A UNIVERSITY STUDENT.
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 from sin 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 to Harrodsburg 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-captured prize! 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 Sam Crutcher
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, and fence 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. The _Millennial Harbinger_ was 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 of the "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 convince others,
must declare his satisfaction when Lincoln's Proclamation--that one
proclamation that calls for no explanatory data to remind one _what_
proclamation--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 his peace 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
is a 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, "_Is_ he 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 each time, 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 his home-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
resting till 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; and he 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 hear _him_."
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, and forty 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 had come 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 to deliver his message, also fight for it? But though
fighting, will not his valor be tempered with the tenderness of tears?
[4] "These boys," Garrett S. Wall (now Judge Wall, of Maysville, Ky.),
Jacob Riley, Anthony Latham and O. A. Carr, all from May's Lick, had
lively discussion on the way. "Which church is right?" was the awkward
way the talk went on: Garrett explained Jacob's Theological puzzles:
Oliver presented the points in that first sermon he ever heard that he
understood, and to him the Scripture statements were plain: Anthony,
true son of "Calvin", dwelt on the "decrees". These boys were going to
be taught, and Anthony seemed willing that the "Spirit should guide him
into all truth" provided it did not make a Campbellite of him; for he
knew that was wrong religion. The count stood--three against one, and in
boy fashion it was claimed that if "what is to be will be" Anthony ought
to be satisfied. O. A. C.