Twenty Years on Horseback; or, Itinerating in West Virginia

by W. M. Weekley

That year I took up an appointment at the Poe School-house, two miles out of town, and organized a class. In those days the preacher was expected to look around for new openings, no matter where he was or how large his field; there is no other way to expand. My criticism of many of our young preachers to-day is that they do not try to enlarge their work. They seem never to look beyond the nest into which the conference settles them. They will live on half salary, and whine about it all year, rather than get out and look up additional territory. Under fair conditions, the young man who is devout and active can secure a good living on any field. Faith and purpose and push will win every time. The year closed with fifty-three members, and ninety-five in the Sunday school.

The conference again convened in Parkersburg, with David Edwards this time as bishop—the last session he ever presided over.

At this period the battle in the Church over the secrecy question was waxing warm. West Virginia had lined up on the liberal side. The bishop, being pronouncedly “anti” in his views, determined to enforce the rules of the Church in the matter of admitting applicants into the conference. A brother who appeared for license was known to belong to some fraternal order, so the good bishop held him up. This brought on a crisis. All was excitement. Some things, it was clear, would have to be settled then and there, and they were. Doctor Warner arose, in the midst of the flurry, and demanded that the young brother be sent to the appropriate committee, which he said was thoroughly competent to deal with the question. The bishop was on his feet also with the fire of determination fairly flashing in his eyes. However, when he fully realized that, with an exception or two, the entire body was against him, he gracefully yielded, thus happily bringing the unfortunate conflict to a close. By morning, matters had again assumed a normal condition, and the bishop kindly requested that all reference to the controversy be expunged from the records.

Notwithstanding Bishop Edwards’ somewhat radical position on the secrecy question, he was greatly loved by all our brethren, and by none was his death more sincerely mourned. On Sunday he preached on Elijah’s translation; a few days thereafter he was himself translated.

From Grafton I was sent to New Haven circuit, in Mason County, one hundred and sixty miles west. To get there I was compelled to borrow twenty-five dollars. Dr. J. L. Hensley kindly entertained us until a house could be found; for as yet there was not a parsonage in the conference. This was considered one of the best fields we had. The first year it paid me four hundred and sixteen dollars, and the next, four hundred and twenty-seven dollars, with a few presents in the shape of vegetables, groceries, and the like. Of course, I paid rent out of this—thirty-six dollars one year, and fifty the other. I had only four appointments—New Haven, Bachtel, Union, and Vernon, and these were close together. During the two years, one hundred and thirty were received into the Church.

The next conference was held at Bachtel, which gave me my first experience in caring for such a body. Bishop Weaver presided and preached the word mightily on Sunday. He had been popular even since his first visit to that section, in 1870. By request of Hon. George W. Murdock, a wealthy business man in Hartford City, three miles west, he went down there and preached in our church on Sunday evening. Mr. Murdock was an ardent admirer of the bishop. Six years before he had entertained him in his home, and was charmed by him as a preacher and conversationalist. After spending the first hour with him, he slipped into the kitchen and said: “Wife, he is the most wonderful man I ever met. Do come in and hear him talk.” The old gentleman never forgot the bishop’s sermon on Sunday. For weeks afterward he would talk about it in his store, and elsewhere, sometimes in tears, nearly always ending with the observation, “He is a wonderful man.” It might not be out of place to note here that the good bishop more than once shared the benefactions of his wealthy friend.

During my second year on this charge, a peculiar and most trying experience came to our home. A great revival was going on at the Union appointment. The altar was nightly crowded with earnest seekers, some of whom belonged to the best families in the community. Early one morning a young man came hurriedly to the place where I was stopping, and calling me out, said, “Mr. Weekley, I have been sent to tell you that your babe is dead.” Hastening home I found the faithful mother watching at the side of the withered flower, and anxiously awaiting my coming. How loving the ministry of friends had been; nor did their tender interest abate a whit until the little lifeless form was put away to sleep in the cemetery on the hillside, in the family lot of Dr. Hensley.

The reader may be anxious to know what I did under the circumstances. There was but one thing to do, that was to seek the guiding hand of duty. Our little one was gone. Just as the thoughtful florist takes his tender plants into their winter quarters before the frost appears, or the chilling winds sweep the plains, so a wise, loving, merciful Father had plucked up the little vine which had rooted itself so thoroughly and deeply in our hearts, and transplanted it in his own heavenly garden. Yes, Charley was safe; so I returned to my meeting with a tender spirit, and the work continued with great power.

More than one preacher who reads this incident will recall the time, or times, when he, too, passed under the cloud, and walked amid the shadows. Again and again I have been made to feel that some people do not sympathize with the minister and his wife, as they do with others, when the death angel tarries and lays his withering hand upon a young life. Somehow they seem to think that the cup, when administered to the preacher’s family, is not so bitter—that the thorn does not pierce so deeply. But I know better, and so do a thousand others. It is said of Dr. Daniel Curry, a great man in Methodism in his day, that he was so grieved over the death of his little boy that after returning home from the cemetery he went into the back yard, and observing his little tracks in the sand, got down on his hands and knees and kissed them. Words cannot express my sympathy for the faithful pastor and his family, and my admiration of that faith, devotion, and heroism which in so many instances are necessary to keep them in the work.