chapter i.

Do not infer, kind reader, from the above caption that I really own a church. Such an inference would be a gross nonsequitur. I own no church; and in this am most unpardonably unlike “the city pastors.” But you tell me some very good people believe in pastors owning churches. I collect this from a remark made by a gentleman in my presence just now. He stated that on last sabbath he attended divine service in Mr. Tully’s church, on the corner of Ninth street, between Vine and Myrtle; that he heard there a very excellent sermon from this most amiable divine, That there was nothing doctrinal in it and all parties went away declaring they were so pleased. I believe, too, I have heard many speak of Mr. Elton’s church, on La Nice avenue, between 4th and 5th. They spoke, if I am right, particularly of the noble organ there, of its delicious tones, of the accomplished choir; and of the church as being a very desirable place to visit on account of the wealth and fashion that frequent it. I doubt not many excellent folks really believe that Mr. Tully and Mr. Elton own these churches; and however much I may feel inclined to differ from people in some things, in this at least I am in no condition to offer a very robust dissent. I am much of the opinion that the gentlemen named really own the churches where they officiate. At least until I have some evidence that there is a higher claim to them, I shall not question their rights.

But, reader, understand me: although I own no church, yet I am most anxious to own one, i. e., a house; and as I have not the slightest hope of ever having one unless I build it, I have concluded at once to address myself to that task. My church shall be a fabric in the air; it hence will be cheap. True it is not exactly the thing I should like to call mine; but a sort of shadowy image of it, a dim out­casting of the mind’s draft. Should you at any time, while my work is going forward, find yourself inclined to fault it, remember that you have not the slightest right to do so. The work is most strictly mine, is in no sense yours; and hence you have no right to demur. Besides there is much folly (a thing of which, of course, you can never be guilty) in objecting to things so unsubstantial as mere schemes of the brain; especially, before they are matured, and made to wear some visible, bodily form. Be silent, then, and question nothing respecting my airy work. [141]

My determination is formed: my house shall be of bricks resting on a substantial basis of stone. The bricks shall be pressed bricks, soundly burnt, with all edges straight, and angles sharp. They shall lie in mortar thin and fine, with seams small, and lines without a fault. My walls shall be massive, severely plain, finished inside and out, in every whit to the line of the plummet. My roof shall stand at no odd angle, and shall be covered with slate in the best style. This will last, exclude all water, and will give to my house an air of deep gravity. My cornice shall be heavy and plain, jutting well over the walls; with not a seam, joint, nail head, or mark of a hammer to be seen. My roof shall be adorned with no horns, no battlements, no turrets, no pinnacles, no lightning-daring steeples. No creaking, slamming window shutters in deep green shall disgrace the walls of my house. In front shall stand a single door, an ample, heavy, oaken door, varnished simply, and hence showing its native grain and color. Painted doors on meeting-houses are like hypocrites. They are nice things to look at; but I know not what is beneath.

All this being now done, my house shall be painted some fine neutral tint, giving to it an air of sobriety, purity, and durability. My house shall not be painted in blocks like stone, oh, how I detest such hypocrisy; nor yet in garish white, or scandalous red—not a bit of it. In a word, my house shall stand, in external appearance, severely simple, and in proportions most just, the whole wearing a sober, modest air, with just a little tinge of melancholy playing like a magic spell over the entire fabric.

Such without shall be my house. To the worldly passer-by or flippant belle, this house will not be likely to present many inducements to enter. Such people, like things with wings, prefer to buzz round steeples, or nod where the luxurious notes of some great organ tempt to repose. But should a highly cultured and truly sober man pass this way, he will at once pause before my house, and, folding his arms as if in deep study, he will inspect it closely. Being through, he will be heard to say half inaudibly: “At first I was not struck with that house, but on closer inspection there is something marvelously beautiful there. I cannot resist the inclination to go in.” But hold, gentle reader, we are not ready yet to enter my house.

There are those grounds to which I must next invite your attention. My house is to stand sixty-five feet back from the street, in the middle of a lot a hundred feet wide by two hundred long. This lot is to be inclosed by a fence of wood, heavy and simple, but exceedingly neat—the whole painted the same color of the house. My gate is to be sufficiently heavy but not too large, with all its hinges, screws, latches, locks, and springs perfect. Not a [142] pencil mark shall be seen on that gate, nor the scar of a ruffian’s knife on all that fence. The ground of my lot is to be nearly level, and finely turfed in bluegrass. This shall be kept smoothly and closely cut; and not a straw, nor a particle of litter shall be allowed to lie on it. It is always to be kept so clean and neat that the conclusion cannot be resisted that this is the identical grass which grew in Paradise. Here and there in my lot is to grow a flowering shrub, kept neatly trimmed, and standing in the center of a little circle two feet in diameter, from which the turf is to be removed, and where nothing else is to be allowed to grow. Nothing can be more agreeable to the eye than this fresh little circle of earth, with its fringe of grass and modest shrub. But the chief ornament in my lot, in the way of flowers, is to be the rose—that sad sweet relic of Eden. The stems are to stand tucked up to a wooden frame, with leather straps and tacks in their ends, like virtuous country wives sometimes tuck them up to the cheek of their cabin doors. I have often seen them there, and wondered how sin could ever enter that honest abode guarded by such a sentinel.

As for shade trees for a church yard, reader, I have a fancy of my own, as you will see. I like the aristo­cratic oak—emblem of strength, the chaste ash, the mournful elm, and the plain rustic walnut. These are my choice, and with them my lot shall be adorned. I do not like the cottonwood; it looks to me like a flirt. As for the sycamore it is a methodistic tree, big, pretentious, seldom sound, frequently hollow, a tree for woodcocks and old owls; and then vulgar legends have it that spooks affect to brood on those naked, airy limbs. I do not like the tree.

From the street to the door of my church is to be a broad flagging of stone cut smooth on the upper face, and fitting each other closely. All along on each side of this flagging are to be large scrapers for the feet—a hint which I am persuaded will work like a charm; for not a footprint is to be seen on all that clean grass. Such shall be my church yard.

I am now prepared, reader, to enter my church and acquaint you with the manner in which I am going to fit it up and furnish it. On opening the large front door we find ourselves, as you see, in the first room or entrance. I do not like vesti­bule; neighbor Smith stares at me when I use it, and calls it a “big word.” This room serves to shut out the confusion of the street from the main room of my church; and is to be well provided with racks for wet cloaks and umbrellas, and with mats and rugs for cleaning feet.

Passing now through another door we enter the church-room proper. The floor of this is first to be covered with heavy [143] matting. Then over this is to lie a compact carpet of fine fabric, neat design, and grave fast color. By this means all noise of feet will be absorbed, and the room will wear a quiet air. A church-room, even when there is passing about in it, should be hushed and silent. Nothing is more disagreeable to a person in a thoughtful, meditative mood than the shuffling of feet, and the cracking of boot heels. None but vulgar people ever walk heavy or make a noise in church.

My seats are to be of oak and heavy, with the natural color of the wood preserved. The bottoms are to be broad and deep, the backs of the proper hight and standing at the easiest angle; and both backs and bottoms are to be cushioned well. Plethoric wool- sacks I like the best. So that a stranger on setting down and gliding back into one of these deep soft seats, will draw his coat around him, look askance at his friend and say, this is all right. But now, reader, you are beginning to demur. I insist, however on having my way. When I sit down in a church and am bored by a bad speech, I feel it to be but a poor compensation that I am provided with a good seat; and if I am listening to a fine thing I hate to be fidgeting about on a hard board in quest of a soft place. I still insist on my seats. All along the outer backs of my seats neat leather pockets are to be tacked at proper intervals; and each pocket is to contain a Bible and a hymn book.

My house is to be provided with no spittoons, for I detest filthiness in the house of God. If furnished with anything, it shall be with a few troughs; for although swine take no hints, men do.

My pulpit is to be of substantial oak like my seats, of chaste design but plain, of ample size and moderate hight. It is to be furnished with a plain Bible, and a plain hymn book. I do not like gilt and clasps on Bibles. Clasps especially I dislike. They are a species of hieroglyph the meaning of which is, what I shut open not thou. They originated with the Mother of harlots.

My windows are to be tall and not very wide; the sash hung with weights, and glass trans­parent. I love the pure, glorious light of heaven; and when I see it struggling through stained glass into a church, it reminds me of the pure Gospel struggling through sectarianism into the hearts of the people. My glass shall not be stained. My windows are all to have neat folding shutters, but these are to be hung on the inside, and not outside, of the house. The wood of both windows and shutters is to be oak to correspond with the rest of my house.

The walls and ceiling of my church are to be finished hard, in purest plaster. This done, I then intend to employ some fine artist, Hogarth or Vandyke, to paint them. I shall point him to those [144] long, blank, expressionless intervals between window and window, and between base and ceiling. These, Sir, I shall say to him, I wish you to cover after the best fashion of your art. The persons and scenes with which I want these walls adorned I will furnish you myself from one of the books you see in these pockets. But my walls, let me fancy, are now done, exquisitely done, to the delight of every eye, and the more cultivated the eye the deeper the delight. These walls now teem with sublime sense; the Bible has furnished the thought, and genius has fixed it there. They are a study to the Christian, a study to the stranger; and in Sunday school I teach my children many a lesson from them. But you are murmuring again, reader, and counting the cost of this. Be still, I beseech you, till my work is done.

Not a stove is to stand in my house. Such huge iron fixtures, with their crooked, rust-eaten pipes angling through the house, are fit to be seen no where except in houses of hard-shell Baptists, or predestinated Presbyterians. My house is to be heated by a furnace from beneath. It is to be splendidly lighted up, the whole looking like an enchanted place.

A very amiable Episcopalian lady has just suggested that nothing would add so much to the style of my house as a fine organ. She declares that it is known to her experi­ment­ally, that is to say, she has been so assured by the mediums, that God is delighted most of all with that music which is thumped out of melodeons or ground out of organs. I agreed with her at once, but on thought­lessly suggesting that a conch would greatly add to the bass, she fainted. Other­wise I really believe the result would have been an organ for my house.

Dr. Tidymus has also just called on me to insist that my house will be utterly incomplete without a baptistery. I agreed with the Doctor, and added that, besides, I could make a baptistery a source of revenue to the church by using it as a pond in which to breed fishes for Jews, and frogs for Frenchmen. This he took in high dudgeon and left muttering something about ill-breeding or the like.

Give me the fluent stream, the deep, clear pool embowered in trees when I have to immerse. I love a secluded spot away from the buzz of the city, the dust of the street, and the vulgar gaze of profane crowds. There let me meet a few choice spirits—brethren and sisters in Christ, where all is solemnity, and where all can sing and weep, and enjoy the scene to our hearts’ content. But here for the present I must pause. [145]

chapter ii.

Well, reader, I have at last completed my house; and now that it is done, how sensibly do I feel that it is all of the earth earthly. Having now finished it, I am a little at a loss to know how best to dispose of it. Upon the whole I have decided to make a present of it to a congre­gation of Christians who live in the city where I have built it, but who as yet have no house of worship to meet in. These Christians are a peculiar people, being zealous of good works; they refuse to be known by any other names than those worn by the primitive Christians; and, strange as it may appear to you, they have no creed but the Bible. They seem to me a right worthy people, and I shall make them a present of my house.

Having now enjoyed, gentle reader, an opportunity of meeting for several successive weeks with the congregation to whom I presented my church, and having by inquiry, and personal inter­course made myself pretty well acquainted with them, I propose to give you some account of this rather remarkable, if not singular, people.

The congregation numbers in all fifty. Their personal appearance on entering the church at first struck me as a little odd. They all dress most noticeably plain. I do not mean that either the men or women have any uniform fashion after which they cut; nor that all of either sex dress in the same kind of goods. I mean strictly that they dress very plain. The material in which the men dress, although remarkably neat, and fault­lessly clean, I take to be quite cheap. I should think none of it cost over a dollar a yard. Their clothes are made in the very best style, and worn with exquisite taste. The men remind me of certain specimens of ancient statuary. There is not a garment with which you can dispense with propriety, and yet there is precisely enough. The whole sits so becomingly and easily on the person that although you cannot exactly say it is fine, yet for your life you cannot make an alter­ation without impairing the symmetry of the whole. All that is here said, and I make the remark in high praise, is equally true of the women. One thing among the females struck me with peculiar force—not one has her ears pierced, and they wear no jewelry. I have not seen a single ear pendant, wristlet, or ring, nor among the men so much as a breastpin or watch-seal. I learn that they have these things at home, and wear them on ordinary occasions, but never in the house of God. In that holy place, they say, all should appear in a style remarkably plain, neat, and pure. I think I have never seen a [146] worshiping assembly exhibit, in its outward appearance, so little of earth as this. Being curious to have a reason for it, as I took for granted they had one, I one day approached one of the overseers of the congre­gation and asked him why his brethren dressed thus. He blushed and modestly replied: “Friend, your question is legitimate, but it elicits from me a rather painful answer. There are many poor in our community who cannot afford to dress better than you see us dressed. They would feel pained by a difference in dress which should constantly remind them of this circum­stance. Some of these are here to-day and are members of our body, but you cannot distinguish them. These brethren are very dear to us and we are unwilling to hurt their feelings by dressing better than you see us dressed. Besides, we think it right in us to appear thus in the presence of God. We hence have a double pleasure in it.” I turned away from this good man saying in my heart, these are Christians indeed, and hence know how to “condescend to men of low estate.”

When assembled in their house I noticed that the males and females do not sit together. The fathers take the little boys, the mothers the little girls. I greatly admired this plan, and think the only reason that can be assigned for a promis­cuous sitting is one either of sensuality or pride. The house of God is not the place for men and women to sit touching each other. There is another thing I deem worthy of remark in the sittings of this congre­gation. The members never change their seats. Hence, when a member is absent his seat is vacant. I learn that the congregation make this commend­able use of this arrangement. Whenever a seat is vacant it is at once inferred that something is wrong, either that sickness or misfortune has over­taken the missing member. Inquiry is immediately made, and if anything has happened calling for aid it is promptly extended. An incident occurred a few meetings ago illustrating the advantages of this excellent plan, which I think it worth while to relate.

The seat of a poor but most faithful brother was vacant. His little daughter, however, was present, and was occasionally seen to weep. An aged sister approached her and asked the cause. The artless child replied: “Last night our house was burned and every­thing in it; when I left home poor Ma was weeping, and oh, it hurts me so much.” This aged sister walked forward to the preacher and made the accident known. He at once arose and announced it to the congre­gation, simply adding, “help, brethren, look not every man on his own things but also on the things of others.” The whole congre­gation simul­tane­ously arose and rushed to the stand in front of the pulpit. Two thousand dollars were raised on the spot, and I declare I believe if ten had been [147] needed it would have been raised. I never saw anything like it. Each member seemed to fear that a chance would not be afforded him of doing what he wished. The next morning the whole congre­gation was on the spot of that ruined home. A new house arose, as if by enchant­ment, out of those ashes. That furniture, those beds, that clothing, all came back as if by magic. By the next Lord’s day the only remaining trace of that burnt house was that a better one stood in its stead. The shade trees in the yard were a little scorched, and the ashes of the old home had been strowed along the walk from the door to the front gate.

The manner in which this incident was spoken of in the community gave great offense to members of other churches in town. Men of the world declared outright that this was the only truly Christian church in the place, that they would not give a pinch of snuff for all the other cold, niggardly things in town, and that if they ever joined any congregation at all, it would be the one meeting at Bethel, for this is now the name by which my house is known.

Again, I think I notice something very peculiar in the greetings of these people on coming into their house. They grasp each other in the hand so quick and strong, and give each other a look so cordial, sweet, and kind, that I declare it is worth while attending their church merely to see them meet. Nor can I detect in their inter­course even the slightest approach to vulgar famili­arity. They evidently know how to be courteous, and not only so, they certainly love each other most tenderly. The warm virtuous look of the eye, the amiable unsinister smile, together with a mannerism indescrib­ably witching, most clearly evince this. I am in the habit of attending church at several other places besides this, but no where else do I see anything even approaching what I witness here. These meetings affect me much. My feelings are often deeply moved, and for the life of me I cannot tell why. Every­ body seems delighted to attend the place. The very atmos­phere you breathe seems quick with divine life. The attraction to be here is irresistible, and then you linger on the spot as if held in some strange spell.

In their order of worship several things strike me as noteworthy. In their singing, which, I pronounce excellent, I discover they prefer the older type of tunes. “Old Hundred,” for instance, seems a favorite with them, and in almost all their Lord’s day meetings I notice they sing

“Safely through another week.”

They seem, too, to be much attached to that fine old piece,

“O, thou Fount of every blessing.”

In all this I must confess, I think their taste excellent. Those grand old airs are the very melody of the soul, and those [148] matchless hymns the very utterances of the pious heart. They all sing sitting.

But when the Holy Scriptures are to be read they, all arise, and stand listening in profoundest reverence. While the reading is proceeding each member holds in front an open Bible, looking on. This done, they all resume their seats. They stand, they tell me, as a token of respect for the holy word of God. I could wish the custom universal provided it prevailed through real respect for the Bible and not as a mere form.

Their prayers, in some respects, are remarkable. Every member in the church takes part in them when called upon. They are very free from all conventional forms, and studied phrases. They seem to be more a simple confiding talk with God than anything else. Yet to me there is something grand in those simple measured petitions. They often become deeply affecting. While listening to one the other day I felt as if my heart would break. Determining, if possible, to discover in what this secret power lay, I resolved to jot down one of these prayers and study it. I here transcribe it:

“All-merciful Father, thy little flock, still helpless and poor, are in thy presence again. In the name of our blessed Mediator we come, and since unworthy, in deep humility. Turn not thy face away from us when we cry to thee. Hear us in thy clemency; and when thou hearest, forgive. We have all been kept through another week, have had our bread and clothing from thee. Accept our humble thanks for these thy favors. Teach us to be always grateful, and help us in all our ways to acknow­ledge thee. Keep us in safety through another week. Suffer us not to be tempted. Save our eyes from tears and our feet from wandering. Remember, Lord, especially remember our brother Lamb who lies so sick to-day. His life is in thy hand; may it be thy will to spare him. Pity his anxious wife, pity his helpless little ones; and restore to us our brother again. O! hear us in his behalf. But in all things thy will be done. Amen.”

When I arose I had a secret impression in my heart that God would hear that prayer and spare that man. How this may turn out I cannot tell, but such impressions do me good, and I like to have them. Now in the fore­going prayer there is certainly nothing great or very striking. Indeed, to many it is difficult to see in what its power lies. Ah! reader, its power lies in this, that it was uttered from a pure heart that felt every syllable of it. This is the secret.

Now how striking the contrast between the simple scene I have just been describing, and what I witnessed at Trinity church last week. The Rev. Dr. Specks gave out the week previous [149] that he would deliver a discourse on “The essence of the Logos as psycho­logically concepted εν αρχη.” The flock ventured to predict that the discourse would never be excelled. I was curious to hear it, and so attended. Although service was announced for 10-30, the Rev. Dr. did not enter until 10-35. He entered wearing a long black gown and carrying a very small gold-headed cane. One hand was covered with jetty kid, the other was naked and fair as a maid’s hand. His step was courtly, his look heavenly. He walked forward to the first step of the pulpit; and there dropped on his knees, but said not a word. I shud­dered, and was seized with a vulgar fear that he was a “consulter of familiar spirits,” “a practicer of arts inhibited and out of warrant.”

I was just in the act of leaving in great trepidation, fearing that I might be spelled, when one of his flock, observing my alarm, whispered: “he is wrestling with God in prayer.” This gave me instant relief; I at once became composed, and heard the discourse to its end. It was thirty-two minutes and nine seconds long. During the last part of the discourse the Reverend Doctor became much excited; so much so, that he unconsciously stepped out of the pulpit, and walked half way down the aisle exhorting all the time. Suddenly he fell on his knees saying: “let us silently pray.” I kneeled, but just as my soul was becoming absorbed in communion with God, “Amen,” screamed the Doctor. I was startled, though not half through, informally closed. I now retired, but as I was leaving heard a grave looking man muttering something about “insulting heaven” and “enacting farces in the name of religion,” but I did not stay to collect particulars.

The preaching at Bethel is eminently didactic, that is to say, it is designed to teach the people the holy Scriptures. Hence, it generally consists of a very clear, simple exposition of some chapter, paragraph, or verse. On leaving the church you seldom hear the common question: “How did you like the sermon?” On the contrary, the remark you generally hear is, “I never under­stood that passage so well before.” Indeed, it is a common saying that if you want to hear something nice, go either to Trinity, or Grace Chapel, but if you want to hear the truth, go to Bethel. The discourse being over a hymn is sung, which closes this part of the services of the day.

The next thing in order is the supper. A table is now prepared extending entirely across the house, and covered with a clean white linen. On one end of this, near the preacher, stands the loaf and cup, the latter being in all cases the pure juice of the grape. A simple thanks is offered for the loaf when it is distributed, all partaking of it standing. Next the wine is disposed of in the same way. [150]

I was curious to have a reason for this part of their practice, remon­strating at the same time against their attitude, and their long unwieldy table. They told me that as no position was prescribed in the New Testament, they regarded the matter as left entirely to their own choice; that they preferred standing merely because they thought it the most reverential attitude. They added, however, that as neither this, nor their table, was a question settled by the Bible, it was no matter of conscience with them, that if a better course were pointed out they were quite ready to adopt it; or if any member’s feelings should be hurt with either, they should certainly abandon it. This indicated a spirit so tractable and so nonpro­scriptive as to command my cordial praise, and to make me regret that I had even named their standing or their table. Thus should all questions unsettled by the Bible, be viewed and treated by Christians.

In the evening the congregation again meets, but their time is now spent in reviewing the chapter commented on in the fore­noon. Their inter­course is very free, all taking part in it. They evince a wonderful skill in eliciting the meaning of a passage. I was really surprised at the depth of their penetration, their powers of analysis, and their seeming intuitive perception of divine truth. I attributed it all, however, to the fact that their minds are kept in constant contact with the word of God, which must in all cases, give precision as well as reach to thought.

The public services of the church now usually close; and the members return home to spend the rest of the day in reading, meditation, and prayer. I was remarkably struck with one peculiarity in their private dwellings; every house had a closet for prayer. I have never seen anything of the kind else­where. I am told that every member of the family, at some hour of the day, repairs to this closet for secret prayer. Here fathers take their little sons, and, making them kneel in their presence, put their hands on their little heads, and implore the blessings of God upon them. The mothers especially are said to do this. And certainly I never saw so pious and so well-behaved a set of children as these Christians have. They are never seen gadding about the streets on Sunday, or strolling up and down creeks fishing. The children seem so intel­ligent and kind, that their parents are never so happy as when at home in their society. I wish it were so every­where.

These Christians evince the greatest solicitude for the salvation of their neighbors, often urging upon them privately, in meetings sought for that very purpose, the necessity of becoming obedient to Christ; but if possible, still greater solicitude for the safety of those who have united with them. A few weeks since a man [151] united with the congregation, who was notoriously covetous. The day after he was baptized the Elders visited him, when the following occurred: “We visit you to-day, dear brother, for the purpose of a confidential talk. You are now one of us, dear to us as our own flesh, and we greatly long after the prosperity of your soul. The sin we come to warn you against is covetousness. You have the reputation in this community of being a very covetous man; and we have reason to think you not wholly undeserving the charge. Remember, if you persist in this sin it will ruin your soul. Remember, further, that our congre­gation has not joined you, but you have joined it. It hence has claims not only upon you but upon all you have. We shall expect from you many a proof in the way of liberality that you are deeply penitent for the past, and that you are now wholly consecrated to Christ.” All this was said in a most affectionate spirit, and with deep emotion. The only reply the man made was, “brethren kneel and pray for me.” They all kneeled and prayed and wept together. On arising the man added: “Brethren, you are true men. Nothing but a sense of duty could have prompted this. I thank you for it. But in time past I have sinned and greatly perverted myself. I am young in the cause, and my past life may sometimes have the effect to obscure my judgment and prevent my doing right. Will you counsel me, brethren, and tell me what I ought to do, and with the Lord’s help I will do it.” They said “we will,” and grasped his hand and fell on his neck and wept. That man seems effectually cured; he even thinks the church most mild in its demands upon his liberality.

Thus is every member dealt with that enters their congre­gation. Right off they attack his sins, be they what they may, and never desist until they have either cured him or put him away. They will not endure them that are evil. The reputation, consequently, of the congregation in the community where it meets is most salutary. Its power for good is truly wonderful. It seems destined to effect a complete revolution in its vicinity. True, the other churches of the place effect to treat it with great scorn, pronouncing it not orthodox and the like; but never­the­less it is very evident that it controls, not­with­standing, the best minds and the best hearts in the town. How it should exert such an influence is a complete enigma to partisans, but to no one else. Its power is easily accounted for.

Never have I known a church evince so much regard for a preacher; and never have I known a preacher so much attached to a church. The relation between them seems indissoluble. They love their preacher because he is a good man; and he loves them because they are a pious people. True, he is not a [152] man of great talents, but they say he under­stands the Book and can teach that, and that the greatest genius could do no more. Several very brilliant preachers have visited them at different times, and greatly charmed them with the splendors of their eloquence; but they have uniformly refused to abandon their old and faithful servant. He tells me they are the most considerate people he has ever known; that he has been living with them ten years, and never once during that time has had to name to them his wants; that they anticipate him and pay, as a general rule, even more than they agreed to pay. He says it is a matter of wonder that they should raise his salary so quietly and pay it over so promptly, and withal so delicately. He declares that the manner of his brethren in these matters is more grateful to his feelings than all they do besides.

The congregation suffers no one of its members to be in debt. Not for a moment will they allow the apostle’s injunction, “owe no man anything,” to be disregarded. They will put away a member just as quickly for breaking this precept as for adultery. They say they know no distinction among the commands of God; that they are all alike important with them, and that if a thing be enjoined in the word of God, that is enough for them; that they then resolutely require all their members to comply with it. They consider the disregard of the foregoing precept by sister churches to be productive of incalculable mischief. It is much to be regretted that their example is not universally followed.

If a member of the congregation happens to visit a ball or dance, he or she is not even so much as called upon for an apology. The church takes for granted, and this is well known to all the members, that its yoke has become burden­some, and quietly proceeds to remove it. Such is the promptness of the church to act in this and all like cases, and such the majesty of its calm, affectionate manner, that every act of the kind named is effectually prevented. They have had only two cases to occur in ten years; and these by the course just named were completely cured and reclaimed. The parties never ventured on a second offense.

Again, in their inter­course one with another and with the world, there is another rule from which they resolutely refuse to swerve. In all things they do to others as they would that others should do to them. They tell me they never suffer them­selves even for a moment to disregard it. They train themselves to it, and strengthen them­selves for it, and hence find it most easy in practice. They say that the pleasure arising from scrupulously living up to this rule is one of the most distinct and peculiar belonging to the Christian’s life. They seem to be at an utter loss to [153] under­stand how professors can ever so far forget their best interests and their truest happiness, as to neglect the rule. In the correctness of this judgment, I must confess I feel myself obliged to concur.

But, my dear friend, though I delight to linger over the lineaments of this church, yet must I bring this piece to a close. How long, O! how long, before the religious world will become in spirit and in deed what the Master intended it to be? [154]

[Volume I: December, 1863]

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