Читать книгу Russell H. Conwell, Founder of the Institutional Church in America - Agnes Rush Burr - Страница 16

Boyhood Days. Russell's First Case at Law. A Cure for Stage Fever.

Studying Music. A Runaway Trip to Europe.

So scanty was the income from the rocky farm that the father and mother looked about them to see how they could add to it. Miranda Conwell turned to her needle and often sewed far into the night, making coats, neckties, any work she could obtain that would bring in a few dollars. She was never idle. The moment her housework was done, her needle was flying, and Russell had ever before him the picture of his patient mother, working, ever working, for the family good. The only time her hands rested was when she read her children such stories and pointed such lessons as she knew were needed to develop childish minds and build character. She never lost sight of this in the pressing work and the need for money. She had that mental and spiritual breadth of view that could look beyond problems of the immediate present, no matter how serious they might seem, to the greater, more important needs coming in the future.

Martin Conwell worked as a stonemason every spare minute, and in addition opened a store in the mountain home in a small room adjoining the living room. Neighbors and the world of his day saw only a poor farmer, stonemason and small storekeeper. But in versatility, energy and public spirit, he was far greater than his environment. Considered only as the man there was a largeness of purpose, a broadness of mental and spiritual vision about him that gave a subtle atmosphere of greatness and unconsciously influenced his son to take big views of life.

In the little store one day was enacted a drama not without its effect on Russell's impressionable mind. For a brief time, the store became a court room; a flour barrel was the judge's bench, a soap box and milking stool, the lawyers' seats. The proceedings greatly interested Russell, who lay flat on his breast on the counter, his heels in the air, his chin in his hands, drinking it in with ears and eyes.

[Illustration: THE CONWELL FARMHOUSE AT SOUTH WORTHINGTON, MASS.]

A neighbor had lost a calf, a white-faced calf with a broken horn. In the barn of a neighbor had been seen a white-faced calf with a broken horn. The coincidence was suspicions. The plaintiff declared it was his calf. The defendant swore he had never seen the lost heifer, and that the one in his barn he had raised himself. Neighbors lent their testimony, for the little store was crowded, a justice of the peace from Northampton having come to try the case. One man said he had seen the defendant driving a white-faced calf up the mountain one night just after the stolen calf had been missed from the pasture. The defendant intimated in no mild language that he must be a close blood relation to Ananias. Hot words flew back and forth between judge, lawyers and witnesses, and it began to look as if the man in whose barn the calf was placidly munching was guilty. Just then Russell, with a chuckle, slipped from the counter and disappeared through the back door. In a minute he returned, and solemnly pushed a white-faced calf with a broken horn squarely among the almost fighting disputants. There was a lull in the storm of angry words. Here was the lost calf. With a bawl of dismay and many gyrations of tail, it occupied the centre of the floor. None could dispute the fact that it was the calf in question. The defendant assumed an injured, innocent air, the plaintiff looked crestfallen. Russell explained he had found the calf among his father's cows. But, knowing the true situation, he had enjoyed the heated argument too hugely to produce the calf earlier in the case.

The event caused much amusement among the neighbors. Some said if they ever were hailed to court, they should employ Russell as their lawyer. The women, when they dropped in to see his mother, called him the little lawyer. The boyish ambition to be a minister faded. Once more he went to building castles in Spain, but this time they had a legal capstone.

Thus the years rolled by much as they do with any boy on a farm. Of work there was plenty, but he found time to become a proficient skater, and a strong, sturdy swimmer, to learn and take delight in outdoor sports, all of which helped to build a constitution like iron, and to give him an interest in such things which he has never lost. The boys of Temple College find in him not only a pastor and president, but a sympathetic and understanding friend in all forms of healthy, honorable sport.

Attending a Fourth of July parade in Springfield, he was so impressed with the marching and manoeuvres of the troops that he returned home, formed a company of his schoolmates, drilled and marched them as if they were already an important part of the G.A.R. He secured a book on tactics and studied it with his usual thoroughness and perseverance. He presented his company with badges, and one of the relics of his childhood days is a wooden sword he made himself out of a piece of board. Little did any one dream that this childish pastime would in later years become the serious work of a man.

In all the school and church entertainments he took an active part. His talent for organizing and managing showed itself early, while his magnetism and enthusiasm swept his companions with him, eager only to do his bidding. Many were the entertainments he planned and carried through. Recitations, dialogues, little plays all were presented under his management to the people of South Worthington. It was these that gave him the first taste of the fascination of the stage and set him to thinking of the dazzling career of an actor. He is not the only country boy that has dreamed of winning undying fame on the boards, but not every one received such a speedy and permanent cure.

"One day in the height of the maple sugar season," says Burdette, in his excellent life of Mr. Conwell, "The Modern Temple and Templars," "Russell was sent by his father with a load of the sugar to Huntington. The ancient farm wagon complicated, doubtless, with sundry Conwell improvements, drawn by a venerable horse, was so well loaded that the seat had to be left out, and the youthful driver was forced to stand. Down deep in the valley, the road runs through a dense woodland which veiled the way in solitude and silence. The very place, thought Russell, for a rehearsal of the part he had in a play to be given shortly at school; a beautiful grade, thought the horse, to trot a little and make up time. Russell had been cast for a part of a crazy man—a character admirably adapted for the entire cast of the average amateur dramatic performer. He had very little to say, a sort of 'The-carriage-waits-my-lord' declamation, but he had to say it with thrilling and startling earnestness. He was to rush in on a love scene bubbling like a mush-pot with billing and cooing, and paralyze the lovers by shrieking 'Woe! Woe! unto ye all, ye children of men!' Throwing up his arms, after the manner of the Fourth of July orator's justly celebrated windmill gesture, he roared, in his thunderous voice: 'Woe! Woe! unto ye—'

"That was as far as the declamation got, although the actor went considerably farther. The obedient horse, never averse to standing still, suddenly and firmly planted his feet and stood—motionless as a painted horse upon a painted highway. Russell, obedient to the laws of inertia, made a parabola over the dashboard, landed on the back of the patient beast, ricochetted to the ground, cutting his forehead on the shaft as he descended, a scar whereof he carries unto this day, and plunged into a yielding cushion of mud at the roadside."

He returned home, a confused mixture of blood, mud, black eyes and torn clothes. Such a condition must be explained. It could not be turned aside by any off-handed joke. The jeers and jibes, the unsympathetic and irritating comments effectually killed any desire he cherished for the life of the stage. It became a sore subject. He didn't even want it mentioned in his hearing. He never again thought of it seriously as a life work.

But one thing these entertainments did that was of great value. They developed and fostered a love of music and eventually led to his gaining the musical education which has proven of such value to him. He had a voice of singular sweetness and great power. At school, at church, in the little social gatherings of the neighborhood, whenever there was singing his voice led. It was almost a passion with him. At the few parades and entertainments he saw in nearby towns, he watched the musicians fascinated. He was consumed with a desire to learn to play. Inventive as he was and having already made so many things useful about the farm or in the house, it is a wonder he did not immediately begin the making of some musical instrument rather than go without it. Probably he would, if an agent had not appeared for the Estey Organ Company. They were beginning to make the little home organs which have since become an ornament of nearly every country parlor. But they were rare in those days and the price to Martin Conwell, almost prohibitive. Knowing Russell's love of music, the father fully realized the pleasure an organ in the home would give his son. But the price was beyond him. He offered the man every dollar he felt he could afford. But it was ten dollars below the cost of the organ and the agent refused it.

Martin Conwell felt he must not spend more on a luxury, and the agent left. Crossing the fields to seek another purchaser, he met Miranda Conwell. She asked him if her husband had bought the organ. His answer was a keen disappointment The mother's heart had sympathized with the boy's passion for music and knew the joy such a possession would be to Russell. Ever ready to sacrifice herself, she told the man she would pay him the ten dollars, if he would wait for it, but not to let her husband know. The agent returned to Martin Conwell, told him he would accept his offer, and in a short time a brand new organ was installed in the farmhouse. Miranda Conwell sewed later at nights, that was all. Not till she had earned the ten dollars with her needle did she tell her husband why the agent had, with such surprising celerity, changed his mind in regard to the price.

Russell's joy in the organ was unbounded, and the mother was more than repaid for her extra work by his pleasure and delight. He immediately plunged unaided into the study of music, and he never gave up until he was complete master of the organ. His was no half-hearted love. The work and drudgery connected with practising never daunted him. He kept steadily at it until he could roll out the familiar songs and hymns while the small room fairly rang with their melody. He also improvised, composing both words and music, a gift that went with him into the ministry and which has given the membership of Grace Baptist Church, Philadelphia, many beautiful hymns and melodies.

Later he learned the bass viol, violoncello and cornet, and made money by playing for parties and entertainments in his neighborhood. Years afterward, when pastor of Grace Church, and with the Sunday School on an excursion to Cape May, he saw a cornet lying on a bench on the pier. Seized with a longing to play again this instrument of his boyhood, he picked it up and began softly a familiar air. Soon lost to his surroundings, he played on and on. At last remembering where he was, he laid down the instrument and walked away. The owner, who had returned, followed him and offered him first five dollars and then ten to play that night for a dance at Congress Hall.

Martin Conwell, during Russell's boyhood days, carefully guarded his son from being spoiled by the flattery of neighbors and friends. He realized that Russell was a boy in many ways above the average, but his practical common sense prevented him from taking such pride in Russell's various achievements as to let him become spoiled and conceited. Many a whipping Russell received for the personal songs he composed about the neighbors. But that was not prohibitive. The very next night, Russell would hold up to ridicule the peculiarity of some one in the neighborhood, much to his victim's chagrin and to the amusement of the listeners. He was forever inventing improvements for the fishing apparatus, oars, boats, coasting sleds, household and farm utensils, often forgetting the tasks his father had given him while doing it. Naturally, this exasperated Martin Conwell, who had no help on the farm but the boys, and the rod would again be brought into active service. Once, after whipping him for such neglect of work—he had left the cider apples out in the frost—Martin Conwell asked his son's pardon because he had invented an improved ox-sled that was of great practical value.

When he was fifteen he ran away again. No friendly Deacon Chipman interfered this time, nor is it likely he would easily have been turned from the project, for he planned to go to Europe. He went to Chicopee to an uncle's, whom he frankly told of his intended trip. The uncle kept Russell for a day or two by various expedients, while he wrote to his father telling him Russell was there and what he intended doing. The father wrote back saying to give him what money he needed and let him go. So Russell started on his journey over the sea. He worked his way on a cattle steamer from New York to Liverpool. But it was a homesick boy that roamed around in foreign lands, and as he has said most feelingly since, "I felt that if I could only get back home, I would never, never leave it again." He did not stay abroad long and when he returned to his home, his father greeted him as if he had been absent a few hours, and never in any way, by word or action, referred to the subject. In fact, so far as Martin Conwell appeared, Russell might have been no farther than Huntington.