In the brush

by Hamilton W. Pierson

"We know that," they have rejoined; "but there's a heap of people scattered over these hills, and if you will agree to preach for us to-night, you will be sure to have a houseful."

As soon as my assent was given, father, sons, and daughters have started off in different directions to notify the nearest neighbors, who immediately abandoned their work to inform other and more distant neighbors. In this manner all the families over a wide extent of country would be notified in a short time. Nearly all would abandon their work, and with it all thought of supper until they should return, and, taking their children with them, would start at once for the place appointed for the preaching. In such cases I have never failed to have the promised houseful. Indeed, I have traveled on horseback over wide regions of country, where, had I sufficient health and strength, I could have preached every night to a new congregation assembled as thus described.

I returned to B——, and reached the court-house at the appointed hour. The announcement that they would be addressed by a preacher from L——, the largest city in the State, had drawn together an unusually large audience. Before commencing the services, I was introduced to the county judge, who was also a Baptist preacher. He, with others, had been informed of my coming, and kindly came to the county-seat, and gave me the sanction and aid of both his ministerial and judicial presence. He very naturally assumed the position of master of ceremonies, and introduced me to his Christian brethren and "fellow-citizens," who not only honored him as their spiritual shepherd, but had elevated him by their suffrages to his judicial position. He politely escorted me to the judge's seat, which was my pulpit, and sat with me there during the services. This "seat" was simply a high, narrow platform at the end of the room, extending entirely across the court-house, with a railing in front of it, and supplied with benches and a few chairs.

I can not here adopt the very common and convenient expedient of writers, and say that the dress and general appearance of my congregation can be more easily imagined than described. In sober truth, kind reader, granting to your imagination the very highest power, I am constrained to believe that you are entirely unequal to this task. There was very little if any foreign texture there. Their dresses, coats, and other garments had, almost without exception, been spun on their own wheels, woven in their own looms, dyed in butternut from their own hills, and made and fashioned in accordance with their own taste without consulting any fashion-plates. As they were bound by no rules, there was variety, and there were very marked displays of originality. Best of all, there was comfort, and patriotic instincts were gratified by the exhibition of domestic fabrics. It was a rare display of woolsey.

In addressing such an audience the speaker was always gratified and rewarded by the closest attention. I have never seen such listeners as the people in the Brush. They gave a speaker not only their ears but their eyes, and their whole attention. They seemed unwilling to lose a word that he uttered; they yielded themselves to his power. Their faces moved and glowed responsive to his sentiments; and his own mind was animated and enkindled by this sympathy of his audience. I suppose the chief reason of this very marked attention was the fact that the most of these people read very little, and very many of them could not read at all. Hence they acquired the most of their information on all subjects, religious and secular, by being good listeners. Preachers and politicians, the pulpit and the stump, were their chief sources of education. The school and the press were comparatively powerless. Political, theological, and all other controverted questions were settled in the minds of the people by oral discussions. Henry Clay once presided over a theological discussion between the Rev. Alexander Campbell, the founder of the sect popularly known as "Campbellites," and the Rev. Dr. N.L. Rice, of the Presbyterian Church, which was continued through several days, and attended by a large concourse of people. This debate was but a type of hundreds, probably of thousands, that have been held in all parts of the Southwest. Let either a Calvinist or an Arminian challenge the other to discuss the question of the "Perseverance of the Saints," or "Falling from Grace," and, however remote and wild the region, the people for miles around would abandon work and business, and attend for days upon the discussion. Such debates on the question of Baptism have drawn crowds together in this manner times without number. Any petty lawsuit would bring together the most of the people in the neighborhood, to hear the speeches of the opposing pettifoggers or lawyers. County and circuit-court days were the great days of the year, when the people left their homes en masse, and went up to the county-seat in neighborhood cavalcades, and hour after hour, and day after day, listened to the speeches of the opposing counsel. In cases of unusual interest and excitement, such as a murder trial, I have known a very general turnout of the wives and daughters, and have seen them sit for hours together and listen to such speeches. As already described in a previous chapter, political discussions on all questions, State and national, were still more universal and popular, and stump-speeches delivered to these crowds did more to decide the minds of the people in regard to the questions discussed than newspapers and all other causes combined.

This fondness of the people for public discussion, and speeches upon all sorts of subjects, and the remarkable attention they give to a speaker, have done very much to develop the peculiar and often very remarkable oratory that prevailed in these wild regions. Their speakers were so stimulated by the attention given them, and by the visible effects produced by their words, as to draw out all their powers. While they molded the minds and opinions of the people, the people molded their peculiar style of oratory. They acted and reacted upon each other.

It is impossible for a man to become animated and eloquent in addressing an inattentive, listless, stolid audience. I remember hearing in New England a story of the olden time, when, to avoid cooking a Sunday dinner, a pan of pork and beans was put into the hot brick oven, after taking out the bread and pies that were generally baked on Saturday afternoons. The pork and beans were baked in this manner, and taken from the oven for the Sunday dinner. An old divine, remarkable for his eloquence and wit, on one occasion "exchanged" with a brother clergyman whose parish was noted for the production of white beans.

"How did you like preaching for my people?" said the latter, as the two met some time afterward.

"It did very well in the morning," said the witty divine; "but in the afternoon it was exactly like preaching to so many bags of baked beans."

It is not at all strange that in these times there are a good many dull pulpits. There are so many audiences that, either from their minds being absorbed with business or other thoughts, or from sheer mental and physical stupidity, are as irresponsive and as little stimulating to a speaker as "so many bags of baked beans."