belong. These statements are necessary to understand what
follows.

Now in the country where I was brought up, in the time of my boyhood,
there were but two churches,--Baptists and Methodists. In fact I was
nearly grown before I knew there were any others at all. These
churches were generally friendly--in a way. While there was occasional
criticism of each by the other, and some controversy over doctrinal
differences, there was no open warfare; and often members of each would
attend and worship with the other.

As above said, I was anxious to make terms with God by repenting, being
baptized, or anything else that would relieve me of that constant dread
of eternal damnation that overshadowed my life.

Perhaps the reader has already surmised that I was brought up in the
country districts. Our churches usually held services but once a
month. But in the summer, when the "crops were laid-by," we usually
had our "protracted meetings," usually lasting a week--from Sunday to
Sunday--having two services a day at the church, with dinner on the
ground "for all who came." This was the annual revival season, when
sinners were "snatched from the eternal burning," back-sliders
reclaimed and the cold and indifferent warmed up and aroused.

Well, the summer after I was twelve years old and had reached that
fateful period of "personal accountability," at our protracted meeting,
I wanted to go to the "mourner's bench," repent, join the church and be
baptized, and thus make good my escape and my "calling and election
sure." At this time I had no clear conception of the meaning of
conversion. Somehow I identified it with joining the church and being
baptized. Contrary to the teachings of my church--which at that time I
did not understand,--to me, baptism was the main thing. I wanted to be
baptized. But they told me I was too young,--and too small to go down
into the deep water. This was a great disappointment. But I saw a ray
of hope.

The next week the Methodist Church near our home had its protracted
meeting and we attended. There I saw children, younger and smaller
than myself go to the mourner's bench, join the church and be
baptized,--by sprinkling. They even sprinkled babies. While I clearly
understood that this was not _true baptism_, I also knew that many of
the Methodists were considered truly good people, good Christians, and
sure of heaven at death, notwithstanding their lack of true baptism. I
therefore c