CONTENTS.
| [CHAPTER I]. | |
|---|---|
| The Preparation | 5 |
| [CHAPTER II.] | |
| The milestone—The elegant young man—The collier—The rich lady | 15 |
| [CHAPTER III.] | |
| The grog-shop—The rolling mills—The Universalist | 27 |
| [CHAPTER IV.] | |
| The new “relagin”—The hard father and his little daughter—The deserted homes—The stolen books | 37 |
| [CHAPTER V.] | |
| Book preachers installed—“Caught with guile”—The clenched fist—Review | 49 |
| [CHAPTER VI.] | |
| Governor of West Virginia—Surprising desolations—The lodging—The dinner—“Blazing the trees” | 57 |
| [CHAPTER VII.] | |
| The hunter seeking books for a Sunday-school—The first sermon—Clock pedlars | 68 |
| [CHAPTER VIII.] | |
| The “Ironside” preacher and distiller—Wife and granddaughter | 75 |
| [CHAPTER IX.] | |
| A church dignitary—“Have you let Washington into heaven?” | 81 |
| [CHAPTER X.] | |
| The pistol—The surveyor’s son—A public-house—“You have prayed plenty”—The pocket-Bible | 89 |
| [CHAPTER XI.] | |
| The summit of Cheat mountain—The “fellow that wanted to colport”—The sheriffs warrant—Wishing to be a tract agent | 97 |
| [CHAPTER XII.] | |
| The wickedest man in the county—The bully—The shooting match—A gang of desperadoes | 111 |
| [CHAPTER XIII.] | |
| A night on guard—Old Randal Lucas | 119 |
| [CHAPTER XIV.] | |
| “No church, no preacher, no Sunday-school, no day-school”—A young lady’s success | 128 |
| [CHAPTER XV.] | |
| “No such place as hell”—The busy lawyer—A Trinity—The great work in L——, and in U—— | 137 |
| [CHAPTER XVI.] | |
| A Pentecostal season—Service in a graveyard—A Seceder church | 151 |
| [CHAPTER XVII.] | |
| The Spirit’s blessing at C——, and near Marshall’s Pillar, and at L—— B—— —Col. S——‘s household | 163 |
| [CHAPTER XVIII.] | |
| Grieving the Spirit—Striking effects of the Anxious Inquirer | 176 |
| [CHAPTER XIX.] | |
| Work of grace at L—— —The German professor—The wealthy young lady—“Don’t be offended”—A distinguished civilian | 188 |
| [The Conclusion] | 201 |
FIVE YEARS
IN
THE ALLEGHANIES.
CHAPTER I.
“It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.” In all my connection with the scenes here truthfully described, as in the training and discipline of earlier years through which I was brought into them, I have been led in a way that I knew not.
I was born on the border of Western Pennsylvania and Virginia, within the wilds of the vast range of the Alleghanies, where the howl of the wolf, the scream of the panther, and the Indian’s tomahawk were my dread. In infancy my father died, and a few years later my pious mother. But God raised up a foster-mother, and in her family an intelligent Scotch female teacher, who made me her special charge during my first year at school. Here, in connection with faithful preaching from a tent in the woods on the Sabbath, and instruction in the log-cabin day-schools, I received those rudiments of education, and was indoctrinated in that sound system of faith and morals from which “old Scotia’s grandeur springs.”
Conscious of my ruin by sin and need of the “new birth,” as set forth in old standard works of Flavel and Boston which I read, for three years from ten to thirteen, I was often deeply impressed as to the state of my soul. I attended constantly on preaching and the monthly examinations, committed to memory catechisms and scriptures, and wrestled with God in prayer that I might be truly converted and become a minister of the gospel; and sometimes I indulged a trembling hope in Christ.
But among the snares and flatteries of ungodly companions, my alarm and faint hopes of salvation gradually subsided. I was at length led to show my manhood by tobacco-chewing, card-playing, and even profanity. Next I was enticed to read works on Universalism, and for four years sought to stifle conscience by arguments to prove that all will be saved. Yet a still small voice was whispering, “The soul that sinneth it shall die;” and though jovial in company, when alone hell would seem to flash up before me in all its horrors. Two great powers were striving in my heart: one to lead me into deeper sin; the other crying, “Turn ye, turn ye; for why will ye die?” At seventeen I went with an ungodly young man into the then wilderness of Central Ohio, where for half a year I heard no sermon, hunted on the Sabbath, threw off restraints, and as it were dared the vengeance of God. Oh how astonishing the mercy of God, to continue to strive with such a rebel!
When I arrived at eighteen, I spent two or three nights in a week at the card-table, to “kill time” and drown the whispers of the Spirit. I thought of enlisting in the army, and then resolved to go to sea: but in the providence of God, a young woman just then engaged my affections; thoughts of the army and the sea were dislodged, and in a few months we were married, depending on our personal exertions for the means of support.
We rented a piece of land, and entered upon the scenes and responsibilities of real life. After six months, I was seized with acute inflammatory rheumatism, and the verdict of the physician was, that the disease was incurable, and I must die. Every feature was distorted with agony; and yet the agony of soul at the thought of being dragged into the presence of God with all my sins unpardoned was unspeakably more terrible. I saw that I had shut my heart against the calls of God’s word and Spirit a thousand times, and that I deserved the deepest hell. I tried to pray, but there seemed to be no God to hear, no Saviour to intercede, no Spirit to comfort my lost and wretched soul.