“In many country districts away from the railroad, the time kept by the people varies so materially that it is next to impossible to get them together at the same hour. No two clocks agree, hence the people begin to assemble at ten o’clock in the morning and keep on assembling till noon. At the appointed hour the elder announces the first hymn, and then leads in prayer. During these opening exercises, perhaps twenty-five persons have come upon the ground, and as soon as the amen is heard they make a rush for seats.
“Another hymn is sung, and still they come. The text is finally announced, but what of it? The people keep on coming. The middle of the sermon, by and by, is reached, and the preacher is still annoyed; not for three minutes at any time has he had an open field. Only one more proposition to discuss; it is the most important one. His strength has been reserved mainly for it; but just as he begins to lay it open, having secured the attention of the audience, the door creaks and in come a half dozen women. A general stir follows. The seats are all full; something must be done, so a half dozen men get up and surrender their places. Still the people come. The preacher is on the home stretch, but is badly disheartened. He has preached to the people, to be sure, but a good part of the time to the backs of their heads. Not half of those present when he began can tell what his text is. Indeed, he is so confused sometimes that he hardly knows himself what it is. He has just one more illustration to give. He hopes to make it tell, and is succeeding well. The audience for a moment is silent as death; but of a sudden the door opens again and a few more try to enter. In an instant every eye is turned, and the thread of thought is dropped, and the preacher sits down disgusted and dissatisfied.
“Of course it is not always this way, but frequently such is the case. On such occasions the people go home no wiser than when they came. Having been to meetin’ is the only pleasing thought enjoyed.
“Too many dogs go to church. I am not much of a friend to the canine race at home, much less at church. Dogs piously inclined are the meanest dogs in existence. If they would go under the house or even under the benches in the house, it would not matter so much, but they will not do that. They walk up and down the aisle, and dare even to enter the pulpit where the presiding elder is. All this attracts attention, and detracts from the sermon. Once in a while a dog fight occurs during service, and two or three men have to interfere to adjust the difficulty. If the elder intimates that the congregation or neighborhood is a little too doggish to suit him, somebody gets mad and calls him a ‘stuck up’ sort of a man. ‘Beware of dogs,’ said Paul. Many a good sermon has been spoiled by them. In West Virginia, especially, they are disturbing elements. I would favor a war of extermination.
“But things are much better with us now than they were twenty-five years ago. We have larger and better houses of worship, and fewer dogs in proportion to population. We expect a great improvement in the next quarter of a century.”
It was not an uncommon thing to see a glorious revival start at the quarterly meeting. The love-feast, which almost invariably occurred on Sunday morning before the sermon, was usually an occasion of deep interest. How the old veterans would talk! How eloquent some of them were in their simplicity! How they relished such spiritual feasts! for such they were; and no wonder they were enjoyed by some, for they had traveled, maybe on foot, twenty miles or more to get there. To such the day was a veritable Pentecost. Sometimes in the midst of the sermon or sacramental service, “hallelujahs” would be heard. Yes, once in a while the people shouted, and nobody objected to the noise or excitement. I am no prophet, but will risk the statement that when the church gets so far along that no more hosannah’s are heard, it will be about time to reconstruct things and start anew.
A red-hot testimony-meeting in many of our city churches, on the quarterly communion occasion, would make the recurrence of the day and the coming of the elder an event of greater significance than it seems to be at present. Such a service would doubtless lubricate the machinery of the church, and make the work go better. The present plan of enlarging districts has its commendatory features, to be sure, and in some respects it works well, yet the old régime, which made it possible for the elder to be present at all the quarterlies, had its advantages.
A word here respecting the genuine hospitality of the people might not be out of place; this, however, is characteristic of Southerners. The presiding elder was not compelled to put up with the pastor all the time because nobody else wanted or invited him; far from it. A half dozen or more at a time would claim him as their guest. Instead of wondering where he would or could go, he was puzzled to know which of the many invitations to accept. How it embarrasses a man to be in a neighborhood where no one seems to want him. Or, if entertainment is proffered he may be further embarrassed by a question mark at the end of the invitation, “Well, are you going with me?” or, “If you’ve no place else to go, come with us.” I have been chilled many, many times since leaving the mountain State by just such half-hearted treatment.
Nor were the presiding elder’s official duties performed without an occasional break caused by a wag or ignoramus. Rev. G. W. Weekley was traveling a circuit in Gilmer County with Rev. E. Harper as his elder. At a certain meeting the latter was presiding with his usual grace and dignity while the pastor, being a stickler for law, was making the Discipline the rule of his business conduct. A young man was before them for license to preach. He seemed to be all right, and had made a favorable impression upon his pastor. “You will please state before the chair and conference,” said the pastor to the applicant, “what your reasons are for desiring permission to preach the gospel.” In an instant the young brother was on his feet. The question was easy, he thought, and so his answer was clear-cut. “Well,” he said, “I always had a desire to see the country, and I thought that being a preacher would give me a chance to do so.”
Then it was that the elder wilted and the preacher collapsed, and the quarterly conference looked blank, while the dear young brother felt himself the hero of the occasion.