LOVE AND SACRIFICE.
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
mineral springs--"AEsculapia", 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 AEsculapius 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 these two 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 President Williams' 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 communion with 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's youth 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 became the 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 awkward form--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, scattering saddle-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 keep _in 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 the waves 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.
O. A. CARR."
So the day, bright and beautiful, is at a close; the waves of the Ohio
no longer sparkle with diamonds as the steamboat plows its way
southward; and the jolts of the journey--let us hope--are eased; and the
sermon has been preached; and if we smile at the thought of the
sand-scouring of the boots, is it not with the smile of sympathy? For
we, too, find beautiful the feet of those who bring tidings of great
joy! So, as we say, gone is that bright day of July, so many years ago;
and every little movement in the river one saw that day has, for many
years, lapsed into stillness, to give place to the movements of other
times. But the words spoken then, the sermon preached, the hymns sung,
the prayers offered,--who shall say there is not in the world to-day a
greater love for humanity, a deeper adoration of the Christ, because of
them?
This same year Mattie Myers wrote,
"The leafy bowers their shadows cast, and on the grass so cool,
We lay our burning brows and weep the fleeting joys of school"--
For her school-days are at last ended.
Four years of instruction under her brother's surveillance, six more at
St. Catherine de Sienna's and Daughters' College--ten years of lingering
at the founts of knowledge! And now that they have slipped away, and the
young girl faces the graver problem of life itself, the school-girl
breaks into swan-song, and dies to her youth, as she immerges into
womanhood:
"We leave thee, Alma Mater, dear, with all the bitter grief
That farewell brings to loving hearts, yet with a sweet relief,--
A hope to tread thy walks again, to breathe thy fragrant air,--
A hope to hear again thy voice, thy holy truth to share."
To her mind, education was not only acquirement of truth, but of holy
truth; such an acquisition as called for its inevitable reward:
"When from the dust the good shall rise
When glory's streaming from the skies;
The hand of love a wreath will twine,
Eternal, glorious, divine."
"Miss Mattie: Dear Sister--" What is this? Nothing less than a Kentucky
University student, writing from "Social Hall," on the 12th of January,
1866. "Don't be surprised to find the name of your friend Ollie at the
conclusion of these lines," he goes on, "though I admit it is enough to
surprise you." But not us! He was disappointed, he says, because she did
not come to Mount Carmel during his last meeting, "for I had _all_ the
preaching to do myself--" signifying that there was no young girl fresh
from college to lead the singing. The letter is all about his
evangelistic work. "Uncle Gilbert, who had not been within a church for
twenty years, was constantly in his seat before me, looking and
listening with intent interest."
And then he mourns because his sister Mary did not "purify her soul by
obeying the truth through the spirit." Privately, she tells her
preacher-brother that she believes; but she will wait awhile before
confessing her belief, will wait for the husband to come. But he does
not come. "I left that dear good sister sitting on the stile, watching
to catch the last glimpse of me, departing perhaps forever." But that
vacation was not spent in vain. "During two months I reported 133
additions, organized four Sunday schools and two churches. Oh, how happy
I would be tonight, if all my dear relations were among those who have
obeyed!" Then he gives us an insight into the sort of things he and
"Miss Mattie" conversed about at social gatherings. "Although my summer
was indeed a happy one, yet when I returned to where all are so worldly,
my heart seemed almost broken. I will always remember the remark you
made at President Milligan's reception, in regard to the conversion of
my parents; and of your faith in prayer."
Serious, indeed, but sweet in its strong helpfulness, is this
correspondence, now springing up. We have but one side of it, but it
reveals the other. His next letter: "I will never forget your good
advice, nor will I cease to thank you for it. Mattie, I regard you as my
most wholesome counselor. I seldom find a young lady who will give me
advice; and none ever gave me more consolation than you. I have just
read your letter, and I feel stronger spiritually. How cheering to the
poor boy, are these words from a sister in Christ. You ask me what
message you shall bear to Mary"--the sister we left gazing sadly from
the stile, waiting, but unready. "If you have an opportunity, please
encourage her to become a Christian. I took tea with President Williams
last night. He says if he returns to Harrodsburg next year, he will have
you as his assistant teacher. I hope you will sufficiently recover
your health to be able to take up that employment next to the Christian
ministry in point of usefulness, that you may labor for God and
humanity."
[Illustration: School Days Ended.]
He writes in March: "I have been on a visit to my sister, Minnie Fox, to
attend an exhibition given by her husband's school. From there I went to
Winchester to preach, and have just returned. My roommate"--here he
pauses to take futile revenge--"Dr. Sweeny, is amusing himself with his
flute and vexing me no little with his discordant notes. Of course _good
natured Ol._ bears it all in good part, hoping however, that the
doctor's serenade will soon conclude!"--a side-remark which we might
have made ourselves. Then to the more serious matters: "I admire more
than ever the kind, easy and natural manner breathed in your letters.
Your style portrays a good heart. I love _talking_ letters, and such
talk, too, that expresses spontaneous emotions. How happy I am under the
conviction that you feel solicitations about my welfare, and offer up
prayers in my behalf. Mattie, I often think of your remark to me last
June, stating what you thought could be done through faith."
He has two regular appointments now, for preaching; at Macedonia[6] and
Providence. He touches upon the latest news: "I suppose you have heard
of Brother A. Campbell's death. How sad to think that one so great and
good must lose his power and fade away! 'He had fought a good fight,'
and now goes away to wear the crown. President Williams will go back to
Harrodsburg. He prefers teaching young ladies to boys. Mattie! I am
trying to compose an oration on the 'True and Good in Man,' and would be
very much obliged if you will give a few suggestions. (Bad luck to that
pen for dropping the ink! please excuse the blot.) I will be very glad
to hear from you soon on the True and Good in Man. Good night! May the
choicest blessings of heaven be yours, in time and eternity."
Mattie Myers is still seeking to regain her strength--for health has
fled after the closing days at Daughters' College; and as she rests, she
reads the "Quarterly,"--no light reading, one would think, for a girl
of eighteen--and "Aurora Leigh," always her favorite,--and at
night--these beautiful nights in May, she goes to the meeting held at
Stanford by Moses E. Lard. Oliver has no such excuses, he writes her,
for delaying his answer, but he has others just as good. "I have yet
those five studies this hot weather," he says; "besides, I go to the
country to preach nearly every Lord's day." However, we would not have
her think his preaching excuses any dereliction of duty. "I have had
occasion to pronounce my love for the ministry, and I need only say that
it is still my chief delight."
And then he comes to deal with the man about whom the storm-clouds had
gathered, the favorite professor who used to walk with the boy Oliver
when friends were few and the University was at Harrodsburg: "Last
Friday night Dr. Pinkerton addressed our society--the Philothean,--to
encourage us in our undertaking--about twenty-five of us are studying
for the ministry. His subject was 'True Greatness.' All were entertained
with the originality of his conceptions, and his peculiarly terse,
pointed and feeling manner. It just seemed a picture of the man
revealing his noble heart, and showing his fervent religious
sentiments. Perhaps you have been prejudiced against the doctor, owing
to his political proclivities. But Mattie, allow me to say that although
he acted as a Christian should not act, while overwhelmed in excitement,
and had his all in the 'Negro Bureau,' still, I cannot but believe he
was sincere. _Yes!_ he was so deeply convinced of the correctness of his
position that he would have been a miserable man, a vile hypocrite, had
he acted otherwise. He is ready to sacrifice popularity and friends;
yes, I verily believe life itself, for what his conscience tells him is
right. For this I admire him. For his sympathy, I esteem him; and
because he is a good man, I _love_ him. I know many lips have hissed
stern anathemas against poor, passionate Dr. Pinkerton; but his goodness
will compare favorably with that of any of his accusers. I hope the
brethren will labor to restore him to his proper orbit, where he will
shine among the brightest stars of the Reformation."
So this generous young defender goes on and on, till he reaches a blaze
of eloquence of which we are duly suspicious, knowing not what element
of actuality (which is seldom eloquent) may have been consumed in the
heat of chivalrous ardor. It is enough to know that we have found a
voice to speak for the man "who had his all in the Negro Bureau," nor
was it a light thing to speak thus to Mattie Myers, whose schoolbook is
written close with Southern songs. She loves to sing--else she would not
have taken the pains to write it down so carefully--
"Oh, yes, I am a Southern girl, and glory in the name,
And boast it with far greater pride than glittering wealth or fame.
I envy not the Northern girl her robes of beauty rare
Though diamonds grace her snowy neck, and pearls bedeck her hair.
"Hurrah, hurrah, for the Sunny South so dear!
Three cheers for the homespun dress
The Southern ladies wear."
After the exalted strain of the first part of this letter, we confess to
a great satisfaction in the latter part, which seems to come so much
closer to the ground on which most of us live: "I delivered your message
to Miss Shaw Turner. She expressed an ardent desire to see you, and gave
evidence to a strong attachment to you,--_which_ I suppose you will
allow me to do." (Observe the artfulness of that "_which_") "I am very
much obliged to you for the invitation to the railroad picnic, and I
think it would be altogether proper for the _Car_ to beat the railroad,
ric, tic." (A pun! what next?) "Well, I have heard Brother Lard preach
lately; no wonder I can't write to you! We are anticipating a happy
time in June at our society exhibitions. Please come! But before you
come, oblige me by writing some of your thoughts on this subject: 'The
Tears of History and the Smiles of Prophecy.' This is my subject and I
have not written a word. Jas. C. Keith, Albert Myles and myself are to
represent the University on the 28th June--a distinguished honor,
indeed. I am also elected to represent the Philothean society, and I
have not prepared _that_ speech. Oh, what a fix I'm in! Please, Mattie,
help me! Next summer, let us visit Mount Carmel again, and go to
AEsculapia for our health." (Only for our health?) "Brother Myles sends
his kindest regards, and says he doesn't think near so much of Miss Ada
as of you! Mattie, please write soon."
Next month comes the "exhibits," and in July--this from Oliver,--"I know
you will be surprised at the caption of this letter--Ghent, Carroll
County, Kentucky." It does, indeed, surprise her, for after a year's
absence, one would have supposed the student anxious to go back to his
parents, kindred and friends. But "I have sacrificed the pleasure of
meeting my loved ones, and given up all, for the good of this people."
His roommate, Albert Myles, has urged him to this course, for Albert,
who has been assisted in College by Mrs. Drusie Tandy Ellis of Ghent, is
called there to hold the meeting. "College days were over June 28th," he
continues. "I underwent six critical, trying examinations, and prepared
my two speeches--and was then so sick I could hardly walk. The doctor
brought me out of a weakening disease so that I could stand on the stage
while I spoke; but that was about all. When the boys parted for their
homes, they left me in extreme agony. My poor frame was racked and
tortured by unmerciful disease. Many I did not get to bid goodby--dear
boys! God be with you, and may we meet again next October. My roommate,
Brother Myles, remained with me. When I recovered, he plead so
affectionately for his 'chum Ol.' to go with him to Ghent, that I could
not refuse."
And so they go to Covington, and at Cincinnati take the "Joe Anderson"
for the river town. But in about two weeks, Oliver will be at Mount
Carmel where Mattie is now--he urges her to stay till he comes--and he
will bring her a book by one of his favorite professors--McGarvey's
"Commentary"--solid food for the young lady, one would think.
Back in the University next fall--let us hope in better health than when
he left it!--we find Oliver again pen in hand: "James Keith, Albert
Myles and myself will finish the course this year by hard study, having
about twenty-five recitations each week--and I am in wretchedly poor
condition. I'm fearful of my health's giving way under the great burden.
I hope and pray for strength of mind and body to prepare for a long
service. I sometimes think it is almost a sin for us young men who are
preparing for the ministry, to stay here conning over dull lessons in
mathematics, Latin and Greek. Like a caged bird, I long to be free of
the College-wall cage. I am anxious to go into the world and preach the
Gospel. I have been telling my friend of how you and I preach together,
and what a good, assistant preacher you are. How I would like to be with
you and your sister tonight. Dear me! What a contrast this dull monotony
presents to that blissful happy meeting--to do such noble work as that
in which we were engaged! Never can I forget that meeting, nor our trips
to Orangeburg! neither can I forget you who cling so tenaciously to
'that good part.' You and Sister O'Bannon both impressed me as being
God's dear children. Remember your mission to speak to my sister Mary
about becoming a Christian. I suppose you heard of my good meeting at
Sardis. Forty-five were added--four of my cousins among the number.
Don't fail to send that sermon. Mattie, I send the promised photograph,
please send me yours. Write to me soon, and tell me what you are doing.
I know you are not hearing Brother Lard _now_. I think you might write
poor Ol. a long letter very soon!"
"Poor Ol." received the letter; for we find him answering in a short
time--from his letter we may gain an insight into hers: "You speak of
your benevolent scheme in progress for the 'poor wanderers of New York.'
I do not know your exact meaning, but ever since I formed your
acquaintance, I have believed you a chosen instrument of God to
accomplish great good for poor mortals. Now you are making the step.
Dear me! How I wish such a spirit of Christianity infused itself through
the purposes of the ten thousand accomplished and efficient young ladies
of Kentucky! How much good might be done by womanhood, if they would
devote their time, means and energy to alleviating suffering. Perhaps it
would be a better plan to look nearer home. I am glad to know that you
whom God has blessed with a mind and heart able to conceive, plan and
feel, are breathing a prayer for the distressed. Mattie, it speaks well
for you, and makes me rejoice. A young friend of mine insists on my
preaching at Mount Sterling that he may obey the Gospel. I can't refuse
to go. I know I will lose time, and distract my attention from my
studies, but what is that in comparison to saving a soul? I don't
hesitate to go, but will be off soon. Encourage the building of the
church at Mount Carmel all you can. They will receive $50.00 from me
next summer for that purpose. Excuse bad writing. You know I can do
better."
In Oliver's next letter--December--we find him in a rather sensitive
mood. Mattie has accused him of "Some egotism clearly manifested in a
parenthesis" he appears to have stowed away in his last epistle. "Dear
me!" says Oliver, wounded and perplexed, "What can it be?" After trying
to recall anything that may have prompted her "sarcasm," and after an
eloquent outburst against the meanness of egotism wherever found, he is
obliged to give it up. After relieving his feelings he falls back on
"Brother Lard," who appears as a convenient stalking-horse for both
sides. "If you think my writing home a poor excuse for not writing to
you, I have a very good one at hand. Brother Lard is preaching here
every night. That, as you know (having offered it yourself) is a valid
excuse! I have just returned from a visit to President Williams who is
in high spirits. He has just been giving me a lecture on my returning
here for still another year. He is a dear good man, and often gives me
good advice; but I don't think it would be right, after taking a diploma
in the Bible College and another in the College of Arts, to remain
another year. Now, Mattie, I have always paid much attention to your
advice; what do you think on the subject? You know my deficiences; but
you also know my burning desire to be at work. Like you, I admire Geo.
D. Prentice's 'Closing Year' extravagantly. He has immortalized himself
with that inimitable production. What a pity that such a man is not a
Christian! The world is presenting a sad picture. The people are
beginning to lose confidence even in the clergy. I am convinced that,
as a Christian body, we are more in need of deep-toned piety than of
anything else. We have more learning than we put to good use. We need
exemplary conduct in young men and women. I am going to start out in the
New Year to live a holier, better and consequently a happier life.
Please remember me in your prayers."
Our next letter to "Miss Mattie," dated December 25th, is not from
Oliver Carr, but from another University student, who signs himself by
his initials. Poor young gentleman, we seek not to know his name, as he
pours out his love of near half a century gone. Her "very welcome
favor," it appears, had nipped his sweetest hopes in the bud, but he was
"glad to receive it." He goes to the point: "You say that no more
intimate relationship can exist between us than that of friendship. Miss
Mattie, why not? I do not presume to ask for details, whether your heart
is prepossessed in favor of another or whether * * *" But no, this was
very real to the "D.," of those days, let us not listen to his
heart-beats, but hope rather that "D." now sixty-odd, if he is a day,
has long since forgotten all about it. He is introduced here merely to
cast one tiny ray upon the character-development of the young lady
addressed: "In the mean time, you will allow me to thank you very
sincerely for the candor with which you have dealt with me, not only in
this correspondence, but ever since our acquaintanceship." And then,
remembering that it is the 25th, he adds with a stout heart, "Just while
I think of it, I will take your 'Christmas Gift!'"
He gives a flash-light of those vacation days: "Most of the students
have gone to their homes. Egg-nog is flowing freely here. The landlady
has it in abundance, today. Some of the company partook largely; among
them I noticed two young ladies. By the way, a little news afloat: Miss
Jennie Lard is to be married to a very interesting youth" (Note the
bitterness of our rejected lover!) "of fifty and odd summers: This
lovely lad is Woodson, a lawyer of St. Louis, who is very promising for
a mere beginner in this up-hill business of life. In the exuberance of
his youthful feelings he has presented her with a gold watch, rings
infinite, and earbobs not a few." (Oh, the bitterness of it!)
Then, in this incidental fashion, we find introduced a subject which is
presently to deepen until it envelops all other thoughts of Mattie
Myers: "Alex. Milligan received a letter of twelve pages from Brother
Gore, dated Liverpool. He and Surber intend to start for Australia on
the 21st"--two young friends of Oliver Carr and Mattie Myers, going
forth as missionaries. "They have visited Spurgeon's tabernacle, Crystal
Palace, etc. They describe the English manner of worship, different from
ours. They have no preaching Lord's Day morning; that part of the day is
spent in taking the Lord's Supper, Scripture reading, etc. Preaching at
night." And then "D." enters upon the subject of Conscience, in which it
seems Mattie is greatly interested; but our own will not permit us to
follow him into those intricate depths.
Three months pass by, but Oliver has not forgotten Mattie's thrust: "I
do wish you had gratified me by sending the sentence in quotation in
which I expressed _egotism_. I have been much troubled about it and I
would like to know exactly what it was." Then after several pages of
severe self-inspection, to find the contamination, he urges her to see
again his sister Mary and his other relatives who are out of the
church, and continue with zest, in finding a delightful means of
prolonging this correspondence: "You say that the affirmative of the
question, 'Will Christ's Second Coming be Premillenial?' is Scriptural.
Well, we will have a debate, if you say so. You must make the first
speech; I'm simply to reply. But as suggestive of the arguments, I wish
you "to prove to me, First * * *"
And so they debate; and spring blooms in Kentucky, and summer comes with
its hard work and balmy airs. Mattie Myers is not as strong as she might
be, but she has had a long rest, and can rest no longer; for that active
spirit calls her to her chosen work. She has already done some teaching,
but in the autumn of 1867, she purchases Franklin College at Lancaster,
and starts definitely upon her career. She is the president, of course;
and she feels as she walks the familiar streets,--no longer a little
girl under her brother Joe's tutelage, but a grave young teacher--a girl
of twenty now, surrounded by other girls--that her life-work has,
indeed, begun. Her first school! It does not, indeed, promise that wide
field she has so long coveted; the conditions are straight, the
capabilities rather narrow; but after all, it will serve for a time.
Why it served so short a time--but one school term, in all,--may be
gleaned from the continuation of the correspondence:
"I confide in you," Oliver writes in September, "as I do in my own kin.
The plain truth is that you seem much nearer to me than some of my
kindred who are ever opposing my humble work. I am thankful that I ever
met you, and that we have learned to sympathize with each other. I made
a flying visit to Mount Carmel, and cannot say how sad I felt at not
seeing you there. I preached at Orangeburg, and had the pleasure of
receiving among others, my little cousin Rachel. I have long been
praying for her conversion. I baptized her and her husband both at the
same time.
"From there I went to the State Meeting at Lexington, and a happy time I
had. It was said by old men that they had never known one so _good_.
During the meeting, a letter was received and read before the convention
by Brother J. W. McGarvey. It was from Brother Surber. He stated very
touchingly the need of more preachers in Australia, and urged Brother
Myles and me to come. He expressly stated that the Australian brethren
had--under the recommendation of himself and Gore--selected _us_, and
wanted no others. Brother Surber wrote to me, and gave a description of
Melbourne, where he wants me to preach. His description made me wonder
at the degree of refinement there. The city is beautifully adorned with
flower-gardens; 140,000 inhabitants. He imagines I'm there, walking with
him through the city. He says, 'Come, Ollie, it is just as near Heaven
from this country as from Kentucky.' He says we will be to the Cause
there what Walter Scott and Barton Stone were here, etc. The brethren
there are almost wild for an evangelist from Kentucky; have sent $800.00
in gold to bear expenses of Brother Myles and myself. Above all
considerations, the good I might do is the grandest--to preach to people
who are not tired of hearing! I know my relatives will oppose my going,
and that it will almost break my heart to leave them; but I cannot
consult flesh and blood. I have prayed and wept over this, but I cannot
escape the conviction that it is my duty to go. All the brethren except
Dr. Pinkerton advised me to go. President Milligan just wept like a
child. I've not let the folks at home know anything about it; there is
great excitement here. Mattie, what do you think of my going? Would you
go with me? _I'm in earnest._ Brother Keith and I are holding a meeting
at Millersburg. I wish I had you as an assistant preacher, as I did last
summer. I hear that people are well educated in Australia. Please write
immediately."
We have broken the news to the reader, just as it was broken to Mattie
Myers; but there is a difference; for in those days, knowledge of
Australia was very superficial in Kentucky. It was immensely farther
away then than now, and in proportion as it took so long to go there, to
that degree did it appear wild and barbarous, semi-civilized at best. To
Carr, Myles and Keith, the senior class of 1867,--the three young
preachers and roommates, who were called "the Trio,"--the Australians
were a mixture of exported English convicts and bush-men with bristling
hair. To their imagination, an Australian was hardly to be classified
with any of the recognized races of mankind; he was a mongrel, a
mystery. And even if they could have received the enthusiastic
laudations of young Surber and Gore, the perils of months upon the deep
which rendered passage full of dangers, and a speedy return impossible,
must still have appalled the fancy. To go to Australia, then, was to cut
away from the old life with all its ties of love, of laughter and of
tears, and to find what consolation one might in the thought that the
distance from there to heaven was as short as from a Kentucky haven!
The next month, Oliver writes to Mattie Myers: "Your touching letter
gave me more encouragement in my expected trip to Australia than any I
have received, leaving my heart literally steeped in faith, hope and
love. I hated to tell you my plan, for you are always holding up to my
view the amount of work to be done in Kentucky. This is the hardest
question I was ever called on to decide. It came to me something like
the question of my soul's salvation. At the State Meeting, old and young
advised me to go--all except Dr. Pinkerton, whose counsel was always
very weighty with me. His argument was that the people of Northeast
Kentucky need my labor too badly, and that their souls are just as
precious as those in Australia. But you know that in Lewis County I have
not the opportunities to labor that I'd have in Australia. Life is too
short--we must use every advantage. There are others to take my place
in this country.
"I wept all the way from Lexington. And then I placed in the scales,
home with all the meaning of HOME--father, mother, sisters, brothers,
and friends--and no one has dearer friends than I, and God knows I love
them dearly,--and on the other side I placed the salvation of perhaps
thousands of souls, the love of Jesus and his Cause. I looked at the
balance with tearful eyes, and resolved to tell parents, kindred and
friends adieu. The scale turned. My love for all dear to me on earth,
cannot deter me from going with glad tidings to the weary and
heavy-laden. And yet how sad to leave you and all others so dear. I
declare, it almost breaks my heart. Yet go I must! I wrote home and told
all about it. Oh, I hated to let my poor mother know anything about it.
I am to stay three or five years. I will have an audience of 1,000 every
Sunday. The salary will be $1,000 in gold. Some of this I will send home
to my poor parents; and some to my brother Dick whom I am going to
educate; and some to the young man I am already educating for the
ministry. I am going to make one more strong appeal to my parents to
obey the Gospel. How shall I be able to tell them goodby, if I am to go
away with no hope of meeting them in heaven? I am glad you have such a
good school. Oh, you are doing a noble work! Just think of training 90
or 100 little hearts and leading them to Jesus!"
December comes, and the stress of resolution grows harder to bear: "I
have come home at last, but not to rejoice in the association of
friends. I am chilled by translation from a fervid spiritual labor and
fellowship of the saints, into a fellowship of worldly affairs where
every effort is to get something to eat, drink and wear, with scarcely a
thought of the hereafter. Brother Dick is dangerously ill. The dear
fellow suffers the most excruciating pain. As I gaze upon his tender
form, I wonder if I am ever to realize that thought--my brother, a
preacher! Added to this sorrow is the sympathy I have for my poor
mother, who weeps whenever Australia is mentioned. It is very
distressing. All charge me with not loving them. My dear father rests
his heavy head upon his hand, and weeps to think of the future. His
frail body is tottering as he descends the hill of life. I fear I shall
never see him again, after I say farewell. It well nigh breaks my heart
to hear them chide me for resolving to go on that long, long voyage. I
close this sad picture by throwing myself into my only refuge--faithful
prayer, and immortal hope." The next part of the letter shows that
Oliver was "in earnest" when he asked Mattie Myers to go with him:
"In Lexington I met Brother McGarvey on the street" (his teacher with
whom he lodged during his last year at the University.) "He urged me to
tell him all that happened during my brief visit to you at Lancaster"
(where she is teaching her first school.) "In confidence, I told him
your objections and difficulties. When I had finished, he said,--
"'I admire her consideration. It is a serious question, I admit. With
regard to her health, and the dangers of the voyage, you and she are on
a common footing. She need not be deterred by the supposition that you
die and leave her in that distant land; the brethren here would, in that
case, have her safely returned home.' He urged our marriage, and trip to
Australia. He was delighted with the idea of having you there as a
teacher. We talked of the sacrifice of your school at Lancaster, and he
argued that it would be far better for the cause of Christianity and
education to have some one take your place in Lancaster, and have you
occupy a higher sphere of usefulness. I wish you had been present to
hear him talk; he is a dear, good fellow. With his strong clear brain,
he adjusts his plans; with an eye of faith, he views the future. I pray
you, weigh his opinions in your well-balanced judgment before you
conclude. I talked with President Williams; I fear he will not advise
you to go. Brother McGarvey says it will depend upon the mood in which
you find him. Then _do_ cheer him up, and prepare him for a happy
answer!"
The letter concludes with urging the marriage, cautioning her against
giving heed to the advice of others--as in the case of John Augustus
Williams--but the wisdom of _sometimes_ heeding the counsel of
others--for instance, that of John W. McGarvey.
"Though a stranger to you in person--" What is this? A letter written to
Mattie Myers by this very J. W. McGarvey! "By request of Brother Carr,"
he says. One would not expect a passionate, enthusiastic burst of
eloquence from the author of the "Commentary on Acts." What is said
here, emanates from a "strong, clear brain." As the Bible instructor
sees it, the situation stands thus: "After all, your own heart must
decide whether you go or stay. One thing seems certain, that _he_ will
go. It is for you to endure his long absence, and risk the uncertainties
of his return, or share the voyage with him, and help the noble cause to
which he consecrates his all."
This same month, Oliver returns to the charge: "I waited a week with the
keenest anxiety, hoping each night to get an answer from you. It has
come at last. Mattie! I anticipated what it would be, from reading
President Williams' letter. I know he has tried to mould your life for
teaching, alone. He is true and noble and I doubt not he gave you, as
you say, 'his wisest judgment and the fullest expression of his good
heart on the subject.' I believe he meant to point to our highest good;
but I cannot follow his advice. I have pondered both your and his
reasons for wishing delay. Both of you urge a year's preparation. Well,
what kind of preparation? You are already prepared to teach those in
Australia; and I know I can tell them what to do to be saved. I know I
am weak; but Northeast Kentucky is not the place for me to get strong.
You say I 'need to know assuredly that I can meet stern realities
victoriously.' I do not think I will know more about that than I do now,
till I meet them. Of course a year's experience would increase my
usefulness, but why not acquire it where the brethren want me? I don't
know what especial point you had in view by saying you would like a
year's hard study under President Williams. What were you going to
study? You have taken his full course, I presume. We have simply the
story of the Cross to tell and I believe that we can do it _now_."
So the letter goes on for eight closely-written pages, showing the
fervor of eloquence quite lacking in the concise review by McGarvey;
but, then, it was not McGarvey who was in love. Oliver is in love,
doubly so; first and always first, with his Cause; and then always with
Mattie. It is a terrible struggle for the young girl, for she too, is in
love; but her affections have always associated teaching with the Cause.
She must know in her heart that this missionary enterprise is a
divergence from her central idea, however much more good it may
accomplish. Here is her college, bought and paid for, and here are her
90 or 100 girls for training. She may hope for different blessings
beyond the seas, but not of this sort.
[Illustration: Prof. J. B. Myers]
[Illustration: "Considering His Letter."]
And here is her brother Joe bitterly opposed to the plan, as one's
brother Joe may very naturally be. It is well enough for McGarvey, who
thinks first of the dissemination of the Gospel, to smile upon her
going; and how could Williams, whose ideal for woman is the vocation of
teaching, say otherwise than wait? It is well enough for Oliver to see
but one course before him; he never entertained himself with dreams of
teaching school. He always meant to preach, and Australia means more of
it, with wider good to hope for. But it is no simple problem for Mattie
Myers.
A one-sided correspondence, we have been treated to, which, though
one-sided, has nevertheless given us as good an insight into the one
addressed as if she had done all the writing; better perhaps; for now we
are to hear her voice, which in its agitation and perplexity, does not,
it may be, reveal her as she is:
"I have stretched forth my hands and nailed my heart to the Cross. You
may cast it from you, but conscience nailed it there. For awhile I
cheated myself with the belief that its voice mingled with the voice of
my heart, 'You are already prepared; go with him.' But it was only the
echo of my heart's happy song. I feel that I would be an incumbrance,
rather than your co-worker. However mournfully my heart may cry, however
beseechingly, _I cannot go with you_. Conscience, my guide, beckons me,
and fervently I follow, though my heart is torn asunder. Ah, the
bloodless battles that are fought in our world! You have said, 'Although
I love you as I love no one else on earth, still, if you deny me, I must
go alone.' I say in reply, that though I love you with that love of
which only a Christian woman is susceptible, I cannot go with you. Your
capabilities fit you for one field of labor, mine fit me for another. We
have all to build an altar. I have built mine, and laid thereon my
tenderest feelings, the yearning desire of the woman-nature to be loved.
I know that this mysterious yearning which God has planted with his own
hand in woman's heart will, if left unsatisfied, cast a shadow over her
life; that however strong, however self-reliant a woman may be, her
heart reaches out for something to complete her happiness. But the giant
will can strengthen the trembling, faltering heart.
"And it is well to nail the heart to the Cross that raises it nearer to
God. He will give it strength to suffer. And his love can never fail. Do
not think that I am staggering under complaint. Like a cheerful traveler
I will take up my life-burden, and continue the journey, with a song in
my mouth, keeping time to the voice of conscience and my God. Do not
think for a moment, Ollie, that I would dissuade you from entering upon
your grand mission. What I said to you before I knew you loved me, I say
to you now, though it wrings my heart with an anguish that I sometimes
think cannot be borne. Sometimes I feel that my heart must break, but it
is sustained by the love of God. If conscience bids you go, then you
must go. But I cannot conceive how conscience would say to you to leave
a field in which laborers are few, for one which may cost you your life.
I am impressed that going is a matter of inclination rather than of
conscience. Nevertheless, if conscience does tell you so, then I urge
you with all the earnestness of my soul, to go. Go; and the burdens of
my prayers will be for him so far away, and yet so very near."
Alas! how great a mountain is our own conscience, and how small a
molehill that of our neighbor! Mattie, who has been pointing out that
all her future misery is to come from obeying her own, pauses to doubt
if Oliver's conscience is a conscience at all! On such provocation as
that, who can blame Oliver for having doubts about Mattie's conscience?
That he did have doubts, and that he did his utmost to cause her to
agree with him, no one can doubt with the following letter before him:
"Dear Mattie:--Yours received. I heartily agree to March 26th as _our
wedding day_. I will write to tell sister Mary and Matt to come down to
May's Lick on the 27th. Saturday I will deliver my farewell address
here. We will go to Maysville en route for Cincinnati. Horace came from
Flemingsburg yesterday to find out something about it. Matt, Bud and
Mollie are coming.
"Mattie, I have the best kind of news to tell you. Hold your breath
while you read. Father came forward at church yesterday, and made the
good confession. 'Bless the Lord, O my soul and all that is within me,
bless his holy name!' I recognized in that, the answer to many a prayer.
And now if my mother would obey the gospel I would believe your prophecy
uttered at President Milligan's reception was fulfilled. Do you remember
what it was?--'Brother Ollie, I believe God will make you instrumental
in bringing your family into the fold.' Oh, will that ever be? Mother
won't go to church. She has never heard me preach but twice; but I will
pray on, and hope on."
[5] When first I saw the following lines, I called Mattie to hear me
read them to her. I thought of her "CHILDREN," the girls she had taught.
We were seated in her private parlor; and her attention was fixed from
the first stanza: "Shedding sunshine of love on my face." The reading
ended, she threw herself on the bed and wept aloud. Her feelings, when
fully aroused, were paroxysms of joy or grief; and now the two
alternated as memory of her first school at Lancaster, and of the girls
on the other side of the earth, at Melbourne, mingled with all her life
of love for "THE CHILDREN." She made notes when she read Milton,
Spencer, Mrs. Browning, Longfellow, Tennison, but this little poem was
literally bathed in her tears. O. A. C.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace!
On, the smiles that are halos of heaven
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of my childhood--too lovely to last;
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me,
A partner of sorrow and of sin
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
They are idols of hearts and of households,
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still beams in their eyes;
Oh, those truants from home and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild--
And I know how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child.
I ask not a life for the dear ones,
All radiant, as others have done;
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself.
Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended
I have banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge
They have taught me the goodness of God:
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them for breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old home in the Autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones,
That met me each morn at the door;
I shall miss the goodnights and the kisses.
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and at eve,
The song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tramp of their delicate feet--
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And death says: "The school is dismissed"
May the little ones gather around me
To bid me good night and be kissed.
[6] I must have preached "big sermons" in these days; for Brother
Benjamin Coleman saw to it that I received $25.00 each time I went to
Macedonia. No thanks to him and the church, their contribution was to
help me through College. O. A. C.