Chapter IV: Part 4

The Wolf Run stories depict characters and events similar to those in “Good Old Times.” They tell of the way a handful of Scotch-Irish settlers in the mountain gorge of Wolf Run on the western frontier of Pennsylvania, about the middle of the eighteenth century, built up their homes; and of the “fearful ordeals through which they passed in consequence of their deliberate resolve never with life to abandon their homesteads won by years of toil from the wilderness.” Here, as in “Good Old Times,” is a scattered community of a few families, frugal and hardy, hating injustice and loving righteousness, to whom food and shelter of the rudest kind are luxuries, and life itself is often at stake. These stories are full of vivid pictures of frontier life, making the “birch” and the “dug-out,” devising ingenious makeshifts for tools and furniture, trapping the wolf and beaver, building and defending the stockade. Here are many enlivening accounts of Indian battles, ambushes, midnight attacks, hair-breadth escapes, and long, hard chases on the trail of the Mohawks or the Delawares. Across the pages of these stories walk sinewy men of oak, in moccasins, buckskin breeches and coonskin caps, ready to fight or fall, keen of eye and lithe of limb, skilled in forest lore, tireless on the chase, sagacious in finding or covering a trail, keen marksmen, “delicate in nothing but the touch of the trigger.” Sam Summerford, Ned Honeywood, Seth and Israel Blanchard, Bradford Holdness, Black Rifle,--twin brother of Cooper’s Long Rifle,--are characters which live in a boy’s memory. These are stories of strong lights and dark shades; but they are true to the life of that day, and show well “what the heritage of the children has cost the fathers.”

In the Whispering Pine stories the author relates the struggles, achievements and pranks of a group of students in Bowdoin College. In these books he has given us a good look into the lives of students in a small college in the first half of the nineteenth century, and has preserved in the amber of his story many Bowdoin customs.

He pictures vividly the early Commencement, when nearly the whole District of Maine kept holiday. From far and near people came in carryalls and stages, on horseback, in packets and pleasure boats, to join in the college merry-making. Hundreds of carriages bordered the yard, and barns and sheds were filled with horses; hostlers were hurrying to and fro sweating and swearing, and every house was crammed with people. To Commencement came not only the beauty, wit, and wisdom of the district, but also those who cared little for art or learning. With dignified officials, sober matrons, and gay belles and beaux came also horse-jockeys, wrestlers, snake-charmers, gamblers, and venders of every sort. The college yard was dotted with booths where were sold gingerbread, pies, egg-nog, long-nine cigars, beers small, and, alas! too often, for good order, beers large. While Seniors in the church were discoursing on “Immortality,” jockeys outside were driving sharp trades and over-convivial visitors engaging in free fights.

In his “Sophomores of Radcliffe” Mr. Kellogg tells us of the Society of Olympian Jove, whose customs perhaps sprang partly from the author’s imagination and partly from his experience. In those days the initiate was made to rush through the pines and ford the dark Acheron, and was carefully taught the signals of distress--signals which James Trafton, with work unprepared, the morning after his initiation, much to the merriment of the class, proceeded to give to the irritated professor by squinting at him through his hand.

Perhaps the most interesting of the early Bowdoin customs described in these books is the “Obsequies of Calculus.” This custom was in vogue many years, and a headstone can yet be seen upon the campus marking the spot where the sacred ashes were consigned to dust. At the end of Junior year when Calculus was finished, the Junior class gathered in the mathematical room and there deposited their copies of Calculus in a coffin. The coffin was then borne sorrowfully to the chapel, where amid wailing and copious lachrymation a touching eulogy was pronounced. The orator was wont to discourse of the “gigantic intellect of the deceased, his amazing powers of abstraction, his accuracy of expression, his undeviating rectitude of conduct,” his strict observance of the motto that, “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.” Then came the elegy in Latin; after which, amid the grief-convulsed mourners, the coffin was placed upon a vehicle called by the vulgar a dump cart, and the noble steed Isosceles, which “fed upon binomial theorems, parabolas, and differentials, and every bone of whose body and every hair of whose skin was illustrative of either acute or obtuse angles,” drew the sacred load to its last resting-place. The funeral procession, consisting of the college band, Bowdoin artillery, the eulogist and elegist, and the Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior classes, moved slowly down Park Row, through the principal streets of the village to the rear of the college yard. Here the books were “placed upon the funeral pyre and burned with sweet odors, the solemn strains of the funeral dirge mingling with the crackling of flames.

‘Old Calculus has screwed us hard,
Has screwed us hard and sore;
I would he had a worthy bard
To sing his praises more.

Peace to thine ashes, Calculus,
Peace to thy much-tried shade;
Thy weary task is over now,
Thy wandering ghost is laid.’

The ashes were collected, placed in an urn, and enclosed in the coffin. A salute was then fired by the college artillery. The epitaph, like that upon the grave of the three hundred who fell at Thermopylæ, was brief but full of meaning, having on the tablet at the head,--

CALCULUS,

on that at the foot,--

_dx_/_dy_ = 0.”

But the Whispering Pine books were written for other purposes than simply to depict the life of the college or to let us into the escapades of the students. The dictum that “all art must amuse” did not go far enough for Mr. Kellogg. With all his fun and “frolic temper” he was too much of a Puritan to make amusement the chief end of his writing. All of his stories were written with the avowed purpose of making boys more robust and genuine and manly, of giving them redder blood and broader chests and larger biceps, and at the same time making them hate gloss and chicanery and love straightforward, courageous, Christian dealing. So imbued was the author with this purpose that he wrote his books, as he expressed it, “while upon his knees.” Often at first he felt that he should be preaching rather than writing stories; and it was not until letters came to him from all over the country that he realized he was reaching more boys with his pen than he could possibly have reached with his voice.

Although written with a purpose, it is noticeable that his books are not of the wishy-washy type. His boys are not Miss Nancies and plaster saints. They do not die young and go to heaven; they live and make pretty companionable kind of men. Mr. Kellogg was too much of a story-teller and too strong a believer in truth to distort life for ethical purposes.

One does not have to delve deep, however, to find the lessons which this author would teach. To college boys his advice is, choose your chums well. College is not simply a place where learning is bought and sold, where you pay so much money and get so much Greek or so much philosophy. Not all college lessons are in your books, neither are they all taught in the class-rooms. You will learn them on the college paths, in your sports, in your dormitories; and generally it is your chums who teach them to you. The set of fellows with whom you cast your lot may make or mar you. College ties are strong. The boys with whom you eat and sleep, those with whom you solve the difficult problems and pick out the tangles in Greek and Latin, with whom you stroll of an evening to the falls or a Wednesday afternoon to the shore, to whom you tell your future plans, your love affairs, and your religious doubts, whose sympathies mingle with yours “like the interlacing of green, summer foliage,” those fellows are going to mould your ideals and determine your character.

Again, he believed that boys must not be afraid to lock horns with an obstacle. A difficult job may be their greatest blessing. Richardson coddled at home feels himself a weakling by the side of Morton whom difficulties have made self-reliant. William Frost, who begins a business career with good looks, good clothes, and parental influence, returns to his home in disgrace because he “disregards the claims of others, esteems labor drudgery, and expects recompense without service rendered”; while Arthur Lennox, who sets out from his Fryeburg home barefoot and penniless, his only inheritance “a strong arm and a mother’s blessing,” wins success by unflinching toil. “Hardship,” said Mr. Kellogg, “is a wholesome stimulant to strong natures, quickening slumbering energies, compelling effort, and by its salutary discipline reducing refractory elements.” The boy who is always dodging difficulties will make a gingerbread man. Only by grappling can we gain power to achieve. Only by having tough junks to split can we learn “to strike right in the middle of the knot.”

The value and dignity of labor is the ever recurring burden of these stories. They teach boys to work as well as to play. Through them all resounds the merry music of labor. The ring of the axe, the crack of the whip, the song of the teamster, the screech of the plane, the ring of the anvil, the swish of the scythe, the chirp of the tackle, the creak of the windlass, the shout of the stevedore--all in these books make a happy harmony and witness that man’s primal curse has become his choicest blessing. Mr. Kellogg believed with Carlyle that all work is divine, that to labor is to pray. Especially did he wish to get out of boys’ minds the false notion that only mental work is honorable. He thought that often it is as honorable to sweat the body as to sweat the brain. As honorable and as necessary; for he believed that it is only by keeping the lungs full of fresh air, and the pores open by perspiration, and the limbs strong by activity, that a man can keep his vision from being distorted. “The essence of hoe handle, if persistently taken two hours a day,” would, he believed, cure many diseases of the mind and heart. The devils of fretfulness and fault-finding are not always to be cast out with prayer and fasting. Often it requires labor in the fresh open air,--a good pull against the tide, a long ride on horseback, or an hour’s chopping with the narrow axe. Many a disheartened preacher who now mopes in his study and who “takes all his texts out of Jeremiah,” would get “Sunday’s harness-marks erased from the brain,” and preach glad tidings of great joy if he would only start the perspiration by healthful, outdoor exercise. Mr. Kellogg thought a boy should learn to work with his hands as well as with his brain. All wisdom, he knew well, is not in school and college. He appreciated the value of book learning; but democrat as he was and well acquainted with common people, he knew that an illiterate Jerry Williams or an Uncle Tim Longley can teach scores of valuable lessons to many a schoolman. The boy who is too lazy to do some of the practical duties of life, who thinks it disgraceful to work with his hands, can have no part or lot in his kingdom. His boys are always able “to cut their own fodder.” His ideal college boy is Henry Morton, who is a keen debater, a good writer, a lover of the classics and a lover of nature, but who, at the same time, can hew straight to the line, cut the corners of many a farmer, and take the heart of a tree from many a woodsman.

Elijah Kellogg gave to the boys of America, at a time when they needed them most, fresh, wholesome, stirring stories of out-of-door life. With these stories he both entertained and taught the boys,--entertained them so well that they never suspected they were being taught,--taught them endurance, pluck, integrity, self-sacrifice. He stimulated them to effort, inspired them with a respect for labor, taught them to despise effeminacy, showed them that “the manly spirit, like Dannemora iron, defies the fury of the furnace, and even beneath the hammer gathers temper and tenacity,” that “pure motives, warm affections, trust in God, are by no means incompatible with the greatest enterprise and the most undaunted courage.” Such was his work as an author, and it was a work worth while.

LAST DAYS IN HARPSWELL

AS SEEN IN LETTERS AND JOURNAL

WILMOT BROOKINGS MITCHELL

Mr. Kellogg accepted the call to the Mariners’ Church in 1854, not because he had tired of his Harpswell farm or pastorate. They were as dear to him as ever. But fitted by nature and by experience to work among sailors, he saw in the Boston pastorate increased opportunities for doing good. Doubtless, too, financial considerations had their weight in this decision; for he had been unable to pay for his farm, and he hoped from the larger salary he would receive at the Mariners’ Church to save money enough to cancel that debt. While he was in Boston, he did not sever his connection with his Harpswell parish. Each summer he spent some time on his farm and preached a Sunday or two at the church. And now and then these people would see him in the winter, when some special errand of love or of business called him hither. At such times they were reminded that the city was not spoiling their minister, but that he was the same unique, unselfish, fearless man.

On one November, for example, he appeared at “Uncle” William Alexander’s with two sailors. These men, who had been dissipated, he had persuaded to sign the pledge. He feared, however, that if they went off to sea at once, they would forget their good resolutions and fall back into their old ways of drinking. They tried to get work in Boston and failed. At length they said if they only had a boat, they could fish for a living. Mr. Kellogg thought of his own twenty-five-foot boat, and at once they set out for Harpswell to get it. The morning after their arrival a northeast wind was blowing a gale, kicking up a rough sea. Mr. Kellogg doubted the feasibility of starting for Boston in such a gale. Whereupon the sailors questioned his courage! They did not know their man. “Don’t dare to, eh? We’ll see who dares.” Quickly making ready, he set out in his little boat, while his old neighbors, knowing his absence of caution or of fear, prophesied disaster. By the time the boat was off Cape Elizabeth, the old sailors were begging their captain to make harbor. But no; they must see who dared! When, cold and drenched, they reached Gloucester that evening, they had fully decided never to stump the sailor-preacher again.

From 1865, when he resigned as acting pastor of the Mariners’ Church, until 1882 Mr. Kellogg continued to reside in Boston, busily engaged in writing his books and in preaching. During these years he supplied pulpits at Wellesley, Massachusetts (1867), Cumberland Mills, Maine (1869), Portland, Maine (1870), and Pigeon Cove, Massachusetts (1874-1875). To the Warren Church at Cumberland Mills, the Second Parish Church at Portland, and the Congregational Church at New Bedford he received calls; all of which he declined.

In 1882 Mr. Kellogg came back to Harpswell to live for the rest of his life. He had worked hard in Boston and had made there many firm friends, but a large city was not the place for one who loved the smell of earth as well as he. He had often told his Harpswell friends that if he could consult only his own wishes, he would rather pass a winter in a brush camp built on the lee side of William Alexander’s stone wall than return to Boston. Like many another, “he found himself hungry to throw aside the tame and trite forms of existence and to penetrate the harsh, true, simple things behind. His imagination and his heart turned towards the primitive, indispensable labors on which society rests,--the life of the husbandman, the laborer, the smith, the woodman, the builder; he dreamed the old enchanted dream of living with nature.”

Though glad to return, Mr. Kellogg came back to his first parish a poor man. His books had made his name known throughout the United States, but fame and the consciousness of having done much good were his only remaining proceeds from years of writing. By the fire of 1872, and the consequent failure of his publishers, he had lost money that he could ill afford to lose. Pressed for funds, he had even been obliged to sell all his copyrights, with one exception--that of “Good Old Times.” He came back to his Harpswell home in debt, his farm run down, blindness threatening his wife, deafness and old age beginning to creep upon him. But his old grit and courage were still left; and he found his Harpswell friends unchanged, they and their children eager to welcome him back and to help him in every way they could. As General Chamberlain so well shows in the next chapter, he went to work with a will to do his best,--farming, preaching, going wherever duty called on errands of charity and consolation.

These were undoubtedly hard years. His struggle with debt was often embarrassing; his growing deafness caused him anxiety; and in 1890 the death of her who had been his companion and counsellor for more than forty years bowed him in grief. His son and daughter besought him to come and make his home with them. But that was not his way. He must stay in Harpswell and do his work.

Between 1883 and 1889 Mr. Kellogg preached in the neighboring town of Topsham, driving up Saturday afternoon and returning Monday morning. In 1889 he came back to his old pulpit, and there, in the church that had been built for him, he continued to preach, until he died, on March 17, 1901, with this message to his faithful flock upon his lips, “I want to send my love to all these people.”

[Sidenote: Journal.]

As one reads the journal which Mr. Kellogg kept during these years of struggle, “the years,” as he called them, “of the right hand of the Most High,” one feels that out of the struggle came a character which ease and plenty could not have given him. His boyish enthusiasm, his ready wit, his fun and humor, are all here; and here, too, is the faith of one who walked as seeing the Invisible. He indeed proved the promise, “To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna.”

His abounding gratitude, his childlike faith, his willingness to put his hand in God’s and be led of Him, his love for his people, and the way prayer and deed were beautifully intermingled in his life, may be seen on every page that he wrote during these last years.

[Sidenote: May 29, 1882.]

I have kept the day as a day of fasting and prayer. I have been called by the church to go to Harpswell. I dare not refuse to go; at the same time I do not see how I can go.... I have this day endeavored to cast my burden on the Lord, feeling that as He has sent me to Harpswell, He will provide me with a way of getting there and enable me to do my necessary work. And I have resolved to trace and set down the different steps by which I am led and to mark the finger of God in them all.

[Sidenote: Sabbath, June 18, 1882.]

I have preached half a day and the people seemed to make much effort to get to meeting, and seemed, I thought, very tender.

[Sidenote: April 2, 1884.]

In the evening went to see ---- ---- and had a most pleasant evening. I believe I can do good in that family.

[Sidenote: April 17, 1884.]

This afternoon I went to the college. Found a new student, Morton, who comes to meeting, and he invited me to his room. Saw B---- and gave him a hint about his soul.

[Sidenote: June 18, 1884.]

I had my barley on the ground and by working through the afternoon and getting to Topsham the last moment could have sowed it, but my conscience told me that was not in the spirit of the resolutions made the Sabbath before. Corrupt nature said, “It is duty to get your bread.” I was enabled to say, “Corruption, go about your business, my business is with God.” I went to my knees, made preparation for the Friday night meeting, and was enabled by grace, on a pleasant, sunny afternoon at four o’clock, to turn my back cheerfully on my work and go to Topsham.

[Sidenote: June 28, 1884.]

I finished sowing barley to-day, and I knelt down on the ground and prayed to God that as I had used my own judgment to the best advantage, had taken the advice of others, had worked diligently, and had not neglected my duty to Him that He would be pleased to bless this crop sown so late and under so many disadvantages and give me from it some good returns.

[Sidenote: Nov. 26, 1885.]

Rose early. Prayed with my wife, provided for her comforts, and started for Topsham. About four or five inches of snow, the first of the season, all blown in heaps, the ground frozen, wind northeast by north. A cold ride. Got to the Baptist house in time.... I thank God I have done my duty. I have since coming home prayed for Harpswell and have been to the old willows and to the rock in the field and thanked God. Oh, my God, I thank Thee that I have for the first time since my mother died eaten a Thanksgiving dinner in this house, and the first time since I was married, all the intervening winters being spent in Boston and Thanksgiving observed in a hired house. I ate Thanksgiving in this room with my blessed mother for whom I built this house, to provide a happy home for her in her old age, in November, 1849, thirty-six years ago, and have never eaten a Thanksgiving dinner here with my wife till to-day, though we have been married thirty-one years; and never with my children who were born in Boston where we have resided since our marriage with the exception of the summers spent here. But I have never formed any attachment to Boston. Here is my home. I cut the greater part of the timber of this house with my own hands, had a hard struggle to build it, and a harder to keep it. I thank God this night I am in it once more. God give me a grateful heart.

[Sidenote: Nov. 27, 1885.]

I have been wont to kneel at the threshold when I went out in the morning for the first time. It seems natural, loving, and right in every way to ask God’s blessing the first thing before touching the world’s work, and when I do it, the day’s efforts always seem successful.

[Sidenote: Nov. 29, 1885.]

God in great mercy has relieved me of my cold and given me an exchange at Harpswell, so that I preached to my old people. I have had a fire in my study, read my mother’s Bible, visited the old willows, the rock, the old maple, the Skolfield barn, the burnt tree, all my old praying spots, and read over the “record of the years of the right hand of the Most High.”

[Sidenote: May 19, 1886.]

Went to the old pine, read the Word at the foot of it, and prayed for wisdom. It did me good. My heart warmed to the spot. Went to Knowlton; he was very kind, left his recitations, and got me the book I wanted.

[Sidenote: July 4, 1886.]

Rose at six-thirty. Prayed and gave thanks. I strove to put myself into the hand of God. Mr. Little came for me in a chaise. We went to my father’s old church where I prayed and pronounced the benediction. At two-thirty we went to the city hall. About two thousand people were there. I spoke twenty-one minutes to the apparent satisfaction of those who listened and those who brought me here, and the friends and benefactors who have stood by me in my trouble. I call upon my soul and all that is within me to bless the holy name of God who has turned this thing I so dreaded into an ovation, and has given me strength, patience, and perseverance to prepare for it under the pressure of work and still not neglect anything.... I thank God that in this city where I was born, where my father preached so many years, I have received from the city authorities so much respect, they sending a carriage for my wife and me, honoring me as his son, and fulfilling the promise of a covenant-keeping God, who declares that He will show mercy unto those that love Him even unto the third and fourth generations. I cannot express my feelings of gratitude that I who so tried him and my mother have been made by God the means of honoring their memory.

[Sidenote: July 6, 1886.]

Rose early. Prayed and gave thanks. A carriage was sent to take my wife and me to the city hall to listen to the oration by Hon. Thomas B. Reed. I was given a seat beside him. From there we went to a clam bake on Long Island, and there I met and had much talk with Phillips Brooks. In the evening we went to the last meeting, which consisted in a general talk on reminiscences. Thus has closed this Portland centennial. I have here received the most kindly attention, not only from religious people, but from the civil authorities; have been introduced to a great many people who have read my books and who have spoken “Spartacus,” Phillips Brooks among the rest. I now humbly thank God and ask Him to keep me.... Went to see Mr. Ezra Carter; he is confined to his bed. He was very glad to see me. There was not time to see him and go to my parents’ graves where I wanted to thank God for the manner in which my father’s name had been honored in me. But Ezra Carter has been my friend for years. He helped me put my father in his coffin, and was for years his friend, and therefore, as I could not do both, I thought it would be more acceptable to God to comfort the living than to pray at the grave of the dead.

[Sidenote: Oct. 19, 1886.]

Oh, how great is the goodness of God to me! I have been to-day keeping thanksgiving in my closet and in the sanctuary; though having extra duties, I have found much time to pour out my soul in thanksgiving to God. I have been looking back upon the sea of providential mercies and noting the most prominent ones, but oh, it is all mercies. The trials have brought forth mercies. I should never have known what God is if He had not known my soul in adversities. He has been around my path in the daytime, my couch at night.

[Sidenote: Nov. 7, 1886.]

This has been to me a most interesting, peaceful, and solemn Sabbath. It is with us a day of Sacrament. At the conference yesterday I chose this subject for my remarks: “Open thou thy mouth and I will fill it.” It touched every chord of my soul. Indeed, I have of all persons to open my mouth wide, for my necessities are very great. The purport of the whole text and context is that of a Being so magnificent in all His attributes, so infinite in His fulness, that we may, and are encouraged to, ask great favors. And on the strength of it, after looking over the record of God’s mercies in my journal for the past six years, I went to the altar where I have administered the communion and threw myself upon the mercy of God and opened my mouth wide and asked Him for His name’s sake through Christ to put me in a way of paying my debts that are such a dishonor to His cause, as I have consecrated my labor to Him and work only for daily bread and to pay my debts.... I also asked Him to grant me His Holy Spirit to interpret aright the indications of His providence, for I surely do not wish to be a revelation to myself. I cannot judge of their bearing on the present or the future. His written revelations would be a sealed book to me without His spirit, and so will the unwritten of His providence. I can see that preparation for another year may have very important bearing on my stay here and on my attempting to write a book: two things which have sadly perplexed me, and which I am waiting and praying for the providence of God to solve, as He has by His providence solved so many other things and brought me out of so many difficulties which in prospect seemed insurmountable. I feel now glad that Mr. Kendall did not come for me to preach at Bowdoinham, though I sadly needed the money; for I feel that I have seen my Father’s face, and I mean to mark the way by which He leads me and take every step with prayer. God, in mercy withhold me from attempting or even desiring to work any deliverance of my own. I now prepare for the evening service.... I have just returned. The meeting was full of young people. I certainly have no reason to complain of my audience, though they may have of me. God bless them. I do not dread this week so much as I did. God grant my first thought may be directed to Him. Glory to God for this pleasant Sabbath.

[Sidenote: Sept. 29, 1887.]

Rose early, prayed, and gave thanks. Hauled in the forenoon all the rocks required. Mr. Getchell finished at noon. In the afternoon I took him to Brunswick, paid him, got my lime and sand, and got home by dark. I have knelt down beside the wall that is now finished and humbly thanked God for doing this kindness to me, for He has done it. Blessed be God for the mercies of this day.

[Sidenote: Oct. 25, 1887.]

Rose early. Prayed at the hearthstone and the threshold. John came. We sawed, split, and hauled the wood. The old house windows surprised him. We then prepared the horses, and at noon John went home. Though pressed with work, I felt prompted to go to the burnt tree and went to that and to the old maple and thanked God and prayed for little Frank. Made my fires and the company began to come. They poured in with full hands and warm hearts to the number of eighty or more. Surely God’s dealing with me in most unthought-of ways. Glory to God for the mercies of the twenty-fifth of October.

[Sidenote: April 25, 1889.]

This has been the day of the National Fast, but has been more of a thanksgiving than a fast to me, although I have abstained from food and striven to humble myself before God.

[Sidenote: Nov. 25, 1889.]

Went to the Skolfield barn, prayed, and then with a tackle and much contrivance put my ox cart on the scaffold. I then took the wheels from the axle, and stowed them and the axletree away below. It took me a long time, and was hard work. William and his boy and myself would have done it in ten minutes, but as they thought and said I could not do it, I did. If it had been twenty years ago, I should have got help; but a person situated as I am--in debt, and having to begin life anew--must not show any sign of failure of strength or energy. I did it not for vanity but on calculation, as a duty. Especially is the sin of old age fatal to a minister.... I am now going to treat myself to a little agricultural reading.

[Sidenote: Letter to Dr. George P. Jefferds of Bangor, Oct. 24, 1890.]

... I am well and can preach and work and do all that I ever could, but I have become deaf so that I cannot do anything in a social meeting.... My people have retained their affection for me as strong as ever. It was a love match at the beginning, and so it has continued; the children and grandchildren have followed suit. I never have regretted going to Harpswell, and I do not regret that I wrote the books; for if I have reaped nothing, I have abundant testimony that I have scattered good seed in virgin soil.... I am more than glad that I learned to farm in my youth, and that I have all these years kept up my habits of labor, that I can do any kind of farm labor and take care of cattle, for otherwise I should not at this time have a place to put my head.

I am writing you to-night before an old-time open fire, and I cut in the woods the fuel which feeds it. I am thankful that deafness is no bar to labor nor to writing. If it were not for the illness of my wife, I believe I should write a book this winter.... I send you with this letter a copy of the Commencement number of the _Orient_, by which you will see that Bowdoin boys feel their oats and have aspired to govern themselves. May God bless old Jeff, and may his shadow never grow less.

[Sidenote: Letter to son, June 1, 1893.]

You may be assured it is from no lack of affection or sympathy with you in your mishap that I have not written before, but a complication of circumstances, some of them of a very sad nature, has rendered it impossible. In the first place, I strained my heel cord either by jumping out of the wagon or by wearing a very tight congress boot, and had to limp around for about ten days, but am all right now. Don’t you think, the second night it was done, just as I was going to bed, two men came from Bailey Island for me to attend a funeral the next day at two o’clock. I told them it was impossible as I could with greatest difficulty hobble to the barn. They said there was no minister in town but me, and if I did not go, the person would have to be buried without any service. Upon that I told them to go to John Randall’s and tell him to come over in the morning, and take me to the intervale point where they must meet me with a boat. John came; we rode to the point. John took me in his arms and put me into the boat. When we were across, two men, one on each side, led me to the house; when we got to the doorstep one of them said, “Mr. Kellogg, do you think you will be able to preach?” I replied, “Put me before the people, and the Lord will tell me what to say.” The next morning my foot and leg were swollen to the knee, and I could not get on a rubber boot, but had to wear arctics.... I am all right now, however, and carried a bushel of apples on my back to-day.

I put the harness on the colt this week for the first time since the 10th of last August, the week before I was hurt, and he behaved so well that I had to give him some sugar. I have cleaned him all up, combed his hair and washed his face, and he goes to school every day. He is a strapping great fellow and full of grit.

[Sidenote: Letter to son, Dec. 1, 1893.]

It is a rainy evening and I take it to write to you. Yesterday was a most lovely day. I went to George Dunning’s to dinner. Frank’s wife gave us a splendid dinner,--turkey, pudding, pies, and fruit, grapes and oranges. Betsy was quite disappointed; she meant to have me, but Frank got the start of her and invited me about the middle of the month. I let Delia go home right after breakfast, and told her I would get my supper. I came home from George Dunning’s about three o’clock, took care of the cattle and got an early supper, and had a long evening alone; that was just what I wanted and was planning for. I never can feel that Thanksgiving Day should be all taken up with eating and merriment. I never spent a happier evening than I did last evening in looking over the year, and in praising God for what He has done for me. I have food, fuel, and clothing, and food for my cattle that have come to the barn in excellent order. Let us be grateful. Gladness is not always gratitude.

I have been to Brunswick and preached to the students in Memorial Hall. I will send you and Mary both a notice of it. There are two magazines and you can exchange them. I feel quite happy that I have got through with the students. They checkmated me. I did not want to go and did not mean to, but Dr. Mason, the minister at Brunswick, and President Hyde wrote me and backed them up, and also the Brunswick people who gave me a good deal at the donation and have for several years followed suit; I had to give in. I was afraid I should not be able to see in the evening, as the hall is very large and I have been preaching in a small house for two years; but there was no trouble. It was a splendid light and I had the service all in my own hands; no responsive readings. The students did the singing and gave me two anthems. After it was all over, I had to shake hands with twenty-five or thirty, and President Hyde said he could hear every word.

The town has made a road to the Lookout. They are going to build a wharf in the spring, and the Mere Point boat will run there. It will be of no benefit. It will bring a Sunday boat, rum, and tramps of all kinds.

[Sidenote: Letter to son, March 29, 1894.]

I am glad you are having such good weather, and that you are enjoying yourself setting out fruit trees. You can see now why it is that I am so much attached to this spot. I have been through just what you are going through now. I am eating the fruit of the trees I have planted and grafted, and am sheltered by them in the winter and sit under their shadow in the summer. Such labors attach us in a most singular manner to the spot we have improved. The trees seem almost like children.

[Sidenote: Letter to son, Jan. 22, 1895.]

You ought to have been here to take supper with us last night. I got a peck of large clams. Fannie baked the most of them and we set to work tooth and nail. I never ate so many before in my life at one time. I was almost afraid to go to bed, but I had a good night’s sleep and experienced no trouble. We have had very cold weather till the last week when it has been moderate. Until last Thursday I have not been to Brunswick since the week before Christmas. The Sundays have been so stormy that we could not have meetings, and I never preached my New Year’s sermon till last Sunday which was a very pleasant day.

I have before me two letters both from different places in New York State and from men who have made their mark in the world, who attribute their success in life to the influence of my books. I had almost made up my mind to send them to you. Such letters do me good. I at one time used to fear that I had done wrong in devoting so much time to writing that might have been given to preaching the Gospel, but I have of late had so many letters of this kind that I feel differently, especially when I consider how many more persons a book reaches than a sermon.

I have never been so pleasantly situated since my great loss in parting with your mother as I am now. I have food, fuel, raiment, and health. There has not been a Sabbath since I was hurt that I have not been able to preach, nor a single day in the week that I have not been able to take care of my cattle and do all my work. I am sure this is something to thank God for. It is wealth without riches. Is it not something to thank God for to have so many friends, so many to love you and wish you well, and feel that you have been able to benefit them? When I looked over that assembly of a hundred and twenty-five persons last fall at the donation, many of them the grandchildren of old friends, and when I look at Fannie sitting here ready to anticipate all my wants, and doing all in her power to make me happy, and think here is the grandchild of Pennell Alexander, one of my earliest and best friends, I feel that life is worth living, at least for me.

[Sidenote: Letter to son, Dec. 3, 1895.]

Thirty years ago, Alcott Merriman died and left four young children fatherless and motherless. He was a great friend of mine, and I kept run of the children. Fourteen years ago Irving, the youngest, was taking me down to Potts’s, and I entered into conversation with him and urged him to give his heart to God. He received it so kindly that I began to pray for him and the other three boys, Alcott, John, and Paul Sprague, and have prayed for them ever since some time every day. Alcott was converted and is a member of my church; Irving was taken very sick a few months ago. I went to see him and found that he had not forgotten the conversation fourteen years ago, and was then praying for himself. I became intensely interested in him. I wanted him to get well. I asked my church and many others to pray for him, that God would forgive his sins and raise him up. I went to see him every week. He lived almost down to Potts’s and the going has been bad. God did not see fit to raise him up, but He gave him a new and wonderful peace of mind. I wish you a happy New Year....

[Sidenote: Letter to son, Jan. 1, 1896.]

Perhaps you recollect Mr. McKeen, the president of the alumni of Bowdoin College, who introduced me at the centennial. He sent _The Outlook_ for a year and five dollars as a Christmas present. He is the man who owns Jewel’s Island. It seems to me as if God had been with every step I have taken all this month. Everything I have put my hand to has prospered. I have my whole winter stock of wood under cover. Since I was injured I have always ridden to the afternoon meeting, but all this month and part of last I have walked. My fodder corn held out till the tenth of November. I have plenty of hay and my people seem to love me better than ever. I hated to part with the old year; it has been a pleasant year to me.... The missionary society got so poor in the hard times that they gave notice that they must cut down twenty-five per cent the churches which they helped, but they did not cut me down; was not that remarkable? Thus you see I have a Shepherd who watches over me.

[Sidenote: Letter to daughter Mary, Jan. 25, 1899.]

Though I have not written to you for a long time, you have seldom been out of my thoughts. I never had so many engagements as of late,--funerals, weddings, and letters that must be written. There were two persons, a brother and sister by the name of Chaplin from Georgetown, Massachusetts, who have visited here several years and have always been very constant at meeting. They were here the first Sunday in August when I preached in the old church where I preached my first sermon to the Harpswell people fifty-five years ago. At Christmas they sent me a most kind letter and a present of handkerchiefs and neckties. I think I will send you the letter that you may know what friends I have among the summer visitors....

George Dunning is dead. I shall miss him very much; we have been near neighbors and friends for more than half a century. There were seventy-five persons that got together, hewed out and raised the frame of my house when I came here to live, and George Barnes and Stover Pennell are all that are left of them....

Deafness is a great deprivation; it cuts me off from exchanging and going from home to preach. I go up to the college, but President Hyde sits beside me and keeps me from making blunders. I wanted to give up preaching three years ago, but our folks said they had rather hear me pronounce the benediction than any one else preach a whole sermon. I thank God for the love of my people even to the third generation.... I went to Betsy’s Thanksgiving to dinner, spent the rest of the day in praising God for the great measure of strength He has given me this winter and courage to face the weather and do a good deal of work; also for the help He has given me in hard places.... Thus I had a most happy day with my Maker and Benefactor who has held the tangled thread of my life all these years, who has by His providence preserved me from perishing in some of those harebrained, presumptuous freaks into which my reckless nature led me. I look back upon it all with astonishment and with gratitude. I can hardly realize that I once tied up one-fourth of a pound of powder and the same quantity of saltpeter and sulphur, and because the fuse I had fastened to it would not ignite, held it in my fingers and put a fire coal to it with the other hand. I was fearfully burnt; all the skin came off from my face, hands, and throat. But God had some better use for me when that courage was needed in His service. God bless you, my child!

[Sidenote: To daughter Mary, April 26, 1899.]

I am glad that you have named the little one Hugh. I trust that he will grow up to inherit not only the name, but the virtues and qualities of the old stock.... I am alone and have been for a month. It was a great trial to me losing Esther; she was like a daughter to me and anticipated all my wants. I trust the good Father who has thus far provided for me will continue His paternal care.... I have outlived a multitude of good friends and helpers, but the great Friend, He of whom other friends are the instruments, is everlasting.

[Sidenote: Letter to son, June 25, 1900.]

We had a great time here yesterday. We put off our service till eleven o’clock, which gave time for the boat to arrive and bring a great crowd from Portland. Many of them were old friends of mine. Every one seemed pleased and satisfied. It would have been a very hard day for me, but Fannie came over and got dinner, and John Randall carried me down, so that I had no horse to harness and take care of. I have lost one of the best friends I ever had in George Barnes. He was but a boy when I came here, and he helped me to get the timber to build my house.

[Sidenote: Last entry in Journal, Jan. 14, 1901.]

I am going to spend this evening in thanksgiving to God.

REMINISCENCES

JOSHUA LAWRENCE CHAMBERLAIN

A student coming to Bowdoin College in 1848 found the fame of Elijah Kellogg already among historic traditions, shading somewhat into the atmosphere of legend and the heroic. Wild stories of his youthful exuberance, and the surprising ways he had of manifesting it, involved so much that was extreme in prowess and peril, that they led more to wonder than to imitation. An unusual quality and combination of intellectual gifts, and a quaint style both of utterance and action, together with an openness of heart, and ease of manner quite peculiar to himself, gave him the reputation both of a genius, and of a queer genius.

His writings, too, had a peculiar effect that set him apart from others. So much of his stirring power had been poured into his classic descriptions that they were something like storage-batteries of manly emotion. Whoever of the prize declaimers took “Spartacus” for his performance was pretty sure to take the prize also, whoever were the judges; and it came to be deemed not quite fair for a contestant for the prize to make this his selection.

These stories and associations connected with his name gave a certain glamour to the idea of him before his personal presence showed how real he was. But surely to those who were disposed to enjoy all the advantages of college life, Elijah Kellogg was far from being a mythical personage. Although a well-employed minister of a church in the congenial neighboring town of Harpswell, he found frequent occasion to visit the college; and preferably, it seemed, at unappointed times. He did indeed, occasionally upon notice, address the religious societies, greatly to their enjoyment and spiritual edification. But he did not come into classrooms with formal introduction by the dignified professor. More likely his visit would be at a private room, and his announcement by a simple knock, known by its frankness and assurance, at any time and at any student’s room he thought he wanted to see. This was the signal, not for a general clearance, as would be the case in certain other instances, but for the summoning of a little group of special friends and those ambitious to become such. This was the beginning of free and wide discussion along the unmeasured circle of the _nihil humani alienum_. It need not be said that these communications were held in a noble range, and a thoroughly manly and wholesome tone. Sometimes, such was his confidence in us, or distinct intention of putting us each on his own responsibility, as to taking easy occasion to make fools of ourselves, that he would get upon the recital of old sea stories, and perhaps touch lightly on his boyish pranks in college. The element of personal courage, strength, self-reliance, the despising of physical danger whether of accident or consequence, lifted these examples out of the suggestion of meanness and trickery, which were far from him as he would have them far from any friend of his. Moreover, without the robust qualities of mind and nerve which characterized the original, no boy would be foolish enough to be led to imitation which would surely end in failure and ridicule. All that was said or intimated in these recitals was always with loyalty to the college and to the ideals of manliness.

If these symposiums were prolonged so far into the night as to render inexpedient his questionable return to his Harpswell domicile, it was easy to find a bed in a college room for such time as there was remaining before morning prayers. As to that matter, at the house in town of more than one hard-headed old sea-captain there was always ready just at the head of the stairs, with doors unlocked, a room set apart for Elijah Kellogg.