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 embarrassed, 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—"Æsculapia", 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 Æsculapius 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 passed 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 pass submissive under the rod? Yet in each affliction there is a blessing. There is a holy, purifying influence that the children of God 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; God accepts no sacrifice without salt or without fire. Trial gives us our Christian character, brings us into closer communion with our God. 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. God 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 pass 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 pass 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 passed down the river and the waves are lashing the shore, 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.

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,

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:

To her mind, education was not only acquirement of truth, but of holy truth; such an acquisition as called for its inevitable reward:

"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 assistant 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 God and humanity."

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. Your style portrays a good heart. I love talking letters, and such talk, too, that expresses spontaneous emotions. How happy I am under the conviction that you feel solicitations about my welfare, and offer up prayers in my behalf. Mattie, I often think of your remark to me last June, stating what you thought could be done through faith."

He has two regular appointments now, for preaching; at Macedonia[6] and Providence. He touches upon the latest news: "I suppose you have heard of Brother A. Campbell's death. How sad to think that one so great and good must lose his power and fade away! 'He had fought a good fight,' and now goes away to wear the crown. President Williams will go back to Harrodsburg. He prefers teaching young ladies to boys. Mattie! I am trying to compose an oration on the 'True and Good in Man,' and would be very much obliged if you will give a few suggestions. (Bad luck to that pen for dropping the ink! please excuse the blot.) I will be very glad to hear from you soon on the True and Good in Man. Good night! May the choicest blessings of heaven be yours, in time and eternity."

Mattie Myers is still seeking to regain her strength—for health has fled after the closing days at Daughters' College; and as she rests, she reads the "Quarterly,"—no light reading, one would think, for a girl of eighteen—and "Aurora Leigh," always her favorite,—and at night—these beautiful nights in May, she goes to the meeting held at Stanford by Moses E. Lard. Oliver has no such excuses, he writes her, for delaying his answer, but he has others just as good. "I have yet those five studies this hot weather," he says; "besides, I go to the country to preach nearly every Lord's day." However, we would not have her think his preaching excuses any dereliction of duty. "I have had occasion to pronounce my love for the ministry, and I need only say that it is still my chief delight."

And then he comes to deal with the man about whom the storm-clouds had gathered, the favorite professor who used to walk with the boy Oliver when friends were few and the University was at Harrodsburg: "Last Friday night Dr. Pinkerton addressed our society—the Philothean,—to encourage us in our undertaking—about twenty-five of us are studying for the ministry. His subject was 'True Greatness.' All were entertained with the originality of his conceptions, and his peculiarly terse, pointed and feeling manner. It just seemed a picture of the man revealing his noble heart, and showing his fervent religious sentiments. Perhaps you have been prejudiced against the doctor, owing to his political proclivities. But Mattie, allow me to say that although he acted as a Christian should not act, while overwhelmed in excitement, and had his all in the 'Negro Bureau,' still, I cannot but believe he was sincere. Yes! he was so deeply convinced of the correctness of his position that he would have been a miserable man, a vile hypocrite, had he acted otherwise. He is ready to sacrifice popularity and friends; yes, I verily believe life itself, for what his conscience tells him is right. For this I admire him. For his sympathy, I esteem him; and because he is a good man, I love him. I know many lips have hissed stern anathemas against poor, passionate Dr. Pinkerton; but his goodness will compare favorably with that of any of his accusers. I hope the brethren will labor to restore him to his proper orbit, where he will shine among the brightest stars of the Reformation."

So this generous young defender goes on and on, till he reaches a blaze of eloquence of which we are duly suspicious, knowing not what element of actuality (which is seldom eloquent) may have been consumed in the heat of chivalrous ardor. It is enough to know that we have found a voice to speak for the man "who had his all in the Negro Bureau," nor was it a light thing to speak thus to Mattie Myers, whose schoolbook is written close with Southern songs. She loves to sing—else she would not have taken the pains to write it down so carefully—

After the exalted strain of the first part of this letter, we confess to a great satisfaction in the latter part, which seems to come so much closer to the ground on which most of us live: "I delivered your message to Miss Shaw Turner. She expressed an ardent desire to see you, and gave evidence to a strong attachment to you,—which I suppose you will allow me to do." (Observe the artfulness of that "which") "I am very much obliged to you for the invitation to the railroad picnic, and I think it would be altogether proper for the Car to beat the railroad, ric, tic." (A pun! what next?) "Well, I have heard Brother Lard preach lately; no wonder I can't write to you! We are anticipating a happy time in June at our society exhibitions. Please come! But before you come, oblige me by writing some of your thoughts on this subject: 'The Tears of History and the Smiles of Prophecy.' This is my subject and I have not written a word. Jas. C. Keith, Albert Myles and myself are to represent the University on the 28th June—a distinguished honor, indeed. I am also elected to represent the Philothean society, and I have not prepared that speech. Oh, what a fix I'm in! Please, Mattie, help me! Next summer, let us visit Mount Carmel again, and go to Æsculapia for our health." (Only for our health?) "Brother Myles sends his kindest regards, and says he doesn't think near so much of Miss Ada as of you! Mattie, please write soon."

Next month comes the "exhibits," and in July—this from Oliver,—"I know you will be surprised at the caption of this letter—Ghent, Carroll County, Kentucky." It does, indeed, surprise her, for after a year's absence, one would have supposed the student anxious to go back to his parents, kindred and friends. But "I have sacrificed the pleasure of meeting my loved ones, and given up all, for the good of this people." His roommate, Albert Myles, has urged him to this course, for Albert, who has been assisted in College by Mrs. Drusie Tandy Ellis of Ghent, is called there to hold the meeting. "College days were over June 28th," he continues. "I underwent six critical, trying examinations, and prepared my two speeches—and was then so sick I could hardly walk. The doctor brought me out of a weakening disease so that I could stand on the stage while I spoke; but that was about all. When the boys parted for their homes, they left me in extreme agony. My poor frame was racked and tortured by unmerciful disease. Many I did not get to bid goodby—dear boys! God be with you, and may we meet again next October. My roommate, Brother Myles, remained with me. When I recovered, he plead so affectionately for his 'chum Ol.' to go with him to Ghent, that I could not refuse."

And so they go to Covington, and at Cincinnati take the "Joe Anderson" for the river town. But in about two weeks, Oliver will be at Mount Carmel where Mattie is now—he urges her to stay till he comes—and he will bring her a book by one of his favorite professors—McGarvey's "Commentary"—solid food for the young lady, one would think.

Back in the University next fall—let us hope in better health than when he left it!—we find Oliver again pen in hand: "James Keith, Albert Myles and myself will finish the course this year by hard study, having about twenty-five recitations each week—and I am in wretchedly poor condition. I'm fearful of my health's giving way under the great burden. I hope and pray for strength of mind and body to prepare for a long service. I sometimes think it is almost a sin for us young men who are preparing for the ministry, to stay here conning over dull lessons in mathematics, Latin and Greek. Like a caged bird, I long to be free of the College-wall cage. I am anxious to go into the world and preach the Gospel. I have been telling my friend of how you and I preach together, and what a good, assistant preacher you are. How I would like to be with you and your sister tonight. Dear me! What a contrast this dull monotony presents to that blissful happy meeting—to do such noble work as that in which we were engaged! Never can I forget that meeting, nor our trips to Orangeburg! neither can I forget you who cling so tenaciously to 'that good part.' You and Sister O'Bannon both impressed me as being God's dear children. Remember your mission to speak to my sister Mary about becoming a Christian. I suppose you heard of my good meeting at Sardis. Forty-five were added—four of my cousins among the number. Don't fail to send that sermon. Mattie, I send the promised photograph, please send me yours. Write to me soon, and tell me what you are doing. I know you are not hearing Brother Lard now. I think you might write poor Ol. a long letter very soon!"

"Poor Ol." received the letter; for we find him answering in a short time—from his letter we may gain an insight into hers: "You speak of your benevolent scheme in progress for the 'poor wanderers of New York.' I do not know your exact meaning, but ever since I formed your acquaintance, I have believed you a chosen instrument of God to accomplish great good for poor mortals. Now you are making the step. Dear me! How I wish such a spirit of Christianity infused itself through the purposes of the ten thousand accomplished and efficient young ladies of Kentucky! How much good might be done by womanhood, if they would devote their time, means and energy to alleviating suffering. Perhaps it would be a better plan to look nearer home. I am glad to know that you whom God has blessed with a mind and heart able to conceive, plan and feel, are breathing a prayer for the distressed. Mattie, it speaks well for you, and makes me rejoice. A young friend of mine insists on my preaching at Mount Sterling that he may obey the Gospel. I can't refuse to go. I know I will lose time, and distract my attention from my studies, but what is that in comparison to saving a soul? I don't hesitate to go, but will be off soon. Encourage the building of the church at Mount Carmel all you can. They will receive $50.00 from me next summer for that purpose. Excuse bad writing. You know I can do better."

In Oliver's next letter—December—we find him in a rather sensitive mood. Mattie has accused him of "Some egotism clearly manifested in a parenthesis" he appears to have stowed away in his last epistle. "Dear me!" says Oliver, wounded and perplexed, "What can it be?" After trying to recall anything that may have prompted her "sarcasm," and after an eloquent outburst against the meanness of egotism wherever found, he is obliged to give it up. After relieving his feelings he falls back on "Brother Lard," who appears as a convenient stalking-horse for both sides. "If you think my writing home a poor excuse for not writing to you, I have a very good one at hand. Brother Lard is preaching here every night. That, as you know (having offered it yourself) is a valid excuse! I have just returned from a visit to President Williams who is in high spirits. He has just been giving me a lecture on my returning here for still another year. He is a dear good man, and often gives me good advice; but I don't think it would be right, after taking a diploma in the Bible College and another in the College of Arts, to remain another year. Now, Mattie, I have always paid much attention to your advice; what do you think on the subject? You know my deficiences; but you also know my burning desire to be at work. Like you, I admire Geo. D. Prentice's 'Closing Year' extravagantly. He has immortalized himself with that inimitable production. What a pity that such a man is not a Christian! The world is presenting a sad picture. The people are beginning to lose confidence even in the clergy. I am convinced that, as a Christian body, we are more in need of deep-toned piety than of anything else. We have more learning than we put to good use. We need exemplary conduct in young men and women. I am going to start out in the New Year to live a holier, better and consequently a happier life. Please remember me in your prayers."

Our next letter to "Miss Mattie," dated December 25th, is not from Oliver Carr, but from another University student, who signs himself by his initials. Poor young gentleman, we seek not to know his name, as he pours out his love of near half a century gone. Her "very welcome favor," it appears, had nipped his sweetest hopes in the bud, but he was "glad to receive it." He goes to the point: "You say that no more intimate relationship can exist between us than that of friendship. Miss Mattie, why not? I do not presume to ask for details, whether your heart is prepossessed in favor of another or whether * * *" But no, this was very real to the "D.," of those days, let us not listen to his heart-beats, but hope rather that "D." now sixty-odd, if he is a day, has long since forgotten all about it. He is introduced here merely to cast one tiny ray upon the character-development of the young lady addressed: "In the mean time, you will allow me to thank you very sincerely for the candor with which you have dealt with me, not only in this correspondence, but ever since our acquaintanceship." And then, remembering that it is the 25th, he adds with a stout heart, "Just while I think of it, I will take your 'Christmas Gift!'"

He gives a flash-light of those vacation days: "Most of the students have gone to their homes. Egg-nog is flowing freely here. The landlady has it in abundance, today. Some of the company partook largely; among them I noticed two young ladies. By the way, a little news afloat: Miss Jennie Lard is to be married to a very interesting youth" (Note the bitterness of our rejected lover!) "of fifty and odd summers: This lovely lad is Woodson, a lawyer of St. Louis, who is very promising for a mere beginner in this up-hill business of life. In the exuberance of his youthful feelings he has presented her with a gold watch, rings infinite, and earbobs not a few." (Oh, the bitterness of it!)

Then, in this incidental fashion, we find introduced a subject which is presently to deepen until it envelops all other thoughts of Mattie Myers: "Alex. Milligan received a letter of twelve pages from Brother Gore, dated Liverpool. He and Surber intend to start for Australia on the 21st"—two young friends of Oliver Carr and Mattie Myers, going forth as missionaries. "They have visited Spurgeon's tabernacle, Crystal Palace, etc. They describe the English manner of worship, different from ours. They have no preaching Lord's Day morning; that part of the day is spent in taking the Lord's Supper, Scripture reading, etc. Preaching at night." And then "D." enters upon the subject of Conscience, in which it seems Mattie is greatly interested; but our own will not permit us to follow him into those intricate depths.

Three months pass by, but Oliver has not forgotten Mattie's thrust: "I do wish you had gratified me by sending the sentence in quotation in which I expressed egotism. I have been much troubled about it and I would like to know exactly what it was." Then after several pages of severe self-inspection, to find the contamination, he urges her to see again his sister Mary and his other relatives who are out of the church, and continue with zest, in finding a delightful means of prolonging this correspondence: "You say that the affirmative of the question, 'Will Christ's Second Coming be Premillenial?' is Scriptural. Well, we will have a debate, if you say so. You must make the first speech; I'm simply to reply. But as suggestive of the arguments, I wish you "to prove to me, First * * *"

And so they debate; and spring blooms in Kentucky, and summer comes with its hard work and balmy airs. Mattie Myers is not as strong as she might be, but she has had a long rest, and can rest no longer; for that active spirit calls her to her chosen work. She has already done some teaching, but in the autumn of 1867, she purchases Franklin College at Lancaster, and starts definitely upon her career. She is the president, of course; and she feels as she walks the familiar streets,—no longer a little girl under her brother Joe's tutelage, but a grave young teacher—a girl of twenty now, surrounded by other girls—that her life-work has, indeed, begun. Her first school! It does not, indeed, promise that wide field she has so long coveted; the conditions are straight, the capabilities rather narrow; but after all, it will serve for a time. Why it served so short a time—but one school term, in all,—may be gleaned from the continuation of the correspondence:

"I confide in you," Oliver writes in September, "as I do in my own kin. The plain truth is that you seem much nearer to me than some of my kindred who are ever opposing my humble work. I am thankful that I ever met you, and that we have learned to sympathize with each other. I made a flying visit to Mount Carmel, and cannot say how sad I felt at not seeing you there. I preached at Orangeburg, and had the pleasure of receiving among others, my little cousin Rachel. I have long been praying for her conversion. I baptized her and her husband both at the same time.

"From there I went to the State Meeting at Lexington, and a happy time I had. It was said by old men that they had never known one so good. During the meeting, a letter was received and read before the convention by Brother J. W. McGarvey. It was from Brother Surber. He stated very touchingly the need of more preachers in Australia, and urged Brother Myles and me to come. He expressly stated that the Australian brethren had—under the recommendation of himself and Gore—selected us, and wanted no others. Brother Surber wrote to me, and gave a description of Melbourne, where he wants me to preach. His description made me wonder at the degree of refinement there. The city is beautifully adorned with flower-gardens; 140,000 inhabitants. He imagines I'm there, walking with him through the city. He says, 'Come, Ollie, it is just as near Heaven from this country as from Kentucky.' He says we will be to the Cause there what Walter Scott and Barton Stone were here, etc. The brethren there are almost wild for an evangelist from Kentucky; have sent $800.00 in gold to bear expenses of Brother Myles and myself. Above all considerations, the good I might do is the grandest—to preach to people who are not tired of hearing! I know my relatives will oppose my going, and that it will almost break my heart to leave them; but I cannot consult flesh and blood. I have prayed and wept over this, but I cannot escape the conviction that it is my duty to go. All the brethren except Dr. Pinkerton advised me to go. President Milligan just wept like a child. I've not let the folks at home know anything about it; there is great excitement here. Mattie, what do you think of my going? Would you go with me? I'm in earnest. Brother Keith and I are holding a meeting at Millersburg. I wish I had you as an assistant preacher, as I did last summer. I hear that people are well educated in Australia. Please write immediately."

We have broken the news to the reader, just as it was broken to Mattie Myers; but there is a difference; for in those days, knowledge of Australia was very superficial in Kentucky. It was immensely farther away then than now, and in proportion as it took so long to go there, to that degree did it appear wild and barbarous, semi-civilized at best. To Carr, Myles and Keith, the senior class of 1867,—the three young preachers and roommates, who were called "the Trio,"—the Australians were a mixture of exported English convicts and bush-men with bristling hair. To their imagination, an Australian was hardly to be classified with any of the recognized races of mankind; he was a mongrel, a mystery. And even if they could have received the enthusiastic laudations of young Surber and Gore, the perils of months upon the deep which rendered passage full of dangers, and a speedy return impossible, must still have appalled the fancy. To go to Australia, then, was to cut away from the old life with all its ties of love, of laughter and of tears, and to find what consolation one might in the thought that the distance from there to heaven was as short as from a Kentucky haven!

The next month, Oliver writes to Mattie Myers: "Your touching letter gave me more encouragement in my expected trip to Australia than any I have received, leaving my heart literally steeped in faith, hope and love. I hated to tell you my plan, for you are always holding up to my view the amount of work to be done in Kentucky. This is the hardest question I was ever called on to decide. It came to me something like the question of my soul's salvation. At the State Meeting, old and young advised me to go—all except Dr. Pinkerton, whose counsel was always very weighty with me. His argument was that the people of Northeast Kentucky need my labor too badly, and that their souls are just as precious as those in Australia. But you know that in Lewis County I have not the opportunities to labor that I'd have in Australia. Life is too short—we must use every advantage. There are others to take my place in this country.

"I wept all the way from Lexington. And then I placed in the scales, home with all the meaning of HOME—father, mother, sisters, brothers, and friends—and no one has dearer friends than I, and God knows I love them dearly,—and on the other side I placed the salvation of perhaps thousands of souls, the love of Jesus and his Cause. I looked at the balance with tearful eyes, and resolved to tell parents, kindred and friends adieu. The scale turned. My love for all dear to me on earth, cannot deter me from going with glad tidings to the weary and heavy-laden. And yet how sad to leave you and all others so dear. I declare, it almost breaks my heart. Yet go I must! I wrote home and told all about it. Oh, I hated to let my poor mother know anything about it. I am to stay three or five years. I will have an audience of 1,000 every Sunday. The salary will be $1,000 in gold. Some of this I will send home to my poor parents; and some to my brother Dick whom I am going to educate; and some to the young man I am already educating for the ministry. I am going to make one more strong appeal to my parents to obey the Gospel. How shall I be able to tell them goodby, if I am to go away with no hope of meeting them in heaven? I am glad you have such a good school. Oh, you are doing a noble work! Just think of training 90 or 100 little hearts and leading them to Jesus!"

December comes, and the stress of resolution grows harder to bear: "I have come home at last, but not to rejoice in the association of friends. I am chilled by translation from a fervid spiritual labor and fellowship of the saints, into a fellowship of worldly affairs where every effort is to get something to eat, drink and wear, with scarcely a thought of the hereafter. Brother Dick is dangerously ill. The dear fellow suffers the most excruciating pain. As I gaze upon his tender form, I wonder if I am ever to realize that thought—my brother, a preacher! Added to this sorrow is the sympathy I have for my poor mother, who weeps whenever Australia is mentioned. It is very distressing. All charge me with not loving them. My dear father rests his heavy head upon his hand, and weeps to think of the future. His frail body is tottering as he descends the hill of life. I fear I shall never see him again, after I say farewell. It well nigh breaks my heart to hear them chide me for resolving to go on that long, long voyage. I close this sad picture by throwing myself into my only refuge—faithful prayer, and immortal hope." The next part of the letter shows that Oliver was "in earnest" when he asked Mattie Myers to go with him:

"In Lexington I met Brother McGarvey on the street" (his teacher with whom he lodged during his last year at the University.) "He urged me to tell him all that happened during my brief visit to you at Lancaster" (where she is teaching her first school.) "In confidence, I told him your objections and difficulties. When I had finished, he said,—

"'I admire her consideration. It is a serious question, I admit. With regard to her health, and the dangers of the voyage, you and she are on a common footing. She need not be deterred by the supposition that you die and leave her in that distant land; the brethren here would, in that case, have her safely returned home.' He urged our marriage, and trip to Australia. He was delighted with the idea of having you there as a teacher. We talked of the sacrifice of your school at Lancaster, and he argued that it would be far better for the cause of Christianity and education to have some one take your place in Lancaster, and have you occupy a higher sphere of usefulness. I wish you had been present to hear him talk; he is a dear, good fellow. With his strong clear brain, he adjusts his plans; with an eye of faith, he views the future. I pray you, weigh his opinions in your well-balanced judgment before you conclude. I talked with President Williams; I fear he will not advise you to go. Brother McGarvey says it will depend upon the mood in which you find him. Then do cheer him up, and prepare him for a happy answer!"

The letter concludes with urging the marriage, cautioning her against giving heed to the advice of others—as in the case of John Augustus Williams—but the wisdom of sometimes heeding the counsel of others—for instance, that of John W. McGarvey.

"Though a stranger to you in person—" What is this? A letter written to Mattie Myers by this very J. W. McGarvey! "By request of Brother Carr," he says. One would not expect a passionate, enthusiastic burst of eloquence from the author of the "Commentary on Acts." What is said here, emanates from a "strong, clear brain." As the Bible instructor sees it, the situation stands thus: "After all, your own heart must decide whether you go or stay. One thing seems certain, that he will go. It is for you to endure his long absence, and risk the uncertainties of his return, or share the voyage with him, and help the noble cause to which he consecrates his all."

This same month, Oliver returns to the charge: "I waited a week with the keenest anxiety, hoping each night to get an answer from you. It has come at last. Mattie! I anticipated what it would be, from reading President Williams' letter. I know he has tried to mould your life for teaching, alone. He is true and noble and I doubt not he gave you, as you say, 'his wisest judgment and the fullest expression of his good heart on the subject.' I believe he meant to point to our highest good; but I cannot follow his advice. I have pondered both your and his reasons for wishing delay. Both of you urge a year's preparation. Well, what kind of preparation? You are already prepared to teach those in Australia; and I know I can tell them what to do to be saved. I know I am weak; but Northeast Kentucky is not the place for me to get strong. You say I 'need to know assuredly that I can meet stern realities victoriously.' I do not think I will know more about that than I do now, till I meet them. Of course a year's experience would increase my usefulness, but why not acquire it where the brethren want me? I don't know what especial point you had in view by saying you would like a year's hard study under President Williams. What were you going to study? You have taken his full course, I presume. We have simply the story of the Cross to tell and I believe that we can do it now."

So the letter goes on for eight closely-written pages, showing the fervor of eloquence quite lacking in the concise review by McGarvey; but, then, it was not McGarvey who was in love. Oliver is in love, doubly so; first and always first, with his Cause; and then always with Mattie. It is a terrible struggle for the young girl, for she too, is in love; but her affections have always associated teaching with the Cause. She must know in her heart that this missionary enterprise is a divergence from her central idea, however much more good it may accomplish. Here is her college, bought and paid for, and here are her 90 or 100 girls for training. She may hope for different blessings beyond the seas, but not of this sort.

And here is her brother Joe bitterly opposed to the plan, as one's brother Joe may very naturally be. It is well enough for McGarvey, who thinks first of the dissemination of the Gospel, to smile upon her going; and how could Williams, whose ideal for woman is the vocation of teaching, say otherwise than wait? It is well enough for Oliver to see but one course before him; he never entertained himself with dreams of teaching school. He always meant to preach, and Australia means more of it, with wider good to hope for. But it is no simple problem for Mattie Myers.

A one-sided correspondence, we have been treated to, which, though one-sided, has nevertheless given us as good an insight into the one addressed as if she had done all the writing; better perhaps; for now we are to hear her voice, which in its agitation and perplexity, does not, it may be, reveal her as she is:

"I have stretched forth my hands and nailed my heart to the Cross. You may cast it from you, but conscience nailed it there. For awhile I cheated myself with the belief that its voice mingled with the voice of my heart, 'You are already prepared; go with him.' But it was only the echo of my heart's happy song. I feel that I would be an incumbrance, rather than your co-worker. However mournfully my heart may cry, however beseechingly, I cannot go with you. Conscience, my guide, beckons me, and fervently I follow, though my heart is torn asunder. Ah, the bloodless battles that are fought in our world! You have said, 'Although I love you as I love no one else on earth, still, if you deny me, I must go alone.' I say in reply, that though I love you with that love of which only a Christian woman is susceptible, I cannot go with you. Your capabilities fit you for one field of labor, mine fit me for another. We have all to build an altar. I have built mine, and laid thereon my tenderest feelings, the yearning desire of the woman-nature to be loved. I know that this mysterious yearning which God has planted with his own hand in woman's heart will, if left unsatisfied, cast a shadow over her life; that however strong, however self-reliant a woman may be, her heart reaches out for something to complete her happiness. But the giant will can strengthen the trembling, faltering heart.

"And it is well to nail the heart to the Cross that raises it nearer to God. He will give it strength to suffer. And his love can never fail. Do not think that I am staggering under complaint. Like a cheerful traveler I will take up my life-burden, and continue the journey, with a song in my mouth, keeping time to the voice of conscience and my God. Do not think for a moment, Ollie, that I would dissuade you from entering upon your grand mission. What I said to you before I knew you loved me, I say to you now, though it wrings my heart with an anguish that I sometimes think cannot be borne. Sometimes I feel that my heart must break, but it is sustained by the love of God. If conscience bids you go, then you must go. But I cannot conceive how conscience would say to you to leave a field in which laborers are few, for one which may cost you your life. I am impressed that going is a matter of inclination rather than of conscience. Nevertheless, if conscience does tell you so, then I urge you with all the earnestness of my soul, to go. Go; and the burdens of my prayers will be for him so far away, and yet so very near."

Alas! how great a mountain is our own conscience, and how small a molehill that of our neighbor! Mattie, who has been pointing out that all her future misery is to come from obeying her own, pauses to doubt if Oliver's conscience is a conscience at all! On such provocation as that, who can blame Oliver for having doubts about Mattie's conscience? That he did have doubts, and that he did his utmost to cause her to agree with him, no one can doubt with the following letter before him:

"Dear Mattie:—Yours received. I heartily agree to March 26th as our wedding day. I will write to tell sister Mary and Matt to come down to May's Lick on the 27th. Saturday I will deliver my farewell address here. We will go to Maysville en route for Cincinnati. Horace came from Flemingsburg yesterday to find out something about it. Matt, Bud and Mollie are coming.

"Mattie, I have the best kind of news to tell you. Hold your breath while you read. Father came forward at church yesterday, and made the good confession. 'Bless the Lord, O my soul and all that is within me, bless his holy name!' I recognized in that, the answer to many a prayer. And now if my mother would obey the gospel I would believe your prophecy uttered at President Milligan's reception was fulfilled. Do you remember what it was?—'Brother Ollie, I believe God will make you instrumental in bringing your family into the fold.' Oh, will that ever be? Mother won't go to church. She has never heard me preach but twice; but I will pray on, and hope on."