_The Tragic Death of the Father—Removal to Parke County—School
Days—Conversion—Change of Church Relationship—A Remarkable
Providence._
Thus far our narrative has covered the childhood of our subject up to
the ninth year of his age. At this juncture occurred an event that cast
the first real shadow over his youthful pathway. It was the death of
his father, the tragic nature of which and the subsequent effect it
was to have upon his career, made the shadow all the deeper and more
significant. Charles Newgent went with a company consisting of sixty
adventurous spirits, upon an expedition to the West, the real object
of which seems to be somewhat indefinite. The restless and venturesome
spirit of the pioneer, a curious desire to penetrate the mysteries of the
great western world, the dream of untold treasures that nature had in
store for those who dared to conquer the dragons that guarded them—all
may have figured in this ill-fated enterprise. However that may have
been, while crossing the western plains the company was attacked and
massacred by a band of hostile Indians. As in the calamities that befell
Job’s household, one of the number was left to tell the story. This one
was supposed by the savages to have shared the fate of all the rest,
being left on the field for dead; but it so happened that in his case the
weapon of death did not do complete work. He was picked up the next day
by a party of hunters to whom he was able to give a vague account of the
preceding day’s terrible tragedy.
After the father’s death, the mother with her nine children moved back to
their former home in Parke County. Life then took on a sterner aspect for
the boy. His tender hands must perform their part in the maintenance of
the family. Accordingly he hired out to Mr. Jesse Maddox, a neighboring
farmer. His wages the first year were to be a pair of shoes, ten bushels
of corn, and the privilege of attending the district school. The market
price of corn was ten cents per bushel. Even at this modest stipend
he admits that he made money, “though not very much.” While in after
years of fruitful labors in the ministry he often remarked that the
question that most perplexed him was how to earn what he received, it
is not probable that the question at this time had assumed very serious
proportions.
The most important stipulation in the contract was the privilege
of attending school. But even this is subject to shrinkage when we
recall that the school system of Indiana was then in its first stage
of development. It afforded no royal path to learning, and the common
thoroughfare was neither smooth nor flowery. We would scarcely expect to
find in the schoolroom comforts that the home itself was a stranger to.
Strikingly suggestive of the interior aspect of those primitive seats of
learning are the lines from Whittier’s “In School Days”:
“Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The battered seats, the warping floor,
The jack knife’s carved initial.
“The charcoal frescoes on the wall,
The door’s worn sill betraying
The feet that creeping late to school,
Went storming out to playing.”
To fit the particular building in which our subject first tasted
the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the picture needs but slight
modification. If anything, it should be made even more simple and
primitive. The “battered” seats were made of puncheon. Since this word
is passing from common usage, it may be well to explain that puncheon
is made by splitting a small log in two equal parts. The split edges
are then trimmed down, and the pieces thus treated served as a rough
substitute for sawed lumber. To make them into seats, two holes were
bored near each end in the unhewn side. These being at proper angles,
wooden pins were inserted into them for legs. The rude seat was then
ready for service. It is not to be taken for granted that these seats
were always made perfectly smooth. What was lacking to smooth them down
by the workmen was expected to be completed by the pupils. They finished
the task, but often it was a long and painful process, with many a
protest from a new gown of homespun or a pair of “tow-linen,” home-grown
breeches. Thus, with no rest for the arms or the back, with one side
scorched by the heat from the great fireplace and the other chilled by
the winter winds creeping through cracks in floor and walls and roof,
the children wore away the dreary hours. The floor, being composed
of this same puncheon, did not easily warp. The recess recreation
consisted mainly in carrying fuel from the surrounding forest to feed the
every-hungry fireplace.
Whatever dignity the schoolmaster may have possessed in the eyes of his
pupils, certain it is he was not the original of Goldsmith’s creation in
the “Deserted Village,” of whom the wonder was “that one small head could
carry all he knew.” Beyond the traditional essentials of scholarship,
consisting of reading, writing, and ciphering, with a specially intimate
acquaintance with the spelling book, he did not pretend to lead. His
chief business was to govern the school. He proved his divine right
to his throne in the schoolroom by his ability to handle the most
obstreperous cases the district could produce. The scholars were on hand
as a challenge to his generalship. The hero of the school was the one who
held out longest against his despotic authority. To lick the teacher was
the height of his ambition. This realized, his place in the local hall of
fame was secure. According to the philosophy of the times “lickin’ and
larnin’” went hand in hand, lickin’ being essential, while larnin’ was
incidental.
The school house was three miles from the Maddox home. The school was
maintained on the basis that “whosoever will may come.” There was no
penalty for tardiness or absence, but as young Newgent possessed a
real thirst for knowledge and was in the habit of making the most of
whatever he undertook, his attendance was more regular than the average.
However, the sum total of his schooling was limited to three terms of
about three months each, an aggregate of nine months. Meager as were his
school advantages, they were well improved and furnished a foundation
for self-culture upon which he built as only a genius can. He learned
to read in less than four weeks, and his progress was correspondingly
rapid throughout. His real school was not bounded by the walls of the
log school house; it was rather the great school of life with its harsh
discipline and inexhaustible curriculum; and in this he grew to be the
peer of the ripest products of educational institutions. “Opportunities,”
he says, in his characteristic way, “the woods has always been full of
opportunities. I had splendid opportunities when I was a boy, and so did
my companions; but many of them, like some young folks now, failed to see
them.” He saw what many fail to see, that opportunities are not so much
in our environment as in ourselves, and that success is not determined by
outward circumstances, but by one’s own will and energy.
A habit early formed was that of turning everything to account in the
pursuit of knowledge. Mrs. Newgent, anxious to encourage her children’s
propensities for study, furnished the home with such reading matter as
her means would permit. Though the family were separated most of the
time, they came together at frequent intervals. On these occasions the
time was well spent in reading and in discussing current topics. Whatever
was read became the subject of conversation. These conversations often
took the form of argument, in which the various sides of a subject were
presented and zealously defended. Thus, he early displayed and developed
an aptitude for argumentative discussion, which made him a master in
debate, and is a strong element in all his public discourses.
His conversion occurred when he was about ten years old, while still in
the service of Mr. Maddox, a benefit which was not considered in the
contract with his employer. This took place during a gracious revival
at the Canaan Methodist church, of which his employer was a member and
was serving at the time as class leader and janitor. The meeting had
been in progress for a number of days; many had found the Savior, and
the community was deeply stirred. He had been sent to open the church
and build the fire for the evening service. While going quietly about
his duties, all alone, the impression came to him quite vividly that he
ought to be a Christian, and he resolved to go to the “mourner’s bench”
that night. He was never long in making up his mind, and when a decision
was once made, it was as a law of the Medes and Persians. So he went to
the altar that night and each succeeding night for more than a week. One
evening as he was listening to the sermon, conviction became so intense
that in his extremity he left the house. Though it was a cold night and
the ground was covered with snow, he stole out in the woods. Kneeling in
the snow, this youthful Jacob wrestled with God in prayer. How long he
tarried, he could not tell, but faith triumphed, and the next he knew
the woods were resounding with his shouts of victory. Rushing into the
church while the preacher was yet talking, he put an end to the sermon
by his shouting and praising God. The congregation was electrified. Soon
the demonstration became general, and for a time pandemonium held sway;
but it was of a sort in which there were both method and meaning, for its
source was from above.
Like God’s servant of old, he could say, “My heart is fixed.” He joined
the church and from that time never missed an opportunity to pray and
testify in public or private. At that time children did not receive much
attention from the church. Churches were strong on saving souls from
damnation, but the idea of saving the entire life for service had not
taken deep root. As a result of the revival there was a large class of
“probationers.” When the period of probation had expired, according to
the church law, and they were to be admitted into full membership, his
name was not on the list. He was not considered a member; at least that
was his version of it, and the only logical conclusion the case would
warrant. It was a sore disappointment, but of too delicate a nature to
mention to his elders. So he kept his feelings to himself.
Thus matters stood for little more than a year, when he learned that
there was to be a quarterly meeting at the Otterbein United Brethren
Church a few miles away. This church belonged to the Rockville Circuit
of the Wabash Conference. Rev. William Sherrill was the pastor. The
presiding elder, who was to hold the quarterly conference, was Rev.
Samuel Zuck. Both were strong and good men. Jack had never attended a
United Brethren service. What knowledge he had of the Church was gained
through conversations overheard in the Maddox home. Ministers being
frequently entertained there, conversation at such times naturally took
to religious channels. As this was an age when churches did not entertain
the most fraternal feelings toward one another, these conversations were
not calculated, as a rule, to produce a favorable opinion of a rival
denomination. His interest in churches and religion was genuine, born of
a desire to know the truth. Hence, is was not mere curiosity that led him
to obtain his employer’s permission to spend Saturday and Sunday with a
neighbor in the Otterbein community so that he might attend the services
of the quarterly meeting.
The Church proved to be his affinity. Whatever misgivings he had,
vanished one by one. The general atmosphere of the first service
harmonized with his temperament. There was spirit in the singing. His
heart burned within him as he listened to the eloquent sermon by the
presiding elder; and when the pastor followed, as the custom was, with a
warm exhortation, he was enraptured. He resolved to join the Church. As
usual, the decision was made without much preliminary. He knew where he
stood, and stood there with both feet. When he returned, his employer, as
well as his own folks, was thunderstruck to learn that he had become a
full-fledged United Brethren. Having put his hand to the plow, he never
turned back. “I have been so busy,” is a common saying with him, “that I
have never had time to backslide.”
It should be said in justice to the church where he first joined, that
his name had been entered upon the book, but by mistake it was placed
in the list with the full members. This accounts for his not being
received with the probationers, to which class he belonged, and led to
the conclusion that he was not considered a member. Thus an apparently
insignificant thing may prove to be a matter of vital importance.
As a boy he possessed pronounced convictions and a keen sense of
religious obligation. This is demonstrated by an incident which occurred
while he was in the employ of Mr. Jerry Rush, a short time after leaving
the service of Mr. Maddox. Mr. Rush was a well-to-do farmer and stock
dealer. Neither he nor his wife made any profession of religion, though
their lives were regarded as exemplary and above question in other
respects. Some of the men who worked on the farm, however, were of the
baser sort. It seemed strange to young Newgent that a man of Mr. Rush’s
habits would surround himself with men who were utterly destitute of
moral scruples or of the commonest decencies. To him their vulgarity
and profanity were a source of constant annoyance. At one time as their
coarse jests were grating on his sensitive ears, he was impressed with
the idea that this uncouth crowd afforded him a field for missionary
work. The impression was not long in taking definite shape. It came with
the force of a challenge, a bugle call to duty, a call that he never
failed to heed. His mind was made up that he would offer prayer with
these men before they retired that evening if Mr. Rush would grant him
the privilege.
It was a bold resolve, an ordeal from which a braver heart might well
have shrunk. Let eloquent tongues proclaim the praise of those who face
death at the cannon’s mouth, or the inspired pen immortalize the hero,
who, amid the applause of admiring multitudes, imperils his own life to
save another; but who would not count it a worthy act to place a laurel
wreath upon the brow of a fourteen-year-old lad who dared to face, not
one Goliath, but a company of Goliaths, with the simple weapon of faith,
and demand that they bow before their God while he offered a petition in
behalf of their needy souls? Yet this resolute purpose was to undergo
a severe test. The fiercest battles are fought in our own hearts. As
the time drew near, he felt his courage slipping away. He stole out to
the barn for a time of secret prayer, that he might be equal to the
emergency. Feeling comforted and strengthened, he started to the house to
execute his plan. On reaching the yard gate his courage seemed to take
flight, and he could go no farther. He went back to the place of prayer.
On the second venture he got as far as the door, when his strength again
vanished. Not to be beaten, he went back to the barn to fight the battle
to a finish. The third effort won the day. He hastened to the house,
determined not to give the enemy a chance. The men were sitting about
the fire. Without a word by way of preliminary, he stepped up to Mr.
Rush and asked permission to kneel with them in prayer. The permission
was granted, and a solemn hush came over the startled company as they
listened while the boy, with trembling voice and stammering accents,
poured out his soul to God. He then sought his bed with the consciousness
that he had done his duty. A sweet peace filled his soul and he lay for
hours in ecstacy of joy.
The next evening the family devotions were repeated. But on the third
evening the prayer was forestalled by a preconcerted plan on the part of
the men. As the time for prayer approached, one after another, they arose
and stalked out of the room, and the victor in two hard-fought battles
was left alone—defeated and dejected. His spirits dropped down to zero.
The fiery dart had pierced him through and through. In agony of soul he
sought his bed, but not to rest. Out of the depth of his troubled heart
he called upon God for comfort. But the fury of the storm seemed only
to increase. In his desperation he felt that something must be done.
So, about the hour of midnight, he arose, dressed himself, and left the
house to go—he knew not where. Through the remaining hours of the night
he wandered, directing his course toward the West. Daylight came, the
sun rose above the horizon and pursued its course toward the zenith,
but his pilgrimage continued. At noon he found himself in the city of
Terre Haute, then a mere village. Here he tarried for a time to seek
employment. Failing in this, he resumed his westward journey. He asked
for work at the various farm houses which he passed. While he found kind
hearts who, touched by pity for the youthful pilgrim, gave him food and
temporary shelter, he found no man to hire him until he reached Mattoon,
Illinois, nearly a hundred miles from whence he started. Work at that
season of the year was scarce, and his term of service at Mattoon was
brief. At the end of three days his employer gave him his wages with the
intelligence that his services were no longer needed.
He now decided to go back to Indiana. With his three days’ wages in his
pocket, with which he expected to pay for his transportation at least
part of the way, he set out upon the return journey. Within the vicinity
of Terre Haute he succeeded in finding steady employment and a congenial
home.
There were two sides to this story, and some months after Jack was
settled in his new home he learned the other side. It was glorious news
to him. The sequel was that Mr. Rush was converted, joined the Baptist
Church, and became a zealous leader in religious work. It came about in
this way: When Mr. Rush found that Jack had disappeared and diligent
effort failed to solve the mystery of his disappearance, a feeling of
remorse over his unchristian conduct so possessed him that for days he
was almost in a state of frenzy. Remorse took the form of spiritual
conviction and genuine repentance which led to a glorious conversion.
On learning of the whereabouts of his young benefactor, Mr. Rush at once
went to see him, and told him his side of the story. He confessed to
Jack that he was a guilty party to the scheme the men had used to defeat
him. The boy’s awkward prayer together with their own antipathy for such
pious exercises was a source of embarrassment to the men, and they agreed
among themselves to use the method described to rid themselves of further
annoyance. Little did Mr. Rush realize that those awkward prayers were to
be the means of his salvation.
“God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform,
He plants his footsteps on the sea,
He rides upon the storm.
“Judge not the Lord with feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace,
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.”