Preaching, in a general way, is a good thing, and, in a particular way, to him who loves to hear himself talk, a pleasant thing, and if he talks well, rather pleasant to others. Now, the Fighting Nigger loved to hear himself talk, but unlike many—too many—inflicted with that infirmity he talked well, as we have had frequent occasion to notice; while again, unlike the majority of the few who talk well, he listened well, which, also, we have once or twice remarked. As his walks through life should lead him no more upon the war-path, and as his color and condition forbade his taking the stump, or appearing at the bar, or sitting in the senate-house, he needs must take to preaching, as the only shift by which he could hope to retain that preëminence among his fellows which his prowess in arms had won for him. Such a calling would give his oratorical powers full scope—a desperate revival among the ebony brotherhood, from time to time, with two or three funeral-sermons to each lay brother or lay sister of peculiar sanctity, being just the thing to set them off to the highest advantage. Nor would this be all. While making the great display, he would be doing a little good—casting bread upon the waters, to be found many days hence; i.e., spreading the glad tidings of damnation to nearly everybody born to die, and of salvation to a select few—just enough to keep the angels from getting lonesome—conspicuous among whom were our good old Abram, John Calvin, and Burlman Reynolds.
The lucky sect thus reënforced was that once known as the Anti-missionary Baptists, sometimes called the "Ironside Baptists," sometimes the "Hard-shell Baptists," having, as is usually the case with hard cases, hard names. I use the expression "once known," since, if I mistake not, the order has, in these latter days, deceased; dying of sheer decrepitude, with no weeping mourners around it, being intestate and insolvent, and is now to be numbered with the things that were—an old man's tale, the blunder of an hour.[3] That so broad and warm and genial a nature as that of our hero should have gone for refuge and spiritual comfort to a creed so narrow, cold, and gloomy, admits of no easy explanation, especially when we consider that remarkable clearness of mental vision which enabled him to see the reason existing in all things; often, too, when a Solomon, or a Socrates, or a Seneca, might have stared his eyes out in trying to see it for himself. But when he took to preaching, he was dwelling in the midst of a Hard-shell community; and, perhaps, like the overwhelming majority of mankind, from enlightened to savage, from Christian to fetich, Burlman Reynolds was but chameleon to his surroundings. Yet, notwithstanding the somber complexion of his new vocation, and the more than somber complexion of his creed, outside of the pulpit his reverence was as genial, jolly, and joky as the cheeriest, smilingest, comfortingest, most latitudinarian Methodist preacher you ever had at your bedside to help you look your latter end in the face, through the dubious issues of a surprise attack of cramp colic, or an overwhelming onslaught of cholera morbus. Indeed, it not unfrequently happens that the human heart is better than the human creed, and the Rev. Burlman Reynolds was wont to square his life by the dictates of his inward monitor rather than by the dogmas of his outward mentor. Many of these dictates he embodied in words, a few of which I shall take the liberty of quoting verbatim. Among them are some of his religious opinions, which will be found to have a somewhat latitudinarian smack, as is often the case where the heart is better than the creed:
[3] Since writing the above, the author has learned that, outside of Kentucky, the sect alluded to still exists to some extent in some of the neighboring States.
"Dar's reason in all things, ef dar's reason in people."
"Baptizin' won't do you no good, onless you let it wash you clean all ober, an' keep you clean foreber."
"Ef a pusson wants to be a Chrischun jes' about in spots, w'y, den sprinklin' will do; but ef he wants to be a Chrischun all ober, he mus' go clean under an' make a soaker uf it."
"De Lord ain't gwine to lub you much, onless you lub yo' neighbor."
"Don't tickle yo'se'f a-thinkin' you 'll eber be a angel up dar, onless you's been a good S'mar'tan here."
"De Lord help dem to 'lect dem who helps to 'lect demselves."
"Don't you think, beca'se you's got a leetle grace, you kin do what you please in dis worl', den say yo' pra'rs befo' you die an' go right straight to heaben. G'long wid sich grace!"