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.