In the brush

by Hamilton W. Pierson

CHAPTER XI.

EXPERIENCES WITH OLD-TIME METHODIST CIRCUIT-RIDERS IN THE SOUTHWEST.

In my extended horseback travels in the Southwest, I made the acquaintance of a great many itinerant preachers, and spent a good deal of time with them in riding around their circuits. I found them, as a rule, a genial, laborious, and self-denying class of men. In general, they had hard work, rough fare, and, so far as this world is concerned, very small pay. But they understood all this when they entered upon this itinerant life. They did not toil for earthly reward. They labored for the salvation of men and the glory of God. Their richest present compensation was the peace and joy that ever pervade the souls of those who, in simplicity and godly sincerity, yield themselves to the toils and privations of this high and glorious calling. In this the richest pleasures and the sweetest joys attend those whose self-denials are the greatest and whose toils are the most severe.

Almost without exception, I found my ministerial brethren in the Brush men with perfect health. This I attributed very largely to their out-of-door life, their horseback-riding, and the fact that they communed far more with men and nature than with books. More than this, I found them cheerful men. They loved and enjoyed their labors. They enjoyed their long rides to preach to a dozen or more at an out-of-the-way appointment—enjoyed preaching, praying, singing, shouting—enjoyed laboring with "mourners in the altar" until late in the night, and they could scarcely speak for hoarseness—enjoyed seeing them "come through" (the vernacular for conversion), hearing them shout, and receiving them into the church—enjoyed class-meetings, quarterly-meetings, camp-meetings, love-feasts, and conference—enjoyed the familiar and affectionate greetings of parents and children, the cordial welcome, and the free and unrestrained social intercourse that awaited them in their pastoral visitations in the Brush—enjoyed with the relish that comes from real health and hunger the "good things" the sisters provided for them, especially fried chicken. I have heard it said a great many times that many of the dogs in the Brush knew a preacher as soon as he rode up to a house, and, anticipating the call that was sure to be made upon them, would start out unbidden and run down the chickens for the coming meal, and bring them to the house. I can not vouch for this remarkable canine sagacity of my own knowledge, but I can say that, when riding the circuit with these brethren, I have often seen the dogs start after the chickens upon a very slight intimation, and run them down for our supper as soon as we rode up, and received from the sister, all aglow with joy at our coming, the cordial invitation to "'light" (alight). I speak of all the enjoyments I have thus enumerated from personal knowledge, for I have been with many of these good brethren in all these scenes.

But other and strange scenes were almost constantly occurring in the prosecution of these labors. On one occasion I started out with a young preacher to visit several of his week-day appointments. His circuit was known in the conference as "Brush College." It was so called because young preachers, without wife or family, were invariably sent there. They were sent there if they had a great deal of zeal, and there was any doubt as to its permanency; for the trials and discouragements they would there meet would thoroughly test their sincerity and their perseverance. They were sent there if they were thought to be lacking in humility, or, in the language of the Brush, if they had the big-head; for roughing it there would be certain to relieve them of any inflated notions of self. They were sent there not unfrequently because, in their entire devotion to God and his service, they were more than willing to go anywhere and suffer anything if they might lead men to that Saviour whose love glowed in their souls a pure and ceaseless flame. Such was the devout character and spirit of the young circuit-rider whom I accompanied on his week-day visit to Rocky Creek.

It was an intensely hot day in July. As we neared the place of meeting, we passed two or three old women on foot, accompanied by a boy about a dozen years old, who was carrying a brand of fire and swinging it to keep it alive. As the weather was so uncomfortably warm, it was entirely beyond my ability to comprehend what use they could make of fire, and, turning to the preacher, I said,

"What can be their object in carrying that fire with them to the meeting this hot day?"

He smiled as he saw my puzzled look, and simply answered,

"You will soon see."

We rode on to a rough log school-and meeting-house, standing upon the bank of a rocky creek or "branch," as it was called, entirely surrounded by large and small forest trees, under the grateful shade of which we hitched our horses. This was done here, as elsewhere in the whole region, by riding under a tree, pulling down a limb, and making fast to the end of it by a simple loop made with the end of the bridle-reins. This is an admirable method of hitching a horse. The long, easily bending limb offers no resistance to the movements of the horse in fighting flies, and there is no liability of getting the reins or halter under his feet. It has often been a pleasant sight to me to see scores or hundreds of horses hitched in this manner, and standing comfortably in the shade of forest trees, surrounding a church, preaching-stand, or camp-ground. As we returned from this care of our horses, the mystery in regard to the fire was all explained. It had been placed in a large stump, which was burning freely, near the log church. As soon as the people arrived, and had hitched their horses, men and women, old and young, made their way to this stump, lighted their pipes, filled with home-raised and home-cured tobacco, which they carried loose in the ample pockets of their coats and dresses, and sat down on the ground to enjoy a social, neighborly smoke and chat before going into the house to hear the sermon. When the congregation had arrived, by paths radiating through the forest from all points of the compass, some of the official brethren who had accompanied the preachers into the house struck up a familiar hymn. This was the signal for a general laying aside of pipes and gathering in to the service. We had been joined at the church by a "local preacher" who had formerly served in the ranks of the itinerancy, but had "located" in this neighborhood, and, after years of almost gratuitous service in the ministry, was now supporting himself and family by carrying on a small tannery and store. This old itinerant preached the morning sermon. He was a man of strong muscular frame, heavy voice, and great experience and power in moving upon the feelings of his hearers. In the midst of his sermon a woman sitting near me sprang to her feet, threw her arms in the air, and shouted, "Glory! Hallelujah!" and jumped up and down, clapping her hands and shouting until she sank exhausted upon the floor. Soon another and then another, until a large part of the audience were shouting in this manner. The preacher's face fairly glowed with joy, and his voice arose louder and louder as the people were more and more moved; and there was a general blending of songs, prayers, and vociferous shouts. At length, with singing, prayer, and a general shaking of hands, they closed what was to them a very delightful meeting.

In the afternoon, as the day was very hot, it was decided to hold the services out of doors, under the shade of the large oak-trees that stood immediately in front of the cabin. The benches were brought out, and occupied mostly by the women, and the rest of the congregation sat on the ground. I took my position at the foot of a large oak-tree, near the bank of the murmuring stream, and preached to the people grouped and seated before me under the shadow of this and other oaks. All gave the most respectful attention. During my sermon I noticed a woman who was sitting but a few feet distant, and immediately in front of me, hunch with her elbow the one sitting next to her. She immediately hunched in the same manner the next, and she the next, until the, to me, unknown signal had been communicated in this manner to the half-dozen or more who occupied the bench. During this time every eye was fixed on me and not a muscle of any face moved. In a few moments the hunch was repeated, and they all arose from the bench with almost military precision, filed out before me as quietly as possible, moved around to the large burning stump on my right, filled and lighted their pipes, took seats on the ground near by, and all commenced smoking. During all this movement, from the first hunch, they each kept an ear inclined toward me, intent on listening to my sermon, and not one of them apparently lost a word. They smoked on and I preached on to the end of my sermon; and, as usual, "lifted a collection" for the Bible Society, which, in this instance, amounted to about seven dollars. The benediction was then pronounced, and, in their vernacular, the "meeting broke." We spent the night very comfortably with a kind family living near the place of preaching, and returned to continue the services the next day.

In the morning I listened to a sermon from a genuine backwoodsman, the young man I have spoken of in the chapter entitled "The Old, Old Book and its Story in the Wilds of the Southwest," as the guide who piloted the venerable Bible-distributor through that rough, wild region. He had since been licensed, first as an exhorter, and then as a local preacher. It would hardly be possible to find a young preacher whose education had been more completely that of the Brush. His home was in the wild region I have described in that chapter, and his companions had been as illiterate and uncultivated as could well be found. He had attended school but a very few months, and that was vastly poorer than the most of my readers have ever conceived of as possible. He had then taught, for a few months, this school in his own neighborhood, in which he had received his only education. His reading was tolerable, his writing passable, his spelling horrible. Several weeks afterward I received a letter from him, in which he expressed the hope that certain facts I had asked him to send me would have due weight—which he spelled "dew wate." He was about twenty years old, full six feet in height, with very full, broad chest, square shoulders, and he stood as erect and straight as any Indian. He had a full head of very handsome black hair, bright black eyes, a very mild, pleasant expression of countenance, and a voice that rang loud, smooth, and clear like a trumpet. I listened to his sermon with unbounded amazement, and, I may add, delight. It was a mystery to me how one so unlettered and so unlearned in all religious reading except the Bible—and, in the nature of the case, but poorly versed in that—could have acquired thoughts so sensible and good. It was a greater mystery how he could clothe them in such appropriate language. Both his thoughts and his words flowed as freely as the stream near by, and they had great power to arrest the attention and move the hearts of his hearers. It was the power of undoubted sincerity and burning zeal; it was the power of one with superior natural endowments stirred to their profoundest depths, and, beyond all question, taught of God. It was the power of one whose life, whose education, and whose modes of thought were in full sympathy with his hearers, who had been born in the same wild region and reared with the same educational surroundings as himself. He was adapted to preach to those people, as the learned pastors of intelligent congregations are adapted to theirs; and each, with his human sympathies, was better adapted to preach to those of like human character and infirmities than any angel in heaven. If it be heresy, I am so heretical as to believe that God has other methods of training some men—yea, many men—to be useful ministers of the Gospel than by filling their heads with Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. So he had trained this man for the remarkable work he had for him to do. Several weeks after this I met him at conference, where he was received into the "traveling connection," to enter upon his four years of practical training and study for the "full work of a Gospel minister." A few months later, in the prosecution of my labors, I reached the circuit to which he had been sent with an older colleague, when I was told by a gentleman of the legal profession that he had often heard him preach, and always with the greatest interest. This gentleman informed me that, while making the round of his extended circuit, his horse had suddenly died. He pushed on on foot to fulfill his appointments, and, on his return, the people had been so gratified with his Christian zeal and energy that they had raised money and purchased a horse, which they presented to him. At the close of the year his report of the numbers converted and received into the church under his labors brought out an emphatic and hearty Amen from the conference. The next year he was sent alone to a rough mountain circuit, where his labors were crowned with still greater success. As long as I was able to trace him, his career was luminous with good accomplished.

But I must return to our services at Rocky Creek. At the conclusion of his sermon several persons were baptized by the old itinerant, who had preached on Baptism the day before. Moving a few steps from the oak where I had preached, they knelt on the edge of the stream, and he stood in the water and baptized them, either by sprinkling or pouring, as they preferred. The entire congregation then knelt with him under the shade of the branching oaks, and he made a prayer so earnest and impassioned that it moved the people to the most intense excitement and joy. The forest rang with their shouting. At the conclusion of this prayer the benediction was pronounced, and the meeting "broke." In all this region meetings were never said to be "out" or to "close." They were said to "break," or, more frequently, "the meeting is done broke." As we mounted our horses I rode with the sister whose hospitality we were to enjoy. She was a woman about thirty years of age, large, and very fine-looking. I had noticed her when shouting, and been particularly struck with the rapt expression of her face. She had a very pretty daughter some fifteen years old. Neither mother nor daughter could read a word. As we rode on she was still much excited with the closing exercises, and speaking of the prayer, she said:

"I thought Brother M—— would pray the limbs off the trees."

When we reached her home, which was an old log-house, she prepared our dinner with the greatest apparent delight. Her house was one of the circuit homes of the young preacher, where he left a part of his clothing. As we were about to leave to attend a quarterly-meeting at the court-house, she called him back, and, in a very frank and motherly way, directed him to make some changes in his dress, saying:

"I don't want my preacher to leave my house looking or'nery."

Afterward I heard of "or'nery" people, "or'nery" preachers, doctors, and lawyers, "or'nery" animals, and "or'nery" almost everything else, and concluded the word was a corruption of "ordinary," though it was more intensely expressive as it was usually applied.

I have been asked by those who were aware of my wide acquaintance with all classes of people in the Southwest, if the character of Nancy Kirtley, in Rev. Dr. Edward Eggleston's "Roxy," was not overdrawn—if it could possibly be true to nature. I have answered, without hesitation, "It is absolutely true to life." The Methodist sister I have described above was not a Nancy Kirtley in moral character, but she was in personal beauty. In her form and features, in the glow of her face, and in the marvelous beauty of her eyes, she was a remarkable specimen of physical perfection. So was her young daughter, and I have seen scores of others like them in the wilds of the Southwest. I was greatly interested in a distinction drawn by General Grant, when asked if a certain man to whom he had given an office was not a very ignorant man. "He is an illiterate man," said the General, "but I should not call him an ignorant man." That was a "distinction" worthy of General Grant. I have met a great many highly educated literary men who knew almost nothing of men and of the great world outside of books. And I have known a great many illiterate men and women, with marvelous knowledge of the world, with wonderful shrewdness and keenness, and with an ability to compass the end sought surpassed by very few that I have ever known. The fact that they could not read or write required on their part unusual tact and skill not to be overreached, and to make their way in the world. I have known several such men who have acquired large fortunes. Dr. Eggleston's Nancy Kirtley is not a mythical character.

After the young preacher had made satisfactory changes in his dress, we all bade good-by to our hospitable friends, and rode several miles to the county-seat where the quarterly-meeting was to commence that night. Here the young circuit-rider preached the opening sermon, and the meeting continued through the following Saturday and Sunday. There was nothing to me unusual and noteworthy in the meetings, except in the love-feast on Sabbath morning. The first to speak was my host, a warm-hearted, earnest man, a Cumberland Presbyterian, who spoke of the goodness of God to him and of his love to all the followers of Christ, and then started out and shook hands with nearly every one in the house, continuing his fervent remarks and ejaculations during all the hand-shaking. Next, a sister spoke and started in the same manner, shaking hands with the brethren, and throwing her arms around the sisters and embracing them in the warmest manner. Nearly all who followed them went through these same demonstrations. They not only sang,

"Now here's my heart, and here's my hand,
To meet you in that heavenly land,"

but they gave the cordial and often long-continued grasp. As the experiences, prayers, songs, and shouting became more and more animated and exciting, the hand-shaking became more general, until nearly the entire congregation, in larger or smaller groups or numbers, were shaking each other by the hand, keeping time in their movements to the wild Western melody they were singing. Hand-shaking among brethren and embracing among sisters formed a very prominent part in the religious services of these people in the Brush. This was especially cordial and earnest when one was converted, or, in their language, "came through," after long mourning and praying at the altar. Then parents, brothers, sisters, and warm Christian friends came forward and shook hands with them, or embraced them, amid a general chorus of songs and shouts from rejoicing friends.

As I had now visited nearly every part of the county (including several places to which I have made no allusion), I called a general meeting at the court-house on Sunday P.M., and organized a county Bible Society. Subsequently, I ordered a large supply of books, and the entire county was most thoroughly canvassed and supplied with Bibles. The results of this work were of surpassing interest, and I shall give some of them in a later chapter.

In my long tours with circuit-riders I was often greatly interested in the accounts they gave me of their experiences upon other circuits. One of them told me that he had joined conference many years before, when he was but nineteen years old. The first year he was sent to one of the roughest mountain-circuits in Tennessee. In addition to the usual outfit, he had a bear-skin overcoat, so that, if necessary, he might lodge at the foot of a tree. On receiving his appointment, his predecessor gave him a map of the circuit, upon which was indicated all the preaching-places, the families where he would be most comfortably entertained, and other items to aid him in the discharge of his duties. I learned that this was customary at the first conference that I attended, where I saw the preachers giving the maps they had prepared of their circuits to their successors as soon as their appointments were read out by the bishop. I was greatly interested in it, as I had so often felt the want of such a guide as I had floundered through the Brush, with nothing to indicate where I would find Christian sympathy and aid in my work. Having reached his circuit and entered upon his labors, he found it necessary to cross a mountain in order to reach one of his appointments, and preach to the families that were scattered up and down the narrow valley and over the mountain-sides. It was a very long day's ride, and only a mountain bridle-path, with no friendly family on the route to aid him should he lose his way. Having reached the top of the mountain, he found several paths leading in different directions, all equally plain, or rather equally blind, and nothing to indicate which one of them he should take. This was a most uncomfortable dilemma. Himself and horse were weary with the long ascent, night and darkness were coming on, and he had no time to lose. He took one path, followed it to the end, and returned. He took another and another with the same result. They all led to where a tree had been cut down for some wild animal, for bees, or for staves, shingles, or for something else, either for sale or for the use of the mountaineers. At length the darkness closed around him, and he made the best arrangements possible for spending the night upon the mountain-top. He fastened his horse, made as good a bed as he could with leaves and the other materials at hand, and lay down at the foot of a tree, finding abundant need thus early for his bear-skin overcoat. The night wore slowly away, and he did not like to trust himself to sleep; but, wearied with the toils of the day, it overcame him, and, as he was falling into a profound slumber, the terrific yell of a wild-cat broke upon his ear, and he sprang at once to the back of his horse. Having no other weapon than a large pocket-knife, he opened that, determined, as he told me, "to make the best fight he could with that" in case he was attacked. But he was spared this. There was no more disposition to sleep, and he could only watch and wait for the morning. At length he heard the chickens crowing in the valley below him, and as soon as it was light enough he started, taking the direction indicated by them. This led him down the side of the mountain to the family he was seeking, as directed by his circuit-map. It was near a large spring, forming the head-waters of one of the important Southern rivers (the Holston). Here he received the warm welcome that awaits the new preacher on his first tour around his circuit. Notice of his arrival, and that he would preach at their house that night, was soon sent to their nearest neighbors, and by them communicated to all within reach. They assembled promptly at night, in many instances the parents bringing all their children, old and young. As the different groups arrived, the men invariably brought their rifles and stacked them in a corner of the room as they entered the cabin. At length the room was filled, many of them sitting upon the floor, the children being seated nearest the fireplace. Taking his stand near the chimney-corner, he introduced the services by singing and prayer. As they had no candle or lamp, they prepared for his use a "slut." The light to which they give this not inappropriate name is made by putting oil or tallow in a tea-saucer, teacup, or any bowl or basin they may have, and placing in this a strip of cotton cloth, allowing the end of it to lie over the edge of the dish for a wick, which, when lighted, will burn until the tallow or oil is consumed, affording ample light. Sometimes they take small split sticks, tie them together, and insert the bundle in the tallow for a wick, as a substitute for the cotton cloth. With the aid of this light he was able to "line out" his hymns, and read a chapter in the Bible and his text. In my travels in the Brush I have seen a great many of these "sluts"—to say nothing of others.

At the conclusion of his services no one moved. All sat quietly, as they had during the evening. Now their curiosity must be satisfied. They wished to know all about him, where he had come from, and how he had got there. They were greatly interested in his account of his stay upon the mountain the night before. They knew all about the different paths he had taken, and gave explanations that were quite too late to be of service to him. At length, wearied with his long ride and watchings the night before, he fell asleep upon the bed upon which he had laid down while they were talking to him. In the midst of the night he was awakened by the noise of a terrific rain-storm, and heard the groaning of some animal in great distress near the house. He at once thought of his horse—that he had been hitched without any shelter—and feared that in the storm he had gotten down and was in this distress. An itinerant preacher without a horse in such a region would be in a sorry condition, and he had no time to lose. So, bounding from his bed in the darkness, he made his way to the door, but it was over a mass of human bodies. The entire congregation were asleep, apparently, in the same places they had occupied at the conclusion of his sermon. Instead of his horse, he found that a calf had gotten down, and the water from the roof was pouring upon it. He pulled it out from under the stream, looked after his horse, and returned to his bed. In the morning the congregation slowly dispersed, and he went on his way to other appointments around his circuit.

I was greatly interested and amused with some experiences entirely unlike these, which were related to me by my friend, whom I have already introduced to my readers, the first Methodist circuit-rider that I met deep in the Brush. He had some years before received an appointment to a circuit that was not in the mountains, but in a poor, broken, hilly region of country. Having been provided with a map of his circuit by his predecessor, he was making his way to a part of it known as "Coon Range." Everything indicated the extremest poverty and ignorance among the people. The very small patches of ground cleared and cultivated around their wretched cabins, and the coon, deer, and other skins that were hanging up around them, showed that the chief dependence of the people for a livelihood was upon the chase. Penetrating deeper and deeper into this utterly wild and desolate region, his horse struck and followed a neighborhood footpath until it led him to the back side of a cabin. An opening had been cut through the logs for a small window, but as yet there was no sash or glass in it. The woman, hearing the sound of the footsteps of his horse as he rode up, stuck her head out of this opening, and at the first sight saluted him with,

"How 'dy, stranger, how 'dy? I reckon you are our new preacher."

He told her he had been appointed to that circuit, and gave her his name. At this she was all excitement and joy, and said:

"'Light, Brother M——, 'light, sir. I'm mighty glad to see you. Brother K—— used to stay with us a heap, and I've got the 'class-book.'"

As soon as he entered the house she brought the class-book, and began to give him a full account of each member of the class. But he told her it was nearly night, and he had had no dinner. He had ridden all day, and he was very hungry and very tired. She replied to this intimation:

"We'll have supper d'rectly, Brother M——, d'rectly. The pig is in the pen. And Joe, he'll be home right soon, and get the water a bilin'. We'll have supper d'rectly, Brother M——."

To those unacquainted with the people in the Brush, the fact that "the pig was in the pen," and yet to be butchered, would seem to be a somewhat strange reason to give that the supper would be ready "d'rectly." But with her it was a very important advance in that direction. The rest of the pigs, of which I have elsewhere said these people, with little care, raised the greatest abundance for their own use, were perhaps miles away, in some unknown direction, ranging the forest for acorns, beech-nuts, and other "mast" that abounded in that season. "Joe" was such a provident husband that he had gone out and hunted those that belonged to him, called them up to his house, captured and "penned" one of them, perhaps in anticipation of the coming of the preacher. As the supper was so well assured to her, and not dreaming that the delay of a few hours could make any more difference with him than it did with the people in the Brush, she resumed the class-book, and began to go over the names, and tell how this brother could pray, and this sister shout, and how they could all sing, and what happy meetings they had had the last conference year, until he interrupted her with the story of his long ride, great fatigue, and intense hunger. To this she responded, in the most assuring manner:

"We'll have supper d'rectly, Brother M——, d'rectly. The pig is in the pen. Joe he'll be home right soon, and get the water a b'ilin', and we'll have supper d'rectly, Brother M——, d'rectly."

Having given him this, to her, perfectly satisfactory and renewed assurance, she went on with the greatest enthusiasm and earnestness to tell him of their love-feasts, and the wonderful "experiences" of some of the sisters, when, in utter despair of getting any supper from this zealous sister, he asked her the distance to the nearest family indicated on his map. She told him it was about three miles. He went out to his horse and mounted it. She followed him with blank amazement, and said:

"Why, Brother M——, you're not agwine, is you?"

He replied:

"Oh, yes, Sister; I must have something to eat," and started off.

Astonished beyond measure, she called after him, and he rode away hearing her emphatic promise:

"We'll have supper d'rectly, Brother M——, d'rectly. The pig is in the pen, and Joe he'll be home right soon, and he'll get the water a b'ilin' d'rectly, and we'll have supper d'rectly, Brother M——, d'rectly! d'rectly! d'rectly!"

Such are some of the experiences I have had with old-time Methodist circuit-riders in the Brush, and such are some of the accounts they have given me of their experiences upon other circuits. They are but specimens of such as were constantly occurring during the months and years of my ante-bellum labors in the Southwest. Many of them are so dim and faded on the tablets of my memory that I can not recall them. After so many years, I now, for the first time, record these on more enduring pages, thinking they may afford both pleasure and instruction, and anxious, also, to wreath a garland of merited praise around the brows of those toiling, and too little known, and too little honored circuit-riders in the Brush.