The time of holding the annual conference having been changed from spring to fall, the next session was held at the Simmons’ chapel, in Lewis County. I was again made presiding elder, stationed on Parkersburg District, and soon moved to Pennsboro, where my headquarters remained for the next four years. My diocese extended from Parkersburg to Irondale, a distance, east and west, of one hundred and sixteen miles, and from the Ohio River on the north far interior to the south. The fields embraced were Parkersburg Station, Parkersburg Circuit, Volcano, Pennsboro, Troy, Middle Island, Littles Mills, Grafton, Irondale, Hessville, Tanner, Sylvan Mills, and Smithton.
A vast amount of hard work, I soon discovered, would be necessary to make anything like a commendable showing in a territory so large and difficult to cultivate. The first duty with me was to care for my preachers. It was my notion then, and my views have not changed in all these years, that if a presiding elder wants his men to do good work he must, first of all, do his best for them financially. If the salary was insufficient, and it nearly always was, as I have shown many times over, it had to be supplemented in one way or another. If the stewards were worthless, I asked them to resign. If they did not know how to collect, I went along and instructed them as best I could. In some cases we would canvass the entire neighborhood with a two-horse team and wagon, and gather up flour, corn, potatoes, chickens, meat, eggs, sorghum, butter—in a word, anything and everything that could be used at the parsonage, or exchanged for groceries. When nothing better could be done, I would load up my own horse with flour and meat and lead him to the preacher’s home with his precious cargo of provisions. Then what a good time we would have! Some who are yet at work in the conference were helped in this way. I also found it profitable to have the people on each field, if at all possible, make the pastor a present of a new suit of clothes each year. The plan is usually a popular one, and in most cases can be worked, if placed in the hands of the right persons. It is the equivalent of just so much extra cash to the preacher. But with some it may be a query as to how I managed the indifferent pastor. Sometimes one way, and sometimes another. Every presiding elder, I suppose, has his own methods. My plan was first to aid and encourage him all I possibly could. I tried to prove to him, in a substantial way, that I was his friend, and wanted to help him make his work a success. If, after all this, he persisted in being a failure, I frankly told him he would have to drop out. Such a step requires courage, I know, but it must be taken once in a while. No railroad company or any other business concern would think of employing inefficient, untrustworthy men; such a policy would be suicidal; nor can an elder afford to supply his fields with those who are utterly devoid of fitness for a work so high and responsible.
A man may be a “good fellow” in many respects, and promise to support his elder if continued in active service, but these things should have no weight in the matter of appointments. The welfare of the church should always be considered before that of the individual. If either must go down, let it be the preacher. Why put him in a position to chill, discourage, and perhaps wreck a whole charge? Nor should a man be employed if inefficient by reason of age or poor health. The fact that a minister was once successful is no reason for continuing him indefinitely in the pastorate. A record of usefulness, I know, is a crown of glory to any old, worn-out toiler, but with such glory he ought to be satisfied. I have always hoped, and still do, that I may have sense and grace enough to retire of my own accord before my conference is compelled to put me on the shelf. The church, however, should provide a comfortable living for her servants when they can no longer remain at the front. They deserve such recognition, and to withhold it is to sin against them and the God whose they are, and whom they have served.
With reference to the presiding elder, or superintendent, I will further say that he is the most useful and important man we have if he does his duty faithfully; otherwise he is the biggest bore in the church. He is not a success if he does mere routine work and nothing more. He must reach out. He must be larger than his district, yet strive all the while to make it as big as himself. He must keep things going. If resourceful, he will always find a way to inspire and profit his men, if there is anything in them to respond to his efforts. If he is not a general, he is not fit for the place. He must go panoplied with helmet and breast-plate, shield and sword, ready to fight, preach, or die, on a moment’s notice. How the church and pastor are to be pitied when compelled to suffer three or four official visits during the year from an old, dry stick, destitute of sympathy and enthusiasm.
The year was not without its incidents, both serious and amusing. During one of my quarterlies held in the Big Fishing Creek region a fight occurred among some of the toughs as they went from church on Saturday evening. In an article to the county paper I took occasion to criticise, rather sharply, such behavior, and emphasized the fact that the officers of law ought to do their duty in all such cases. In fact, the derelict officials were as severely arraigned as were the offending pugilists.
Three months later I was in that section again; after the Sabbath morning services, at Mt. Olive, I went to Laurel, some miles away, to fill an evening appointment. After riding quite a distance along a high ridge, which overlooks all the country around it, I turned down a little ravine which lead to Laurelrun; but suddenly my cogitations were interrupted by a big, burly sixfooter, who knew of my coming and was waiting for me. Stepping in front of my horse, he blurted out, “Are you the feller what wrote that piece in the paper about me?” I replied that I did not know who he was, or what “piece” he referred to. “I’m one of them fighters you wrote about in the Star,” he said, “but what you writ wasn’t true, so I thought I would wait for you here.” In the meantime we were both moving slowly down the hill, and he was at my side. If ever I did hard, double-quick thinking, it was then. I knew what he was there for, and a general mix-up seemed inevitable. I at once decided on a policy. I would talk him out of any evil intent he might have, if it were possible to do so; if not, and nothing else would suffice, I would get off my horse and stay with him just as many rounds as I could, with the hope that somebody might come along and help me out, if help was needed. I began to explain how and where I got my information, and how I felt over such unbecoming conduct on the way from divine worship. At this point he interjected the remark that my informant was a liar, using adjectives and expletives which would not look well in print. But I kept on with my speech, using all the eloquence and fervor at my command. I expatiated on the sacredness of worship, and portrayed in the most vivid colors possible the beauty and praiseworthiness of the young man who honors the gospel, and loves and lives in peace with all men. Though there was blood in his eye at the start, I soon observed that I was gaining on him. By and by he began to sanction what I said. It was clear that I had his attention, so I kept on talking something good to him until he finally stopped me as abruptly as when we first met, saying, “Wal, I guess I’le go back. I kinder thought I’d like to ax you about it. Good-by.” What a feeling of relief came to me as the fellow disappeared. A scrap, and possibly something worse, had been avoided. I at once decided, however, that the country editor thereafter would have to look elsewhere for information when such brawls occurred. Such a narrow escape from—I did not know what—convinced me that at least in that particular locality the work of a newspaper correspondent was incompatible with that of a presiding elder.
It was on one of my visits to this same field that I made some of our own dear people very cross over a little verse, purely original, which I wrote on the blackboard. Nearly everybody used tobacco in some form. Many of the women were snuff dippers, and smoked the pipe, while nearly all the men either chewed or smoked, or did both. The stanza ran thus:
Who can chew the dirty stuff,
In the sacred place of prayer?