THE RIVER.
Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in the
Elbow Rock rapids, and was soon able again to take up his work on the
little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, or
at some task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the major
part of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage.
Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the Empire
Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by the banker--as
she understood it--for Brian's protection. But while the dear old lady
explained that Homer T. Ward was one of her pupils, she did not reveal
the relation between Brian's former chief and Betty Jo. Neither Auntie
Sue nor Betty Jo, for several very good reasons, was ready for Brian to
know the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, they
reasoned, for him to love his stenographer, and for his stenographer
to love him, without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of their
happiness.
As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers of
Brian's book,--letters which made the three in the little log house
by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this new
writer's work, those who had undertaken to present it to the public saw
many promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies as to its success.
When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date was
enclosed, and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to Brian where he was at
work in the clearing.
When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in the
shade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had come for a
very serious talk.
“Yes?” he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to be
exceedingly serious.
“Yes,” she continued, “I have. As your accredited business agent and--”
she favored him with a Betty Jo smile--“shall I say manager?”
“Why not managing owner?” he retorted.
“I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily,” she returned, with a
charming touch of color in her cheeks, “because that, you see, helps me
to present what I have to say for the good of the firm.”
“I am listening, Betty Jo.”
“Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe that
bank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and everything?”
Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned with
a small pocket account-book.
“I have it all here,” he said, as he seated himself close beside her
again. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a careful
record of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with the dates.
“Oh, Brian, Brian!” she said with a little cry of delight, “I am so
glad,--so glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my wedding
present. It was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me.”
Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of
painful memories a book of joyous promise.
When they again returned to the consideration of business matters,
Brian gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his total
indebtedness.
Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: “Brian, do you see? Take your
pencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books sold as
given in the publishers' statement.”
Brian laughed. “I have figured it.”
“And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything,”
said Betty Jo. “Isn't that simply grand, Brian?”
“It is pretty 'grand,' all right,” he agreed. “The only trouble is, I
must wait so long before the money is due me from the publishers.”
“That is exactly what I came to talk about,” she returned quickly. “I
tried to have it different when I made the arrangements with them, but
the terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; and
so I have planned a little plan whereby you--that is, we--won't need to
wait for your freedom until the date of settlement with the publishers.”
“You have a plan which will do that?” Brian questioned, doubtfully.
She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. “This is the plan,
and you are not to interrupt until I have finished everything: I happen
to have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing but
earning interest--”
At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he started
to speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: “You were
not to say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear;
please!”
When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her most
matter-of-fact and businesslike tone: “There is every reason in the
world, Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank and to Auntie
Sue at the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasons
yourself. There is me, for instance.
“Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; but
you can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well use. You
will make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, to
cover the amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money is
now earning where it is.
“I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of a
cashier's cheque, payable to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the name
Brian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. You will make
believe to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. You will
send the cheque to Mr. Bank President personally, with a statement
of your indebtedness to him properly itemized, interest figured on
everything. You will instruct him to open an account for you with the
balance. And then--then, Brian, you will give dear Auntie Sue a cheque
for what you owe her, with interest of course. And we will all be so
happy! And--and--don't you think I am a very good managing owner? You
do, don't you?”
When he hesitated, she added: “And the final and biggest reason of all
is, that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever wanted
anything in the world, except you, and I want this so because I want
you. You can't really refuse, now, can you?”
How, indeed, could he refuse?
So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when the
time came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian confessed to
Auntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so long that she was
aware of his crime against her, and finished his confession by giving
her the cheque, it is safe to say that there was nowhere in all the
world more happiness than in the little log house by the river.
“God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumped
inter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done throw'd hit
away,” commented the delighted Judy.
And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed mountain
girl, and answered: “God Almighty was sure good to us all that day,
Judy, dear!”
It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from Homer T.
Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to Betty Jo. The
banker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to the log house by the
river.
There was in his letter a kindly word for his former clerk, Brian Kent,
should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old teacher and
for the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo.
But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie
Sue and caused Betty Jo to laugh until she cried was this: The great
financier, who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, found
time for some good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new and
heretofore unknown writer. The book was great because every page of it,
Homer T. Ward declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had
known her for years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of her
character, nor presented her philosophy of life more clearly. It was a
remarkable piece of work. It was most emphatically the sort of writing
that the world needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest and
best sort. Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the literary
firmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude.
Already, among the banker's closest book friends, the new book was being
discussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue and Betty
Jo to read. It was not only the book of the year;--it was, in Homer T.
Ward's opinion, one of the really big books of the Century.
“Well,” commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part of
the letter, “dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative banker,
but he certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question of
this new author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! Oh, won't we!”
Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out their
plan.
Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, and
that he must be busy somewhere away from the house when the banker
arrived, and not come until he was sent for, because Auntie Sue must
make a full confession to her old pupil of the part she had played
in the Re-Creation of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward should meet his
former clerk.
Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made,
smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told.
When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in Thompsonville,
and all the way home she talked so continuously of her school, and asked
so many questions about his conduct and life and their many Chicago
friends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever of
asking her a single embarrassing question. But, when dinner was over
(Brian had taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. Ward
wanted to know things.
“Was Brian Kent still working in the neighborhood?”
Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in the
neighborhood.
“Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?” Betty Jo's uncle supposed. “What did
she think of the fellow?”
Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow.
“And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was
slaving in the city?”
Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with her
housework; learning to cook; keeping up her stenographic work; reading.
“Reading?” That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his room,
and returned with the book.
And then those two blessed women listened and admired while he
introduced them to the new genius, and read certain favorite passages
from the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, saying all
that he had written in his letter and many things more, until Betty Jo
could restrain herself no longer, but ran to him, and took the book from
his hands, and, with her arms around his neck, told him that he was the
dearest uncle in the world, because she was going to marry the man who
wrote the book he so admired.
There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly valued
by Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log house by the
river; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author with
her typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, had
fallen in love with his stenographer, and, finally, how Betty Jo's
author-lover was even then waiting to meet her guardian, still not
knowing that her guardian was the banker Homer T. Ward.
“You see, uncle, dear,” explained Betty Jo, “Auntie Sue and I were
obliged to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, you
know, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what they
are going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as you
yourself know this one to be, it would be terrible to have him refuse
you just because you were the only living relative of a rich old
banker;--it would, wouldn't it, uncle, dear?”
And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument,
which ended with that fatal trick question.
Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo continued: “And, you see,
Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little against you,
uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, much as I needed the
advantage of associating with such an author-man in the actual writing
of his book, you would never, never have permitted me to fall in love
with him before you had discovered for yourself what a great man he
really is, and I simply had to fall in love with him because God made
me to take care of a genius of some sort. And if you don't believe that,
you can ask Judy. Judy has found out a lot about God lately.
“You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the occasion
will you, uncle, dear?” she added anxiously. “I am not,--truly, I am
not,--I am very serious. But I can't help being a little excited, can I?
Because it is terrible to love a banker-uncle, as I love you, and at
the same time to love a genius-man, as I love my man, and--and--not know
what you two dearest men in the world are going to do to each other.”
And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the girl's
head went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot with blushes
against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down inside
his collar.
When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered
comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at his
old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should
have a serious talk with Auntie Sue.
The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side when
Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house by
the river.
The girl had said to him simply, “You are to come, now, Brian;--Auntie
Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you.”
She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his
arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of words for such
an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail-fence at the
lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; then
they went on.
They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in the
shadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending ridge
on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its
gleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was
hidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; and
between them and the river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the little
log house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway.
When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from
the clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. His
thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had
so compelled his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with the
athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rude
garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his
shoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand,--who was he? And why was
Betty Jo so familiar with this stranger,--Betty Jo, who was usually
so reserved, with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Ward
turned to look inquiringly at Auntie Sue.
His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking.
Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him.
“Here he is, Uncle Homer,” said the girl.
Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to
the bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacy
of a father, stood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T. Ward
and Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl.
Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created Brian
Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile.
As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially
extended, the older man said: “It is an honor, sir, to meet a man who
can do the work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible to
estimate the value of such a service as you have rendered the race. You
have a rare and wonderful gift, Mr. Burns, and I predict for you a life
of remarkable usefulness.”
Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized
him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue.
Auntie Sue spoke: “Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo,
Brian.”
“'Brian'!” ejaculated the banker.
Auntie Sue continued: “Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author,
Mr. Burns;--permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!”
And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on the
porch watching the sunset: “Hit sure is dad burned funny how all tangled
an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an',
then, if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, all ter onct hit's all
straightened out as purty as anythin'.”
They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old
teacher's sweet voice answered: “Yes, Judy; it is all just like the
river, don't you see?”
“Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's
a-boilin' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then all
ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again,” returned Judy.
“Meaning just that, Judy,” returned Auntie Sue. “No matter how tangled
and confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at the last,
if, like the river, we only keep going on.”
And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze of
autumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills,
the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered one day at the
little log house by the river.
It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were so
dear to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods minister was not
wanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and his words plain; and
the service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guests
were but humble mountaineers; for love was there, and sincerity, and
strength, and rugged kindliness.
And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to
the river-bank, at the lower corner of the garden, where, at the eddy
landing, a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready.
When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out from
the little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and Homer T.
Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, there to watch the
beginning of the voyage.
With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the safer
waters close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving her
handkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along the
bank, swept down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Rock
rapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on its winding course
between the tree-clad hills.
“I am so glad,” said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love,
and her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, “I am so glad they chose the
river for their wedding journey.”
Note.--This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the
reader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and purposes
of the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on these
pages in response to popular demand.--The Publishers.
HAROLD BELL WRIGHT
A Biography
By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS
The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men just
to the degree that his life and work touches and influences the life of
his time and the lives of individuals.
Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told on
the printed page. The story is better as it is written on the hearts of
men and women and the man himself does the writing.
He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corroding
time is he who touches with surest hand the greatest number of human
hearts.
He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may not
be a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world stands the
man with an overpowering desire for all that is best for the race to
be in the race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the good
that is within us all, whether he be orator, writer, artist or artisan,
is a giant among men.
That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our
lives than that which we see or hear. An author with millions of readers
must be a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in his
own day and generation. We can understand the truth of this through a
study of the aims and life purposes of Harold Bell Wright as expressed
through his books and the circumstances under which they were written.
The wonderful popularity of this author is well estimated by the
millions of copies of his books that have been sold. This is also the
greatest testimonial that can be given to the merit of his work. The
great heart of the reading public is an unprejudiced critic. “Is not
the greatest voice the one to which the greatest number of hearts listen
with pleasure?”
When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances we
sometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under conditions
more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what the young
man of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of poverty
makes a man of power while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makes
a man of uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a handicap
remains so through its possible three score years and ten and the life
begun with advantages multiplies its talents ten and a hundred fold.
So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not
the guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, his
conscience?
Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, in
Rome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biographer we quote the
following:
“Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie
embedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that away
back in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New England.
After a brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated to
the far west and settled amid the undulations of the Mohawk valley
in central New York. Protestant France also sent westward some
Gallic chivalry hungering for freedom. The fringe of this garment of
civilization spread out and reached also into the same valley. English
determination and Huguenot aspiration touched elbows in the war for
political and religious freedom, and touched hearts and hands in
the struggle for economic freedom. Their generations were a genuine
aristocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims cemented casual
acquaintance into enduring friendship. William Wright met, loved
and married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A carpenter
contractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined to
a woman into whose soul of wholesome refinement come images of dainty
beauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint the
life of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third child
died in infancy. The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years.
The youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second son is
Harold Bell Wright.
“During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. The
boy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of the mother
bending affectionately over him while criticising the water color sketch
his unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faulty
lines were pointed out, then touched into harmony and more accurate
perspective by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades dance
on sunny slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in the
valley below.
“Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first.
Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of living. He
brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immortelles which mother
graciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, man-grown, bows
reverently over a box of withered flowers--the same bouquet the mother
took that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish love.
Such was the first decade.
“A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harsher
surroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers to the
attic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his first
Gethsemane. For ten years buffeted and beaten, battling with adversity,
sometimes losing but never lost, snatching learning here and there,
hating sham, loving passionately, misunderstood, misapprehended, too
stubbornly proud to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fighting
poverty in the depths of privation, wrestling existence from toil he
loathed, befriending many and also befriended much, but always face to
face with the grim tragedy which has held part of the stage since Eden.
“Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides where
shadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled away. The second
was passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloud
grew very black and drenched the soil.
“Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is
well known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, its
student pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob-webbery prose.
Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have just such an
animate problem of French artistry and Bohemian experience to solve.
They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over them
all the glamour of romance.”
Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at the
age of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and identified
himself with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton,
Ohio. He continued active in the different departments of work in his
church all during his school years with the ultimate result of his
entering the ministry.
Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing odd
jobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. After
two years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that he
might continue his schooling, he contracted from overwork and out-door
exposure a severe case of pneumonia that left his eyesight badly
impaired and his constitution in such condition that, to the present
day, he has never fully recovered.
Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advised
him that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at least, another
year. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of existence, starting from
a point on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, but
alone, down stream a distance of more than five hundred miles. From
this point, by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest
Missouri. Here, for some months, while gradually regaining his strength,
he secured employment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals.
Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to pay
express charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, this time,
fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return mail.
It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his first
sermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in the little
mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, one
Sunday, when the regular preacher had failed to appear.
From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, and
others that followed, he came to feel that he could do more good in the
ministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafter
accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearly
salary of four hundred dollars. True to a resolve, that his work should
be that through which he could help the most people, he had now chosen
the ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry,
chosen with such earnest conviction, should another field of labor offer
more extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years,
into the field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets but
with the same earnest conviction with which he had earlier chosen it.
Following the publication of “The Shepherd of the Hills” his publishers
assured him that he could secure greater results from his pen rather
than his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth make literature his
life work. This was in every way consistent with his teaching that every
man's ministry is that work through which he can accomplish the greatest
good.
In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the many
covet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has given to
a multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, might
further advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends.
He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to glorify one's self by
means other than the fruits of one's own labor.
This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand to
hand struggle with life for a bare existence, was necessarily forced
into contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no way
became a part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness and
spiritual truths that has so distinguished the works of the man kept the
boy unstained in his unfortunate environment.
Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work at
Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate--1899--he
married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love had
its beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been born
three sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, 1902, and Norman Hall,
1910.
In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his church
people. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condition, and church
attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the young
pastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men's
town. A little city with saloons and brothels doing business on every
hand. His soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, with
the hope of arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing “That
Printer of Udell's,” planning to read the story, by installments, on
special evenings of successive weeks, to his congregation.
Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story was
the kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The teachings
set forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half of
the book, are the identical things the author was preaching. The first
chapters of the story are very largely colored by Mr. Wright's early
life, but they are by no means autobiographical.
“That Printer of Udell's” was written without thought or intention of
offering it for publication. During the author's ministry he made some
of the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it was
through certain of these friends that he was persuaded from reading the
story, as intended, but to offer it for publication, giving it, thus, a
wider usefulness.
Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during the
winter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a Chicago
church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meeting
that the author and his publisher met for the first time. Mr. Wright
delivered a sermon entitled “Sculptors of Life” that was so impressive
that I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lecture
to a certain company of young people.
The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship,
without any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to a
co-operative life work, and when the author later offered his book for
publication it was without request or thought of financial remuneration.
Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying him the highest royalty
that was being paid for any author's first book.
“That Printer of Udell's” was written almost entirely in the late hours
of the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great demands were
being made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiating
and speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavy
requirements of his church. His aggressive activities, backed by his
splendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of his
little city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies
and friends. When he left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City,
Missouri, his resignation was not accepted.
After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically able
to carry out the great city work as he had dreamed it and planned it,
on a scale that would satisfy his longings for service, and it made him
seriously consider whether there was not some other way that would more
equally measure with his strength. He went again to the Ozarks, this
time for rest and meditation, and while there began writing “The
Shepherd of the Hills.” This Story has a peculiar significance for
the author. He feels toward it as he can not feel for any of his other
books. “The Shepherd of the Hills” was written as a test. The strength
of the message he was able to put into the story and the response it
should find in the hearts of men and women was to decide for him his
ministry henceforth, whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of
Galilee by voice or pen. It was a testing time that bore fruit not only
in this simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, “is one of
the greatest sermons of our day,” but resulted as well in the splendid
volumes that have followed.
“The Shepherd of the Hills” was finished during the year of his
pastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, encouragement
and helpful understanding of his church officers and membership, it is
doubtful if the story could ever have been completed. When Mr. Wright
delivered the manuscript to his publishers the first of the year, 1907,
for publication the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the
Christian Church in Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine
would give him a larger measure of health.
Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the
Imperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote “The Calling of Dan
Matthews.” The church and its problems were weighing on the author and
affecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it was
only natural that he should give to the world “a picture that is true
to the four corners of the earth.” Every incident in the story has its
counterpart in real life and, with but few exceptions, came under the
author's personal observation. He did not get the real pleasure out
of writing “The Calling of Dan Matthews” that he did the story which
preceded it. But he could not, try as he would, escape it.
The publication of “The Calling of Dan Matthews” in the fall of 1909 was
just two years after the publication of “The Shepherd of the Hills.”
“The Winning of Barbara Worth” required more time and effort in the
collecting of material than any book the author had written, but
probably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful with
regard to descriptive detail, and even while writing “The Calling of Dan
Matthews” he was making a study of the desert and this great reclamation
project. Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checked
over by the best engineers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any
of his descriptions that involved engineering or reclamation problems.
“The Winning of Barbara Worth” bears the distinction, without doubt,
of being the only book ever published that called its publisher and
illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into the
heart of a great desert, for a consultation with its author. This story
of the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was written in the same study
as was “The Calling of Dan Matthews.” A study of rude construction,
about eighteen by thirty-five feet, with thatched roof and outside
covering of native arrow-weed and built entirely by the author himself.
When Mr. Wright finished “The Winning of Barbara Worth”--so named in
honor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds--he was a sick man. He often worked the
night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For several months he
virtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it was
feared he would not live to finish the book. He wrote the last chapters
while confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy stages,
through the kindness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona that
is so delightful to all lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracing
mile-high atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness,
and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wild-horse
chase over a country wild and rough where the writer of this sketch
would only care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was
weeks after publication before the author saw the first bound copy
of his book. During these summer and fall months, while regaining his
strength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting material, for
this part of Arizona is the scene of his novel “When a Man's a Man.”
“Their Yesterdays” was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published in
the fall of 1912, just one year after the publication of “The Winning
of Barbara Worth.” In order to write this story, with the least possible
strain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in a
little cottage purchased especially for this work. His material was
collected from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimate
knowledge of human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representative
of the real Harold Bell Wright than anything he has done. It is the true
presentation of his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr.
Wright, in behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating
class of some twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago).
He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he make the
commonplace remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For the
first time that I remember he somewhat impatiently resented a suggestion
from me, saying “These young men are on the threshold of life and the
very best that is within me is due to them. I can give to them only such
a message as I would, were I to stand before judgment on the morrow.” It
was with just this spirit that the author wrote “Their Yesterdays.”
Following “Their Yesterdays” the next book in order of publication was
“The Eyes of the World,” published in the fall of 1914. It was written
in the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valley
where he wrote “The Calling of Dan Matthews” and “The Winning of Barbara
Worth.” Being fully in sympathy with the author's purpose in writing
this story, the campaign of advertising was of such educational
character and so eventful in many ways, that it will long be remembered
by authors, publishers and reading public, and, we trust, make for
cleaner books and pictures.
As it was in the writing of “The Calling of Dan Matthews” so it was in
the writing of “The Eyes of the World,” the sense of duty stood highest.
The modern trend in books and music and art and drama had so incensed
the author that “The Eyes of the World” was the result of his all
impelling desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is true of all
writers, there are sometimes those who fail to catch the message in
Mr. Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, and that was
especially true with “The Eyes of the World.” To the great majority
of people, clean living and thinking, the message was not to be
misinterpreted and to them the book is blessed. To that small minority
it was convicting and, from a few such, it brought forth condemnation
which, in a fellow author here and there, was pronounced and emphasized
by envy and jealousy. To critics of this class Mr. Wright makes no reply
and is not in the least disturbed.
“The Uncrowned King,” a small volume--an allegory--published in 1910,
to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. Possibly,
it has an added charm because of certain peculiar conditions. It was
written in Redlands, California, during the winter of 1909-10, although
the notion for the little volume occurred to the author while living in
Kansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will to do
a work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost overpowering
when, unconsciously coming to his aid, a young woman talking to a
company of Christian Endeavorers chanced to remark, “After all, the
real kings of earth are seldom crowned.” All through the evening service
thoughts that this inspired kept running through the author's mind and
late that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some
years later and given to his publishers to enrich the world.
His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatized
and enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been a
delight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remained
for “The Eyes of the World” to be the first of his books to be presented
in a feature production of motion pictures.
The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. He is
unpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids interviews for the
public press. Loud, boisterous conversation is but little less offensive
to him than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong,
clean-minded men who are doing things in the world and are as necessary
to his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them is
no less marked than his caring and providing for his family, which is
almost a passion. He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life.
The desert with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is
no less attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the
beauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their roaring
trout streams that furnish him hours of sport with rod and line. He
enjoys hunting, horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. But when there
is work to be done it is the one thing that bulks largest and all else
must wait.
After finishing “The Eyes of the World,” Mr. Wright embarked on the
building of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood,
California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five
began making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature's
delightful spots.
Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while
writing “When a Man's a Man.” For he finds it very helpful to live in
the atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he also
avoids frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment out
of this story than any he has previously done. It is a story of the
out-of-doors in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. I
suppose, too, he enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because it
comes so easy for him to just tell a story without the intervention of
some nerve racking problem. The only book he has heretofore written that
is purely a story is “The Shepherd of the Hills,” and I sometimes wonder
to what proportion of his readers does this Ozark story hold first
place. For all such, I am sure, “When a Man's a Man” will find a
reception of special heartiness because it is just a fine, big,
wholesome novel of simple sweetness and virile strength.
I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know him
as intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. But should
you have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourself
the pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just the
kind of person that the author himself delights to meet.
“Relay Heights,” February 15, 1916.