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