A Life Unveiled, by a Child of the Drumlins

by Anonymous

I was perhaps fifteen When I first became “converted.” There had been premonitory symptoms a year or two before, at Auburndale, but the real attack came one winter during a prolonged revival. Many of the boys and girls “went forward” long before I did. Steeling my heart I stayed at home and applied myself to my studies with increased zeal, for Professor Durland, a Baptist, less carried away by the revival than many others, although attending the meetings occasionally, had talked wisely in school about religion, urging us to be temperate in frequenting the meetings. He reminded us that all this emotion was not religion, and that it was our duty as students to let nothing interfere with our studies. I was impressed by what he said, but this religious wave was sweeping over the town, and was hard to withstand. Two young evangelists were there with gospel hymns, moving prayers, and engaging ways of leading souls to the Lord. Every night witnessed the conversion of sinners who, having groaned under the burden of the conviction of sin, finally sought salvation.

Night after night I studied at home when most of the young people were thronging to the meetings; but finally I succumbed and went forward, to the great joy of associates, parents, and friends. But our principal’s admonitions still acted as a restraining force, and kept me from yielding to the extreme emotionalism influencing so many, young and old. Why, the girls got so they held prayer-meetings at noon in an old stage-coach in the lumber-yard near the Academy! I went once, but the incongruity so overcame my religious ardour that I never went again. Still I was devout and had a pretty severe and long-continued attack. My diaries at that time, were full of religious yearnings and strivings. I read the Bible diligently, taking a “verse” for guidance each day. I was religious in season and out of season. After the revival had died down, many converts backslid, but with me this religious experience was a steady thing, of varying phases, it is true, but of tremendous importance for perhaps three years.

During the height of the revival, when the other converts joined the church, Sister and I, having been baptized in infancy, felt ourselves defrauded of a part of the ceremony. So intent were we on being baptized, we prevailed upon our parents, much against their wishes, to consent to a repetition of the sacrament. Little sophists that we were, we made it a point of conscience, our argument being the Biblical injunction, “Repent and be baptized.” Baptized in infancy, before we had anything to repent of, the cart had been put before the horse, and we were not following the Scriptures. This view grieved our parents who had given us to the Lord in holy baptism when we were babies. To them it seemed wrong to set aside that sacrament for a later one, but the strenuous converts, thinking they were acting from conscientious motives, overruled parents and pastor.

Of course “sprinkling” had been the form of baptism in infancy. Now most of the converts were being immersed. Sister chose “immersion.” There was still another form sanctioned by the Discipline, though seldom used—“pouring.” This was to go down into the water and kneel while the minister, dipping water from the stream, poured it upon the convert’s head. As usual, seeking something distinctive, therefore conspicuous (though quietly so), I chose to be “poured.” Not that I was conscious of it then, but I see now that the desire to be different from the herd was largely what influenced me in choosing that mode of baptism. Moreover, I abhorred “immersion.” The sight of it outraged my esthetic sense. It was such a sudden transition that I, as onlooker, experienced: the gathering of the congregation at the water-side was beautiful; the holy songs seemed more holy there; the black-gowned pastor and the convert wading out in the stream while the hymn was being sung; the pause, the solemn words; the yielding body as the minister started to immerse the convert—up to this point the scene filled me with religious awe; but from that point onward it was most repellent—the convert’s rigidity and the struggle at contact with water; the determined push of the minister, as he forced the resisting head under water; and the gasping, snorting, drowned-rat appearance of the victim when pulled out—all this was hideous. So I was “poured,” and it was a beautiful ceremony. But many a time since I have regretted setting aside the earlier sacrament so revered by my parents. And yet, how can I regret it when I remember the strange, beatific mood induced that day by the sacred rite? It lasted several hours. I have never experienced anything like it before or since. It was hard to come down to practical matters on reaching home. I went about helping to get dinner in a kind of dream-state, eager to have the work out of the way, so I could be alone and think over the beautiful solemnity of it all. It was a real uplift of my introspective little soul, and very beautiful while it lasted.

Dressing myself that afternoon with great care, Bible in hand, I visited a sick neighbour. She had a bad-smelling, untidy house which I always disliked to enter, though often sent there by Mother with delicacies. I think it was in a spirit of real self-sacrifice that I required this of myself that day. Probably nowadays, under a similar beneficent impulse, I should put on a suitable gown and go and clean her house; but then I was under the spell of stories of pious maidens who read the Bible to sick people. I can’t recall whether I actually read to her that day, but do recall how the dingy house smelled. In the door-yard was a bush of dainty pink roses, and, as she sometimes told me to pick one, I hope she did then. It seemed queer that the only place in town where those exquisite roses grew was in that unlovely yard, amid those sordid surroundings.

Religion was for a long time thereafter the guiding influence of my life. Conscientious and devout, I was consumed with the desire to be useful. Out of school I helped with the housework at home and at Grandma’s, and helped Father in the Post Office. I do not recall much recreation. Though sentimental, most of my sentiment took a religious turn.

The Presiding Elder and other clergymen were entertained in our home during those years, and the silver Communion service was kept with us. To polish this before Quarterly meetings was one of my duties; and to prepare the bread in long strips for Communion, and in the little cubes for Love Feast. One Communion Sunday, being indisposed and staying at home alone, when the time came for the sacrament to be administered, I read aloud the solemn service from the Discipline, sang, then knelt, devoutly partaking of the bread and water (in place of wine). The hour was a real means of grace to me. I have never divulged this before. Much as it meant to me then, I find in myself now a tendency to ridicule that strange little creature, and to wonder if it was not a partial pose, albeit at the time she thought herself sincere.

I recall that during the revival at which I was converted Father took an active part, though in a more moderate way than many of the brethren and sisters. During the singing of gospel hymns, the workers would go up and down the aisles and, by a sort of intuitive knowledge, seek out those “under conviction,” urging the obdurate ones to go forward and confess Christ. One night after they had sung the hymn that begins tenderly: “Why do you wait, dear brother? Why do you tarry so long?” the refrain being, “Why not, why not, why not come to Him now?” the workers sought to lead the penitents to the Throne of Grace. The crowded house, vibrant with religious fervour, the reiterated invitation, the contrite sinners making their way forward, were powerful appeals to others with whom the Holy Spirit was striving. As the last words of the hymn died away, Father, stepping up to a certain townsman, and putting his hand on his shoulder, looked in his face appealingly and asked, “Why not, Wilbur?” I recall the man’s stern look as he struggled for further resistance, Father’s quiet, persuasive tones, and, at length, the actual yielding of the man’s body as the tension relaxed, and they came down the aisle together, the man shaking with sobs, while the happy tears streamed down Father’s face.

One particular Love Feast stands out in memory. In fact I never went to many; they were held too early in the morning. At this one a loud-mouthed local preacher (whose reputed private life was much at variance with his professed religion) held forth at great length about the wrath of God, the fear of God, and the unending punishment God would visit upon those who kept not his Commandments. He was a burly, blustering man who worked himself up into a state of tremendous physical excitement during exhortations. As he sat down, breathless, with red, sweaty face and tumbled hair, Father arose and in a few quiet words said that the God he worshipped was a God of love; that he liked to think of the love, not the fear, of God. Beautiful and memorable this recollection, and all the more so that Father so seldom expressed his religious feelings in public, although he frequently addressed the congregation at the close of the sermon, on financial matters. It fell to him to stir up the people when there were extra expenses to be met, church repairs to be made, and the minister’s salary raised. Generous of time and money, he accepted the trusteeship with the zeal that characterized him in whatever he undertook. Stating concisely the needs, he would so plead with the congregation as to stir up the apathetic members, sometimes fairly talking the money out of the pockets of those whose purse-strings were tightly drawn. It was a study to see him play upon the different ones by earnest appeal, by gleams of humour, by eloquent pauses—his own enthusiasm, as he announced the sums subscribed, egging others, and still others, on to announce their grudging subscriptions. He should have been a lawyer. What a special pleader he would have made! If he had been able to exercise the same gifts in his own business interests, he would not always have had to contend with the ogre, Economy. But there seemed little self-seeking in him; his commercial spirit was never strong; his zeal could not be aroused for personal gain, only for some Cause into which he could throw heart and soul. I remember well his weary looks after such sessions were over, especially if the needed amount had not been raised. On reaching home he would unburden himself of scorn and indignation at the parsimonious ones who had sat unmoved when the needs of the Church were so urgent.

Against the obnoxious local preacher before mentioned, Sister and I had a special grievance: While standing one day on the creek bridge, when he and some boys were below, fishing, we had heard him say an obscene word as a fish got off his hook. Indignant to our finger tips, we walked on, harbouring this in righteous wrath. And shortly after that, when he was assisting the pastor at Communion, Sister and I tacitly agreed to stay away from the altar rather than be ministered unto by him. Noting our failure to commune, and meeting us on the street later, he questioned us. Kate took the initiative but we were both terrible in our wrath. We told him we did not care to take the bread and wine from one who talked as he did on week-days. Astonished, he inquired what we meant; concerned and uncomfortable, he seemed divided between wanting to know and dreading to hear. Kate said she would not repeat such talk, but that she heard it herself on the creek bridge when he was fishing. He looked very cheap. Having reproved this whited sepulchre, the offended misses went disdainfully on their way. I suppose that was the least of his sins. I fancy he felt relieved that it was nothing worse we knew about him. Later his conduct became notorious, but he never had more inflexible accusers than those stern maidens who upbraided him that Sunday.