Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain

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

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

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

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

In the opinion of all he was the good genius of the college. The fellowship he held there was of a higher order than that pertaining to the arts and sciences; it was in the department of sound living and straightforwardness. Not only was he the friend of every student, but he was especially so of those who needed some guidance or correction inspired by sympathetic understanding and directed by practical good sense. For the faculty he served an office in the disciplinary line not easily described,—call it adviser, mediator, mitigator, or demonstrator of applied common sense. He had an idea that parents sent their boys to college to be made to stay there and perform their duties and work out their best, rather than to be sent away when any little thing went wrong with them. Still he admitted exceptions.

One of the recognized degrees of punishment in those days was that of “rustication,”—country residence being supposed to be a balance or compensation for some of the tendencies of the pursuit of the fine or liberal arts within a college town. This was applied to cases not quite deserving of technical “suspension”; but still was in fact removal from actual attendance on college exercises, whether required or prohibited,—a forced residence at the home of some scholarly and judicious gentleman, where the attractions would be wholesome influences rather than dangerous temptations, and where the pupil might receive instruction in the three branches of learning pertaining to a classical course, and thus be enabled to do what seemed less likely within college walls,—to keep up with his class.

Such were the peculiar qualities of Mr. Kellogg that these temporary sojourns with him were much in fashion at that time, and, it is truth to say, rather sought for by those a little backward or wayward. Borne on the college books as a grade of punishment, it certainly was not of the vindictive, but of the reformatory, or rather, the sanitary character. In either aspect, to the delinquent “student” this punishment was by no means clothed with terrors. To take up such familiar relations with a man of stalwart manhood, who never lost his sympathy and love for youth, and had the faculty of putting every one at his ease and at his best, to say nothing of the provision for needful exercise by going out often with an able seaman in a stout Hampton boat, braving the terrors of the seas, and the beauties of the islands of Casco Bay,—this should bring a boy whose forces were not yet knit together in just balance, to his best of body and heart and mind, and to some clearness of purpose and steadfast resolution.

When after three years the writer of these lines returned to the college as professor, Mr. Kellogg appeared in a new phase. The young wife had known him under this higher aspect during her girlhood association with mature and cultivated people. So we met now with a broader intellectual horizon. His opinions on theological, public, and political questions were rather conservative, but they were illuminated by his warm heart. His presence was cheering in the home as in the college room. He was a good adviser on practical questions of life—for other people!

When the War of the Rebellion threatened the existence of the Union and some of us went out for its defence, we looked to see him take the field or the seas for the honor of the flag under which he had sailed. But he saw his duty otherwise. He was not even drawn by the considerations which appealed to some of our brightest college men, to take service as paymaster in the navy. With so many men gone forward, he thought he had a duty to the homes.

After the war, when circumstances brought the relater of this into more responsible positions, our acquaintance became yet closer. He let himself be seen at his best, and also in his deeper needs. He had done a great and honored work among the sea-faring men in Boston, and he had written many right-minded, bracing books for boys which have gone the world over. All, however, from a singular course of mishaps, brought him more fame than fortune. He had held on to his old place and church relations in Harpswell; and thither he returned. His old people welcomed him back and gave him their hearty support. But with all that could be reasonably done, his income could not overtake his outgo. He was in the position of Paul in the storm, with four anchors out of the stern, wishing for the day.

But he had a good little farm on Harpswell Neck, a long way off the main road but with a fine outlook on the bay. With some strange freak,—an abnormal desire for seclusion perhaps,—he had shut off his front view by planting a thick hedge of black-spruce trees, effectually concealing his home from the bay view whether from without or from within. This black belt, however, served to mark the mouth of the channel for those of us obliged to make port farther up the bay, or good anchorage ground before his door for those who were bound to see him even if they had to carry intrenchments.

Well understanding the meaning of the old AntÆus fable, he thought to recover strength by contact with the earth. He betook himself to his farm. No man ever worked harder at this or more completely conformed to its demands. City friends, of the learned professions, were not always considerate of his conditions and the pressure of his “environment.” One Saturday evening just before sunset, and a shower rapidly coming up, he was in his barn pitching off a load of hay up to the “great beams,” with two loads more to get in before the shower, when the “girl” came running out of the house calling, “Mr. Kellogg, Mr. Kellogg, there’s two ministers come, and I think they mean to stay to supper!” Strong stories are told about his remarks on this occasion; but when questioned as to the truth of them, he would neither affirm nor deny.

With his honesty and sincerity he did not think it necessary to change his working suit when he came to Brunswick for exchange of farm products for commodities. His classical friends could scarcely recognize him trudging through the streets accompanying—not driving—his contemplative oxen. More easily recognizable was he when, homeward bound and fairly out of the village, he would spur them to a brisk trot, and enter port as suited him well, on the jump, with “very rag of canvas flying.” At times, when under pressure, he would drive to town with a peculiarly endowed colt he had raised, whose inclination to freedom and independent “rustication” seemed to have well qualified for a degree in the liberal arts. On one of these voyages the demonstrations in these directions were of such centrifugal order as to dislocate the normal relations of horse, harness, wagon, and driver, and even the continuity of some constituent parts of the respective latter three, leaving wreck and confusion behind, and nothing to get home whole but the colt. Mr. Kellogg’s friends earnestly advised him to sell the colt; but to no avail. He seemed to like the colt better than ever; whether because of the colt’s facility of “high action,” or from the force of classical studies, applauding the victor in the game, or perhaps from that tenderness of heart that would not forsake a sinner.

With all his love for the beautiful Birch Island just across the narrow channel of the bay, which he had begun to frequent when a college boy, he had an inclination—or what the French call a “penchant,” both a leaning and a drawing—toward the wild and odd. This had led him to carry his boat voyages around to the east side of Harpswell, amidst some very bad ledges and boisterous seas, across to Ragged Island. This has only a little boat-harbor, and is so difficult of access, so storm-lashed and grim, that it was believed to have been, if not still to be, a resort for those who had reason to avoid the customs officers and agents of the courts, and not less implacable creditors. A curious impulse to know more about such a place led Mr. Kellogg to make acquaintance with this weird fastness in the seas, and the very eccentric character who at that time made his dwelling there. It is said that he even bought a half interest in the island. Many queer stories have come down from that passage in his experience,—chiefly of his quickness at repartee when some self-sufficient wight thought to pose him with a sea-dog witticism; and of his skill in restoring strong, rude friendships so quickly broken by some fancied disregard of the extreme sensibilities of the longshoreman’s personal code. His influence upon that class of men was wonderful, owing to their absolute faith in his integrity and absence of self-seeking. As to his Ragged Island proprietorship, whether he sold out or was sold out, the result would be about the same to him. It was possibly such business ventures as this which deepened the embarrassment in balancing his accounts.

In the course of this varied struggle things came to such a pass that he made known his condition to some of his most intimate friends. His farm was heavily mortgaged,—in fact for about all it was worth,—and the mortgage note was overdue and payment rigorously demanded. His home was in danger, and he seemed quite broken up about it. In a very private way this payment was provided for, and the mortgage taken off. It was a day of deep revelations when this burden was lifted, and he returned to a home which was in the dispensations of both law and gospel his own. Nor was it any great surprise to hear it said that it was mortgaged again not long afterwards. That would be the natural outcome of habits he indulged in, of which a characteristic story may be an example. His self-forgetfulness was of so obvious a character that his neighbors saw fit to provide a fine new overcoat to cover one mark of this deficiency. Putting it on one cold day soon afterwards to drive to Brunswick, he met a poor fellow, gaunt and thin as to flesh or other covering, poking his way down the Neck to something he called home. Plain greetings were exchanged, when Mr. Kellogg exclaimed rather than questioned, “Tom, haven’t you any better clothes than that!”—”No, Parson Kellogg,” came the apology, “I hain’t got no others at all!” Off came the new overcoat, with the Kellogg outcome, “Take this, then; you need it more than I do!” throwing it over him and driving out of reach of the astonished man’s protest, left to the necessity of keeping the garment for the present, and the possibly not disagreeable reflection that it would be of no use to try to give it back at any time. The absolute verity of this story in every detail has not been vouched for; but the fact of its general acceptance among the people shows that it was true to nature,—that is to say, “Just like Elijah!” Anyway, the story goes to prove his recognized character.

All this time he was strictly keeping up his faithful ministry among his faithful Harpswell people; doing good to everybody he met, preaching stanch old-school sermons with irresistible logic, enlivened by brilliant flashes of wit and flights of poetry and heart-reaching illustration; a familiar and welcome visitor in every house, holding the confidence and love of every home, sharing joys and griefs, intrusted with innermost experiences; smiled at in some sense or other by all who saw him; respected and revered by all whom he knew, whether of his fold or of some other, or perchance without any fold, astray, and, but for him, lost.

His public ministerial work knew no limit but that of the hours of the day. After his own church service it was his practice to meet every opportunity to speak to the people on neighboring shores. Not only was his boat seen threading the channels among the eastern Harpswell Islands that made part of his far-outlying, conglomerate parish, but pushing its way across the western bays to Flying Point, Wolf’s Neck, and Freeport,—the track of this life-message more kindling to the thought than the thrilling vision of the funeral boat-train faring to these same places named in Whittier’s weird poem of “The Dead Ship of Harpswell.”

The people among whom Mr. Kellogg came to minister had marked and interesting characteristics. Natural advantages for seafaring business in all its variety had in early times brought to these shores settlers of a robust type. Among them were many who, at that period when minds and bodies were so astir in the old world and new over questions of life, religion, and the social order, sought a change of place that they might find scope for their abounding energies and unchanging purpose. These were strong characters—men and women—strong in body, mind, and heart,—and, it must be said also, in political and religious faith. This implies originality, independence, diversity,—the outcome of which is not a tame common likeness in the elements of a community, but differences which when properly harmonized give strength to the social structure. These leading spirits organized their likenesses and differences into a little republic, based upon integrity, and by mutual service tending to the common good realizing what was best in the ability of each. They prospered. Many a noble old homestead stands to-day on these island fronts and headlands, testifying to the uses they made of this prosperity. These characteristics appeared in their descendants down to the third and fourth generation.

It was the holding together of this society, the harmonizing of these elements, and bringing out their power for good, that made the inspiring and noble work for Elijah Kellogg. With a warm heart for all; the quick recognition of every worthy trait of temperament or habit; taking in the sorrows of others with sincere sympathy; tactful in dealing with weakness or defect; tolerant of differing belief or profession; fearless of adverse expression or hostile force,—he went straightforward in his work. He was appreciated. Most of those he dealt with were in one way or another seafaring men; builders and owners, masters and sailors of ships; men of wide experience, who had seen the world, who had endured hardships, who had well carried great responsibilities; the women, too, accustomed to enlarging thoughts and sympathies.

These were a people worthy of such a man as he was of them. His sound instruction and faithful exhortation impressed such minds. Strong doctrine, largely on the lines of the old Pilgrim faith, propounded, pondered, and at least respected, meets and makes such characters. The untiring effort to apply these principles in the practice of daily living, instilling these elements into the springs of action and fibre of character, inculcating the test of right and sense of honor for the rule of social intercourse and endeavor,—out of all this comes a mighty result in the course of years. For three generations in that steadfast old town he stood at the gates of life. Birth, baptism, marriage, and the passing over we call death,—none of these was held quite acceptable to God, or blessed to the full for any, unless Elijah Kellogg were the usher. To the last days of his life, he was summoned from near and far by descendants of these families to perpetuate by this token the covenant of the inherited blessing. His influence is still powerful in the sterling character of that community, of which it is not too much to say that it is typical of the best American citizenship.

One interesting custom kept up to the last was that time of all good gifts and greetings,—the annual “donation party,” or reception, for Mr. Kellogg, at that home of ample welcome, dear “Aunt Betsy” Alexander’s, his oldest and nearest neighbor. What gatherings were there! What types of strength and beauty! What harmonious contrasts and balancing of youth and age, of soberness and mirth, of brooding memories and forward-looking, untested promise! And all owing so much of their worth to this one man.

In his latter years Mr. Kellogg was more an object of interest than ever. The inroads of advancing age did not reach his mind and spirit. He stood up in his old church and gave strong sermons,—some of them quite likely the same as had been given to other generations, but equally applicable and wholesome now. People came long distances to see and hear him. Summer visitors at neighboring resorts kept the circle of admirers undiminished and filled the church on Sundays.

He was often sought for to go elsewhere for one more greeting. At the great meeting of the graduates at the centennial of the college, he was entreated to be one of the announced speakers. His modesty and real diffidence would not allow him to assent. But, as might be expected, he was sought out in some of his old haunts within the grounds, and brought in by acclamation. His was the best speech among them all, which bore hearts away to the unseen bonds of fellowship and the continuity of college life and power.

In the very closing days of his activity— in the mingling of the twilight and the dawn—he was persuaded to address a meeting of friends from neighboring towns held in the spacious auditorium in Merrymeeting Park, by the riverside in Brunswick. Over against the solid physical force of the vast assembly he stood with the aspect of an already disembodied spirit; but in clear tones, as of a voice from heaven, he delivered his message, in that marvellous, all-entreating discourse, “The Prodigal Son.” Those of us who stood near, almost dreading lest the winged words should bear him away, saw by the gleam of his eye what joy it was to that great heart of faith, and hope, and love, that his last commission might be to point out the way by which the wilful, unworthy wanderer, with belated penitence, might find the Father’s House.

It does not seem quite natural to close these reminiscences without expressing thankfulness that the last decade of years brought the long-cherished friendship within even closer bounds. With a summer home on the site of one of the great old shipyards came the good fortune of becoming one of Mr. Kellogg’s nearest neighbors. After life’s toil and trial, its strifes and storms and perils, we sat down within hailing distance on shores sloping toward each other, looking over quiet waters. It was a time of boats again; and their message was still of glad tidings. It seemed but an easy row across the mile of bay, with him on the other shore. Thus was more than renewed the old habit of hospitalities and symposiums. The dreams of youth had been interpreted; its faiths tested; its hopes and fears overpassed; only its heart unchanged. We knew what we were talking about now; and there was much to say. On Sundays we walked together the well-worn paths to his familiar church with boyish embrace, caring not if any thought it strange. Then, too, meeting at the bankside of dear friends departed, with his words the last of earth.

Now the black spruces stand in mourning; but our hearts go on with him. His boat is still on the sloping shore, pointing seaward; so does his cherished spirit help to bear us over.

Through nearly threescore years what blessed work was his! And his reward is not wholly on high, although it will be so in the consummation. But here and now and in the years to come is a great part of it, in living power in the hearts and souls of men and women walking worthily in this world, letting their light also shine to illumine the path for others still. Who can estimate the value, the power, the reach, of a work like this? Faithful friends are earnest now to set up a monument to mark the place of his forth-giving and to keep the memory of him fresh; but the whole world is not too wide to look for the place of his power, and the memory of him belongs to the eternities.