In September, 1896, accompanied by her teacher, Miss Keller entered the Cambridge School for Girls, to prepare for Radcliffe College, and in June, 1897, passed the examinations of the first preparatory year successfully in every subject, taking “honors” in English and German. The director of the school, Arthur Gilman, in an article in “American Annals of the Deaf,” says: “I think that I may say that no candidate in Harvard or Radcliffe College was graduated higher than Helen in English. The result is remarkable, especially when we consider that she had been studying on strictly college preparatory lines for one year only. She had, it is true, long and careful instruction, and she has hadalways the loving ministration of Miss Sullivan, in addition to the inestimable advantage of a concentration that the rest of us never know. No other, man or woman,” he adds, “has ever, in my experience, got ready for those examinations in so brief a time.”
Mr. Gilman, in the same article, pays the following well-deserved tribute to Miss Sullivan, whose work is as worthy of admiration as that of her pupil:—
“Miss Sullivan sat at Helen’s side in the classes (in the Cambridge School), interpreting to her, with infinite patience, the instruction of every teacher. In study hours, Miss Sullivan’s labors were even more arduous, for she was obliged to read everything that Helen had to learn, excepting what was prepared in Braille; she searched the lexicons and encyclopedias, and gave Helen the benefit of it all. When Helen went home, Miss Sullivan went with her, and it was hers to satisfy the busy, unintermitting demands of the intensely active brain; for, although others gladly helped, there were many matters which could be treated only by the one teacher who had awakened the activity and had followed its development from the first. Now, it was a German grammar which had to be read, now a French story, and then some passage from ‘Cæsar’s Commentaries.’ It looked like drudgery, and drudgery it would certainly have been had not love shed its benign influence over all, lightening each step and turning hardship into pleasure.”
Miss Keller is very patriotic, but large and liberal inher ideas, which soar far beyond all narrow, partisan or political prejudices. Her sympathies are with the masses, the burden-bearers, and, like all friends of the people and of universal progress, she was intensely interested in the Peace Congress.
Speaking on the subject, she said: “I hope the nations will carry out the project of disarmament. I wonder which nation will be brave enough to lay down its arms first!”
“Don’t you hope it will be America?”
“Yes, I hope so, but I do not think it will. We are only just beginning to fight now,” she went on, sagely, “and I am afraid we like it. I think it will be one of the old, experienced nations, that has had enough of war.”
I asked Miss Keller what she considers most essential to a successful career.
She thought a moment, and then replied, slowly, “Patience, perseverance and fidelity.”
“And what do you look upon as the most desirable thing in life?”
“Friends,” was the prompt reply to this broad general question; and, as she uttered the word, she nestled closely to the friend who has so long been all in all to her.
“What about material possessions?” I asked; “for instance, which would you place first,—wealth or education?”
“Education. A good education is a stepping-stone to wealth. But that does not imply that I want wealth. It is such a care. It would be worse than dressing. ‘Give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me contentment,’” she quoted, with a smile.
The future of this most interesting girl will be followed with closest attention by educators, psychologists, and the public generally. There is little doubt that the time and care spent on her education will be amply justified; and that she will personally illustrate her own ideal of a successful career,—“To live nobly; to be true to one’s best aspirations,”—is the belief of all who know her.
WHEN I visited the hill-top retreat of John Burroughs, the distinguished lover of nature, at West Park, New York, it was with the feeling that all success is not material; that mere dollars are nothing, and that the influential man is the successful man, whether he be rich or poor. John Burroughs is unquestionably both influential and poor. On the wooden porch of his little bark-covered cabin I waited, one June afternoon, until he should come back from the woods and fields, where he had gone for a ramble. It was so still that the sound of my rocker moving to and fro on the rough boards of the little porch seemed to shock the perfect quiet. From afar off came the plaintive cry of a wood-dove, and then all was still again. Presently the interpreter of out-door life appeared in the distance, and, seeing a stranger at his door, hurried homeward. He was without coat or vest, and looked cool in his white outing shirt and large straw hat. After some formalities ofintroduction, we reached the subject which I had called to discuss, and he said:—
“It is not customary to interview men of my vocation concerning success.”
“Any one who has made a lasting impression on the minds of his contemporaries,” I began, “and influenced men and women——”
“Do you refer to me?” he interrupted, naively.
I nodded and he laughed. “I have not endowed a university nor made a fortune, nor conquered an enemy in battle,” he said.
“And those who have done such things have not written ‘Locusts and Wild Honey’ and ‘Wake, Robin.’”
“I recognize,” he said, quietly, “that success is not always where people think it is. There are many ways of being successful, and I do not approve of the mistake which causes many to consider that a great fortune acquired means a great success achieved. On the contrary, our greatest men need very little money to accomplish the greatest work.”
“I thought that anyone leading a life so wholly at variance with the ordinary ideas and customs would see success in life from a different point of view,” I observed. “Money is really no object with you?”
“The subject of wealth never disturbs me.”
“You lead a very simple life here?”
“Such as you see.”
The sight would impress anyone. So far is this disciple of nature away from the ordinary mode of the world that his little cabin, set in the cup-shaped top of a hill, is practically bare of luxuries and the so-called comforts of life. His surroundings are of the rudest, the very rocks and bushes encroaching upon his back door. All about, the crest of the hill encircles him, and shuts out the world. Only the birds of the air venture to invade his retreat from the various sides of the mountain, and there is only a straggling, narrow path, which branches off a dozen times before it takes the true direction. In his house are no decorations but such as can be hung upon the exposed wood. The fireplace is of brick, and quite wide; the floor, rough boards scrubbed white; the ceiling, a rough array of exposed rafters, and his bed a rudely constructed work of the hand. Very few and very simple chairs, a plain table and some shelves for books made the wealth of the retreat and serve for his ordinary use.
“Many people think,” I said, “that your method of living is an ideal example of the way people ought to live.”
“There is nothing remarkable in that. A great many people are very weary of the way they think themselves compelled to live. They are mistaken in believing that the disagreeable things they find themselves doing, are the things they ought to do. A great many take their idea of a proper aim in life from what other people say and do. Consequently, they are unhappy,and an independent existence such as mine strikes them as ideal. As a matter of fact, it is very natural.”
“Would you say that to work so as to be able to live like this should be the aim of a young man?”
“By no means. On the contrary, his aim should be to live in such a way as will give his mind the greatest freedom and peace. This can be very often obtained by wanting less of material things and more of intellectual ones. A man who achieved such an aim would be as well off as the most distinguished man in any field. Money-getting is half a mania, and some other ‘getting’ propensities are manias also. The man who gets content comes nearest to being reasonable.”
“I should like,” I said, “to illustrate your point of view from the details of your own life.”
“Students of nature do not, as a rule, have eventful lives. I was born in Roxbury, New York, in 1837. That was a time when conditions were rather primitive. My father was a farmer, and I was raised among the woods and fields. I came from an uncultivated, unreading class of society, and grew up amid surroundings the least calculated to awaken the literary faculty. Yet I have no doubt that daily contact with the woods and fields awakened my interest in the wonders of nature, and gave me a bent toward investigation in that direction.”
“Did you begin early to make notes and write upon nature?” I questioned.
“Not before I was sixteen or seventeen. Earlier than that, the art of composition had anything but charms for me. I remember that while at school, at the age of fourteen, I was required, like other students, to write ‘compositions’ at stated times, but I usually evaded the duty one way or another. On one occasion, I copied something from a comic almanac, and unblushingly handed it in as my own. But the teacher detected the fraud, and ordered me to produce a twelve-line composition before I left school. I remember I racked my brain in vain, and the short winter day was almost closing when Jay Gould, who sat in the seat behind me, wrote twelve lines of doggerel on his slate and passed it slyly over to me. I had so little taste for writing that I coolly copied that, and handed it in as my own.”
“You were friendly with Gould then?”
“Oh, yes; ‘chummy,’ they call it now. His father’s farm was only a little way from ours, and we were fast friends, going home together every night.”
“His view of life must have been considerably different from yours.”
“It was. I always looked upon success as being a matter of mind, not money; but Jay wanted the material appearances. I remember that once we had a wrestling match, and as we were about even instrength, we agreed to abide by certain rules,—taking what we called ‘holts’ in the beginning and not breaking them until one or the other was thrown. I kept to this in the struggle, but when Jay realized that he was in danger of losing the contest, he broke the ‘holt’ and threw me. When I remarked that he had broken his agreement, he only laughed and said, ‘I threw you, didn’t I?’ And to every objection I made, he made the same answer. The fact of having won (it did not matter how), was pleasing to him. It satisfied him, although it wouldn’t have contented me.”
“Did you ever talk over success in life with him?”
“Yes; quite often. He was bent on making money and did considerable trading among us schoolboys,—sold me some of his books. I felt then that my view of life was more satisfactory to me than his would have been. I wanted to obtain a competence, and then devote myself to high thinking instead of to money-making.”
“How did you plan to attain this end?”
“By study. I began in my sixteenth or seventeenth year to try to express myself on paper, and when, after I had left the country school, I attended the seminary at Ashland and at Cooperstown, I often received the highest marks in composition, though only standing about the average in general scholarship. My taste ran to essays, and I picked up the great works in thatfield at a bookstore, from time to time, and filled my mind with the essay idea. I bought the whole of Dr. Johnson’s works at a second-hand bookstore in New York, because, on looking into them, I found his essays appeared to be of solid literature, which I thought was just the thing. Almost my first literary attempts were moral reflections, somewhat in the Johnsonian style.”
“You were supporting yourself during these years?”
“I taught six months and ‘boarded round’ before I went to the seminary. That put fifty dollars into my pocket, and the fifty paid my way at the seminary. Working on the farm, studying and teaching filled up the years until 1863, when I went to Washington and found employment in the Treasury Department.”
“You were connected with the Treasury, then?”
“Oh, yes; for nearly nine years. I left the department in 1872, to become receiver of a bank, and subsequently for several years performed the work of a bank examiner. I considered it only as an opportunity to earn and save up a little money on which I could retire. I managed to do that, and came back to this region, where I bought a fruit farm. I worked that into a paying condition, and then gave all my time to the pursuit of the studies I like.”
“Had you abandoned your interest in nature during your Washington life?”
“No; I gave as much time to the study of nature and literature as I had to spare. When I was twenty-three, I wrote an essay on ‘Expression,’ and sent it to the‘Atlantic.’ It was so Emersonian in style, owing to my enthusiasm for Emerson at that time, that the editor thought some one was trying to palm off on him an early essay of Emerson’s which he had not seen. He found that Emerson had not published any such paper, however, and printed it, though it had not much merit. I wrote off and on for the magazines.”
The editor in question was James Russell Lowell, who, instead of considering it without merit, often expressed afterward the delight with which he read this contribution from an unknown hand, and the swift impression of the author’s future distinction which came to him with that reading.
“Your successful work, then, has been in what direction?” I said.
“In studying nature. It has all come by living close to the plants and animals of the woods and fields, and coming to understand them. There I have been successful. Men who, like myself, are deficient in self-assertion, or whose personalities are flexible and yielding, make a poor show in business, but in certain other fields these defects become advantages. Certainly it is so in my case. I can succeed with bird or beast, for I have cultivated my ability in that direction. I can look in the eye of an ugly dog or cow and win, but with an ugly man I have less success.
“I consider the desire which most individuals havefor the luxuries which money can buy, an error of mind,” he added. “Those things do not mean anything except a lack of higher tastes. Such wants are not necessary wants, nor honorable wants. If you cannot get wealth with a noble purpose, it is better to abandon it and get something else. Peace of mind is one of the best things to seek, and finer tastes and feelings. The man who gets these, and maintains himself comfortably, is much more admirable and successful than the man who gets money and neglects these. The realm of power has no fascination for me. I would rather have my seclusion and peace of mind. This log hut, with its bare floors, is sufficient. I am set down among the beauties of nature, and in no danger of losing the riches that are scattered all about. No one will take my walks or my brook away from me. The flowers, birds and animals are plentifully provided. I have enough to eat and wear, and time to see how beautiful the world is, and to enjoy it. The entire world is after your money, or the things you have bought with your money. It is trying to keep them that makes them seem so precious. I live to broaden and enjoy my own life, believing that in so doing I do what is best for everyone. If I ran after birds only to write about them, I should never have written anything that anyone else would have cared to read. I must write from sympathy and love,—that is, from enjoyment,—or not at all. I come gradually to have a feeling that I want to write upon a given theme. Whenever the subject recurs to me, it awakensa warm, personal response. My confidence that I ought to write comes from the feeling or attraction which some subjects exercise over me. The work is pleasure, and the result gives pleasure.”
“And your work as a naturalist is what?”
“Climbing trees to study birds, lying by the waterside to watch the fishes, sitting still in the grass for hours to study the insects, and tramping here and there, always to observe and study whatever is common to the woods and fields.”
“Men think you have done a great work,” I said.
“I have done a pleasant work,” he said, modestly.
“And the achievements of your schoolmate Gould do not appeal to you as having anything in them worth aiming for?” I questioned.
“Not for me. I think my life is better for having escaped such vast and difficult interests.”
The gentle, light-hearted naturalist and recluse came down the long hillside with me, “to put me right” on the main road. I watched him as he retraced his steps up the steep, dark path, lantern in hand. His sixty years sat lightly upon him, and as he ascended I heard him singing. Long after the light melody had died away, I saw the serene little light bobbing up and down in his hand, disappearing and reappearing, as the lone philosopher repaired to his hut and his couch of content.
It must not be inferred that Mr. Burroughs has no money. As an author, he has given us such delightfulbooks, dear to every lover of nature, as “Wake, Robin,” “Winter Sunshine,” “Locusts and Wild Honey,” “Fresh Fields,” “Indoor Studies,” “Birds and Poets,” “Pepacton,” “Signs and Seasons,” “Riverby,” “Whitman,” and “The Light of Day,” published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
His writings produce goodly sums, while his vineyards and gardens produce as much as he needs; but the charm of it all is, he knows not the unrest of eagerly seeking it. His is one of the very infrequent instances in which a man knows when he has enough, and really and truthfully does not care for more. Nor is he a “hayseed” in the popular application of that expressive term. When he goes to the city, as he occasionally does (just to reassure himself that he prefers life in the country), he is not met at the station by gentlemen in loud checked suits; he carries no air of the rustic with him. As an Irish wit recently put it, “When in Paris, he does as the parasites do,” and he conducts himself and clothes himself as a well regulated citizen should.
So John Burroughs is rich, not in money, but in thought, in simplicity, in the knowledge that he is making the best of life. He has found out that money is not everything, that all the money in the world will not buy a light heart, or a good name,—that there is a place for every one, and in that place alone can a man be of service to himself or others,—that there alone can he be successful; there only can he be “rich without money!”
MISS HELEN MILLER GOULD has won a place for herself in the hearts of Americans such as few people of great wealth ever gain. She is, indeed, one of the best known and most popular young women of New York, if not in the world. Her strong character, common sense, and high ideals, have made her respected by all, while her munificence and kindness have won her the love of many.
Her personality is charming. Upon my arrival at her Tarrytown home, I was made to feel that I was welcome, and everyone who enters her presence feels the same. The grand mansion, standing high on the hills overlooking the Hudson, has a home-like appearance that takes away any awe that may come over the visitor who looks upon so much beauty for the first time.
Chickens play around the little stone cottage at the grand entrance, and the grounds are not unlike those of any other country house, with trees in abundance, and beautiful lawns. There are large beds of flowers,and in the gardens all the summer vegetables were growing.
Miss Gould takes a very great interest in her famous greenhouses, the gardens, the flowers, and the chickens, for she is a home-loving woman. It is a common thing to see her in the grounds, digging and raking and planting, for all the world like some farmer’s girl. That is one reason why her neighbors all like her; she seems so unconscious of her wealth and station.
When I entered Lyndhurst, she came forward to meet me in the pleasantest way imaginable. Her face is not exactly beautiful, but has a great deal of character written upon it, and is very attractive, indeed. She held out her hand for me to shake in the good old-fashioned way, and then we sat down in the wide hall to talk. Miss Gould was dressed very simply. Her gown was of dark cloth, close-fitting, and her skirt hung several inches above the ground, for she is a believer in short skirts for walking. Her entire costume was very becoming. She never over-dresses, and her garments are neat, and, naturally, of excellent quality.
In the conversation that followed, I was permitted to learn much of her ambitions and aims. She is ambitious to leave a great impression on the world,—an impression made by good deeds well done, and thisambition is gratifying to the utmost. She is modest about her work. “I cannot find that I am doing much at all,” she said, “when there is so very much to be done. I suppose I shouldn’t expect to be able to do everything, but I sometimes feel that I want to, nevertheless.” Her good works are numerous and many-sided. For a number of years, she has supported two beds in the Babies’ Shelter, connected with the Church of the Holy Communion, New York, and the Wayside Day Nursery, near Bellevue Hospital, has always found in her a good friend. Once a year she makes a tour through the day nurseries of New York, noting the special needs of each, and often sending checks and materials for meeting those needs.
One of her most charming charities is “Woody Crest,” two miles from Lyndhurst, a haven of delight where some twoscore waifs are received at a time for a two-weeks’ visit. She has a personal oversight of the place, and, by her frequent visits, makes friends with the wee visitors, who look upon her as a combination of angel and fairy godmother. Every day, a wagonette, drawn by two horses, takes the children, in relays, for long drives into the country. Amusements are provided, and some of those who remain for an entire season at Woody Crest are instructed in different branches. Twice a month some of the older boys set the type for a little magazine which is devoted to Woody Crest matters.There are several portable cottages erected there, one for the sick, one for servants’ sleeping rooms, and a third for a laundry.
woman in bed with one man holding her hand , another standing by, and a woman seated on a chair beside herDOMESTIC TRIALS
DOMESTIC TRIALS
Miss Gould’s patriotism is very real and intense, and is not confined to times of war. Two years ago, she caused fifty thousand copies of the national hymn, “America,” to be printed and distributed among the pupils of the public schools of New York.
“I believe every one should know that hymn and sing it,” she declared, “if he sings no other. I would like the children to sing it into their very souls, till it becomes a part of them.”
She strongly favors patriotic services in the churches on the Sunday preceding the Fourth of July, when she would like to hear such airs as “America,” “Hail Columbia,” and “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and see the sacred edifices draped in red, white and blue.
Miss Gould has a strong prejudice against letting her many gifts and charities be known, and even her dearest friends never know “what Helen’s doing now.” Of course, her great public charities, as when she gives a hundred thousand dollars at a time, are heralded. Her recent gift of that sum to the government, for national defense, has made her name beloved throughout the land; but, had she been able, she would have kept that secret also.
I tried to ascertain her views regarding the educationof young women of to-day, and what careers they should follow. This is one of her particular hobbies, and many are the young girls she has helped to attain to a better and more satisfactory life.
“In the first place,” she said, “I believe most earnestly in education for women; not necessarily the higher education about which we hear so much, but a good, common school education. As the years pass, girls are obliged to make their own way in the world more and more, and to do so they must have good schooling.”
“And what particular career do you think most desirable for young women?”
“Oh, as to careers, there are many that young women follow, nowadays. I think, if I had my own way to make, I should fit myself to be a private secretary. That is a position which, I think, attracts nearly every young woman; but, to fill it, she must study hard and learn, and then work hard to keep the place. Then I think there are openings for young women in the field of legitimate business. I’ve always held that women know as much about money affairs as men, only most of them haven’t had much experience. In that field there are hundreds of things that a woman can do.”
“But I don’t think it matters much what a girl does so long as she is active, and doesn’t allow herself tostagnate. There’s nothing, to my mind, so pathetic as a girl who thinks she can’t do anything, and is of no use to the world. Why, it’s no wonder there are so many suicides every day!”
She is consulted by her agents in regard to all her affairs. “I have no time for society,” she said, “and indeed I do not care for it at all. It is very well for those who like it,” she added, for she is a tolerant critic.
Her life at Tarrytown is an ideal one. She runs down to the city at frequent intervals, to attend to business affairs, for she manages all her own property; but she lives at Lyndhurst. She entertains but few visitors, and in turn visits but seldom.
I will not attempt to specify the numerous projects of charity that have been given life and vigor by Miss Gould. I know her gifts in recent years have passed the million-dollar mark.
Would you have an idea of her personality?
If so, think of a good young woman in your own town, who loves her parents and her home; who is devoted to the church; who thinks of the poor on Thanksgiving Day and Christmas; whose face is bright and manner unaffected; whose dress is elegant in its simplicity; who takes an interest in all things, from politics to religion; whom children love and day-laborers greet by fervently lifting the hat; and who, if she were graduated from a home seminary or college, would receive a bouquet from every boy in town.If you can think of such a young woman, and nearly every community has one, (and ninety-nine times out of a hundred she is poor,) you have a fair idea of the impression made on a plain man from a country town in Indiana by Miss Gould.
Helen Miller Gould is just at the threshold of her beautiful career. What a promise is there in her life and work for the coming century!
She has given much of her fortune for the Hall of Fame on the campus of the New York University, overlooking the Harlem River. It contains tablets for the names of fifty distinguished Americans, and proud will be the descendants of those whose names are inscribed thereon.
The human heart is the tablet upon which Miss Gould has inscribed her name and her “Hall of Fame” is as broad and high as the Republic itself.
LATE one afternoon, I stopped to converse with a policeman in Central Park. Another policeman came up. Nathan Strauss was mentioned. “Well, I tell you,” said the first policeman, stamping his foot, “there is a man!
“Charities! He’s the only man in New York City who gives real charities. Why, when others want to give, they go to him, and have him do it for them. He knows what’s what. I tell you, he’s the most respected man in New York City;” and the other said, “That’s right.”
Go on the east side, and ask about Nathan Strauss, and you will hear what is as pleasant as it is rare,—the poor giving a rich man unstinted praise. But do not speak to Mr. Strauss about his work as charity; he dislikes to have it called by that name.
The greatest blessing that he has conferred on New York, is helping the poor to get pure, sterilized milk. No work of beneficence ever before showed such surprisingresults. It has reduced the death rate of infants over fifty per cent. Formerly, almost seventy-five per cent. of the children of the very poor died.
It was in the summer of 1893 that Mr. Strauss opened his first milk depot, at which milk was sold for four cents a quart; one and one-half cents a bottle for sterilized pure milk; one cent a bottle (six ounces,) for modified milk, and one cent a glass for pure milk.
It was a loss to the benefactor, but he established other depots throughout the unhealthy portions of the city and in the parks. Doctors received blanks to fill out for milk for those unable to purchase, and to such it was given free. A doctor’s prescription was honored. What followed? The death rate was reduced.
At the instigation of his son,—who died from a cold contracted in distributing coal,—coal yards had been established on the docks and elsewhere. The dealers at that time were retailing coal at ten cents and fourteen cents a basket, which made the price from twelve dollars to sixteen dollars per ton. At Mr. Strauss’ depots, five-cent tickets procured twenty and twenty-five pounds; ten-cent tickets, forty and fifty pounds, and so on. Most of the coal was carried in baskets on the shoulders and backs of those who, in some cases, had walked miles to obtain it. During the last financial panic, grocery stores were started, where five cents procured a large amount of food. Lodging houses were opened, while a clean bed and a breakfast of coffee andbread could be procured for five cents, and lunch rooms where two cents purchased bread and coffee and corned beef.
The great financier, J. Pierpont Morgan, asked Mr. Strauss to be permitted to assist him in the grocery stores, and a large central depot was rented at 345 Grand street, for which Mr. Morgan furnished the money and Mr. Strauss acted as manager.
Although all these charities in which Mr. Strauss has been interested have entailed a steady loss, a great number of those he benefited and benefits are under the impression that he does not sustain a loss, and that they merely buy for less than they would pay elsewhere.
This is exactly the impression he desires them to possess, in his own words:—
“I do not wish to make a single one feel that he is receiving charity, or is in any way a pauper. Such an impression is harmful, and lowers the standard of those who have a right to consider that they are the sinews of the country. I wish them to feel only that they are buying at low prices. Suppose that those who buy five cents’ worth of groceries and trudge a distance for them, are able to pay a little more. The mere fact that they walk far to save a few cents, proves that their hard-earned pennies are precious, and that there is the necessity of getting all that can be obtained for their money.”
Such is the keynote of Mr. Strauss’ love for humanity: He is not a “lord bountiful,” but a generous man, unsolicitous of thanks. There are many records of him having helped individuals. Two young men in his employ were threatened with an early death from consumption. He sent them to a sanitarium in the Adirondacks for a year, when they returned sound in health. During their absence, their salaries were paid to their families.
In business, Mr. Strauss is a strict disciplinarian. He believes that every man should attend strictly to duty, and this is the fundamental secret of his success. In his own words, “Any man, with the ordinary amount of business instinct, can succeed. To succeed, you must be honest, believe in your own ability, and, after having selected your path in life, stick to it through thick and thin. With ordinary mental endowments, there is no reason why any young man should fail.
“Do I think the chances of to-day are as great as some years ago? They are greater. The thing is to take advantage of opportunities and utilize them to the best of your ability. Chances, or opportunities, come to everyone, often, in a lifetime. They should be recognized. Never let one slip; but weigh the possibilities. The great trouble is, a great many young men do not bestir themselves. They fall into a rut, and lack ‘ginger.’ This is a bustling world, and every youngman should be wide-awake and on the lookout, constantly giving conscientious attention to duty. Duty, integrity and energy are the watchwords, and will direct you on the road to success. Remember, the opportunities of to-day are as great as ever!”
But though Mr. Strauss is a tireless worker, he finds time for a little recreation. He is one of the best gentleman drivers in New York, and he delights to race on the speedway. Still, the background of his life is charity. For many years, he desired to establish a sterilizing plant on Randall’s Island, for the benefit of waifs and foundlings taken there. The death rate was very high. At length he gained his point, and a recent unsolicited letter from the matron contained the gratifying statement “that the death rate, since the installation of the plant, has been reduced fully fifty per cent.”
In such deeds, Nathan Strauss delights. His life is one of perpetual attention to duty and to business, and he encourages others who would succeed, by saying: “Go at it with a will, and stick to your ambitious aspirations through thick and thin!”
Mr. Strauss himself is an excellent example of the success of the principle which he urges upon others as a rule of life. His whole career has been distinguished by tireless energy and industry, and the interests which are under his control have never suffered for any lackof careful and thorough attention. He has always been deliberate and consistent in adopting and adhering to any policy, public or private, and never deserts those whom he has seen fit to honor with his confidence, save on absolute proof of their unworthiness.
IT was misfortune that proved the fortunate turning-point for Dr. Russell H. Conwell, the pastor of the largest church in America, and president of Temple College, which has upward of 8,000 students. He had not been unsuccessful prior to his ordination to the ministry; on the contrary, he had been a successful newspaper man and lawyer, and had served with distinction in the Civil War. But, in the panic of 1873, he lost most of his investments. I quote his own words:—
“I then wondered,—being always of a religious temperament,—why I should make money my goal.”
We sat in his study, and he spoke thus of his interesting life:—
“I was born at South Worthington, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, February 15, 1843, on my father’s farm, called the ‘Eagle’s Nest,’ on account of its high and rocky surroundings. At an early age, I went to school, and, when I grew older, worked on the farm. I was sometimes laughed at because Ialways carried a book around with me, studying and memorizing as I worked. Yet I was dull and stupid, never stood high in my classes, and could not grasp a subject as quickly as others. But I would stick to it. I am just as dull now, but I preserve my old habit of stick-to-it-iveness. If I am driving a tack and it goes in crooked, I lift it out, straighten it, and send it home. That is one of my golden rules that I force myself to obey.”
“I went to Wilbraham, and, in 1861, entered Yale College, taking up law, but the breaking out of the war interrupted my studies. I enlisted, but, being only eighteen years of age, my father made me ‘right about face’, and come home. If I could not fight, I could speak, and I delivered orations all over my native state, and was in some demand in Boston. Finally, in 1862, I could stand the strain no longer, and my father, already greatly interested in the war, permitted me to go to the field.
“I returned a colonel, suffering from a wound, campaigns and imprisonment, and entered the law school of the Albany University, from which I was graduated in 1865.
“I married and moved to the great far west, to the then small town of Minneapolis. There I suffered the usual uphill experiences and privations of a young lawyer trying to make his way single-handed. I openeda law office in a two-story stone building on Bridge square. My clients did not come, and poverty stared my wife and me in the face. I became an agent for Thompson Brothers, of St. Paul, in the sale of land warrants.
“Fortune favored me in business, and I also became the Minneapolis correspondent of the St. Paul ‘Press.’ I acquired some real estate, and took part in politics. Having once dipped into journalism, I started a paper of my own called ‘Conwell’s Star of the North.’ Then the sheriff made his appearance, and turned the concern over to a man with more capital. Next, I brought the Minneapolis daily ‘Chronicle’ to life. It united with the ‘Atlas,’ and the combined papers formed the foundation for the great journal of Minneapolis, the ‘Tribune.’”
“I continued to practice law. My wife and myself lived in two small rooms. The front one was my office, and the back one, kitchen, parlor, sitting room and bedroom. I had never fully recovered from my wound received in the war. I knew Governor Marshall, and it was he who appointed me emigration commissioner for the state of Minnesota. My duties, of course, took me to Europe.”
When Dr. Conwell arrived in Europe, his health, that had been breaking down, gradually gave way, and he gave up his place as commissioner. For awhile, herested; then, for several months, he attended lectures at the University of Leipsic. That pilgrimage was followed by a number of other journeys across the Atlantic to the principal countries of Europe, and to northern Africa.
“In 1870,” continued Dr. Conwell, “I made a tour of the world as special correspondent for the New York ‘Tribune’ and the Boston ‘Traveler.’ I then exposed the iniquities of Chinese contract immigration. I next returned to Boston and law, and became editor of the Boston ‘Traveler.’”
“But, doctor, had you never entertained a desire to enter the ministry?” I asked.
“All my life I studied theology. The question was before me always: Shall it be law or the ministry? The change came after I had lost considerable money in the panic of 1873. Then came death into my home, and the loss of my first wife. I turned to missionary work in Boston. As time rolled on, I became more interested. But the turning-point was really brought about by a law case. There was a meeting house in Lexington, Massachusetts, in 1877, dilapidated and old. The congregation had left it, so the few old persons who remained decided that it should be sold. They wished to consult a lawyer, and called me to Lexington. Standing on the platform, I asked the few present to vote upon the question. The edifice had been dear to some of them, and they hemmed and hawed, and couldn’t decide.
“At length, I suggested that they put new life into the place. But interest in the building as a place of worship seemed to have departed, although they did not care to see it torn down.”
“On the spur of the moment, I said that, if they would gather there the following Sunday morning, I would address them. A few came at first, then more. We had to rent a hall in another place. I suggested that they should get a pastor.
“To my surprise, they replied that if I would be their pastor, they would erect a new church.
“I studied for the ministry. One day, I startled the quaint village of Lexington by demolishing the little old church with an axe. The people were aroused by my spirit, and gave donations for a new church. I worked with the men we hired to construct it, and afterward attended the Newton Theological Seminary. Seventeen years ago, I came to Philadelphia as pastor of this church, which then worshipped in a basement some squares away.”
“But Temple College, Doctor; how was that started?”
“About fourteen years ago a poor young man came to me to ask my advice how to obtain a college education. I offered to be his teacher. Then others joined until there were six. The number was gradually enlarged to forty, when the idea came to me to found apeople’s college. Certain gentlemen became interested, and we erected Temple College, which was then connected with this church, but now is a separate and distinct institution. We hope shortly to have it like the New York University. We have rented a number of outside buildings, and have a law school and a seminary. About four thousand attend the evening classes, while four thousand attend the special day classes.”
“How do you manage to keep up in all the studies?” I asked. “Do you carry text-books around with you in your pockets?”
“Yes, and I always have. I study all the time. I have acquired several languages in that way.”
“When do you prepare your sermons?”
“I have never prepared a lecture or a sermon in my life, and I have lectured for thirty-seven years. I seldom use even notes. When in the pulpit, I rivet my attention on preaching, and think of nothing else.
“Application in the most severe form, and honesty, are the means by which true success is attained. No matter what you do, do it to your utmost. You and I may not do something as well as someone else, but no stone should be unturned to do it to the best of our individual ability. I have had a varied life, and many experiences, and I attribute my success, if you are so pleased to call it, to always requiring myself to do my level best, if only in driving a tack in straight.”
ONE of the brightest examples of early success in life is Frank W. Gunsaulus, D.D., one of the sincerest friends of young men striving to climb upward, that America has produced. Chicago has helped him, and he has helped Chicago, to do great things. During his six years of ministry in that city, before he left the pulpit and became president of Armour Institute, he founded two notable institutions and raised over $7,000,000 in money for charitable purposes. On the stormiest of Sunday evenings, after a newspaper announcement that he will speak, an audience two thousand five hundred strong will gather to hear him. It was not an uncommon sight, during one of his series of winter sermons, for men anxious to hear the splendid orator, to be lifted through windows of Central Music Hall, when no more could get in at the doors. His most conspicuous labor has been the founding of the famous Armour Institute of Technology, which now has twelve hundred students, and of which he is the president.
I found him in the president’s office of Armour Institute.
“Do you think,” I said, “that it is more difficult for a preacher to become a power in a nation than it is for a merchant, a lawyer, or a politician?”
“Rather hard to say,” he answered. “There are prejudices against and sympathies in favor of every class and profession. I think, however, that a preacher is more like a doctor in his career. He is likely to make a strong local impression, but not apt to become a national figure. Given powerful convictions, an undertaking of things as they are to-day, and steady work in the direction of setting things right, and you may be sure a man is at least heading in the direction of public favor, whether he ever attains it or not.”
“How did you manage to do the work you have done, in so short a time?”
“In the first place, I don’t think I have done so very much; and, in the second place, the time seems rather long for what I have done. I have worked hard, however.
“I thought to be a lawyer in my youth, and did study law and oratory. My father was a country lawyer at Chesterfield, Ohio, where I was born, and was a member of the Ohio Legislature during the war. He was a very effective public speaker himself and thought that I ought to be an orator. So he did everything to give me a bent in that direction, and often took me as many as twenty miles to hear a good oration.”
“I admired Fisher Ames, to begin with, and, of course, Webster. I think Wendell Phillips and Bishop Matthew Simpson, whom I heard a few times, had the greatest influence on me. I considered them wonderful, moving speakers, and I do yet. Later on, Henry Ward Beecher and Phillips Brooks attracted my admiration.”
“Did you have leisure for study and time to hear orations when you were beginning life?”
“In early years I attended the district school. From the twelfth to my eighteenth year, I worked on the farm and studied nights. For all my father’s urgings toward the bar, I always felt an inward drawing toward the ministry, because I felt that I could do more there. My father was not a member of any church, though my mother was an earnest Presbyterian. Without any prompting from my parents, I leaned toward the ministry, and finally entered it of my own accord. I was fortunate enough to find a young companion who was also studying for the ministry. We were the best of friends and helped each other a great deal. It was our custom to prepare sermons and preach them in each other’s presence. Our audience in that case, unlike that of the church, never hesitated to point out errors. The result was that some sermons ended in arguments between the audience and the preacher, as to facts involved.”
“I was graduated from the Ohio Wesleyan Seminaryin debt. I had no reputation for piety, and I don’t remember that I pretended to any. I had convictions, however, and a burning desire to do something, to achieve something for the benefit of my fellowmen, and I was ready for the first opportunity.”
“Was it long in coming?”
“No, but you would not have considered it much of an opportunity. I took charge of a small church at Harrisburg, Ohio, at a salary of three hundred and twenty dollars a year. In preaching regularly I soon found it necessary to formulate some kind of a theory of life,—to strive for some definite object. I began to feel the weight of the social problem.”
“One important fact began to make itself plain, and that was that the modern young man is more or less discouraged by the growing belief that all things are falling into the hands of great corporations and trusts, and that the individual no longer has much chance. My father had been more or less of a fatalist in his view of life, and often quoted Emerson to me, to the effect that the dice of life are loaded, and fall according to a plan. My mother leaned to the doctrine of Calvin,—to predestination. I inherited a streak of the same feeling, and the conditions I observed made me feel that there was probably something in the theory. I had to battle this down and convince myself that we are what we choose to make ourselves. Then I had toset to work to counteract the discouraging view taken by the young people about me.”
“You were a Methodist, then?”
“Yes, I was admitted to preach in that body, but it was not long before I had an attack of transcendentalism, and fell out with the Methodist elder of my district. The elder was wholly justified. He was a dry old gentleman, with a fund of common sense. After one of my flights, in which I advocated perfection far above the range of humankind, he came to me and said: ‘My dear young man, don’t you know that people have to live on this planet?’ The rebuke struck me as earthly then, but it has grown in humor and common sense since.
“I left voluntarily. I knew I was not satisfactory, and so I went away. I married when I was twenty. I preached in several places, and obtained a charge at Columbus, Ohio.”
“When did you begin to have a visible influence on affairs, such as you have since exercised?”
“Just as soon as I began to formulate and follow what I considered to be the true ideal of the minister.”
“And that ideal was?”
“That the question to be handled by a preacher must not be theological, but sociological.”
“How did this conviction work out at Columbus?”
“The church became too small for the congregation, and so we had to move to the opera house.
“My work there showed me that any place may be a pulpit,—editorial chair, managerial chair, almost anything. I began to realize that a whole and proper work would be to get hold of the Christian forces outside the ecclesiastical machine and get them organized into activity. I was not sure about my plan yet, however, so I left Columbus for Newtonville, Massachusetts, and took time to review my studies. There I came under the influence of Phillips Brooks. When I began once more to get a clear idea of what I wanted to do, I went to Baltimore, on a call, and preached two years at Brown Memorial Presbyterian Church.
“I came to Chicago in 1872. Plymouth Church offered an absolutely free pulpit, and an opportunity to work out some plans that I thought desirable.”
“How did you go about your work in this city?”
“The first thing that seemed necessary for me to do was to find a place where homeless boys of the city who had drifted into error and troubles of various kinds could be taken into the country and educated. I preached a sermon on this subject, and one member gave a fine farm of two hundred and forty acres for the purpose. Plymouth Church built Plymouth Cottage there, and the Illinois Training School was movedthere, and other additions were made, gradually adding to its usefulness.”
“The church grew under your ministration there, did it not?”
“You can leave off that about me. It grew, yes, and we established a mission.”
“Was there not a sum raised for this?”
“Yes; Mr. Joseph Armour gave a hundred thousand dollars to house this mission, and the church has since aided it in various ways.”
“This Armour Institute is an idea of yours, is it not?”
“Well, it is in line with my ideas in what it accomplishes. It is the outcome of Mr. Armour’s great philanthropy.”
“Do you find, now that you have experimented so much, that your ideals concerning what ought to be done for the world were too high?” I asked.
“On the contrary,” answered Dr. Gunsaulus, “I have sometimes felt that they were not high enough. If they had been less than they are, I should not have accomplished what I have.”
“What has been your experience as to working hours?”
“I have worked twelve and fourteen, at times even eighteen hours a day, particularly when I was working to establish this institution, but I paid for it dearly. I suffered a paralytic stroke which put me on my backfor nine months, and in that time you see I not only suffered, but lost all I had gained by the extra hours.”
“You believe in meeting great emergencies with great individual energy?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any way out of it. A man must work hard, extra hard, at times, or lose many a battle.”
“You have mingled in public affairs here in Chicago, also, have you not?”
“Yes, I have always tried to do my share.”
“You believe the chances for young men to-day are as good as in times gone by?”
“I certainly do. That is my whole doctrine. The duties devolving on young men are growing greater, more important, more valuable all the time. The wants of the world seem to grow larger, more urgent every day. What all young men need to do is to train themselves. They must train their hands to deftness, train their eyes to see clearly, and their ears to hear and understand. Look at the call there is going to be upon young men when this country will be organizing its new possessions and opening up new fields of activity. What the world needs is young men equipped to do the work. There is always work to be done.”
“You think, in your own field, there is a call for energetic young men?”
“It never was greater. A young preacher who looksaround him, studies the conditions, finds out just a few of the ten thousand important things that are going begging for someone to do them, and then proceeds to work for their accomplishment, will succeed beyond his wildest dreams.
“The world looks for leaders, it looks for men who are original, able and practical; and all I have got to say to a young man is simply to find out clearly all about a need in a certain direction, and then lead on to the alleviation of it. Money, influence, honor, will all follow along after, to help.”
“SO you want me to tell you of myself,—to ‘blaw my ain harn,’ as we used to say in old Yorkshire. Well, I’m not in love with the undertaking, for what we call a self-made man usually shows that he has made a pretty poor fist of it when he begins to describe the job himself. However, if an outline of my life be of service, I give it gladly. The beginning was in the hamlet of Ilkley, Yorkshire, England, seventy-five years ago. I was born well; that is, I was born of simple, hard-working folk who inspired in me very early a hearty respect for work. My mother was a noble woman. I can see the old home now,—the bit of grass in front, the plum tree, the whitewashed walls, and within, the two rooms with floor of flags, the old prints on the walls, the highly polished chairs and bureau, the tall clock that was always too fast at bedtime and in the morning, and always too slow at mealtime, the little shelf of books,—Bunyan, ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ Goldsmith, and the Bible, full of pictures. Until I was eight years old, I went to school to old Willie Hardie,who tried to find in me the spring of what we called the humanities in the same way that they used to try to locate a spring of water, namely: with a hazel rod.”
THE RIVALS: BOOKS AND THE MAIDEN.
“All the schooling I ever had under the master was finished in my eighth year, when I went to earn my own living in a linen factory. There was an article of faith in our good home creed about which both my father and mother were of one mind,—the boys must learn a trade. So, after six years in the factory, I was apprenticed to the village blacksmith. I was a hard-working, conscientious boy, but full of mischief and fond of fun. I had, however, a ravenous appetite for books. I remember once, when quite small, I stood for a long time before a shop window with a big English penny in my hand, debating whether I should spend it for a particular kind of candy, of which I was very fond, or for a little paper-covered book of travels. At length I went in and bought the book. At meals I used to read, and even when I was courting the lass whom I made my wife, I read all the books in her father’s house. I am surprised she did not give me the mitten, and it would have served me right, too.
“Books were not only pleasing to me, but were my passion. Give a young man or maiden a passion for anything,—for books, business, painting, teaching, farming, mechanics or music, I care not what, and you give him or her a lever with which to lift their world,and a patent of nobility, if the thing they do is noble. So I call my reading my college course. It was not an adequate college nor an adequate course, and there have been times when I felt a trifle sad that there should have been no chance for me at a good, all-round education. But there is a chance in the everlasting hunger to read books, and it is with reading as it is with eating,—you grow choice when there is a plenty. You instinctively learn to distinguish what is sweet and wholesome and what is neither, and then you read as you eat,—only the best.
“A great sorrow came to me in 1849. As a result of it, I found my way into a Methodist meeting house, and began to express what I felt. From a few words, uttered standing by my seat in the meeting, I began to preach at irregular intervals; and when I did, it became the custom, after a while, for some one to go through the village, ringing a bell and calling out: ‘The blacksmith is going to preach this morning.’ The working people came to hear me because I was one of themselves. Then they would have me preach regularly,—at nothing a Sunday and find myself.
“Sometimes I would forget the flight of time and preach for two hours or more. As I look back upon the poor mortals who sat under my ministrations for such a length of time, I am reminded of the judge who, when asked how long a sermon ought to last, replied: ‘About twenty minutes, with leanings to the side of mercy.’”
“My only worldly ambition was to make my way as a blacksmith, but one day there came to me in a flash the thought that I must go to America, where I would have to bow to no class, but would be as good a man as any. Many times in my life these sudden burstings of light, half thought, half feeling, have come to me; and, when they do come, I cease to reason about the matter. I simply obey the impulse with all the power of my will. It would have taken tremendous difficulties to have kept me from embarking for this country after the flash came, and so, one fine spring morning in 1850, I and my little family, with our small store of worldly goods, went aboard the old ship ‘Roscius,’ made ourselves as comfortable as we could in the steerage, and a month later were in New York.
“I had made up my mind to settle in the vicinity of Philadelphia, and there I soon found work at the anvil. It was lucky I did, for, when we reached our destination, my whole capital amounted to only about twenty dollars. We made ourselves a little home, and I worked at my trade for the next nine years, except during the panic of 1857, when I carried the hod and broke stone on the turnpike for a dollar a day. Meanwhile, I was preaching o’ Sundays, again at nothing a Sunday. In 1859, I was asked to devote myself altogether to preaching,—to go to Chicago as a minister to the poor. Well, I went. I said good-by forever to theanvil, in whose ringing voice I had heard so many years the old sermon on the nobility of work.”