A KENTUCKY BOY.
It was while the black nurse was doubtfully shaking her head over the
prospect of a long life for Mattie Myers, that two boys presented
themselves at the village schoolhouse of May's Lick, Kentucky. They were
two brothers who resembled each other so closely, and were so
inseparable, that they were often thought to be twins. Oliver Carr,
however, was two years younger than Owen[2]. They had come up from the
country in the old family barouche, and the fact that they were from the
country, was shown in their movements and their dress.
Their father, while still on the farm in Lewis County, had declared, "I
will educate my children, if I don't leave them a cent when I die." That
is why he sold his farm to invest the proceeds in town property at May's
Lick; and that is why Owen and Oliver are presenting themselves at the
door of May's Lick Academy. The family that had just moved to town,
consisted of William Carr and his wife, and their four sons and three
daughters. Of the children, the only one essential to this narrative is
he who gave his name to the teacher as Oliver A. Carr--better known in
his family and among his young companions as "Ollie."
The year was 1857. Of all the proud towns of Kentucky--proud of blood
and wealth--no city was prouder than May's Lick. Not even Lexington,
five counties to the southwest, thought more of her high birth, her fine
horses, her opulence, than did this little May's Lick of Mason County.
The schoolmates of the Carrs were the children of the wealthy. The boys
came to school in red-topped boots, riding prancing ponies, and were
waited upon by their black bodyguards. The girls were petted, and
spoiled, clad in dainty apparel, born to refinement and a nicety of
taste, intolerant of whatever appeared to their sensitive minds as
"common." Nor was this superiority of manner merely superficial. Beneath
the gleam of showy beauty, there was the gold of culture.
Naturally enough, these children of the rich, whether on the
play-ground, or in the school-room, stood aloof from Owen and
Oliver,--or as they were called "Bud and Ollie." In the first place,
they were newcomers; again, they were awkward and their clothes were
made from the same piece of their mother's weaving; and their father had
purchased one of the two hotels in town. "He works, himself!" it was
said, with pity, or contempt. And the sentiment against William Carr
because his work was not done by slaves, was reflected against his seven
children.
But William Carr, rugged and unyielding, firm in his belief that
education would place his boys and girls on a footing with the best,
conducted the hotel, while his wife, patient and tireless, sewed long
after the hours of the day's inevitable work were ended. To clothe and
educate seven children while all the time one's cashier is stealing
systematically--that is the problem!
It is a problem that little concerns the lads of the red-topped boots
and prancing ponies, or the girls of fine laces,--still less the fathers
of these; for all their spare time is spent in reminiscences of Henry
Clay, and in defining differences between the North and South--for this
is 1857, as we have said, and in a few years something may happen.
But it is not given to every boy to wear red-tops, nor to every girl,
real lace. Of course there were other families falling under the
supercilious classification of "those who do their own work." At such
times as the Carrs were not studying, or reciting to L. P. Streater, or
helping at home, companions were to be found, to bear a hand at a game
of marbles. Oliver had the genius of making friends; and, when no
artificial barriers interposed, his gentle nature thawed the ice in
natures most reserved.
Sometimes it happened that, as Oliver and his friends were engaged in
sports along the roadside, they would see a venerable man drawing near,
smooth faced, broad browed, stately in bearing, kindly in expression. If
it chanced to be a time of heated altercation, the warning would go
round--
"Hush! hush! There comes Brother Walter Scott."
The old man would pause with, "Well, dears, how do you do, this nice
morning? Are you on your way to school?"
Then he would pat one on the head, and say a pleasant word to all. In
his presence ill-humor melted away, and evil purposes were corrected. It
was not only so with the school boys, but with their fathers. His very
presence seemed a rebuke to wrong-doing and wrong-thinking. Sometimes he
came to the Academy and addressed the pupils. Oliver stood at the head
of the class in mathematics. One day after reciting geometry, "Elder"
Scott, as he was called--or "Brother" Scott--said, with that gracious
smile which lent the aspect of perennial youth to his wrinkled face,
"Young gentlemen, you have made good progress in Euclid." It was the
first time Oliver had ever heard of Euclid, but he knew the enunciation
of every proposition in the first five Books, and had drawn the figures
with elaborate care on his father's barn door! But he had not studied
Latin.
"That language," said his practical father, "is dead!"
The almost daily meeting with Walter Scott was one of those formative
influences, unperceived at the time, which help to shape one's ideals.
Let us look for a moment at this benign figure with his gentle smile,
his keen, penetrating glance, and his still almost raven-black locks. He
had brought to the Kentucky village an atmosphere of the great outside
world, for he was a man who had not only come in touch with the great
and illustrious, but who had himself participated in great affairs.
It meant much to the young mathematician at May's Lick Academy, this
daily intercourse with such a man. It inevitably raised his mind above
the daily toil, the unstimulating routine of a small town; it gave him a
certain outlook upon a wider life, suggesting higher things than had
hitherto entered his experience.
This venerable Walter Scott--he who had held little Mattie Myers upon
his knee--was a man in whose veins flowed the blood of Wat, of
Hardin--most illustrious of Scottish heroes. He was kin to the creator
of _Ivanhoe_ and _Rebecca_; a man who had graduated from the University
of Edinburg; who had sailed the seas and traveled in many distant
scenes; whose music instructor had been the friend of Sir Ralph
Abercrombie; who had been by turn teacher, preacher, editor, author; who
had traversed the circular avenues of poplars and pines leading to the
mansion-house of Henry Clay, trees "which made me fancy myself once more
in Scotia"--and who had sat in Clay's parlor in charming intercourse
with the statesman while the portrait of Washington looked down, and the
elegant simplicity of the apartments presented nothing "to make poor
men afraid, or rich men ashamed;" who had ridden on the steamboat with
the distinguished companionship of General Schuyler's daughter, the
widow of Alexander Hamilton, then in her eighty-fourth year; who had
visited the home of Colonel Richard M. Johnson; and who, finally, had
come to May's Lick to pass the remainder of his days.
It was natural enough that the very sight of this man should suggest to
the studious youth, thoughts of greatness and of travel. His kinship to
Sir Walter Scott and his familiarity with the lands beyond the seas, no
doubt lent him a sort of halo, to the imagination of boyhood. But it
must have done more than this; it must have suggested that one need not
remain poor and unknown; and that, as Walter Scott, when a poor young
man had lifted himself above his condition by means of his education, so
might Oliver Carr.
The postoffice was in William Carr's hotel. William was the
postmaster, and during vacation, or at intervals, Oliver served as
deputy. After the arrival of the mail, the distinguished scholar,
Walter Scott, would appear at the counter with his benignant smile,
and his "Dear--" he called all young people thus--"Dear, is there
anything for me, this morning?"
And Oliver was as pleased as he, when there was a _Louisville Courier_
to hand his friend, or a letter from Ohio, or Pittsburg, or New York.
There remains a word to be said as to what this Walter Scott was; for,
after all, where one has traveled, or whom one has met, speaks little of
the inner self; and it was this personal value of the man that counted
most with those he met.
It was in 1819 that Walter Scott landed in New York, and began teaching
Latin in Long Island--diverting himself with his flute at the close of
the day. But he soon felt the call of the West, and obeyed it afoot. It
brought him to Pittsburg, where he found himself drawn into school work
again. He became an assistant in the Academy conducted by Mr. Forrester,
a fellow-countryman. Scott had been reared in the Presbyterian faith,
and his soul had been perfectly satisfied in those religious grounds
staked off by his denomination's creed. He had not associated long with
Forrester before he found to his amazement that the latter, though
apparently of sincere piety, did not subscribe to all the articles; but,
instead of seeking to attack the Confession with the Discipline or the
Prayer Book, had recourse to the Bible. Not only so, but Forrester
professed himself ready to give up any article of faith that did not
appear fully warranted by the Scriptures; or, in other words, he had
resolved to be guided in religious matters by the Bible alone.
It is difficult for one of the present day to realize how radical,
unheard of, and unorthodox, such a determination as Forrester's appeared
in the year 1819. It is true that men here and there, in places far
removed from one another, were beginning to weary of the burden of the
creeds; they were reaching out to grasp something that might pull their
feet from the shackles of doubt or predetermined damnation, and in
desperate blindness they seized upon the Word of God as likely to prove
of most avail. It was, indeed, heresy; for if all had deserted creeds
for the Bible, what would have become of the creeds? In Luther's day it
had been heretical to decry Indulgences; if a Baptist, it was heretical
not to believe "in the peculiar and eternal election of men and angels
to glory," and "in a particular redemption of a definite number of
persons to eternal life," and "the final perseverance of the saints in
grace to the end."
Walter Scott felt no hesitation in joining Forrester in his studies of
the New Testament, secure in the belief that nothing could be found
there, inconsistent with his creed; henceforth, we find him sitting far
into the night, no longer solacing himself with the music of his flute,
but studying the Bible with ever greater and greater perplexity;
studying it as diligently as ever he had studied the Confession;
studying it with increasing uneasiness, as it seemed to lead him from
the faith of his fathers.
There was, at that time, no body of associated men who had agreed to
surrender all creeds, and take the Bible as their only guide. There were
isolated examples of such men. Alexander Campbell, of whom Walter Scott
had never heard, had been forced by his convictions from the
Presbyterian church into the Baptist association. Not long after the
beginning of Scott's explorations into this dimly-known field of
original research, he and the celebrated scholar met; but neither had a
thought of breaking away from the accepted religious bodies; the only
question was to find the one nearest approximating the truth, and to
seek reformation within that body.
The result of that effort to bring back the primitive church upon earth,
is seen today in the church of the disciples of Christ. This is not the
place to argue the feasibility of the plea, or to adduce arguments
against it. But what that plea was, should be presented clearly and
dispassionately. It is not the office of the biographer to point out the
right or wrong of his subject's dominating ideas, so much as it is to
show how the life was influenced by those motive-springs of thought.
Walter Scott, as an evangelist, pastor, author and editor, had come into
contact with tens of thousands, and had influenced countless lives. His
followers were called by the unsympathetic, "Scottites," just as those
of Alexander Campbell were nicknamed "Campbellites." Thomas and
Alexander Campbell and Walter Scott, the triumvirate of the dawning
"Reformation," did not come, however, to found denominations, but, so
far as they could, to do away with them.
They believed that it was possible for the church of New Testament days
to exist in the modern world, just as it had existed then. They
believed that the means of entering the church now, are what they were
then; that Christ's conditions were in their very nature of divinity,
unalterable. As Peter preached on the day of Pentecost, so Walter Scott
preached in the Nineteenth Century. As Cornelius and the jailer and the
eunuch and Lydia and all other recorded instances of sinners converted
in olden times, so man today, in turning to God, must turn as they
turned, come as they came, obey as they obeyed.
And if the old order should be restored, there would be but one order in
the earth; but one Faith, one Lord and one Baptism. The saints would sit
down to one table from which no saint would be excluded; they would join
their hymns of undenominational ecstasy, and, if they did not see every
subject exactly alike, they would at least agree in their contemplation
of essentials. After all, the important matter seemed to be, to get
safely into the church, and to stay in it; and if all entered in the
same way, the way the apostles had taught, and then dwelt in harmony,
not as Presbyterians and Baptists and Episcopals and Methodists, whose
very names appeared to draw lines, whether the lines were definitely
understood or not--this ideal body would be simply disciples of Christ,
or Christians, as they had been eighteen hundred years ago. Then indeed
would a shout of thanksgiving go up from the earth, that the prayer of
Jesus had been answered; not only his apostles but all those who now
believed on his name, had become one; one in thought and love and life;
one as he and the Father were one, eternal, indivisible.
Whether or not the reader believes such a union possible, or desirable,
it will surely call for no great task of the imagination upon his part,
to enter somewhat into the thrilling rapture this picture presented to
the hearts of the early "reformers." One feels his heart leap with a
sympathetic throb when men who had dreamed of such a return to the old
paths, but who had dreamed of it in solitude, not knowing it had found a
voice in the earth--suddenly heard it pronounced from the pulpit. Men
who had brooded in seclusion over their Bibles, finding there, as it
appeared to them, sublime statements antagonistic to sectarianism, were
suddenly transfixed by hearing the words of old, "Believe on the Lord
Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved!" It seemed to them that the "Old
Gospel" was once more sounding in the land. On a visit to Missouri,
Walter Scott met an eminent preacher, Moses E. Lard.
"You do not know me," said Lard, as he threw his arm about the other;
"but you are the man who first taught me the Gospel."
"How so!" the other inquired.
"It was reading your book--'The Gospel Restored,'" was the answer.
That is how this movement appeared to those who came under its
influence,--the Gospel must be restored. The preachers proclaimed and
debated from the rostrum, and pulpit, and on horseback. The laymen
talked about it on the street, and in the field, ready at any moment to
draw the Bible from their pockets to show just what the "Old Jerusalem
Gospel" had to say for itself. The women discussed regeneration and
baptism over their sewing and knitting. The children taunted each other
at school and at play, and the swaggering bully might say to the
despised "Campbellite," "_We_ believe in a change of heart!" or "_You_
believe water will save you!"
Such taunts, however, did not assail the young Carrs, for their parents
belonged to no church, and their grandparents and numerous relations
were Presbyterians and Methodists. Oliver's teacher, L. P. Streator, was
a disciple of Christ; his life, as well as that of Walter Scott, were
arguments, in their way, for the "new religion"; but after all, Oliver
had thought little of religion during his first years at the Academy.
Martin Streator, his teacher's son, persuaded him to attend the
Sunday-school at the Christian church; he went once or twice, and then
tried the Baptist Sunday-school to find out what "they did over there".
The teacher of the Baptist class devoted his hour to an explanation of
the Holy Ghost, which proved so baffling to the young mathematician,
that for some time thereafter he discharged no religious duties.
Across the street from Carr's Hotel, was a blacksmith shop. The smith
was an Englishman, Eneas Myall. Fifteen years before William Carr drove
from Lewis County in the old barouche, Myall had come over from England,
and had stood on dry dock with only twenty-five cents in his pocket. He
walked twelve miles to find work; needless to say, he found it. He
earned the passage-money from England for his father, two brothers, and
cousin. All worked together; the cousin was a wagon-maker, and under
the newly made wagon-wheels, as they rested upon their trestles, were
the shavings that had curled up at the making. In the cold dark
mornings, when young Oliver came down stairs to make his fires, the
flames leaped up from these very shavings, which he had carried over the
evening before. They liked him at the shop, and Eneas, in particular,
believed he read an expression in the thin face of the ambitious
student, that promised something better than a hotel life.
Eneas was a Christian; [3]he and his two brothers and his cousin had all
heard the Gospel preached by R. C. Ricketts, as they had never heard it
in the old country. Over there, to escape the formalism of the Church of
England, they had listened to the Dissenters; they had watched sinners
hovering on the Anxious-seat of the Presbyterians, and the
Mourning-bench of the Methodists. Such ante-rooms to Grace were held
indispensable. As the eminent Congregationalist, Dr. Finney explained,
so nearly all believed: "The church has always felt it necessary to have
something of this kind. In the days of the apostles baptism answered
this purpose. The Gospel was preached to the people and all who were
willing to be on Christ's side were called on to be baptized. It held
the precise place that the anxious seat does now, as a public
manifestation of their determination to be Christians."
But Eneas and his relatives had been called upon by the preacher, not to
come to something which served the same purpose as an institution of
old, but to the institution itself. "Repent and be baptized every one of
you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and you shall
receive the gift of the Holy Spirit!" This was the trumpet call of R. C.
Ricketts. To the simple blacksmith, it sounded like a voice long silent,
issuing from the sacred past. He had never heard it proclaimed before.
He and his obeyed the call. Having entered upon the Christian life, this
blacksmith felt an inexhaustible enthusiasm for the cause. He had been
made so happy by his acceptance of what opponents called the "new
religion" that he wanted all his friends to partake of his happiness.
When W. T. Moore came to May's Lick to raise funds for Bethany College,
the first college of the disciples,--Eneas took his old rusty pen and
wrote "$100."
Moore, in surprise, looked at the stalwart form in its rude garb, and
then at the homely scene in which it seemed in keeping. "This is more
than you ought to give!" he exclaimed. "How do you make it?"
"Oh," said the blacksmith, casting the pen aside, and lifting his
hammer, "I beat it out of this iron! It is such a good cause, I'm sure I
can give $100.00."
That was when Oliver was fifteen. W. T. Moore was holding a meeting at
the church, working up the college endowment during the day. One
evening, when Oliver entered the shop, as he did daily, seeking his
kindling, Ed Myall looked up from his work, and said, "Ollie, isn't it
time for you to be a Christian?" He would have said more, but his voice
failed him. The boy, without a word, turned and went away. It was the
first time anyone had ever spoken to him about being a Christian. He had
dropped out of the Sunday school; he rarely attended church.
His sister Minnie was the first of the family to become a Christian. She
repented; she confessed her faith; she was baptized; and then she became
a missionary, thus: She met Oliver in the hall, as by accident--such
matters come hard to the young and inexperienced--and said, "Ol, I want
you to be a good boy!"
That was all; but he knew what she meant. The opportunity to go to
church was not wanting, for Mr. and Mrs. Carr were always ready to take
the work in hand for that purpose. They wanted the children to go to
church, though, to be sure, they would have preferred the churches of
their fathers. So on Sunday, Oliver went to church and heard W. T. Moore
preach the first sermon he had ever understood. The same points were
preached over and over, "What must I do to be saved?" And after that,
when Oliver was driving passengers to and fro, or hauling wheat to
market, he was thinking incessantly over what he had heard, that
question of old,--"What must I do to be saved?" and then of the answer,
as it had come from the lips of Peter and Silas and Paul. And he made
the resolution, "Next Sunday, I will do what I think right!"
He asked his father's permission to "join the church." "If you know what
you are doing," said William Carr, "go ahead."
Oliver thought he knew. The next Sunday he did up his morning's work,
then walked to the Christian Church, where he made his confession of
faith. It was a joyous occasion, and few eyes were dry, as the lad stood
up to make known the new born desire of his heart. There were no looks
cast at him askance, no chill of social cast. All felt one in Christ
Jesus, and there was nothing but love for the lad from Lewis County.
And his mother who was by inheritance a Methodist, said, "The
Campbellites have got Ollie!" He was baptized; of all his family, only
Minnie was present.
One afternoon Oliver, now sixteen, came home for the last time from
May's Lick Academy. He had finished the course. He carried his report
proudly. "Seven" was the highest mark according to the teacher's system.
Oliver's card was sprinkled all over with "7's." As he drew near the
tavern, he saw his father in his chair, which had been brought outside.
He examined the report of his son with laudable pride, then said, "Well,
Ollie, you will have to finish for yourself, now. I'm not able to send
you to school any longer."
Of course, there was plenty of hard work. There was the wheat for him to
haul across the county to Maysville, and the loads of coal to be brought
home from the river; and there were the passengers to be carried to and
fro; and, always, the home tasks.
But this life of crushed ambitions was not long to continue. Soon after
Oliver's admission into the church, Eneas Myall, the blacksmith, walked
into Carr's Hotel, accompanied by a prominent member of the church.
Oliver happened to be in the hall when they began speaking to his
father. He heard a few words, and crept nearer the door, his heart
leaping in wild tumult.
He heard the blacksmith's voice, that voice which had often cheered him
as he went about his daily tasks. And now it was asking if William Carr
would consent to Oliver's being sent to Kentucky University at
Harrodsburg; saying that he and Dr. A. H. Wall would pledge themselves
to furnish the money. Is it a wonder that to Oliver Carr, that voice
"sounded like sweetest music?"
William expressed his sorrow at not being able to educate his children
as he wished; he appreciated the offer now made. "But," he said,
earnestly, "don't undertake this, unless you are sure you can go on with
it; I don't want you to give him up!"
A few days later Eneas Myall came with his hard-earned money, and
placed it in Oliver's hands, asking him to take it with the love of its
donors. And so, at the age of sixteen, Oliver Carr went to the
University at Harrodsburg, to study for the ministry.
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.
[2] See appendix.
[3] See appendix.