The Story of a Life Part 5

"I could scatter flowers over the graves of the Confederate dead," he says, "and even bedew them with my tears; but I must still say, if forced to it, 'These poor, brave young men fell in an unrighteous war against a beneficent government!'" He must still say it, later on, to the destruction of his peace of mind; to the dissolution of many a friendly tie; must still say it, if forced to it; and must say it, whether forced or not, such being the impetuosity of his character, which consumes prudence and policy in one blaze of enthusiasm.

In the meantime, Oliver is at war in his own way. That the South should prove its right to self-government appeared to him self-evident, but it did not rouse his fighting blood. Souls to be saved from sin and error--that is his ever-pressing consideration. That all religious bodies should take the name of Christian, and worship according to the Scriptures--could anything be simpler? That the six or seven denominations in small tows, instead of utilizing half their vitality in keeping themselves going, should all combine in one glorious purpose to exalt the Christ--could anything be more like Heaven on Earth? Oliver thought thus. He believed it might come to pa.s.s; and he was eager to do his part in bringing it about. So every summer he left the University halls to carry his message into the hills and valleys of Kentucky; and such was his youthful ardor, his enthusiastic conviction of success, that people for a time stopped talking about John Morgan and friends in Canada, and went to hear the boy from the village tavern.

The time came when he resolved to carry the war into his own country. So he packed his saddlebags and rode into the land of his youth. There was no building of the disciples of Christ, but Oliver was offered the Methodist meeting house.

When it was noised abroad that Oliver Carr was going to preach, hearts were stirred and the farmers, many miles away, began catching up their horses to take the family to meeting. Men who had not been to church for years expressed themselves to this effect: "Ol going to preach? Yes, I'll go to hear _him_."

The meeting began Thursday night; on Sat.u.r.day he baptized fourteen.

Sunday morning the church building was locked; an agitated congregation hovered in the yard. "Oliver has opened the doors of the church!"

complained his aunt--meaning the spiritual church; she had taken care that the church of pine boards should be more closely guarded. Across the street from the inhospitable meeting house stood the school house.

The audience moved thither. The women went within; the men remained outside. Oliver stood in the door, and preached on "Christian Union".

Mrs. O'Bannon was there, she and her school-girl sister, Mattie Myers.

And Mattie led the singing, and listened to the young University student with unqualified approval. In after days she was to hear him preach many a sermon, and in many lands; "But that was the best sermon he ever preached!" she declared. For they were both so young, then, and both so fired with zeal for the same cause which to them seemed the supreme cause of earth and heaven. And they were both so confident that this cause must triumph--perhaps in their own lifetime!

Oliver went to Orangeburg to preach in another Methodist church, and people came from May's Lick to hear the boy, his father among the number. Very seldom, if ever, had Oliver seen William Carr at church before; here he baptized fourteen--but alas! his father was not one of them. Then ten days at Sardis, and forty baptized--but we need not follow the youth from point to point; it was everywhere the same indestructible faith, and many converts, and the beginnings of church life.

Daniel Carr, Oliver's grandfather, sent for him to come up to Lewis county and preach in his home. Daniel was a prominent cla.s.s-leader of the Methodist church, 76 years old. Oliver responded gladly, entered the county of his birth, where his uncles and aunts all lived, faithful Methodists. His grandfather brought benches and chairs into his house, and called in neighbors and kinsfolk. Oliver saw before him the boys and girls with whom he had gone to school in the country before his father's removal to May's Lick. Here were Old-School Baptists and Presbyterians, come to hear what the "Campbellite" had to tell them. But they did not come in hostility; far from that. It was with wonder, rather, that they looked upon this young man and thought of his past--the hard work on the farm, the harder work in his father's hotel. They knew how he had been obliged to leave the University on account of ill-health, and how, since then, he had taxed his strength to the utmost in evangelistic campaigns among the hills. And now he had come to them, his old neighbors, to tell them about Christ!

His grandfather knelt down to open the meeting with prayer, but suddenly the wonder and the joy of it came upon him, and they heard nothing but his sobs. When he was able to utter words, they burst from a heart that throbbed with heavenly thanksgiving.

Then Oliver rose. At last, at last! the privilege was his to speak to these dear people, words of eternal life. As he looked into their kindly faces, he too, was overcome by emotion. Minute after minute pa.s.sed by, and he could but weep, while the faces of his audience, bathed in tears, told him that the yearning of his heart was understood. It seems wonderful when a celebrated man rises to address an audience, and, for ten minutes, stands dumb before tireless applause. But what shall we say of this boy who stands ten minutes unable to speak for tears of joy, while his friends wait, unable to hear for weeping?

This we must say; that we have found here a youth who has given himself with all his soul to an idea; an idea that grips at the roots of emotions and desires and life itself. Will not he who weeps with joy at the opportunity to deliver his message, also fight for it? But though fighting, will not his valor be tempered with the tenderness of tears?

[4] "These boys," Garrett S. Wall (now Judge Wall, of Maysville, Ky.), Jacob Riley, Anthony Latham and O. A. Carr, all from May's Lick, had lively discussion on the way. "Which church is right?" was the awkward way the talk went on: Garrett explained Jacob's Theological puzzles: Oliver presented the points in that first sermon he ever heard that he understood, and to him the Scripture statements were plain: Anthony, true son of "Calvin", dwelt on the "decrees". These boys were going to be taught, and Anthony seemed willing that the "Spirit should guide him into all truth" provided it did not make a Campbellite of him; for he knew that was wrong religion. The count stood--three against one, and in boy fashion it was claimed that if "what is to be will be" Anthony ought to be satisfied. O. A. C.

CHAPTER VI.

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 embarra.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s submissive under the rod? Yet in each affliction there is a blessing. There is a holy, purifying influence that the children of G.o.d 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; G.o.d accepts no sacrifice without salt or without fire. Trial gives us our Christian character, brings us into closer communion with our G.o.d.

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_. G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed down the river and the waves are lashing the sh.o.r.e, 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 gra.s.s 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 a.s.sistant 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 G.o.d and humanity."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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.