REV. ANDREW JACKSON NEWGENT

Latest Photograph.

THE EXPERIENCES OF
UNCLE JACK

Being a Biography of
REV. ANDREW JACKSON NEWGENT

BY
REV. W. ED. SNYDER
a Minister in the United Brethren Church

Nineteen Hundred and Eleven

United Brethren Publishing House
W. R. Funk, Agent
Dayton, Ohio

Printed by
United Brethren Publishing House
W. R. Funk, Agent
Dayton, Ohio

PREFACE

That which requires an apology should be left undone. Hence, the author of this humble work offers no apology in sending it forth. If it finds favor in the sight of those into whose hands it may fall, he will appreciate it. If not, it is confidently assumed that the world will pursue its wonted course, and no one will be the worse, if not the wiser.

No special literary excellence is claimed for it. It is a feeble, though honest, attempt to preserve from the cold, merciless realm of oblivion a life story that is well worth preserving—the life story of one for whom I have come to have the profoundest reverence and affection. My only regret is that it has not been done better.

Its chief value consists in the fact that it reveals the fundamental elements of true character and true success. The life of “Uncle Jack” Newgent is a conspicuous illustration of the fact that each individual is the architect of his own fate or fortune, that the conditions of success are internal and not external. This has been his life philosophy and has been abundantly vindicated by his life record. His right to a proper regard among his fellows rests upon his sterling qualities of manhood, devotion to a great purpose, and personal achievements that have added to the sum total of the world’s weal and worth. He belongs to a worthy line of foundation builders whose work underlies the great superstructures of both church and state of the present day.

Hence, two purposes have been kept in view in the writing of this sketch—to acknowledge, if not to pay, a debt of honor and gratitude the Church owes to a worthy man; and by giving special attention to those personal qualities that make for success always and everywhere, and which were so strikingly exemplified in his character, to preserve the lessons of his life to the present and future generations in the hope that they may thus contribute to the further progress of righteousness. If in this unpretentious little volume these purposes are in any degree fulfilled, I shall be abundantly satisfied.

W. E. Snyder.

INTRODUCTION

The pleasing task of writing an introduction to the life of my noble friend, Rev. A. J. Newgent, has fallen upon me. The intimate association which I have had with him for many years gives me a peculiar pleasure in seeing the record of his splendid life placed before the Church.

Biography is one of the most important departments of literature, and Mr. Newgent is eminently worthy of the permanent place in history which this volume accords him. I feel that fitting tributes in historic sketches should not only be paid the men of God who have planted the Church in this nation, but posterity should come and say over their graves, as Pericles did over the bodies of his fallen fellow soldiers: “You are like the divinities above us: you are known only by the benefits you have conferred.” It is of such a man, though still living among us, that Dr. W. E. Snyder gives the accurately drawn portraiture in the chapters of this well-written biography. The work has been prepared with good judgment and much skill. The incidents of his life are given in sufficient detail, and make the volume exceedingly interesting and instructive. Such a publication is of great value, not only to those who enter the ministry, but to the whole Church, and especially to the young. To study the career of one, who, by fortitude and zeal, has carved his way from humble surroundings to a high place of honor among his fellow-men—passing through varied and striking vicissitudes in the struggle—can but inspire and ennoble other lives.

Entering the ministry before our pioneer style of life had passed away in the west, Mr. Newgent adapted himself to the humblest conditions of society. The fields of labor which he occupied in those early years of his pastorate were sufficient to remind him of the privation and hardships of those who had preceded him; but no condition was humble enough or severe enough to deter him from the work to which his young life had been consecrated. He could lodge in the loft of the lowliest cabin and subsist upon the cheapest fare. In quest of souls he thought little of anything else. Living among the people, a very small salary would suffice for him. He knew what it was to live on a moiety of one hundred dollars and less. There have been no dangers or hardships, no toils or privations, no suffering or sorrow sufficient to daunt his heroic spirit. Fortunately, Mr. Newgent is so constructed as to see the bright side of every difficulty, and his inimitable humor has made his family and friends laugh in the darkest hours of his ministerial life.

Unflinching loyalty to the Church has ever marked the career of Mr. Newgent. Though he has been peculiarly free from sectarian prejudices or bitterness, his attachment to his own people has been conscientious and unwavering. All his energies have been devoted to the advancement of the Church of his choice. He has stood for the defense of its doctrines and polity, and those who have drawn him into debate over any feature of our system have not challenged him a second time. In the earlier days of his ministry he was many times called in debate with the strongest men of other denominations, and has proved himself equal to any antagonist who has met him in discussion. Many have gone down before his unanswerable arguments, and not a few have been driven from the contest because they could not stand before the torrent of his eloquence and the indescribable power of his wit. In all his ministerial work these qualities have often been of great advantage to him. Few men could possess such wit and eccentricities as Mr. Newgent commands, and use them to advantage without some objection by the people. But like all his other gifts, these peculiar qualities have been consecrated to the service of doing good, and in their use he has maintained his ministerial consecration and influence with never a breath of suspicion cast upon his good name.

It is gratifying to his many friends that Mr. Newgent, though retired from the active work of the ministry, is still in possession of all his mental powers, and no doubt will live to read his own biography. Few men have been so fortunate. To have spent his long and useful life in the most interesting period of the history of the Church, and then remain to read the part he has played in the making of that history, is a privilege that most of Christ’s embassadors have never enjoyed. Back when the Publishing House was struggling for existence, he loyally supported the little plant, and never failed to circulate our books and push our periodicals in every charge he has filled. When our institutions of learning were in their infancy, and much opposition was brought against education, he was a friend of the schools, and again and again has gone into the field to raise money for their support. He has seen the great benevolent boards of the Church and nearly all our connectional institutions come up from the smallest beginnings, and has never failed to espouse the cause of these important agencies for the promotion of Christ’s kingdom. Even the conference in which he began his ministry has grown in his day from a handful to a host, and no man has watched its growth with deeper pride or more anxious concern than himself.

I could write much more in the line of these thoughts, but the chapters of this volume will give in clear light the characteristics which can only be hinted at in the limits of an introduction. The skilled pen of the biographer will bring out in forceful and charming manner the noble traits of the gifted brother whose career he has studied with great care and painstaking interest. Let the book have a wide circulation, let the youth read its inspiring sentiments, and the horizon of their thoughts will be enlarged and the desire to be loyal to God and to every good work will be stimulated and strengthened.

T. C. Carter.

November 27, 1911.

CONTENTS

Chapter One.

Ancestry—Picture of Pioneer Life—Imprisonment and Release of Pompey Smash—Little Jack’s Short Cut in the Study of Astronomy—The Fate of his First Pair of Breeches.

Once upon a time, so long ago that the chronology of it has become hidden in the mists of historical uncertainties, a man with his family emigrated from the hill section of northern Ireland to the vicinity of Dublin. What his real name was also belongs to the realm of the unknown, but among the unsophisticated rural inhabitants with whom he had cast his lot he was characterized simply as the “new gentleman.” In course of time, the somewhat cumbersome title became abbreviated to “new gent,” the original appellation finally passing from common usage entirely. That this new gentleman was a person of some force of character may be inferred from the distinction he seems to have achieved among his new neighbors and the fact that the name has been honored by men of rank and eminence among his descendants, a conspicuous example being Lord Robert Newgent (or Nugent), the celebrated Irish scholar and statesman.

Among the later descendants were three brothers who decided to cast their fortunes with the land of dreams and fancies across the Atlantic. Their names were Edward, William, and Thomas Newgent. On reaching America Edward directed his course toward the sunny South, William remained somewhere in the East, while Thomas struck out toward the vast region of unbroken forests on the western slopes of the Alleghenies. His pilgrimage terminated somewhere in the bounds of Kentucky. He secured a tract of land near Cincinnati, and in process of time met, wooed, and won a wealthy daughter of Virginia. He was contemporary with the Boones in reclaiming this great region of possibilities for civilization; helped to survey the State; taught school on both sides of the Ohio River, winning for himself the title of “Irish Schoolmaster,” which, in this case, carried with it no small degree of distinction. He was a soldier in three wars, that of the Revolution, of 1812, and the Blackhawk War, for which services he received a pension from the Government. He professed religion at the ripe age of eighty, and was spared to redeem in part his long neglected opportunities by spending almost a quarter of a century in active Christian service, his long and eventful life closing, according to an uncertain tradition, in the 103d year of his age. He was the father of Charles Newgent, who was the father of Andrew Jackson Newgent, the hero of this simple narrative.

In Charles Newgent the elements of character peculiar to his race were exceptionally strong. A most marked propensity was his fondness for a joke. He would take more interest in concocting some new trick to be played on a neighbor or in devising a scheme for merrymaking than in a critical study of the Sermon on the Mount, or in solving an intricate theological problem. But while the religious faculty remained somewhat dormant, he was warm-hearted and generous, a good neighbor and citizen, according to the simple requirements of the times. In educational attainments he was far above the average. He was a prominent figure in local political circles, being a Jeffersonian Democrat of a rather emphatic type. His ever ready wit and fluency of speech made him a master on the stump and a formidable antagonist in political debates. The ability to give a humorous turn to any remark or incident served him well upon such occasions. His peculiar temperament gave him special aptitude as an auctioneer, in which capacity he had no superior. People would attend his sales as much to be entertained by his witticisms as for the bargains he might have to offer, and those who came to laugh often remained to settle a bill for something they had no thought of purchasing.

At the age of nineteen, in the year 1825, he was married to Mary Pugh, of Shelby County, Kentucky, his native county. Her parents had come from Scotland and were substantial citizens.

Soon after their marriage they moved to Parke County, Indiana, and settled on a tract of land which the wife had received as a dower from her father.

Pioneer life in Indiana need not here be enlarged upon. A solitary dwelling in the interminable and trackless forest; the building consisting of a single room built of unhewn logs, roofed with hand-split clapboards; the chimney covering one entire end of the building; the rough doors swung on wooden hinges; the small windows with greased paper or the tanned skins of animals through which a bit of daylight finds its way with difficulty; the huge fireplace used for both cooking and heating purposes; the few pieces of hand-made furniture—these were some of the outward aspects of domestic life out on the ragged edge of civilization. The cabin of the Newgents was typical of those of their neighbors, the nearest of whom lived some fifteen miles distant. The larger wild animals were frequent visitors and the war whoop of the Indian had scarcely died away.

After a brief residence at this place they moved to Sullivan County. Here, on Saturday, September 15, 1838, the subject of this sketch was born. He was the youngest of seven sons. Subsequently the family circle was enlarged by the addition of two daughters. The father’s political bias was again asserted in the name, Andrew Jackson, assigned to this youngest son, after the great hero of early Democracy. The name often has given occasion for humorous touches by the owner, especially in referring to his early life. By the neighbors and older members of the family, he says, he was dubbed General Andrew Jackson. Later the military title was dropped and he became plain Andrew Jackson, and by successive stages the name was further abbreviated until the boy was doomed to answer to the simple cognomen of “Jack.” Whether this was a process of evolution or of degeneration, he was destined to win for himself a title that would stand for real worth and attainment; that would represent the love of little children, as well as the esteem of men and women, when the affectionate appellation of “Uncle Jack” would become a household term in multitudes of homes.

Perhaps it is to the Scotch blood of his mother that he owes the more solid elements of his character. The Scotch character stands for thrift, energy, and integrity, so that wherever the hardy Scotchman goes he carries with him the best elements of citizenship. These combined with the quick wit and genial temperament of the sons of Erin produced in our subject a personality rich in depth and resourcefulness.

The emigration instinct, always strong in the pioneer, again became active, and the family set out for a new destination. This time it was Paw Paw Bend in Knox County, Indiana, so named because of its location in a bend of White River, and the prolific growth of paw paw trees for which the fertile lands were especially adapted. Our subject was then about eighteen months old. Here he spent the years of early childhood. Some incidents numbered among his earliest recollections and which serve to illustrate the home life and social conditions in which these years were passed, will not be out of place in this connection.

During this period religious services were practically unknown in Paw Paw Bend. The chief diversions were such social functions as shooting matches, wood choppings, log rollings, husking bees, and dances. The spelling bee was still of too intellectual a character to win popularity. At all such gatherings the familiar demijohn of corn whiskey was considered an indispensable adjunct.

Hence, the announcement of a preaching service to be held at the Newgent home on a following Sunday morning was hailed throughout the settlement as a new thing under the sun. Of course everybody would go. The preacher was to be Rev. Nathan Hinkle, a Methodist itinerant. It was out of no particular religious scruples that the host, Charles Newgent, volunteered to entertain the assemblage on this occasion, yet he had no aversion to preachers or churches, and in common with his neighbors, he was always ready to encourage anything that would break the monotony and afford social diversion.

It so happened that on Saturday evening before this memorable day, Pompey Smash, a negro fiddler, was passing through the neighborhood and asked to stay over night at Mr. Newgent’s. He was informed by the head of the house that he would be furnished lodging on condition that he dispense music for a family dance. The terms were accepted and there was a sound of revelry by night as the little company beat time on the puncheon floor to the droll tunes of their musical guest.

Early next morning the congregation began to assemble for worship. The presence of the fiddler led to the suggestion that the time spent in waiting for the arrival of the preacher be used to the best possible advantage. Accordingly the Ethiopian turned his fiddle—for it was before the violin was invented; the familiar demijohn was set in a conspicuous place, and the gentlemen chose their partners. Lest the preacher’s sudden arrival in the midst of such hilarious scenes be the occasion of a shock or an offense to his ecclesiastical dignity, a member of the party was dispatched to do picket service. The watchman, having imbibed too freely of the contents of the jug, fell asleep at his post. The dance had gone on merrily for some time in its rapturous excitement; the preacher and church service were utterly forgotten. When, lo! the alarm was sounded. The faithless watchman had allowed the company to be taken by surprise. The approach of the reverend was discovered in the nick of time; the dance came to an abrupt stop. To prevent the minister from “smelling a rat,” a puncheon was removed hastily from the floor, and the fiddler, the fiddle, and the whiskey jug were thrust unceremoniously through the opening into the cellar excavation below. And the people put on their Sunday faces for church.

After the services a part of the congregation, including the shepherd of the flock, remained for dinner. This necessarily prolonged the imprisonment of the negro, but when it is recalled that the whiskey jug was a prison companion, we may surmise that the hours were not so “tedious and tasteless” as otherwise they might have been. The solemnities of the day came to an end with the departure of the minister; the prison was then opened and the prisoner released. An “after service” followed, which, it may be conjectured, was more in harmony with the tastes of the congregation.

While unlimited resources lay at the very doors of these pioneer cabins, the backwoodsmen lacked the facilities for developing them. Their tastes were not so exacting as in later days, and beyond the sheer necessities and comforts of the household, ambition did not spur them on. While ordinarily the family dined on homely fare, the industrious housewife often became so proficient in the culinary art as to be able to concoct most tempting dishes with the raw products that nature placed in easy reach. The sap of the maple tree, wild grapes, paw paws, and persimmons, as well as the products of garden, orchard, and field were utilized in providing for their physical wants. Persimmons ripened with the early frosts, and when put up in maple syrup, became a staple and most delicious article of diet. By the addition of the proper quantity of whiskey, the standard remedy for most of the ills the flesh is heir to, the mixture afforded in addition to its other virtues, a sure cure for ague, commonly called “ager.” This led to an episode in which little Jack and three older brothers were the leading figures, and which he facetiously labeled “a short cut in the study of astronomy.”

The children were left alone one afternoon. The oldest of the quartet was familiar with the process of preparing the common ague antidote. The necessary ingredients were, as usual, within easy reach. So he proceeded to administer the remedy to his younger brothers on the principle that “if a little did good, more would do better.” The bearing of this procedure upon the science of astronomy becomes apparent when we remember that among the unschooled of that day it was a mooted question as to whether or not the world is round and revolves upon its axis, as the geographies teach. Jack declared that after taking a few doses it was painfully evident to him that the world did turn round and turned at such a rapid rate that he found it difficult to keep from falling off. When the mother returned she found the three younger boys lying on the floor unconscious, and the author of the mischief sitting astride a joist overhead the unceiled room in a hilarious condition. By the free use of sweet milk the younger boys were restored to consciousness, but a special treatment was reserved for the one who led them into temptation. However, Jack found this short course in astronomy sufficient for all practical purposes, and he has never had the occasion or inclination to extend it.

His early years were as happy and free from care amid these primitive surroundings, as childhood life could well be, even in what might be considered more favorable circumstances. Life was simple in the extreme, even crude, but it was the best he knew. There was nothing in the lives of his associates calculated to excite envy or cause discontent with his own lot. But in this connection one incident stands out in bold relief to mar the picture of boyish contentment.

A single garment of homespun, or “tow linen,” was all that was considered necessary in the way of clothing under ordinary circumstances for a boy of that age. It marked a new era in his life when the loose garment which covered the anatomy down to the knees was supplemented by a pair of breeches of the same material. Upon one occasion as Jack stood watching his mother as she was measuring the material for the older boys’ winter suits, he heard her remark that there would probably be enough scraps left over to make him a pair of breeches. With emotions alternating between hope and fear, he waited impatiently for the outcome. His joy was unbounded when he found that his hopes were to be realized. His mother laid him on the floor and thus marked the pattern. It was seen that the closest economy had to be used to make the goods hold out; so instead of the regulation number of two suspenders which were one piece with the breeches, the material would only warrant the making of one. By extending it from one side on the back diagonally across the shoulder, making connection on the opposite side in front, the new habiliment maintained its balance and no special inconvenience was suffered.

But alas! his rejoicing was soon to be turned into mourning. A few days later, clad in his new outfit, he went with his brothers to the woods to gather pecans. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and in climbing and clubbing the trees and picking up the nuts, the boys found it convenient to cast off unnecessary articles of clothing. As Jack had scarcely become accustomed to more than one garment, he could easily dispense with the breeches for the time. Accordingly they were removed and hung on a bush near by, and for a time forgotten in the fascination of nut hunting. When the party was ready to start home with the fruits of their toil, he was alarmed to find that his cherished breeches had disappeared. The boys searched diligently but found them not. When about ready to give up in despair, they chanced to observe, a short distance away, a mellow-eyed, crinkly-horned, brindle cow making a meal off the lad’s wearing apparel, or perhaps using it for dessert, as though it were a dainty morsel. And the last Jack saw of his first pair of breeches was the lone suspender dangling from the innocent old brindle’s mouth, the major part of them having been engulfed in her capacious maw. And to the sorrow of his heart, his wardrobe for another year was limited to the single piece of homespun.

Chapter Two.

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”:

“Within, the master’s desk is seen,

Deep scarred by raps official;

The battered seats, the warping floor,

The jack knife’s carved initial.

“The charcoal frescoes on the wall,

The door’s worn sill betraying

The feet that creeping late to school,

Went storming out to playing.”

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.

“God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform,

He plants his footsteps on the sea,

He rides upon the storm.

“Judge not the Lord with feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace,

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.”

Chapter Three.

Call to the Ministry—First Sermon—The Boy Preacher—Answering a Fool After his Folly—Turning a Camp Meeting Tide—Quieting a Skirmish—Takes a Wife.

Providence seemed to ordain that there should be one preacher in the Newgent family and that that one should be Jack. As has been observed, his religious zeal from the time of his conversion at the age of ten, was exceptional. Just when the first impression looking toward the ministry came to him he could scarcely tell, such impressions having been associated more or less with his religious experience from the beginning. By the time he was thirteen the conviction that he had a “divine call” to preach the gospel became clear and definite. And the conviction deepened with the passing of time. Of course, no one dreamed of the emotions that were stirring the boy’s breast, and to him the ministry was so high and sacred a calling as to seem infinitely beyond his possibilities. Hence, he dared not express his feelings to even his most intimate friends, and so received no sympathy or encouragement from any human source. He went about his Father’s business in his own way, rendering such service to the cause of his Master as a boy of his years was capable of. His zeal knew no abatement, and such diligence is sure to lead to recognition and reward.

The minister who first took a special interest in him was Rev. Ira Mater, an able preacher and a sympathetic discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. Between the man and the lad there sprang up a beautiful friendship, suggestive of that between Paul and Timothy. Rev. Mr. Mater frequently invited his young friend to accompany him to his appointments, and by way of stirring up the gift that was in this prospective Timothy, sometimes called upon him to open the service, to exhort after the sermon, or perform such other public ministrations as were convenient. Rev. Mr. Newgent has always gratefully acknowledged his indebtedness to this spiritual father.

This association with Rev. Mr. Mater was during his sixteenth and seventeenth years. He was small and rather delicate for one of his age. His entire youth was a continual conflict with disease, the entire category of which seemed to try their hand upon his slender frame. But while his body was frail, his mind was strong and alert. That his positive temperament and seeming disposition to never give up had somewhat to do in staving off the grim monster, death, is not at all unlikely.

His first regular discourse was preached at the Stedd School House near Fontanet, in Clay County, Indiana. The school house was used as a preaching point and weekly prayer meetings were maintained. He was a frequent attendant at these services, and one evening, on entering the house, he was met by the leader who said, “Jack, the people are expecting you to preach to-night.” That he was to preach was simply a surmise, his association with Rev. Mr. Mater being the probable foundation of it. But some one surmised out loud and the rumor gained currency. Observing his surprise at this intelligence, the leader continued, “You had just as well begin here and now,” in a manner that indicated that it was a foregone conclusion that preaching was to be his life business. And Jack preached. At any rate, if the effort could not be classed as preaching, it was a splendid substitute for it. He announced as a text, “If the righteous scarcely be saved, where shall the ungodly and the sinner appear?” The congregation was visibly affected by his fervor and earnestness, some of the more demonstrative ones giving vent to their feelings in shouts of praise. He was urged to preach the next night, and the meetings were continued for more than a week, being held at various private homes, Newgent preaching at each service. The divine seal was thus placed upon his ministry, and the meeting marked the beginning of a new epoch in his career.

A few weeks later the Rockville quarterly conference granted him a license to preach. The action was taken in his absence. J. P. White was the preacher in charge and Thomas M. Hamilton was the presiding elder. The action of the quarterly conference was almost a superfluous formality, as he was now so greatly in demand that he could not well avoid preaching.

The boy preacher was a popular character. To see a man on the ante meridian of life in the pulpit was at that time quite unusual. The popular prejudice was in favor of men who had spent the major part of their lives on the farm or in business, thus acquiring a competence that would enable them to proclaim that salvation is free without being embarrassed or embarrassing their congregations on the money question. Hence, a diminutive lad of seventeen, weighing only about eighty pounds, exercising the ministerial function was in itself sufficient to attract the multitudes. Wherever he preached he was greeted by immense audiences. By many he was regarded as a prodigy, though he could not be classed as such, prodigies seldom accomplishing more than to afford amusement for curious spectators. It is true, however, that he displayed qualities unusual for one of his years, though it must be admitted that the greater part of his power lay in his intense religious zeal and earnestness.

Some characteristic incidents in this part of his ministry will not only be of interest in themselves, but will at the same time serve to illustrate his unique individuality. He went on one occasion to fill an appointment at what was known as the Rough and Ready School House. The name was justified by the prevailing social conditions. Like Paul on Mars Hill, he found that at least some of the people were very religious, though their religious energy was not always directed to the best advantage. Not infrequently does it transpire that men will fight for their religion even when they are utterly averse to the practice of it, a fact which had a forcible illustration in this particular service. He preached with his usual energy. The house was crowded and the sermon seemed to be well received. There happened to be present a minister of what was designated as the Campbellite persuasion. Evidently the sermon did not coincide with his theological bias. He asked permission to say a few words as the speaker took his seat. The permission granted, he sallied forth with a tirade of abuse and denunciation of the young preacher and his theology in which his passion played a larger part than either his judgment or his conscience. When he finally ran down, Newgent arose in a calm manner and said, “Brother, with your way of applying Scripture, I can prove that Eve was the mother of a turkey buzzard.” “Prove it, then,” shouted back the irascible theologue. “Well, the Bible says that Eve was the mother of all living, and that includes turkey buzzards. Let us be dismissed,” and calling the audience to their feet, he pronounced the benediction before his assailant had time to reply.

At another time, with his brother, John Newgent, he happened to drop in at a Methodist camp meeting in Sullivan County. They arrived just in time for the morning service. A number of ministers were seated on the platform, among them being Rev. Hayden Hayes, the presiding elder. Rev. Mr. Hayes had met Newgent on a former occasion, and as soon as he saw him enter the camp, rushed back and taking him by the arm, led him to the platform. Hayes was a strong, portly man, and the delicate lad was helpless in his grasp; thus he was led as a lamb to the slaughter, and was informed that he must preach. Though he vainly sought to be excused, yet he was equal to the emergency. He had proceeded about ten minutes with his discourse, when a man sitting a few feet in front of the platform was converted and began to shout. He continued, and four others in the congregation broke loose in like manner, all of them having been converted through the effect of the sermon, and the discourse disappeared in a whirlwind of praise that completely drowned the speaker’s voice. Up to that time there had been no move in the meeting.

John Newgent was imbued with the old-school Baptist doctrine and had not sympathized with his brother’s preaching propensities. After resuming their journey they rode for a time in silence. Finally the older brother said, “Jack, you know I have always opposed your preaching. But I want to say that I have no further objection to it; but,” he added with quivering lips, “I want you to pray for me.” The sermon had touched his heart.

Though urgent demands were made upon the boy preacher to stay and assist in the meeting, he was unable to do so, and heard nothing further from it until after he had returned from the war, when by chance he again passed through the vicinity. He stopped at the home of a Mrs. Mayfield, on whose farm the camp was located, to get his dinner and his horse fed. As he was taking his leave, having paid his bill, he chanced to observe the camp ground a short distance away. Up to that time he was not aware that he was in the immediate vicinity of it. He inquired of his hostess concerning the camp meetings. She told him that but one such meeting had been held, though the intention was to make it a permanent institution. The unsettled condition of times during the Rebellion prevented the plan from being carried out.

“How was that meeting?” Newgent asked, as one who had a peculiar interest in it.

“Oh, it was a grand success. There was a little Baptist preacher from near Lafayette happened in and preached one morning, and just set things on fire. From that time on the meetings were powerful.”

“What was the fellow’s name?” he asked, but she could not recall it.

“Was it Newgent?” She said that sounded like it.

“Well,” he said, “I know him. He isn’t considered much of a preacher up there where he lives, but,” he added, “you are mistaken about his being a Baptist. He is a United Brethren.”

She looked at him curiously for an instant and said, “I believe you are the fellow.” And his smile told that she had guessed aright.

His money was returned at once, and she insisted that he stay and preach at the Methodist church near the camp ground that night, assuring him that he would have a good hearing as there had been much talk about the little preacher who had “set the camp meeting afire.” This he was unable to do, but promised to return at a later date.

A short while after the camp meeting, he filled an appointment for his pastor, Rev. J. F. Moore, at the Leatherwood church, which was a part of the Rockville charge. The pulpit arrangement of this church was in strict harmony with the fashion of the times. It consisted of a sort of wall which shut the preacher in almost completely from the congregation, suggesting a military fortification. Newgent, being small of stature, could with difficulty peer over the top of the ramparts. He was led to believe, however, that the fortification was a necessary precaution, for his artillery had been turned loose but a short time when it was evident that there was a hearty response. Bang! Some sort of a missile struck the rampart just in front of him with a loud report. It was followed immediately by another, and the bombardment, continued until six discharges were fired. The preacher withdrew within the breastworks that small fraction of his anatomy that was exposed, and waited for hostilities to cease. The congregation was at once thrown into a state of confusion and excitement. When the preacher finally surveyed the situation after the heavy batteries were silenced, he saw that a hand-to-hand skirmish was on between two men in the rear of the room. One was making a desperate effort to get the other to the door and out of the house. With the help of the congregation, he succeeded in putting down the rebellion, and going back to his fortifications he finished the discourse and the service was concluded in fairly good order. The difficulty was only a side issue, the culmination of a grudge between a couple of natives. The missiles were not aimed at the preacher, but were fired from ambush through the open door; the man for whom they were intended happened to be sitting in range with the pulpit.

Rev. Mr. Moore resigned the Rockville charge during the year and Newgent was appointed to serve the unexpired term. This was his first experience in the pastorate. His brief term of service here was characterized by a revival of extraordinary results at Otterbein, his home church. Converts were numbered by the scores and the community was shaken by such a spiritual upheaval as it had never known.

REV. ANDREW JACKSON NEWGENT

When he traveled his first circuit.

Another adventure should be chronicled here. It has been said that there are but three real important events in a man’s life, namely, his birth, his marriage, and his death. The second of this great trio in the life of our subject occurred during the period embraced in this chapter. It is a common saying with him that he does not believe in early marriages, hence, he deferred this important step until he was eighteen years old. And on the seventh of January, 1857, he took to himself a wife in the person of Miss Katharine Copeland. She proved to be a worthy and sympathetic companion, heroically assuming her part of the burdens and responsibilities that belong to the family of an itinerant preacher. That her lot was not an easy one may be readily assumed when we consider what the ministerial calling involved in that early day. Its peculiar hardships fell most heavily upon the wife, yet these she endured without protest. Brave in heart, gentle in temper, and in heartiest accord with her husband’s interests, she proved to him a real helpmeet, and an inspiration to his loftiest endeavors.

Chapter Four.

Conference Membership—Brulitz Creek Ministry—The Modern Knight and his Steed—Abrupt Closing of Family Devotions by a Dog on the Preacher—An Original Marriage Ceremony—A Case of Mistaken Identity—A Banner Missionary Collection—Shawnee Prairie Pastorate—A Cold Day in April—The Redemption of Hell’s Half Acre—Baiting for a Perverse Fish—An Experience in the Whiskey Business.

Rev. Mr. Newgent was received into the Upper Wabash Conference at Milford, Indiana, in the spring of 1859. Bishop David Edwards presided. The Conference had been formed the preceding year by a division of the Wabash Conference territory. As a matter of coincidence he was ordained four years later at the Conference in session at the same place with the same Bishop presiding. He was now in his twenty-first year, having been quite prominent in ministerial labors for about four years, and had a record for zeal, earnestness, and success in revival work that commended him favorably to the Conference.

He was appointed by this Conference to the Brulitz Creek Circuit, which gave him an unlimited field for the exercise of his zeal and talents. The circuit consisted of eighteen appointments, only two of which were at church-houses; the others were at school houses and in private homes. With little or no competition, the circuit-rider was monarch of all he surveyed, though in most cases when he received his appointment he found enough already surveyed to tax his time and energy to the limit. Preaching services were not confined to the Sabbath, but would fall upon any day of the week, and even then the intervals between appointments, except during the periodic “big meeting,” were usually not less than five or six weeks.

The standard mode of travel was by horseback, and the circuit-rider, in addition to his other qualifications, needed to be efficient in horsemanship. This was scarcely necessary in Newgent’s case, however. Not being able to own a horse at this time, he secured the loan of one from an accommodating neighbor. The horse was as accommodating as its owner. It was quite well “broke,” having endured the rigors of some nineteen winters, and was experienced in the various departments of farm work. It had sowed and reaped—and eaten—its wild oats, and was absolutely reliable, at least to the limit of its physical endurance. At any rate the horse had many acknowledged good points, as a faithful portrait would have demonstrated. While it may not have been in its real element on dress parade, it served the more practical purpose of locomotion—to a somewhat limited extent.

As the rider weighed scarcely a hundred pounds, the horse had no cause to complain at his burden. And when it came to matters of appearance, the odds were not so unevenly balanced as might be supposed. The spare-built, smooth-faced youth, clad in his suit of homespun, which was made with a reckless disregard of the lines and proportions of his anatomy, might well have recalled the lines of Shakespeare:

“Would that he were fatter, but I fear him not;

Yet if my name were liable to fear,

I know of no one whom I would so much avoid.”

Thus, mounted upon his trusty steed, armed with all the weapons of spiritual warfare, this modern knight errant of the saddle-bags rode forth valiantly to the scenes of the year’s conflicts and triumphs. En-route to his first appointment, he found an opportunity to do some pastoral work which led to an episode, without mention of which these chronicles would be incomplete. Passing by the home of one of his prominent members, he stopped for a brief call. The house stood on the side of a hill, some distance from the road. A flight of steps led up to the front door. Ascending the steps, he rapped at the door and was kindly admitted by the good housewife. All went merry as a marriage bell and the time of his departure was at hand all too soon. He asked the privilege of bowing with the family in prayer before going, which was freely granted. The weather was warm and it was not thought necessary to close the door, though had it been done in this case, it would have prevented a bit of embarrassment and incidentally spoiled a good story. As all was so congenial within, the pastor anticipated no molestation from without, and so injudiciously knelt with his back to the open door.

As he warmed up to his devotions, he aroused from his slumbers a large Newfoundland dog, that had evidently not noticed the approach of the stranger, and up to that time was unaware of his presence. The aroused canine at once began an investigation, and when he saw what was going on, seemed much offended that he had not been consulted about the matter. He bounded up the steps into the room, and, seizing the preacher by the luxuriant growth of black hair that covered his dome of thought, affording an excellent hold for his teeth, he zealously set about the task of removing the supposed intruder from the premises. The preacher was taken unawares. Before he could assume a defensive attitude, he and the dog were rolling pell-mell, higgledy-piggledy over each other, down the steps, and landed in a confused heap on the ground. Devotions thus came to an abrupt close; the family came to the preacher’s rescue. All formalities were dispensed with for the time. By the united efforts of the family, the dog and preacher were finally separated without either of them being seriously damaged, and the new pastor of Brulitz Creek Circuit went on his way to face new adversaries and new experiences.

Family Devotions Interrupted.

He reached the home of Mr. Jacob Wimsett, in Vermilion County, on Saturday evening as the sun was dropping below the horizon, and there put up for the night. This was in the vicinity of his Sunday morning appointment. It was an old-fashioned home even for that day; the home atmosphere was more hospitable than conventional. As the preacher himself was quite democratic in his temperament, no formalities were required. He noticed among the various members of the household a young man and a young woman who seemed as unobtrusive and as awkward as himself. No introductions being given, he took it for granted that they both were members of the family and so gave them no particular thought until he was ready to start to church the next morning. As he was about to take his leave, the young man approached him rather diffidently and requested him to wait a few minutes.

“Me an’ the girl,” he explained, pointing to the blushing lass on the opposite side of the room, “are a goin’ to git married, an’ we want you to say the words for us before you go.”

“All right,” said Newgent, in a manner that left the impression that he understood the situation all the while, “give me your license.”

The document was produced and the twain took their place in front of the preacher, while the rest of the company looked on. Up to this time he had never served in that capacity and had not the slightest idea of a marriage ceremony. Examining the document in a seemingly critical manner for an instant as if to make sure that it conformed to all requirements, he looked gravely at the trembling young couple. “If you are agreed to live together,” he said so rapidly as to render his words scarcely intelligible, “according to the marriage covenant, join your right hands.” Scarcely had they time to heed the injunction when he continued, “In the name of God I pronounce you man and wife.” And the twain were made one.

He then hastened to his morning appointment, reaching the church before the people began to gather. This was one of the two church-houses on the circuit, and was called Nicholls’ Chapel. “Father” Nicholls, one of the wheel-horses of the church, and in whose honor it was named, was sweeping the floor and putting the house in order. His task completed, he went home to get ready for the morning service, without making the acquaintance of the young stranger. Ere long the people began to arrive. By the time Sunday school commenced the house was quite well filled. Newgent took his seat in the rear of the house and received no particular attention. He was not even invited to a place in a Sunday-school class. However, his presence incognito gave him a good opportunity for taking notes. He overheard frequent remarks concerning the new preacher. The people had heard nothing of him and were expressing doubts about his being in the neighborhood. And when Sunday school closed without his presence being made known, their doubts seemed to be confirmed.

Rev. William Jones, a retired preacher and a member of the local class, came in just as Sunday school was closing and at once made inquiry concerning the pastor.

“We haven’t seen or heard anything of him,” was the information he received from Father Nicholls.

“Why, there he is now,” and Rev. Mr. Jones pointed to the diminutive lad near the door.

“That fellow?” Father Nicholls was dumfounded. “That fellow has been here all morning. I supposed he was some hired hand in the neighborhood that had just happened in.”

Explanations and apologies were freely indulged in, the supposed hired hand entering heartily into the joke. He was introduced to the astonished congregation, and the service proceeded to their entire satisfaction and delight. Father Nicholls treated him kindly; he piloted him to the afternoon appointment, introducing him to all whom they chanced to meet, invariably accompanying the introduction with the story of the forenoon experience.

“If I had been out hunting for preachers,” he would say, in telling the story, “I would not have snapped a cap at him.”

The year’s work on this field was a most fruitful one. The membership was doubled, and though the charge was not above the average in financial strength, he received the largest salary of any member of the conference.

Little attention was given, at this time, to the cause of missions. Money was not generally recognized as a vital factor in Christian service. Salaries were meager and often consisted in provisions rather than cash. In many places a strong sentiment prevailed against a paid ministry. Poverty and ignorance were considered necessary prerequisites to ministerial piety. The General Missionary Board was only about nine years old, and missionary sentiment had not taken deep root. But Newgent sowed missionary seed with a lavish hand, and had the pleasure of reaping at least part of the harvest. His ability to lead men to loosen their purse strings even then began to be asserted in a marked degree. More than half of the missionary contributions of the entire conference that year was reported from Brulitz Creek Circuit.

His report attracted attention and won him considerable distinction at the annual conference. According to custom each pastor reported in person in the open conference relative to the different interests of his charge. When asked about his missionary offering, Newgent replied, “Here it is,” and taking a woolen bag, commonly called a sock, from his pocket he emptied its contents on the table. The contents consisted of coins of various denominations just as he had gathered them to the amount of $33.40, the small change giving it the appearance of a larger sum than he actually had. However, this was considered remarkable. Most of the pastors reported nothing. Dr. D. K. Flickinger, the first missionary secretary of the Church, was occupying a seat on the platform near the Bishop, and joined heartily with him in applause at the splendid report and the unique manner of presenting it.

The year’s work placed the “boy preacher” in a most favorable light, and led to his appointment to the Shawnee Prairie Circuit, the strongest charge in the Conference. The charge had had the pastoral service of Rev. Thomas H. Hamilton, a mighty man who stood high in the counsels of the denomination. It was characterized by more than the usual amount of wealth and culture, and withal an air of aristocracy that led to demands upon a pastor that were most exacting. Rev. Mr. Hamilton was a favorite on the circuit, and the people had no thought of losing him. His election to the office of presiding elder, however, necessitated the change, and when the awkward, and, as they thought, inexperienced lad came among them, they felt that their aristocratic tastes were outraged. It was a wet, chilly day in April when he arrived, and the crestfallen spirits of the people made it still more chilly for him. And when he learned that the matter of rejecting him was being seriously considered, the situation was anything but cheerful.

He told the people he would remain until the first quarterly meeting, when the presiding elder, Rev. Mr. Hamilton, would be present, and that he would willingly abide by their decision at that time. This was a judicious step, as it gave him an opportunity to prove himself. So he went to work with his usual zeal and by the time of the quarterly meeting he had sixty conversions with about an equal number of additions to the church. All thought of rejecting the pastor had completely vanished. In fact they would not have swapped him off for the “biggest gun they had ever heard fired.” Such success as the charge had never known crowned the labors of that year—great revivals at all the appointments, the circuit more than doubled in strength, and enthusiasm at high tide. Thus their mourning was turned into laughing. A unanimous demand was made for his return for another year, but his restless spirit sought new worlds to conquer. His motto has always been that it is better to go to a needy field and build it up than to go where further advancement is impossible. On this ground he asked to be sent to a new field.

One experience on Shawnee Prairie Circuit is worthy of special mention. Contiguous to the circuit, near Attica in Fountain County, was a section of country known as Hell’s Half Acre. Its leading spirit was an infidel doctor. His influence and teachings had so dominated the community that it was found impossible to maintain religious services there. Ministers were considered proud, indolent, and altogether an undesirable lot. Newgent determined to do some missionary work in that benighted place, though repeated efforts to that end had been made in vain.

In order to make a favorable impression and avoid the imprecation of being proud, he dressed in his everyday clothes and visited the district school, which was the geographical and social center, and the only place where meetings could be held. He announced that there would be services at the school house that evening, to be continued indefinitely, and urged the children to spread the news.

The announcement, however, did not produce satisfactory results. The attendance the first three or four evenings did not exceed a half-dozen. The atmosphere was rather chilly and the spiritual barometer did not indicate an early change. It soon became apparent that the old doctor was the key to the situation. If the people were to be reached, it must be done mainly through him. How to capture this Goliath was now the problem, and this problem Newgent set about to solve.

The Sunday services having been no better attended than the preceding ones, he decided upon a bold move. On Monday afternoon he called at the doctor’s home. The doctor answered his knock at the door in person. The old fellow’s rough demeanor and uncouth appearance, his ancient cob pipe that had long been entitled to a superannuated relation, the musty, dingy room which the half-open door disclosed—all seemed in striking harmony with his attitude toward religion. The preacher introduced himself and explained that he was holding a revival over at the school house. The grizzled old sinner looked him over from head to foot, but said nothing, though the expression on his sin-hardened face seemed to say more plainly than words, “Well, you little rascal, you had better be at home with your mother.”

“I understand,” persisted the preacher, ignoring the old gentleman’s contemptuous frown, “that you are a good singer and a prominent citizen, and I would like to consult you about the work and get you to help me.”

“Help in a revival? Why, don’t you know that I don’t believe in the Bible or churches, or religion of any sort?”

“Well, that needn’t stand in the way. The evenings are long and the young people want somewhere to go. You can do the singing and I’ll do the preaching.”

The Boy Preacher Visiting the Infidel.

That put a different complexion on things. Here was a chance for some fun, and incidentally an outlet for his musical propensities, for he was well versed in music. The idea seemed to take hold. The grim features began to relax. The boys were called and told to “put up the preacher’s horse,” and the preacher was invited into the house. The invitation was heartily accepted. Newgent understood fishing; he had fished before. The hook was baited and he now perceived that he had got a nibble. The afternoon was spent to a good advantage. Conversation flowed in various channels, but fought shy of religion—no time for that yet. He waited for his fish to take the cork under before pulling in. The doctor had a large family of children, and their appearance bore testimony to the fact that they were strangers to church and Sunday school. The boys spread the startling news that “dad was goin’ to help the boy preacher in the big meetin’.” And such news traveled as it were with seven-leagued boots.

That was all the advertisement the meeting needed. The infidel accompanied the preacher to the meeting, taking his place up front, and led the singing after the droll manner then in vogue. An earthquake or a man from the dead would not have created more excitement or comment. From that time the little school house did not accommodate the crowds.

The sermon that evening was not calculated to create a very profound impression. It was more saturated with Irish humor than with real gospel truth. The time for seriousness had not yet arrived. But the axe was laid at the root of the tree, and the kingdom was nearer at hand than any of them supposed. As a fisher of men, the preacher was still baiting for the fish.

The next night he took for his theme the Judgment. This was the occasion for solemn and serious facts. He turned loose all the artillery at his command in storming the batteries of infidelity and sin, and felt the presence of the Spirit in directing the message. As he neared the close of his discourse, he turned to the doctor. The wind had been taken out of the old man’s sails; his face was in his hands and he was weeping bitterly.

“What’s the matter, doctor?” he shouted, in a strong, firm voice, striving to make his words as impressive as possible.

The doctor did not answer.

“Get down on your knees,” he commanded as one who spoke with authority.

And the great exponent of infidelity went down, and his example was followed by a number of others. He wrestled in agony and prayer until near midnight, when the light broke in upon his long benighted soul—and the fish was caught. Such demonstrations had never been seen in Hell’s Half Acre as took place in the rude school house that night. The tide had surely turned and the redemption was at hand.

As he dismissed the service, Newgent announced that he was ready to go home with the first man who invited him. A tall, threadbare, weather-beaten fellow accepted the challenge. But when the preacher started to go, he explained that he didn’t mean it. “I can’t take care of you; I haven’t any room,” he protested.

“Go ahead,” said the preacher, “I can sleep on dry coon skins and eat roasted potatoes.” And he went in spite of the protests of his host.

The man was surely honest in his protest. He dwelt in a hut built of round poles. In one corner was a badly cracked stove that had long done service for both cooking and heating purposes. Two large box-like arrangements partly filled with leaves gathered from the forest, together with some ragged covering, served as feeble apologies for beds, and between these beds was a barrel of whisky. Though it was past midnight, the wife was sitting up. She was scantily clad, yet her face, though careworn, revealed a high degree of intelligence, bearing evidence that she had seen better days. Two little girls whose appearance harmonized only too well with their wretched surroundings, completed the family circle. As Newgent entered this hovel his eyes rested upon such a picture of destitution as he had never seen. The whisky barrel, however, told the whole story.

Newgent soon had the entire family feeling perfectly at ease. He played with the children and proved himself a most congenial guest. But he was there for their spiritual good. That night the wretched home, for the first time, became a house of prayer. Before the light of a new day dawned the light from heaven broke in upon the sad heart of that wife and mother, and a new day dawned in her life. The next morning the husband likewise found the Savior, and the whisky barrel, the cause of so much misery and poverty, vacated its place in the home, for old things had passed away and all things had become new. Another stronghold was lost to the enemy. A glorious night’s work it was, and a mighty step toward the final conquest of this spiritual Canaan.

The man asked Newgent to roll the barrel of whisky into the river. But he said, “No; let us sell it to the druggist. We can use the money to a good advantage.” So he borrowed a team and wagon, and hauled the whisky to the nearest drug store, and received eighteen dollars for it. With the money he bought some much needed clothing for the wife and children. It was his first and only experience in the whisky business.

The entire community was swept by the revival. Multitudes were converted, a church was organized, and a church-house built. The whisky man and the ex-infidel became pillars in the church, one serving as class leader and the other as steward. Never was a work of grace more complete, or the power of God more wonderfully or graciously displayed in the transformation of a community than in the case of Hell’s Half Acre.

Chapter Five.

Six Months at Rainsville—A Hotbed of Southern Sympathizers—A Mix-up with Saloon Men—A Sermon on Slavery—Fire and Brimstone—An Antagonist Outwitted—A Sermon from the Book of Newgent—Can Any Good Thing Come Out of Rainsville?

In 1861, the time of holding the Upper Wabash Conference was changed from spring to fall. Hence, two sessions were held that year with an interim of but six months between them. This period was spent by Rev. Mr. Newgent on the Williamsport Circuit in Warren County, Indiana. He moved with his family to Rainsville, a village of about one hundred and fifty inhabitants, located on Vermilion River. The town was still in the rough, its chief activities centering about two rival saloons. As it had no church and not a single inhabitant who professed religion, the saloons had things pretty much their own way. The Newgents occupied part of a building that formerly did service as the village inn; the rest of it was occupied by one of the saloon keepers. The two families, however, did not have undisputed possession of the place, as it seemed to have been preempted by bed bugs and fleas, which were no inconspicuous feature of life in Rainsville. While the saloon keeper and the preacher maintained peaceable relations with each other, these aboriginal neighbors maintained an attitude of hostility with a persistence that was worthy of a better cause than they represented.

Another thing that made life in Rainsville interesting during this period was the war which was then in its first year of progress. The sympathies of the inhabitants were decidedly with the South. But one man could be found who claimed to be loyal to the Union, and as might be expected under such circumstances, he was not very enthusiastic about it. They could safely be counted on the off side of any question or movement that involved a moral element. With the war agitation to stir their blood, the well patronized saloons doing business seven days and nights in the week, and the absence of any religious institution or influence, Rainsville might well have served as a basis for the doctrine of total depravity.

The Williamsport Circuit, like most of the country parishes of its day, afforded a man plenty of room to grow in. If a pastor rusted out it was his own fault. But Newgent, with his active temperament and fondness for adventure, was not the man to rust out. Not only the Sabbath, but most of the evenings between Sabbaths were taken up with preaching services. Each alternate Sabbath during the Williamsport pastorate he preached four times, which entailed forty-two miles of travel by horseback. The day’s program was as follows: Leaving home at daybreak, he rode twenty miles to a ten o’clock appointment. After the service he would get a “hand out” for dinner and reach the next appointment at two o’clock, then to a 4:30 service, and on home for meeting at night. Life was both simple and strenuous in the extreme.

The first Sunday in this village was a memorable one. Leaving his plucky young wife to hold the fort, the new pastor made his forty-two-mile round, reaching home about sundown. No provision had been made for preaching in town, but Newgent resolved to give the inhabitants of this inferno a chance to hear the gospel. A rowdy mob was collected about each saloon. An air of general lawlessness, recklessness, and cussedness prevailed. Games and sports of various sorts were maintained on the streets. Horseback riders were galloping here and there, firing pistols and performing various stunts in imitation of life among the untamed cowboys and Indians. Their boisterous talking and hollowing, with here and there a man staggering under his load of Rainsville’s chief product, all combined, might well have led to the conclusion that the demons of the lower regions had been liberated and were holding high carnival in celebration of the event.

When Newgent told his wife that he had decided to preach at the school house that night, she tried to dissuade him, fearing for his safety. And well she might after what she had seen of life in Rainsville that day. But he gloried in heroic tasks and heeded not her wise counsel. He at once set about to publish the appointment. In order to find the people he went to one of the saloons. The saloon was full of men, and the men were full of the saloon. Stepping up to the bar-tender he told him that he was going to hold a religious service at the school house at 7:30. “As there are no church services in town,” he said, “I am sure you will be willing to encourage such a movement by closing your place of business and attending.”

“You can preach all you d—— please; I haven’t been to church for twenty years,” answered the booze dispenser with a look that seemed to add, “and I don’t propose to commence now.”

“But I am a stranger here, and you don’t know but I am the smartest man in the country, or may be the biggest fool. You had better come and find out for yourself.”

The idea of a church service struck the saloon patrons as a desirable innovation, and as they were in favor of anything that promised a diversion, they began to take sides with the preacher. Their enthusiasm waxed intense, due mainly to the reflex influence of tarrying long at the grog shop. They were unanimous and emphatic in demanding that the saloon be closed and that all go to church.

The proprietor finally said that he would consent on condition that his competitor would do likewise.

“All right, I’ll see him,” and Newgent broke for the other saloon where a similar situation prevailed. Several of the men volunteered to accompany him and assist in enforcing the demand, so that an ambassage that carried with it no small authority presented itself before the high priest of Gambrinus of the rival saloon. A delegation from one saloon to another, headed by a preacher, was an uncommon sight, especially in Rainsville, but it had the desired effect. For once the saloons were closed and the center of interest transferred to the school house. News of the meeting spread in short order. The new preacher made himself an object of curiosity and comment by his establishing diplomatic relations with the governing bodies of the village, and everybody was anxious to see more of him. So all Rainsville turned out to church—men, women, boys, girls, and dogs—all entering heartily into the novelty of a religious service with a real, “sure enough” preacher at the head of it.

Newgent prudently made the service brief. The sermon was not as spiritual as it might have been under different conditions, as the congregation was quite sympathetic and responsive, and he considered it injudicious to encourage their emotions at that time. He was more especially concerned about laying plans for the future. How to get them back was the question, which he sought to solve by a bit of strategy. So, in addition to giving them a few morsels of wholesome advice, well sugarcoated with his native good humor, he made the startling announcement that at the next meeting he would preach on the subject of slavery. If anything were calculated to bring them back, surely that was.

It was taken for granted, of course, that he was an Abolitionist and would denounce the South. The blood of those southern sympathizers at once began to boil. Everybody anticipated a lively time, and interest became intense. All felt that the foolhardy young fellow did not realize the danger to which he was exposing himself. An old gentleman, the village blacksmith, whose father had been a United Brethren preacher, felt it his duty to warn the reverend gentleman and have him to call off the entire proceedings. As usual, Newgent was firm. He told the gentleman, however, that he wanted to be fair to both sides, so if those who disagreed with him desired, they might get a man to follow him and present the other side of the question.

This they were only too anxious to do. When the time came, they had their man. By the time Newgent and his wife arrived at the little school house that evening it was completely packed and an immense crowd was gathered on the outside. It was with the greatest difficulty that they forced themselves through the anxious throng and made their way to the front of the building. The opponent was on hand, ready to take his measure and smash all of his arguments. As might be surmised, sympathy was plainly and emphatically with the southern advocate. If he could not demolish the frail Abolitionist, there were enough present who were ready to lend all the assistance he needed. The smell of brimstone was in the air, indicating the presence of that commodity in unlimited quantities. All that was lacking for a real conflagration was something to touch it off. And that something was momentarily expected.

After a brief preliminary exercise, the preacher opened the discussion. Like the great apostle on Mars Hill, he complimented his hearers on their seeming interest in the subject at hand. “As the subject of slavery,” he said, “is stirring our country from one end to the other, and as it is a subject of such vital importance, I take pleasure at this time in presenting one phase of it.

“I wish to observe in my remarks, First, the slave; Second, his master; Third, the law by which he is held in bondage; Fourth, how he is to be liberated; Fifth, where he is to be colonized.” Thus far, well and good. These were familiar topics, and had been discussed pro and con even by the school children. Hence, his opening remarks were according to expectations, and breathlessly they awaited what was to follow.

Their consternation and chagrin can only be imagined when he proceeded to state that the slave is the sinner; his master is the devil; the law by which he is held in bondage is sinful lusts and habits; he is to be liberated through the blood of Christ; and heaven is the place of his colonization. Around these propositions he built his discourse without any reference to slavery as a civil institution. It was strictly a gospel sermon, and his antagonist had no disposition to reply.

“Well, we are beat,” said the old blacksmith after the service was dismissed, “but the boy is the sharpest fellow that ever struck this town.” And he was not alone in his conclusion.

With a view to holding the audience for the next appointment, he announced that he would preach at that time from the Book of Newgent, the twenty-eighth chapter and thirty-third verse, “Can any good thing come out of Rainsville?”

A few days after this announcement, he received a call from an old gentleman. The unsuspecting brother had been having trouble over the Book of Newgent. He stated that he and the old woman had been searching the Bible all week and were unable to find it. He was kindly urged to be present at the preaching service and assured that his troubles would all be cleared up. Presumably the matter was explained to his satisfaction, as he was not heard from again.

The Rainsville pastorate, though brief, was full of thrilling interest, and was not without substantial results for good. He won the respect and confidence of this uncouth people, and had the satisfaction of seeing many of the grosser evils disappear under his ministry. Before he left, the signs of a brighter day were plainly discernible. His influence with them was turned to good account, as will be seen in the next chapter.

Chapter Six.

The War Spirit in Indiana—Breaking up a Traitorous Plot—Narrow Escape from Enemies—Assists in Securing Recruits—Becomes Chaplain of his Regiment—Exchange of Courtesies with a Presbyterian Minister—An Embarrassing Predicament—Saves Regiment from Capture—Organizes a Military Church—Chased by Johnnies—An Exciting Homeward Journey.

Indiana was a storm center during the Civil War. Her position was a strategic one. She was regarded as the keystone of the North. With Oliver P. Morton, “Indiana’s great War Governor,” at the head of affairs, she was held firmly to her moorings, and furnished a larger number of soldiers for the Union Army in proportion to population than any other State. Yet the State was constantly harassed by citizens who were unfriendly to the Union cause, and who secretly or openly sympathized with the South. Secret organizations for the purpose of aiding the Confederacy were common. Conspicuous among these was the Knights of the Golden Circle. Yet many not identified with these traitorous organizations were utterly disloyal. Hence, much bitterness and not infrequently bloodshed prevailed. It was not unusual for men in official position to use their influence against the Government, or even to join the army with traitorous intent.

Rev. Mr. Newgent was serving as pastor for the second year on the Clark’s Hill charge, when in the fall of 1863, he was “persuaded,” as he said, “to go into the army for safety.” With his wife he was paying a visit to his father-in-law in Parke County. In the neighborhood lived a man who was captain of Home Guards, but whose loyalty was strongly suspected. A small brother of Mrs. Newgent sometimes visited with his children, and on returning from one such visit, incidentally mentioned having seen some pretty guns in the barn where they had been playing. Newgent understood the meaning of these guns secreted on the premises of this traitorous man, and telegraphed the news to Governor Morton. A squad of soldiers was dispatched to the place and some three hundred guns were found. They were confiscated and a traitorous scheme was thus frustrated.

Newgent at once became the object of a great deal of attention. That he was responsible for the exposure, was generally surmised. A plan was formed to do away with him. On Sunday evening following the episode he was to preach at the Oak Ridge United Brethren Church in the community. In the midst of the service, by a preconcerted plan, the lights were suddenly extinguished, and his adversaries were about to execute their design. He succeeded in making his escape in the darkness by the assistance of an uncle. The outlook seemed rather stormy, and he was convinced that it was safer in the army than out of it. Leaving his wife in the care of her father, he hastened to Lafayette where a regiment, the 116th Indiana Infantry, was being formed by Colonel William C. Kise.

At that period recruits were hard to get and the work proceeded slowly. Newgent asked the colonel what the chance would be for him to get the appointment of chaplain.

“What church do you belong to?” the colonel asked.

“I am a United Brethren,” was the answer.

“I am sorry,” said the colonel, “I like the United Brethren Church and would like to give you the appointment; but this is to be a Methodist regiment; all the officers are to be Methodists, and it is understood that the chaplainship is to be given to a Methodist preacher up in the city.”

“Will you take me, then, as a private?” he asked.

“Certainly,” was the eager reply, “we shall be glad to take you, for recruits are coming in awfully slowly.” There were then only seven companies started. None of them were complete. Newgent offered to assist in raising recruits.

“If you will give me transportation papers,” he said, “I think I can get some men over in Warren County.”

“Warren County!” exclaimed the colonel in disgust. “It’s of no use to go there for recruits. I have had a couple of good men over there for three weeks and they have got only four men.” But Newgent insisted that he be allowed to try. He understood those people and felt that he knew how to approach them. The papers were finally given him, and he set out for Rainsville in this doubtful territory.

Rainsville, it will be remembered, was a headquarters for southern sympathizers, where little more than a year before but one Union man could be found. The task was a challenge to Newgent, the kind of a task he delighted in. Taking a boy with a drum and flag, he went to the village and nearby points, and soon had the inhabitants inoculated with the war microbe. The prospects of a draft about this time proved an effective argument in favor of enlistment, which was used for all it was worth. After an absence of six days he returned to camp with 104 men, which was the first full company in the regiment, this, too, from territory that was as completely southern in sentiment as though it had been in the very heart of the Confederacy.

The march to camp was a triumphal procession. The company of volunteers was accompanied by several hundred men and boys who fell in on the way. As they came into camp about twelve o’clock on Saturday night with colors flying and giving vent to their enthusiasm by singing and hollowing, it had the effect of a small army, not unlike that of Gideon’s band, when they multiplied the effect of numbers by noise and enthusiasm and scared the Midianites out of their wits. The colonel met them with a drum corps and the company was welcomed amid the most extravagant expressions of delight. The fact that recruits were coming in so slowly gave increased cause for demonstration. When the general hubbub had somewhat abated, the crowd demanded a speech from Newgent, and the demand was imperative. Though worn by physical exertion and hoarse from much haranguing, he gave a brief talk, at the close of which, amid great applause, some one moved that “Rev. Mr. Newgent be made chaplain of the regiment.” It was heartily seconded, and shouts of approval burst from every section of the camp. So, by general consent the rule to make it a Methodist regiment was waived, insofar as it related to the chaplainship, much to the satisfaction of Colonel Kise, and Newgent became their spiritual adviser.

The Methodist brother, who, it was understood, was to receive the appointment, came out the next afternoon (Sunday) to preach to the boys and get acquainted; but on being apprised of what had taken place the night before, he quietly withdrew, leaving Newgent in undisputed possession of the honors which his tact and energy had won.

The regiment was finally completed and mustered in for a term of six months, though it served considerably over time. Its first service was rendered in guarding the U. S. Armory at Detroit, Michigan. The armory was threatened by General Vallandigham, who had been banished from the United States because of treasonable expressions, and had placed himself at the head of a force in Canada with the purpose of threatening the Union from the north. The regiment was later sent to reënforce General Burnsides in east Tennessee.

This was during the terrible winter of ’63 and ’64, when Burnsides was besieged by Confederate General Longstreet and was shut up in Knoxville. The hardships suffered by the Union soldiers during that memorable siege are matters of history and need not be recounted in detail here. Among the foremost of the sufferers was Newgent’s regiment, the 116th Indiana. All supplies having been cut off, the boys for many weeks had a hard struggle to keep from succumbing to hunger and cold. For a time they each had but one ear of corn a day; no tents, and not sufficient clothing for protection even under favorable circumstances. In the midst of the severest winter weather, over three hundred of the men were barefooted. Newgent was the best dressed man in his regiment, and it was with difficulty that he got his dress coat to hang together at the collar; and he suffered no little uneasiness lest his trousers would dissolve partnership with him.

A few characteristic army experiences will suffice in this connection and occupy the remainder of this chapter.

On reaching Tennessee, the regiment was stationed temporarily at Greenville. The care-free boys attended services the first Sunday morning at the Presbyterian church in the city. The pastor, Rev. Samuel McCorkle, treated them kindly. They were delighted with the reception accorded them, and on the following Sabbath a large part of the regiment, including the chaplain, turned out to worship at Rev. Mr. McCorkle’s church. When Newgent appeared in his chaplain’s uniform, McCorkle at once led him up to the pulpit and insisted that he preach. The chaplain was never averse to preaching whenever there was occasion for it, and so consented, under slight pressure. He observed the pastor’s manuscript neatly tied up with red ribbon, which told him he had barely escaped listening to a manuscript sermon. Newgent had little sympathy for a written discourse and took advantage of the situation to indulge in some pleasantries at the learned parson’s expense. He told the congregation, the greater part of whom were soldiers, that he had no set discourse, and that he never tried to palm off a written sermon upon a helpless congregation, as such a procedure was “like a doctor writing a prescription before examining the patient.” Rev. Mr. McCorkle accepted the criticism good-naturedly and invited Newgent to take dinner with him after the service. After several weeks of army rations, the dinner at Rev. Mr. McCorkle’s home was a most delightful change.

He returned the courtesy that had been accorded him by inviting his host to preach to his “boys” in the afternoon. The invitation was accepted. McCorkle did not deem it judicious to use his manuscript after the episode of the forenoon, and was visibly handicapped and embarrassed in his attempt at extemporaneous delivery. He talked but a few minutes and turned the service over to the chaplain.

After the service the two men had a heart-to-heart talk. McCorkle confessed his chagrin at not being able to preach without his manuscript, and expressed a determination to cultivate the habit of extemporaneous delivery. That the determination was carried out was seen in the fact that he became a leader in this method of preaching. And the two preachers continued fast friends.

An incident more pleasing to relate than to undergo occurred at Tazewell, Tennessee, where Newgent’s regiment had been dispatched with twenty-four others to check a Confederate force that was approaching from that quarter. They went into camp, building temporary fortifications with the grave stones of a nearby cemetery. About midnight the army was surprised by the sudden arrival of a force of Confederate cavalry that captured some of the outposts. Newgent, with some of his regiment, was garrisoned in an old building that had been used for a granary. As the fire was opened he caught up his clothes in his arms, and, mounting his horse, started down the hill for a more healthful location. The horse stumbled over some rocks, throwing the rider to the ground and scattering his precious wearing apparel to the four winds. There was no time for trifles, and the clothes were abandoned for the time. They were recovered about nine o’clock the next morning, much to the relief of the reverend, whose situation in the meantime was as embarrassing as it was uncomfortable.

On one occasion his coolness and ingenuity were the means of saving his entire regiment from capture. The regiment had been ordered across the Clinch River in east Tennessee to guard a narrow passage in the mountains at what was called Bean’s Station. They had gotten across and were camping in a bend of the river when news came that the rebels had superseded them, and three brigades were between them and the gap. They might easily have retreated, but the river became swollen from heavy rains, and to cross a swift, mountain stream under such circumstances was practically out of the question.

Newgent was sick at the time, being cared for at the colonel’s headquarters. During the early part of the night the colonel came to him, trembling with fear, and said, “Chaplain, what on earth is to be done? There is a strong rebel force on one side of us, and an unfordable stream on the other. If we are not out of here by morning every one of us will be captured.”

The rebels were confident that they could not get away and so waited until morning to bag their game.

“Bring six or seven of the boys here,” said Newgent. The boys were brought. He told them to go down to the river where they would find an old canoe partly filled with water. “Build a fire on the bank so that its light will shine across the stream, bail the water out of the canoe, put it in as good shape as possible, and then report.”

They followed his instructions, after which they came back to headquarters, and the sick chaplain got out of his bed and went back with them to the river. Though it was a perilous undertaking, the men got in the water-soaked canoe, and by the uncertain light of the fire, made their way to the other side of the angry stream. They went to General Curtain’s headquarters, related the situation, and procured a supply of cannon rope. With the rope they made a cable across the river. They thus devised a rude ferry by means of an abandoned and partly submerged barge which they raised and repaired for the purpose. The barge would carry about twelve men or one horse at a trip. It was propelled by the men holding to the cable and thus laboriously working their way from one side of the stream to the other. Through the dark, stormy night they toiled, and before daybreak the entire regiment with all appurtenances was out of reach of the enemy. When the rebels reached forth their hand next morning to bag their game, lo! it wasn’t there!

It was a terrible night’s work, however. The sick chaplain stayed with the barge until the last man was saved. He was twice thrown into the water, and ran a fearful risk in thus exposing himself at so critical a time. After the excitement of the night, by which alone his physical strength was sustained, he suffered a serious relapse. He was confined to his bed at General Curtain’s headquarters for about two weeks, when he again reported for duty. The men regarded him as their deliverer, and the satisfaction of having saved his comrades from the horrors of a southern prison compensated for all he suffered. For this heroic deed he was complimented on dress parade by a special order from the general.

The following reference to this incident is found in the “Official Records of the Army,” Series I., Vol. XXXI.:

Tazewell, Tenn., December 14, 1863.

Major-General Foster, Knoxville:

General: I have the honor of reporting that I arrived here this evening at about dark, having left Rutledge at 9:00 a. m., and Bean’s Station at 1:30 p. m.... At the crossing of the Clinch River (Evan’s Ford) I found a sufficient guard, under the command of Colonel Kise. The river was rising quite rapidly, but the guard had raised and repaired the ferry-boat, which was crossing successfully, being pulled back and forth by hand upon a cable stretched from one shore to another. I think that it would be well, as a matter of security, to have another boat built there, and will so notify Colonel Babcock....

I am, general, very respectfully, your obedient servant,

O. M. POE,
Captain and Chief Engineer, Army of the Ohio.

As a means for the spiritual welfare of the “boys,” he conceived and carried out the idea of organizing a military church. Though there were various religious organizations among the soldiers, and some doubtless on similar lines, yet this was an entirely original conception with him. His church took no denominational name, but was made up of all who were willing to become members. It was completely officered, and maintained prayer meetings and church services at stated intervals. Two special revival meetings were held in which about 250 of the “boys” were converted.

His spiritual ministrations were not limited to the soldiers. Whenever an opportunity presented itself he would hold services at nearby churches and school houses. On one such occasion he incidentally, to use his own expression, “chased seven Johnnies for three and a half miles.” It was a merry race; like Jehu the entire party rode furiously. But as the chaplain had more at stake than his companions in the chase, he managed to maintain his position well in advance of the seven, and was quite willing to abandon the chase by the time he reached camp.

Not least among the interesting army “experiences” was the homeward journey. As previously stated, the regiment served over the time for which they enlisted. The men were impatient and homesick. Their destitute condition rendered many of them almost desperate. Almost half of them were barefooted and all were weakened by hunger and exposure. The morning on which they were to start home the colonel announced that they would proceed to Barbersville, Kentucky, and that there they would find a supply of much-needed clothing and provisions. This was a two-days’ march, which, in itself, was no pleasing prospect under the circumstances. The promise of food and clothing, however, nerved them for the ordeal. It was midnight when Barbersville was reached, and to their utter consternation the promised supplies were not there.

Things were looking blue. The colonel said to Newgent, “You have the best horse in the regiment. Take a couple of the boys and get out and find something to feed these men before morning.” He started, not to forage, but to beg. At the first house he came to be was met by a woman to whom he stated his mission. She showed him a blood spot on the floor where her husband had been killed by the rebels, and said that all she had was a half-bushel of meal, but she was willing to divide. It was all he secured, though he continued the search until daylight. Returning to camp, he threw the bit of meal at the colonel’s feet, and fell down exhausted, dropping at once into a deep sleep.

What happened during the time he slept, when the real situation dawned upon the men, he could only surmise. The next he knew, the colonel had him aroused and was ordering him to ride ahead of the regiment to a little water-mill about twelve miles distant to see what could be found there, and to arrange if possible to feed the men when they arrived. He found a few bushels of grain, most of it in a bad condition. When ground into meal it made just one pint each for the men. After they had eaten their morsel, the colonel made them a little speech in which he told them that the next objective point would be Camp Dick Robinson, and for every man to look out for himself until they reached the camp. This they were quite glad to do. And when in a few days they met at the camp, they were in better spirits, and were pretty well supplied for the rest of the journey.

The next way station was Camp Nelson. Here they were met by the Provost Marshal who declared the regiment under arrest for pillaging, and ordered them to stack arms. While the authorities were arranging the details for taking care of them, the colonel took advantage of the delay. “Attention, Battalions,” he shouted, “Shoulder arms—forward march—double quick!” The order was eagerly obeyed. A “double-quick” march was made to Nicholasville. This was a railroad town. Here they ordered a train for Cincinnati. The train steamed out of the station with its load of animated freight just as the Marshal with his guard galloped in sight.

The authorities at Cincinnati were notified by wire to arrest the regiment on its arrival there, but this was anticipated. So they got off the train at Covington, crossing the Ohio River by ferry to Cincinnati. There they got a train for Indianapolis without being detected. The train was pressed into service to convey them on to Lafayette, the home of the regiment. They reached the city on Sunday evening, as the church bells were ringing for the evening services. Newgent, as his custom was, went to church. Possibly he felt the need of it after what he had gone through. He went to the First Methodist Episcopal Church, and at the urgent request of the pastor, delivered the evening discourse to the delight of the splendid audience.

It should be said in justice to Rev. Mr. Newgent that he was not a party to any of the irregularities that almost brought his regiment into disrepute after it had acquitted itself so well on the field. He remonstrated with the men and exhorted them to better conduct, but when the pressure of army discipline was removed, the pent-up energies of these raw backwoodsmen were turned loose along various channels and could neither be suppressed nor regulated. The officers of the regiment, with the exception of Newgent, were summoned before the proper military tribunal at Indianapolis, to answer for their depredations. They were acquitted, however, being ably defended by Lieutenant-Colonel G. O. Beam. Whether or not the verdict was a just one, is of no special concern to us here. Suffice it to say that our subject, though a young man, so ordered his life as not only to keep himself unspotted from the world, but at the same time to win for himself the confidence of even the most hardened sinners. He was exonerated from all blame in advance, and his name was not brought before the court.

Chapter Seven.

Plants the United Brethren Banner in Terre Haute—Prairieton Pastorate—Difficulty with the Sons of Anak—A Prayer Without an “Amen”—Another Community Redeemed—Going to the Wrong Doctor—A Perverse Colt—An Unintentional Immersion—One Sermon That was not Dry.

It was in April, 1864, when Rev. Mr. Newgent returned from the war. His own conference did not meet until fall, but the Lower Wabash Conference met in its annual session in Vermilion, Illinois, about the time of his return. With the view to getting back on the firing line at once, he attended the latter conference, and was appointed to Terre Haute (Indiana) Mission. This was strictly prospective work, as the mission was projected at this session. The conference at the same session, following the example of the Upper Wabash Conference, decided to change the time of its annual meetings from spring to fall, hence the appointment was made for a period of only six months. During this time Rev. Mr. Newgent devoted himself with characteristic zeal to laying broad and deep the foundations of his church in this new Macedonia. That his labors were fruitful is seen in the fact that he reported to the fall conference an organized church on Second Street, with splendid prospects of a prosperous future—prospects which subsequent history has abundantly fulfilled. To him belongs the credit of first planting the United Brethren banner in this thriving city, where the Church has since steadily grown to a place of prestige and influence.

The Terre Haute pastorate was followed by a year at Prairieton, in Vigo County, Indiana. Some experiences on this field are worthy of note. A revival meeting was held in an unevangelized community at what was known as the Battle Row School House, near the Wabash River. The school house was a primitive log building with plenty of ventilation. The wide cracks between the logs in the walls not only admitted a sufficiency of fresh air, but were a source of temptation to the untamed sons of the natives who were wont at critical times to inject missiles of various sorts through them into the midst of the congregation, causing more or less uneasiness and often confusion to the worshipers. It was not a place where one could worship under his own vine and fig tree with no one to molest or make afraid. During the early stage of the meeting reapers were scarce, and to all appearances, were wholly inadequate to the demands of the great, over-ripe harvest. The sons of Anak seemed to have a perpetual title to the place, and showed no intention of evacuating it. At one time, as Newgent was making an earnest plea for penitents to come to the altar, he observed a company of ruffians in the rear of the room in a rather impenitent condition, bantering one another to go forward to the mourner’s bench. The quick wit of the preacher frustrated their evil designs. Constant vigilance had to be exercised to prevent outbreaks and demonstrations of a similar character. As the meeting proceeded converts multiplied and the odds became more and more to the advantage of the faithful.

There was one wheel-horse who was the pastor’s right hand man in the great conflict with primitive elements. A splendid man he was, though his droll manner was a subject of sport for the lewd fellows of the baser propensities. A characteristic attitude when he offered public prayer was to kneel facing the wall, with his back toward the congregation. Then with his eyes closed and oblivious to all his surroundings, he would soar to a high altitude in his eloquence and fervency of spirit. In such surroundings, however, it would have been better had Father Scott, as he was affectionately called, not forgotten his relation to this mundane sphere, for the situation surely demanded watching as well as praying. Especially would it have prevented an awkward hitch in the services one evening when the interest and enthusiasm were at their greatest height. Intense conviction was capturing and humbling proud and defiant hearts, and victory was perching upon the banners of the loyal band.

But, as in the days of Job, when the sons of God went to worship, Satan went also. Battle Row School House furnished a good demonstration of the fact that,

“Wherever God erects a house of prayer,

The devil’s sure to build a chapel there;

And ’twill be found upon investigation,

The latter has by far the larger congregation.”

While the worshipers were in the midst of great rejoicing, Satan’s hosts were holding high carnival on the outside. Father Scott was called upon, as he frequently was, at the most critical stage in the meeting, to lead in prayer. As his custom was, he knelt with his face to the wall, and by chance his mouth was dangerously near a huge crack. While sailing away in the ether world, and the people were hanging breathlessly upon his earnest and eloquent words, all unexpectedly, for some strange reason, the machinery stopped. It was unusual for a prayer to be terminated so abruptly without the conventional “amen.” All eyes were fixed upon Father Scott. What could have happened? It was painfully apparent that he was in distress. He was making a desperate effort to clear some obstruction from his throat, get his breath, and regain his equilibrium.

The proximity of Father Scott’s mouth to the opening in the wall was too great a provocation for the unregenerates on the outside of the house to forego. One of them had prepared a ball of mud, and with accurate aim, threw it through the crack into the brother’s mouth, putting him temporarily out of commission. There was, of course, confusion in the midst of Zion, but Father Scott, whose battery had been silenced by this unexpected maneuver, was soon able to resume operations, and the battle was pressed with increased vigor.

A Prayer Without An Amen.

There was another neglected community adjacent to this charge. It was entirely without church services or religious influences of any kind. In the community lived a well-to-do gentleman of the name of Owen, whose wife was an invalid. Being of a religious turn of mind, and deprived of church privileges, she desired to have a meeting held at her home mainly for her benefit. Rev. Mr. Newgent was invited to conduct the service. His Sundays being taken up by his regular work, the meeting was held in a forenoon during the week. A goodly company of neighbors gathered out of respect to the dear sister, and she enjoyed the occasion so much that she invited them all back for a service in the evening. The evening meeting proved still more interesting, and it was decided to continue the services indefinitely. It developed into a grand revival which resulted in many conversions, the organization of a church, and the building of a church-house. Among the first to come to the mourner’s bench was Mr. Owen, the generous host. He “came through” shouting and became a strong, staunch, and stormy defender of the faith.

Among attendants at the revival were two brothers, “Dave” and “Joe” Walker, notable characters in a local way. Both were proficient in the use of the violin, or, in the vernacular of the day, they were great fiddlers. Even if there was nothing else to place them under the ban of pious sentiment, this in itself would have been sufficient, for the fiddle had been so exclusively associated with bad company that it was supposed to have absorbed something of the evil spirits of its companions, and in the superstitious imaginations of many it possessed invisible hoofs and horns, and a strange, infernal power that was to be zealously avoided. Hence, Dave and Joe were regarded as typical “hard nuts,” and it cannot be denied that they made an honest effort to live up to their reputations. They were more familiar with the conventionalities of the country “hoe-down” than with the atmosphere of a “big meetin’.” Until the revival at the Owen home attracted their attention, they had not been present at a church service since they were boys. They became fairly regular attendants at the meeting, and in consequence, both got sick. Their illness seemed to be of a peculiar character, as neither of them could explain his symptoms or give any clue as to the seat of the trouble.

Joe became much worse one evening and by midnight he began to think he was being beckoned across the border. Dave, whose condition was not so critical, was dispatched to Prairieton for medical aid. While he was gone, Joe got religion. This proved to be all the treatment he needed. All unfavorable symptoms disappeared, and he set out post haste to meet his brother. Just before he reached the village, he met Dave on his way home, when the following colloquy took place:

“Oh, Dave, I’ve got all the medicine I need. It ain’t pills we need, but religion.”

“Bless the Lord, I’ve took the medicine, too,” said Dave. He had also been converted on his return from the doctor’s office. It thus became apparent that their malady was spiritual rather than physical, but being unfamiliar with symptoms of that character, they were unable to diagnose the case until the remedy had been applied. The two brothers were made every whit whole, soul and body. They hung up “the fiddle and the bow,” and their talents and energies were turned loose along more legitimate channels.

Vermilion Circuit, in Illinois, was the scene of the next pastorate. Here a memorable experience took place as he was making his second “round” on the charge. Newgent, like other strong men, has always had some hobbies, legitimate hobbies in his case, however, that were elements of strength in his ministry. One of these is punctuality. He has always been scrupulously punctual in meeting his engagements. He never misses a train from the fact that he is far more likely to be at the station three-quarters of an hour ahead of time than three-quarters of a minute late. He is a strict believer in the maxim of the muse,

“Better be an hour early and stand and wait,

Than to be a moment behind the time.”

In filling appointments he observes the same rule. He finds it helpful to be on hand sufficiently early to meet and shake hands with the advance guards of the congregation. It affords a tonic for his wits and puts him in a mood to be at his best.

On his new charge was a church known as Prairie Chapel. As usual, in his introductory services he exhorted his people to be punctual in their attendance, stating that he made it a point to be on time, and that if he at any time was not strictly “on the dot,” they might know that something was wrong. It so happened that at the very next service the scrupulously punctual preacher was behind time, and it also happened that something was desperately wrong.

As a sort of background to the scene to be here presented, it would be well to state that he was clad in a new suit, as preachers usually were at the beginning of the year. The new suit consisted of a complete outfit from boots to hat and gloves, including also that luxury which not every circuit rider could afford, a fine shawl. It should further be explained that he was riding a colt, not the nineteen-year-old variety with which he traveled his first circuit, but a genuine three-year-old, with all the fire and perverseness of its kind. It might also be in order to add, by way of parenthesis, that the Illinois roads after the rains and frosts of September began their maneuvers, were no respecters of new clothes.

Just before reaching Prairie Chapel, the road crossed a slough some three hundred feet wide. At this point the road was covered by about three feet of water, or perhaps, as it was difficult to tell just where the water left off and the mud began, it would be more exact to say that it was three feet from the top of the water to the bottom of the mud. It was covered with a thin coating of ice. Newgent, being the first to pass that way on that Sunday morning, had to break the ice as he went. The colt did not like the task to begin with, but as this was the only road to the church and was fenced on either side with a picket fence, a straightforward course was the only alternative.

The colt proceeded reluctantly until it reached the middle of the slough. There it became possessed with the spirit of Balam’s beast and refused to go farther. Its purpose seemed to be fixed as all the entreaties of the rider were unavailing. The church was in plain view, and, like the wedding guest of Coleridge’s immortal “Rime,” the preacher could see and hear the people as they were assembling, while he was transfixed to the spot. Finally giving up hope of going forward, he tried to turn the colt’s head in the opposite direction, when, lo, he found that it was as averse to turning back as it was to going forward. Just what the beast’s plan for the future was, could not well be divined, for, to be in the middle of a lake with no purpose of going either forward or backward was, to say the least, a position difficult to explain or defend. The final bell rang for the morning service, and the preacher began to realize that his reputation for punctuality was in danger of being water-soaked. A final desperate effort was made to induce locomotion, but to no avail.

It was a real Slough of Despond. The reverend’s heart sank to the bottom of his new boots when he found that his only chance was to dismount. This he proceeded to do, supposing that he could at least lead the beast out of the water. The water was by no means comfortable, the mud filled his boots, and apprehensive thoughts concerning the unpresentable appearance he would make at church, and the damage being done to his new suit, and at the same time the humiliation of being beaten out by a perverse colt, all together did not tend to a devotional frame of mind.

An Unintentional Immersion.

Taking the rein, he waded forward, expecting the colt to follow, but it had no disposition to be led; he gave the rein a sharp pull, but the animal also had scruples against being pulled. He then gave the rein a jerk, putting all of his physical strength, and possibly a bit of his temper into the jerk, when, lo! the rein broke, and the preacher, not thinking of such a contingency, went splash into the water, being completely submerged. Things were rapidly going from bad to worse. It was of no use under the circumstances, to try to maintain ministerial dignity. Gathering himself together, he made his way to the fence, and, loosing a picket, he got behind the animal, and with a few strokes where they would do the most good, and unministerial maneuvers, he got it started, and by an aggressive follow-up campaign, they reached the shore without further ceremony or delay.

He hastened on to the church. The people were waiting for the belated pastor, and when he arrived, they saw at once there had been a valid excuse for his tardiness. There were four other ministers present, and Newgent tried to get one of them to preach in his stead, but all declined. So he went on with the regular program, and preached with his usual zeal while the water was still dripping from his new suit. It was one time at least when the congregation was not bored with a dry preacher.

After service he went home with one of his members, borrowed some dry clothes, and proceeded to fill his other appointments for the day.

Chapter Eight.