The Sword's Story

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 who realizes his plans; a man who not only does things himself, but who, even more important than that, is the constant inspiration of others. I shall write of Russell H. Conwell. ²

I will write about a remarkable and interesting man, a man of power, initiative, determination, and persistence. He makes ambitious plans and carries them out. He not only accomplishes things himself but, more importantly, constantly inspires others. I will write about Russell H. Conwell. ²

As a farmer’s boy he was the leader of the boys of the rocky region that was his home; as a school-teacher he won devotion; as a newspaper correspondent he gained fame; as a soldier in the Civil War he rose to important rank; as a lawyer he developed a large practice; as an author he wrote books that reached a mighty total of sales. He left the law for the ministry and is the active head of a great church that he raised from nothingness. He is the most popular lecturer in the world and yearly speaks to many thousands. He is, so to speak, the discoverer of “Acres of Diamonds,” through which thousands of men and women have achieved success out of failure. He is the head of two hospitals, one of them founded by himself, that have cared for a host of patients, both the poor and the rich, irrespective of race or creed. He is the founder and head of a university that has already had tens of thousands of students. His home is in Philadelphia; but he is known in every corner of every state in the Union, and everywhere he has hosts of friends. All of his life he has helped and inspired others.

As a farmer’s boy, he led the other boys in the rocky region where he lived. As a schoolteacher, he inspired devotion. As a newspaper correspondent, he gained fame. As a soldier in the Civil War, he rose to an important rank. As a lawyer, he built a large practice. As an author, he wrote books that sold an enormous number of copies. He left the law for the ministry and now actively leads a great church he built from nothing. He is the most popular lecturer in the world and speaks to many thousands of people each year. He is, so to speak, the discoverer of “Acres of Diamonds.” Through it, thousands of men and women have turned failure into success. He leads two hospitals, one of which he founded. They have cared for a great many patients, rich and poor alike, regardless of race or creed. He is the founder and head of a university that has already had tens of thousands of students. His home is in Philadelphia, but he is known in every corner of every state in the Union. Everywhere, he has countless friends. All 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 been much in my mind for some time past, I picked up a thin little book of description by William Dean Howells, and, turning the pages of a chapter on Lexington, old Lexington of the Revolution, written, so Howells had set 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, that he mentioned the church life of the place and remarked on the striking advances made by the Baptists, who had lately, as he expressed it, been reconstituted out of very perishing fragments and made strong and flourishing, under the ministrations of a lay preacher, formerly a colonel in the Union army. And it was only a few days before I chanced upon this description that Dr. Conwell, the former colonel and former lay preacher, had told me of his experiences in that little old Revolutionary town.

Quite by chance, only yesterday, I picked up a short descriptive book by William Dean Howells. Although Conwell had been much on my mind for some time, I wasn’t thinking of him at that moment. I turned to a chapter on Lexington, the old town from the Revolution. Howells noted that he had written the chapter in 1882. He described the town, the battle fought there long ago, and how the place looked in his day. Then he mentioned its church life and the striking progress made by the Baptists. As he put it, they had recently been rebuilt from a few surviving fragments into a strong, flourishing congregation. This had happened under the guidance of a lay preacher who had once been a colonel in the Union army. Only a few days before I came across this description, Dr. Conwell had told me about his experiences in that little old Revolutionary town. He was the former colonel and lay preacher.

Howells went on to say that, so he was told, the colonel’s success was principally due to his making the church attractive to young people. Howells says no more of him; apparently he did not go to hear him; and one wonders if he has ever associated that lay preacher of Lexington with the famous Russell H. Conwell of these recent years!

Howells went on to say that, according to what he had heard, the colonel succeeded mainly by making the church appealing to young people. Howells says nothing more about him. Apparently, he did not go to hear him preach. One wonders if Howells ever connected that lay preacher from Lexington with the famous Russell H. Conwell of recent years!

“Attractive to young people.” Yes, one can recognize that to-day, just as it was recognized in Lexington. And it may be added that he at the same time attracts older people, too! In this, indeed, lies his power. He makes his church interesting, his sermons interesting, his lectures interesting. He is himself interesting! Because of his being interesting, he gains attention. The attention gained, he inspires.

“Attractive to young people.” Yes, people can see that today, just as they did in Lexington. And he attracts older people, too! That is where his power lies. He makes his church, his sermons, and his lectures interesting. He is interesting himself! Because he is interesting, he gets people’s attention. Once he has their attention, he inspires them.

Biography is more than dates. Dates, after all, are but mile-stones along the road of life. And the most important fact of Conwell’s life is that he lived to be eighty-two, working sixteen hours every day for the good of his fellow-men. He was born on February 15, 1843—born of poor parents, in a low-roofed cottage in the eastern Berkshires, in Massachusetts.

A biography is more than dates. After all, dates are only milestones along the road of life. The most important fact about Conwell’s life is that he lived to be eighty-two, working sixteen hours every day for the good of others. He was born on February 15, 1843. His parents were poor, and their low-roofed cottage stood in the eastern Berkshires of Massachusetts.

“I was born in this room,” he said to me, simply, as we sat together recently ³ in front of the old fireplace in the principal room of the little cottage; for he has bought back the rocky farm of his father, and has 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 a kind of grimness into silence.

“I was born in this room,” he said simply. We were sitting together recently ³ in front of the old fireplace in the little cottage’s main room. He had bought back his father’s rocky farm and had kept and restored the little old home. “I was born in this room. It was bedroom and kitchen. It was poverty.” His voice grew grim and faded into silence.

Then he spoke a little of the struggles of those long-past years; and we went out on the porch, as the evening shadows fell, and looked out over the valley and stream and hills of his youth, and he told of his grandmother, and of a young Marylander who had come to the region on a visit; it was a tale of the impetuous love of those two, of rash marriage, of the interference of parents, of the fierce rivalry of another suitor, of an attack on the Marylander’s life, of passionate hastiness, of unforgivable words, of separation, of lifelong sorrow. “Why does grandmother cry so often?” he remembers asking when he was a little boy. And he was told that it was for the husband of her youth.

Then he spoke briefly about the struggles of those long-ago years. As evening shadows fell, we went out on the porch. We looked out over the valley, stream, and hills of his youth. He told me about his grandmother and a young Marylander who had come to visit the region. The two fell passionately in love and married rashly. Their parents interfered, and another suitor became a fierce rival. Someone tried to kill the Marylander. There were hasty acts of passion and unforgivable words, followed by separation and lifelong sorrow. He remembered asking as a little boy, “Why does grandmother cry so often?” He was told that she cried for the husband of her youth.

We went back into the little house, and he showed me the room in which he 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.

We went back into the little house, and he showed me the room where he first saw John Brown. “I came downstairs early one morning and saw a huge, hairy man sprawled on the bed there. I was frightened,” he says.

But John Brown did not long frighten him! For he was much at their house after that, and was so friendly with Russell and his brother that there was no chance for awe; and it gives a curious side-light on the character of the stern abolitionist that he actually, with infinite patience, taught the old horse of the Conwells to go home alone with the wagon after leaving the boys at school, a mile or more away, and at school-closing time to trot gently off for them without a driver when merely faced in that direction and told to go! Conwell remembers how John Brown, in training it, used patiently to walk beside the horse, and control its going and its turnings, until it was quite ready to go and turn entirely by itself.

But John Brown did not frighten him for long! After that, Brown spent a lot of time at their house. He was so friendly with Russell and his brother that they could not remain in awe of him. What he did for the boys offers a curious glimpse of the stern abolitionist’s character. With endless patience, he taught the Conwells’ old horse to go home alone with the wagon after dropping them off at school, a mile or more away. He also taught the horse to trot gently off to collect them at the end of the school day. All anyone had to do was point the horse in the right direction and tell it to go! Conwell remembers how John Brown patiently walked beside the horse during its training. He guided the horse along and directed its turns until it was ready to go and turn entirely on its own.

The Conwell house was a station on the Underground Railway, and Russell Conwell remembers, when a lad, seeing the escaping slaves that his father had driven across country and temporarily hidden. “Those were heroic days,” he says, quietly. “And once in a while my father let me go with him. They were wonderful night drives—the cowering slaves, the darkness of the road, the caution and the silence and dread of it all.” This underground route, he remembers, was from Philadelphia to New Haven, thence to Springfield, where Conwell’s father would take his charge, and onward to Bellows Falls and Canada.

The Conwell house was a station on the Underground Railway. As a boy, Russell Conwell saw escaping slaves whom his father had driven across the countryside and hidden temporarily. “Those were heroic days,” he says quietly. “And once in a while my father let me go with him. They were wonderful night drives, with the cowering slaves, the dark road, and the caution, silence, and dread of it all.” He remembers that this underground route ran from Philadelphia to New Haven, then to Springfield. There, Conwell’s father would take charge of the slaves and bring them 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,’ Douglass said one day—his father was a white man—‘and I remember little of my mother 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.’

Conwell also tells of meeting Frederick Douglass, the colored orator, in that little cottage in the hills. Douglass’s father was a white man. “‘I never saw my father,’ Douglass said one day, ‘and I remember little of my mother. But I remember that once she tried to stop an overseer from whipping me. The whip cut across her face, and her blood fell on me.’

“When John Brown was captured,” Conwell went on, “my father tried to sell this place to get a little money to send to help his defense. But he couldn’t sell it, and on the day of the execution we knelt solemnly here, from eleven to twelve, just praying, praying in silence for the passing soul of John Brown. And as we prayed we knew that others were also praying, for a church-bell tolled during that entire hour, and its awesome boom went sadly sounding over these hills.”

“When John Brown was captured,” Conwell continued, “my father tried to sell this place to raise money for his defense. But he couldn’t sell it. On the day of the execution, we knelt here solemnly from eleven to twelve. We prayed silently for John Brown’s departing soul. As we prayed, we knew others were praying too. A church bell tolled for that entire hour, its solemn sound echoing sadly over these hills.”

Conwell believes that his real life dates from a happening of the time of the Civil War—a happening that still looms vivid and intense before him, and which undoubtedly did deepen and strengthen his strong and deep 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 of lives, his strength and endurance, his plunging out into the darkness of a wild winter night to save a neighbor’s cattle. His soldiers came home with tales of his devotion to them, and of how he shared his rations and his blankets and bravely risked his life; of how he crept off into a swamp, at imminent peril, to rescue one of his men lost or mired there. The present Conwell was always Conwell; in fact, he may be traced through his ancestry, too, for in him are the sturdy virtues, the bravery, the grim determination, the practicality, of his father; and romanticism, that comes from his grandmother; and the dreamy qualities of his mother, who, practical and hardworking New England woman that she was, was at the same time influenced by an almost startling mysticism.

Conwell believes his real life began with an event during the Civil War. The event remains vivid and intense in his memory, and it undoubtedly deepened and strengthened his already strong, deep nature. Yet Conwell was always essentially the same person. Neighbors still tell stories of his bravery as a boy and young man. They recall his reckless sledding, his skill as a swimmer, and the lives he saved. They tell of his strength and endurance, and of how he rushed into a wild winter night to save a neighbor’s cattle. His soldiers came home with stories of his devotion to them. He shared his rations and blankets with them and bravely risked his life. Once, he crept into a swamp at great risk to rescue a man who was lost or stuck there. The Conwell of today was always Conwell. His character can even be traced through his ancestry. From his father came his sturdy virtues, bravery, grim determination, and practicality. From his grandmother came his romanticism. From his mother came his dreaminess. She was a practical, hardworking New England woman, but she was also influenced by an almost startling mysticism.

And Conwell himself is a dreamer: first of all he is a dreamer; it is the most important fact in regard to him! It is because he is a dreamer and visualizes his dreams that he can plan the great things that to other men would seem impossibilities; and then his intensely practical side his intense efficiency, his power, his skill, his patience, his fine earnestness, his mastery over others, develop his dreams into realities. He dreams dreams and sees visions—but his visions are never visionary and his dreams become facts.

Conwell himself is a dreamer. Above all, he is a dreamer. It is the most important thing to know about him! Because he is a dreamer and can visualize his dreams, he can plan great things that other men would consider impossible. Then his intensely practical side turns those dreams into reality. He brings to them intense efficiency, power, skill, patience, deep commitment, and the ability to lead others. He dreams dreams and sees visions, but his visions are never impractical, and his dreams become reality.

The rocky hills which meant a dogged struggle for very existence, the fugitive slaves, John Brown—what a school for youth! And the literal school was a tiny one-room school-house where young Conwell came under the care of a teacher who realized the boy’s unusual capabilities and was able to give him broad and unusual help. Then a wise country preacher also recognized the unusual, and urged the parents to give still more education, whereupon supreme effort was made and young Russell was sent to Wilbraham Academy. He likes to tell of his life there, and of the hardships, of which he makes light; and of the joy with which week-end pies and cakes were received from home!

The rocky hills meant a determined struggle just to survive. There were fugitive slaves and John Brown. What an education for a young person! The actual school was a tiny one-room schoolhouse. There, young Conwell had a teacher who recognized his unusual abilities and could give him broad and uncommon help. A wise country preacher also recognized the boy’s unusual abilities and urged his parents to give him more education. They made a supreme effort, and young Russell was sent to Wilbraham Academy. He likes to talk about his life there and the hardships, which he makes light of. He also likes to tell how delighted he was to receive pies and cakes from home on weekends!

He tells of how he went out on the roads selling books from house to house, and of how eagerly he devoured the contents of the sample books that he carried. “They were a foundation of learning for me,” he says, soberly. “And they gave me a broad idea of the world.”

He tells how he traveled from house to house selling books. He eagerly read the sample books he carried. “They gave me a foundation for learning,” he says seriously. “And they gave me a broad view of the world.”

He went to Yale in 1860, but the outbreak of the war interfered with college, and he enlisted in 1861. But he was only eighteen, and his father objected, and he went back to Yale. But next year he again enlisted, 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 evidently a natural leader; and the men gave freely of their scant money to get for him a sword, all gay and splendid with gilt, and upon the sword was the declaration in stately Latin that, “True friendship is eternal.”

He went to Yale in 1860, but the outbreak of war interrupted his studies, and he enlisted in 1861. He was only eighteen, though, and his father objected, so he returned to Yale. The next year he enlisted again. Men from his Berkshire neighborhood also enlisted, and they insisted that he be their captain. They appealed to Governor Andrews, who agreed to commission the nineteen-year-old, who was clearly a natural leader. The men gave freely from the little money they had to buy him a sword, bright and splendid with gold decoration. On the sword was an inscription in formal Latin: “True friendship is eternal.”

And with that sword is associated the most vivid, the most momentous experience of Russell Conwell’s life.

That sword is linked to the most vivid and most important experience of Russell Conwell’s life.

That sword hangs at the head of Conwell’s bed in his home in Philadelphia. Man of peace that he is, and minister of peace, that symbol of war has for over half a century been of infinite importance to him.

That sword hangs above Conwell’s bed in his home in Philadelphia. Though he is a man and minister of peace, this symbol of war has been infinitely important to him for over half a century.

He told me the story as we stood together before that sword. And as he told the story, speaking with quiet repression, but seeing it all and living it all just as vividly as if it had occurred but yesterday, “That sword has meant so much to me,” he murmured; and then he began the tale:

He told me the story as we stood together in front of the sword. He spoke quietly, holding back his emotions, but he saw and relived everything as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. “That sword has meant so much to me,” he murmured. Then he began the story:

“A boy up there in the Berkshires, a neighbor’s son, was John Ring; I call him a boy, for we all called him a boy, and we looked upon him as a boy, for he was under-sized and under-developed—so much so that he could not enlist.

“A neighbor’s son up in the Berkshires was John Ring. I call him a boy because we all called him a boy and thought of him as one. He was small and underdeveloped, so much so that he could not enlist.

“But for some reason he was devoted to me, and he not only wanted to enlist, but he also wanted to be in the artillery company of which I was captain; and I could only take him along as my servant. I didn’t want a servant, but it was the only way to take poor little Johnnie Ring.

“But for some reason he was devoted to me. He wanted to enlist and join the artillery company I commanded. But I could only take him along as my servant. I didn’t want a servant, but it was the only way to take poor little Johnnie Ring.

“Johnnie was deeply religious, and would read the Bible every evening before turning in. In those days I was an atheist, or at least thought I was, and I used to laugh at Ring, and after a while he took to reading the Bible outside the tent on account of my laughing at him! But he did not stop reading it, and his faithfulness to me remained unchanged.

“Johnnie was deeply religious and read the Bible every evening before bed. In those days, I was an atheist, or at least I thought I was. I used to laugh at Ring, so he eventually started reading the Bible outside the tent. But he did not stop reading it, and his loyalty to me never changed.

“The scabbard of the sword was too glittering for the regulations”—the ghost 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 my tent on the tent-pole. John Ring used to handle it adoringly, and kept it polished to brilliancy.—It’s dull enough these many years,” he added, somberly. “To Ring it represented not only his captain, but the very glory and pomp of war.

“The sword’s scabbard was too glittering to meet regulations.” A faint smile crossed Conwell’s lips. “I couldn’t wear it. I had to wear a plain one for service and keep this one hanging from my tent pole. John Ring used to handle it adoringly and kept it polished to a brilliant shine. It’s been dull enough for many years now,” he added somberly. “To Ring, it represented not only his captain, but the very glory and splendor of war.

“One day the Confederates suddenly stormed our position near New Berne and swept through the camp, driving our entire force before them; and all, including my company, retreated hurriedly across the river, setting fire to a long wooden bridge as we went over. It soon blazed up furiously, making a barrier that the Confederates could not pass.

“One day, the Confederates suddenly attacked our position near New Berne and swept through the camp. They drove our entire force before them. Everyone, including my company, hurried across the river in retreat. As we crossed, we set fire to a long wooden bridge. The bridge soon burned fiercely, creating a barrier the Confederates could not cross.

“But, unknown to everybody, and unnoticed, John Ring had dashed back to my tent. I think he was able to make his way back because he just looked like a mere boy; but however that was, he got past the Confederates into my tent and took down, from where it was hanging on the tent-pole, my bright, gold-scabbarded sword.

“But without anyone knowing or noticing, John Ring had rushed back to my tent. I think he made it back because he looked like just a boy. But however he managed it, he got past the Confederates and into my tent. There he took my bright sword, with its gold scabbard, from where it hung on the tent pole.

“John Ring seized the sword that had long been so precious to him. He dodged here and there, and actually managed to gain the bridge just as it was beginning to blaze. He started across. The flames were every moment getting fiercer, the smoke denser, and now and then, as he crawled and staggered on, he leaned for a few seconds far over the edge of the bridge in an effort to get air. Both sides saw him; both sides watched his terrible progress, even while firing was fiercely kept up from each side of the river. And then a Confederate officer—he was one of General Pickett’s officers—ran to the water’s edge and waved a white handkerchief and the firing ceased.

“John Ring grabbed the sword that had long been so precious to him. He dodged this way and that and managed to reach the bridge just as it was catching fire. He started across. The flames grew fiercer and the smoke thicker with every moment. As he crawled and staggered forward, he sometimes leaned far over the edge for a few seconds to get air. Both sides saw him and watched his terrible progress, even as fierce firing continued from both sides of the river. Then a Confederate officer ran to the water’s edge and waved a white handkerchief. He was one of General Pickett’s officers. The firing stopped.

“‘Tell that boy to come back here!’ he cried. ‘Tell him to come back here and we will let him go free!’

“‘Tell that boy to come back here!’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to come back here and we will let him go free!’

“He called this out just as Ring was about to enter upon the worst part of the bridge—the covered part, where there were top and bottom and sides of blazing wood. The roar of the flames was so close to Ring that he could not hear the calls from either side of the river, and he pushed desperately on and disappeared in the covered part.

“He called this out just as Ring was about to enter the worst part of the bridge. It was covered, with blazing wood above, below, and on both sides. The flames roared so close to Ring that he could not hear the calls from either side of the river. He pushed desperately onward and disappeared into the covered section.

“There was dead silence except for the crackling of the fire. Not a man cried out. All waited in hopeless expectancy. And then came a mighty yell from Northerner and Southerner alike, for Johnnie came crawling out of the end of the covered way—he had actually passed through that frightful place—and his clothes were ablaze, and he toppled over and fell into shallow water; and in a few moments he was dragged out, unconscious, and hurried to a hospital.

“There was complete silence except for the crackling fire. Not a man cried out. All waited without hope. Then Northerners and Southerners alike let out a mighty yell. Johnnie came crawling out of the end of the covered way. He had actually made it through that frightful place. His clothes were on fire, and he toppled over into shallow water. Moments later, he was pulled out unconscious and rushed to a hospital.

“He lingered for a day or so, still unconscious, and then came to himself and smiled a little as he found that the sword for which he had given his life had been left beside him. He took it in his arms. He hugged it to his breast. He gave a few words of final message for me. And that was all.”

“He remained unconscious for a day or so. Then he regained consciousness and smiled a little when he saw the sword beside him. It was the sword he had given his life for. He took it in his arms. He hugged it to his chest. He gave a few final words for me. And that was all.”

Conwell’s voice had gone thrillingly low as he neared the end, for it was all so very, very vivid to him, and his eyes had grown tender and his lips more strong and firm. And he fell silent, thinking of that long-ago happening, and though he looked down upon the thronging traffic of Broad Street, it was clear that he did not see it, and that if the rumbling hubbub of sound meant anything to him it was the rumbling of the guns of the distant past. When he spoke again it was with a still tenser tone of feeling.

As Conwell neared the end, his voice had grown thrillingly quiet, because it was all still so very, very vivid to him. His eyes had softened, and his lips had grown stronger and firmer. He fell silent, thinking of what had happened so long ago. Though he looked down on the crowded traffic of Broad Street, he clearly did not see it. And if the rumbling noise meant anything to him, it was the rumbling of guns from the distant past. When he spoke again, his voice was even more tense with feeling.

“When I stood beside the body of John Ring and realized that he had died for love of me, I made a vow that has formed my life. I vowed that from that moment I would live not only my own life, but that I would also live the life of John Ring. And from that moment I have worked sixteen hours every day—eight for John Ring’s work and eight hours for my own.”

“When I stood beside John Ring’s body, I realized he had died for love of me. I made a vow that shaped my life. I vowed that from then on, I would live not only my own life, but John Ring’s life too. Since then, I have worked sixteen hours every day, eight on John Ring’s work and eight on my own.”

A curious note had come into his voice, as of one who had run the race and neared the goal, fought the good fight and neared the end.

A curious note had entered his voice, as if he had run the race and was nearing the goal. It was as if he had fought the good fight and was nearing the end.

“Every morning when I rise I look at this sword, or if I am away from home I think of the sword, and vow anew that another day shall see sixteen hours of work from me.” And when one comes to know Russell Conwell one realizes that never did a man work more hard and constantly.

“Every morning when I get up, I look at this sword. If I am away from home, I think of the sword. And I vow again to work sixteen hours that day.” When you get to know Russell Conwell, you realize that no man ever worked harder or more steadily.

“It was through John Ring and his giving his life through devotion to me that I became a Christian,” he went on. “This did not come about immediately, but it came before the war was over, and it came through faithful Johnnie Ring.”

“John Ring gave his life out of devotion to me, and through him I became a Christian,” he went on. “It didn’t happen immediately, but it happened before the war was over, thanks to faithful Johnnie Ring.”

There is a little lonely cemetery in the Berkshires, a tiny burying-ground on a wind-swept hill, a few miles from Conwell’s old home. In this isolated burying-ground bushes and vines and grass grow in profusion, and a few trees cast a gentle shade; and tree-clad hills go billowing off for miles and miles in wild and lonely beauty. And in that lonely little graveyard I found the plain stone that marks the resting-place of John Ring.

There is a small, lonely cemetery in the Berkshires, on a windswept hill a few miles from Conwell’s old home. Bushes, vines, and grass grow thickly in this isolated burial ground, and a few trees cast a gentle shade. Wooded hills roll away for miles in wild and lonely beauty. In that lonely little graveyard, I found the plain stone marking John Ring’s resting place.