The Beginning at Old Lexington

IT is not because he is a minister that Russell Conwell is such a force in the world. He went into the ministry because he was sincerely and profoundly a Christian, and because he felt that as a minister he could do more good in the world than in any other capacity. But being a minister is but an incident, so to speak. The important thing is not that he is a minister, but that he is himself!

Russell Conwell is not such a powerful force in the world because he is a minister. He entered the ministry because he was sincerely and deeply Christian. He also felt he could do more good in the world as a minister than in any other role. But being a minister is, so to speak, secondary. The important thing is not that he is a minister, but that he is himself!

Recently I heard a New-Yorker, the head of a great corporation, say: “I believe that Russell Conwell is doing more good in the world than any man who has lived since Jesus Christ.” And he said this in serious and unexaggerated earnest.

Recently, I heard a New Yorker who heads a large corporation say: “I believe Russell Conwell is doing more good in the world than anyone who has lived since Jesus Christ.” He was completely serious and was not exaggerating.

Yet Conwell did not get readily into his life-work. He might have seemed almost a failure until he was well on toward forty, for although he kept making successes they were not permanent successes, and he did not settle himself into a definite line. He restlessly went westward to make his home, and then restlessly returned to the East. After the war was over he was a lawyer, he was a lecturer, he was an editor, he went around the world as a correspondent, he wrote books. He kept making money, and kept losing it; he lost it through fire, through investments, through aiding his friends. It is probable that the unsettledness of the years following the war was due to the unsettling effect of the war itself, which thus, in its influence, broke into his mature life after breaking into his years at Yale. But however that may be, those seething, changing, stirring years were years of vital importance to him, for in the myriad experiences of that time he was building the foundation of the Conwell that was to come. Abroad he met the notables of the earth. At home he made hosts of friends and loyal admirers.

Yet Conwell did not easily find his life’s work. He might have seemed almost a failure until he was nearly forty. Although he had successes, they did not last, and he did not settle on a definite path. Restlessly, he went west to make a home, then returned just as restlessly to the East. After the war, he was a lawyer, a lecturer, and an editor. He traveled around the world as a correspondent, and he wrote books. He kept making money and losing it. He lost money through fire, investments, and helping his friends. The war itself probably caused the unsettled years that followed it. Having interrupted his years at Yale, the war continued to disrupt his adult life. But whatever the cause, those turbulent, changing, active years were vitally important to him. His countless experiences during that time laid the foundation for the Conwell he would become. Abroad, he met the world’s notable people. At home, he made many 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 with him that he could not and would not fight on what he thought was the wrong side. Only when his client was right would he go ahead!

It is worth noting that, as a lawyer, he would never take a civil or criminal case he believed was wrong. He firmly believed he could not and would not fight for what he thought was the wrong side. He would go ahead only if his client was right!

Yet he laughs, his quiet, infectious, characteristic laugh, as he tells of how once he was deceived, for he defended a man, charged with stealing a watch, who was so obviously innocent that he took the case in a blaze of indignation and had the young fellow proudly exonerated. The next day the wrongly accused one came to his office and shamefacedly took out the watch that he had been charged with stealing. “I want you to send it to the man I took it from,” he said. And he told with a sort of shamefaced pride of how he had got a good old deacon to give, in all sincerity, the evidence that exculpated him. “And, say, Mr. Conwell—I want to thank you for getting me off—and I hope you’ll excuse my deceiving you—and—I won’t be any worse for not going to jail.” And Conwell likes to remember that thereafter the young man lived up to the pride of exoneration; and, though Conwell does not say it or think it, one knows that it was the Conwell influence that inspired to honesty—for always he is an inspirer.

Yet he laughs his quiet, infectious, characteristic laugh as he tells how he was once deceived. He had defended a man charged with stealing a watch. The young man seemed so obviously innocent that Conwell took the case in a blaze of indignation. He proudly won the young man’s acquittal. The next day, the wrongly accused young man came to his office. Looking ashamed, he took out the watch he had been charged with stealing. “I want you to send it to the man I took it from,” he said. With a kind of embarrassed pride, he explained how he had persuaded a good old deacon to give the testimony that cleared him. The deacon had believed every word of it. “And, say, Mr. Conwell, I want to thank you for getting me off. And I hope you’ll excuse my deceiving you. And I won’t be any worse for not going to jail.” Conwell likes to remember that the young man went on to live up to the pride of being cleared. Though Conwell neither says nor thinks so, one knows that his influence inspired the young man to be honest. For Conwell is always an inspiration to others.

Conwell even kept certain hours for consultation with those too poor to pay any fee; and at one time, while still an active lawyer, he was guardian for over sixty children! The man has always been a marvel, and always one is coming upon such romantic facts as these.

Conwell even set aside hours to consult with people too poor to pay a fee. At one time, while still a practicing lawyer, he was guardian to over sixty children! He has always been remarkable, and one is always coming across fascinating facts like these.

That is a curious thing about him—how much there is of romance in his life! Worshiped to the end by John Ring; left for dead all night at Kenesaw Mountain; calmly singing “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” to quiet the passengers on a supposedly sinking ship; saving lives even when a boy; never disappointing a single audience of the thousands of audiences he has arranged to address during all his years of lecturing! He himself takes a little pride in this last point, and it is characteristic of him that 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 in consequence to a hospital instead of to the platform! And it is typical of him to forget that sort of thing.

There is something remarkable about him. His life is full of adventure! John Ring adored him to the end. He was left for dead all night at Kenesaw Mountain. On a ship thought to be sinking, he calmly sang “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” to quiet the passengers. He saved lives even as a boy. And in all his years of lecturing, he never disappointed any of the thousands of audiences he had arranged to address! He takes a little pride in that last point. It is just like him to have forgotten that he did fail to appear once. One evening, on his way to a lecture, he stopped a runaway horse and saved two women’s lives. As a result, he went to a hospital instead of the lecture platform. He has completely forgotten that occasion. It is typical of him to forget that kind of thing.

The emotional temperament of Conwell has always made him responsive to the great, the striking, the patriotic. He was deeply influenced by knowing John Brown, and his brief memories of Lincoln are intense, though he saw him but three times in all.

Conwell’s emotional nature has always made him responsive to what is great, striking, and patriotic. Knowing John Brown deeply influenced him. His brief memories of Lincoln are vivid, though he saw him only three times in all.

The first time he saw Lincoln was on the night when the future President delivered the address, which afterward became so famous, in Cooper Union, New York. The name of Lincoln was then scarcely known, and it was by mere chance that young Conwell happened to be in New York on that day. But being there, and learning that Abraham Lincoln from the West was going to make an address, he went to hear him.

He first saw Lincoln on the night the future President gave his speech at Cooper Union in New York. The speech later became famous. At the time, Lincoln's name was hardly known, and young Conwell happened to be in New York that day by chance. But while there, he learned that Abraham Lincoln from the West was going to give a speech, so he went to hear him.

He tells how uncouthly Lincoln was dressed, even with one trousers-leg higher than the other, and of how awkward he was, and of how poorly, at first, he spoke and with what apparent embarrassment. The chairman of the meeting got Lincoln a glass of water, and Conwell thought that it was 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, pulling himself together and putting aside the written speech which he had prepared, spoke freely and powerfully, with splendid conviction, as only a born orator speaks. To Conwell it was a tremendous experience.

He tells how badly Lincoln was dressed, with one trouser leg even higher than the other. He describes how awkward Lincoln was, how poorly he spoke at first, and how embarrassed he seemed. The meeting’s chairman brought Lincoln a glass of water. Conwell thought the chairman personally wanted to help Lincoln and keep him from breaking down. But Conwell loves to tell how Lincoln became a different man as he spoke. Lincoln seemed ashamed of his brief embarrassment. He pulled himself together and put aside the written speech he had prepared. Then he spoke freely and powerfully, with the splendid conviction that only a born orator has. For Conwell, it was a tremendous experience.

The second time he saw Lincoln was when he went to Washington to plead for the life of one of his men who had been condemned to death for sleeping on post. He was still but a captain (his promotion to a colonelcy was still to come), a youth, and was awed by going into the presence of the man he worshiped. And his voice trembles a little, even now, as he tells of how pleasantly Lincoln looked up from his desk, and how cheerfully he asked his business with him, and of how absorbedly Lincoln then listened to his tale, although, so it appeared, he already knew of the main outline.

The second time he saw Lincoln, he went to Washington to plead for the life of one of his men. The man had been sentenced to death for sleeping while on guard. He was still only a captain and had yet to be promoted to colonel. He was young and awed to be in the presence of the man he worshiped. Even now, his voice trembles a little as he tells the story. He recalls how pleasantly Lincoln looked up from his desk and how cheerfully he asked why he had come. Lincoln then listened intently to his story, although he appeared to know its main points already.

“It will be all right,” said Lincoln, when Conwell finished. But Conwell was still frightened. He feared that in the multiplicity of public matters this mere matter of the life of a mountain boy, a private soldier, might be forgotten till too late. “It is almost the time set—” he faltered. And Conwell’s voice almost breaks, man of emotion that he is, as he tells of how Lincoln said, with stern gravity: “Go and telegraph that soldier’s mother that Abraham Lincoln never signed a warrant to shoot a boy under twenty, and never will.” That was the one and only time that he spoke with Lincoln, and it remains an indelible impression.

“It will be all right,” said Lincoln when Conwell finished. But Conwell was still frightened. He feared that Lincoln might forget about the life of a mountain boy, a private soldier, amid so many public concerns. And then it might be too late. “It is almost the appointed time,” he faltered. Conwell is an emotional man, and his voice almost breaks as he tells what Lincoln said with stern seriousness: “Go and telegraph that soldier’s mother that Abraham Lincoln never signed a warrant to shoot a boy under twenty, and never will.” That was the only time Conwell spoke with Lincoln, and it left a lasting impression on him.

The third time he saw Lincoln was when, as officer of the day, he stood for hours beside the dead body of the President as it lay in state in Washington. In those hours, as he stood rigidly as the throng went shuffling sorrowfully through, an immense impression came to Colonel Conwell of the work and worth of the man who there lay dead, and that impression has never departed.

The third time he saw Lincoln, he was the officer of the day. He stood for hours beside the President’s body as it lay in state in Washington. As he stood at attention, the crowd shuffled sorrowfully past. During those hours, Colonel Conwell was deeply struck by the work and worth of the man lying dead before him. That impression never left him.

John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, old Revolutionary Lexington—how Conwell’s life is associated with famous men and places!—and it was actually at Lexington that he made the crucial decision as to the course of his life! And it seems to me that it was, although quite unconsciously, because of the very fact that it was Lexington that Conwell was influenced to decide and to act as he did. Had it been in some other kind of place, some merely ordinary place, some quite usual place, he might not have taken the important step. But it was Lexington, it was brave old Lexington, inspiring Lexington; and he was inspired by it, for the man who himself inspires nobly is always the one who is himself open to noble inspiration. Lexington inspired him.

John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, and old Revolutionary Lexington! How Conwell’s life connects him with famous people and places! It was actually in Lexington that he made the crucial decision about the direction of his life. And it seems to me that being in Lexington influenced his decision and actions, though he was quite unaware of it. Had he been somewhere else, some ordinary, everyday place, he might not have taken that important step. But it was Lexington, brave old Lexington, inspiring Lexington. And Lexington inspired him. For a person who nobly inspires others is always open to noble inspiration himself. Lexington inspired him.

“When I was a lawyer in Boston and almost thirty-seven years old,” he told me, thinking slowly back into the years, “I was consulted by a woman who asked my advice in regard to disposing of a little church in Lexington whose congregation had become unable to support it. I went out and 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 attended the meeting. I put the case to them—it was only a handful of men and women—and there was silence for a little. Then an old man rose and, in a quavering voice, said the matter was quite clear; that there evidently was nothing to do but to sell, and that he would agree with the others in the necessity; but as the church had been his church home from boyhood, so he quavered and quivered on, he begged that they would excuse him from actually taking part in disposing of it; and in a deep silence he went haltingly from the room.

“When I was a lawyer in Boston and almost thirty-seven years old,” he told me, slowly recalling the past, “a woman came to me for advice. She wanted to know how to dispose of a small church in Lexington. Its congregation could no longer afford to support it. I went out to see the church and told her how the property could be sold. But I thought it was a shame to give up the little church. Still, I advised her to call a meeting of the church members, and I attended it. I explained the situation to them. There were only a handful of men and women, and they were silent for a while. Then an old man stood up. In a trembling voice, he said the matter was quite clear. There was evidently nothing to do but sell, and he agreed with the others that it was necessary. But the church had been his church home since boyhood. Still trembling, he begged them to excuse him from actually taking part in disposing of it. Then, in deep silence, he walked unsteadily from the room.

“The men and the women looked at one another, still silent, sadly impressed, but not knowing what to do. And I said to them: ‘Why not start over again, and go on with the church, after all!’”

“The men and women looked at one another. They were still silent and saddened, but they did not know what to do. And I said to them: ‘Why not start over and carry on with the church after all!’”

Typical Conwellism, that! First, the impulse to help those who need helping, then the inspiration and leadership.

That's typical Conwellism! First comes the urge to help those in need, then inspiration and leadership.

“‘But the building is entirely too tumble-down to use,’ said one of the men, sadly; and I knew he was right, for I had examined it; but I said:

“‘But the building is far too run-down to use,’ one of the men said sadly. I knew he was right because I had examined the building. But I said:

“‘Let us meet there to-morrow morning and get to work on that building ourselves and put it in shape for a service next Sunday.’

“‘Let’s meet there tomorrow morning and work on that building ourselves. We can get it ready for a service next Sunday.’

“It made them seem so pleased and encouraged, and so confident that a new possibility was opening that I never doubted that each one of those present, and many friends besides, would be at the building in the morning. I was there early with a hammer and ax and crowbar that I had secured, ready to go to work—but no one else showed up!”

“It made them seem so pleased and encouraged, and so confident that a new possibility was opening up. So I never doubted that everyone present, along with many friends, would be at the building in the morning. I was there early, ready to work with a hammer, an ax, and a crowbar I had found. But no one else showed up!”

He has a rueful appreciation of the humor of it, as he pictured the scene; and one knows also that, in that little town of Lexington, where Americans had so bravely faced the impossible, Russell Conwell also braced himself to face the impossible. A pettier man would instantly have given up the entire matter when those who were most interested failed to respond, but one of the strongest features in Conwell’s character is his ability to draw even doubters and weaklings into line, his ability to stir even those who have given up.

As he pictured the scene, he saw the humor in it, though with some regret. And we know that Russell Conwell, too, braced himself to face the impossible in the little town of Lexington. There, Americans had so bravely faced the impossible. A lesser man would have given up at once when those most interested failed to respond. But one of Conwell’s greatest strengths was his ability to bring even doubters and weak-willed people on board. He could inspire even those who had given up.

“I looked over that building,” he goes on, whimsically, “and I saw that repair really seemed out of the question. Nothing but a new church would do! So I took the ax that I had brought with me and began chopping the place down. In a little while a man, not one of the church members, came along, and he watched me for a time and said, ‘What are you going to do there?’

“I looked over the building,” he continues playfully, “and saw that repairing it seemed out of the question. Nothing but a new church would do! So I took the ax I had brought and began chopping the place down. Soon a man who wasn't a church member came along. He watched me for a while and said, ‘What are you going to do there?’

“And I instantly replied, ‘Tear down this old building and build a new church here!’

“And I immediately replied, ‘Tear down this old building and build a new church here!’

“He looked at me. ‘But the people won’t do that,’ he said.

“He looked at me. ‘But the people won’t do that,’ he said.

“‘Yes, they will,’ I said, cheerfully, keeping at my work. Whereupon he watched me a few minutes longer and said:

“‘Yes, they will,’ I said cheerfully, continuing my work. He watched me for a few more minutes and then said:

“‘Well, you can put me down for one hundred dollars for the new building. Come up to my livery-stable and get it this evening.’

“‘Well, put me down for one hundred dollars for the new building. Come to my stable this evening and collect it.’

“‘All right; I’ll surely be there,’ I replied.

“‘All right, I’ll definitely be there,’ I replied.

“In a little while another man came along and stopped and looked, and he rather gibed at the idea of a new church, and when I told him of the livery-stable man contributing one hundred dollars, he said, ‘But you haven’t got the money yet!’

“Soon another man came along, stopped, and looked. He mocked the idea of a new church. When I told him the livery stable owner had contributed one hundred dollars, he said, ‘But you haven’t got the money yet!’

“‘No,’ I said; ‘but I am going to get it to-night.’

“‘No,’ I said, ‘but I’m going to get it tonight.’

“‘You’ll never get it,’ he said. ‘He’s not that sort of a man. He’s not even a church man!’

“‘You’ll never get it,’ he said. ‘He’s not that kind of man. He doesn’t even go to church!’

“But I just went quietly on with the work, without answering, and after quite a while he left; but he called back, as he went off, ‘Well, if he does give you that hundred dollars, come to me and I’ll give you another hundred.’”

“But I just kept working quietly without answering. After a while, he left. But as he went, he called back, ‘Well, if he gives you that hundred dollars, come to me and I’ll give you another hundred.’”

Conwell smiles in genial reminiscence and without any apparent sense that he is telling of a great personal triumph, and goes on:

Conwell smiles warmly as he remembers. He seems unaware that he is describing a great personal triumph, and continues:

“Those two men both paid the money, and of course the church people themselves, who at first had not quite understood that I could be in earnest, joined in and helped, with work and money, and as, while the new church was building, it was peculiarly important to get and keep the congregation together, and as they had ceased to have a minister of their own, I used to run out from Boston and preach for them, in a room we hired.

“Both men paid the money. At first, the church members had not quite understood that I was serious. But they joined in too, contributing work and money. While the new church was being built, it was especially important to bring the congregation together and keep it together. They no longer had a minister of their own, so I used to travel from Boston to preach for them in a rented room.

“And it was there in Lexington, in 1879, that I determined to become a minister. I had a good law practice, but I determined to give it up. For many years I had felt more or less of a call to the ministry, and here at length was the definite time to begin.

“And it was in Lexington, in 1879, that I decided to become a minister. I had a good law practice, but I decided to give it up. For many years, I had felt some call to the ministry. Now, at last, the time had come to begin.

“Week by week I preached there”—how strange, now, to think of William Dean Howells and the colonel-preacher!—“and after a while the church was completed, and in that very church, there in Lexington, I was ordained a minister.”

“Week after week, I preached there.” How strange it is now to think of William Dean Howells and the colonel-preacher! “After a while, the church was completed. I was ordained a minister in that very church in Lexington.”

A marvelous thing, all this, even without considering the marvelous heights that Conwell has since attained—a marvelous thing, an achievement of positive romance! That little church stood for American bravery and initiative and self-sacrifice and romanticism in a way that well befitted good old Lexington.

All this was marvelous, even without considering the remarkable heights Conwell has since reached. It was an achievement worthy of a romance! That little church stood for American bravery, initiative, self-sacrifice, and romanticism in a way that suited good old Lexington.

To leave a large and overflowing law practice and take up the ministry at a salary of six hundred dollars a year seemed to the relatives of Conwell’s wife the extreme of foolishness, and they did not hesitate so to express themselves. Naturally enough, they did not have Conwell’s vision. Yet he himself was fair enough to realize and to admit that there was a good deal of fairness in their objections; and so he said to the congregation that, although he was quite ready to come for the six hundred dollars a year, he expected them to double his salary as soon as he doubled the church membership. This seemed to them a good deal like a joke, but they answered in perfect earnestness that they would be quite willing to do the doubling as soon as he did the doubling, and in less than a year the salary was doubled accordingly.

To Conwell’s wife’s relatives, it seemed utterly foolish to leave a large, thriving law practice for the ministry at six hundred dollars a year. They did not hesitate to say so. Naturally enough, they did not share Conwell’s vision. Yet he was fair enough to see and admit that their objections were quite reasonable. So he told the congregation that he was ready to come for six hundred dollars a year. But he expected them to double his salary as soon as he doubled the church membership. This seemed like a joke to them. But they answered in all seriousness that they would gladly double his salary as soon as he doubled the membership. In less than a year, his salary was doubled as promised.

I asked him if he had found it hard to give up the lucrative law for a poor ministry, and his reply gave a delightful impression of his capacity for humorous insight into human nature, for he said, with a genial twinkle:

I asked him if he had found it hard to leave a lucrative law practice for a poorly paid ministry. His reply gave me a delightful sense of his humorous insight into human nature. With a friendly twinkle, he said:

“Oh yes, it was a wrench; but there is a sort of romance of self-sacrifice, you know. I rather suppose the old-time martyrs rather enjoyed themselves in being martyrs!”

“Oh yes, it was painful. But there’s a kind of romance in self-sacrifice, you know. I suppose the martyrs of old rather enjoyed being martyrs!”

Conwell did not stay very long in Lexington. A struggling little church in Philadelphia heard of what he was doing, and so an old deacon went up to see and hear him, and an invitation was given; and as the Lexington church seemed to be prosperously on its feet, and the needs of the Philadelphia body keenly appealed to Conwell’s imagination, a change was made, and at a salary of eight hundred dollars a year he went, in 1882, to the little struggling Philadelphia congregation, and of that congregation he is still pastor—only, it ceased to be a struggling congregation a great many years ago! And long ago it began paying him more thousands every year than at first it gave him hundreds.

Conwell did not stay long in Lexington. A small, struggling church in Philadelphia heard about his work. An old deacon went to see and hear him, and the church invited him to become its pastor. The Lexington church seemed to be doing well, and the Philadelphia church’s needs stirred Conwell’s imagination. So in 1882, he moved to the small, struggling Philadelphia congregation at a salary of eight hundred dollars a year. He is still its pastor, but the congregation stopped struggling many years ago! Long ago, it began paying him more thousands each year than it had originally paid him hundreds.

Dreamer as Conwell always is in connection with his immense practicality, 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 in Philadelphia that he was cared for until his health and strength were recovered. Thus it came that Philadelphia had early become dear to him.

Conwell is always a dreamer as well as a highly practical man, and he is moved by life’s spiritual influences. It is very likely that Philadelphia’s need appealed to him, but so did his attachment to the city. After he came North wounded from a Civil War battlefield, he was cared for in Philadelphia until he recovered his health and strength. That is how Philadelphia became dear to him early on.

And here is an excellent example of how dreaming great dreams may go hand-in-hand with winning superb results. For that little struggling congregation now owns and occupies a great new church building that seats more people than any other Protestant church in America—and Dr. Conwell fills it!

Here is an excellent example of how dreaming big can go hand in hand with achieving great results. That small, struggling congregation now owns and occupies a large new church. It seats more people than any other Protestant church in America. And Dr. Conwell fills it!