CHAPTER VIII.
Buckhannon was again the seat of conference, and was in charge of Bishop Weaver. This was his last visit to West Virginia. My district reported about 600 conversions and accessions to the church. The average salary for the pastors of the conference was $230. After paying house rent and car fare, I had $365.79 left for the support of a family of five, and with which to purchase books, papers, and stationery; but I did not complain; it was more than the average circuit-rider was getting. On this little sum we seemed to live fairly well, and imagined ourselves as respectable as anybody in the town.
In looking over my report, I see at its close the following significant statement: “Now, brethren, suffer a word more. I kindly and earnestly request that you relieve me from district work. Eight years out of the past eleven have been given to this kind of service. While I certainly appreciate what you have done for me, I must say that I am tired of the place, and am anxious that some one else take it. All there is in it, whether money, distinction, responsibility, or hard work, I cheerfully surrender to some one else, with the earnest wish that he may prove more efficient than I have been, and that under his labors enlarged blessings may come to the district.”
This was my last year as a presiding elder in the dear old conference.
It is now many years since I was transferred to another field, but almost daily my thoughts go back to my native home, and to the twenty years of unceasing toil given to the building up of the church in that mountainous region. Indeed, I could scarcely get away. It was no easy matter to sever the relations of a life-time. In looking over my brief record of daily happenings I find that July 16, 1889, while pastor at Buckhannon I wrote:
“Received a letter to-day from Rev. C. Wendle, urging me to come to Rock River Conference. Bishop Kephart also writes in like manner. Do not know what to do, but must do right. Lord help me.” October 3, I expressed my thoughts and feelings as follows:
“At home trying to pack our goods. What a task it is! Is God in this? I do hope so. It is so hard to leave West Virginia. These hills and valleys all seem sacred to me.”
The last time I visited my parents before removing West, I was deeply affected to see how frail they seemed, and thus referred to it: “Parents are getting old. How they are bending beneath the weight of years! Alas, how short life is! Twenty years ago when I left home father had no gray hairs. Now his head is white as wool. Mother! what a faithful soul! How self-sacrificing! Anything to help her children and make herself a blessing to others. Heaven is anxious to get such an angel. May earth keep her yet a long while.”
These excerpts from my diary indicate that it cost me something—a heart-struggle, at least, to turn my back upon scenes and associations which were as sacred as life itself. But in making the change I felt I was following the leadings of Providence, and that all would be well in the end.