Part 8

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.]