University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE HARDSHELL PREACHER.

“THEY'S preachin' down to Bethel Meetin'-house
to-day,” said the Squire at breakfast. Twenty
years in the West could not cure Squire Hawkins
of saying “to” for “at.” “I rather guess as how
the ole man Bosaw will give pertickeler fits to our
folks to-day.” For Squire Hawkins, having been expelled from
the “Hardshell” church of which Mr. Bosaw was pastor, for the
grave offence of joining a temperance society, had become a member
of the “Reformers,” the very respectable people who now call
themselves “Disciples,” but whom the profane will persist in
calling “Campbellites.” They had a church in the village of
Clifty, three miles away.

I know that explanations are always abominable to story
readers, as they are to story writers, but as so many of my readers
have never had the inestimable privilege of sitting under the
gospel as it is ministered in enlightened neighborhoods like Flat
Creek, I find myself under the necessity—need-cessity the Rev.
Mr. Bosaw would call it—of rising to explain. Some people

think the “Hardshells” a myth, and some sensitive Baptist people
at the East resent all allusion to them. But the “Hardshell Baptists,”
or, as they are otherwise called, the “Whisky Baptists,” and
the “Forty-gallon Baptists,” exist in all the old Western and
South-western States. They call themselves “Anti-means Baptists”
from their Antinomian tenets. Their confession of faith
is a caricature of Calvinism, and is expressed by their preachers
about as follows: “Ef you're elected you'll be saved; ef you a'n't,
you'll be damned. God'll take keer of his elect. It's a sin to run
Sunday-schools, or temp'rince s'cieties, or to send missionaries.
You let God's business alone. What is to be will be, and you
can't hender it.” This writer has attended a Sunday-school, the
superintendent of which was solemnly arraigned and expelled
from the Hardshell Church for “meddling with God's business”
by holding a Sunday-school. Of course the Hardshells are prodigiously
illiterate, and often vicious. Some of their preachers
are notorious drunkards. They sing their sermons out sometimes
for three hours at a stretch. Ralph found that he was to ride the
“clay-bank mare,” the only one of the horses that would “carry
double,” and that consequently he would have—according to
Hoosier custom—to take Miss Hawkins behind him. If it had
been Hannah instead, Ralph might not have objected to this
“young Lochinvar” mode of riding with a lady on “the croup,”
but Martha Hawkins was another affair. He had only this consolation:
his keeping the company of Miss Hawkins might serve
to disarm the resentment of Bud. At all events, he had no
choice. What designs the Squire had in this arrangement he
could not tell; but at any rate the clay-bank mare carried him to
meeting on that December morning, with Martha Hawkins behind.
And as Miss Hawkins was not used to this mode of locomotion,
she was in a state of delightful fright every time the
horse sank to the knees in the soft, yellow Flat Creek clay.

“We don't go to church so at the East,” she said. “The mud
isn't so deep at the East. When I was to Bosting— ” but Ralph
never heard what happened when she was to Bosting, for just as
she said Bosting the mare put her foot into a deep hole molded
by the foot of the Squire's horse, and already full of muddy
water. As the mare's foot went twelve inches down into this
track, the muddy water spurted higher than Miss Hawkins's head,
and mottled her dress with golden spots of clay. She gave a little
shriek, and declared that she had never “seen it so at the East.”

The journey seemed a little long to Ralph, who found that the
subjects upon which he and Miss Hawkins could converse were
few; but Miss Martha was determined to keep things going, and
once, when the conversation had died out entirely, she made a desperate
effort to renew it by remarking, as they met a man on
horseback, “That horse switches his tail just as they do at the
East. When I was to Bosting I saw horses switch their tails just
that way.”

What surprised Ralph was to see that Flat Creek went to meeting.
Everybody was there—the Meanses, the Joneses, the Bantas,
and all the rest. Everybody on Flat Creek seemed to be there,
except the old wooden-legged basket-maker. His family was
represented by Shocky, who had come, doubtless, to get a glimpse
of Hannah, not to hear Mr. Bosaw preach. In fact, few were
thinking of the religious service. They went to church as a common
resort to hear the news, and find out what was the current
sensation.

On this particular morning there seemed to be some unusual
excitement. Ralph perceived it as he rode up. An excited crowd,

even though it be at a church-door on Sunday morning, can not
conceal its agitation. Ralph deposited Miss Hawkins on the stile,
and then got down himself, and paid her the closest attention to
the door. This attention was for Bud's benefit. But Bud only
stood with his hands in his pockets, scowling worse than ever.
Ralph did not go in at the door. It was not the Flat Creek custom.
The men gossiped outside, while the women chatted within.
Whatever may have been the cause of the excitement, Ralph could
not get at it. When he entered a little knot of people they became
embarrassed, and the group dissolved itself, and its component
parts joined other companies. What had the current of
conversation to do with him? He overheard Pete Jones saying
that the blamed old wooden leg was in it any how. He'd been
seen goin' home at two in the mornin'. And he could name
somebody else ef he choosed. But it was best to clean out one at
a time. And just then there was a murmur: “Meetin's took up.”
And the masculine element filled the empty half of the “hewed-log”
church.

When Ralph saw Hannah looking utterly dejected, his heart
smote him, and the great struggle set in again. Had it not been
for the thought of the other battle, and the comforting presence
of the Helper, I fear Bud's interests would have fared badly. But
Ralph, with the spirit of a martyr, resolved to wait until he knew
what the result of Bud's suit should be, and whether, indeed, the
young Goliath had prior claims, as he evidently thought he had.
He turned hopefully to the sermon, determined to pick up any
crumbs of comfort that might fall from Mr. Bosaw's meager
table.

In reporting a single specimen passage of Mr. Bosaw's sermon,
I shall not take the liberty which Thucydides and other ancient

historians did, of making the sermon and putting it in the hero's
mouth, but shall give that which can be vouched for.

“You see, my respective hearers,” he began — but alas! I can
never picture to you the rich red nose, the see-sawing gestures,
the nasal resonance, the sniffle, the melancholy minor key, and
all that. “My respective hearers-ah, you see-ah as how-ah as
my tex'-ah says that the ox-ah knoweth his owner-ah, and-ah the
ass-ah his master's crib-ah. A-h-h! Now, my respective hearers-ah,
they're a mighty sight of resemblance-ah atwext men-ah and
oxen-ah” [Ralph could not help reflecting that there was a
mighty sight of resemblance between some men and asses. But
the preacher did not see this analogy. It lay too close to him],
“bekase-ah, you see, men-ah is mighty like oxen-ah. Fer they's
a tremengious defference-ah atwixt defferent oxen-ah, jest as thar
is atwext defferent men-ah; fer the ox knoweth-ah his owner-ah,
and the ass-ah, his master's crib-ah. Now, my respective hearers-ah”
[the preacher's voice here grew mellow, and the succeeding
sentences were in the most pathetic and lugubrious voice], “you
all know-ah that your humble speaker-ah has got-ah jest the
best yoke of steers-ah in this township-ah.” [Here Betsey Short
shook the floor with a suppressed titter.] “They a'n't no sech
steers as them air two of mine-ah in this whole kedentry-ah.
Them crack oxen over at Clifty-ah ha'n't a patchin' to mine-ah.
Fer the ox knoweth his owner-ah, and the ass-ah his master's
crib-ah.

“Now, my respective hearers-ah, they's a right smart sight of
defference-ah atwext them air two oxen-ah, jest like they is atwext
defferent men-ah. Fer-ah” [here the speaker grew earnest, and
sawed the air, from this to the close, in a most frightful way],
“fer-ah, you see-ah, when I go out-ah in the mornin'-ah to yoke-ah

[ILLUSTRATION]

"COME, BUCK-AH!"

[Description: 556EAF. Page 106. In-line engraving of a man in profile, leaning on a book on a table.] up-ah them air steers-ah, and I says-ah, `Wo, Berry-ah! Wo,
Berry-ah! Wo, Berry-ah!' why Berry-ah jest stands stock still-ah
and don't hardly breathe-ah while I put on the yoke-ah, and
put in the bow-ah, and put in the key-ah, fer, my brethering-ah
and sistering-ah, the ox knoweth his owner-ah, and the ass-ah his
master's crib-ah. Hal-le-lu-ger-ah!

“But-ah, my hearers-ah, but-ah when I stand at t'other eend
of the yoke-ah, and say, `Come, Buck-ah! Come, Buck-ah!
Come, Buck-ah! COME, BUCK-AH!' why what do you think-ah?
Buck-ah, that ornery ole Buck-ah, 'stid of comin' right

along-ah and puttin' his neck under-ah, acts jest like some men-ah
what is fools-ah. Buck-ah jest kinder sorter stands off-ah, and
kinder sort puts his head down-ah this ere way-ah, and kinder
looks mad-ah, and says, Boo-oo-oo-OO-ah!”

Alas! Hartsook found no spiritual edification there, and he was
in no mood to be amused. And so, while the sermon drew
on through two dreary hours, he forgot the preacher in noticing
a bright green lizard which, having taken up its winter quarters
behind the tin candlestick that hung just back of the preacher's
head, had been deceived by the genial warmth coming from the
great box-stove, and now ran out two or three feet from his shelter,
looking down upon the red-nosed preacher in a most confidential
and amusing manner. Sometimes he would retreat behind
the candlestick, which was not twelve inches from the preacher's
head, and then rush out again. At each reappearance Betsey
Short would stuff her handkerchief into her mouth and shake in
a most distressing way. Shocky wondered what the lizard was
winking at the preacher about. And Miss Martha thought that
it reminded her of a lizard that she see at the East, the time she
was to Bosting, in a jar of alcohol in the Natural History Rooms.

The Squire was not disappointed in his anticipation that Mr.
Bosaw would attack his denomination with some fury. In fact,
the old preacher outdid himself in his violent indignation at
“these people that follow Campbell-ah, that thinks-ah that obejience-ah
will save 'em-ah, and that belongs-ah to temp'rince
societies-ah and Sunday-schools-ah, and them air things-ah, that's
not ortherized in the Bible-ah, but comes of the devil-ah, and
takes folks as belongs to 'em to hell-ah.”

As they came out the door Ralph rallied enough to remark:
“He did attack your people, Squire.”

“Oh! yes,” said the Squire. “Didn't you see the Sarpent inspirin'
him?”

But when the long, long hours were ended Ralph got on the
clay-bank mare and rode up alongside the stile whence Miss
Martha mounted. And as he went away with a heavy heart, he
overheard Pete Jones call out to somebody:

“We'll tend to his case a Christmas.” Christmas was two
days off.

And Miss Martha remarked with much trepidation that poor
Pearson would have to leave. She'd always been afraid that
would be the end of it. It reminded her of something she heard
at the East the time she was down to Bosting.