Many other amusing incidents occurred during the year. These always find a place in the itinerant’s life, and it is well, perhaps, that they do, as they offset in a measure his somber experiences. I am frank to confess that it is easy for me to see the funny side of a happening, if it has one, and to enjoy a joke though it be on myself.
In the early days of the West Virginia Conference, what was known as the “plug hat” was much in evidence among preachers. Such “headwear” was a distinguishing mark, hence no circuit-rider with proper self-respect, or wishing to give tone to his calling, could afford to don anything else. Being young, and somewhat ambitious to hold up the ministerial standard, at least in appearance, I determined to secure one as soon as I could get a few dollars ahead. However, the way opened for the gratification of my wish sooner than I had expected. Brother Moses Simons had one he didn’t care to wear, so I bantered him for a trade. It was in first-class condition, but entirely too large for me. Even after putting a roll of paper around under the lining, it came down nearly to my ears. What was I to do? I must have a high-topped hat, but was not able to purchase a new one. At last I decided to wear it, if my ears did occasionally protest against its close proximity to them. It distinguished me from common people for the next two years, and so answered well its purpose.
One day as I was riding up a little creek between two high hills I passed a group of urchins who evidently were unused to preachers. They watched me in utter silence till I had passed them a few yards, when one of them piped out, “Lord, what a hat.” No doubt they had an interesting story to relate to their parents when they returned to their humble cabin home.
Not long after this I met a gentleman, so-called, in the road, and bade him the time of day, as was my custom. He returned the salutation with, “How are you, hat?” and passed on without another word. To me this was exceedingly offensive, for I was sure there was something in and under the hat, and any such remark was an uncalled-for reflection upon my dignity and the high calling I represented. I did not know the man, and to the best of my knowledge have never seen him since, but to this day, though removed from the event more than a third of a century, I harbor the thought that if I ever do run across him I shall demand some sort of reparation for the insult.
The annual conference met in Pennsboro, Bishop Weaver presiding. During the year I had improved much in health, owing to my horseback exercise and the great amount of singing I did, which doubtless had much to do with the development of lung muscle.
At conference I went before the committee on applicants with eight others, five of whom were referred back to their respective quarterly conferences for further preparation. For some reason the examination was unusually critical. One question propounded to each was, “Do you seek admission into the conference simply to vote for a presiding elder?” There was some doubt in my case on a doctrinal point, according to the report of the chairman, Rev. W. Slaughter, an erratic old brother. He said the boy was all right, except “a little foggy on depravity.” Possibly I was, for I didn’t think much of that portion of our creed. However, I see more in it, and of it, after all these years, than I did then. In the light of my observations and experiences with men, I am not inclined to deny the doctrine.
I was appointed by this conference to Lewis Circuit, an old, run down field, embracing parts of three counties. Rev. Isaac Davis was sent along as a helper “in the Lord.” We had grown up together in the same neighborhood, and were members of the same congregation. He was a young man of sterling moral qualities, and proved himself a loyal and valuable coworker.
After spending a few days with our parents and friends, we started, early in April, for the scene of toil to which we had been assigned for the year. From the day we left home we ceased not to pray that the Lord of the harvest would give us at least one hundred souls as trophies of his grace, and to that end we labored constantly.
We found the following regular appointments: Glady Fork, Hinkleville, Union Hill, Little Skin Creek, White Oak, Waterloo, Indian Camp, Walkersville, Braxton, and Centerville. Soon we added two more, namely, Bear Run and Laurel Run. The charge agreed to pay us $210, but fell a little short, reaching only $170. Of this I received $90, and Brother Davis the remaining $80. The assessment for missions was $25, and about $10 for other purposes, which we regarded as a pretty high tax for benevolences. Yet the entire amount was raised after a most vigorous and thorough canvass of all the appointments. As I now remember, no one gave more than twenty-five cents.