TRYING HIS WINGS
Boyhood Days. Russell's First Case at Law. A Cure for Stage Fever.
Studying Music. A Runaway Trip to Europe.
So scanty was the income from the rocky farm that the father and
mother looked about them to see how they could add to it. Miranda
Conwell turned to her needle and often sewed far into the night,
making coats, neckties, any work she could obtain that would bring in
a few dollars. She was never idle. The moment her housework was done,
her needle was flying, and Russell had ever before him the picture of
his patient mother, working, ever working, for the family good. The
only time her hands rested was when she read her children such stories
and pointed such lessons as she knew were needed to develop childish
minds and build character. She never lost sight of this in the
pressing work and the need for money. She had that mental and
spiritual breadth of view that could look beyond problems of the
immediate present, no matter how serious they might seem, to the
greater, more important needs coming in the future.
Martin Conwell worked as a stonemason every spare minute, and in
addition opened a store in the mountain home in a small room adjoining
the living room. Neighbors and the world of his day saw only a poor
farmer, stonemason and small storekeeper. But in versatility, energy
and public spirit, he was far greater than his environment. Considered
only as the man there was a largeness of purpose, a broadness of
mental and spiritual vision about him that gave a subtle atmosphere of
greatness and unconsciously influenced his son to take big views of
life.
In the little store one day was enacted a drama not without its effect
on Russell's impressionable mind. For a brief time, the store became
a court room; a flour barrel was the judge's bench, a soap box and
milking stool, the lawyers' seats. The proceedings greatly interested
Russell, who lay flat on his breast on the counter, his heels in the
air, his chin in his hands, drinking it in with ears and eyes.
[Illustration: THE CONWELL FARMHOUSE AT SOUTH WORTHINGTON, MASS.]
A neighbor had lost a calf, a white-faced calf with a broken horn. In
the barn of a neighbor had been seen a white-faced calf with a broken
horn. The coincidence was suspicions. The plaintiff declared it was
his calf. The defendant swore he had never seen the lost heifer, and
that the one in his barn he had raised himself. Neighbors lent their
testimony, for the little store was crowded, a justice of the peace
from Northampton having come to try the case. One man said he had seen
the defendant driving a white-faced calf up the mountain one night
just after the stolen calf had been missed from the pasture. The
defendant intimated in no mild language that he must be a close blood
relation to Ananias. Hot words flew back and forth between judge,
lawyers and witnesses, and it began to look as if the man in whose
barn the calf was placidly munching was guilty. Just then Russell,
with a chuckle, slipped from the counter and disappeared through the
back door. In a minute he returned, and solemnly pushed a white-faced
calf with a broken horn squarely among the almost fighting disputants.
There was a lull in the storm of angry words. Here was the lost calf.
With a bawl of dismay and many gyrations of tail, it occupied the
centre of the floor. None could dispute the fact that it was the calf
in question. The defendant assumed an injured, innocent air, the
plaintiff looked crestfallen. Russell explained he had found the calf
among his father's cows. But, knowing the true situation, he had
enjoyed the heated argument too hugely to produce the calf earlier in
the case.
The event caused much amusement among the neighbors. Some said if they
ever were hailed to court, they should employ Russell as their lawyer.
The women, when they dropped in to see his mother, called him the
little lawyer. The boyish ambition to be a minister faded. Once more
he went to building castles in Spain, but this time they had a legal
capstone.
Thus the years rolled by much as they do with any boy on a farm.
Of work there was plenty, but he found time to become a proficient
skater, and a strong, sturdy swimmer, to learn and take delight in
outdoor sports, all of which helped to build a constitution like iron,
and to give him an interest in such things which he has never
lost. The boys of Temple College find in him not only a pastor and
president, but a sympathetic and understanding friend in all forms of
healthy, honorable sport.
Attending a Fourth of July parade in Springfield, he was so impressed
with the marching and manoeuvres of the troops that he returned home,
formed a company of his schoolmates, drilled and marched them as if
they were already an important part of the G.A.R. He secured a book on
tactics and studied it with his usual thoroughness and perseverance.
He presented his company with badges, and one of the relics of his
childhood days is a wooden sword he made himself out of a piece of
board. Little did any one dream that this childish pastime would in
later years become the serious work of a man.
In all the school and church entertainments he took an active part.
His talent for organizing and managing showed itself early, while his
magnetism and enthusiasm swept his companions with him, eager only to
do his bidding. Many were the entertainments he planned and carried
through. Recitations, dialogues, little plays all were presented under
his management to the people of South Worthington. It was these that
gave him the first taste of the fascination of the stage and set him
to thinking of the dazzling career of an actor. He is not the only
country boy that has dreamed of winning undying fame on the boards,
but not every one received such a speedy and permanent cure.
"One day in the height of the maple sugar season," says Burdette, in
his excellent life of Mr. Conwell, "The Modern Temple and Templars,"
"Russell was sent by his father with a load of the sugar to
Huntington. The ancient farm wagon complicated, doubtless, with sundry
Conwell improvements, drawn by a venerable horse, was so well loaded
that the seat had to be left out, and the youthful driver was forced
to stand. Down deep in the valley, the road runs through a dense
woodland which veiled the way in solitude and silence. The very place,
thought Russell, for a rehearsal of the part he had in a play to be
given shortly at school; a beautiful grade, thought the horse, to trot
a little and make up time. Russell had been cast for a part of a crazy
man--a character admirably adapted for the entire cast of the average
amateur dramatic performer. He had very little to say, a sort of
'The-carriage-waits-my-lord' declamation, but he had to say it with
thrilling and startling earnestness. He was to rush in on a love scene
bubbling like a mush-pot with billing and cooing, and paralyze the
lovers by shrieking 'Woe! Woe! unto ye all, ye children of men!'
Throwing up his arms, after the manner of the Fourth of July orator's
justly celebrated windmill gesture, he roared, in his thunderous
voice: 'Woe! Woe! unto ye--'
"That was as far as the declamation got, although the actor went
considerably farther. The obedient horse, never averse to standing
still, suddenly and firmly planted his feet and stood--motionless as a
painted horse upon a painted highway. Russell, obedient to the laws of
inertia, made a parabola over the dashboard, landed on the back of the
patient beast, ricochetted to the ground, cutting his forehead on the
shaft as he descended, a scar whereof he carries unto this day, and
plunged into a yielding cushion of mud at the roadside."
He returned home, a confused mixture of blood, mud, black eyes and
torn clothes. Such a condition must be explained. It could not
be turned aside by any off-handed joke. The jeers and jibes, the
unsympathetic and irritating comments effectually killed any desire
he cherished for the life of the stage. It became a sore subject. He
didn't even want it mentioned in his hearing. He never again thought
of it seriously as a life work.
But one thing these entertainments did that was of great value. They
developed and fostered a love of music and eventually led to his
gaining the musical education which has proven of such value to him.
He had a voice of singular sweetness and great power. At school, at
church, in the little social gatherings of the neighborhood, whenever
there was singing his voice led. It was almost a passion with him. At
the few parades and entertainments he saw in nearby towns, he watched
the musicians fascinated. He was consumed with a desire to learn to
play. Inventive as he was and having already made so many things
useful about the farm or in the house, it is a wonder he did not
immediately begin the making of some musical instrument rather than go
without it. Probably he would, if an agent had not appeared for the
Estey Organ Company. They were beginning to make the little home
organs which have since become an ornament of nearly every country
parlor. But they were rare in those days and the price to Martin
Conwell, almost prohibitive. Knowing Russell's love of music, the
father fully realized the pleasure an organ in the home would give his
son. But the price was beyond him. He offered the man every dollar he
felt he could afford. But it was ten dollars below the cost of the
organ and the agent refused it.
Martin Conwell felt he must not spend more on a luxury, and the agent
left. Crossing the fields to seek another purchaser, he met Miranda
Conwell. She asked him if her husband had bought the organ. His answer
was a keen disappointment The mother's heart had sympathized with the
boy's passion for music and knew the joy such a possession would be to
Russell. Ever ready to sacrifice herself, she told the man she would
pay him the ten dollars, if he would wait for it, but not to let her
husband know. The agent returned to Martin Conwell, told him he would
accept his offer, and in a short time a brand new organ was installed
in the farmhouse. Miranda Conwell sewed later at nights, that was all.
Not till she had earned the ten dollars with her needle did she tell
her husband why the agent had, with such surprising celerity, changed
his mind in regard to the price.
Russell's joy in the organ was unbounded, and the mother was more than
repaid for her extra work by his pleasure and delight. He immediately
plunged unaided into the study of music, and he never gave up until he
was complete master of the organ. His was no half-hearted love. The
work and drudgery connected with practising never daunted him. He kept
steadily at it until he could roll out the familiar songs and
hymns while the small room fairly rang with their melody. He also
improvised, composing both words and music, a gift that went with him
into the ministry and which has given the membership of Grace Baptist
Church, Philadelphia, many beautiful hymns and melodies.
Later he learned the bass viol, violoncello and cornet, and made money
by playing for parties and entertainments in his neighborhood. Years
afterward, when pastor of Grace Church, and with the Sunday School
on an excursion to Cape May, he saw a cornet lying on a bench on the
pier. Seized with a longing to play again this instrument of his
boyhood, he picked it up and began softly a familiar air. Soon lost to
his surroundings, he played on and on. At last remembering where he
was, he laid down the instrument and walked away. The owner, who had
returned, followed him and offered him first five dollars and then ten
to play that night for a dance at Congress Hall.
Martin Conwell, during Russell's boyhood days, carefully guarded his
son from being spoiled by the flattery of neighbors and friends. He
realized that Russell was a boy in many ways above the average, but
his practical common sense prevented him from taking such pride in
Russell's various achievements as to let him become spoiled and
conceited. Many a whipping Russell received for the personal songs he
composed about the neighbors. But that was not prohibitive. The very
next night, Russell would hold up to ridicule the peculiarity of some
one in the neighborhood, much to his victim's chagrin and to the
amusement of the listeners. He was forever inventing improvements for
the fishing apparatus, oars, boats, coasting sleds, household and farm
utensils, often forgetting the tasks his father had given him while
doing it. Naturally, this exasperated Martin Conwell, who had no help
on the farm but the boys, and the rod would again be brought into
active service. Once, after whipping him for such neglect of work--he
had left the cider apples out in the frost--Martin Conwell asked his
son's pardon because he had invented an improved ox-sled that was of
great practical value.
When he was fifteen he ran away again. No friendly Deacon Chipman
interfered this time, nor is it likely he would easily have been
turned from the project, for he planned to go to Europe. He went to
Chicopee to an uncle's, whom he frankly told of his intended trip. The
uncle kept Russell for a day or two by various expedients, while he
wrote to his father telling him Russell was there and what he intended
doing. The father wrote back saying to give him what money he needed
and let him go. So Russell started on his journey over the sea. He
worked his way on a cattle steamer from New York to Liverpool. But it
was a homesick boy that roamed around in foreign lands, and as he has
said most feelingly since, "I felt that if I could only get back home,
I would never, never leave it again." He did not stay abroad long and
when he returned to his home, his father greeted him as if he had been
absent a few hours, and never in any way, by word or action, referred
to the subject. In fact, so far as Martin Conwell appeared, Russell
might have been no farther than Huntington.
Thus boyhood days passed with their measure of work and their measure
of play. He lived the healthy, active life of a farm boy, taking a
keen interest in the affairs of the young people of the neighborhood,
amusing the older heads by his mischievous pranks. He diligently and
perseveringly studied in school hours and out. He read every book he
could get hold of. He was sometimes disobedient, often intractable, in
no way different from thousands of other farm boys of those days or
these.
But the times were coming which would test his mettle. Would he
continue to climb as he had done after the eagle's nest, though
compelled many times to go to the very ground and begin over again?
Would the experiences of life transmute into pure gold, these
undeveloped traits of character or prove them mere dross? It
rested with him. He was the alchemist, as is every other man. The
philosopher's stone is in every one's hands.