W. Ed. Snyder

The Tragic Death of the Father—Removal to Parke County—School Days—Conversion—Change of Church Relationship—A Remarkable Providence.

Thus far our narrative has covered the childhood of our subject up to the ninth year of his age. At this juncture occurred an event that cast the first real shadow over his youthful pathway. It was the death of his father, the tragic nature of which and the subsequent effect it was to have upon his career, made the shadow all the deeper and more significant. Charles Newgent went with a company consisting of sixty adventurous spirits, upon an expedition to the West, the real object of which seems to be somewhat indefinite. The restless and venturesome spirit of the pioneer, a curious desire to penetrate the mysteries of the great western world, the dream of untold treasures that nature had in store for those who dared to conquer the dragons that guarded them—all may have figured in this ill-fated enterprise. However that may have been, while crossing the western plains the company was attacked and massacred by a band of hostile Indians. As in the calamities that befell Job’s household, one of the number was left to tell the story. This one was supposed by the savages to have shared the fate of all the rest, being left on the field for dead; but it so happened that in his case the weapon of death did not do complete work. He was picked up the next day by a party of hunters to whom he was able to give a vague account of the preceding day’s terrible tragedy.

After the father’s death, the mother with her nine children moved back to their former home in Parke County. Life then took on a sterner aspect for the boy. His tender hands must perform their part in the maintenance of the family. Accordingly he hired out to Mr. Jesse Maddox, a neighboring farmer. His wages the first year were to be a pair of shoes, ten bushels of corn, and the privilege of attending the district school. The market price of corn was ten cents per bushel. Even at this modest stipend he admits that he made money, “though not very much.” While in after years of fruitful labors in the ministry he often remarked that the question that most perplexed him was how to earn what he received, it is not probable that the question at this time had assumed very serious proportions.

The most important stipulation in the contract was the privilege of attending school. But even this is subject to shrinkage when we recall that the school system of Indiana was then in its first stage of development. It afforded no royal path to learning, and the common thoroughfare was neither smooth nor flowery. We would scarcely expect to find in the schoolroom comforts that the home itself was a stranger to. Strikingly suggestive of the interior aspect of those primitive seats of learning are the lines from Whittier’s “In School Days”:

To fit the particular building in which our subject first tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the picture needs but slight modification. If anything, it should be made even more simple and primitive. The “battered” seats were made of puncheon. Since this word is passing from common usage, it may be well to explain that puncheon is made by splitting a small log in two equal parts. The split edges are then trimmed down, and the pieces thus treated served as a rough substitute for sawed lumber. To make them into seats, two holes were bored near each end in the unhewn side. These being at proper angles, wooden pins were inserted into them for legs. The rude seat was then ready for service. It is not to be taken for granted that these seats were always made perfectly smooth. What was lacking to smooth them down by the workmen was expected to be completed by the pupils. They finished the task, but often it was a long and painful process, with many a protest from a new gown of homespun or a pair of “tow-linen,” home-grown breeches. Thus, with no rest for the arms or the back, with one side scorched by the heat from the great fireplace and the other chilled by the winter winds creeping through cracks in floor and walls and roof, the children wore away the dreary hours. The floor, being composed of this same puncheon, did not easily warp. The recess recreation consisted mainly in carrying fuel from the surrounding forest to feed the every-hungry fireplace.

Whatever dignity the schoolmaster may have possessed in the eyes of his pupils, certain it is he was not the original of Goldsmith’s creation in the “Deserted Village,” of whom the wonder was “that one small head could carry all he knew.” Beyond the traditional essentials of scholarship, consisting of reading, writing, and ciphering, with a specially intimate acquaintance with the spelling book, he did not pretend to lead. His chief business was to govern the school. He proved his divine right to his throne in the schoolroom by his ability to handle the most obstreperous cases the district could produce. The scholars were on hand as a challenge to his generalship. The hero of the school was the one who held out longest against his despotic authority. To lick the teacher was the height of his ambition. This realized, his place in the local hall of fame was secure. According to the philosophy of the times “lickin’ and larnin’” went hand in hand, lickin’ being essential, while larnin’ was incidental.

The school house was three miles from the Maddox home. The school was maintained on the basis that “whosoever will may come.” There was no penalty for tardiness or absence, but as young Newgent possessed a real thirst for knowledge and was in the habit of making the most of whatever he undertook, his attendance was more regular than the average. However, the sum total of his schooling was limited to three terms of about three months each, an aggregate of nine months. Meager as were his school advantages, they were well improved and furnished a foundation for self-culture upon which he built as only a genius can. He learned to read in less than four weeks, and his progress was correspondingly rapid throughout. His real school was not bounded by the walls of the log school house; it was rather the great school of life with its harsh discipline and inexhaustible curriculum; and in this he grew to be the peer of the ripest products of educational institutions. “Opportunities,” he says, in his characteristic way, “the woods has always been full of opportunities. I had splendid opportunities when I was a boy, and so did my companions; but many of them, like some young folks now, failed to see them.” He saw what many fail to see, that opportunities are not so much in our environment as in ourselves, and that success is not determined by outward circumstances, but by one’s own will and energy.

A habit early formed was that of turning everything to account in the pursuit of knowledge. Mrs. Newgent, anxious to encourage her children’s propensities for study, furnished the home with such reading matter as her means would permit. Though the family were separated most of the time, they came together at frequent intervals. On these occasions the time was well spent in reading and in discussing current topics. Whatever was read became the subject of conversation. These conversations often took the form of argument, in which the various sides of a subject were presented and zealously defended. Thus, he early displayed and developed an aptitude for argumentative discussion, which made him a master in debate, and is a strong element in all his public discourses.

His conversion occurred when he was about ten years old, while still in the service of Mr. Maddox, a benefit which was not considered in the contract with his employer. This took place during a gracious revival at the Canaan Methodist church, of which his employer was a member and was serving at the time as class leader and janitor. The meeting had been in progress for a number of days; many had found the Savior, and the community was deeply stirred. He had been sent to open the church and build the fire for the evening service. While going quietly about his duties, all alone, the impression came to him quite vividly that he ought to be a Christian, and he resolved to go to the “mourner’s bench” that night. He was never long in making up his mind, and when a decision was once made, it was as a law of the Medes and Persians. So he went to the altar that night and each succeeding night for more than a week. One evening as he was listening to the sermon, conviction became so intense that in his extremity he left the house. Though it was a cold night and the ground was covered with snow, he stole out in the woods. Kneeling in the snow, this youthful Jacob wrestled with God in prayer. How long he tarried, he could not tell, but faith triumphed, and the next he knew the woods were resounding with his shouts of victory. Rushing into the church while the preacher was yet talking, he put an end to the sermon by his shouting and praising God. The congregation was electrified. Soon the demonstration became general, and for a time pandemonium held sway; but it was of a sort in which there were both method and meaning, for its source was from above.

Like God’s servant of old, he could say, “My heart is fixed.” He joined the church and from that time never missed an opportunity to pray and testify in public or private. At that time children did not receive much attention from the church. Churches were strong on saving souls from damnation, but the idea of saving the entire life for service had not taken deep root. As a result of the revival there was a large class of “probationers.” When the period of probation had expired, according to the church law, and they were to be admitted into full membership, his name was not on the list. He was not considered a member; at least that was his version of it, and the only logical conclusion the case would warrant. It was a sore disappointment, but of too delicate a nature to mention to his elders. So he kept his feelings to himself.

Thus matters stood for little more than a year, when he learned that there was to be a quarterly meeting at the Otterbein United Brethren Church a few miles away. This church belonged to the Rockville Circuit of the Wabash Conference. Rev. William Sherrill was the pastor. The presiding elder, who was to hold the quarterly conference, was Rev. Samuel Zuck. Both were strong and good men. Jack had never attended a United Brethren service. What knowledge he had of the Church was gained through conversations overheard in the Maddox home. Ministers being frequently entertained there, conversation at such times naturally took to religious channels. As this was an age when churches did not entertain the most fraternal feelings toward one another, these conversations were not calculated, as a rule, to produce a favorable opinion of a rival denomination. His interest in churches and religion was genuine, born of a desire to know the truth. Hence, is was not mere curiosity that led him to obtain his employer’s permission to spend Saturday and Sunday with a neighbor in the Otterbein community so that he might attend the services of the quarterly meeting.

The Church proved to be his affinity. Whatever misgivings he had, vanished one by one. The general atmosphere of the first service harmonized with his temperament. There was spirit in the singing. His heart burned within him as he listened to the eloquent sermon by the presiding elder; and when the pastor followed, as the custom was, with a warm exhortation, he was enraptured. He resolved to join the Church. As usual, the decision was made without much preliminary. He knew where he stood, and stood there with both feet. When he returned, his employer, as well as his own folks, was thunderstruck to learn that he had become a full-fledged United Brethren. Having put his hand to the plow, he never turned back. “I have been so busy,” is a common saying with him, “that I have never had time to backslide.”

It should be said in justice to the church where he first joined, that his name had been entered upon the book, but by mistake it was placed in the list with the full members. This accounts for his not being received with the probationers, to which class he belonged, and led to the conclusion that he was not considered a member. Thus an apparently insignificant thing may prove to be a matter of vital importance.

As a boy he possessed pronounced convictions and a keen sense of religious obligation. This is demonstrated by an incident which occurred while he was in the employ of Mr. Jerry Rush, a short time after leaving the service of Mr. Maddox. Mr. Rush was a well-to-do farmer and stock dealer. Neither he nor his wife made any profession of religion, though their lives were regarded as exemplary and above question in other respects. Some of the men who worked on the farm, however, were of the baser sort. It seemed strange to young Newgent that a man of Mr. Rush’s habits would surround himself with men who were utterly destitute of moral scruples or of the commonest decencies. To him their vulgarity and profanity were a source of constant annoyance. At one time as their coarse jests were grating on his sensitive ears, he was impressed with the idea that this uncouth crowd afforded him a field for missionary work. The impression was not long in taking definite shape. It came with the force of a challenge, a bugle call to duty, a call that he never failed to heed. His mind was made up that he would offer prayer with these men before they retired that evening if Mr. Rush would grant him the privilege.

It was a bold resolve, an ordeal from which a braver heart might well have shrunk. Let eloquent tongues proclaim the praise of those who face death at the cannon’s mouth, or the inspired pen immortalize the hero, who, amid the applause of admiring multitudes, imperils his own life to save another; but who would not count it a worthy act to place a laurel wreath upon the brow of a fourteen-year-old lad who dared to face, not one Goliath, but a company of Goliaths, with the simple weapon of faith, and demand that they bow before their God while he offered a petition in behalf of their needy souls? Yet this resolute purpose was to undergo a severe test. The fiercest battles are fought in our own hearts. As the time drew near, he felt his courage slipping away. He stole out to the barn for a time of secret prayer, that he might be equal to the emergency. Feeling comforted and strengthened, he started to the house to execute his plan. On reaching the yard gate his courage seemed to take flight, and he could go no farther. He went back to the place of prayer. On the second venture he got as far as the door, when his strength again vanished. Not to be beaten, he went back to the barn to fight the battle to a finish. The third effort won the day. He hastened to the house, determined not to give the enemy a chance. The men were sitting about the fire. Without a word by way of preliminary, he stepped up to Mr. Rush and asked permission to kneel with them in prayer. The permission was granted, and a solemn hush came over the startled company as they listened while the boy, with trembling voice and stammering accents, poured out his soul to God. He then sought his bed with the consciousness that he had done his duty. A sweet peace filled his soul and he lay for hours in ecstacy of joy.

The next evening the family devotions were repeated. But on the third evening the prayer was forestalled by a preconcerted plan on the part of the men. As the time for prayer approached, one after another, they arose and stalked out of the room, and the victor in two hard-fought battles was left alone—defeated and dejected. His spirits dropped down to zero. The fiery dart had pierced him through and through. In agony of soul he sought his bed, but not to rest. Out of the depth of his troubled heart he called upon God for comfort. But the fury of the storm seemed only to increase. In his desperation he felt that something must be done. So, about the hour of midnight, he arose, dressed himself, and left the house to go—he knew not where. Through the remaining hours of the night he wandered, directing his course toward the West. Daylight came, the sun rose above the horizon and pursued its course toward the zenith, but his pilgrimage continued. At noon he found himself in the city of Terre Haute, then a mere village. Here he tarried for a time to seek employment. Failing in this, he resumed his westward journey. He asked for work at the various farm houses which he passed. While he found kind hearts who, touched by pity for the youthful pilgrim, gave him food and temporary shelter, he found no man to hire him until he reached Mattoon, Illinois, nearly a hundred miles from whence he started. Work at that season of the year was scarce, and his term of service at Mattoon was brief. At the end of three days his employer gave him his wages with the intelligence that his services were no longer needed.

He now decided to go back to Indiana. With his three days’ wages in his pocket, with which he expected to pay for his transportation at least part of the way, he set out upon the return journey. Within the vicinity of Terre Haute he succeeded in finding steady employment and a congenial home.

There were two sides to this story, and some months after Jack was settled in his new home he learned the other side. It was glorious news to him. The sequel was that Mr. Rush was converted, joined the Baptist Church, and became a zealous leader in religious work. It came about in this way: When Mr. Rush found that Jack had disappeared and diligent effort failed to solve the mystery of his disappearance, a feeling of remorse over his unchristian conduct so possessed him that for days he was almost in a state of frenzy. Remorse took the form of spiritual conviction and genuine repentance which led to a glorious conversion.

On learning of the whereabouts of his young benefactor, Mr. Rush at once went to see him, and told him his side of the story. He confessed to Jack that he was a guilty party to the scheme the men had used to defeat him. The boy’s awkward prayer together with their own antipathy for such pious exercises was a source of embarrassment to the men, and they agreed among themselves to use the method described to rid themselves of further annoyance. Little did Mr. Rush realize that those awkward prayers were to be the means of his salvation.