We met at the Bethel church in Mason County, in September of 1887, to make reports and to review the work of another year. Bishop Kephart was with us for the first, and Dr. Warner for the last time. To show our appreciation of Dr. Warner, the conference gave him a purse containing $25.00 in silver. My district paid, in salary and presents, $526.20, out of which $153 was expended for rent and car fare; 3,720 miles had been traveled by rail, 941 on horseback, and 415 on foot. The average salary in the conference was a fraction over $200. Including “presents,” which were considerable in some cases, only one charge, Parkersburg Station, went above $500. One other, Pennsboro, reached $400; eight got above $300, while seventeen paid less than $200 each. The financial report generally was much better than that of the previous year. The aggregate increase in ministerial support on Parkersburg District was $600. Slowly but surely we were pushing ahead and making progress, but at a cost known only to those who were on the field.
The third year on the district was similar to the preceding one, fraught with toil and responsibilities, but not without its spicery, which often did much to enliven the routine work required. One of the first things I did was to secure a horse and buggy. By using the carriage when the roads would admit of it I relieved myself of a good deal of horseback riding. During the winter and early spring no sort of vehicle could be used because of the bad, and sometimes dangerous condition of the public thoroughfares. Nor is the situation in this respect very much different at present from what it was forty years ago. Great changes have been wrought in other regards, but the roads, for the most part, remain the same, and will so continue through the centuries to come.
I had a somewhat provoking experience, once upon a time, as I journeyed with my uncle from Troy to West Union, a distance of twenty-five miles. As the roads were exceedingly muddy I was concerned more than usual about a new suit I was wearing, having pinned the skirts of my clerical coat around my waist in order to keep them clean. We finally struck a place where the thin mud was half knee-deep to the horses. Midway in this mud-hole was a good-sized rock, but not being visible, my steed stumbled over it onto his knees, running his nose into the mud up to the eyes. When he went down I went over his head, and into the puddle face foremost. Fearing that the animal would get on me, I suddenly rolled over and then bounded to my feet. What a picture I presented! I am sure I was no subject for artist or poet. My sleeves were full of mud and water to the elbows, my hat and umbrella both were submerged, and, to add to my chagrin, when I looked up at my uncle, from whom I had a right to expect at least a little sympathy, he was lying over on his horse’s neck laughing his best. Going to a stream nearby, I took off my coat and plunged it into the water many times over, much like washing and wringing a bed quilt, until the worst of the mud was off. But such an experience was a mere incident with a mountaineer. When my clothes got dry and the mud was brushed off they seemed to be all right, and I went on with my work just as though the awful mix-up had not occurred.
During the year a great sorrow came to the conference. On the 24th of January the news was flashed over the wires that Doctor Warner was dead. In the next week’s Telescope “Delta” referred to the sad event as follows:
“The announcement of Dr. Warner’s death has cast a deep sadness over the conference. No other conference can feel his loss as we feel it. In a peculiar sense he was ours. No man ever had the hold upon our preachers that he had. We can scarcely realize that he has gone from us to return no more. He may have made mistakes in some things, like other men, but he was a good man. That his soul during his last earthly hours should he ‘wonderfully filled with the peace of God,’ is just what we might have expected. For thirty years he endured the hardships of a West Virginia itinerant, sometimes traveling day and night, and making the greatest sacrifices to build up the church he loved. Naught but devotion to God’s cause ever led him to do so much for it. But his work now is done. Perhaps we should not grieve over his departure, but we cannot help doing so. The entire conference weeps. Said a brother, ‘Why didn’t the Lord take me, and spare Brother Warner?’ This expression serves to show how keenly his loss is felt.”
Bishop N. Castle held the next conference at New Haven. During the session I received a telegram that I had been nominated by the prohibitionists of the fourth district for Congress, a compliment which I appreciated all the more because the honor came unsought. Yes, I was a prohibitionist, and am yet, and expect to remain one until something better claims my support. The four hundred votes cast for the ticket in the district represented a thoughtful, moral, courageous element of which I have always been proud. Only such people, as a rule, vote the prohibition ticket. As I entered upon the fourth year of district work I determined it should be my last, at least for a while. I had been kept away from my books already too long, and consciously realized that, while I might be gaining a little some ways, I was losing in others. The church cannot find its highest ideals in men who live wholly outside their libraries. It is study—familiarity with the thoughts and methods of others—that broadens a preacher. The map studied by many of us is too small, and needs to be enlarged so as to extend the vision. If we would see and know things, we must look and search after them. The man is exceedingly unfortunate who, having eyes, refuses to see, and having intelligence, neglects the acquisition of knowledge. My advice to the young man at the threshold of the ministry is, “Buy good books and read them; study your discourses thoroughly and with an eye to somebody’s salvation, and then give the people the very best that God has put in you.”
This was a good year for the district. As it was to be the last, I determined to make the best record possible for my successor, to duplicate or excel. To succeed meant to go all the time. Distance, bad weather, dangerous roads, swollen streams, or any other circumstances were seldom allowed to get in the way. When Lincoln was asked if he thought the war would close during his administration, he replied, “I don’t know, sir, I don’t know.” “What, then, is your purpose?” was further asked, to which the characteristic answer was given, “Peg away, sir, peg away.” It is this, everlasting “pegging away”—forcing one’s way through difficulties, and surmounting obstacles—that wins, not only in West Virginia, but everywhere else.
Buxton wrote: “The longer I live the more deeply I am convinced that that which makes the difference between one man and another—between the weak and powerful, the great and insignificant—is energy, invincible determination, a purpose once formed, and then victory or death.” I quote Buxton’s words because they are gold, and have in them the ring of triumph.
