Radio Script #1013

Little Talks on Common Things
May 12, 1974

Maine’s first governor was William King of Bath. It is time we told something about him on this program.

Unlike many a Yankee success story, William King’s was not a rise from rags to riches. When he was born in Scarborough in 1768, his family was already prominent. His grandfather, Richard King, came from England to Massachusetts early in the 18th century. When William’s father died at an early age, the family already owned several sawmills and gristmills, but the father’s early death so dispersed the family fortune that William could not seek the cherished education at Harvard, but went to work in a sawmill in Topsham. At the age of 27, he was already a member of the Massachusetts legislature. He was so active and determined in the long and frustrating campaign to make Maine a separate state, that when that campaign finally succeeded in 1820, King was elected the first governor.

William King owned a fleet of coastal vessels and did a big business in both transportation and sale of cargoes, especially with the West Indies. He was one of the original trustees of Bowdoin College, and in 1813, as a Mass. senator, he sponsored the bill that established the Maine Literary and Theological Institution, the school that is now Colby College. He was for many years an influential Colby trustee.

Some interesting stories that have come down through the years give sidelights on Maine’s first governor. One such story tells us that, on a Sunday morning near the close of the 18th century, the people of Bath were on their way to the Old North Church. They, especially the ladies, were looking for an expected female visitor. “She was the belle of Boston society,” said one. “She is the greatest beauty of the year,” said another. “Her gown will be the latest Boston style”, said a third.

What was the cause of this curiosity? William King was that day to bring to Bath his new bride, who would make her first local appearance at service in the Old North Church. While in Boston on business, King had met Ann Frazier, had continued to woo her, and had married her in a fashionable Boston wedding.

The service had already begun when the quiet was broken by a rustle of silk. Down the aisle walked Mr. and Mrs. King, eagerly observed by the whole congregation. The young couple took their places in the family pew. At the close of the service, on the church green, all the prominent people of Bath welcomed the new bride.

William King had his troubles. His liberal religious views did not at all suit the orthodox majority in Bath. The card parties in his big house were called works of the Devil. King was very fond of the new game of whist and was completely oblivious to the criticism.

One day a conservative layman of North Church said to King: “Card playing means cheating. If I were to play, I know it would make me cheat.” King replied: “In your case I dare say that is true, but I never allow myself to play in such company
as yours.”

King had such difficulties with the North Church that he finally left it and joined Old South, where he found more liberal company. To explain his move he told this story: “Once there was a thrifty young woodchuck that dug a hole for his winter house and filled it with nuts. On a bitter winter day a shiftless skunk came along. Seeing the woodchuck’s warm home, he asked to be let in. The woodchuck gave him a hearty welcome. The skunk got warm and should have gone on his way, but he stayed and stayed. He slept in the woodchuck’s bed, he ate the woodchuck’s food, and it wasn’t long before the woodchuck himself began to smell like a skunk. Things got so bad the woodchuck had to move out and let the skunk take over. That’s the way it was with me and Old North Church.”

William King’s last years were darkened by financial loss, family tragedy, and loss of his own health. In 1852, at the age of 85, he passed away.

Now let’s talk a bit about another Maine man. A prolific writer of boy’s stories, all about Maine, was Elijah Kellogg, the 19th century minister at Harpswell. His books about Maine youth in colonial and Revolutionary times thrilled young readers, even as late as the time of my own boyhood. I still remember his book Lion Ben, the story of a Maine boy in the 1740’s, who helped get the King’s Masts out of the Durham woods and down to the sea at South Freeport.

Elijah Kellog was born in Portland on May 20, 1813. He became a preacher of powerful speech and a constant writer. Refusing many offers from city churches he kept his small Harpswell parish and made his home on Harpswell Neck. Holman Day, the Maine novelist and poet, told of visiting Kellog in 1899, only two years before Kellogg’s death. It was an unannounced visit and the preacher was not at home. When Day arrived, the house was deserted, but there were signs of life. In the carriage house was the clergyman’s old-fashioned chaise, the muddy everyday cart, and a single-seated wagon with a big umbrella tucked under the seat. In a stall was the old horse, and behind the barn a cow was feeding. It turned out that Kellogg had been invited across the bay to the summer cottage of his friend Gen. Joshua Chamberlain, the hero of Gettysburg. The two had known each other since the days when Chamberlain was a student at Bowdoin, the college of which he had also been president a few years before Day’s visit to Harpswell.

The General rowed the preacher back to the Harpswell shore. The two came up the bank together, Chamberlain carrying the empty basket in which Kellogg had brought him some choice apples from the Kellogg farm. Handing the basket to Kellogg, the General said, “Goodbye, Uncle Elijah”, and went back to his boat.

Day asked Kellogg how he happened to write books for boys. Kellogg replied, “I decided in that way I could reach a larger congregation.”

The scene of many Kellogg books was Elm Island. Day asked him where it was. “In my own imagination,” said Kellogg. “You’ll have a hard time finding a Maine island that bears northwest from the mainland. That’s the way I pointed Elm Island.”

“The boys books I had read,” continued Kellogg, “all told boys how to play. I wanted to tell them how to work. When men come to tell me that these books helped them when they were boys, of course I am pleased.”

Probably Elijah Kellogg’s best known writing was “Spartacus to the Gladiators”, an oration memorized and delivered by school speaking contests for many years after its original appearance.

A close rival to that oration was Kellogg’s “Regulus to the Carthaginians”.

Kellogg smilingly told Day, “They had to ban Spartacus from Bowdoin declamations. The professors said it was just no use to put other selections against it. The prize almost always went to the boy who thundered Spartacus.”

Asked why he stayed in Harpswell, Kellogg replied: “This parish is world enough for me. And what friends I have made! This very week I had helping me on this place great-grandchildren of my first parishioners.”

In 1894, when Kellogg was 81 years old, he was a speaker at the Bowdoin centennial. Among the speakers was the Secretary of War, the Chief Justice of the U.S., and the Chief Justice of Maine. The program was so long that the audience began to drift out of the stifling tent. The word came that Elijah Kellogg was speaking. The people flocked back inside, craning their necks to hear the aged preacher.

He told how he came to settle in Harpswell. As a college student he supplied that pulpit, and the people asked him to stay. He said proudly that he had never had another pastorate, but had stayed at that one church for 70 years. The eloquence of his final sentences left the audience spellbound. Before they could break into applause, the old man had left the tent, unhitched his horse, and was on his way to Harpswell.

Another good story of long ago tells how the King of France came to Maine. The harvest season of 1797 found great excitement at Emery’s tavern in Sanford. Louis Philippe of France, accompanied by his two brothers and by the famous Talleyrand, would pass through the town on their way to Portland. The French Revolution had seen the execution of Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette and also of Louise Philippe’s father who was called Louis Philippe Egalite. Young Louis Philippe fled France in fear of his life and travelled through Europe for about two years.

Although 20 years had passed since the American Declaration of Independence, the people of Maine still felt a wholesome respect for royalty. For hours the Emery boys watched the old post road for signs of the visiting cavalcade. When it arrived, the boys were disappointed. They saw a serious faced young man in a long, dark cloak, carrying an umbrella. Where were the velvets and the gold braid? Where was the expected pomp of royalty? The boys thought he looked inferior to their own grandfather who, to meet the French party, had donned a swallow-tail coat with brass buttons, a wide white collar and a huge silver watch chain across his stomach.

The French party did stop at the Emery tavern for dinner. The meal was not served one course at a time, but all the good things were put on the table at once. Probably during the French Revolution and his own exile Louis Philippe had not partaken of such a meal. Haunches of venison, spareribs of pork, roasts of beef, stuffed turkey, baked beans, pancakes and maple syrup, apple, mince and pumpkin pies! And the big pitchers of cider appealed to Louis as much as did the Madeira wine which Emery also offered. All was served on the best china and on snowy, homespun linen.

Twenty-eight years later the same Emery tavern entertained a guest who was implicated in restoring the French throne, with Louis Philippe as its occupant. That visitor was America’s best French friend, the Marquis de Lafayette, on his memorable visit to America in 1825. During his stay in this country he laid the cornerstone of the Bunker Hill Monument, and in majestic pomp he was received as a visitor to Portland.

Year: 1974