Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

After a cordial greeting, Miss Sullivan, whose gracious, kindly manner makes the visitor feel perfectly at home, introduced me to her pupil. Seated on a low rocking-chair, in a large, sunny bay-window, the young girl, fresh as the morning, in her dainty pink shirt-waist over a dress of plain, dark material, with the sunshine glinting through her waving brown hair, and kissing her broad white forehead and pink cheeks, made a picture which one will not willingly forget. On her lap was a small red cushion, to which wires, representing the geometrical figures included in the problem on which she was engaged, were fastened. Laying this aside at a touch from Miss Sullivan, she arose, and, stretching out her hand, pronounced my name softly, with a peculiar intonation, which at first makes it a little difficult to understand her words, but to which the listener soon becomes accustomed. Of course, her teacher acted as an interpreter during our conversation, though much of what Helen says is perfectly intelligible even to the untrained ear.

“Yes,” she said, “it is a very difficult problem, but I have a little light on it now.”

HER AMBITION.

“What will your ambition be when your college course is completed?” I asked.

“I think I should like to write,—for children. I tell stories to my little friends a great deal of the time now, but they are not original,—not yet. Most of them are translations from the Greek, and I think no one can write anything prettier for the young. Charles Kingsley has written some equally good things, like ‘Water Babies,’ for instance. ‘Alice in Wonderland’ is a fine story, too, but none of them can surpass the Greek tales.”

Many of our advanced thinkers are fond of advancing the theory that the medium of communication in the future will not be spoken words, but the more subtle and genuine, if mute, language of the face, the eyes, the whole body. Sarah Bernhardt forcibly illustrates the effectiveness of this method, for even those who do not understand a word of French derive nearly as much pleasure from the great actress’s performances as those who are thoroughly familiar with the language. Helen Keller’s dramatic power of expression is equally telling.

She is enthusiastic in her admiration of everything Greek. The language, the literature, the arts, the history of the classic land fascinate and enthrall her imagination.

“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, eagerly, in answer to my query if she expected to go to Greece sometime, “it is one of my air castles. Ever since I was as tall as that,” (she held her hand a short distance from the floor) “I have dreamed about it.”

“Do you believe the dream will some day become a reality?”

“I hope so, but I dare not be too sure,”—and the sober words of wisdom that followed sounded oddly enough on the girlish lips,—“the world is full of disappointments and vicissitudes, and I have to be a little conservative.”

“Which of your studies interest you most?”

“Latin and Greek. I am reading now Virgil’s ‘Eclogues,’ Cicero’s ‘Orations,’ Homer’s ‘Iliad’ and ‘Odyssey,’” she said, and ran rapidly over a list of classic books which she likes.

Her readiness to perceive a joke and her quickness to detect the least carelessness in language are distinguishing traits, which she illustrated even during our brief conversation. Commenting on her love of everything pertaining to Greece, I remarked that a believer in the doctrine of metempsychosis might imagine that she possessed the soul of an old Greek. Instantly she noticed the little slip, and, laughing gayly, cried: “Oh, no, not the soul of an _old_ Greek, the soul of a _young_ Greek.”

Helen’s merriment was infectious, and we all joined heartily in the laugh, Miss Sullivan saying, “She caught you there,” as I was endeavoring to explain that, of course, I meant the soul of an ancient Greek.

While taking so deep an interest in matters intellectual, and living in a world of her own, penetrated by no outward sight or sound, Miss Keller’s tastes are as normal as those of any girl of nineteen. She is full of animal spirit, dearly loves a practical joke, is fond of dancing, enjoys outside exercise and sport, and has the natural desire of every healthy young maiden to wear pretty things and look her best.

In answer to a question on this latter subject, she said:—

“I used to be very fond of dress, but now I am not particularly so; it is such a bother. We ought to like dress, though, and wear pretty things, just as the flowers put on beautiful colors. It would be fine,” she continued, laughing gleefully, “if we were made with feathers and wings, like the birds. Then we would have no trouble about dress, and we could fly where we pleased.”

“You would fly to Greece, first, I suppose?”

“No,” she replied, and her laughing face took on a tender, wistful look, “I should go home first, to see my loved ones.”

HEREDITY AND CHILDHOOD.

Miss Keller’s home is at Tuscumbia, Alabama, where she was born on June 27, 1880. Some of the best blood of both the north and the south flows in her veins, and it is probable that her uncommon mental powers are in no small degree due to heredity. Her father, Arthur H. Keller, a polished southern gentleman, with a large, chivalrous nature, fine intelligence and attractive manners, was the descendant of a family of Swiss origin, which had settled in Virginia and mixed with some of the oldest families in that state. He served as a captain in the Confederate army during the Civil War, and, at the time of Helen’s birth, was the owner and editor of a paper published at Tuscumbia. On the maternal side she is descended from one of the Adams families of Massachusetts, and the same stock of Everetts from which Edward Everett and Reverend Edward Everett Hale sprang.

Helen Keller was not born deaf and blind, although, at the age of eighteen months, when a violent fit of convulsions deprived her of the faculties of seeing and hearing, she had not attempted to speak. When a child, she was as notable for her stubbornness and resistance to authority as she is to-day for her gentleness and amiability. Indeed, it was owing to an exhibition of what seemed a very mischievous spirit that her parents sought a special instructor for her. Having discovered the use of a key, she locked her mother into a pantry in a distant part of the house, where, her hammering on the door not being heard by the servants, she remained imprisoned for several hours. Helen, seated on the floor outside, felt the knocking on the door, and seemed to be enjoying the situation intensely when at length jailer and prisoner were found. She was then about six years old, and, after this escapade, Mr. and Mrs. Keller felt that the child’s moral nature must be reached and her mental powers cultivated, if possible.

HELEN’S FIRST TEACHER.

On the recommendation of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone, Michael Anagnos, director of the Perkins Institute for the Blind at South Boston, sent Miss Annie Mansfield Sullivan to Tuscumbia to undertake the difficult task of piercing the veil behind which the intelligence of the little girl lay sleeping. How well this noble and devoted teacher has succeeded in her work is amply evidenced by the brilliancy and thoroughness of her pupil’s attainments.

Miss Sullivan’s method of instruction was similar to that adopted by Dr. Samuel G. Howe in teaching Laura Bridgman. She used the manual alphabet, and cards bearing, in raised letters, the names of objects. At first, the pupil violently resisted the teacher’s efforts to instruct her, and so determined was her opposition, Miss Sullivan declares, that, if she had not exercised physical force and a determination even more strenuous than that of her refractory pupil, she would never have succeeded in teaching her anything. Night and day she was at her side, watching for the first gleam of conscious mind; and at length, after seven weeks of what she says was the hardest work she had ever done, the faithful teacher received her reward in the sudden dawning of the child’s intelligence. All at once, the light seemed to burst in upon her wondering soul; she understood then that the raised letters which she felt on the cards and the groups of manual signs on her hands, represented words, or the names of familiar objects. The delight of the pupil and teacher was unbounded, and from that moment Helen’s education, though still demanding the greatest patience and loving care on the part of her teacher, was a comparatively easy matter.

With the awakening of her intellectual faculties, she seemed literally to have been “born again.” The stubborn, headstrong, self-willed, almost unmanageable child became patient, gentle and obedient; and, instead of resisting instruction, her eagerness to learn was so great that it had to be restrained. So rapid was her progress that, in a few weeks, anyone who knew the manual alphabet could easily communicate with her, and in July, 1887, less than a year from the time Miss Sullivan first saw her, she could write an intelligent letter.

PREPARING FOR COLLEGE.

In September, 1896, accompanied by her teacher, Miss Keller entered the Cambridge School for Girls, to prepare for Radcliffe College, and in June, 1897, passed the examinations of the first preparatory year successfully in every subject, taking “honors” in English and German. The director of the school, Arthur Gilman, in an article in “American Annals of the Deaf,” says: “I think that I may say that no candidate in Harvard or Radcliffe College was graduated higher than Helen in English. The result is remarkable, especially when we consider that she had been studying on strictly college preparatory lines for one year only. She had, it is true, long and careful instruction, and she has had always the loving ministration of Miss Sullivan, in addition to the inestimable advantage of a concentration that the rest of us never know. No other, man or woman,” he adds, “has ever, in my experience, got ready for those examinations in so brief a time.”

Mr. Gilman, in the same article, pays the following well-deserved tribute to Miss Sullivan, whose work is as worthy of admiration as that of her pupil:—

“Miss Sullivan sat at Helen’s side in the classes (in the Cambridge School), interpreting to her, with infinite patience, the instruction of every teacher. In study hours, Miss Sullivan’s labors were even more arduous, for she was obliged to read everything that Helen had to learn, excepting what was prepared in Braille; she searched the lexicons and encyclopedias, and gave Helen the benefit of it all. When Helen went home, Miss Sullivan went with her, and it was hers to satisfy the busy, unintermitting demands of the intensely active brain; for, although others gladly helped, there were many matters which could be treated only by the one teacher who had awakened the activity and had followed its development from the first. Now, it was a German grammar which had to be read, now a French story, and then some passage from ‘Cæsar’s Commentaries.’ It looked like drudgery, and drudgery it would certainly have been had not love shed its benign influence over all, lightening each step and turning hardship into pleasure.”

Miss Keller is very patriotic, but large and liberal in her ideas, which soar far beyond all narrow, partisan or political prejudices. Her sympathies are with the masses, the burden-bearers, and, like all friends of the people and of universal progress, she was intensely interested in the Peace Congress.

Speaking on the subject, she said: “I hope the nations will carry out the project of disarmament. I wonder which nation will be brave enough to lay down its arms first!”

“Don’t you hope it will be America?”

“Yes, I hope so, but I do not think it will. We are only just beginning to fight now,” she went on, sagely, “and I am afraid we like it. I think it will be one of the old, experienced nations, that has had enough of war.”

HER IDEAL OF A SUCCESSFUL CAREER.

I asked Miss Keller what she considers most essential to a successful career.

She thought a moment, and then replied, slowly, “Patience, perseverance and fidelity.”

“And what do you look upon as the most desirable thing in life?”

“Friends,” was the prompt reply to this broad general question; and, as she uttered the word, she nestled closely to the friend who has so long been all in all to her.

“What about material possessions?” I asked; “for instance, which would you place first,—wealth or education?”

“Education. A good education is a stepping-stone to wealth. But that does not imply that I want wealth. It is such a care. It would be worse than dressing. ‘Give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me contentment,’” she quoted, with a smile.

The future of this most interesting girl will be followed with closest attention by educators, psychologists, and the public generally. There is little doubt that the time and care spent on her education will be amply justified; and that she will personally illustrate her own ideal of a successful career,—“To live nobly; to be true to one’s best aspirations,”—is the belief of all who know her.

XLI

Jay Gould’s Chum Chooses “High Thinking, not Money Making,” and Wins Success Without Riches.

WHEN I visited the hill-top retreat of John Burroughs, the distinguished lover of nature, at West Park, New York, it was with the feeling that all success is not material; that mere dollars are nothing, and that the influential man is the successful man, whether he be rich or poor. John Burroughs is unquestionably both influential and poor. On the wooden porch of his little bark-covered cabin I waited, one June afternoon, until he should come back from the woods and fields, where he had gone for a ramble. It was so still that the sound of my rocker moving to and fro on the rough boards of the little porch seemed to shock the perfect quiet. From afar off came the plaintive cry of a wood-dove, and then all was still again. Presently the interpreter of out-door life appeared in the distance, and, seeing a stranger at his door, hurried homeward. He was without coat or vest, and looked cool in his white outing shirt and large straw hat. After some formalities of introduction, we reached the subject which I had called to discuss, and he said:—

“It is not customary to interview men of my vocation concerning success.”

“Any one who has made a lasting impression on the minds of his contemporaries,” I began, “and influenced men and women——”

“Do you refer to me?” he interrupted, naively.

DIFFERENT WAYS OF BEING SUCCESSFUL.

I nodded and he laughed. “I have not endowed a university nor made a fortune, nor conquered an enemy in battle,” he said.

“And those who have done such things have not written ‘Locusts and Wild Honey’ and ‘Wake, Robin.’”

“I recognize,” he said, quietly, “that success is not always where people think it is. There are many ways of being successful, and I do not approve of the mistake which causes many to consider that a great fortune acquired means a great success achieved. On the contrary, our greatest men need very little money to accomplish the greatest work.”

“I thought that anyone leading a life so wholly at variance with the ordinary ideas and customs would see success in life from a different point of view,” I observed. “Money is really no object with you?”

“The subject of wealth never disturbs me.”

“You lead a very simple life here?”

“Such as you see.”

The sight would impress anyone. So far is this disciple of nature away from the ordinary mode of the world that his little cabin, set in the cup-shaped top of a hill, is practically bare of luxuries and the so-called comforts of life. His surroundings are of the rudest, the very rocks and bushes encroaching upon his back door. All about, the crest of the hill encircles him, and shuts out the world. Only the birds of the air venture to invade his retreat from the various sides of the mountain, and there is only a straggling, narrow path, which branches off a dozen times before it takes the true direction. In his house are no decorations but such as can be hung upon the exposed wood. The fireplace is of brick, and quite wide; the floor, rough boards scrubbed white; the ceiling, a rough array of exposed rafters, and his bed a rudely constructed work of the hand. Very few and very simple chairs, a plain table and some shelves for books made the wealth of the retreat and serve for his ordinary use.

“Many people think,” I said, “that your method of living is an ideal example of the way people ought to live.”

“There is nothing remarkable in that. A great many people are very weary of the way they think themselves compelled to live. They are mistaken in believing that the disagreeable things they find themselves doing, are the things they ought to do. A great many take their idea of a proper aim in life from what other people say and do. Consequently, they are unhappy, and an independent existence such as mine strikes them as ideal. As a matter of fact, it is very natural.”

A WORTHY AIM IN LIFE.

“Would you say that to work so as to be able to live like this should be the aim of a young man?”

“By no means. On the contrary, his aim should be to live in such a way as will give his mind the greatest freedom and peace. This can be very often obtained by wanting less of material things and more of intellectual ones. A man who achieved such an aim would be as well off as the most distinguished man in any field. Money-getting is half a mania, and some other ‘getting’ propensities are manias also. The man who gets content comes nearest to being reasonable.”

“I should like,” I said, “to illustrate your point of view from the details of your own life.”

“Students of nature do not, as a rule, have eventful lives. I was born in Roxbury, New York, in 1837. That was a time when conditions were rather primitive. My father was a farmer, and I was raised among the woods and fields. I came from an uncultivated, unreading class of society, and grew up amid surroundings the least calculated to awaken the literary faculty. Yet I have no doubt that daily contact with the woods and fields awakened my interest in the wonders of nature, and gave me a bent toward investigation in that direction.”

“Did you begin early to make notes and write upon nature?” I questioned.

“Not before I was sixteen or seventeen. Earlier than that, the art of composition had anything but charms for me. I remember that while at school, at the age of fourteen, I was required, like other students, to write ‘compositions’ at stated times, but I usually evaded the duty one way or another. On one occasion, I copied something from a comic almanac, and unblushingly handed it in as my own. But the teacher detected the fraud, and ordered me to produce a twelve-line composition before I left school. I remember I racked my brain in vain, and the short winter day was almost closing when Jay Gould, who sat in the seat behind me, wrote twelve lines of doggerel on his slate and passed it slyly over to me. I had so little taste for writing that I coolly copied that, and handed it in as my own.”

JAY GOULD WAS HIS CHUM.

“You were friendly with Gould then?”

“Oh, yes; ‘chummy,’ they call it now. His father’s farm was only a little way from ours, and we were fast friends, going home together every night.”

“His view of life must have been considerably different from yours.”

“It was. I always looked upon success as being a matter of mind, not money; but Jay wanted the material appearances. I remember that once we had a wrestling match, and as we were about even in strength, we agreed to abide by certain rules,—taking what we called ‘holts’ in the beginning and not breaking them until one or the other was thrown. I kept to this in the struggle, but when Jay realized that he was in danger of losing the contest, he broke the ‘holt’ and threw me. When I remarked that he had broken his agreement, he only laughed and said, ‘I threw you, didn’t I?’ And to every objection I made, he made the same answer. The fact of having won (it did not matter how), was pleasing to him. It satisfied him, although it wouldn’t have contented me.”

“Did you ever talk over success in life with him?”

“Yes; quite often. He was bent on making money and did considerable trading among us schoolboys,—sold me some of his books. I felt then that my view of life was more satisfactory to me than his would have been. I wanted to obtain a competence, and then devote myself to high thinking instead of to money-making.”

“How did you plan to attain this end?”

HE BEGAN WRITING AT SIXTEEN.

“By study. I began in my sixteenth or seventeenth year to try to express myself on paper, and when, after I had left the country school, I attended the seminary at Ashland and at Cooperstown, I often received the highest marks in composition, though only standing about the average in general scholarship. My taste ran to essays, and I picked up the great works in that field at a bookstore, from time to time, and filled my mind with the essay idea. I bought the whole of Dr. Johnson’s works at a second-hand bookstore in New York, because, on looking into them, I found his essays appeared to be of solid literature, which I thought was just the thing. Almost my first literary attempts were moral reflections, somewhat in the Johnsonian style.”

“You were supporting yourself during these years?”

“I taught six months and ‘boarded round’ before I went to the seminary. That put fifty dollars into my pocket, and the fifty paid my way at the seminary. Working on the farm, studying and teaching filled up the years until 1863, when I went to Washington and found employment in the Treasury Department.”

“You were connected with the Treasury, then?”

“Oh, yes; for nearly nine years. I left the department in 1872, to become receiver of a bank, and subsequently for several years performed the work of a bank examiner. I considered it only as an opportunity to earn and save up a little money on which I could retire. I managed to do that, and came back to this region, where I bought a fruit farm. I worked that into a paying condition, and then gave all my time to the pursuit of the studies I like.”

“Had you abandoned your interest in nature during your Washington life?”

“No; I gave as much time to the study of nature and literature as I had to spare. When I was twenty-three, I wrote an essay on ‘Expression,’ and sent it to the ‘Atlantic.’ It was so Emersonian in style, owing to my enthusiasm for Emerson at that time, that the editor thought some one was trying to palm off on him an early essay of Emerson’s which he had not seen. He found that Emerson had not published any such paper, however, and printed it, though it had not much merit. I wrote off and on for the magazines.”

The editor in question was James Russell Lowell, who, instead of considering it without merit, often expressed afterward the delight with which he read this contribution from an unknown hand, and the swift impression of the author’s future distinction which came to him with that reading.

WHAT NATURE STUDY REALLY MEANS.

“Your successful work, then, has been in what direction?” I said.

“In studying nature. It has all come by living close to the plants and animals of the woods and fields, and coming to understand them. There I have been successful. Men who, like myself, are deficient in self-assertion, or whose personalities are flexible and yielding, make a poor show in business, but in certain other fields these defects become advantages. Certainly it is so in my case. I can succeed with bird or beast, for I have cultivated my ability in that direction. I can look in the eye of an ugly dog or cow and win, but with an ugly man I have less success.

“I consider the desire which most individuals have for the luxuries which money can buy, an error of mind,” he added. “Those things do not mean anything except a lack of higher tastes. Such wants are not necessary wants, nor honorable wants. If you cannot get wealth with a noble purpose, it is better to abandon it and get something else. Peace of mind is one of the best things to seek, and finer tastes and feelings. The man who gets these, and maintains himself comfortably, is much more admirable and successful than the man who gets money and neglects these. The realm of power has no fascination for me. I would rather have my seclusion and peace of mind. This log hut, with its bare floors, is sufficient. I am set down among the beauties of nature, and in no danger of losing the riches that are scattered all about. No one will take my walks or my brook away from me. The flowers, birds and animals are plentifully provided. I have enough to eat and wear, and time to see how beautiful the world is, and to enjoy it. The entire world is after your money, or the things you have bought with your money. It is trying to keep them that makes them seem so precious. I live to broaden and enjoy my own life, believing that in so doing I do what is best for everyone. If I ran after birds only to write about them, I should never have written anything that anyone else would have cared to read. I must write from sympathy and love,—that is, from enjoyment,—or not at all. I come gradually to have a feeling that I want to write upon a given theme. Whenever the subject recurs to me, it awakens a warm, personal response. My confidence that I ought to write comes from the feeling or attraction which some subjects exercise over me. The work is pleasure, and the result gives pleasure.”

“And your work as a naturalist is what?”

“Climbing trees to study birds, lying by the waterside to watch the fishes, sitting still in the grass for hours to study the insects, and tramping here and there, always to observe and study whatever is common to the woods and fields.”

“Men think you have done a great work,” I said.

“I have done a pleasant work,” he said, modestly.

“And the achievements of your schoolmate Gould do not appeal to you as having anything in them worth aiming for?” I questioned.

“Not for me. I think my life is better for having escaped such vast and difficult interests.”

The gentle, light-hearted naturalist and recluse came down the long hillside with me, “to put me right” on the main road. I watched him as he retraced his steps up the steep, dark path, lantern in hand. His sixty years sat lightly upon him, and as he ascended I heard him singing. Long after the light melody had died away, I saw the serene little light bobbing up and down in his hand, disappearing and reappearing, as the lone philosopher repaired to his hut and his couch of content.

WHY HE IS RICH WITHOUT MONEY.

It must not be inferred that Mr. Burroughs has no money. As an author, he has given us such delightful books, dear to every lover of nature, as “Wake, Robin,” “Winter Sunshine,” “Locusts and Wild Honey,” “Fresh Fields,” “Indoor Studies,” “Birds and Poets,” “Pepacton,” “Signs and Seasons,” “Riverby,” “Whitman,” and “The Light of Day,” published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

His writings produce goodly sums, while his vineyards and gardens produce as much as he needs; but the charm of it all is, he knows not the unrest of eagerly seeking it. His is one of the very infrequent instances in which a man knows when he has enough, and really and truthfully does not care for more. Nor is he a “hayseed” in the popular application of that expressive term. When he goes to the city, as he occasionally does (just to reassure himself that he prefers life in the country), he is not met at the station by gentlemen in loud checked suits; he carries no air of the rustic with him. As an Irish wit recently put it, “When in Paris, he does as the parasites do,” and he conducts himself and clothes himself as a well regulated citizen should.

So John Burroughs is rich, not in money, but in thought, in simplicity, in the knowledge that he is making the best of life. He has found out that money is not everything, that all the money in the world will not buy a light heart, or a good name,—that there is a place for every one, and in that place alone can a man be of service to himself or others,—that there alone can he be successful; there only can he be “rich without money!”

XLII

A Millionaire’s Daughter Makes Inherited Wealth a Blessing to Thousands.

MISS HELEN MILLER GOULD has won a place for herself in the hearts of Americans such as few people of great wealth ever gain. She is, indeed, one of the best known and most popular young women of New York, if not in the world. Her strong character, common sense, and high ideals, have made her respected by all, while her munificence and kindness have won her the love of many.

Her personality is charming. Upon my arrival at her Tarrytown home, I was made to feel that I was welcome, and everyone who enters her presence feels the same. The grand mansion, standing high on the hills overlooking the Hudson, has a home-like appearance that takes away any awe that may come over the visitor who looks upon so much beauty for the first time.

Chickens play around the little stone cottage at the grand entrance, and the grounds are not unlike those of any other country house, with trees in abundance, and beautiful lawns. There are large beds of flowers, and in the gardens all the summer vegetables were growing.

Miss Gould takes a very great interest in her famous greenhouses, the gardens, the flowers, and the chickens, for she is a home-loving woman. It is a common thing to see her in the grounds, digging and raking and planting, for all the world like some farmer’s girl. That is one reason why her neighbors all like her; she seems so unconscious of her wealth and station.

A FACE FULL OF CHARACTER.

When I entered Lyndhurst, she came forward to meet me in the pleasantest way imaginable. Her face is not exactly beautiful, but has a great deal of character written upon it, and is very attractive, indeed. She held out her hand for me to shake in the good old-fashioned way, and then we sat down in the wide hall to talk. Miss Gould was dressed very simply. Her gown was of dark cloth, close-fitting, and her skirt hung several inches above the ground, for she is a believer in short skirts for walking. Her entire costume was very becoming. She never over-dresses, and her garments are neat, and, naturally, of excellent quality.

HER AMBITIONS AND AIMS.

In the conversation that followed, I was permitted to learn much of her ambitions and aims. She is ambitious to leave a great impression on the world,—an impression made by good deeds well done, and this ambition is gratifying to the utmost. She is modest about her work. “I cannot find that I am doing much at all,” she said, “when there is so very much to be done. I suppose I shouldn’t expect to be able to do everything, but I sometimes feel that I want to, nevertheless.” Her good works are numerous and many-sided. For a number of years, she has supported two beds in the Babies’ Shelter, connected with the Church of the Holy Communion, New York, and the Wayside Day Nursery, near Bellevue Hospital, has always found in her a good friend. Once a year she makes a tour through the day nurseries of New York, noting the special needs of each, and often sending checks and materials for meeting those needs.

A MOST CHARMING CHARITY.

One of her most charming charities is “Woody Crest,” two miles from Lyndhurst, a haven of delight where some twoscore waifs are received at a time for a two-weeks’ visit. She has a personal oversight of the place, and, by her frequent visits, makes friends with the wee visitors, who look upon her as a combination of angel and fairy godmother. Every day, a wagonette, drawn by two horses, takes the children, in relays, for long drives into the country. Amusements are provided, and some of those who remain for an entire season at Woody Crest are instructed in different branches. Twice a month some of the older boys set the type for a little magazine which is devoted to Woody Crest matters. There are several portable cottages erected there, one for the sick, one for servants’ sleeping rooms, and a third for a laundry.

Miss Gould’s patriotism is very real and intense, and is not confined to times of war. Two years ago, she caused fifty thousand copies of the national hymn, “America,” to be printed and distributed among the pupils of the public schools of New York.

“I believe every one should know that hymn and sing it,” she declared, “if he sings no other. I would like the children to sing it into their very souls, till it becomes a part of them.”

She strongly favors patriotic services in the churches on the Sunday preceding the Fourth of July, when she would like to hear such airs as “America,” “Hail Columbia,” and “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and see the sacred edifices draped in red, white and blue.

UNHERALDED BENEFACTIONS.

Miss Gould has a strong prejudice against letting her many gifts and charities be known, and even her dearest friends never know “what Helen’s doing now.” Of course, her great public charities, as when she gives a hundred thousand dollars at a time, are heralded. Her recent gift of that sum to the government, for national defense, has made her name beloved throughout the land; but, had she been able, she would have kept that secret also.

I tried to ascertain her views regarding the education of young women of to-day, and what careers they should follow. This is one of her particular hobbies, and many are the young girls she has helped to attain to a better and more satisfactory life.

HER MEANS OF EDUCATION.

“In the first place,” she said, “I believe most earnestly in education for women; not necessarily the higher education about which we hear so much, but a good, common school education. As the years pass, girls are obliged to make their own way in the world more and more, and to do so they must have good schooling.”

“And what particular career do you think most desirable for young women?”

“Oh, as to careers, there are many that young women follow, nowadays. I think, if I had my own way to make, I should fit myself to be a private secretary. That is a position which, I think, attracts nearly every young woman; but, to fill it, she must study hard and learn, and then work hard to keep the place. Then I think there are openings for young women in the field of legitimate business. I’ve always held that women know as much about money affairs as men, only most of them haven’t had much experience. In that field there are hundreds of things that a woman can do.”

THE EVIL OF IDLENESS.

“But I don’t think it matters much what a girl does so long as she is active, and doesn’t allow herself to stagnate. There’s nothing, to my mind, so pathetic as a girl who thinks she can’t do anything, and is of no use to the world. Why, it’s no wonder there are so many suicides every day!”

She is consulted by her agents in regard to all her affairs. “I have no time for society,” she said, “and indeed I do not care for it at all. It is very well for those who like it,” she added, for she is a tolerant critic.

Her life at Tarrytown is an ideal one. She runs down to the city at frequent intervals, to attend to business affairs, for she manages all her own property; but she lives at Lyndhurst. She entertains but few visitors, and in turn visits but seldom.

I will not attempt to specify the numerous projects of charity that have been given life and vigor by Miss Gould. I know her gifts in recent years have passed the million-dollar mark.

Would you have an idea of her personality?

If so, think of a good young woman in your own town, who loves her parents and her home; who is devoted to the church; who thinks of the poor on Thanksgiving Day and Christmas; whose face is bright and manner unaffected; whose dress is elegant in its simplicity; who takes an interest in all things, from politics to religion; whom children love and day-laborers greet by fervently lifting the hat; and who, if she were graduated from a home seminary or college, would receive a bouquet from every boy in town. If you can think of such a young woman, and nearly every community has one, (and ninety-nine times out of a hundred she is poor,) you have a fair idea of the impression made on a plain man from a country town in Indiana by Miss Gould.

Helen Miller Gould is just at the threshold of her beautiful career. What a promise is there in her life and work for the coming century!

She has given much of her fortune for the Hall of Fame on the campus of the New York University, overlooking the Harlem River. It contains tablets for the names of fifty distinguished Americans, and proud will be the descendants of those whose names are inscribed thereon.

The human heart is the tablet upon which Miss Gould has inscribed her name and her “Hall of Fame” is as broad and high as the Republic itself.

XLIII

A Self-made Merchant Solves the Problem of Practical Philanthropy

LATE one afternoon, I stopped to converse with a policeman in Central Park. Another policeman came up. Nathan Strauss was mentioned. “Well, I tell you,” said the first policeman, stamping his foot, “there is a man!

“Charities! He’s the only man in New York City who gives real charities. Why, when others want to give, they go to him, and have him do it for them. He knows what’s what. I tell you, he’s the most respected man in New York City;” and the other said, “That’s right.”

Go on the east side, and ask about Nathan Strauss, and you will hear what is as pleasant as it is rare,—the poor giving a rich man unstinted praise. But do not speak to Mr. Strauss about his work as charity; he dislikes to have it called by that name.

PRACTICAL BENEFICENCE NOT MERE CHARITY.

The greatest blessing that he has conferred on New York, is helping the poor to get pure, sterilized milk. No work of beneficence ever before showed such surprising results. It has reduced the death rate of infants over fifty per cent. Formerly, almost seventy-five per cent. of the children of the very poor died.

It was in the summer of 1893 that Mr. Strauss opened his first milk depot, at which milk was sold for four cents a quart; one and one-half cents a bottle for sterilized pure milk; one cent a bottle (six ounces,) for modified milk, and one cent a glass for pure milk.

It was a loss to the benefactor, but he established other depots throughout the unhealthy portions of the city and in the parks. Doctors received blanks to fill out for milk for those unable to purchase, and to such it was given free. A doctor’s prescription was honored. What followed? The death rate was reduced.

At the instigation of his son,—who died from a cold contracted in distributing coal,—coal yards had been established on the docks and elsewhere. The dealers at that time were retailing coal at ten cents and fourteen cents a basket, which made the price from twelve dollars to sixteen dollars per ton. At Mr. Strauss’ depots, five-cent tickets procured twenty and twenty-five pounds; ten-cent tickets, forty and fifty pounds, and so on. Most of the coal was carried in baskets on the shoulders and backs of those who, in some cases, had walked miles to obtain it. During the last financial panic, grocery stores were started, where five cents procured a large amount of food. Lodging houses were opened, while a clean bed and a breakfast of coffee and bread could be procured for five cents, and lunch rooms where two cents purchased bread and coffee and corned beef.

The great financier, J. Pierpont Morgan, asked Mr. Strauss to be permitted to assist him in the grocery stores, and a large central depot was rented at 345 Grand street, for which Mr. Morgan furnished the money and Mr. Strauss acted as manager.

Although all these charities in which Mr. Strauss has been interested have entailed a steady loss, a great number of those he benefited and benefits are under the impression that he does not sustain a loss, and that they merely buy for less than they would pay elsewhere.

HE DOES NOT WOUND THEIR SELF-RESPECT.

This is exactly the impression he desires them to possess, in his own words:—

“I do not wish to make a single one feel that he is receiving charity, or is in any way a pauper. Such an impression is harmful, and lowers the standard of those who have a right to consider that they are the sinews of the country. I wish them to feel only that they are buying at low prices. Suppose that those who buy five cents’ worth of groceries and trudge a distance for them, are able to pay a little more. The mere fact that they walk far to save a few cents, proves that their hard-earned pennies are precious, and that there is the necessity of getting all that can be obtained for their money.”

HE IS A KEEN, ENERGETIC MANAGER.

Such is the keynote of Mr. Strauss’ love for humanity: He is not a “lord bountiful,” but a generous man, unsolicitous of thanks. There are many records of him having helped individuals. Two young men in his employ were threatened with an early death from consumption. He sent them to a sanitarium in the Adirondacks for a year, when they returned sound in health. During their absence, their salaries were paid to their families.

In business, Mr. Strauss is a strict disciplinarian. He believes that every man should attend strictly to duty, and this is the fundamental secret of his success. In his own words, “Any man, with the ordinary amount of business instinct, can succeed. To succeed, you must be honest, believe in your own ability, and, after having selected your path in life, stick to it through thick and thin. With ordinary mental endowments, there is no reason why any young man should fail.

“Do I think the chances of to-day are as great as some years ago? They are greater. The thing is to take advantage of opportunities and utilize them to the best of your ability. Chances, or opportunities, come to everyone, often, in a lifetime. They should be recognized. Never let one slip; but weigh the possibilities. The great trouble is, a great many young men do not bestir themselves. They fall into a rut, and lack ‘ginger.’ This is a bustling world, and every young man should be wide-awake and on the lookout, constantly giving conscientious attention to duty. Duty, integrity and energy are the watchwords, and will direct you on the road to success. Remember, the opportunities of to-day are as great as ever!”

ONWARD, EVER; UPWARD, ALWAYS.

But though Mr. Strauss is a tireless worker, he finds time for a little recreation. He is one of the best gentleman drivers in New York, and he delights to race on the speedway. Still, the background of his life is charity. For many years, he desired to establish a sterilizing plant on Randall’s Island, for the benefit of waifs and foundlings taken there. The death rate was very high. At length he gained his point, and a recent unsolicited letter from the matron contained the gratifying statement “that the death rate, since the installation of the plant, has been reduced fully fifty per cent.”

In such deeds, Nathan Strauss delights. His life is one of perpetual attention to duty and to business, and he encourages others who would succeed, by saying: “Go at it with a will, and stick to your ambitious aspirations through thick and thin!”

Mr. Strauss himself is an excellent example of the success of the principle which he urges upon others as a rule of life. His whole career has been distinguished by tireless energy and industry, and the interests which are under his control have never suffered for any lack of careful and thorough attention. He has always been deliberate and consistent in adopting and adhering to any policy, public or private, and never deserts those whom he has seen fit to honor with his confidence, save on absolute proof of their unworthiness.

XLIV

A Varied Career Develops the Resourceful Head of a Great Institutional Church and College.

IT was misfortune that proved the fortunate turning-point for Dr. Russell H. Conwell, the pastor of the largest church in America, and president of Temple College, which has upward of 8,000 students. He had not been unsuccessful prior to his ordination to the ministry; on the contrary, he had been a successful newspaper man and lawyer, and had served with distinction in the Civil War. But, in the panic of 1873, he lost most of his investments. I quote his own words:—

“I then wondered,—being always of a religious temperament,—why I should make money my goal.”

We sat in his study, and he spoke thus of his interesting life:—

“I was born at South Worthington, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, February 15, 1843, on my father’s farm, called the ‘Eagle’s Nest,’ on account of its high and rocky surroundings. At an early age, I went to school, and, when I grew older, worked on the farm. I was sometimes laughed at because I always carried a book around with me, studying and memorizing as I worked. Yet I was dull and stupid, never stood high in my classes, and could not grasp a subject as quickly as others. But I would stick to it. I am just as dull now, but I preserve my old habit of stick-to-it-iveness. If I am driving a tack and it goes in crooked, I lift it out, straighten it, and send it home. That is one of my golden rules that I force myself to obey.”

HE ENLISTED AT EIGHTEEN.

“I went to Wilbraham, and, in 1861, entered Yale College, taking up law, but the breaking out of the war interrupted my studies. I enlisted, but, being only eighteen years of age, my father made me ‘right about face’, and come home. If I could not fight, I could speak, and I delivered orations all over my native state, and was in some demand in Boston. Finally, in 1862, I could stand the strain no longer, and my father, already greatly interested in the war, permitted me to go to the field.

“I returned a colonel, suffering from a wound, campaigns and imprisonment, and entered the law school of the Albany University, from which I was graduated in 1865.

“I married and moved to the great far west, to the then small town of Minneapolis. There I suffered the usual uphill experiences and privations of a young lawyer trying to make his way single-handed. I opened a law office in a two-story stone building on Bridge square. My clients did not come, and poverty stared my wife and me in the face. I became an agent for Thompson Brothers, of St. Paul, in the sale of land warrants.

“Fortune favored me in business, and I also became the Minneapolis correspondent of the St. Paul ‘Press.’ I acquired some real estate, and took part in politics. Having once dipped into journalism, I started a paper of my own called ‘Conwell’s Star of the North.’ Then the sheriff made his appearance, and turned the concern over to a man with more capital. Next, I brought the Minneapolis daily ‘Chronicle’ to life. It united with the ‘Atlas,’ and the combined papers formed the foundation for the great journal of Minneapolis, the ‘Tribune.’”

HOUSEKEEPING IN TWO SMALL ROOMS.

“I continued to practice law. My wife and myself lived in two small rooms. The front one was my office, and the back one, kitchen, parlor, sitting room and bedroom. I had never fully recovered from my wound received in the war. I knew Governor Marshall, and it was he who appointed me emigration commissioner for the state of Minnesota. My duties, of course, took me to Europe.”

When Dr. Conwell arrived in Europe, his health, that had been breaking down, gradually gave way, and he gave up his place as commissioner. For awhile, he rested; then, for several months, he attended lectures at the University of Leipsic. That pilgrimage was followed by a number of other journeys across the Atlantic to the principal countries of Europe, and to northern Africa.

“In 1870,” continued Dr. Conwell, “I made a tour of the world as special correspondent for the New York ‘Tribune’ and the Boston ‘Traveler.’ I then exposed the iniquities of Chinese contract immigration. I next returned to Boston and law, and became editor of the Boston ‘Traveler.’”

“But, doctor, had you never entertained a desire to enter the ministry?” I asked.

“All my life I studied theology. The question was before me always: Shall it be law or the ministry? The change came after I had lost considerable money in the panic of 1873. Then came death into my home, and the loss of my first wife. I turned to missionary work in Boston. As time rolled on, I became more interested. But the turning-point was really brought about by a law case. There was a meeting house in Lexington, Massachusetts, in 1877, dilapidated and old. The congregation had left it, so the few old persons who remained decided that it should be sold. They wished to consult a lawyer, and called me to Lexington. Standing on the platform, I asked the few present to vote upon the question. The edifice had been dear to some of them, and they hemmed and hawed, and couldn’t decide.

“At length, I suggested that they put new life into the place. But interest in the building as a place of worship seemed to have departed, although they did not care to see it torn down.”

HOW HE ENTERED THE MINISTRY.

“On the spur of the moment, I said that, if they would gather there the following Sunday morning, I would address them. A few came at first, then more. We had to rent a hall in another place. I suggested that they should get a pastor.

“To my surprise, they replied that if I would be their pastor, they would erect a new church.

“I studied for the ministry. One day, I startled the quaint village of Lexington by demolishing the little old church with an axe. The people were aroused by my spirit, and gave donations for a new church. I worked with the men we hired to construct it, and afterward attended the Newton Theological Seminary. Seventeen years ago, I came to Philadelphia as pastor of this church, which then worshipped in a basement some squares away.”

“But Temple College, Doctor; how was that started?”

“About fourteen years ago a poor young man came to me to ask my advice how to obtain a college education. I offered to be his teacher. Then others joined until there were six. The number was gradually enlarged to forty, when the idea came to me to found a people’s college. Certain gentlemen became interested, and we erected Temple College, which was then connected with this church, but now is a separate and distinct institution. We hope shortly to have it like the New York University. We have rented a number of outside buildings, and have a law school and a seminary. About four thousand attend the evening classes, while four thousand attend the special day classes.”

HE IS ALWAYS STUDYING SOMETHING.