MEETINGS AMONG THE HILLS AND AT A CONVICT CAMP.
BY REV. H. E. PARTRIDGE.
Perhaps nowhere is a religious meeting made more of than in the hill country of the South. There are reasons and reasons for the fact. Take a real, genuine Methodist or Baptist matron, or brother, of fifty, and they love Christ and His cause, and do not fail to associate their love for Him and the work with the gathering in His name. If it be possible, they will be in attendance when "the parson" comes round. The girls love to go; some because they, too, are learning to love the service of the Master, some because they have no other so good opportunity to see and be seen, and others because everybody else goes. Where the girls and young ladies are sure to be, there the boys and young men are apt to be; and so it comes that when the meeting, especially the "big meeting," is to be held, the people throng. And if you want to see a genuine democracy, untainted by any kind of aristocracy, you could not find it better illustrated than among the hills,[pg 187] at meeting time, in some log "church-house." No Sir Wonderful to claim best pew, no usher to give you the place he chooses. You come with your wife and, following the custom, she goes to the left, you to the right. I will not describe the service. The singing varies from a wonderful chorus of praise that lacks nothing in volume in one neighborhood, to the nasal-twanged hymn which some incompetent leader sings almost alone in some other community. The old songs predominate, but any brisk moving song of work of praise or progress easily becomes a favorite, when once it has been sung long enough so that the words and movement are mastered by a few.
You will not be long in any big meeting or revival service before you will hear:
"Mother has a home, sweet home,
Mother has a home, sweet home,
Mother has a home, sweet home.
Lord, I want to join the angels; beautiful home."
This is varied. Now it is Brother, Father, Preacher, or Sister who has a home.
You may not know the tune or words, but it will not be long before you are singing with the rest, if you are a participator or worshiper, and not that horrid and heartless thing, a critical looker-on.
You know of the hand-shaking? If a sinner seeks to enter the Christian life, he comes, on invitation of the minister, to shake hands at the close of, or during, the service. And often service closes with an all-round-hand-shake. There is a song started, like "Say, Brother, will you meet me?" or some simple devotional hymn, and all rise and shake hands all around, singing or praying, or speaking gently one to another.
Ah! many a feud has sunk forever, many an unpleasantness has been forgotten, many a half-ripe quarrel has been strangled, and many a friendship has been strengthened and ripened in these services of emotion and love, those hand-shakings of the Mountaineers. The blessings of the peacemakers should be his who first introduced the service.
Among other invitation hymns I have heard, I remember vividly:
"Sinner, you are welcome, Yes, Yes, welcome
To the dying lamb."
This, too, is varied. "Seeker," "Brother," "Sister," and "Everybody's welcome" being sung.
I could tell of parts I do not like, of excitements the reverse of helpful to my devotional feelings, and of loudness mistaken for piety or zeal, but so could others criticise the services at Dr. Cuyler's or Dr. Storrs's church. I prefer to speak of the really good.
May I tell you of a unique service? It was at the Convict Camp, near Baker's X Roads, in Cumberland County, Tenn.
No need to ring the bell--the congregation are assembled, and armed guards are standing by lest someone should escape. Still a bell was tapped. Silence at once.
"Boys," I said, "when I was here before you kindly asked me to come and speak to you again. I am here. Before I speak I want to have you sing. Will you sing?" A moment's pause, and in the rich tones which the colored people so often have, there rang out from scores of throats, one of those weird songs of the race. It was of chariots and heaven, of songs and praises, and of Jesus the King. I cannot reproduce or describe it. I prayed for a blessing on our service, and several responded with apparently as fervent "Amen" as ever came from Camp Meeting or Altar service. Then I read passages, closing with a part of Romans 6: from the twenty-third verse. I spoke briefly of "The wages of sin, and of the gift of God." I almost fear I was harsh. Poor fellows--they were criminals, but who is not guilty, before God, of violations of Divine law?
As I pleaded for the starting of a better life, as I spoke of their families, as I said "Some of you will be through with prison life soon," as I talked of honesty, sobriety, and purity, there were moist eyes. I asked for an expression at the close. All who will accept Jesus Christ, and from this very hour live for Him, and with the strength he gives try to forget the grievances you have thought to revenge; try to love and serve one another here, in Christ's name, and others when released; strive to do your work faithfully; in short, try to do what you think Christ would want you to do--first, give me your hand, and then kneel with me in prayer. Through the chinks and crevices of the stockade a score of men thrust their hands, eager to respond to the invitation, and many knelt in prayer.
How much was make-believe? How much was genuine? The Searcher of hearts alone knows. Sowing by all waters, I am willing to leave results with God.
Another song, and then "Good-bye, boss!" "Good-bye, Captain!" "Come again, preacher!"
The days were weeks, and then! Criminal carelessness, perhaps. A premature explosion of dynamite and powder combined on the railroad, and six of these men had been discharged. Dead! A rough grave beside the track, God knows the rest. They were convicts, they were blacks, but they were my brothers and yours, children of one Father.
I was tired that Sunday, but I am glad God let me go and give them another invitation to the Christ-life. Perhaps in some other time and place I shall talk over that service among the boys in black at Convict Camp, with a soul in white over there. Who knows?