Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

“In my opinion, the reason for the present hard conditions for the rank and file of men is the concentration of business within a few hands. This is a vast subject, and I do not intend to discuss it now. I only want to say that the remedy for the evil, which is felt most keenly by young men trying to succeed in life, lies largely in their own hands. Let them interest themselves in politics and insist, in the first place, that public utilities in cities, such as gas works and street-car lines, which all the people must use, and which bring in great revenues, be conducted for the benefit of the people at large, instead of for a few individuals. This would be only the first step to bring about improvement, but it would be a very important one. The present conditions may be worse before they are better, but, sooner or later, the problem will be solved. I have too much faith in the American people not to be sanguine of the future. And even now, although fortunes cannot be acquired as easily as they used to be, there are ample opportunities to acquire true success in life.

A WRONG CONCEPTION OF SUCCESS.

“The trouble with a great many young men is that they have a wrong conception of success. Large numbers imagine it lies in mere money-making. Yet the average millionaire is not a happy or even a contented man. He has been so engrossed from his youth in piling up dollars that he has had no time for the cultivation of the higher qualities of his mind and heart, in the exercise of which the only true happiness is to be found. You may remember that Emerson said: ‘Happiness lies only in the triumph of principle.’

“Of course, a certain amount of money is a necessity, and more of it enables one to enjoy many things which would be an impossibility without it. I am not advising any young man not to do all he can in a legitimate way to make money; but, if he is successful, he must be careful to keep money his servant, and not let it become his master.

SLAVES OF WEALTH.

“Many rich men are the slaves of their own wealth, and their sons, growing up without a purpose in life, never know what real living is. I knew what poverty was when I was a young man, and few have suffered from it more than I. Yet now I am thankful for it, because it made me work. To live, we must work, and one must work to live. It is not birth, nor money, nor a college education, that makes a man; it is work. It has brought me commercial success. I am a practical man, yet I can never express too earnestly my thankfulness that I learned from my good mother to set up usefulness as my standard of success—usefulness to others as well as to myself.”

LIV

A “Forty-niner” who Seized Opportunities Others Failed to See.

I FOUND Mr. Armour in his crowded office at 205 La Salle street, Chicago, an office in which a snowstorm of white letters falls thickly upon a mass of dark desks, and where brass and lamps and electrical instruments abound, yet not much more than do the hurrying men. Such a mobilization of energy to promote the private affairs of one man I had never seen.

“Is Mr. Armour within?” I asked, supposing, since it was but 9:30 A.M., that he had not arrived.

“He is,” said the attendant, “and has been since half-past seven.”

“Does he usually arrive so early?” I inquired.

“Always,” was the significant reply.

I presented my letters, and was soon informed that they were of no avail there. Mr. Armour could see me only after the crush of the day’s affairs—that is, at 6 P.M., and then in the quiet of the Armour Institute, his great philanthropic school for young men and women. He was very courteous, and there was no delay. He took my hand with a firm grasp, evidently reading with his steady gaze such of my characteristics as interested him and saying at the same time, “Well, sir.”

“Mr. Armour,” I said, “will you answer enough questions concerning your life to illustrate for our readers what success means?”

The great Hercules of American industry visibly recoiled at the thought of implied notoriety, having, until the present time, steadily veiled his personality and general affairs as much as possible from public gaze.

“I am only a plain merchant,” he answered.

A BOY’S CHANCE TO-DAY.

“Do you consider,” I said, “that the average American boy of to-day has equally as good a chance to succeed in the world as you had when you began life?”

“Every bit, and better. The affairs of life are larger. There are greater things to do. There was never before such a demand for able men.”

“Were the conditions surrounding your youth especially difficult?”

“No. They were those common to a very small New York town in 1832. I was born at Stockbridge, in Madison County. Our family had its roots in Scotland. My father’s ancestors were the Robertsons, Watsons and McGregors of Scotland; my mother came of the Puritans who settled in Connecticut.”

“Dr. Gunsaulus says,” I ventured, “that all these streams of heredity set toward business affairs.”

INHERITED QUALITIES.

“Perhaps so. I liked trading as well. My father was reasonably prosperous and independent for those times. My mother had been a school-teacher. There were six boys, and, of course, such a household had to be managed with the strictest economy in those days. My mother thought it her duty to bring to our home some of the rigid discipline of the schoolroom. We were all trained to work together, and everything was done as systematically as possible.”

“Had you access to any books?”

“Yes, the Bible, ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ and a history of the United States.”

It is said of the latter, by those closest to Mr. Armour, that it was as full of shouting Americanism as anything ever written, and that Mr. Armour’s whole nature was colored by its stout American prejudices; also, that it was read and re-read by the Armour children, though of this the great merchant would not speak.

“Were you always of a robust constitution?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. All our boys were. We were stout enough to be bathed in an ice-cold spring, out of doors, when at home. There weren’t any bath-tubs and warm water arrangements in those days. We had to be strong. My father was a stern Scotchman, and when he laid his plans they were carried out. When he set us boys to work, we worked. It was our mother who insisted on keeping us all at school, and who looked after our educational needs, while our father saw to it that we had plenty of good hard work on the farm.”

“How did you enjoy that sort of life?” I asked.

“Well enough, but not much more than any boy does. Boys are always more or less afraid of hard work.”

The truth is, though Mr. Armour laughed it out of court as not worth discussing, that when he attended the district school he was as full of pranks and capers as the best, and traded jack-knives in summer and bob-sleds in winter.

LEAVING THE FARM.

Young Armour was often to be found, in the winter, coasting down the long hill near the schoolhouse; and, later, his experience at the Cazenovia Seminary was such as to indicate that some of the brightest people finish their education rather more suddenly than their family and friends might desire.

“When did you leave the farm for a mercantile life?” I asked.

“I was clerk in a store in Stockbridge for two years, after I was seventeen, but was mixed up with the farm more or less, and wanted to get out of that life. I was a little over seventeen years old when the gold excitement of 1849 reached our town. Wonderful tales were told of gold already found and the prospects for more on the Pacific coast. I was taken with the fever, and brooded over the difference between tossing hay in the hot sun and digging up gold by handfuls, until one day I threw down my pitchfork and went over to the house and told mother that I had quit that kind of work.

“People with plenty of money could sail around Cape Horn in those days, but I had no money to spare, and so decided to walk across the country. That is, we were carried part of the way by rail and walked the rest. I persuaded one of the neighbor’s boys, Calvin Gilbert, to go along with me, and we started.”

“How did you fare?”

“Rather roughly. I provided myself with an old carpet sack, into which I put my clothes. I bought a new pair of boots, and when we had gone as far as we could on canals and wagons, I bought two oxen. With these we managed for awhile, but eventually reached California afoot.”

A MINING VENTURE.

He suffered a severe illness on the journey, and was nursed by his companion, Gilbert, who gathered herbs and steeped them for his friend’s use, and once rode thirty miles in the rain to get a doctor. When they reached California he fell in with Edward Croarkin, a miner, who nursed him back to health. The manner in which he remembered these men gives keen satisfaction to the friends of the great merchant.

“Did you have any money when you arrived at the gold-fields?”

“Scarcely any. I struck right out, though, and found a place where I could dig, and I struck pay dirt in a little time.”

“Did you work entirely alone?”

“No. It was not long before I met Mr. Croarkin at a little mining camp called Virginia. He had the next claim to mine, and we became partners. After a little while he went away, but came back in a year. We then bought in together. The way we ran things was ‘turn about.’ Croarkin would cook one week and I the next, and then we would have a clean-up every Sunday morning. We baked our own bread, and kept a few hens, which kept us supplied with eggs. There was a man named Chapin who had a little store in the village, and we would take our gold dust there and trade it for groceries.”

“Did you discover much gold?” I asked.

“Oh, I worked with pretty good success—nothing startling. I didn’t waste much, and tried to live as carefully as I ever had. I also studied the business opportunities around, and persuaded some of my friends to join me in buying and developing a ‘ditch’—a kind of aqueduct—to convey water to diggers and washers. That proved more profitable than digging for gold, and at the end of the year the others sold out to me, took their earnings and went home. I stayed and bought up several other water-powers, until, in 1856, I thought I had enough, and so I sold out and came East.”

“How much had you made, altogether?”

“About four thousand dollars.”

“Did you return to Stockbridge?”

HE ENTERS THE GRAIN MARKET.

“For a little while. My ambition was setting in another direction. I had been studying the methods then used for moving the vast and growing food products of the West, such as grain and cattle, and I believed that I could improve them and make money. The idea and the field interested me and I decided to enter it.

“Well, my standing was good, and I raised the money and bought what was then the largest elevator in Milwaukee. This put me in contact with the movement of grain. At that time John Plankinton had been established in Milwaukee a number of years, and, in partnership with Frederick Layton, had built up a good pork-packing concern. I bought in with those gentlemen, and so came in contact with the work I liked. One of my brothers, Herman, had established himself in Chicago some time before in the grain-commission business. I got him to turn that over to the care of another brother, Joseph, so that he might go to New York as a member of the new firm, of which I was a partner. It was important that the Milwaukee and Chicago houses should be able to ship to a house of their own in New York—that is, to themselves. Risks were avoided in this way, and we were certain of obtaining all that the ever-changing markets could offer us.”

“When did you begin to build up your Chicago interests?”

“They were really begun, before the war, by my brother Herman. When he went to New York for us we began adding a small packing-house to the Chicago commission branch. It gradually grew with the growth of the West.”

“Is there any one thing that accounts for the immense growth of the packing industry here?” I asked.

“System and the growth of the West did it. Things were changing at startling rates in those days. The West was growing fast. Its great areas of production offered good profits to men who would handle and ship the products. Railway lines were reaching out in new directions or increasing their capacities and lowering their rates of transportation. These changes and the growth of the country made the creation of a food-gathering and delivering system necessary. Other things helped. At that time (1863) a great many could see that the war was going to terminate favorably for the Union. Farming operations had been enlarged by the war demand and war prices. The State banking system had been done away with, and we had a uniform currency, available everywhere, so that exchanges between the East and the West had become greatly simplified. Nothing more was needed than a steady watchfulness of the markets by competent men in continuous telegraphic communication with each other, and who knew the legitimate demand and supply, in order to sell all products quickly and with profit.”

QUALITIES THAT BRING SUCCESS.

“Do you believe that system does so much?” I ventured.

“System and good measure. Give a measure heaped full and running over and success is certain. That is what it means to be intelligent servants of a great public need. We believed in thoughtfully adopting every attainable improvement, mechanical or otherwise, in the methods and appliances for handling every pound of grain or flesh. Right liberality and right economy will do everything where a public need is being served.”

“Have your methods improved any with years?”

“All the time. There was a time when many parts of cattle were wasted, and the health of the city injured by the refuse. Now, by adopting the best known methods, nothing is wasted, and buttons, fertilizer, glue and other things are made cheaper and better for the world in general out of material that was before a waste and a menace. I believe in finding out the truth about all things—the very latest truth or discovery—and applying it.”

“You attribute nothing to good fortune?”

“Nothing!” Certainly the word came well from a man whose energy, integrity and business ability made more money out of a ditch than other men were making out of rich placers in the gold region.

“May I ask what you consider the turning-point of your career?”

“The time when I began to save the money I earned at the gold-fields.”

“What trait do you consider most essential in young men?”

“Truth. Let them get that. Young men talk about getting capital to work with. Let them get truth on board, and capital follows. It’s easy enough to get that.”

“Did you always desire to follow a commercial rather than a professional life?”

“Not always. I have no talent in any other direction, but I should have liked to be a great orator.”

THE GENESIS OF A GREAT BENEVOLENCE.

Mr. Armour would say no more on this subject, but his admiration for oratory has been demonstrated in a remarkable way. It was after a Sunday morning discourse by the splendid orator, Dr. Gunsaulus, at Plymouth Church, Chicago, in which the latter had set forth his views on the subject of educating children, that Mr. Armour came forward and said:

“You believe in those ideas of yours, do you?”

“I certainly do,” said Dr. Gunsaulus.

“And would you carry them out if you had the opportunity?”

“I would.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Armour, “if you will give me five years of your time, I will give you the money.”

“But to carry out my ideas would take a million dollars!” exclaimed Gunsaulus.

“I have made a little money in my time,” returned Mr. Armour, and so the famous Armour Institute of Technology, to which its founder has already given sums aggregating $2,800,000, was associated with Mr. Armour’s love of oratory.

One of his lieutenants says that Gerritt Smith, the old abolitionist, was Armour’s boyhood hero, and that Mr. Armour would go far to hear a good speaker, often remarking that he would have preferred to be a great orator rather than a great capitalist.

“There is no need to ask you,” I continued, “whether you believe in constant, hard labor?”

“I should not call it hard. I believe in close application, of course, while laboring. Overwork is not necessary to success. Every man should have plenty of rest. I have.”

“You must rise early to be at your office at half-past seven?”

“Yes, but I go to bed early. I am not burning the candle at both ends.”

The enormous energy of this man, who was too modest to discuss it, was displayed in the most normal manner. Though he sat all day at a desk which had direct cable connection with London, Liverpool, Calcutta, and other great centers of trade, with which he was in constant connection; though he had at his hand long-distance telephone connection with New York, New Orleans and San Francisco, and direct wires from his room to almost all part of the world, conveying messages in short sentences upon subjects which involved the moving of vast amounts of stock and cereals, and the exchange of millions in money, he was not, seemingly, an overworked man. The great subjects to which he gave calm, undivided attention from early morning until evening were laid aside with the ease with which one doffs his raiment, and outside of his office the cares weighed upon him no more. His mind took up new and simpler things.

“What do you do,” I inquired, “after your hard day’s work—think about it?”

“Not at all. I drive, take up home subjects, and never think of the office until I return to it.”

“Your sleep is never disturbed?”

“Not at all.”

A BUSINESS KING.

And yet the business which this man could forget when he gathered children about him and moved in his simple home circle amounted, in 1897, to over $102,000,000 worth of food products, manufactured and distributed. The hogs killed were 1,750,000; the cattle were 1,080,000; the sheep, 625,000. Eleven thousand men were constantly employed, and the wages paid them were over $5,500,000; the railway cars owned and moving about all parts of the country, four thousand; the wagons of many kinds and of large number, drawn by 750 horses. The glue factory, employing 750 hands, made over twelve million pounds of glue! In his private office, it is he who took care of all the general affairs of this immense world of industry, and yet at half-past four he was done, and the whole subject was comfortably off his mind.

“Do you believe in inherited abilities, or that any boy can be taught and trained, and made a great and able man?”

“I recognize inherited ability. Some people have it, and only in a certain direction; but I think men can be taught and trained so that they become much better and more useful than they would be otherwise. Some boys require more training and teaching than others. There is prosperity for everyone, according to his ability.”

“What would you do with those who are naturally less competent than others?”

“Train them, and give them work according to their ability. I believe that life is all right, and that this difference which nature makes is all right. Everything is good, and is coming out satisfactorily, and we ought to make the most of conditions, and try to use and improve everything. The work needed is here, and everyone should set about doing it.”

When, in 1893, local forces planned to defeat him in the grain market, and everyone was crying that at last the great Goliath had met his David, he was all energy. He had ordered immense quantities of wheat. The opposition had shrewdly secured every available place of storage, and rejoiced that the great packer, having no place to store his property, would suffer immense loss, and must capitulate. He foresaw the fray and its dangers, and, going over on Goose Island, bought property at any price, and began the construction of immense elevators. The town was placarded with the truth that anyone could get work at Armour’s elevators. No one believed they could be done in time, but three shifts of men, working night and day, often under the direct supervision of the millionaire, gradually forced the work ahead; and when, on the appointed day, the great grain-ships began to arrive, the opposition realized failure. The vessels began to pour the contents of their immense holds into these granaries, and the fight was over.

The foresight that sent him to New York in 1864 to sell pork brought him back from Europe in 1893, months before the impending panic was dreamed of by other merchants. It is told of him that he called all his head men to New York, and announced to them:

“Gentlemen, there’s going to be financial trouble soon.”

FOREARMED AGAINST PANIC.

“Why, Mr. Armour,” they said, “you must be mistaken. Things were never better. You have been ill, and are suddenly apprehensive.”

“Oh, no,” he said, “I’m not. There is going to be trouble;” and he gave as his reasons certain conditions which existed in nearly all countries, which none of those present had thought of. “Now,” said he to the first of his many lieutenants, “how much will you need to run your department until next year?”

The head man named his need. The others were asked, each in turn, the same question, and, when all were through, he counted up, and, turning to the company, said:

“Gentlemen, go back and borrow all you need in Chicago on my credit. Use my name for all it will bring in the way of loans.”

The lieutenants returned, and the name of Armour was strained to its utmost limit. When all had been borrowed, the financial flurry suddenly loomed up, but it did not worry the great packer. In his vaults were $8,000,000 in gold. All who had loaned him at interest then hurried to his doors, fearing that he also was imperiled. They found him supplied with ready money, and able to compel them to wait until the stipulated time of payment, or to force them to abandon their claims of interest for their money, and so tide him over the unhappy period. It was a master stroke, and made the name of the great packer a power in the world of finance.

SOME SECRETS OF SUCCESS.

“Do you consider your financial decisions which you make quickly to be brilliant intuitions?” I asked.

“I never did anything worth doing by accident, nor did anything I have come that way. No, I never decide anything without knowing the conditions of the market, and never begin unless satisfied concerning the conclusion.”

“Not everyone could do that,” I said.

“I cannot do everything. Every man can do something, and there is plenty to do.”

“You really believe the latter statement?”

“There was never more. The problems to be solved are greater now than ever before. Never was there more need of able men. I am looking for trained men all the time. More money is being offered for them everywhere than formerly.”

“Do you consider that happiness consists in labor alone?”

“It consists in doing something for others. If you give the world better material, better measure, better opportunities for living respectably, there is happiness in that. You cannot give the world anything without labor, and there is no satisfaction in anything but labor that looks toward doing this, and does it.”

LV

The Blind Yacht Designer Attributes His Conquests to His Mother’s Early Cares.

Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark,
Surround me! * * * *
So much the rather thou, celestial Light!
Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers,
Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence
Purge and disperse; that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight. —MILTON.

“SHIPSHAPE and Bristol fashion,” a hundred years ago, more or less, was a phrase often heard on every sea plowed by American or English keels. Sailors everywhere applied it only to vessels in perfect condition, with bright paint, clean bottoms, spars well scraped, rigging taut, spare ropes neatly coiled, sails without mildew and of perfect set, pumps free, and all the thousand-and-one details that tell of ideal seamanship properly attended to. Those four words paid the highest tribute of the craft to the skill of the hardy mariners sailing from the tidy little port near the head of Narragansett Bay.

Bristol’s long streets, bordered from end to end with wide-spreading, aged trees, and lined with great dwellings of the colonial era, savor of a delightful antiquity which has not had time to grow musty, but has been well cared for by successive generations and has a sufficiently close relation to modern life to kindle a real affection in us of recent growth, not unlike that felt by the toddling urchin for his white-haired and gold-spectacled grandmother. These big, old houses suggest comfortable bank accounts, stored up by ancestors who built ships or who sailed away in them to the Indies—East or West—and returned with rich freights that profited much.

They built well, those ancestors, and their handsome dwellings seem as sound to-day as the everlasting hill which is known in history as Mount Hope. What eight-foot clocks and brass-handled bureaus, and bulky, shining chests, capable of hiding away mountains of housewifely linen; what high-backed chairs with fantastically carved legs; what large four-posters; what cavernous fireplaces; what wainscotings and curling balustrades; what mantel shelves with under ornaments of sturdy filigree; what yawning closets, as big as bedrooms of this year of grace; what sets of unimpeachable china, brought home by those same nautical ancestors; what attic stores of spinning-wheels and old books, and revolutionary papers, breathing vengeance against his majesty, King George; what thousand and one treasures of the keepsake order do not these old mansions possess within their generously proportioned walls, to say nothing of quaint porches and curious doors and pseudo-classical piazza pillars outside of them! That Bristol of the old, prosperous, gable-ended, ship-building, ship-sailing, cargo-discharging and cargo-embarking days has gone; but this Bristol lives on the memories and the proceeds of those happier, wooden-walled, shiver-my-timbers times, draws on her bank accounts, and takes it easy.

Amid scenes like these, one expects to find men and women of culture and general ability, but does not look for world-renowned specialists. No one is surprised at a display of enterprise in a “booming” western town, where everybody is “hustling”; but in a place which has once ranked as the third seaport in America, but has seen its maritime glory decline, a man who can establish a marine industry on a higher plane than was ever before known, and attract to his work such world-wide attention as to restore the vanished fame of his town, is no ordinary person. Moreover, if such a man has laid his plans and done his work in the disheartening eclipse of total blindness, he must possess some qualities of the highest order, whatever faults he may have, and is thus eminently fitted to instruct the rising generation.

Pursuant to this idea, I called at the office of the Herreshoff Manufacturing Company, at Bristol. The building, formerly belonging to the Burnside Rifle Company, is substantial, but unpretentious, and is entered by a short stairway on one side. The furniture throughout is also plain, but has been selected with excellent taste, and is suggestive of the most effective adaptation of means to ends in every detail. On the mantel and on the walls are numerous pictures, most of them of vessels, but very few relating directly to any of the great races for the “America’s” cup. The first picture to arrest one’s attention, indeed, is an excellent portrait of the late General Ambrose E. Burnside, who lived in Bristol, and was an intimate friend of John B. Herreshoff.

Previous inquiry had elicited the information that the members of the firm were very busy with various large orders, in addition to the rush of work on the “Columbia” and the “Defender”; so it was a very agreeable surprise when I was invited into the tasteful private office, where the blind president sat, having just concluded a short conversation with an attorney.

“Well, sir,” said he, rising and grasping my hand cordially, “what do you wish?”

“I realize how very busy you must be, Mr. Herreshoff,” I replied, “and will try to be as brief as possible; but I venture to ask a few minutes of your valuable time, with a view to obtaining suggestions and advice from you to young men and women at the threshold of their careers.”

“But why select me, in particular, as an adviser?”

This was “a poser,” at first, especially when he added, noting my hesitation:

LET THE WORK SHOW.

“We are very frequently requested to give interviews in regard to our manufacturing business; but, as it is the settled policy of our house to simply do our work just as well as we possibly can, and then leave it to speak for itself, we have felt obliged to decline all these requests. We have a very pleasant feeling toward the papers and their representatives, for they have treated us very kindly; but it would be repugnant to our sense of propriety to talk in public about our special industry. ‘Let the work show!’ seems to us a good motto.”

“True,” said I. “But the majority of my readers may not care to hear of cutters or ‘skimming dishes,’ center-boards or fin keels, or copper coils _versus_ steel tubes for boilers. They are willing to leave the choice in such matters to you, realizing that you have always proved equal to the situation. What I want now is advice in regard to the great international human race—the race of life—the voyage in which each must be his own captain, but in which the words of others who have successfully sailed the sea before will help to avoid rocks and shoals, and to profit by favoring currents and trade winds. You have been handicapped in an unusual degree, sailing in total darkness and beset by many other difficulties, but have, nevertheless, made a very prosperous voyage. In overcoming such serious obstacles you must have learned much of the true philosophy of both success and failure, and I think you will be willing, like so many other eminent men and women, to help the young with suggestions drawn from your experience.”

“I always want to help young people, or old people, either, for that matter, if anything I can say will do so. But what can I say?”

“What do you call the prime requisite of success?”

“I shall have to answer that by a somewhat humorous but very shrewd suggestion of another—select a good mother. Especially for boys, I consider an intelligent, affectionate but considerate mother an almost indispensable requisite to the highest success. If you would improve the rising generation to the utmost, appeal first to the mothers.”

“In what way?”

“Above all things else, show them that reasonable self-denial is a thousandfold better for a boy than to have his every wish gratified. Teach them to encourage industry, economy, concentration of attention and purpose, and indomitable persistence.”

“But most mothers try to do this, don’t they?”

A MOTHER’S MIGHTY INFLUENCE.

“Yes, in a measure; but many of them, perhaps most of them, do not emphasize the matter half enough. A mother may wish to teach all these lessons to her son, but she thinks too much of him, or believes she does, to have him suffer any deprivation, and so indulges him in things which are luxuries for him, under the circumstances, rather than necessaries. Many a boy, born with ordinary intellect, would follow the example of an industrious father were it not that the mother wishes him to appear as well as any boy in the neighborhood. So, without exactly meaning it, she gets to making a show of her boy, and brings him up with a habit of idling away valuable time, to keep up appearances. The prudent mother, however, sees the folly of this course, and teaches her son to excel in study and work rather than in vain display. The difference in mothers makes all the difference in the world to children. Like brooks, they can be turned very easily in their course of life.”

“What ranks next in importance?”

“Boys and girls themselves, especially as they grow older, and have a chance to understand what life means, should not only help their parents as a matter of duty, but should learn to help themselves, for their own good. I would not have them forego recreation, a reasonable amount every day, but let them learn the reality and earnestness of existence, and resolve to do the whole work and the very best work of thorough, reliable young men and women.”

“What would you advise as to choosing a career?”

“In that I should be governed largely by the bent of each youth. What he likes to do best of all, that he should do and try to do it better than anyone else. That is legitimate emulation. Let him devote his full energy to his work; with the provision, however, that he needs change or recreation more in proportion as he uses his brain more. The more muscular the work, if not too heavy, the more hours, is a good rule; the more brain work, the fewer hours. Children at school should not be expected to work so long or so hard as if engaged in manual labor. Temperament, too, should be considered. A highly organized, nervous person, like a racehorse, may display intense activity for a short time, but it should be followed by a long period of rest; while the phlegmatic person, like the ox or the draft horse, can go all day without injury.”

“Would you advise a college course?”

“I believe in education most thoroughly, and think no one can have too much knowledge, if properly digested. But in many of our colleges, I have often thought, not more than one in five is radically improved by the course. Most collegiates waste too much time in frivolity, and somehow there seems to be little restraining power in the college to prevent this. I agree that students should have self-restraint and application themselves, but, in the absence of these, the college should supply more compulsion than is now the rule.”

“Do you favor reviving the old apprentice system for would-be mechanics?”

“Only in rare cases. As a rule, we have special machines now that do as perfect work as the market requires; some of them, indeed, better work than can be done by hand. A boy or man can soon learn to tend one of these, when he becomes, for ordinary purposes, a specialist. Very few shops now have apprentices. No rule, however, will apply to all, and it may still be best for one to serve an apprenticeship in a trade in which he wishes to advance beyond any predecessor or competitor.”

“Is success dependent more upon ability or opportunity?”

PREPARE TO THE UTMOST: THEN DO YOUR BEST.

“Of course, opportunity is necessary. You couldn’t run a mammoth department store on the desert of Sahara. But, given the possibility, the right man can make his opportunity, and should do so, if it is not at hand, or does not come, after reasonable waiting. Even Napoleon had to wait for his. On the other hand, if there is no ability, none can display itself, and the best opportunity must pass by unimproved. The true way is to first develop your ability to the last ounce, and then you will be ready for your opportunity, when it comes, or to make one, if none offers.”

“Is the chance for a youth as good as it was twenty-five or fifty years ago?”

“Yes, and no! In any country, as it becomes more thickly populated, the chance for purely individual enterprises is almost sure to diminish. One notices this more as he travels through other and older countries, where, far more than with us, boys follow in the footsteps of their fathers, generation after generation. But for those who are willing to adapt themselves to circumstances, the chance to-day, at least from a pecuniary standpoint, is better than ever before for those starting in life. There was doubtless more chance for the individual boat-builder in the days of King Philip, when each Indian made his own canoe, but there is certainly more profit now for an employee of our firm of boat-builders.”

“Granted, however, that he can find employment, how do his chances of rising compare with those of your youth?”

THE MAN IS THE IMPORTANT FACTOR.

“They still depend largely upon the individual. Some seem to have natural executive ability, and others develop it, while most men never possess it. Those who lack it cannot hope to rise far, and never could. Jefferson’s idea that all men are created equal is true enough, perhaps, so far as their political rights are concerned, but from the point of view of efficiency in business it is ridiculous. In any shop of one hundred men you will find one who is acknowledged, at least tacitly, as the leader, and he, sooner or later, becomes so in fact. A rich boy may get and hold a place in an office on account of his wealth or influence; but in the works merit alone will enable a man to hold a place long.”

“But what is his chance of becoming a proprietor?”

THE DEVELOPMENT OF ABILITY.

“That is smaller, of course, as establishments grow larger and more valuable. It is all bosh for every man to expect to become a Vanderbilt or a Rockefeller, or to be President. But, in the long run, a man will still rise and prosper in almost exact proportion to his real value to the business world. He will rise or fall according to his ability.”

“Can he develop ability?”

“Yes, to a certain extent. As I have said, we are not all alike, and no amount of cultivation will make some minds equal to those of others who have had but little training. But, whether great or small, everyone has some weak point; let him first study to overcome that.”

“How can he do it?”

“The only way I know of is to—do it. But this brings me back to what I told you at first. A good mother will show one how to guard against his weak points. She should study each child and develop his individual character, for character is the true foundation, after all. She should check extravagance and encourage industry and self-respect. My mother is one of the best, and I feel that I owe her a debt I can never repay. If I have one thing more than another to be thankful for, it is her care in childhood and her advice and sympathy through life. How often have I thought of her wisdom when I have seen mothers from Europe, where they were satisfied to be peasants, seek to outshine all their neighbors after they have been in America a few years, and so bring financial ruin to their husbands or even goad them into crime, and curse their children with contempt for honest labor in positions for which they are fitted, and a foolish desire to keep up appearances, even by living beyond their means and by seeking positions they cannot fill properly.”

“You must have been quite young when you began to build boats?”

HE WOULD NOT BE DISCOURAGED.

“About thirteen or fourteen years old. You see, my father was an amateur boat-builder, in a small way, and did very good work, but usually not for sale. But I began the work as a business thirty-six years ago, when I was about twenty-two.”

“You must have been terribly handicapped by your blindness?”

“It was an obstacle, but I simply would not allow it to discourage me, and did my best, just the same as if I could see. My mother had taught me to think, and so I made thought and memory take the place of eyes. I acquired a kind of habit of mental projection which has enabled me to see models in my mind, as it were, and to consider their good and bad points intelligently. Besides, I cultivated my powers of observation to the utmost in other respects. Even now I take an occasional trip of observation, for I like to see what others are doing, and so keep abreast of the progress of the age. But I must stop, or I shall get to ‘talking shop,’ the thing I declined to do at first. The main thing for a boy is to have a good mother, to heed her advice, to do his best, and not get a ‘swelled head’ as he rises—in other words, not to expect to put a gallon into a pint cup or a bushel into a peck measure. Concentration, decision, industry and economy should be his watchwords, and invincible determination and persistence his rule of action.”

LVI

A Great Vocalist Shows that Only Years of Labor Can Win the Heights of Song.

OF the five internationally famous singers—Melba, Calvé, Nordica, Eames and Lehmann—none is a greater favorite than Madame Lillian Nordica. She has had honors heaped upon her in every music-loving country, including her own, America. Milan, St. Petersburg, Paris, London, and New York in turn accepted her, and the music-lovers of those cities received her with a _furore_ of praise. Jewel cases filled with bracelets, necklaces, tiaras and diadems of gold and precious stones, attest the unaffected sincerity of her admirers in all the great music-centers of the world. She enjoys, in addition, the distinction of being one of the first two American women to attain to international fame as a singer in grand opera. When Madame Nordica was in New York fulfilling her part in the most brilliant operatic season the city had ever known, she lived in sumptuous style at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, where I met her by appointment. She accepted the statement that the public is interested in the details of her career as most natural, and was pleased to discuss the philosophy of a singer’s success from the view-point of its difficulties.

“You would like to know how distinction in the field of art is earned? Well, it is not thrust upon anyone. The material for a great voice may be born in a person—it is, in fact—but the making of it into a great voice is a work of the most laborious character.”

“Is the matter of nationality of any advantage to an aspirant?”

“You wish to know——”

“Whether, in some countries, the atmosphere is not very favorable to a beginner;—the feeling of the public and the general support given to music not particularly conducive to the musical development of, we will say, a young girl with a promising voice.”

“Yes. I should judge almost any of the greater European nations would be better in this respect than the United States; not much better, however, because nearly all depends on strength of character, determination, and the will to work. If a girl has these, she will rise as high, in the end, anywhere; perhaps not so quickly in some places, but no less surely.”

“You had no European advantages?”

“None whatever.”

“Were you born in the West?”

“No. I come of New England stock. You will understand that more readily when I tell you that my real name is Norton. I was born at Farmington, Maine, and was reared in Boston.”

“Were your parents musically talented?”

“Not at all. Their opinion of music was that it is an airy, inviting art of the devil, used to tempt men’s feet to stray from the solemn path of right. They believed music, as a vocation, to be nearly as reprehensible as a stage career, and for the latter they had no tolerance whatever. I must be just, though, and own that they did make an exception in the case of church music, else I should never have received the slightest encouragement in my aspirations. They considered music in churches to be permissible—even laudable. So, when I displayed some ability as a singer, I was allowed to use it in behalf of religion, and I did. I joined the church choir and sang hymns about the house almost constantly.”

“You had a natural bent for singing.”

“Yes, but I needed a world of training. I had no conception of what work lies ahead of anyone who contemplates singing perfectly. All I knew was that I could sing, and that I would win my way with my voice if I could.”

“How did you accomplish it?”

THERE MUST BE NO PLAY, ONLY STUDY AND PRACTICE.

“By devoting all my time, all my thought, and all my energy to that one object. I devoured church music—all I could get hold of. I practiced new and difficult compositions all the time I could spare.”

“Naturally, your efforts attracted attention?”

“Yes, I became a very good church singer; so much so that, when there were church concerts or important religious ceremonies, I was always in demand. Then there began to be a social demand for my ability, and, later, a public demand in the way of concerts.”

“At Farmington?”

“Oh, no. At Boston. I forgot to say that my parents removed, while I was still quite young, to Boston.”

“Did you give much of your time to public concerts?”

“None at all. I ignored all but church singing. My ambition ran higher than concert singing, and I knew my parents would not consent. I persuaded them to let me have my voice trained. This was not very difficult, because my church singing, as it had improved, became a source of considerable profit, and they saw even greater results for me in the large churches and in the religious field generally. So I went to a teacher of vocal culture.”

“Where, if you please?”

“Professor John O’Neill, one of the instructors in the New England Conservatory of Music, Boston, was a fine old teacher, a man with the highest ideals concerning music, and of the sternest and most exacting method. He made me feel, at first, that the world was mine if I would work. Hard work was his constant cry. There must be no play, no training for lower forms of public entertainment, no anything but study and practice. I must work and perfect myself in private, and then suddenly appear unheralded in the highest class of opera and take the world by storm. It was a fine fancy.”

“Did you manage to work it out so?”

“No. It wouldn’t have been possible. O’Neill was a fine musician. In his mind and heart, all his aspiration was sincere, but it was not to be.”

“Were you ambitious enough?”

“Oh, yes! and most conscientious. Under him I studied the physiology of the voice, and practiced singing oratorios. I also took up Italian, familiarizing myself with the language, with all the songs and endless _arias_. In fact, I made myself as perfect in Italian as possible.”

“How much time did the training take?”

“Three years.”

“And what was the result?”

“Well, I had greatly improved, but was not perfect. Mr. O’Neill employed methods of making me work which discouraged me. He was a man who would magnify and storm over your slightest error, and make light of or ignore your sincerest achievements. If anything, he put his grade of perfection so high that I began to consider it unattainable, and lost heart. Finally, I gave it up and rested awhile, uncertain of everything.”

“And then?”

“After I had thought awhile and regained some confidence, I came to New York to see Mme. Maretzek. She was not only a teacher, but also a singer quite famous in her day and knew the world of music thoroughly. She considered my voice to be of the right quality for the highest grade of operatic success, and gave me hope that, with a little more training, I could begin my career. She not only did that, but also set me to studying the great operas, ‘Lucia’ and the others, and introduced me to the American musical celebrities. Together we heard whatever was worth hearing in New York. When the renowned Brignola came to New York she took me to the Everett House, where he was stopping, and introduced me. They were good friends, and, after gaining his opinion of my voice, we went to hear him sing ‘Faust.’

“That was a wonderful thing for me. To hear the great Brignola! It fired my ambition. As I listened, I felt that I could also be great, and that people, some day, might listen to me as enraptured as I then was by him. It put new fire into me and caused me to fairly toil over my studies. I would have given up all my hours if I had been allowed or requested to.”

“And then what?”

“Well, so it went until, after several years of study, Madame Maretzek thought I was getting pretty well along and might venture some important public singing. We talked about different ways of appearing, and what I would sing and so on, until finally Gilmore’s band came to Madison Square Garden. He was in the heyday of his success then, both popular and famous, and carried important soloists with him. Madame Maretzek decided that she would take me to see him and get his opinion; and so, one day, toward the very last of his Madison Square engagement, we went to see him. Madame Maretzek was on good terms with him also. I remember that she took me in one morning when he was rehearsing. I saw a stout, kindly, genial looking man who was engaged in tapping for attention, calling certain individuals to notice certain points, and generally fluttering around over a dozen odds and ends. Madame Maretzek talked with him a little while and then called his attention to me. He looked toward me.

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

“Then he called to me:

“I WAS TRAVELING ON AIR.”

“‘Come right along, now. Step right up here on the stage. Yes, yes. Now, what can you sing?’

“I told him I could sing almost anything in oratorio or opera, if he so wished. He said: ‘Well, well, have a little from both. Now, what shall it be?’

“I shall never forget his kindly way. He was like a good father, gentle and reassuring, and seemed really pleased to have me there and hear me. I went up on the platform and told him that I would begin with ‘Let the Bright Seraphim,’ and he called the orchestra together and had them accompany me.”

“You must have been slightly nervous.”

“I was at first, but I recovered my equanimity and sang up to my full limit of power. When I was through, he remarked, ‘Very good! very good!’ and then, ‘Now, what else?’ I next sang an _aria_ from ‘Somnambula.’ He did not hesitate to express his approval, which was always, ‘Very good! very good! Now, what you want to do,’ he said, ‘is to get some roses in your cheeks and come along and sing for me.’ After that he continued his conference with Madame Maretzek, and then we went away together.

“I was traveling on air when I left, I can assure you. His company was famous. Its engagement had been most successful. Madame Poppenheim was singing with it, and there were other famous names. There were only two more concerts, concluding his New York engagement, but he had told Madame Maretzek that if I chose to come and sing on these occasions, he would be glad to have me. I was more than glad of the opportunity and agreed to go. We arranged with him by letter, and, when the evening came, I sang.