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."