Extracts from the Missionary’s Diary.

Yesterday I preached my first sermon in a log cabin. When I awoke in the early morning, and looked out of the little window at the head of my bed in the rough, low-roofed attic, a new world seemed to break on my sight. Instead of the narrow, noisy streets and tenanted blocks of the populous eastern city, my eyes rested on one vast green field stretching to the arching horizon, over which brooded a profound silence, intensified by the sacred hush of the Sabbath.

My host offered his own cabin for the forenoon service. His son–a sturdy young man of eighteen, inured to pioneer life–had ridden far and wide to give notice of the meeting, and he was confident of a good attendance. I anticipated the labors of the day with some misgivings, for I had become slavishly accustomed to the use of written sermons; but here, before a log-cabin audience, to speak from manuscript 94 was not to be thought of. For once, at least, I must trust to the grace of Christ, and speak as the Spirit gave utterance. My study was a corner of the loft, my library a pocket Bible.

“Where do all these people come from?” I ejaculated in pleased surprise, as, for a full hour before the time appointed, men, women, and children, afoot, in wagons and ox-teams, continued to arrive. And through the cracks in the loosely-laid, unnailed floor, I could see members of the family engaged in contriving sitting accommodations for the growing congregation. Unplaned oaken boards, placed across trunks, boxes, and huge blocks, soon filled the room, every seat being occupied, while groups of men stood about the door outside, or sat upon the embankment. I would have a “full house” certainly. And what effort had been made by these frontier folk to attend I could easily imagine. Some had walked many miles for the purpose; most had come quite a distance. And the earnest, thoughtful faces that met my gaze, as I descended the ladder, and read the opening hymn,–how reverently their heads were bowed for prayer, and with what hushed interest they listened to the discourse,–I can not soon forget. One woman, who sat surrounded by her family, wept from the announcement of the text till the close of the sermon–wept for joy that, once 95 more, after long deprivation of sanctuary privileges, she could hear the word of God. It was a scene for a painter–that log cabin crowded with representatives of every state in the Union, in every variety of garb, and of all ages, from the gray-haired backwoodsman to the babe in its mother’s arms. No costly organ was here, with its gentle, quiet breathings, or grand and massive harmonies; no trained choir; no consecrated temple, with its Sabbath bell, and spire pointing heavenward; no carpeted aisles and “dim religious light,” and sculptured, cushioned pulpit. But I could not doubt the presence of the Spirit. And when, at the close, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,” was sung to Old Hundred,–sung as if with one voice and soul, the clear, sweet tones of childhood blending with the deeper sounds of manhood and womanhood,–the rough, rude building seemed as the gate of heaven.

My appointment for the afternoon was at a small settlement eleven miles away.

A charming drive through the “oak openings” and over the rolling prairie brought us to the cabin which was to serve as meeting-house. It was a long, low, one-roomed building, the logs of which it was constructed still rejoicing in their primitive covering of bark, the openings between them being closed with clay thrown in by hand. 96 Mr. G., the owner,–a short, gray-haired, brisk little man with a wooden leg, gave me a cordial welcome, and, to show how willing he was to have the meeting in his cabin, pointed to his shoemaker’s bench, and various articles of furniture, including a bedstead, trundle-bed, and bedding, which had been removed from the room, and piled in admirable disorder outside.

“You have been to a great deal of trouble,” I remarked.

“None too much,” he cheerily replied. “I am an old soldier, you see, and that’s why I have to hobble about on this,” pointing to the ancient artificial limb. “I was in the war of 1812, belonged to the cavalry, and at the battle of–”

“Husband,” gently interposed his wife,–an intellectual-looking woman, with a face expressive of goodness,–“the minister will not care to hear of war to-day;” adding, with a blush, “You must excuse us, sir; but it is so long since we have seen one of your profession, or attended religious services, that the days seem too much alike; there is little here to remind us that the Sabbath should be kept holy. O, it is so dreadful–so like heathenism–to live without the ordinances of the gospel! No Sunday school for our children and youth, no servant of God to counsel the dying, comfort the bereaved, and point the heavy-laden to Christ!” 97

“Such a state of things must, indeed, be a great trial to those who love the Saviour,” I observed.

“Yes; and what adds to the trial,” she continued, “is, that members of churches, after they have been here awhile, fall into great laxity in respect to the Lord’s day. Those who were exemplary east, are here seen starting upon or returning from a business journey on Sunday. O, we need some one to gather these straying sheep, and unite them by the public means of grace: many of them, I doubt not, are secretly longing for this. For more than a year I have been praying that God would send a servant of his this way.”

“And sometimes, I dare say, you have felt almost discouraged,” I suggested.

“Yes,” she replied, weeping; “but last week something came to strengthen my faith, and later, intelligence that you were to visit us. Months ago I wrote east for a donation of good reading to scatter among the settlers, but received no response till, last Tuesday, a package of books, tracts, and religious papers arrived. In one of the papers was an article entitled ‘The Pulpit and the Beech Tree.’”

“Here it is,” said the husband, passing her the sheet; “better read it to the parson; there’ll be plenty of time afore the meeting;” and he 98 glanced at a venerable clock screwed to a log over the wide-mouthed clay-stick-and-stone fireplace.

She read as follows: “Nearly a score of years ago, a pioneer sought a home in one of the Western States. He selected a ‘quarter section’ in a dense wilderness, and soon entered upon the arduous work of clearing a farm. He was a man of athletic constitution, and well adapted to cope with the trials on the frontier. He was in the prime of life; and in those days a man was famous according as he had ‘lifted axes upon the thick trees.’ This man was ranked among the leading characters in that region. He could bear up with fortitude under all trials and privations, except those of a religious kind.

“Before his removal to the west, he had enjoyed the privileges of a large and well-regulated church, in which he had for years been a prominent member. To be thus suddenly deprived of those blessed means of grace caused him many painful feelings, and at times almost incapacitated him for ordinary duties. This subject pressed so heavily on his mind, that he often sought relief in laying his wants before God in prayer. One day he enjoyed near access to the throne while on his knees in a secluded part of the forest. He prayed earnestly that God would make that wilderness and solitary place glad with the sound of 99 the gospel. He asked for the church privileges to which he had been accustomed, and he felt assured that God could grant them. So much was he engaged in pleading for this blessing, that he forgot his work. His family looked for his return to dinner, but he came not. They were alarmed, and, making search, found him on his knees. To this man of God there was something peculiarly pleasant in the memory of that approach to the mercy-seat. He loved the spot on which he had knelt, and determined to mark it. It was by the side of a beech tree. He ‘blazed’ it, so that in after years it might remind him of the incident that I have related.

“That prayer was speedily answered. God put it into the hearts of the people of that region to build a sanctuary in the desert. They have now the stated means of grace. That pioneer is one of the officers of the church. The membership is near eighty. The cause of religion seems to be flourishing among them. Not long since it was my privilege to preach in their house of worship; it was filled with an intelligent congregation. At the close of the services, the old man gave me a history of his praying under the beech tree, and, with tears in his eyes, closed by saying, ‘That tree stood only about five feet from the very spot where you stood while preaching for us to-night.’” 100

“There,” said she, at the conclusion of the narrative, “I felt that this was a word in season to me. I fell upon my knees, and, with increased earnestness, pleaded for the privileges of the gospel, and rose feeling, as did the pioneer, that God would grant the request. But how did my heart leap with glad surprise the next day,–that is, last Wednesday,–when a neighbor called to consult me about a place for you to preach in!”

But it was time for service. There was the same thronged attendance and absorbed attention as in the morning. How delightful to proclaim the tidings of great joy to those who are hungering for the word of life! How different from ministering to fashionable worldly hearers, who gather in the house of God for intellectual entertainment, or from motives of custom, respectability, or ostentation, and who are hardened by the very abundance of spiritual instruction!

At the close of the services, with the social freedom of western intercourse, I was introduced to most present, and they all seemed anxious that I should make a home in their neighborhood. How different it would be to settle with this new people, on the precarious subsistence which I might get for my family here, preaching, and perhaps keeping house, in a log cabin, from the situation I must fill, should I accept the call 101 extended by the large and wealthy church in N. A frontier parish on a prairie, on the outskirts of civilization, and a city parish,–what a contrast! But my heart is strongly drawn towards this people. Should I remain with them, what would my money-loving, place-seeking, eastern friends say?

I have passed another delightful Sabbath, notwithstanding certain trifling violations of the proprieties of worship as observed in eastern assemblies.

It struck me quite ludicrously, at first, to see mother’s listening to the preaching while nursing or dandling their infants. Yesterday a fat, burly baby, who, by some singular good fortune, had an apple,–for we never see that fruit here,–let it drop from his fat fist, and it rolled nearly to my feet; and the mother, not in the least disconcerted, gravely came and picked it up, and returned it to her boy. Nobody, however, was disturbed by the incident; all appeared to take it as a matter of course. And I confess I like this absence of fastidious conventionalities. Why should the mother be kept from the house of God because she may not bring her child with her? “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” said the great Preacher when the disciples would drive out of his congregation 102 the mothers and their infants. Is the servant more particular than his Lord?

Then, too, the uncouth garments of many of my log-cabin hearers,–how unlike the elegant and costly apparel worn in our eastern sanctuaries! But I like the western way best as to dress. I enjoy seeing the poor, in his plain attire, sitting unabashed by the side of the man in “goodly apparel.” And when I consider what thousands of starving souls are kept out of Christian churches because they cannot dress in broadcloth and silk, and how much money is wasted and vanity indulged by the bedizened crowds that throng our sanctuaries, I am thankful that the reign of fashion is unknown on the frontier.

But these hardy pioneers are bold and independent thinkers. The preacher must show himself “a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth,” if he would keep his hold on their respect. It will not do to be careless even in teaching the Sabbath school. I was suddenly reminded of this yesterday. Speaking on the subject of benevolence, I had remarked that the poorest of us, if we were careful not to waste, might have something that we could spare as well as not to those needier than ourselves. And I inquired if any scholar could tell me what scripture enforced this lesson. As no one responded, I read the account of the multiplying 103 of the loaves and fishes when Christ fed the fainting multitudes; and coming to the words, “Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost,” I asked, “Do not these words show that we ought to save the pieces, that we may give them to the hungry?”

“No, sir,” promptly answered a lad of about sixteen.

Thinking he had misunderstood the question, I repeated it, saying, “I asked, Thomas,”–for that was the boy’s name,–“if this language does not teach that we should save what we are apt to throw away, that we may have something to give the poor.”

“I do not think it does,” he replied.

“Why not?” I inquired.

“Jesus told the disciples to share the nice new loaves with the people, and to keep the bits and ends for themselves.”

He was right. I had unconsciously been making that great miracle of mercy teach stinginess! How often I had heard it explained to polished audiences in New England in the same way, and not a criticism offered. Yet the one who pointed out this strangely-common error was a child belonging to one of the most thriftless of these frontier families. His name is Jones; and he is, I think, a lad of promise, in whom I am becoming much interested, as also in his father, a restless, 104 singular being, but who is more of a man, in my judgment, than he seems.

I am getting to feel more and more deeply that duty calls me to labor here. If it were not for my dear wife and children, I should decide at once to remain. But how could she get along in this out-of-the-world place? Can she relinquish the comforts of her eastern home, and share with me, for the Master’s sake, the privations of the wilderness? The settlers are kind, and say we shall not suffer. A subscription paper has been started, and has already a goodly array of names; and brother Palmer–an excellent man of some means–says he will furnish me money with which to build a neat cottage.