My First Circuit: Number V

Dear Advocate: Let us cross Big Cedar Creek on a bridge, or at a ford, as your inclination may lead, and now you find yourself on the road to Mt. Pleasant, situated at the beginning of the sand-hill region, and within twelve miles of the city of Columbia.

Here, at that time, was a large camping ground, with shingled arbor, comfortable tents, and all the fixtures of a No. 1 place of worship. The camp meeting held there in 1835, was remarkable for the assemblage of the brightest ministerial stars in the South Carolina Conference. "To name them is to praise." There were present the Revs. Malcolm McPherson, the Presiding Elder, Dr. William Capers, at that time President pro tem, of the South Carolina College, and in all the glorious prime of his unequaled pulpit powers. Hartwell Spain, of precious memory, (I think he was there) the Nestor of the Conference, the quaint, sad, simple-hearted, and yet logical, Scriptural Samuel Dunwody, Joel W. Townsend, as faithful an itinerant as ever leaped into a saddle, and a faithful corps of as able local preachers as could be found anywhere.

The incident of the meeting which has most impressed itself on the mind of the writer was hearing Uncle Dunwody (as we called him) for the first time. His name was a household word in South Carolina. The writer determined to hear him to advantage, and for this purpose took his seat just in front of him, and in the midst of the congregation, it was the most unlucky seat he ever had. The preacher seemed to inflate his lungs to their utmost capacity; and spend the whole force of his breath on the first word of the hymn, and then in his very peculiar manner, to spin out the remaining words, ending in something like a suppressed sob. With some degree of compunction, the writer records the fact that the first blow was the fatal one to his peace of mind and good conduct. Two circumstances increased the trouble immensely. First, he was where everybody could see him. Second, Uncle Dunwody seemed to be looking at him all the time. Oh, for shame! Since that time the writer has spared many an ill-behaved youngster in church, upon the principle "a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind." Dear old father Dunwody! The writer, years afterward, had the honor of closing his eyes in death, burying him, and preaching his funeral sermon. Oh, he wept then, and could weep now over the memory of this great and good man.

Not far from the camp ground lived then, and for many years afterward, brother Adam F. Dubard, a princely man in every respect of his character. As a class leader, steward, Sunday-school worker, friend, neighbor, he was almost without a parallel. His house was the home, in the fullest sense of the word, for all the preachers. He lived to be an old man, and at last fell a victim to the murderous spirit of the times. He was shot dead in his buggy, by an unknown person, on his way home from Columbia. "His name is as ointment poured forth" in all that country.

Near by, lived the gallant-spirited, patriotic Captain Bookter, who had married the daughter of our old friend, brother Centre, of Cedar Creek, and whose Christian wife and accomplished daughters bound the father with strong cords to the church of their choice. Oh, how often had we longed for the conversion and salvation of high minded and honorable men, whose wives and daughters have shown the pathway to eternal life.

A constant attendant, and liberal supporter of this camp-meeting, was our old friend, Felix Turnipseed. A remarkable man was he in his prime. He had many of the good qualities of the German race; indomitable will and purpose, a fearlessness in asserting the right as he understood it, intense hatred of all meanness and dishonesty, a reverence for the good and pure whenever he thought he had found it, a large fund of common sense, and keen appreciation of character. He summed up the results of his study of mankind, in this pithy saying, addressing the writer, "Ah, Mr. *****, there's a great deal of human nature in man." To the writer and his family, he was always one of the kindest, truest, and best of friends. Peace to his memory.

From this church (we think) came one of our most promising ministers, who in two or three years finished his work.

There were others in that early day whose names should be recorded as worthy of place in this imperfect picture, but memory will sometimes treacherously desert her post, and the writer offers this apology for any apparent neglect of persons, whose features are present, but whose names cannot be recalled. Their descendants are worthily (we trust) occupying their places in the sanctuary, and we humbly trust their children's children will do so for all coming time.

Horrid war has been fearfully realized in all that section of the country. Oh, may white winged peace spread her pinions over them again, and forever. Itinerant.