“When I told my employer of my plan, he tried to dissuade me from it. He

pointed out the difficulties in the way of my going to college, and

offered to double my pay if I would stay in the store.”

THE TURNING-POINT OF HIS LIFE

“That was the turning-point in my life. On one side was the certainty of

one hundred and twenty dollars a year, and the prospect of promotion as

fast as I deserved it. Remember what one hundred and twenty dollars

meant in Prince Edward Island, and to a poor boy who had never possessed

such a sum in his life. On the other side was my hope of obtaining an

education. I knew that it involved hard work and self-denial, and there

was the possibility of failure in the end. But my mind was made up. I

would not turn back. I need not say that I do not regret that early

decision, although I think that I should have made a successful

storekeeper.

“With my eighty dollars capital, I began to attend the village high

school, to get my preparation for college. I had only one year to do it

in. My money would not last longer than that. I recited in Latin, Greek

and algebra, all on the same day, and for the next forty weeks I studied

harder than I ever had before or have since. At the end of the year I

entered the competitive examination for a scholarship in Prince of Wales

College, at Charlotte Town, on the island. I had small hope of winning

it, my preparation had been so hasty and incomplete. But when the result

was announced, I found that I had not only won the scholarship from my

county, but stood first of all the competitors on the island.

“The scholarship I had won amounted to only sixty dollars a year. It

seems little enough, but I can say now, after nearly thirty years, that

the winning of it was the greatest success I have ever had. I have had

other rewards, which, to most persons, would seem immeasurably greater,

but with this difference: that first success was essential; without it I

could not have gone on. The others I could have done without, if it had

been necessary.”

For two years young Schurman attended Prince of Wales College. He lived

on his scholarship and what he could earn by keeping books for one of

the town storekeepers, spending less than one hundred dollars during the

entire college year. Afterwards, he taught a country school for a year,

and then went to Acadia College in Nova Scotia to complete his college

course.

A SPLENDID COLLEGE RECORD

One of Mr. Schurman’s fellow-students in Acadia says that he was

remarkable chiefly for taking every prize to which he was eligible. In

his senior year, he learned of a scholarship in the University of

London, to be competed for by the students of Canadian colleges. The

scholarship paid five hundred dollars a year for three years. The young

student in Acadia was ambitious to continue his studies in England, and

saw in this offer his opportunity. He tried the examination and won the

prize.

During the three years in the University of London, Mr. Schurman became

deeply interested in the study of philosophy, and decided that he had

found in it his life work. He was eager to go to Germany and study under

the great leaders of philosophic thought. A way was opened for him,

through the offer of the Hibbard Society in London; the prize being a

traveling fellowship with two thousand dollars a year. The honor men of

the great English universities like Oxford and Cambridge were among the

competitors, but the poor country boy from Prince Edward Island was

again successful, greatly to the surprise of the others.

At the end of his course in Germany, Mr. Schurman, then a Doctor of

Philosophy, returned to Acadia College to become a teacher there. Soon

afterwards, he was called to Dalhousie University, at Halifax, Nova

Scotia. In 1886, when a chair of philosophy was established at Cornell,

President White, who once met the brilliant young Canadian, called him

to that position. Two years later, Dr. Schurman became Dean of the Sage

School of Philosophy at Cornell; and, in 1892, when the President’s

chair became vacant, he was placed at the head of the great university.

At that time, he was only thirty-eight years of age.

President Schurman is a man of great intellectual power, and an

inspiring presence. Though one of the youngest college presidents in the

country, he is one of the most successful, and under his leadership

Cornell has been very prosperous. He is deeply interested in all the

affairs of young men, and especially those who, as he did, must make

their own way in the world. He said, the other day:—

“Though I am no longer engaged directly in teaching, I should think my

work a failure if I did not feel that my influence on the young men with

whom I come in contact is as direct and helpful as that of a teacher

could be.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

VII

The Story of John Wanamaker

IN a plain two-story dwelling, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, the

future merchant prince was born, July 11, 1837. His parents were

Americans in humble station; his mother being of that sturdy

Pennsylvania Dutch stock which has no parallel except the Scotch for

ruggedness. His father, a hardworking man, owned a brickyard in the

close vicinity of the family residence. Little John earned his first

money, seven big copper cents, by assisting his father. He was too small

to do much, but turned the bricks every morning as they lay drying in

the summer sun. As he grew older and stronger, the boy was given harder

tasks around the brickyard.

He went to school a little, not much, and he assisted his mother in the

house a great deal. His father died when John was fourteen, and this

changed the whole course of his life. He abandoned the brickyard and

secured a place in a bookstore owned by Barclay Lippincott, on Market

Street, Philadelphia, at a salary of one dollar and twenty-five cents a

week.

It was a four-mile walk from his home to his place of business.

Cheerfully he trudged this distance morning and night; purchasing an

apple or a roll each noon for luncheon, and giving his mother all the

money that he saved. He used to deny himself every comfort, and the only

other money that he ever spent was on books for his mother. This seems

to have been the boy’s chief source of pleasure at that period. Even

to-day, he says of his mother: “Her smile was a bit of heaven, and it

never faded out of her face till her dying day.” Mrs. Wanamaker lived to

see her son famous and wealthy.

HIS CAPITAL AT FOURTEEN

John Wanamaker, the boy, had no single thing in all his surroundings to

give him an advantage over any one of hundreds of other boys in the city

of Philadelphia. Indeed, there were hundreds and hundreds of other boys

of his own age for whom anyone would have felt safe in prophesying a

more notable career. His capital was not in money. Very few boys in all

that great city had less money than John Wanamaker, and comparatively

few families of average position but were better off in the way of

worldly goods. John Wanamaker’s capital, that stood him in such good

stead in after life, comprised good health, good habits, a clean mind,

thrift in money matters, and tireless devotion to whatever he thought to

be duty.

People who were well acquainted with John Wanamaker when he was a book

publisher’s boy, say that he was exceptionally promising as a boy; that

he was studious as well as attentive to business. He did not take kindly

to rough play, or do much playing of any kind. He was earnest in his

work, unusually earnest for a boy. And he was saving of his money.

When, a little later, he went to a Market street clothing house and

asked for a place, he had no difficulty in getting it, nor had he any

trouble in holding it, and here he could earn twenty-five cents a week

more wages.

TOWER HALL CLOTHING STORE

Men who worked with him in the Tower Hall Clothing Store say that he was

always bright, willing, accommodating, and very seldom out of temper.

His effort was to be first at the store in the morning, and he was very

likely to be one of the last, if not the last, at the store in the

evening. If there was an errand, he was always prompt and glad to do it.

And so the store people liked him, and the proprietor liked him, and,

when he began to sell clothing, the customers liked him. He was

considerate of their interests. He did not try to force undesirable

goods upon them. He treated them so that when they came again they would

be apt to ask, “Where is John?”

HIS AMBITION AND POWER AS AN ORGANIZER AT SIXTEEN

Colonel Bennett, the proprietor of Tower Hall, said of him at this

time:—

“John was certainly the most ambitious boy I ever saw. I used to take

him to lunch with me, and he used to tell me how he was going to be a

great merchant.

“He was very much interested in the temperance cause; and had not been

with me long before he persuaded most of the employees in the store to

join the temperance society to which he belonged. He was always

organizing something. He seemed to be a natural-born organizer. This

faculty is largely accountable for his great success in after life.”

THE Y. M. C. A.

Young Wanamaker’s religious principles were always at the forefront in

whatever he did. His interest in Sunday School work, and his skill as an

organizer became well known. And so earnestly did he engage in the work

of the Young Men’s Christian Association, that he was appointed the

first salaried secretary of the Philadelphia branch, at one thousand

dollars a year. Never since has a secretary enrolled so many members in

the same space of time. He passed seven years in this arduous work.

OAK HALL

He saved his money; and, at twenty-four, formed a partnership with his

brother-in-law Nathan Brown, and opened Oak Hall Clothing store, in

April, 1861. Their united capital was only $3,500; yet Wanamaker’s

capital of popular good-will was very great. He was already a great

power in the city. I can never forget the impression made upon my mind,

after he had been in business but a few months, when I visited his

Bethany Sunday School, established in one of the most unpromising

sections of the city, which had become already a factor for good, with

one of the largest enrollments in the world. And he was foremost in

every form of philanthropic work.

It was because of his great capacity to do business that Wanamaker had

been able to “boom” the Young Men’s Christian Association work. He knew

how to do it. And he could “boom” a Sunday School, or anything else that

he took hold of. He had

A HEAD BUILT FOR BUSINESS,

whatever the business might be. And as for Oak Hall, he knew just what

to do with it.

_The first thing he did was to multiply his working capital by getting

the best help obtainable for running the store._

At the very outset, John Wanamaker did what almost any other business

man would have stood aghast at. He chose the best man he knew as a

salesman in the clothing business in Philadelphia,—the man of the most

winning personality who could attract trade,—and agreed to pay him

$1,350 for a year,—one-third of the entire capital of the new concern.

It has been a prime principle with this merchant prince not only to deal

fairly with his employees, but to make it an object for them to earn

money for him and to stand by him. Capacity has been the first demand.

_He engaged the very best men to be had._ There are to-day dozens of men

in his employ who receive larger salaries than are paid to cabinet

ministers. All the employees of the Thirteenth Street store, which he

occupied in 1877, participate in _a yearly division of profits. Their

share at the end of the first year amounted to $109,439.68._

HIS RELATION TO CUSTOMERS

A considerable portion of the trade of the new store came from people in

the country districts. Mr. Wanamaker had a way of getting close to them

and gaining their good will. He understood human nature. He put his

customer at ease. He showed interest in the things that interested the

farmer. An old employee of the firm says: “John used to put a lot of

chestnuts in his pocket along in the fall and winter, and, when he had

one of these countrymen in tow, he’d slip a few of the nuts into the

visitor’s hand and both would go munching about the store.”

Wanamaker was the first to introduce the “one-price system” into the

clothing trade. It was the universal rule in those days, in the clothing

trade, not to mark the prices plainly on the goods that were for sale.

Within rather liberal bounds, the salesman got what he could from the

customer. Mr. Wanamaker, after a time, instituted at Oak Hall the plan

of “but one price and that plainly marked.” In doing this he followed

the cue of Stewart, who was the first merchant in the country to

introduce it into the dry-goods business.

The great Wanamaker store of 1877 went much further:—

He announced that _those who bought goods of him were to be satisfied

with what they bought, or have their money back_.

To the old mercantile houses of the city, this seemed like committing

business suicide.

It was, also, unheard-of that special effort should be made to add to

the comfort of visitors; to make them welcome whether they cared to buy

or not; to induce them to look upon the store as a meeting-place, a

rendezvous, a resting-place,—a sort of city home, almost.

THE MERCHANT’S ORGANIZING FACULTY

was so great that General Grant once remarked to George W. Childs that

Wanamaker would have been a great general if his lot had been that of

army service.

Wanamaker used to buy goods of Stewart, and the New York merchant

remarked to a friend: “If young Wanamaker lives, he will be a greater

merchant than I ever was.”

Sometime in recent years, since Wanamaker bought the Stewart store, he

said to Frank G. Carpenter:—

“A. T. Stewart was a genius. I have been surprised again and again as I

have gone through the Broadway and Tenth Street building, to find what a

knowledge he had of the needs of a mercantile establishment. Mr. Stewart

put up a building which is to-day, I believe, better arranged than any

of the modern structures. He seemed to know just what was needed.

“I met him often when I was a young man. I have reason to think that he

took a liking to me. One day, I remember, I was in his woolen department

buying some stuffs for my store here, when he came up to me and asked if

I would be in the store for fifteen minutes longer. I replied that I

would. At the end of fifteen minutes he returned and handed me a slip of

paper, saying:—

“‘Young man, I understand that you have a mission school in

Philadelphia; use that for it.’

“Before I could reply he had left. I looked down at the slip of paper.

It was a check for one thousand dollars.”

Wanamaker early showed himself the peer of the greatest merchants. He

created the combination or department store. He lifted the retail

clothing business to a higher plane than it had ever before reached. In

ten years from the time he began to do business for himself, he had

absorbed the space of forty-five other tenants and become the leading

merchant of his native city. Four years later, he had purchased, for

$450,000, the freight depot of the Pennsylvania Railroad, covering the

entire square where his present great store is located. The firm name

became simply John Wanamaker. His lieutenants and business partners

therein are his son Thomas B. Wanamaker, and Robert C. Ogden. Their two

Philadelphia establishments alone do a business of between $30,000,000

and $40,000,000 annually. Mr. Wanamaker’s private fortune is one of the

most substantial in America.

ATTENTION TO DETAILS

Yet in all these years he has been early and late at the store, as he

was when a boy. He has always seen to it that customers have prompt and

careful attention. He early made the rule that if a sale was missed, a

written reason must be rendered by the salesman. There was no hap-hazard

business in that store,—nothing of the happy-go-lucky style. Each man

must be alert, wide-awake, attentive, or there was no place for him at

Oak Hall.

THE MOST RIGID ECONOMY

has been always a part of the system. It is told of him that, in the

earlier days of Oak Hall, he used to gather up the short pieces of

string that came in on parcels, make them into a bunch, and see that

they were used when bundles were to be tied. He also had a habit of

smoothing out old newspapers, and seeing that they were used as wrappers

for such things as did not require a better grade of paper.

The story has been often related of the first day’s business at the

original store in ’61, when Wanamaker delivered the sales by wheeling a

push-cart.

ADVERTISING

The first day’s business made a cash profit of thirty-eight dollars; and

the whole sum was invested in one advertisement in the next day’s

“_Inquirer_.”

His advertising methods were unique; he paid for the best talent he

could get in this line.

Philadelphia woke one morning to find “W. & B.” in the form of six-inch

square posters stuck up all over the town. There was not another letter,

no hint, just “W. & B.” Such things are common enough now, but then the

whole city was soon talking and wondering what this sign meant. After a

few days, a second poster modestly stated that Wanamaker & Brown had

begun to sell clothing at Oak Hall. Before long there were great signs,

each 100 feet in length, painted on special fences built in a dozen

places about the city, particularly near the railroad stations. These

told of the new firm and were the first of a class that is now seen all

over the country. Afterwards

BALLOONS

more than twenty feet high were sent up, and a suit of clothes was given

to each person who brought one of them back. Whole counties were stirred

up by the balloons. It was grand advertising, imitated since by all

sorts of people. When the balloon idea struck the Oak Hall management it

was quickly found that the only way to get these air-ships was to make

them, and so, on the roof of the store, the cotton cloth was cut and

oiled and put together. Being well built, and tied very tightly at the

neck, they made long flights and some of them were used over and over

again. In one instance, a balloon remained for more than six months in a

cranberry swamp, and when the great bag was discovered, slowly swaying

in the breeze, among the bushes, the frightened Jerseymen thought they

had come upon an elephant, or, maybe, a survivor of the mastodons. This

made more advertising of the very best kind for the clothing store,—the

kind that excites interested, complimentary talk.

SEIZING OPPORTUNITIES

Genius consists in taking advantage of opportunities quite as much as in

making them. Here was a young man doing things in an advertising way

regardless of the custom of the business world, and with a wonderful

knowledge of human nature. He took commonsense advantage of

opportunities that were open to everybody.

Soon after the balloon experience, tally-ho coaching began to be a

Philadelphia fad of the very exclusives. Immediately afterwards a crack

coach was secured, and six large and spirited horses were used instead

of four, and Oak Hall employees, dressed in the style of the most ultra

coaching set, traversed the country in every direction, scattering

advertising matter to the music of the horn. Sometimes they would be a

week on a trip. No wonder Oak Hall flourished. It was kept in the very

front of the procession all the time.

A little later, in the yachting season, the whole town was attracted and

amused by processions and scatterings of men, each wearing a wire body

frame that supported a thin staff from which waved a wooden burgee, or

pointed flag reminding them of Oak Hall. Nearly two hundred of these

prototypes of the “Sandwich man” were often out at one time.

But it was not only in the quick catching of a novel advertising thought

that the new house was making history; in newspaper advertising, it was

even further in advance. The statements of store news were crisp and

unhackneyed, and the first artistic illustrations ever put into

advertisements were used there. So high was the grade of this

picture-work that art schools regularly clipped the illustrations as

models; and the world-famous Shakespearian scholar, Dr. Horace Howard

Furness, treasured the original sketches of “The Seven Ages” as among

the most interesting in his unique collection.

PUSH AND PERSISTENCE

“The chief reason,” said Mr. Wanamaker upon one occasion, “that

everybody is not successful is the fact that they have not enough

persistency. I always advise young men who write me on the subject to do

one thing well, throwing all their energies into it.”

To his employees he once said:—“We are very foolish people if we shut

our ears and eyes to what other people are doing. I often pick up things

from strangers. As you go along, pick up suggestions here and there, jot

them down and send them along. Even writing them down helps to

concentrate your mind on that part of the work. You need not be afraid

of overstepping the mark. The more we push each other, the better.”

“TO WHAT, MR. WANAMAKER, DO YOU ATTRIBUTE YOUR GREAT SUCCESS?”

In reply to this question when asked, he replied:—“To thinking, toiling,

trying, and trusting in God.”

A serene confidence in a guiding power has always been one of the

Wanamaker characteristics. He is always calm. Under the greatest stress

he never loses his head.

In one physical particular, Mr. Wanamaker is very remarkable. He can

work continually for a long time without sleep and without evidence of

strain, and make up for it by a good rest afterwards.

When upon one occasion he was asked to name the essentials of success,

he replied, curtly:—“I might write a volume trying to tell you how to

succeed. _One way is to not be above taking a hint from a master._ I

don’t care to tell why I succeeded; because I object to talking about

myself,—it isn’t modest.”

A feature of his make-up that has contributed largely to his success is

his ability to concentrate his thoughts. No matter how trivial the

subject brought before him, he takes it up with the appearance of one

who has nothing else on his mind.

HIS VIEWS ON BUSINESS

When asked whether the small tradesmen has any “show” to-day against the

great department stores, he said:—

“All of the great stores were small at one time. Small stores will keep

on developing into big ones. You wouldn’t expect a man to put an iron

band about his business in order to prevent expansion, would you? There

are, according to statistics, a greater number of prosperous small

stores in the city than ever before. What better proof do you want?

“The department store is a natural product, evolved from conditions that

exist as a result of fixed trade laws. Executive capacity, combined with

command of capital, finds opportunity in these conditions, which are

harmonious with the irresistible determination of the producer to meet

the consumer directly, and of merchandise to find distribution along the

lines of least resistance. Reduced prices stimulate consumption, and

increase employment; and it is sound opinion that the increased

employment created by the department stores goes to women without

curtailing that of men. In general it may be stated that large retail

stores have shortened the hours of labor; and by systematic discipline

have made it lighter. The small store is harder upon the sales-person

and clerk. The effects upon the character and capacity of the employees

are good. A well ordered, modern retail store is the means of education

in spelling, writing, English language, system and method. Thus it

becomes to the ambitious and serious employees, in a small way, a

university, in which character is broadened by intelligent instruction

practically applied.”

When asked if a man with means but no experience would be safe in

embarking in a mercantile business, he replied quickly:—

“A man can’t drive a horse who has never seen one. No; a man must have

training, must know how to buy and sell; only experience teaches that.”

I have heard people marvel at the unbroken upward course of Mr.

Wanamaker’s career, and lament that they so often make mistakes. But

hear him:—

“Who does not make mistakes? Why, if I were to think only of the

mistakes I have made, I should be miserable indeed.”

I have heard it said a hundred times that Mr. Wanamaker started when

success was easy. Here is what he says himself about it:—

“I think I could succeed as well now as in the past. It seems to me that

the conditions of to-day are even more favorable to success than when I

was a boy. There are better facilities for doing business, and more

business to be done. Information in the shape of books and newspapers is

now in the reach of all, and the young man has two opportunities where

he formerly had one.

“We are much more afraid of combinations of capital than we have any

reason for being. Competition regulates everything of that kind. No

organization can make immense profits for any length of time without its

field soon swarming with competitors. It requires brain and muscle to

manage any kind of business, and the same elements which have produced

business success in the past will produce it now, and will always

produce it.”

PUBLIC SERVICE

With the exception of his term of service as postmaster-general of the

United States in President Harrison’s cabinet—a service which was marked

by great executive ability and the institution of many reforms,—Mr.

Wanamaker has devoted his attention almost entirely to his business and

his church work.

Yet as a citizen he has always taken a most positive course in

opposition to the evils that threaten society. He has been forever

prompted by his religious convictions to pursue vice either in the

“dive,” or in municipal, state or national life. He hates a barroom, but

he hates a treasury looter far more fiercely. His idea of Christian duty

was evidently derived from the scene wherein the Master took a scourge

and drove the corrupt traders and office-holders out of the temple. It

is vigorous, it is militant; but it makes enemies. Consequently, Mr.

Wanamaker is not without persistent maligners; getting himself well

hated by the worst men in the community.

INVEST IN YOURSELF

Mr. Wanamaker’s views of what life is for are well expressed in the

following excerpt from one of his addresses to young men.

In the course of his address, he related that he was once called upon to

invest in an expedition to recover Spanish mahogany and doubloons from

the Spanish Main, which, for half a century, had lain under the rolling

waves in sunken frigates. “But, young men,” he continued, “I know of

better expeditions than this right at home, deep down under the sea of

neglect and ignorance and discouragement. Near your own feet lie

treasures untold, and you can have them all for your own by earnest

watch and faithful study and proper care.

“Let us not be content to mine the most coal, make the largest

locomotives and weave the largest quantities of carpets; but, amid the

sounds of the pick, the blows of the hammer, the rattle of the looms,

and the roar of the machinery, take care that the immortal mechanism of

God’s own hand,—the mind,—is still full-trained for the highest and

noblest service.

“This is the most enduring kind of property to acquire, a property of

soul which no disaster can wreck or ruin. Whatever may be the changes

that shall sweep over our fair land, no power can ever take away from

you your investments in knowledge.”

AT HOME

Like all other magnetic and forceful men, Mr. Wanamaker is striking in

appearance, strong rather than handsome. He has a full, round head, a

broad forehead, a strong nose, heavy-lidded eyes that flash with energy,

heavy jaws that denote strength of will, and tightly closed lips that

just droop at the corners, giving an ever-present touch of sedateness.

His face is as smooth as a boy’s and as mobile as an actor’s; and, when

lighted up in discussion, it beams with expression. He wears a hat that

is only six and seven-eighths in size, but is almost completely circular

in form. He is almost six feet tall and finely built, and all his

motions have in them the springiness of health. Nobody ever saw him

dressed in any other color than black, with a black necktie under a

“turn-down” collar. But he always looks as trim as if he were just out

of the hands of both tailor and barber.

It is his delight to pass much time at his country seat in Jenkintown.

He is fond of the field and the river, the trees and flowers, and all

the growths with which God has beautified the earth. His house is a

home-like structure, with wide piazzas, standing upon the crest of a

hill in the midst of a noble lawn. A big rosery and orchid house stand

near by. The before-breakfast ramble of the proprietor is finished in

the flower garden, and every guest is laden with floral trophies.

Mr. Wanamaker was married, while he was the Secretary of the Y. M. C.

A., to one whom he met at a church service, and who has been in full

sympathy with his religious activities. He has been for forty years

superintendent of the Bethany Sunday School in Philadelphia. He began

with two teachers and twenty-seven pupils; and at the recent anniversary

reported a school of 4,500, a church with 3,700 members, 500 having been

added during the past year, several branches, and scores of department

organizations.

John Wanamaker says to-day that his business success is due to his

religious training. He is first of all a Christian.

The lesson of such a life should be precious to every young man. It

teaches the value of untiring effort, of economy, of common sense

applied to common business. I know of no career in this country that

offers more encouragement to young people. It shows what persistency can

do; it shows what intelligent, well-directed, tireless effort can do;

and it proves that a man may devote himself to helping others, to the

Sunday School, to the Church, to broad philanthropy, and still be

wonderfully successful in a business way.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

VIII

Giving up Five Thousand Dollars a Year to Become a Sculptor

“MY life?” queried F. Wellington Ruckstuhl, one of the foremost

sculptors of America, as we sat in his studio looking up at his huge

figure of “Force.” “When did I begin to sculpture? As a child I was

forever whittling, but I did not have dreams then of becoming a

sculptor. It was not till I was thirty-two years of age. And

love,—disappointment in my first love played a prominent part.”

“But as a boy, Mr. Ruckstuhl?”

“I was a poet. Every sculptor or artist is necessarily a poet. I was

always reaching out and seeking the beautiful. My father was a foreman

in a St. Louis machine shop. He came to this country in a sailing ship

from Alsace, by way of the Gulf to St. Louis, when I was but six years

old. He was a very pious man and a deacon in a church. One time, Moody

and Sankey came to town, and my father made me attend the meetings; I

think he hoped that I would become a minister. Between the ages of

fourteen and nineteen, I worked in a photographic supply store; wrote

one hundred poems, and read incessantly. I enlarged a view of the statue

of Nelson in Trafalgar Square, London, into a ‘plaster sketch,’ ten

times as large as the picture, but still I did not know my path. I began

the study of philosophy, and kept up my reading for ten years. My

friends thought I would become a literary man. I wrote for the papers,

and belonged to a prominent literary club. I tried to analyze myself. ‘I

am a man,’ I said, ‘but what am I good for? What am I to make of this

life?’ I drifted from one position to another. Every one was sorry to

part with my services, for I always did my duties as well as they could

be done. When I was twenty-five years of age, the girl to whom I was

attached was forced by her mother to marry a wealthy man. She died a

year afterwards; and I ‘pulled up stakes,’ and started on a hap-hazard,

reckless career. I went to Colorado, drifted into Arizona, prospected,

mined, and worked on a ranch. I went to California, and at one time

thought of shipping for China. My experiences would fill a book. Again I

reached St. Louis. For a year, I could not find a thing to do, and

became desperate.”

“And you had done nothing at art so far?” I asked.

“At that time, I saw a clay sketch. I said to myself, ‘I can do as well

as that,’ and I copied it. My second sketch admitted me to the St. Louis

Sketch Club. I told my friends that I would be a sculptor. They laughed

and ridiculed me. I had secured a position in a store, and at odd times

worked at what I had always loved, but had only half realized it.

Notices appeared in the papers about me, for I was popular in the

community. I entered the competition for a statue of General Frank R.

Blair. I received the first prize, but when the committee discovered

that I was only a bill clerk in a store, they argued that I was not

competent to carry out the work; although I was given the first prize

model and the one hundred and fifty dollars accompanying it.”

“But that inspired you?”

“Yes, but my father and mother put every obstacle in the way possible. I

was driven from room to room. I was not even allowed to work in the

attic.” Here Mr. Ruckstuhl laughed. “You see what genius has to contend

with. I was advanced in position in the store, till I became assistant

manager, at two thousand dollars a year. When I told the proprietor that

I had decided to be a sculptor, he gazed at me in blank astonishment. ‘A

sculptor?’ he queried, incredulously, and made a few very discouraging

remarks, emphasized with dashes. ‘Why, young man, are you going to throw

up the chance of a lifetime? I will give you five thousand dollars a

year, and promote you to be manager if you will remain with me.’

“But I had found my life’s work,” said Mr. Ruckstuhl, turning to me. “I

knew it would be a struggle through poverty, till I attained fame. But I

was confident in myself, which is half of the battle.”

“And you went abroad?”

“Yes, with but two hundred and fifty dollars,” he replied. “I traveled

through Europe for five months and visited the French Salon. I said to

myself, ‘I can do that, and that;’ and my confidence grew. But there was

some work that completely ‘beat’ me. I returned to America penniless,

but with a greater insight into art. I determined that I would retrace

my steps to Paris, and study there for three years, and thought that

would be sufficient to fully develop me. My family and friends laughed

me to scorn, and I was discouraged by everyone. In four months, in St.

Louis, I secured seven orders for busts, at two hundred dollars each, to

be done after my return from France. That shows that some persons had

confidence in me and in my talent.

“O, the student life in Paris! How I look back with pleasure upon those

struggling, yet happy days! In two months, I started on my female figure

of ‘Evening,’ in the nude, that is now in the Metropolitan Museum of

Art. I finished it in nine months, and positively sweat blood in my

work. I sent it to the Salon, and went to Italy. When I returned to

Paris, I saw my name in the paper with honorable mention. I suppose you

can realize my feelings; I experienced the first flush of victory. I

brought it to America, and exposed it in St. Louis. Strange to say, I

rose in the estimation of even my family. My father actually

congratulated me. A wealthy man in St. Louis gave me three thousand

dollars to have my ‘Evening’ put into marble. I returned with it to

Paris, and in a month and a quarter it was exhibited in the Salon. At

the World’s Fair, at Chicago, it had the place of honor, and received

one of the eleven grand medals given to American sculptors. In 1892, I

came to New York. This statue of ‘Force’ will be erected, with my statue

of ‘Wisdom,’ on the new Court of Appeals in New York.”

We gazed at it, seated, and clothed in partial armor, of the old Roman

type, and holding a sword across its knees. The great muscles spoke of

strength and force, and yet, with it all, there was an almost benign

look upon the military visage.

“There is force and real action there withal, although there is repose.”

I said in admiration.

“Oh,” said Mr. Ruckstuhl, “that’s it, and that is what it is so hard to

get! That is what every sculptor strives for; and, unless he attains it,

his work, from my point of view, is worthless. There must be life in a

statue; it must almost breathe. In repose there must be dormant action

that speaks for itself.”

“Is most of your work done under inspiration?” I asked.

“There is nothing,—and a great deal,—in so-called inspiration. I firmly

believe that we mortals are merely tools, mediums, at work here on

earth. I peg away, and bend all my energies to my task. I simply

accomplish nothing. Suddenly, after considerable preparatory toil, the

mist clears away; I see things clearly; everything is outlined for me. I

believe there is a conscious and a sub-conscious mind. The sub-conscious

mind is the one that does original work; it cannot be affected by the

mind that is conscious to all our petty environments. When the conscious

mind is lulled and silenced, the sub-conscious one begins to work. That

I call inspiration.”

“Are you ever discouraged?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Continually,” replied Mr. Ruckstuhl, looking down at his hands, soiled

with the working clay. “Some days I will be satisfied with what I have

done. It will strike me as simply fine. I will be as happy as a bird,

and leave simply joyous. The following morning, when the cloths are

removed, I look at my previous toil, and consider it vile. I ask myself:

‘Are you a sculptor or not? Do you think that you ever will be one? Do

you consider that art?’ So it is, till your task is accomplished. You

are your own critic, and are continually distressed at your inability to

create your ideals.”

Mr. F. Wellington Ruckstuhl is forty-six years of age; neither short nor

tall; a brilliant man, with wonderful powers of endurance, for his work

is more exacting and tedious than is generally supposed.

“I have simply worked a month and a quarter on that statue,” he said.

“Certain work dissatisfied me, and I obliterated it. I have raised that

head three times. My eyes get weary, and I become physically tired. On

such occasions I sit down and smoke a little to distract my thoughts,

and to clear my mind. Then my sub-conscious mind comes into play again,”

he concluded with a smile.

Mr. Ruckstuhl’s best known works are: “Mercury Teasing the Eagle of

Jupiter,” which is of bronze, nine feet high, which he made in Paris; a

seven-foot statue of Solon, erected in the Congressional Library, at

Washington; busts of Franklin, Gœthe and Macaulay, on the front of the

same library; and the eleven-foot statue of bronze of “Victory,” for the

Jamaica soldiers’ and sailors’ monument. In competition, he won the

contract for an equestrian statue of General John F. Hartrauft,

ex-Governor of Pennsylvania, which he also made in Paris. It is

considered the finest piece of work of its kind in America. Besides this

labor, he has made a number of medallions and busts; and with the

completion of his statue of “Force,” he will have made a wonderful

record.

“Art was in me as a child,” he said: “I was discouraged whenever it

beckoned me, but finally claimed me. I surrendered a good position to

follow it, whether it led through a thorny road or not. A sculptor is an

artist, a musician, a poet, a writer, a dramatist,—to throw action,

breath and life, music and a soul into his creation. I can pick up an

instrument and learn it instantly; I can sing, and act, so I am in touch

with the sympathies of the beings that I endeavor to create. You will

find most sculptors and artists of my composite nature.

“There,” said Mr. Ruckstuhl, and he stretched out his arm, with his palm

downward, and moved it through the air, as he gazed into distance, “you

strive to create the imagination of your mind, and it comes to you as if

sent from another world.”

“You strive.” That is the way to success.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

IX

Questions and Answers: Business Pointers by Darius Ogden Mills

“WHAT is your idea, Mr. Mills,[2] of a successful life?” “If a bootblack

does all the good he possibly can for his fellow-men, his life has been

just as successful as that of the millionaire who helps thousands.”

Footnote 2:

Mr. Mills was born in Western New York in 1825. He has been a leading

financier for fifty years, in California, and in New York. He is

connected with the management of eighteen important business and

philanthropic corporations in New York City.

WORK

“What, Mr. Mills, do you consider the key-note of success?”

“Work,” he replied, quickly and emphatically. “Work develops all the

good there is in a man; idleness all the evil. Work sharpens all his

faculties and makes him thrifty; idleness makes him lazy and a

spendthrift. Work surrounds a man with those whose habits are

industrious and honest; in such society a weak man develops strength,

and a strong man is made stronger. Idleness, on the other hand, is apt

to throw a man into the company of men whose object in life is usually

the pursuit of unwholesome and demoralizing diversions.”

SELF-DEPENDENCE

“To what formative influence do you attribute your material success, Mr.

Mills?” I asked.

“I was taught very early that I would have to depend entirely upon

myself; that my future lay in my own hands. I had that for a start, and

it was a good one. I didn’t waste any time thinking about succession to

wealth, which so often acts as a drag upon young men. Many persons waste

the best years of their lives waiting for dead men’s shoes; and, when

they get them, find them entirely too big to wear gracefully, simply

because they have not developed themselves to wear them.

“As a rule, the small inheritance, which, to a boy, would seem large,

has a tendency to lessen his efforts, and is a great damage to him in

the way of acquiring the habits necessary to success.”

HABIT OF THRIFT

“No one can acquire a fortune unless he makes a start; and the habit of

thrift, which he learns in saving his first hundred dollars, is of

inestimable value later on. It is not the money, but the habit which

counts.

“There is no one so helpless as a man who is ‘broke,’ no matter how

capable he may be, and there is no habit so detrimental to his

reputation among business men as that of borrowing small sums of money.

This cannot be too emphatically impressed upon young men.”

EXPENSIVE HABITS—SMOKING

“Another thing is that none but the wealthy, and very few of them, can

afford the indulgence of expensive habits; how much less then can a man

with only a few dollars in his pocket? More young men are ruined by the

expense of smoking than in any other way. The money thus laid out would

make them independent, in many cases, or at least would give them a good

start. A young man should be warned by the melancholy example of those

who have been ruined by smoke, and avoid it.”

FORMING AN INDEPENDENT BUSINESS JUDGMENT

“What marked traits, Mr. Mills, have the influential men with whom you

have been associated, possessed, which most impressed you?”

“A habit of thinking and acting for themselves. No end of people are

ruined by taking the advice of others. This may answer temporarily, but

in the long run it is sure to be disastrous. Any man who hasn’t ability

to judge for himself would better get a comfortable clerkship somewhere,

letting some one of more ambition and ability do the thinking necessary

to run the business.”

THE MULTIPLICATION OF OPPORTUNITIES TO-DAY IN AMERICA

“Are the opportunities for making money as numerous to-day as they were

when you started in business?”

“Yes, the progress of science and invention has increased the

opportunities a thousandfold, and a man can find them wherever he seeks

them in the United States in particular. It has caused the field of

employment of labor of all kinds to expand enormously, thus creating

opportunities which never existed before. It is no longer necessary for

a man to go to foreign countries or distant parts of his own country to

make money. Opportunities come to him in every quarter. There is hardly

a point in the country so obscure that it has not felt the

revolutionizing influence of commercial enterprise. Probably railroads

and electricity are the chief instruments in this respect. Other

industries follow closely in their wake.”

WHERE ONE’S BEST CHANCE IS—THE KNOWLEDGE OF MEN

“In what part of the country do you think the best chances for young men

may be found?”

“The best place for a young man to make money is the town in which he

was born and educated. There he learns all about everybody, and

everybody learns about him. This is to his advantage if he bears a good

character, and to the advantage of his towns-people if he bears a bad

one. While a young man is growing up, he unconsciously absorbs a vast

deal of knowledge of people and affairs, which would be equal to money

if he only has the judgment to avail himself of it. A knowledge of men

is the prime secret of business success. Upon reflection, how absurd it

is for a man to leave a town where he knows everything and everybody,

and go to some distant point where he doesn’t know anything about

anybody or anything, and expect to begin on an equal footing with the

people there who are thoroughly acquainted.”

THE BOTTOM OF THE LADDER

“What lesson, Mr. Mills, do you consider it most needful for young men

to learn?”

“The lesson of humility;—not in the sense of being servile or

undignified, but in that of paying due respect to men who are their

superiors in the way of experience, knowledge and position. Such a

lesson is akin to that of discipline. Members of the royal families of

Europe are put in subordinate positions in the navies or armies of their

respective countries, in order that they may receive the training

necessary to qualify them to take command. They must first know how to

obey, if they would control others.

“In this country, it is customary for the sons of the presidents of

great railroads, or other companies, to begin at the bottom of the

ladder and work their way up step by step, just the same as any other

boy in the employ of the corporation. This course has become

imperatively necessary in the United States, where each great business

has become a profession in itself. Most of the big machine shops number

among their employees, scions of old families who carry dinner pails,

and work with files or lathes, the same as anyone else. Such

shoulder-to-shoulder experience is invaluable to a man who is destined

to command, because he not only masters the trade technically, but

learns all about the men he works with and qualifies himself to grapple

with labor questions which may arise.

“There is no end of conspicuous examples of the wisdom of this system in

America. There are also many instances of disaster to great industrial

concerns due to the inexperience or the lack of tact of men placed

suddenly in control.”

THE BENEFICENT USE OF CAPITAL

Upon this point, Mr. Mills said:—“A man can, in the accumulation of a

fortune, be just as great a benefactor of mankind as in the distribution

of it. In organizing a great industry, one opens up fields of employment

for a multitude of people who might otherwise be practically helpless,

giving them not only a chance to earn a living for themselves and their

families, but also to lay by a competency for old age. All honest, sober

men, if they have half a chance, can do that; but only a small

percentage can ever become rich. Now the rich man, having acquired his

wealth, knows better how to manage it than those under him would, and

having actual possession, he has the power to hold the community of his

employees and their interests together, and prevent disintegration,

which means disaster so much oftener to the employee than to the

employer.”

THE WHOLESOME DISCIPLINE OF EARNING AND SPENDING

“What is the responsibility of wealth, Mr. Mills?”

“A man must learn not to think too much of money. It should be

considered as a means and not an end; and the love for it should never

be permitted to so warp a man’s mind as to destroy his interest in

progressive ideas. Making money is an education, and the wide experience

thus acquired teaches a man discrimination in both men and projects,

where money is under consideration. Very few men who make their own

money use it carelessly. Most good projects that fail owe their failure

to bad business management, rather than to lack of intrinsic merit. An

inventor may have a very good thing, and plenty of capital may be

enlisted but if a man not acquainted with the peculiar line, or one who

is not a good salesman or financier be employed as manager, the result

is disastrous. A man should spend his money in a way that tends to

advance the best interests of society in the country he lives in, or in

his own neighborhood at least. There is only one thing that is a greater

harm to the community than a rich spendthrift, and that is a miser.”

PERSONAL: A WORD ABOUT CHEAP HOTELS

“How did you happen to establish the system of hotels which bears your

name, Mr. Mills?”

“I had been looking around for several years to find something to do

that would be for the good of the community. My mind was largely on

other matters, but it occurred to me that the hotel project was the

best, and I immediately went to work at it. My purpose was to do the

work on so large a scale that it would be appreciated and spread all

over the country; for as the sources of education extend, we find more

and more need of assisting men who have a disposition for decency and

good citizenship. _The mechanic is well paid, and the man who has

learned to labor is much more independent than he who is prepared for a

profession or a scientific career, or other objects in life that call

for higher education._ Clerks commencing at small salaries need good

surroundings and economy to give themselves a start. Such are the men

for whom the hotels were established.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

X

Nordica: What it Costs to Become a Queen of Song

OF the internationally famous singers, none is a greater favorite than

Madame Lillian Nordica. She has had honors heaped upon her by every

music-loving country. Milan, St. Petersburg, Paris, London and New York,

in turn accepted her. Jewel cases filled with bracelets, necklaces,

tiaras and diadems, of gold and precious stones, attest the unaffected

sincerity of her admirers in all the great music-centers of the world.

She enjoys, in addition, the distinction of being one of the first two

American women to attain to international fame as a singer in grand

opera.

Madame Nordica I met on appointment at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, where

she kindly detailed for me

THE DIFFICULTIES

she encountered at the outset:—“Distinction in the field of art is

earned: it is not thrust upon anyone. The material for a great voice may

be born in a person—it is, in fact,—but the making of it into a great

voice is a work of the most laborious character.

“In some countries the atmosphere is not very favorable to beginners.

Almost any of the greater European nations is probably better in this

respect than the United States: not much better, however, because nearly

all depends upon strength of character, determination, and the will to

work. If a girl has these, she will rise as high, in the end, anywhere.”

Madame Nordica came of New England stock, being born at Farmington,

Maine, and reared in Boston. Her parents, bearing the name Norton,

possessed no musical talent. “Their opinion of music,” said Madame, “was

that it is an airy, inviting art of the devil, used to tempt men’s feet

to stray from the solemn path of right. They believed music, as a

vocation, to be nearly as reprehensible as a stage career, and for the

latter they had no tolerance whatever. I must be just, though, and own

that they did make an exception in the case of church music, else I

should never have received the slightest encouragement in my

aspirations. They considered music in churches to be permissible,—even

laudable, so when I displayed some ability as a singer, I was allowed to

use it in behalf of religion, and I did. I joined the church choir and

sang hymns about the house almost constantly.

“But I needed a world of training. I had no conception of what work lay

ahead of anyone who contemplates singing perfectly. I had no idea of how

high I might go myself. All I knew was that I could sing, and that I

would win my way with my voice if I could.”

“How did you accomplish it?”

“By devoting all my time, all my thought, and all my energy to that one

object. I devoured church music,—all I could get hold of. I practised

new and difficult compositions all the time I could spare.

“I became a very good church singer; so much so that when there were

church concerts or important religious ceremonies, I was always in

demand. Then there began to be a social demand for my ability, and,

later, a public demand in the way of concerts.

“At first, I ignored all but church singing. My ambition ran higher than

concert singing, and I knew my parents would not consent. I persuaded

them to let me have my voice trained. This was not very difficult,

because my church singing, as it had improved, became a source of

considerable profit; and they saw even greater results for me in the

large churches, and in the religious field. So I went to a teacher of

vocal culture, Professor John O’Neill, one of the instructors in the New

England Conservatory of Music, Boston. He was a fine old teacher, a man

with the highest ideals concerning music, and of the sternest and most

exacting method. He made me feel, at first, that

THE WORLD WAS MINE, IF I WOULD WORK.

Hard work was his constant cry. There must be no play, no training for

lower forms of public entertainment, no anything but study and practice.

I must work and perfect myself in private, and then suddenly appear

unheralded in the highest class of opera and take the world by storm.

“It was a fine fancy, but it would not have been possible. O’Neill was a

fine musician. Under him I studied the physiology of the voice, and

practiced singing oratorios. I also took up Italian, familiarizing

myself with the language, with all the songs and endless _arias_. In

fact, I made myself as perfect in Italian as possible. In _three years_

I had been greatly improved. Mr. O’Neill, however, employed methods of

making me work which discouraged me. He was a man who would magnify and

storm over the slightest error, and make light of or ignore the

sincerest achievements. He put his grade of perfection so high that I

began to consider it unattainable, and lost heart. Finally, I gave it up

and rested awhile, uncertain of everything.

“After I had thought awhile and regained some confidence, I came to New

York to see Mme. Maretzek. She was not only a teacher, but also a singer

quite famous in her day, and she thoroughly knew the world of music. She

considered my voice to be of the right quality for the highest grade of

operatic success; and gave me hope that, with a little more training, I

could begin my career. She not only did that, but also set me to

studying the great operas, ‘Lucia’ and the others, and introduced me to

the American musical celebrities. Together we heard whatever was worth

hearing in New York.

“When the renowned Brignola came to New York, she took me to the Everett

House, where he was stopping and introduced me. They were good friends,

and, after gaining his opinion on the character of my voice, she had him

play ‘Faust.’ That was a wonderful thing for me. To hear the great

Brignola! It fired my ambition. As I listened I felt that I could also

be great and that people, some day, might listen to me as enraptured as

I then was by him.”

“IT PUT NEW FIRE INTO ME

and caused me to fairly toil over my studies. I would have given up all

my hours if only I had been allowed or requested.

“So it went, until _after several years of study_, Madame Maretzek

thought I was getting pretty well along and might venture some important

public singing. We talked about different ways of appearing and what I

would sing, and so on, until finally Gilmore’s band came to Madison

Square Garden. He was in the heyday of his success then, and carried

important soloists with him. Madame Maretzek decided that she would take

me to see him and get his opinion; and so, one day, toward the very last

of his Madison Square engagement, we went to see him. Madame Maretzek

was on good terms with him also. I remember that she took me in, one

morning, when he was rehearsing. I saw a stout, kindly, genial-looking

man who was engaged in tapping for attention, calling certain

individuals to notice certain points, and generally fluttering around

over a dozen odds and ends. Madame Maretzek talked with him a little

while and then called his attention to me. He looked toward me.

“‘Thinks she can sing, eh? Yes, yes. Well, all right! Let her come right

along.’

“Then he called to me,—‘Come right along now. Step right up here on the

stage. Yes, yes. Now, what can you sing?’

“I told him I could sing almost anything in oratorio or opera, if he so

wished. He said: ‘Well, well, have a little from both. Now, what shall

it be?’

“I shall never forget his kindly way. He was like a good father, gentle

and reassuring, and seemed really pleased to have me there and to hear

me. I went up on the platform and told him that I would begin with ‘Let

the Bright Seraphim,’ and he called the orchestra to order and had them

accompany me.”

“I was slightly nervous at first, but recovered my equanimity and sang

up to my full limit of power. When I was through, he remarked, ‘Very

good! very good!’ and ‘Now, what else?’ I next sang an _aria_ from

‘Somnambula.’ He did not hesitate to express his approval, which was

always, ‘Very good! very good! Now, what you want to do,’ he said, ‘is

to get some roses in your cheeks, and come along and sing for me.’ After

that, he continued his conference with Madame Maretzek and then we went

away together.”

“I WAS TRAVELING ON AIR

when I left, I can assure you. His company was famous. Its engagement

had been most successful. Madame Poppenheim was singing with it, and

there were other famous names. There were only two more concerts to

conclude his New York engagement, but he had told Madame Maretzek that

if I chose to come and sing on these occasions, he would be glad to have

me. I was more than glad of the opportunity and agreed to go. We

arranged with him by letter, and, when the evening came, I sang. My work

made a distinct impression on the audience, and pleased Mr. Gilmore

wonderfully. After the second night, when all was over, he came to me,

and said: ‘Now, my dear, of course there is no more concert this summer,

but I am going West in the fall. Now, how would you like to go along?’

“I told him that I would like to go very much, if it could be arranged;

and, after some negotiation, he agreed to pay the expenses of my mother

and myself, and give me one hundred dollars a week besides. I accepted,

and when the western tour began, we went along.

“I gained thorough control of my nerves upon that tour, and learned

something of audiences, and of what constitutes distinguished ‘stage

presence.’ _I studied all the time_, and, with the broadening influence

of travel, gained a great deal. At the end of the tour, my voice was

more under my control than ever before, and I was a better singer all

around.”

“You did not begin with grand opera, after all?”

“No, I did not. It was not a perfect conclusion of my dreams, but it was

a great deal. My old instructor, Mr. O’Neill, took it worse than I did.

He regarded my ambitions as having all come to naught. I remember that

he wrote me a letter in which he thus called me to account:—

“‘After all my training, my advice, that you should come to this! A

whole lifetime of ambition and years of the hardest study consumed to

fit you to go on the road with a brass band! Poh!’

“I pocketed the sarcasm in the best of humor, because I was sure of my

dear old teacher’s unwavering faith in me, and knew that he wrote only

for my own good. Still, I felt that I was doing wisely in getting before

the public, and so decided to wait quietly and see if time would not

justify me.

“When the season was over, Mr. Gilmore came to me again. He was the most

kindly man I ever knew. His manner was as gentle and his heart as good

as could be.

“‘I am going to Europe,’ he said. ‘I am going to London and Paris and

Vienna and Rome, and all the other big cities. There will be a fine

chance for you to see all those places and let Europeans hear you. They

appreciate good singers. Now, little girl, do you want to come? If you

do, you can.’”

“I talked it over with my mother and Madame Maretzek, and decided to go;

and so, the next season, we were

IN EUROPE.

“We gave seventy-eight concerts in England and France. We opened the

Trocadero at Paris, and mine was the first voice of any kind to sing

there. This European tour of the American band was a great and

successful venture. American musicians still recall the _furore_ which

it created, and the prestige which it gained at home. Mr. Gilmore was

proud of his leading soloists. In Paris, where the great audiences went

wild over my singing, he came to praise me personally in unmeasured

terms. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you are going to be a great singer. You are

going to be crowned in your own country yet. Mark my words: they are

going to put diamonds on your brow!’ [Madame Nordica had good occasion

to recall this, in 1898, many years after, when her enthusiastic New

York admirers crowned her with a diamond tiara as a tribute of their

admiration and appreciation.]

“It was at the time when Gilmore was at the height of his Paris

engagement that his agent ran off with his funds and left the old

bandmaster almost stranded. Despite his sincere trouble, he retained his

imperturbable good nature, and came out of it successfully. He came to

me, one morning, smiling good-naturedly, as usual. After greeting me and

inquiring after my health, he said: ‘My dear child, you have saved some

little money on this tour?’ I told him I had.

“‘Now, I would like to borrow that little from you.’

“I was very much surprised at the request, for he said nothing whatever

of his loss. Still, he had been so uniformly kind and generous, and had

won our confidence and regard so wholly, that I could not hesitate. I

turned over nearly all I had, and he gathered it up and went away,

simply thanking me. Of course, I heard of the defalcation later. It

became generally known. Our salaries went right on, however, and in a

few months the whole thing had been quite forgotten, when he came to me

one morning with money ready in his hand.

“‘To pay you what I owe you, my dear,’ he said.

“‘Oh, yes!’ I said; ‘so and so much,’—naming the amount.

“‘Here it is,’ he said; and, handing me a roll of bills, he went away.

Of course, I did not count it until a little later; but, when I did, I

found just double the amount I had named, and no persuasion would ever

induce him to accept a penny of it back.”

“When did you part with Gilmore?”

“At the end of that tour. He determined to return to America, and I had

decided to spend some of my earnings on further study in Italy.

Accordingly, I went to Milan, to the singing teacher San Giovanni. On

arriving there, I visited the old teacher and stated my object. I said

that I wanted to sing in grand opera.”

“‘WHY DON’T YOU SING IN GRAND OPERA?’

“He answered; ‘let me hear your voice.’

“I sang an _aria_ from ‘Lucia’; and, when I was through, he said, dryly:

‘You want to sing in grand opera?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Well, why don’t you?’

“‘I need training.’

“‘Nonsense!’ he answered. ‘We will attend to that. You need a few months

to practice Italian methods,—that is all.’

“So I spent three months with him. After much preparation, I made my

_début_ as Violetta in Verdi’s opera, ‘La Traviata,’ at the Teatro

Grande, in Brescia.”

The details of Madame Nordica’s Italian appearance are very interesting.

Her success was instantaneous. Her fame went up and down the land, and

across the water—to her home. She next sang in Gounod’s “Faust,” at

Geneva, and soon afterwards appeared at Navarro, singing Alice in

Meyerbeer’s “Roberto,” the enthusiastic and delighted subscribers

presenting her with a handsome set of rubies and pearls. After that, she

was engaged to sing at the Russian capital, and accordingly went to St.

Petersburg, where, in October, 1881, she made her _début_ as La Filina

in “Mignon.”

There, also her success was great. She was the favorite of the society

of the court, and received pleasant attentions from every quarter.

Presents were made her, and inducements for her continued presence until

two winters had passed. Then she decided to revisit France and Paris.

THIS WAS HER CROWNING TRIUMPH

“I wanted to sing in grand opera at Paris,” she said to me. “I wanted to

know that I could appear successfully in that grand place. I counted my

achievements nothing until I could do that.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. In July, 1882, I appeared there.”

This was her greatest triumph. In the part of Marguerite, she took the

house by storm, and won from the composer the highest encomiums.

Subsequently, she appeared with equal success as Ophélie, having been

specially prepared for both these rôles by the respective composers,

Charles Gounod and Ambroise Thomas.

“You should have been satisfied, after that,” I said.

“I was,” she answered. “So thoroughly was I satisfied that soon

afterwards I gave up my career, and was married. For two years, I

remained away from the public; but after that time, my husband having

died, I decided to return.

“I made my first appearance at the Burton Theatre in London, and was

doing well enough when Colonel Mapleson came to me. He was going to

produce grand opera,—in fact he was going to open Covent Garden, which

had been closed for a long time, with a big company. He was another

interesting character. I found him to be generous and kind-hearted and

happy-spirited as anyone could be. When he came to me, it was in the

most friendly manner. ‘I am going to open Covent Garden.’ he said. ‘Now,

here is your chance to sing there. All the great singers have appeared

there. Patti, Gerster, Nilsson, Tietjens; now it’s your turn,—come and

sing.’

“‘How about terms?’ I asked.

“‘Terms!’ he exclaimed; ‘terms! Don’t let such little details stand in

your way. What is money compared to this? Ignore money. Think of the

honor, of the memories of the place, of what people think of it.’ And

then he waved his arms dramatically.

“Yet, we came to terms, not wholly sacrificial on my part, and the

season began. Covent Garden had not been open for a long time. It was in

the spring of the year, cold and damp. There was a crowded house,

though, because fashion accompanied the Prince of Wales there. He came,

night after night, and heard the opera through with an overcoat on.

“It was no pleasant task for me, or healthy, either, but the Lord has

blessed me with a sound constitution. I sang my parts, as they should be

sung—some in bare arms and shoulders, with too little clothing for such

a temperature. I nearly froze, but it was Covent Garden and a great

London audience, and so I bore up under it.

“Things went on this way very successfully until Sir Augustus Harris

took Drury Lane and decided to produce grand opera. He started in

opposition to Colonel Mapleson, and so Covent Garden had to be given up.

Mr. Harris had more money, more prestige with society, and Colonel

Mapleson could not live under the division of patronage. When I saw the

situation, I called on the new manager and talked with him concerning

the next season. He was very proud and very condescending, and made sure

to show his indifference to me. He told me all about the brilliant

season he was planning, gave me a list of the great names he intended to

charm with, and wound up by saying he would call on me, in case of need,

but thought he had all the celebrities he could use, but would let me

know.

“Of course, I did not like that; but I knew I could rest awhile, and so

was not much disturbed. The time for the opening of the season arrived.

The papers were full of accounts of the occasion, and there were plenty

of remarks concerning my non-appearance. Then ‘Aida’ was produced, and I

read the criticisms of it with interest.

SHE WAS INDISPENSABLE IN “AIDA”

“The same afternoon a message came for me: ‘Would I come?’ and ‘Would I

do so and so?’ I would, and did. I sang ‘Aida’ and then other parts, and

gradually all the parts but one, which I had longed to try, but had not

yet had the opportunity given to me. I was very successful, and Sir

Augustus was very friendly.

“The summer after that season, I visited Ems, where the De Reszkes were.

One day they said: ‘We are going to Beirut, to hear the music,—don’t you

want to go along?’ I thought it over, and decided that I did. My mother

and I packed up and departed. When I got there and saw those splendid

performances, I was entranced. It was perfectly beautiful. Everything

was arranged after an ideal fashion. I had a great desire to sing there,

and boasted to my mother that I would. When I came away, I was fully

determined to carry it out.”

“Could you speak German?”

“Not at all. I began, though, at once, to study it; and, when I could

talk it sufficiently, I went to Beirut and saw Madame Wagner.”

THE KINDNESS OF FRAU WAGNER

“Did you find her the imperious old lady she is said to be?”

“Not at all. She welcomed me most heartily; and, when I told her that I

had come to see if I could not sing there, she seemed much pleased. She

treated me like a daughter, explained all that she was trying to do, and

gave me a world of encouragement. Finally, I arranged to sing and create

‘Elsa’ after my own idea of it, during the season following the one then

approaching.

“Meanwhile I came to New York to fulfill my contract for the season of

1894-1895. While doing that, I made a study of Wagner’s, and, indeed, of

all German music; and, when the season was over, went back and sang it.”

Madame Nordica has found her work very exacting. For it she has needed a

good physique; her manner of study sometimes calling for an

extraordinary mental strain:—

“I remember once, during my season under Augustus Harris, that he gave a

garden party, one Sunday, to which several of his company were

invited,—myself included. When the afternoon was well along, he came to

me and said: ‘Did you ever sing “Valencia” in “The Huguenots?”’ I told

him I had not.

“‘Do you think you could learn the music and sing it by next Saturday

night?’

“I felt a little appalled at the question, but ventured to say that I

could. I knew that hard work would do it.

“‘Then do,’ he replied; ‘for I must have you sing it.’

“The De Reszkes, Jean and Edouard, were near at the time, and offered to

assist me. ‘Try it,’ they said, and so I agreed. We began rehearsals,

almost without study, the very next day, both the De Reszkes prompting

me, and by Friday they had me letter-perfect and ready to go on. Since

the time seemed so peculiarly short, they feared for me, and, during the

performance, stationed themselves, one in either wing, to reassure me.

Whenever I approached near to either side of the stage, it was always to

hear their repeated ‘Be calm!’ whispered so loud that the audience could

almost hear it. Yet I sang easily, never thinking of failure.”

MUSICAL TALENT OF AMERICAN GIRLS

“Let me ask you one thing,” I said. “Has America good musical material?”

“As much as any other country, and more, I should think. The higher

average of intelligence here should yield a greater percentage of

musical intelligence.”

“Then there ought to be a number of American women who can do good work

of a high order?”

“There ought to be, but it is a question whether there will be. They are

not cut out for the work which it requires to develop a good voice. I

have noticed that young women seem to _underestimate the cost of

distinction_. It means more than most of them are prepared to give; and,

when they face the exactions of art, they falter and drop out. Hence we

have many middle-class singers, but few really powerful ones.”

“What are these exactions you speak of?”

“_Time, money, and loss of friends, of pleasure. To be a great singer

means, first, to be a great student. To be a great student means that

you have no time for balls and parties, very little for friends, and

less for carriage rides and_ _pleasant strolls. All that is really left

is a shortened allowance of sleep, of time for meals, and time for

exercise._”

THE PRICE OF FAME

“Permanent recognition, which cannot be taken away from you, is acquired

only by _a lifetime of most earnest labor_. People are never

internationally recognized until they have reached middle life. Many

persons gain notoriety young, but that goes as quickly as it comes. _All

true success is founded on real accomplishment acquired with

difficulty._

“Many young people have genius; but they need training for valuable

service. The world gives very little recognition for a great deal of

labor paid in; and, when I earn a thousand dollars for a half hour’s

singing sometimes, it does not nearly average up for all the years and

for the labor much more difficult which I contributed without

recompense.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

XI

How William Dean Howells Worked to Secure a Foothold

IN answer to my question, what constitutes success in life, Mr. Howells

replied that everything is open to the beginner who has sufficient

energy, perseverance and brains.

“A young man stands at the parting of two ways,” he added, “and can take

his path this way or that. It is comparatively easy then, with good

judgment. Youth is certainly the greatest advantage which life

supplies.”

Upon my inquiring about his early life, he replied: “I was born in a

little southeastern Ohio village—Martin’s Ferry,—which had little of

what people deem advantages in schools, railroads, or population. I am

not sure, however, that compensation was not had in other things.”

As to any special talent for literary composition, Mr. Howells remarked

that he came of a reading race, which had always loved literature in a

way, and that it was his inclination to read.

Upon this, I ventured to ask: “Would you say that, with a leaning toward

a special study, and good health, a fair start, and perseverance, anyone

can attain to distinction?”

“That is a probability, only. You may be sure that distinction will not

come without those qualities. The only way to succeed, is to have them;

although having them will not necessarily guarantee distinction. I can

only say that I began with

A LOFTY IDEAL.

“My own youth was not specially marked by advantages. There were none,

unless you can call a small bookcase full of books, which my home

contained, an advantage. The printing-office was my school from a very

early date. My father thoroughly believed in it, and he had his belief

as to work, which he illustrated as soon as we were old enough to learn

the trade he followed. We could go to school and study, or we could go

into the printing-office and work, with perhaps an equal chance of

learning; but we could not be idle.”

“And you chose the printing-office?”

“Not wholly. As I recall it, I went to and fro between the schoolhouse

and the printing-office. When I tired of one, I was promptly given the

other.

“As the world goes now, we were poor. My father’s income was never above

twelve hundred a year, and his family was large; but nobody was rich

then. We lived in the simple fashion of that time and place.

“My reading, somehow, went on pretty constantly. No doubt my love for it

won me a chance to devote time to it. The length varied with varying

times.

“Sometimes I read but little. There were so many years of work—of

over-work, indeed, which falls to the lot of many,—that I should be

ashamed to speak of it except in accounting for the fact of my little

reading. My father had sold his paper in Hamilton, and bought an

interest in another at Dayton, and at that time we were all straining

our utmost to help pay for it. In that period very few hours were given

to literature. My daily tasks began so early, and ended so late, that I

had little time, even if I had the spirit for reading. Sometimes I had

to sit up until midnight, waiting for telegraphic news, and be up again

at dawn to deliver the papers, working afterwards at the case; but that

was only for a few years.”

ACQUIRING A LITERARY STYLE

“When did you find time to seriously apply yourself to literature?”

“I think I did so before I really had the time. Literary aspirations

were stirred in me by the great authors whom I successively discovered,

and I was perpetually imitating the writings of these,—modeling some

composition of my own after theirs, but never willing to own it.”

“Do you attribute your style to the composite influence of these various

models?”

“No doubt they had their effect, as a whole, but individually I was

freed from the last by each succeeding author, until at length I came to

understand that I must be like myself, and no other.”

“Had you any conveniences for literary research, beyond the bookcase in

your home?”

“If you mean a place to work, I had a narrow, little space, under the

stairs. There was a desk pushed back against the wall, which the

irregular ceiling sloped down to meet, behind it; and at my left was a

window, which gave a good light on the writing leaf of my desk. This was

MY WORKSHOP

for six or seven years,—and it was not at all a bad one. It seemed, for

a while, so very simple and easy to come home in the middle of the

afternoon, when my task at the printing-office was done, and sit down to

my books in my little study, which I did not finally leave until the

family were all in bed. My father had a decided bent for literature;

and, when I began to show a liking for it, he was eager to direct my

choice. This finally changed to merely recommending books, and

eventually I was left to my own judgment,—a perplexed and sorrowfully

mistaken judgment, at times.”

“In what manner did you manage to read the works of all your favorite

authors?”

“My hours in the printing-office began at seven and ended at six, with

an hour at noon for dinner, which I used for putting down such verses as

had come to me in the morning. As soon as supper was over I got out my

manuscripts, and sawed, and filed, and hammered away at my blessed

poems, which were little less than imitations, until nine, when I went

regularly to bed, to rise again at five. Sometimes the foreman gave me

an afternoon off on Saturday, which I devoted to literature.”

As I questioned further, it was said: “As I recall it, my father had

secured one of those legislative clerkships in 1858, which used to fall

sometimes to deserving country editors; and together we managed and

carried out a scheme for corresponding with some city papers. Going to

Columbus, the State Capital, we furnished a daily letter giving an

account of the legislative proceedings, which I mainly wrote from the

material he helped me to gather. The letters found favor, and my father

withdrew from the work wholly. These letters I furnished during two

years.

“At the end of the first winter, a Cincinnati paper offered me the city

editorship, but one night’s round with the reporters at the police

station satisfied me that I was not meant for that kind of work. I then

returned home for the summer, and spent my time in reading, _and in

sending off poems, which regularly came back_. I worked in my father’s

printing-office; but, as soon as my task was done, went home to my

books, and worked away at them until supper. Then a German bookbinder,

with whom I was endeavoring to read Heine in the original, met me in my

father’s editorial room, and with a couple of candles on the table

between us, and our Heine and the dictionary before us, we read until we

were both tired out.”

As to the influence of this constant writing and constant study, Mr.

Howells remarked: “It was not without its immediate use. I learned

HOW TO CHOOSE BETWEEN WORDS,

after a study of their fitness; and, though I often employed them

decoratively, and with no vital sense of their qualities, still, in mere

decoration, they had to be chosen intelligently, and after some thought

about their structure and meaning. I could not imitate great writers

without imitating their method, which was to the last degree

intelligent. They knew what they were doing, and, although I did not

always know what I was doing, they made me wish to know, and ashamed of

not knowing. The result was beneficial.”

Mr. Howells then spoke of his astonishment, when one day he was at work

as usual in the printing-office at home, upon being invited to take a

place upon a Republican newspaper at Columbus, the Capital; where he was

given charge of the news department. This included the literary notices

and book reviews, to which, at once, he gave his prime attention.

“When did you begin to contribute to the literature of the day?”

“If you mean, when did I begin to attempt to contribute, I should need

to fix an early date, for I early had experience with rejected

manuscripts. One of my pieces, upon the familiar theme of Spring, was

the first thing I ever had in print. My father offered it to the editor

of the paper I worked on in Columbus, where we were then living, and I

first knew what he had done, when with mingled shame and pride, I saw it

in the journal. In the tumult of my emotions, I promised myself that if

I ever got through that experience safely, I would never suffer anything

else of mine to be published; but it was not long before I offered the

editor a poem, myself.”

“When did you publish your first story?”

“My next venture was a story in the Ik Marvel manner, which it was my

misfortune to carry into print. I did not really write it, but composed

it, rather, in type, at the case. It was not altogether imitated from Ik

Marvel, for I drew upon the easier art of Dickens, at times, and helped

myself out in places with bold parodies of ‘Bleak House.’ It was all

very well at the beginning, but I had not reckoned with the future

sufficiently to start with any clear ending in my mind; and, as I went

on, I began to find myself more and more in doubt about it. My material

gave out; my incidents failed me; the characters wavered, and threatened

to perish in my hands. To crown my misery, there grew up an impatience

with the story among its readers; and this found its way to me one day,

when I overheard an old farmer, who came in for his paper, say that he

‘did not think that story amounted to much.’ I did not think so either,

but it was deadly to have it put into words, and how I escaped the moral

effect of the stroke I do not know. Somehow, I managed to bring the

wretched thing to a close, and to live it slowly down.”

THE FATE FOLLOWING COLLABORATION

“My next contribution to literature was jointly with John J. Piatt, the

poet, who had worked with me as a boy in the printing-office at

Columbus. We met in Columbus, where I was then an editor, and we made

our first literary venture together in a volume entitled, ‘Poems of Two

Friends.’ _The volume became instantly and lastingly unknown to fame_;

the West waited, as it always does, to hear what the East should say.

The East said nothing, and two-thirds of the small edition of five

hundred copies came back upon the publisher’s hands. This did not deter

me, however, from contributing to the periodicals, which from time to

time, accepted my efforts.

“I remained as an editor, in Columbus, until 1861, when I was appointed

CONSUL AT VENICE.

I really wanted to go to Germany, that I might carry forward my studies

in German literature; and I first applied for the Consulate at Munich.

The powers at Washington thought it quite the same thing to offer me

Rome, but I found that the income of the Roman Consulate would not give

me a living, and I was forced to decline it. Then the President’s

private secretaries, Mr. John Nicolay and Mr. John Hay, who did not know

me, except as a young Westerner who had written poems in the ‘Atlantic

Monthly,’ asked me how I would like Venice, promising that the salary

would be put up to $1,000 a year. It was really put up to $1,500, and I

accepted. I had four years of nearly uninterrupted leisure at Venice.”

“Was it easier, when you returned from Venice?”

“Not at all. On my return to America, my literary life took such form

that most of my reading was done for review. I wrote at first a good

many of the lighter criticisms in ‘The Nation;’ and then I went to

Boston, to become assistant editor of ‘The Atlantic Monthly,’ where I

wrote the literary notices for that periodical for four or five years;

then I became editor until 1881. And I have had some sort of close

relation with magazines ever since.”

“Would you say that all literary success is very difficult to achieve?”

I ventured.

“All that is enduring.”

“It seems to me ours is an age when fame comes quickly.”

“Speaking of quickly made reputations,” said Mr. Howells, meditatively,

“did you ever hear of Alexander Smith? He was a poet who, in the

fifties, was proclaimed immortal by the critics, and ranked with

Shakespeare. I myself read him with an ecstasy which, when I look over

his work to-day, seems ridiculous. His poem, ‘Life-Drama,’ was heralded

as an epic, and set alongside of ‘Paradise Lost.’ I cannot tell how we

all came out of this craze, but the reading world is very susceptible to

such lunacies. He is not the only third-rate poet who has been thus

apotheosized, before and since. You might have envied his great success,

as I certainly did; but it was not success, after all; and I am sure

that real success is always difficult to achieve.”

MY LITERARY EXPERIENCE

“Do you believe that success comes to those who have a special bent or

taste, which they cultivate by hard work?”

“I can only answer that out of _my literary experience_. For my own

part, I believe I have _never got any good from a book, that I did not

read merely because I wanted to read it_. I think this may be applied to

anything a person does. The book, I know, which you read from a sense of

duty, or because for any reason you must, is apt to yield you little.

This, I think, is also true of everything, and the endeavor that does

one good—and lasting good,—is _the endeavor one makes with pleasure_.

Labor done in another spirit will serve in a way, but pleasurable labor

brings, on the whole, I think, the greatest reward.”

Referring again to his early years, it was remarked: “A definite

literary ambition grew up in me; and in the long reveries of the

afternoon, when I was distributing my case in the printing-office, I

fashioned a future of over-powering magnificence and undying celebrity.

I should be ashamed to say what literary triumphs I achieved in those

preposterous deliriums. But I realize now that such dreams are nerving,

and sustain one in an otherwise barren struggle.”

“Were you ever tempted and willing to abandon your object of a literary

life for something else?”

“I was, once. My first and only essay aside from literature was in _the

realm of law_. It was arranged with a United States Senator that I

should study law in his office. I tried it a month, but almost from the

first day, I yearned to return to my books. _I had not only_ _to go back

to literature, but to the printing-office, and I gladly chose to do

it,—a step I never regretted._”

AS TO A HAPPY LIFE,

it was said by Mr. Howells, at the close of our interview:—

“I have come to see life, not as the chase of a forever-impossible

personal happiness, but as _a field for endeavor toward the happiness of

the whole human family_. There is no other success. I know, indeed, of

nothing more subtly satisfying and cheering than a knowledge of the real

good will and appreciation of others. Such happiness does not come with

money, nor does it flow from a fine physical state. It cannot be bought.

But it is the keenest joy, after all; and the toiler’s truest and best

reward.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

XII

JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER

THE richest man in the United States, John Davidson Rockefeller, has

consented to break his rule never to talk for publication; and he has

told me the story of his early struggles and triumphs, and given

utterance to some strikingly interesting observations anent the same. In

doing so, he was influenced by the argument that there is something of

helpfulness, of inspiration, in the career of every self-made man.

While many such careers have been prolific of vivid contrasts, this one

is simply marvelous. Whatever may be said by political economists of the

dangers of vast aggregations of wealth in the hands of the few, there

can be no question of the extraordinary interest attaching to the life

story of a man who was a farm laborer at the age of fifteen, who left

school at eighteen, because he felt it to be his duty to care for his

mother and brother, and who, at the zenith of his business career, has

endowed Chicago University with $7,500,000 out of a fortune estimated at

over $300,000,000,—probably the largest single fortune on earth.

The story opens in a fertile valley in Tioga County, New York, near the

village of Richford, where John D. Rockefeller was born on his father’s

farm in July, 1838. The parents of the boy were church-going,

conscientious, debt-abhorring folk, who preferred the independence of a

few acres to a mortgaged domain. They were Americans to the backbone,

intelligent, industrious people, not very poor and certainly not very

rich, for at fourteen John hired out to neighboring farmers during the

summer months, in order to earn his way and not be dependent upon those

he loved. His father was able to attend to the little farm himself, and

thus it happened that the youth spent several summers away from home,

toiling from sunrise to sunset, and sharing the humble life of the

people he served.

HIS EARLY DREAM AND PURPOSE

Did the tired boy, peering from his attic window, ever dream of his

future?

He said to a youthful companion of Richford, a farmer’s boy like

himself: “I would like to own all the land in this valley, as far as I

can see. I sometimes dream of wealth and power. Do you think we shall

ever be worth one hundred thousand dollars, you and I? I hope to,—some

day.”

Who can estimate the influence such a life as this must have had upon

the future multi-millionaire? I asked Mr. Rockefeller about this, and

found him enthusiastic over the advantages which he had received from

his rural surroundings, and full of faith in the ability of the country

boy to surpass his city cousin.

“To my mind,” he said, “there is something unfortunate in being born in

a city. Most young men raised in New York and other large centers have

not had the struggles which come to us who were reared in the country.

It is a noticeable fact that the country men are crowding out the city

fellows who have wealthy fathers. They are willing to do more work and

go through more for the sake of winning success in the end. Sons of

wealthy parents haven’t a ghost of a show in competition with the

fellows who come from the country with a determination to do something

in the world.”

The next step in the young man’s life was his going to Cleveland, Ohio,

in his sixteenth year.

“That was a great change in my life,” said he. “Going to Cleveland was

my first experience in a great city, and I shall never forget those

years. I began work there as an office-boy, and learned a great deal

about business methods while filling that position. But what benefited

me most in going to Cleveland was the new insight I gained as to what a

great place the world really is. I had plenty of ambition then, and saw

that, if I was to accomplish much, I would have to work very, very hard,

indeed.”

SCHOOL DAYS

He found time, during the year 1854, to attend the sessions of the

school which is now known as the Central High School. It was a brick

edifice, surrounded by grounds which contained a number of hickory

trees. It has long since been superseded by a larger and handsomer

building, but Andrew J. Freese, the teacher, is still living. It is one

of the proudest recollections of this delightful old gentleman’s life

that John D. Rockefeller went to school with him. I visited him at his

residence in Cleveland the other day, and he said:—

“John was one of the best boys I had. He was always polite, but when the

other boys threw hickory clubs at him, or attempted any undue

familiarities with him, he would stop smiling and sail into them. Young

Hanna—Marcus A. Hanna,—who was also a pupil, learned this, to his cost,

more than once, and so did young Jones, the present Nevada senator. I

have had several very distinguished pupils, you see, and one of my girls

is now Mrs. John D. Rockefeller. I had Edward Wolcott, the Colorado

senator, later on. Yes, John was about as intelligent and well-behaved a

chap as I ever had. Here is one of his essays which you may copy, if you

wish.”

Mr. Rockefeller, I am quite sure, will pardon me for copying his

composition at this late day, for its tone and subject matter reflect

credit upon him:—

“Freedom is one of the most desirable of all blessings. Even the

smallest bird or insect loves to be free. Take, for instance, a robin

that has always been free to fly from tree to tree, and sing its

cheerful song from day to day,—catch it, and put it into a cage which is

to it nothing less than a prison, and, although it may be there tended

with the choicest care, yet it is not content. How eloquently does it

plead, though in silence, for liberty. From day to day it sits

mournfully upon its perch, meditating, as it were, some way for its

escape, and when at last this is effected, how cheerfully does it wing

its way out from its gloomy prison-house to sing undisturbed in the

branches of the first trees.

“If even the birds of the air love freedom, is it not natural that man,

the lord of creation, should? I reply that it is, and that it is a

violation of the laws of our country, and the laws of our God, that man

should hold his fellowman in bondage. Yet how many thousands there are

at the present time, even in our own country, who are bound down by

cruel masters to toil beneath the scorching sun of the South. How can

America, under such circumstances, call herself free? Is it extending

freedom by granting to the South one of the largest divisions of land

that she possesses for the purpose of holding slaves? It is a freedom

that, if not speedily checked, will end in the ruin of our country.”

It was greatly to the regret of the teacher that John came to him one

day to announce his purpose to leave school. Mr. Freese urged him to

remain two years longer, in order that he might complete the course, but

the young man told him he felt obliged to earn more money than he was

getting, because of his desire to provide for his mother and brother. He

had received an offer, he said, of a place on the freight docks as a

bill clerk, and this job would take him away from his studies.

A RAFT OF HOOP POLES

A short time afterwards, when Mr. Freese visited his former pupil at the

freight dock, he found the young man seated on a bale of goods, bill

book and pencil in hand. Pointing to a raft of hoop poles in the water,

John told his caller that he had purchased them from a Canadian who had

brought them across Lake Erie, expecting to sell them. Failing in this,

the owner gladly accepted a cash offer from young Rockefeller, who named

a price below the usual market rates. The young man explained that he

_had saved a little money out of his wages_, and that this was his first

speculation. He afterwards told Mr. Freese that he rafted the purchase

himself to a flour mill, and disposed of his bargain at a profit of

fifty dollars.[3]

Footnote 3:

This hoop pole story is matched by another, related by a friend, of

Rockefeller’s later warehouse days in Cleveland. He one day bought a

lot of beans. He bought them cheap, because they were damaged. Instead

of selling them at a slight advance, as most dealers would have done,

he spent all his spare time, for weeks, in the attic of his warehouse,

sorting over those beans. He took out all the blackened and injured

ones, and in the end he got a fancy price for the remainder, because

they were of extra quality.