Sympathizer and Helper, as well as my Judge." He soon became the most
popular preacher in the city, and, thanks to the genuineness of his
gifts and the earnestness of his zeal, he was enabled to add many to the
kingdom of Christ who had been drawn to hear him merely by their
curiosity. Among these was his brother Charles, whose skepticism has
been spoken of elsewhere in this chapter. Becoming deeply impressed at a
revival in Indianapolis, Charles Beecher, by his brother's advice, took
a Bible class, and began to teach the story of Christ. The plan worked
most happily. Charles solved all the questions which had perplexed his
mind, reentered upon his religious life with increased fervor, and soon
afterward entered the ministry.

In August, 1847, Mr. Beecher received a call to Plymouth Church,
Brooklyn, which had just been founded. He promptly accepted it. Breaking
up his home in Indiana, he removed to Brooklyn, and was publicly
installed pastor of Plymouth Church on the 11th of November, 1847. He at
once "announced in Plymouth pulpit the same principles that he had in
Indianapolis, namely, his determination to preach Christ among them not
as an absolute system of doctrines, not as a bygone historical
personage, but as the living Lord and God, and to bring all the ways and
usages of society to the test of His standards. He announced to all whom
it might concern, that he considered temperance and antislavery as a
part of the Gospel of Christ, and should preach them to the people
accordingly."

It is no part of my purpose to consider Mr. Beecher as a politician. I
deal with him here not as the partisan of a political organization, but
as a minister of the Gospel. In politics he has always been a Republican
of the Radical type, but has generally inclined to a conservative
construction of that creed. Many of his warmest friends take issue with
him in his political views, and he has not always been able to lead his
congregation with him in this respect.

Soon after assuming the charge of Plymouth Church Mr. Beecher became a
regular contributor to "The Independent," a paper which he had helped to
establish. His articles were marked with an asterisk, and were widely
read. They dealt with every topic of interest, principally with slavery,
and were vigorous and full of thought. A number of them were afterward
collected and published in book form as the "Star Papers." Since then he
has acted as editor of "The Independent," and is at present the editor
of "The Christian Union." He has written a novel of New England life,
called "Norwood," for "The New York Ledger," and still writes a weekly
paper for that journal. He is at present engaged upon a "Life of
Christ," which is to be the crowning labor of his life. Besides these
labors, he has been until recently almost constantly in the lecture
field, and has spoken frequently before popular assemblies on the
political questions of the day.

These labors have filled up the leisure time left him after discharging
his duties as pastor of his church, which have never been neglected upon
any occasion. In this field his work has been faithful and constant. He
has labored in it for nearly twenty-three years, and his work has not
been without its reward. Such sermons as his could not fail of doing
good even if spoken to half a dozen people. How great, then, must be
their effect when addressed to the vast audiences to which he speaks!
His congregation averages over twenty-five hundred at every service,
being the largest regular congregation in existence. His sermons are
reported by a stenographer, and are printed each week in pamphlet form,
and in this manner find their way into thousands of hands. The "Plymouth
Pulpit," in which they are published, has a regular weekly circulation
of six thousand copies, and it is estimated that each copy is read by
at least five persons, which gives the preacher, in addition to his own
congregation, an audience of more than thirty thousand persons per week.

When Plymouth Church was organized, the wise heads predicted a failure
for it; but it has grown and prospered, until it is now the most compact
and the best organized congregation in America. It is dependent upon no
synod or other religious body, but manages its affairs entirely as
it pleases. The control is vested in a board of trustees, of which Mr.
Beecher is _ex-officio_ a member. He has no superiority in this board
unless called by its members to preside over its meetings. His influence
is of course all-powerful; but as the trustees are shrewd business men,
they sometimes carry out their own views in preference to his. The
church is supported by the sale of its pews. This yields it an annual
income of between forty and fifty thousand dollars. The pastor receives
a handsome salary--said to be the largest in the United States--and the
rest goes into the treasury of the church. As the period of the annual
sale of pews approaches, Mr. Beecher makes it his practice to preach a
sermon in which he reviews the questions of the day, and as far as
possible marks out his course with regard to them during the ensuing
year. This he does in order that every one purchasing a seat in Plymouth
Church may know just what is in store for him from the pulpit. The
surplus revenue, after the pastor's salary and the current expenses are
paid, has until recently been devoted to extinguishing the debt upon the
church. That burden now being off the shoulders of the congregation, the
money is applied to missionary work in Brooklyn. "Two missions have been
largely supported by the funds derived from Plymouth Church, and the
time and personal labor of its members. A mechanics' reading-room is
connected with one of these. No church in the country furnishes a
larger body of lay teachers, exhorters, and missionaries in every
department of human and Christian labor."

Plymouth Church is located in Orange Street, between Hicks and Henry
Streets, in Brooklyn, and not far from the Fulton Ferry. Many strangers,
whose expectations are based upon the fame of the pastor, are
disappointed in the plain and simple exterior of red brick, as they come
prepared to see a magnificent Gothic temple. The interior, however,
rarely fails to please all comers. It is plain and simple, but elegant
and comfortable. It is a vast hall, around the four sides of which
sweeps an immense gallery. The interior is painted white, with a tinge
of pink, and the carpets and cushions of the seats are of a rich, warm
red. The rows of seats in the body of the church are semicircular, and
those in the gallery rise as in an amphitheater, from the front to the
wall. At the far end of the church is a raised platform containing
merely a chair and a table. The table is a pretty ornament, and is the
"Plymouth Pulpit." It is made of wood brought from the Garden of
Gethsemane. In the gallery behind the pulpit is the great organ--one of
the largest and finest in the Union. The church will seat over
twenty-five hundred people, but in order to do this, chairs are placed
in the aisles. These chairs are sold as well as the pews.

Every Sunday morning the streets are filled with persons on their way to
attend the services at Plymouth Church. They come not only from
Brooklyn, but from New York, and even from Jersey City and Hoboken. The
yard and street in front of the church are quickly filled with the
throng, but the doors are guarded by policemen, and none but pew-holders
are permitted to enter the church until ten minutes before the hour for
service. Without this precaution the regular congregation would be
crowded out of their seats every Sunday by strangers.

At ten minutes before the hour for service the doors are thrown open,
and very soon there is not even standing room in the vast interior, and
generally the vestibules are full.

Near the pulpit is placed a basket of exquisite flowers, and sometimes
the entire platform is decorated in the same way. Most commonly some
little child perches itself up among the flowers, and this pretty sight
never fails to bring a smile of pleasure to the pastor's face as he
enters the church. He comes in through a little door under the gallery,
behind the pulpit. He is dressed in a plain suit of black, with a Byron
collar and a black stock. His movements are quiet and graceful, although
quick and energetic. His manner in opening the services is quiet and
earnest, and at once impresses his hearers with the solemnity of the
occasion. He reads the Bible in an easy, unconstrained manner, as if he
enjoyed the task, and in his prayers, which are extempore, he carries
the hearts of all his hearers with him to the Throne of Grace. He joins
heartily in the singing, which is congregational. It was feared that the
organ would prove a great temptation to do away with this style of
singing, but this has not been the case. The magnificent instrument is
used only to accompany the congregation, and there swells up such a
volume of harmony from this vast throng as is never listened to outside
of Plymouth Church. The singing is wonderful.

The gem of the whole service, however, is the sermon; and these sermons
are characteristic of the man. They come warm and fresh from his heart,
and they go home to the hearer, giving him food for thought for days
afterward. To attempt to describe his manner would be to paint the
sunbeam. Eloquence can be felt, but it can not be described. He enchains
the attention of his auditors from the first, and they hang upon his
utterances with rapt eagerness until the close of the sermon.

He knows human nature thoroughly, and he talks to his people of what
they have been thinking of during the week, of trials that have
perplexed them, and of joys which have blessed them. He takes the clerk
and the merchant to task for their conduct in the walks of business, and
warns them of the snares and pitfalls which lie along their paths. He
strips the thin guise of honesty from the questionable transactions of
Wall Street, and holds them up to public scorn. He startles many a one
by his sudden penetration and denunciation of what that one supposes to
be the secrets of his heart. His dramatic power is extraordinary. He can
hardly be responsible for it, since it breaks forth almost without his
will. It is simply unavoidable with him. He moves his audience to tears,
or brings a mirthful smile to their lips, with a power that is
irresistible. His illustrations and figures are drawn chiefly from
nature, and are fresh and striking. They please the subtlest philosopher
who hears him, and illuminate the mind of the average listener with a
flood of light. He can startle his people with the terrors of the law,
but he prefers to preach the Gospel of Love. "God's love for those who
are scattered and lost," he says, "is intenser and deeper than the love
even of a mother.... God longs to bring you home more than you long to
get there. He has been calling, calling, calling, and listening for your
answer. And when you are found, and you lay your head on the bosom of
Jesus, and you are at rest, you will not be so glad as He will be who
declared that, like a shepherd, he had joy over one sinner that repented
more than over ninety and nine just persons that needed no repentance."

Religion is to him an abiding joy; it is perfect love, and casteth out
fear. It has no gloom, no terror in it, and he says to his people: "If
God gave you gayety and cheer of spirits, lift up the careworn by it.
Wherever you go, shine and sing. In every household there is drudgery;
in every household there is sorrow; in every household there is
low-thoughted evil. If you come as a prince, with a cheerful, buoyant
nature, in the name of God, do not lay aside those royal robes of yours.
Let humor bedew duty; let it flash across care. Let gayety take charge
of dullness. So employ these qualities that they shall be to life what
carbonic acid is to wine, making it foam and sparkle."

The sum and substance, the burden of all his preaching is Christ:
"'Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world!' I
present Jesus to you as the atoning Saviour; as God's sacrifice for sin;
as that new and living way by which alone a sinful creature can ascend
and meet a pure and just God. I bring this question home to you as a
sinner. O man! full of transgressions, habitual in iniquities, tainted
and tarnished, utterly undone before God, what will you do with this
Jesus that comes as God's appointed sacrifice for sin, your only hope
and your only Saviour? Will you accept him? Will you, by personal and
living faith, accept him as your Saviour from sin? I ask not that you
should go with me into a discourse upon the relations of Christ's life,
of his sufferings, of his death; to the law of God, or to the government
of God. Whatever may be the philosophy of those relations, the matter in
hand is one of faith rather than of philosophy; and the question is,
Will you take Christ to be your soul's Saviour?"

Having selected his theme, and formed a general plan of treatment, Mr.
Beecher trusts a great deal to the inspiration of the moment for his
language and illustrations. Some time ago, in reply to a friend who
asked how he prepared his sermons, he said he generally has an idea
during the week as to what he will preach about on Sunday, but does not
attempt any thing like systematic preparation until an hour or two
before going into the pulpit. Sometimes it is easy to block out a
sermon; but again it is hard work, and he does not fairly get into it
until the first bell rings. He writes out the headings of his subject,
and marks the proper places for illustration. He does not confine
himself to this written outline, however, but, once in the pulpit,
changes it according to the impulse of the moment. He never preaches the
same sermon twice, though he may use the same text several times,
treating it in a different way each time. He endeavors to preach his
best sermons on stormy days, in order that the desire to hear his best
efforts may keep his congregation from degenerating into "fair-weather
Christians." "Once," he said, laughing, "it snowed or rained every
Sabbath in a certain winter, and the effort I had to make to remain
faithful to this rule came near killing me." When asked if he studied
his prayers, he answered promptly: "Never. I carry a feeling with me
such as a mother would have for her children were they lost in a great
forest. I feel that on every side my people are in danger, and that many
of them are like babes, weak and helpless. My heart goes out in sorrow
and in anxiety toward them, and at times I seem to carry all their
burdens. I find that when one's heart is wrapped and twined around the
hearts of others, it is not difficult to pray."

The church is provided with a large lecture-room, a study for the
pastor, and an elegant parlor. Mr. Beecher does not pay pastoral visits
to his people, unless he is sent for to visit the sick and dying, or
persons seeking help in their religious struggles. His parishioners are
scattered over so wide a territory that a systematic course of visiting
would consume all his time. In place of these visits, he meets his
congregation at stated times in social gatherings in the church parlor,
and these evenings are looked forward to with eagerness by both pastor
and people.

The most characteristic meeting of this congregation, however, even more
so than the Sunday services, is the Friday evening meeting, which is
held in the lecture-room. This room is plain and simple. It is provided
with comfortable seats and a grand piano. There is no pulpit in it, but
a small table and a chair are placed for the pastor on a low platform
covered with green baize. The object is to banish every thing like
formalism, and to make the meeting as free and unconstrained as a social
gathering. As at the Sunday services, the house is full, but now the
persons present are almost entirely members of the church. Strangers
rarely come to these meetings, and in staying away from them miss the
chance of seeing the true inner life of Plymouth Church. A gentleman who
was present at one of them, a few years ago, wrote the following account
of it for the "Atlantic Monthly:"


Mr. Beecher took his seat on the platform, and, after a short
pause, began the exercises by saying, in a low tone, these words:
"Six twenty-two."

A rustling of the leaves of hymn-books interpreted the meaning of
this mystical utterance, which otherwise might have been taken as
announcing a discourse upon the prophetic numbers. The piano
confirmed the interpretation; and then the company burst into one
of those joyous and unanimous singings which are so enchanting a
feature of the services of this church. Loud rose the beautiful
harmony of voices, constraining every one to join in the song, even
those most unused to sing. When it was ended, the pastor, in the
same low tone, pronounced a name, upon which one of the brethren
rose to his feet, and the rest slightly inclined v their heads....
The prayers were all brief, perfectly quiet and simple, and free
from the routine or regulation expressions. There were but two or
three of them, alternating with singing; and when that part of the
exercises was concluded, Mr. Beecher had scarcely spoken. The
meeting ran alone, in the most spontaneous and pleasant manner....
There was a pause after the last hymn died away, and then Mr.
Beecher, still seated, began, in the tone of conversation, to speak
somewhat after this manner:

"When," said he, "I first began to walk as a Christian, in my
youthful zeal I made many resolutions that were well meant, but
indiscreet. Among others, I remember I resolved to pray, at least
once, in some way, every hour that I was awake. I tried faithfully
to keep this resolution, but never having succeeded a single day, I
suffered the pangs of self-reproach, until reflection satisfied me
that the only wisdom possible, with regard to such a resolve, was
to break it. I remember, too, that I made a resolution to speak
upon religion to every person with whom I conversed,--on
steamboats, in the streets, anywhere. In this, also, I failed, as I
ought; and I soon learned that, in the sowing of such seed, as in
other sowings, times, and seasons, and methods must be considered
and selected, or a man may defeat his own object, and make religion
loathsome."

In language like this he introduced the topic of the evening's
conversation, which was, How far, and on what occasions, and in
what manner, one person may invade, so to speak, the personality of
another, and speak to him upon his moral condition. The pastor
expressed his own opinion, always in the conversational tone, in a
talk of ten minutes' duration, in the course of which he applauded,
not censured, the delicacy which causes most people to shrink from
doing it. He said that a man's personality was not a macadamized
road for every vehicle to drive upon at will, but rather a sacred
inclosure, to be entered, if at all, with the consent of the owner,
and with deference to his feelings and tastes. He maintained,
however, that there _were_ times and modes in which this might
properly be done, and that every one _had_ a duty to perform of
this nature. When he had finished his observations, he said the
subject was open to the remarks of others; whereupon a brother
instantly rose and made a very honest confession.

He said that he had never attempted to perform the duty in question
without having a palpitation of the heart, and a complete turning
over of his inner man. He had often reflected upon this curious
fact, but was not able to account for it. He had not allowed this
repugnance to prevent his doing the duty; but he always had to rush
at it and perform it by a sort of _coup de main_, for if he allowed
himself to think about the matter, he could not do it at all. He
concluded by saying that he should be very much obliged to any one
if he could explain this mystery.

The pastor said: "May it not be the natural delicacy we feel, and
ought to feel, in approaching the interior consciousness of another
person?"

Another brother rose. There was no hanging back at this meeting;
there were no awkward pauses; every one seemed full of matter. The
new speaker was not inclined to admit the explanation suggested by
the pastor. "Suppose," said he, "we were to see a man in imminent
danger of immediate destruction, and there was one way of escape,
and but one, which _we_ saw, and he did not, should we feel any
delicacy in running up to him and urging him to fly for his life?
Is it not a want of faith on our part that causes the reluctance
and hesitation we all feel in urging others to avoid a peril so
much more momentous?"

Mr. Beecher said the cases were not parallel. Irreligious persons,
he remarked, were not in imminent danger of immediate death; they
might die to-morrow; but in all probability they would not, and an
ill-timed or injudicious admonition might forever repel them. We
must accept the doctrine of probabilities, and act in accordance
with it in this particular, as in all others.

Another brother had a puzzle to present for solution. He said that
he too had experienced the repugnance to which allusion had been
made; but what surprised him most was, that the more he loved a
person, and the nearer he was related to him, the more difficult he
found it to converse with him upon his spiritual state. Why is
this? "I should like to have this question answered," said he, "if
there _is_ an answer to it."

Mr. Beecher observed that this was the universal experience, and he
was conscious himself of a peculiar reluctance and embarrassment in
approaching one of his own household on the subject in question. He
thought it was due to the fact that we respect more the personal
rights of those near to us than we do those of others, and it was
more difficult to break in upon the routine of our ordinary
familiarity with them. We are accustomed to a certain tone which it
is highly embarrassing to jar upon.

Captain Duncan related two amusing anecdotes to illustrate the
right way and the wrong way of introducing religious conversation.
In his office there was sitting one day a sort of lay preacher, who
was noted for lugging in his favorite topic in the most forbidding
and abrupt manner. A sea captain came in, who was introduced to
this individual.

"Captain Porter," said he, with awful solemnity, "are you a captain
in Israel?"

The honest sailor was so abashed and confounded at this novel
salutation, that he could only stammer out an incoherent reply; and
he was evidently disposed to give the tactless zealot a piece of
his mind, expressed in the language of the quarter-deck. When the
solemn man took his leave, the disgusted captain said, "If ever I
should be coming to your office again, and that man should be here,
I wish you would send me word, and I'll stay away."

A few days after another clergyman chanced to be in the office, no
other than Mr. Beecher himself, and another captain came in, a
roistering, swearing, good-hearted fellow. The conversation fell
upon sea-sickness, a malady to which Mr. Beecher is peculiarly
liable. The captain also was one of the few sailors who are always
sea-sick in going to sea, and gave a moving account of his
sufferings from that cause. Mr. Beecher, after listening
attentively to his tale, said, "Captain Duncan, if I was a preacher
to such sailors as your friend here, I should represent hell as an
eternal voyage, with every man on board in the agonies of
sea-sickness, the crisis always imminent, but never coming."

This ludicrous and most unprofessional picture amused the old salt
exceedingly, and won his entire good will toward the author of it;
so that after Mr. Beecher left, he said, "That's a good fellow,
Captain Duncan. I like _him_, and I'd like to hear him talk more."

Captain Duncan contended that this free and easy way of address was
just the thing for such characters. Mr. Beecher had shown him, to
his great surprise, that a man could be a decent and comfortable
human being although he was a minister, and had so gained his
confidence and good will that he could say _any thing_ to him at
their next interview. Captain Duncan finished his remarks by a
decided expression of his disapproval of the canting regulation
phrases so frequently employed by religious people, which are
perfectly nauseous to men of the world.

This interesting conversation lasted about three-quarters of an
hour, and ended, not because the theme seemed exhausted, but
because the time was up. We have only given enough of it to convey
some little idea of its spirit. The company again broke into one
of their cheerful hymns, and the meeting was dismissed in the usual
manner.


During the late war, Mr. Beecher took an active and energetic part in
support of the cause of the Union. His labors were so severe that his
health was considerably impaired, and his voice began to fail him. His
physicians ordered him to seek rest and recreation in a tour through
Europe, and he reluctantly obeyed them. He was much benefited by his
visit to the Continent, but on his return to England, on his way home,
being solicited to speak in that country in behalf of the Union, he
delivered a series of powerful appeals, which exhausted the greater part
of the strength he had gained on the Continent, and caused him to return
home almost as ill as when he went abroad.

Soon after his return the war closed, and he went to Charleston to
deliver the address at Fort Sumter upon the occasion of the rehoisting
of the flag of the United States over that work. The news of the
assassination of Mr. Lincoln met him upon his return to Brooklyn, and
drew from him one of his most memorable sermons. At the close of
hostilities, he preached a sermon to his congregation, urging
forgiveness and conciliation toward the South as the policy of the hour,
saying truly that that crisis was a rare opportunity which would never
come again, if spurned. The sermon was unpopular, and caused him some
trouble even in his own congregation.

Mr. Beecher is now fifty-seven years old, but is still in the flush of
his intellectual vigor. His eye is as bright, his step as firm and
elastic, and his voice as clear and ringing as when he preached his
first sermon. His powers have grown with his work, and every year he
seems to rise higher in his intellectual supremacy. As a pulpit orator,
he has no superior, and certainly there is no man in all this round
earth whose eloquence has been productive of greater good to the cause
he serves. He is a stout, stocky man in appearance, with a large square
face and heavy features. It is the face of a great orator and a genial,
warm-hearted man. He is careful and temperate in all his habits--except
that he will work too hard--and enjoys robust health. He lives plainly
and dresses simply. He impresses one at once with his immense energy,
and you would recognize him immediately as a man of unusual power in his
community. Said a friend not long since, "I was standing by Beecher in a
book-store to-day. He was perfectly still, as he was waiting for a
parcel to be done up, but he reminded me of a big locomotive full of
steam and fire, and ready to display its immense force at any moment."

Mr. Beecher is not only a preacher, but a capital farmer. He has a model
farm at Peekskill, on the Hudson, and is brimful of agricultural and
horticultural theories, which he carries into practice successfully. His
love for flowers is a perfect passion, and dates from his boyhood. He is
an excellent mechanic, and makes the repairs on his own premises, as far
as he can, with a keen relish, which he has doubtless inherited from his
father. He is thoroughly read in history, and as an art critic has no
superior. His house is filled with art gems, which are his pride. He has
not lost the love of reverie which marked his boyhood, but he is
eminently a practical man, and prefers the practical questions of
theology to those merely theoretical. He is as little like the typical
parson as one can imagine, and yet he is one whose place will be hard to
fill when he is gone, and whose works will live in the grateful memory
of those whom his counsel has saved from sin, and his sympathy
encouraged to continue in the path of duty.




CHAPTER XXXII.

PETER CARTWRIGHT.


One of the most remarkable men in the American ministry is PETER
CARTWRIGHT, the "Backwoods Preacher." Sixty-seven years of ministerial
labors have passed over his head, and yet he still continues in the
field in which he has done such good service, and retains all the
popularity and much of the fire of his younger days.

He was born in Amherst County, Virginia, on the 1st of September, 1785.
His father had been a soldier in the Revolutionary War, and his mother
was an orphan. Shortly after the close of the war, the Cartwrights
removed from Virginia to Kentucky, which was then an almost unbroken
wilderness. The journey was accompanied with considerable danger, as the
Indians were not yet driven west of the Ohio, but the family reached
their destination in safety. For two years they lived on a rented farm
in Lincoln County, Kentucky, and at the end of that time removed to what
was called the Green River Country, and settled in Logan County, nine
miles south of Russellville, the county seat, and within one mile of the
State line of Tennessee.

The portion of Logan County in which young Cartwright's childhood and
youth were passed was the very last place one Would have cared to bring
up a candidate for the ministry. It was called "Rogue's Harbor," and was
thickly settled with fugitives from justice from all parts of the Union.
They actually constituted a majority of the inhabitants of the district,
and when the respectable citizens sought to bring them to justice they
readily "swore each other clear," and thus set the law at defiance. They
carried on such a course of outrage and violence that the respectable
citizens were at length compelled to combine for defence against them by
means of an organization known as the Regulators. Several fierce
encounters took place between the desperadoes and the Regulators, in
which many lives were lost, before the supremacy of the law was
established.

"When my lather settled in Logan County," says Mr. Cartwright, "there
was not a newspaper printed South of Green River, no mill short of forty
miles, and no schools worth the name. Sunday was a day set apart for
hunting, fishing, horse-racing, card-playing, balls, dances, and all
kinds of jollity and mirth. We killed our meat out in the woods, wild,
and beat our meal and hominy with a pestle and mortar. We stretched a
deer-skin over a hoop, burned holes in it with the prongs of a fork,
sifted our meal, baked our bread, eat it, and it was first-rate eating,
too. We raised, or gathered out of the woods, our own tea. We had sage,
bohea, cross-vine, spice, and sassafras teas in abundance. As for
coffee, I am not sure that I ever smelled it for ten years. We made our
sugar out of the water of the maple-tree, and our molasses, too. These
were great luxuries in those days. We raised our own cotton and flax. We
water-rotted our flax, broke it by hand, scutched it, picked the seed
out of the cotton with our fingers; our mothers and sisters carded,
spun, and wove it into cloth, and they cut and made our garments and
bed-clothes, etc. And when we got on a new suit thus manufactured, and
sallied out into company, we thought ourselves as _big as any body_."

Young Peter grew up in this rough country with a constitution of iron,
and a fair share of Western courage, independence, and energy. He was
sent by his father to a neighboring school, but the teacher was an
indifferent one, and he learned merely to read and write and cipher
imperfectly.

He was a "wild, wicked boy," he tells us, and grew up to delight in
horse-racing, card-playing, and dancing. His father seems to have
enjoyed having so dashing a son, but his mother, who was a pious woman,
took his course seriously to heart, and wept and prayed over her boy as
only a Christian mother can. She often talked to him, and moved him so
deeply that he frequently vowed to lead a better life; but his pleasures
were too tempting, and he fell back again into his old habits. His
father presented him with a race-horse and a pack of cards, and he
became known among his youthful companions as one of the most fearless
riders and the luckiest fellow at cards in the county. The good mother
wept and prayed all the more, and the boy hid his cards from her to keep
her from burning them.

In 1801, when he was sixteen years old, a change came over him. He had
been out with his father and brother to attend a wedding in the
neighborhood. The affair was conducted with all the uproarious merriment
incident to those days, and when Peter returned home and began to think
over it, he felt condemned at having passed his time in such a manner.
"My mother was in bed," says he. "It seemed to me, all of a sudden, my
blood rushed to my head, my heart palpitated, in a few minutes I turned
blind, an awful impression rested on my mind that death had come to me
and I was unprepared to die. I fell on my knees and began to ask God to
have mercy on me. My mother sprang from her bed, and was soon on her
knees by my side, praying for me, and exhorting me to look to Christ for
mercy, and then and there I promised the Lord if he would spare me I
would seek and serve Him, and I never fully broke that promise. My
mother prayed for me a long time. At length we lay down, but there was
little sleep for me. Next morning I rose, feeling wretched beyond
expression. I tried to read in the Testament, and retired many times to
secret prayer through the day, but found no relief. I gave up my
race-horse to my father and requested him to sell him. I went and
brought my pack of cards and gave them to mother, who threw them into
the fire, and they were consumed. I fasted, watched, and prayed, and
engaged in regular reading of the Testament. I was so distressed and
miserable that I was incapable of any regular business."

Several months passed away, during which time Peter had seasons of
comfort and hopes of forgiveness, but during the greater portion he was
wretched and miserable, filled with such a fear of the devil that he was
almost convinced that Satan was really present with him to keep him from
God. A camp-meeting, held in the vicinity of his father's house, in the
spring of 1801, completed his conversion and gave him peace.

"To this meeting," says he, "I repaired a guilty, wretched sinner. On
the Saturday evening of said meeting I went, with weeping multitudes,
and bowed before the stand, and earnestly prayed for mercy. In the midst
of a solemn struggle of soul, an impression was made on my mind as
though a voice said to me: 'Thy sins are all forgiven thee,' Divine
light flashed all around me, unspeakable joy sprang up in my soul. I
rose to my feet, opened my eyes, and it really seemed to me as if I was
in heaven; the trees, the leaves on them, and every thing seemed, and I
really thought were, praising God. My mother raised the shout, my
Christian friends crowded around me and joined me in praising God.... I
have never doubted that the Lord did, then and there, forgive my sins
and give me religion." He went on his way rejoicing, and in June, 1801,
was formally received into the Methodist Episcopal Church. In May, 1802,
he was appointed an exhorter. He shrank from accepting the position, as
he distrusted his own abilities, but finally yielded to his presiding
elder's wishes and entered upon his work. In the fall of that year his
parents removed to Lewiston County, toward the mouth of the Cumberland
River.

Although he was but eighteen years old, his presiding elder had detected
in him signs of unusual promise, and had resolved to bring him into
active labor for the Church at once, and accordingly, upon his departure
for his new home, Peter was given authority to lay out and organize a
new circuit, the plan of which he was to submit to the presiding elder
for approval. The boy hesitated, frightened by the magnitude of the
task, but being encouraged by his superiors, accepted the trust, and
thus began his labors as a preacher of the Word. Upon reaching his new
home, he attended a tolerably good school in the vicinity, hoping to
acquire a better education, but the pupils and teacher persecuted him so
sorely that he was obliged to withdraw. Determining to lose no time in
waiting for an education, he at once began the work of preaching. Being
possessed of strong natural sense, a ready wit, and being thoroughly
imbued with the spirit of frontier life, he was just the man to carry
the Gospel home to the hearts of the rude pioneers of the great West.
His manner was that of a backwoodsman, and he had no city airs and
graces to offend the plain, rough people to whom he preached. He was
emphatically one of them. He offered them the plain Gospel, and gave
theological theories a wide berth.

His plan of operations was adapted to the rudest intellect. It was to
thunder the terrors of the law into the ears of his converts, or, in his
own words, to "shake them over hell until they smelt brimstone right
strong," and make them see the fearful condition in which they lay by
reason of their sin. Man was to him a wretched, degraded creature, and
the only way to bring him to God was to drive him there by the terrors
of the law. Our preacher had very little faith in the quieter, more
persuasive means of grace. His first effort was to give the souls of his
hearers a good shaking up, bring them face to face with hell and its
torments, and then, having forced them to flee from the wrath to come,
to trust to their future Christian experience for the means of acquiring
a knowledge of the tender mercies of the Saviour. It must be confessed
that this was the only plan open to him in the field in which he
labored. The people to whom he preached were a rude, rough set, mainly
ignorant and superstitious, and many of them sunk in the depths of
drunkenness and viciousness. The Western country was almost a
wilderness. Vast forests and boundless prairies lay on every hand, with
but here and there a clearing with a solitary log cabin in it, or but
two or three at the most. The people lived in the most perfect solitude,
rarely seeing any but the members of their own households. Solitude and
danger made them superstitious, and the absence of schools kept them in
ignorance. They drank to keep off the blues, and when they came together
for amusement they made the most of their opportunities, and plunged
into the most violent sports, which were not always kept within the
bounds of propriety. Churches were as scarce as schools, and until the
Methodist circuit riders made their appearance in the West, the people
were little better than heathen. The law had scarcely any hold upon
these frontiersmen. They were wild and untamed, and personal freedom was
kept in restraint mainly by the law of personal accountability. They
were generous and improvident, frank, fearless, easy-going, and filled
with an intense scorn for every thing that smacked of Eastern refinement
or city life. They were proud of their buckskin and linsey-woolsey
clothes, their squirrel caps, and their horny hands and rough faces.
They would have been miserable in a city mansion, but they were lords
and kings in their log-cabins. To have sent a preacher bred in the
learned schools of New England to such a people would have been folly.
The smooth cadences, the polished gestures, and, above all, the
manuscript sermon of a Boston divine, would have disgusted the men and
women of the frontier. What cared they for predestination or free-will,
or for any of the dogmas of the schools? They wanted to hear the simple,
fundamental truths of the Gospel, and they wanted to hear them from a
man of their own stamp. They wanted a "fire and brimstone" preacher, one
whose fiery eloquence could stir the very depths of their souls, and set
their simple imaginations all ablaze; one who could shout and sing with
true Western abandon; who could preach in his shirt-sleeves, sleep with
them on the bare ground, brave all the dangers of a frontier life, and,
if necessary, thrash any one who dared to insult him. Such was the man
for these sturdy, simple Western folk, and such a man they found in
Peter Cartwright.

Peter went at the task before him with a will. The country being
sparsely settled, people had to travel a long way to get to church, and
it became a matter of expediency for the clergy to hold religious
gatherings at stated points, and to continue them for several days, so
that those who desired to attend might be able to avoid the necessity of
going home every evening and coming back next day. Church edifices being
scarce, these meetings were held in the woods, and a large encampment
was formed by the people in attendance. This was the origin of the
camp-meeting system, which for many years was the only effective way of
spreading the Gospel in the West. It was at a camp-meeting that Peter
obtained religion, and he has ever since been a zealous advocate of, and
a hard worker at, them. From the first he was successful. The fame of
the "boy preacher" went abroad into all the land, and people came in to
the camp from a hundred miles around to hear him. He had little
education, but he knew his Bible thoroughly, and was a ready speaker,
and, above all, he knew how to deal with the people to whom he preached.
He made many converts, and from the first took rank as the most popular
preacher in the West.

Peter not only believed in the overruling power of God, but he was
firmly convinced of the active and personal agency of the devil in human
affairs. Many of the follies and faults of the people around him took
place, he averred, because they were possessed of devils. Each
camp-meeting was to him a campaign against Satan, and in his opinion
Satan never failed to make a good fight for his kingdom. Certainly some
very singular things did occur at the meetings at which he was present,
and, naturally, perhaps, some persons began to believe that Peter
Cartwright possessed supernatural powers. The following incident,
related by him, not only explains some of the phenomena to which I
allude, but also the manner in which he was regarded by some of the
unconverted:

"A new exercise broke out among us, called the 'jerks,' which was
overwhelming in its effects upon the bodies and minds of the people. No
matter whether they were saints or sinners, they would be taken under a
warm song or sermon, and seized with a convulsive jerking all over,
which they could not by any possibility avoid, and the more they
resisted, the more they jerked. If they would not strive against it,
and pray in good earnest, the jerking would usually abate. I have seen
more than five hundred persons jerking at one time in my large
congregations. Most usually persons taken with the jerks, to obtain
relief, as they said, would rise up and dance. Some would run, but could
not get away. Some would resist; on such the jerks were very severe.

"To see those proud young gentlemen and young ladies, dressed in their
silks, jewelry, and prunella, from top to toe, take the jerks, would
often excite my risibilities. The first jerk or so you would see their
fine bonnets, caps, and combs fly, and so sudden would be the jerking of
the head that their long, loose hair would crack almost as loud as a
wagoner's whip.

"At one of my appointments, in 1804, there was a very large congregation
turned out to hear the 'Kentucky boy,' as they called me. Among the rest
there were two very finely dressed, fashionable young ladies, attended
by two brothers with loaded horsewhips. Although the house was large, it
was crowded. The two young ladies, coming in late, took their seats near
where I stood, and their two brothers stood in the door. I was a little
unwell, and I had a phial of peppermint in my pocket. Before I commenced
preaching I took out my phial and swallowed a little of the peppermint.
While I was preaching the congregation was melted into tears. The two
young gentlemen moved off to the yard fence, and both the young ladies
took the jerks, and they were greatly mortified about it....

"As I dismissed the assembly, a man stepped up to me and warned me to be
on my guard, for he had heard the two brothers swear they would
horsewhip me when meeting was out for giving their sisters the jerks.
'Well,' said I, 'I'll see to that.'

"I went out and said to the young men that I understood they intended
to horsewhip me for giving their sisters the jerks. One replied that he
did. I undertook to expostulate with him on the absurdity of the charge
against me, but he swore I need not deny it, for he had seen me take out