So, this is what we have found, in our quest of a possible husband for Mattie Myers—this Oliver Carr, who, as it appears, is far from being a rich young man. Will brother Joe be satisfied? Nay, will he ever consent? At any rate, they must be brought together. Let us return to the overworked pupil of John Augustus Williams, she who parsed, in class, too much of that MS. of his "Life of John Smith" for her health. We shall find her still upon her sick-bed, hovering between life and death.
Of course she recovered, else there need be no biography of Mattie Myers, except to teach young girls not to study too hard—a lesson seldom needed. But the life we are following is to teach a quite different lesson. She emerges from the sickroom with a constitution shattered; not altogether broken, but much out of repair every way; mentally, in particular; for the mind has developed enormous energy in proportion as the body has wasted away; and all the nerves that are controlled from the general office are sent tingling at the least noise—even at the tread of a great thought.
The girl of sixteen is bewildered with herself. That grasp of the will which had held her to her tasks, to the outraging of her physical self, has suddenly slipped—it cannot be tightened up to the proper tension, at least not now. This inability to sleep that has come upon her, is to continue throughout her life; this nervous excitement of vital forces, this disproportion of mind and matter, this thinness of form, this determination to carry self to the end markedout, shown in the firm mouth—we are to find all these unchanged in after years.
In the meantime, her resolution to carry on her education has not faltered. She cannot go back to Daughters' College—Professor Williams does not know how to bear lightly upon the mind, and the girl has not even yet learned to spare herself. But there is a certain convent, the St. Catherine de Sienna's—Joe will send her there for a year. The very name is restful. The course is such that a young girl may carry it with one hand. Mattie will attend a year; that will graduate her from the St. Catherine de Sienna's. If, by that time, her strength has come back, she may finish at Harrodsburg. The convent will be so quiet—no levees, no marching to church in solid-green, no receptions in the parlors—nothing but trees and birds and silent-footed sisters, and cool gray walls, and a little French, a little ancient history, and such portions of the Old Testament history as have not become Protestantized.
Joe and Mattie discuss these plans at the close of Joe's school-day, as they sit on his piazza, his flute for the time silent. If they ever considered her ability to go back to JohnAugustus Williams instead of seeking the tutelage of the saint, an event took place that rendered such a course impossible. It was an event that grew out of other events, all of which had been preparing for many years.
To young Oliver Carr, far to the north in Mason County, the beginning had been announced by his old friend Walter Scott. It had come about in this way:
One evening the almost-raven locks and the keen but always kindly eyes, of Walter Scott appeared at Carr's hotel, which is for the nonce, the post office.
"Dear," he said to the youth who, for the time, is deputy post master, "have you anything for me this evening?"
Oliver, feeling that pleasure he always experienced when this question could be affirmed by a paper or letter, handed out theLouisville Courier. The old man opened it, and caught sight of words in large black letters that stared from the top of the page. At the door he read the line aloud:
"Firing on Fort Sumpter!"
The reader burst into tears, and sank down upon the sidewalk. His friends hastened up,thinking he was ill, but Walter Scott could only say, as he pointed at the page,—"Oh, my country is ruined!" They carried him to his home, to that bed from which he was never to rise. That was in April, 1861. On the 21st he whispered his dying message to his friend L. P. Streator, Oliver's teacher,—
"It has been my privilege to develop the kingdom of God. I have been greatly honored". On the 23rd, he was no more, for God took him.
The war broke in all its fury upon "neutral" Kentucky. It brought the mountain guerrillas down on May's Lick with all their cruelty, all their wanton destruction. Woe to the goodly stores in William Carr's larder, the furniture of the hotel, the splendid horses in the stables, when they come shouting and cursing at his door! John Augustus Williams is obliged to close his Daughters' College and save his learning for another day. The young ladies have laid aside metaphysics and rhetoric to make clothes for the boys fighting in the Carolinas. For a time it seems not so important to classify the metonymies as to make peas or dandelion taste like coffee.
But gentle St. Catherine de Sienna raises itsvoice in pious song, and tolls its beads, and murmurs in pensive recitivo "Je suis,tu es,il est,elle est"—and hears not the echo of Perryville cannon, as one hears in Harrodsburg; or, if hearing, puts it to the account of the flesh and the devil, and chantsTe deum laudamus.
Mattie's year in the convent is of all things the one needful. She rests and learns. At the end of the year she knows what St. Catherine de Sienna had to teach, and her strength is no worse from the acquisition. But as for any influence upon her mind or heart by this year's experience, we seek in vain for a trace. It may be that the beliefs she took behind the convent walls were made firmer to resist soft influences; or it may be that her faith was so impregnable at the beginning of this gentle eclipse, that it had nothing to fear.
The girl of seventeen bade farewell to St. Catherine's with the warm affection of the girl, and the serene self-poise of the woman. It left her just where it had found her, except that she knew a little more about the light graces of learning, and—the main thing, after all,—that she was now able to go on with serious study. It is often the case, when a Protestant so young as Mattie, graduates from the convent,that she carries through life a little cloistered chamber in her heart, where thoughts slip in the quiet hour to count their beads, and whisper "Ave Maria".
The next year Mattie returned to Daughters' College, where she graduated with honors, in 1865. There is an old gray-mottled composition-book written through in different inks, the prevailing color suggesting iron-rust, the pages showing the shadows of half a century, and the oft-repeated contact of a school-girl's hand. We find on the title page, "Miss Mattie Forbes Myers," written by her own hand—that was when she was thirteen. Later—for this book was used during her college days—we find "Mattie F. Myers"—no use now, for her to prefix the "Miss;" that is done by others.
This book is filled with notes taken at lectures, with poems, some original and some copied or memorized, with essays, with school notes; and here alone, save in a few essays on separate sheets, are we given a glimpse into the girl's mind, by the girl herself. Here we may find what she thought of life and death and immortality—but nothing of her daily life.
The book is interesting because of its omissions.There are no straggling lines such as one naturally writes in one's school-days when it is raining, for instance; or when one feels dull or impatient for the closing hour. There are no pyramids of schoolmates' names, no idle pictures that might be faces or geometrical figures, no allusions to Harrodsburg, or Lancaster, or Stanford, or any place or person more concrete than Moses crossing the Red Sea, or Hannibal crossing the Alps. Above all, in whatever disquisition upon the "Atonement" or "The Johnsonian Era," there is no flash of humor. One cannot avoid the impression in turning over these 209 closely written pages that here was a girl who, from year to year—that is, from twelve to twenty,—was serious, was intent upon a definite plan, was adhering closely to a central theme, unmindful of aught that detracts or turns the mind aside, though that digression be but the pleasant recreation of a smile.
It is true that all these pages do not present "solid reading matter." There is poetry here which shows a deeper love of poetry than of a poetic gift. One sees that this love of poetry was no superficial acquirement; it was not that nice taste for forms that contents the modernreader of magazines with a four-line stanza about any subject that can be put into four lines. Mattie read Mrs. Browning because she loved her. Of all books in English literature, she seems to have cared most for "Aurora Leigh." We find her in after years advising her friends to read Mrs. Browning, if they would taste the purest literary joys. A serious business, indeed, was life to that great-souled English poet with the slender hand up-propping the heavy head—this life so full of song and gaiety to most of us, before we stop laughing—also it meant serious business to Mattie Myers. And as Elizabeth Barrett found in later years a great love upon which she could always rest her weary heart, even so was Mattie Myers to find a love resourceful and deathless? We shall see, by-and-by.
The first writing in the book—written somewhere in her thirteenth year, is this: "A forehead royal with the truth"—Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Then we find, "As stars differ from one another in glory, so shall it be in the resurrection morn." Later comes, "Heaven is fair, earth pitiless; why is life so dear?" And, "He who has most of heart has most of sword." Then, "Oh life, is all thysong, Endure and die?" These are interesting as showing what sort of sentiments interested the little girl at the boarding-school. They are all like these, her written selections, grave to solemnity. Her original poetry is like it:
"In this narrow vale of lifeAmid its scoldings and its strife,Amid its darkness and its gloom,Loving children, welcome, come."
Nor was this that seriousness which many an author confines to his writings, living a life far different from one's tragic numbers. Mattie was not an author, she had no desire to be one, and what she wrote was not apart from her life, but a part of it.
The style she developed was the oratorical. Her sentences were balanced, and her thoughts enforced by repetition. What she wrote after her graduation was, in the main, written to be delivered in public address. Her college theses represent the highest development of her style. Even as one reads them, he feels that they should be proclaimed. They are suited to the public platform. If the girl who wrote these does not, in time, become a popular lecturer, we shall be much mistaken! Moreover, apart from the embellishment which she loved to giveher sentences, we find that whatever subject she undertakes, she treats with a whole-souled enthusiasm, as if it were a matter of immediate, vital importance, and as if she were an eyewitness of the event. Hear her:
"But when Aurora with her rosy fingers lifted the veil of night and robed the earth in sparkling gems, the predominant trait of his character again swayed his being, and again his solemn oath was violated. Infatuated man! Think you that because the stream now flows smoothly, and the thunder of the cataract has transiently ceased, that you are far removed from danger? Already you are within the rapids." Who is this man that is in such terrible danger? None other than our old friend Pharaoh. In such thrilling words is his doom presently presented, that we feel that while he got no worse than he deserved, still it was enough. This was written at St. Catherine's. She is just as intimate with, just as keenly alive to, the sorrows of Spenser:
"Though the ashes of Spenser repose at Westminister, yet he still lives in the hearts of every lover of the beautiful and the good. The casket has decayed, but the jewel is firmly set in the coronet of Literature. There it willshine in undimmed splendor and beauty until the Empire of Genius shall fall. Even in our school-girl heart he has found a place, and memory of his woes and his joys, of his poverty and his unsearchable riches, will be with us forever."
The same spirit of bringing heart and soul into the theme, is shown in her treatment of her favorites of the Elizabethan era, the time of Queen Anne, or the Fall of Carthage. One does not feel that these essays are "pieces" so much as they are fragments of a sincere and enthusiastic mind. That which rouses her to greatest exaltation is the description of a soul encountering supreme difficulties; and we find her standing by Hannibal with a trumpet call to duty and heroism, when all his own have deserted him. Here is her hero of history, to none other does she so freely pour forth the unstinted admiration of her girl's heart.
Two other qualities should be mentioned in this connection. One is the intellectual force shown in these really remarkable productions, the ability to take the accepted positions of critics and clothe them in new and pulsing words. No need to ask for help in writing these compositions! who indeed could havedone so well? In a few instances we find where the pencil of John Augustus Williams has culled out superlative phrases, or where he has inquired (for instance, after such a phrase as "we weep for him") if this is not rather "strong?" But on the whole, he leaves her articles unchanged, doubtless taking keen delight in the ability that has produced them. A young girl who can write thus at fifteen and seventeen, might do great things as an author; but as we have seen, her plans were formed for other fields.
The last quality of her writings which we have reserved, is one that permeates everything she wrote. No matter what the subject—whether the "Vail of Wyoming," or the general title, "Logic"—religion comes in; we do not say it creeps in; it walks in with head erect. It quite often overflows and submerges the point under consideration. One feels at times that the subject has been a means of getting at more vital matters. All through the composition-book we find pieces of sermons, and quotations of moral reflections, and verses from the Bible. Here and there are penciled little prayers such as a school girl might make who has deep purposes. There are pages ofreflections on the Holy Spirit, side by side with French lessons. The religious nature of man; Christ as Prophet; Christ as Law-giver; God and Justice; Faith—these are discussed at length between sections of Botany notes and Geology and Civil Government classifications. The last word of all is given, not to a remark about some seatmate, or teacher, but to John the Baptist—what she thought ofhislife and purpose.
In this schoolbook, closed so long ago, there is a page almost filled with a discussion of Lady Macbeth; then, inverted lines, penciled as if to stow it away from conspicuous sight—and, indeed, against the background of iron-rusted ink, it is hardly discernible—are these lines without a subject heading: "God grant that I may never find enjoyment in the foolish pleasures of the world; but that my soul may soar far above its ephemeral joys unto the unsearchable riches of Christ Jesus my Lord."
That was the prayer of her young days; it explains what she has written—the pages we have been examining. By the light of this prayer, we may follow her from the schoolroom to her active service in the outer world. We see her attentive upon the worship of God;not only going, but leading; not only listening, but ministering. She finds her work in the songs of the church. At Mount Carmel lives her married sister, Mrs. Kate O'Bannon, a devoted member of the Church of Christ. During her latter summer vacations, Mattie stays with her; at church, she leads the singing.
In the early mornings, Mattie delighted in her walk along the ridge-road, from which the woods could be heard speaking in the myriad voices of bird-happiness. And she loved the little church, fresh from her school-duties, loved each greeting at the sunny door, and down the quiet aisles, coming as voices from long voyages apart. She led the singing with all her heart, and the congregation sang with all theirs; and when a protracted meeting was to be held, there was pleasurable excitement among the singers, over what to sing, and how to sing it.
One day, excitement is rife among church-members; one hears that a strange preacher is coming to hold a meeting—a young man Mattie has never seen. Who can it be? Surely not the boy from May's Lick? Surely not the Oliver Carr who was startled one evening with an armful of shavings, poised for bearing home,at hearing the wagon-maker say—"Ollie, isn't it time for you to be a Christian?"
Certainly, it would be strange if Oliver Carr should come to preach in the church where Mattie Myers leads the singing! The hard-earned money of Eneas Myall and his friend would not have been spent in vain, should such be the case! Let us return to May's Lick at the time of Oliver's starting to college, and find how, by any means, we can bring him to Mount Carmel to hold this very meeting, for which "Miss Mattie" is making ready.
That was a wonderful day for the boy Oliver when, with the farewells of his parents, brothers and sisters, friends and benefactors, ringing in his ears, he started to college. As the stage coach rushed across the corner of Fleming County, and plunged through Nicholas and wound its way among the bluegrass pasture lands of Bourbon, he felt that he was seeing the world, at last; and not only seeing the world, but had the means to take an honored place in it; for to this youth of sixteen, there seemed no honor greater than that of preaching the Gospel.
It was so plain to him, this plea of the disciples of Christ; it appeared so evidently the truth of the whole matter; he was anxious to tell others about it, imagining in his inexperienced zeal, that others would be as glad to hear as he had been. But before he could preach, the collegiate fortresses of wisdom must be stormed and captured. Head of his class in mathematics at the academy—that is the best we can say for him now, and souls are not won fromsin and error by the demonstrations of Euclid.
Here we are in Fayette County, and the train stops at Lexington. Here Oliver pauses, but does not stop, for the University is wanting several years of reaching this point. We must hold on our course—down through Jessamine County to Mercer. And now indeed, our blood thrills as if needles were pricking our veins, for we are near our destination,—near Harrodsburg the goal of our boyhood's ambition.
There are other boys in the stage coach going to the University, and we talk about the history of that institution, and of its professors, and of what we will do when we stop at the station, and where we will go,—all strangers as we are, and all young, in this year, 1861.
Some one tells how Bacon College was established by the disciples of Christ in Georgetown twenty-five years ago, and how its first president was Walter Scott—a name sufficient to bring up May's Lick before Oliver's mind, with a far-away suggestion of homesickness.
And another tells (or should tell for the refreshing of the reader's memory) of ten years of college life under James Shannon, until Bacon College went to sleep, or underwent suspended animation, and had to be brought toHarrodsburg by J. B. Bowman, to try what a new climate and a new name could do for it. So Bacon College became Kentucky University in 1858—just three years ago.
Then another—for there were four of these[4]boys, and being boys they talked a great deal, and, as we see, very much to our purpose—congratulates all upon the fortunate circumstances that have provided the University with the first teachers of the land—a fortunate circumstance for Harrodsburg, he means; of course a fortunate circumstance for anybody has a curious way of being unfortunate so far as somebody else is concerned.
Bethany College had been reduced to ashes; and although new walls were starting up from the gray ruins, such men of learning and piety as Bethany College boasted could not sit idly by, while brick was laid upon brick; they, too,might be building, and, by happy fortune, something more durable than stone. So Robert Milligan leaves his chair of mathematics at Bethany, to assume the presidency of our reawakened or newborn institution—old Bacon College, or new Kentucky University—one hardly knows if the author was Bacon or Shakespeare!—and Dr. Robt. Richardson entrusts his chair of Physical Science at Bethany to Dr. H. Christopher, and becomes vice-president at Harrodsburg. So now we know—by listening to the chatter of these prospective students—how it came about that Mattie Myers was treated to the preaching of these giants. She is over yonder at Daughters' College even now a girl of fourteen. Even then, she says, she "had given her life to serious study and preparation for her chosen life-work."
And what of Bethany College? How can it survive the loss of those illustrious men? Perhaps with its Alexander Campbell for president, it can weather the gale!
But certainly those of us who are Kentuckians and who have been attending the College in Virginia, because we had none of our own, now feel unbounded elation over our newly-capturedprize! For in those days, says S. W. Crutcher, who was just such a student, "We had somehow gotten into the habit of spelling Kentucky with a big 'K' and the United States in small letters."
It was Crutcher who, then in Virginia, went with the other Kentuckians to "Hybernia" to congratulate Professor Milligan on being chosen president of Kentucky University. The Professor—who had already grown cautious about standing in draughts—expressed his resolution to spend the remainder of his life in the service of the University; and Mrs. Milligan, with thoughts for the present life, led the young men into the dining-room. Belle is in short dresses; for, as we have said, this was three years ago; and it is only last year that Robt. Graham left Harrodsburg for Arkansas.
We were speaking of S. W. Crutcher; and by a queer coincidence, there he is in the middle of the street as the stage coach brings Oliver Carr to Harrodsburg. We are here at last. Crutcher takes Oliver and his three traveling-companions to a boarding-house which proves an undesirable place, and President Milligan takes Oliver into his own home; there he finds Belle's dress three years nearer the floor than when SamCrutcher told her farewell in Bethany; and Oliver is, of course, very much afraid of her; for was there ever a boy more awkward or more conscious of his tallness and thinness, than this youth from Lewis and Mason County?
Perhaps not. But he is much at ease with the president, himself, for the president is a man—and Oliver has dealt thus far principally with men—and not only so, but with a prince of men. If Eneas Myall, the blacksmith, could have had the choosing of Oliver's companions, knowing in his practical English head that his protege was in the danger-zone of youth, when companionship counts most—he could have selected with no greater care than Providence seemed to have done.
First of all, there was the Milligan household with its atmosphere as unlike that of the village hotel, as if it had been of another world. Then there was the man with whom Oliver used to walk home from school, with whom he loved to stroll in the twilight—the Professor of English, who examined the youth's fitness for his junior year by having him analyze and parse a hymn. Between this man and boy grew a liking that was soon ardent love. "My boy"—that is what L. L. Pinkerton called Oliver.And Oliver, as he walked with his favorite teacher, and heard him quote poetry—poetry in the balmy evenings of autumn, poetry in the crisp winter afternoon, poetry wherever Pinkerton was, whether that of others, or that of his own joyous temperament—here was another formative influence for the boy from the froglands.
When we, of another day, look back upon that time, and watch this sweet association, it is hard to understand the bitterness—we must not say hatred—that used to be roused at the mention of the Professor of English. Let us take a closer look at this man from Baltimore County, Maryland; a brief look, necessarily, but one which will seek to envelope his main attributes. In so doing, we have not forgotten that our central aim is to present the life of Mattie Myers over yonder in Daughters' College—where she has scarcely heard of Oliver Carr, though she knows Pinkerton by sight.
To begin at the beginning of L. L. Pinkerton's life—which was in his eighteenth year—we find him building a post-and-rail fence in West Virginia not far from Bethany; "black locust posts, black walnut rails," he remembers, "all taken from the stump, andfence set, for twenty-five cents per panel of eight feet." Not that the quality of wood or price of wages matters—at least now; what does matter is that one morning, before going to work, he found a paper on the table, edited by Alexander Campbell. TheMillennial Harbingerwas its name. Lewis picked up the paper casually, and was soon reading with strange intentness—reading and re-reading. Strange reading-matter to absorb the attention of a fence-builder of eighteen—it was all about Truth! Presently he went to Bethany to hear more about it, and at the close of a sermon by A. Campbell, was baptized—he rode home that night four miles in dripping garments. It was so wonderful to him, this plea of the disciples of Christ—one name for all Christendom, one rule of faith and practice, and that rule the Bible alone—he could not but believe that it would be eagerly accepted by a sect-divided world! He began preaching.
From Lexington he went to Midway, where he established the Orphan School of the Christian church. For sixteen years he labored in raising funds, and in teaching, for this exponent of practical Christianity. The same enthusiasm which had marked his acceptance ofthe "reformed religion" carried him over innumerable obstacles, whether of miserliness, poverty, or cold discouragement. Now the Midway Orphan School was firmly established, and the year before Oliver came to the University, Pinkerton accepted the English professorship.
But, unfortunately for his peace of mind, however fortunate for truth in the abstract and concrete, poetry was not the only thing that L. L. Pinkerton talked, outside of school hours. When we seek to pierce the clouds of misunderstanding and accusation that darken the atmosphere of those days, the charges of heresy, and the retorts of sectarianism, above all, the trumpet call that one or the other was not "sound,"—which opprobrious epithet, indeed, sounds above all the other jarring cries,—we cannot believe that this resolution to "down Pinkerton" came from the sole desire to exalt the Christ. No doubt his opposers believed such to be the case, but they were mistaken. It was all the war, the spirit of the times. Though the heavens fall, Pinkerton must proclaim his conviction that slavery was of the devil, must lecture about it, must do everything that lay in his power to convinceothers, must declare his satisfaction when Lincoln's Proclamation—that one proclamation that calls for no explanatory data to remind onewhatproclamation—outraged those who did not believe slavery to be of the devil; far otherwise, indeed.
For the war has burst upon us, now in all its fury, and though we, as a state, are "neutral," everybody knows what that means, and suspects his neighbor accordingly. In Midway, Pinkerton in building up the church, established and nurtured a church for the black folk—preached for it until out of African darkness was evolved a light to shine for itself. He believed these slaves had souls, and somehow, he looked upon his labors for their salvation as a part of the practical good-doing that flowered in the Orphan School. If he could only believe these things to himself, and not say anything! But in that case, he would not have been Pinkerton. And so, after the year 1862—the year in which Oliver Carr preached his first sermon—no church-door was opened that L. L. Pinkerton might preach therein—never again was he to be thought "sound" enough.
Oliver heard much of "soundness" in those days, just as we do now. But happily for hispeace of mind, he was not disturbed by the continuous jarring and clashing of orthodox and heretical opinions. He was too busy—too busy, almost to eat; there is no recreation for him save as he trudges to and fro between school and lodgings, with, or without, the poetical friend. For he is most irregular in his classes; mathematics—fine; Latin and Greek—nothing!—"Dead," his father had objected. Dead indeed, and buried so deep, that the boy must dig hard and late, to unearth the skeletons. The result of which exhausting excavation we hear announced in the language of Dr. Richardson: "If you don't improve in health I do not see how you can continue your studies—" And, a little later: "You had better go home!"
Dark days—a weary struggle for health—a conviction that this is consumption—a last futile fight for victory—back home goes the broken invalid, just as Mattie Myers had been forced to quit the field.
But there is a difference, since Oliver is obliged to stop in the midst of everything—and since he can ill afford a rest. He has had his chance and it seems all in vain. For three months he stays with his sister drinking mineral-water,filled with torturing regrets and inextinguishable hope. His sister—it is Mary—has married; we are to hear of her again. Three months—and he realizes that if he goes back, it will mean as severe a regime as before. The ground is hardly broken above those dead languages, and he has not the strength he had thought he possessed. However, if we could, later on, take a peep at the young men about the grounds, we would find Oliver Carr holding his own with Surber, Keith and Mountjoy and Albert Myles. For six years we find him studying—"as hard as anybody," in his opinion; but not again is ill-health to drive him home, though always hovering at his elbow. Let us take glimpses, here and there, at these years, with the happy privilege of the reader, of attending the school of his hero without being compelled to study his hero's lessons.
At the close of his full year he goes back to May's Lick. To rest? Yes, if to do what lies closest to the heart is rest. He borrows a horse, gets his saddlebags, arms himself with Bible and hymn-book, and starts out for Carter county where Henry Pangburn and Thomas Munnell have "started a meeting." He informs the girl who keeps the tollgate that he isa preacher; no doubt in this boy's mind as to what he is! He loses his way in the mountain trails—"Babe" will go to show him the school-house, if he will catch her old white horse with burrs in its tail; "Babe" is a young lady of two hundred pounds—what matter her other name? On they go, in and out among the hills—Babe's girth breaks and Oliver gives up his horse to her.
"Hello Babe!" thus the father of Frank Kibbey from his doorway, "who's that you have with you?"
"Oh, a little rebel I picked up on the way!"—a laughing matter to Babe, but not to Oliver, for he sees her drawn aside, and hears the whispered demand, "Ishe a rebel?"—and wonders if he will be hung.
But they are all rebels together. Thomas Munnell says "Ollie, you must preach tonight!" And Oliver knows off-hand what he will preach, because he has only one sermon! So the benches are brought into the home of "Bro. Kibbey"—for in the morning the preaching had been in the woods,—and Oliver stood in a corner, the preacher's point of vantage in those days, and preached. "And some old women bragged on me," he said afterward.
These fledgling students—Kibbey and Carr—sent an appointment to preach in the mountains. As they rode along, talking about their faith,—for that is what these boys loved to talk about—they saw a beautiful pool sparkling among lordly oaks, and they said, "Here is where we will baptize!" Why not? Not a word had been preached, nor had they ever looked upon the faces of their prospective auditors; but did they not have the truth? So they preached to the mountaineers; and presently came back to the pool among the oaks, where they baptized four young men and four young women.
Another picture, brief, almost brusque in its bold coloring: the young man is called into the office of the Professor of Mathematics, Henry H. White. The teacher abruptly extends his hand, "This is for you; take it."
It is fifty dollars. Oliver, the tears springing to his eyes, would falter his thanks. "That will do sir!" says the Professor with mathematical dryness. "That will do sir! you're dismissed,"—so sharply, so conclusively, that nothing is to be done but go. There are two such scenes, precisely alike; fifty dollars eachtime, and, "That will do sir!" as an end to the incident.
Never were such kindnesses more gratefully received, or more sorely needed. For men have come down from the mountains, seizing upon the property of Southern sympathizers, and none too particular about your sympathies, if they can get away with horses and money. William Carr sees his hard-earned savings disappear in a night. The horses from his stables are spirited away; his hotel is looted; nor is there wanting the suspicion that some of his neighbors have pointed out the spoils to the enemy. To his sudden necessity is added the bitterness against injustice and ingratitude. Farther into the night his wife must sew, earlier in the morning they must rise; for though one son is away at college, and one daughter is married, there is little left to support the other five children. So here at May's Lick is a battle for daily bread, while Oliver, at Harrodsburg, battles for daily Latin and Greek.
Nor is this time of stress without its element of heroism. One might pause in the narrative to show the young University student in danger of his life, on the occasion of one of hishome-comings. A drunken soldier, having robbed William Carr of his horse, is about to shoot the hotel-keeper because he is a "Southerner." Oliver leaps between, fastens his gaze upon the infuriated face, holds out his defenceless arms, and saves his father's life.
This is Oliver's experience of the war, this crushing blow upon his parents; this, and the booming of cannon at Perryville, and the long line of stragglers coming back from a beaten field; and then the wounded and the dead. Harrodsburg is taxed to the utmost in giving shelter to the fallen heroes. Daughters' College from which, as we have seen, the young ladies have been banished, is opened up as a hospital.
L. L. Pinkerton is no longer teaching; he has resigned to become surgeon in the Eleventh Kentucky Cavalry; just as he marched to the defense of orphan girls and negroes groping in spiritual darkness, so now he sallies forth for his country; leading the soldiers in prayer every evening, dressing the wounds of the blue or gray, and singing Northern battle hymns. And just as he always worked too hard for Midway Orphan School, or for the disciples' plea, or whatever he worked at—never restingtill failing resources made him rest,—so now, he toils at regimental prayer-meeting and midnight diagnoses and presently finds himself bedfast. Too feeble to stand, he lies praying that the South may be conquered; and, so praying, he is carried to the home of an old friend, a Captain Carr, who is a Southerner to the core.
For weeks the friend of Lincoln lies at the point of death, cared for with all tenderness by the friend of Jefferson Davis. Then J. B. Bowman, he who turned Bacon College into Kentucky University, came up from Harrodsburg to Louisville; here the Professor of English lay, and, taking him in his strong arms, Bowman carried him out to the carriage and rode away with him. So, we have him back at Harrodsburg at last, where he may walk with Oliver again, and quote poetry. Of course he tells Oliver about his kind treatment in the home of Captain Carr, and speaks of the tender and faithful ministrations of Southern nurses. And then, quickly, lest he be misunderstood, he asserts his unalterable faith in the justice of the Union cause; he will have no doubts as to where he stands.
"I could scatter flowers over the graves of the Confederate dead," he says, "and even bedew them with my tears; but I must still say, if forced to it, 'These poor, brave young men fell in an unrighteous war against a beneficent government!'" He must still say it, later on, to the destruction of his peace of mind; to the dissolution of many a friendly tie; must still say it, if forced to it; and must say it, whether forced or not, such being the impetuosity of his character, which consumes prudence and policy in one blaze of enthusiasm.
In the meantime, Oliver is at war in his own way. That the South should prove its right to self-government appeared to him self-evident, but it did not rouse his fighting blood. Souls to be saved from sin and error—that is his ever-pressing consideration. That all religious bodies should take the name of Christian, and worship according to the Scriptures—could anything be simpler? That the six or seven denominations in small tows, instead of utilizing half their vitality in keeping themselves going, should all combine in one glorious purpose to exalt the Christ—could anything be more like Heaven on Earth? Oliver thought thus. He believed it might come to pass; andhe was eager to do his part in bringing it about. So every summer he left the University halls to carry his message into the hills and valleys of Kentucky; and such was his youthful ardor, his enthusiastic conviction of success, that people for a time stopped talking about John Morgan and friends in Canada, and went to hear the boy from the village tavern.
The time came when he resolved to carry the war into his own country. So he packed his saddlebags and rode into the land of his youth. There was no building of the disciples of Christ, but Oliver was offered the Methodist meeting house.
When it was noised abroad that Oliver Carr was going to preach, hearts were stirred and the farmers, many miles away, began catching up their horses to take the family to meeting. Men who had not been to church for years expressed themselves to this effect: "Ol going to preach? Yes, I'll go to hearhim."
The meeting began Thursday night; on Saturday he baptized fourteen. Sunday morning the church building was locked; an agitated congregation hovered in the yard. "Oliver has opened the doors of the church!" complained his aunt—meaning the spiritual church;she had taken care that the church of pine boards should be more closely guarded. Across the street from the inhospitable meeting house stood the school house. The audience moved thither. The women went within; the men remained outside. Oliver stood in the door, and preached on "Christian Union".
Mrs. O'Bannon was there, she and her school-girl sister, Mattie Myers. And Mattie led the singing, and listened to the young University student with unqualified approval. In after days she was to hear him preach many a sermon, and in many lands; "But that was the best sermon he ever preached!" she declared. For they were both so young, then, and both so fired with zeal for the same cause which to them seemed the supreme cause of earth and heaven. And they were both so confident that this cause must triumph—perhaps in their own lifetime!
Oliver went to Orangeburg to preach in another Methodist church, and people came from May's Lick to hear the boy, his father among the number. Very seldom, if ever, had Oliver seen William Carr at church before; here he baptized fourteen—but alas! his father was not one of them. Then ten days at Sardis, andforty baptized—but we need not follow the youth from point to point; it was everywhere the same indestructible faith, and many converts, and the beginnings of church life.
Daniel Carr, Oliver's grandfather, sent for him to come up to Lewis county and preach in his home. Daniel was a prominent class-leader of the Methodist church, 76 years old. Oliver responded gladly, entered the county of his birth, where his uncles and aunts all lived, faithful Methodists. His grandfather brought benches and chairs into his house, and called in neighbors and kinsfolk. Oliver saw before him the boys and girls with whom he had gone to school in the country before his father's removal to May's Lick. Here were Old-School Baptists and Presbyterians, come to hear what the "Campbellite" had to tell them. But they did not come in hostility; far from that. It was with wonder, rather, that they looked upon this young man and thought of his past—the hard work on the farm, the harder work in his father's hotel. They knew how he had been obliged to leave the University on account of ill-health, and how, since then, he had taxed his strength to the utmost in evangelistic campaigns among the hills. And now he hadcome to them, his old neighbors, to tell them about Christ!
His grandfather knelt down to open the meeting with prayer, but suddenly the wonder and the joy of it came upon him, and they heard nothing but his sobs. When he was able to utter words, they burst from a heart that throbbed with heavenly thanksgiving.
Then Oliver rose. At last, at last! the privilege was his to speak to these dear people, words of eternal life. As he looked into their kindly faces, he too, was overcome by emotion. Minute after minute passed by, and he could but weep, while the faces of his audience, bathed in tears, told him that the yearning of his heart was understood. It seems wonderful when a celebrated man rises to address an audience, and, for ten minutes, stands dumb before tireless applause. But what shall we say of this boy who stands ten minutes unable to speak for tears of joy, while his friends wait, unable to hear for weeping?
This we must say; that we have found here a youth who has given himself with all his soul to an idea; an idea that grips at the roots of emotions and desires and life itself. Will not he who weeps with joy at the opportunity todeliver his message, also fight for it? But though fighting, will not his valor be tempered with the tenderness of tears?
So they have met at last, the preacher and the singer. They might have finished their education there at Harrodsburg, Oliver Carr at the University and Mattie Myers at Daughters' College—if the meeting had not brought them together—who knows! But, being brought together in that way, and being the grave and purposeful characters we have found them to be, it is easy enough to comprehend the friendship that came into being; a friendship sanctified, as it were, by the sound of hymn and the fervor of prayer.
After the services we find Oliver going home with Mrs. O'Bannon, in whose parlor he meets the school-girl sister. Serious enough is their talk—you might have thought them staid Christians of middle life! She finds him awkward and embarrassed, except when the talk runs religiously. He finds her, to his thinking, highly educated, and feels due awe for her superior advantages. Behold him, now, driving up with a spring-wagon to take Mattie and her friends on an excursion to the mineralsprings—"Æsculapia", it is called—certainly an appropriate spot for these two health-needing students! Drink of that mineral-water as deeply as you may and let us hope Old Æsculapius himself will infuse strength into the sparkling drops!
After this pleasant companionship, Oliver and Mattie were never again to be strangers. Now he knows one girl at Daughters' College who leads singing in the church—and she knows one young man at the University whose very soul is wrapped up in the things nearest her own heart. He comes to the college to see her; and John Augustus Williams sits with them in the parlor to complete the triangle,—very properly; are not triangles the least-sided figures known in the halls of learning? And when President Milligan gives a levee, who comes for Mattie to escort her thither? Ask if you choose; I shall not answer!
We have seen how Kentucky University emerged from Bacon College, but we have not witnessed the closing scene of the transformation. Out of Georgetown came Bacon College to Harrodsburg; and out of Danville came Transylvania Seminary to Lexington; here the Seminary found Kentucky Academy, and thesetwo were fused into Transylvania University. For sixty-six years Transylvania University flourished and then declined. Then fire destroyed the college building at Harrodsburg, and Milligan came to Lexington, and Kentucky University was amalgamated with old Transylvania, and these two were one. Which takes Oliver away from Harrodsburg, and that means letters; letters between him and Mattie Myers.
It was in 1865 that Kentucky University gave its last exercises in Harrodsburg. The "Franklin Literary and Philosophical Society" gave its "exhibit," June 21st. From his "speeches" written out and now among the relics it appears that Oliver was usually chosen to represent the "Franklins." One subject discussed was, "Should we in the administration of law, be influenced by Justice alone?" J. T. Spillman of Harrodsburg affirms; O. A. Carr of May's Lick denies. And the speech that O. A. Carr delivers is sent on eight pages, the words liberally italicised, to "Miss Mattie." "I do this to gratify my friend," he adds at the end of the poetry that closes the debate, "and I hope that she will not forget her promise—I will expect those notes on PresidentWilliams' lecture soon." Thus begins the correspondence: a debate from him, lecture notes from her.
Mattie Myers is only eighteen, now, and she speaks with all that age-wisdom one finds in the sober-minded young: "I have been living over all the delights of the past," she writes to a friend, "and when the bright dream passed away before the storm actualities of the present, my heart has wept that the golden hours of childhood shall never, never return. True, my childhood was not all joyous; yet there is a luxury in remembering even the grief that tore my young heart. Many changes have taken place since then. The death-angel has taken from our circle two dear sisters. Is it not hard for the human heart, so full of pride, to pass submissive under the rod? Yet in each affliction there is a blessing. There is a holy, purifying influence that the children of God must feel in order to be made fit for His inheritance,—an influence that even mighty truth, alone, cannot bring; an influence that only trial can exert upon the proud heart. This will make the weakest strong; God accepts no sacrifice without salt or without fire. Trial gives us our Christian character, brings us into closer communionwith our God. With it our hearts may be made fair and pure as the snow that encircles the mountain-crest. It was a bright-winged messenger that took from us our sisters, though with the eye of flesh we could not see the brightness of His glory."[5]
"Many of the old friends are married," she continues, "and many are sleeping. One hardly recognizes the old Kentucky Home. Dearest friends have moved away. The home of one'syouth seems strange. But of one I must tell you, one dearer to me than all others—my brother. God grant that I may not love him too well lest I forget Him who gave me one so dear!"
This year brought the war to a close. We find Oliver Carr once more on an evangelistic tour, followed, we may be sure, by best wishes from Mattie Myers for his success. He is accompanied by John W. Mountjoy. They borrow horses at May's Lick, load their saddle-pockets, and start for the mountains. Let us take a look at them, July 14, 1865,—"A bright, beautiful morning," says Mountjoy, writing joyously in his pocket-diary; "we rose with the sun, welcomed by the song of birds and the gayety of nature."
It is interesting to note just what preaching means, and what it includes for these young University students. "We led George and Davy to water, fed them and rubbed them off." (Davy is Oliver's colt, so named for David Armstrong, and George is John's colt, so called after George Ranck, who trudged on foot with Oliver to hear his first sermon at a school house on the Perryville road three miles from Harrodsburg, and afterward becamethe Lexington historian.) "Went to the house, had prayers, and then breakfast. Left immediately on our journey for Vanceburg,—rode slowly on account of the lameness of Ol's 'Davy.' Singing joyously"—this beautiful morning—"we reached rows of cabins humbly situated by the roadside—the little children, the old grand-mother with her white cap—an old man mowing by the wayside. I would gladly have helped him, could I have stopped. * * * We are now at the blacksmith shop, having 'Davy' shod—sixteen miles yet to ride before we reach Vanceburg."
Presently they pass the little school-house where Oliver learned his first lesson, his a b c's the first day; the second day it was a-b ab, and the University student sees himself, barefoot and tiny, trudging up to the doorway that looked so large to him then. It is hard for him to believe that little boy himself. The years at May's Lick Academy have come since then, and the years at Harrodsburg, and now the prospect of years at Lexington. He is already so removed from that little boy, and all the world of that little boy, so removed in life-purposes, in eternal desires! and yet there is something of the little child in his tall awkwardform—or in his heart, rather—something always childlike.
"The school-house where Ol. learned his first lesson," says Mountjoy—"I could not enter into half the joys of his sweet remembrances of happier days." Could not, truly; but why "happier" days? Is it not because they are past, those days of youth, never to be ours again; surely it is not because they were in reality happier!
We pass through Clarksburg about 12, we reach Vicksburg about one, and now we—or I should say, "I," am sitting on the bank of the Ohio,—Oliver is doubtless resting from his experiences with "Davy." For, "While riding along about halfway between Mount Carmel and Vanceburg, talking of Geo. Ranck and Davy Armstrong, Ol. took a notion that his beast was becoming insensible to the spur on his right foot, and concluded he would make a change. He raised his left leg over the shoulder of Davy"—and then we are treated to a bit of Greek in the diary-narrative, the spirit, if not the letter, of which may be gleaned from a line further on—"I thought Ol. would surely be killed."
Away goes Davy, free of any spur, scatteringsaddle-pockets and hymn-books to right and left. A quarter of a mile away he stops, and looks back at the other borrowed horse as if to say, "George, throw John Mountjoy off and let's go back to old man Chancellor!"—the old man, evidently from whom they were borrowed. At which, George's spirit begins to rage, and Mountjoy has all he can do to keepin statu quo. And his thought—if one can afterwards remember what his thought was at such a crisis—ran thus; "Ol. is killed or half-dead; I suppose I will have all the preaching to do!" Preaching he has to do, but only his share, but no funeral, for Ol. staggers up and mounts and clings. And now we find Mountjoy alone on the river bank, wishing that the music of the waves could inspire him to do justice to the thrilling scene just closed.
But after all, Oliver is not resting up from his dethronement, for we are presently to discover him in a situation none too heroic, by the canons of genteel fiction. We have come down to the landing to see the steamer "Telegraph." We are now down the river a little way. "While I have been writing, Ol. has been washing his boots, with sand for soap. The boat has just passed down the river and thewaves are lashing the shore, making melody. Ol. will preach tonight in the little school-house."
And somewhat further down we find in another handwriting—"All sitting together tonight, and Johnnie proposes that each of us write something in his diary and sign his name.