'One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er:
I'm nearer home to-day
Than e'er I've been before.'
Hearing the singing several gamblers looked up in surprise. The old man who was dealing the cards grew melancholy, stopped for a moment, gazed steadfastly at his partner in the game, and dashed the pack upon the floor under the table. Then said he, 'Where did you learn that tune?' The young man pretended that he did not know he had been singing. 'Well, no matter,' said the old man, I've played my last game, and that's the end of it. The cards may lie there till doomsday, and I will never pick them up,' The old man having won money from the other—about one hundred dollars—took it out of his pocket, and handing it to him said: 'Here, Harry, is your money; take it and do good with it; I shall with mine.' As the traveler followed them downstairs, he saw them conversing by the doorway, and overheard enough to know that the older man was saying something about the song which the young man had sung. It had, perhaps, been learned at a mother's knee, or in a Sunday-school, and may have been (indeed it was), the means of saving these gamblers, and of aiding others through their influence toward that nobler life which alone is worth the living."
The old man had come from Westfield, Mass. He died in 1888, at Salem,
Oregon, having spent the last seven years of his life as a Christian
Missionary among the sailors of the Pacific coast. He passed away
rejoicing in the faith that took him
"Nearer the Father's House,
Where many mansions be,
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the jasper sea."
The boy, Harry, utterly renounced gambling and kindred vices.
While coming from Bombay to Aden, cholera broke out on the ship and it was strictly quarantined. It was a ship of grief and terror. Passengers daily lost loved ones. New victims were stricken every hour. The slow days dragged away with death unceasingly busy among them. Burials were constant, and no man knew who would be the next victim. But Colonel Conwell escaped contagion.
On the trip home, across the Atlantic, the steamer in a fearful gale was so dismantled as to be helpless. The fires of the engine were out, and the boat for twenty-six days drifted at the mercy of the waves. No one, not even the Captain, thought they could escape destruction. Water-logged and unmanageable, during a second storm it was thought to be actually sinking. The Captain himself gave up hope, the women grew hysterical. But in the midst of it all, Colonel Conwell walked the deck, and to calm the passengers sang "Nearer my God to Thee," with such feeling, such calm assurance in a higher power, that the passengers and Captain once again took courage. But strangest of all, on this voyage, while sick, he was cared for by the very colored porter whose life he had saved on the Mississippi steamboat.
CHAPTER XIV
BUSY DAYS IN BOSTON
Editor of "Boston Traveller." Free Legal Advice for the Poor.
Temperance Work. Campaign Manager for General Nathaniel P. Banks.
Urged for Consulship at Naples. His Work for the Widows and Orphans of
Soldiers.
Returning to Somerville, Mass., the long journey ended, he found the editorial chair of the "Boston Traveller" awaiting him. He plunged into work with his characteristic energy. The law, journalism, writing, lecturing, all claimed his attention. It is almost incredible how much he crowded into a day. Five o'clock in the morning found him at work, and midnight struck before he laid aside pen or book. Yet with all this rush of business, he did not forget those resolves he had made to lend a helping hand wherever he could to those needing it. And his own bitter experiences in the hard school of poverty taught him how sorely at times help is needed. He made his work for others as much a part of his daily life as his work for himself. It was an integral part of it. Watching him work, one could hardly have distinguished when he was occupied with his own affairs, when with those of the poor. He did not separate the two, label one "charity" and attend to it in spare moments. One was as important to him as the other. He kept his law office open at night for those who could not come during the day and gave counsel and legal advice free to the poor. Often of an evening he had as many as a half hundred of these clients, too poor to pay for legal aid, yet sadly needing help to right their wrongs. So desirous was he of reaching and assisting those suffering from injustice, yet without money to pay for the help they needed, that he inserted the following notice in the Boston papers:
"Any deserving poor person wishing legal advice or assistance will be given the same free of charge any evening except Sunday, at No. 10 Rialto Building, Devonshire Street. None of these cases will be taken into the courts for pay."
These cases he prepared as attentively and took into court with as eager determination to win, as those for which he received large fees. Of course such a proceeding laid him open to much envious criticism. Lawyers who had no such humanitarian view of life, no such earnest, sincere desire to lighten the load of poverty resting so heavily on the shoulders of many, said it was unprofessional, sensational, a "bid for popularity." Those whom he helped knew these insinuations to be untrue. His sympathy was too sincere, the assistance too gladly given. But misunderstood or not, he persevered. The wrongs of many an ignorant working man suffering through the greed of those over him, were righted. Those who robbed the poor under various guises were made to feel the hand of the law. And for none of these cases did he ever take a cent of pay.
Another class of clients who brought him much work but no profit were the widows and orphans of soldiers seeking aid to get pensions. To such he never turned a deaf ear, no matter the multitude of duties that pressed. He charged no fee, even when to win the case, he was compelled to go to Washington. Nor would he give it up, no matter what work it entailed until the final verdict was given. His partners say he never lost a pension case, nor ever made a cent by one.
An unwritten law in the office was that neither he nor his partners should ever accept a case if their client were in the wrong, or guilty. But this very fact made wrongdoers the more anxious to secure him, knowing it would create the impression at once that they were innocent.
A story which went the rounds of legal circles in Boston and finally was published in the "Boston Sunday Times," shows how he was cleverly fooled by a pick-pocket The man charged with the crime came to Colonel Conwell to get him to take the case. So well did he play the part of injured innocence that Colonel Conwell was completely deceived and threw himself heart and soul into the work of clearing him. When the case came up for trial, the lawyer and client sat near together in the court room, and Colonel Conwell made such an earnest and forceful plea in behalf of the innocent young man and the harm already done him by having such a charge laid at his door that it was at once agreed the case should be dismissed, by the District Attorney's consent. So lawyer and client walked out of court together, happy and triumphant, to Colonel Conwell's office, where the pick-pocket paid Colonel Conwell his fee out of the lawyer's own pocketbook which he had deftly abstracted during the course of the trial.
The incident caused much amusement at the time, and it was a long while before Colonel Conwell heard the last of it.
Into work for temperance he went heart and soul, not only in speech but in deed. Though he never drank intoxicating liquor himself, he could never see a man under its baneful influence but that heart and hand went out to help him. Many a reeling drunkard he took to his Somerville home, nursed all night, and in the morning endeavored with all his eloquence to awaken in him a desire to live a different life. Deserted wives and children of drunkards came to him for aid, and many of the free law cases were for those wronged through the curse of drink.
Friend always of the workingman, he was persistently urged by their party to accept a nomination for Congress. But he as persistently refused. But he worked hard in politics for others. He managed one campaign in which General Nathaniel P. Banks was running on an independent ticket, and elected him by a large majority. His name was urged by Senators Charles Sumner and Henry Wilson for the United States Consulship at Naples, the lectures he had given at Cambridge, England, on Italian history having attracted so much favorable comment by the deep research they showed, and the keen appreciation of Italian character. He was considered an expert in contested election cases and he frequently appeared before the Legislature on behalf of cities and towns on matters over which it had jurisdiction.
Mr. Higgins, who knew him personally, writing of these busy days in
"Scaling the Eagle's Nest," says:
"He prepared and presented many bills to Congressional Committees at Washington, and appeared as counsel in several Louisiana and Florida election eases. His arguments before the Supreme Courts in several important patent cases were reported to the country by the Associated Press. He had at one time considerable influence with the President and Senators in political appointments, and some of the best men still in government office in this State (Massachusetts) and in other New England States, say they owe their appointment to his active friendship in visiting Washington in their behalf. But it does not appear that through all these years of work and political influence he ever asked for an appointment for himself."
Catholics, Jews, Protestants and non-sectarian charities sought his aid in legal matters, and so broad was his love for humanity that all found in him a ready helper. At one time he was guardian of more than sixty orphan children, three in particular who were very destitute, were through his intercession with a relative, left a fortune of $50,000. Yet despite all these activities, he found time to lecture, to write boots, to master five languages, using his spare minutes on the train to and from his place of business for their study. In 1872 he made another trip abroad. Speaking of him at this time, a writer in the London Times says:
"Colonel Conwell is one of the most noteworthy men of New England. He has already been in all parts of the world. He is a writer of singular brilliancy and power, and as a popular lecturer his success has been astonishing. He has made a place beside such orators as Beecher, Phillips and Chapin."
Thus the busy years slipped by, years that brought him close to the great throbbing heart of humanity, the sorrows and sufferings of the poor, the aspirations and ambitions of the rich, years in which he looked with deep insight into human nature, and, illumined by his love for humanify, saw that an abiding faith in God, the joy of knowing Christ's love was the balm needed to heal aching hearts, drive evil out of men's lives, wretchedness and misery from many a home. More and more was he convinced that to make the world better, humanity happier, the regenerating, uplifting power of the spirit of God ought to be brought into the daily lives of the people, in simple sincerity, without formalism, yet as vital, as cherished, as freely recognized a part of their lives as the ties of family affection which bound them together.
CHAPTER XV
TROUBLED DAYS
Death of Wife. Loss of Money. Preaching on Wharves. Growth of Sunday
School Class at Tremont Temple from Four to Six Hundred Members in a
Brief Time. Second Marriage. Death of Father and Mother. Preaching at
Lexington. Building Lexington Baptist Church.
Into this whirl of successful, happy work, the comforts and luxuries of prosperity, came the grim hand of death. His loving wife who had worked so cheerfully by his side, who had braved disaster, bitter poverty, hardship, with a smile, died of heart trouble after a few days' illness, January 11, 1872. It was like a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky. In the loneliness and despair that followed, worldly ambitions turned to dust and ashes. He could not lecture. He could not speak. The desolation at his heart was too great. His only consolation was the faith that was in him, a "very present help," as he found, "in time of trouble." This bitter trial brought home to him all the more intensely the need of such comfort for those who were comfortless. His heart went out in burning sympathy for those sitting in darkness like himself, but who had no faith on which to lean, nothing to bring healing and hope to a broken heart. Her death was a loss to the community as well as to her family. Her writings in the "Somerville Journal" had made a decided impression, while her sweet womanly qualities had endeared her to a wide circle of friends. Noting her death, a writer in one of the Boston papers said:
"Mrs. Conwell was a true and loving wife and mother. Kind and sympathetic in her intercourse with all, and possessed of those rare womanly graces and qualities which endeared her to those with whom she was acquainted. Her death leaves a void which cannot be filled even outside her own household. Her writings were those of a true woman, always healthful in their tone, strong and vigorous in ideas and concise in language."
Other troubles came thick and fast. He lost at one time fifty thousand dollars in the panic of '74, and at another ten thousand dollars by endorsing for a friend. His old acquaintance, poverty, again took up its abode with him. In addition, he was heavily in debt. Those were black days, days that taught him how unstable were the things of this world—money, position, the ambitions that once had seemed so worthy. The only thing that brought a sense of satisfaction, of having done something worth while, was the endeavor to make others happier, to put joy into lives as desolate as his own. Such work brought peace.
To forget his own troubles in lightening those of others, he went actively into religious work. He took a class in the Sunday School of Tremont Temple, that very Sunday School into which Deacon Chipman had taken him a runaway boy some twenty years before. The class grew from four to six hundred in a few months. He preached to sailors on the wharves, to idlers on the streets, in mission chapels at night. The present West Somerville, Massachusetts, church grew from just such work. He could not but see the fruits of his labors. On all sides it grew to a quick harvest.
The thought that he was thus influencing others for good, that he was leading men and women into paths of sure happiness brought him a spiritual calm and peace such as the gratification of worldly ambitions had never given him. More and more he became convinced it was the only work worth doing. The strong love for his fellowmen, the desire to help those in need and to make them happier which had always been such a pronounced characteristic, had set him more than once to thinking of the ministry as a life work. Indeed, ever since that childish sermon, with the big gray rock as a pulpit, it had been in his mind, sometimes dormant, breaking out again into strong feeling when for a moment he stood on some hilltop of life and took in its fullest, grandest meaning, or in the dark valley of suffering and sorrow held close communion with God and saw the beauty of serving Him by serving his fellowmen. That the inclination was with him is shown by the fact that when he was admitted to the bar in Albany in 1865, he had a Greek Testament in his pocket.
As soon as his means permitted after the war, he gathered a valuable theological library, sending to Germany for a number of the books. In 1875, when he was admitted to practice in the Supreme Court of the United States, he delivered an address that same evening in Washington on the "Curriculum of the School of the Prophets in Ancient Israel." From all parts of the Old World he gathered photographs of ancient manuscripts and sacred places, and kept up a correspondence with many professors and explorers interested in these topics. He lectured in schools and colleges on archaeological subjects, with illustrations prepared by himself.
It is not to be wondered that with his keen mind and his gift of oratory the law tempted him at first to turn aside from the promptings of the inner spirit. Nor is it to be wondered that even when inclination led strongly he still hesitated. It was no light thing for a man past thirty to throw aside a profession in which he had already made an enviable reputation and take up a new lifework. With two small children depending upon him, it was a question for still more serious study.
But gradually circumstances shaped his course. In 1874, he married Miss Sarah F. Sanborn whom he had met in his mission work. She was of a wealthy family of Newton Centre, the seat of the Newton Theological Seminary. One of the intimate friends of the family was the Rev. Alvah Hovey, D.D., President of the Seminary. Thus while inclination pulled one way and common sense pulled the other, adding as a final argument that he had no opportunity to study for the ministry, he was thrown among the very people who made it difficult not to study theology. Troubled in mind he sought Dr. Hovey one day and asked how to decide if "called to the ministry." "If people are called to hear you," was the quick-witted, practical reply of the good doctor. But still he hesitated. His law practice, writing, lecturing, claimed part of him; his Sunday School work and lay preaching, a second and evergrowing stronger part. His law practice became more and more distasteful, his service to the soul needs of others, more and more satisfying.
[Illustration: MRS. SARAH F. CONWELL]
In 1874 his father died, and in 1877 he lost his mother, these sad bereavements still further inclining his heart to the work of the ministry. They were buried at South Worthington, in a sunny hilltop cemetery, open to the sky, the voice of a little brook coming softly up from among the trees below. This visit to his old home under such sad circumstances, the memory of his father's and mother's prayers that the world might not be the worse, but that it might be the better for his having lived in it, deepened the growing conviction that he should give his life to the work of Christ.
At last came the deciding event. In 1879, a young woman visited Colonel Conwell, the lawyer, and asked his advice respecting the disposition of a Baptist Meeting House in Lexington. He went to Lexington and called a meeting of the members of the old church, for the purpose of securing legal action on the part of that body preparatory to selling the property. He got some three or four old Baptists together and, as they talked the business over, "they became reluctant to vote, either to sell, destroy, keep, or give away the old meeting-house," says Burdette, in "Temple and Templars." "While discussing the situation with these sorrowful old saints—and one good old deacon wept to think that 'Zion had gone into captivity,'—the preacher came to the front and displaced the lawyer. It was the crisis in his life; the parting of the ways. In a flash of light the decision was made. 'It flashed upon me, sitting there as a lawyer, that there was a mission for me there,' Dr. Conwell has often said, in speaking of his decision to go into the ministry. He advised promptly and strongly against selling the property. 'Keep it; hold service in it; repair the altar of the Lord that is broken down; go to work; get God to work for you, and work with Him; 'God will turn again your captivity, your months shall be filled with laughter and your tongues with singing." They listened to this enthusiastic lawyer whom they had retained as a legal adviser, in dumb amazement 'Is Saul also among the prophets?' But having given his advice, he was prompt to act upon it himself. 'Where will we get a preacher?' 'Here is one who will serve you until you can get one whom you will like better, and who can do you more good. Announce preaching in the old meeting house next Sunday!'
"It was nothing new for Colonel Conwell to preach, for he was engaged in mission work somewhere every Sunday; so when the day came, he was there. Less than a score of hearers sat in the moldy old pews. The windows were broken and but illy repaired by the curtaining cobwebs. The hand of time and decay had torn off the ceiling plaster in irregular and angular patches. The old stove had rusted out at the back, and the crumbling stove-pipe was a menace to those who sat within range of its fall. The pulpit was what Mr. Conwell called a 'crow's perch,' and one can imagine the platform creaking under the military tread of the tall lawyer who stepped into its lofty height to preach. But, old though it was, they say, a cold, gloomy, damp, dingy old box, it was a meeting house and the Colonel preached in it. That a lawyer should practice, was a commonplace, everyday truth; but that a lawyer should preach—that was indeed a novelty. The congregation of sixteen or seventeen at the first service grew the following Sabbath, to forty worshippers. Another week, and when the new preacher climbed into that high pulpit, he looked down upon a crowded house; the little old chapel was dangerously full. Indeed, before the hour for service, under the thronging feet of the gathering congregation, one side of the front steps—astonished, no doubt, and overwhelmed by the unwonted demand upon its services—did fall down. They were encouraged to build a fire in the ancient stove that morning, but it was past regeneration; it smoked so viciously that all the invalids who had come to the meeting were smoked out. The old stove had lived its day and was needed no longer. There was a fire burning in the old meeting-house that the hand of man had not lighted and could not kindle; that all the storms of the winter could not quench. The pulpit and the preacher had a misty look in the eyes of the old deacons at that service. And the preacher? He looked into the earnest faces before him, into the tearful, hopeful eyes, and said in his own strong heart, 'These people are hungry for the word of God, for the teachings of Christ. They need a church here; we will build a new one.'
"It was one thing to say it, another to achieve it. The church was poor. Not a dollar was in the treasury, not a rich man in the membership, the congregation, what there was of it, without influence in the community. But lack of money never yet daunted Dr. Conwell. The situation had a familiar look to him. He had succeeded many a time without money when money was the supreme need, and he attacked this problem with the same grim perseverance that had carried him so successfully through many a similar ordeal."
"After service he spoke about building a new church to two or three of the members. 'A new church?' They couldn't raise enough money to put windows in the old one, they told him."
"'We don't want new windows, we want a new church,' was the reply."
"They shook their heads and went home, thinking what a pity it was that such an able lawyer should be so visionary in practical church affairs. Part of that night Colonel Conwell spent in prayer; early next morning he appeared with a pick-axe and a woodman's axe and marched upon that devoted old meeting-house, as he had marched against Hood's intrenchments before Atlanta. Strange, unwonted sounds saluted the ears of the early risers and awakened the sluggards in Lexington that Monday morning. Bang, Bang, Bang! Crash—Bang! Travelers over the Revolutionary battlefield at Lexington listened and wondered. By and by a man turned out of his way to ascertain the cause of the racket. There was a black coat and vest hanging on the fence, and a professional-looking man in his shirt sleeves was smashing the meeting-house. The rickety old steps were gone by the time this man, with open eyes and wide-open month, came to stare in speechless amazement. Gideon couldn't have demolished 'the altar of Baal and the grove that was by it' with more enthusiastic energy, than did this preacher tumble into ruin his own meeting-house, wherein he had preached not twelve hours before. Other men came, looked, laughed, and passed by. But the builder had no time to waste on idle gossips. Clouds of dust hovered about him, planks, boards, and timbers came tumbling down in heaps of ruin."
"Presently there came along an eminently respectable citizen, who seldom went to church. He stared a moment, and said, 'What in the name of goodness are you doing here?'"
"'We are going to have a new meeting-house here,' was the reply, as the pick-axe tore away the side of a window-frame for emphasis."
"The neighbor laughed, 'I guess you won't build it with that axe,' he said."
"'I confess I don't know just exactly how it is going to be done,' said the preacher, as he hewed away at a piece of studding, 'but in some way it is going to be done.'"
"The doubter burst into an explosion of derisive laughter and walked away. A few paces, and he came back; walking up to Colonel Conwell he seized the axe and said, 'See here, Preacher, this is not the kind of work for a parson or a lawyer. If you are determined to tear this old building down, hire some one to do it. It doesn't look right for you to be lifting and pulling here in this manner.'"
"'We have no money to hire any one,' was the reply, 'and the front of this structure must give way to-day, if I have to tear it down all alone.'"
"'I'll tell you what I'll do,' persisted the wavering doubter; 'if you will let this alone, I'll give you one hundred dollars to hire some one.'"
"Colonel Conwell tranquilly poked the axe through.' the few remaining panes yet unbroken in the nearest window and replied, 'We would like the money, and I will take it to hire some one to help, but I shall keep right on with the work myself.'"
"'All right,' said the doubter; 'go ahead, if you have set your heart upon it. You may come up to the house for the hundred dollars any time to-day.'"
"And with many a backward look the generous doubter passed on, half beginning to doubt his doubts. Evidently, the Baptists of Lexington were beginning to do something. It had been many a year since they had made such a noise as that in the village. And it was a noise destined to be heard a long, long way; much farther than the doubter and a great many able scientists have supposed that sound would 'carry.'"
"After the doubter came a good-natured man who disliked churches in general, and therefore enjoyed the fun of seeing a preacher tug and puff in the heavy work of demolition, for the many-tongued rumor by this time had noised it all around Lexington that the new preacher was tearing down the Baptist meeting-house. He looked on until he could no longer keep his enjoyment to himself."
"'Going to pull the whole thing down, are you?' he asked."
"'Yes, sir,' replied the working preacher, ripping off a strip of siding, 'and begin all new.'"
"'Who is going to pay the bills?' he asked, chuckling."
"The preacher tucked up his sleeves and stepped back to get a good swing at an obstinate brace; 'I don't know,' he said, 'but the Lord has money somewhere to buy and pay for all we need.'"
"The man laughed, in intense enjoyment of the absurdity of the whole crazy business."
"'I'll bet five dollars to one,' he said, with easy confidence of a man who knows his bet will not be taken up, 'that you won't get the money in this town.'"
"Mr. Conwell brought the axe down with a crashing sweep, and the splinters flew out into the air like a cloud of witnesses to the efficacy of the blow."
"'You would lose your money, then,' quietly said the preacher, 'for Mr.—— just now came along and has given me a hundred dollars without solicitation.'"
"The man's eyes opened a trifle wider, and his next remark faded into a long-drawn whistle of astonishment. Presently—'Did you get the cash?' he asked feebly."
"'No, but he told me to call for it to-day.'"
"The man considered. He wasn't enjoying the situation with quite so much humor as he had been, but he was growing more interested."
"'Well! Is that so! I don't believe he meant it,' he added hopefully. Then, a man after all not disposed to go back on his own assertion, he said, 'Now I'll tell you what I'll do. If you really get that hundred dollars out of that man, I'll give you another hundred and pay it to-night,'"
"And he was as good as his word."
"All that day the preacher worked alone. Now came in the training of those early days on the farm, when he learned to swing an axe; when he builded up rugged strength in a stalwart frame, when his muscles were hardened and knotted with toil."
"'Passers-by called one after another, to ask what was going on. To each one Colonel Conwell mentioned his hope and mentioned his gifts. Nearly every one had added something without being asked, and at six o'clock, when Colonel Conwell laid down the pick and axe at the end of his day's work, he was promised more than half the money necessary to tear down the old meeting-house and build a new one."
"But Colonel Conwell did not leave the work. With shovel, or hammer, or saw, or paint-brush, he worked day by day all that summer alongside the workmen. He was architect, mason, carpenter, painter, and upholsterer, and he directed every detail, from the cellar to the gilded vane, and worked early and late. The money came without asking as fast as needed. The young people who began to flock about the faith-worker undertook to purchase a large bell, and quietly had Colonel Conwell's name cast on the exterior, but when it came to the difficult task of hanging it in the tower, they were obliged to call Colonel Conwell to come and superintend the management of ropes and pulleys. Then the deep, rich tones of the bell rang out over the surprised old town the triumph of faith.' An unordained preacher, he had entered upon his first pastorate, and signalized his entrance upon his ministry by building a new meeting-house, awakening a sleeping church, inspiring his congregation with his own enthusiasm and zeal."
At last he had found his work. With peace and deep abiding joy he entered it. Doubts no longer troubled him. His heart was at rest. "Blessed is he who has found his work," writes Carlyle; "let him ask no other blessedness."
CHAPTER XVI
HIS ENTRY INTO THE MINISTRY
Ordination. First Charge at Lexington. Call to Grace Baptist Church,
Philadelphia.
For this work he had been trained in the world's bitter school of experience. He had learned lessons there of infinitely more value in helping humanity than any the theological seminary could teach him. He knew what it was to be poor, to be utterly cast down and discouraged, to be sick and suffering, to sit in the blackness of despair for the loss of loved ones. From almost every human experience he could reach the hand of sympathy and say, "I know. I have suffered." Such help touches the heart of humanity as none other can. And when at the same time, it points the way to the Great Comforter and says again, "I know, I found peace," it is more powerful than the most eloquent sermon. Nothing goes so convincingly to a man's heart as loving, sympathetic guidance from one who has been through the same bitter trial.
He was ordained in the year 1879, the council of churches, called for his ordination, met in Lexington, President Alvah Hovey of Newton Seminary presiding. Among the members of the council was his life-long friend, George W. Chipman, of Boston, the same good deacon who had taken him a runaway boy into the Sunday School of Tremont Temple. The only objection to the ordination was made by one of the pastors present, who said, "Good lawyers are too scarce to be spoiled by making ministers of them."
The ordination over, the large law offices in Boston were closed. He gave his undivided time and attention to his work in Lexington. The lawyer, speaker and writer ceased to exist, but the pastor was found wherever the poor needed help, the sick and suffering needed cheer, the mourning needed comfort, wherever he could by word or act preach the gospel of the Christ he served.
His whole thought was concentrated in the purpose to do good. No one who knew him intimately could doubt his entire renunciation of worldly ambitions, the sacrifice was so great, yet so unhesitatingly made. Buried from the world in one way, he yet lived in it in a better way. Large numbers of his former legal, political and social associates called his action fanaticism. Wendell Phillips, meeting Colonel Conwell and several friends on the way to church, one Sunday morning, remarked that "Olympus has gone to Delphi, and Jove has descended to be an interpreter of oracles."
His salary at the start was six hundred dollars a year, little more than ten dollars a week. But it was enough to live on in a little New England village and what more did he need? The contrast between it and the ten thousand dollars a year he had made from his law practice alone, never troubled him.
[Illustration: THE BAPTIST TEMPLE]
The church was crowded from the first and the membership grew rapidly. His influence quickly spread to other than church circles. The town itself soon felt the effect of his progressive, energetic spirit. It awoke to new life. Other suburban villages were striding forward into cities and leaving this old Battlefield of the Revolution sleeping under its majestic elms. Mr. Conwell sounded the trumpet. Progress, enterprise, life followed his eloquent encouragement. Strangers were welcomed to the town. Its unusual beauty became a topic of conversation. The railroad managers heard of its attractiveness and opened its gates with better accommodations for travelers.
The governor of the state (Hon. John D. Long) visited the place on Mr. Conwell's invitation, and large business enterprises were started and strongly supported by the townspeople. From the date of Mr. Conwell's settlement as pastor, the town took on a new lease of life. He showed them what could be done and encouraged them to do it.
One of the town officers writing of that time, says: "Lexington can never forget the benefit Mr. Conwell conferred during his stay in the community."
Then all unknown to Mr. Conwell, a man came up to Lexington one Sunday in 1882, from Philadelphia, and heard him preach in the little stone church under the stately New England elms. It was Deacon Alexander Reed of the Grace Baptist Church of Philadelphia, and as a result of his visit, Mr. Conwell received a call from this church to be its pastor. It was like the call from Macedonia to "come over and help us." For the church was heavily in debt, and one of the arguments Deacon Reed used in urging Mr. Conwell to accept was that he "could save the church." He could have used no better argument. It was the call to touch Mr. Conwell's heart. A small church, and struggling against poverty; a people eager to work, but needing a leader. No message could have more surely touched that heart eager to help others, to bring brightness, joy and higher aspirations into troubled lives. It was a wrench to leave Lexington, the church and the people who had grown so dear to him. But the harvest called. There was need of reapers and he must go.
CHAPTER XVII
GOING TO PHILADELPHIA
The Early History of Grace Baptist Church. The Beginning of the Sunday
Breakfast Association. Impressions of a Sunday Service.
The church to which Mr. Conwell came and from which has grown the largest Baptist church in the country, and which was the first institutional church in America, had its beginning in a tent. In 1870 a little mission was started in a hall at Twelfth and Montgomery Avenue by members of the Young Men's Association of the Tenth Baptist Church. The committee in charge was Alexander Reed, Henry C. Singley, Fred B. Gruel and John Stoddart. A Sunday School was started and religious services held Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons. The little mission flourished, and within a year it was deemed advisable to put some one in charge who could give it his full time. The Rev. L.B. Hartman was called and the work went forward with increasing prosperity. He visited the families in the neighborhood, interested the children in the Sunday School, held two preaching services every Sunday and usually two prayer meetings during the week. In 1872, evangelistic services were held which resulted in a number of conversions. The need now became so imperative for a recognized church, that on Feb. 12, 1872, one was formally organized with forty-seven members, L.B. Hartman pastor, and John A. Stoddart, Henry O. Singley and G.G. Mayhew, deacons. The membership still increased rapidly, the little hall was crowded to discomfort, and it was decided to take a definite step toward securing a church building of their own. A lot was purchased at Berks and Mervine for $7,500, a tent with a seating capacity of 500 erected, and Grace Baptist Church had its first home. The opening services of the tent were memorable for many things.
After addresses had been made by Drs. Malcolm, Peddie, Rowland and Wayland, an effort was made to raise the twelve hundred dollars due on the tent. A wealthy layman, Mr. William Bucknell, offered to pay the twelve hundred dollars provided the members of Grace Baptist Church should henceforth abstain from the use of tobacco. The alert chairman said, "All who are in sympathy with Brother Bucknell's proposition, please rise." The entire audience arose. Mr. Bucknell made out his check next morning for twelve hundred dollars.
In 1874, the tent was moved to a neighboring lot, where it was used as a mission. Homeless wanderers were taken in, fed and pointed the way to a different and better life. From this work grew the Sunday Breakfast Association of Philadelphia.
A contract was made for a new church building, and in 1875 Grace Church moved into the basement of the new building at Berks and Mervine Streets. But dark days came. The financial burden became excessive. Judgment bonds were entered against the building, the sheriff was compelled to perform his unpleasant duty, and the property was advertised for sale. A council of Baptist churches was called to determine what should be done.
The sheriff was persuaded to wait. The members renewed their exertions and once more the church got on its financial feet sufficiently to meet current financial expenses. The plucky fight knit them together in strong bonds of good fellowship. It strengthened their faith, gave them courage to go forward, and taught them the joy of working in such a cause. And while they were struggling with poverty and looking disaster often in the face, up in Massachusetts, the man who was to lead this chosen people into a new land of usefulness, was himself fighting that battle as to whether he should hearken to the voice of the Spirit that was calling him to a new work. But finally he left all to follow Him, and when this church, going down under its flood of debt, sent out a cry for help, he heard it and came. To his friends in Massachusetts it seemed as if he were again throwing himself away. To leave his church in Lexington on the threshold of prosperity, for a charge little more than a mission, with only twenty-seven present to vote on calling him, seemed the height of folly. But he considered none of these things. He thought only of their need.
On Thanksgiving Day, 1882, he came. The outer walls of the small church were up, the roof on, but the upper part was unfinished, the worshippers meeting in the basement And over it hung a debt of $15,000. But the plucky band of workers, full of the spirit that makes all things possible, had found a leader. Both had fought bitter fights, had endured hardships and privations, had often nothing but faith to lean on, and pastor and people went forward to the great work awaiting them.
Out of his love of God, his great love of humanity, his desire to uplift, to make men better and happier, out from his own varied experiences that had touched the deeps of sorrow and seen life over all the globe, came words that gripped men's hearts, came sermons that packed the church to the doors.
It was not many months before his preaching began to bear fruits. Not only was the neighborhood stirred, but people from all parts of the city thronged to hear him.
In less than a year, though the seating capacity of the church was increased to twelve hundred, crowds stood all through the service. It became necessary to admit the members by tickets at the rear, it being almost impossible for them to get through the throngs of strangers at the front. Upon request, these cards of admission were sent to those wishing them, a proceeding that led to much misunderstanding among those who did not know their purpose nor the reason for their use. But it was the only way that strangers in the city or those wishing to attend a special service could be sure of ever getting into the church.
A Methodist minister of Albany gives a description in "Scaling the Eagle's Nest," of his attendance at a service that pictures most graphically the situation:
"I arrived at the church a full hour before the evening service. There was a big crowd at the front door. There was another crowd at the side entrance. I did not know how to get a ticket, for I did not know, till I heard it in the jam, that I must have one. Two young people, who like many got tired of waiting, gave me their tickets, and I pushed ahead. I was determined to see how the thing was done. I was dreadfully squeezed, but I got in at the back entrance and stood in the rear of the pretty church. All the camp chairs were already taken. Also all extra seats. The church was rather fancifully frescoed. But it is an architectural gem. It is half amphitheatrical in style. It is longer than it is wide, and the choir gallery and organ are over the preacher's head. It looks underneath like an old-fashioned sounding board. But it is neat and pretty. The carpet and cushions are bright red. The windows are full of mottoes and designs. But in the evening under the brilliant lights the figures could not be made out.
"There was an unusual spirit of homeness about the place, such as I never felt in a church before. I was not alone in feeling it. The moment I stood in the audience room, an agreeable sense of rest and pleasure came over me. Everyone else appeared to feel the same. There was none of the stiff restraint most churches have. All moved about and greeted each other with an ease that was pleasant indeed. I saw some people abusing the liberty of the place by whispering, even during the sermon. They may have been strangers. They evidently belonged to the lower classes. But it was a curiosity to notice the liberty every one took at pauses in the service, and the close attention there was when the reading or speaking began.
"All the people sang. I think the great preacher has a strong liking for the old hymns. Of course I noticed his selection of Wesley's favorite. A little boy in front of me stood upon the pew when the congregation rose. He piped out in song with all his power. It was like a spring canary. It was difficult to tell whether the strong voice of the preacher, or the chorus choir, led most in the singing. A well-dressed lady near me said 'Good evening,' most cheerfully, as a polite usher showed me into the pew. They say that all the members do that. It made me feel welcome. She also gave me a hymn-book. I saw others being greeted the same. How it did help me praise the Lord! At home with the people of God! That is just how I felt. I was greatly disappointed in the preacher. Agreeably so, after all. I expected to see an old man. He did not look over thirty-five. He was awkwardly tall. I had expected some eccentric and sensational affair. I do not know just what, but I had been told of many strange things. I think now it was envious misrepresentation. The whole service was as simple as simple can be. And it was surely as sincere as it was simple. The reading of the hymns was so natural and distinct that they had a now meaning to me. The prayer was very short, and offered in homely language. In it he paused a moment for silent prayer, and every one seemed to hold his breath in the deepest, real reverence. It was so different from my expectations. Then the collection. It was not an asking for money at all. The preacher put his notice of it the other way about He said, 'The people who wish to worship God by giving their offering into the trust of the church could place it in the baskets which would be passed to any who wanted to give.' The basket that went down to the altar by me was full of money and envelopes. Yet no one was asked to give anything. It was all voluntary, and really an offering to the Lord. I had never seen such a way of doing things in church collections. I do not know as the minister or church require it so. The church, was packed in every corner, and people stood in the aisles. The pulpit platform was crowded so that the preacher had nothing more than standing room. Some people sat on the floor, and a crowd of interested boys leaned against the pulpit platform. When the preacher arose to speak, I expected something strange. It did not seem possible that such a crowd could gather year after year to listen to mere plain preaching. For these are degenerate days. The minister began so familiarly and easily in introducing his text that he was half through his sermon before I began to realize that he was actually in his sermon. It was the plainest thing possible. I had often heard of his eloquence and poetic imagination. But there was little of either, if we think of the old ideas. There was close continuous attention. He was surely in earnest, but not a sign of oratorical display. There were exciting gestures at times, and lofty periods. But it was all so natural. At one point the whole audience burst into laughter at a comic turn in an illustration, but the preacher went on unconscious of it. It detracted nothing from the solemn theme. It was what the 'Chautauqua Herald' last year called a 'Conwellian evening.' It was unlike anything I ever saw or heard. Yet it was good to be there. The sermon was crowded with illustrations, and was evidently unstudied. They say he never takes time from his many cares to write a sermon. That one was surely spontaneous. But it inspired the audience to better lives and a higher faith. When he suddenly stopped and quickly seized a hymn-book, the audience drew a long sigh. At once people moved about again and looked at each other and smiled. The whole congregation were at one with the preacher. There was a low hum of whispering voices. But all was attention again when the hymn was read. Then the glorious song. One of the finest organists in the country, a blind gentleman by the name of Wood, was the power behind the throne. The organ did praise God. Every one was carried on in a flood of praise. It was rich. The benediction was a continuation of the sermon and a closing prayer, all in a single sentence. I have never heard one so unique. It fastened the evening's lesson. It was not formal. The benediction was a blessing indeed. It broke every rule of church form. It was a charming close, however. No one else but Conwell could do it. Probably no one will try. Instantly at the close of the service, all the people turned to each other and shook hands. They entered into familiar conversation. Many spoke to me and invited me to come again. There was no restraint. All was homelike and happy. It was blessed to be there."
CHAPTER XVIII
FIRST DAYS AT GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH
Early plans for Church Efficiency. Practical Methods for Church Work.
The Growing Membership. Need of a New Building.
The preaching filled the church. Men and women felt that to miss a sermon was to miss inspiration and strength for the coming week's work, a broader outlook on life, a deeper hold on spiritual truths. But it was more than the sermons that carried the church work forward by leaps and bounds, added hundreds to its membership, made it a power for good in the neighborhood that gradually began to be felt all over the city.
The spirit of the sermons took practical form. Mr. Conwell followed no traditions or conventions in his church work. He studied the needs of the neighborhood and the hour. Then he went to work with practical, common sense to meet them. First he determined the church should be a home, a church home, but nevertheless a home in its true sense, overflowing with love, with kindness, with hospitality for the stranger within its gates. Committees were formed to make strangers welcome, to greet them cordially, find them a seat if possible, see that they had hymn books, and invite them heartily to come again. And every member felt he belonged to this committee even if not actually appointed on it, and made the stranger who might sit near him feel that he was a welcome guest. When the church became more crowded, members gave up their seats to strangers and sat on the pulpit, and it was no unusual sight in the church at Berks and Mervine streets to see the pulpit, as well as every other inch of space in the auditorium, crowded. Finally, when even this did not give room enough to accommodate all who thronged its doors, members took turns in staying away from certain services. No one who has not enjoyed the spiritual uplift, the good fellowship of a Grace Church service can appreciate what a genuine personal sacrifice that was.
After the service, Mr. Conwell stationed himself at the door and shook hands with all as they left, adding some little remark to show his personal interest in their welfare if they were members, or a cordial invitation to come again, if a stranger. The remembrance of that hearty handclasp, that frank, friendly interest, lingered and stamped with a personal flavor upon the hearer's heart, the truths of Christianity that had been preached in such simple, clear, yet forcible fashion from the pulpit.
Another of Mr. Conwell's methods for carrying out practical Christianity was to set every body at work. Every single member of the church was given something to do. As soon as a person was received into the membership, he was invited to join some one or other of the church organizations. He was placed on some committee. In such an atmosphere of activity there was no one who did not catch the enthusiasm and feel that being a Christian meant much more than attending church on Sundays, putting contributions in the box, and listening to the minister preach. It was a veritable hive of applied Christianity, and many a man who hitherto thought he had done his full duty by attending church regularly and contributing to its support had these ideas, so comfortable and self-satisfied, completely shattered.
The membership was composed almost entirely of working people, men and women who toiled hard for their daily bread. There were no wealthy people to help the work by contributions of thousands of dollars. The beginnings of all the undertakings were small and unpretentious. But nothing was undertaken until the need of it was felt; then the people as a whole put their shoulders to the wheel and it went with a will. And because it practically filled a need, it was a success.
The pastor was the most untiring worker of all. With ceaseless energy and unfailing tact, he was the head and heart of every undertaking. Day and night he ministered to the needs of his membership and the community. To the bedside of the sick he carried cheer that was better than medicine. In the homes where death had entered, he brought the comfort of the Holy Spirit. Where disgrace had fallen like a pall, he went with words of hope and practical advice. Parents sought him to help lead erring children back from a life of wretchedness and evil. Wherever sorrow and trouble was in the heart or home he went, his heart full of sympathy, his hands eager to help.
Much of his time, too, in those early days of his ministry was devoted to pastoral calls, not the formal ministerial call where the children tiptoe in, awed and silent, because the "minister is there." Children hailed his coming with delight, the family greeted him as an old, old friend before whom all ceremony and convention were swept away. He was genuinely interested in their family affairs. He entered into their plans and ambitions, and he never forgot any of their personal history they might tell him, so that each felt, and truly, that in his pastor he had a warm and interested friend.
His own simple, informal manner made every one feel instantly at home with him. He soon became a familiar figure upon the streets in the neighborhood of his church, for morning, noon and night he was about his work, cherry, earnest, always the light of his high calling shining from his face. The people for squares about knew that here was a man, skilled and practical in the affairs of the world, to whom they could go for advice, for help, for consolation, sure that they would have his ready sympathy and the best his big heart and generous hands could give.
Such faithful work of the pastor, such earnest, active work of the people could not but tell. The family feeling which is the ideal of church fellowship was so strong and warm that it attracted and drew people as with magnetic power. The church became more and more crowded. In less than a year it was impossible to seat those who thronged to the Sunday services, though the auditorium then had a seating capacity of twelve hundred.
"I am glad," the pastor once remarked to a friend, "when I get up Sunday morning and can look out of the window and see it snowing, sleeting, and raining, and hear the wind shriek and howl. 'There,' I say, 'I won't have to preach this morning, looking all the while at people patiently standing through the service, wherever there is a foot of standing room.'"
[Illustration: THE SAMARITAN HOSPITAL OF THE FUTURE]
The membership rose from two hundred to more than five hundred within two years. A question began to shape itself in the minds of pastor and people. "What shall we do?" As a partial solution of it, the proposition was made to divide into three churches. But, as in the old days of enlistment when two companies clamored for him for captain, all three sections wanted him as pastor, and so the idea was abandoned.
Still the membership grew, and the need for larger quarters faced them imperatively and not to be evaded. The house next door was purchased which gave increased space for the work of the Sunday School and the various associations. But it was a mere drop in the bucket. Every room in it was filled to overflowing with eager workers before the ink was fairly dry on the deed of transfer.
Then into this busy crowd wondering what should be done came a little child, and with one simple act cleared the mist from their eyes and pointed the way for them to go.
CHAPTER XIX
HATTIE WIATT'S LEGACY
How a Little Child Started the Building Fund for the Great Baptist
Temple.
One Sunday afternoon a little child, Hattie Wiatt, six years old, came to the church building at Berks and Mervine to attend the Sunday School. She was a very little girl and it was a very large Sunday School, but big as it was there was not room to squeeze her in. Other little girls had been turned away that day, and still others, Sundays before. But it was a bitter disappointment to this small child; the little lips trembled, the big tears rolled down her cheeks and the sobs that came were from the heart. The pastor himself told the little one why she could not come in and tried to comfort her. His heart was big enough for her and her trouble if the church was not. He watched the childish figure going so sadly up the street with a heart that was heavy that he must turn away a little child from the house of God, from the house raised in the name of One who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me."
She did not forget her disappointment as many a child would. It had been too grievous. It hurt too deeply to think that she could not go to that Sunday School, and that other little girls who wanted to go must stay away. With quivering lip she told her mother there wasn't room for her. With a sad little heart she spent the afternoon thinking about it, and when bedtime came and she said her prayers, she prayed with a child's beautiful faith that they would find room for her so that she might go and learn more about Jesus. Perhaps she had heard some word dropped about faith and works. Perhaps the childish mind thought it out for herself. But she arose the next morning with a strong purpose in her childish soul, a purpose so big in faith, so firm in determination, it could put many a strong man's efforts to the blush. "I will save my money," she said to herself, "and build a bigger Sunday School. Then we can all go."
From her childish treasures she hunted out a little red pocketbook and in this she put her pennies, one at a time. What temptations that childish soul struggled with no one may know! How she shut her eyes and steeled her heart to playthings her friends bought, to the allurements of the candy shop window! But nothing turned her from her purpose. Penny by penny the little hoard grew. Day after day the dimpled fingers counted it and the bright eyes grew brighter as the sum mounted. That mite cast in by the widow was no purer, greater offering than these pennies so lovingly and heroically saved by this little child.
But there were only a few weeks of this planning, hoping, saving. The little Temple builder fell ill. It was a brief illness and then the grim Reaper knocked at the door of the Wiatt home and the loving, self-sacrificing spirit was born to the Father's House where there are many mansions, where there was no lack of room, for the little heart so eager to learn more of Jesus.
With her dying breath she told her mother of her treasure, told her it was for Grace Baptist Church to build.
In the little red pocketbook was just fifty-seven cents. That was her legacy. With swelling heart, the pastor reverently took it; with misty eyes and broken voice he told his people of the little one's gift.
"And when they heard how God had blessed them with so great an inheritance, there was silence in the room; the silence of tears and earnest consecration. The corner stone of the Temple was laid."
CHAPTER XX
BUILDING THE TEMPLE
How the Money was Raised. Walking Clubs. Jug Breaking. The Purchase of the Lot. Laying the Corner Stone.
Thus was their path pointed out to them and they walked steadily forward in it from that day.
Plans were made for raising money. The work went forward with a vim, for ever before each worker was the thought of that tiny girl, the precious pennies saved one by one by childish self-denial. The child's faith was equaled by theirs. It was a case of "Come unto me on the water." They were poor. Nobody could give much. But nobody hesitated.
It was not only a question of giving, even small sums. What was given must be saved in some way. Few could give outright and not feel it. Incomes for the most part just covered living expenses, and expenses must be cut down, if incomes were to be stretched to build a church. So these practical people put their wits to work to see how money could be saved. Walking clubs were organized, not for vigorous cross country tramps in a search for pleasure and health, but with an earnest determination to save carfare for the building fund. Tired men with muscles aching from a hard day's work, women weary with a long day behind the counter or typewriter, cheerfully trudged home and saved the nickels. Women economized in dress, men who smoked gave it up. Vacations in the summer were dropped. Even the boys and girls saved their pennies as little Hattie Wiatt had done, and the money poured into the treasury in astonishing amounts, considering how small was each individual gift. All these sacrifices helped to endear the place to those who wove their hopes and prayers about it.
A fair was given in a large hall in the centre of the city which brought to the notice of many strangers the vigorous work the church was doing and netted nearly five thousand dollars toward the building fund. It was a fair that went with a vim, planned on business lines, conducted in a practical, sensible fashion.
Another effort that brought splendid results was the giving out of little earthen jugs in the early summer to be brought to the harvest home in September with their garnerings. It was a joyous evening when the jugs were brought in. A supper was given, and while the church members enjoyed themselves at the tables, the committee sat on the platform, broke the jugs, counted the money and announced the amount. The sum total brought joyous smiles to the treasurer's face.
Innumerable entertainments were held in the church and at homes of the church members. Suppers were given in Fairmount Park during the summer. Every worthy plan for raising money that clever brains could devise and willing hands accomplish was used to swell the building fund.
Thus the work went ahead, and in September, 1886, the lot on which The Temple now stands at Broad and Berks was purchased at a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars. Thus encouraged with tangible results, the work for the building fund was pushed, if possible, with even greater vigor. Ground was broken for The Temple March 27, 1889. The corner stone was laid July 13, 1890, and on the first of March, 1891, the house was occupied for worship.
The only large amount received toward the building fund was a gift of ten thousand dollars on condition that the church be not dedicated until it was free of debt. In a legal sense, calling a building by the name of the congregation worshipping in it is a dedication, and so the building, instead of being called The Grace Baptist Church, was called the Baptist Temple, a name which will probably cling to it while one stone stands upon another.
Raising money and erecting a building did not stop the spiritual work of the church. Rather it increased it. People heard of the church through the fairs and various other efforts to raise money, came to the service, perhaps out of curiosity at first, became interested, their hearts were touched and they joined. Never did its spiritual light burn more brightly than in these days of hard work and self-denial. The membership steadily rose, and when Grace Church moved into its new temple of worship, more than twelve hundred members answered the muster roll.
CHAPTER XXI
OCCUPYING THE TEMPLE
The First Sunday. The Building Itself—Its Seating Capacity,
Furnishing and Lighting. The Lower Temple and its Various Rooms and
Halls. Services Heard by Telephone at the Samaritan Hospital.
That was a great day—the first Sunday in the new Temple. Six years of labor and love had gone to its building and now they possessed the land.
"During the opening exercises over nine thousand people were present at each service," said the "Philadelphia Press" writing of the event. The throng overflowed into the Lower Temple; into the old church building. The whole neighborhood was full of the joyful members of Grace Baptist Church. The very air seemed to thrill with the spirit of thanksgiving abroad that day. All that Sabbath from sunrise until close to midnight members thronged the building with prayers of thankfulness and praise welling up from glad hearts.
Writing from London several years later, Mr. Conwell voiced in words what had been in his mind when the church was planned:
"I heard a sermon which helped me greatly. It was delivered by an old preacher, and the subject was, 'This God is our God,' He described the attributes of God in glory, knowledge, wisdom and love, and compared Him to the gods the heathen do worship. He then pressed upon us the message that this glorious God is the Christian's God, and with Him we cannot want. It did me so much good, and made me long so much for more of God in all my feelings, actions, and influence. The seats were hard, and the tack of the pew hard and high, the church dusty and neglected; yet, in spite of all the discomforts, I was blessed. I was sorry for the preacher who had to preach against all those discomforts, and did not wonder at the thin congregation. Oh! it is all wrong to make it so unnecessarily hard to listen to the gospel. They ought for Jesus' sake tear out the old benches and put in comfortable chairs. There was an air about the service of perfunctoriness and lack of object, which made the service indefinite and aimless. This is a common fault. We lack an object and do not aim at anything special in our services. That, too, is all wrong. Each hymn, each chapter read, each anthem, each prayer, and each sermon should have a special and appropriate purpose. May the Lord help me, after my return, to profit by this day's lesson."
No hard benches, no air of cold dreariness marks The Temple. The exterior is beautiful and graceful in design, the interior cheery and homelike in furnishing.
The building is of hewn stone, with a frontage on Broad Street of one hundred and seven feet, a depth on Berks Street of one hundred and fifty feet, a height of ninety feet. On the front is a beautiful half rose window of rich stained glass, and on the Berks Street side a number of smaller memorial windows, each depicting some beautiful Biblical scene or thought. Above the rose window on the front is a small iron balcony on which on special occasions, and at midnight on Christmas, New Year's Eve and Easter, the church orchestra and choir play sacred melodies and sing hymns, filling the midnight hour with melody and delighting thousands who gather to hear it.
The auditorium of The Temple has the largest seating capacity among Protestant church edifices in the United States. Its original seating capacity according to the architect's plans, was forty-two hundred opera chairs. But to secure greater comfort and safety only thirty-one hundred and thirty-five chairs were used.
Under the auditorium and below the level of the street is the part of the building called the Lower Temple. Here are Sunday School rooms, with a seating capacity of two thousand. The Sunday School room and lecture room of the Lower Temple is forty-eight by one hundred and six feet in dimensions. It also has many beautiful stained-glass windows. On the platform is a cabinet organ and a grand piano. In the rear of the lecture room is a dining-room, forty-five by forty-six feet, with a capacity for seating five hundred people. Folding tables and hundreds of chairs are stowed away in the store rooms when not in use in the great dining-room. Opening out of this room are the rooms of the Board of Trustees, the parlors and reading-rooms of the Young Men's Association and the Young Women's Association, and the kitchen, carving-room and cloak-room. Through the kitchen is a passageway to the engine and boiler rooms. In pantries and cupboards is an outfit of china and table cutlery sufficient to set a table for five hundred persons. The kitchen is fully equipped, with two large ranges, hot-water cylinders, sinks and drainage tanks. In the annex beyond the kitchen, a separate building contains the boilers and engine room and the electric-light plants.
The steam-heating of the building is supplied by four one hundred horse-power boilers. In the engine room are two one hundred and thirty-five horse-power engines, directly connected with dynamos having a capacity of twenty-five hundred lights, which are controlled by a switchboard in this room. The electrician is on duty every day, giving his entire time to the management of this plant. The building is also supplied with gas. Directly behind the pulpit is a small closet containing a friction wheel, by means of which, should the electric light fail for any reason, every gas jet in The Temple can be lighted from dome to basement.
For cleaning the church, a vacuum plant has been installed, which sucks out every particle of dust and dirt. It does the work quickly and thoroughly, in fact, so thoroughly it is impossible even with the hardest beating to raise any dust on the covered chairs after they have been cleaned by this process. Such crowds throng The Temple that some quick, thorough method of cleaning it became imperative.
Back of the auditorium on the street floor are the business offices of the church, Mr. Conwell's study, the office of his secretary and of the associate pastor. All are practically and cheerfully furnished, fitted with desks, filing cabinets, telephones, speaking tubes, everything to carry forward the business of the church in a time-saving, businesslike way.
The acoustics of the great auditorium are perfect. There is no building on this continent with an equal capacity which enables the preacher to speak and the hearers to listen with such perfect comfort. The weakest voice is carried to the farthest auditor. Lecturers who have tested the acoustic properties of halls in every state in the Union speak with praise and pleasure of The Temple, which makes the delivery of an oration to three thousand people as easy, so far as vocal effort is concerned, as a parlor conversation.
Telephonic communication has recently been installed between the auditorium and the Samaritan Hospital. Patients in their beds can hear the sermons preached from The Temple pulpit and the music of the Sunday services.
Compared with other assembly rooms in this country, the auditorium of The Temple is a model. It seats thirty-one hundred and thirty-five persons. The American Academy of Music, Philadelphia, seats twenty-nine hundred; the Academy of Music, Brooklyn, twenty-four hundred and thirty-three; Academy in New York, twenty-four hundred and thirty-three; the Grand Opera House, Cincinnati, twenty-two hundred and fifty; and the Music Hall, Boston, twenty-five hundred and eighty-five.
But greater than the building is the spirit that pervades it. The moment one enters the vast auditorium with its crimson chairs, its cheery carpet, its softly tinted walls, one feels at home. Light filters in through rich windows, in memory of some member gone before, some class or organization. Back of the pulpit stands the organ, its rich pipes rising almost to the roof. Everywhere is rich, subdued coloring, not ostentatious, but cheery, homelike.
Large as is the seating capacity of The Temple, when it was opened it could not accommodate the crowds that thronged to it. Almost from the first, overflow meetings were held in the Lower Temple, that none need be turned away from the House of God. From five hundred to two thousand people crowded these Sunday evenings in addition to the large audience in the main auditorium above.
The Temple workers had come to busy days and large opportunities. But they took them humbly with a full sense of their responsibility, with prayer in their hearts that they might meet them worthily. Their leader knew the perils of success and with wise counsel guided them against its insidious dangers.
"Ah, that is a dangerous hour in the history of men and institutions," he said, in a sermon on the "Danger of Success," "when they become too popular; when a good cause becomes too much admired or adored, so that the man, or the institution, or the building, or the organization, receives an idolatrous worship from the community. That is always a dangerous time. Small men always go down, wrecked by such dizzy elevation. Whenever a small man is praised, he immediately loses his balance of mind and ascribes to himself the things which others foolishly express in flattery. He esteems himself more than he is; thinking himself to be something, he is consequently nothing. How dangerous is that point when a man, or a woman, or an enterprise has become accepted and popular! Then, of all times, should the man or the society be humble. Then, of all times, should they beware. Then, of all times, the hosts of Satan are marshaled that by every possible insidious wile and open warfare they may overcome. The weakest hour in the history of great enterprises is apt to be when they seem to be, and their projectors think they are, strongest. Take heed lest ye fall in the hour of your strength. The most powerful mill stream drives the wheel most vigorously at the moment before the flood sweeps the mill to wildest destruction."