The Story of Acres of Diamonds

CONSIDERING everything, the most remarkable thing in Russell Conwell’s remarkable life is his lecture, “Acres of Diamonds.” That is, the lecture itself, the number of times he has delivered it, what a source of inspiration it has been to myriads, the money that he has made and is making, and, still more, the purpose to which he directs the money. In the circumstances surrounding “Acres of Diamonds,” in its tremendous success, in the attitude of mind revealed by the lecture itself and by what Dr. Conwell does with it, it is illuminative of his character, his aims, his ability.

All things considered, the most remarkable thing in Russell Conwell’s remarkable life is his lecture, “Acres of Diamonds.” This includes the lecture itself and the number of times he has given it. It also includes the inspiration it has given countless people and the money he has made and continues to make from it. Still more remarkable is the purpose for which he uses that money. The circumstances surrounding “Acres of Diamonds” and its tremendous success reveal his character, aims, and ability. So does the outlook shown by the lecture itself and by what Dr. Conwell does with it.

The lecture is vibrant with his energy. It flashes with his hopefulness. It is full of his enthusiasm. It is packed full of his intensity. It stands for the possibilities of success in every one. He has delivered it over five thousand times. The demand for it never diminishes. The success grows never less.

The lecture is alive with his energy. It shines with his hope. It is full of his enthusiasm and intensity. It shows that everyone has the potential to succeed. He has delivered it more than five thousand times. The demand for it never fades. Its success never wanes.

There is a time in Russell Conwell’s youth of which it is pain for him to think. He told me of it one evening, and his voice sank lower and lower as he went far back into the past. It was of his days at Yale that he spoke, for they were days of suffering. For he had not money for Yale, and in working for more he endured bitter humiliation. It was not that the work was hard, for Russell Conwell has always been ready for hard work. It was not that there were privations and difficulties, for he has always found difficulties only things to overcome, and endured privations with cheerful fortitude. But it was the humiliations that he met—the personal humiliations that after more than half a century make him suffer in remembering them—yet out of those humiliations came a marvelous result.

There is a time in Russell Conwell’s youth that pains him to remember. He told me about it one evening, and his voice grew quieter as he reached back into the past. He spoke of his days at Yale, which were days of suffering. He did not have enough money for Yale, and he endured bitter humiliation while working to earn more. It was not that the work was hard, for Russell Conwell has always been ready for hard work. Nor was it the hardships and difficulties. He has always seen difficulties as things to overcome and endured hardships with cheerful courage. But he faced personal humiliations that still cause him pain to remember after more than half a century. Yet those humiliations led to a marvelous result.

“I determined,” he says, “that whatever I could do to make the way easier at college for other young men working their way I would do.”

“I decided,” he says, “to do whatever I could to make college easier for other young men working their way through.”

And so, many years ago, he began to devote every dollar that he made from “Acres of Diamonds” to this definite purpose. He has what may be termed a waiting-list. On that list are very few cases he has looked into personally. Infinitely busy man that he is, he cannot do extensive personal investigation. A large proportion of his names come to him from college presidents who know of students in their own colleges in need of such a helping hand.

And so, many years ago, he began devoting every dollar he earned from “Acres of Diamonds” to this specific purpose. He has what might be called a waiting list. He has personally looked into very few of the cases on it. He is an extremely busy man and cannot investigate extensively himself. Many of the names come from college presidents who know of students at their colleges who need such help.

“Every night,” he said, when I asked him to tell me about it, “when my lecture is over and the check is in my hand, I sit down in my room in the hotel”—what a lonely picture, tool—“I sit down in my room in the hotel and subtract from the total sum received my actual expenses for that place, and make out a check for the difference and send it to some young man on my list. And I always send with the check a letter of advice and helpfulness, expressing my hope that it will be of some service to him and telling him that he is to feel under no obligation except to his Lord. I feel strongly, and I try to make every young man feel, that there must be no sense of obligation to me personally. And I tell them that I am hoping to leave behind me men who will do more work than I have done. Don’t think that I put in too much advice,” he added, with a smile, “for I only try to let them know that a friend is trying to help them.”

“Every night,” he said when I asked him to tell me about it, “after my lecture, I take the check to my hotel room.” What a lonely picture, too! “I sit down and subtract my actual expenses for that place from the total I received. Then I write a check for the difference and send it to a young man on my list. I always send a letter with the check, offering advice and help. I express my hope that the money will be useful to him. I also tell him that he should feel no obligation except to his Lord. I feel strongly that he should feel no personal obligation to me, and I try to make every young man feel the same way. I tell them that I hope to leave behind men who will do more work than I have done. Don’t think I give them too much advice,” he added with a smile. “I only try to let them know that a friend is trying to help them.”

His face lighted as he spoke. “There is such a fascination in it!” he exclaimed. “It is just like a gamble! And as soon as I have sent the letter and crossed a name off my list, I am aiming for the next one!”

His face lit up as he spoke. “It’s so exciting!” he exclaimed. “It’s just like gambling! As soon as I send the letter and cross a name off my list, I’m aiming for the next one!”

And after a pause he added: “I do not attempt to send any young man enough for all his expenses. But I want to save him from bitterness, and each check will help. And, too,” he concluded, naïvely, in the vernacular, “I don’t want them to lay down on me!”

After a pause, he added: “I don’t try to send any young man enough to cover all his expenses. But I want to keep him from becoming bitter, and each check will help. Also,” he concluded, speaking naïvely in everyday language, “I don’t want them to give up on me!”

He told me that he made it clear that he did not wish to get returns or reports from this branch of his life-work, for it would take a great deal of time in watching and thinking and in the reading and writing of letters. “But it is mainly,” he went on, “that I do not wish to hold over their heads the sense of obligation.”

He told me he had made it clear that he did not want updates or reports about this part of his life’s work. Keeping track of it, thinking about it, and reading and writing letters would take too much time. “But mainly,” he went on, “I do not want them to feel they owe me something.”

When I suggested that this was surely an example of bread cast upon the waters that could not return, he was silent for a little and then said, thoughtfully: “As one gets on in years there is satisfaction in doing a thing for the sake of doing it. The bread returns in the sense of effort made.”

I suggested that this was surely an example of bread cast on the water that could not return. He was quiet for a moment, then said thoughtfully: “As you get older, there is satisfaction in doing something for its own sake. The bread returns in the form of the effort made.”

On a recent trip through Minnesota he was positively upset, so his secretary told me, through being recognized on a train by a young man who had been helped through “Acres of Diamonds,” and who, finding that this was really Dr. Conwell, eagerly brought his wife to join him in most fervent thanks for his assistance. Both the husband and his wife were so emotionally overcome that it quite overcame Dr. Conwell himself.

His secretary told me that Dr. Conwell was deeply moved on a recent trip through Minnesota. On a train, a young man who had been helped through “Acres of Diamonds” recognized him. Once the young man was sure it was Dr. Conwell, he eagerly brought his wife over. They both thanked him warmly for his help. The husband and wife were so overcome with emotion that Dr. Conwell himself was overcome too.

The lecture, to quote the noble words of Dr. Conwell himself, is designed to help “every person, of either sex, who cherishes the high resolve of sustaining a career of usefulness and honor.” It is a lecture of helpfulness. And it is a lecture, when given with Conwell’s voice and face and manner, that is full of fascination. And yet it is all so simple!

As Dr. Conwell himself puts it so nobly, the lecture is meant to help “every person, man or woman, who is determined to lead a useful and honorable life.” It is a lecture meant to help. And when Conwell delivers it, his voice, expression, and manner make it fascinating. And yet it is all so simple!

It is packed full of inspiration, of suggestion, of aid. He alters it to meet the local circumstances of the thousands of different places in which he delivers it. But the base remains the same. And even those to whom it is an old story will go to hear him time after time. It amuses him to say that he knows individuals who have listened to it twenty times.

It is packed with inspiration, ideas, and help. He adapts it to the local circumstances of the thousands of places where he delivers it. But its foundation stays the same. Even people who have heard it before come back to hear him again and again. He enjoys saying that he knows people who have listened to it twenty times.

It begins with a story told to Conwell by an old Arab as the two journeyed together toward Nineveh, and, as you listen, you hear the actual voices and you see the sands of the desert and the waving palms. The lecturer’s voice is so easy, so effortless, it seems so ordinary and matter-of-fact—yet the entire scene is instantly vital and alive! Instantly the man has his audience under a sort of spell, eager to listen, ready to be merry or grave. He has the faculty of control, the vital quality that makes the orator.

It begins with a story an old Arab told Conwell as they traveled together toward Nineveh. As you listen, you hear their actual voices and see the desert sands and waving palms. The lecturer’s voice is so easy and effortless. It seems so ordinary and matter-of-fact, yet the whole scene instantly comes alive! At once, he casts a kind of spell over his audience. They are eager to listen, ready to be cheerful or serious. He has the power to hold an audience, the essential quality that makes a great speaker.

The same people will go to hear this lecture over and over, and that is the kind of tribute that Conwell likes. I recently heard him deliver it in his own church, where it would naturally be thought to be an old story, and where, presumably, only a few of the faithful would go; but it was quite clear that all of his church are the faithful, for it was a large audience that came to listen to him; hardly a seat in the great auditorium was vacant. And it should be added that, although it was in his own church, it was not a free lecture, where a throng might be expected, but that each one paid a liberal sum for a seat—and the paying of admission is always a practical test of the sincerity of desire to hear. And the people were swept along by the current as if lecturer and lecture were of novel interest. The lecture in itself is good to read, but it is only when it is illumined by Conwell’s vivid personality that one understands how it influences in the actual delivery.

The same people go to hear this lecture again and again, and that is the kind of tribute Conwell likes. I recently heard him give it in his own church. You might expect it to be an old story there, and assume that only a few faithful followers would attend. But it was clear that all his church members are faithful. A large audience came to hear him, and hardly a seat in the great auditorium was empty. Although the lecture was in his own church, it was not free, as it might have been if a crowd were expected. Everyone paid a generous sum for a seat. Paying admission is always a practical test of how sincerely people want to hear a speaker. The audience was swept along as if both the lecturer and the lecture were new to them. The lecture itself is good to read, but only when Conwell’s vivid personality brings it to life can one understand its impact when he delivers it.

On that particular evening he had decided to give the lecture in the same form as when he first delivered it many years ago, without any of the alterations that have come with time and changing localities, and as he went on, with the audience rippling and bubbling with laughter as usual, he never doubted that he was giving it as he had given it years before; and yet—so up-to-date and alive must he necessarily be, in spite of a definitive effort to set himself back—every once in a while he was coming out with illustrations from such distinctly recent things as the automobile!

That evening, he had decided to give the lecture just as he had first delivered it many years earlier. He would leave out all the changes he had made over time and in different places. As he went on, the audience rippled and bubbled with laughter, as usual. He never doubted that he was giving the lecture just as he had years before. Yet he was so in tune with the present, despite his determined effort to turn back the clock, that he kept using examples from such distinctly recent things as the automobile!

The last time I heard him was the 5,124th time for the lecture. Doesn’t it seem incredible! 5,124 times’ I noticed that he was to deliver it at a little out-of-the-way place, difficult for any considerable number to get to, and I wondered just how much of an audience would gather and how they would be impressed. So I went over from there I was, a few miles away. The road was dark and I pictured a small audience, but when I got there I found the church building in which he was to deliver the lecture had a seating capacity of 830 and that precisely 830 people were already seated there and that a fringe of others were standing behind. Many had come from miles away. Yet the lecture had scarcely, if at all, been advertised. But people had said to one another: “Aren’t you going to hear Dr. Conwell?” And the word had thus been passed along.

The last time I heard him give the lecture, it was his 5,124th time delivering it. Doesn’t that seem incredible! 5,124 times! I noticed that he was scheduled to give it in a small, out-of-the-way place. It was hard for many people to reach. I wondered how large an audience would gather and what they would think of the lecture. So I went there from where I was, a few miles away. The road was dark, and I imagined a small audience. But when I arrived, I found that the church where he was to speak seated 830 people. Exactly 830 people were already seated, and others were standing along the back. Many had come from miles away. Yet the lecture had hardly been advertised, if at all. But people had asked one another: “Aren’t you going to hear Dr. Conwell?” And the word had spread that way.

I remember how fascinating it was to watch that audience, for they responded so keenly and with such heartfelt pleasure throughout the entire lecture. And not only were they immensely pleased and amused and interested—and to achieve that at a crossroads church was in itself a triumph to be proud of—but I knew that every listener was given an impulse toward doing something for himself and for others, and that with at least some of them the impulse would materialize in acts. Over and over one realizes what a power such a man wields.

I remember how fascinating it was to watch the audience. Throughout the lecture, they responded with such enthusiasm and heartfelt pleasure. They were immensely pleased, amused, and interested. Achieving that at a crossroads church was itself a triumph to be proud of. But I also knew that every listener was inspired to do something for themselves and for others. And I knew that at least some of them would act on that inspiration. Again and again, one realizes how much power such a man has.

And what an unselfishness! For, far on in years as he is, and suffering pain, he does not chop down his lecture to a definite length; he does not talk for just an hour or go on grudgingly for an hour and a half. He sees that the people are fascinated and inspired, and he forgets pain, ignores time, forgets that the night is late and that he has a long journey to go to get home, and keeps on generously for two hours! And every one wishes it were four.

And what selflessness! Though he is old and in pain, he does not cut his lecture to a fixed length. He does not speak for just an hour or grudgingly continue for an hour and a half. He sees that the audience is fascinated and inspired. So he forgets his pain and ignores the time. He forgets that it is late and that he has a long journey home. He generously keeps speaking for two hours! And everyone wishes he would speak for four.

Always he talks with ease and sympathy. There are geniality, composure, humor, simple and homely jests—yet never does the audience forget that he is every moment in tremendous earnest. They bubble with responsive laughter or are silent in riveted attention. A stir can be seen to sweep over an audience, of earnestness or surprise or amusement or resolve. When he is grave and sober or fervid the people feel that he is himself a fervidly earnest man, and when he is telling something humorous there is on his part almost a repressed chuckle, a genial appreciation of the fun of it, not in the least as if he were laughing at his own humor, but as if he and his hearers were laughing together at something of which they were all humorously cognizant.

He always speaks easily and with sympathy. He is warm and calm, with humor and simple, down-to-earth jokes. Yet the audience never forgets that he is deeply earnest at every moment. They burst into laughter with him or listen in rapt silence. A wave of earnestness, surprise, amusement, or resolve can be seen sweeping through the audience. When he is serious or passionate, people feel that he is a deeply earnest man. When he tells something funny, he seems almost to hold back a chuckle, warmly appreciating the humor. It is not at all as if he were laughing at his own joke. Rather, he and his listeners seem to be laughing together at something they all find funny.

Myriad successes in life have come through the direct inspiration of this single lecture. One hears of so many that there must be vastly more that are never told. A few of the most recent were told me by Dr. Conwell himself, one being of a farmer boy who walked a long distance to hear him. On his way home, so the boy, now a man, has written him, he thought over and over of what he could do to advance himself, and before he reached home he learned that a teacher was wanted at a certain country school. He knew he did not know enough to teach, but was sure he could learn, so he bravely asked for the place. And something in his earnestness made him win a temporary appointment. Thereupon he worked and studied so hard and so devotedly, while he daily taught, that within a few months he was regularly employed there. “And now,” says Conwell, abruptly, with his characteristic skim-ming over of the intermediate details between the important beginning of a thing and the satisfactory end, “and now that young man is one of our college presidents.”

Countless successes in life have come directly from the inspiration of this one lecture. So many are reported that there must be far more that go untold. Dr. Conwell himself told me about a few recent examples. One was about a farm boy who walked a long way to hear him. The boy, now a man, wrote to Conwell about his walk home. He kept thinking about what he could do to get ahead. Before he reached home, he learned that a country school needed a teacher. He knew he did not know enough to teach, but he was sure he could learn. So he bravely asked for the job. Something about his earnestness won him a temporary appointment. He worked and studied so hard and so devotedly while teaching each day that, within a few months, he was hired permanently. “And now,” Conwell says abruptly, “and now that young man is one of our college presidents.” Characteristically, he skips over the details between the important beginning and the satisfying end.

And very recently a lady came to Dr. Conwell, the wife of an exceptionally prominent man who was earning a large salary, and she told him that her husband was so unselfishly generous with money that often they were almost in straits. And she said they had bought a little farm as a country place, paying only a few hundred dollars for it, and that she had said to herself, laughingly, after hearing the lecture, “There are no acres of diamonds on this place!” But she also went on to tell that she had found a spring of exceptionally fine water there, although in buying they had scarcely known of the spring at all; and she had been so inspired by Conwell that she had had the water analyzed and, finding that it was remarkably pure, had begun to have it bottled and sold under a trade name as special spring water. And she is making money. And she also sells pure ice from the pool, cut in winter-time and all because of “Acres of Diamonds”!

Very recently, a woman came to Dr. Conwell. She was married to an exceptionally prominent man who earned a large salary. She told Conwell that her husband was so unselfishly generous with money that they often almost ran short. They had bought a small farm as a country place, paying only a few hundred dollars for it. After hearing the lecture, she had said to herself with a laugh, “There are no acres of diamonds on this place!” But she went on to tell Conwell that she had found a spring of exceptionally fine water on the farm. When they bought the place, they had hardly known the spring was there. Conwell had inspired her so much that she had the water analyzed. Finding that it was remarkably pure, she began bottling and selling it under a trade name as special spring water. And she is making money. She also sells pure ice cut from the pool in winter, all because of “Acres of Diamonds”!

Several millions of dollars, in all, have been received by Russell Conwell as the proceeds from this single lecture. Such a fact is almost staggering—and it is more staggering to realize what good is done in the world by this man, who does not earn for himself, but uses his money in immediate helpfulness. And one can neither think nor write with moderation when it is further realized that far more good than can be done directly with money he does by uplifting and inspiring with this lecture. Always his heart is with the weary and the heavy-laden. Always he stands for self-betterment.

Russell Conwell has received several million dollars in total from this single lecture. That fact is almost staggering. It is even more staggering to realize how much good he does in the world. He does not earn money for himself, but uses it to help others immediately. And it is hard to speak or write calmly about the good he does by uplifting and inspiring people with this lecture. That good is far greater than anything money can do directly. His heart is always with the weary and burdened. He always stands for self-improvement.

Last year, 1914, he and his work were given unique recognition. For it was known by his friends that this particular lecture was approaching its five-thousandth delivery, and they planned a celebration of such an event in the history of the most popular lecture in the world. Dr. Conwell agreed to deliver it in the Academy of Music, in Philadelphia, and the building was packed and the streets outside were thronged. The proceeds from all sources for that five-thousandth lecture were over nine thousand dollars.

Last year, in 1914, he and his work received special recognition. His friends knew that he was nearing his five-thousandth delivery of this lecture. They planned a celebration of this milestone in the history of the world's most popular lecture. Dr. Conwell agreed to deliver the lecture at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. The building was packed, and crowds filled the streets outside. The five-thousandth lecture brought in over nine thousand dollars from all sources.

The hold which Russell Conwell has gained on the affections and respect of his home city was seen not only in the thousands who strove to hear him, but in the prominent men who served on the local committee in charge of the celebration. There was a national committee, too, and the nation-wide love that he has won, the nation-wide appreciation of what he has done and is still doing, was shown by the fact that among the names of the notables on this committee were those of nine governors of states. The Governor of Pennsylvania was himself present to do Russell Conwell honor, and he gave to him a key emblematic of the Freedom of the State.

The affection and respect Russell Conwell had earned in his home city could be seen in the thousands who tried to hear him. It was also evident in the prominent men who served on the local committee organizing the celebration. There was a national committee, too. Its members included nine state governors, showing the nationwide love Conwell had earned and the appreciation for what he had done and was still doing. The Governor of Pennsylvania attended in person to honor Russell Conwell. He gave Conwell a key symbolizing the Freedom of the State.

The “Freedom of the State”—yes; this man, well over seventy, has won it. The Freedom of the State, the Freedom of the Nation—for this man of helpfulness, this marvelous exponent of the gospel of success, has worked marvelously for the freedom, the betterment, the liberation, the advancement, of the individual.

The “Freedom of the State”, yes, this man, now well over seventy, has earned it. He has earned the Freedom of the State and the Freedom of the Nation. For this helpful man, this remarkable advocate of the gospel of success, has worked wonders. He has worked for the freedom, improvement, liberation, and advancement of the individual.