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The ancient church of my
nativity and of my foregatherers, like all others of the time, was planted
on a ridge in what was then a dense forest of giant trees; various kinds
of oak, elm, beech, chestnut, hickory, walnut, poplar, sugar-maple, and
such like; with many smaller growths, such as dogwood, sassafras, sumach,
spicewood, interlaced with a tangle of vines, ivy, wild-grape, and the
like, making a jungle that in many places was almost impenetrable. The
country was hilly, but generally free from rocks on the surface, and
exceedingly fertile, abounding in springs, brooks and creeks. These
original forests to one of aesthetic tastes, were superb. I have roamed
through the vast forests of mighty redwood on the Pacific Coast, and
camped among trees sixteen to eighteen feet in diameter and two hundred to
three hundred feet high: I have also seen the gigantea sequoia, of the
Sierras, by far the most colossal growths on the earth; and while these
are unspeakably imposing in size, and stateliness, and antiquity, and the
forests are like immense and awe-inspiring cathedrals, yet for exquisite
beauty, and gorgeous foliage in autumn, I have seen nothing finer than the
original forests of southwestern Pennsylvania. Two generations of hardy
men wore themselves out in clearing away these vast forests and making the
magnificent farms now owned by their posterity. In fact they have overdone
this. It is a thousand pities that the country has been so denuded of its
glorious forests. This makes it look bare, prosaic and common-place.
Particularly is it a shame that the immediate surroundings of the old
rural churches have been stripped so bare of trees. Judge Veech is right
in saying that, "A treeless country church is worse than a tombless
grave." All things considered, it would not be easy to find a richer
section of the earth's surface than was the region we are now thinking of.
The pioneer did not know how rich the country really was, any more than
the old Californian that there were immense treasures of gold underneath
his feet as he walked over the land. The early settler in southwestern
Pennsylvania saw nothing and knew nothing of the immense layers of coal,
the reservoirs of natural gas and oil beneath his feet as he tracked the
forest. He saw only the fertile soil and well-watered country, covered
with giant forests in the depths of which the panther and the savage had
their lair. The Indian must be driven out and the forest cleared away
before homes, schools, and churches could be established. Hence the
forests, which now would be exceedingly valuable, were then a fearful
incumbrance. The pioneer could not get room for his cabin or potato patch
until he had made diligent use of his axe and grubbing hoe. The climate
was far from ideal. The extremes of temperature were great, and the
changes sudden and trying. In winter everything freezable froze, and in
summer everything soluble melted. This added to the strenuousness of the
struggle in subduing the country. But the like is true of most sections of
the globe where the human race has done its best work and made its
greatest achievements. A country where life is easy is not a good place to
develop men, and is not the place where great things are done.
In the heart of this
region, and about eight miles northwest of the present town of Washington,
was placed the church of which I write particularly. The church of Cross
Creek, joined with it in the same charge, was located about ten miles to
the north. For many years it was strictly a rural congregation, though
within the last forty years or more, a small village has grown up around
it. A similar village, somewhat older and larger, grew up around Cross
Greek. The old county has quite a number of such villages, made up largely
of old people, widowed women and the like, who in their age and
loneliness, snuggle up close to the church to spend their last days in
quietness near the sanctuary and the graves of their people. For nearly
the whole of the first hundred years of its history, the church had but
three pastors, — Smith, Anderson and Eagleson, all of them able and
faithful men, and the dust of all of them lies in the adjoining graveyard,
with appropriate monuments erected by the people they served. It is an
ancient and ill-kept churchyard, full of the bones of men and women who
lived toilsome and obscure, but worthy and victorious lives, and who did a
service for God and their country which has laid the whole land under
obligations. There lies the dust of men who were slain in sight of their
burning cabins while defending their wives and little ones from the
ruthless savage; there also the dust of officers and soldiers of the
Revolution; there the ashes of mothers of men who have done great things
for God and their country; there the bones of unknown and unhonored dead,
some of whom were surely great in the sight of the Lord; there also, the
remains of many noble men of my own time who gave their lives for their
country in our great civil war. The graves of representatives of five
generations of my own name and blood are there, and many others might say
the same of theirs.
"Beneath those rugged elms,
that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap;
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Let not Ambition mock their
useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor."
The Rev. Joseph Smith was
the first pastor. He was from York county, Pa., a graduate of Princeton,
and visited the region in April 1779. The first minister who visited that
immediate neighborhood was the Rev. Matthew Henderson, who preached in the
woods near where North Buffalo U. P. church now stands, as early as 1775.
In 1778 a Seceder congregation was organized on that spot, and in October
1779, Mr. Henderson was called to be the pastor, in connection with
Chartiers of the same communion. North Buffalo is but three miles from
Upper Buffalo, yet owing to differences mainly about psalmody, it was
thought right to organize the two congregations in the wilderness quite
close together. As early as 1775, the Rev. John M'Millan visited the
neighborhood of what is now Canonsburg, but owing to Indian troubles did
not permanently settle in that region till 1778, when he became pastor of
Char-tiers and Pigeon Creek. Rev. Thad-deus Dodd settled about the same
time at Ten Mile Creek, a few miles away. M'Millan and Dodd, like Smith,
were graduates of Princeton. All of them were able and scholarly men. I
have before me as I write, the original Minute Book of Cross Creek and
Upper Buffalo, containing a copy of the call issued to Mr. Smith by those
two congregations. It is dated June 21st, 1779, and is signed by one
hundred and sixteen names, most of them probably heads of families. They
were scattered over a widely extended region of country. In the same book
is a copy of a subscription paper with two hundred and nine names, and
opposite each name the amount pledged in pounds and shillings. Among these
names we find those of the two Poe brothers, the famous Indian fighters of
that day, and of subsequent history and romance. The whole amount of
salary pledged was one hundred and fifty pounds, and at the head of the
paper is an explicit stipulation in the following words, "Whereas money
has become of less value and every article has risen to an extravagant
price, therefore we do hereby agree that the said sums shall annually be
regulated by five men chosen in each congregation, and shall be made equal
in value to what said sums would have been in 1774." The war of the
Revolution was going on, currency was greatly depreciated, prices were
extremely high, and hence the necessity of the above provision. Mr. Smith
continued pastor of these two congregations until April 1792, when, dying
suddenly of brain fever, he entered into rest. He was a remarkably
eloquent and fervent man, of the deepest spiritual earnestness, and a
preacher of uncommon pungency and power. Many traditions of his startling
and powerful eloquence in the pulpit still linger in that region. He was
the progenitor of several useful ministers, the Rev. James Power Smith, D.
D. of Richmond, Va., one of the leading ministers in the Southern Church,
being his great-grandson. Many a time have I sat on the broad slab which
covers his tomb in the old churchyard, and read the long inscription
written by his scholarly friend and fellow-worker, Rev. Thaddeus Dodd.
In a log cabin in the deep
woods on his farm near Buffalo, Mr. Smith set up a classical school, and
in it were trained not a few men for the ministry, some of them rather
notable, one being the Rev. James M'Gready, the real founder of the
Cumberland Presbyterian Church, though he never joined it himself. This
M'Gready was an old Buffalo boy, and very notable in his day.
When the war of the
Revolution closed, the finances of the country were in a most deplorable
state, as the continental money was nearly worthless, and coin was
exceedingly scarce and hard to get. The salary of Mr. Smith fell into
arrears and for several years was not paid. The situation became acute,
and at length the question of meeting their obligations to their pastor
had to be squarely faced by the people. He could not go on as things were.
They must support him or lose him. The farmers had plenty of wheat, but no
money, and no way of getting any. The only accessible market where they
could get cash for their wheat or flour was New Orleans, two thousand
miles away by the winding Ohio and Mississippi. Meetings were held and
much prayer was offered up to God. The people were heartbroken at thought
of losing their beloved pastor, and yet what could they do? Plenty of
wheat was offered, and the miller down by the Ohio river, twelve miles
away, was willing to turn it into flour, but how to get the flour to
market, was the question. Who would undertake the long and perilous
journey in a flat-boat, with the flour and bring back the money? At last,
an aged elder, a Mr. William Smiley, stood up and said, "I will go if you
will engage two strong young men to go with me." It was a bold act of
faith in the old man, but he was resolute to make his offer good. By the
promise of a large reward, two young men were persuaded to accompany him.
It was a great and solemn undertaking. The entire distance was through an
almost unpeopled solitude, except as the wilderness swarmed with savages.
There was no way of return except by rowing up the mighty river, or
travelling the whole distance on foot through the forests, subsisting as
best they might. All this old Father Smiley and the people well knew, but
they did not flinch. The farmers carried their wheat to the mill by the
river near where the town of Wellsburg, West Virginia, now stands; it was
made into flour and placed on board a large flat-boat, or scow, built for
the purpose. When the day appointed for starting came, the people
assembled from far and near in a great company; solemn religious services
were held and the weeping people commended their friends and their
enterprise to God. The aged elder stepped aboard with his two helpers,
gave the order to cut loose, and away they floated on the bosom of the
mighty river. Weeks and months went by, and no tidings from the absent
voyageurs. Whenever the people assembled for worship, fervent prayer was
offered up to God in their behalf. In the homes of the people, when the
father of his house gathered his family at the morning and evening altar,
the protection of the Lord was fervently besought to be with Father Smiley
and his enterprise. Little children as they knelt by their beds, were
taught to lisp the name of Father Smiley, and earnestly ask their Father
in heaven to prosper the old elder, to guard him and return him in safety
and peace. Aged saints as they went out into the thickets to pray, poured
out their supplications in the same behalf. Nine weary and anxious months
went by, and at length one Sabbath morning when the people assembled for
worship, there in his accustomed place in front of the pulpit, sat the
sturdy old elder. He would give no particular account of his journey, for
it was the Sabbath, but told the people that if they would assemble on a
week day, he would tell them all. Now he would only say, that he and his
helpers had safely reached their destination, had found a good market, and
had walked the entire distance home, carrying with them a large sum in
gold. The people with songs, and prayers, and tears, thanked God for
having prospered the errand of his venerable servant, and for having
returned him in safety from his long and perilous journey. He brought with
him money enough to pay all arrears and leave a handsome balance in the
treasury. This plain old Scotch-Irish farmer was one of God's genuine
heroes. His name appears in no roll of earthly fame, but doubtless it
shines with peculiar lustre in the roll of saints and heroes which is kept
in heaven. For more than a hundred years, his grave has been in the old
churchyard quite near that of the pastor whom he so deeply loved, and for
whose comfort he was willing to do and to dare so much. Many a time since,
no doubt, in the celestial Paradise, they have talked it all over
together. His descendants have been in the same church ever since, and
some of them are there to-day. However modest and even humble their
station in life, surely they have royal blood in their veins. The question
might here be raised, how many men are there in our great Church to-day
who would undertake an enterprise of equal magnitude and danger, in order
to get money to pay arrears in their pastor's salary, or to keep a church
going in the wilderness, or anywhere else for that matter?
The old Minute Book
referred to above contains a copy of the deed conveying the land on which
the church stands, together with quite a large tract around it. The
consideration was "two ears of corn." The first two buildings were rude
log structures, the third a large barn-like structure of brick, and now
for more than thirty years, there has stood on the same spot a rather
stately building of brick and stone, a memorial to the departed. |
