CHAPTER IV In the Old Paths
Does one ever outgrow one’s early religious training? Though he outgrow his credulity, his faith, his observance of rite and ceremony, and though he wander far from the paths he followed when being trained “in the way he should go,” still must the religious influences shed round him in those early, plastic years have their permanent bearing upon his after life, even though sometimes so transformed as to be traceable only to the keen student of personality.
“Back to the Old Paths” was a gospel hymn I heard in the days when those paths were traversed by my childish feet; and back to the old paths I now turn, seeking to retrace the steps which time and disuse have almost obliterated.
Being Methodists, we children had been baptized in infancy, and our childhood and youth had been divided into three-year periods, diminutive dynasties, marked by the reigns of the different ministers, events being referred to as “during Brother Gregg’s stay,” “in Brother Carrier’s time,” “when Brother Browne was here.” What excitement toward the close of one of those “dynasties” to see what the new minister would be like!
Father was one of the church trustees, Mother had a class in Sunday School. Although we children regularly attended church and Sunday School, and often prayer-meeting and class-meeting, we showed little of the early piety which our Sunday-school books set forth. When there was no one to leave us with at home, Mother usually took us to prayer-meeting. All would kneel during the seasons of prayer—each consisting of about three prayers—then would rise and sing; then kneel for another season, and so on. I remember once awaking in shame and confusion, still on my knees while the others stood round me singing. Crouching there, a miserable heap on the floor, I waited for them to kneel again, hoping no one but Mother had noticed me. But as it proved the last season that evening, when the hymn ended and all took their seats, the little heap on the floor had to creep up and seat itself shamefacedly by its mother, its discomfiture unrelieved until they rose and sang “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” and the meeting closed.
Sometimes Mother put us to bed when she went to evening meetings. It was a hardship to be locked in the house those spring twilights with the church bells tolling and the boys and girls calling us to come out and play “I-Spy.” Everything called us out of doors. What was there about that time of day that seemed made for frolic? How we pitied ourselves when the “All free” of our playmates floated to us on the twilight air! Once we climbed out of the window and played in the street—bare-footed, too! Oh, the delight of our bare feet on the soft, cool grass! But we had to climb in again soon, gloating guiltily over the stolen liberty. We thought Mother unfeeling to leave us locked in the house, but if we objected to the prayer-meetings she sometimes had no alternative. We rather liked the class-meetings; there were only two or three prayers then, and all gave their “experiences.” We knew by heart some of the stereotyped speeches. Sometimes we would signal to one another when it was about time for certain expressions that amused us; and again would giggle if the good brethren and sisters varied their remarks and failed to repeat the queer things we expected.
One man at a certain stage in his prayer always rubbed his palms together, then as his voice got louder, he would rub faster and faster; his straggling hair would fall over his face; the veins would swell in his forehead; and he would reach a climax of frenzied petition from which he would gradually subside, tapering to a breathless “Amen!” Sister could repeat this prayer and his manœuvres to perfection: “Oh, Lord-ah, we have come here to night-ah, to crave thy mercy-ah”—thus regaling us with reproductions of “Brother Aaron” and other eccentric ones—when Mother was not near. Mother herself, though quiet in testimony and prayer, would not let us ridicule those who were not. There were three or four of the brethren and sisters of the old-fashioned kind of Methodists, who were a boon to sleepy children; but as I grew older I wearied of their stereotyped speeches, and felt a repugnance to their emotional storms.
In the home, at seasons of special religious fervour, we had family prayers. There was something peculiarly satisfying to me in all of us kneeling together while Father prayed. His prayers were controlled and rational; I never felt uneasy when he prayed; while with Mother there was always the fear that her voice would tremble, as it did when she read touching passages in our Sunday-school books. I could not bear to hear the tears come in her voice, for it meant we would all ultimately break down and cry.