USA > Iowa > Marion County > Down on the ridge : reminiscences of the old days in Coalport and down on the ridge, Marion County > Part 3
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Well, I needed them then, but the "Squire " had a hard time convincing me of the fact. Now I sometimes wish. when this poor clay of mine goes wrong, my teacher away back on the Ridge could send me out again for a still longer and tougher rod ( for I was a little particular away back there), and I know I should stand right up, if needs be with back even bare, and cry out, "Lay on Mc Duff. and damned be he who cries enough !"
The first trial in law I ever heard was tried befor "Squire " Martin. This was a case of assault and battery That sounded so funny to me. I didn't know any more than a mink what these terms implied. I had these words all mixed up with a barrel of salt and a ball bat. This case came before the "Squire " on a change of venue from a justice court in Knoxville Township, where it was claimed the plaintiff could not get justice. Van Bennett, whom many of my readers perhaps will remember, appeared for the plaintiff : the name of the attorney for the defense I have forgotten, but I think it was O. B. Ayres, a young attorney who afterwards became judge in his district. The case was ably fought on both sides, and as near as I can remember the "Squire " gave a full measure of justice to both.
George W. and Louisa Martin were both devoted members of the Coal Ridge Baptist Church, having been admitted by letter granted by the Harmony Baptist in Mason County, West Virginia, in 1854, signed by George Long, church clerk. During the seasons of religious revivals in that little old schoolhouse down on the Ridge these two people were always there. They came early to the meetings, which in those days were called for "early candle-lighting." The candles were sometimes stuck into a block of wood suspended against the wall. While the congregation were gathering these two people would sing. Why, I can hear them right now, singing that hymn they loved:
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How happy are they Who their Saviour obey
And have laid up their treasures above : Tongue cannot express The sweet comfort and peace Of a soul in its earliest love.
Mr. Martin was a good man. His ideals were high and his life was clean and wholesome. He was passion- ate and impulsive, and no one knew it better than he. Once in a moment of passion I saw him lose himself. In less than one short hour I saw him again and he was crying like a child, like one whose very soul was torn with sorrow, as he hurried along, almost ran, to lay the bright- est and the best jewels on the altar of another heart he felt, in a moment of passion, he had wronged. Give me the man, big or little, high or low, who can laugh and cry, one who can revel in sunshine and weep under the cloud. Such was the life and character and influence of my old teacher down on the Ridge in the days of old. No boy who came under his influence in that old schoolhouse down there ever went very far wrong, or stayed wrong very long.
Don't get tired, my friends ; let us talk a little longer. Let us talk low and earnestly while we tell the story of another pioneer and his good wife, J. S. Everett. He was "Uncle John " to people far and near. To those on beds of pain he was more than that; he was a father, a friend, yea, a saviour of lives stricken with disease. Though the passing generations may erase that kindly, helpful presence from the memory of men, yet every visit of Uncle John, in answer to the beckoning call of the sick, is entered up to his credit in God's old ledger in heaven. He visited and assisted the sick every day, furnished his own medicine and never made a charge, or asked for cash.
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He, too, like "Squire " Martin, came from Virginia to the new west. He and his life companion, Eliza- beth E. McCown Everett, feasted day after day upon the bitter and sweet incidents of pioneer life. They, like all the rest then, lived in a log house, and had only two rooms with a hallway between. When the elements had worn and beaten the "pointing" here and there from the cracks in that old house, my father, mother, and their four little ones quietly seated in a rough wagon box on an old wooden-skein, linch-pin wagon, drawn by a yoke of oxen, drove by on their way to the little hut under the hill. That was fifty-two years ago, but I remember we stopped for a little call and to get a drink of water, freshly drawn with a pole balanced in a forked post set near the well. This was my first introduction to Uncle John and Aunt "Betty."
Little did I know then the important part these good people would play in my life and the lives of so very many of those who made up the activities of that community. He was one of God's noblemen. He builded him a home. He knew nothing of nor cared for the fierce battle for gold, but every day he made a small deposit in heaven. John S. Everett loved God and served him every day. He was a deacon in the Coal Ridge Baptist Church, in which capacity he served for many years. He never tried to approach the throne of his God without, in bitter tears and with pitiful pleadings, asking for mercy, forgiveness and love.
Many a time have I seen him on a bright Sunday morning in the spring time walking out on the farm, his arms apparently at rest, crossed behind his back, with old Prince, his faithful dog, close behind. He loved nature. He loved to walk in the woods and fields where God loves to meet and talk with his people. But one time this good man walked along down the rows of waving corn when his heart was sad and sore. It had been pierced
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by the arrow of desolation, for a message had winged its way from the south saying that his firstborn, an only boy, had laid down his life under the southern skies, and, wrapped only in his country's blue, he slept.
Uncle John was passionate and impulsive, but at the same time he had a heart as tender as a child's. Like all good men he, too, could join in the chase and laugh and weep like a woman.
To-night while telling the simple story of these two men who laid the foundation so deep and strong under everything that is good down on the Ridge, I am wonder- ing and thinking why my teacher of the long ago and Uncle John, everybody's friend, were not spared for more and more years in the old world's work. And then I close with the thought that it may have been they fell under the weight of life's awful tragedies. But, after all, God knows just when to call his workers home.
And now, as I look back over the short story so sim- ply told, I see the traces of a vanished hand. A pang of sorrow mingles with my story as I write the words tell- ing of the scenes and incidents and people of so long ago. I dare not stop to count the graves of those who have "crossed over the river " and are resting under the trees on the other side. Yet after all these years firm and se- cure this old world stands and guards the tombs of those who gave the old Ridge its birth and place among men. Among all my neighbors and friends and foes who have come upon the stage down there, and, like the fleeting swallow fluttered by, I, too, while my heart feels young and full of hope, must confess that I am slowly but surely passing over the hill. As I look back along the vista of years I cannot say that if some power would resurrect the past and place again upon the boards of my life the for- gotten plays of the old days down there I would be a player. Life's road through this world is too full of
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stones for our tender feet : there are too many keen and hungry thorns to tear and wound to make us desire the trip twice along the paths of this old earth.
CHAPTER IV
RECOLLECTIONS OF SOME OF THE PIONEER PREACHERS THAT LABORED IN THAT VINEYARD HALF A CENTURY AGO
Three times have we sat around the evening lamp and talked over the incidents in the old homeland. We have listened to the story of the old swimming hole, and the old schoolhouse by the side of the road; we have listened to the tale of the early pioneers and their strug- gles ; we have seen tears there, and heard joyous laughter here ; we have stood by the side of the narrow vestibule of heaven and closed the door on the dearest objects God ever gave and then took away; we have been silent witnesses to the growth of youth into manhood and womanhood, down there in the old home place ; we have seen fruit ripen on the tree of never-dying love, and also plighted vows here and there crushed like a dry leaf and scattered by the four winds of heaven : we have witnessed the passing of the pioneer fathers and mothers who laid the foundation so deep and strong and secure under the religious and social structure in the old neighborhood that knew the boys and girls down there half-a-hundred years ago ; we have seen it recorded here and there along the paths of the past how these dear friendships of my youth and of yours fell in the thick strife of life's fierce battle, and to-day in silent wonder we witness the tracings of the
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brush in the hands of the invisible painter, how he touches the crown of those with whom we played and frolicked in the morning time of life, when the unknown years, so full of labors and trials and sorrows, were vet an unsolved problem.
When we think of all these things, when we see what . the rushing tempest of years has done, we stand appalled at the very problem of life. What an enigma ! What a mystery in this thing that brings us into an unknown and unheard-of world, and then a shower and sunshine, then a laugh and a tear, then love and hate and broken vows, and a last sad look upon the world, and the great unknown again !
I have tried to tell in simple story how these pioneers, with their brawny arms and hearts and nerves of steel felled the forest trees, builded their humble, happy homes, tilled the soil and helped one another. They helped to build the house, the barn. They helped to sew and spin and weave and knit and make the quilts. They helped to roll the logs, to chop the wood and husk the corn. They gave no "pink teas" nor played six-handed euchre for prizes. They gave no afternoon receptions for the display of fine jewelry, rich gowns and peekaboo waists. But these men and women down there lived for their husbands, their wives, their children, their homes, their friends and their God.
When I called you around my evening lamp this night I was intent on telling you something of the boys and girls who with me have been carried along with life's mighty tempest, something of life's battles, victories and defeats. But I reserve this thought for another quiet night, when the bright old moon breaks here and there through the silver. I will whisper into your willing ears the story of how they fought and won and lost.
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Now, while you listen, I want to call up the spirits of those who were "hewers of wood and drawers of water" in laying the foundation of that spiritual temple, that character-building, down on the Ridge.
If Joseph and Mary had not dwelt there, no good thing like the Christ could have come out of Nazareth. Had not John S. Everett, Francis Everett, David Durham, James Caldwell and Henry Morthorn met on the first day of May, 1851, and in the house of Mr. Morthorn there erected the ark of the covenant and dedicated it to God : had it not been for the guiding hands of the above-named Christian men and their good wives : had it not been for the spiritual assistance of the Rev. Z. Ball, Deborah, Margaret and Mary Ball, Anthony Kesler, Stephen, Elizabeth and Susan Kesler, in 1853, W. F. and L. N. Amsberry and George W. Martin and their good wives, in 1854 ; had it not been for these people, who lived and prayed and preached the word, from whence would have come the good that has blessed that old home place, that long line of honest toilers in the old world's work ? Whence the church house at the old cross-roads, the music of whose bell week after week still rings out the hour of meeting ? These pio- neer Christians sowed the seed of a spiritual life with- out which we could have had only moral death.
The first pastor of the Coal Ridge Baptist Church was Warren D. Everett. At the first business meeting of the church, held in 1852, W. D. Everett, David Durham and J. S. Everett were elected delegates to the Central Iowa Baptist Association. I am not able to inform you where the association met, but wherever it met the delegates had to walk or go on horseback; and, besides, the trip must have been one of danger and suspense, for the church had, by unanimous consent, voted a donation of $1. 50, all in cash, as a contribution to the expenses of the association. I have heard, and I rather suspect it is
-
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true, that the first pastor of that good old church attended the congregation barefooted. I saw but little of him, for in a very early day he moved with his family to Corydon, Wayne County, where, after a long and useful life. he was gathered into the land where his father had gone before.
In those good old days this little band of God's people met and set up their altars in private houses or in the ad- jacent groves, God's temples, and there, under the shade of the trees ; there where the thrush with its sweet, war- bling notes turned the dense hazel thicket into music : there where the beautiful oriole whispered and chattered his story of love to his mate in the top of the wild cherry tree while they were building their swinging castles in the air ; there, where the tuneful mocking bird, here on his short stay from the sunny southland, chuckled and laughed in the evening twilight, where the saucy bluejay screamed out his challenge to fierce combat, where every night the summer long the singing birds and the sweet wild flowers nodded their good-night to God ; there these good people prayed and sang and worshiped the God of their fathers.
Among the early pastors of the church I mention E. O. Towne. of Pella, and Ball, who lived about two miles north of Knoxville, who served the church in the latter part of the "fifties." I remember it was in the spring of 1857, the Des Moines River had gone beyond its banks in the low land near where Uncle "Billy" Welch then lived, that the Rev. Mr. Ball waded out into the turbulent waters, and, raising his hands toward heaven, asked God to bless and make sacred that spot, even as he mani- fested his approval of a life scene away back yonder in Jordan's stream. Then while the waiting congregation on the shore sang
Oh, happy day, happy day, When Jesus washed my sins away,
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this good old servant of God led down into the water one after another, among whom were my father and mother, who in observance of that beautiful rite laid themselves down with Christ in a watery grave to arise in the newness and glories of a life dedicated to the Mas- ter's service.
Another one of the early pastors of that old church was, as he was called, "Tom Arnold." He was a man of most splendid physique, young and dashing in appear- ance, tall and straight as an arrow, hair as black as a crow and eyes made of the same material, while his voice was full and round and loud. In the winter of 1858-1859 this dashing young minister conducted a "protracted " meeting in the old schoolhouse which has already been described in these reminiscences.
In those days Christian ministers and church mem- bers instead of standing up got right down on their knees alongside the old slab benches to pray ; and such prayers as went up to heaven there! While their bones ached when applied to that old puncheon floor, they wasted no time in telling God of things he already knew, nor what he had already done or intended to do, but right there, gathered around that old wood stove, while the storm king growled and grumbled outside and beat against the walls of that little old house, those people just simply went to their God like a trusting, loving child goes to his parents, told their Heavenly Father what they wanted, and asked only for hearts full of love and mercy, forgiveness, peace, and, some sweetday, a home in heaven.
When "Brother Arnold" doubled down on the hard, cold floor, hands clenched, head thrown back, and began to pray, he grew louder and louder until he could easily have been heard half-a-mile away. He prayed and preached as if God were deaf. But, after all, he was a successful preacher, and a baptising of converts was sure to follow
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his meetings. These scenes usually occurred in mid- winter, when the ice was thick and heavy on the river. Where the water was the proper depth a hole was cut, and into this hole the candidates for baptism, one after another, were led by the big preacher. As a matter of fact I remember persons who, it seemed, took advantage of these occasions for their annual baths, or else they enjoyed the ceremony, because they were on hand and ready to be served every time a fresh hole was cut.
Another of the preachers of that time who served the people on the Ridge was the Rev. Mr. Sperry, father of E. F. Sperry, formerly of Knoxville, but now a resident of Des Moines, where he is an active member of the First Baptist Church.
I now call to mind another of the "divines" who exercised a pastoral care over that little flock down on the Ridge-the Rev. Mr. Whitehead, who lived then in Knoxville, where he owned and operated a woolen mill and had in his employ almost the entire Fee family and myself besides. But I played with the kid too much for a business proposition, and the preacher "fired " me.
You ought to have heard this fellow preach "hell- fire !" Don't you know when he got warmed up to his subject he would step to the front of that little two-by- four rostrum, like a star actor advancing to the footlights, and, looking down, would draw such a picture of that horrible place that we imagined we could see old " Beelze- bub " tearing around down there, throwing dry wood on the flames. My ! we kids lay awake the next two nights thinking about what that preacher said ; and even when we shut our eyes we could see the dreadful picture he drew.
In telling of the many incidents which were a part of the religious activities of that far-off time down there, I would not throw in a single thought of jest or
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humor on a subject so sacred and sweet and uplifting as prayer and song and sermon. I only mention these things as a matter of fact. And when I tell you this night of a preacher down there, not one whose rhetoric, oratory or power of expression swayed the little company, but whose high pitch of excitement so aroused the passions of the people that some of them would break into shouting and dancing with joy, refusing to be restrained until securely resting in the branwy arms of some young farmer whose soothing influence had a very restraining effect, you will have caught a vision of the different type of preachers, who came that way. Don't you know I knew some folks down there in Marion County who, during seasons of this kind, just before sailing their little crafts, always located, in advance, a place to anchor, where they safely rested, secure from war's alarms. I remember one preacher ( now, I don't want you to press me for a name, for I shall not tell you ), who, when warmed up to this subject, would become so excited that he simply tore the air with his arms, shook his head like an old African lion shaking the morning dew from his mane, and in the delirium of his excitement made gestures with his feet, and, to cap the climax, after the storm had subsided he quietly laid one leg across the pulpit and while talking low and earnestly took a shot at a knot-hole, missed it, and expectorated on the floor.
I won't say to you that all the preachers who came to the Ridge were called to be pastors of that church. Some of them were itinerant shepherds seeking the lost sheep of Israel and as many yellow-legged chickens as they might devour.
Rome had its Cæsar great and brave, but stain was on his wreath. But I saw many of the old-time ministers down in the old homeland, whose very presence was like a halo of sweet perfume, and whose very lives were a storehouse of heavenly things, rich and sweet and joyous,
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among whom I would not forget the Rev. E. H. Scharf, who afterward became president of the Central University at Pella. This pure, kind, scholarly Christian man believed in God and worked in His vineyard day after day. For a long time, he came every month over to the Ridge to bring cheer and hope to the people there, to tell them of God. Many times he walked from his home through dust or mud or snow, to tell the people of Christ and His love. He came away over there without script or purse or price. He humbly and thankfully accepted whatever was given, of money, meat or molasses. How sad, indeed, to those who knew this servant of God best, to remem- ber the pitiful afflictions which fell upon him and tried him for days and months and years ere God made him well in leading him gently into the summer land of heaven.
Another saintly servant of his Master I must not forget. He journeyed this way only at long intervals and at the urgent request of the friends he knew down in the southland, and when he came among that people he always brought a message cheering to those who knew God, and telling those who knew him not of His wondrous love and power to save. Every time he preached he delivered two sermons. One was his clean, Christian life, the other his earnest, heartfelt sympathy in the great work to which he had dedicated his life. And when his work was done and God said one day, "Will Barnet, come and walk with me in the ever-blooming garden," he was ready to go. Though his people rejoiced to know that he had gone to such a goodly land, even yet there was a stream of tears along the way from Wayne to Marion when the good man lay down and died.
In telling this story of the past, in reviewing the splendid Christian work and character-building so faith- fully and well executed by those kindly hearts and willing hands in the days of long ago, I sometimes wonder why
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we, then, so little appreciated what they were doing in love and prayer and tears for us. But now that their life's work is long since done and the good seed sowed down there in these long and toilsome days, since added to the unnumbered years gone by, we see, all along the past, milestones telling how these goodly men and women marched around and around the walls of sin and shame and deceit and wrong until the old walls crumbled and fell, and above the noise of the crushed and tumbling stones was heard the still, small voice of God, saying, ' Men and women, be of good cheer, for the record- ing angel has counted my people down there and enough yet remain to guard the shrines you have erected.'
As the sun setting in the west at the close of the day calls mankind to rest from his accumulated and diversified labors and leaves a trail of light behind to guide the belated laborer home, so these good poeple down there on the Ridge, who labored and prayed and preached and loved and wept for us, though dead, and the homes they builded in the fierce battle of toil and tears have long since become the citadels of men and women and romp- ing, laughing children who neither knew nor cared for the life story and sacrifice and labor of those pioneer farmers and preachers, who, with their strong arms and their abiding faith in their God wrested those early homes from the tangled thickets and forests of nature and erected altars here and there in that goodly land from which burning incense went up to heaven day by day-though dead they speak, and the writing angel in heaven through all the yesterdays of the days long ago has written and written and is still writing their thoughts, their acts and their deeds.
It is well, then, now while the old kitchen clock is about to toll the hour of low twelve, to go back and back along the years and refresh our fading memory with those
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things that come to us over the way, sweet with the fragrance that is shed from the many-colored flowers that grow in the beautiful and ever-blooming garden of God.
To-night, as we wend our way on memory's path back over the hill of life and take one more fond look at the old home spot and in fancy listen to the happy voices of the long ago, we see the same dear fathers and mothers and preachers who prayed and sang and wept, who labored and laughed and were glad. We look beyond the desolate and deserted hearthstones that once glowed with light and happiness and love. We can almost see those kindly faces as they come across the flood of vanished years and sing once more the same sweet old songs they used to sing in the faded past.
These simple reminiscences of mine are not the dreams of childhood thought out on the banks of the river of song, where no blight ever destroys the blossom- ing fields and no storm ever beats our life craft against the rocky shore. They are not the dreams of youth, where lazy flocks bleat and herds of cattle low and tangle their voices with the songs of the birds, "the rippling of the waters, the murmuring of the breezes, the roaring of the rivers and the great waters of the deep; " where singing brooks leap far away from some bubbling spring and come romping and galloping through the flowery fields and tangled groves and then break into silvery pearls at our feet. But they are the rekindled memory of middle age, looking back on the phantom boats with tinted sails as they come floating down the river of life from the distant parts of memory-land. Now while we watch the pearly white sails dip in the rippling stream we loiter and rest in the shade with those we loved so dearly in the faded years, and feel once more the touch of vanished hands and the rapturous thrill of the songs and prayers of those who dared the desert waste of death to taste the sweets of glory.
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