ACRES OF DIAMONDS By Russell H. Conwell Founder Of Temple University Philadelphia _His Life And Achievement By Robert Shackleton_ With an Autobiographical Note ACRES OF DIAMONDS CONTENTS ACRES OF DIAMONDS HIS LIFE AND ACHIEVEMENTS I. THE STORY OF THE SWORD II. THE BEGINNING AT OLD LEXINGTON III. STORY OF THE FIFTY-SEVEN CENTS IV. HIS POWER AS ORATOR AND PREACHER V. GIFT FOR INSPIRING OTHERS VI. MILLIONS OF HEARERS VII. HOW A UNIVERSITY WAS FOUNDED VIII. HIS SPLENDID EFFICIENCY IX. THE STORY OF ``ACRES OF DIAMONDS'' FIFTY YEARS ON THE LECTURE PLATFORM AN APPRECIATION THOUGH Russell H. Conwell's Acres of Diamonds have been spread all overthe United States, time and care have made them more valuable, and nowthat they have been reset in black and white by their discoverer, theyare to be laid in the hands of a multitude for their enrichment. In the same case with these gems there is a fascinating story of theMaster Jeweler's life-work which splendidly illustrates the ultimateunit of power by showing what one man can do in one day and what onelife is worth to the world. As his neighbor and intimate friend in Philadelphia for thirty years, Iam free to say that Russell H. Conwell's tall, manly figure stands outin the state of Pennsylvania as its first citizen and "The Big Brother"of its seven millions of people. From the beginning of his career he has been a credible witness in theCourt of Public Works to the truth of the strong language of theNew Testament Parable where it says, "If ye have faith as a grain ofmustard-seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, 'Remove hence to yonderplace, ' AND IT SHALL REMOVE AND NOTHING SHALL BE IMPOSSIBLE UNTO YOU. " As a student, schoolmaster, lawyer, preacher, organizer, thinker andwriter, lecturer, educator, diplomat, and leader of men, he has made hismark on his city and state and the times in which he has lived. A mandies, but his good work lives. His ideas, ideals, and enthusiasms have inspired tens of thousands oflives. A book full of the energetics of a master workman is just whatevery young man cares for. 1915. {signature} ACRES OF DIAMONDS _Friends_. --This lecture has been delivered under these circumstances:I visit a town or city, and try to arrive there early enough to see thepostmaster, the barber, the keeper of the hotel, the principal of theschools, and the ministers of some of the churches, and then go intosome of the factories and stores, and talk with the people, and get intosympathy with the local conditions of that town or city and see whathas been their history, what opportunities they had, and what they hadfailed to do--and every town fails to do something--and then go to thelecture and talk to those people about the subjects which applied totheir locality. "Acres of Diamonds"--the idea--has continuously beenprecisely the same. The idea is that in this country of ours every manhas the opportunity to make more of himself than he does in his ownenvironment, with his own skill, with his own energy, and with his ownfriends. RUSSELL H. CONWELL. ACRES OF DIAMONDS[1] WHEN going down the Tigris and Euphrates rivers many years ago with aparty of English travelers I found myself under the direction of an oldArab guide whom we hired up at Bagdad, and I have often thought howthat guide resembled our barbers in certain mental characteristics. Hethought that it was not only his duty to guide us down those rivers, and do what he was paid for doing, but also to entertain us with storiescurious and weird, ancient and modern, strange and familiar. Many ofthem I have forgotten, and I am glad I have, but there is one I shallnever forget. The old guide was leading my camel by its halter along the banks ofthose ancient rivers, and he told me story after story until I grewweary of his story-telling and ceased to listen. I have never beenirritated with that guide when he lost his temper as I ceased listening. But I remember that he took off his Turkish cap and swung it in a circleto get my attention. I could see it through the corner of my eye, butI determined not to look straight at him for fear he would tell anotherstory. But although I am not a woman, I did finally look, and as soon asI did he went right into another story. Said he, "I will tell you a story now which I reserve for my particularfriends. " When he emphasized the words "particular friends, " I listened, and I have ever been glad I did. I really feel devoutly thankful, thatthere are 1, 674 young men who have been carried through college by thislecture who are also glad that I did listen. The old guide told me thatthere once lived not far from the River Indus an ancient Persian by thename of Ali Hafed. He said that Ali Hafed owned a very large farm, that he had orchards, grain-fields, and gardens; that he had money atinterest, and was a wealthy and contented man. He was contented becausehe was wealthy, and wealthy because he was contented. One day therevisited that old Persian farmer one of these ancient Buddhist priests, one of the wise men of the East. He sat down by the fire and told theold farmer how this world of ours was made. He said that this world wasonce a mere bank of fog, and that the Almighty thrust His finger intothis bank of fog, and began slowly to move His finger around, increasingthe speed until at last He whirled this bank of fog into a solid ball offire. Then it went rolling through the universe, burning its way throughother banks of fog, and condensed the moisture without, until it fell infloods of rain upon its hot surface, and cooled the outward crust. Then the internal fires bursting outward through the crust threw upthe mountains and hills, the valleys, the plains and prairies of thiswonderful world of ours. If this internal molten mass came bursting outand cooled very quickly it became granite; less quickly copper, lessquickly silver, less quickly gold, and, after gold, diamonds were made. Said the old priest, "A diamond is a congealed drop of sunlight. " Nowthat is literally scientifically true, that a diamond is an actualdeposit of carbon from the sun. The old priest told Ali Hafed that if hehad one diamond the size of his thumb he could purchase the county, andif he had a mine of diamonds he could place his children upon thronesthrough the influence of their great wealth. Ali Hafed heard all about diamonds, how much they were worth, and wentto his bed that night a poor man. He had not lost anything, but he waspoor because he was discontented, and discontented because he fearedhe was poor. He said, "I want a mine of diamonds, " and he lay awake allnight. Early in the morning he sought out the priest. I know by experience thata priest is very cross when awakened early in the morning, and when heshook that old priest out of his dreams, Ali Hafed said to him: "Will you tell me where I can find diamonds?" "Diamonds! What do you want with diamonds?" "Why, I wish to be immenselyrich. " "Well, then, go along and find them. That is all you have to do;go and find them, and then you have them. " "But I don't know where togo. " "Well, if you will find a river that runs through white sands, between high mountains, in those white sands you will always finddiamonds. " "I don't believe there is any such river. " "Oh yes, there areplenty of them. All you have to do is to go and find them, and then youhave them. " Said Ali Hafed, "I will go. " So he sold his farm, collected his money, left his family in charge ofa neighbor, and away he went in search of diamonds. He began his search, very properly to my mind, at the Mountains of the Moon. Afterward hecame around into Palestine, then wandered on into Europe, and at lastwhen his money was all spent and he was in rags, wretchedness, andpoverty, he stood on the shore of that bay at Barcelona, in Spain, whena great tidal wave came rolling in between the pillars of Hercules, andthe poor, afflicted, suffering, dying man could not resist the awfultemptation to cast himself into that incoming tide, and he sank beneathits foaming crest, never to rise in this life again. When that old guide had told me that awfully sad story he stopped thecamel I was riding on and went back to fix the baggage that was comingoff another camel, and I had an opportunity to muse over his story whilehe was gone. I remember saying to myself, "Why did he reserve thatstory for his 'particular friends'?" There seemed to be no beginning, nomiddle, no end, nothing to it. That was the first story I had ever heardtold in my life, and would be the first one I ever read, in which thehero was killed in the first chapter. I had but one chapter of thatstory, and the hero was dead. When the guide came back and took up the halter of my camel, he wentright ahead with the story, into the second chapter, just as thoughthere had been no break. The man who purchased Ali Hafed's farm one dayled his camel into the garden to drink, and as that camel put its noseinto the shallow water of that garden brook, Ali Hafed's successornoticed a curious flash of light from the white sands of the stream. Hepulled out a black stone having an eye of light reflecting all the huesof the rainbow. He took the pebble into the house and put it on themantel which covers the central fires, and forgot all about it. A few days later this same old priest came in to visit Ali Hafed'ssuccessor, and the moment he opened that drawing-room door he saw thatflash of light on the mantel, and he rushed up to it, and shouted:"Here is a diamond! Has Ali Hafed returned?" "Oh no, Ali Hafed has notreturned, and that is not a diamond. That is nothing but a stone wefound right out here in our own garden. " "But, " said the priest, "Itell you I know a diamond when I see it. I know positively that is adiamond. " Then together they rushed out into that old garden and stirred upthe white sands with their fingers, and lo! there came up other morebeautiful and valuable gems than the first. "Thus, " said the guideto me, and, friends, it is historically true, "was discovered thediamond-mine of Golconda, the most magnificent diamond-mine in all thehistory of mankind, excelling the Kimberly itself. The Kohinoor, and theOrloff of the crown jewels of England and Russia, the largest on earth, came from that mine. " When that old Arab guide told me the second chapter of his story, hethen took off his Turkish cap and swung it around in the air again toget my attention to the moral. Those Arab guides have morals to theirstories, although they are not always moral. As he swung his hat, hesaid to me, "Had Ali Hafed remained at home and dug in his own cellar, or underneath his own wheat-fields, or in his own garden, instead ofwretchedness, starvation, and death by suicide in a strange land, hewould have had 'acres of diamonds. ' For every acre of that old farm, yes, every shovelful, afterward revealed gems which since have decoratedthe crowns of monarchs. " When he had added the moral to his story I saw why he reserved it for"his particular friends. " But I did not tell him I could see it. It wasthat mean old Arab's way of going around a thing like a lawyer, tosay indirectly what he did not dare say directly, that "in his privateopinion there was a certain young man then traveling down the TigrisRiver that might better be at home in America. " I did not tell him Icould see that, but I told him his story reminded me of one, and I toldit to him quick, and I think I will tell it to you. I told him of a man out in California in 1847 who owned a ranch. Heheard they had discovered gold in southern California, and so with apassion for gold he sold his ranch to Colonel Sutter, and away he went, never to come back. Colonel Sutter put a mill upon a stream that ranthrough that ranch, and one day his little girl brought some wet sandfrom the raceway into their home and sifted it through her fingersbefore the fire, and in that falling sand a visitor saw the firstshining scales of real gold that were ever discovered in California. Theman who had owned that ranch wanted gold, and he could have secured itfor the mere taking. Indeed, thirty-eight millions of dollars hasbeen taken out of a very few acres since then. About eight years ago Idelivered this lecture in a city that stands on that farm, and theytold me that a one-third owner for years and years had been getting onehundred and twenty dollars in gold every fifteen minutes, sleeping orwaking, without taxation. You and I would enjoy an income like that--ifwe didn't have to pay an income tax. But a better illustration really than that occurred here in ourown Pennsylvania. If there is anything I enjoy above another on theplatform, it is to get one of these German audiences in Pennsylvaniabefore me, and fire that at them, and I enjoy it to-night. There wasa man living in Pennsylvania, not unlike some Pennsylvanians you haveseen, who owned a farm, and he did with that farm just what I should dowith a farm if I owned one in Pennsylvania--he sold it. But before hesold it he decided to secure employment collecting coal-oil for hiscousin, who was in the business in Canada, where they first discoveredoil on this continent. They dipped it from the running streams at thatearly time. So this Pennsylvania farmer wrote to his cousin asking foremployment. You see, friends, this farmer was not altogether a foolishman. No, he was not. He did not leave his farm until he had somethingelse to do. _*Of all the simpletons the stars shine on I don't know of aworse one than the man who leaves one job before he has gotten another_. That has especial reference to my profession, and has no referencewhatever to a man seeking a divorce. When he wrote to his cousin foremployment, his cousin replied, "I cannot engage you because you knownothing about the oil business. " Well, then the old farmer said, "I will know, " and with most commendablezeal (characteristic of the students of Temple University) he sethimself at the study of the whole subject. He began away back at thesecond day of God's creation when this world was covered thick and deepwith that rich vegetation which since has turned to the primitive bedsof coal. He studied the subject until he found that the drainingsreally of those rich beds of coal furnished the coal-oil that was worthpumping, and then he found how it came up with the living springs. Hestudied until he knew what it looked like, smelled like, tasted like, and how to refine it. Now said he in his letter to his cousin, "Iunderstand the oil business. " His cousin answered, "All right, come on. " So he sold his farm, according to the county record, for $833 (evenmoney, "no cents"). He had scarcely gone from that place before theman who purchased the spot went out to arrange for the watering of thecattle. He found the previous owner had gone out years before and puta plank across the brook back of the barn, edgewise into the surfaceof the water just a few inches. The purpose of that plank at thatsharp angle across the brook was to throw over to the other bank adreadful-looking scum through which the cattle would not put theirnoses. But with that plank there to throw it all over to one side, thecattle would drink below, and thus that man who had gone to Canada hadbeen himself damming back for twenty-three years a flood of coal-oilwhich the state geologists of Pennsylvania declared to us ten yearslater was even then worth a hundred millions of dollars to our state, and four years ago our geologist declared the discovery to be worthto our state a thousand millions of dollars. The man who owned thatterritory on which the city of Titusville now stands, and thosePleasantville valleys, had studied the subject from the second day ofGod's creation clear down to the present time. He studied it until heknew all about it, and yet he is said to have sold the whole of it for$833, and again I say, "no sense. " But I need another illustration. I found it in Massachusetts, and I amsorry I did because that is the state I came from. This young man inMassachusetts furnishes just another phase of my thought. He went toYale College and studied mines and mining, and became such an adept asa mining engineer that he was employed by the authorities of theuniversity to train students who were behind their classes. During hissenior year he earned $15 a week for doing that work. When hegraduated they raised his pay from $15 to $45 a week, and offered him aprofessorship, and as soon as they did he went right home to his mother. _*If they had raised that boy's pay from $15 to $15. 60 he would havestayed and been proud of the place, but when they put it up to $45 atone leap, he said, "Mother, I won't work for $45 a week. The idea ofa man with a brain like mine working for $45 a week!_ Let's go out inCalifornia and stake out gold-mines and silver-mines, and be immenselyrich. " Said his mother, "Now, Charlie, it is just as well to be happy as it isto be rich. " "Yes, " said Charlie, "but it is just as well to be rich and happy, too. " And they were both right about it. As he was an only son and she awidow, of course he had his way. They always do. They sold out in Massachusetts, and instead of going to California theywent to Wisconsin, where he went into the employ of the Superior CopperMining Company at $15 a week again, but with the proviso in his contractthat he should have an interest in any mines he should discover for thecompany. I don't believe he ever discovered a mine, and if I am lookingin the face of any stockholder of that copper company you wish he haddiscovered something or other. I have friends who are not here becausethey could not afford a ticket, who did have stock in that company atthe time this young man was employed there. This young man went outthere, and I have not heard a word from him. I don't know what becameof him, and I don't know whether he found any mines or not, but I don'tbelieve he ever did. But I do know the other end of the line. He had scarcely gotten out ofthe old homestead before the succeeding owner went out to dig potatoes. The potatoes were already growing in the ground when he bought the farm, and as the old farmer was bringing in a basket of potatoes ithugged very tight between the ends of the stone fence. You know inMassachusetts our farms are nearly all stone wall. There you are obligedto be very economical of front gateways in order to have some place toput the stone. When that basket hugged so tight he set it down on theground, and then dragged on one side, and pulled on the other side, andas he was dragging that basket through this farmer noticed in the upperand outer corner of that stone wall, right next the gate, a block ofnative silver eight inches square. That professor of mines, mining, andmineralogy who knew so much about the subject that he would not work for$45 a week, when he sold that homestead in Massachusetts sat right onthat silver to make the bargain. He was born on that homestead, wasbrought up there, and had gone back and forth rubbing the stone with hissleeve until it reflected his countenance, and seemed to say, "Here isa hundred thousand dollars right down here just for the taking. " But hewould not take it. It was in a home in Newburyport, Massachusetts, andthere was no silver there, all away off--well, I don't know where, andhe did not, but somewhere else, and he was a professor of mineralogy. My friends, that mistake is very universally made, and why should weeven smile at him. I often wonder what has become of him. I do not knowat all, but I will tell you what I "guess" as a Yankee. I guess that hesits out there by his fireside to-night with his friends gathered aroundhim, and he is saying to them something like this: "Do you know that manConwell who lives in Philadelphia?" "Oh yes, I have heard of him. " "Doyou know that man Jones that lives in Philadelphia?" "Yes, I have heardof him, too. " Then he begins to laugh, and shakes his sides and says to his friends, "Well, they have done just the same thing I did, precisely"--and thatspoils the whole joke, for you and I have done the same thing he did, and while we sit here and laugh at him he has a better right to sit outthere and laugh at us. I know I have made the same mistakes, but, ofcourse, that does not make any difference, because we don't expect thesame man to preach and practise, too. As I come here to-night and look around this audience I am seeing againwhat through these fifty years I have continually seen-men that aremaking precisely that same mistake. I often wish I could see the youngerpeople, and would that the Academy had been filled to-night with ourhigh-school scholars and our grammar-school scholars, that I could havethem to talk to. While I would have preferred such an audience as that, because they are most susceptible, as they have not grown up into theirprejudices as we have, they have not gotten into any custom that theycannot break, they have not met with any failures as we have; and whileI could perhaps do such an audience as that more good than I can dogrown-up people, yet I will do the best I can with the material I have. I say to you that you have "acres of diamonds" in Philadelphia rightwhere you now live. "Oh, " but you will say, "you cannot know much aboutyour city if you think there are any 'acres of diamonds' here. " I was greatly interested in that account in the newspaper of the youngman who found that diamond in North Carolina. It was one of the purestdiamonds that has ever been discovered, and it has several predecessorsnear the same locality. I went to a distinguished professor inmineralogy and asked him where he thought those diamonds came from. Theprofessor secured the map of the geologic formations of our continent, and traced it. He said it went either through the underlyingcarboniferous strata adapted for such production, westward throughOhio and the Mississippi, or in more probability came eastward throughVirginia and up the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. It is a fact that thediamonds were there, for they have been discovered and sold; and thatthey were carried down there during the drift period, from some northernlocality. Now who can say but some person going down with his drill inPhiladelphia will find some trace of a diamond-mine yet down here?Oh, friends! you cannot say that you are not over one of the greatestdiamond-mines in the world, for such a diamond as that only comes fromthe most profitable mines that are found on earth. But it serves simply to illustrate my thought, which I emphasize bysaying if you do not have the actual diamond-mines literally you haveall that they would be good for to you. Because now that the Queen ofEngland has given the greatest compliment ever conferred upon Americanwoman for her attire because she did not appear with any jewels at allat the late reception in England, it has almost done away with the useof diamonds anyhow. All you would care for would be the few you wouldwear if you wish to be modest, and the rest you would sell for money. Now then, I say again that the opportunity to get rich, to attain untogreat wealth, is here in Philadelphia now, within the reach of almostevery man and woman who hears me speak to-night, and I mean just what Isay. I have not come to this platform even under these circumstances torecite something to you. I have come to tell you what in God's sight Ibelieve to be the truth, and if the years of life have been of any valueto me in the attainment of common sense, I know I am right; that the menand women sitting here, who found it difficult perhaps to buy a ticketto this lecture or gathering to-night, have within their reach "acres ofdiamonds, " opportunities to get largely wealthy. There never was a placeon earth more adapted than the city of Philadelphia to-day, and neverin the history of the world did a poor man without capital have such anopportunity to get rich quickly and honestly as he has now in our city. I say it is the truth, and I want you to accept it as such; for if youthink I have come to simply recite something, then I would better not behere. I have no time to waste in any such talk, but to say the things Ibelieve, and unless some of you get richer for what I am saying to-nightmy time is wasted. I say that you ought to get rich, and it is your duty to get rich. Howmany of my pious brethren say to me, "Do you, a Christian minister, spend your time going up and down the country advising young people toget rich, to get money?" "Yes, of course I do. " They say, "Isn't thatawful! Why don't you preach the gospel instead of preaching about man'smaking money?" "Because to make money honestly is to preach the gospel. "That is the reason. The men who get rich may be the most honest men youfind in the community. "Oh, " but says some young man here to-night, "I have been told all mylife that if a person has money he is very dishonest and dishonorableand mean and contemptible. " My friend, that is the reason why you havenone, because you have that idea of people. The foundation of your faithis altogether false. Let me say here clearly, and say it briefly, thoughsubject to discussion which I have not time for here, ninety-eight outof one hundred of the rich men of America are honest. That is why theyare rich. That is why they are trusted with money. That is why theycarry on great enterprises and find plenty of people to work with them. It is because they are honest men. Says another young man, "I hear sometimes of men that get millions ofdollars dishonestly. " Yes, of course you do, and so do I. But they areso rare a thing in fact that the newspapers talk about them all the timeas a matter of news until you get the idea that all the other rich mengot rich dishonestly. My friend, you take and drive me--if you furnish the auto--out into thesuburbs of Philadelphia, and introduce me to the people who own theirhomes around this great city, those beautiful homes with gardens andflowers, those magnificent homes so lovely in their art, and I willintroduce you to the very best people in character as well as inenterprise in our city, and you know I will. A man is not really a trueman until he owns his own home, and they that own their homes are mademore honorable and honest and pure, and true and economical and careful, by owning the home. For a man to have money, even in large sums, is not an inconsistentthing. We preach against covetousness, and you know we do, in thepulpit, and oftentimes preach against it so long and use the terms about"filthy lucre" so extremely that Christians get the idea that whenwe stand in the pulpit we believe it is wicked for any man to havemoney--until the collection-basket goes around, and then we almost swearat the people because they don't give more money. Oh, the inconsistencyof such doctrines as that! Money is power, and you ought to be reasonably ambitious to have it. Youought because you can do more good with it than you could without it. Money printed your Bible, money builds your churches, money sends yourmissionaries, and money pays your preachers, and you would not have manyof them, either, if you did not pay them. I am always willing that mychurch should raise my salary, because the church that pays the largestsalary always raises it the easiest. You never knew an exception to itin your life. The man who gets the largest salary can do the most goodwith the power that is furnished to him. Of course he can if his spiritbe right to use it for what it is given to him. I say, then, you ought to have money. If you can honestly attain untoriches in Philadelphia, it is your Christian and godly duty to do so. Itis an awful mistake of these pious people to think you must be awfullypoor in order to be pious. Some men say, "Don't you sympathize with the poor people?" Of course Ido, or else I would not have been lecturing these years. I won't give inbut what I sympathize with the poor, but the number of poor who are tobe sympathized with is very small. To sympathize with a man whom God haspunished for his sins, thus to help him when God would still continue ajust punishment, is to do wrong, no doubt about it, and we do that morethan we help those who are deserving. While we should sympathize withGod's poor--that is, those who cannot help themselves--let us rememberthere is not a poor person in the United States who was not made poor byhis own shortcomings, or by the shortcomings of some one else. It is allwrong to be poor, anyhow. Let us give in to that argument and pass thatto one side. A gentleman gets up back there, and says, "Don't you think there aresome things in this world that are better than money?" Of course I do, but I am talking about money now. Of course there are some things higherthan money. Oh yes, I know by the grave that has left me standing alonethat there are some things in this world that are higher and sweeterand purer than money. Well do I know there are some things higherand grander than gold. Love is the grandest thing on God's earth, butfortunate the lover who has plenty of money. Money is power, money isforce, money will do good as well as harm. In the hands of good men andwomen it could accomplish, and it has accomplished, good. I hate to leave that behind me. I heard a man get up in a prayer-meetingin our city and thank the Lord he was "one of God's poor. " Well, Iwonder what his wife thinks about that? She earns all the money thatcomes into that house, and he smokes a part of that on the veranda. Idon't want to see any more of the Lord's poor of that kind, and I don'tbelieve the Lord does. And yet there are some people who think in orderto be pious you must be awfully poor and awfully dirty. That does notfollow at all. While we sympathize with the poor, let us not teach adoctrine like that. Yet the age is prejudiced against advising a Christian man (or, as a Jewwould say, a godly man) from attaining unto wealth. The prejudice is souniversal and the years are far enough back, I think, for me to safelymention that years ago up at Temple University there was a young man inour theological school who thought he was the only pious student in thatdepartment. He came into my office one evening and sat down by my desk, and said to me: "Mr. President, I think it is my duty sir, to come inand labor with you. " "What has happened now?" Said he, "I heard you sayat the Academy, at the Peirce School commencement, that you thought itwas an honorable ambition for a young man to desire to have wealth, andthat you thought it made him temperate, made him anxious to have a goodname, and made him industrious. You spoke about man's ambition to havemoney helping to make him a good man. Sir, I have come to tell you theHoly Bible says that 'money is the root of all evil. '" I told him I had never seen it in the Bible, and advised him to go outinto the chapel and get the Bible, and show me the place. So out he wentfor the Bible, and soon he stalked into my office with the Bible open, with all the bigoted pride of the narrow sectarian, or of one who foundshis Christianity on some misinterpretation of Scripture. He flung theBible down on my desk, and fairly squealed into my ear: "There it is, Mr. President; you can read it for yourself. " I said to him: "Well, young man, you will learn when you get a little older that you cannottrust another denomination to read the Bible for you. You belong toanother denomination. You are taught in the theological school, however, that emphasis is exegesis. Now, will you take that Bible and read ityourself, and give the proper emphasis to it?" He took the Bible, and proudly read, "'The love of money is the root ofall evil. '" Then he had it right, and when one does quote aright from that same oldBook he quotes the absolute truth. I have lived through fifty years ofthe mightiest battle that old Book has ever fought, and I have lived tosee its banners flying free; for never in the history of this worlddid the great minds of earth so universally agree that the Bible istrue--all true--as they do at this very hour. So I say that when he quoted right, of course he quoted the absolutetruth. "The love of money is the root of all evil. " He who tries toattain unto it too quickly, or dishonestly, will fall into many snares, no doubt about that. The love of money. What is that? It is making anidol of money, and idolatry pure and simple everywhere is condemned bythe Holy Scriptures and by man's common sense. The man that worshipsthe dollar instead of thinking of the purposes for which it ought to beused, the man who idolizes simply money, the miser that hordes his moneyin the cellar, or hides it in his stocking, or refuses to invest itwhere it will do the world good, that man who hugs the dollar until theeagle squeals has in him the root of all evil. I think I will leave that behind me now and answer the question ofnearly all of you who are asking, "Is there opportunity to get rich inPhiladelphia?" Well, now, how simple a thing it is to see where it is, and the instant you see where it is it is yours. Some old gentleman getsup back there and says, "Mr. Conwell, have you lived in Philadelphia forthirty-one years and don't know that the time has gone by when you canmake anything in this city?" "No, I don't think it is. " "Yes, it is;I have tried it. " "What business are you in?" "I kept a store here fortwenty years, and never made over a thousand dollars in the whole twentyyears. " "Well, then, you can measure the good you have been to this city by whatthis city has paid you, because a man can judge very well what he isworth by what he receives; that is, in what he is to the world at thistime. If you have not made over a thousand dollars in twenty years inPhiladelphia, it would have been better for Philadelphia if they hadkicked you out of the city nineteen years and nine months ago. A man hasno right to keep a store in Philadelphia twenty years and not make atleast five hundred thousand dollars even though it be a corner groceryup-town. " You say, "You cannot make five thousand dollars in a storenow. " Oh, my friends, if you will just take only four blocks around you, and find out what the people want and what you ought to supply and setthem down with your pencil and figure up the profits you would make ifyou did supply them, you would very soon see it. There is wealth rightwithin the sound of your voice. Some one says: "You don't know anything about business. A preacher neverknows a thing about business. " Well, then, I will have to prove that Iam an expert. I don't like to do this, but I have to do it because mytestimony will not be taken if I am not an expert. My father kept acountry store, and if there is any place under the stars where a mangets all sorts of experience in every kind of mercantile transactions, it is in the country store. I am not proud of my experience, butsometimes when my father was away he would leave me in charge of thestore, though fortunately for him that was not very often. But this didoccur many times, friends: A man would come in the store, and say to me, "Do you keep jack knives?" "No, we don't keep jack-knives, " and I wentoff whistling a tune. What did I care about that man, anyhow? Thenanother farmer would come in and say, "Do you keep jack knives?" "No, we don't keep jack-knives. " Then I went away and whistled another tune. Then a third man came right in the same door and said, "Do you keepjack-knives?" "No. Why is every one around here asking for jack-knives?Do you suppose we are keeping this store to supply the wholeneighborhood with jack-knives?" Do you carry on your store like thatin Philadelphia? The difficulty was I had not then learned that thefoundation of godliness and the foundation principle of success inbusiness are both the same precisely. The man who says, "I cannotcarry my religion into business" advertises himself either as being animbecile in business, or on the road to bankruptcy, or a thief, one ofthe three, sure. He will fail within a very few years. He certainly willif he doesn't carry his religion into business. If I had been carryingon my father's store on a Christian plan, godly plan, I would have hada jack-knife for the third man when he called for it. Then I would haveactually done him a kindness, and I would have received a reward myself, which it would have been my duty to take. There are some over-pious Christian people who think if you take anyprofit on anything you sell that you are an unrighteous man. On thecontrary, you would be a criminal to sell goods for less than they cost. You have no right to do that. You cannot trust a man with your money whocannot take care of his own. You cannot trust a man in your family thatis not true to his own wife. You cannot trust a man in the world thatdoes not begin with his own heart, his own character, and his own life. It would have been my duty to have furnished a jack-knife to the thirdman, or the second, and to have sold it to him and actually profitedmyself. I have no more right to sell goods without making a profit onthem than I have to overcharge him dishonestly beyond what they areworth. But I should so sell each bill of goods that the person to whom Isell shall make as much as I make. To live and let live is the principle of the gospel, and the principleof every-day common sense. Oh, young man, hear me; live as you go along. Do not wait until you have reached my years before you begin to enjoyanything of this life. If I had the millions back, or fifty cents of it, which I have tried to earn in these years, it would not do me anythinglike the good that it does me now in this almost sacred presenceto-night. Oh, yes, I am paid over and over a hundredfold to-night fordividing as I have tried to do in some measure as I went along throughthe years. I ought not speak that way, it sounds egotistic, but I am oldenough now to be excused for that. I should have helped my fellow-men, which I have tried to do, and every one should try to do, and get thehappiness of it. The man who goes home with the sense that he has stolena dollar that day, that he has robbed a man of what was his honest due, is not going to sweet rest. He arises tired in the morning, and goeswith an unclean conscience to his work the next day. He is not asuccessful man at all, although he may have laid up millions. But theman who has gone through life dividing always with his fellow-men, making and demanding his own rights and his own profits, and giving toevery other man his rights and profits, lives every day, and not onlythat, but it is the royal road to great wealth. The history of thethousands of millionaires shows that to be the case. The man over there who said he could not make anything in a store inPhiladelphia has been carrying on his store on the wrong principle. Suppose I go into your store to-morrow morning and ask, "Do you knowneighbor A, who lives one square away, at house No. 1240?" "Oh yes, Ihave met him. He deals here at the corner store. " "Where did he comefrom?" "I don't know. " "How many does he have in his family?" "I don'tknow. " "What ticket does he vote?" "I don't know. " "What church doeshe go to?" "I don't know, and don't care. What are you asking all thesequestions for?" If you had a store in Philadelphia would you answer me like that? If so, then you are conducting your business just as I carried on my father'sbusiness in Worthington, Massachusetts. You don't know where yourneighbor came from when he moved to Philadelphia, and you don't care. Ifyou had cared you would be a rich man now. If you had cared enough abouthim to take an interest in his affairs, to find out what he needed, you would have been rich. But you go through the world saying, "Noopportunity to get rich, " and there is the fault right at your own door. But another young man gets up over there and says, "I cannot take up themercantile business. " (While I am talking of trade it applies to everyoccupation. ) "Why can't you go into the mercantile business?" "BecauseI haven't any capital. " Oh, the weak and dudish creature that can'tsee over its collar! It makes a person weak to see these little dudesstanding around the corners and saying, "Oh, if I had plenty of capital, how rich I would get. " "Young man, do you think you are going to getrich on capital?" "Certainly. " Well, I say, "Certainly not. " If yourmother has plenty of money, and she will set you up in business, youwill "set her up in business, " supplying you with capital. The moment a young man or woman gets more money than he or she has grownto by practical experience, that moment he has gotten a curse. It isno help to a young man or woman to inherit money. It is no help to yourchildren to leave them money, but if you leave them education, if youleave them Christian and noble character, if you leave them a widecircle of friends, if you leave them an honorable name, it is far betterthan that they should have money. It would be worse for them, worse forthe nation, that they should have any money at all. Oh, young man, ifyou have inherited money, don't regard it as a help. It will curse youthrough your years, and deprive you of the very best things ofhuman life. There is no class of people to be pitied so much as theinexperienced sons and daughters of the rich of our generation. I pitythe rich man's son. He can never know the best things in life. One of the best things in our life is when a young man has earned hisown living, and when he becomes engaged to some lovely young woman, andmakes up his mind to have a home of his own. Then with that same lovecomes also that divine inspiration toward better things, and he beginsto save his money. He begins to leave off his bad habits and put moneyin the bank. When he has a few hundred dollars he goes out in thesuburbs to look for a home. He goes to the savings-bank, perhaps, forhalf of the value, and then goes for his wife, and when he takes hisbride over the threshold of that door for the first time he says inwords of eloquence my voice can never touch: "I have earned this homemyself. It is all mine, and I divide with thee. " That is the grandestmoment a human heart may ever know. But a rich man's son can never know that. He takes his bride into afiner mansion, it may be, but he is obliged to go all the way throughit and say to his wife, "My mother gave me that, my mother gave me that, and my mother gave me this, " until his wife wishes she had married hismother. I pity the rich man's son. The statistics of Massachusetts showed that not one rich man's son outof seventeen ever dies rich. I pity the rich man's sons unless they havethe good sense of the elder Vanderbilt, which sometimes happens. He wentto his father and said, "Did you earn all your money?" "I did, my son. Ibegan to work on a ferry-boat for twenty-five cents a day. " "Then, " saidhis son, "I will have none of your money, " and he, too, tried to getemployment on a ferry-boat that Saturday night. He could not get onethere, but he did get a place for three dollars a week. Of course, ifa rich man's son will do that, he will get the discipline of a poor boythat is worth more than a university education to any man. He would thenbe able to take care of the millions of his father. But as a rule therich men will not let their sons do the very thing that made them great. As a rule, the rich man will not allow his son to work--and his mother!Why, she would think it was a social disgrace if her poor, weak, littlelily-fingered, sissy sort of a boy had to earn his living with honesttoil. I have no pity for such rich men's sons. I remember one at Niagara Falls. I think I remember one a great dealnearer. I think there are gentlemen present who were at a great banquet, and I beg pardon of his friends. At a banquet here in Philadelphia theresat beside me a kind-hearted young man, and he said, "Mr. Conwell, you have been sick for two or three years. When you go out, take mylimousine, and it will take you up to your house on Broad Street. " Ithanked him very much, and perhaps I ought not to mention the incidentin this way, but I follow the facts. I got on to the seat with thedriver of that limousine, outside, and when we were going up I asked thedriver, "How much did this limousine cost?" "Six thousand eight hundred, and he had to pay the duty on it. " "Well, " I said, "does the owner ofthis machine ever drive it himself?" At that the chauffeur laughed soheartily that he lost control of his machine. He was so surprised at thequestion that he ran up on the sidewalk, and around a corner lamp-postout into the street again. And when he got out into the street helaughed till the whole machine trembled. He said: "He drive thismachine! Oh, he would be lucky if he knew enough to get out when we getthere. " I must tell you about a rich man's son at Niagara Falls. I came in fromthe lecture to the hotel, and as I approached the desk of the clerkthere stood a millionaire's son from New York. He was an indescribablespecimen of anthropologic potency. He had a skull-cap on one side of hishead, with a gold tassel in the top of it, and a gold-headed cane underhis arm with more in it than in his head. It is a very difficult thingto describe that young man. He wore an eye-glass that he could not seethrough, patent-leather boots that he could not walk in, and pants thathe could not sit down in--dressed like a grasshopper. This human cricketcame up to the clerk's desk just as I entered, adjusted his unseeingeye-glass, and spake in this wise to the clerk. You see, he thought itwas "Hinglish, you know, " to lisp. "Thir, will you have the kindness tosupply me with thome papah and enwelophs!" The hotel clerk measured thatman quick, and he pulled the envelopes and paper out of a drawer, threwthem across the counter toward the young man, and then turned away tohis books. You should have seen that young man when those envelopes cameacross that counter. He swelled up like a gobbler turkey, adjusted hisunseeing eye-glass, and yelled: "Come right back here. Now thir, willyou order a thervant to take that papah and enwelophs to yondah dethk. "Oh, the poor, miserable, contemptible American monkey! He could notcarry paper and envelopes twenty feet. I suppose he could not gethis arms down to do it. I have no pity for such travesties upon humannature. If you have not capital, young man, I am glad of it. What youneed is common sense, not copper cents. The best thing I can do is to illustrate by actual facts well-known toyou all. A. T. Stewart, a poor boy in New York, had $1. 50 to beginlife on. He lost 87 1/2 cents of that on the very first venture. Howfortunate that young man who loses the first time he gambles. That boysaid, "I will never gamble again in business, " and he never did. Howcame he to lose 87 1/2 cents? You probably all know the story how helost it--because he bought some needles, threads, and buttons to sellwhich people did not want, and had them left on his hands, a dead loss. Said the boy, "I will not lose any more money in that way. " Then he wentaround first to the doors and asked the people what they did want. Thenwhen he had found out what they wanted he invested his 62 1/2 cents tosupply a known demand. Study it wherever you choose--in business, inyour profession, in your housekeeping, whatever your life, that onething is the secret of success. You must first know the demand. You mustfirst know what people need, and then invest yourself where you are mostneeded. A. T. Stewart went on that principle until he was worth whatamounted afterward to forty millions of dollars, owning the very storein which Mr. Wanamaker carries on his great work in New York. Hisfortune was made by his losing something, which taught him the greatlesson that he must only invest himself or his money in somethingthat people need. When will you salesmen learn it? When will youmanufacturers learn that you must know the changing needs of humanity ifyou would succeed in life? Apply yourselves, all you Christian people, as manufacturers or merchants or workmen to supply that human need. Itis a great principle as broad as humanity and as deep as the Scriptureitself. The best illustration I ever heard was of John Jacob Astor. You knowthat he made the money of the Astor family when he lived in New York. Hecame across the sea in debt for his fare. But that poor boy with nothingin his pocket made the fortune of the Astor family on one principle. Some young man here to-night will say, "Well they could make thosefortunes over in New York but they could not do it in Philadelphia!" Myfriends, did you ever read that wonderful book of Riis (his memoryis sweet to us because of his recent death), wherein is given hisstatistical account of the records taken in 1889 of 107 millionairesof New York. If you read the account you will see that out of the 107millionaires only seven made their money in New York. Out of the 107millionaires worth ten million dollars in real estate then, 67 of themmade their money in towns of less than 3, 500 inhabitants. The richestman in this country to-day, if you read the real-estate values, hasnever moved away from a town of 3, 500 inhabitants. It makes not so muchdifference where you are as who you are. But if you cannot get rich inPhiladelphia you certainly cannot do it in New York. Now John Jacob Astor illustrated what can be done anywhere. He had amortgage once on a millinery-store, and they could not sell bonnetsenough to pay the interest on his money. So he foreclosed that mortgage, took possession of the store, and went into partnership with the verysame people, in the same store, with the same capital. He did not givethem a dollar of capital. They had to sell goods to get any money. Thenhe left them alone in the store just as they had been before, and hewent out and sat down on a bench in the park in the shade. What wasJohn Jacob Astor doing out there, and in partnership with people who hadfailed on his own hands? He had the most important and, to my mind, themost pleasant part of that partnership on his hands. For as John JacobAstor sat on that bench he was watching the ladies as they went by; andwhere is the man who would not get rich at that business? As he sat onthe bench if a lady passed him with her shoulders back and head up, andlooked straight to the front, as if she did not care if all the worlddid gaze on her, then he studied her bonnet, and by the time it was outof sight he knew the shape of the frame, the color of the trimmings, andthe crinklings in the feather. I sometimes try to describe a bonnet, butnot always. I would not try to describe a modern bonnet. Where is theman that could describe one? This aggregation of all sorts of driftwoodstuck on the back of the head, or the side of the neck, like a roosterwith only one tail feather left. But in John Jacob Astor's day therewas some art about the millinery business, and he went to themillinery-store and said to them: "Now put into the show-window justsuch a bonnet as I describe to you, because I have already seen a ladywho likes such a bonnet. Don't make up any more until I come back. "Then he went out and sat down again, and another lady passed him ofa different form, of different complexion, with a different shape andcolor of bonnet. "Now, " said he, "put such a bonnet as that in the showwindow. " He did not fill his show-window up town with a lot of hats andbonnets to drive people away, and then sit on the back stairs and bawlbecause people went to Wanamaker's to trade. He did not have a hat or abonnet in that show-window but what some lady liked before it was madeup. The tide of custom began immediately to turn in, and that has beenthe foundation of the greatest store in New York in that line, and stillexists as one of three stores. Its fortune was made by John Jacob Astorafter they had failed in business, not by giving them any more money, but by finding out what the ladies liked for bonnets before they wastedany material in making them up. I tell you if a man could foresee themillinery business he could foresee anything under heaven! Suppose I were to go through this audience to-night and ask you in thisgreat manufacturing city if there are not opportunities to get rich inmanufacturing. "Oh yes, " some young man says, "there are opportunitieshere still if you build with some trust and if you have two or threemillions of dollars to begin with as capital. " Young man, the history ofthe breaking up of the trusts by that attack upon "big business" is onlyillustrating what is now the opportunity of the smaller man. The timenever came in the history of the world when you could get rich soquickly manufacturing without capital as you can now. But you will say, "You cannot do anything of the kind. You cannot startwithout capital. " Young man, let me illustrate for a moment. I must doit. It is my duty to every young man and woman, because we are all goinginto business very soon on the same plan. Young man, remember if youknow what people need you have gotten more knowledge of a fortune thanany amount of capital can give you. There was a poor man out of work living in Hingham, Massachusetts. Helounged around the house until one day his wife told him to get out andwork, and, as he lived in Massachusetts, he obeyed his wife. He went outand sat down on the shore of the bay, and whittled a soaked shingleinto a wooden chain. His children that evening quarreled over it, and hewhittled a second one to keep peace. While he was whittling the secondone a neighbor came in and said: "Why don't you whittle toys and sellthem? You could make money at that. " "Oh, " he said, "I would not knowwhat to make. " "Why don't you ask your own children right here in yourown house what to make?" "What is the use of trying that?" said thecarpenter. "My children are different from other people's children. " (Iused to see people like that when I taught school. ) But he acted uponthe hint, and the next morning when Mary came down the stairway, heasked, "What do you want for a toy?" She began to tell him she wouldlike a doll's bed, a doll's washstand, a doll's carriage, a littledoll's umbrella, and went on with a list of things that would take hima lifetime to supply. So, consulting his own children, in his own house, he took the firewood, for he had no money to buy lumber, and whittledthose strong, unpainted Hingham toys that were for so many years knownall over the world. That man began to make those toys for his ownchildren, and then made copies and sold them through the boot-and-shoestore next door. He began to make a little money, and then a littlemore, and Mr. Lawson, in his _Frenzied Finance_ says that man is therichest man in old Massachusetts, and I think it is the truth. And thatman is worth a hundred millions of dollars to-day, and has been onlythirty-four years making it on that one principle--that one must judgethat what his own children like at home other people's children wouldlike in their homes, too; to judge the human heart by oneself, byone's wife or by one's children. It is the royal road to success inmanufacturing. "Oh, " but you say, "didn't he have any capital?" Yes, apenknife, but I don't know that he had paid for that. I spoke thus to an audience in New Britain, Connecticut, and a ladyfour seats back went home and tried to take off her collar, and thecollar-button stuck in the buttonhole. She threw it out and said, "Iam going to get up something better than that to put on collars. " Herhusband said: "After what Conwell said to-night, you see there is aneed of an improved collar-fastener that is easier to handle. There is ahuman need; there is a great fortune. Now, then, get up a collar-buttonand get rich. " He made fun of her, and consequently made fun of me, andthat is one of the saddest things which comes over me like a deep cloudof midnight sometimes--although I have worked so hard for more than halfa century, yet how little I have ever really done. Notwithstanding thegreatness and the handsomeness of your compliment to-night, I do notbelieve there is one in ten of you that is going to make a million ofdollars because you are here to-night; but it is not my fault, it isyours. I say that sincerely. What is the use of my talking if peoplenever do what I advise them to do? When her husband ridiculed her, shemade up her mind she would make a better collar-button, and when a womanmakes up her mind "she will, " and does not say anything about it, shedoes it. It was that New England woman who invented the snap buttonwhich you can find anywhere now. It was first a collar-button witha spring cap attached to the outer side. Any of you who wear modernwaterproofs know the button that simply pushes together, and when youunbutton it you simply pull it apart. That is the button to which Irefer, and which she invented. She afterward invented several otherbuttons, and then invested in more, and then was taken into partnershipwith great factories. Now that woman goes over the sea every summerin her private steamship--yes, and takes her husband with her! If herhusband were to die, she would have money enough left now to buya foreign duke or count or some such title as that at the latestquotations. Now what is my lesson in that incident? It is this: I told her then, though I did not know her, what I now say to you, "Your wealth is toonear to you. You are looking right over it"; and she had to look over itbecause it was right under her chin. I have read in the newspaper that a woman never invented anything. Well, that newspaper ought to begin again. Of course, I do not referto gossip--I refer to machines--and if I did I might better includethe men. That newspaper could never appear if women had not inventedsomething. Friends, think. Ye women, think! You say you cannot make afortune because you are in some laundry, or running a sewing-machine, itmay be, or walking before some loom, and yet you can be a millionaire ifyou will but follow this almost infallible direction. When you say a woman doesn't invent anything, I ask, Who inventedthe Jacquard loom that wove every stitch you wear? Mrs. Jacquard. Theprinter's roller, the printing-press, were invented by farmers' wives. Who invented the cotton-gin of the South that enriched our country soamazingly? Mrs. General Greene invented the cotton-gin and showed theidea to Mr. Whitney, and he, like a man, seized it. Who was it thatinvented the sewing-machine? If I would go to school to-morrow and askyour children they would say, "Elias Howe. " He was in the Civil War with me, and often in my tent, and I often heardhim say that he worked fourteen years to get up that sewing-machine. But his wife made up her mind one day that they would starve to deathif there wasn't something or other invented pretty soon, and so in twohours she invented the sewing-machine. Of course he took out the patentin his name. Men always do that. Who was it that invented the mower andthe reaper? According to Mr. McCormick's confidential communication, sorecently published, it was a West Virginia woman, who, after his fatherand he had failed altogether in making a reaper and gave it up, took alot of shears and nailed them together on the edge of a board, with oneshaft of each pair loose, and then wired them so that when she pulledthe wire one way it closed them, and when she pulled the wire theother way it opened them, and there she had the principle of themowing-machine. If you look at a mowing-machine, you will see it isnothing but a lot of shears. If a woman can invent a mowing-machine, ifa woman can invent a Jacquard loom, if a woman can invent a cotton-gin, if a woman can invent a trolley switch--as she did and made the trolleyspossible; if a woman can invent, as Mr. Carnegie said, the great ironsqueezers that laid the foundation of all the steel millions of theUnited States, "we men" can invent anything under the stars! I say thatfor the encouragement of the men. Who are the great inventors of the world? Again this lesson comes beforeus. The great inventor sits next to you, or you are the person yourself. "Oh, " but you will say, "I have never invented anything in my life. "Neither did the great inventors until they discovered one great secret. Do you think it is a man with a head like a bushel measure or a man likea stroke of lightning? It is neither. The really great man is a plain, straightforward, every-day, common-sense man. You would not dream thathe was a great inventor if you did not see something he had actuallydone. His neighbors do not regard him so great. You never see anythinggreat over your back fence. You say there is no greatness among yourneighbors. It is all away off somewhere else. Their greatness is everso simple, so plain, so earnest, so practical, that the neighbors andfriends never recognize it. True greatness is often unrecognized. That is sure. You do not knowanything about the greatest men and women. I went out to write the lifeof General Garfield, and a neighbor, knowing I was in a hurry, and asthere was a great crowd around the front door, took me around to GeneralGarfield's back door and shouted, "Jim! Jim!" And very soon "Jim" cameto the door and let me in, and I wrote the biography of one of thegrandest men of the nation, and yet he was just the same old "Jim" tohis neighbor. If you know a great man in Philadelphia and you shouldmeet him to-morrow, you would say, "How are you, Sam?" or "Good morning, Jim. " Of course you would. That is just what you would do. One of my soldiers in the Civil War had been sentenced to death, and Iwent up to the White House in Washington--sent there for the first timein my life to see the President. I went into the waiting-room and satdown with a lot of others on the benches, and the secretary asked oneafter another to tell him what they wanted. After the secretary hadbeen through the line, he went in, and then came back to the door andmotioned for me. I went up to that anteroom, and the secretary said:"That is the President's door right over there. Just rap on it and goright in. " I never was so taken aback, friends, in all my life, never. The secretary himself made it worse for me, because he had told me howto go in and then went out another door to the left and shut that. There I was, in the hallway by myself before the President of the UnitedStates of America's door. I had been on fields of battle, where theshells did sometimes shriek and the bullets did sometimes hit me, but Ialways wanted to run. I have no sympathy with the old man who says, "Iwould just as soon march up to the cannon's mouth as eat my dinner. " Ihave no faith in a man who doesn't know enough to be afraid when he isbeing shot at. I never was so afraid when the shells came around us atAntietam as I was when I went into that room that day; but I finallymustered the courage--I don't know how I ever did--and at arm's-lengthtapped on the door. The man inside did not help me at all, but yelledout, "Come in and sit down!" Well, I went in and sat down on the edge of a chair, and wished I werein Europe, and the man at the table did not look up. He was one of theworld's greatest men, and was made great by one single rule. Oh, thatall the young people of Philadelphia were before me now and I could sayjust this one thing, and that they would remember it. I would give alifetime for the effect it would have on our city and on civilization. Abraham Lincoln's principle for greatness can be adopted by nearly all. This was his rule: Whatsoever he had to do at all, he put his whole mindinto it and held it all there until that was all done. That makes mengreat almost anywhere. He stuck to those papers at that table and didnot look up at me, and I sat there trembling. Finally, when he had putthe string around his papers, he pushed them over to one side and lookedover to me, and a smile came over his worn face. He said: "I am a verybusy man and have only a few minutes to spare. Now tell me in the fewestwords what it is you want. " I began to tell him, and mentioned the case, and he said: "I have heard all about it and you do not need to say anymore. Mr. Stanton was talking to me only a few days ago about that. Youcan go to the hotel and rest assured that the President never did signan order to shoot a boy under twenty years of age, and never will. Youcan say that to his mother anyhow. " Then he said to me, "How is it going in the field?" I said, "Wesometimes get discouraged. " And he said: "It is all right. We are goingto win out now. We are getting very near the light. No man ought towish to be President of the United States, and I will be glad when I getthrough; then Tad and I are going out to Springfield, Illinois. Ihave bought a farm out there and I don't care if I again earn onlytwenty-five cents a day. Tad has a mule team, and we are going to plantonions. " Then he asked me, "Were you brought up on a farm?" I said, "Yes; in theBerkshire Hills of Massachusetts. " He then threw his leg over the cornerof the big chair and said, "I have heard many a time, ever since I wasyoung, that up there in those hills you have to sharpen the noses of thesheep in order to get down to the grass between the rocks. " He was sofamiliar, so everyday, so farmer-like, that I felt right at home withhim at once. He then took hold of another roll of paper, and looked up at me andsaid, "Good morning. " I took the hint then and got up and went out. After I had gotten out I could not realize I had seen the President ofthe United States at all. But a few days later, when still in the city, I saw the crowd pass through the East Room by the coffin of AbrahamLincoln, and when I looked at the upturned face of the murderedPresident I felt then that the man I had seen such a short time before, who, so simple a man, so plain a man, was one of the greatest men thatGod ever raised up to lead a nation on to ultimate liberty. Yet he wasonly "Old Abe" to his neighbors. When they had the second funeral, I wasinvited among others, and went out to see that same coffin put back inthe tomb at Springfield. Around the tomb stood Lincoln's old neighbors, to whom he was just "Old Abe. " Of course that is all they would say. Did you ever see a man who struts around altogether too large to noticean ordinary working mechanic? Do you think he is great? He is nothingbut a puffed-up balloon, held down by his big feet. There is nogreatness there. Who are the great men and women? My attention was called the other dayto the history of a very little thing that made the fortune of a verypoor man. It was an awful thing, and yet because of that experiencehe--not a great inventor or genius--invented the pin that now is calledthe safety-pin, and out of that safety-pin made the fortune of one ofthe great aristocratic families of this nation. A poor man in Massachusetts who had worked in the nail-works was injuredat thirty-eight, and he could earn but little money. He was employed inthe office to rub out the marks on the bills made by pencil memorandums, and he used a rubber until his hand grew tired. He then tied a piece ofrubber on the end of a stick and worked it like a plane. His little girlcame and said, "Why, you have a patent, haven't you?" The father saidafterward, "My daughter told me when I took that stick and put therubber on the end that there was a patent, and that was the firstthought of that. " He went to Boston and applied for his patent, andevery one of you that has a rubber-tipped pencil in your pocket is nowpaying tribute to the millionaire. No capital, not a penny did he investin it. All was income, all the way up into the millions. But let me hasten to one other greater thought. "Show me the great menand women who live in Philadelphia. " A gentleman over there will get upand say: "We don't have any great men in Philadelphia. They don'tlive here. They live away off in Rome or St. Petersburg or London orManayunk, or anywhere else but here in our town. " I have come now to theapex of my thought. I have come now to the heart of the whole matter andto the center of my struggle: Why isn't Philadelphia a greater city inits greater wealth? Why does New York excel Philadelphia? People say, "Because of her harbor. " Why do many other cities of the United Statesget ahead of Philadelphia now? There is only one answer, and that isbecause our own people talk down their own city. If there ever wasa community on earth that has to be forced ahead, it is the city ofPhiladelphia. If we are to have a boulevard, talk it down; if we aregoing to have better schools, talk them down; if you wish to have wiselegislation, talk it down; talk all the proposed improvements down. Thatis the only great wrong that I can lay at the feet of the magnificentPhiladelphia that has been so universally kind to me. I say it is timewe turn around in our city and begin to talk up the things that arein our city, and begin to set them before the world as the people ofChicago, New York, St. Louis, and San Francisco do. Oh, if we onlycould get that spirit out among our people, that we can do things inPhiladelphia and do them well! Arise, ye millions of Philadelphians, trust in God and man, and believein the great opportunities that are right here not over in New York orBoston, but here--for business, for everything that is worth living foron earth. There was never an opportunity greater. Let us talk up our owncity. But there are two other young men here to-night, and that is all I willventure to say, because it is too late. One over there gets up and says, "There is going to be a great man in Philadelphia, but never was one. ""Oh, is that so? When are you going to be great?" "When I am electedto some political office. " Young man, won't you learn a lesson in theprimer of politics that it is a _prima facie_ evidence of littlenessto hold office under our form of government? Great men get into officesometimes, but what this country needs is men that will do what wetell them to do. This nation--where the people rule--is governed by thepeople, for the people, and so long as it is, then the office-holder isbut the servant of the people, and the Bible says the servant cannotbe greater than the master. The Bible says, "He that is sent cannot begreater than Him who sent Him. " The people rule, or should rule, and ifthey do, we do not need the greater men in office. If the great men inAmerica took our offices, we would change to an empire in the next tenyears. I know of a great many young women, now that woman's suffrage is coming, who say, "I am going to be President of the United States some day. "I believe in woman's suffrage, and there is no doubt but what it iscoming, and I am getting out of the way, anyhow. I may want an office byand by myself; but if the ambition for an office influences the women intheir desire to vote, I want to say right here what I say to the youngmen, that if you only get the privilege of casting one vote, you don'tget anything that is worth while. Unless you can control more thanone vote, you will be unknown, and your influence so dissipated aspractically not to be felt. This country is not run by votes. Doyou think it is? It is governed by influence. It is governed by theambitions and the enterprises which control votes. The young woman thatthinks she is going to vote for the sake of holding an office is makingan awful blunder. That other young man gets up and says, "There are going to be great menin this country and in Philadelphia. " "Is that so? When?" "When therecomes a great war, when we get into difficulty through watchful waitingin Mexico; when we get into war with England over some frivolous deed, or with Japan or China or New Jersey or some distant country. ThenI will march up to the cannon's mouth; I will sweep up among theglistening bayonets; I will leap into the arena and tear down the flagand bear it away in triumph. I will come home with stars on my shoulder, and hold every office in the gift of the nation, and I will be great. "No, you won't. You think you are going to be made great by an office, but remember that if you are not great before you get the office, youwon't be great when you secure it. It will only be a burlesque in thatshape. We had a Peace Jubilee here after the Spanish War. Out West they don'tbelieve this, because they said, "Philadelphia would not have heard ofany Spanish War until fifty years hence. " Some of you saw the processiongo up Broad Street. I was away, but the family wrote to me that thetally-ho coach with Lieutenant Hobson upon it stopped right at the frontdoor and the people shouted, "Hurrah for Hobson!" and if I had beenthere I would have yelled too, because he deserves much more of hiscountry than he has ever received. But suppose I go into school andsay, "Who sunk the _Merrimac_ at Santiago?" and if the boys answer me, "Hobson, " they will tell me seven-eighths of a lie. There were sevenother heroes on that steamer, and they, by virtue of their position, were continually exposed to the Spanish fire, while Hobson, as anofficer, might reasonably be behind the smoke-stack. You have gatheredin this house your most intelligent people, and yet, perhaps, not onehere can name the other seven men. We ought not to so teach history. We ought to teach that, however humblea man's station may be, if he does his full duty in that place he isjust as much entitled to the American people's honor as is the king uponhis throne. But we do not so teach. We are now teaching everywhere thatthe generals do all the fighting. I remember that, after the war, I went down to see General Robert E. Lee, that magnificent Christian gentleman of whom both North and Southare now proud as one of our great Americans. The general told me abouthis servant, "Rastus, " who was an enlisted colored soldier. He calledhim in one day to make fun of him, and said, "Rastus, I hear that allthe rest of your company are killed, and why are you not killed?" Rastuswinked at him and said, "'Cause when there is any fightin' goin' on Istay back with the generals. " I remember another illustration. I would leave it out but for the factthat when you go to the library to read this lecture, you will find thishas been printed in it for twenty-five years. I shut my eyes--shut themclose--and lo! I see the faces of my youth. Yes, they sometimes sayto me, "Your hair is not white; you are working night and day withoutseeming ever to stop; you can't be old. " But when I shut my eyes, likeany other man of my years, oh, then come trooping back the faces ofthe loved and lost of long ago, and I know, whatever men may say, it isevening-time. I shut my eyes now and look back to my native town in Massachusetts, and I see the cattle-show ground on the mountain-top; I can see thehorse-sheds there. I can see the Congregational church; see the townhall and mountaineers' cottages; see a great assembly of people turningout, dressed resplendently, and I can see flags flying and handkerchiefswaving and hear bands playing. I can see that company of soldiers thathad re-enlisted marching up on that cattle-show ground. I was but a boy, but I was captain of that company and puffed out with pride. A cambricneedle would have burst me all to pieces. Then I thought it was thegreatest event that ever came to man on earth. If you have ever thoughtyou would like to be a king or queen, you go and be received by themayor. The bands played, and all the people turned out to receive us. I marchedup that Common so proud at the head of my troops, and we turned downinto the town hall. Then they seated my soldiers down the center aisleand I sat down on the front seat. A great assembly of people a hundredor two--came in to fill the town hall, so that they stood up all around. Then the town officers came in and formed a half-circle. The mayor ofthe town sat in the middle of the platform. He was a man who had neverheld office before; but he was a good man, and his friends have told methat I might use this without giving them offense. He was a good man, but he thought an office made a man great. He came up and took his seat, adjusted his powerful spectacles, and looked around, when he suddenlyspied me sitting there on the front seat. He came right forward onthe platform and invited me up to sit with the town officers. No townofficer ever took any notice of me before I went to war, except toadvise the teacher to thrash me, and now I was invited up on the standwith the town officers. Oh my! the town mayor was then the emperor, theking of our day and our time. As I came up on the platform they gave mea chair about this far, I would say, from the front. When I had got seated, the chairman of the Selectmen arose and cameforward to the table, and we all supposed he would introduce theCongregational minister, who was the only orator in town, and that hewould give the oration to the returning soldiers. But, friends, youshould have seen the surprise which ran over the audience when theydiscovered that the old fellow was going to deliver that speech himself. He had never made a speech in his life, but he fell into the same errorthat hundreds of other men have fallen into. It seems so strange that aman won't learn he must speak his piece as a boy if he in-tends to bean orator when he is grown, but he seems to think all he has to do is tohold an office to be a great orator. So he came up to the front, and brought with him a speech which hehad learned by heart walking up and down the pasture, where he hadfrightened the cattle. He brought the manuscript with him and spreadit out on the table so as to be sure he might see it. He adjusted hisspectacles and leaned over it for a moment and marched back on thatplatform, and then came forward like this--tramp, tramp, tramp. He musthave studied the subject a great deal, when you come to think of it, because he assumed an "elocutionary" attitude. He rested heavily uponhis left heel, threw back his shoulders, slightly advanced the rightfoot, opened the organs of speech, and advanced his right foot at anangle of forty-five. As he stood in that elocutionary attitude, friends, this is just the way that speech went. Some people say to me, "Don't youexaggerate?" That would be impossible. But I am here for the lesson andnot for the story, and this is the way it went: "Fellow-citizens--" As soon as he heard his voice his fingers began togo like that, his knees began to shake, and then he trembled all over. He choked and swallowed and came around to the table to look at themanuscript. Then he gathered himself up with clenched fists and cameback: "Fellow-citizens, we are Fellow-citizens, we are--we are--weare--we are--we are--we are very happy--we are very happy--we are veryhappy. We are very happy to welcome back to their native town thesesoldiers who have fought and bled--and come back again to their nativetown. We are especially--we are especially--we are especially. We areespecially pleased to see with us to-day this young hero" (that meantme)--"this young hero who in imagination" (friends, remember he saidthat; if he had not said "in imagination" I would not be egotisticenough to refer to it at all)--"this young hero who in imagination wehave seen leading--we have seen leading--leading. We have seen leadinghis troops on to the deadly breach. We have seen his shining--we haveseen his shining--his shining--his shining sword--flashing. Flashing inthe sunlight, as he shouted to his troops, 'Come on'!" Oh dear, dear, dear! how little that good man knew about war. If he hadknown anything about war at all he ought to have known what any of my G. A. R. Comrades here to-night will tell you is true, that it is next toa crime for an officer of infantry ever in time of danger to go ahead ofhis men. "I, with my shining sword flashing in the sunlight, shoutingto my troops, 'Come on'!" I never did it. Do you suppose I would get infront of my men to be shot in front by the enemy and in the back by myown men? That is no place for an officer. The place for the officer inactual battle is behind the line. How often, as a staff officer, I rodedown the line, when our men were suddenly called to the line of battle, and the Rebel yells were coming out of the woods, and shouted: "Officersto the rear! Officers to the rear!" Then every officer gets behind theline of private soldiers, and the higher the officer's rank the fartherbehind he goes. Not because he is any the less brave, but becausethe laws of war require that. And yet he shouted, "I, with my shiningsword--" In that house there sat the company of my soldiers who hadcarried that boy across the Carolina rivers that he might not wet hisfeet. Some of them had gone far out to get a pig or a chicken. Some ofthem had gone to death under the shell-swept pines in the mountains ofTennessee, yet in the good man's speech they were scarcely known. He didrefer to them, but only incidentally. The hero of the hour was this boy. Did the nation owe him anything? No, nothing then and nothing now. Why was he the hero? Simply because that man fell into that same humanerror--that this boy was great because he was an officer and these wereonly private soldiers. Oh, I learned the lesson then that I will never forget so long as thetongue of the bell of time continues to swing for me. Greatness consistsnot in the holding of some future office, but really consists in doinggreat deeds with little means and the accomplishment of vast purposesfrom the private ranks of life. To be great at all one must be greathere, now, in Philadelphia. He who can give to this city better streetsand better sidewalks, better schools and more colleges, more happinessand more civilization, more of God, he will be great anywhere. Let everyman or woman here, if you never hear me again, remember this, that ifyou wish to be great at all, you must begin where you are and what youare, in Philadelphia, now. He that can give to his city any blessing, hewho can be a good citizen while he lives here, he that can make betterhomes, he that can be a blessing whether he works in the shop or sitsbehind the counter or keeps house, whatever be his life, he who would begreat anywhere must first be great in his own Philadelphia. HIS LIFE AND ACHIEVEMENTS By Robert Shackleton I. THE STORY OF THE SWORD[2] I SHALL write of a remarkable man, an interesting man, a man of power, of initiative, of will, of persistence; a man who plans vastly and whorealizes his plans; a man who not only does things himself, but who, even more important than that, is the constant inspiration of others. Ishall write of Russell H. Conwell. As a farmer's boy he was the leader of the boys of the rocky regionthat was his home; as a school-teacher he won devotion; as a newspapercorrespondent he gained fame; as a soldier in the Civil War he rose toimportant rank; as a lawyer he developed a large practice; as an authorhe wrote books that reached a mighty total of sales. He left the lawfor the ministry and is the active head of a great church that he raisedfrom nothingness. He is the most popular lecturer in the world andyearly speaks to many thousands. He is, so to speak, the discovererof "Acres of Diamonds, " through which thousands of men and women haveachieved success out of failure. He is the head of two hospitals, oneof them founded by himself, that have cared for a host of patients, boththe poor and the rich, irrespective of race or creed. He is the founderand head of a university that has already had tens of thousands ofstudents. His home is in Philadelphia; but he is known in every cornerof every state in the Union, and everywhere he has hosts of friends. Allof his life he has helped and inspired others. Quite by chance, and only yesterday, literally yesterday and by chance, and with no thought at the moment of Conwell although he had beenmuch in my mind for some time past, I picked up a thin little book ofdescription by William Dean Howells, and, turning the pages of a chapteron Lexington, old Lexington of the Revolution, written, so Howells hadset down, in 1882, I noticed, after he had written of the town itself, and of the long-past fight there, and of the present-day aspect, thathe mentioned the church life of the place and remarked on the strikingadvances made by the Baptists, who had lately, as he expressed it, been reconstituted out of very perishing fragments and made strongand flourishing, under the ministrations of a lay preacher, formerly acolonel in the Union army. And it was only a few days before I chancedupon this description that Dr. Conwell, the former colonel and formerlay preacher, had told me of his experiences in that little oldRevolutionary town. Howells went on to say that, so he was told, the colonel's success wasprincipally due to his making the church attractive to young people. Howells says no more of him; apparently he did not go to hear him; andone wonders if he has ever associated that lay preacher of Lexingtonwith the famous Russell H. Conwell of these recent years! "Attractive to young people. " Yes, one can recognize that to-day, justas it was recognized in Lexington. And it may be added that he at thesame time attracts older people, too! In this, indeed, lies his power. He makes his church interesting, his sermons interesting, hislectures interesting. He is himself interesting! Because of his beinginteresting, he gains attention. The attention gained, he inspires. Biography is more than dates. Dates, after all, are but mile-stonesalong the road of life. And the most important fact of Conwell's life isthat he lived to be eighty-two, working sixteen hours every day for thegood of his fellow-men. He was born on February 15, 1843--born ofpoor parents, in a low-roofed cottage in the eastern Berkshires, inMassachusetts. "I was born in this room, " he said to me, simply, as we sat togetherrecently [3] in front of the old fireplace in the principal room of thelittle cottage; for he has bought back the rocky farm of his father, andhas retained and restored the little old home. "I was born in this room. It was bedroom and kitchen. It was poverty. " And his voice sank with akind of grimness into silence. Then he spoke a little of the struggles of those long-past years; and wewent out on the porch, as the evening shadows fell, and looked outover the valley and stream and hills of his youth, and he told of hisgrandmother, and of a young Marylander who had come to the region ona visit; it was a tale of the impetuous love of those two, of rashmarriage, of the interference of parents, of the fierce rivalry ofanother suitor, of an attack on the Marylander's life, of passionatehastiness, of unforgivable words, of separation, of lifelong sorrow. "Why does grandmother cry so often?" he remembers asking when he was alittle boy. And he was told that it was for the husband of her youth. We went back into the little house, and he showed me the room in whichhe first saw John Brown. "I came down early one morning, and saw a huge, hairy man sprawled upon the bed there--and I was frightened, " he says. But John Brown did not long frighten him! For he was much at their houseafter that, and was so friendly with Russell and his brother thatthere was no chance for awe; and it gives a curious side-light on thecharacter of the stern abolitionist that he actually, with infinitepatience, taught the old horse of the Conwells to go home alone withthe wagon after leaving the boys at school, a mile or more away, and atschool-closing time to trot gently off for them without a driver whenmerely faced in that direction and told to go! Conwell remembers howJohn Brown, in training it, used patiently to walk beside the horse, andcontrol its going and its turnings, until it was quite ready to go andturn entirely by itself. The Conwell house was a station on the Underground Railway, and RussellConwell remembers, when a lad, seeing the escaping slaves that hisfather had driven across country and temporarily hidden. "Those wereheroic days, " he says, quietly. "And once in a while my father let mego with him. They were wonderful night drives--the cowering slaves, thedarkness of the road, the caution and the silence and dread of it all. "This underground route, he remembers, was from Philadelphia to NewHaven, thence to Springfield, where Conwell's father would take hischarge, and onward to Bellows Falls and Canada. Conwell tells, too, of meeting Frederick Douglass, the colored orator, in that little cottage in the hills. "'I never saw my father, ' Douglasssaid one day--his father was a white man--'and I remember little of mymother except that once she tried to keep an overseer from whipping me, and the lash cut across her own face, and her blood fell over me. ' "When John Brown was captured, " Conwell went on, "my father tried tosell this place to get a little money to send to help his defense. Buthe couldn't sell it, and on the day of the execution we knelt solemnlyhere, from eleven to twelve, just praying, praying in silence for thepassing soul of John Brown. And as we prayed we knew that others werealso praying, for a church-bell tolled during that entire hour, and itsawesome boom went sadly sounding over these hills. " Conwell believes that his real life dates from a happening of the timeof the Civil War--a happening that still looms vivid and intense beforehim, and which undoubtedly did deepen and strengthen his strong anddeep nature. Yet the real Conwell was always essentially the same. Neighborhood tradition still tells of his bravery as a boy and a youth, of his reckless coasting, his skill as a swimmer and his saving oflives, his strength and endurance, his plunging out into the darkness ofa wild winter night to save a neighbor's cattle. His soldiers came homewith tales of his devotion to them, and of how he shared his rationsand his blankets and bravely risked his life; of how he crept off into aswamp, at imminent peril, to rescue one of his men lost or mired there. The present Conwell was always Conwell; in fact, he may be tracedthrough his ancestry, too, for in him are the sturdy virtues, thebravery, the grim determination, the practicality, of his father; andromanticism, that comes from his grandmother; and the dreamy qualitiesof his mother, who, practical and hardworking New England woman that shewas, was at the same time influenced by an almost startling mysticism. And Conwell himself is a dreamer: first of all he is a dreamer; it isthe most important fact in regard to him! It is because he is a dreamerand visualizes his dreams that he can plan the great things that toother men would seem impossibilities; and then his intensely practicalside his intense efficiency, his power, his skill, his patience, hisfine earnestness, his mastery over others, develop his dreams intorealities. He dreams dreams and sees visions--but his visions are nevervisionary and his dreams become facts. The rocky hills which meant a dogged struggle for very existence, thefugitive slaves, John Brown--what a school for youth! And the literalschool was a tiny one-room school-house where young Conwell came underthe care of a teacher who realized the boy's unusual capabilitiesand was able to give him broad and unusual help. Then a wise countrypreacher also recognized the unusual, and urged the parents to givestill more education, whereupon supreme effort was made and youngRussell was sent to Wilbraham Academy. He likes to tell of his lifethere, and of the hardships, of which he makes light; and of the joywith which week-end pies and cakes were received from home! He tells of how he went out on the roads selling books from house tohouse, and of how eagerly he devoured the contents of the sample booksthat he carried. "They were a foundation of learning for me, " he says, soberly. "And they gave me a broad idea of the world. " He went to Yale in 1860, but the outbreak of the war interfered withcollege, and he enlisted in 1861. But he was only eighteen, and hisfather objected, and he went back to Yale. But next year he againenlisted, and men of his Berkshire neighborhood, likewise enlisting, insisted that he be their captain; and Governor Andrews, appealed to, consented to commission the nineteen-year-old youth who was so evidentlya natural leader; and the men gave freely of their scant money to getfor him a sword, all gay and splendid with gilt, and upon the sword wasthe declaration in stately Latin that, "True friendship is eternal. " And with that sword is associated the most vivid, the most momentousexperience of Russell Conwell's life. That sword hangs at the head of Conwell's bed in his home inPhiladelphia. Man of peace that he is, and minister of peace, thatsymbol of war has for over half a century been of infinite importance tohim. He told me the story as we stood together before that sword. And as hetold the story, speaking with quiet repression, but seeing it all andliving it all just as vividly as if it had occurred but yesterday, "Thatsword has meant so much to me, " he murmured; and then he began the tale: "A boy up there in the Berkshires, a neighbor's son, was John Ring; Icall him a boy, for we all called him a boy, and we looked upon him asa boy, for he was under-sized and under-developed--so much so that hecould not enlist. "But for some reason he was devoted to me, and he not only wanted toenlist, but he also wanted to be in the artillery company of which I wascaptain; and I could only take him along as my servant. I didn't want aservant, but it was the only way to take poor little Johnnie Ring. "Johnnie was deeply religious, and would read the Bible every eveningbefore turning in. In those days I was an atheist, or at least thoughtI was, and I used to laugh at Ring, and after a while he took to readingthe Bible outside the tent on account of my laughing at him! But he didnot stop reading it, and his faithfulness to me remained unchanged. "The scabbard of the sword was too glittering for the regulations"--theghost of a smile hovered on Conwell's lips--"and I could not wear it, and could only wear a plain one for service and keep this hanging in mytent on the tent-pole. John Ring used to handle it adoringly, and keptit polished to brilliancy. --It's dull enough these many years, " headded, somberly. "To Ring it represented not only his captain, but thevery glory and pomp of war. "One day the Confederates suddenly stormed our position near New Berneand swept through the camp, driving our entire force before them; andall, including my company, retreated hurriedly across the river, setting fire to a long wooden bridge as we went over. It soon blazed upfuriously, making a barrier that the Confederates could not pass. "But, unknown to everybody, and unnoticed, John Ring had dashed back tomy tent. I think he was able to make his way back because he just lookedlike a mere boy; but however that was, he got past the Confederates intomy tent and took down, from where it was hanging on the tent-pole, mybright, gold-scabbarded sword. "John Ring seized the sword that had long been so precious to him. Hedodged here and there, and actually managed to gain the bridge justas it was beginning to blaze. He started across. The flames were everymoment getting fiercer, the smoke denser, and now and then, as hecrawled and staggered on, he leaned for a few seconds far over the edgeof the bridge in an effort to get air. Both sides saw him; both sideswatched his terrible progress, even while firing was fiercely kept upfrom each side of the river. And then a Confederate officer--he was oneof General Pickett's officers--ran to the water's edge and waved a whitehandkerchief and the firing ceased. "'Tell that boy to come back here!' he cried. 'Tell him to come backhere and we will let him go free!' "He called this out just as Ring was about to enter upon the worst partof the bridge--the covered part, where there were top and bottom andsides of blazing wood. The roar of the flames was so close to Ring thathe could not hear the calls from either side of the river, and he pusheddesperately on and disappeared in the covered part. "There was dead silence except for the crackling of the fire. Not a mancried out. All waited in hopeless expectancy. And then came a mightyyell from Northerner and Southerner alike, for Johnnie came crawlingout of the end of the covered way--he had actually passed through thatfrightful place--and his clothes were ablaze, and he toppled overand fell into shallow water; and in a few moments he was dragged out, unconscious, and hurried to a hospital. "He lingered for a day or so, still unconscious, and then came tohimself and smiled a little as he found that the sword for which hehad given his life had been left beside him. He took it in his arms. Hehugged it to his breast. He gave a few words of final message for me. And that was all. " Conwell's voice had gone thrillingly low as he neared the end, for itwas all so very, very vivid to him, and his eyes had grown tender andhis lips more strong and firm. And he fell silent, thinking of thatlong-ago happening, and though he looked down upon the thronging trafficof Broad Street, it was clear that he did not see it, and that if therumbling hubbub of sound meant anything to him it was the rumbling ofthe guns of the distant past. When he spoke again it was with a stilltenser tone of feeling. "When I stood beside the body of John Ring and realized that he had diedfor love of me, I made a vow that has formed my life. I vowed that fromthat moment I would live not only my own life, but that I would alsolive the life of John Ring. And from that moment I have worked sixteenhours every day--eight for John Ring's work and eight hours for my own. " A curious note had come into his voice, as of one who had run the raceand neared the goal, fought the good fight and neared the end. "Every morning when I rise I look at this sword, or if I am away fromhome I think of the sword, and vow anew that another day shall seesixteen hours of work from me. " And when one comes to know RussellConwell one realizes that never did a man work more hard and constantly. "It was through John Ring and his giving his life through devotion tome that I became a Christian, " he went on. "This did not come aboutimmediately, but it came before the war was over, and it came throughfaithful Johnnie Ring. " There is a little lonely cemetery in the Berkshires, a tinyburying-ground on a wind-swept hill, a few miles from Conwell's oldhome. In this isolated burying-ground bushes and vines and grass grow inprofusion, and a few trees cast a gentle shade; and tree-clad hills gobillowing off for miles and miles in wild and lonely beauty. And inthat lonely little graveyard I found the plain stone that marks theresting-place of John Ring. II. THE BEGINNING AT OLD LEXINGTON IT is not because he is a minister that Russell Conwell is such a forcein the world. He went into the ministry because he was sincerely andprofoundly a Christian, and because he felt that as a minister hecould do more good in the world than in any other capacity. But beinga minister is but an incident, so to speak. The important thing is notthat he is a minister, but that he is himself! Recently I heard a New-Yorker, the head of a great corporation, say: "Ibelieve that Russell Conwell is doing more good in the world than anyman who has lived since Jesus Christ. " And he said this in serious andunexaggerated earnest. Yet Conwell did not get readily into his life-work. He might have seemedalmost a failure until he was well on toward forty, for although hekept making successes they were not permanent successes, and he did notsettle himself into a definite line. He restlessly went westward to makehis home, and then restlessly returned to the East. After the war wasover he was a lawyer, he was a lecturer, he was an editor, he wentaround the world as a correspondent, he wrote books. He kept makingmoney, and kept losing it; he lost it through fire, through investments, through aiding his friends. It is probable that the unsettledness ofthe years following the war was due to the unsettling effect of the waritself, which thus, in its influence, broke into his mature lifeafter breaking into his years at Yale. But however that may be, thoseseething, changing, stirring years were years of vital importance tohim, for in the myriad experiences of that time he was building thefoundation of the Conwell that was to come. Abroad he met the notablesof the earth. At home he made hosts of friends and loyal admirers. It is worth while noting that as a lawyer he would never take a case, either civil or criminal, that he considered wrong. It was basic withhim that he could not and would not fight on what he thought was thewrong side. Only when his client was right would he go ahead! Yet he laughs, his quiet, infectious, characteristic laugh, as hetells of how once he was deceived, for he defended a man, charged withstealing a watch, who was so obviously innocent that he took the case ina blaze of indignation and had the young fellow proudly exonerated. Thenext day the wrongly accused one came to his office and shamefacedlytook out the watch that he had been charged with stealing. "I want youto send it to the man I took it from, " he said. And he told with a sortof shamefaced pride of how he had got a good old deacon to give, in allsincerity, the evidence that exculpated him. "And, say, Mr. Conwell--Iwant to thank you for getting me off--and I hope you'll excuse mydeceiving you--and--I won't be any worse for not going to jail. " AndConwell likes to remember that thereafter the young man lived up to thepride of exoneration; and, though Conwell does not say it or thinkit, one knows that it was the Conwell influence that inspired tohonesty--for always he is an inspirer. Conwell even kept certain hours for consultation with those too poorto pay any fee; and at one time, while still an active lawyer, he wasguardian for over sixty children! The man has always been a marvel, andalways one is coming upon such romantic facts as these. That is a curious thing about him--how much there is of romance in hislife! Worshiped to the end by John Ring; left for dead all night atKenesaw Mountain; calmly singing "Nearer, my God, to Thee, " to quiet thepassengers on a supposedly sinking ship; saving lives even when a boy;never disappointing a single audience of the thousands of audiences hehas arranged to address during all his years of lecturing! He himselftakes a little pride in this last point, and it is characteristic of himthat he has actually forgotten that just once he did fail to appear:he has quite forgotten that one evening, on his way to a lecture, he stopped a runaway horse to save two women's lives, and went inconsequence to a hospital instead of to the platform! And it is typicalof him to forget that sort of thing. The emotional temperament of Conwell has always made him responsiveto the great, the striking, the patriotic. He was deeply influencedby knowing John Brown, and his brief memories of Lincoln are intense, though he saw him but three times in all. The first time he saw Lincoln was on the night when the future Presidentdelivered the address, which afterward became so famous, in CooperUnion, New York. The name of Lincoln was then scarcely known, and itwas by mere chance that young Conwell happened to be in New York on thatday. But being there, and learning that Abraham Lincoln from the Westwas going to make an address, he went to hear him. He tells how uncouthly Lincoln was dressed, even with one trousers-leghigher than the other, and of how awkward he was, and of how poorly, atfirst, he spoke and with what apparent embarrassment. The chairman ofthe meeting got Lincoln a glass of water, and Conwell thought that itwas from a personal desire to help him and keep him from breaking down. But he loves to tell how Lincoln became a changed man as he spoke;how he seemed to feel ashamed of his brief embarrassment and, pullinghimself together and putting aside the written speech which he hadprepared, spoke freely and powerfully, with splendid conviction, as onlya born orator speaks. To Conwell it was a tremendous experience. The second time he saw Lincoln was when he went to Washington to pleadfor the life of one of his men who had been condemned to death forsleeping on post. He was still but a captain (his promotion to acolonelcy was still to come), a youth, and was awed by going into thepresence of the man he worshiped. And his voice trembles a little, evennow, as he tells of how pleasantly Lincoln looked up from his desk, andhow cheerfully he asked his business with him, and of how absorbedlyLincoln then listened to his tale, although, so it appeared, he alreadyknew of the main outline. "It will be all right, " said Lincoln, when Conwell finished. But Conwellwas still frightened. He feared that in the multiplicity of publicmatters this mere matter of the life of a mountain boy, a privatesoldier, might be forgotten till too late. "It is almost the time set--"he faltered. And Conwell's voice almost breaks, man of emotion thathe is, as he tells of how Lincoln said, with stern gravity: "Go andtelegraph that soldier's mother that Abraham Lincoln never signed awarrant to shoot a boy under twenty, and never will. " That was the oneand only time that he spoke with Lincoln, and it remains an indelibleimpression. The third time he saw Lincoln was when, as officer of the day, he stoodfor hours beside the dead body of the President as it lay in statein Washington. In those hours, as he stood rigidly as the throng wentshuffling sorrowfully through, an immense impression came to ColonelConwell of the work and worth of the man who there lay dead, and thatimpression has never departed. John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, old Revolutionary Lexington--how Conwell'slife is associated with famous men and places!--and it was actuallyat Lexington that he made the crucial decision as to the course of hislife! And it seems to me that it was, although quite unconsciously, because of the very fact that it was Lexington that Conwell wasinfluenced to decide and to act as he did. Had it been in some otherkind of place, some merely ordinary place, some quite usual place, hemight not have taken the important step. But it was Lexington, it wasbrave old Lexington, inspiring Lexington; and he was inspired by it, forthe man who himself inspires nobly is always the one who is himself opento noble inspiration. Lexington inspired him. "When I was a lawyer in Boston and almost thirty-seven years old, " hetold me, thinking slowly back into the years, "I was consulted by awoman who asked my advice in regard to disposing of a little church inLexington whose congregation had become unable to support it. I went outand looked at the place, and I told her how the property could be sold. But it seemed a pity to me that the little church should be given up. However, I advised a meeting of the church members, and I attendedthe meeting. I put the case to them--it was only a handful of men andwomen--and there was silence for a little. Then an old man rose and, ina quavering voice, said the matter was quite clear; that there evidentlywas nothing to do but to sell, and that he would agree with the othersin the necessity; but as the church had been his church home fromboyhood, so he quavered and quivered on, he begged that they wouldexcuse him from actually taking part in disposing of it; and in a deepsilence he went haltingly from the room. "The men and the women looked at one another, still silent, sadlyimpressed, but not knowing what to do. And I said to them: 'Why notstart over again, and go on with the church, after all!'" Typical Conwellism, that! First, the impulse to help those who needhelping, then the inspiration and leadership. "'But the building is entirely too tumble-down to use, ' said one of themen, sadly; and I knew he was right, for I had examined it; but I said: "'Let us meet there to-morrow morning and get to work on that buildingourselves and put it in shape for a service next Sunday. ' "It made them seem so pleased and encouraged, and so confident that anew possibility was opening that I never doubted that each one of thosepresent, and many friends besides, would be at the building in themorning. I was there early with a hammer and ax and crowbar that I hadsecured, ready to go to work--but no one else showed up!" He has a rueful appreciation of the humor of it, as he pictured thescene; and one knows also that, in that little town of Lexington, whereAmericans had so bravely faced the impossible, Russell Conwell alsobraced himself to face the impossible. A pettier man would instantlyhave given up the entire matter when those who were most interestedfailed to respond, but one of the strongest features in Conwell'scharacter is his ability to draw even doubters and weaklings into line, his ability to stir even those who have given up. "I looked over that building, " he goes on, whimsically, "and I saw thatrepair really seemed out of the question. Nothing but a new church woulddo! So I took the ax that I had brought with me and began chopping theplace down. In a little while a man, not one of the church members, camealong, and he watched me for a time and said, 'What are you going to dothere?' "And I instantly replied, 'Tear down this old building and build a newchurch here!' "He looked at me. 'But the people won't do that, ' he said. "'Yes, they will, ' I said, cheerfully, keeping at my work. Whereupon hewatched me a few minutes longer and said: "'Well, you can put me down for one hundred dollars for the newbuilding. Come up to my livery-stable and get it this evening. ' "'All right; I'll surely be there, ' I replied. "In a little while another man came along and stopped and looked, andhe rather gibed at the idea of a new church, and when I told him of thelivery-stable man contributing one hundred dollars, he said, 'But youhaven't got the money yet!' "'No, ' I said; 'but I am going to get it to-night. ' "'You'll never get it, ' he said. 'He's not that sort of a man. He's noteven a church man!' "But I just went quietly on with the work, without answering, and afterquite a while he left; but he called back, as he went off, 'Well, if hedoes give you that hundred dollars, come to me and I'll give you anotherhundred. '" Conwell smiles in genial reminiscence and without any apparent sensethat he is telling of a great personal triumph, and goes on: "Those two men both paid the money, and of course the church peoplethemselves, who at first had not quite understood that I could be inearnest, joined in and helped, with work and money, and as, while thenew church was building, it was peculiarly important to get and keepthe congregation together, and as they had ceased to have a minister oftheir own, I used to run out from Boston and preach for them, in a roomwe hired. "And it was there in Lexington, in 1879, that I determined to become aminister. I had a good law practice, but I determined to give it up. Formany years I had felt more or less of a call to the ministry, and hereat length was the definite time to begin. "Week by week I preached there"--how strange, now, to think of WilliamDean Howells and the colonel-preacher!--"and after a while the churchwas completed, and in that very church, there in Lexington, I wasordained a minister. " A marvelous thing, all this, even without considering the marvelousheights that Conwell has since attained--a marvelous thing, anachievement of positive romance! That little church stood for Americanbravery and initiative and self-sacrifice and romanticism in a way thatwell befitted good old Lexington. To leave a large and overflowing law practice and take up the ministryat a salary of six hundred dollars a year seemed to the relatives ofConwell's wife the extreme of foolishness, and they did not hesitateso to express themselves. Naturally enough, they did not have Conwell'svision. Yet he himself was fair enough to realize and to admit thatthere was a good deal of fairness in their objections; and so he said tothe congregation that, although he was quite ready to come for the sixhundred dollars a year, he expected them to double his salary as soon ashe doubled the church membership. This seemed to them a good deal like ajoke, but they answered in perfect earnestness that they would be quitewilling to do the doubling as soon as he did the doubling, and in lessthan a year the salary was doubled accordingly. I asked him if he had found it hard to give up the lucrative law fora poor ministry, and his reply gave a delightful impression of hiscapacity for humorous insight into human nature, for he said, with agenial twinkle: "Oh yes, it was a wrench; but there is a sort of romance ofself-sacrifice, you know. I rather suppose the old-time martyrs ratherenjoyed themselves in being martyrs!" Conwell did not stay very long in Lexington. A struggling little churchin Philadelphia heard of what he was doing, and so an old deacon went upto see and hear him, and an invitation was given; and as the Lexingtonchurch seemed to be prosperously on its feet, and the needs of thePhiladelphia body keenly appealed to Conwell's imagination, a change wasmade, and at a salary of eight hundred dollars a year he went, in1882, to the little struggling Philadelphia congregation, and of thatcongregation he is still pastor--only, it ceased to be a strugglingcongregation a great many years ago! And long ago it began paying himmore thousands every year than at first it gave him hundreds. Dreamer as Conwell always is in connection with his immensepracticality, and moved as he is by the spiritual influences of life, it is more than likely that not only did Philadelphia's need appeal, but also the fact that Philadelphia, as a city, meant much to him, for, coming North, wounded from a battle-field of the Civil War, it was inPhiladelphia that he was cared for until his health and strength wererecovered. Thus it came that Philadelphia had early become dear to him. And here is an excellent example of how dreaming great dreams may gohand-in-hand with winning superb results. For that little strugglingcongregation now owns and occupies a great new church building thatseats more people than any other Protestant church in America--and Dr. Conwell fills it! III. STORY OF THE FIFTY-SEVEN CENTS AT every point in Conwell's life one sees that he wins through hiswonderful personal influence on old and young. Every step forward, everytriumph achieved, comes not alone from his own enthusiasm, but becauseof his putting that enthusiasm into others. And when I learned how itcame about that the present church buildings were begun, it was anotherof those marvelous tales of fact that are stranger than any imaginationcould make them. And yet the tale was so simple and sweet and sad andunpretending. When Dr. Conwell first assumed charge of the little congregation thatled him to Philadelphia it was really a little church both in itsnumbers and in the size of the building that it occupied, but it quicklybecame so popular under his leadership that the church services andSunday-school services were alike so crowded that there was no room forall who came, and always there were people turned from the doors. One afternoon a little girl, who had eagerly wished to go, turned backfrom the Sunday-school door, crying bitterly because they had told herthat there was no more room. But a tall, black-haired man met her andnoticed her tears and, stopping, asked why it was that she was crying, and she sobbingly replied that it was because they could not let herinto the Sunday-school. "I lifted her to my shoulder, " says Dr. Conwell, in telling of this; forafter hearing the story elsewhere I asked him to tell it to me himself, for it seemed almost too strange to be true. "I lifted her to myshoulder"--and one realizes the pretty scene it must have made for thelittle girl to go through the crowd of people, drying her tears andriding proudly on the shoulders of the kindly, tall, dark man! "I saidto her that I would take her in, and I did so, and I said to her that weshould some day have a room big enough for all who should come. And whenshe went home she told her parents--I only learned this afterward--thatshe was going to save money to help build the larger church andSunday-school that Dr. Conwell wanted! Her parents pleasantly humoredher in the idea and let her run errands and do little tasks to earnpennies, and she began dropping the pennies into her bank. " "She was a lovable little thing--but in only a few weeks after that shewas taken suddenly ill and died; and at the funeral her father toldme, quietly, of how his little girl had been saving money for abuilding-fund. And there, at the funeral, he handed me what she hadsaved--just fifty-seven cents in pennies. " Dr. Conwell does not say how deeply he was moved; he is, after all, aman of very few words as to his own emotions. But a deep tenderness hadcrept into his voice. "At a meeting of the church trustees I told of this gift of fifty-sevencents--the first gift toward the proposed building-fund of the newchurch that was some time to exist. For until then the matter had barelybeen spoken of, as a new church building had been simply a possibilityfor the future. "The trustees seemed much impressed, and it turned out that they werefar more impressed than I could possibly have hoped, for in a few daysone of them came to me and said that he thought it would be an excellentidea to buy a lot on Broad Street--the very lot on which the buildingnow stands. " It was characteristic of Dr. Conwell that he did not pointout, what every one who knows him would understand, that it was hisown inspiration put into the trustees which resulted in this quick anddefinite move on the part of one of them. "I talked the matter over withthe owner of the property, and told him of the beginning of the fund, the story of the little girl. The man was not one of our church, nor infact, was he a church-goer at all, but he listened attentively to thetale of the fifty-seven cents and simply said he was quite ready togo ahead and sell us that piece of land for ten thousand dollars, taking--and the unexpectedness of this deeply touched me taking a firstpayment of just fifty-seven cents and letting the entire balance standon a five-per-cent. Mortgage! "And it seemed to me that it would be the right thing to accept thisunexpectedly liberal proposition, and I went over the entire matter onthat basis with the trustees and some of the other members, and all thepeople were soon talking of having a new church. But it was not done inthat way, after all, for, fine though that way would have been, therewas to be one still finer. "Not long after my talk with the man who owned the land, and hissurprisingly good-hearted proposition, an exchange was arranged for meone evening with a Mount Holly church, and my wife went with me. We cameback late, and it was cold and wet and miserable, but as we approachedour home we saw that it was all lighted from top to bottom, and it wasclear that it was full of people. I said to my wife that they seemed tobe having a better time than we had had, and we went in, curious toknow what it was all about. And it turned out that our absence had beenintentionally arranged, and that the church people had gathered atour home to meet us on our return. And I was utterly amazed, for thespokesman told me that the entire ten thousand dollars had been raisedand that the land for the church that I wanted was free of debt. Andall had come so quickly and directly from that dear little girl'sfifty-seven cents. " Doesn't it seem like a fairy tale! But then this man has all his lifebeen making fairy tales into realities. He inspired the child. Heinspired the trustees. He inspired the owner of the land. He inspiredthe people. The building of the great church--the Temple Baptist Church, as it istermed--was a great undertaking for the congregation; even though it hadbeen swiftly growing from the day of Dr. Conwell's taking charge of it, it was something far ahead of what, except in the eyes of an enthusiast, they could possibly complete and pay for and support. Nor was it an easytask. Ground was broken for the building in 1889, in 1891 it was opened forworship, and then came years of raising money to clear it. But it waslong ago placed completely out of debt, and with only a single largesubscription--one of ten thousand dollars--for the church is not in awealthy neighborhood, nor is the congregation made up of the great andrich. The church is built of stone, and its interior is a great amphitheater. Special attention has been given to fresh air and light; thereis nothing of the dim, religious light that goes with medievalchurchliness. Behind the pulpit are tiers of seats for the great choruschoir. There is a large organ. The building is peculiarly adapted forhearing and seeing, and if it is not, strictly speaking, beautiful initself, it is beautiful when it is filled with encircling rows of menand women. Man of feeling that he is, and one who appreciates the importance ofsymbols, Dr. Conwell had a heart of olive-wood built into the frontof the pulpit, for the wood was from an olive-tree in the Garden ofGethsemane. And the amber-colored tiles in the inner walls of the churchbear, under the glaze, the names of thousands of his people; for everyone, young or old, who helped in the building, even to the giving of asingle dollar, has his name inscribed there. For Dr. Conwell wished toshow that it is not only the house of the Lord, but also, in a keenlypersonal sense, the house of those who built it. The church has a possible seating capacity of 4, 200, although only 3, 135chairs have been put in it, for it has been the desire not to crowd thespace needlessly. There is also a great room for the Sunday-school, and extensive rooms for the young men's association, the youngwomen's association, and for a kitchen, for executive offices, formeeting-places for church officers and boards and committees. It is aspacious and practical and complete church home, and the people feel athome there. "You see again, " said Dr. Conwell, musingly, "the advantage of aiming atbig things. That building represents $109, 000 above ground. It isfree from debt. Had we built a small church, it would now be heavilymortgaged. " IV. HIS POWER AS ORATOR AND PREACHER EVEN as a young man Conwell won local fame as an orator. At theoutbreak of the Civil War he began making patriotic speeches that gainedenlistments. After going to the front he was sent back home for atime, on furlough, to make more speeches to draw more recruits, forhis speeches were so persuasive, so powerful, so full of homely andpatriotic feeling, that the men who heard them thronged into theranks. And as a preacher he uses persuasion, power, simple and homelyeloquence, to draw men to the ranks of Christianity. He is an orator born, and has developed this inborn power by the hardestof study and thought and practice. He is one of those rare men whoalways seize and hold the attention. When he speaks, men listen. It isquality, temperament, control--the word is immaterial, but the fact isvery material indeed. Some quarter of a century ago Conwell published a little book forstudents on the study and practice of oratory. That "clear-cutarticulation is the charm of eloquence" is one of his insisted-uponstatements, and it well illustrates the lifelong practice of the manhimself, for every word as he talks can be heard in every part of alarge building, yet always he speaks without apparent effort. He avoids"elocution. " His voice is soft-pitched and never breaks, even now whenhe is over seventy, because, so he explains it, he always speaks in hisnatural voice. There is never a straining after effect. "A speaker must possess a large-hearted regard for the welfare ofhis audience, " he writes, and here again we see Conwell explainingConwellism. "Enthusiasm invites enthusiasm, " is another of his pointsof importance; and one understands that it is by deliberate purpose, and not by chance, that he tries with such tremendous effort to putenthusiasm into his hearers with every sermon and every lecture that hedelivers. "It is easy to raise a laugh, but dangerous, for it is the greatest testof an orator's control of his audience to be able to land them again onthe solid earth of sober thinking. " I have known him at the very endof a sermon have a ripple of laughter sweep freely over the entirecongregation, and then in a moment he has every individual under hiscontrol, listening soberly to his words. He never fears to use humor, and it is always very simple and obviousand effective. With him even a very simple pun may be used, not onlywith-out taking away from the strength of what he is saying, but with avivid increase of impressiveness. And when he says something funny itis in such a delightful and confidential way, with such a genial, quiet, infectious humorousness, that his audience is captivated. And they neverthink that he is telling something funny of his own; it seems, such isthe skill of the man, that he is just letting them know of somethinghumorous that they are to enjoy with him. "Be absolutely truthful and scrupulously clear, " he writes; and withdelightfully terse common sense, he says, "Use illustrations thatillustrate"--and never did an orator live up to this injunction morethan does Conwell himself. Nothing is more surprising, nothing is moreinteresting, than the way in which he makes use as illustrations of theimpressions and incidents of his long and varied life, and, whatever itis, it has direct and instant bearing on the progress of his discourse. He will refer to something that he heard a child say in a trainyesterday; in a few minutes he will speak of something that he saw orsome one whom he met last month, or last year, or ten years ago--inOhio, in California, in London, in Paris, in New York, in Bombay; andeach memory, each illustration, is a hammer with which he drives home atruth. The vast number of places he has visited and people he has met, theinfinite variety of things his observant eyes have seen, give him hisceaseless flow of illustrations, and his memory and his skill makeadmirable use of them. It is seldom that he uses an illustration fromwhat he has read; everything is, characteristically, his own. HenryM. Stanley, who knew him well, referred to him as "that double-sightedYankee, " who could "see at a glance all there is and all there everwas. " And never was there a man who so supplements with personal reminiscencethe place or the person that has figured in the illustration. Whenhe illustrates with the story of the discovery of California gold atSutter's he almost parenthetically remarks, "I delivered this lecture onthat very spot a few years ago; that is, in the town that arose on thatvery spot. " And when he illustrates by the story of the invention of thesewing-machine, he adds: "I suppose that if any of you were asked whowas the inventor of the sewing-machine, you would say that it was EliasHowe. But that would be a mistake. I was with Elias Howe in the CivilWar, and he often used to tell me how he had tried for fourteen years toinvent the sewing-machine and that then his wife, feeling that somethingreally had to be done, invented it in a couple of hours. " Listening tohim, you begin to feel in touch with everybody and everything, and in afriendly and intimate way. Always, whether in the pulpit or on the platform, as in privateconversation, there is an absolute simplicity about the man and hiswords; a simplicity, an earnestness, a complete honesty. And when hesets down, in his book on oratory, "A man has no right to use wordscarelessly, " he stands for that respect for word-craftsmanship thatevery successful speaker or writer must feel. "Be intensely in earnest, " he writes; and in writing this he sets down aprime principle not only of his oratory, but of his life. A young minister told me that Dr. Conwell once said to him, with deepfeeling, "Always remember, as you preach, that you are striving to saveat least one soul with every sermon. " And to one of his close friendsDr. Conwell said, in one of his self-revealing conversations: "I feel, whenever I preach, that there is always one person in thecongregation to whom, in all probability, I shall never preach again, and therefore I feel that I must exert my utmost power in that lastchance. " And in this, even if this were all, one sees why each of hissermons is so impressive, and why his energy never lags. Always, withhim, is the feeling that he is in the world to do all the good he canpossibly do; not a moment, not an opportunity, must be lost. The moment he rises and steps to the front of his pulpit he has theattention of every one in the building, and this attention he closelyholds till he is through. Yet it is never by a striking effort thatattention is gained, except in so far that his utter simplicity isstriking. "I want to preach so simply that you will not think itpreaching, but just that you are listening to a friend, " I remember hissaying, one Sunday morning, as he began his sermon; and then he went onjust as simply as such homely, kindly, friendly words promised. And howeffectively! He believes that everything should be so put as to be understood by all, and this belief he applies not only to his preaching, but to the readingof the Bible, whose descriptions he not only visualizes to himself, butmakes vividly clear to his hearers; and this often makes for fascinationin result. For example, he is reading the tenth chapter of I Samuel, and begins, "'Thou shalt meet a company of prophets. '" "'Singers, ' it should be translated, " he puts in, lifting his eyes fromthe page and looking out over his people. Then he goes on, taking thischange as a matter of course, "'Thou shalt meet a company of singerscoming down from the high place--'" Whereupon he again interrupts himself, and in an irresistibleexplanatory aside, which instantly raises the desired picture in themind of every one, he says: "That means, from the little old churchon the hill, you know. " And how plain and clear and real andinteresting--most of all, interesting--it is from this moment! Anotherman would have left it that prophets were coming down from a high place, which would not have seemed at all alive or natural, and here, suddenly, Conwell has flashed his picture of the singers coming down from thelittle old church on the hill! There is magic in doing that sort ofthing. And he goes on, now reading: "'Thou shalt meet a company of singerscoming down from the little old church on the hill, with a psaltery, anda tabret, and a pipe, and a harp, and they shall sing. '" Music is one of Conwell's strongest aids. He sings himself; sings as ifhe likes to sing, and often finds himself leading the singing--usuallyso, indeed, at the prayer-meetings, and often, in effect, at the churchservices. I remember at one church service that the choir-leader was standingin front of the massed choir ostensibly leading the singing, but thatConwell himself, standing at the rear of the pulpit platform, with hiseyes on his hymn-book, silently swaying a little with the music andunconsciously beating time as he swayed, was just as unconsciously thereal leader, for it was he whom the congregation were watching and withhim that they were keeping time! He never suspected it; he was merelythinking along with the music; and there was such a look of contagioushappiness on his face as made every one in the building similarly happy. For he possesses a mysterious faculty of imbuing others with his ownhappiness. Not only singers, but the modern equivalent of psaltery and tabret andcymbals, all have their place in Dr. Conwell's scheme of church service;for there may be a piano, and there may even be a trombone, and there isa great organ to help the voices, and at times there are chiming bells. His musical taste seems to tend toward the thunderous--or perhaps itis only that he knows there are times when people like to hear thethunderous and are moved by it. And how the choir themselves like it! They occupy a great curvingspace behind the pulpit, and put their hearts into song. And as thecongregation disperse and the choir filter down, sometimes they arestill singing and some of them continue to sing as they go slowly outtoward the doors. They are happy--Conwell himself is happy--all thecongregation are happy. He makes everybody feel happy in coming tochurch; he makes the church attractive just as Howells was so long agotold that he did in Lexington. And there is something more than happiness; there is a sense of ease, ofcomfort, of general joy, that is quite unmistakable. There is nothing ofstiffness or constraint. And with it all there is full reverence. Itis no wonder that he is accustomed to fill every seat of the greatbuilding. His gestures are usually very simple. Now and then, when he works up toemphasis, he strikes one fist in the palm of the other hand. When he isthrough you do not remember that he has made any gestures at all, butthe sound of his voice remains with you, and the look of his wonderfuleyes. And though he is past the threescore years and ten, he looks outover his people with eyes that still have the veritable look of youth. Like all great men, he not only does big things, but keeps in touch withmyriad details. When his assistant, announcing the funeral of an oldmember, hesitates about the street and number and says that they canbe found in the telephone directory, Dr. Conwell's deep voice breaksquietly in with, "Such a number [giving it], Dauphin Street"--quietly, and in a low tone, yet every one in the church hears distinctly everysyllable of that low voice. His fund of personal anecdote, or personal reminiscence, is constant andillustrative in his preaching, just as it is when he lectures, andthe reminiscences sweep through many years, and at times are reallystartling in the vivid and homelike pictures they present of the famousfolk of the past that he knew. One Sunday evening he made an almost casual reference to the time whenhe first met Garfield, then a candidate for the Presidency. "I askedMajor McKinley, whom I had met in Washington, and whose home wasin northern Ohio, as was that of Mr. Garfield, to go with me to Mr. Garfield's home and introduce me. When we got there, a neighbor had tofind him. 'Jim! Jim!' he called. You see, Garfield was just plain Jim tohis old neighbors. It's hard to recognize a hero over your back fence!"He paused a moment for the appreciative ripple to subside, and went on: "We three talked there together"--what a rare talking that must havebeen-McKinley, Garfield, and Conwell--"we talked together, and after awhile we got to the subject of hymns, and those two great men both toldme how deeply they loved the old hymn, 'The Old-Time Religion. ' Garfieldespecially loved it, so he told us, because the good old man who broughthim up as a boy and to whom he owed such gratitude, used to sing it atthe pasture bars outside of the boy's window every morning, and youngJim knew, whenever he heard that old tune, that it meant it was timefor him to get up. He said that he had heard the best concerts and thefinest operas in the world, but had never heard anything he loved as hestill loved 'The Old-Time Religion. ' I forget what reason there wasfor McKinley's especially liking it, but he, as did Garfield, liked itimmensely. " What followed was a striking example of Conwell's intentness on losingno chance to fix an impression on his hearers' minds, and at the sametime it was a really astonishing proof of his power to move and sway. For a new expression came over his face, and he said, as if the idea hadonly at that moment occurred to him--as it most probably had--"I thinkit's in our hymnal!" And in a moment he announced the number, and thegreat organ struck up, and every person in the great church every man, woman, and child--joined in the swinging rhythm of verse after verse, as if they could never tire, of "The Old-Time Religion. " It is a simplemelody--barely more than a single line of almost monotone music: _It was good enough for mother and it's good enough for me! It was good on the fiery furnace and it's good enough for me!_ Thus it went on, with never-wearying iteration, and each time with therefrain, more and more rhythmic and swaying: _The old-time religion, The old-time religion, The old-time religion-- It's good enough for me!_ That it was good for the Hebrew children, that it was good for Paul andSilas, that it will help you when you're dying, that it will show theway to heaven--all these and still other lines were sung, with a sortof wailing softness, a curious monotone, a depth of earnestness. And theman who had worked this miracle of control by evoking out of the pasthis memory of a meeting with two of the vanished great ones of theearth, stood before his people, leading them, singing with them, hiseyes aglow with an inward light. His magic had suddenly set them intothe spirit of the old camp-meeting days, the days of pioneering andhardship, when religion meant so much to everybody, and even those whoknew nothing of such things felt them, even if but vaguely. Every heartwas moved and touched, and that old tune will sing in the memory of allwho thus heard it and sung it as long as they live. V. GIFT FOR INSPIRING OTHERS THE constant earnestness of Conwell, his desire to let no chance slip byof helping a fellowman, puts often into his voice, when he preaches, anote of eagerness, of anxiety. But when he prays, when he turns to God, his manner undergoes a subtle and unconscious change. A load has slippedoff his shoulders and has been assumed by a higher power. Into hisbearing, dignified though it was, there comes an unconscious increase ofthe dignity. Into his voice, firm as it was before, there comes a deepernote of firmness. He is apt to fling his arms widespread as he prays, in a fine gesture that he never uses at other times, and he looks upwardwith the dignity of a man who, talking to a higher being, is proud ofbeing a friend and confidant. One does not need to be a Christian toappreciate the beauty and fineness of Conwell's prayers. He is likely at any time to do the unexpected, and he is so great aman and has such control that whatever he does seems to everybody aperfectly natural thing. His sincerity is so evident, and whateverhe does is done so simply and naturally, that it is just a matter ofcourse. I remember, during one church service, while the singing was going on, that he suddenly rose from his chair and, kneeling beside it, on theopen pulpit, with his back to the congregation, remained in that posturefor several minutes. No one thought it strange. I was likely enough theonly one who noticed it. His people are used to his sincerities. Andthis time it was merely that he had a few words to say quietly to Godand turned aside for a few moments to say them. His earnestness of belief in prayer makes him a firm believer in answersto prayer, and, in fact, to what may be termed the direct interpositionof Providence. Doubtless the mystic strain inherited from his mother hasalso much to do with this. He has a typically homely way of expressingit by one of his favorite maxims, one that he loves to repeatencouragingly to friends who are in difficulties themselves or who knowof the difficulties that are his; and this heartening maxim is, "Trustin God and do the next thing. " At one time in the early days of his church work in Philadelphiaa payment of a thousand dollars was absolutely needed to prevent alaw-suit in regard to a debt for the church organ. In fact, it was worsethan a debt; it was a note signed by himself personally, that had becomedue--he was always ready to assume personal liability for debts of hischurch--and failure to meet the note would mean a measure of disgrace aswell as marked church discouragement. He had tried all the sources that seemed open to him, but in vain. Hecould not openly appeal to the church members, in this case, for itwas in the early days of his pastorate, and his zeal for the organ, his desire and determination to have it, as a necessary part ofchurch equipment, had outrun the judgment of some of his best friends, including that of the deacon who had gone to Massachusetts for him. Theyhad urged a delay till other expenses were met, and he had acted againsttheir advice. He had tried such friends as he could, and he had tried prayer. Butthere was no sign of aid, whether supernatural or natural. And then, literally on the very day on which the holder of the note wasto begin proceedings against him, a check for precisely the needed onethousand dollars came to him, by mail, from a man in the West--a man whowas a total stranger to him. It turned out that the man's sister, whowas one of the Temple membership, had written to her brother of Dr. Conwell's work. She knew nothing of any special need for money, knewnothing whatever of any note or of the demand for a thousand dollars;she merely outlined to her brother what Dr. Conwell was accomplishing, and with such enthusiasm that the brother at once sent the opportunecheck. At a later time the sum of ten thousand dollars was importunatelyneeded. It was due, payment had been promised. It was for some of theconstruction work of the Temple University buildings. The last day hadcome, and Conwell and the very few who knew of the emergency were in thedepths of gloom. It was too large a sum to ask the church people to makeup, for they were not rich and they had already been giving splendidly, of their slender means, for the church and then for the university. There was no rich man to turn to; the men famous for enormous charitablegifts have never let themselves be interested in any of the work ofRussell Conwell. It would be unkind and gratuitous to suggest thatit has been because their names could not be personally attached, orbecause the work is of an unpretentious kind among unpretentious people;it need merely be said that neither they nor their agents have caredto aid, except that one of the very richest, whose name is the mostdistinguished in the entire world as a giver, did once, in response toa strong personal application, give thirty-five hundred dollars, thisbeing the extent of the association of the wealthy with any of thevaried Conwell work. So when it was absolutely necessary to have ten thousand dollars thepossibilities of money had been exhausted, whether from congregation orindividuals. Russell Conwell, in spite of his superb optimism, is also a man of deepdepressions, and this is because of the very fire and fervor of hisnature, for always in such a nature there is a balancing. He believes insuccess; success must come!--success is in itself almost a religion withhim--success for himself and for all the world who will try for it!But there are times when he is sad and doubtful over some particularpossibility. And he intensely believes in prayer--faith can movemountains; but always he believes that it is better not to wait forthe mountains thus to be moved, but to go right out and get to work atmoving them. And once in a while there comes a time when the mountainlooms too threatening, even after the bravest efforts and the deepesttrust. Such a time had come--the ten-thousand-dollar debt was a loomingmountain that he had tried in vain to move. He could still pray, and hedid, but it was one of the times when he could only think that somethinghad gone wrong. The dean of the university, who has been closely in touch with all hiswork for many years, told me of how, in a discouragement which was themore notable through contrast with his usual unfailing courage, he leftthe executive offices for his home, a couple of blocks away. "He went away with everything looking dark before him. It wasChristmas-time, but the very fact of its being Christmas only added tohis depression--Christmas was such an unnatural time for unhappiness!But in a few minutes he came flying back, radiant, overjoyed, sparklingwith happiness, waving a slip of paper in his hand which was a checkfor precisely ten thousand dollars! For he had just drawn it out of anenvelope handed to him, as he reached home, by the mail-carrier. "And it had come so strangely and so naturally! For the check was froma woman who was profoundly interested in his work, and who had sent thecheck knowing that in a general way it was needed, but without the leastidea that there was any immediate need. That was eight or nine yearsago, but although the donor was told at the time that Dr. Conwelland all of us were most grateful for the gift, it was not until veryrecently that she was told how opportune it was. And the change it madein Dr. Conwell! He is a great man for maxims, and all of us who areassociated with him know that one of his favorites is that 'It will allcome out right some time!' And of course we had a rare opportunity totell him that he ought never to be discouraged. And it is so seldom thathe is!" When the big new church was building the members of the church werevaguely disturbed by noticing, when the structure reached the secondstory, that at that height, on the side toward the vacant and unboughtland adjoining, there were several doors built that opened literallyinto nothing but space! When asked about these doors and their purpose, Dr. Conwell would makesome casual reply, generally to the effect that they might be excellentas fire-escapes. To no one, for quite a while, did he broach even ahint of the great plan that was seething in his mind, which was thatthe buildings of a university were some day to stand on that landimmediately adjoining the church! At that time the university, the Temple University as it is now called, was not even a college, although it was probably called a college. Conwell had organized it, and it consisted of a number of classes andteachers, meeting in highly inadequate quarters in two little houses. But the imagination of Conwell early pictured great new buildingswith accommodations for thousands! In time the dream was realized, theimagination became a fact, and now those second-floor doors actuallyopen from the Temple Church into the Temple University! You see, he always thinks big! He dreams big dreams and wins bigsuccess. All his life he has talked and preached success, and it is areal and very practical belief with him that it is just as easy to doa large thing as a small one, and, in fact, a little easier! And so henaturally does not see why one should be satisfied with the small thingsof life. "If your rooms are big the people will come and fill them, " helikes to say. The same effort that wins a small success would, rightlydirected, have won a great success. "Think big things and then do them!" Most favorite of all maxims with this man of maxims, is "Let Patiencehave her perfect work. " Over and over he loves to say it, and hisfriends laugh about his love for it, and he knows that they do andlaughs about it himself. "I tire them all, " he says, "for they hear mesay it every day. " But he says it every day because it means so much to him. It stands, in his mind, as a constant warning against anger or impatience orover-haste--faults to which his impetuous temperament is prone, thoughfew have ever seen him either angry or impatient or hasty, so well doeshe exercise self-control. Those who have long known him well havesaid to me that they have never heard him censure any one; that hisforbearance and kindness are wonderful. He is a sensitive man beneath his composure; he has suffered, andkeenly, when he has been unjustly attacked; he feels pain of that sortfor a long time, too, for even the passing of years does not entirelydeaden it. "When I have been hurt, or when I have talked with annoying cranks, Ihave tried to let Patience have her perfect work, for those very people, if you have patience with them, may afterward be of help. " And he went on to talk a little of his early years in Philadelphia, andhe said, with sadness, that it had pained him to meet with opposition, and that it had even come from ministers of his own denomination, for hehad been so misunderstood and misjudged; but, he added, the momentarysomberness lifting, even his bitter enemies had been won over withpatience. I could understand a good deal of what he meant, for one of the Baptistministers of Philadelphia had said to me, with some shame, that at firstit used actually to be the case that when Dr. Conwell would enter one ofthe regular ministers' meetings, all would hold aloof, not a single onestepping forward to meet or greet him. "And it was all through our jealousy of his success, " said the minister, vehemently. "He came to this city a stranger, and he won instantpopularity, and we couldn't stand it, and so we pounced upon things thathe did that were altogether unimportant. The rest of us were so jealousof his winning throngs that we couldn't see the good in him. And ithurt Dr. Conwell so much that for ten years he did not come to ourconferences. But all this was changed long ago. Now no minister is sowelcomed as he is, and I don't believe that there ever has been a singletime since he started coming again that he hasn't been asked to saysomething to us. We got over our jealousy long ago and we all love him. " Nor is it only that the clergymen of his own denomination admire him, for not long ago, such having been Dr. Conwell's triumph in the city ofhis adoption, the rector of the most powerful and aristocratic church inPhiladelphia voluntarily paid lofty tribute to his aims and ability, hiswork and his personal worth. "He is an inspiration to his brothers inthe ministry of Jesus Christ, " so this Episcopalian rector wrote. "He isa friend to all that is good, a foe to all that is evil, a strength tothe weak, a comforter to the sorrowing, a man of God. These words comefrom the heart of one who loves, honors, and reverences him for hischaracter and his deeds. " Dr. Conwell did some beautiful and unusual things in his church, instituted some beautiful and unusual customs, and one can seehow narrow and hasty criticisms charged him, long ago, withsensationalism--charges long since forgotten except through the hurtstill felt by Dr. Conwell himself. "They used to charge me with making acircus of the church--as if it were possible for me to make a circus ofthe church!" And his tone was one of grieved amazement after all theseyears. But he was original and he was popular, and therefore there weremisunderstanding and jealousy. His Easter services, for example, yearsago, became widely talked of and eagerly anticipated because each sermonwould be wrought around some fine symbol; and he would hold in his hand, in the pulpit, the blue robin's egg, or the white dove, or the stemof lilies, or whatever he had chosen as the particular symbol for theparticular sermon, and that symbol would give him the central thoughtfor his discourse, accented as it would be by the actual symbol itselfin view of the congregation. The cross lighted by electricity, toshine down over the baptismal pool, the little stream of water cascadinggently down the steps of the pool during the baptismal rite, the rosesfloating in the pool and his gift of one of them to each of the baptizedas he or she left the water--all such things did seem, long ago, sounconventional. Yet his own people recognized the beauty and poetry ofthem, and thousands of Bibles in Philadelphia have a baptismal rose fromDr. Conwell pressed within the pages. His constant individuality of mind, his constant freshness, alertness, brilliancy, warmth, sympathy, endear him to his congregation, and whenhe returns from an absence they bubble and effervesce over him as if hewere some brilliant new preacher just come to them. He is always new tothem. Were it not that he possesses some remarkable quality of charm hewould long ago have become, so to speak, an old story, but insteadof that he is to them an always new story, an always entertaining anddelightful story, after all these years. It is not only that they still throng to hear him either preachor lecture, though that itself would be noticeable, but it is thedelightful and delighted spirit with which they do it. Just the otherevening I heard him lecture in his own church, just after his returnfrom an absence, and every face beamed happily up at him to welcome himback, and every one listened as intently to his every word as if hehad never been heard there before; and when the lecture was over a hugebouquet of flowers was handed up to him, and some one embarrassedly saida few words about its being because he was home again. It was all asif he had just returned from an absence of months--and he had been awayjust five and a half days! VI. MILLIONS OF HEARERS THAT Conwell is not primarily a minister--that he is a minister becausehe is a sincere Christian, but that he is first of all an Abou BenAdhem, a man who loves his fellow-men, becomes more and more apparent asthe scope of his life-work is recognized. One almost comes to thinkthat his pastorate of a great church is even a minor matter besidethe combined importance of his educational work, his lecture work, hishospital work, his work in general as a helper to those who need help. For my own part, I should say that he is like some of the old-timeprophets, the strong ones who found a great deal to attend to inaddition to matters of religion. The power, the ruggedness, the physicaland mental strength, the positive grandeur of the man--all these arelike the general conceptions of the big Old Testament prophets. Thesuggestion is given only because it has often recurred, and thereforewith the feeling that there is something more than fanciful in thecom-parison; and yet, after all, the comparison fails in one importantparticular, for none of the prophets seems to have had a sense of humor! It is perhaps better and more accurate to describe him as the lastof the old school of American philosophers, the last of thosesturdy-bodied, high-thinking, achieving men who, in the old days, didtheir best to set American humanity in the right path--such men asEmerson, Alcott, Gough, Wendell Phillips, Garrison, Bayard Taylor, Beecher; men whom Conwell knew and admired in the long ago, and all ofwhom have long since passed away. And Conwell, in his going up and down the country, inspiring histhousands and thousands, is the survivor of that old-time group who usedto travel about, dispensing wit and wisdom and philosophy and courage tothe crowded benches of country lyceums, and the chairs of school-housesand town halls, or the larger and more pretentious gathering-places ofthe cities. Conwell himself is amused to remember that he wanted to talk in publicfrom his boyhood, and that very early he began to yield to the inbornimpulse. He laughs as he remembers the variety of country fairs andschool commencements and anniversaries and even sewing-circles where hetried his youthful powers, and all for experience alone, in the firstfew years, except possibly for such a thing as a ham or a jack-knife!The first money that he ever received for speaking was, so he rememberswith glee, seventy-five cents; and even that was not for his talk, butfor horse hire! But at the same time there is more than amusement inrecalling these experiences, for he knows that they were invaluableto him as training. And for over half a century he has affectionatelyremembered John B. Gough, who, in the height of his own power andsuccess, saw resolution and possibilities in the ardent young hill-man, and actually did him the kindness and the honor of introducing him toan audience in one of the Massachusetts towns; and it was really a greatkindness and a great honor, from a man who had won his fame to a youngman just beginning an oratorical career. Conwell's lecturing has been, considering everything, the most importantwork of his life, for by it he has come into close touch with so manymillions--literally millions!--of people. I asked him once if he had any idea how many he had talked to in thecourse of his career, and he tried to estimate how many thousands oftimes he had lectured, and the average attendance for each, but desistedwhen he saw that it ran into millions of hearers. What a marvel is sucha fact as that! Millions of hearers! I asked the same question of his private secretary, and found that noone had ever kept any sort of record; but as careful an estimate ascould be made gave a conservative result of fully eight million hearersfor his lectures; and adding the number to whom he has preached, whohave been over five million, there is a total of well over thirteenmillion who have listened to Russell Conwell's voice! And thisstaggering total is, if anything, an underestimate. The figuring wasdone cautiously and was based upon such facts as that he now addressesan average of over forty-five hundred at his Sunday services (an averagethat would be higher were it not that his sermons in vacation time areusually delivered in little churches; when at home, at the Temple, headdresses three meetings every Sunday), and that he lectures throughoutthe entire course of each year, including six nights a week of lecturingduring vacation-time. What a power is wielded by a man who has held overthirteen million people under the spell of his voice! Probably noother man who ever lived had such a total of hearers. And the total issteadily mounting, for he is a man who has never known the meaning ofrest. I think it almost certain that Dr. Conwell has never spoken to any oneof what, to me, is the finest point of his lecture-work, and that isthat he still goes gladly and for small fees to the small towns that arenever visited by other men of great reputation. He knows that it is thelittle places, the out-of-the-way places, the submerged places, thatmost need a pleasure and a stimulus, and he still goes out, man of wellover seventy that he is, to tiny towns in distant states, heedless ofthe discomforts of traveling, of the poor little hotels that seldom havevisitors, of the oftentimes hopeless cooking and the uncleanliness, ofthe hardships and the discomforts, of the unventilated and overheated orunderheated halls. He does not think of claiming the relaxation earnedby a lifetime of labor, or, if he ever does, the thought of the sword ofJohn Ring restores instantly his fervid earnestness. How he does it, how he can possibly keep it up, is the greatest marvelof all. I have before me a list of his engagements for the summer weeksof this year, 1915, and I shall set it down because it will specificallyshow, far more clearly than general statements, the kind of work hedoes. The list is the itinerary of his vacation. Vacation! Lecturingevery evening but Sunday, and on Sundays preaching in the town where hehappens to be! June 24 Ackley, Ia. July 11 *Brookings, S. D. " 25 Waterloo, Ia. " 12 Pipestone, Minn. " 26 Decorah, Ia. " 13 Hawarden, Ia. " 27 *Waukon, Ia. " 14 Canton, S. D " 28 Red Wing, Minn. " 15 Cherokee, Ia " 29 River Falls, Wis. " 16 Pocahontas, Ia " 30 Northfield, Minn. " 17 Glidden, Ia. July 1 Faribault, Minn. " 18 *Boone, Ia. " 2 Spring Valley, Minn. " 19 Dexter, Ia. " 3 Blue Earth, Minn. " 20 Indianola, Ia " 4 *Fairmount, Minn. " 21 Corydon, Ia " 5 Lake Crystal, Minn. " 22 Essex, Ia. " 6 Redwood Falls, " 23 Sidney, Ia. Minn. " 24 Falls City, Nebr. " 7 Willmer, Minn. " 25 *Hiawatha, Kan. " 8 Dawson, Minn. " 26 Frankfort, Kan. " 9 Redfield, S. D. " 27 Greenleaf, Kan. " 10 Huron, S. D. " 28 Osborne, Kan. July 29 Stockton, Kan. Aug. 14 Honesdale, Pa. " 30 Phillipsburg, Kan. " 15 *Honesdale, Pa. " 31 Mankato, Kan. " 16 Carbondale, Pa. _En route to next date on_ " 17 Montrose, Pa. _circuit_. " 18 Tunkhannock, Pa. Aug. 3 Westfield, Pa. " 19 Nanticoke, Pa. " 4 Galston, Pa. " 20 Stroudsburg, Pa. " 5 Port Alleghany, Pa. " 21 Newton, N. J. " 6 Wellsville, N. Y. " 22 *Newton, N. J. " 7 Bath, N. Y. " 23 Hackettstown, N. J. " 8 *Bath, N. Y. " 24 New Hope, Pa. " 9 Penn Yan, N. Y. " 25 Doylestown, Pa. " 10 Athens, N. Y. " 26 Phnixville, Pa. " 11 Owego, N. Y. " 27 Kennett, Pa. " 12 Patchogue, LI. , N. Y. " 28 Oxford, Pa. " 13 Port Jervis, N. Y. " 29 *Oxford, Pa. * Preach on Sunday. And all these hardships, all this traveling and lecturing, which wouldtest the endurance of the youngest and strongest, this man of overseventy assumes without receiving a particle of personal gain, forevery dollar that he makes by it is given away in helping those who needhelping. That Dr. Conwell is intensely modest is one of the curious features ofhis character. He sincerely believes that to write his life would be, in the main, just to tell what people have done for him. He knows andadmits that he works unweariedly, but in profound sincerity he ascribesthe success of his plans to those who have seconded and assisted him. Itis in just this way that he looks upon every phase of his life. When heis reminded of the devotion of his old soldiers, he remembers it onlywith a sort of pleased wonder that they gave the devotion to him, andhe quite forgets that they loved him because he was always ready tosacrifice ease or risk his own life for them. He deprecates praise; if any one likes him, the liking need not beshown in words, but in helping along a good work. That his church hassucceeded has been because of the devotion of the people; that theuniversity has succeeded is because of the splendid work of the teachersand pupils; that the hospitals have done so much has been because of thenoble services of physicians and nurses. To him, as he himself expressesit, realizing that success has come to his plans, it seems as if therealities are but dreams. He is astonished by his own success. He thinksmainly of his own shortcomings. "God and man have ever been very patientwith me. " His depression is at times profound when he compares theactual results with what he would like them to be, for always his hopeshave gone soaring far in advance of achievement. It is the "Hitch yourchariot to a star" idea. His modesty goes hand-in-hand with kindliness, and I have seen him lethimself be introduced in his own church to his congregation, when heis going to deliver a lecture there, just because a former pupil of theuniversity was present who, Conwell knew, was ambitious to say somethinginside of the Temple walls, and this seemed to be the only opportunity. I have noticed, when he travels, that the face of the newsboy brightensas he buys a paper from him, that the porter is all happiness, thatconductor and brakeman are devotedly anxious to be of aid. Everywherethe man wins love. He loves humanity and humanity responds to the love. He has always won the affection of those who knew him, and Bayard Taylorwas one of the many; he and Bayard Taylor loved each other for longacquaintance and fellow experiences as world-wide travelers, back in theyears when comparatively few Americans visited the Nile and the Orient, or even Europe. When Taylor died there was a memorial service in Boston at whichConwell was asked to preside, and, as he wished for something more thanaddresses, he went to Longfellow and asked him to write and read a poemfor the occasion. Longfellow had not thought of writing anything, andhe was too ill to be present at the services, but, there always beingsomething contagiously inspiring about Russell Conwell when he wishessomething to be done, the poet promised to do what he could. And hewrote and sent the beautiful lines beginning: _Dead he lay among his books, The peace of God was in his looks_. Many men of letters, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, were present atthe services, and Dr. Conwell induced Oliver Wendell Holmes to read thelines, and they were listened to amid profound silence, to their fineending. Conwell, in spite of his widespread hold on millions of people, hasnever won fame, recognition, general renown, compared with many men ofminor achievements. This seems like an impossibility. Yet it is not animpossibility, but a fact. Great numbers of men of education and cultureare entirely ignorant of him and his work in the world--men, these, whodeem themselves in touch with world-affairs and with the ones who makeand move the world. It is inexplicable, this, except that neverwas there a man more devoid of the faculty of self-exploitation, self-advertising, than Russell Conwell. Nor, in the mere reading ofthem, do his words appeal with anything like the force of the samewords uttered by himself, for always, with his spoken words, is hispersonality. Those who have heard Russell Conwell, or have known himpersonally, recognize the charm of the man and his immense forcefulness;but there are many, and among them those who control publicity throughbooks and newspapers, who, though they ought to be the warmest in theirenthusiasm, have never felt drawn to hear him, and, if they know of himat all, think of him as one who pleases in a simple way the commonerfolk, forgetting in their pride that every really great man pleases thecommon ones, and that simplicity and directness are attributes of realgreatness. But Russell Conwell has always won the admiration of the really great, as well as of the humbler millions. It is only a supposedly culturedclass in between that is not thoroughly acquainted with what he hasdone. Perhaps, too, this is owing to his having cast in his lot with the city, of all cities, which, consciously or unconsciously, looks most closelyto family and place of residence as criterions of merit--a city withwhich it is almost impossible for a stranger to become affiliated--oraphiladelphiated, as it might be expressed--and Philadelphia, in spiteof all that Dr. Conwell has done, has been under the thrall of the factthat he went north of Market Street--that fatal fact understood by allwho know Philadelphia--and that he made no effort to make friends inRittenhouse Square. Such considerations seem absurd in this twentiethcentury, but in Philadelphia they are still potent. Tens of thousandsof Philadelphians love him, and he is honored by its greatest men, but there is a class of the pseudo-cultured who do not know him orappreciate him. And it needs also to be understood that, outside of hisown beloved Temple, he would prefer to go to a little church or a littlehall and to speak to the forgotten people, in the hope of encouragingand inspiring them and filling them with hopeful glow, rather than tospeak to the rich and comfortable. His dearest hope, so one of the few who are close to him told me, isthat no one shall come into his life without being benefited. He doesnot say this publicly, nor does he for a moment believe that such a hopecould be fully realized, but it is very dear to his heart; and no manspurred by such a hope, and thus bending all his thoughts toward thepoor, the hard-working, the unsuccessful, is in a way to win honor fromthe Scribes; for we have Scribes now quite as much as when they wereclassed with Pharisees. It is not the first time in the world's historythat Scribes have failed to give their recognition to one whose work wasnot among the great and wealthy. That Conwell himself has seldom taken any part whatever in politicsexcept as a good citizen standing for good government; that, as heexpresses it, he never held any political office except that he was onceon a school committee, and also that he does not identify himself withthe so-called "movements" that from time to time catch public attention, but aims only and constantly at the quiet betterment of mankind, maybe mentioned as additional reasons why his name and fame have not beensteadily blazoned. He knows and will admit that he works hard and has all his life workedhard. "Things keep turning my way because I'm on the job, " as hewhimsically expressed it one day; but that is about all, so it seems tohim. And he sincerely believes that his life has in itself been withoutinterest; that it has been an essentially commonplace life with nothingof the interesting or the eventful to tell. He is frankly surprised thatthere has ever been the desire to write about him. He really has no ideaof how fascinating are the things he has done. His entire life has beenof positive interest from the variety of things accomplished and theunexpectedness with which he has accomplished them. Never, for example, was there such an organizer. In fact, organizationand leadership have always been as the breath of life to him. As a youthhe organized debating societies and, before the war, a local militarycompany. While on garrison duty in the Civil War he organized what isbelieved to have been the first free school for colored children inthe South. One day Minneapolis happened to be spoken of, and Conwellhappened to remember that he organized, when he was a lawyer in thatcity, what became the first Y. M. C. A. Branch there. Once he even starteda newspaper. And it was natural that the organizing instinct, as yearsadvanced, should lead him to greater and greater things, such as hischurch, with the numerous associations formed within itself through hisinfluence, and the university--the organizing of the university being initself an achievement of positive romance. "A life without interest!" Why, when I happened to ask, one day, howmany Presidents he had known since Lincoln, he replied, quite casually, that he had "written the lives of most of them in their own homes"; andby this he meant either personally or in collaboration with the Americanbiographer Abbott. The many-sidedness of Conwell is one of the things that is alwaysfascinating. After you have quite got the feeling that he is peculiarlya man of to-day, lecturing on to-day's possibilities to the peopleof to-day, you happen upon some such fact as that he attracted theattention of the London _Times_ through a lecture on Italian history atCambridge in England; or that on the evening of the day on which he wasadmitted to practice in the Supreme Court of the United States he gavea lecture in Washington on "The Curriculum of the Prophets in AncientIsrael. " The man's life is a succession of delightful surprises. An odd trait of his character is his love for fire. He could easily havebeen a veritable fire-worshiper instead of an orthodox Christian! He hasalways loved a blaze, and he says reminiscently that for no single thingwas he punished so much when he was a child as for building bonfires. And after securing possession, as he did in middle age, of the housewhere he was born and of a great acreage around about, he had one ofthe most enjoyable times of his life in tearing down old buildings thatneeded to be destroyed and in heaping up fallen trees and rubbish and inpiling great heaps of wood and setting the great piles ablaze. Yousee, there is one of the secrets of his strength--he has never lost thecapacity for fiery enthusiasm! Always, too, in these later years he is showing his strength andenthusiasm in a positively noble way. He has for years been a keensufferer from rheumatism and neuritis, but he has never permitted thisto interfere with his work or plans. He makes little of his sufferings, and when he slowly makes his way, bent and twisted, downstairs, he doesnot want to be noticed. "I'm all right, " he will say if any one offersto help, and at such a time comes his nearest approach to impatience. Hewants his suffering ignored. Strength has always been to him so preciousa belonging that he will not relinquish it while he lives. "I'm allright!" And he makes himself believe that he is all right even thoughthe pain becomes so severe as to demand massage. And he will still, evenwhen suffering, talk calmly, or write his letters, or attend to whatevermatters come before him. It is the Spartan boy hiding the pain of thegnawing fox. And he never has let pain interfere with his presence onthe pulpit or the platform. He has once in a while gone to a meeting oncrutches and then, by the force of will, and inspired by what he isto do, has stood before his audience or congregation, a man full ofstrength and fire and life. VII. HOW A UNIVERSITY WAS FOUNDED THE story of the foundation and rise of Temple University is anextraordinary story; it is not only extraordinary, but inspiring; it isnot only inspiring, but full of romance. For the university came out of nothing!--nothing but the need of a youngman and the fact that he told the need to one who, throughout his life, has felt the impulse to help any one in need and has always obeyed theimpulse. I asked Dr. Conwell, up at his home in the Berkshires, to tell mehimself just how the university began, and he said that it began becauseit was needed and succeeded because of the loyal work of the teachers. And when I asked for details he was silent for a while, looking off intothe brooding twilight as it lay over the waters and the trees and thehills, and then he said: "It was all so simple; it all came about so naturally. One evening, after a service, a young man of the congregation came to me and I sawthat he was disturbed about something. I had him sit down by me, and Iknew that in a few moments he would tell me what was troubling him. "'Dr. Conwell, ' he said, abruptly, 'I earn but little money, and I seeno immediate chance of earning more. I have to support not only myself, but my mother. It leaves nothing at all. Yet my longing is to be aminister. It is the one ambition of my life. Is there anything that Ican do?' "'Any man, ' I said to him, 'with the proper determination and ambitioncan study sufficiently at night to win his desire. ' "'I have tried to think so, ' said he, 'but I have not been able to seeanything clearly. I want to study, and am ready to give every spareminute to it, but I don't know how to get at it. ' "I thought a few minutes, as I looked at him. He was strong in hisdesire and in his ambition to fulfil it--strong enough, physically andmentally, for work of the body and of the mind--and he needed somethingmore than generalizations of sympathy. "'Come to me one evening a week and I will begin teaching you myself, ' Isaid, 'and at least you will in that way make a beginning'; and I namedthe evening. "His face brightened and he eagerly said that he would come, and leftme; but in a little while he came hurrying back again. 'May I bring afriend with me?' he said. "I told him to bring as many as he wanted to, for more than one would bean advantage, and when the evening came there were six friends with him. And that first evening I began to teach them the foundations of Latin. " He stopped as if the story was over. He was looking out thoughtfullyinto the waning light, and I knew that his mind was busy with those daysof the beginning of the institution he so loves, and whose continuedsuccess means so much to him. In a little while he went on: "That was the beginning of it, and there is little more to tell. By thethird evening the number of pupils had increased to forty; others joinedin helping me, and a room was hired; then a little house, then a secondhouse. From a few students and teachers we became a college. After awhile our buildings went up on Broad Street alongside the Temple Church, and after another while we became a university. From the first ouraim"--(I noticed how quickly it had become "our" instead of "my")--"ouraim was to give education to those who were unable to get it through theusual channels. And so that was really all there was to it. " That was typical of Russell Conwell--to tell with brevity of what hehas done, to point out the beginnings of something, and quite omit toelaborate as to the results. And that, when you come to know him, isprecisely what he means you to understand--that it is the beginning ofanything that is important, and that if a thing is but earnestly begunand set going in the right way it may just as easily develop big resultsas little results. But his story was very far indeed from being "all there was to it, " forhe had quite omitted to state the extraordinary fact that, beginningwith those seven pupils, coming to his library on an evening in 1884, the Temple University has numbered, up to Commencement-time in 1915, 88, 821 students! Nearly one hundred thousand students, and in thelifetime of the founder! Really, the magnitude of such a work cannot beexaggerated, nor the vast importance of it when it is considered thatmost of these eighty-eight thousand students would not have receivedtheir education had it not been for Temple University. And it all camefrom the instant response of Russell Conwell to the immediate needpresented by a young man without money! "And there is something else I want to say, " said Dr. Conwell, unexpectedly. "I want to say, more fully than a mere casual word, hownobly the work was taken up by volunteer helpers; professors from theUniversity of Pennsylvania and teachers from the public schools andother local institutions gave freely of what time they could until thenew venture was firmly on its way. I honor those who came so devotedlyto help. And it should be remembered that in those early days the needwas even greater than it would now appear, for there were then no nightschools or manual-training schools. Since then the city of Philadelphiahas gone into such work, and as fast as it has taken up certain branchesthe Temple University has put its energy into the branches just higher. And there seems no lessening of the need of it, " he added, ponderingly. No; there is certainly no lessening of the need of it! The figures ofthe annual catalogue would alone show that. As early as 1887, just three years after the beginning, the TempleCollege, as it was by that time called, issued its first catalogue, which set forth with stirring words that the intent of its founding wasto: "Provide such instruction as shall be best adapted to the highereducation of those who are compelled to labor at their trade whileengaged in study. "Cultivate a taste for the higher and most useful branches of learning. "Awaken in the character of young laboring men and women a determinedambition to be useful to their fellow-men. " The college--the university as it in time came to be--early broadenedits scope, but it has from the first continued to aim at the needsof those unable to secure education without such help as, through itsmethods, it affords. It was chartered in 1888, at which time its numbers had reached almostsix hundred, and it has ever since had a constant flood of applicants. "It has demonstrated, " as Dr. Conwell puts it, "that those who work fora living have time for study. " And he, though he does not himself addthis, has given the opportunity. He feels especial pride in the features by which lectures andrecitations are held at practically any hour which best suits theconvenience of the students. If any ten students join in a request forany hour from nine in the morning to ten at night a class is arrangedfor them, to meet that request! This involves the necessity for amuch larger number of professors and teachers than would otherwise benecessary, but that is deemed a slight consideration in comparison withthe immense good done by meeting the needs of workers. Also President Conwell--for of course he is the president of theuniversity--is proud of the fact that the privilege of graduationdepends entirely upon knowledge gained; that graduation does not dependupon having listened to any set number of lectures or upon havingattended for so many terms or years. If a student can do four years'work in two years or in three he is encouraged to do it, and if hecannot even do it in four he can have no diploma. Obviously, there is no place at Temple University for students who careonly for a few years of leisured ease. It is a place for workers, andnot at all for those who merely wish to be able to boast that theyattended a university. The students have come largely from amongrailroad clerks, bank clerks, bookkeepers, teachers, preachers, mechanics, salesmen, drug clerks, city and United States governmentemployees, widows, nurses, housekeepers, brakemen, firemen, engineers, motormen, conductors, and shop hands. It was when the college became strong enough, and sufficiently advancedin scholarship and standing, and broad enough in scope, to win the nameof university that this title was officially granted to it by the Stateof Pennsylvania, in 1907, and now its educational plan includes threedistinct school systems. First: it offers a high-school education to the student who has to quitschool after leaving the grammar-school. Second: it offers a full college education, with the branches taught inlong-established high-grade colleges, to the student who has to quit onleaving the high-school. Third: it offers further scientific or professional education to thecollege graduate who must go to work immediately on quitting college, but who wishes to take up some such course as law or medicine orengineering. Out of last year's enrolment of 3, 654 it is interesting to notice thatthe law claimed 141; theology, 182; medicine and pharmacy and dentistrycombined, 357; civil engineering, 37; also that the teachers' college, with normal courses on such subjects as household arts and science, kindergarten work, and physical education, took 174; and still moreinteresting, in a way, to see that 269 students were enrolled for thetechnical and vocational courses, such as cooking and dress-making, millinery, manual crafts, school-gardening, and story-telling. Therewere 511 in high-school work, and 243 in elementary education. Therewere 79 studying music, and 68 studying to be trained nurses. There were606 in the college of liberal arts and sciences, and in the departmentof commercial education there were 987--for it is a university thatoffers both scholarship and practicality. Temple University is not in the least a charitable institution. Itsfees are low, and its hours are for the convenience of the studentsthemselves, but it is a place of absolute independence. It is, indeed, aplace of far greater independence, so one of the professors pointed out, than are the great universities which receive millions and millions ofmoney in private gifts and endowments. Temple University in its early years was sorely in need of money, andoften there were thrills of expectancy when some man of mighty wealthseemed on the point of giving. But not a single one ever did, and nowthe Temple likes to feel that it is glad of it. The Temple, to quoteits own words, is "An institution for strong men and women who can laborwith both mind and body. " And the management is proud to be able to say that, although greatnumbers have come from distant places, "not one of the many thousandsever failed to find an opportunity to support himself. " Even in the early days, when money was needed for the necessarybuildings (the buildings of which Conwell dreamed when he leftsecond-story doors in his church!), the university--college it was thencalled--had won devotion from those who knew that it was a place whereneither time nor money was wasted, and where idleness was a crime, and in the donations for the work were many such items as four hundreddollars from factory-workers who gave fifty cents each, and two thousanddollars from policemen who gave a dollar each. Within two or three yearspast the State of Pennsylvania has begun giving it a large sum annually, and this state aid is public recognition of Temple University as aninstitution of high public value. The state money is invested in thebrains and hearts of the ambitious. So eager is Dr. Conwell to place the opportunity of education beforeevery one, that even his servants must go to school! He is not one ofthose who can see needs that are far away but not those that areright at home. His belief in education, and in the highest attainableeducation, is profound, and it is not only on account of the abstractpleasure and value of education, but its power of increasing actualearning power and thus making a worker of more value to both himself andthe community. Many a man and many a woman, while continuing to work for some firm orfactory, has taken Temple technical courses and thus fitted himselfor herself for an advanced position with the same employer. The Templeknows of many such, who have thus won prominent advancement. And itknows of teachers who, while continuing to teach, have fitted themselvesthrough the Temple courses for professorships. And it knows of many acase of the rise of a Temple student that reads like an Arabian Nights'fancy!--of advance from bookkeeper to editor, from office-boy to bankpresident, from kitchen maid to school principal, from street-cleaner tomayor! The Temple University helps them that help themselves. President Conwell told me personally of one case that especiallyinterested him because it seemed to exhibit, in especial degree, theTemple possibilities; and it particularly interested me because italso showed, in high degree, the methods and personality of Dr. Conwellhimself. One day a young woman came to him and said she earned only three dollarsa week and that she desired very much to make more. "Can you tell me howto do it?" she said. He liked her ambition and her directness, but there was something thathe felt doubtful about, and that was that her hat looked too expensivefor three dollars a week! Now Dr. Conwell is a man whom you would never suspect of giving athought to the hat of man or woman! But as a matter of fact there isvery little that he does not see. But though the hat seemed too expensive for three dollars a week, Dr. Conwell is not a man who makes snap-judgments harshly, and in particularhe would be the last man to turn away hastily one who had sought himout for help. He never felt, nor could possibly urge upon any one, contentment with a humble lot; he stands for advancement; he has nosympathy with that dictum of the smug, that has come to us from a nationtight bound for centuries by its gentry and aristocracy, about beingcontented with the position in which God has placed you, for he pointsout that the Bible itself holds up advancement and success as thingsdesirable. And, as to the young woman before him, it developed, through discreetinquiry veiled by frank discussion of her case, that she had made theexpensive-looking hat herself! Whereupon not only did all doubtfulnessand hesitation vanish, but he saw at once how she could better herself. He knew that a woman who could make a hat like that for herself couldmake hats for other people, and so, "Go into millinery as a business, "he advised. "Oh--if I only could!" she exclaimed. "But I know that I don't knowenough. " "Take the millinery course in Temple University, " he responded. She had not even heard of such a course, and when he went on to explainhow she could take it and at the same time continue at her present workuntil the course was concluded, she was positively ecstatic--it was allso unexpected, this opening of the view of a new and broader life. "She was an unusual woman, " concluded Dr. Conwell, "and she worked withenthusiasm and tirelessness. She graduated, went to an up-state citythat seemed to offer a good field, opened a millinery establishmentthere, with her own name above the door, and became prosperous. That wasonly a few years ago. And recently I had a letter from her, telling methat last year she netted a clear profit of three thousand six hundreddollars!" I remember a man, himself of distinguished position, saying of Dr. Conwell, "It is difficult to speak in tempered language of what he hasachieved. " And that just expresses it; the temptation is constantly touse superlatives--for superlatives fit! Of course he has succeeded forhimself, and succeeded marvelously, in his rise from the rocky hillfarm, but he has done so vastly more than that in inspiring such hostsof others to succeed! A dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions--and what realizations havecome! And it interested me profoundly not long ago, when Dr. Conwell, talking of the university, unexpectedly remarked that he would like tosee such institutions scattered throughout every state in the Union. "All carried on at slight expense to the students and at hours to suitall sorts of working men and women, " he added, after a pause; and then, abruptly, "I should like to see the possibility of higher educationoffered to every one in the United States who works for a living. " There was something superb in the very imagining of such a nation-widesystem. But I did not ask whether or not he had planned any detailsfor such an effort. I knew that thus far it might only be one of hisdreams--but I also knew that his dreams had a way of becoming realities. I had a fleeting glimpse of his soaring vision. It was amazing to finda man of more than three-score and ten thus dreaming of more worldsto conquer. And I thought, what could the world have accomplished ifMethuselah had been a Conwell!--or, far better, what wonders could beaccomplished if Conwell could but be a Methuselah! He has all his life been a great traveler. He is a man who sees vividlyand who can describe vividly. Yet often his letters, even from places ofthe most profound interest, are mostly concerned with affairs back home. It is not that he does not feel, and feel intensely, the interest ofwhat he is visiting, but that his tremendous earnestness keeps himalways concerned about his work at home. There could be no strongerexample than what I noticed in a letter he wrote from Jerusalem. "I amin Jerusalem! And here at Gethsemane and at the Tomb of Christ"--readingthus far, one expects that any man, and especially a minister, is sureto say something regarding the associations of the place and the effectof these associations on his mind; but Conwell is always the man whois different--"And here at Gethsemane and at the Tomb of Christ, I prayespecially for the Temple University. " That is Conwellism! That he founded a hospital--a work in itself great enough for even agreat life is but one among the striking incidents of his career. And itcame about through perfect naturalness. For he came to know, through hispastoral work and through his growing acquaintance with the needs ofthe city, that there was a vast amount of suffering and wretchedness andanguish, because of the inability of the existing hospitals to carefor all who needed care. There was so much sickness and suffering to bealleviated, there were so many deaths that could be prevented--and so hedecided to start another hospital. And, like everything with him, the beginning was small. That cannottoo strongly be set down as the way of this phenomenally successfulorganizer. Most men would have to wait until a big beginning couldbe made, and so would most likely never make a beginning at all. ButConwell's way is to dream of future bigness, but be ready to begin atonce, no matter how small or insignificant the beginning may appear toothers. Two rented rooms, one nurse, one patient--this was the humble beginning, in 1891, of what has developed into the great Samaritan Hospital. In ayear there was an entire house, fitted up with wards and operating-room. Now it occupies several buildings, including and adjoining that firstone, and a great new structure is planned. But even as it is, it has ahundred and seventy beds, is fitted with all modern hospital appliances, and has a large staff of physicians; and the number of surgicaloperations performed there is very large. It is open to sufferers of any race or creed, and the poor are neverrefused admission, the rule being that treatment is free for those whocannot pay, but that such as can afford it shall pay according to theirmeans. And the hospital has a kindly feature that endears it to patients andtheir relatives alike, and that is that, by Dr. Conwell's personalorder, there are not only the usual week-day hours for visiting, butalso one evening a week and every Sunday afternoon. "For otherwise, " ashe says, "many would be unable to come because they could not get awayfrom their work. " A little over eight years ago another hospital was taken in charge, theGarretson--not founded by Conwell, this one, but acquired, and promptlyexpanded in its usefulness. Both the Samaritan and the Garretson are part of Temple University. TheSamaritan Hospital has treated, since its foundation, up to the middleof 1915, 29, 301 patients; the Garretson, in its shorter life, 5, 923. Including dispensary cases as well as house patients, the two hospitalstogether, under the headship of President Conwell, have handled over400, 000 cases. How Conwell can possibly meet the multifarious demands upon his time isin itself a miracle. He is the head of the great church; he is the headof the university; he is the head of the hospitals; he is the head ofeverything with which he is associated! And he is not only nominally, but very actively, the head! VIII. HIS SPLENDID EFFICIENCY CONWELL has a few strong and efficient executive helpers who have longbeen associated with him; men and women who know his ideas and ideals, who are devoted to him, and who do their utmost to relieve him; and ofcourse there is very much that is thus done for him; but even as it is, he is so overshadowing a man (there is really no other word) that allwho work with him look to him for advice and guidance the professorsand the students, the doctors and the nurses, the church officers, theSunday-school teachers, the members of his congregation. And he is nevertoo busy to see any one who really wishes to see him. He can attend to a vast intricacy of detail, and answer myriad personalquestions and doubts, and keep the great institutions splendidly going, by thorough systematization of time, and by watching every minute. He has several secretaries, for special work, besides his privatesecretary. His correspondence is very great. Often he dictates to asecretary as he travels on the train. Even in the few days for which hecan run back to the Berkshires, work is awaiting him. Work follows him. And after knowing of this, one is positively amazed that he is able togive to his country-wide lectures the time and the traveling that theyinexorably demand. Only a man of immense strength, of the greateststamina, a veritable superman, could possibly do it. And at times onequite forgets, noticing the multiplicity of his occupations, that heprepares two sermons and two talks on Sunday! Here is his usual Sunday schedule, when at home. He rises at seven andstudies until breakfast, which is at eight-thirty. Then he studies untilnine-forty-five, when he leads a men's meeting at which he is likelyalso to play the organ and lead the singing. At ten-thirty is theprincipal church service, at which he preaches, and at the close ofwhich he shakes hands with hundreds. He dines at one, after which hetakes fifteen minutes' rest and then reads; and at three o'clock headdresses, in a talk that is like another sermon, a large class ofmen--not the same men as in the morning. He is also sure to look in atthe regular session of the Sunday-school. Home again, where he studiesand reads until supper-time. At seven-thirty is the evening service, at which he again preaches and after which he shakes hands with severalhundred more and talks personally, in his study, with any who have needof talk with him. He is usually home by ten-thirty. I spoke of it, one evening, as having been a strenuous day, and he responded, with acheerfully whimsical smile: "Three sermons and shook hands with ninehundred. " That evening, as the service closed, he had said to the congregation: "Ishall be here for an hour. We always have a pleasant time together afterservice. If you are acquainted with me, come up and shake hands. If youare strangers"--just the slightest of pauses--"come up and let us makean acquaintance that will last for eternity. " I remember how simply andeasily this was said, in his clear, deep voice, and how impressive andimportant it seemed, and with what unexpectedness it came. "Come andmake an acquaintance that will last for eternity!" And there wasa serenity about his way of saying this which would make strangersthink--just as he meant them to think--that he had nothing whatever todo but to talk with them. Even his own congregation have, most of them, little conception of how busy a man he is and how precious is his time. One evening last June to take an evening of which I happened to know--hegot home from a journey of two hundred miles at six o'clock, and afterdinner and a slight rest went to the church prayer-meeting, which heled in his usual vigorous way at such meetings, playing the organand leading the singing, as well as praying and talk-ing. After theprayer-meeting he went to two dinners in succession, both of themimportant dinners in connection with the close of the university year, and at both dinners he spoke. At the second dinner he was notifiedof the sudden illness of a member of his congregation, and instantlyhurried to the man's home and thence to the hospital to which hehad been removed, and there he remained at the man's bedside, or inconsultation with the physicians, until one in the morning. Next morninghe was up at seven and again at work. "This one thing I do, " is his private maxim of efficiency, and aliteralist might point out that he does not one thing only, but athousand things, not getting Conwell's meaning, which is that whateverthe thing may be which he is doing he lets himself think of nothing elseuntil it is done. Dr. Conwell has a profound love for the country and particularly for thecountry of his own youth. He loves the wind that comes sweeping overthe hills, he loves the wide-stretching views from the heights and theforest intimacies of the nestled nooks. He loves the rippling streams, he loves the wild flowers that nestle in seclusion or that unexpectedlypaint some mountain meadow with delight. He loves the very touch of theearth, and he loves the great bare rocks. He writes verses at times; at least he has written lines for a few oldtunes; and it interested me greatly to chance upon some lines of histhat picture heaven in terms of the Berkshires: _The wide-stretching valleys in colors so fadeless, Where trees are all deathless and flowers e'er bloom_. That is heaven in the eyes of a New England hill-man! Not goldenpavement and ivory palaces, but valleys and trees and flowers and thewide sweep of the open. Few things please him more than to go, for example, blackberrying, andhe has a knack of never scratching his face or his fingers when doingso. And he finds blackberrying, whether he goes alone or with friends, an extraordinarily good time for planning something he wishes to do orworking out the thought of a sermon. And fishing is even better, for infishing he finds immense recreation and restfulness and at the same timea further opportunity to think and plan. As a small boy he wished that he could throw a dam across thetrout-brook that runs near the little Conwell home, and--as he nevergives up--he finally realized the ambition, although it was after halfa century! And now he has a big pond, three-quarters of a mile long byhalf a mile wide, lying in front of the house, down a slope from it--apond stocked with splendid pickerel. He likes to float about restfullyon this pond, thinking or fishing, or both. And on that pond he showedme how to catch pickerel even under a blaze of sunlight! He is a trout-fisher, too, for it is a trout stream that feeds thispond and goes dashing away from it through the wilderness; and for milesadjoining his place a fishing club of wealthy men bought up the rightsin this trout stream, and they approached him with a liberal offer. Buthe declined it. "I remembered what good times I had when I was a boy, fishing up and down that stream, and I couldn't think of keeping theboys of the present day from such a pleasure. So they may still come andfish for trout here. " As we walked one day beside this brook, he suddenly said: "Did you evernotice that every brook has its own song? I should know the song of thisbrook anywhere. " It would seem as if he loved his rugged native country because it isrugged even more than because it is native! Himself so rugged, so hardy, so enduring--the strength of the hills is his also. Always, in his very appearance, you see something of this ruggedness ofthe hills; a ruggedness, a sincerity, a plainness, that mark alike hischaracter and his looks. And always one realizes the strength of theman, even when his voice, as it usually is, is low. And one increasinglyrealizes the strength when, on the lecture platform or in the pulpit orin conversation, he flashes vividly into fire. A big-boned man he is, sturdy-framed, a tall man, with broad shouldersand strong hands. His hair is a deep chestnut-brown that at firstsight seems black. In his early manhood he was superb in looks, as hispictures show, but anxiety and work and the constant flight of years, with physical pain, have settled his face into lines of sadness andalmost of severity, which instantly vanish when he speaks. And his faceis illumined by marvelous eyes. He is a lonely man. The wife of his early years died long, long ago, before success had come, and she was deeply mourned, for she had loyallyhelped him through a time that held much of struggle and hardship. Hemarried again; and this wife was his loyal helpmate for many years. Ina time of special stress, when a defalcation of sixty-five thousanddollars threatened to crush Temple College just when it was getting onits feet, for both Temple Church and Temple College had in those earlydays buoyantly assumed heavy indebtedness, he raised every dollar hecould by selling or mortgaging his own possessions, and in this hiswife, as he lovingly remembers, most cordially stood beside him, although she knew that if anything should happen to him the financialsacrifice would leave her penniless. She died after years ofcompanionship; his children married and made homes of their own; he isa lonely man. Yet he is not unhappy, for the tremendous demands of histremendous work leave him little time for sadness or retrospect. Attimes the realization comes that he is getting old, that friends andcomrades have been passing away, leaving him an old man with youngerfriends and helpers. But such realization only makes him work with anearnestness still more intense, knowing that the night cometh when noman shall work. Deeply religious though he is, he does not force religion intoconversation on ordinary subjects or upon people who may not beinterested in it. With him, it is action and good works, with faith andbelief, that count, except when talk is the natural, the fitting, thenecessary thing; when addressing either one individual or thousands, hetalks with superb effectiveness. His sermons are, it may almost literally be said, parable after parable;although he himself would be the last man to say this, for it wouldsound as if he claimed to model after the greatest of all examples. Hisown way of putting it is that he uses stories frequently because peopleare more impressed by illustrations than by argument. Always, whether in the pulpit or out of it, he is simple and homelike, human and unaffected. If he happens to see some one in the congregationto whom he wishes to speak, he may just leave his pulpit and walk downthe aisle, while the choir is singing, and quietly say a few words andreturn. In the early days of his ministry, if he heard of a poor family inimmediate need of food he would be quite likely to gather a basket ofprovisions and go personally, and offer this assistance and such otheras he might find necessary when he reached the place. As he became knownhe ceased from this direct and open method of charity, for he knew thatimpulsiveness would be taken for intentional display. But he has neverceased to be ready to help on the instant that he knows help is needed. Delay and lengthy investigation are avoided by him when he can becertain that something immediate is required. And the extent of hisquiet charity is amazing. With no family for which to save money, andwith no care to put away money for himself, he thinks only of moneyas an instrument for helpfulness. I never heard a friend criticize himexcept for too great open-handedness. I was strongly impressed, after coming to know him, that he possessedmany of the qualities that made for the success of the old-time districtleaders of New York City, and I mentioned this to him, and he at onceresponded that he had himself met "Big Tim, " the long-time leader ofthe Sullivans, and had had him at his house, Big Tim having gone toPhiladelphia to aid some henchman in trouble, and having promptly soughtthe aid of Dr. Conwell. And it was characteristic of Conwell that hesaw, what so many never saw, the most striking characteristic of thatTammany leader. For, "Big Tim Sullivan was so kind-hearted!" Conwellappreciated the man's political unscrupulousness as well as didhis enemies, but he saw also what made his underlying power--hiskind-heartedness. Except that Sullivan could be supremely unscrupulous, and that Conwell is supremely scrupulous, there were marked similaritiesin these masters over men; and Conwell possesses, as Sullivan possessed, a wonderful memory for faces and names. Naturally, Russell Conwell stands steadily and strongly for goodcitizenship. But he never talks boastful Americanism. He seldom speaksin so many words of either Americanism or good citizenship, but heconstantly and silently keeps the American flag, as the symbol of goodcitizenship, before his people. An American flag is prominent in hischurch; an American flag is seen in his home; a beautiful American flagis up at his Berkshire place and surmounts a lofty tower where, when hewas a boy, there stood a mighty tree at the top of which was an eagle'snest, which has given him a name for his home, for he terms it "TheEagle's Nest. " Remembering a long story that I had read of his climbing to the top ofthat tree, though it was a well-nigh impossible feat, and securing thenest by great perseverance and daring, I asked him if the story werea true one. "Oh, I've heard something about it; somebody said thatsomebody watched me, or something of the kind. But I don't rememberanything about it myself. " Any friend of his is sure to say something, after a while, about hisdetermination, his insistence on going ahead with anything on which hehas really set his heart. One of the very important things on whichhe insisted, in spite of very great opposition, and especially anopposition from the other churches of his denomination (for this was agood many years ago, when there was much more narrowness in churchesand sects than there is at present), was with regard to doing away withclose communion. He determined on an open communion; and his way ofputting it, once decided upon, was: "My friends, it is not for me toinvite you to the table of the Lord. The table of the Lord is open. Ifyou feel that you can come to the table, it is open to you. " And this isthe form which he still uses. He not only never gives up, but, so his friends say, he never forgetsa thing upon which he has once decided, and at times, long after theysupposed the matter has been entirely forgotten, they suddenly find Dr. Conwell bringing his original purpose to pass. When I was told of this Iremembered that pickerel-pond in the Berkshires! If he is really set upon doing anything, little or big, adversecriticism does not disturb his serenity. Some years ago he began wearinga huge diamond, whose size attracted much criticism and caustic comment. He never said a word in defense; he just kept on wearing the diamond. One day, however, after some years, he took it off, and people said, "Hehas listened to the criticism at last!" He smiled reminiscently as hetold me about this, and said: "A dear old deacon of my congregation gaveme that diamond and I did not like to hurt his feelings by refusing it. It really bothered me to wear such a glaring big thing, but because Ididn't want to hurt the old deacon's feelings I kept on wearing it untilhe was dead. Then I stopped wearing it. " The ambition of Russell Conwell is to continue working and working untilthe very last moment of his life. In work he forgets his sadness, hisloneliness, his age. And he said to me one day, "I will die in harness. " IX. THE STORY OF ACRES OF DIAMONDS CONSIDERING everything, the most remarkable thing in Russell Conwell'sremarkable life is his lecture, "Acres of Diamonds. " That is, thelecture itself, the number of times he has delivered it, what a sourceof inspiration it has been to myriads, the money that he has made and ismaking, and, still more, the purpose to which he directs the money. Inthe circumstances surrounding "Acres of Diamonds, " in its tremendoussuccess, in the attitude of mind revealed by the lecture itself and bywhat Dr. Conwell does with it, it is illuminative of his character, hisaims, his ability. The lecture is vibrant with his energy. It flashes with his hopefulness. It is full of his enthusiasm. It is packed full of his intensity. Itstands for the possibilities of success in every one. He has deliveredit over five thousand times. The demand for it never diminishes. Thesuccess grows never less. There is a time in Russell Conwell's youth of which it is pain for himto think. He told me of it one evening, and his voice sank lower andlower as he went far back into the past. It was of his days at Yalethat he spoke, for they were days of suffering. For he had not money forYale, and in working for more he endured bitter humiliation. It was notthat the work was hard, for Russell Conwell has always been ready forhard work. It was not that there were privations and difficulties, forhe has always found difficulties only things to overcome, and enduredprivations with cheerful fortitude. But it was the humiliations that hemet--the personal humiliations that after more than half a century makehim suffer in remembering them--yet out of those humiliations came amarvelous result. "I determined, " he says, "that whatever I could do to make the wayeasier at college for other young men working their way I would do. " And so, many years ago, he began to devote every dollar that he madefrom "Acres of Diamonds" to this definite purpose. He has what may betermed a waiting-list. On that list are very few cases he has lookedinto personally. Infinitely busy man that he is, he cannot do extensivepersonal investigation. A large proportion of his names come to him fromcollege presidents who know of students in their own colleges in need ofsuch a helping hand. "Every night, " he said, when I asked him to tell me about it, "when mylecture is over and the check is in my hand, I sit down in my room inthe hotel"--what a lonely picture, tool--"I sit down in my room in thehotel and subtract from the total sum received my actual expenses forthat place, and make out a check for the difference and send it tosome young man on my list. And I always send with the check a letterof advice and helpfulness, expressing my hope that it will be of someservice to him and telling him that he is to feel under no obligationexcept to his Lord. I feel strongly, and I try to make every young manfeel, that there must be no sense of obligation to me personally. And Itell them that I am hoping to leave behind me men who will do more workthan I have done. Don't think that I put in too much advice, " he added, with a smile, "for I only try to let them know that a friend is tryingto help them. " His face lighted as he spoke. "There is such a fascination in it!" heexclaimed. "It is just like a gamble! And as soon as I have sent theletter and crossed a name off my list, I am aiming for the next one!" And after a pause he added: "I do not attempt to send any young manenough for all his expenses. But I want to save him from bitterness, and each check will help. And, too, " he concluded, naïvely, in thevernacular, "I don't want them to lay down on me!" He told me that he made it clear that he did not wish to get returnsor reports from this branch of his life-work, for it would take a greatdeal of time in watching and thinking and in the reading and writingof letters. "But it is mainly, " he went on, "that I do not wish to holdover their heads the sense of obligation. " When I suggested that this was surely an example of bread cast upon thewaters that could not return, he was silent for a little and then said, thoughtfully: "As one gets on in years there is satisfaction in doing athing for the sake of doing it. The bread returns in the sense of effortmade. " On a recent trip through Minnesota he was positively upset, so hissecretary told me, through being recognized on a train by a young manwho had been helped through "Acres of Diamonds, " and who, finding thatthis was really Dr. Conwell, eagerly brought his wife to join him inmost fervent thanks for his assistance. Both the husband and his wifewere so emotionally overcome that it quite overcame Dr. Conwell himself. The lecture, to quote the noble words of Dr. Conwell himself, isdesigned to help "every person, of either sex, who cherishes the highresolve of sustaining a career of usefulness and honor. " It is a lectureof helpfulness. And it is a lecture, when given with Conwell's voiceand face and manner, that is full of fascination. And yet it is all sosimple! It is packed full of inspiration, of suggestion, of aid. He alters itto meet the local circumstances of the thousands of different places inwhich he delivers it. But the base remains the same. And even those towhom it is an old story will go to hear him time after time. It amuseshim to say that he knows individuals who have listened to it twentytimes. It begins with a story told to Conwell by an old Arab as the twojourneyed together toward Nineveh, and, as you listen, you hear theactual voices and you see the sands of the desert and the waving palms. The lecturer's voice is so easy, so effortless, it seems so ordinaryand matter-of-fact--yet the entire scene is instantly vital and alive!Instantly the man has his audience under a sort of spell, eager tolisten, ready to be merry or grave. He has the faculty of control, thevital quality that makes the orator. The same people will go to hear this lecture over and over, and that isthe kind of tribute that Conwell likes. I recently heard him deliverit in his own church, where it would naturally be thought to be an oldstory, and where, presumably, only a few of the faithful would go; butit was quite clear that all of his church are the faithful, for it wasa large audience that came to listen to him; hardly a seat in the greatauditorium was vacant. And it should be added that, although it wasin his own church, it was not a free lecture, where a throng mightbe expected, but that each one paid a liberal sum for a seat--and thepaying of admission is always a practical test of the sincerity ofdesire to hear. And the people were swept along by the current as iflecturer and lecture were of novel interest. The lecture in itself isgood to read, but it is only when it is illumined by Conwell's vividpersonality that one understands how it influences in the actualdelivery. On that particular evening he had decided to give the lecture in thesame form as when he first delivered it many years ago, without any ofthe alterations that have come with time and changing localities, andas he went on, with the audience rippling and bubbling with laughter asusual, he never doubted that he was giving it as he had given it yearsbefore; and yet--so up-to-date and alive must he necessarily be, inspite of a definitive effort to set himself back--every once in a whilehe was coming out with illustrations from such distinctly recent thingsas the automobile! The last time I heard him was the 5, 124th time for the lecture. Doesn'tit seem incredible! 5, 124 times' I noticed that he was to deliver it ata little out-of-the-way place, difficult for any considerable number toget to, and I wondered just how much of an audience would gather and howthey would be impressed. So I went over from there I was, a few milesaway. The road was dark and I pictured a small audience, but when I gotthere I found the church building in which he was to deliver the lecturehad a seating capacity of 830 and that precisely 830 people were alreadyseated there and that a fringe of others were standing behind. Manyhad come from miles away. Yet the lecture had scarcely, if at all, beenadvertised. But people had said to one another: "Aren't you going tohear Dr. Conwell?" And the word had thus been passed along. I remember how fascinating it was to watch that audience, for theyresponded so keenly and with such heartfelt pleasure throughout theentire lecture. And not only were they immensely pleased and amused andinterested--and to achieve that at a crossroads church was in itselfa triumph to be proud of--but I knew that every listener was given animpulse toward doing something for himself and for others, and that withat least some of them the impulse would materialize in acts. Over andover one realizes what a power such a man wields. And what an unselfishness! For, far on in years as he is, and sufferingpain, he does not chop down his lecture to a definite length; he doesnot talk for just an hour or go on grudgingly for an hour and a half. Hesees that the people are fascinated and inspired, and he forgets pain, ignores time, forgets that the night is late and that he has a longjourney to go to get home, and keeps on generously for two hours! Andevery one wishes it were four. Always he talks with ease and sympathy. There are geniality, composure, humor, simple and homely jests--yet never does the audience forget thathe is every moment in tremendous earnest. They bubble with responsivelaughter or are silent in riveted attention. A stir can be seen to sweepover an audience, of earnestness or surprise or amusement or resolve. When he is grave and sober or fervid the people feel that he is himselfa fervidly earnest man, and when he is telling something humorous thereis on his part almost a repressed chuckle, a genial appreciation of thefun of it, not in the least as if he were laughing at his own humor, butas if he and his hearers were laughing together at something of whichthey were all humorously cognizant. Myriad successes in life have come through the direct inspiration ofthis single lecture. One hears of so many that there must be vastlymore that are never told. A few of the most recent were told me by Dr. Conwell himself, one being of a farmer boy who walked a long distanceto hear him. On his way home, so the boy, now a man, has written him, hethought over and over of what he could do to advance himself, andbefore he reached home he learned that a teacher was wanted at a certaincountry school. He knew he did not know enough to teach, but was surehe could learn, so he bravely asked for the place. And something in hisearnestness made him win a temporary appointment. Thereupon he workedand studied so hard and so devotedly, while he daily taught, that withina few months he was regularly employed there. "And now, " says Conwell, abruptly, with his characteristic skim-ming over of the intermediatedetails between the important beginning of a thing and the satisfactoryend, "and now that young man is one of our college presidents. " And very recently a lady came to Dr. Conwell, the wife of anexceptionally prominent man who was earning a large salary, and she toldhim that her husband was so unselfishly generous with money that oftenthey were almost in straits. And she said they had bought a little farmas a country place, paying only a few hundred dollars for it, and thatshe had said to herself, laughingly, after hearing the lecture, "Thereare no acres of diamonds on this place!" But she also went on to tellthat she had found a spring of exceptionally fine water there, althoughin buying they had scarcely known of the spring at all; and she had beenso inspired by Conwell that she had had the water analyzed and, findingthat it was remarkably pure, had begun to have it bottled and sold undera trade name as special spring water. And she is making money. And shealso sells pure ice from the pool, cut in winter-time and all because of"Acres of Diamonds"! Several millions of dollars, in all, have been received by RussellConwell as the proceeds from this single lecture. Such a fact is almoststaggering--and it is more staggering to realize what good is done inthe world by this man, who does not earn for himself, but uses hismoney in immediate helpfulness. And one can neither think nor write withmoderation when it is further realized that far more good than can bedone directly with money he does by uplifting and inspiring with thislecture. Always his heart is with the weary and the heavy-laden. Alwayshe stands for self-betterment. Last year, 1914, he and his work were given unique recognition. For itwas known by his friends that this particular lecture was approachingits five-thousandth delivery, and they planned a celebration of suchan event in the history of the most popular lecture in the world. Dr. Conwell agreed to deliver it in the Academy of Music, in Philadelphia, and the building was packed and the streets outside were thronged. Theproceeds from all sources for that five-thousandth lecture were overnine thousand dollars. The hold which Russell Conwell has gained on the affections and respectof his home city was seen not only in the thousands who strove to hearhim, but in the prominent men who served on the local committee incharge of the celebration. There was a national committee, too, and thenation-wide love that he has won, the nation-wide appreciation of whathe has done and is still doing, was shown by the fact that among thenames of the notables on this committee were those of nine governors ofstates. The Governor of Pennsylvania was himself present to do RussellConwell honor, and he gave to him a key emblematic of the Freedom of theState. The "Freedom of the State"--yes; this man, well over seventy, has wonit. The Freedom of the State, the Freedom of the Nation--for this manof helpfulness, this marvelous exponent of the gospel of success, hasworked marvelously for the freedom, the betterment, the liberation, theadvancement, of the individual. FIFTY YEARS ON THE LECTURE PLATFORM By Russell H. Conwell AN Autobiography! What an absurd request! If all the conditions werefavorable, the story of my public Life could not be made interesting. It does not seem possible that any will care to read so plain anduneventful a tale. I see nothing in it for boasting, nor much that couldbe helpful. Then I never saved a scrap of paper intentionally concerningmy work to which I could refer, not a book, not a sermon, not a lecture, not a newspaper notice or account, not a magazine article, not one ofthe kind biographies written from time to time by noble friends haveI ever kept even as a souvenir, although some of them may be in mylibrary. I have ever felt that the writers concerning my life were toogenerous and that my own work was too hastily done. Hence I have nothingupon which to base an autobiographical account, except the recollectionswhich come to an overburdened mind. My general view of half a century on the lecture platform brings to meprecious and beautiful memories, and fills my soul with devout gratitudefor the blessings and kindnesses which have been given to me so farbeyond my deserts. So much more success has come to my hands than I everexpected; so much more of good have I found than even youth's wildestdream included; so much more effective have been my weakest endeavorsthan I ever planned or hoped--that a biography written truthfully wouldbe mostly an account of what men and women have done for me. I have lived to see accomplished far more than my highest ambitionincluded, and have seen the enterprises I have undertaken rush by me, pushed on by a thousand strong hands until they have left me far behindthem. The realities are like dreams to me. Blessings on the lovinghearts and noble minds who have been so willing to sacrifice for others'good and to think only of what they could do, and never of what theyshould get! Many of them have ascended into the Shining Land, and here Iam in mine age gazing up alone, _Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown_. Fifty years! I was a young man, not yet of age, when I delivered myfirst platform lecture. The Civil War of 1861-65 drew on with all itspassions, patriotism, horrors, and fears, and I was studying law atYale University. I had from childhood felt that I was "called to theministry. " The earliest event of memory is the prayer of my father atfamily prayers in the little old cottage in the Hampshire highlands ofthe Berkshire Hills, calling on God with a sobbing voice to lead me intosome special service for the Saviour. It filled me with awe, dread, and fear, and I recoiled from the thought, until I determined to fightagainst it with all my power. So I sought for other professions and fordecent excuses for being anything but a preacher. Yet while I was nervous and timid before the class in declamation anddreaded to face any kind of an audience, I felt in my soul a strangeimpulsion toward public speaking which for years made me miserable. Thewar and the public meetings for recruiting soldiers furnished anoutlet for my suppressed sense of duty, and my first lecture was onthe "Lessons of History" as applied to the campaigns against theConfederacy. That matchless temperance orator and loving friend, John B. Gough, introduced me to the little audience in Westfield, Massachusetts, in1862. What a foolish little school-boy speech it must have been! ButMr. Gough's kind words of praise, the bouquets and the applause, mademe feel that somehow the way to public oratory would not be so hard as Ihad feared. From that time I acted on Mr. Gough's advice and "sought practice" byaccepting almost every invitation I received to speak on any kind of asubject. There were many sad failures and tears, but it was a restfulcompromise with my conscience concerning the ministry, and it pleasedmy friends. I addressed picnics, Sunday-schools, patriotic meetings, funerals, anniversaries, commencements, debates, cattle-shows, andsewing-circles without partiality and without price. For the first fiveyears the income was all experience. Then voluntary gifts began to comeoccasionally in the shape of a jack-knife, a ham, a book, and the firstcash remuneration was from a farmers' club, of seventy-five cents towardthe "horse hire. " It was a curious fact that one member of that clubafterward moved to Salt Lake City and was a member of the committee atthe Mormon Tabernacle in 1872 which, when I was a correspondent, ona journey around the world, employed me to lecture on "Men of theMountains" in the Mormon Tabernacle, at a fee of five hundred dollars. While I was gaining practice in the first years of platform work, I hadthe good fortune to have profitable employment as a soldier, or as acorrespondent or lawyer, or as an editor or as a preacher, which enabledme to pay my own expenses, and it has been seldom in the fifty yearsthat I have ever taken a fee for my personal use. In the last thirty-sixyears I have dedicated solemnly all the lecture income to benevolententerprises. If I am antiquated enough for an autobiography, perhaps Imay be aged enough to avoid the criticism of being an egotist, when Istate that some years I delivered one lecture, "Acres of Diamonds, " overtwo hundred times each year, at an average income of about one hundredand fifty dollars for each lecture. It was a remarkable good fortune which came to me as a lecturer when Mr. James Redpath organized the first lecture bureau ever established. Mr. Redpath was the biographer of John Brown of Harper's Ferry renown, andas Mr. Brown had been long a friend of my father's I found employment, while a student on vacation, in selling that life of John Brown. Thatacquaintance with Mr. Redpath was maintained until Mr. Redpath's death. To General Charles H. Taylor, with whom I was employed for a time asreporter for the Boston _Daily Traveler_, I was indebted for many actsof self-sacrificing friendship which soften my soul as I recall them. Hedid me the greatest kindness when he suggested my name to Mr. Redpathas one who could "fill in the vacancies in the smaller towns" where the"great lights could not always be secured. " What a glorious galaxy of great names that original list of Redpathlecturers contained! Henry Ward Beecher, John B. Gough, Senator CharlesSumner, Theodore Tilton, Wendell Phillips, Mrs. Mary A. Livermore, Bayard Taylor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, with many of the great preachers, musicians, and writers of that remarkable era. Even Dr. Holmes, JohnWhittier, Henry W. Longfellow, John Lothrop Motley, George WilliamCurtis, and General Burnside were persuaded to appear one or more times, although they refused to receive pay. I cannot forget how ashamed I feltwhen my name ap-peared in the shadow of such names, and how sure I wasthat every acquaintance was ridiculing me behind my back. Mr. BayardTaylor, however, wrote me from the _Tribune_ office a kind note sayingthat he was glad to see me "on the road to great usefulness. " GovernorClafflin, of Massachusetts, took the time to send me a note ofcongratulation. General Benjamin F. Butler, however, advised me to"stick to the last" and be a good lawyer. The work of lecturing was always a task and a duty. I do not feel nowthat I ever sought to be an entertainer. I am sure I would have been anutter failure but for the feeling that I must preach some gospel truthin my lectures and do at least that much toward that ever-persistent"call of God. " When I entered the ministry (1879) I had become soassociated with the lecture platform in America and England that I couldnot feel justified in abandoning so great a field of usefulness. The experiences of all our successful lecturers are probably nearlyalike. The way is not always smooth. But the hard roads, the poorhotels, the late trains, the cold halls, the hot church auditoriums, theoverkindness of hospitable committees, and the broken hours of sleepare annoyances one soon forgets; and the hosts of intelligent faces, the messages of thanks, and the effects of the earnings on the lives ofyoung college men can never cease to be a daily joy. God bless them all. Often have I been asked if I did not, in fifty years of travel in allsorts of conveyances, meet with accidents. It is a marvel to me thatno such event ever brought me harm. In a continuous period of overtwenty-seven years I delivered about two lectures in every three days, yet I did not miss a single engagement. Sometimes I had to hirea special train, but I reached the town on time, with only a rareexception, and then I was but a few minutes late. Accidents havepreceded and followed me on trains and boats, and were sometimes insight, but I was preserved without injury through all the years. In theJohnstown flood region I saw a bridge go out behind our train. I wasonce on a derelict steamer on the Atlantic for twenty-six days. Atanother time a man was killed in the berth of a sleeper I had left halfan hour before. Often have I felt the train leave the track, but no onewas killed. Robbers have several times threatened my life, but all cameout without loss to me. God and man have ever been patient with me. Yet this period of lecturing has been, after all, a side issue. TheTemple, and its church, in Philadelphia, which, when its membership wasless than three thousand members, for so many years contributed throughits membership over sixty thousand dollars a year for the uplift ofhumanity, has made life a continual surprise; while the SamaritanHospital's amazing growth, and the Garretson Hospital's dispensaries, have been so continually ministering to the sick and poor, and have donesuch skilful work for the tens of thousands who ask for their help eachyear, that I have been made happy while away lecturing by the feelingthat each hour and minute they were faithfully doing good. TempleUniversity, which was founded only twenty-seven years ago, has alreadysent out into a higher income and nobler life nearly a hundred thousandyoung men and women who could not probably have obtained an educationin any other institution. The faithful, self-sacrificing faculty, nownumbering two hundred and fifty-three professors, have done thereal work. For that I can claim but little credit; and I mentionthe University here only to show that my "fifty years on the lectureplatform" has necessarily been a side line of work. My best-known lecture, "Acres of Diamonds, " was a mere accidentaladdress, at first given before a reunion of my old comrades of theForty-sixth Massachusetts Regiment, which served in the Civil War and inwhich I was captain. I had no thought of giving the address again, andeven after it began to be called for by lecture committees I did notdream that I should live to deliver it, as I now have done, almost fivethousand times. "What is the secret of its popularity?" I could neverexplain to myself or others. I simply know that I always attempt toenthuse myself on each occasion with the idea that it is a specialopportunity to do good, and I interest myself in each community andapply the general principles with local illustrations. The hand which now holds this pen must in the natural course of eventssoon cease to gesture on the platform, and it is a sincere, prayerfulhope that this book will go on into the years doing increasing good forthe aid of my brothers and sisters in the human family. RUSSELL H. CONWELL. South Worthington, Mass. , September 1, 1913. [Footnote 1: This is the most recent and complete form of the lecture. It happened to be delivered in Philadelphia, Dr. Conwell's home city. When he says "right here in Philadelphia, " he means the home city, town, or village of every reader of this book, just as he would use the nameof it if delivering the lecture there, instead of doing it through thepages which follow. ] [Footnote 2: _Dr. Conwell was living, and actively at work, whenthese pages were written. It is, therefore, a much truer picture of hispersonality than anything written in the past tense_. ] [Footnote 3: _This interview took place at the old Conwell farm in thesummer of 1915_. ]