Half a Century | Page 4

to my mind, to have some
special need of my attention. Nothing was done on that day which
could have been done the day before, or could be postponed till the day
after. Coffee grinding was not thought of, and once, when we had no
flour for Saturday's baking, and the buckwheat cakes were baked the
evening before and warmed on Sabbath morning, we were all troubled
about the violation of the day.
There was a Presbyterian "meeting-house" two miles east of
Wilkinsburg, where a large, wealthy congregation worshipped. Rev.
James Graham was pastor, and unlike other Presbyterians, they never
"profaned the sanctuary" by singing "human compositions," but
confined themselves to Rouse's version of David's Psalms, as did our
own denomination. This aided that laxness of discipline which
permitted Big Jane, Adaline and brother William to attend sometimes,
under care of neighbors. Once I was allowed to accompany them.
I was the proud possessor of a pair of red shoes, which I carried rolled
up in my 'kerchief while we walked the two miles. We stopped in the
woods; my feet were denuded of their commonplace attire and arrayed
in white hose, beautifully clocked, and those precious slices, and my
poor conscience tortured about my vanity. The girls also exchanged
theirs for morocco slippers. We concealed our walking shoes under a
mossy log and proceeded to the meeting-house.
It was built in the form of a T, of hewn logs, and the whole structure,
both inside and out, was a combination of those soft grays and browns
with which nature colors wood, and in its close setting of primeval
forest, made a harmonious picture. Atone side lay a graveyard; birds
sang in the surrounding trees, some of which reached out their giant
arms and touched the log walls. Swallows had built nests under the
eaves outside, and some on the rough projections inside, and joined
their twitter to the songs of other birds and the rich organ
accompaniment of wind and trees.
There were two sermons, and in the intermission, a church sociable, in
fact if not in name. Friends who lived twenty miles apart, met here,

exchanged greetings and news, gave notices and invitations, and
obeyed the higher law of kindness under protest of their Calvinistic
consciences. In this breathing-time we ate our lunch, went to the
nearest house and had a drink from the spring which ran through the
stone milk-house. It was a day full of sight-seeing and of solemn, grand
impressions.
Of the two sermons I remember but one, and this from the text "Many
are called but few are chosen," and the comments were Calvinism of
the most rigid school. On our way home, my brother William--three
years older than I--was very silent and thoughtful for some time, then
spoke of the sermon, of which I entirely approved, but he stoutly
declared that he did not believe it; did not believe God called people to
come to him while he did not choose to have them come. It would not
be fair, indeed, he thought it would be mean.
That evening, when we were saying the shorter catechism, the question,
"What are the decrees of God?" came to me, and after repeating the
answer, I asked father to explain it--not that I needed any explanation,
but that William might be enlightened; for I was anxious about his soul,
on account of his skepticism. Enlightened he could not be, and even to
father expressed his doubts and disapprobation. We renewed the
discussion when alone, and during all his life I labored with him; but
soon found the common refuge of orthodox minds, in feeling that those
especially loved by them will be made exceptions in the general
distribution of wrath due to unbelief.
One day I went with him to hunt the cow. We came to a wood just
north of the village, where the wind roared and shook the trees so that I
was quite awe-stricken; but he held my hand and assured me there was
no danger, until he suddenly drew me back, exclaiming:
"Oh see!" as a great tree came crashing down across the path before us,
and so near that it must have fallen on us if he had not seen it and
stepped back. Even then he refused to go home without the cow, and
taking up a daddy-long-legs, he inquired of it where she was, and
started in the direction indicated, when we were arrested by the voice of
Big Jane, who had come to search for us.
On reaching home, we found a new baby-sister, Elizabeth. Soon after
her birth, in April, 1821, father moved back to Pittsburg, and lived on
Sixth street, opposite Trinity Church, on property belonging to my

maternal grandfather. There was no church there at that time,