active days
in the Church. Personally he was a small man with a large
head, a swarthy face and a nervous temperament.
His matured life was not the fulfillment of the expectation
inspired by his extraordinary beginning, but it was well that
such was not the case. A great genius in the pulpit is not as
useful as the man of lesser gifts and larger consecration.
Rev. J. S. Burnett was a man of extraordinary natural gifts,
but he turned aside from the ministry in early life for business
pursuits, and in later life when he retraced his steps he was too
far advanced ever to make the preacher he would have
become had he continued from the beginning. But he had large
endowments and he was bright and witty and popular.
Occasionally he would preach a sermon of marvelous compass
and splendid reaches, but he often fell below his ability in the
pulpit. He was susceptible to moods and once in awhile he
would become morbid, but he was a good and true man and
left his impression on the conference. He reached a ripe old
age and died in great peace.
Rev. James A. Burrow is one of the younger men of the
conference, but he was prominent a few years before I
severed my relation with that body. He had a boyish face and
a boyish voice in the pulpit, but his sermons would have done
credit to a man of forty. He was exceedingly bright, catchy,
eloquent and direct in his preaching. While I was at
Chattanooga I had him preach for me one night, and he
electrified the audience. Old Sister Jordan, a very enthusiastic
and impulsive woman, rushed around to the altar and pressed
her way up to him while a great many were shaking hands
with him and exclaimed:
"I wanted to shake hands with that young brother. I thank
God that I have lived to see the day when that Scripture is
fulfilled: 'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou
ordained strength'."
It created a ripple. Dr. Burrow is still one of the leading
men of that conference. He is beyond the average, by far, as a
preacher.
Rev. R. G. Waterhouse came into the conference a few
years after I did. I was at a District Conference at Kingston,
Roane County, in the summer of 1876, and young Waterhouse
was a lay delegate. He and myself took a walk one evening
and he told me of his purpose to enter the ministry and advised
with me about going to school. I told him by all means to go to
Hiwassee College for a couple of years, and then go to Emory
and Henry and finish and he would be ready for the
conference, and he took my advice. I watched his progress and
development with interest. He entered the conference, soon
took high rank, filled its leading appointments, served for years
as President of Emory and Henry, and in May, 1910, at the
General Conference in Asheville, I helped to elect him one of
our Bishops. He is a large man physically and intellectually and
gives promise of making a great Bishop in the Church of God.
Rev. Joe Haskew was one of the most noted circuit riders
and Presiding Elders in the conference. When I knew him he
was an old man and we called him Uncle Joe. He was tall,
bony and had a shambling gait. His face was smooth and had
never known a beard or a razor. He had a withered look. He
was bowlegged. Dr. Lafferty once said of him that he had
traveled circuits throughout Holston so long and continuously
that his legs were as crooked as pothooks; and it was
measurably true. He was a fine preacher of the old type, had a
fine sense of humor and could always hold his own in any
circle. He was a devoutly religious man. Once he was on his
way through the country to an appointment, and on the
roadside he saw some men shoveling dirt and throwing up an
embankment. He said to them:
"You men are violating the Sabbath. You had better quit and
go with me to Church."
One of them told him that they were preparing a pool for a
baptizing that evening, that it was a case of taking the ass out
of the ditch on Sunday. Uncle Joe saw his opening and as
quick as lightning he replied:
"It seems to me that instead of taking the ass out of the
ditch you are getting ready to throw him in."
And he clucked to his horse and rode on.
Rev. Carroll Long was one of the choicest spirits in the
conference. He had one of the most transparent faces into
which I ever looked and his character was beautiful in its
spirituality. As a preacher he was doctrinal, evangelistic and
inspiring. He was as gentle as a woman in his disposition and
as guileless as a child in his nature. He was deservedly popular,
and for years was a delegate to the General Conference. He
had great powers of absorption. He could hear a sermon or
read a good book and rework its substance into his own
discourses and give to the result the stamp of his own
originality. I once heard him say that at the General
Conference he made it a point to hear fifteen or twenty good
sermons and from them he extracted material enough to last
him nearly through a quadrennium. He served the Church with
great efficiency, usually on districts, and in the end he had a
glorious translation.
But why dwell longer on those old Holston heroes? I could
write a volume and then leave the records of many of them
untouched. These few samples will give my readers some idea
of them as a class. No other conference of my knowledge can
boast of so many strikingly outstanding men. They have
always been the true sons of nature and they stand closely
related to their native mountain scenery with its rippling waters,
its picturesque foothills and its bright Italian skies. Bishop
Wightman once remarked that the Holston preacher could not
be otherwise than eloquent and ornate; that his natural
environment was conducive to no other sort of pulpit product.
When I awoke and found myself in Kansas City I realized
that I was in a new world. It had grown into a place of nearly
half a million within the few years of an ephemeral boom
period. There had never been anything like it in the
development of a municipality. Its population had converged
from the four quarters of the United States, and I doubt if such
a mixture of peoples ever entered into the composite life of a
single community. They had all gone there to make money;
some of them had succeeded and thousands of them had
utterly failed. There was not much stability or solidarity in their
character and civilization. And when I reached the city in the
fall of 1890 the boom had exploded; thousands of empty houses
were everywhere in sight, thousands of people had left and
thousands of those remaining were out of employment. The
Churches had caught the spirit of the people; they had become
congested with members, and then the reflex had left many of
them pressed financially and depleted in numbers. There was a
spirit of restlessness and discouragement in all the
congregations.
I had charge of Centenary Church in a district midway
between the residence section and the business district. I found
a membership of a few hundred. Among them were several
strong business men, supposedly, but they were burdened with
heavy obligations. It was a difficult matter for them to keep the
finances of the Church to date. There was no evangelistic
spirit among them. All that I could do was to hold them
together and await more favorable conditions. Then, too,
Kansas City was the boldest and most unblushing place in its
wickedness I had ever seen. Saloons and low theaters infested
the place. Churches were not generally respected; and a
preacher was no more than any other man. His cloth
amounted to nothing. If he was able to attract attention by the
sheer force of his intellect and ability, he was known in the
city; otherwise he was a notch on a stick.
I looked over the field of my operation, and it was more
limited, even in the city, than if I had been in a small town or a
rural district. My environs were largely restricted to my own
congregation. I saw that I had a problem on my hands. But I
determined to tackle the job with some vigor. I did not intend to
live in the midst of such seething wickedness, even in Kansas
City, without lifting up my voice and crying aloud. I waited,
however, until I had gotten my bearings and had somewhat
won the confidence and attention of my own people. Then I
opened a fusillade. The daily papers there were sensational in
the last degree. The reporters were on the lookout for
something spectacular, and they sought out my night services.
They were not disappointed, and it was not long until my
name was posted in flaming headlines every Monday morning.
They published every word that I uttered and gave to some of
them such trimmings as suited their purposes. Editorially they
waded into me and gibed me with their wit and reparte, and
sometimes they would treat me with serious consideration. But
I did not let up. Each Sunday night my house was crowded and
I became known in Kansas City, if I did nothing else while
there.
During the most of the entire winter I continued to expose
the rottenness of the city life and the prurient type of its nightly
entertainments and debauchery. We certainly had hot times at
Centenary Church. But it was like shooting
grains of sand into the volume of the muddy waters of the
sluggish Missouri River that dragged its slow length by the city.
I closed out the first year in advance of what I found it, and
my reports were creditable. However, they were not
satisfactory to me. My people had in the main stood by me and
given me their support, for many of them were true and
devoted Christian men and women. When I returned the
second year the boom was just about exhausted; a number of
my business men were on the verge of bankruptcy. They fixed
my salary below a living point, but they finally reconsidered it
and did better. But they discouraged me by their own
pessimism and their failure to respond to my efforts to lead
them out into lines of progress. I, therefore, determined to do
my level best that year and then retire from the job. I saw that
to remain under the circumstances was to butt my head against
a stone wall; and it has always been my principle either to do
something worthy of my effort as a minister or seek another
field where results are possible.
So as the spring approached Bishop Hargrove was in
Kansas City and he asked me if it was my purpose to remain
in that conference permanently. I told him it certainly was not;
that I intended to close out my part of it that year. He told me
that suited him exactly; that he had the whole empire of Texas
on his hand and he wanted some new men, and that he would
put me down in his notebook and throw me into the Texas
work the next fall. I labored on like a Trojan and made
some little progress.
That conference met early in September and Bishop
Galloway presided. He wanted to take me back to Holston,
but I told him I was booked for Texas. He asked me what
point in Texas. I told him no special point, that I was simply in
the hands of Bishop Hargrove and he would place me when he
held the conferences, and that I wanted him to transfer me to
any one of the Texas Conference. He said that he had just had
a letter from the Bishop asking that I be transferred to the
Northwest Texas Conference. When he saw I was determined
he read me out transferred to the Northwest Texas
Conference. I remained in Kansas City until the sixteenth of
November and on that date I had a telegram from Bishop
Hargrove to go at once and take charge of Shearn Memorial
Church, Houston. And I at once headed for Texas. That was
in the fall of 1892.
In addition to these sources of information I had copies of
the printed minutes of the five Texas Annual Conferences, and
from these I learned a great deal about the affairs of the
Church and its marvelous possibilities and outlook in this great
territory. Therefore when I reached Texas I was well
acquainted with the names of its leading men, its magnitude
and its wonderful resources.
On the sixteenth day of November I left Kansas City for
Houston, and a fierce blizzard was raging all over that section
of the country. The winters come on early in that climate.
I had on heavy underwear, a warm winter suit, a Kansas
overcoat, earmuffs and Arctic overshoes. Even then I was
none too comfortable.
I spent Sunday in Pilot Point and there met Uncle Buck
Hughes, who was then pastor. From thence I went on to my
destination, and when I arrived in Houston on Tuesday morning
the thermometer was ninety! I thought I would melt before my
lighter-weight apparel arrived. There was no evidence of
winter, and to my surprise the winter never did come. The
geraniums bloomed in the yards the year round.
Houston was then an insignificant city, a sort of an
overgrown town with but few public improvements and no
paved streets. The business houses were not imposing, and
when it rained the mud was intolerable. The old Buffalo Bayou
gave forth an atmosphere the like of which I had never inhaled.
It dragged its slow length like a huge serpent through the city
and the boats continually stirred the murky waters. It was
almost stagnant and remained such until some booming freshet
swept it out toward the Gulf. The fumes constantly rising from
it gave forth an odor that was something fierce. The weeds
were rank along the most of the streets, and the residences
mostly sat on blocks. It was a crude-looking town.
The house into which we moved was on McKinney Street,
midway between Milam and Travis Streets, and it was slightly
higher at the two intersections than in the middle; and this
made a pond ankle deep just in front of us. That night the
croaking frogs made the community ring with their discordant
music. I had run down in health again and only weighed one
hundred and twenty-six pounds, and I remarked to my wife as
we sat and listened to those frogs that we had just as well go to
the cemetery and purchase a lot; that she would plant me there
before the end of a quadrennium. It looked to
me like one of the most unsanitary and disease-breading places we
had ever lived.
The morning I arrived I repaired to the old Rice Hotel, and when I
returned from the breakfast table I met A. G. Howell and other
representatives of my Church looking for me. They gave me a cordial
welcome, took me to several of the leading business places and
introduced me to many of our people, and then delivered me over to
the hospitable home of Mr. and Mrs. W. B. Chew.
There I was received as an old-time acquaintance and friend,
though they had never heard of me until my name had been read out
to them at the recent conference. They entertained me until my family
arrived a few days later. There a personal friendship began which
abides to this good day.
How tender and intimate is the relation that exists between a
Methodist minister and his people! The very fact that the Church
vouches for his character and standing is sufficient to give him the
right of way to their confidence and love the moment he enters upon
his work among them, regardless of the fact that he is in reality a
stranger to them. Woe betide the minister who would betray such
confidence and prove unworthy of such love!
The following Thursday was Thanksgiving Day and service was
already announced. I was on hand and a good congregation greeted
me. We had a good service, and at its close they gave me a royal
reception. Scores and scores of them grasped my hand and bade me
welcome. I saw at once that I was in the house of my friends, though
not one of them had ever seen or known me before.
The change from Kansas City to Houston was as marked socially
as the winter seasons of the two places. In the former the people
were cold, distant and formal. Even in pastoral
work I had found it more business-like than cordial. A minister was
something like a hired man. But here they were warm, open-hearted,
whole-souled and demonstrative.
I felt like I had dropped from the regions of the North Pole with its
snow and freeze and blizzard into the temperature of the Tropics with
its birds and flowers and sunshine. They were the sort of Methodists
whom I had always known before I crossed the "Father of Waters". I
had again found a place where a preacher was a brother as well as a
pastor, and where his work counted for something as an asset in the
community. His influence and personal presence stood for
something, even outside his own congregation. He was a dominant
factor in the forces that enter into the moral, the civic and the
religious life of the people.
I never felt so complacently and more at home in all my life, and
everything in my mind and heart spoke up and commanded me to
place myself unreservedly upon their altar of service. It was a
positive luxury to obey the order.
Shearn Church was one of the oldest in the State. It started
immediately after General Houston took charge of Santa Anna down
on San Jacinto Bay in 1836, and it had grown into a strong
congregation. The building was not prepossessing. It was a
substantial brick, whose architecture had intended to represent a
Maltese cross, but before it was started a stroke of economy had
touched the builders and they had chopped off the upper end of the
cross, giving to the structure an unfinished and an ill-shaped effect.
But for several years it had met the requirements of their needs, and it
had grown old-looking and somewhat dilapidated.
The pulpit platform ran almost completely across the back end of
the building and the handsome bird's-eye maple pipe organ occupied
a loft considerably above the pulpit. The auditorium
would seat in the neighborhood of six hundred people. The
first Sunday it was crowded, and I saw at a glance that I had a
splendid body of men and women. They represented all classes
of people, including strong business men, working-men, elderly
men and young men. And before me were as fine a class of
good women as ever faced a minister.
As I sat in the pulpit I gazed at them, and for the moment
studied them with interest. S. M. McAshan looked like an old
Roman, with his intelligent face indicative of thought,
punctuality and great orderliness. T. W. House looked like an
Englishman, sedate, quiet, observant and unobstrusive. T. W.
Ford had the appearance of a Senator, wise, intellectual and
serious. G. W. Schultz was alert, quick and like a pleasant-
mannered business man. Jacob V. Dealy was solid, slow,
steady and reliable. A. G. Howell and W. B. Chew reminded
me of men ready to do things. Judge E. P. Hamblin reminded
me of a polished lawyer, incisive and exacting. W. F. Kraul
was full of music, and J. M. Cotton carried the face of a man
careful in details and ready for any word or work. Charles
Bering looked like the devout German that I always found him
to be in the work of the Church. J. M. Frost impressed me as a
man who had gone up against the world with some force, and
who had learned from experience what it was to appreciate the
power of religion. But I cannot mention them all, for their
names are legion. In my four years' experience with them I
never found a more devoted and reliable set of people. They
more than fulfilled all the hopes that my first contact with them
inspired.
It was not long until I realized that we not only needed more
room, but more especially the house needed renovating as well
as enlarging. So the first thing we did was to raise three
thousand dollars and wipe out the debt on the property
incurred by the purchase of the organ and needed street
improvement. This out of the way, I was ready to spring the
church improvement. My leading business men entered into my
plans heartily, except Brother McAshan. He was a very
cautious and calculating man. He had to be convinced before
you could move him out of his groove into a new channel of
enterprise. But before we had gone far he surrendered and did
his part manfully. The enterprise would require six thousand
dollars, for we determined to add the missing part of the cross
and finish the original design. I had things going my way and
was getting the subscriptions as fast as I could call on my
people.
But one morning I received a shock. My Presiding Elder
came into my office, and my acquaintance with him was
limited. I had only met him casually a time or two and knew
but little of him as a man or a preacher. He lived several miles
from the city on a farm and he was busy out there and with his
other appointments, and I had seen nothing of him. His name
was Rev. E. W. Solomon. He had just preceded me in the
pastorate of the Church. He was tall in person, raw-boned in
construction, with an impetuous manner, a large nose and
mouth and a voice like a trumpet. His first words were:
"I understand, sir, that you are preparing to raise and spend
six thousand dollars on this church building."
I looked at him in astonishment and wondered what next!
But I told him that was exactly what we were getting ready to
do.
"Then," he said, "I want you to
understand that I shall oppose
the enterprise, sir. We do not need it; and, besides, we do need
to build another place of worship in the old Fair Ground
Addition."
It took the breath out of me. But I rallied and told him
that we were certainly going ahead and make the
improvement, and that I did not see what he had to do with it. I
right then and there came to the conclusion that I was going to
have a hard time with that Presiding Elder; that he was
something new under the sun to me.
But my trouble was, I did not know Solomon then as I soon
learned to know him, and have known him well and pleasantly
through all the years since then. I went ahead, collected the
money, finished the job and it was beautiful, with its new
furniture and attractive carpet. We invited Bishop Key to
dedicate it and had arranged for Brother Solomon to be on
hand to take a part in it. I had not seen him since our
encounter, and did not know how he still felt. But on Saturday
before the dedication I stepped into the auditorium and there
stood my Elder looking at the new church. He spoke to me
pleasantly and said:
"Well, sir, you have done a good work. It is beautiful, and I
congratulate you."
That made me warm up to him, and ever afterward I found
him to be a man of big heart, outspoken convictions, impulsive
in his speech and action, sincere and clear in his motives and a
preacher of studious habits and at times brilliant in his sermons.
All that is necessary in Dr. Solomon's case is for you to know
him and get close to him and his brusque exterior gives way to
as good and kind a heart as beats in the bosom of any man.
Bishop Key preached us a delightfully spiritual sermon, and
for the first time I had an opportunity to meet him and to know
him personally. And during all these twenty years in Texas he
has been my fast and faithful friend and one of the truest and
most transparent men whom it has been my privilege ever to
know. Since then I have been with him much
and seen him under most all circumstances, and have had
occasion to study him in the many interesting phases of his life
and character, and he stands in my esteem the ideal man of my
acquaintance.
But I shall have more to say of him in the course of my
story, and for the present will turn to other matters. Having
finished and dedicated the church, we were ready then for a
forward movement. We had the room and the facilities, and
the prospect was inviting.
My first conference was at Navasota, presided over by
Bishop Hendrix, and the members of that body were cordial
and brotherly toward me. There I met the Rev. Seth Ward and
cast my vote for him as a delegate to the General Conference.
Rev. Joseph Sears was prominent in that body, and a truer man
never lived. His recent death gave me genuine sorrow, for he
was always my fast friend. If I remember correctly that was
the last session of this conference that the Rev. I. G. John ever
attended. He was one of our Missionary Secretaries at that
time. He had been prominent in that body, for a great many
years, having been editor of the Texas Christain
Advocate
through the period of its struggle to keep its head above the
water. He was physically a small man, but possessed of good
ability, and a preacher of clearness and deep spirituality. He
died the following year, mourned by his brethren and loved by a
wide circle of friends.
During my pastorate at Shearn I had for associate ministers
most excellent brethren, among whom was that rare character
and unique preacher, the Rev. John E. Green. Every
conference has some member who stands out incomparable in
some of the traits and qualities of his personality and ministry,
and Brother Green is that man in the Texas Conference. He is
very tall and slender, with a good head and a poetic face, and
a style of ministry all his own. He assumes all sorts of attitudes
in the pulpit, concentrates in his sermons a greater variety of
subject-matter, and is one of the best read men in his
knowledge of the letter of the Scriptures of my acquaintance.
It is almost a show sometimes to see him in full operation in the
pulpit. But with all his peculiarities of style and manner he has
as noble a heart in him as ever throbbed, and he is also a
preacher of no mean parts. As a revivalist, especially among
railroad men and the stalwart working classes, he is unsurpassed.
He is one of the purest and most guileless men I have ever
known.
I had good success the second year at Shearn, had many
accessions, built up the Sunday-school, largely increased my
Sunday congregations and my prayer-meetings were the best I
have ever known.
The next conference met at Cameron, and Bishop Hargrove
presided. He was a superior presiding officer, and his
preaching was instructive and edifying.
My third year was bolder and more aggressive. I arranged
for a great meeting and had Sam Jones and George R. Stuart
to conduct it. It was held in the city auditorium and was
attended by immense congregations. Sam Jones did some
direct preaching and stirred the city considerably, but the
meeting was not so fruitful of spiritual results as the one at
Chattanooga. Brother Stuart remained after the meeting closed
at the auditorium and gave me a very helpful series of meetings
in the Church.
Gambling was open and above board in the city. It was as
public as the Church service or the theater. Grand juries paid
no attention to it, and the officers of the law were as blind as
bats in daylight to it. Crime originated in those dens, and young
men were being ruined in them, and several murders
occurred in them. I determined to make war on them. But I
determined to inform myself before undertaking the conflict. I
knew what it meant.
So I threw off my collar and tie, put on some working clothes
and devoted two nights to an investigation of them. I had no
difficulty whatever. Their doors were open and unguarded.
Nobody on the inside noticed any one entering the place. Every
den was crowded and they were numerous along the streets.
All sorts of gaming devices were provided and every form of
gambling in operation. I got the street number of each place,
the names of the games played, the number and names of
those who were the owners and proprietors; and by the time I
was through I had material enough to stir the city.
I carefully prepared a series of sermons and for several
Sunday nights I opened up on those evil institutions with some
exceedingly hot stuff. I gave locations by street and number; I
called names of men in charge of the places, told of the games
played, of the drinking and the debauchery, pointed out how
workingmen were fleeced and young men were being ruined;
and the Houston Post, then edited by Judge E. P. Hill,
published every word of those sermons in the Monday morning
editions. The Post then was a paper worthy the support and
patronage of moral people.
The crusade produced a profound sensation and it brought
me and my Church work into prominence, not only in the city,
but throughout that portion of the State. I was called before the
grand jury, indictments were secured and many of the
gamblers fined and sent to jail for short terms. But it only
slowed down the business and made it more careful; it did not
put a permanent check upon it. It was too firmly rooted in the
public sentiment of the place and in the habits of too many
people for any single effort to go far toward remedying
the prevailing practice. But it helped to introduce the forces
that finally made gambling a felony in Texas.
That summer our conference for the Epworth League met in
St. James Church, Galveston, and it was largely attended by
the young people and most of the preachers. Seth Ward was
our Presiding Elder, and one of the best I had ever had. I had
something to do with his appointment to the district. My
acquaintance with him became intimate and our friendship
confidential. He was one of the purest and worthiest men of
his day. There was never an unclean thing in him. He was
naturally a man of solid endowments, consecutive in his
thinking, studious in his habits, serious in his cast of mind, not
given to humor or levity, and gifted in his powers of reason. His
correct use of English and his diction were marvelous in view
of the fact that he was not a college-bred man. He had
elements of greatness and his personality was dominant and
commanding. He was lovable in his disposition and positive
without austerity. To know him was to give him the right of
way to your confidence. He was present at this League
Conference.
He and others received a severe shock at the close of that
gathering by reading the next morning in the Galveston News
an article under the head, "Two Clerical Sports, and Their
Episode in the City". The article called no names, but said they
were both prominent ministers from the interior, one a
Presiding Elder and the other a station preacher; that they
were left over by the League Conference and had put in the
night in a series of debaucheries; that they had slipped from a
carriage at two o'clock in the morning to beat the hackman
out of his fare; that he had them arrested and the matter had
leaked out. The article created a sensation and put
Methodists to guessing.
A good many people had intimated that the description fitted
Seth Ward and myself! He brought the paper to my office and
showed it to me. I read it and he asked me who were the
parties? I told him that it was an easy matter to locate them.
We both agreed that they were E. H. Harman of the Brenham
District and W. Wimberly of the Brenham Station. We went
back to Galveston and made a slight investigation and our
surmise was correct. He was ordered by Bishop Keener to
appoint a committee on investigation, which he did, composed
of C. R. Lamar, O. T. Hotchkiss and myself.
We made the preliminary inquiry according to the
Discipline, and we were not long in unearthing one of the most
unbelievable set of facts in connection with those men that
ever went into the records of a Church court. They denied, of
course, but the evidence was beyond all question. Hotchkiss
was appointed to prosecute Harman and I to prosecute
Wimberly at the approaching conference at Brenham.
We gave some attention to strengthening both cases
against them in the interim and when the conference met the
trial of these two miscreants was the sensation of the
session. Hotchkiss made out a strong case against Harman
and so did I against Wimberly. Dr. H. V. Philpott defended
him. When the evidence was closed I briefly stated to the
committee what I proposed to prove and then gave way to the
argument of the defense. Wimberly asked the privilege to be
heard in his own behalf.
He was a striking-looking fellow and gifted as an orator. He
was naturally dramatic and extremely so on that occasion. He
spoke for four hours and a quarter and at the close of his
impassioned appeal he bowed on his knees before the
committee, opened a copy of the Discipline and said:
"I lay this on my heart, oh, God; and say that if it were the
Bible I would look up into thy face and tell thee that thou
knowest that I am as innocent of these charges as an unborn
babe."
The committee looked astounded. I shall never forget the
look of supreme disgust that came into the face of Dr. Philpott.
He was a very positive and dogmatic man in his disposition, and
he had elements of greatness in his character. He was largely
endowed, rather scholarly in his acquirements; he was
doggedly honest, had no tolerance for shams or hypocrisies;
had a high sense of honor, great pride of character, and
thoroughly conscious of his gifts and ability. Had it not been for
some eccentricities of mind and a serious lack of thorough
intellectual equipoise he might have gone into the highest
positions in the Church. He had the brain and the attainments.
And no living man ever questioned his honesty and
unbending integrity.
He arose to make his speech for Wimberly, and began as
follows:
"Mr. Chairman and Members of the Committee: In my early
life I was a lawyer for a number of years and practiced
criminal law before the courts of the country, and I know
something about the proprieties of proceedings of this kind. I
want to say that it was an established maxim among men at the
bar in my day that the man who represents his own ease before
a jury has a fool for his client, and if this maxim has not had a
complete vindication for the last four hours in your hearing, then
I am no judge of things of this sort. Nevertheless, I shall
proceed to do what I can for the unfortunate brother."
Then for half an hour he gave a succinct statement of every
item of testimony in the least degree favorable to Wimberly's
case. I closed in a speech of an hour, and in ten minutes the
committee came in with a verdict of guilty and expelled him
from the ministry and the Church.
A similar verdict was rendered in Harman's case. It was the
saddest condition of things that ever came before that
conference.
Two months after that Wimberly came to my office in
Houston, made a full confession of the whole thing and said
that we did not find out the half of their performance in
Galveston; told me that he was down and out, his family in
want, and asked me if I would not see Seth Ward, make up
some money for him and help him to get his family to
Louisiana, where friends would at least keep them from
starving. I called up Seth Ward and he and myself chipped in
and with the help of a few friends we raised the money and
sent them all to Plaquemine, Louisiana.
But that was not the last of Wimberly. He joined the
Northern Methodist Church, with these facts known to them,
came back on the Beaumont Mission, was then transferred to
one of the Northwest Conferences, Nebraska, I believe; filled
some good appointments, got into some sort of trouble and the
Presiding Elder wrote to me to know of his escapade in Texas,
and I wrote him the facts. A few weeks after that I received a
letter from Wimberly at New Orleans, Louisiana, saying that
I had slandered him, and he would give me two days to write
him a retraction of the statements in my letter to the Presiding
Elder in the Northwest; and that if I failed he would bring suit
against me in the Federal courts for criminal libel. I dropped his
letter into the waste-basket and have never heard more from
him.
Harman, poor fellow, died a few years ago in Brenham, and
thus closed one of the most deplorable and regrettable episodes
that ever blackened the history of the old Texas Conference.
Those cases gave me a view of human nature that, up to that
time, I had never dreamed possible in connection with the
ministry.
My last year at Shearn Memorial was a pleasant and a busy
one. I succeeded in getting some of my people interested in
some sane rescue work among the outcast of the city. My
study of that situation unfolded to me social tragedies of the
most pathetic nature. I induced Mr. Charles Crittenden, the
great New York rescue specialist, to visit Houston and hold a
series of meetings at the city hall. He did much to arouse
public interest, and we soon put a plan on foot to establish a
Rescue Home. It was moving along satisfactorly when my
term of service closed and the result is in Houston to-day.
My Church was in good condition; the organization was
compact, the membership large, and its influence far-reaching
in the life of the city. Houston had grown twice its size since I
had first seen it, and improvements were many and modern.
That is the only charge that I ever served where I imagined
that the time limit moved me before my work was done. But
that impression may have been more pronounced in my
imagination than in fact.
Be that as it may, Bishop Keener came to my house one
morning from the West Texas Conference and asked me if he
could stop with me three or four days and have immunity from
company and be given a room where he could be left mostly to
himself. I answered in the affirmative, and then he handed me
his grip and walked into the house. For three days scarcely any
one knew that he was there. At the close of the last day which
was Friday, he came down and sat with my family and told me
that his work was done; that he would leave for Dallas the
next morning and spend Sunday with the people of
that charge, and the following week hold the session of the
North Texas Conference. He told me that he had put in the
time with the minutes of that body for the past four years and
that in the past three days he had practically made all the
appointments. And he further apprised me that I was to go to
that conference, but he did not say to what appointment.
My four years in Houston had been delightful and the Texas
Conference had been kind and generous to me. I made scores
of warm friends among its members, and they abide to this
day. Throughout all the intervening years they have been true
and unflinching in their co-operation with me in the work to
which the Church has since assigned me; and when times of
conflict have come they have never wavered.
Often it has been my privilege to revisit the old congregation
and preach to them, and though from time to time they have
changed and some of them have passed to the Church above,
and recently the congregation has moved into the most
cathedral-like temple in Texas Methodism, yet they are the
same devoted and splendid people. It is like going back home
and to my own circle every time I spend a season among the
old Shearn Methodists. When I bade them adieu Rev. Seth
Ward succeeded me, and in them he found cordiality and
responsiveness, and in him they found a princely preacher
and pastor.
When the Texas Conference met in Bastrop, with Bishop
Hendrix in the chair, I was transferred to the North Texas
Conference. I really regretted to leave that section of the State
and those excellent brethren, but it seemed a necessity under
the circumstances. However, I felt that Texas was one, though
divided into five conferences.
True, the lines between them were closely drawn, but the
Methodism of the State was one. Nevertheless I found a
striking difference between the people of South and North
Texas; and I also found a difference between the
preachers of the two sections.
Down there is a large mixture of foreign peoples, and the
effect upon the customs and usages of the people is marked.
They have a somewhat different texture of civilization. Many
of the people of foreign extraction have become largely
Americanized, it is true, but many of them are as distinctively
foreign as though they were living in Continental Europe or in
Old Mexico.
Among them are German, Bohemian and Italian
communities, but Houston was and is a composite mixture of
many sorts of peoples. A Catholic priest in that city told me
that in his one congregation he had nine distinct nationalities.
The influence of this condition is seen in the social and political
life of the city. The saloons are a potent element, and in
municipal politics they are a dominant force.
In North Texas it is vastly different. The population is largely
native, and American ideas and customs more largely prevail.
There are comparatively few foreign peoples, and their
presence and influence are not so much felt in Church and
State. Protestant Christianity, the public schools and the English
language have the right of way. Moral sentiment is in the
ascendancy and the saloons have but little influence in politics
and social life. The soil is also more varied in its productions
and the rural districts are more populated. The cities and the
towns do not so much have their way, and the country ideas of
morals more than offset the tendency of the city and the town
toward vice and the lax enforcement of law. The man who
stands for public office in North Texas does not ignore the
rural vote, but he respects it very highly. So that in a large
measure this section has a decided advantage over South
Texas.
It is true that among these foreign peoples a great many
excellent citizens are found - citizens of solid piety, of
evangelical faith, devoted to our laws and institutions, and
strong in their moral and religious sentiment. But generally
speaking
this is not the case. Hence throughout South Texas there is not
much regard for the Sabbath except as a day of recreation and
hilarity; the saloon and the beer garden are popular resorts, and
there is great antipathy to prohibition of any form.
Politicians pander to this sentiment and the daily papers are
mostly in sympathy with this state of things. The Roman
Church has a strong hold upon the element of foreigners and
its influence neither elevates nor leads them out of these ideas
and usages.
So when I entered North Texas it was like coming into
contact with another civilization and with the masses of another
race of people. They were largely American and mostly
Protestant in their faith and customs.
I was not present when the North Texas Conference met in
Paris. I was closing out my pastorate in Houston. But my
transfer was announced and I was stationed at First Church,
Dallas. It was not long, however, until I was at my post of duty
and in charge of my congregation. Dallas was then, as it is
now, the leading city of this section; but had not fully recovered
from the effect of its earlier boom experience. It had been for
three or four years, and was then, at a standstill. Its streets, its
sidewalks and its buildings showed a lack of progress. Real
estate was a drag on the market and business was dull. A part
of the street car system was operated by mules and there was
a lack of enterprise generally.
First Church was in fairly good condition. My predecessor,
Rev. E. L. Spragins, had taken ill during the early spring of the
preceding year and died about the Eastertide, and his place had
only been supplied by a young minister without much
experience. As a result the congregation was somewhat run
down, though they had held together and kept things going
very well under the circumstances. They were a fine
body of
people and possessed wonderful possibilities. Among them
were the leading citizens of the city. The business and the
professional life of the community was well represented
among them.
Though it has been sixteen years or more since I first stood
before them, yet many of them are engraven upon my memory
as though it were but yesterday. What a splendid Official
Board greeted me at their first session; W. White was the
chairman, and a finer man was never born of woman. Clean in
life, devout in faith, exemplary in word and deed, he had all the
marks of a first-class gentleman of the old school. And no man
ever wrought more nobly than he in the enterprises of the
Church. Even to-day his memory is as ointment poured forth
upon the people.
N. W. Finley was vice-chairman; a man of great intellect
and large heart, sincere in his love for the Church, a leading
lawyer, a profound jurist, the son of a Methodist preacher, and
one of the finest characters I ever knew. His death later on,
while just in the prime of life, was a calamity to Dallas
Methodism.
Thomas F. Nash was an upright man, well endowed by
nature, simple in his faith, earnest in his experience and a
Methodist of the old type. He was prominent in the social and
political life of the county and a jurist of profound integrity. His
premature death was mourned by all of Dallas County.
W. C. Padgitt was one of the wealthy business men of the
city; progressive, unpretentious and always in his place. He
loved his Church and was in sympathy with its enterprises. It
was but recently that he laid down his burden and went to his
reward.
J. L. Harris was one of the most brilliant men at the North
Texas bar; young, intelligent and gave promise of a long life of
usefulness and success, but before he reached his noontide he
was called hence. I have never had a warmer friend in any
pastorate than this splendid and brotherly man.
All three of the Terrys were men of solid piety, strong faith,
unobtrusive in service and useful in life. They have all crossed
over to the Church beyond.
Then among those still living I mention A. V. Lane; modest,
cultured, refined and true as steel. Joseph E. Cockrell was but
recently a citizen of the city, a lawyer of large equipment, of
Methodist parentage, robust and true to the Church. J. H.
Traylor, business-like, punctual and influential in the political life
of the city. He was afterward Mayor of the city.
S. J. Hay, young, strong, vigorous and clean; and S. I.
Munger, modest, true and devoted, and liberal and generous in
his support of the Church.
There was Judge John Bookhout, strong, virile, intelligent and
a credit to the manhood of the city. He was also an eminent
jurist. R. E. L. Saner was one of the young men, well
educated, a promising member of the bar and full of hope and
inspiration. J. L. Long, Superintendent of the city schools; large
of brain, possessed of fine judgment, an open face and a man
of large influence.
Rev. W. H. Howell was my only local preacher; earnest and
enthusiastic, and in the long ago he was the pastor of my
sainted mother. N. W. Godbold, spiritual and devout in his
religious life, was regarded as the salt of the earth. B. M.
Burgher was my Sunday-school Superintendent and one of the
most enterprising and progressive men in the congregation.
And there was Louis Blaylock, the most prominent layman
in Texas Methodism, the publisher of the Christian Advocate
and an aggressive and dominant factor in all departments of
Church work.
These are a few of the many whole-souled workers with
whose co-operation I began my pastorate of First Church. But
what shall I say of the elect woman of that membership? Time
would fail me to take them up one by one and speak of them
as my heart suggests. Suffice it to say that I have never known
a more devoted and consecrated band of Church workers than
the noble women of this congregation.
Rev. R. M. Powers, the noblest Roman of them all, was my
Presiding Elder. He was the exponent of the best interests of
the masses of Methodism. Solid in physique, substantial in
mind, broad in his common sense, practical in his methods,
spiritual in his experience, matured in his judgment, he was one
of the most useful ministers of his day. But he was in
precarious health and died within a few months of his
occupancy of the district.
Rev. T. R. Pierce, then editor of the Advocate, was
appointed to fill out the unexpired term, as he was on the
ground and understood the situation. He was a man of bright
intellect, large attainments and one of the leaders in the
conference. As a preacher he was brilliant and cultured, and
there was a classic finish to his diction. His sermons were so
complete that they were ready for the printer just as he
delivered them. Several years after that he cast aside his
armor and assumed his crown.
Before the year closed Dr. J. H. McLean laid down his
duties as Regent of Southwestern University, and as Dr.
Pierce was doing double duty, he surrendered the district and
Dr. McLean was appointed to fill out the interim. Thus I had
three Presiding Elders during the first year of my pastorate at
First Church.
I had a large membership and they were scattered generally over
the city. At that time the bulk of the Methodists were in my
congregation and my pulpit and pastoral duties were exacting. I was
accorded a most cordial welcome, for the people were in good case
for an experienced shepherd. They not only received me with every
demonstration of good-will, but they gave to me their earnest
co-operation from the very beginning of my work. I soon found them to
be one of the very best types of the old-time religion. They were
social, easy of approach, responsive and ready for any good word or
work.
I soon set myself to the task of visiting from house to house in
order to know them in their homes and to come into touch with their
manner of domestic life. I have never known how to preach to people
until I have been in the circle of their homes and cultivated them in
the sources of their actual living. Then I understand them and am
prepared to make a spiritual diagnosis of their several cases. And that
sort of work had a fine effect, for it stimulated their attendance upon
the Church service and my congregations grew to the capacity of
the auditorium. All departments of the Church assumed a normal
condition, and I had a most successful year.
The North Texas Conference met that fall at First Church, and the
duty of entertaining that body devolved upon me. I was glad of it, for
it gave me a good opportunity to learn them by name and to find out
their peculiarities. When they came together I was prepared to study
them at close range and to become acquainted with them personally
in a way that would have been impossible under other circumstances.
As I looked out over them on the first morning of their gathering,
they were a fine body of men in their appearance. Some of them stood
out prominently in their personalities.
Rev. J. M. Binkley had an Oom Paul cast of face, a large head, a
benign countenance and a sort of suppressed twinkle in his eye that
indicated a large degree of dormant wit and humor; but, withal, there
was an expression of deep conviction, strong will-power and a leader
of extraordinary force.
Rev. I. W. Clark had the face of a man of determination, a mouth of
unusual strength and an eye of fire and enthusiam. In body he was
rotund and wonderfully well preserved in health and vigor. Rev. W.
D. Mountcastle looked like a sturdy, purposeful man of affairs, with
an intelligent face and deliberate manner. Rev. E. W. Alderson had
the head of a man of towering intellect and there was something regal
in the tone of his voice. Uncle Buck Hughes had a sleepy expression
in his eye, but his broad, tall brow indicated the realm of a logical
brain, ready to tackle any problem in theology or Church law.
J. W. Hill had a mild face, of decidedly Irish mold, a round, well-
developed head, and an expression of inexhaustible humor. Rev. F. O.
Miller had the appearance of one of the younger leaders of the hosts,
quiet but very observant. Dr. J. H. McLean had the look of a seasoned
veteran who had seen much service, but still active and ready to
touch blades with any man in the body. Uncle John Reynolds looked
like the saint of the body, ready at a moment's notice to send up a
shout of victory.
But it is needless to go further now into these personal
pen-pictures, as that will naturally come to my hand as this work
proceeds in later years.
Individually many of the members of the conference extended to
me a cordial welcome to their fellowship, but generally speaking my
reception was a trifle cool and formal. As a body they were not
prepared to accept me with open arms.
Transfers for the leading appointments in the conference were
not overwhelmingly popular in those days. They took me in on
probation; however, they may not have been as conscious of
that as I was. I facetiously remarked to one of the leading
members with whom I already had personal acquaintance, that
I was so much obliged to him for that warm, cordial and
brotherly letter than he had already written to me expressing
his delight at my transfer to the conference and according me
such a fraternal welcome! He appreciated the irony of my
words, and with a twinkle in his eye he retorted:
"Now, Rankin, did you want me to lie to you? Why should I
thus welcome you to our conference and to the first
appointment in it, when you know as well as I do that I ought
to be in that pulpit myself!"
There was more of truth than humor in his interesting reply.
But, personally speaking, the rank and file of the North Texas
Conference, as the years have gone by, have been toward me
all that I could ask or desire.
Bishop Granbery presided at the conference. He was then
getting along in years, but he was still active and a most
excellent presiding officer. He was the soul of courtesy in his
relation to the body, and polite toward every member. The
intellectual and spiritual development of his sermons was of a
high order, and his style was expository and homiletical. As a
piece of mechanism they were perfect, and their subject-
matter was well tempered mortar; but he was neither vigorous
nor captivating in his delivery. His voice was very defective
and its modulation poor. But he made a delightful impression on
the conference, and he is remembered as a most lovable man
and an efficient Bishop. He returned me to the same charge,
and also Dr. McLean to the district.
I began my second year under very favorable auspices. I
was well acquainted with my people and our relation was
harmonious. I at once began to look forward to a great revival,
for that was the one pressing need of the congregation. There
had not been one of a sweeping character in years. My
pastoral work and my preaching proceeded on that line.
As the year progressed I had a considerable tussle with the
gambling dens and the saloons. The former were running wide
open and the latter were rather defiant of the law. The county
constabulary were either in sympathy with them or very lax in
their regard for the law. So one night I made it convenient to
visit the gambling dens and gather some data, and I betook
myself to the Sheriff's office and told him some things. A few
sermons followed and he was not long in getting busy.
As a result, while the evil did not cease, it put it under cover.
As for the saloons, I opened up on them. It was time for
somebody to come to the front and challenge them to mortal
combat, for they had prevailed on the City Council to pass an
ordinance permitting them to close at nine o'clock Sunday
morning and open at four in the afternoon, giving us a
seven-hour Sunday. I threw down the gauntlet and turned loose a
fusillade upon them.
I have never lived in a community where the saloons
undertook to run openly over the moral sentiment of the people
without bantering them to mortal combat. Well, the upshot of it
was, we got the Sunday feature of their diabolism before the
higher court and they were closed from midnight Saturday to
midnight Sunday. It can always be done when the moral
element stand by a courageous leader.
As the summer advanced and the fall approached I had
things in readiness for my meeting. Rev. George R. Stuart was
the preacher to lead in the services, and a large tent just
across the street from the church was the place for it. Great
crowds attended, and it took on the form of a union meeting for
the Methodists. The other pastors joined forces with us, and I
never heard finer preaching. George Stuart has no superior, if
an equal, in a revival service. Scores and scores were
converted and added to the Churches, and the spiritual life of
my people received a wonderful quickening. It lifted the whole
congregation upon a higher plane of religious life.
In my judgment George Stuart is the most gifted evangelist in
Methodism. He is deeply spiritual in his preaching, wonderful in
his tactics and irresistible in his appeals. And his methods are in
harmony with the usages of the Church. His work always
leaves the preacher's influence magnified and his work
enhanced. He is a man of large brain, big heart, and his
enthusiasm knows no bounds. Not only so, but he is one of the
most popular men on the American platform. His work as a
prohibition speaker has made him the most formidable foe to
the liquor traffic in our Southland. He has done more than any
other one man to bring the saloon under the ban of public
sentiment and to create public opinion against it.
I had as my associate pastor at Floyd Street Church Uncle
Sebe Crutchfield. If I mistake not this was his first station, and
I am sure that it was his first city station. He was a noted and
most successful circuit preacher. He had a way of his own in
managing a charge; and while it did not always suit many of his
people, yet it suited him and he pursued it regardless of what
others thought of it. He was a man of colossal frame, a head of
more than ordinary magnitude, a fiery temperament and a
mercurial disposition. When at white heat he was a sort of a
cyclone. Yet he had a kind and brotherly heart, and he was
mighty in prayer. His sermons were
largely hortatory, but they were like a wild torrent turned loose
at times. He and most of his officials at Floyd Street did not get
along harmoniously. He did not like their way of doing and they
did not like his, and so they frequently came into contact with
their points of difference. But Uncle Sebe always had the right
of way.
At the close of the year both he and they were delighted that
their relation was drawing to a termination. On the last Sunday
Uncle Ike came down on his way to conference and spent the
day with Uncle Sebe. While they are brothers, they are as
much unlike as though they were born of different mothers.
The former is sweet-spirited, gentle and very evangelical.
Uncle Sebe preached his farewell sermon Sunday morning,
and it was a scorcher. It was his last opportunity and he
delivered his soul with spice and pepper, with a few warm
embers mixed.
At night Uncle Ike preached one of his deeply-spiritual
sermons, full of power and unction. It caught the congregation
and it swept Uncle Sebe off his feet, for he was a very
susceptible listener and singularly emotional. He lead in the
closing prayer, and among other things said:
"Lord, we are so glad to be in this meeting and under the
influence of the good Spirit. It makes us happy and we rejoice.
Lord, we are not always in this good frame of mind. Sometimes
we get off the track and get cold. It was the case with us at
the morning service and, Lord, thou knowest that thy servant
lost his head and spoke unadvisedly with his lips."
But right there he caught himself and added:
"But, Lord, thou knowest that thy servant had cause, for he
has had a lot of soreheads to deal with all this year."
During the summer Rev. C. M. Harless, pastor of Trinity
Church, had Rev. Abe Mulkey to aid him in a revival
service.
His church was a small structure, located on the same site where the
magnificent Trinity Church now stands. The meeting had been in
progress some days before it was convenient for me to attend, and it
had gotten pretty well under headway. I had never seen him in the
pulpit and knew nothing of his style and methods as a preacher
except what I had read in the papers.
The first night I attended, I presume that I was in a critical frame of
mind, for I sat and looked and listened in amazement. I thought I had
never heard so much silly nonsense gotten off in the pulpit. My
disgust grew as he proceeded, and it was all that I could do to remain
and listen to what I regarded as the veriest travesty on preaching. His
antics, his grotesque facial expressions, his helter-skelter style and
his disjointed subject-matter became almost intolerable. But toward
the close he related a touching story, made his application and then
appealed to the unconverted; and as it is an easy transition from a
state of laughter to one of tears, the audience was considerably
moved. The penitents came trooping to the altar and conversions
follows.
Then my amazement became more pronounced. I could not
understand how such a wonderful result could follow such a
performance. I reflected and gradually came to myself, and I realized
that I had been sitting there doing what the critical auditor usually
does - putting in the hour trying to square the preaching of Abe
Mulkey with the simple rules that apply to the ordinary preacher; and
such rules are out of adjustment with such a preacher.
Instead of permitting the Lord to use Abe Mulkey in his own way I
had made myself a judge and degenerated into a carping critic and
had put myself completely out of rapport with the preacher and the
intent of the service. I proceeded
to retrace my steps, or rather my processes, revised my judgment,
changed my whole attitude toward the preacher and the service, and
measured him and his sermon by the result of the service. It then
dawned upon me that Abe Mulkey was an instrument in God's hands
with a special mission to the unconverted, and that if I had preached
one of my well-seasoned sermon on that occasion there would
probably have not been a single penitent at that altar.
I therefore then and there made up my mind that any man who tried
to listen to Abe Mulkey in a critical mood and made an effort to
gauge him by the rules that apply to the trained pastor and preacher,
had better be at home in his bed and asleep, and from that day until
this present I have never again permitted myself to criticise or find
fault with Abe Mulkey's preaching.
He is a rough ashler, called of God to do a work that no other man
could have done, and by methods unsuited to all others, and through
a style of ministry all his own. And right here I want to bear my
testimony to the fact that Abe Mulkey, with all his eccentricity of
manner, has been more powerful in the providence of God in bringing
sinners into a state of penitence and conversion, and then into a life
of righteousness, than any other one man in Texas.
He has also aided in relieving Churches of debt and in projecting
Church enterprises more effectually than most any man among us.
Bless his dear old soul! His work is nearly done, his course
approximately finished, but he has large credit to his effectiveness as
a soul-winner in the Lamb's Book of Life. But had he done nothing
else except build and pay for that splendid structure for the
Orphanage at Waco, that single stroke of enterprise is sufficient to
make him immortal in Texas Methodism.
In October, a few weeks prior to the meeting of the North
Texas Conference, the Joint Board of Publication for the
Texas Christian Advocate met in Dallas and after prolonged
deliberation, re-elected Rev. T. R. Pierce to succeed himself
for another year as editor of the conference organ. He had
filled the position four years. But a few days after this event,
for reasons satisfactory to himself, he tendered his resignation
with a view to re-enter the pastoral work. The board was
reconvened and I was elected to succeed him as editor of the
paper. This action was taken without any consultation with me
upon the part of the board or any member of it, at that time or
at any time previously. None of them communicated with me
by letter or word of mouth as to my election, and there was no
concert of understanding, for several ballots were taken before
the result was determined. I neither desired nor expected such
a result when the board came together, for all my plans were in
force to finish my quadrennium at First Church. Eleven of that
old board are still living, and they will doubtless read these
words and they can bear testimony to the correctness of this
statement.
The next session of the North Texas Conference met in
Greenville with Bishop Galloway in the chair. This was his first
visit to the conference, and his coming created more than
ordinary expectation. His fame as a preacher was already
known throughout Texas. Personally he was one of the most
delightful men imaginable, and he made himself companionable
and brotherly to all who were privileged to meet him in the
private circle. There was nothing of the perfunctory in his
manner, whether in the chair or in a social gathering. He was
intensely human and enjoyed the fellowship of his brethren. He
had a kind heart; he was a good conversationalist; and while he
had the power to entertain, he never monopolized the
REV. ABE MULKEY
attention of any company of which he was a part. He was a
good listener and knew how to vary the interest of the social
circle so as to break up its monotony. He was in inimitable
story-teller and had a large fund from which to draw. He had a
fine sense of humor and enjoyed an amusing incident by
whomsoever given, and he often related anecdotes to the
amusement of others.
As a presidng
officers he was easy and graceful. He
never
evinced impatience, was never brusque, and he was never
known to betray the slightest discourtesy to any brother,
however humble. He was quick to decide points of order; he
was lucid in his interpretation of law, and he often enlivened the
tedium of routine proceedings by flashes of wit and humor.
Occasionally some report would call forth from him a most
instructive and entertaining side-talk. He was firm in his rulings
and expeditious in his conduct of the business of the
conference. He never permitted business to drag or to become
irksome. In the Cabinet he is said to have been patient and
painstaking in trying to find the place for the man and the man
for the place.
But the pulpit was his throne of power; and it was as a
preacher that he excelled all his contemporaries. He was the
peer of any man in the American pulpit. He was a born as well
as a trained orator. He had all the natural and all the acquired
gifts of public speech. Nature had well-nigh perfected him for
the pulpit and the platform. He had the build, the personality,
the magnetism, the gesture, the voice, the countenance of the
man born to sway the multitudes. His mind was of a high order,
his faculties well trained and his thinking was orderly and
consecutive. He had a brilliant imagination and his style was
ornate and rhetorical. His diction was of the purest and most
elegant strain and his periods
were rhythmic and mellifluent. His eloquence was matchless in its
flow and bewitching in its charm; it was not merely the eloquence of
words beautifully woven into polished sentences - it was the
eloquence of thought, of emotion and of passion stirred to its
profoundest depth. It was not weird, it was not mechanical; neither
was it gorgeous nor magniloquent; but it was genuine, it was
transporting, it was the harmonious outgoing of the soul's energy
through the medium of inspired speech.
His sermon on this conference occasion more than met the
expectation of his audience, and it carried everything before it. But
the most triumphant occasion I ever witnessed under the ministry of
Bishop Galloway was several years after at the great Ecumenical
Conference in London, when he stood like a crowned prince before
the assembled Methodism of the world, in the pulpit of City Road
Chapel, and delivered that epoch-making sermon whose ominous
words and burning thoughts made him famous throughout Protestant
Christendom. It was an inscrutable Providence that translated him in
the zenith of his popular manhood when the world so much stood in
need of his wondrous ministry.
It was at this Greenville Conference that Bishop Galloway read me
out as editor of the Texas Christian Advocate. Right then began an
intimate relation between me and one Texas layman of whom I must
speak a few words of appreciation before this final chapter in this
volume closes - a relation that has ripened into the maturity of an
undying brotherly friendship - Louis Blaylock.
My acquaintance began with him more than twenty years ago, and
I learned to love him immediately. His good nature, his big heart, his
sincere manner and his friendship for the ministry won me at the first
conference at Navasota when I
came face to face with him. Sixteen years ago I became his pastor at
First Methodist Church, Dallas. He was on my Official Board, and an
intimacy at once sprang up between us. I found him to be a man
whom I could trust and one whose judgment was clear and reliable.
During the two years following he never disappointed me. I was often
in his company and frequently in his home, and whenever any
emergency developed I always knew that among the dependable
members of my board Louis Blaylock was at top of the list.
Fourteen years ago when I became editor of the Texas Christian
Advocate it was predicted by a leading member of the conference
that the publisher and the editor would not long live in harmony,
since both of them were men of deep convictions and very tenacious
of their positions touching many questions. I will admit that on the
surface of the suspicions there was something plausible in the
prediction.
I have very decided views and there is Scotch enough in my
nature to make me almost stubborn when once my mind is made up
on a given subject. In addition to this I have enough Irish in my
blood to make me very intense and persistent in my adherence to my
conclusions. I must admit that I yield to the inevitable as reluctantly
as any living man. It is the last alternative with me. And I am not
innocent of temper when aroused.
Blaylock has the most of these traits as well marked in his
temperament and character as myself, and when two such men come
into close relation daily, as is absolutely necessary in the case of the
editor and publisher of the Advocate, with a hundred and one things
to annoy and provoke differences of opinion and judgment, it appears
to the casual observer that all the elements of conflict are on hand.
But my confidence in him and in his disposition to do right,
and his confidence in me to the same end, made the bond of a
union with indissoluble ties. And during all these years of trial
and vexations we have often had our differences of judgment,
and we have sharply contended for our positions, nevertheless
he has never doubted my honesty and I have never doubted his.
The result is that at no time have we ever faecd a difference
that did not solve itself satisfactorily in the end, and also without
the slightest jar to our intimate and brotherly relation. We have
always stood shoulder to shoulder, whether we have seen eye
to eye or not, in the conduct of the Advocate.
There has never been a moment of all these years when I
did not love him like a brother, and when he did not love me in
the same degree. I would trust my life or my family in his
hands and I have every reason to believe that he would trust
me equally as far. I have been with him on nearly all sorts of
occasions and under almost all sorts of circumstances. I have
had the best opportunity of any living man to know him in his
motive, in his inner purpose, in his private manner of life. I have
seen him in times of testing when if there were weaknesses
they would come to the surface; I have seen him in his
moments of joy and good humor, and I have seen him when the
shadows were falling dark and lowering upon his heart, with
the sables of grief hanging around the casket of his loved and
departed. Yes, I have seen him in the sunshine and in the
darkness, in his alternations of happiness and grief. I know him
inside and out, and I am capable of passing judgment upon his
life and character.
And right here I want to say that, take him day in day out, up
one side of him and down the other, in his relation to men in all
the walks of life, I have never known a truer and a
cleaner man than Louis Blaylock. I have seen men who
made
larger professions, men who more loudly proclaimed their own
virtues, men who accentuated their own piety with stronger
emphasis; but I have never known a man with purer motives,
with a higher sense of personal integrity and of loftier
standards of moral conduct for his own manner of dealing with
his fellowmen. If there is a mean thing in his nature I have
never discovered it.
I am not holding him up as a perfect man. There has never
been but one of that sort. We all have our weaknesses and our
imperfections; and Louis Blaylock shares these in common
with us all. There are some things in him that I would change,
as there are some in me that he would doubtless change; but
when it comes to clean manhood, to correct ideals, to his
disposition to deal justly and honestly with those to whom he
stands in any way related in friendship, in business, in counsel,
he will come as nearly doing the right thing regardless of
circumstances as any man whom it has ever been my privilege
to know. And a kinder heart is not found in any human bosom.
He has an ear for the tale of the man in distress; he has a
hand for the man in need; he has a heart that responds to the
demands of sweet charity. Yes, he is a brother! I have tested
him during the passing of a score of trying years; and he is a
royal man. The Methodist Church and the Methodist preacher
never had a warmer and a more responsive friend. He has
opened his heart, his hand, his purse to them on all occasions
of their need. Hence there is no man better loved, more
largely trusted and more genuinely esteemed in Texas
Methodism than Louis Blaylock.
And such is his relation to me that my book would not
be complete without his picture and this sketch of his life
and
character as I have studied and known him as a man, a brother and a
Christian.
As long as I live my affection for him will be tender, sincere,
abiding, and when his and my earthly pilgrimages shall have ended,
and we cross over to the other side to rest from our labors, our
friendship will be intensified and continued under a brighter sky and
amid nobler conditions in our Father's house!
But when Bishop Galloway read me out as editor of the Texas
Christian Advocate he not only threw me into a closer relationship
with Louis Blaylock, but the announcement closed out more than a
quarter of a century's experience as a pastor, and no man had ever
loved the work of the pastorate more than myself. The announcement
did more; it took up the whole current of my ministry and life and
turned it into a new and largely different channel. At that time I little
dreamed of the magnitude of the task thrust upon me. Could I have
lifted the veil of the future and looked face to face upon the field of
conflict then stretching out before me, with its fightings within and its
fears without, as I have since beheld it and gone up against it, I doubt
if my courage had been equal to the colossal undertaking. It would
have appalled me and my heart would have shuddered at the
contemplation of it.
But the future was wisely concealed from me, and I ventured upon
it with hopeful enthusiasm. At that time an old editor, seasoned in
such work and scarred by its stupendous conflicts, said to me:
"This is a great responsibility thrust upon
you, one prolific of great
opportunities for service; but if you do your full
duty and remain at
your post a dozen years, I doubt if you will have
a score of friends
left upon the face of the earth to
stand by you in your battle in behalf of truth and
righteousness."
His statement sounded like an exaggeration, but there have been
times in my experience since then when I have thought that after all
he spoke more wisely and truthfully than he knew.
But it is not my purpose in this volume to make record of my
experiences in this new era in my life upon the tripod and the
platform. In the first place, the material is too extensive and varied;
and in the second place, I am still too close to the field of conflict and
to the men both in Church and State with whom I have measured
swords. The sound of the battle is still ringing in my ears, and the
passion engendered by the strife is still hot in my blood. To deal with
them and the issues they represent, deliberately and impartially,
would be a task well-nigh impossible.
But when a few more years shall ave
passed by me, and
Time, the
great healer, has cooled my brain and chiseled off the asperities
superinduced by blows given and received, then in another and a
subsequent volume I will be better prepared to make a dispassionate
record of my experiences as a journalist and a leader in the realm of
moral and civic reform throughout this great empire of the Southwest.
And it is needless to say that in that second and final volume
there will be something racy and rare in the literature of the Lone Star
State!
In the meantime the material for that volume, most of which is
already accumulated, will be added to, classified, digested and put in
shape for its final consummation, and about the time that my public
life is nearing its conclusion and I no longer hold a place in the
limelight, this finished result will be sent forth upon its stormy
mission.
Therefore, for the present, this volume is committed to the
public with the hope that struggling young men of worthy
ambition, largely dependent upon their own resources for
success, may read it and take heart and courage to press forward
toward the goal; and with the further hope that those in
middle life and those burdend with age, if they chance to see it,
may find recreation and entertainment.
The End of Volume I.
Return to Menu Page for The Story of My Life ... by George C. Rankin Return to First-Person Narratives of the American South, Beginnings to
1920 Home Page Return to Documenting the American South Home Page
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Page 15CHAPTER II
Some Early Incidents I Well
Remember
When I was about five years old my grandmother came
down to see us one day. This she often did, and it was always
an event in our home. I noticed on this occasion that she and
my mother were in very close whispered conversation just
before she was ready to return home. Then she turned to me
and said she wanted me to go home with her and spend a few
days, that Jack wanted to see me, and that she had cake and
sugar and other good things for me. Of course I was ready
to accede to her proposition, for it was always a treat to visit
her home. So she mounted old Rufe, her trusted old saddle-horse,
my father threw me on behind her, and away we
racked to grandma's house. When we arrived Jack was at
the gate to receive us, which he did with many antics of
delight.
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Page 29CHAPTER III
An Old-Time Election in East
Tennessee, and Else
In the earlier days, long before the railroads ran through that
section, East Tennessee was a country to itself. Its topography
made it such. Its people were a peculiar people - rugged,
honest and unique. I doubt if their kind was ever known under
other circumstances. Hundreds of them were well-to-do, and
now and then, in the more fertile communities, there was actual
wealth. Especially was this true along the beautiful water-courses
where the farm lands are unequaled, even to this good
day.
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Page 42CHAPTER IV.
The Death of My Father and Its
Effects on Me
It was on a beautiful morning in May when I had just
returned to grandma's house from the river, where I had been
fishing. What a splendid morning it was! In my mind and heart
it will live with increasing interest as long as memory
survives. Nature, like an Oriental queen of the olden times,
was clad in her vernal robes of richest hue. The atmosphere
fresh from the circumjacent hills, was redolent with the
fragrance of foliage and flowers. Feathered songsters,
exuberant with the joy of early springtime, were making the
wildwood and the meadow vocal with their sweetest melody.
A brighter sun never rolled up the eastern sky in his chariot of
flames. Even the crystal stream, instinct with life, offered its
tribute of joy through the music of its limpid waves. The far-off
mountains, tinged with a mellow azure, sent forth their deep-toned
praises from native harps of hemlock and pine. All sights
and sounds and motions were expressive of universal peace
and happiness.
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Page 55CHAPTER V
Some Tragic Incidents in the
Hill Country
As I am not confining myself to strict chronology in these
chapters, I will drop back a year or two and make mention of a
few war incidents in East Tennessee. This section was the
scene of many episodes back in the early sixties. Some of them
were tragic and others of them ludicrous and amusing.
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Page 68CHAPTER VI
A Turning Point in My Life
We are never assured of what a day will bring forth, and
when we think our prospects the brightest there is often a cloud
hanging in the foreground of our plans and purposes. Just at a
time when I thought my future was determined another
misfortune flung its shadow across my plans. My benefactor,
of whom I have already spoken, was taken ill and after a few
weeks died. His large estate passed into the hands of an
administrator for settlement and all my plans were thrown into
confusion. There was no possible chance for me to make
further arrangements about land and stock to work it. For the
time being I was all at sea and my future was nebulous. After
resolving the situation in my own mind without reaching a
conclusion I submitted the question to mother and we went
over it carefully together.
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Page 84CHAPTER VII
My Conversion and Call to the
Ministry
After disposing of my experience with old Tommy I will
resume the thread of my story. It was late in the afternoon and
I was tired. Dragging that long bag after me and bending over
picking cotton had me well-nigh exhausted. Then it was that
my uncle suggested that we take in the wagon and feed the
mules, get an early supper and all go out to Church, as there
was a good revival in progress.
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Page 101CHAPTER VIII
An Unlooked-For Providential
Opening
My brother and myself put in our first crop in Georgia
the next spring and it grew off well. That hillside land was not
fertile like the Tennessee bottom land I had been used to, but
with proper care it did very well. We gave it earnest
attention and kept it well cultivated. As the summer
approached the cotton, the corn and the cowpeas looked
flourishing, and we were gratified. Nothing pleased me more
than to see the fruits of my industry responding to my generous
toil.
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CHAPTER IX
Some School Experiences at
Student's Home
By the time the bugle sounded I was up trying to work on
those books, but my mind was unable to comprehend them.
They were not only beyond me, but worse still, I did not know
how to study. I had not been trained to concentrate, and to
think consecutively was out of the question. For more than five
years I had been out of school, and while I had kept up some
general reading, and had gathered a good degree of general
information, yet I was a stranger to the student habit and life.
The more I tried to understand the diagram system of that
grammar the more it confused me, and that mental arithmetic
was a stunner. I did not even know the meaning of the word
philosophy.
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Page 133CHAPTER X
The First Shock My Faith Ever
Received
Up to this time, as I have already indicated, my faith was
simple, confiding and unquestioning. It was the faith of my
childhood. Yes, it was the faith of my mother. I did not know
the meaning of doubt in my acceptance of Christ and in my
belief in the Bible. It had never occurred to me that Christ was
not the Son of God and that the Bible was not the exact Word
of God. I had never thought how it was possible for Christ to
be both God and man, or just how we had received the Bible.
My innocent mind was an absolute stranger to quibbles on
these matters. Christ was my Savior and I knew him as such
from experience; and the Bible was God's truth to guide me
through the trials and the duties of this life to a better life
beyond the grave. These were accepted as undisputed facts. I
had never dreamed that anybody called these truths into
question.
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Page 146Chapter XI
My Last Year With Professor
Burkett
Even before the second year at Student's Home had been
finished I had gone to work and built me a dormitory of my
own, selecting a spot for it in a weird ravine amid a thicket of
pines and far away from the noise and distractions of the other
dormitories. I wanted solitude, for I had serious work to do
during the few hours each day and night I had to devote to it. It
was a crude hut, built of peeled pine poles, chinked and daubed
with a stick and mud chimney and roof made of clapboards.
The shutter to the door was hung on the outside because there
was not room enough on the inside, with my scant furniture, for
it to open and close. My bed was swung from the rafters,
which gave me some more accommodation. It was a
comfortable shack, but unsightly and unattractive. The one
beauty of it was, I did not have to pay any rent. It was mine. In
this inclosure I did some of the best work of my life.
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Page 158CHAPTER XII
A Country School and My First
Conference
Rest from labor for a season is a sound policy. It gives the
tired body and exhausted nerves not only an opportunity to
unbend, but also to regain their resilience with new vigor and
elasticity. No human spirit, however blithesome and alert, can
mantain
its strength and power of exertion under the
pressure
of incessant strain in one direction. Variety is the spice of life in
all active pursuits, as well as in social recreation and diversions.
It rehabilitates the system, exhilarates the mind and spirit and it
restores the fagging energies. It introduces into the tenor of
routine duties an element of relish and it scatters along the
dreary pathway of monotony the warmth and radiance of
sunshine. Neither absolute rest nor persistent and unremitting
toil is the best for the human organism.
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Page 174CHAPTER XIII
My First Experience as a Circuit
Walker
Resaca is a famous town. It occupies a large place in
history. Yet it is only a village on the Western and Atlantic
Railway, fifteen miles below Dalton, and located at the point
where the road crosses the Ostenaula River. It has never had
over three or four hundred people living in it. But its fame lies
in the fact that there Sherman, in his march to the sea, had one
of his bloody battles with General Joseph E. Johnston. Several
hundred men fell there and were buried in crimson graves. The
hills around the place are still marked with reminders of war.
At the time about which I am writing these reminders were
fresh and gruesome. The trees were splintered with shells and
pierced with minie-balls. A Confederate cemetery near by tells
where the boys in gray are sleeping who fell in that local
conflict.
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Page 192CHAPTER XIV
A Year of Special Preparation for
College
I remained at Resaca and entered the school being taught by
a university graduate. Twelve men of the town, who had
means and ambition for their children, had put up one hundred
dollars apiece and paid him a twelve-hundred-dollar salary to
teach. They opened the doors of the school to all who wanted
to attend. They collected tuition from a few who were able to
pay and let the others go free of charge. It was a good
school.
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Page 205CHAPTER XV
Two Years at Hiwassee College
It had been the dream of my life to go to college. By day I
had planned for it and by night I had contemplated it, and at
last the consummation of my plans was to be realized. I was at
Hiwassee College!
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Page 220CHAPTER XVI
The Conference and My First
Year in Holston
About the middle of the seventies I was again off to
conference at Asheville, North Carolina. This time it was
Holston, and Western North Carolina was then in this
conference. I made it convenient to stop at Mossy Creek, the
place where a few years before I had taken the train for Dalton;
and from there made a short excursion into the Dumpling Creek
neighborhood to visit my father's relatives. I had not been
among them since boyhood.
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Page 236CHAPTER XVII
Two More Years in Southwest
Virginia
My next conference was at Knoxville and I brought to it my
bride. She was the black-haired and brown-eyed girl who was
present some years before when Aunt Rachel Stone spoiled
my first sermon at Cove City. It was not long after that until
our courtship began, and it was consummated a few weeks
prior to the session of this conference. Her name was Fannie
L. Denton and her home was Dalton, Georgia.
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Page 251CHAPTER XVIII
Four Years at Church Street,
Knoxville
My next conference met at Knoxville again. This time
Bishop H. H. Kavanaugh presided. This was the first time I
ever saw him. He was one of the justly famous men in the
Church. In person he was a bulky man, large in girth, big,
round head covered with short stiff hair, a swarthy face with a
distinctly Irish expression. He looked immense as he sat in the
chair conducting the proceedings of the body. He was then
quite an old man and the feebleness of age was very manifest
in his look and action. He would occasionally fall into a doze
seated in the chair, and once in awhile the Secretary would
have to arouse him and tell him the nature of the business
pending, particularly when speech-making was in progress. He
was really a superannuated man in body and mind, and in this
day the General Conference would retire him without
hesitation.
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Page 266CHAPTER XIX
Four Eventful Years in
Chattanooga
At the close of my last year in Knoxville I attended conference at
Asheville. Western North Carolina was still within the bounds of
Holston. Bishop A. W. Wilson, one of the new Bishops, presided. He
was not new to me, for I had known him well as Missionary Secretary.
He had often been through our conference territory in behalf of
missions and his fame was spread abroad among us as a great
preacher and platform speaker.
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CHAPTER XX
Four Years in Asheville, and More
While I was ready to change from Chattanooga, yet I had a
great deal of anxiety about who would succeed me in the
pastorate of Centenary Church. I had devoted four of the best
years of my life to it; I had seen every piece of material go into
its structure from the foundation to its finial; I had received the
most of its members into its communion; I had baptized many
of them and felt toward them all a little like a father feels
toward his children, and for the life of me I did not see how it
was possible for the right man to be found to take my place as
their pastor!
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Page 301MY MOTHER'S BIBLE
This
book is all that's left me now;
Tears
will unbidden start;
With
faltering lips and throbbing brow
I
press it to my heart.
Here
is our family tree;
My
mother's hand this Bible pressed,
She
dying gave it me.
Whose names these records bear;
Who, round the hearthstone, used to close
After the evening prayer
In tones my heart would thrill;
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they with me still!
To brothers, sisters dear;
How calm was my sweet mother's look,
Who loved God's Word to hear.
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the walls of home.
Thy constancy I've tried;
When all were false I've found thee true,
My counselor and guide.
That could this volume buy,
In teaching me the way to live
It's taught me how to die.
Page 302CHAPTER XXI
My First General Conference and
Adieu Holston
In May, 1890, the General Conference met in St. Louis, Missouri. It
was the first time I had ever looked upon a body of that character. It
gave me an opportunity to see and hear the great leaders of the
Church. I looked at them with wonder and sized them up as they
passed in review before me.
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Page 318CHAPTER XXII
The Beginning of My Experience
in Texas
Twenty years ago I came to Texas and dedicated my life to
the work of the Church in this great empire of the Southwest. I
did not come ignorantly or aimlessly, but intelligently. I had
been a reader of the Texas Christian Advocate for years and I
was also familiar with the daily papers of the State. Especially
the year previous to my coming did I read the Dallas Daily
News, the Houston Post and the Austin Statesman. These put
me in touch with the resources, the products and the politics of
the State. I read with great interest the sensational campaign
between Governor Hogg and Judge Clark and this struggle
gave me some idea of the political issues then dominant in the
public mind.
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Page 334CHAPTER XXIII
From South Texas to North
Texas
My stay in Houston was not only pleasant, but it was
conducive to my health and general physical improvement. I
increased in weight from one hundred and twenty-six pounds
to one hundred and forty-five, and I felt like a rejuvenated
man. Instead of finding a place of abode in the cemetery, as I
had feared, I took on a new lease of life. That salt air was the
tonic I needed and all that I lost in Kansas City I more than
regained in South Texas. Some people need the air of the
mountains, but I needed the breezes of the Gulf.
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Page 348a
THE TEXAS EVANGELIST
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