Part 14

MR. CHAIRMAN: Having been requested to offer some remarks in respect to the conduct of religious worship early in the century, I would say that early impressions are the most enduring, and religious impressions more so than all others, resulting from the fact that they are not so much impressions as the development of innate tendencies kept alive and nourished by the intercourse that all men, to a greater or less extent, hold with their Creator. There are none that so resent interference or are with such difficulty eradicated. Though by no means one of the good boys who die young, and with little inclination to acquire knowledge by books or by dint of study, there were two subjects that always possessed for me a peculiar interest and attraction-- one the employment by which men obtained their bread, and the other the discussion of religious doctrines, though utterly averse to any personal application of them. I recollect that when I had twenty-five cents given me by my father to go to Sukey Baker’s tavern to see an elephant, a rare sight in those days, I sat as demure as a mouse in my father’s study the greater part of an afternoon listening to a discussion between him and a Hopkinsonian minister upon disinterested benevolence, which was brought at last to an abrupt termination in consequence of the use by the Hopkinsonian of the following illustration: “Suppose, Brother Kellogg, I was walking over a bridge with two ladies, to one of whom I was tenderly attached and engaged to be married, the other an indifferent person. My particular friend, I am aware, is a person of ordinary ability, but the other lady is possessed of great mental powers thoroughly disciplined, and both of them are in a state of grace. The bridge breaks through and we fall into the stream. I can save but one of them, and in that case it would be my duty, even if I had to leave my personal friend to perish, to save the more gifted person, because she is able and qualified to do more for the glory of God.” My father ended the discussion by rising and declaring that a man who could cherish, much more propagate, such abominable sentiments was not fit to preach the Gospel nor even to live in a Christian society. The discussion and ways of ministers, their preaching and modes of conducting worship at that period are as vivid in my recollection to-day as then, and I purpose to turn this to account in complying with your request.

Religious worship at that time, though modified, still retained much of the ancient spirit and something of the form. My father and the ministers of his age formed the connecting link between the old and the new. Many of the old ministers, who were settled for life, and wore old ministerial wigs, cocked hats, small clothes, and bands, were still preaching, and frequently exchanged with my father,--Father Lancaster of Scarborough, Mr. Tilton and Mr. Eaton of Harpswell. Father Lancaster would sometimes fall asleep in the pulpit while the choir were singing the hymn before the sermon, for he was well-stricken with years. Ministers of a later date wore a queue and powdered their hair. My father in younger life wore his hair long, and it curled down his back and was powdered. He also retained the bands for a neck dress. I can just recollect when he exchanged breeches for loose pants. The old people, who were opposed to the innovation, called them sailor trousers, and said they did not become a servant of God, were got up to conceal spindle shanks, and the deacons of the First Parish and some others retained them. The sermons and prayers were somewhat curtailed, even by the old ministers, but were still of sufficient length. The hour-glass was no longer seen on the pulpit, but was still used in families, schools, and by the toll-keeper at Vaughan’s bridge. The deacons in the First Parish still sat before the pulpit, but the practice of deaconing the hymns was given up. Intentions of marriage were no longer cried in the church with the addition that if any person could show cause why they should not be carried into effect, to make it known, or else forever to hold their peace; but publishments were posted in the porch of the meeting-house for all to read. Much importance was attached to the singing, and it was always performed by a full choir, as loud noise was by our forefathers deemed essential in public worship. At first there was no instrument except the bass viol. The chorister, conscious of the dignity of his office, would rise with a solemn air, run up the scale, beating time with his hand, and lift the tune. My father, who had been drum-major in the Continental army, and was extremely fond of instrumental music, introduced the cornet and clarinet, in addition to the bass viol, into the Second Parish choir. He likewise persuaded Mr. Edward Howe, of Groton, Massachusetts, to come and set up business in Portland on account of his musical talent, and assisted him all he could, and Mr. Howe led the choir of the Second Parish for years, keeping up with the progress of the times. Difficulties with church choirs were as prevalent then as now. At one time the first hymn was read, but there was no response from the choir. My father, who was a good singer, immediately read the hymn, “Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God,” and led off himself, and the congregation joined in. When the next hymn was read, the choir concluded to sing.

There was no fire in the meeting-houses. The women carried foot-stoves that contained an iron dish filled with hot coals. The sexton was bound by written contract to keep a good rock-maple wood fire on the Sabbath in order that the people might have good coals with which to fill their foot-stoves in the morning and replenish them between meetings. Children suffered the most from cold feet, and would often cry with cold. I used to run my legs to the knees into my mother’s muff and get my feet on her foot-stove and long for services to be done. My father used to say that when he could hear people all over the house striking their feet together to quicken the circulation, he felt it was time to stop preaching, and indeed he seldom preached more than forty minutes, and often less. But many of the old ministers who exchanged with him had a method of dividing their sermons that to a boy with cold feet was extremely tantalizing. They would have six, eight, and often ten heads of discourse after which came “the improvement,” the most excruciating of all. After a long time occupied in the application of what had preceded, the minister would say “lastly.” Then all the younger portion of the audience would prick up their ears and handle their mittens in expectation of the close, but after this would come “finally,” and on the heels of “finally” “to conclude,” and after “conclude,” “in short.” There were few Sabbath-schools; religious instruction was in former days given to the children by means of the Westminster Catechism that was taught to children by their parents; and at stated times in the year the ministers were accustomed to assemble all the children of the parish and catechise them. Parents who were not religious, equally with others, taught their children the catechism that they might be able to answer the questions of the ministers and appear as well as their companions. This method of instruction had fallen in a measure into disuse, and though Sabbath-schools had been substituted to take its place, they were not cherished or conducted as at present. No pains were taken to render them attractive. Some parents held on to both methods of religious instruction upon the principle that there never could be too much of a good thing. The schools had little hold upon the hearts of the ministers of the church and were generally taught outside. The first Sabbath-school I attended was held in a schoolhouse that stood on the northeastern side of State Street. The late Mr. Cahoon was my teacher. The New Testament was the text-book. Children committed hymns but took no part in the singing.

There was a vein of austerity running through the relations that existed between parents and children. They were neither fondled nor pampered, but taught self-denial, to obey their parents, and reverence old age. In many families the children ate at a side table, as they were not supposed to be fitted by age or development to associate with their elders.

In the province of labor there was no special adaptation of the implements of labor to the physical strength of children, nor in matters of education any adaptation of studies or methods of teaching to their mental wants as at present, but children and youths used to a large extent the tools and books of their elders or waited till they grew up to them. Thus, in matters of religion, immediate effect was not expected either in relation to children or adults. It was not expected that a person would be converted till he was married and settled in life.

The question will naturally arise in the minds of many, what was the result of such a mode and spirit of worship as to the promotion of vital godliness and the conversion of souls. I reply, there was but little fruit. The preaching was mostly argumentative and controversial or political--the conic sections of godliness. Ministers seemed to feel that their responsibility ended when they had faithfully preached the truth and kept back nothing, and church members, when they attended the ordinances and kept the faith.

The first great change for the better in this state of affairs was caused by the embargo, which crushed for a season and well-nigh exterminated the business interests of Portland. It brought those who had become giddy with more than twenty years of unexampled prosperity to reflection. In proportion as their prospects in this life were blighted, they directed their attention to the attainment of more durable riches. The ministers of the gospel of all denominations took advantage of the changed condition of thought, and there was a great revival of religious interest throughout New England. Edward Payson, who was then in the prime of life and a colleague with my father, exerted himself to an extent that consigned him to an early grave, and there was during his ministry a constant revival. Instead of fate, free-will, foreknowledge, absolute free-will, etc., people began to hear of Christ and Him crucified, the still small voice of the Spirit, and the danger of delay. The eyes of men, stirred to a new life, were now opened to perceive the great obstacles to the progress of religion and morality.

The drinking customs of the day which had now reached a fearful extent, and African slavery and the discussions concerning it, caused a shaking of the dry bones seldom equalled; for conscience, self-interest, and the law of God were pitted against each other. The main shaft that carried the wheels of business in Portland was the lumber trade, which consisted in transporting lumber to the West Indies and bartering it for molasses, a large portion of which was made into rum that went all over the country. There was new rum for poor people, and West India rum for those in better circumstances. I have seen my mother, as often as Parson Lancaster exchanged with my father, mix Holland gin and loaf sugar and warm it for him before he went into the pulpit and after he came out. I once went with my father to a funeral in Beaver (now Brown) Street, and a decanter of liquor and glasses were set on the coffin. At eleven o’clock on each day the bell would ring, the masons come down from the ladders, the joiners drop their tools, and all would partake of rum, salt-fish, and crackers. This great obstacle, in a measure taken out of the way, led to the development of a spirit of Christian enterprise which I leave to abler tongues and pens to describe.

AT BOWDOIN COMMENCEMENT, JUNE 25, 1890

[Among papers especially treasured by Mr. Kellogg was found the following letter:--

BRUNSWICK, MAINE, May 22, 1890.

“DEAR MR. KELLOGG: The coming Commencement will be the fiftieth anniversary of your graduation. It is our custom to call first on a representative of the class of fifty years ago; and as goes his speech, so goes the dinner. Now you are not only the natural representative of the class of fifty years ago, but one of the most widely known and universally beloved of all the graduates of our whole hundred years. So we shall look to you for the response from the Class of ’40. You must not fail us. If you do not report yourself present at the formation of the procession in the morning, we shall send a sheriff and posse after you. The Congressmen will not be here this year. The success of the dinner depends on your coming, and giving us such a send-off as you only can give to a crowd of Bowdoin College boys. It will be a sad day for Bowdoin College if there shall ever be a generation of students who know not Elijah Kellogg. “Faithfully yours,

“WILLIAM DEW. HYDE.”]

MR. PRESIDENT, GENTLEMEN, MEMBERS OF THE ALUMNI, AND CLASSMATES: It is fifty years this autumn since I presented myself, a sedate and diffident youth, between the two maple trees that relieved the monotony of this then arid and barren college yard, and, like friendship and misfortune, flung their shadows over the steps of Massachusetts Hall, and sued for admittance to Bowdoin College. With that humility which was an inherent attribute of youth in that bygone day, I requested an inhabitant of this village to point out to me the president of the college, and I gazed upon the great man with that anxiety and solicitude, inspired by the belief that my fate and that of my companions lay in his clutches. Since that period, since that comparatively short period, what changes have taken place! This barren college yard, across which students were wont to hurry, has been transformed into a beautiful and attractive campus where they are now prone to linger and repose and sport. This then barren college yard, where Professors Smyth and Newman struggled desperately to prolong the existence of a few sickly trees, and died in the struggle, is now adorned by that beautiful Memorial Hall, created by the hands of a progressive age, and transmitting to other generations the virtues and the memory of those sons of Bowdoin who were true to their country in the hour of her peril.

But in other respects what changes! Every president but two, a great portion of the overseers, the trustees, and alumni, every instructor, every teacher, every tutor, almost every person in any way connected with this college, from the treasurer to the janitor, and the woman who took care of the rooms, have all passed away. I can reckon my own surviving classmates on my fingers, and I stand here to-day like an old tree among the younger growth, from whose trunk the bark and leaves have fallen, and whose roots are drying in the soil. Then I could stand where the roads divide that lead to Mere Point and Maquoit, and hear the roar of the Atlantic in one ear and that of the falls of the Androscoggin in the other. To-day I have not heard a word, except the two words “Bowdoin College.”

But there is no decrepitude of the spirit. Moons may wax and wane, flowers may bloom and wither, but the associations that link the student to his intellectual birthplace are eternal.

There is an original tendency in the human mind which is the foundation of the desire for property. We all naturally crave something that is our own. What lover of nature wants to be where everybody has been? It is an instinctive tendency. We want our own land, however limited; our own house, however humble; our own books, however few in number. Who, I pray you, wants to “wear his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at,” or be a member of a fraternity that is like an unfenced common for every slimy thing to creep and to crawl over? It is this instinctive feeling which has from the beginning been at the foundation of all fraternities of every description, and they have striven to realize this idea, though they have not always accomplished it. This principle of limitation strengthens by concentrating every association and every feeling of the human mind, just as the expansive gases derive their terrific power from compression, and liquids, by concentration, gain in pungency what they lose in bulk. It is this which imparts such magic power to the college tie, because the college tie brings and binds together, at a period when friendships are most ardent and sincere, and feelings are most plastic, those who have separated themselves to intermeddle with all knowledge, and unites them in the pursuit of all that can honor God, develop the intellect, or benefit mankind.

It introduces them at once into a fraternity composed, not merely of their own classmates and contemporaries, but of all the gifted and the good who still live in their works, and by whose labors they profit. The longer a man lives, the broader his views, and the more he experiences of men and things, the more he feels his obligation to his Alma Mater, to the nourishment he drew from her bosom, to the formative influences with which she surrounded him. Brethren, it was here we were intellectually born and bred.

“’Twas here our life of life began, The spirit felt its dormant power. ’Twas here the youth became the man, The bud became the flower.”

The longer a man lives the more sensible he becomes of this obligation, and though it is impossible to repress a feeling of sadness when we visit the rooms and tread the floors where those swift-winged hours flew, and where we decipher the almost obliterated inscriptions, the names on the walls, names of those most dear to us, of those whose step kept time and whose hearts throbbed in unison with ours,

“Who the same pang and pleasure felt, At the same shrine of worship knelt, And knew the same celestial glow That young and burning spirits know In the bright dreaming days of youth, Ere visions have been chilled by truth, And feelings gushed without control Of those cold fetters fashioned by That wayward king, society.”

And yet these considerations are modified by the reflection that they have nobly used the training that they here received, and are exerting influences that survive them, and have sown seed that shall be the increment of future harvests.

I feel grateful that a lengthened life and an intimate acquaintance with the history and former faculty and the students of this college have enabled me to appreciate the progress of this institution for the last fifty years. For more than forty years circumstances have so ordered it that I have been brought into most intimate relations with the faculty and students of Bowdoin College. They have loved me and I have loved them. I have been brought into contact with these young men at a period in their moral and mental development when a youth will tell his whole heart, all his best plans, aspirations, and difficulties to an older person who he feels understands him and whom he knows he can trust; and in the light of this experience, I do not hesitate to say that this college never stood so high in moral and intellectual work as it does this day. In 1838 I listened to the farewell address of President Allen to the faculty and students of this college and the inhabitants of this town, in which he declared that this college was a seething tub of iniquity, and he could not in conscience advise any parent to send a child here. Mr. President, do you think you could in conscience make such a declaration? And whatever may be thought, I say whatever may be thought of the good judgment of the reverend gentleman, it cannot be denied that he had good grounds for his assertion.

There were at that time a great many pious and devoted students in college, as many, probably, in proportion to the number, as have ever been since. They had a praying circle, and the college church kept up their religious meetings and attended them promptly. They lived, the greater portion of them, devoted and consistent lives, and from time to time they received the influence of the Divine Spirit, and many strong men were brought to Christ and fitted for usefulness; but in general they had the fire all to themselves and it warmed no one else. The good went with the good, and the bad with the bad. There was a line of demarcation between them. I did what I could to break it, came very near shipwreck, and shall carry the scars of it to my grave, but I am glad I made the attempt. Those were not the methods which the changing times required. The Christian Association which has superseded them, built on a broader basis, meets the requirements of to-day, and does more to promote the morality of the college. Things have broadened since I was a boy. Why, when I was a young man, it was thought that a person couldn’t be converted till he was married and settled in life.

Another thing which has added strength to this college and been fruitful in respect to morality is the attention that has been paid of late to athletic exercises. This outlet for superfluous energy has more to do with the good order and subordination of the institution than most people are wont to imagine. Boys that in my day would have been playing cards in their room for a hot supper and fixings at the Tontine, are now pulling an oar or playing baseball or lawn-tennis, and the germs of mischief ooze out in copious drops of perspiration. And when night comes, instead of reveling in shirt-tail processions, making night hideous, they are contented to sit down with their books or go to bed.

It has always been a vexed problem how to give students exercise. Every man of common sense knows that students, in order to accomplish anything, must have exercise. Andover built a large building, bought tools and stock, hired a skilled foreman, and was going to set the students to work. They wasted so much lumber and brought the institution so heavily in debt that they were obliged to sell out and turn the building into a house for Professor Stone.

I recall the military drill here. It was all very well for a while. But all couldn’t be officers. Nobody was content to be dragooned by an army officer. But lawn-tennis, baseball, football, and the gymnasium fill the bill. The students are proud of their gymnasium, and I know from personal experience that, during the last eight years, those who have excelled in athletic exercises have also excelled in rank.

Now I believe that this college has taken a new departure, and I believe there is a future for it from the fact that the alumni take more interest in the college than they used to take, and because there are so many poor students connected with it. Poor students are the salvation of a college. I know young men who worked their way through college who are to-day its benefactors. I worked my way through college with a narrow axe, and when I was hard up for money, I used to set the college fence afire and burn it up, and the treasurer would hire me to build another one. Let the young man who has to help himself thank God, keep his powder dry, and take to his bosom the old motto: “_Per angusta ad augusta._”

AT CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF BOWDOIN COLLEGE, JUNE 28, 1894