In the brush

by Hamilton W. Pierson

We passed a church where the members washed one another's feet at each communion. I made some inquiries in regard to the ceremony, and he told me the brethren washed only the brethren's feet, and the sisters the sisters' feet. I told him that I supposed they only sprinkled water upon their feet—they did not wash much. "Oh!" said he, "sometimes they gets happy, and washes right hard." I had spent a Sabbath at a meeting in the woods with the poet of this denomination, and purchased of him a hymn-book that he had been duly authorized to compile and publish for them, containing some hymns that he had written to be sung at these feet-washing services. He was one of the most illiterate men I ever met. I regret to say that I have lost the book, and can not transcribe some of these original hymns for the benefit of my readers. I had a good deal of conversation with this "poet," and he told me he was at the time engaged in teaching school. I afterward met the school commissioner, a lawyer, at the county-seat, who had examined him and given him his license to teach, and rallied him jocosely for giving a man that was so ignorant, authority to teach a public school.

"Oh!" said he, "I only certified that he was competent to teach in that neighborhood."

For years I was accustomed to avail myself of every opportunity of hearing these illiterate preachers, both white and colored, consistent with my other duties. It was a new and interesting study to me. Sometimes I got rare kernels of wheat in the midst of a great deal of chaff, rich nuggets of gold among a great deal of sand and rubbish; and I always felt more than repaid for the time thus expended. It was interesting to observe the workings of minds, often of superior natural powers, in their attempts to elucidate the Scriptures. It was especially strange to hear them render any Scripture narrative, entirely in their own Brush vernacular. I have often regretted that I did not take down many of these narratives of Bible facts at the time I heard them. But the unusual sight of a person thus employed in a congregation would attract more attention than the preacher himself, and I was therefore unwilling to do it. But I can give my readers a very correct idea of these narratives.

In riding through a very rough, wild region, I fell in company with a gentleman on horseback, and rode some distance with him. He told me that a preacher, who was so illiterate that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could study out a chapter in the Bible, sometimes preached in a log school-house in his neighborhood, and he had heard him the Sabbath before. It was in a region where a rough-and-tumble fight would attract more attention than anything else. The preacher had a theme of the deepest interest to himself and the most of his congregation. This gentleman gave me quite a full outline of the discourse, and I write it out from his description, and fill it up as my extended acquaintance with these people, and knowledge of their vernacular, derived from years of constant mingling with them, enable me to do.

"Last week, my breethrin, as I was a-readin' my Bible, I found a story of a big fight (1 Samuel, xvii). It was powerful interestin', and I studied it 'most all the week. There was two armies campin' on two mountains right fornenst each other; and a holler and, I reckon, some good bottom-land and a medder-lot lying between 'em. In one of the armies there was a big feller—a whoppin', great, big feller—and every day he went down into the medder-lot and looked up the hill to t'other camp, and jest dared 'em! He told 'em to pick their best man and send him down, and he'd fight him. And he jest strutted around there in his soger-close, and waited for 'em to send on their man. And such soger-close I never heerd tell on afore. He had a brass cap and brass trousers, and a coat made like mail-bags where they are all ironed and riveted together. But the fellers in t'other camp just clean flunked. They darn't fight the big feller, nary one of 'em. They jest all sneaked away, and the big feller he went back to camp. But he didn't quit thar, the big feller didn't. He was spilin' for a fight, and he was bound to have it. He jest went down into the bottom-land, into the medder-lot, every day, mornin' and evenin', and dared 'em and dared 'em. I tell you he did pester 'em mightily. The old feller, Saul, the gineral, he felt more chawed up and meaner than the sogers, and, when he couldn't stan' it no longer, he told the boys if any of 'em would go down and lick that big feller he'd give him his gal, and a right smart chance of plunder. But they was all so skeer'd that even that didn't start one of 'em. The big feller went down and dared 'em and pestered 'em more'n a month—forty days, the Bible says. I don't know what they'd a-done if it hadn't a-be'n that a peart little feller had come down to camp one day to fetch some extra rations to his three big brothers that their old dad had sent to 'em from home. Kind old pap he was, and sharp, too, for he sent along a big present to the boys' cap'en. Well, jest as little brother drove up, they was all gwine out to fight, and the little feller left his traps with the driver, legged it after the sogers, and told his big brothers howd'y. Right thar the old big feller come out and dared 'em agin, and they was all so skeer'd that they jest run like mad. The little feller heerd him, and then went back into camp and heerd all the sogers talking about him, and what the old gineral would give to have him licked. He asked 'em a heap of questions about it all, and big brother he got mad at him, and twitted him about keeping sheep, and give him a right smart of sass. He was plucky, but you see he had to stan' it, 'cause 'twas big brother. Big brothers are mighty mean sometimes.

"But the little feller talked a heap with the other sogers, and they told the old gineral about him, and he told them to tell the little feller to come and see him. The little feller was mighty plucky, and he jest up and told the old Gineral Saul that he'd fight the big feller! The gineral looked at the handsome little feller—he was raal handsome—and ses he, kinder softly, I reckon, and shakin' his head: 'It's too big a job; you're only a chunk of a boy, and he's an old fighter.' The little feller spunked up and told the old gineral that he'd had one b'ar-fight, and he'd killed the b'ar. He said there was an old lion and a b'ar got among his dad's sheep, and was gwine off with a lamb. He broke for 'im, and as soon as he met up with the old b'ar he lamm'd him, till the b'ar turned on him for a hug; but he got one hand into the long ha'r, under his jaw, and he lamm'd him with the other till he was dead. He'd killed the lion and the b'ar, and he know'd he was enough for the old big feller.

"Then the little feller talked raal religious to the old gineral. You see he'd got religion afore that, and he know'd that the Lord would help a feller, if he was all right, and got in a tight place. He told Gineral Saul that the Lord had made him mighty supple, and looked out for him when the old lion and b'ar tried to get their paws into him; and he knew he'd see him through the fight with the old big feller; for he was jest darin' 'em and pesterin' 'em to make game of religion. When the old gineral seed he was so plucky, and religious too, he know'd them's the kind that fit powerful, and he told him to go in, and he made a little pra'r for him hisself. Then the old gineral put his own soger-close on the little feller, and strapped his sword on to him. But they was all a heap too big, and he shucked 'em off d'rectly, and made for a dry branch down in the bottom. There he hunted five little rocks, smooth as a hen-egg, put 'em in a little bag where he carried his snack when he was a-tendin' the sheep, got his sling fixed all right, and hurried up to meet the old big feller in the medder-lot. When he seed him comin' he was powerful mad they'd sent down such a little feller, and jawed awful. But the little feller jest talked back religious, and kept his eye peeled. And I reckon the big feller couldn't a be'n a lookin'. I've studied a heap on it, and I jest know the big feller couldn't a-be'n a-lookin'; for the little feller got out his sling, and drew away, and shied a little rock at him, and he popped him, and down he tumbled. Then the little feller rushed up and mounted on him, jest as an old hunter loves to get on a b'ar after he's shot him; and he out with the big feller's long sword and off with his head. Then it was them Philistine sinners' turn to be skeer'd, and they broke for the brush; and all them chil'en of Israel fellers jest shouted and chased 'em clean over the mountain into a valley, and then com'd back and got all their camp-plunder.

"My breethrin, that's the best story of a fight I ever read after; and you can't buy no better story-book than this 'ere Bible."

If the facts presented in this chapter make a draft on the credence of any of my readers that they find it difficult to honor, I respectfully commend to them the study of the late United States census, especially its portrayal of the illiteracy of the late slave States. The figures are as humiliating as they are startling. They seem at length to be forcing themselves upon the attention of the President, Congress, and the country. But no figures can ever make any such impression as the actual personal contact I have had with thousands of these people in their own homes, since the commencement of my labors among them in 1843.

But my account of "Old-Time Illiterate Preachers in the Southwest" would be very incomplete if it did not include some of the notable