622 Chronicles of the Cape Fear Rwer

Alfred Hargrave was a ruling elder, and when the clergy of
another denomination occupied the colored churches during
their convention, or conference, here, a fervid preacher with
great lung power conducted the Chestnut Street Church service.
As his voice rose in a “powerful” prayer, so rose a feeling of
great disgust and resentment in the mind of our dignified
colored elder, who did not like such “doings,” as he expressed
it. When the voice of the preacher could be heard two blocks
away, old Alfred Hargrave arose and with great dignity
marched up to the pulpit, and, laying an accusing hand upon
the shoulder of the astonished shouter, said loud enough for all
the congregation to hear, “‘My brother, the Lord ain’t deef,”
which had the desired effect.

I have referred to the great revival in Wilmington, which
included all classes and denominations, in the year 1858. The
daily morning prayer-meetings of our church on this occasion
were held in the lecture-room, already described, immediately
after an early breakfast, before the opening hour of the secular
schools, and I remember that we carried our schoolbooks with
us and sat in awed silence through the mysterious manifesta-
tion of God’s holy presence. The building was crowded to the

door, and the whole congregation was deeply moved by emotions
which can not be described.

One morning a stranger in our assembly arose and made the

most beautiful address I have ever heard. I think he said he
had missed his railroad connection, and that while he was aim-
lessly walking on Front Street he was drawn to our meeting by
the sound of the sacred music, and that he too had felt the power
of that mysterious presence of the Spirit which was moving
upon the hearts of us all. This stranger proved to be the Rey.
Dr. J. L. Girardeau, of Charleston. He was subsequently en-
tertained at my father’s house, and then began a friendship
with us all which lasted throughout his honored life.

When my father canvassed the means for a new church or-
ganization, to be known as the Second Presbyterian Church, but
miscalled by some—very much to his annoyance—the Presby-
terian Chapel, we lived on Princess between Eighth and Ninth
Streets, and I remember that this street was in its primeval
condition of deep sand without even a sidewalk, in a part of
the town very sparsely settled.

When, after many deliberations and misgivings, a site for
the Second Church had been selected on Chestnut Street be-

Peace Restored 623

tween Seventh and Eighth Streets, we plodded through the deep
sand daily, watching the progress of the building, the total cost
of which was, I think, $2,500.

The church building was erected under contract with a Mr.
Moody, and the progress to completion was watched with anx-
lous interest by the little band—a mere handful—which formed
its original membership. Conspicuous among these were my
father, Alexander Sprunt, John ©. Latta, John R. Latta, John
Colville, and others, all of whom have gone to their reward.

It is a remarkable fact that the exterior of the original build-
ing on Chestnut Street has not been repainted in fifty years.
When it was painted after its erection, the first coat of color was
sanded by the usual process in imitation of brownstone. This
has withstood the exposure of half a century. I examined the
exterior a few days ago and found it in an excellent state of
preservation, with the exception of the pillars and front, where
the paint was visibly wearing away. .

While I write these lines my eyes have fallen upon an item

in a newspaper entitled, “A Strong Church,” which reads as
follows:

“Is it a strong church?’ asked a man respecting a body of wor-
Shipers.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“How many members are there?”
“Seventeen.”

“Are they so very wealthy?”

“No, they are poor.”

“How, then, do you say that it is a strong church?”

“Because,” said the gentleman, “they are earnest, devoted, at peace,
loving each other, and striving to do the Master’s work. Swch a con-
éregation is strong, whether composed of five or five hundred members.”

Such, I think, may be said of the little band of workers which
composed your original membership. The spirit of the work
entered into the heart of every one of our household and each
had something to do in connection with it. My mother solicited,
in person, contributions large and small for the purchase of a
bell, and although fifty years have passed since the first peal
Tesounded in my delighted ears, I never hear it now without

recalling my personal attachment for it.

There was an underlying principle involved in the origin of
this church to which I would ask your serious thought. The
blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church. The ancestors

of your founders sealed their devotion with the sacrifice of their