troops that held watch and ward over the rebels in Massachusetts Bay
and the town of Boston in particular, was sitting in his quarters at
the Province House. The general’s brow was clouded and he was evidently
a prey to uneasy thoughts; the intelligent perversity of his opponents
both perplexed and alarmed him. He liked not the unwonted calm, the
utter absence of bluster and bravado, for he knew too well the
temper of the people with whom he had to deal to mistake silence for
submission. He had fought with Washington at Duquesne, aided to bear
the dying Braddock from the field, and feared that the rifles that then
saved the British army from utter destruction were only biding their
time, and the drums that beat at Louisburg might at any moment wake the
slumbering fires and the mine explode beneath his feet.
While thus uneasily balancing probabilities, his servant announced that
some boys requested an interview. The general, who was exceedingly fond
of children, ordered them to be admitted.
“Well, boys,” he inquired, “what is your business with me?”
“We have come, sir,” said the tallest boy, “to demand satisfaction.”
“What, have your fathers been teaching you rebellion and sent you to
show it here?”
“No, sir, nobody sent us and nobody told us to come, but we’ve come
of our own accord for our rights. The common belongs to the people of
Boston and their children. We are town born, all of us, and so are
the boys whom we represent, therefore we have a right to play on the
common. We have asked many old people, and they tell us that boys
always have had this right, that they played there and their fathers
before them. We have never made faces at your soldiers, called them
lobsters, thrown snowballs at them, or insulted them in any manner, but
while we were minding our business, skating and building snow hills,
just as we have always done every winter before even they were here,
they came and trampled down our sliding hills, and broke the ice on
our skating ground with the breech of their musket. We complained;
they called us young rebels and told us to help ourselves if we could.
We then went to the captain, and he laughed at us. We have come, sir,
for our rights. We want only the rights which the law gives us and
boys have always had. Yesterday your soldiers destroyed our works
for the third time, and we won’t endure this oppression any longer.
Your soldiers may shoot us if they wish, but if you will not give us
satisfaction, we will get together all the boys and defend our works
while there is a snowball, a stone, or a boy left in the town of
Boston; for if we can’t play on our own common and skate on our own
pond, what can we do?”
The general could not but admire the resolution of the boys and assured
them that henceforth their rights should be respected.
THE WRECKED PIRATE
In the year 1813 a piratical schooner was wrecked upon one of the
desolate Keys of the Bahamas. The captain alone, of a crew of ninety
men, reached shore upon a broken spar. For several months he subsisted
upon shell-fish and tropical fruits, with which the island abounded,
eked out by some provisions saved from the wreck.
While in this solitude, feelings which had long slumbered were awakened
in his breast, and his heart was melted to repentance.
After long months of waiting, he was rescued by a passing vessel bound
for Spain. A pardon was at length obtained for him from the Spanish
government, and he ever after lived a Christian life. But what thus
wrought upon the heart of the savage, hardened in crime and blood?
“Fear,” I hear you exclaim, “heightened by that terrible solitude;
death groans and piteous entreaties for mercy that haunted each lonely
ravine, and moaned in the winds of midnight!” Oh, no; it was but the
evening song of the turtle-doves which built their nests among the
mangrove bushes that fringed the borders of the creeks.
Behold him as he stands! that man of brawl and battle, his stern
features unmoved as the cliffs beside him, gazing upon the bodies of
the companions of many a bloody fray, tossed amid the fragments of
broken timbers in the surf at his feet. What a mingling of the elements
of agony and fear!--the abyss of ocean, the lonely wreck, the livid
bodies of the dead, the desolate shore, himself cut off from all human
fellowship, a stinging conscience within, and the eternal God above
him, whose lightnings play around his head. All these move him not. But
hark! As those bird-notes, so sweetly mournful, strike upon his ear,
familiar through many an hour of careless boyhood in his early home,
the blood flushes to his cheek and lip; the sweat bedews his brow.
Those soft notes recall days of innocence, ere blood had stained his
hand, and remorse was gnawing at his heartstrings. The low notes of a
mother’s prayer thrill, like some forgotten melody, upon his ear. Again
her lips are pressed to his as when she kissed him for the last time,
upon his father’s threshold. Tears are streaming down those cheeks,
bronzed by burning suns and furrowed by seafoam and tempest; and
that voice, whose stern tones had risen above the roar of battle and
roused the seaman from his slumbers like the trump of doom, grows all
tremulous with emotion as he cries, “God, be merciful to me a sinner.”
SPEECHES
“AN OUNCE OF PREVENTION”
[Delivered at a meeting of the Temperance Society in Boston in 1861]
Were I called upon, Mr. Chairman, to define intemperance by its
effects, I would say: “It is that which covers the fields of the
husbandman with tares and thorns, and strews the ocean with wrecks.
It is that which renders the clerk unfaithful to his employer, the
public man to his constituents, the magistrate to his oath of office,
the parent to his family, and all who are trusted to every trust. It
is that which stirs to mutiny every corrupt passion, weakens every
motive to virtue, adds strength to vicious allurements, and pushes
the reluctant will over the verge of every damnable and desperate
enterprise. So well is this understood by the doers of evil that it is
in the armies of evil the regular weapon whose value is unquestioned
after the experience of ages. Is a seaman to be enticed to desert
his ship or a soldier his colors? Ply him with liquor. Is a ruffian
steeped in crime to be urged to some deed of horror from which even
his hardened nature revolts? Ply him with liquor. Is a young man with
his curiosity awake, his passions pure and jubilant, and his heart
throbbing with warm impulses of budding life to be put upon that same
descending grade opening to a like abyss of utter loathsomeness, his
fair face to be rendered shameless, and his lips to reek of the pit?
Then go, thou familiar spirit, whose abode is in the sparkling cup,
assume the form of beauty and youth, show him not at once thy craven
features, but while his arm is linked in thine, accustom him by slow
gradations to the festive and genial cup.”
The ways and methods of doing good are not intuitive. They are, as in
the arts and crafts, the result of effort and experience. Good men by
long practice into which they have flung their very hearts have learned
more and more effective methods of grappling with intemperance. At
first they began with cure; now they try prevention, not forgetting the
other. Once they went alongside the old hulk stranded on the beach,
her masts gone by the board, her rigging white and weather-worn
hanging over her bulwarks, ochre hanging from her opening seams, and
refitting and relaunching her, they obtained from the stranded hulk a
few years of inferior service. Now they buoy the channel and light the
beacon, and thus prevent the shipwreck. Noble men went to the inebriate
crawling in the gutter; with kindly sympathy they raised him up and
restored him to usefulness and power. But who, save the inebriate
himself, can tell the bitterness of that struggle between the man, the
husband, the father, struggling to rise, and the demon that strives
to drag him back? How true it is that that accursed longing never
dies! How true it is that we need never learn to drink but once! What
temperance reformer is there who has not shed bitter tears over the
final wreck of those whom he thought he had saved?
Thus noble efforts were made, multitudes partially, and many really
reformed, but all the time behind there was a thronging army of young
men treading the same paths. But, taught by experience, men have now
begun to grapple with this evil on its strongest ground; that is, in
its social aspect, that which is most alluring to the romantic and the
young.
I may safely say that from the beginning of social life the great mass
of the literature, genius, and wealth of the world has been, and is
now, on the side of intemperance. The greatest poets that ever lived
have sung in strains of beauty that captivated the young heart the
praises of the ruby wine. It has for ages been interwoven with all
festivals,--the meeting and parting of social life. It is this more
than the love of liquor that attracts. In this view wine becomes the
exponent of all that is genial and warm; temperance of all that is
cold, forbidding, and repulsive. It is for just this purpose and to
meet the enemy at just this point that associations like this have been
formed. They seek to show that the flowing bowl is not of necessity
the quickener of the intellect, or of all ardent and generous feeling;
that it is not the only elixir for the heavy heart. They would show
that there are other pleasures as exhilarating as those of the wine
cup--pleasures that leave no sting behind. They would show that men
can be earnest scholars, sympathetic friends, jovial companions, and
at the same time taste not, touch not, and handle not the wine cup,
or be under any obligations to alcohol for their enjoyment. May this
association in the heart of this great city accomplish its purpose, and
be the young man’s friend.
RELIGIOUS WORSHIP EARLY IN THE CENTURY
[Delivered at the Municipal Celebration of the one hundredth
anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Portland, Maine,
Sunday, July 4, 1886.]
MR. CHAIRMAN: Having been requested to offer some remarks in respect
to the conduct of religious worship early in the century, I would say
that early impressions are the most enduring, and religious impressions
more so than all others, resulting from the fact that they are not
so much impressions as the development of innate tendencies kept
alive and nourished by the intercourse that all men, to a greater or
less extent, hold with their Creator. There are none that so resent
interference or are with such difficulty eradicated. Though by no means
one of the good boys who die young, and with little inclination to
acquire knowledge by books or by dint of study, there were two subjects
that always possessed for me a peculiar interest and attraction--
one the employment by which men obtained their bread, and the other
the discussion of religious doctrines, though utterly averse to any
personal application of them. I recollect that when I had twenty-five
cents given me by my father to go to Sukey Baker’s tavern to see an
elephant, a rare sight in those days, I sat as demure as a mouse in
my father’s study the greater part of an afternoon listening to a
discussion between him and a Hopkinsonian minister upon disinterested
benevolence, which was brought at last to an abrupt termination
in consequence of the use by the Hopkinsonian of the following
illustration: “Suppose, Brother Kellogg, I was walking over a bridge
with two ladies, to one of whom I was tenderly attached and engaged
to be married, the other an indifferent person. My particular friend,
I am aware, is a person of ordinary ability, but the other lady is
possessed of great mental powers thoroughly disciplined, and both of
them are in a state of grace. The bridge breaks through and we fall
into the stream. I can save but one of them, and in that case it would
be my duty, even if I had to leave my personal friend to perish, to
save the more gifted person, because she is able and qualified to do
more for the glory of God.” My father ended the discussion by rising
and declaring that a man who could cherish, much more propagate, such
abominable sentiments was not fit to preach the Gospel nor even to
live in a Christian society. The discussion and ways of ministers,
their preaching and modes of conducting worship at that period are as
vivid in my recollection to-day as then, and I purpose to turn this to
account in complying with your request.
Religious worship at that time, though modified, still retained much
of the ancient spirit and something of the form. My father and the
ministers of his age formed the connecting link between the old and
the new. Many of the old ministers, who were settled for life, and
wore old ministerial wigs, cocked hats, small clothes, and bands, were
still preaching, and frequently exchanged with my father,--Father
Lancaster of Scarborough, Mr. Tilton and Mr. Eaton of Harpswell. Father
Lancaster would sometimes fall asleep in the pulpit while the choir
were singing the hymn before the sermon, for he was well-stricken with
years. Ministers of a later date wore a queue and powdered their hair.
My father in younger life wore his hair long, and it curled down his
back and was powdered. He also retained the bands for a neck dress.
I can just recollect when he exchanged breeches for loose pants. The
old people, who were opposed to the innovation, called them sailor
trousers, and said they did not become a servant of God, were got
up to conceal spindle shanks, and the deacons of the First Parish
and some others retained them. The sermons and prayers were somewhat
curtailed, even by the old ministers, but were still of sufficient
length. The hour-glass was no longer seen on the pulpit, but was still
used in families, schools, and by the toll-keeper at Vaughan’s bridge.
The deacons in the First Parish still sat before the pulpit, but the
practice of deaconing the hymns was given up. Intentions of marriage
were no longer cried in the church with the addition that if any
person could show cause why they should not be carried into effect, to
make it known, or else forever to hold their peace; but publishments
were posted in the porch of the meeting-house for all to read. Much
importance was attached to the singing, and it was always performed by
a full choir, as loud noise was by our forefathers deemed essential in
public worship. At first there was no instrument except the bass viol.
The chorister, conscious of the dignity of his office, would rise with
a solemn air, run up the scale, beating time with his hand, and lift
the tune. My father, who had been drum-major in the Continental army,
and was extremely fond of instrumental music, introduced the cornet and
clarinet, in addition to the bass viol, into the Second Parish choir.
He likewise persuaded Mr. Edward Howe, of Groton, Massachusetts, to
come and set up business in Portland on account of his musical talent,
and assisted him all he could, and Mr. Howe led the choir of the
Second Parish for years, keeping up with the progress of the times.
Difficulties with church choirs were as prevalent then as now. At
one time the first hymn was read, but there was no response from the
choir. My father, who was a good singer, immediately read the hymn,
“Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God,” and led off himself,
and the congregation joined in. When the next hymn was read, the choir
concluded to sing.
There was no fire in the meeting-houses. The women carried foot-stoves
that contained an iron dish filled with hot coals. The sexton was
bound by written contract to keep a good rock-maple wood fire on the
Sabbath in order that the people might have good coals with which
to fill their foot-stoves in the morning and replenish them between
meetings. Children suffered the most from cold feet, and would often
cry with cold. I used to run my legs to the knees into my mother’s muff
and get my feet on her foot-stove and long for services to be done. My
father used to say that when he could hear people all over the house
striking their feet together to quicken the circulation, he felt it was
time to stop preaching, and indeed he seldom preached more than forty
minutes, and often less. But many of the old ministers who exchanged
with him had a method of dividing their sermons that to a boy with
cold feet was extremely tantalizing. They would have six, eight, and
often ten heads of discourse after which came “the improvement,” the
most excruciating of all. After a long time occupied in the application
of what had preceded, the minister would say “lastly.” Then all the
younger portion of the audience would prick up their ears and handle
their mittens in expectation of the close, but after this would come
“finally,” and on the heels of “finally” “to conclude,” and after
“conclude,” “in short.” There were few Sabbath-schools; religious
instruction was in former days given to the children by means of the
Westminster Catechism that was taught to children by their parents; and
at stated times in the year the ministers were accustomed to assemble
all the children of the parish and catechise them. Parents who were not
religious, equally with others, taught their children the catechism
that they might be able to answer the questions of the ministers and
appear as well as their companions. This method of instruction had
fallen in a measure into disuse, and though Sabbath-schools had been
substituted to take its place, they were not cherished or conducted as
at present. No pains were taken to render them attractive. Some parents
held on to both methods of religious instruction upon the principle
that there never could be too much of a good thing. The schools had
little hold upon the hearts of the ministers of the church and were
generally taught outside. The first Sabbath-school I attended was
held in a schoolhouse that stood on the northeastern side of State
Street. The late Mr. Cahoon was my teacher. The New Testament was the
text-book. Children committed hymns but took no part in the singing.
There was a vein of austerity running through the relations that
existed between parents and children. They were neither fondled nor
pampered, but taught self-denial, to obey their parents, and reverence
old age. In many families the children ate at a side table, as they
were not supposed to be fitted by age or development to associate with
their elders.
In the province of labor there was no special adaptation of the
implements of labor to the physical strength of children, nor in
matters of education any adaptation of studies or methods of teaching
to their mental wants as at present, but children and youths used to a
large extent the tools and books of their elders or waited till they
grew up to them. Thus, in matters of religion, immediate effect was not
expected either in relation to children or adults. It was not expected
that a person would be converted till he was married and settled in
life.
The question will naturally arise in the minds of many, what was the
result of such a mode and spirit of worship as to the promotion of
vital godliness and the conversion of souls. I reply, there was but
little fruit. The preaching was mostly argumentative and controversial
or political--the conic sections of godliness. Ministers seemed to feel
that their responsibility ended when they had faithfully preached the
truth and kept back nothing, and church members, when they attended the
ordinances and kept the faith.
The first great change for the better in this state of affairs was
caused by the embargo, which crushed for a season and well-nigh
exterminated the business interests of Portland. It brought those who
had become giddy with more than twenty years of unexampled prosperity
to reflection. In proportion as their prospects in this life were
blighted, they directed their attention to the attainment of more
durable riches. The ministers of the gospel of all denominations took
advantage of the changed condition of thought, and there was a great
revival of religious interest throughout New England. Edward Payson,
who was then in the prime of life and a colleague with my father,
exerted himself to an extent that consigned him to an early grave, and
there was during his ministry a constant revival. Instead of fate,
free-will, foreknowledge, absolute free-will, etc., people began to
hear of Christ and Him crucified, the still small voice of the Spirit,
and the danger of delay. The eyes of men, stirred to a new life, were
now opened to perceive the great obstacles to the progress of religion
and morality.
The drinking customs of the day which had now reached a fearful extent,
and African slavery and the discussions concerning it, caused a shaking
of the dry bones seldom equalled; for conscience, self-interest, and
the law of God were pitted against each other. The main shaft that
carried the wheels of business in Portland was the lumber trade, which
consisted in transporting lumber to the West Indies and bartering it
for molasses, a large portion of which was made into rum that went all
over the country. There was new rum for poor people, and West India
rum for those in better circumstances. I have seen my mother, as often
as Parson Lancaster exchanged with my father, mix Holland gin and loaf
sugar and warm it for him before he went into the pulpit and after he
came out. I once went with my father to a funeral in Beaver (now Brown)
Street, and a decanter of liquor and glasses were set on the coffin.
At eleven o’clock on each day the bell would ring, the masons come down
from the ladders, the joiners drop their tools, and all would partake
of rum, salt-fish, and crackers. This great obstacle, in a measure
taken out of the way, led to the development of a spirit of Christian
enterprise which I leave to abler tongues and pens to describe.
AT BOWDOIN COMMENCEMENT, JUNE 25, 1890
[Among papers especially treasured by Mr. Kellogg was found the
following letter:--
BRUNSWICK, MAINE, May 22, 1890.
“DEAR MR. KELLOGG: The coming Commencement will be the fiftieth
anniversary of your graduation. It is our custom to call first
on a representative of the class of fifty years ago; and as goes
his speech, so goes the dinner. Now you are not only the natural
representative of the class of fifty years ago, but one of the most
widely known and universally beloved of all the graduates of our whole
hundred years. So we shall look to you for the response from the Class
of ’40. You must not fail us. If you do not report yourself present
at the formation of the procession in the morning, we shall send a
sheriff and posse after you. The Congressmen will not be here this
year. The success of the dinner depends on your coming, and giving us
such a send-off as you only can give to a crowd of Bowdoin College
boys. It will be a sad day for Bowdoin College if there shall ever be
a generation of students who know not Elijah Kellogg.
“Faithfully yours,
“WILLIAM DEW. HYDE.”]
MR. PRESIDENT, GENTLEMEN, MEMBERS OF THE ALUMNI, AND CLASSMATES:
It is fifty years this autumn since I presented myself, a sedate
and diffident youth, between the two maple trees that relieved
the monotony of this then arid and barren college yard, and, like
friendship and misfortune, flung their shadows over the steps of
Massachusetts Hall, and sued for admittance to Bowdoin College. With
that humility which was an inherent attribute of youth in that bygone
day, I requested an inhabitant of this village to point out to me the
president of the college, and I gazed upon the great man with that
anxiety and solicitude, inspired by the belief that my fate and that
of my companions lay in his clutches. Since that period, since that
comparatively short period, what changes have taken place! This barren
college yard, across which students were wont to hurry, has been
transformed into a beautiful and attractive campus where they are now
prone to linger and repose and sport. This then barren college yard,
where Professors Smyth and Newman struggled desperately to prolong
the existence of a few sickly trees, and died in the struggle, is now
adorned by that beautiful Memorial Hall, created by the hands of a
progressive age, and transmitting to other generations the virtues
and the memory of those sons of Bowdoin who were true to their country
in the hour of her peril.
[Illustration: ELIJAH KELLOGG AT SEVENTY-SEVEN. 1890.]