THROWBACK THURSDAY: ‘Charcoal Sketches of Some of Our Pioneer Preachers’ (1919)

The writer of this article, James A. Stevens, was born in Columbus, Miss., in 1840. After a stint in the Confederate Army during the Civil War, he was publisher of the Columbus Index during the 1870s, before moving to Burnet, Texas, in 1879, and purchasing the Burnet Bulletin, which he edited for about 20 years. An obituary for Stevens stated he had met “many of the famous men of years gone by,” including Alexander Campbell, whom he held “in great esteem. [He] believed him one of the great men of America. He believed Campbell’s teachings of the Bible and Christianity, and was an active, working member of the Christian Church for more than 60 years.” 

Stevens was about 79 when he wrote this piece for Christian Standard. He died in 1922.  

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Charcoal Sketches of Some of Our Pioneer Preachers 

By Jas. A. Stevens 
December 27, 1919; p. 4 

Sixty years ago the Restoration movement was going forward by leaps and bounds. “There were giants in those days.” We heard nothing then of “federation” or of receiving “the pious unimmersed” into full fellowship. The disciples of Christ carried small Testaments in their vest-pockets; were not ashamed to quote Acts 2:38, and we sometimes heard of a whole sectarian congregation, with its preacher, casting its lot with the people “everywhere spoken against.” 

The writer heard Alexander Campbell on two occasions, at Columbus, Miss., a little city of four or five thousand souls, in the late 50’s. He was there pleading for primitive Christianity and soliciting students for Bethany College. The writer was too young to appreciate his sermons, but recalls vividly his eagle eyes, his majestic, patriarchal appearance, and the great crowds that heard him. He was above the medium size, made few gestures, and sometimes leaned upon the desk in speaking. 

Tolbert Fanning, of Franklin College, Tennessee, is recalled as a man of large stature, powerful, silvery voice, and terrible gift of sarcasm. His little volume, “True Method of Searching the Scriptures,” was a popular text-book in those days. [He also founded the Gospel Advocate.] When he died he was editing a periodical called “The Collegian.” There was a tradition that Bro. Fanning was jealous of Bro. Campbell’s power and influence. How true it was I do not know. [A person] of his giant intellect had no cause for such a weakness. When he went to Columbus the congregation was very small, but in a short time he organized a membership of three hundred, which so incensed the sectarian brethren, that they refused longer to allow him the use of their buildings, and he was compelled to use an old theater for his services. This was in the year 1840, I was told. 

One of the Creaths of Missouri visited the town after the Fanning “revival.” The writer recalls the leader as very emotional, frequently shedding tears during his climaxes. He was a man of imposing appearance, and might have been called “an old man eloquent.” [He likely is referring to Jacob Creath Jr.] 

W. K. Pendleton, Alexander Campbell’s son-in-law, co-editor of the Millennial Harbinger, and a profound scholar, is recalled as tall and slender, with a noble head, flowing beard, great dignity, and, according to my boyish recollection, by no means a magnetic speaker. If I recall correctly, he came to Columbus with the great leader of the Restoration: Mr. Campbell addressing the people in the morning. Mr. Pendleton at night. 

A Christian preacher who always commanded crowded houses, before and after the Civil War, was the most eccentric of men—Thos. W. Caskey, long a resident of Mississippi, afterwards of Texas, where he died. Although self-educated, few public speakers were capable of such magnificent flights of oratory, such heart-touching appeals, or such flashes of wit and invective. He was tall and angular physically, with the smallest head and lowest forehead I ever saw, yet he was a genius. An admiring, but tender-hearted, sister once asked him why he dealt the sectarians such heavy blows. His reply was: “I suppose, madam, it is because I was brought up at a blacksmith’s anvil.” 

The writer witnessed this amusing incident in one of Bro. Caskey’s meetings. It is well known what an antipathy he had for dogs in church. On this occasion, in the midst of one of his sermons, a small dog began running up and down the aisles, distracting the attention of the audience. Mr. Caskey stopped, looked at the animal a moment, then said: “I will give the owner of that feist fifteen cents to take him out of the house, and twenty cents more if he will stay out with him!” The owner happened to be one of the most worthy of deacons, Ira M. Boswell—by the way, the father of the brilliant young preacher of that name. Blushing scarlet, the deacon carried the animal out. Of course, he returned at once, not at all offended, but only amused. It is given as a fact, for another offense of this kind, Mr. Caskey stepped down from the pulpit, caught the dog in his arms and pitched him out the window! When reading [John Augustus] Williams’ excellent biography of “Raccoon” John Smith, the writer of these notes always recalled the wonderful T. W. Caskey. They might be called “par nobile fratrum” [meaning, “a noble pair of brothers”]. 

The greatest preacher the writer ever saw that he could understand was Moses E. Lard. This was after the Civil War, when the man was at his best. He was one of the few public orators who reminded me of Shakespeare in the power of giving a new beauty to words. Some writer said of Lord Bacon before an audience: “You were afraid to turn your head away for fear you might miss a word, and did not want him to stop at all.” It was a marked compliment to Moses E. Lard when Mr. Campbell delegated to him the duty of reviewing [J. B.] Jeter’s “Campbellism Examined.” 

Knowles Shaw, “the singing evangelist,” had been minister for the church at Columbus for about six months, when killed near McKinney, Tex., in a railroad accident. He preached with his tongue, head, arms, beard and body—was a flame of fire and enthusiasm that swept everything before it. Sometimes he looked inspired! Oftentimes he would stop in the midst of an appeal, almost jump out of the pulpit, [and] sit down at the organ with the remark, “Brethren, I can express the idea better in a song,” and thereon he would sing and act in a way to thrill the soul. No wonder such a man received over eleven thousand converts into the church up to the time of his tragic decease. 

Some twenty-five or thirty years ago a young Christian preacher drifted down to Texas in search of health, and held his first pastorate at the little town of Burnet. He was of commanding personal appearance and very handsome, and, although just beginning to preach, attracted audiences from the start. After serving the church some months he returned to Iowa. I recall his favorite word, “promulgation.” He was Edward Scribner Ames. I believe, if he had not afterwards rejected primitive Christianity and adopted “higher criticism” and the folly of favoring the reception of the pious unimmersed into the church, he would now be one of our leading preachers. ’Tis true, ’tis pity; and pity ’tis ’tis true.” His lapse suggests what Browning said of (Southey, was it?) when the latter joined the Tories— 

“One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels; 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God.” 

W. K. Homan, of Texas, used to say of himself that he “could draw bigger audiences and win fewer additions than any other preacher in Texas.” He was a power in the pulpit—uniting irresistible reasoning and melting pathos with a boyish frame surmounted by a fine head, mostly nose. He was the author of the slogan, “The saloon is doomed.” 

BURNET, Tex.