Oliver thought he knew. The next Sunday he did up his morning's work, then walked to the Christian Church, where he made his confession of faith. It was a joyous occasion, and few eyes were dry, as the lad stood up to make known the new born desire of his heart. There were no looks cast at him askance, no chill of social cast. All felt one in Christ Jesus, and there was nothing but love for the lad from Lewis County.

And his mother who was by inheritance a Methodist, said, "The Campbellites have got Ollie!" He was baptized; of all his family, only Minnie was present.

One afternoon Oliver, now sixteen, came home for the last time from May's Lick Academy. He had finished the course. He carried his report proudly. "Seven" was the highest mark according to the teacher's system.

Oliver's card was sprinkled all over with "7's." As he drew near the tavern, he saw his father in his chair, which had been brought outside.

He examined the report of his son with laudable pride, then said, "Well, Ollie, you will have to finish for yourself, now. I'm not able to send you to school any longer."

Of course, there was plenty of hard work. There was the wheat for him to haul across the county to Maysville, and the loads of coal to be brought home from the river; and there were the pa.s.sengers to be carried to and fro; and, always, the home tasks.

But this life of crushed ambitions was not long to continue. Soon after Oliver's admission into the church, Eneas Myall, the blacksmith, walked into Carr's Hotel, accompanied by a prominent member of the church.

Oliver happened to be in the hall when they began speaking to his father. He heard a few words, and crept nearer the door, his heart leaping in wild tumult.

He heard the blacksmith's voice, that voice which had often cheered him as he went about his daily tasks. And now it was asking if William Carr would consent to Oliver's being sent to Kentucky University at Harrodsburg; saying that he and Dr. A. H. Wall would pledge themselves to furnish the money. Is it a wonder that to Oliver Carr, that voice "sounded like sweetest music?"

William expressed his sorrow at not being able to educate his children as he wished; he appreciated the offer now made. "But," he said, earnestly, "don't undertake this, unless you are sure you can go on with it; I don't want you to give him up!"

A few days later Eneas Myall came with his hard-earned money, and placed it in Oliver's hands, asking him to take it with the love of its donors. And so, at the age of sixteen, Oliver Carr went to the University at Harrodsburg, to study for the ministry.

So, this is what we have found, in our quest of a possible husband for Mattie Myers--this Oliver Carr, who, as it appears, is far from being a rich young man. Will brother Joe be satisfied? Nay, will he ever consent? At any rate, they must be brought together. Let us return to the overworked pupil of John Augustus Williams, she who pa.r.s.ed, in cla.s.s, too much of that MS. of his "Life of John Smith" for her health.

We shall find her still upon her sick-bed, hovering between life and death.

[2] See appendix.

[3] See appendix.

CHAPTER IV.

A SCHOOL GIRL'S NOTE BOOK.

Of course she recovered, else there need be no biography of Mattie Myers, except to teach young girls not to study too hard--a lesson seldom needed. But the life we are following is to teach a quite different lesson. She emerges from the sickroom with a const.i.tution shattered; not altogether broken, but much out of repair every way; mentally, in particular; for the mind has developed enormous energy in proportion as the body has wasted away; and all the nerves that are controlled from the general office are sent tingling at the least noise--even at the tread of a great thought.

The girl of sixteen is bewildered with herself. That grasp of the will which had held her to her tasks, to the outraging of her physical self, has suddenly slipped--it cannot be tightened up to the proper tension, at least not now. This inability to sleep that has come upon her, is to continue throughout her life; this nervous excitement of vital forces, this disproportion of mind and matter, this thinness of form, this determination to carry self to the end marked out, shown in the firm mouth--we are to find all these unchanged in after years.

In the meantime, her resolution to carry on her education has not faltered. She cannot go back to Daughters' College--Professor Williams does not know how to bear lightly upon the mind, and the girl has not even yet learned to spare herself. But there is a certain convent, the St. Catherine de Sienna's--Joe will send her there for a year. The very name is restful. The course is such that a young girl may carry it with one hand. Mattie will attend a year; that will graduate her from the St.

Catherine de Sienna's. If, by that time, her strength has come back, she may finish at Harrodsburg. The convent will be so quiet--no levees, no marching to church in solid-green, no receptions in the parlors--nothing but trees and birds and silent-footed sisters, and cool gray walls, and a little French, a little ancient history, and such portions of the Old Testament history as have not become Protestantized.

Joe and Mattie discuss these plans at the close of Joe's school-day, as they sit on his piazza, his flute for the time silent. If they ever considered her ability to go back to John Augustus Williams instead of seeking the tutelage of the saint, an event took place that rendered such a course impossible. It was an event that grew out of other events, all of which had been preparing for many years.

To young Oliver Carr, far to the north in Mason County, the beginning had been announced by his old friend Walter Scott. It had come about in this way:

One evening the almost-raven locks and the keen but always kindly eyes, of Walter Scott appeared at Carr's hotel, which is for the nonce, the post office.

"Dear," he said to the youth who, for the time, is deputy post master, "have you anything for me this evening?"

Oliver, feeling that pleasure he always experienced when this question could be affirmed by a paper or letter, handed out the _Louisville Courier_. The old man opened it, and caught sight of words in large black letters that stared from the top of the page. At the door he read the line aloud:

"FIRING ON FORT SUMPTER!"

The reader burst into tears, and sank down upon the sidewalk. His friends hastened up, thinking he was ill, but Walter Scott could only say, as he pointed at the page,--"Oh, my country is ruined!" They carried him to his home, to that bed from which he was never to rise.

That was in April, 1861. On the 21st he whispered his dying message to his friend L. P. Streator, Oliver's teacher,--

"It has been my privilege to develop the kingdom of G.o.d. I have been greatly honored". On the 23rd, he was no more, for G.o.d took him.

The war broke in all its fury upon "neutral" Kentucky. It brought the mountain guerrillas down on May's Lick with all their cruelty, all their wanton destruction. Woe to the goodly stores in William Carr's larder, the furniture of the hotel, the splendid horses in the stables, when they come shouting and cursing at his door! John Augustus Williams is obliged to close his Daughters' College and save his learning for another day. The young ladies have laid aside metaphysics and rhetoric to make clothes for the boys fighting in the Carolinas. For a time it seems not so important to cla.s.sify the metonymies as to make peas or dandelion taste like coffee.

But gentle St. Catherine de Sienna raises its voice in pious song, and tolls its beads, and murmurs in pensive recitivo "_Je suis_, _tu es_, _il est_, _elle est_"--and hears not the echo of Perryville cannon, as one hears in Harrodsburg; or, if hearing, puts it to the account of the flesh and the devil, and chants _Te deum laudamus_.

Mattie's year in the convent is of all things the one needful. She rests and learns. At the end of the year she knows what St. Catherine de Sienna had to teach, and her strength is no worse from the acquisition.

But as for any influence upon her mind or heart by this year's experience, we seek in vain for a trace. It may be that the beliefs she took behind the convent walls were made firmer to resist soft influences; or it may be that her faith was so impregnable at the beginning of this gentle eclipse, that it had nothing to fear.

The girl of seventeen bade farewell to St. Catherine's with the warm affection of the girl, and the serene self-poise of the woman. It left her just where it had found her, except that she knew a little more about the light graces of learning, and--the main thing, after all,--that she was now able to go on with serious study. It is often the case, when a Protestant so young as Mattie, graduates from the convent, that she carries through life a little cloistered chamber in her heart, where thoughts slip in the quiet hour to count their beads, and whisper "Ave Maria".

The next year Mattie returned to Daughters' College, where she graduated with honors, in 1865. There is an old gray-mottled composition-book written through in different inks, the prevailing color suggesting iron-rust, the pages showing the shadows of half a century, and the oft-repeated contact of a school-girl's hand. We find on the t.i.tle page, "Miss Mattie Forbes Myers," written by her own hand--that was when she was thirteen. Later--for this book was used during her college days--we find "Mattie F. Myers"--no use now, for her to prefix the "Miss;" that is done by others.

This book is filled with notes taken at lectures, with poems, some original and some copied or memorized, with essays, with school notes; and here alone, save in a few essays on separate sheets, are we given a glimpse into the girl's mind, by the girl herself. Here we may find what she thought of life and death and immortality--but nothing of her daily life.

The book is interesting because of its omissions. There are no straggling lines such as one naturally writes in one's school-days when it is raining, for instance; or when one feels dull or impatient for the closing hour. There are no pyramids of schoolmates' names, no idle pictures that might be faces or geometrical figures, no allusions to Harrodsburg, or Lancaster, or Stanford, or any place or person more concrete than Moses crossing the Red Sea, or Hannibal crossing the Alps.

Above all, in whatever disquisition upon the "Atonement" or "The Johnsonian Era," there is no flash of humor. One cannot avoid the impression in turning over these 209 closely written pages that here was a girl who, from year to year--that is, from twelve to twenty,--was serious, was intent upon a definite plan, was adhering closely to a central theme, unmindful of aught that detracts or turns the mind aside, though that digression be but the pleasant recreation of a smile.

It is true that all these pages do not present "solid reading matter."

There is poetry here which shows a deeper love of poetry than of a poetic gift. One sees that this love of poetry was no superficial acquirement; it was not that nice taste for forms that contents the modern reader of magazines with a four-line stanza about any subject that can be put into four lines. Mattie read Mrs. Browning because she loved her. Of all books in English literature, she seems to have cared most for "Aurora Leigh." We find her in after years advising her friends to read Mrs. Browning, if they would taste the purest literary joys. A serious business, indeed, was life to that great-souled English poet with the slender hand up-propping the heavy head--this life so full of song and gaiety to most of us, before we stop laughing--also it meant serious business to Mattie Myers. And as Elizabeth Barrett found in later years a great love upon which she could always rest her weary heart, even so was Mattie Myers to find a love resourceful and deathless? We shall see, by-and-by.

The first writing in the book--written somewhere in her thirteenth year, is this: "A forehead royal with the truth"--_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_. Then we find, "As stars differ from one another in glory, so shall it be in the resurrection morn." Later comes, "Heaven is fair, earth pitiless; why is life so dear?" And, "He who has most of heart has most of sword." Then, "Oh life, is all thy song, Endure and die?" These are interesting as showing what sort of sentiments interested the little girl at the boarding-school. They are all like these, her written selections, grave to solemnity. Her original poetry is like it:

"In this narrow vale of life Amid its scoldings and its strife, Amid its darkness and its gloom, Loving children, welcome, come."

Nor was this that seriousness which many an author confines to his writings, living a life far different from one's tragic numbers. Mattie was not an author, she had no desire to be one, and what she wrote was not apart from her life, but a part of it.

The style she developed was the oratorical. Her sentences were balanced, and her thoughts enforced by repet.i.tion. What she wrote after her graduation was, in the main, written to be delivered in public address.

Her college theses represent the highest development of her style. Even as one reads them, he feels that they should be proclaimed. They are suited to the public platform. If the girl who wrote these does not, in time, become a popular lecturer, we shall be much mistaken! Moreover, apart from the embellishment which she loved to give her sentences, we find that whatever subject she undertakes, she treats with a whole-souled enthusiasm, as if it were a matter of immediate, vital importance, and as if she were an eyewitness of the event. Hear her:

"But when Aurora with her rosy fingers lifted the veil of night and robed the earth in sparkling gems, the predominant trait of his character again swayed his being, and again his solemn oath was violated. Infatuated man! Think you that because the stream now flows smoothly, and the thunder of the cataract has transiently ceased, that you are far removed from danger? Already you are within the rapids." Who is this man that is in such terrible danger? None other than our old friend Pharaoh. In such thrilling words is his doom presently presented, that we feel that while he got no worse than he deserved, still it was enough. This was written at St. Catherine's. She is just as intimate with, just as keenly alive to, the sorrows of Spenser:

"Though the ashes of Spenser repose at Westminister, yet he still lives in the hearts of every lover of the beautiful and the good. The casket has decayed, but the jewel is firmly set in the coronet of Literature.

There it will shine in undimmed splendor and beauty until the Empire of Genius shall fall. Even in our school-girl heart he has found a place, and memory of his woes and his joys, of his poverty and his unsearchable riches, will be with us forever."

The same spirit of bringing heart and soul into the theme, is shown in her treatment of her favorites of the Elizabethan era, the time of Queen Anne, or the Fall of Carthage. One does not feel that these essays are "pieces" so much as they are fragments of a sincere and enthusiastic mind. That which rouses her to greatest exaltation is the description of a soul encountering supreme difficulties; and we find her standing by Hannibal with a trumpet call to duty and heroism, when all his own have deserted him. Here is her hero of history, to none other does she so freely pour forth the unstinted admiration of her girl's heart.

Two other qualities should be mentioned in this connection. One is the intellectual force shown in these really remarkable productions, the ability to take the accepted positions of critics and clothe them in new and pulsing words. No need to ask for help in writing these compositions! who indeed could have done so well? In a few instances we find where the pencil of John Augustus Williams has culled out superlative phrases, or where he has inquired (for instance, after such a phrase as "we weep for him") if this is not rather "strong?" But on the whole, he leaves her articles unchanged, doubtless taking keen delight in the ability that has produced them. A young girl who can write thus at fifteen and seventeen, might do great things as an author; but as we have seen, her plans were formed for other fields.

The last quality of her writings which we have reserved, is one that permeates everything she wrote. No matter what the subject--whether the "Vail of Wyoming," or the general t.i.tle, "Logic"--religion comes in; we do not say it creeps in; it walks in with head erect. It quite often overflows and submerges the point under consideration. One feels at times that the subject has been a means of getting at more vital matters. All through the composition-book we find pieces of sermons, and quotations of moral reflections, and verses from the Bible. Here and there are penciled little prayers such as a school girl might make who has deep purposes. There are pages of reflections on the Holy Spirit, side by side with French lessons. The religious nature of man; Christ as Prophet; Christ as Law-giver; G.o.d and Justice; Faith--these are discussed at length between sections of Botany notes and Geology and Civil Government cla.s.sifications. The last word of all is given, not to a remark about some seatmate, or teacher, but to John the Baptist--what she thought of _his_ life and purpose.