CHAPTER I.
The Virginias have turned out more United Brethren preachers, perhaps, than any other section of the same size between the oceans. These pulpiteers have ranged in the scale of ability and efficiency from A to Z. Some achieved distinction in one way and another; others, though faithful and useful, were little known beyond their conference borders. Nor have all remained among the mountains. Dozens and scores of them have gone out into other parts of the Church. At this writing they are to be found in no less than nineteen different conferences, and, as a class, they are not excelled by any in devotion to the Church, in unremitting toil, and in spiritual fervor and downright enthusiasm. Some—many who spent their lives in building up the Zion of their choice among the Virginia hills, have gone to glory. Among these heroes I may mention J. Markwood, J. J. Glossbrenner, Z. Warner, J. Bachtel, J. W. Perry, J. W. Howe, S. J. Graham, I. K. Statton, and J. W. Hott. Other names, perhaps not so illustrious, but just as worthy, are to be found in God’s unerring record. The historian will never tell all about them. Their labors, sacrifices, and sufferings will never be portrayed by any human tongue, no matter how eloquent, or by any pen, however versatile and fruitful it may be. Footsore and weary, dust covered and battle scarred, they reached the end of their pilgrimage and heard heaven’s “well done.” What a blessed legacy they bequeathed to their sons and daughters in the gospel!
“Old Virginia” was, in part, the field chosen by Otterbein himself, and by his devout colaborers. This was more than a hundred years ago. In 1858 the Parkersburg, now West Virginia Conference, was organized out of that part of the mother conference lying west of the Alleghanies—a territory three hundred miles long, roughly speaking, by two hundred in width. In its physical aspects the country is exceedingly rough, and difficult of travel. But the people, though mostly rural in their customs and mode of living, and many of them poor, so far as this world’s goods are concerned, are warm hearted, genial, and hospitable. When a preacher goes to fill an appointment among “mountaineers,” he is not troubled with the thought that perhaps nobody will offer him lodging, or willingly share with him the bounties of his table. I have found things different in other parts of the country.
W. M. WEEKLEY, Twenty Years of Age
Traveling Circuit
The new conference was organized at Centerville, in Tyler County, by Bishop Glossbrenner, in the month of March. Only a few ministers were present, but they were brave and good, ready to do, and, if need be, to die for their Lord. Five miles from this historic place the writer was born on the eighteenth day of September, 1851.
My parents, though poor, were honest and honorable, and toiled unceasingly to provide for and rear in respectability their ten children, of whom I was the oldest.
The neighborhood was far above the average in its religious life and moral worth. A man under the influence of liquor was seldom seen, and a profane word was hardly ever heard. The United Brethren Church was by far the leading denomination in all that country. The old log church in which we all worshiped stood on father’s farm, and our home was the stopping-place not only of preachers, but of many others who attended divine service. At times our house was so crowded that mother was compelled to make beds on the floor for the family, and not unfrequently for others as well. But to her it was a great joy to perform such a ministry for the gospel’s sake. Her loving hands could always provide for others, no matter who they were, or how many. For the third of a century father was the Sunday-school superintendent in the neighborhood, and, for a longer period, teacher of the juvenile class. Thus he saw little children pass up into other and older classes, and finally to manhood and womanhood, when by and by their children came in and were given a place in “Uncle Dan’s” class.
At the age of fourteen I was born the second time, and united with the Church. The occasion was a great revival held by Rev. S. J. Graham, of precious memory. Seeing my oldest sister, Sarah, bow at the altar, greatly moved my young heart. A few moments later I observed father coming back toward the door, and thinking perhaps he was wanting to speak to me on the subject of religion, I immediately left the house. My state of mind became awful. The next evening I saw mother pressing her way toward me through the standing crowd. I knew what it meant, and sat down with the hope of concealing myself from her; but how vain the effort! What child ever hid himself away from a mother’s love? Putting her hand on my head, she said, “William, won’t you be a Christian?” I made no reply, but said to myself, “I can’t stand this; I must do something.” How her appeal, plaintive and tender, made me weep! It was really the first time she had ever come to me with such directness and warmth of heart. To this very moment I can feel the touch of her hand and hear her loving appeal. The next day I talked with other boys who were with me in school, and asked them to accompany me to the “mourner’s bench,” which they did.
At that time the class, though in the country, numbered one hundred and seventy souls. Three months later, I was appointed one of its stewards, and with this office came my first experience in raising money for the Church.
The next year I was elected assistant class-leader, and though young and inexperienced, I rendered the very best service I possibly could.
My educational advantages up to this time had been only such as the common schools afforded, with the addition of a close application to study at the home fireside, aided by the historic “pine torch” and “tallow candle.”
From the day of my conversion I could not escape the thought of preaching. The duty of being a Christian was never set before me more forcibly and clearly than was the duty of preaching; but I hesitated. My ignorance, and lack of fitness otherwise for such a high calling, appeared as insurmountable barriers. I could not understand why God should pass by others, better in heart and far more capable, and choose me. So the struggle went on. In the mean time I began to read such books as I could secure. The Bible, “Smith’s Bible Dictionary,” and “Dick’s Works,” constituted my library. The last named was rather heavy for a lad only in his teens, but I rather enjoyed such studies. The first book I ever purchased was “Religious Emblems,” which proved exceedingly helpful to my young life.
When seventeen I preached my first sermon, or, perhaps I should say, made my first public effort. It was in an old log church on Little Flint Run, in Doddridge County. Brother Christopher Davis, a local preacher, was holding a meeting, and at the close of the morning services announced that I would preach at night. What a day that was to me! How I tried to think and pray! When I reached the church I found it full, with many standing in the aisle about the door. I felt so unprepared—so utterly helpless—that I immediately retired to a secret place, where I again besought the Lord for help. Returning, I started in with the preliminaries, but was badly scared. No man can describe his feelings under such circumstances. Many a preacher who scans these pages will appreciate my situation. I spent a good part of the first fifteen minutes mopping my face. I seemed to be in a sweat-box; but by the time I reached my sermon, or whatever it might be called, the embarrassment was all gone. I still remember the text: “And I will bring you into the land concerning the which I did swear to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it you for an heritage. I am the Lord.” It was immense; but the most of young preachers begin just that way. At this distance from the occasion, I do not recall anything I said, and am glad I cannot. However, there was one redeeming feature about the effort, and that was its brevity. In twenty minutes I had told all I knew, and perhaps more. I have never been able to understand why the people listened so patiently. They really seemed to be interested, but why, or in what, I have never known. I have not tried that text since, and I do not think I ever shall. It is too profound to even think of as the basis of a discourse to common people.
Dr. J. L. Hensley, when pastor of Middle Island Circuit, early in the sixties, had a somewhat singular experience in this same log church. While preaching one Sabbath morning in midsummer from the text, “The seed of the woman shall bruise the serpent’s head,” the people at his left suddenly became excited, and looking around quickly for the cause, he observed a snake, about two feet long, crawling in a crevice of the wall near the pulpit. Reaching for his hickory cane, which he always carried, he dealt the wily creature a blow which brought it tumbling to the floor, remarking at the same time, “The seed of the woman shall bruise the serpent’s head.” Thus in the midst of his discourse he was furnished an illustration which made a profound impression upon his hearers, and aided greatly in bringing the truth home to their hearts.
The presiding elder, Rev. S. J. Graham, my spiritual father, by authority of a quarterly conference held at the Long Run appointment, October 23, 1869, gave me a permit to exercise in public for three months. Shortly after this I was prostrated with lung fever, which soon developed the most alarming aspects. Though the ailment was outgeneraled, the process of recovery was slow. In fact, one of my lungs was so impaired that consumption was feared. A noted physician, after carefully diagnosing my case, frankly told me that nothing could be done for my lung; but I did not believe a word he told me. I had decided that I would make preaching my life work, and believed that God would give me a chance to try it. It might be noted here that ten years later this same doctor was in his grave, while I was a better specimen of physical manhood than he ever was.
“Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass.” What will he bring to pass? The right thing, and in the right way. Such has been my observation and experience in all the years that have come and gone since the hand of affliction was so keenly felt.
December 25, 1869, I was granted quarterly conference license in a regular way, and attended the annual conference which met in Hartford City, Mason County, the following March. Much of the time while there I was not able to walk from my stopping-place to the church, though not a half dozen blocks distant. Some of the brethren feared that I would not live to get back home again. But I wanted a circuit. With that end in view I had gone to conference, and no amount of persuasion could turn me aside from the one great purpose that had taken complete possession of my soul. I was entering the work with a full knowledge of what it meant. I had heard the brethren talk of their privations and abundant labors, and, as well, of their victories and joy of heart. The report of the year then closing was most suggestive. The eighteen fields of the conference contained one hundred and sixty-seven preaching places, and had paid twenty-four men a little less than $140 each upon an average, not counting outside gifts. West Columbia Circuit paid its two pastors, Revs. W. B. Hodge and I. M. Underwood, $400. The next highest was $339.19, and was paid the brace of pastors who served the Glenville charge—Revs. W. W. Knipple and Elias Barnard. The other sixteen pastorates ranged from $267.15 down to $35, the last named amount having been received by Rev. J. W. Boggess, on Hessville Mission. The Parkersburg District paid Elder Graham $227.87, while West Columbia District only reached $152.85 for its superintendent, Rev. J. W. Perry. To the support of each of the districts, however, the parent missionary board added $100.
When the Stationing Committee reported, my name was read out as the junior preacher for Philippi Circuit, with Rev. A. L. Moore, pastor in charge. This appointment was given, as more than one assured me in later years, simply to satisfy my mind. No one expected me to go to it. As the field already had a man, my failure to reach it would make no difference in any way.
Returning home I told father what had been done, and that I must have the necessary outfit for a circuit-rider; namely, a horse, a saddle and bridle, and a pair of saddle-bags. No matter what else a man had, or did not have, in those days, these things were essential to efficiency among the mountains of West Virginia.
At once I began preparations for leaving home. Mother was thoughtful enough to make me a pair of leggings which buttoned up at the sides and reached above the knees. No one article made with hands was ever more valuable to a Virginia itinerant than leggings.
Philippi Circuit was seventy-five miles distant among the mountains, and would require, owing to the bad roads, two and a half days of hard travel on horseback to reach it. At the appointed time, April 11, 1870, early in the morning, I rode out of the old lane and up the hillside. All I had of earthly possessions was in my saddle-bags. One end contained my library, (Bible, Hymn-book, “Smith’s Bible Dictionary,” “Binney’s Theological Compend,” “Religious Emblems,” and one volume of “Watson’s Institutes,”) while in the other was stored my wardrobe, scant and plain. When far up on the side of the hill I looked back and saw mother standing on the porch. She had not ceased to watch me from the moment I started. Tears unbidden filled my eyes, and with these came an appreciation of our home that I had never experienced before. The home had been humble, to be sure, but it was Christian. We had a family altar, from which the sweet incense of prayer ascended daily to God. I could truthfully say:
“Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow thee.”
A mile distant I joined, by a prearranged plan, Rev. G. W. Weekley, my uncle, and Rev. Isaac Davis, both of whom were also en route to their distant fields of toil.
At the end of the second day we reached Glady Fork, on Lewis Circuit, where my uncle lived. How weary after so long a ride! At that time my health was still so precarious, and my strength so limited, that I could not walk a hundred yards up grade without resting. To dismount from my horse, open and close a gate, and then get back into the saddle, exhausted me. Remaining over a few days with my uncle, I tried to preach on Sunday morning, but found myself exhausted at the end of twenty-four minutes. In a few days, however, I was sufficiently rested from my long ride to journey on to my own circuit, where I soon found the preacher in charge, and plans were discussed for the year’s work. This was historic ground. It was an old United Brethren field, having been traveled by Statton, Stickley, Warner, Hensley, and others, in the late fifties and early sixties, when it included twenty or more preaching-places, spread over portions of several counties.