CHAPTER VII.
A SHOEMAKER'S APPRENTICE WHO BECAME A GREAT SCHOLAR.
On the last day of November, 1852, a lad was born near the village of Llangernyw, in Denbigshire, Wales. The proud father, who was the village shoemaker, took the baby to church that same day, and there he was baptized—Henry Jones.
Young Henry's parents were poor, and his grandparents were if anything, poorer. His grandfather worked on the estate of the local squire, and as he grew older his wages were repeatedly reduced, until he was receiving only four shillings a week. But even this was not the worst, for he was offered two shillings and sixpence a week. That seemed too much for the old man, and very soon after he died.
The house in which young Henry was born, was very small. It consisted of one small room downstairs, about ten feet square, and another room the same size upstairs. This tiny downstairs room, was almost always terribly overcrowded. It had to serve as kitchen, dining-room, and living-room all in one. Seven persons had their meals each day in that small room. How to find a seat for every one was a problem, but a way out of the difficulty was found by having the children take their meals in relays. Young Henry, being in a great hurry to get out to play, often took his meals standing, or sitting on the doorstep.
When Henry's little baby sister was born, they all wondered how room could be found for the cradle in that already over-crowded room. But there was a way out. The cradle was put upstairs, and a string let down from it through a hole in the ceiling. Whenever the baby cried, the mother bade one of the children pull the string, which rocked the cradle. Many a time Henry's play was interrupted so that he might spend a time pulling that old string.
There was a constant struggle against poverty in that home, for Elias Jones—Henry's father—never earned more than twenty shillings a week, and generally quite a bit less. The food was plain, but wholesome, consisting for the most part of bread and milk and "shot", that is, ground oat-cake and milk. There were no dull moments in that home. It was crowded and restless all day long. Either the mother was cooking or the father was heating his irons in the fire, or some of the children were clamouring for bread and butter, or perhaps a neighbour had dropped in to see if his shoes were ready and then lingered for a chat. In spite of poverty, which sometimes was severe, it was a happy home, for each one sought to help the others.
Henry did not enjoy attending the village school, in fact none of the children in that village did. The schoolmaster was very cruel and ignorant. The cane was very seldom out of his hands. Any fault or error was punished very severely. If a child whispered and the master was not sure which one it was, he thrashed the entire school. In fact, there was wailing and lamentation in that school the whole day long, and small wonder that when four o'clock came each day, the scholars breathed more freely.
When the school holidays came around, each year in June, the boys were sent out in gangs to thin the turnips for the neighbouring farmers. The whole of the five weeks of summer holidays were spent at this work. The boys were paid from eight-pence to one shilling a day, fourpence being deducted if the farmer provided meals. Young Henry Jones went with his brothers to do this hard work when he was only five and a half years old. When evening came he was often too exhausted to walk, and had to be carried home by the bigger boys. From that time until he was taken to work as a shoemaker, Henry helped to thin turnips each year.
While still a very young boy Henry began to help his father make and repair shoes. It was the greatest ambition of his life to become a good shoemaker. One day an incident happened which made him very proud. Toe-caps for boots were just coming into fashion, and they had to be carefully stitched. When it came to putting on the caps, Elias Jones was not sure of himself, so he went over to the school and asked permission for Henry to return home and do the sewing.
When twelve years of age Henry left school to become a shoemaker's apprentice with his father. It was a happy moment in his life when he put on the leather apron. His mother wanted him to be a blacksmith, or a gardener like his brothers, or a grocer, anything in fact, other than a shoemaker, but Henry stubbornly refused to listen. His mind was made up. He wanted to be a shoemaker like his father. The little workshop in which Henry and his father worked, was a little lean-to at the gable-end of the cottage. Out of the window Henry could see a barn and an old thatched cottage. The room was so small that those working had to get into opposite corners so as not to interfere with each other's movements. Sometimes there was a hired workman, and even a fourth place was often made for the local postman, who worked at making and repairing ladies' boots between his arrival with the letters and his departure. Henry used to think that there was so little room for privacy that it was impossible to keep even one's thoughts to oneself.
Henry soon became a good shoemaker. The work was hard, and the hours very long, but he liked it, and there was not a lazy bone in his body. Just at this time something happened which had a great influence over Henry's life. A lad named Tom Redfern, about his own age, came to Llangernyw to take charge of the school; a friendship sprung up between the two, and soon Tom Redfern told Henry of his ambition to attend the university. Soon that same ambition came to Henry, although it seemed madness for him even to think about such a thing, as his parents were so poor, and his own education had been sadly neglected.
For some time Henry was most unhappy. It seemed to him as if there were no way whereby his ambition could be realized. But his purpose became more resolute, and he made up his mind that if at all possible he would reach his goal. At last arrangements were made enabling Henry to attend a school at a place called Pandy, some distance away, three days each week. Henry got out his old schoolbooks and began to attend Pandy School every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. The remaining three days he worked away at his trade harder than ever. There was an examination known as the Queen's Scholarship held each year, and successful students earned the right to attend Bangor Training College for teachers. Henry determined to try for this, although it did seem an almost impossible task. He retired to rest about eight o'clock each evening, and at one o'clock in the morning the village policeman tapped at his window. Then he got up and dressed and worked away at his books until morning came. There was so much to be learned that at times he almost despaired, but he never gave up.
At last the time came for him to try the examination. He went to Bangor in fear and trembling. One of his brothers had loaned him a suit of clothes, and another brother loaned him a watch. He stayed at the college during the days of the examination. There were quite a number of competitors, and only a few could succeed. Henry was appalled by the look of cleverness and by the smart appearance of most of the students. He felt he had made a horrible mistake in even giving in his name. When he was alone he wept like a child and felt he had no chance whatever. Although he was terribly nervous and covered with confusion he did his best, and when the examination results were published, a few weeks later, his name appeared among those who had passed in the first class.
He entered the training college at Bangor and studied hard for two years. He had to be extremely careful, as he had very little money. Throughout those two years he maintained his place at the head of the college list, and then in 1873—when he was just nineteen, he was put in charge of a school at Brynamman, a mining village in Wales. He remained there for two years, greatly beloved by the pupils in the school, and by the people of the village. Then in 1875 he passed the examinations for entrance into Glasgow University.
The years Henry Jones spent at Glasgow University were packed full of interest for him. There was much hard work for him, and there was a constant struggle with poverty. His parents were not in a position to help him, and sometimes it almost seemed as though he must give up, but somehow a way always opened, and he was able to continue his studies. At the close of his term he sat for an examination, known as the "Clark Fellowship." This was the "blue ribbon," of the University, and, of course, was the most coveted honour among the students. He had no intention of trying for it, but one of the professors, who was interested in him, persuaded him to sit for the examination. He did, and to his amazement, he was awarded the prize, although all the cleverest students of the University, who were eligible, had also tried. In addition to the great distinction the fellowship carried with it a grant of £225 (about $1,100) a year for four years. And then, for the first time in his life, Henry Jones knew what it was to have money to pay his way and a little left over.
A great day came for him, when in 1884 he was elected to a professorship in Bangor College, Wales. He remained there for several years, and then was made a professor in the University of St. Andrews, in Scotland. After three years there—years of hard work, but of great power and wide influence, he was elected to a very important position; that of Professor of Moral Philosophy in Glasgow University. This was one of the great positions in the universities of Great Britain. It was one which only a great scholar could fill and Henry Jones did fill it with credit to himself and with very great profit to the students, for a period of twenty-eight years.
From being a shoemaker's apprentice, Henry Jones rose to a position of great power and influence. It was not by any means an easy road. There was a terrific struggle with poverty, and at times it seemed as though it would be too much for him. But his tremendous perseverence and grit carried him along, and he succeeded to an extent that he had never dared even to dream of. During the Great War he delivered scores of lectures throughout Great Britain and in the United States. His three sons were on the firing line, and the youngest of them was killed in France. Henry Jones died in 1922, and left behind him the memory of a brave and noble life.
CHAPTER VIII.
FROM GIPSY TENT TO PULPIT.
In March, 1860, a family of gipsies camped on a piece of land near Epping Forest, in the south of England. They were shiftless people moving here and there over the country according to their whims. They were not made welcome anywhere, for gipsies have a reputation for dishonesty, and probably this family named Smith were very much the same as other members of their tribe. But one day during their stay in that place—to be exact it was March 31st—a baby boy was born in that gipsy tent, to whom his parents gave the name of Rodney.
Rodney's parents earned their living very much as other gipsies. They travelled up and down the country making and selling baskets, tinware, clothespegs, and recaning cane chairs. Rodney's father—whose name was Cornelius, also made a business of buying and selling horses. Of course, young Rodney grew up without education. He travelled with his parents and soon learned to go from house to house selling clothespegs and other things. He was a bright lad and together with his brothers and sisters, soon knew more about the flowers and birds than most folks. His parents could neither read or write and so he was not burdened with any kind of lessons. He was too young to understand the value of education and so did not worry over that. He was a happy, care-free little fellow, when something happened which changed his whole life.
Rodney's eldest sister was taken ill and the father drove the gipsy wagon to the door of the doctor's house. The doctor climbed the steps of the wagon, leaned over the door and called the sick child to him. "Your daughter has small-pox," he said to Rodney's father. "You must get out of the town at once." The sorrow-stricken man drove his wagon about two miles out of the town to a place called Morton Lane. There he erected a tent and then drove the wagon farther down the lane with the sick child in it. He remained in the wagon with the child while the mother and the other four children lived in the tent. Soon one of the boys was taken ill and he also was removed to the wagon. Those were hard days for Rodney's mother. She would prepare the food for her sick children, then carry it half-way from the tent to the wagon, then give some signal and the father would come for it. In her anxiety the poor mother seemed to approach a little nearer to the wagon each day. One day she came too near. She too, was taken ill, and when the doctor saw her, he said it was smallpox.
For several days the man watched tenderly over his wife and cared for her, but it was of no avail; she gradually sank. Rodney was walking in the lane with his sister Tilly, when his eldest sister called him. "Rodney," she said, "mother's dead." The little gipsy lad fell on his face as though he had been shot. Rodney's mother was only a poor gipsy woman without any education, but she was mother, and the little fellow knew that without her life would be much harder.
After his mother's death Rodney continued to help his father by selling the homemade clothespegs and tinware. He was very proud of the amount of business he could do. Some days he sold nearly nine hundred pegs. He was a bright-eyed little fellow, not at all bashful, and he became a favourite in the towns which the gipsies visited. When women did not wish to buy or seemed to hesitate, he would say: "Come, now, Madam, here you have the best pegs on the market. They will not eat and will not wear clothes out. They will not cry nor wake you up in the middle of the night." If they still hesitated, Rodney would tell them that he had no mother. It was no wonder that with his humour and determination he generally managed to do a good business.
When Rodney was in his early teens his father became a Christian. It made a great change for the better in Cornelius Smith and life in that gipsy wagon became happier. The father was tremendously in earnest. He gave up his habits of drinking, stealing and swearing, and wherever the wagon went he sought some place of worship where he and his family might learn more about God. The change in Cornelius Smith soon impressed the children and Rodney decided to do as his father had done, and committed himself in simple trust to God.
Although he was at this time about fifteen, Rodney Smith could neither read or write. He had never been to school a day in his life. When he opened the Bible to try and read it, he often had it the wrong way up. As he passed along the streets of towns where the wagon was he tried to read the signs over the shops, but it was hard work, and unless they were very simple words he could not make them out. By trying in every spare moment, however, he soon learned to read; slowly at first, but gradually getting on better each day. He bought a dictionary, and it was in constant use. Whenever he came to a word he did not understand, down came the dictionary. He had a good memory, and once he looked up the meaning of a word he seldom forgot it. He read the Bible a great deal and soon he began to hope that some day he might be able to preach. He knew that for ten years he had been roaming about the fields and streets, when he ought to have been at school, but that was not his fault, and he resolved to try and make up for lost time. He was a good singer and he often sang at religious meetings in the towns and villages they visited. Then he became bold enough to deliver short addresses. As he had very little education, and had scarcely read anything, these addresses were very simple, but he was in earnest and did much good.
Just at this time Rev. William Booth—later known as General Booth—began a movement which was known as the Christian Mission. Mr. Booth heard about Rodney Smith, and persuaded him to become a worker with him, and Rodney agreed. This was in 1877, when he was seventeen years of age.
There was tremendous excitement in the gipsy wagon when Rodney stated his intention of becoming a preacher. Rodney strode up and down in front of the wagon with his three or four books under his arm. On the morning of his departure Rodney dressed himself up in the new clothes which he had bought with what little money he had. All his belongings he packed into a box which he had bought for sixty cents. He bade good-bye to his father and his brothers and sisters, and then this young gipsy lad, with very little education and scarcely any money, took the train for London to engage in Christian work. He arrived in London that same evening and went to the people with whom he was to live for the time being. That evening Rodney sat up to a table for a meal, and used a knife and fork, for the first time in his life. He was terribly embarrassed, and when a piece of linen was placed beside his plate he did not know what to do with it. He thought it must be a pocket handkerchief and said so to his hosts. He could see at once that he had made a mistake, and overwhelmed with confusion he said: "Please forgive me, I do not know any better. I am only a gipsy boy, and have never been taught what these things are. I know I shall make lots of blunders, but if you correct me whenever I make a mistake I will be grateful. I will never be angry, and never cross."
A serious difficulty confronted Rodney when he had to conduct his first services alone. He could speak, pray, and sing, but as yet he could read only with difficulty. However, he did his best. He would commence to read a chapter and if he came to big words that he could not pronounce, he would stop and talk a little, then begin to read again at the other side of the big word. He soon became known as a good speaker and an earnest worker. The fact that he was a gipsy attracted people's attention and before long he was speaking regularly to large gatherings.
During the few years following Rodney made great progress. He soon learned to read with ease and his addresses were listened to with great interest. He rose early in the mornings and spent several hours in reading and in devotions. During the afternoons he visited those in need, and in the evenings he addressed meetings both in the open-air and in halls. He was often sent to towns where the work of the Christian Mission was at a very low ebb, but wherever he went it was the same, his earnest preaching and sweet singing attracted the people.
While he was stationed at Hull his congregations were greater than ever. Often fifteen hundred people would be gathered at the Sunday-morning prayer meeting at seven a.m., and the crowds at the regular services were so great that often thousands would be unable to get into the large building. Rodney was by this time married and known as "Gipsy Smith", and the Christian Mission had become the Salvation Army. Under his care the work at Hull grew so that 15,000 copies of the War Cry were sold each week.
From Hull Gipsy Smith was sent to Hanley. Here he found a small number of people worshipping in a large building which had been a circus. Soon the old circus which held 2,500 people was crowded to the doors, and crowds as great, if not greater, than those which had gathered at Hull, came to hear the gipsy. There was a great revival of religion and the influence of it was felt for many miles around.
Soon after this Gipsy Smith began work as an evangelist among the churches, and he has continued to do this with great success up to the present time. In 1886, at the earnest request of some friends, he paid his first visit to America. When he arrived in New York he was scarcely known to any and the idea of a gipsy preacher rather startled the ministers and members of the churches. After some hesitation the minister of a large church agreed to have Gipsy Smith conduct a mission in his church. It was a large building, holding fifteen hundred people, but it was packed from the first service, and continued so for the three weeks that the gipsy was there. Soon more requests came in for services than the Gipsy could grant. The newspapers contained glowing accounts of his work, and from all sides came testimonies to the great good that he had done. Thousands of people were blessed under his earnest preaching, and when the time came for him to return to England a vast number of people wished him god-speed.
People who heard Gipsy Smith preach could scarcely believe that he had been born in a gipsy tent and had never spent a day in school. His use of the English language was so good, and his thoughts so fine and clear, that it seemed as if he must have received his training in a university. But he never forgot, himself, nor did he wish any one else to forget, what a very lowly beginning he had.
After his return to England Gipsy Smith became an assistant to the Rev. F. S. Collier, of Manchester. Here he continued to be a means of blessing to great numbers of people. Sometimes he preached to congregations of over five thousand, and always with good results. He soon became known as one of the greatest evangelists of Great Britain and wielded a great influence for good.
Gipsy Smith has paid several visits to America, and each time he has risen higher in the respect and love of the people. Wherever he goes crowds flock to hear him, and they are never disappointed. Americans have learned to look upon his visits as red-letter days for the churches, and if he could be spared from the Homeland, he would be warmly welcomed on this side of the Atlantic.
Gipsy Smith has preached in nearly all parts of the British Empire. He has been, for many years now, one of the great evangelists of the homeland. Thousands of people have been made better by his simple, direct message. Many great men have recognized in him a prophet of God, and they have been glad to honour him as such. He has counted among his friends some of the greatest men living, yet he has never lost his simplicity and gratitude to God for making him what he is. Not long ago he said: "I have had rich and strange experiences. I have lived in many houses, the guest of many sorts and conditions of people. I have been presented to two presidents of the United States, dined with bishops and archbishops. In my study hangs a letter from her late Majesty, Queen Victoria, and another from a royal duchess, but the most treasured things in my home are two pictures which adorn the walls of my bedroom. One is the picture of the wagon in which my mother died, and the other is a picture of a group of gipsies. I never sleep in that room without looking at these pictures and saying to myself: "Rodney, you would have been there to-day but for the grace of God. Glory be to His name for ever."
CHAPTER IX.
A BLIND MAN WHO BECAME POSTMASTER-GENERAL OF ENGLAND.
On August 26th, 1833, just four years before Queen Victoria began to reign, Henry Fawcett was born at Salisbury, England. He was sent to a Dame's school where he did not get on very well. The teacher said that he had a head like a colander, and he was so slow in learning his lessons that he became known as the dunce of the class. Young Harry himself admitted that he did not enjoy school. He loved to be out in the open and in the woods, but he went like a snail, unwillingly, to school.
There was one thing which never failed him and that was his appetite. He was always complaining that he did not get enough to eat. When his family moved away from Salisbury Harry went to a boarding-school, and in nearly every letter he wrote home he said he was nearly starving. In one letter to his mother he said: "Please, when the family has quite finished with the ham bone, send it on to me." However, in spite of his complaints, he grew stronger and bigger every day, until by the time he was ten he was several inches taller than his school mates of his own age.
When he was fourteen he was sent to a school known as Queenwood College and he began to take more interest in his studies. He worked hard while at this school and when he was nineteen he entered the famous Cambridge University. Henry Fawcett was popular with the other students from the first day that he entered Cambridge. He was very tall—over six feet three inches in height—and he moved around the college halls and over the campus with enormous long strides. He had an exceedingly happy and good-natured disposition and was welcome everywhere.
His greatest ambition in life was to fit himself for service as a member of the British Parliament. He desired to enter Parliament for no other reason than that of serving his fellowmen. There were so many laws which seemed to him to be cruel and unjust; so many heavy burdens weighing upon the shoulders of the poorer classes, that he longed with all his heart to be in a position where he could help to make things better.
In order to fit himself for Parliament he began to study law, but he had considerable trouble with his eyes. This was so serious that he was forbidden to do any reading until they were better. He did not complain, but obeyed the physician's orders. He went to stay with his family at Salisbury. It was during this visit that a terrible thing happened. On the morning of September 15, of 1858, he and his father began to climb Harnham Hill, from which a very fine view of the surrounding country could be obtained. Both father and son had their guns, for they hoped to secure some partridge. As they were crossing a field, Henry advanced in front of his father. A partridge arose and the father, who did not see just how near Henry was, fired, and some of the stray shot entered Henry's eyes, and from that moment until his death he was totally blind.
Henry Fawcett was just twenty-five when this terrible accident happened. He was taken back to his father's house in a cart. He remained perfectly calm as he listened to the doctor's verdict. The curtain had fallen and never again could he see the things which other people saw, nor read the books and papers he so dearly loved. But from that day until his death, twenty-six years later, no one ever heard him complain nor give any outward sign of the terrible disappointment which he must have felt. He did not wish people to openly sympathize with him, and the scores of letters which he received from well-meaning people, intended to console him in his misfortune, really gave him pain. He wanted people to forget that he was blind and treat him as one of themselves.
He straightway determined that he would continue to prepare himself to serve the people in Parliament. He knew that he was handicapped, in such manner as perhaps no other statesman had ever been, still he showed a courage and perseverance which was extraordinary.
Soon after his accident he began to walk about in the open. He naturally stumbled at his first step. When some one caught him by the arm to pick him up he said: "Leave me alone; I've got to learn to walk without seeing and I mean to begin at once—only tell me when I am going off the road."
All who knew Henry Fawcett at this time bear witness to his amazing courage and cheerfulness. If he had a heavy heart, he said nothing of it to others. Especially was this true in his relations with his father and mother. Whenever he was with them he was the life of the home, full of mischief as a schoolboy, and with a hearty laugh that made the house ring. "I want to live to be ninety," he said, and he meant it. He was the soul of kindness and good nature. No one ever knew him to say a cruel or unkind thing, or to spread a report that would injure any one. Throughout his life he sought to promote good-will and understanding and he was never happier than when he was helping some one who was in difficulty.
He had a remarkable memory for voices—that is a faculty which often becomes acute in blind people. It was said of him that if he heard a voice once he never forgot it. Sometimes when spoken to by a person whom he had not heard for many years, a puzzled look would cross his face, but it would suddenly clear up as he called the person by name. His sense of hearing became so keen that he could tell when his friends were not feeling as well as usual from their voices. Often he would startle them by saying: "What's the matter with you to-day, you're looking pale?" A man who had not been near him for twenty years once spoke to him and without a moment's hesitation Fawcett called him by name.
Henry Fawcett made two unsuccessful attempts to enter Parliament. He was defeated in Cambridge in 1863 by only eighty-one votes and a few months later he was defeated in Brighton. Many people voted against him because they thought that blindness was too severe a handicap for any man to become really useful in that great assembly. He himself did not think so, however, and he made a third attempt in 1865—when he was thirty-two years of age—and this time he was elected.
It was a proud day for Henry Fawcett when he entered Parliament. After he became blind no one, not even those who loved him most, believed that it was possible. Only a determination that absolutely refused to be thwarted, made his election possible.
Surrounded by many of the greatest statesmen of the nineteenth century, the blind man quietly took his place in Parliament. During his first session there he said very little. He had to learn the ways of Parliament, which is a difficult task for any one, and made much harder in his case. He made his first speech in March, 1866. Unlike most men he had no notes to help him. He had to rely altogether upon his fine memory. His speech was listened to with rapt attention. The picture of this tall, sightless man with earnest voice and manner, cast a spell over the House, and even those who disagreed with him were deeply impressed by his fine appearance and earnest manner.
In the years which followed Henry Fawcett made a great many speeches in Parliament. He was by no means a silent member. In every good cause which came up for discussion his voice was heard, and always on the side of those who needed help. Not only the struggling people of the British Isles interested him, but for several years he fought very hard on behalf of the poor people in far-off India. He became such a champion of the Indians that he was nicknamed, "The member for India," and he received many letters expressing deep gratitude from those people whom he could never hope to see.
He entered into a great many political battles, but there was one thing which even his opponents admitted; that was he never sought anything for himself. He laboured hard to help those whose lot he considered was less fortunate than his own.
In 1880 Henry Fawcett was made Postmaster-General of England, a position of very great importance and responsibility. There were over ninety thousand employees under the administration of the postoffice.
One bright spring day Henry Fawcett took up his duties at the General Post Office. He was introduced to the heads of the various departments and to those next in rank. As he began to warmly shake the hands of all to whom he was being introduced, some one whispered to him, "It is not usual for Her Majesty's Postmaster-General to shake hands with any one in the office below the rank of head of a department." It took a good deal to make Henry Fawcett indignant, but that remark pretty nearly did it. He said, "I suppose I am at liberty to make what use I like of my own hands."
He took a very great interest in all who in any way served the Post Office. From the first day that he took over his position he laboured hard to improve working conditions. He interested himself in every employee and nothing ever seemed too much trouble to this blind man of almost infinite patience and sympathy. No doubt his wonderful kindness meant that some took unfair advantage of him, but he found his supreme happiness in realizing that never before in the history of the great English Post-Office system had the work been done so thoroughly and to the satisfaction of the public. One of the great statesmen of that day said that, "The Postoffice could never have a more capable Postmaster-General, nor its officers a truer friend."
In December, 1883, he was taken seriously ill with diphtheria, and this was followed by typhoid fever. For a while his life was despaired of, and it illustrates what a large place in the life of his country the blind man had filled, to know that all England read the bulletins which told of his condition. The Queen herself, telegraphed every day, and sometimes oftener.
Mr. Fawcett recovered from this illness and was soon at work again as hard as ever. The following year he was honoured with degrees from many great universities, including Oxford and Glasgow. Then in November, 1884, he was taken suddenly ill and quietly passed away in the presence of his wife and daughter and several friends. He who had lived in total darkness for nearly thirty years; years in which he was never once heard to murmur or complain, passed into the eternal light of God's presence.
A whole nation mourned deeply when this man of such magnificent courage was laid to rest in the quiet churchyard at Salisbury, where he had been born. Tributes to his memory were paid to him by the greatest in the land. Queen Victoria wrote a most touching letter to his widow, and Hon. W. E. Gladstone said that no man had become more deeply enshrined in the memory of his fellow-countrymen. The terrible handicap of blindness had not prevented Henry Fawcett from becoming one of the greatest men of his generation.
CHAPTER X.
THE PLOUGHBOY WHO BECAME A FAMOUS NATURALIST.
One evening, in the town of Dunbar, Scotland, an excited lad hurried through the streets shouting to his schoolmates: "I'm gaun tae Amaraka the morn!" When they refused to believe him he said, "Weel—just you see if I am at skule the morn."
The lad was John Muir. That evening, as he and his brother, David sat by the fireside learning their lessons, his father walked in and said, "Bairns, you needna learn your lessons the nicht, for we're gaun to America the morn!" The boys were wild with joy. Even the natural heart-pain of parting from their grandparents, whom they deeply loved, was quickly quenched as they conjured up pictures of the life they were to lead across the seas. Mr. Muir decided to take with him John, who was eleven years of age, David, a brother, aged nine, Sarah, who was thirteen. Mrs. Muir and four children remained in Scotland until the new home was ready for them.
After a voyage of nearly seven weeks, in a sailing ship, the immigrants arrived in America and very soon after settled on their claim in Wisconsin. With the help of some neighbours, Mr. Muir built a shanty in less than a day, after the materials for the roof and walls were ready. From the first John Muir fell in love with his surroundings. To him the wilderness was a glorious place. He watched the birds and animals, the trees and the flowers, the streams and lakes—everything around him filled him with delight. It was a backwoods farm, and the hard work of clearing the farm began at once. John enjoyed piling up immense quantities of brushwood and making huge fires. Mr. Muir bought a yoke of oxen and the task of clearing the land began in earnest. The lads were up early and late, doing their best to help their father get the place cleared and a frame house built, so that the other members of the family, who had been left behind in Scotland, could join them. Late in the fall, just before the winter snow began to fall, the house was ready, and Mrs. Muir and the other four children arrived.
John was the eldest of the boys, and his father looked to him to do almost a man's work. The summer work was heavy, and especially harvesting and corn-hoeing. All the ground had to be hoed over the first few years and John had scarcely a minute to rest. They had no proper farm implements to begin with, and the hoes had to be kept moving up and down as if they were worked by machinery. John took great pride in the amount of work he was able to do, and very often worked sixteen and seventeen hours a day.
In winter time John and his brothers arose early to feed the cattle, grind axes, bring in the wood, and dozens of other jobs that needed to be done. No matter what the weather was, there was work to be done. It was pioneer farming, and it was only by long and hard effort that it was possible to earn a livelihood.
John was put to work at the plough at twelve years of age, when his head little more than reached the handles. For many years the bulk of the ploughing on that hard backwoods farm fell to his lot. From the first he determined to do as good ploughing as though he were a man, and in this he did not fail. None could draw a straighter furrow. The work was made especially hard because of the tree stumps which were everywhere on the half-cleared land.
To John's lot also fell the task of splitting rails for the long lines of zig-zag fences. Making rails was hard work and required no little skill. Sometimes John would cut and split one hundred rails a day from short, knotty, oak timbers, swinging the heavy mallet from early morning to late at night, until his hands were sore. He was proud of the amount of work that he was able to do, but the heavy exertions of those days probably prevented his growth and earned for him the title of the "Runt of the Family."
After eight years of very hard work the farm was at last cleared. John had worked as hard as any man, often rising at four o'clock in the morning and toiling till late at night. He made the rash vow that he would do a man's work, and even when he was not well, he made good his pledge. Then, when at last the land was cleared, his father bought a half section of wild land four or five miles away, and the task of clearing, breaking up, and fencing began all over again.
Soon after the entire family moved to the new farm, which was known as Hickory Hill Farm. It was high and dry, and very good land, but there was no living water, and so a well, ninety feet deep, had to be dug. With the exception of the first ten feet of ground, was hard, fine-grained sandstone. Mr. Muir tried to blast the sandstone, but failed, and he decided to have John do all the work with mason's chisels. This was a long, hard job, with a good deal of danger in it. He had to sit cramped in a place about three feet in diameter, and chip, chip away, day after day, for months. In the morning Mr. Muir and David lowered John in a windlass, then went away to the farm work and returned at noon to haul him up for dinner. After dinner he was promptly lowered again and left there until evening.
One day he was almost suffocated by carbonic acid gas which had settled at the bottom during the night. He was almost overcome as soon as he had been let down, but managed to shout, "Take me out". He was hauled up almost more dead than alive. Water was thrown down to absorb the gas, and a bundle of hay attached to a light rope was dropped and used to carry down pure air to stir up the poison. At last water was secured and two iron-bound buckets swung, which drew water from the well for many a long year.
It was fortunate for John that he had made good progress at school before he left Scotland, for he had few opportunities to study after he arrived on the backwoods farm.
For many years nearly every waking moment was spent in doing some kind of manual work. However, he was hungry for knowledge, and eagerly read the few books which came his way. Among these were the Bible, parts of Shakespeare's poems, and selections from Milton, Cowper and others, not often read by boys of his age.
When he was twenty-three he decided to attend the State University. His father told him that he would have to support himself by his own efforts. This he did, first by living very simply, and then by seizing every opportunity to earn a dollar. He taught school and worked in the harvest fields during the long summer vacations. When in college he lived so frugally that sometimes he did not spend more than half a dollar a week.
The greatest interest of John Muir's life had always been the things he found in nature. From the days when, as a little fellow, he played around the fields and streams near Dunbar in Scotland, he had loved the open air and the hundreds of things which lived and grew there. When he did finish his course at college he suffered from eye trouble, and was even threatened with blindness. He there and then decided to live in the open and see as much of the world as possible.
He set out on a walking tour through several States. He visited Cuba, then the Isthmus of Panama, and then went straight to San Francisco, where he arrived with less than a dollar in his pocket. This distance was all covered on foot. He slept in the open most of the time and gathered biological specimens as he went. Sometimes he ran completely out of money, and when this happened he secured work until he had sufficient to proceed.
Soon after he arrived in San Francisco he visited the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and from then until the time of his death he found these great hills a source of never-ending joy. He tramped among them until he knew them thoroughly. It was chiefly through his efforts that Congress set aside Yosemite as a national park. He was often called "Father of the Yosemite."
In 1876 he was appointed a member of the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey, and he saw Alaska, where he travelled hundreds of miles alone. Later he visited Siberia, Norway, and Switzerland. He did not hurry through those lands as many tourists do, but wherever he went he studied, with much care, the flowers and the animals that lived in the great open spaces. Things which others passed with only a glance he closely observed. His passion to study these things led him to visit India, Russia, Australia, New Zealand, Brazil and many other countries. He travelled thousands of miles on foot and generally slept in camps and tents.
He wrote several books and a great many articles which appeared in the big magazines. He wrote about animals, insects, and flowers, and his information was gained at first hand. He knew these things because he lived among them and loved them. His knowledge was recognized and appreciated. Harvard and several other universities conferred honourary degrees upon him, but he cared little for these things. From his travels abroad he returned to the Sierra Mountains which he loved so passionately. Several universities invited him to become professor, but he preferred to live his simple life among the mountains. After his death, in 1914, these beautiful lines were written about him by Odell Shepard:
THE PRAYER OF JOHN MUIR.
Let me sleep among the shadows of the mountain when I die,
In the murmur of the pines and gliding streams,
Where the long day loiters by
Like a cloud across the sky,
And the night is calm and musical with dreams.
Lay me down within a canyon of the mountains, far away,
In a valley filled with dim and rosy light;
Let me hear the streams at play
Through the vivid golden day,
And a voice of many waters in the night.
Let me lie where glinting rivers ramble down the slanting glade,
Under bending alders, garrulous and cool,
Where the sycamores have made
Leafy shrines of shifting shade,
Tremulous about the ferned and pebbled pool.
CHAPTER XI.
A SICK MAN WHO NEVER GAVE UP.
Francis Parkman was born at Boston on September 16, 1823. He had a fairly good start in life. He lived in a fine large brick house of three stories, with good big lawns and lots of room, so that any boy could have a real good time. There were flowers and fruit trees in abundance, and no doubt young Francis thought himself a very lucky boy.
When he was eight years of age he went to live on a farm with his grandfather, and remained there for nearly five years. It was during this time that he began to take a keen interest in nature. When not at school he spent most of his time collecting eggs, insects, reptiles, trapping squirrels, woodchucks, and other animals. All his life he was greatly interested in animals, and many good stories are told about him. Once when he was sitting at his desk in school a snake which had revived in the warmth of the schoolroom stuck its head out of his pocket, much to the consternation and alarm of some pupils sitting near.
His father was a minister, and one Sunday morning while Rev. Dr. Parkman and his wife were walking solemnly down the street to church with Francis close behind, Mrs. Parkman noticed a smile on the faces of those they passed. She turned around to see what was the matter, and there was Francis carrying by the tail, at arm's length, a dead rat. His father made him throw away the rat and walk with more dignity.
His favourite subject at school was history. He was especially interested in reading about Indians. By the time he was seventeen he made up his mind to write a history of the Indian wars, and this resolution became the controlling power of his life. From that time on he never lost an opportunity of studying Indian life. Nearly all his vacations were spent either with Indian tribes or in carefully going over ground which had been the scenes of many fierce conflicts.
About this time Francis Parkman began to have trouble both with his eyes and his heart. He consulted several doctors and travelled extensively, seeking to improve his health. For this reason, and also in order to better acquaint himself with the manners and customs of Indians, he joined a band of Indians on their way to the remote West. During this extensive trip he suffered great pain, yet he knew that it would be unwise to complain or show signs of weakness. Day after day he faced the hardships of a strange life, riding daily on horseback over a wild country, and taking his share with the Indians in hunting buffalo.
Instead of improving his health this trip greatly weakened him, and probably did him permanent injury. He could not digest the food that was given him; he became so faint and dizzy that he had to be helped into the saddle, and at times his mind lost its clearness. He could not sleep at nights, and from that time until his death he rarely, if ever, enjoyed a good night's sleep. When he got three hours' sleep out of twenty-four he thought himself lucky. Most of the time he got even less than this. He was attacked with rheumatic gout, which particularly affected one of his knees. This caused him intense suffering, and for many years he could only hobble around with the aid of a stick.
Francis Parkman, while still in his early twenties, was a sick man. He had so many disorders that he was never free from pain. Often the pain was so intense that he could not concentrate on any subject. He used to refer to his many troubles as "the enemy", and this can be said to his credit, that he never ceased to fight "the enemy". He had amazing courage; probably not one man in ten thousand could have been so brave and cheerful with so much physical pain.
He felt his misfortunes all the more because he so much admired strong men. As a boy, one of the great ambitions of his life had been to become strong physically. One thing which he so much admired about the Indians was their great agility and endurance. And so very early in life, he began to avoid habits which would undermine his strength. For such a man, admiring the physically strong as he did, it became a terrible trial for him to have to go through life as an invalid.
In the spring of 1848 he began to write the "History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac." He did this partly because he felt that to have a strong purpose, and to keep his mind occupied, would help him partly to forget his troubles. In view of his condition it was a great task to attempt. His eyes were so extremely weak that he could not write his own name except by closing them. His brain would not permit him to work for more than a few minutes at a time. Every effort he made cost him a good deal of pain. He caused a wooden frame to be constructed of the same size and shape as a sheet of paper. Stout wires were fixed horizontally across it, half an inch apart, and a movable back of thick pasteboard fitted behind them. The paper for writing was placed between the pasteboard and the wires, guided by which, and using a black lead crayon, he could write fairly well with closed eyes.
He made notes for his book with eyes closed, and these were afterwards read to him until they had become thoroughly fixed in his memory. But under such terrible handicaps did he work, that for a year and a half he only averaged six lines of writing each day.
The fact that he could not use his eyes in writing made his work very slow indeed. He had to depend upon the eyes of others. Often he would go to a public library with some educated person and for hours listen to passages from books which were likely to help him. If he had been well he could have seen at a glance what books were worth spending his time over. As it was he had to listen to a great many unimportant and tedious details.
Even when he was fairly well his condition was such that he could not listen to any person reading for more than an hour or two each day and that with frequent intervals of rest. It was all painfully slow and tedious work and it is not hard to believe what he wrote in the following words: "Taking the last forty years as a whole, the capacity for literary work which during that time has fallen to my share has, I am confident, been considerably less than a fourth part of what it would have been under normal conditions."
In 1851 Francis Parkman published "The Conspiracy of Pontiac" in two volumes. Fourteen years later he published "The Pioneers of France in the New World". Then followed, "The Jesuits in North America", "LaSalle and the Discovery of the Great West", "The Old Regime", "Count Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV", "Montcalm and Wolfe" and "A Half Century of Conflict".
All those books were marked by the author's extraordinary accuracy. One could have forgiven a man who was in such great pain if he had shown signs of carelessness, yet a lack of thoroughness was the one thing which annoyed Francis Parkman. He expected other people to be thorough and painstaking in their work, and he carried it out in his own life. If there was the least doubt about any statement he would not rest until he had looked carefully into the matter. As a result his books probably rank as the most reliable authorities on Indian life, customs and history. The thoroughness and accuracy of his books is admitted by all. During the period 1848 to 1867 he never knew a day when his body was not racked with pain, and yet the books he wrote during these years of severe suffering are a model of first-class workmanship.
Many great universities hastened to honour the scholar who had worked under such great difficulties. In 1879 McGill University conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Laws and Languages, and Harvard University honoured him with the same degree in 1889. He was made an honourary member of over twenty scientific societies in Great Britain and America. He died in 1893 at the age of seventy. Thus came to an end the life of one who, in spite of terrible handicaps, became one of the greatest historians of his age.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW A POOR BOY BECAME A GREAT SCIENTIST.
Just a few days before Christmas, in 1823, a little boy was born in the French village of Saint Leons. His parents were very poor, and the young boy, whose name was Jean Henri Fabre, was sent to live with his grandparents, who tilled a small farm some miles away. There he lived until he was seven, and made friends with the calves, the sheep, the geese and the hens, who were almost his sole companions.
His grandparents had no education. They had never opened a book in their lives. They had lived all their lives in that lonely farmhouse, and they knew little, and cared less, about the outside world. The grandfather was a stern old man, with his serious face, and unclipped hair, which he generally brought behind his ears with a flick of his thumb. He wore curious breeches, buckled at the knees, and heavy wooden shoes stuffed with straw. Young Henri was devoted to his old grandmother, who, while she could not read, told the little fellow many a thrilling story.
When meal time came all the members of the family, big and little, sat round the table, which consisted of long planks laid over two benches. At one end of the table would be a huge loaf of rye bread, which only the grandfather was allowed to cut. The grandmother generally attended to the bacon and turnips, which formed the staple food. Sometimes, on special occasions, there would be a good supply of homemade cheese. There were no proper beds in the little home, but as Henri was the youngest, he was given a sack, stuffed with oat-chaff, upon which to sleep.
In spite of the poverty of his surroundings, Henri was not unhappy. He was too young to worry much about his appearance. It is true that his clothes were rough and shabby. He generally wore a rough frieze frock which flapped against his bare legs, but his hardships were forgotten in his great love for the animals around that little farm. He loved the flowers, but even more he loved the living things all around him. Butterflies, grasshoppers, bees, spiders, wasps, in fact, every living thing the boy watched, and, when in the evening the family sat around the rough table to eat, Henri told them of his love for all these creatures. The other members of the family just laughed at Henri. How little they thought that some day Henri would know more about these insects than any one else in the world. When he was seven the time came for him to go to school, so he returned to his father's house in Saint Leons. The school he attended, which was the schoolmaster's home, consisted of one room, which had to serve as school, kitchen, bedroom, dining-room, and, sometimes, chicken-house and piggery. The schoolmaster himself was not a man of much learning, and seemed more interested in his chickens and pigs than in anything else, but he managed to teach the pupils their letters and some elementary subjects. Often in the middle of a lesson the door would be burst open, and a dozen hungry little pigs would scamper in, followed by a brood of chickens. By the time they had been put out the schoolmaster would have considerable difficulty in getting his scholars' attention back to the lesson. It was a noisy school indeed. All the boys loved the arithmetic lesson because it gave them a chance to shout. The whole class would recite the multiplication table in unison, and they would simply yell until even the little pigs became scared, and bolted out of the school.
Just about this time something happened which had a great influence over Henri Fabre. As a reward for doing well at school he was given a prize—a book about animals, with scores of pictures in it. True, it was only a cheap edition, with paper covers, but to Henri it seemed priceless. How he pored over its contents, and looked at the pictures of coons, foxes, wolves, dogs, cats, asses, rabbits, and dozens of other animals! This served to kindle his love for living things, and when the schoolmaster told the boys to go into his garden and kill the insects Henri crammed them into his pockets. Snails, beetles, and even wasps, all seemed to him too interesting to be ruthlessly killed.
When Henri was ten his parents moved from Saint Leons to the town of Rodez. There he attended a school where he was granted free tuition for rendering certain services in the chapel. Attired in a surplice, red skull-cap, and cassock, he, together with three other boys, performed his services in the chapel, and received instruction of a much more advanced character than he had yet received. Some of the studies he found difficult, and if he had listened to the call of the woods, he would often have played truant, for he was much more interested in the living things he found there than in the dry subjects learned in the school. But he remembered his poor parents at home, and their anxiety to see him make progress, so he stuck to even the most difficult tasks, and his record there was a good one.
Soon after this misfortune visited his family, and Henri had to leave school, and for some considerable time he suffered many hardships. He often went without food, and wandered along the highroads, selling lemons at country fairs, and later working at the building of a railway. Just at that time he was fortunate in winning a bursary for the normal school at Avignon, and so ended a period of his life which had been exceedingly dark.
During the years he spent at Avignon he pursued his studies with earnest purpose, and acquitted himself with distinction. He gained his college diploma, and was appointed to teach in a school at Carpentras, and after some years of close study he was made Professor of Physics and Chemistry at Ajaccio.
During these years Henri Fabre's interest in insects had been steadily increasing. Little creatures that other people thought ugly, he studied and loved. One day a naturalist, who had been attracted to Fabre, was explaining some things to him of unusual interest. Suddenly the naturalist took a pair of scissors and burst open a shell, and then explained to Fabre the anatomy of a snail. That incident opened a new world for Fabre. His interest in insects, which had always been great, became extraordinary. No longer was he content to study the outward form of insects, but he dissected and thoroughly examined all that came within his range. Often late at night, or again early in the morning, when other people were in their beds, he searched the country lanes and pools for specimens of insects, and then studied them closely to find out their habits of life.
Soon Henri Fabre became recognized as one who understood insect life as well, if not better, than any other living person. This is not to be wondered at, for an insect, which to other people, meant nothing, was a subject of great interest to him. If he were walking along the highway and an insect appeared, he would leave another man to follow it and study its movements, and he was quite indifferent as to what people thought of him. One day, when in his home, an unusually interesting wasp appeared; he dropped what he was doing and watched its movements for hours, utterly forgetting everything else.
Although so well known and respected as a great scientist, Henri Fabre was still poor. His income did not amount to much more than three hundred dollars a year. Then he was made a member of the Legion of Honour, one of the greatest distinctions which could be awarded to any man. He was introduced to the Emperor of France, and soon the French people everywhere began to look upon him with great pride. In spite of his great fame, he was a comparatively poor man, but his habits of life were simple, and he did not long for fame. He was supremely happy when left alone to study the tiny creatures of the insect world.
In 1879, Fabre retired from the college at Avignon to Serignan. There, more than ever, he had time to follow the bent of his life, and then he began to publish his famous books about insects, which are so fascinating. One after another, his books were printed, and all over the world people began to look upon these books as works of authority. He wrote: "The Life of the Spider", "The Life of the Fly", "The Life of the Caterpillar", "The Life of the Grasshopper", "The Life of the Weevil", "The Glow-worm and other Beetles", and a great many other books upon subjects of which very few people knew much.
The methods of his research were very simple—a magnifying-glass, two scalpels, made by himself from needles, a saucer for his dissecting trough, empty match-boxes and sardine tins for his specimen cases, a few wires under which he could imprison insects and watch them—these were about the only things he needed. He had extraordinary patience, and he loved with great tenderness the creatures whose habits he studied.
Fabre lived to be ninety-two years of age. He died in 1915, while the Great War was raging. Before his death his real genius was recognized all over the world. The foremost scientific societies of England, Sweden, Belgium, Russia and other lands hastened to confer honourary titles upon him, and while he himself was so simple and modest that he cared little for fame, the honours conferred showed how highly he was esteemed. From being a very poor boy, Henri Fabre became one of the greatest scientists that ever lived.
CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT AN ILLITERATE BOY MADE OF HIS LIFE.
Just seven days before Christmas, 1851, a baby was born at Mansfield, Nottingham, England, named James Flanaghan, who was destined to have a pretty hard time of it for several years. The baby's father was Patrick Flanaghan, and, as his name would suggest, was Irish by nationality. When he was sober, Patrick Flanaghan was a good husband and father, but when he was drunk—which was pretty often—he acted like a beast. At the sound of his unsteady step on the stairs, his wife and children prepared for the worst. Often what little furniture there was in the Flanaghan home would be smashed to atoms in the fury of the man's drunken passion, and the mother and children would be driven out into the street, to wander around until some one had pity on them and took them in.
After a few years James went to work with his father at the task of pipe-making in a factory. His father was the kiln man, and was clever in the art of giving fixity to moulds of clay by a process of burning. James stood at the table modelling clay into tobacco pipes. It was hard work for the boy, and all he received was sixty cents a week. The father became dissatisfied with such small wages, and so James was taken out of the factory to work in a coal mine.
A lady, in whose class James sat at Sunday school, gave him a coat which was several sizes too large for him. His mother wept when she saw him; he looked so funny; but James was too young to worry over his appearance, and he was glad to have a coat to keep him warm.
The men with whom James worked down the mine, teased him or cursed him, according to their moods. They were rough men and often their language was vile. At meal times James munched his crust of bread and cheese, and heard tales which had been told in the saloon the night before.
Soon he was taken, along with other lads of his age, to the saloon. His sweet singing astonished and pleased the drunken men there. He sang songs which he had heard, and he attended theatres, and such was his memory that he could reproduce whole scenes that he had witnessed. For all this James received a good deal of praise, and especially from the saloon-keepers, who were glad to have any one who could attract men to their drinking places.
Through the influence of a Sunday-school worker, named Parker, James was induced to attend a religious service at a Methodist church. He sat very reverently through the service although it all seemed very strange to him, and much of it he did not understand. When at the close of the service a man took him by the hand and said: "God bless you, my brother," he was deeply touched, and his eyes filled up with tears. He was not accustomed to that kind of speech. It was the kindness of the people which led him back to that church again. Deep impressions for good were made on the young lad's mind, although he could not make up his mind what to do. He had a great many evil companions, and he knew it would be a difficult thing for him to break away from them; however, one Sunday morning as he sat in church, listening to an earnest sermon, he bowed his head, and gave himself to God. It was the turning-point in James Flanaghan's life.
He was at this time about sixteen years of age, but he had practically no education. He could not write his own name, nor even distinguish the letters of the alphabet. He had never been to school one day in his life, and practically all he knew was the vulgar sayings he had heard in the mine, and in the saloons. But he began to improve himself at once, and, big fellow though he was, he bought an alphabet and learned his letters thoroughly, and then he began the simplest kind of reading. Often when he came home from the mine, tired though he was, he sat up until past midnight trying to make up for lost years.
He tried hard and made good progress. As soon as he was able to read well enough to spell out the words, he committed to memory the One Hundred and Third Psalm. It took him quite a while to learn it all for he could only commit to memory a few verses at a time, but he succeeded, and this fine psalm filled his mind with beautiful thoughts during the hours he spent down the mine. Then soon afterwards when there was need for teachers in the Sunday School he offered his services. He was given the beginners' class at first, for he could neither read nor teach the lessons for older scholars, but as he advanced in knowledge he was promoted to other classes, and after a few years was actually made superintendent of the school.
There was a group of earnest men in that church, who, like Flanaghan, worked hard, but who on Sundays preached either in small churches and mission halls of the district, or in the open air. Soon he joined them, and although his first prayers and brief addresses in public were halting and a source of anxiety to him, he rapidly improved, and all the neighbouring churches were glad to have him preach in their pulpits. Miners who had known him for several years could not understand how he had become educated so quickly. They knew that he had never been a day at public school in his life and that even at sixteen he could neither read nor write. Yet now he could read whole chapters of the Bible in public, and could preach sermons that showed he had read many other books as well. He was still working fourteen hours a day in the mine, and his time for reading was strictly limited, but he never wasted a moment, and his perseverance and earnestness, together with his excellent memory, soon enabled him to preach as though he had attended school as other young men.
Soon after this he was asked to conduct some services at a village named Long Clawson. These services were so successful that he was engaged to conduct further services in that district for a period of six months. Of course, this meant giving up work in the coal mine, and moving elsewhere. The news quickly spread throughout the little town where he lived, and the people came to his house to wish him and his wife and children "God speed." His conversion, and the marvellous progress he had made in education were widely known, and all were deeply interested. He stood upon a chair, and the crowd gathered around. He told them again of his conversion, and after a few earnest words, bade them a tender farewell. All were deeply moved and there were few dry eyes.
For four years James Flanaghan did the work of an evangelist; making visits, varying from ten days to four weeks, at many places throughout the country. Whenever he could spare half an hour he spent it in reading. He knew that he had a great deal of ground to make up, and he never could make it up unless he worked hard. His careful reading soon showed in his sermons and addresses. Not only were his public speeches earnest, they were thoughtful, and people who had known him in other years considered his progress nothing short of a miracle.
Then he was appointed city missionary for the city of Nottingham. During the time he lived there James Flanaghan became widely known and greatly beloved. The services he conducted at the large mission hall were the most important gatherings he had ever addressed. The large building held two thousand people and quite often it was filled to overflowing. A brotherhood organization for men was established with over two thousand members, and the entire city of Nottingham was influenced for good. When the time came for him to leave the city, he carried away with him the good wishes of all.
In 1891, when he was forty years of age, James Flanaghan was made a minister of the Primitive Methodist Church. This was a somewhat unusual thing to do, as he had never been to college, nor taken any regular course of study, but his work had shown that he was a true and able servant of God and he would never disgrace the ministry, for his close study for more than twenty years had made him a well-educated man.
His first charge after ordination was at Trinity Street Church, London. Here he found a large church, almost empty, yet surrounded by a vast population of very poor people. His first Sunday was not an encouraging one. There were only thirty-six people at the morning service, and thirty-seven in the evening, but James Flanaghan had been facing difficulties all his life, and had become used to them. From the time when, as a baby he had been turned out into the streets with his poor mother, up to the time he stood in the big empty church at London, it had been a bitter, uphill struggle, but rough weather makes good sailors, and Flanaghan's heart was strong and brave.
The more he learned about the district around his church the more he realized the need for Christian work. There were scores of low-class drinking places, and the lodging-houses were little better than haunts for animals. There was one lodging house where thirteen murders had been committed, but the very wretchedness of the district made an appeal to Flanaghan's sympathy, and he worked harder than he had ever worked in his life; if that were possible. Soon the large building was filled. Fine, enthusiastic meetings were held during the week and hundreds of boys in that neighbourhood enjoyed their first games in the gymnasium of the church.
Soon the premises, which had seemed so large and empty at first, were far too small to hold all the people who were eager to attend. What was to be done? The people of the district certainly could not raise money to enlarge the premises, and so it was decided that Mr. Flanaghan should visit towns and cities outside of London during the week, and by lecturing and preaching raise sufficient money to build larger and better premises. In less than two years Mr. Flanaghan had raised the sum of twenty thousand dollars, which made it possible to begin work on the new buildings.
By this time the name of James Flanaghan had become known throughout England. Just the announcement on a billboard that "James Flanaghan is coming," was a sufficient advertisement to fill any church or hall. Under the magic spell of his eloquence people became generous in their gifts for the poor. Poor children brought their coppers to buy a new brick in the buildings. A man who was penniless put his watch and chain on the collection plate, while another man brought a hen and requested that it be sold, and the funds used as the speaker wished.
The new hall was formally opened on January 4th, 1900, and is known as St. George's Hall. It is a fine, well-equipped building, and from the day it was opened until the present time it has been a means of blessing to thousands of people in that crowded section of London, known as Bermondsey, where people live under conditions which, fortunately, are almost unknown in this land.
James Flanaghan's reputation spread overseas, and in 1908 he was invited to tour Australia and New Zealand. He received a great welcome in New Zealand by people of all denominations. Arrangements had been made for large meetings, but in most cases the churches and halls which had been engaged were much too small. No visitor to that land for many years so favourably impressed the people. Audiences were held spellbound by his eloquence. How few of those who so admired his culture and lofty thought realized that they were listening to a man who had never been to public school a day in his life, and who up to the time of his sixteenth birthday could neither read or write. Lord Plunkett, the Governor of New Zealand, greatly admired Mr. Flanaghan, and showed him much kindness. Sir J. C. Ward, the Prime Minister, made him an honoured guest of the Parliament, and wherever he went his fine bearing and culture made an excellent impression. When he left he received the thanks of all the Christian Churches. A similar welcome was extended to him in Australia, and there he was for some time the guest of Lord Chief Justice and Lady Way.
He returned to his work in England, and found time to write several books, which had a wide circulation and did much good. Such were the demands for his services that only a small percentage of the requests could be acceded to, but he led a busy life and exerted much influence for good.
In 1914 he was taken ill, and a year later he had to retire from active work. This was a great trial to one who so loved his work, but he gradually became weaker. He died on March 30th, 1918, and his passing was regretted by thousands throughout the world. Members of the British Parliament, mayors, aldermen and councillors of London and the provinces joined the bereaved family in the church and placed flowers upon his grave. All were glad to honour the memory of one who, though he had started life under heavy handicaps, had made his life one of blessing and usefulness to a vast number of people.