Millions of Listeners

THAT Conwell is not primarily a minister—that he is a minister because he is a sincere Christian, but that he is first of all an Abou Ben Adhem, a man who loves his fellow-men, becomes more and more apparent as the scope of his life-work is recognized. One almost comes to think that his pastorate of a great church is even a minor matter beside the combined importance of his educational work, his lecture work, his hospital work, his work in general as a helper to those who need help.

Conwell is not primarily a minister. He is a minister because he is a sincere Christian. But first and foremost, he is an Abou Ben Adhem, a man who loves his fellow human beings. This becomes increasingly clear as we see the full scope of his life’s work. One almost comes to think that his role as pastor of a great church is a minor matter by comparison. Together, his work in education, lecturing, hospitals, and helping those in need seems even more important.

For my own part, I should say that he is like some of the old-time prophets, the strong ones who found a great deal to attend to in addition to matters of religion. The power, the ruggedness, the physical and mental strength, the positive grandeur of the man—all these are like the general conceptions of the big Old Testament prophets. The suggestion is given only because it has often recurred, and therefore with the feeling that there is something more than fanciful in the com-parison; and yet, after all, the comparison fails in one important particular, for none of the prophets seems to have had a sense of humor!

For my part, I would say he is like some of the prophets of old. They were strong men who attended to many things besides religion. His power, ruggedness, physical and mental strength, and sheer grandeur all bring to mind the great Old Testament prophets. I suggest the comparison only because it has often come to mind. That makes me feel there is more to it than fancy. And yet, the comparison falls short in one important way. None of the prophets seems to have had a sense of humor!

It is perhaps better and more accurate to describe him as the last of the old school of American philosophers, the last of those sturdy-bodied, high-thinking, achieving men who, in the old days, did their best to set American humanity in the right path—such men as Emerson, Alcott, Gough, Wendell Phillips, Garrison, Bayard Taylor, Beecher; men whom Conwell knew and admired in the long ago, and all of whom have long since passed away.

Perhaps it is better and more accurate to describe him as the last of the old school of American philosophers. He was the last of those physically strong, high-minded, accomplished men who once did their best to guide Americans onto the right path. They included Emerson, Alcott, Gough, Wendell Phillips, Garrison, Bayard Taylor, and Beecher. Conwell knew and admired them long ago, and all have long since passed away.

And Conwell, in his going up and down the country, inspiring his thousands and thousands, is the survivor of that old-time group who used to travel about, dispensing wit and wisdom and philosophy and courage to the crowded benches of country lyceums, and the chairs of school-houses and town halls, or the larger and more pretentious gathering-places of the cities.

Conwell travels across the country, inspiring thousands upon thousands. He is the survivor of an old group of traveling speakers. They shared wit, wisdom, philosophy, and courage with audiences on crowded benches in country lyceums. They also spoke to audiences in schoolhouses, town halls, and the larger, grander gathering places of cities.

Conwell himself is amused to remember that he wanted to talk in public from his boyhood, and that very early he began to yield to the inborn impulse. He laughs as he remembers the variety of country fairs and school commencements and anniversaries and even sewing-circles where he tried his youthful powers, and all for experience alone, in the first few years, except possibly for such a thing as a ham or a jack-knife! The first money that he ever received for speaking was, so he remembers with glee, seventy-five cents; and even that was not for his talk, but for horse hire! But at the same time there is more than amusement in recalling these experiences, for he knows that they were invaluable to him as training. And for over half a century he has affectionately remembered John B. Gough, who, in the height of his own power and success, saw resolution and possibilities in the ardent young hill-man, and actually did him the kindness and the honor of introducing him to an audience in one of the Massachusetts towns; and it was really a great kindness and a great honor, from a man who had won his fame to a young man just beginning an oratorical career.

Conwell smiles when he remembers wanting to speak in public from boyhood. He began following that natural impulse at a very young age. He laughs as he recalls the many country fairs, school graduations, anniversaries, and even sewing circles where he tested his youthful speaking skills. For the first few years, he did it all for experience, except perhaps for a ham or a jackknife! He remembers with delight that the first money he ever received for speaking was seventy-five cents. And even that was not for his talk, but to pay for hiring a horse! But these memories mean more to him than amusement. He knows that the experience gave him invaluable training. For more than half a century, he has also remembered John B. Gough with affection. At the height of his own power and success, Gough saw determination and promise in the eager young man from the hills. He showed Conwell the kindness and honor of introducing him to an audience in a Massachusetts town. It truly was a great kindness and honor, coming from a famous man to a young man just beginning a career as a speaker.

Conwell’s lecturing has been, considering everything, the most important work of his life, for by it he has come into close touch with so many millions—literally millions!—of people.

All things considered, Conwell’s lectures have been the most important work of his life. Through them, he has connected closely with millions of people, literally millions!

I asked him once if he had any idea how many he had talked to in the course of his career, and he tried to estimate how many thousands of times he had lectured, and the average attendance for each, but desisted when he saw that it ran into millions of hearers. What a marvel is such a fact as that! Millions of hearers!

Once I asked him if he had any idea how many people he had spoken to during his career. He tried to estimate how many thousands of lectures he had given and the average attendance at each. But he stopped when he saw that the total came to millions of listeners. What an amazing fact! Millions of listeners!

I asked the same question of his private secretary, and found that no one had ever kept any sort of record; but as careful an estimate as could be made gave a conservative result of fully eight million hearers for his lectures; and adding the number to whom he has preached, who have been over five million, there is a total of well over thirteen million who have listened to Russell Conwell’s voice! And this staggering total is, if anything, an underestimate. The figuring was done cautiously and was based upon such facts as that he now addresses an average of over forty-five hundred at his Sunday services (an average that would be higher were it not that his sermons in vacation time are usually delivered in little churches; when at home, at the Temple, he addresses three meetings every Sunday), and that he lectures throughout the entire course of each year, including six nights a week of lecturing during vacation-time. What a power is wielded by a man who has held over thirteen million people under the spell of his voice! Probably no other man who ever lived had such a total of hearers. And the total is steadily mounting, for he is a man who has never known the meaning of rest.

I asked his private secretary the same question and learned that no one had ever kept any kind of record. But the most careful estimate possible put the number of people who had heard his lectures at no fewer than eight million. He has preached to more than five million others. That makes well over thirteen million people who have listened to Russell Conwell’s voice! And this staggering total is, if anything, an underestimate. The estimate was made cautiously and was based on several facts. He now addresses an average of more than forty-five hundred people at his Sunday services. The average would be higher if he did not usually preach in small churches during vacations. When he is at home, at the Temple, he addresses three meetings every Sunday. He also lectures throughout the year, including six nights a week during vacations. What power a man holds who has captivated more than thirteen million people with his voice! Probably no other person who ever lived had so many listeners. And the total keeps growing, for he is a man who has never known the meaning of rest.

I think it almost certain that Dr. Conwell has never spoken to any one of what, to me, is the finest point of his lecture-work, and that is that he still goes gladly and for small fees to the small towns that are never visited by other men of great reputation. He knows that it is the little places, the out-of-the-way places, the submerged places, that most need a pleasure and a stimulus, and he still goes out, man of well over seventy that he is, to tiny towns in distant states, heedless of the discomforts of traveling, of the poor little hotels that seldom have visitors, of the oftentimes hopeless cooking and the uncleanliness, of the hardships and the discomforts, of the unventilated and overheated or underheated halls. He does not think of claiming the relaxation earned by a lifetime of labor, or, if he ever does, the thought of the sword of John Ring restores instantly his fervid earnestness.

I am almost certain that Dr. Conwell has never told anyone what I consider the finest part of his lecture work. He still gladly goes, for small fees, to small towns that other men of great reputation never visit. He knows that small, remote, and overlooked places most need pleasure and encouragement. So, though he is well over seventy, he still travels to tiny towns in distant states. He pays no attention to the discomforts of travel or the shabby little hotels that seldom have visitors. He endures the often hopeless cooking, the uncleanliness, and the other hardships and discomforts. He speaks in halls with no ventilation that are either overheated or too cold. He does not think of taking the rest he has earned through a lifetime of work. Or, if he ever does, the thought of the sword of John Ring instantly renews his passionate dedication.

How he does it, how he can possibly keep it up, is the greatest marvel of all. I have before me a list of his engagements for the summer weeks of this year, 1915, and I shall set it down because it will specifically show, far more clearly than general statements, the kind of work he does. The list is the itinerary of his vacation. Vacation! Lecturing every evening but Sunday, and on Sundays preaching in the town where he happens to be!

How he does it, how he can possibly keep it up, is the greatest wonder of all. I have a list of his engagements for the summer weeks of this year, 1915. I will set it down because it shows the kind of work he does far more clearly than general statements could. The list is his vacation schedule. Vacation! He lectures every evening except Sunday, and on Sundays he preaches in whatever town he happens to be in!

And all these hardships, all this traveling and lecturing, which would test the endurance of the youngest and strongest, this man of over seventy assumes without receiving a particle of personal gain, for every dollar that he makes by it is given away in helping those who need helping.

All these hardships, all this travel and lecturing, would test the endurance of the youngest and strongest. Yet this man, over seventy, takes them on without any personal gain. He gives away every dollar he earns from them to help those in need.

That Dr. Conwell is intensely modest is one of the curious features of his character. He sincerely believes that to write his life would be, in the main, just to tell what people have done for him. He knows and admits that he works unweariedly, but in profound sincerity he ascribes the success of his plans to those who have seconded and assisted him. It is in just this way that he looks upon every phase of his life. When he is reminded of the devotion of his old soldiers, he remembers it only with a sort of pleased wonder that they gave the devotion to him, and he quite forgets that they loved him because he was always ready to sacrifice ease or risk his own life for them.

One curious feature of Dr. Conwell’s character is his deep modesty. He sincerely believes that an account of his life would mostly tell what others have done for him. He knows and admits that he works tirelessly. But he sincerely credits the success of his plans to those who have supported and helped him. He looks at every part of his life in this way. When reminded of his former soldiers’ devotion, he recalls it with a kind of pleased wonder that they were devoted to him. He completely forgets why they loved him. He was always ready to give up his own comfort or risk his life for them.

He deprecates praise; if any one likes him, the liking need not be shown in words, but in helping along a good work. That his church has succeeded has been because of the devotion of the people; that the university has succeeded is because of the splendid work of the teachers and pupils; that the hospitals have done so much has been because of the noble services of physicians and nurses. To him, as he himself expresses it, realizing that success has come to his plans, it seems as if the realities are but dreams. He is astonished by his own success. He thinks mainly of his own shortcomings. “God and man have ever been very patient with me.” His depression is at times profound when he compares the actual results with what he would like them to be, for always his hopes have gone soaring far in advance of achievement. It is the “Hitch your chariot to a star" idea.

He dislikes praise. If anyone likes him, they need not say so. They can show it by helping a good cause. His church has succeeded because of the devotion of its people. The university has succeeded because of the splendid work of its teachers and students. The hospitals have done so much because of the noble service of doctors and nurses. As he puts it, when he sees that his plans have succeeded, the reality seems like a dream. He is astonished by his own success. He thinks mainly of his own shortcomings. “God and man have ever been very patient with me.” At times he becomes deeply discouraged when he compares the actual results with what he wishes they were. His hopes have always soared far beyond what he has achieved. It is the “Hitch your chariot to a star” idea.

His modesty goes hand-in-hand with kindliness, and I have seen him let himself be introduced in his own church to his congregation, when he is going to deliver a lecture there, just because a former pupil of the university was present who, Conwell knew, was ambitious to say something inside of the Temple walls, and this seemed to be the only opportunity.

His modesty goes hand in hand with kindness. I have seen him allow someone to introduce him to his own congregation before he gave a lecture at his church. He did this because a former university student was present. Conwell knew the student wanted to speak inside the Temple, and this seemed to be the student's only opportunity.

I have noticed, when he travels, that the face of the newsboy brightens as he buys a paper from him, that the porter is all happiness, that conductor and brakeman are devotedly anxious to be of aid. Everywhere the man wins love. He loves humanity and humanity responds to the love.

I have noticed that when he travels, the newsboy’s face lights up when he buys a paper. The porter is delighted, and the conductor and brakeman are eager to help him. Everywhere he goes, the man wins people’s love. He loves humanity, and humanity loves him in return.

He has always won the affection of those who knew him, and Bayard Taylor was one of the many; he and Bayard Taylor loved each other for long acquaintance and fellow experiences as world-wide travelers, back in the years when comparatively few Americans visited the Nile and the Orient, or even Europe.

He has always won the affection of those who knew him, and Bayard Taylor was one of many. They loved each other after knowing each other for years and sharing experiences as world travelers. In those days, relatively few Americans visited the Nile or the Orient, or even Europe.

When Taylor died there was a memorial service in Boston at which Conwell was asked to preside, and, as he wished for something more than addresses, he went to Longfellow and asked him to write and read a poem for the occasion. Longfellow had not thought of writing anything, and he was too ill to be present at the services, but, there always being something contagiously inspiring about Russell Conwell when he wishes something to be done, the poet promised to do what he could. And he wrote and sent the beautiful lines beginning:

When Taylor died, a memorial service was held in Boston, and Conwell was asked to preside. He wanted more than speeches, so he asked Longfellow to write and read a poem for the occasion. Longfellow had not planned to write anything, and he was too ill to attend the service. But Russell Conwell was always contagiously inspiring when he wanted something done, and the poet promised to do what he could. He wrote and sent the beautiful lines beginning:

Many men of letters, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, were present at the services, and Dr. Conwell induced Oliver Wendell Holmes to read the lines, and they were listened to amid profound silence, to their fine ending.

Many writers, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, attended the services. Dr. Conwell persuaded Oliver Wendell Holmes to read the lines. The audience listened in deep silence through their fine ending.

Conwell, in spite of his widespread hold on millions of people, has never won fame, recognition, general renown, compared with many men of minor achievements. This seems like an impossibility. Yet it is not an impossibility, but a fact. Great numbers of men of education and culture are entirely ignorant of him and his work in the world—men, these, who deem themselves in touch with world-affairs and with the ones who make and move the world. It is inexplicable, this, except that never was there a man more devoid of the faculty of self-exploitation, self-advertising, than Russell Conwell. Nor, in the mere reading of them, do his words appeal with anything like the force of the same words uttered by himself, for always, with his spoken words, is his personality. Those who have heard Russell Conwell, or have known him personally, recognize the charm of the man and his immense forcefulness; but there are many, and among them those who control publicity through books and newspapers, who, though they ought to be the warmest in their enthusiasm, have never felt drawn to hear him, and, if they know of him at all, think of him as one who pleases in a simple way the commoner folk, forgetting in their pride that every really great man pleases the common ones, and that simplicity and directness are attributes of real greatness.

Despite his influence over millions of people, Conwell has never won the widespread fame and recognition of many less accomplished men. This seems impossible. Yet it is not impossible, but a fact. Large numbers of educated and cultured men know nothing about him or his work in the world. These men believe they are in touch with world affairs and with those who shape and move the world. This is hard to explain, except that no man was ever less inclined to promote or advertise himself than Russell Conwell. Nor do his words have nearly the same force when read as when he speaks them himself. His personality is always present in his spoken words. Those who have heard Russell Conwell or known him personally recognize his charm and immense force. But many people have never felt drawn to hear him, including those who control publicity through books and newspapers. They ought to be the most enthusiastic about him. Yet if they know of him at all, they think of him as someone who pleases ordinary people in a simple way. In their pride, they forget that every truly great man pleases ordinary people, and that simplicity and directness are marks of real greatness.

But Russell Conwell has always won the admiration of the really great, as well as of the humbler millions. It is only a supposedly cultured class in between that is not thoroughly acquainted with what he has done.

But Russell Conwell has always won the admiration of truly great people as well as millions of ordinary people. Only a supposedly cultured class between these two groups is not fully familiar with what he has done.

Perhaps, too, this is owing to his having cast in his lot with the city, of all cities, which, consciously or unconsciously, looks most closely to family and place of residence as criterions of merit—a city with which it is almost impossible for a stranger to become affiliated—or aphiladelphiated, as it might be expressed—and Philadelphia, in spite of all that Dr. Conwell has done, has been under the thrall of the fact that he went north of Market Street—that fatal fact understood by all who know Philadelphia—and that he made no effort to make friends in Rittenhouse Square. Such considerations seem absurd in this twentieth century, but in Philadelphia they are still potent. Tens of thousands of Philadelphians love him, and he is honored by its greatest men, but there is a class of the pseudo-cultured who do not know him or appreciate him. And it needs also to be understood that, outside of his own beloved Temple, he would prefer to go to a little church or a little hall and to speak to the forgotten people, in the hope of encouraging and inspiring them and filling them with hopeful glow, rather than to speak to the rich and comfortable.

Perhaps, too, this is because he chose to make his home in Philadelphia. Of all cities, Philadelphia judges merit most closely by family and place of residence, whether consciously or not. It is almost impossible for a stranger to become affiliated with the city, or aphiladelphiated, as one might say. Despite all Dr. Conwell has done, Philadelphia has remained fixated on the fact that he went north of Market Street. Everyone who knows Philadelphia understands how fatal that fact is. The city has also remained fixated on his making no effort to make friends in Rittenhouse Square. Such things seem absurd in the twentieth century, but in Philadelphia they still matter. Tens of thousands of Philadelphians love him, and its greatest men honor him. But a class of supposedly cultured people neither know nor appreciate him. It should also be understood that, outside his own beloved Temple, he would rather speak in a little church or hall to forgotten people than speak to the rich and comfortable. He hopes to encourage and inspire those forgotten people and fill them with a glow of hope.

His dearest hope, so one of the few who are close to him told me, is that no one shall come into his life without being benefited. He does not say this publicly, nor does he for a moment believe that such a hope could be fully realized, but it is very dear to his heart; and no man spurred by such a hope, and thus bending all his thoughts toward the poor, the hard-working, the unsuccessful, is in a way to win honor from the Scribes; for we have Scribes now quite as much as when they were classed with Pharisees. It is not the first time in the world’s history that Scribes have failed to give their recognition to one whose work was not among the great and wealthy.

One of the few people close to him told me his dearest hope is to benefit everyone who comes into his life. He does not say this publicly. He does not believe for a moment that he could fully achieve that hope, but it is very dear to him. A man driven by such a hope, who directs all his thoughts toward the poor, the hard-working, and the unsuccessful, is unlikely to win honor from the Scribes. For we have Scribes now, just as surely as when they were grouped with Pharisees. This is not the first time in history that Scribes have failed to recognize someone whose work was not among the great and wealthy.

That Conwell himself has seldom taken any part whatever in politics except as a good citizen standing for good government; that, as he expresses it, he never held any political office except that he was once on a school committee, and also that he does not identify himself with the so-called “movements” that from time to time catch public attention, but aims only and constantly at the quiet betterment of mankind, may be mentioned as additional reasons why his name and fame have not been steadily blazoned.

Conwell himself has seldom taken part in politics, except as a good citizen supporting good government. As he puts it, he has never held political office except for serving once on a school committee. He also does not identify himself with the so-called “movements” that from time to time attract public attention. Instead, he aims only and always to improve humanity quietly. These facts may be mentioned as additional reasons why his name and fame have not been constantly publicized.

He knows and will admit that he works hard and has all his life worked hard. “Things keep turning my way because I’m on the job,” as he whimsically expressed it one day; but that is about all, so it seems to him.

He knows and admits that he works hard and has worked hard all his life. One day he put it playfully: “Things keep going my way because I’m on the job.” But as far as he can see, that is about all there is to it.

And he sincerely believes that his life has in itself been without interest; that it has been an essentially commonplace life with nothing of the interesting or the eventful to tell. He is frankly surprised that there has ever been the desire to write about him. He really has no idea of how fascinating are the things he has done. His entire life has been of positive interest from the variety of things accomplished and the unexpectedness with which he has accomplished them.

And he sincerely believes that his life has not been interesting. He thinks it has been an ordinary life, with nothing interesting or eventful to tell. He is genuinely surprised that anyone has ever wanted to write about him. He has no idea how fascinating the things he has done are. His whole life has been truly interesting because of the variety of things he has accomplished and the unexpected ways he has accomplished them.

Never, for example, was there such an organizer. In fact, organization and leadership have always been as the breath of life to him. As a youth he organized debating societies and, before the war, a local military company. While on garrison duty in the Civil War he organized what is believed to have been the first free school for colored children in the South. One day Minneapolis happened to be spoken of, and Conwell happened to remember that he organized, when he was a lawyer in that city, what became the first Y.M.C.A. branch there. Once he even started a newspaper. And it was natural that the organizing instinct, as years advanced, should lead him to greater and greater things, such as his church, with the numerous associations formed within itself through his influence, and the university—the organizing of the university being in itself an achievement of positive romance.

For example, there was never an organizer like him. In fact, organization and leadership have always been as essential to him as breathing. As a young man, he organized debating societies and, before the war, a local military company. While on garrison duty in the Civil War, he organized a free school for colored children. It is believed to have been the first such school in the South. One day, Minneapolis happened to come up in conversation. Conwell then remembered organizing what became the first Y.M.C.A. branch there, while he was a lawyer in the city. He even started a newspaper once. As he grew older, his instinct for organizing naturally led him to greater and greater things. These included his church, with the many associations formed within it through his influence, and the university. The organizing of the university was itself a truly romantic achievement.

“A life without interest!” Why, when I happened to ask, one day, how many Presidents he had known since Lincoln, he replied, quite casually, that he had “written the lives of most of them in their own homes”; and by this he meant either personally or in collaboration with the American biographer Abbott.

“A life without interest!” One day, I asked how many Presidents he had known since Lincoln. He casually replied that he had “written the lives of most of them in their own homes.” He meant he had written them either on his own or with the American biographer Abbott.

The many-sidedness of Conwell is one of the things that is always fascinating. After you have quite got the feeling that he is peculiarly a man of to-day, lecturing on to-day’s possibilities to the people of to-day, you happen upon some such fact as that he attracted the attention of the London Times through a lecture on Italian history at Cambridge in England; or that on the evening of the day on which he was admitted to practice in the Supreme Court of the United States he gave a lecture in Washington on “The Curriculum of the Prophets in Ancient Israel.” The man’s life is a succession of delightful surprises.

Conwell’s many sides are always fascinating. Just when you have come to think of him as a man of today, lecturing to today’s people about today’s possibilities, you discover something unexpected. For example, a lecture he gave on Italian history at Cambridge in England attracted the attention of the London Times. Or you learn that he was admitted to practice before the Supreme Court of the United States. That same evening, he gave a lecture in Washington on “The Curriculum of the Prophets in Ancient Israel.” The man’s life is a series of delightful surprises.

An odd trait of his character is his love for fire. He could easily have been a veritable fire-worshiper instead of an orthodox Christian! He has always loved a blaze, and he says reminiscently that for no single thing was he punished so much when he was a child as for building bonfires. And after securing possession, as he did in middle age, of the house where he was born and of a great acreage around about, he had one of the most enjoyable times of his life in tearing down old buildings that needed to be destroyed and in heaping up fallen trees and rubbish and in piling great heaps of wood and setting the great piles ablaze. You see, there is one of the secrets of his strength—he has never lost the capacity for fiery enthusiasm!

An unusual trait of his character is his love of fire. He could easily have been a true fire-worshiper instead of an orthodox Christian! He has always loved a blaze. He recalls that, as a child, he was punished more for building bonfires than for anything else. In middle age, he acquired the house where he was born and a large amount of land around it. Then he had one of the most enjoyable times of his life. He tore down old buildings that needed to be destroyed. He gathered fallen trees and rubbish, piled up great heaps of wood, and set the piles ablaze. You see, that is one of the secrets of his strength: he has never lost his capacity for fiery enthusiasm!

Always, too, in these later years he is showing his strength and enthusiasm in a positively noble way. He has for years been a keen sufferer from rheumatism and neuritis, but he has never permitted this to interfere with his work or plans. He makes little of his sufferings, and when he slowly makes his way, bent and twisted, downstairs, he does not want to be noticed. “I’m all right,” he will say if any one offers to help, and at such a time comes his nearest approach to impatience. He wants his suffering ignored. Strength has always been to him so precious a belonging that he will not relinquish it while he lives. “I’m all right!” And he makes himself believe that he is all right even though the pain becomes so severe as to demand massage. And he will still, even when suffering, talk calmly, or write his letters, or attend to whatever matters come before him. It is the Spartan boy hiding the pain of the gnawing fox. And he never has let pain interfere with his presence on the pulpit or the platform. He has once in a while gone to a meeting on crutches and then, by the force of will, and inspired by what he is to do, has stood before his audience or congregation, a man full of strength and fire and life.

Even in his later years, he continues to show his strength and enthusiasm in a truly noble way. For years, he has suffered greatly from rheumatism and neuritis, but he has never let them interfere with his work or plans. He makes little of his suffering. When he slowly makes his way downstairs, bent and twisted, he does not want anyone to notice. “I’m all right,” he says if anyone offers to help. At such moments, he comes closest to showing impatience. He wants his suffering ignored. Strength has always been so precious to him that he will not give it up while he lives. “I’m all right!” He makes himself believe it, even when the pain becomes so severe that he needs a massage. Even while suffering, he will calmly talk, write letters, or attend to whatever matters come before him. He is like the Spartan boy hiding the pain of the fox gnawing at him. He has never let pain keep him from the pulpit or the platform. Once in a while, he has gone to a meeting on crutches. Then, through sheer will and inspired by what he is there to do, he has stood before his audience or congregation, full of strength, fire, and life.