“Brother Ryder, we pre-sume!  Welcome to Dodson’s Corner, Brother Ryder!”

We tie up the nag, loosen her bridle bit, and follow into the meeting-house—­a lofty building unplastered at the roof, whose open eaves and shingles give place in summer to nests of wasps, and in the winter to audacious birds, some of which swoop screaming to the pulpit, and beat the window panes in futile flight.  Two uncarpeted aisles lead respectively to the men’s side and the women’s side—­for, far be it from us, primitive Methodists, to improve upon the discipline of Wesley—­and midway of each aisle, in square areas, stand two high stoves, with branching pipes which radiate from their red-hot cylinders of clay.  The pulpit is a square unpainted barricade, with pedestals on each side for a pair of oil-lamps; the cushions which sustain the Bible are the gift of young unconverted ladies, and are sacredly brought to the place of worship each Sunday morning and taken away in the afternoon.

By the side of the stove the old stewards and the new minister stand awhile talking over the moral status of the country, the advances made by the Baptists, and the amount of money contributed by Dodson’s Corner to the various funds of the church.  The folk, meanwhile, drop in by squads, the colored element filling the unsteady gallery in the rear, until our father looks at his open-faced watch, and says: 

“Bless my soul, brethren, it is time to begin the services!”

He ascends into the pulpit.  We sit on what is known as the “Amen side,” with our thumb in our button-hole, and watch the process of the chief steward, who is unlimbering his tuning-fork.  He obtains the pitch of the tune by rapping the pew with this, or, if his teeth be sound, which is rare, touches the prongs with his incisors.  Then his head—­whose baldness, we imagine, arises from the people in the rear looking all the hair off—­is thrown back resolutely, his jaws fly wide open, he projects a tangible stream of music to the roof, to the alarm of the birds, and comes to a dead halt at the end of the second line—­for here we have congregational singing, and even those without hymn books may assist to swell the music.  But very often the leader breaks down; the vanguard of old ladies cannot keep up the tune; volunteers make desperate efforts to rally the chorus, but retire discomfited, and the pastor, in addition to praying, reading, and preaching, must finally, in his worn, subdued voice, lead the forlorn hope.

The sermon on this inaugural occasion may justly be termed a work of art.  It must be conclusive of the piety, learning, eloquence, and sound doctrine of the preacher, and be by turns argumentative, combative, stirring, pathetic, practical, and pictorial.  The text has about the same connection at first with the discourse that a campanile has with a cathedral.  A solid eulogium upon the book from which it is taken gives occasion for some side-slashes at Voltaire, Hume,