What is a Methodist?

[rockytopva]

I believe (and we all have different interpretations of Revelation) the seven churches in Revelation form the whole....

Ephesus - Messianic - Beginning with the Apostle to the Circumcision, Peter
Smyrna - Martyr - Beginning with the Apostle to the Un-Circumcision, Paul
Pergamos - Orthodoxy formed in this time... Pergos is a tower... Needed in the dark ages
Thyatira - Catholicism formed in this time - The spirit of Jezebel is to control and to dominate.
Sardis - Protestantism formed in this time- A sardius is a gem - elegant yet hard and rigid
Philadelphia - Wesleyism formed in this time - To be sanctioned is to acquire it with love.
Laodicea - Charismatic movement formed in this time - Beginning with DL Moody, the first to make money off of ministry

And to let John Wesley describe the Methodist...

 

[rockytopva]

What is a Methodist? by John Wesley ... The great and the glorious way! It is too bad that it took 1,700 years to perfect!

1. We believe, indeed, that "all Scripture is given by the inspiration of God." We believe the written word of God to be the only and sufficient rule both of Christian faith and practice.

2. We do not place our religion, or any part of it, in being attached to any peculiar mode of speaking, any quaint or uncommon set of expressions.

3. Our religion does not lie in doing what God has not enjoined, or abstaining from what he hath not forbidden. It does not lie in the form of our apparel, in the posture of our body, or the covering of our heads; nor yet in abstaining from marriage, or from meats and drinks, which are all good if received with thanksgiving.

4. Nor, lastly, is he distinguished by laying the whole stress of religion on any single part of it

5. "What then is the mark? Who is a Methodist, according to your own account?" I answer: A Methodist is one who has "the love of God shed abroad in his heart by the Holy Ghost given unto him;" one who "loves the Lord his God with all his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his mind, and with all his strength. God is the joy of his heart, and the desire of his soul; which is constantly crying out, "Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee! My God and my all! Thou art the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever!"

6. He is therefore happy in God, yea, always happy, as having in him "a well of water springing up into everlasting life," and overflowing his soul with peace and joy. "Perfect love" having now "cast out fear," he "rejoices evermore." He "rejoices in the Lord always," even "in God his Saviour;" and in the Father, "through our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom he hath now received the atonement." "Having" found "redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of his sins," he cannot but rejoice, whenever he looks back on the horrible pit out of which he is delivered; when he sees "all his transgressions blotted out as a cloud, and his iniquities as a thick cloud." He cannot but rejoice, whenever he looks on the state wherein he now is; "being justified freely, and having peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ." For "he that believeth, hath the witness" of this "in himself;" being now the son of God by faith. "Because he is a son, God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into his heart, crying, Abba, Father!" And "the Spirit itself beareth witness with his spirit, that he is a child of God." He rejoiceth also, whenever he looks forward, "in hope of the glory that shall be revealed;" yea, this his joy is full, and all his bones cry out, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, according to his abundant mercy, hath begotten me again to a living hope -- of an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for me!"

7. And he who hath this hope, thus "full of immortality, in everything giveth thanks;" as knowing that this (whatsoever it is) "is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning him." From him, therefore, he cheerfully receives all, saying, "Good is the will of the Lord;" and whether the Lord giveth or taketh away, equally "blessing the name of the Lord." For he hath "learned, in whatsoever state he is, therewith to be content." He knoweth "both how to be abased and how to abound

8. For indeed he "prays without ceasing." It is given him "always to pray, and not to faint."

9. And while he thus always exercises his love to God, by praying without ceasing, rejoicing evermore, and in everything giving thanks, this commandment is written in his heart, "That he who loveth God, love his brother also." And he accordingly loves his neighbour as himself; he loves every man as his own soul. His heart is full of love to all mankind, to every child of "the Father of the spirits of all flesh

10. For he is "pure in heart." The love of God has purified his heart from all revengeful passions, from envy, malice, and wrath, from every unkind temper or malign affection. It hath cleansed him from pride and haughtiness of spirit, whereof alone cometh contention. And he hath now "put on bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering:" So that he "forbears and forgives, if he had a quarrel against any; even as God in Christ hath forgiven him." And indeed all possible ground for contention, on his part, is utterly cut off. For none can take from him what he desires; seeing he "loves not the world, nor" any of "the things of the world;" being now "crucified to the world, and the world crucified to him;" being dead to all that is in the world, both to "the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life." For "all his desire is unto God, and to the remembrance of his name."

11. Agreeable to this his one desire, is the one design of his life, namely, "not to do his own will, but the will of Him that sent him." His one intention at all times and in all things is, not to please himself, but Him whom his soul loveth. He has a single eye. And because "his eye is single, his whole body is full of light." Indeed, where the loving eye of the soul is continually fixed upon God, there can be no darkness at all, "but the whole is light; as when the bright shining of a candle doth enlighten the house." God then reigns alone. All that is in the soul is holiness to the Lord. There is not a motion in his heart, but is according to his will. Every thought that arises points to Him, and is in obedience to the law of Christ.

12. And the tree is known by its fruits. For as he loves God, so he keeps his commandments; not only some, or most of them, but all, from the least to the greatest. He is not content to "keep the whole law, and offend in one point;" but has, in all points, "a conscience void of offence towards God and towards man."

13. All the commandments of God he accordingly keeps, and that with all his might. For his obedience is in proportion to his love, the source from whence it flows. And therefore, loving God with all his heart, he serves him with all his strength.

14. By consequence, whatsoever he doeth, it is all to the glory of God. His one invariable rule is this, "Whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him."

15. Nor do the customs of the world at all hinder his "running the race that is set before him." He knows that vice does not lose its nature, though it becomes ever so fashionable; and remembers, that "every man is to give an account of himself to God." He cannot, therefore, "follow" even "a multitude to do evil." He cannot "fare sumptuously every day," or "make provision for the flesh to fulfill the lusts thereof." He cannot "lay up treasures upon earth," any more than he can take fire into his bosom. He cannot "adorn himself," on any pretence, "with gold or costly apparel." He cannot join in or countenance any diversion which has the least tendency to vice of any kind. He cannot "speak evil" of his neighbour, any more than he can lie either for God or man. He cannot utter an unkind word of any one; for love keeps the door of his lips. He cannot speak "idle words;" "no corrupt communication" ever "comes out of his mouth," as is all that "which is" not "good to the use of edifying," not "fit to minister grace to the hearers." But "whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are" justly "of good report," he thinks, and speaks, and acts, "adorning the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ in all things."

16. Lastly. As he has time, he "does good unto all men;" unto neighbours and strangers, friends and enemies: And that in every possible kind; not only to their bodies, by "feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting those that are sick or in prison;" but much more does he labour to do good to their souls, as of the ability which God giveth; to awaken those that sleep in death; to bring those who are awakened to the atoning blood, that, "being justified by faith, they may have peace with God;" and to provoke those who have peace with God to abound more in love and in good works.

17. These are the principles and practices of our sect; these are the marks of a true Methodist. By these alone do those who are in derision so called, desire to be distinguished from other men. If any man say, "Why, these are only the common fundamental principles of Christianity!" thou hast said; so I mean; this is the very truth; I know they are no other; and I would to God both thou and all men knew, that I, and all who follow my judgment, do vehemently refuse to be distinguished from other men, by any but the common principles of Christianity, -- the plain, old Christianity that I teach, renouncing and detesting all other marks of distinction. And having the mind that was in Christ, he so walks as Christ also walked.

 

[rockytopva]

I am currently reading "Recollections of an Old Man - Seventy Years in Dixie" by David Sullins, who describes the old Methodist of Southern variety...
Read the eBook Recollections of an old man: seventy years in Dixie 1827-1897 by David Sullins online for free (page 1 of 21)
https://ia902607.us.archive.org/21/...d00sullrich/recollectionsold00sullrich_bw.pdf

...Introduction...

THOUGH not an old man, my memory goes back for somewhat more than half a century. The things that happened then are as clear in my mind as if they took place only yesterday. In 1854-55, or thereabouts, Brother Sullins —they did not call any preacher Doctor, except Sam'l Patton, those days—was station preacher in my native town of Jonesboro. How distinctly he stands out before me as he then was: six feet and over tall, with a great shock of coal black hair on his head, blue-grey eyes that kindled when he talked to you, and a voice that could be as caressing as a mother's and as martial as a general's on the field of battle.

My mother was a Methodist of the old pattern, and Brother Sullins was often in the home. Two of my sisters went to school to him and loved him dearly. In social life he was a charmer, often breaking out into mirthful stories. Now and then he did not hesitate to play the boy. But for the scruples of his flock, I am sure he would have been glad on the frosty October mornings to follow the hounds after a fox; for the breath of the country was in his nostrils. He was even then a wonderful preacher; at least there was one little boy in his congregation that thought so. But I loved best to hear him exhort and sing. Once in the midst of a great revival, he came down out of the pulpit, his arms outstretched, the tears streaming from his eyes, and walked up and down the aisles, beseeching his hearers to accept Christ. There was nothing studied in it, and the spontaneity of it thrilled me. I wonder if he dreamed how much he was stirring my childish heart. And how he could sing! There were no choirs in those days, and he did not need one, as he was entirely competent to "set and carry" any tune. Now and then he would sing a solo before the morning service, usually one of the great old Methodist hymns; but occasionally something new. When he went away, everybody was sorry; the whole town was devoted to him. It was a long, long time ago! One whole generation has since passed into eternity, and a large part of another. But in the providence of God, Brother Sullins—now and for many years Doctor Sullins—still lingers with us; the old man eloquent of the Holston Conference, every man's friend and the friend of every man. More than four score years have passed over his head. He has been preacher, teacher, soldier. A few years ago, at the urgent request of many friends, he began to write some reminiscences of his early life for publication in The Midland Methodist. He will not be offended when I say that even those who knew him best were surprised at the facility with which he used his pen. They had recognized him as an almost incomparable orator, but that very fact had perhaps blinded them to his other gifts. Anyhow the reminiscences were eagerly read, with a constant demand for more. Ever since the series ended there has been a succession of inquiries as to whether they would not be put into a book. And here they are! From New River to Lookout Mountain, they will be read again and again, often with tears and sometimes with laughter. I take great pleasure in introducing them to the general public. - EE Hoss - Nashville, TN, 1910

The Rev David Sullins 1827-1919

 

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...David Sullin's Birth and early family....

I was born two miles west of Athens, McMinn County, Tenn., in July, 1827. And I was well born. That is, I as born of well developed, healthy, sensible, religious parents, and on a, farm. All of which is much in my favor, but nothing to my credit. And here I begin thus early to thank God. First, that I was born at all, and then that I was not born cross-eyed nor club-footed nor deaf nor blind nor of cranky, irreligious parents. That last clause is a climax. I fear that we stalwart men and graceful women, each with five good senses, a sound body, and lithe limbs, do not sufficiently appreciate the parental care.

My ancestors were Scotch-Irish. I remember while yet a boy to have heard my father tell that somewhere about 1750 his father and two brothers, came from "the old country" to America. These brothers were Scotch-Irish, and all unmarried. They separated after they arrived in this country. One stopped in Pennsylvania, and married there; one went to North Carolina, married, and located near Guilford Courthouse; the third came to Virginia, married a Miss Mays in Halifax County, and settled on Dan River. This was my grandfather. Here my father was born. When he was twelve years old, his father came, among the first pioneers, to Tennessee, and settled on Poplar Creek, in Knox (now Roane) County, near Oliver Springs, in 1795. Here my father grew up to manhood in the wilderness of the new country.

My mother was the youngest of a large family of brothers and sisters. My father married her when she was sixteen years old. He was not religious then, but mother was. In those days the preachers used to call on the women sometimes to lead in prayer. My mother was known as the "praying young woman on the south side of the river” O, how I have heard her pray a whole camp meeting onto its feet! "And there was the sound of going in the mulberry trees." It was said at her funeral that "her father, four brothers, two sons, and eleven nephews were Methodist preachers." It was in the blood of that old pioneer local preacher and his blessed old wife, and it had come down through their children and children's children for four generations; and if there has ever been a pauper or a "jail bird" among them, I have never heard of it. This is our family testimony or the truth of God's promise of "mercy unto children and children's children to such as fear him." Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.

...The Family Altar...

My father was not religious when he married mother. And indeed I think that what religious bent there was in our family was largely due to the Mitchell blood and training in mother. The Sullins stock in my father was strongly marked by the blood of his Virginia mother, Mary Mays. The Mayses were more noted for their love of fine horses, fox dogs, and handsome women, than for their piety. Yes, and I know one living grandson of Mary Mays in whom have always been some troublesome streaks of fondness for these things. Then how did my unconverted father come to be holding family prayers? Well, mother told me, in substance, this: It was not long after marriage till father, through the exhortations of grandfather and the prayers of mother, was deeply convicted and was induced to join the Church as a "seeker on probation." Matters stood thus for some time. But the children were growing up, and mother was much concerned about them. So in the middle of a sleepless night of prayer she said to father: "Nathan, we can never bring up the children right without family prayers."

"Well," said father, "what are we to do, Becky? I can't pray." But mother insisted that he could and ought to, and then added: "If you will try, I will take it time about with you holding prayers." That brought the question to an issue, and so finally father, almost with a groan, said: "I’ll try." The die was cast. So next morning mother held prayers. Father went to his work. He plowed and prayed all that day, he said. After supper mother got the children all quiet, and said: "Nathan, we are ready for prayers”

Father dropped on his knees and, stammering and choking, began. Soon, under a crushing sense of sin and helplessness, he began to confess and cry for pardoning mercy. Mother prayed and cried, and the Comforter came and light broke in and father was converted at family prayers.

Amen and amen! And that forever settled the question of family prayers at our house. No wonder! It settled many other things in the family, too, as it always will in any family. Of the thirteen children born in the home, eleven have already "fought the good fight" and gone to join father and mother in glory. Today there is a family altar in the home of every living child and every grandchild, and every great-grandchild old enough to know and love Jesus is a Christian and in the Church, as far as I know. Here I want to bear testimony to the honor of my brothers they are all dead now. I never heard a profane oath from the lips of one of them. So much for a faithful family altar. And still more. There are but two of us living. One is my youngest sister, Mrs. Rebecca Dodson, of Knoxville, Tenn., the mother of a religious family. We are old, but we are still singing: "Father, I Stretch My Hands to Thee." The day is far spent ; but our faces are turned toward home, and we expect to get there by sundown. If these reminiscences are to be continued, I must leave the field of tradition and write from memory. And here let me beg the reader of these crude sentences to bear in mind that I am not writing history or tabulated statistics for books; but am writing of men and things carried in memory through this turbulent world, many of them for seventy years and more. - David Sullins

 

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In the 1800's the camp meetings were held in worship sheds, which were simply huge wood-shingled roofs supported by vertical log posts. Neither the sides nor the ends of the buildings were enclosed. The openness was welcome during the summer months. Thick oak slabs with pole backs provided seating, and sawdust or straw lined the aisles.

The order of service included a time at the altar around what was known then as the mourner's bench. The old timers would not let you claim religion if you had not a sweet spirit. If the spirit was not sweet they would tell you that you did not have it yet, come back tomorrow night!

 

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And to let David Sullins tell of the old camp meeting....

CAMP MEETINGS SEVENTY years ago camp meetings were very common here in these Holston hills between the Great Smokies on the east and the Cumberland Mountains on the west. The Methodists took the lead, but were closely followed by the Presbyterians and Baptists. Taking our circuit for example, there were three Methodist camp grounds, two Presbyterian, and one Baptist. And it was about the same on other charges in the district. So it was not uncommon to find twelve or fifteen in one presiding elder's district, to be held along from the middle of August to the last of September. These meetings have almost disappeared in the last few years. A brief account of them may not be uninteresting. Our old people who know all about them, why they were established and how conducted, need not take time to read this chapter of recollections. It is written more for the young people, who know little or nothing about their origin, the why and the what and the how of those great religious gatherings. Let us make it very clear in the outset to our young friends that they were not great annual assemblies for social enjoyment and pleasure. True, there was a measure of social pleasure when old friends and neighbors who rarely met elsewhere came with their families and tented side by side for days together. But these meetings had their origin in a profound concern for the souls of men, to build up the faith of believers and call sinners to repentance. The particular form of service as seen in the camp meetings was not an accident, but the deliberate adoption of the best methods under existing conditions to compass the end in view—the salvation of men. And they did it gloriously. Some argue that their discontinuance is an evidence that the Church is less concerned now than then, but this is perhaps not true. Conditions have changed. Then churches were few and small; pastors were overworked on large circuits sparsely settled; religious workers in any given neighborhood, were few and timid. Camp meetings met these conditions. First, by providing comfortable places large enough for whole communities to worship together, and thus giving the pastors an opportunity to see and serve their people, gathered from far and near. Then they called Christian workers from different neighborhoods to sustain the song and prayer services and instruct penitents. They created interest enough to bring the scattered people from the fields and flocks to the place of worship. In a word, they were great religious rallies.

The recollections of my boyhood are full of these camp meeting occasions. Our camp ground was at Cedar Springs. There was a small log church here, and here my father and Jacob Hoss, a kinsman of the Bishop, built a shed one hundred and twenty-five feet long and seventy-five feet wide, with wings on hinges. When these wings were down, it was a great house; and when up, would seat two thousand. The tents were rude shacks made of logs, many of them with bark on. There were no fireplaces. Beds were scaffolds along the sides of the tents. All floors were dirt, covered with straw. Some used sawdust, but I liked the straw better. It had associated with it the smell of the fields and the bantering ring of the reapers' blades and the metheglin that mother made for the three-o'clock lunch for the harvesters and the cheery whistle of Bob White from his rail perch, piping to his old mate on the nest hard by. So I liked the straw better. We and our neighbors usually moved to the camp ground on Friday, which was fast day. At night, after things were arranged in the tents, we had short introductory services under the shed. Shed; pavilion, and auditorium belonged to a later period. At this service the leader, who was usually the presiding elder, announced the regulations for the government of the meeting. "The ground and groves on the south are reserved for the women, and those on the north for the men," was generally the first rule. The second rule was: "The women will occupy the seats on the right of the center aisle in the congregation; the men, those on the left." And this rule was strictly observed. If a man should take a seat on the side assigned to the women, some officer would quietly call his attention to the rule in a general way. If this modest hint did not move him, he was waited on and told plainly that he must take his seat on the other side of the aisle. I saw this done again and again. These were queer old ways our fathers had. But they were wise, and broke up much of the whispering and giggling which disturb public worship often in promiscuous assemblies.

We were next told that at the first sound of the horn all must get up and prepare for the day. (Mother took her dinner horn and hung it in the preacher's tent.) This first horn was blown about sunup if one of the young preachers had to blow it; but if Uncle Haskew had it in charge, it sounded out about the peep of day. All subsequent soundings of the horn were to call the people to worship. At this time all persons must leave the tent, save one, and the tent be closed. The hours for service were 9:30, noon, 3PM, and "candle-lighting." At night the whole encampment was lighted up with candles under the shed, and around it with blazing pine knots. These candles were fastened to the posts and set on the pulpit board. It was the special duty of some one to keep the pine knots going. At the close of the three-o'clock service the people were exhorted and urged to go to the grove and form praying circles, women and men to their separate groves. And here was done much hand-to hand and heart-to-heart work. Neighbor with neighbor and neighbor's children, with songs and prayers and exhortations and personal pleadings, out in the woods with God at the holy, quiet hour of sunset. O, what scenes I have witnessed and what thrills of pious joy have I felt on these occasions, boy as I was! And now, old man as I am, as I walk back in memory over those holy hours, my soul "doth magnify the Lord." Often when there was a little lull in our grove we would hear the women over in theirs, led on by some modern Miriam, singing and shouting. And we knew and felt that God was among them and that his hosts were pressing the enemy and the cry of victory was in the air. Listen! I can hear them now over the seventy intervening years, singing:

"Our bondage here will end by and by, by and by ;
From Egypt's yoke set free, hail the glorious jubilee,
And to Canaan we'll return by and by, by and by."

These praying groups would sometimes return to the encampment about dusk singing, bringing a half dozen penitents, and when they met at the altar, there was the shout of a king in the camp. Usually under these conditions we had no preaching that night. The leader would throw his voice over the great, surging mass of people and invite sinners to come to Jesus. No preaching and no supper that night. The tenters would keep a pot of coffee hot out at the back of their tents for the workers. The altar service would last all night. I have seen more than one man converted at daybreak, as Jacob was at the Jabbok, after an all-night's wrestle with the angel. Here is a custom which was wise but queer, the benediction was never pronounced until the close of the last service of the meeting. Why? Well, this was then a new country. There were many rude, bad men in it, and whisky made them worse. We needed the protection of the State as a worshipping assembly. So we never closed the services, but were a worshipping people all the while we were there. There are very many other interesting features left out of this report of camp meetings of seventy years ago. It is long enough. Let us have the benediction and close and go home to do better and be better, having been to another camp meeting. One smile before we go. As I run back in thought to those days there is one incident recalled which still provokes a smile. The old church was used for the preacher's tent. Mother was a sort of self-appointed superintendent there to see that these men of God had at least moderate comforts: straw for their beds; a bucket and a dipper; a good big lump of home-made soap, which was hardened by putting salt in it as we stirred it off; some home-made flax towels, which sometimes scratched a little if you rubbed hard; and a wash pan for those who did not want to walk down to the spring with Uncle Haskew to wash. As the clans gathered on Saturday, mother slipped off to reconnoiter, to count noses and beds. When she came back, she said to father: "Nathan, we must take another bed up to the preacher's tent." "Well," said father, "we'll attend to it after supper."

 

[rockytopva]

[Camp Meetings continued]

I thought that when we parted at the close of the camp meeting which we attended in the last chapter that I had said what I had to say on the subject; but camp meetings were a great thing with me when I was a boy, and very many scenes and occurrences come up for notice. So if I tell the whole truth they must come in. Among the well remembered things that interested me was the gathering of people from far and near, and then the taking care of them when they came. Besides the tenters, many came in covered wagons, bringing their provisions and a few cooking vessels with them. These did their own cooking by a fire built by a stump or log, slept in their wagons, and so took care of themselves. I have seen as many as twenty or thirty of such groups scattered around in the groves at the same time. Many others came on horseback, the women with big satchels hanging on the horns of their saddles. These were received as visitors and taken care of by the tent holders. I have known my father to set apart a good piece of pasture where there were water and a strong fence, where we turned the horses, fifteen or twenty sometimes. It will appear to the thoughtful that these meetings made large demands on the liberality and generosity of the tent holders and the neighbors near by. It was no child's play to take care of the hundreds of men and women and horses who gathered on these occasions for days together—ten to fifteen days sometimes. They generally began on Friday, and closed Tuesday or Wednesday following. But when the Lord was graciously present, killing and making alive, they were carried over two Sundays. In such cases the preachers and tenters were called together to consult as to what should be done.

I recall several such instances. But one especially impressed itself upon me. It was at Cane Creek, in my own county, about 1842 or 1843. The meeting had been one of great power. One Monday night the atmosphere seemed charged, as it were, with the awful presence and power of God. Sinners walked about softly and with solemn faces, and the service lasted nearly all night. Tuesday morning the preachers and the tent holders came together for consultation, and after serious counsel agreed to go on through the week. This necessitated additional preparations to care for the many then present and others likely to come. And so the tenters got together just inside the inclosure by the shed for a conference. They formed a ring facing to the center, twenty or twenty-five of them — all serious, thoughtful men. A large crowd gathered around them, I, with others, but no one joined them. After the situation had been talked over, it was agreed that certain of them should go home, some to kill a beef, others a hog or two, others to go to the mill for meal and flour, etc.—all to be brought and divided among them as each might need. This settled, there was a minute or two of solemn silence. Then some one suggested a "word of prayer," Uriah Payne, a local preacher, led the prayer, as I recollect, and we all felt that the Lord heard those men talking to him. The prayer ended, they all stood for a moment, still facing each other in the ring; and then one of them began to laugh, and in a moment the laugh flew around that ring as quick as a flash of light, peal after peal. This lasted a minute or two, and then all was as solemn and silent as death. Then one began a half-smothered laugh, like he was trying to keep it down, and with that away went the laugh around the group in absolute convulsions. They would lean forward until their heads almost touched each other, and then backward, while peals of laughter burst in concert from each until they almost lost their breath. This strange proceeding lasted ten or fifteen minutes. Now what was most strange was that this laughter did not produce levity in any beholder. It was a very solemn scene. Somehow it was pleasant to be there, but no one saw anything ludicrous. I had seen what they called the "trance" several times when the person lay as dead for hours and then sprang up shouting the praise of God. But this was a purely laughing exercise. I had never seen it before. But I have seen modifications of it a time or two since. This was twenty or thirty years after the days of the "jerks" or "falling exercise." What was this? Well, I know; for once in a while on my way I have been enabled by grace to so far forget time and self as to just lay all - verily, all on the altar of service for God and humanity, and then I felt the laugh start in my heart. And I can see away ahead of me where the laugh struck those good men. What was it? Why, this: Those good men had left their farms and shops, canceled all business arrangements, shut up their homes, and taken their families, with their substance, bread and meat, and for ten days had given their entire time and labor to the cause of Christ. And all this with no desire or expectation of ever receiving one dollar in return—all purely for God and their fellow-men. Our God never was, and never will be, behindhand with such men for such unselfish devotion. And so "he filled their mouth with laughter, and their lips with rejoicing."

Sometimes, but not always, the Lord rewards his servants "in kind" for their unselfish devotion to his cause. When Jesse Cunnyngham, father of the late Dr. W. G. E. Cunnyngham, fed a hundred men and horses at a great meeting, some of his neighbors said: "The Methodists will eat Cunnyngham out of house and home yet." But they did not consider that they would have to bankrupt Cunnyngham's God before they could do that. I knew that good man. He was our neighbor. I heard him preach seventy years ago. He died at a good old age, "full-handed. " And the influence of his unselfish light shed a sweet light on all around, like the lingering rays of a setting sun that makes a half hemisphere luminous after its ball is far behind the hills.

Among the wonderful manifestations of the power and work of the Spirit in saving sinners, I recall a scene which I witnessed at a camp meeting at Cedar Springs, where father camped. There was great solemnity felt everywhere, a conscious presence that awed the vast assembly. (A no uncommon thing, be it remembered, when God's people are waiting for him.) Sinners were subdued. There was in the audience a large man thirty years old, perhaps—a strong, resolute man with a set, determined look, yet much agitated. I saw him get up suddenly and start out of the congregation. He walked eight or ten steps, and then broke into a run, but stopped abruptly, as if seized by a giant, and fell to the ground, crying out at the top of his voice as one stricken with terror. He had not gotten outside of the enclosure. Some of the brethren went to him at once, and got down on their knees by him. Those old soldiers did not seem much troubled, but looked rather like they were glad of it. And I believe they were. They knew he was wounded, and where, and they knew the tree that bleeds the balm he needed. So they told him of the cross and the Jesus who died on it for sinners. And Uncle Joe Gaston, the old class leader, began to sing, "Show Pity, Lord; O Lord, Forgive," and to clap his hands, as he was wont to do when things went his way. And we knew the case was hopeful. This was Alexander Robeson. He became a local preacher and was the father of the late Rev. William Robeson, who for fifty years was a member of the Holston Conference. Thank God for camp meetings in their season! More than half of the preachers in the Holston Conference fifty years ago had been converted at camp meetings. And in most instances they were the sons of the fathers and mothers who had tented at these meetings. Somehow the head of the Church seems to have found the men he wanted for pioneer and field work among the sons of these old tent holders.

 

[Enoch111]

What is a Methodist? by John Wesley ... The great and the glorious way! It is too bad that it took 1,700 years to perfect!

And now look where Methodist churches have gone.

 

[rockytopva]

[Tennessee]

THESE recollections will be very incomplete if, having spent the ever-to-be-remembered days of my childhood and youth on the farm, I do not give a chapter to that period and tell how a farmer and his family lived in those days in this East Tennessee country, with all its bears and wolves and deer and turkeys still roaming over the mountains and valleys. During those seven years the country had been settled up by young families, most of whom had been renters, as father had been. These had, by industry and economy, made and saved enough money to buy a few acres of government land in the woods. Here they built a cabin and began their life work. When I was a boy, they had cleared a few acres around the cabin and about the pens where they stacked the fodder and kept the horses.

There was plenty for us all to do on that thousand acres of forest—grubbing and brush burning and rail-splitting and fence-making. Yes, and then came the plowing. Mother was good on a stone bruise with a big, warm flax seed or mush poultice, or a piece of fat meat at night. In fact, mother knew a heap of things to help a boy when he got hurt—a stumped toe, a splinter under his nail, or a bee sting—but a stone bruise had to run its course. To meet the numerous wants of his family for food and clothes, almost every farmer had, in addition to his main crops of corn and wheat and oats, vegetables of all kinds, patches of cotton and flax, a flock of sheep, a drove of geese, some hogs, a good milch cow or two, a young bullock for beef and his hide for shoes, a few bee-gums, and a little tobacco around by the pigpens. Look at this list, and you will see that he had his eye on the coming wants of his family. And well he might, for it all had to come out of the farm. And mother, blessed helpmeet! Was just as thoughtful and wise as he to utilize the material furnished by the flocks and farm to feed and clothe us all—cotton and flax from the fields and wool and hides from the flocks. I never had an article of "store clothes" until I was half grown. As for hats, and shoes, we furnished the wool and hides, and old Mr. Blankenship made our wool hats and Uncle Sam. Hogue made the shoes. These were for winter. Our summer hats mother and sisters made of plaited straw. For summer shoes we wore our calf skins, as we used to say when we turned barefoot in the spring. Corn was our main crop—corn and hogs, "hog and hominy." Corn will produce four times as much as wheat per acre, and requires only one-tenth of the seed to seed it down and only one-third of the time from planting till it can be used for food. Wheat must have a well-prepared soil, and be sown in the fall and watched and guarded for nine months before it is even ready to harvest; whereas a woman can take a "sang hoe" in April and with a quart of seed plant a patch around the cabin, and in six weeks she and the children can begin to eat "roastin' ears;" and when it gets too hard for that, she can begin to parch it. She needed to gather only what she used for the day; for it will stand all winter, well protected by its waterproof shucks. Not so with wheat. It must be all gathered at once when ripe, and thrashed, cleaned, and garnered. Corn was king when I was a boy. Mother and sisters, with Polly Shook to help them, worked the cotton and wool and flax into clothes and other needful articles for the family.

As to amusements (better called pleasant occasions), we were not wholly without them. We knew the happy art of combining work and pleasure. Our log-rollings, house-raisings, corn-shuckings, quiltings, singing schools, and an occasional dash with the dogs after a deer or fox were seasons of real enjoyment. The quiltings we were careful to bracket with the others wherever we could; thus, a houseraising and quilting, at such and such a home, day and date, or a log-rolling and quilting. The quilting brought out the girls, who were, and always have been, essential to a good social time, I reckon. "Well you say, "if you could find pleasure in tugging your arms off rolling logs and wearing your finger tips sore at a corn-shucking, you must have been easily pleased." Even so, even so—happy faculty, secret of a contented life, easily pleased ; sweet bud from the plant, heart's-ease, that flowers and fruits in the life of our best friends and companions. Grow it in your garden, child. Well, talking about old house-raising and quilting days of my boyhood brings to mind many cherished recollections of the long ago pleasing scenes and youthful friends—brave, frank, generous young fellows, country born and bred, who would scorn to do an unmanly or ignoble thing; and, as they pass before my eyes, half filled with tears at this moment, I recall with unfeigned pleasure the fact that they were nearly everyone religious. As for the girls (that is what we called them in those days), a whole bevy of them comes trooping by this minute. Not mincing in patent leather slippers and crepitating silks, but walking with an elastic step that tells of healthy muscles, arrayed in gowns woven and fashioned by their own industrious fingers, with now and then a burst of hearty laughter and a snatch of song—all merry as a flock of bobolinks in springtime.

 

[rockytopva]

[Salvation and Love Feast]

THESE chapters have run in a somewhat similar strain long enough. Let us vary the exercises, as the preacher would say, and hold an "experience meeting” I like experience meetings, especially when I feel religious, and I believe most people do under similar circumstances. As a Church we have used this kind of service with great spiritual profit. The love feast and the class meeting were of this character. The love feast is still known among us, often in a very modified form. But many of our young people, even members of the Church, who have never attended a class meeting, know nothing of them, how they are conducted, or why established. The love feast was more a testimony meeting, while the class meeting was designed as a special opportunity for helpful oversight, counsel, and exhortation by one called the leader. The old preachers used to set great store by these meetings. A few sentences giving an account of them, I think, may meet the approval of the reader, and at least preserve some knowledge of a religious exercise so much esteemed in the early history of the Church. They were peculiar to us as people, and subjected us to criticism, and sometimes to ridicule. They were primarily and almost exclusively designed for members of the Church. Strangers and outsiders were allowed to be present as a special privilege. The exercises consisted in an inquiry by the leader into the spiritual condition of the members, particularly the younger members of the class, and giving such admonition and exhortation and encouragement as might be needed and helpful. And many young Christians had occasion to bless God for such help. The preacher in charge usually held class meeting immediately after services. I think I never knew Uncle George Ekin to fail. They called it "meeting the class" and the preacher was leader. The class book was an interesting and important volume. It contained the names of the leaders and the members, usually in families. It was ruled in columns running perpendicularly and marked so as to show at a glance the following facts: The first column was to show whether the member was married or single, and was marked M or S; the second column was to indicate the spiritual condition of the member, whether a believer or seeker, and was marked B or S; the third column recorded the amount of quarterage paid by that member; the other columns were marked P or A or D, for present or absent or distant (from home). The roll was called at every meeting, unless the leader knew who were there and so marked the book. This book was inspected by the pastor at every round, if he desired it, and furnished him particular information concerning every member of that class. If a member were absent twice consecutively, the leader called to see if he were sick. The preacher would sometimes say to me, with kindly concern, after looking over our class book: "David, I see you were not at class the last time." Ah, those frequent reckonings with self and one another wrought careful living and much prayer in a boy, as I well remember. I know no adequate substitute. But I rejoice in all our young people's meetings, and pray God to make and keep them spiritual. But I proposed to have an experience meeting, and here I am writing about an experience meeting. Did you ever notice how much easier it is to talk about a thing than it is to do or be that thing—to talk about religion than it is to be religious, to talk about charity than to be charitable? There is a man staying here in my room and sleeping in my bed who has made observations and had experience on that very subject, and he sometimes gives me a dig in the ribs about it. Have you ever had such a fellow about your house? And now, kind reader, let me explain a little about the next few chapters of these recollections. Two years ago my children asked me to write out for their use my early life—that part with which they were not acquainted. I copy in part from that sketch, which will explain why certain family affairs are made prominent. It was for the children to read at their leisure.

I was converted, as I verily believe, on a cold Sunday in the old log church in the town of Athens, Tenn., when I was in my twelfth year. Our place of worship was two miles in the country, at Cedar Springs; but occasionally when there were no services at our church, we went to town to preaching. It was a cold day; but my parents were going to church, and father asked me if I did not want to go. So I got my colt, and was looking about for a saddle when my father said: "Son, I don't think I would get a saddle; just spread your blanket on the colt, and he will keep you warmer than if you had a saddle.” So I did, and we went to church. Rev. Frank Fanning was the preacher. There were not twenty persons present, perhaps—just a few old people hovering around the stove. I sat with my hands between my knees to keep them warm, and listened to the preacher. He preached about Jesus, but what he said I do not now. But there came into my childish heart a feeling unknown before—a strange sense of the nearness and love of Jesus, of whom mother had so often spoken to me. I felt that I loved him. A simple, childlike tenderness filled my heart and I felt that he loved me. It was a most delightful sensation. I think I wept for very joy, but said nothing. It was all so new and strange and sweet that I knew nothing to say. I looked over to the seat where father and mother were seated, and such a flood of love for them swept through me that I could hardly repress the desire to run and hug them. I did actually love everybody and everything. And that sweet feeling stayed with me after the benediction, and went home with me and made the colt ride better. His coltish ways, worming in and out of the road, did not fret me. It stayed with me all about the house and barn, singing in my hear when alone in the woods; and I wanted to pray, and did not want my dog to catch that little rabbit and kill it. Do you ask, "What was it?" I never once thought what it was. I was happy and peaceful, and everybody was good, and that was enough. Sometimes I would stay around mother and wish she would tell me to do something, that I might have the pleasure of showing her how quickly and well I could do it. It did not occur to me that I had religion. Indeed, I hardly thought a boy could get religion except at Cedar Springs Camp Meeting. But that sweet, love-everybody feeling staid with me till camp meeting. I was glad when that came. At the first call I went to the mourners' bench, and down in the straw father and mother and brother and sister came, and we prayed together, and I began to laugh and hug them. It was the same old feeling of love and tenderness which I felt on the cold Sunday six months before. I said: "I've got religion. Hallelujah!" It was true, and I have never had any better, and all I want now is more of it. So I sometimes tell my friends that I was converted six months before I got religion. Maybe somebody will look religiously wise and shake his theological head at this. But if you will be careful to use these terms in the sense here employed, I do not believe they will hurt your good creed, and perhaps maybe help somebody who does not know what religion is.

Here is the law on this subject: "He that loveth is born of God." Now let us sing with Mrs. Prentiss No. 367. And as the disciplinary "one hour" for love feast is now out, we will for the next chapter have the experience meeting continued.

 

[rockytopva]

[The Move to Virginia] As the Civil War was coming to an end the Federal forces were pressing in on all sides, guided and encouraged by Union friends, of whom there were many. The worst elements of society were aroused in Tennessee, and bad men took occasion to vent their spite on such as they did not like, old family feuds broke out afresh, and the land was full of murder and robbery. Bands of the worst men seized the opportunity, and scoured the country by night, calling quiet old farmers to their doors and shooting them down in cold blood. This caused other bands to unite and retaliate. It was the reign of terror — war at every man's door, neighbor against neighbor. Neither property or life was safe.

Many refugees moved to the area of Cripple Creek, Wythe County, Va. Here we stayed eighteen months, from April, 1864, to October, 1865. And many recollections cluster here. I could not go back to Tennessee after the war without being arrested on the charge of treason, and so we remained in the cabin and I taught school for a few months. The Cripple Creek Camp Meeting described by George Clark Rankin as, "The famous Cripple Creek Campground was on that work. They have kept up campmeetings there for more than a hundred years. It is still the great rallying point for the Methodists of all that section. I have never heard such singing and preaching and shouting anywhere else in my life. I met the Rev. John Boring there and heard him preach. He was a well-known preacher in the conference; original, peculiar, strikingly odd, but a great revival preacher."

[The tale of William "Laughing Bill" Horn]

Cripple Creek camp meeting... And now I will tell you of an amusing incident that occurred at the meeting, as I promised in my last chapter. The neighbors were all there, a most excellent and harmonious people. Many were campers, and among them two of the most successful farmers and traders, who often swapped horses and traded cattle: Isaac Keesling and William Horn (familiarly known as "laughing Bill Horn"). And laughing Bill he was. I saw him almost break down an exercise at Emory and Henry College on a commencement occasion, when Dr. Slade, of Virginia, was delivering the literary address in the big tent on the campus. Horn was sitting on the steps of the platform, and an immense audience of Virginia's best families crowded the pavilion. The Doctor, in his address, to illustrate and fix a thought, related a ridiculous story just in point. Horn was giving serious attention to the speaker, who was moving along in rather a quiet, dignified way. The laughable part of the story came most unexpectedly, and struck Horn in his funny place. Suddenly he was seized by a spell of laughter, and trying to suppress an explosion, he threw his hand over his mouth and held his breath for a moment; but finding it all of no avail, he gave up the hope of suppressing the spasm, and leaping off the steps he ran along the aisle emitting peal after peal of side-splitting laughter; and when outside of the pavilion, he gave full vent to his powers, the whole audience, both within and without the tent, caught the spell and joined him. Dr. Slade could do nothing but wait till Horn and his sympathizers got through. This lasted two or three minutes, for Horn was subject to returning spasms. Quiet being measurably restored, the Doctor was about to begin again, when Horn started back to hear the rest of the address; but just as he got inside of the tent another spasm took him, and all order gave way for several minutes, and Horn left the grounds laughing, till you could hear him for half a mile away.

Well, it is of this William Horn and Isaac Keesling I started to tell you something at the opening of this chapter. Keesling, one of the choice citizens of the country, was religious; Horn, though big-hearted, good neighbor, and kind husband, was not religious. His wife was deeply pious, and, like all good wives, was very anxious that her husband should be religious. So she asked Christians to join her in prayer for his salvation during the meeting. The preachers all loved the big-hearted sinner, and special prayer was made for him. The Lord heard the good woman and her friends, and soon Horn was a penitent at the mourners' bench. But he found no peace, though he came again and again. Finally the two old preachers, John M. McTeer and George Stewart, went to him in the altar with sympathy, prayers, and counsel to encourage his faith and lead him into the light if possible. As they probed into the case, seeking for the hindering cause, McTeer said: "Brother Horn, genuine repentance includes not only sorrow for sin, but restitution for wrong somewhere. Think along that line, and see if there is anything in the way there.'' Horn was silent for a moment, as it in a heart Struggle, and then said: "Call Isaac Keesling here.' Keesling came quickly, hoping, no doubt, to find his neighbor and friend happy in the sense of a conscious pardon. As soon as Horn saw him he pulled out his pocketbook, and, finding a twenty-dollar bill, handed it to him, saying: "Here, Isaac, take this; it is yours! Keesling drew back and said: "Why, Bill, you don't owe me anything. ,, "Yes, I do” said Horn, "for the last time we swapped horses I got you twenty dollars in the trade!' "No, no," said Keesling, "you didn't." "Yes, I did," replied Horn, "take it: And laying the bill down on the bench, he turned and went on with his praying. But Keesling would not take it. They say that when men swap horses neither is willing to confess that he got the worst of the bargain. Well, there was the bill, and neither of the men would have it. What to do with it was a question for the preachers to settle. And after a little pious consultation McTeer and Stewart concluded to put it in the missionary collection, as the charge was a little behind there. And I was told Horn was then happily converted.

 

[rockytopva]

I am also currently reading "The Life of George Clark Rankin" located at

George Clark Rankin. The Story of My Life Or More Than a Half Century As I Have Lived It and Seen It Lived Written by Myself at My Own Suggestion and That of Many Others Who Have Known and Loved Me

George Clark Ranking was born in 1849 in East Tennessee and became a preacher for the Methodist Episcopal Church, South (which would later form into the UMC). George Rankin's life was very similar to David Sullin's in the stories just given. Mr. Rankin would move and spend the rest of his years in Dallas, Texas and become a writer and the editor of the Texas Christian Advocate. A good life! Here are some excerpts from his book...

...Excerpts...

CHAPTER III - Describing, like David Sullins, East Tennessee....

In the earlier days, long before the railroads ran through that section, East Tennessee was a country to itself. Its topography made it such. Its people were a peculiar people - rugged, honest and unique. I doubt if their kind was ever known under other circumstances. Hundreds of them were well-to-do, and now and then, in the more fertile communities, there was actual wealth. Especially was this true along the beautiful water-courses where the farm lands are unequaled, even to this good day.

Among them were people of intelligence and high ideals. No country could boast of a finer grade of men and women than lived and flourished in portions of that "Switzerland of America." Their ministers and lawyers and politicians were men of unusual talent. Some of the most eloquent men produced in the United States were born and flourished in East Tennessee.

Those evergreen hills and sun-tipped mountains, covered with a verdant forest in summer and gorgeously decorated with every variety of autumnal hue in the fall and winter; those foaming rivers and leaping cascades; the scream of the eagle by day and the weird hoot of the owl by night - all these natural environments conspired to make men hardy and their speech pictorial and romantic. As a result, there were among them men of native eloquence, veritable sons of thunder in the pulpit, before the bar, and on the hustings.

But far back from these better advantages of soil and institutions of learning, in the gorges, on the hills, along the ravines and amid the mountains, the great throbbing masses of the people were of a different type and belonged almost to another civilization. They were rugged, natural and picturesque. With exceptions, they were not people of books; they did not know the art of letters; they were simple, crude, sincere and physically brave. They enjoyed the freedom of the hills, the shadows of the rocks and the grandeur of the mountains. They were a robust set of men and women, whose dress was mostly homespun, whose muscles were tough, whose countenances were swarthy, and whose rifles were their defense. They took an interest in whatever transpired in their own localities and in the more favored sections of their more fortunate neighbors. They were social, and practiced the law of reciprocity long before Uncle Sam tried to establish it between this country and Canada.

Who among us, having lived in that garden spot of the world, can ever forget the old-fashioned house-raisings, the rough and tumble log-rollings, the frosty corn-shuckings, the road-workings and the quilting-bees?

And when the day's work was over - then the supper - after that the fiddle and the bow, and the old Virginia reel. None but a registered East Tennessean, in his memory, can do justice to experiences like those. No such things ever happened in just that way anywhere on the face of the earth except in that land of the skies.

Therefore, the man who even thinks of those East Tennesseans as sluggards and ignoramuses who got nothing out of life is wide of the mark. They had sense of the horse kind; and they were people of good though crude morals. No such thing as a divorce was known among them. It was rare that one of them ever went to jail in our section; and, if he did, he was disgraced for life.

I never knew, in my boyhood, of but one man going to the penitentiary and it was a shock to the whole country.

 

[rockytopva]

George Clark Rankin first got the taste of religion in the Sardisean manner...

"Grandfather was kind to me and considerate of me, yet he was strict with me. I worked along with him in the field when the weather was agreeable and when it was inclement I helped him in his hatter's shop, for the Civil War was in progress and he had returned at odd times to hatmaking. It was my business in the shop to stretch foxskins and coonskins across a wood-horse and with a knife, made for that purpose, pluck the hair from the fur. I despise the odor of foxskins and coonskins to this good day. He had me to walk two miles every Sunday to Dandridge to Church service and Sunday-school, rain or shine, wet or dry, cold or hot; yet he had fat horses standing in his stable. But he was such a blue-stocking Presbyterian that he never allowed a bridle to go on a horse's head on Sunday. The beasts had to have a day of rest. Old Doctor Minnis was the pastor, and he was the dryest and most interminable preacher I ever heard in my life. He would stand motionless and read his sermons from manuscript for one hour and a half at a time and sometimes longer. Grandfather would sit and never take his eyes off of him, except to glance at me to keep me quiet. It was torture to me." - George Clark Rankin

And then he got it in good Methodist manner... The spiritual transformation...

George Clark Rankin was then sent to Georgia after his grandfather could no longer care for him. With his belongings in a satchel he had a Colt's navy pistol of a large make. It was an old weapon, and what under the sun I wanted with it is a mystery to me to this good day. I reached the station in time to catch the eleven-o' clock train. I purchased my ticket and boarded the car for the first time in my life. I had one lone lorn fifty-cent piece left in my depleted purse, and that was the sum and substance of my finances for the rest of the trip. As the train whizzed along I looked first at the people and then through the window at the country and thought over my journey and what was to come of it. At nine o'clock we reached Dalton and disembarked. I had never been in a hotel. I saw one not far from the depot and went to it. I asked the clerk what he would charge me for a room that night and he said fifty cents. That was exactly my pile! I called for the accommodation, but before retiring I told him I wanted to leave very early the next morning for Spring Place and that I would pay him then, for no one would be up when I would leave. He smiled and took the silver half dollar. I went to my room, and solitude is no name for the room I occupied that night. After a while I fell into a sound sleep and awoke bright and early the next morning. It was not good daylight. I arose and hastened downstairs, and there sat the same clerk whom I had the night before it had never dawned on me that a hotel clerk sat up all night. I thanked him for his kindness and bade him good-bye in regular old country style.

It was not long until I was in the road and making tracks across the country to where my uncle lived. It was in 1866 and the marks of Sherman's march to the sea were everywhere visible. The country was very much out of repair and all around Dalton the earth was marked with breastworks. Every hill showed signs of war. Much of the fencing had not been restored and here and there I could see blackened chimneys still standing. After I had gotten out a few miles I stopped and took that old pistol with its belt and scabbard out of my satchel and buckled the war paraphernalia around my person on the outside of my coat. Just why I did this I cannot explain. I must have looked a caution in my homespun suit and rural air trudging along that highway with that old army pistol fastened around me. In going down a hill toward a ravine from which there was another hill in front of me I met two men horseback. They spoke to me and eyed me very curiously, but, strange to say, I could not tell why. Why would not men eye such a looking war [bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse][bless and do not curse]nal as that? There were two others riding down the hill in front of me, and as the first two passed me they stopped and looked back at the others and shouted: "Lookout, boys, he is loaded!"

In the course of an hour I was at my uncle's. He was surprised to see me, but gave me a cordial welcome. The first thing he did was to disarm me, and that ended my pistol-toting. I have never had one about my person or home to this good day. And I never will understand just why I had that one. A good dinner refreshed me and I soon unfolded my plans and they were satisfactory to my kind-hearted kinsman. He was in the midst of cotton-picking and that afternoon I went to the field and, with a long sack about my waist, had my first experience in the cottonfield. We then would get ready for the revival occurring that night…

 

[rockytopva]

After the team had been fed and we had been to supper we put the mules to the wagon, filled it with chairs and we were off to the meeting. When we reached the locality it was about dark and the people were assembling. Their horses and wagons filled up the cleared spaces and the singing was already in progress. My uncle and his family went well up toward the front, but I dropped into a seat well to the rear. It was an old-fashioned Church, ancient in appearance, oblong in shape and unpretentious. It was situated in a grove about one hundred yards from the road. It was lighted with old tallow-dip candles furnished by the neighbors. It was not a prepossessing-looking place, but it was soon crowded and evidently there was a great deal of interest. A cadaverous-looking man stood up in front with a tuning fork and raised and led the songs. There were a few prayers and the minister came in with his saddlebags and entered the pulpit. He was the Rev. W. H. Heath, the circuit rider. His prayer impressed me with his earnestness and there were many amens to it in the audience. I do not remember his text, but it was a typical revival sermon, full of unction and power.

At its close he invited penitents to the altar and a great many young people flocked to it and bowed for prayer. Many of them became very much affected and they cried out distressingly for mercy. It had a strange effect on me. It made me nervous and I wanted to retire. Directly my uncle came back to me, put his arm around my shoulder and asked me if I did not want to be religious. I told him that I had always had that desire, that mother had brought me up that way, and really I did not know anything else. Then he wanted to know if I had ever professed religion. I hardly understood what he meant and did not answer him. He changed his question and asked me if I had ever been to the altar for prayer, and I answered him in the negative. Then he earnestly besought me to let him take me up to the altar and join the others in being prayed for. It really embarrassed me and I hardly knew what to say to him. He spoke to me of my mother and said that when she was a little girl she went to the altar and that Christ accepted her and she had been a good Christian all these years. That touched me in a tender spot, for mother always did do what was right; and then I was far away from her and wanted to see her. Oh, if she were there to tell me what to do!

By and by I yielded to his entreaty and he led forward to the altar. The minister took me by the hand and spoke tenderly to me as I knelt at the altar. I had gone more out of sympathy than conviction, and I did not know what to do after I bowed there. The others were praying aloud and now and then one would rise shoutingly happy and make the old building ring with his glad praise. It was a novel experience to me. I did not know what to pray for, neither did I know what to expect if I did pray. I spent the most of the hour wondering why I was there and what it all meant. No one explained anything to me. Once in awhile some good old brother or sister would pass my way, strike me on the back and tell me to look up and believe and the blessing would come. But that was not encouraging to me. In fact, it sounded like nonsense and the noise was distracting me. Even in my crude way of thinking I had an idea that religion was a sensible thing and that people ought to become religious intelligently and without all that hurrah. I presume that my ideas were the result of the Presbyterian training given to me by old grandfather. By and by my knees grew tired and the skin was nearly rubbed off my elbows. I thought the service never would close, and when it did conclude with the benediction I heaved a sigh of relief. That was my first experience at the mourner's bench.

As we drove home I did not have much to say, but I listened attentively to the conversation between my uncle and his wife. They were greatly impressed with the meeting, and they spoke first of this one and that one who had "come through" and what a change it would make in the community, as many of them were bad boys. As we were putting up the team my uncle spoke very encouragingly to me; he was delighted with the step I had taken and he pleaded with me not to turn back, but to press on until I found the pearl of great price. He knew my mother would be very happy over the start I had made. Before going to sleep I fell into a train of thought, though I was tired and exhausted. I wondered why I had gone to that altar and what I had gained by it. I felt no special conviction and had received no special impression, but then if my mother had started that way there must be something in it, for she always did what was right. I silently lifted my heart to God in prayer for conviction and guidance. I knew how to pray, for I had come up through prayer, but not the mourner's bench sort. So I determined to continue to attend the meeting and keep on going to the altar until I got religion.

 

[rockytopva]

Early the next morning I was up and in a serious frame of mind. I went with the other hands to the cottonfield and at noon I slipped off in the barn and prayed. But the more I thought of the way those young people were moved in the meeting and with what glad hearts they had shouted their praises to God the more it puzzled and confused me. I could not feel the conviction that they had and my heart did not feel melted and tender. I was callous and unmoved in feeling and my distress on account of sin was nothing like theirs. I did not understand my own state of mind and heart. It troubled me, for by this time I really wanted to have an experience like theirs.

When evening came I was ready for Church service and was glad to go. It required no urging. Another large crowd was present and the preacher was as earnest as ever. I did not give much heed to the sermon. In fact, I do not recall a word of it. I was anxious for him to conclude and give me a chance to go to the altar. I had gotten it into my head that there was some real virtue in the mourner's bench; and when the time came I was one of the first to prostrate myself before the altar in prayer. Many others did likewise. Two or three good people at intervals knelt by me and spoke encouragingly to me, but they did not help me. Their talks were mere exhortations to earnestness and faith, but there was no explanation of faith, neither was there any light thrown upon my mind and heart. I wrought myself up into tears and cries for help, but the whole situation was dark and I hardly knew why I cried, or what was the trouble with me. Now and then others would arise from the altar in an ecstasy of joy, but there was no joy for me. When the service closed I was discouraged and felt that maybe I was too hardhearted and the good Spirit could do nothing for me.

After we went home I tossed on the bed before going to sleep and wondered why God did not do for me what he had done for mother and what he was doing in that meeting for those young people at the altar. I could not understand it. But I resolved to keep on trying, and so dropped off to sleep. The next day I had about the same experience and at night saw no change in my condition. And so for several nights I repeated the same distressing experience. The meeting took on such interest that a day service was adopted along with the night exercises, and we attended that also. And one morning while I bowed at the altar in a very disturbed state of mind Brother Tyson, a good local preacher and the father of Rev. J. F. Tyson, now of the Central Conference, sat down by me and, putting his hand on my shoulder, said to me: "Now I want you to sit up awhile and let's talk this matter over quietly. I am sure that you are in earnest, for you have been coming to this altar night after night for several days. I want to ask you a few simple questions." And the following questions were asked and answered:

"My son, do you not love God?"

"I cannot remember when I did not love him."

"Do you believe on his Son, Jesus Christ?"

"I have always believed on Christ. My mother taught me that from my earliest recollection."

"Do you accept him as your Savior?"

"I certainly do, and have always done so."

"Can you think of any sin that is between you and the Savior?"

"No, sir; for I have never committed any bad sins."

"Do you love everybody?"

"Well, I love nearly everybody, but I have no ill-will toward any one. An old man did me a wrong not long ago and I acted ugly toward him, but I do not care to injure him."

"Can you forgive him?"

"Yes, if he wanted me to."

"But, down in your heart, can you wish him well?"

"Yes, sir; I can do that."

"Well, now let me say to you that if you love God, if you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior from sin and if you love your fellowmen and intend by God's help to lead a religious life, that's all there is to religion. In fact, that is all I know about it."

Then he repeated several passages of Scriptures to me proving his assertions. I thought a moment and said to him: "But I do not feel like these young people who have been getting religion night after night. I cannot get happy like them. I do not feel like shouting."

The good man looked at me and smiled and said: "Ah, that's your trouble. You have been trying to feel like them. Now you are not them; you are yourself. You have your own quiet disposition and you are not turned like them. They are excitable and blustery like they are. They give way to their feelings. That's all right, but feeling is not religion. Religion is faith and life. If you have violent feeling with it, all good and well, but if you have faith and not much feeling, why the feeling will take care of itself. To love God and accept Jesus Christ as your Savior, turning away from all sin, and living a godly life, is the substance of true religion."

That was new to me, yet it had been my state of mind from childhood. For I remembered that away back in my early life, when the old preacher held services in my grandmother's house one day and opened the door of the Church, I went forward and gave him my hand. He was to receive me into full membership at the end of six months' probation, but he let it pass out of his mind and failed to attend to it.

As I sat there that morning listening to the earnest exhortation of the good man my tears ceased, my distress left me, light broke in upon my mind, my heart grew joyous, and before I knew just what I was doing I was going all around shaking hands with everybody, and my confusion and darkness disappeared and a great burden rolled off my spirit. I felt exactly like I did when I was a little boy around my mother's knee when she told of Jesus and God and Heaven. It made my heart thrill then, and the same old experience returned to me in that old country Church that beautiful September morning down in old North Georgia.

I at once gave my name to the preacher for membership in the Church, and the following Sunday morning, along with many others, he received me into full membership in the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. It was one of the most delightful days in my recollection. It was the third Sunday in September, 1866, and those Church vows became a living principle in my heart and life. During these forty-five long years, with their alternations of sunshine and shadow, daylight and darkness, success and failure, rejoicing and weeping, fears within and fightings without, I have never ceased to thank God for that autumnal day in the long ago when my name was registered in the Lamb's Book of Life.

 

[rockytopva]

Back to the Cripple Creek Camp Meeting, which was a famous place in its time....

I passed my examinations and that year I was sent to the Wytheville Station and Circuit. That was adjoining my former charge. We reached the old parsonage on the pike just out of Wytheville as Rev. B. W. S. Bishop moved out. Charley Bishop was then a little tow-headed boy. He is now the learned Regent of Southwestern University. The parsonage was an old two-and-a-half-story structure with nine rooms and it looked a little like Hawthorne's house with the seven gables. It was the lonesomest-looking old house I ever saw. There was no one there to meet us, for we had not notified anybody of the time we would arrive.

Think of taking a young bride to that sort of a mansion! But she was brave and showed no sign of disappointment. That first night we felt like two whortleberries in a Virginia tobacco wagonbed. We had room and to spare, but it was scantily furnished with specimens as antique as those in Noah's ark. But in a week or so we were invited out to spend the day with a good family, and when we went back we found the doors fastened just as we had left them, but when we entered a bedroom was elegantly furnished with everything modern and the parlor was in fine shape. The ladies had been there and done the work. How much does the preacher owe to the good women of the Church!

The circuit was a large one, comprising seventeen appointments. They were practically scattered all over the county. I preached every other day, and never less than twice and generally three times on Sunday.

I had associated with me that year a young collegemate, Rev. W. B. Stradley. He was a bright, popular fellow, and we managed to give Wytheville regular Sunday preaching. Stradley became a great preacher and died a few years ago while pastor of Trinity Church, Atlanta, Georgia. We were true yokefellows and did a great work on that charge, held fine revivals and had large ingatherings.

The famous Cripple Creek Campground was on that work. They have kept up campmeetings there for more than a hundred years. It is still the great rallying point for the Methodists of all that section. I have never heard such singing and preaching and shouting anywhere else in my life. I met the Rev. John Boring there and heard him preach. He was a well-known preacher in the conference; original, peculiar, strikingly odd, but a great revival preacher.

One morning in the beginning of the service he was to preach and he called the people to prayer. He prayed loud and long and told the Lord just what sort of a meeting we were expecting and really exhorted the people as to their conduct on the grounds. Among other things, he said we wanted no horse- trading and then related that just before kneeling he had seen a man just outside the encampment looking into the mouth of a horse and he made such a peculiar sound as he described the incident that I lifted up my head to look at him, and he was holding his mouth open with his hands just as the man had done in looking into the horse's mouth! But he was a man of power and wrought well for the Church and for humanity.

The rarest character I ever met in my life I met at that campmeeting in the person of Rev. Robert Sheffy, known as "Bob" Sheffy. He was recognized all over Southwest Virginia as the most eccentric preacher of that country. He was a local preacher; crude, illiterate, queer and the oddest specimen known among preachers. But he was saintly in his life, devout in his experience and a man of unbounded faith. He wandered hither and thither over that section attending meetings, holding revivals and living among the people. He was great in prayer, and Cripple Creek campground was not complete without "Bob" Sheffy. They wanted him there to pray and work in the altar.

He was wonderful with penitents. And he was great in following up the sermon with his exhortations and appeals. He would sometimes spend nearly the whole night in the straw with mourners; and now and then if the meeting lagged he would go out on the mountain and spend the entire night in prayer, and the next morning he would come rushing into the service with his face all aglow shouting at the top of his voice. And then the meeting always broke loose with a floodtide.

He could say the oddest things, hold the most unique interviews with God, break forth in the most unexpected spasms of praise, use the homeliest illustrations, do the funniest things and go through with the most grotesque performances of any man born of woman.

It was just "Bob" Sheffy, and nobody thought anything of what he did and said, except to let him have his own way and do exactly as he pleased. In anybody else it would not have been tolerated for a moment. In fact, he acted more like a crazy man than otherwise, but he was wonderful in a meeting. He would stir the people, crowd the mourner's bench with crying penitents and have genuine conversions by the score. I doubt if any man in all that conference has as many souls to his credit in the Lamb's Book of Life as old "Bob" Sheffy.

At the close of that year in casting up my accounts I found that I had received three hundred and ninety dollars for my year's work, and the most of this had been contributed in everything except money. It required about the amount of cash contributed to pay my associate and the Presiding Elder. I got the chickens, the eggs, the butter, the ribs and backbones, the corn, the meat, and the Presiding Elder and Brother Stradley had helped us to eat our part of the quarterage. Well, we kept open house and had a royal time, even if we did not get much ready cash. We lived and had money enough to get a good suit of clothes and to pay our way to conference. What more does a young Methodist preacher need or want? We were satisfied and happy, and these experiences are not to be counted as unimportant assets in the life and work of a Methodist circuit rider.