27. FIRST STEPS TOWARD THE MINISTRY
It was toward the end of my sophomore year at the Glens Falls Academy that I took my first long step toward the ministry. Also at this time the idea of going to college began to stir in my mind. Over the years I had read the Christian Herald sermons to Mother, and I had frequently felt the urge to become a preacher. So I bought a few books on theology, and after studying them passed an examination which entitled me to serve as an “exhorter.” One of the questions that I had to answer was, “How do you account for the good people who do not happen to be church members?” I remembered reading the words of Henry Ward Beecher and replied that some of the gospel seed has got out of the church windows and brought forth splendid fruit. The broad-minded, scholarly clergyman before whom I appeared was so pleased with this answer that he gave me a high mark.
I gave a talk at a small church at Sanford Ridge in Glens Falls, and by passing another examination advanced to the status of a Local Preacher. This qualified me to be appointed as pastor of some church which did not have the services of a fully ordained Methodist minister. Such an opening became available at Bolton Landing, a village of a few hundred inhabitants on beautiful Lake George. The church at Bolton Landing was in its infancy, the edifice itself being incomplete and the work at a standstill. The few members were discouraged, and the elderly clergyman who had been preaching to them had given up in despair. There was no parsonage, and no regular salary. Moreover, the church was part of a circuit, there being two other church buildings several miles apart. In addition to the two services—morning and evening—at the central building in Bolton Landing, the pastor was expected to preach on alternate Sunday afternoons at one of the other churches. Of course, calling on the sick, and visiting among the parishioners was standard practice for any minister. And since there was no janitor, I was to perform the chores of sweeping and dusting the building, kindling the fire in cold weather, and cleaning and lighting the kerosene lamps.
During the week I attended the Academy, with a full schedule of subjects in the College Preparatory course—English, history, third-year Latin, and second-year Greek. On weekends the trip from Glens Falls to Bolton Landing took at least an hour and a half each way, depending upon the weather. Traveling first by trolley, the nine-mile trip to Lake George Village—a town formerly called Caldwell—was only about thirty minutes. As I passed Bloody Pond, so named because of the dead and wounded who fell there during the French and Indian War, and continued past Fort William Henry, I could imagine the bitter historical events which had occurred there little more than a century before.
From Lake George Village to Bolton Landing there was no fine, paved road as there is today, but the trip along one of America’s most beautiful lakes never became monotonous. Whether in the heat of summer, or when the thermometer registered thirty below zero early Monday mornings, nature’s unfolding combination of islands, mountains, and trees moved me to praise and adoration.
This part of the trip wound back and forth along an old dirt road, and was made by stage. The stage driver, James L. Maranville of Bolton, who carried mail and passengers back and forth, matched the scenery in interest and entertainment. Always cheerful, with ruddy face and such robust stamina that he did not need to wear gloves even on the coldest days, he seemed born for his work.
Often I would be the only passenger, coming in on Friday evening and returning to school early Monday morning, and I would ride beside Mr. Maranville bundled up in warm robes. On one such day, he asked for my opinion on the Bible passage: “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” After some brief general comments, I turned the text back to him, asking for his own point of view.
He replied: “Well, I believe it means that when a man thinks wrong, he is wrong: and when he thinks right, he is right. This is something a person can feel in his own heart.”
It seemed to me that this small-town philosopher had gone to the heart of the matter.
From the very beginning, the friendly observations and companionship of this good man helped to steady me, for I approached my first ministerial post with fear and trembling, and with mixed thoughts at the prospect of facing an unknown group. While it was with great joy that my parents learned of my becoming a preacher, my own misgivings must have been apparent when I stood in the pulpit at the age of eighteen to expound the scriptures to my first congregation of three people.
I was encouraged, however, as gradually more and more came to hear the “boy preacher” until there was a time when latecomers had to stand. Since I was not taking any theological courses at the Academy to aid me in the preparation of sermons, I used the Bible stories for my themes. Illustrations from great books such as Ivanhoe, a Tale of Two Cities, and Silas Marner were used to strengthen my messages, which were always delivered without notes.
On Friday evenings I opened the church, did the sweeping and dusting, started the furnace if the weather was cold, saw that the hymn books were in each pew, and lighted the lamps for choir practice. When rehearsal was over, I put out the lights and locked the door.
For these various services I received no fixed salary, but all the plate offerings came to me, and they were almost entirely in small coins. I was able to appreciate the story about the Quarter which refused to speak to the Penny. The humble Penny rebuked the shiny snob, saying: “So you think you are quite important—well, I am found at church much more often than you!”
Nevertheless, I was grateful for all the pennies, nickels, and dimes which came to me to help pay for my clothes and books. The pennies gave me a special purpose, for Mother had a large piggy-bank which I kept well supplied.
As good as it is to have plenty of money for the necessities and luxuries of life, it is better to have friends. A small village is an excellent place for forming such relationships. Some of the good friends made at Bolton Landing are still friends today. Among them is the family of Bert Lamb, whose children also became members of my church. These people were not summer visitors who opened their cottages only for the vacation months, but were of the hardy group of natives who lived at Bolton Landing all year round. Through a home-study course, Bert bettered his position until he eventually owned a store of his own, became supervisor of his town and sheriff of the county.
As he prospered, Bert Lamb bought a big sawmill on the bay behind Green Island where he and his sons and helpers floated the big logs down from Tongue Mountain and various places around the lake to be cut up into rough lumber for summer camps. Since the Lambs owned quite a bit of property, they built cottages along the shore which they rented to summer people, but during the long winters when the lake sometimes froze solid to a thickness of two feet, they sawed the ice and stored it in a big barn for sale during the summer months.
From the tiny settlement of Bolton Landing, Bert Lamb sent his three children to college. His older son, Wallace, now Superintendent of Schools at Hicksville, Long Island, has written an interesting history of Lake George, and another of New York State.
Success frequently creates difficulties, and I began to encounter them. For one thing, there was trouble about the choir. All seemed to be going well until one of the women prominent in the church confided to me that a woman who operated a saloon in the village was one of the volunteer singers. I was advised to let the offending person know that her services were no longer desired. When I appeared reluctant to do such a discourteous thing, it was further suggested that I should refuse to shake hands with the obnoxious party.
Recalling the passage in the New Testament in which Jesus replies to the self-righteous Pharisees by saying, “They that are whole need not a physician; but they that are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,” it was clear to me that I should welcome all who came to church—and invite them to come often. As questionable as it might look to have a saloon keeper singing in the choir, I did not think it wise to attempt a separation of the sheep from the goats, not, at least, until all had had a chance to hear the gospel.
My unwillingness to follow the equivalent of official orders placed me in a particular difficult situation, for the offended church leader had been providing me with free room and board on the weekends. Moreover, there was the possibility that she would report my conduct to the higher church officials of the district, have me removed from my appointment, and thus give me a bad name at the very outset of my career.
As was my habit, I prayed for guidance in the matter, and on my return to Glens Falls on Monday morning, I talked the problem over with Mother. She advised me to be kind and patient with both the sinners and the saints, explaining that some well-meaning people are handicapped with mental and moral twists about which we know so little that we should be slow to judge them. It would be better, she said, to combine firmness with gentleness, and to trust the Lord. Her advice proved to be absolutely right, for when I went back to my pastorate at the end of the academy week, I heard some splendid news.
Of her own accord, the lady saloon keeper had given up her business and established a meat market instead. As time went on, I am happy to say that the erstwhile objectionable person became the choir leader, President of the Ladies’ Aid, and a pillar of the church.
I continued supplying the little church at Bolton Landing during my junior and senior years at the Academy, and the offerings enabled me to keep going financially. While church affairs were now progressing well, I was headed for more trouble. It came about in this way.
As has been mentioned, on Friday nights I began my chores of readying the church for Sunday service. On the night that my new problem arose, I had turned out the lights after choir rehearsal, checked the windows and doors, and was walking away from the building when I saw the young lady organist standing alone by the side of the street.
Though shy and inexperienced, there was sufficient chivalry in me so that I asked her if I could accompany her up the long, lonesome, unlighted road to her home. The offer was accepted and this small incident afforded me the satisfaction which is always one’s own reward for a courteous act.
However, as soon as I returned to my room, the woman with whom I was boarding at the time came to tell me that she knew exactly where I had been, and that if I ever repeated such an incident I would not be welcome at her house. What a rebuff to a bashful young man who had, for the second time in his life, mustered sufficient courage to walk home with a charming girl.
After some deliberation, I sought and found a new place to stay during the weekends. The change proved to be a good one, for congregations increased. People who had never been known to go to church came out to hear the way I preached, to join in our gospel singing, and to cooperate for the growth of the church. There were even some remarkable changes in the lives of some people whom I endeavored to help.
An old fisherman who was noted for being a hard-hearted infidel used to talk with me about fishing. Later on when he became ill I called at his home to inquire about his health and to ask if I could do anything for him. When I suggested that we read a passage from the Bible, he became very bitter in his denunciation of the scriptures and of the church. While this visit was not particularly successful, on my next call I began to read to him from Pilgrim’s Progress. We proceeded from the flight from the City of Destruction , through the Slough of Despond, and had come to the miracle of the cross, at the sight of which the heavy burden fell from Christian’s back. Unexpectedly I was interrupted by an exclamation from my listener. “By jolly,” he said, “that’s good!” The next day, my fisherman-friend was eager to kneel in prayer with me, and I saw tears on his coarse, weather-beaten face. A few days later he told me that he had seen the Lord Jesus enter his room and sit on the edge of the bed.
Another elderly man, known for his atheism, gambling, and drunkenness, openly rebuffed me when I first met him. I had prayed for the power to help such men, and was disappointed because I had not felt divine energy guiding me. However, I found that simple acts of friendliness and kindness seemed to be charged with dynamic influence. I recalled the way in which Jesus asked the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s Well for a drink of water, and, overcoming all prejudice, custom, and social barriers, had made her his messenger to her people. I tried a similar approach on the old gambler, who had never been seen in church. One day when I was to be late in returning to Bolton Landing, I asked him to look after the fire so that the church would be warm. This simple request took hold of his heart, and soon there was a new worshipper in one of our pews.
As if attending the Academy during the week, preparing my sermons, doing the janitor work and calling on the sick were not enough to keep me occupied, I established a preaching appointment in a farm house, far back from the village. On Friday evenings people would come from all directions to fill the house and to listen to the messages that I brought them. They even put on an old-fashioned donation supper to show their appreciation of my efforts and to fill my pockets with bills and change.
In addition to preaching and the other pastoral duties, it fell to me to raise money to complete the church edifice. The building needed lath and plaster new pews and altar rail, the completion of the belfry, and various other improvements. During the summer vacations, therefore, I called on the prosperous summer visitors in the vicinity and solicited donations. Of course, I found some people who gave quite generously, while others, reputed to be worth millions, explained that they were barely surviving. All this was good experience for me, and prepared me for three larger building projects later on in my ministry. I can vividly recall going to see one wealthy man for a donation to our building fund, and finding him quite under the influence of liquor. He dismissed me abruptly but, for some reason that I cannot explain, I returned to see him the next morning. As he saw me at the end of his large veranda, he began to apologize and invited me to sit down. He then proceeded to give me a lecture on the various creeds. As he saw it, the main point of difference between some denominations concerned the horns of the devil. Many people were sure that the devil had horns, while others held that he was a mulley. The man did not give me a chance to talk, but when he had finished his speech, he asked, “How much do you want?” When he had written out his check, he told me of a friend who “has lots more money then me,” and suggested that I call on him.
Of course, I went to see the friend. This man listened to my appeal, and then said, “It’s the same old story, isn’t it?” Perhaps he had been warned about my persistence, and wanted to test me; in any case he said nothing further, but began to read his mail. I sat down near him, and began making some notes for my next sermon. Even after the man had gone into another room, I kept at my notes. Finally, he returned and placed a fifty-dollar bill in my hand. Thus I found that it paid to wait expectantly.
Another of my activities involved the closing of saloons in our village. I had noticed the frequency of drunkenness, especially among the older men, and I discovered that there was such a thing as local-option, which provided that the people could vote on the question of licensing saloons. I drew up a petition for such a vote, but was told that it would be hopeless. And hopeless it seemed, since I was in school when the ballots were cast, and could not help influence voters. However, the vote was against the saloons by a large majority. I learned that certain men who were supposed to be on the wet side had worked hard among their friends to clean up the town. The enemy was divided, and defeated. An influential man who was rather intemperate himself declared that he was with me because, as he put it, “The stuff they sell in the saloons kills at ten rods.”
28. SUMMER AND FALL, 1905
After graduating from the Academy in 1905, I decided to remain at Bolton Landing for another year, so that I could try to complete the church building. Pews were installed, a new furnace and windows bought, and the walls finished.
During the summer of that year, I enjoyed the fellowship of a theological student who was caring for the local Baptist church. While he was an ardent advocate of baptism by immersion, and I was serving a church in which sprinkling prevailed, we got along perfectly on both land and sea. In fact, one evening when the boat that we were rowing sprang a leak and began to fill with water, my friend readily admitted that too much liquid slowed up transportation. Strangely enough, one elderly member of his church and one of mine resented our friendliness. They thought that we should be fighting over our credal differences. To add emphasis to their convictions, my friend’s disgruntled church member began to attend my church, while my sour saint went to his services. Accepting the exchange agreeably, my Baptist companion remarked hopefully, “It usually does cabbage heads good to transplant them.”
For recreation, I frequently took an hour or so off to go fishing. Since I was usually rewarded with brook trout, or pickerel from Lake George, I soon established a reputation as a fisherman. Some people who did not know the art of fishing even suggested that the minister probably prayed for the fish to bite.
Such an explanation seemed more plausible than ever when I announced that I planned to go out into the deeper water for the coveted and more elusive lake trout. I had bought a long and strong linen line and gang of hooks, but had little knowledge of the lake, and no whitefish, which are the natural food for this particular trout. The only lure that I had been able to get was artificial. Realizing, however, that luck seldom comes to people who don’t try, I selected a mild morning and ventured forth.
A skilled fisherman, who had been out since daybreak reported that the fish were not striking and he was giving up. He had one badly mangled whitefish, which he gave to me. So, in spite of the fact that the other fishermen were having no luck and condemned the water as being too calm, I decided to make the best of that warm, sunny day.
Even if the fish are not cooperative, a beautiful lake affords other rewards to those who look for them. I rowed in wide circles, just off the point of Tongue Mountain, and pleasing scenes of quietness and strength met my eyes in every direction. There were the Narrows, leading up through numerous little islands toward Paradise Bay and Black Mountain; there was spacious northwest Bay, bordered with wooded hills and rounded mountains; to the west were Crown and Green and Dome Islands; and, toward the south, pointing to historic Fort William Henry, ten miles of silvery water, with more islands, hills, and protecting mountains. The tender green of the trees gave a fitting touch of life and beauty, as if all was united in silent praise of the Creator.
I was drinking my fill of this panorama when my bamboo pole began to bend as though I had hooked a submerged snag. Then, just as I was checking my speed to void breaking the line, several rapid, violent tugs caused the rod to thrash in the water.
Aware that I had hooked a big hone, I endeavored to play him carefully. In spite of all I could do, the tip of my pole kept churning the surface of the lake. My heart was beating rapidly. I knew that this was the largest and most stubborn fish that had ever honored me with a nod, and I was afraid that he might get away. Every time that I attempted to reel in a bit of line, counter-pulls thwarted my efforts. Eventually, of course, the fish tired and consented to be brought near the surface, but he did not give up easily. Several times when it seemed that he was coming into view, he turned and fought his way back to the bottom, more than one hundred feet down. Fortunately, my hooks were so firmly imbedded in the mouth of my fish that he could not break away. I must have had “beginner’s luck,” for I landed the prize trout of the day, a specimen weighing nearly ten pounds.
As proof that good fortune can happen more than once, I was favored again a few days later. At my request two ladies, one an adjutant and the other a lieutenant from the Salvation Army in Glens Falls, came to speak and sing in my church. An offering was taken for the Army; and, to show further appreciation for their services, I invited the two ladies to go for a ride on the lake. I suggested that we take fishlines with us, but the lieutenant was not enthusiastic, explaining, “I’m a Jonah to any fishing party. I never catch anything except weeds and rocks.” Nevertheless, the lines and some borrowed bait were put in the boat.
We set out on a placid morning, another of those days when the old fishermen considered the water too calm for strikes. However, recalling my former experience, I headed for the place where I had found my hungry fish. Soon, in a voice that matched the tranquil water, the lieutenant said, “I think I had a bite.”
I glanced at her slender rod and saw that the line had become detached from the reel and was in danger of being lost. Backing quickly with one oar, I grasped the line, handed it to the lady, and remarked that since the tackle had been borrowed, we were lucky in saving it. She replied, “I don’t feel anything on it now. Perhaps it was one of my usual weeds.” However, the line appeared to me to be drawing a bit heavily. I thought that she might possibly have a small fish, and instructed her to pull in carefully, and to let the line back through her fingers in a taut manner if she felt any hard pull.
Holding the gaff-hook in readiness, I looked down into the transparent water and saw a large trout swimming along as if he were following the bait. Indeed, as we discovered a few seconds later, he was hooked only by the skin of his teeth. Possibly, in an effort to accommodate the charming lady, he was graciously consenting to be led like a lamb to the slaughter. I was not an expert with the big hook, and merely frightened the fish on my first attempt to take him into the boat. Fortunately the lieutenant proved to be adept in following orders. Standing up in the boat, she let out the line and pulled it back again until I was able to make effective use of the gaff.
When we had our beautiful seven-and-one-half pound trout safely in the boat, the serene lieutenant, instead of boasting of her catch, voiced her gratitude by saying, “The Lord has sent us a fish.” Aware that the weather was supposed to be unfavorable, and that other fishermen were not doing very well on that day, I fully agreed with her sentiment.
In the fall of that same year, 1905, I went back to my home community to conduct a preaching mission for a week in the weathered schoolhouse at Brant Lake. As assistant I took with me the noted cowboy Broncho Charlie Miller, who had recently been converted by the Salvation Army in Glens Falls. Broncho Charlie, champion broncho buster of the West, had been one of the celebrities in Buffalo Bill’s famous circus, traveling to Europe and performing before royalty. He once showed me a picture of Queen Victoria which she had autographed for him.
After the Wild West show was no more, Broncho Charlie had operated a riding stable in Glens Falls. At a Salvation Army street meeting he heard the young officers singing and preaching, and followed them to their hall, where he accepted their invitation to become a Christian. As further proof of his conversion, he often joined the Army circle on the streets and gave his testimony.
Having heard of the conversion, and knowing that Broncho Charlie might need encouragement in his new life, I had made it a point to visit him from time to time. It was in this endeavor that I got him first to come up to Bolton Landing—where he did some skillful riding and roping tricks in the street in front of the church—and later to accompany me to Brant Lake. At Brant Lake, Broncho Charlie’s role was to tell of his life in the West, and of his experiences in Buffalo Bill’s circus, while I was to do the preaching. From the start, our evangelistic team, which also included Father, awakened the people of the neighborhood, drew them to our meetings, and moved many of them to take amore positive stand for Christianity.
There was one man, however, who held back. His name was Bill Bentley, and with a voice which reverberated from one side of the valley to the other, he was forever invoking the damnation of heaven on his poky old oxen and on every stone that stopped his plow or dulled his scythe. On one occasion, as he was emitting an irreverent torrent of words at his oxen, the curse had backfired on him. A piece of the whip with which he was emphasizing his maledictions broke off, flew back, and blinded one of his eyes for life. An atheist who lived at the lake during the summers took great delight in getting Bill Bentley to work for him, so that he could hear Bill swear. The violent oaths seemed to afford this man sardonic pleasure, and to confirm his lack of faith. During the plowing, hoeing and haying seasons, therefore, our valley was filled with Bill’s rasping, echoing curses. It was as if Satan, in a great rage against the piety of my parents, had gone into the open competition with them.
And yet this farmer with the unruly tongue was good to his family and kind to his neighbors. He let us borrow his boat whenever we wanted to fish on the lake, and he allowed us to change our clothes in his wagon house when we went swimming from his sandy beach. Possibly his profanity was only a bad habit, and Bill may have been like the man who once said to his minister, “Dominie, I am not so wicked after all. I swear and you pray, but neither of us mean anything by it.”
Well, on the last evening of our meetings in the tiny schoolhouse the man who was so loud and so fluent in his use of sacrilegious words stood up and declared that he wished to be counted on the Lord’s side. Since I had to leave the community the next day and go back to my church at Bolton Landing, I had no immediate opportunity to check on the lasting quality of this evangelistic mission in the land of my boyhood, but I got a report during the following summer. The spirit of blasphemy had been decisively cast out. No one had heard a single oath proceed from the mouth of our last convert. Bill himself told me why he had been so reluctant to yield to the Christian invitation. He explained, “I had a rocky plot of ground to plow, and expected that I would swear a thousand times while doing it. But, strange as it may seem, I plowed that rough area without having the least inclination to curse a single stone.”
29. MOODY BIBLE INSTITUTE
At this time I became more and more convinced that I should continue my education toward the ministry. I considered various schools and colleges, but it did not seem possible that I could assume the financial burden of a regular four-year college course. I had heard of the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago which appealed to me because I understood that it was undenominational and offered courses that within two years might enable a student to become a Bible teacher, minister, song leader or missionary. Stories I had heard of the sincerity and magnetism of D. L. Moody, who had left his career as a shoe salesman to become one of the foremost evangelists of his time, also led me to think that the institution named for him might be just what I needed.
Moody’s example appealed to me particularly, for while he did not have a formal, theological training, he devoted himself to reading the Bible and had known remarkable success in his Sunday School classes. When a critic once called attention to his mistakes in English, Moody frankly admitted his lack of education, but said: “With such English as I can use, I am trying to do my best to serve God.” He then asked, “What are you doing with your English?”
My train trip to Chicago to attend the Institute for the spring term of 1906 was quite uneventful. It was mostly a night ride, during which I slept in my seat as much as I could. Although I was eager for the new experience, as I got nearly a thousand miles from home I began to wonder if I would ever get back. I had never been more than fifty miles from home before.
When I arrived at the Bible Institute, I looked forward to a hearty welcome, such as the spirit of Moody would lead one to expect, but the mere routine enrollment and assignment to a room and classes was somewhat disappointing. However, the practical training in the Pacific Garden Mission, where Billy Sunday had been converted, and the street meetings were interesting and helpful. We went into the slums and saloon districts, where songs were sung and short sermons or messages were delivered. The members of a gospel team would then engage the listeners in personal conversation, inviting and urging them to become Christians. Questions were answered, and free booklets and tracts distributed. Stress was always laid on the teachings of the Bible. We all believed that “The word is the sword of the Spirit,” and this conviction brought repentance to many.
In missions like the pacific Garden, sermons and testimonials were delivered by carefully chosen speakers, after which the procedure was very much like that of the street meetings. I recall talking to a young man who evidently had never had much religious training or opportunity to know the Bible. When I read him the words from Saint John: “But as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name,” he eagerly took the little book in his hands so that he could read the verse for himself.
I shall never forget an evening when I was assigned to keep the boys quiet outside a mission for children. I had just told a bear story when the leader of the meeting asked me to come inside and “say a few words.” To our surprise, the boisterous boys all followed me into the building, and sat perfectly still while I spoke to them. The only disturbance occurred when a woman who had been standing on the sidewalk suddenly came into the room, fell on her knees, and confessed her sins. As proof of her conversion, she left with us a bottle which she had evidently intended to take to a saloon for a refill.
During my sojourn in Chicago I paid a visit to Zion City, which had been made famous by the preaching and praying of Alexander Dowie. I remember that there was a sign on the outskirts of the town forbidding smoking. I was especially interested in seeing the large tabernacle where the crowds came to seek healing. Behind the platform I saw crutches, braces, and body supports, once worn by cripples but now discarded, bearing testimony to the miracles claimed to have been performed. I also saw a box of Smith Brothers’ Cough Crops solidly nailed to the wall.
Since I was interested in learning how to preach good sermons, I attended various churches, and on one Sunday it was my privilege to worship at a church where Dr.Frank W. Gunsaulus, a distinguished pulpit orator and writer was preaching. He took for his theme the verse in St. John: “Now in the place where He was crucified there was a garden.” We were reminded of the lessons from seeds and growing things, a timely thought for it was then the Easter season. It was suggested that everyone should have a garden, even if only six inches square. Mr. Gunsaulus advised us to consider the lilies and trees more carefully, but he rebuked people w ho drove rapidly through the country and thought that they were “communing with nature.” He asked, referring to the high speed of travel, “What would you think of a young man who claimed to be courting a lady at the rate of thirty miles an hour?”
As I see it now, it was not the plan of Providence for me to remain at the Moody Bible Institute. I was a country-bred boy, and did not like the congestion and smoke of Chicago. My happiest moments were when I could leave the turbulent city and go to Lincoln Park, where I could study in the open air and occasionally watch the antics of sea lions and polar bears. Possibly I was merely homesick, but eventually a foolish fear caused me to decide to leave Chicago. It was the practice of Dr. Towner, the teacher of music, to pick students at random and send them up on the platform to lead the class in singing. If a student protested that he was not musical, Dr. Towner would maintain that this made the exercise all the more fun. I was well aware of my musical disability, and the very idea of this form of merriment was too great a misery for me. My first thought was to avoid the danger of wrecking all tuneful harmony, and my own nervous system as well. So although I had enrolled at the school for the spring term, I cancelled my registration and left before it was half-finished. Some of the spirit of the school remained with me, however, and for that I am grateful.
On my last day in Chicago I visited Montgomery and Ward’s big store and bought a small revolver which I thought might be of use in killing bears. I went to the top of the observation tower to feel the strong wind and to get a last look at the city of which I really knew so little. The following day I took my departure.
After a boat ride through Lake Erie and a stopover at Niagara Falls, I went by train to Albany and north to Glens Falls. It was a great joy to see Mother again, and the good brothers and sisters who had found steady employment in this beautiful city on the Hudson. But after a few days knowing that Father would be expecting me at Brant Lake, I fastened a few necessities to my bicycle and pedaled over the dusty road toward the scenes of my boyhood.
It was toward the end of my sophomore year at the Glens Falls Academy that I took my first long step toward the ministry. Also at this time the idea of going to college began to stir in my mind. Over the years I had read the Christian Herald sermons to Mother, and I had frequently felt the urge to become a preacher. So I bought a few books on theology, and after studying them passed an examination which entitled me to serve as an “exhorter.” One of the questions that I had to answer was, “How do you account for the good people who do not happen to be church members?” I remembered reading the words of Henry Ward Beecher and replied that some of the gospel seed has got out of the church windows and brought forth splendid fruit. The broad-minded, scholarly clergyman before whom I appeared was so pleased with this answer that he gave me a high mark.
I gave a talk at a small church at Sanford Ridge in Glens Falls, and by passing another examination advanced to the status of a Local Preacher. This qualified me to be appointed as pastor of some church which did not have the services of a fully ordained Methodist minister. Such an opening became available at Bolton Landing, a village of a few hundred inhabitants on beautiful Lake George. The church at Bolton Landing was in its infancy, the edifice itself being incomplete and the work at a standstill. The few members were discouraged, and the elderly clergyman who had been preaching to them had given up in despair. There was no parsonage, and no regular salary. Moreover, the church was part of a circuit, there being two other church buildings several miles apart. In addition to the two services—morning and evening—at the central building in Bolton Landing, the pastor was expected to preach on alternate Sunday afternoons at one of the other churches. Of course, calling on the sick, and visiting among the parishioners was standard practice for any minister. And since there was no janitor, I was to perform the chores of sweeping and dusting the building, kindling the fire in cold weather, and cleaning and lighting the kerosene lamps.
During the week I attended the Academy, with a full schedule of subjects in the College Preparatory course—English, history, third-year Latin, and second-year Greek. On weekends the trip from Glens Falls to Bolton Landing took at least an hour and a half each way, depending upon the weather. Traveling first by trolley, the nine-mile trip to Lake George Village—a town formerly called Caldwell—was only about thirty minutes. As I passed Bloody Pond, so named because of the dead and wounded who fell there during the French and Indian War, and continued past Fort William Henry, I could imagine the bitter historical events which had occurred there little more than a century before.
From Lake George Village to Bolton Landing there was no fine, paved road as there is today, but the trip along one of America’s most beautiful lakes never became monotonous. Whether in the heat of summer, or when the thermometer registered thirty below zero early Monday mornings, nature’s unfolding combination of islands, mountains, and trees moved me to praise and adoration.
This part of the trip wound back and forth along an old dirt road, and was made by stage. The stage driver, James L. Maranville of Bolton, who carried mail and passengers back and forth, matched the scenery in interest and entertainment. Always cheerful, with ruddy face and such robust stamina that he did not need to wear gloves even on the coldest days, he seemed born for his work.
Often I would be the only passenger, coming in on Friday evening and returning to school early Monday morning, and I would ride beside Mr. Maranville bundled up in warm robes. On one such day, he asked for my opinion on the Bible passage: “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” After some brief general comments, I turned the text back to him, asking for his own point of view.
He replied: “Well, I believe it means that when a man thinks wrong, he is wrong: and when he thinks right, he is right. This is something a person can feel in his own heart.”
It seemed to me that this small-town philosopher had gone to the heart of the matter.
From the very beginning, the friendly observations and companionship of this good man helped to steady me, for I approached my first ministerial post with fear and trembling, and with mixed thoughts at the prospect of facing an unknown group. While it was with great joy that my parents learned of my becoming a preacher, my own misgivings must have been apparent when I stood in the pulpit at the age of eighteen to expound the scriptures to my first congregation of three people.
I was encouraged, however, as gradually more and more came to hear the “boy preacher” until there was a time when latecomers had to stand. Since I was not taking any theological courses at the Academy to aid me in the preparation of sermons, I used the Bible stories for my themes. Illustrations from great books such as Ivanhoe, a Tale of Two Cities, and Silas Marner were used to strengthen my messages, which were always delivered without notes.
On Friday evenings I opened the church, did the sweeping and dusting, started the furnace if the weather was cold, saw that the hymn books were in each pew, and lighted the lamps for choir practice. When rehearsal was over, I put out the lights and locked the door.
For these various services I received no fixed salary, but all the plate offerings came to me, and they were almost entirely in small coins. I was able to appreciate the story about the Quarter which refused to speak to the Penny. The humble Penny rebuked the shiny snob, saying: “So you think you are quite important—well, I am found at church much more often than you!”
Nevertheless, I was grateful for all the pennies, nickels, and dimes which came to me to help pay for my clothes and books. The pennies gave me a special purpose, for Mother had a large piggy-bank which I kept well supplied.
As good as it is to have plenty of money for the necessities and luxuries of life, it is better to have friends. A small village is an excellent place for forming such relationships. Some of the good friends made at Bolton Landing are still friends today. Among them is the family of Bert Lamb, whose children also became members of my church. These people were not summer visitors who opened their cottages only for the vacation months, but were of the hardy group of natives who lived at Bolton Landing all year round. Through a home-study course, Bert bettered his position until he eventually owned a store of his own, became supervisor of his town and sheriff of the county.
As he prospered, Bert Lamb bought a big sawmill on the bay behind Green Island where he and his sons and helpers floated the big logs down from Tongue Mountain and various places around the lake to be cut up into rough lumber for summer camps. Since the Lambs owned quite a bit of property, they built cottages along the shore which they rented to summer people, but during the long winters when the lake sometimes froze solid to a thickness of two feet, they sawed the ice and stored it in a big barn for sale during the summer months.
From the tiny settlement of Bolton Landing, Bert Lamb sent his three children to college. His older son, Wallace, now Superintendent of Schools at Hicksville, Long Island, has written an interesting history of Lake George, and another of New York State.
Success frequently creates difficulties, and I began to encounter them. For one thing, there was trouble about the choir. All seemed to be going well until one of the women prominent in the church confided to me that a woman who operated a saloon in the village was one of the volunteer singers. I was advised to let the offending person know that her services were no longer desired. When I appeared reluctant to do such a discourteous thing, it was further suggested that I should refuse to shake hands with the obnoxious party.
Recalling the passage in the New Testament in which Jesus replies to the self-righteous Pharisees by saying, “They that are whole need not a physician; but they that are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,” it was clear to me that I should welcome all who came to church—and invite them to come often. As questionable as it might look to have a saloon keeper singing in the choir, I did not think it wise to attempt a separation of the sheep from the goats, not, at least, until all had had a chance to hear the gospel.
My unwillingness to follow the equivalent of official orders placed me in a particular difficult situation, for the offended church leader had been providing me with free room and board on the weekends. Moreover, there was the possibility that she would report my conduct to the higher church officials of the district, have me removed from my appointment, and thus give me a bad name at the very outset of my career.
As was my habit, I prayed for guidance in the matter, and on my return to Glens Falls on Monday morning, I talked the problem over with Mother. She advised me to be kind and patient with both the sinners and the saints, explaining that some well-meaning people are handicapped with mental and moral twists about which we know so little that we should be slow to judge them. It would be better, she said, to combine firmness with gentleness, and to trust the Lord. Her advice proved to be absolutely right, for when I went back to my pastorate at the end of the academy week, I heard some splendid news.
Of her own accord, the lady saloon keeper had given up her business and established a meat market instead. As time went on, I am happy to say that the erstwhile objectionable person became the choir leader, President of the Ladies’ Aid, and a pillar of the church.
I continued supplying the little church at Bolton Landing during my junior and senior years at the Academy, and the offerings enabled me to keep going financially. While church affairs were now progressing well, I was headed for more trouble. It came about in this way.
As has been mentioned, on Friday nights I began my chores of readying the church for Sunday service. On the night that my new problem arose, I had turned out the lights after choir rehearsal, checked the windows and doors, and was walking away from the building when I saw the young lady organist standing alone by the side of the street.
Though shy and inexperienced, there was sufficient chivalry in me so that I asked her if I could accompany her up the long, lonesome, unlighted road to her home. The offer was accepted and this small incident afforded me the satisfaction which is always one’s own reward for a courteous act.
However, as soon as I returned to my room, the woman with whom I was boarding at the time came to tell me that she knew exactly where I had been, and that if I ever repeated such an incident I would not be welcome at her house. What a rebuff to a bashful young man who had, for the second time in his life, mustered sufficient courage to walk home with a charming girl.
After some deliberation, I sought and found a new place to stay during the weekends. The change proved to be a good one, for congregations increased. People who had never been known to go to church came out to hear the way I preached, to join in our gospel singing, and to cooperate for the growth of the church. There were even some remarkable changes in the lives of some people whom I endeavored to help.
An old fisherman who was noted for being a hard-hearted infidel used to talk with me about fishing. Later on when he became ill I called at his home to inquire about his health and to ask if I could do anything for him. When I suggested that we read a passage from the Bible, he became very bitter in his denunciation of the scriptures and of the church. While this visit was not particularly successful, on my next call I began to read to him from Pilgrim’s Progress. We proceeded from the flight from the City of Destruction , through the Slough of Despond, and had come to the miracle of the cross, at the sight of which the heavy burden fell from Christian’s back. Unexpectedly I was interrupted by an exclamation from my listener. “By jolly,” he said, “that’s good!” The next day, my fisherman-friend was eager to kneel in prayer with me, and I saw tears on his coarse, weather-beaten face. A few days later he told me that he had seen the Lord Jesus enter his room and sit on the edge of the bed.
Another elderly man, known for his atheism, gambling, and drunkenness, openly rebuffed me when I first met him. I had prayed for the power to help such men, and was disappointed because I had not felt divine energy guiding me. However, I found that simple acts of friendliness and kindness seemed to be charged with dynamic influence. I recalled the way in which Jesus asked the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s Well for a drink of water, and, overcoming all prejudice, custom, and social barriers, had made her his messenger to her people. I tried a similar approach on the old gambler, who had never been seen in church. One day when I was to be late in returning to Bolton Landing, I asked him to look after the fire so that the church would be warm. This simple request took hold of his heart, and soon there was a new worshipper in one of our pews.
As if attending the Academy during the week, preparing my sermons, doing the janitor work and calling on the sick were not enough to keep me occupied, I established a preaching appointment in a farm house, far back from the village. On Friday evenings people would come from all directions to fill the house and to listen to the messages that I brought them. They even put on an old-fashioned donation supper to show their appreciation of my efforts and to fill my pockets with bills and change.
In addition to preaching and the other pastoral duties, it fell to me to raise money to complete the church edifice. The building needed lath and plaster new pews and altar rail, the completion of the belfry, and various other improvements. During the summer vacations, therefore, I called on the prosperous summer visitors in the vicinity and solicited donations. Of course, I found some people who gave quite generously, while others, reputed to be worth millions, explained that they were barely surviving. All this was good experience for me, and prepared me for three larger building projects later on in my ministry. I can vividly recall going to see one wealthy man for a donation to our building fund, and finding him quite under the influence of liquor. He dismissed me abruptly but, for some reason that I cannot explain, I returned to see him the next morning. As he saw me at the end of his large veranda, he began to apologize and invited me to sit down. He then proceeded to give me a lecture on the various creeds. As he saw it, the main point of difference between some denominations concerned the horns of the devil. Many people were sure that the devil had horns, while others held that he was a mulley. The man did not give me a chance to talk, but when he had finished his speech, he asked, “How much do you want?” When he had written out his check, he told me of a friend who “has lots more money then me,” and suggested that I call on him.
Of course, I went to see the friend. This man listened to my appeal, and then said, “It’s the same old story, isn’t it?” Perhaps he had been warned about my persistence, and wanted to test me; in any case he said nothing further, but began to read his mail. I sat down near him, and began making some notes for my next sermon. Even after the man had gone into another room, I kept at my notes. Finally, he returned and placed a fifty-dollar bill in my hand. Thus I found that it paid to wait expectantly.
Another of my activities involved the closing of saloons in our village. I had noticed the frequency of drunkenness, especially among the older men, and I discovered that there was such a thing as local-option, which provided that the people could vote on the question of licensing saloons. I drew up a petition for such a vote, but was told that it would be hopeless. And hopeless it seemed, since I was in school when the ballots were cast, and could not help influence voters. However, the vote was against the saloons by a large majority. I learned that certain men who were supposed to be on the wet side had worked hard among their friends to clean up the town. The enemy was divided, and defeated. An influential man who was rather intemperate himself declared that he was with me because, as he put it, “The stuff they sell in the saloons kills at ten rods.”
28. SUMMER AND FALL, 1905
After graduating from the Academy in 1905, I decided to remain at Bolton Landing for another year, so that I could try to complete the church building. Pews were installed, a new furnace and windows bought, and the walls finished.
During the summer of that year, I enjoyed the fellowship of a theological student who was caring for the local Baptist church. While he was an ardent advocate of baptism by immersion, and I was serving a church in which sprinkling prevailed, we got along perfectly on both land and sea. In fact, one evening when the boat that we were rowing sprang a leak and began to fill with water, my friend readily admitted that too much liquid slowed up transportation. Strangely enough, one elderly member of his church and one of mine resented our friendliness. They thought that we should be fighting over our credal differences. To add emphasis to their convictions, my friend’s disgruntled church member began to attend my church, while my sour saint went to his services. Accepting the exchange agreeably, my Baptist companion remarked hopefully, “It usually does cabbage heads good to transplant them.”
For recreation, I frequently took an hour or so off to go fishing. Since I was usually rewarded with brook trout, or pickerel from Lake George, I soon established a reputation as a fisherman. Some people who did not know the art of fishing even suggested that the minister probably prayed for the fish to bite.
Such an explanation seemed more plausible than ever when I announced that I planned to go out into the deeper water for the coveted and more elusive lake trout. I had bought a long and strong linen line and gang of hooks, but had little knowledge of the lake, and no whitefish, which are the natural food for this particular trout. The only lure that I had been able to get was artificial. Realizing, however, that luck seldom comes to people who don’t try, I selected a mild morning and ventured forth.
A skilled fisherman, who had been out since daybreak reported that the fish were not striking and he was giving up. He had one badly mangled whitefish, which he gave to me. So, in spite of the fact that the other fishermen were having no luck and condemned the water as being too calm, I decided to make the best of that warm, sunny day.
Even if the fish are not cooperative, a beautiful lake affords other rewards to those who look for them. I rowed in wide circles, just off the point of Tongue Mountain, and pleasing scenes of quietness and strength met my eyes in every direction. There were the Narrows, leading up through numerous little islands toward Paradise Bay and Black Mountain; there was spacious northwest Bay, bordered with wooded hills and rounded mountains; to the west were Crown and Green and Dome Islands; and, toward the south, pointing to historic Fort William Henry, ten miles of silvery water, with more islands, hills, and protecting mountains. The tender green of the trees gave a fitting touch of life and beauty, as if all was united in silent praise of the Creator.
I was drinking my fill of this panorama when my bamboo pole began to bend as though I had hooked a submerged snag. Then, just as I was checking my speed to void breaking the line, several rapid, violent tugs caused the rod to thrash in the water.
Aware that I had hooked a big hone, I endeavored to play him carefully. In spite of all I could do, the tip of my pole kept churning the surface of the lake. My heart was beating rapidly. I knew that this was the largest and most stubborn fish that had ever honored me with a nod, and I was afraid that he might get away. Every time that I attempted to reel in a bit of line, counter-pulls thwarted my efforts. Eventually, of course, the fish tired and consented to be brought near the surface, but he did not give up easily. Several times when it seemed that he was coming into view, he turned and fought his way back to the bottom, more than one hundred feet down. Fortunately, my hooks were so firmly imbedded in the mouth of my fish that he could not break away. I must have had “beginner’s luck,” for I landed the prize trout of the day, a specimen weighing nearly ten pounds.
As proof that good fortune can happen more than once, I was favored again a few days later. At my request two ladies, one an adjutant and the other a lieutenant from the Salvation Army in Glens Falls, came to speak and sing in my church. An offering was taken for the Army; and, to show further appreciation for their services, I invited the two ladies to go for a ride on the lake. I suggested that we take fishlines with us, but the lieutenant was not enthusiastic, explaining, “I’m a Jonah to any fishing party. I never catch anything except weeds and rocks.” Nevertheless, the lines and some borrowed bait were put in the boat.
We set out on a placid morning, another of those days when the old fishermen considered the water too calm for strikes. However, recalling my former experience, I headed for the place where I had found my hungry fish. Soon, in a voice that matched the tranquil water, the lieutenant said, “I think I had a bite.”
I glanced at her slender rod and saw that the line had become detached from the reel and was in danger of being lost. Backing quickly with one oar, I grasped the line, handed it to the lady, and remarked that since the tackle had been borrowed, we were lucky in saving it. She replied, “I don’t feel anything on it now. Perhaps it was one of my usual weeds.” However, the line appeared to me to be drawing a bit heavily. I thought that she might possibly have a small fish, and instructed her to pull in carefully, and to let the line back through her fingers in a taut manner if she felt any hard pull.
Holding the gaff-hook in readiness, I looked down into the transparent water and saw a large trout swimming along as if he were following the bait. Indeed, as we discovered a few seconds later, he was hooked only by the skin of his teeth. Possibly, in an effort to accommodate the charming lady, he was graciously consenting to be led like a lamb to the slaughter. I was not an expert with the big hook, and merely frightened the fish on my first attempt to take him into the boat. Fortunately the lieutenant proved to be adept in following orders. Standing up in the boat, she let out the line and pulled it back again until I was able to make effective use of the gaff.
When we had our beautiful seven-and-one-half pound trout safely in the boat, the serene lieutenant, instead of boasting of her catch, voiced her gratitude by saying, “The Lord has sent us a fish.” Aware that the weather was supposed to be unfavorable, and that other fishermen were not doing very well on that day, I fully agreed with her sentiment.
In the fall of that same year, 1905, I went back to my home community to conduct a preaching mission for a week in the weathered schoolhouse at Brant Lake. As assistant I took with me the noted cowboy Broncho Charlie Miller, who had recently been converted by the Salvation Army in Glens Falls. Broncho Charlie, champion broncho buster of the West, had been one of the celebrities in Buffalo Bill’s famous circus, traveling to Europe and performing before royalty. He once showed me a picture of Queen Victoria which she had autographed for him.
After the Wild West show was no more, Broncho Charlie had operated a riding stable in Glens Falls. At a Salvation Army street meeting he heard the young officers singing and preaching, and followed them to their hall, where he accepted their invitation to become a Christian. As further proof of his conversion, he often joined the Army circle on the streets and gave his testimony.
Having heard of the conversion, and knowing that Broncho Charlie might need encouragement in his new life, I had made it a point to visit him from time to time. It was in this endeavor that I got him first to come up to Bolton Landing—where he did some skillful riding and roping tricks in the street in front of the church—and later to accompany me to Brant Lake. At Brant Lake, Broncho Charlie’s role was to tell of his life in the West, and of his experiences in Buffalo Bill’s circus, while I was to do the preaching. From the start, our evangelistic team, which also included Father, awakened the people of the neighborhood, drew them to our meetings, and moved many of them to take amore positive stand for Christianity.
There was one man, however, who held back. His name was Bill Bentley, and with a voice which reverberated from one side of the valley to the other, he was forever invoking the damnation of heaven on his poky old oxen and on every stone that stopped his plow or dulled his scythe. On one occasion, as he was emitting an irreverent torrent of words at his oxen, the curse had backfired on him. A piece of the whip with which he was emphasizing his maledictions broke off, flew back, and blinded one of his eyes for life. An atheist who lived at the lake during the summers took great delight in getting Bill Bentley to work for him, so that he could hear Bill swear. The violent oaths seemed to afford this man sardonic pleasure, and to confirm his lack of faith. During the plowing, hoeing and haying seasons, therefore, our valley was filled with Bill’s rasping, echoing curses. It was as if Satan, in a great rage against the piety of my parents, had gone into the open competition with them.
And yet this farmer with the unruly tongue was good to his family and kind to his neighbors. He let us borrow his boat whenever we wanted to fish on the lake, and he allowed us to change our clothes in his wagon house when we went swimming from his sandy beach. Possibly his profanity was only a bad habit, and Bill may have been like the man who once said to his minister, “Dominie, I am not so wicked after all. I swear and you pray, but neither of us mean anything by it.”
Well, on the last evening of our meetings in the tiny schoolhouse the man who was so loud and so fluent in his use of sacrilegious words stood up and declared that he wished to be counted on the Lord’s side. Since I had to leave the community the next day and go back to my church at Bolton Landing, I had no immediate opportunity to check on the lasting quality of this evangelistic mission in the land of my boyhood, but I got a report during the following summer. The spirit of blasphemy had been decisively cast out. No one had heard a single oath proceed from the mouth of our last convert. Bill himself told me why he had been so reluctant to yield to the Christian invitation. He explained, “I had a rocky plot of ground to plow, and expected that I would swear a thousand times while doing it. But, strange as it may seem, I plowed that rough area without having the least inclination to curse a single stone.”
29. MOODY BIBLE INSTITUTE
At this time I became more and more convinced that I should continue my education toward the ministry. I considered various schools and colleges, but it did not seem possible that I could assume the financial burden of a regular four-year college course. I had heard of the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago which appealed to me because I understood that it was undenominational and offered courses that within two years might enable a student to become a Bible teacher, minister, song leader or missionary. Stories I had heard of the sincerity and magnetism of D. L. Moody, who had left his career as a shoe salesman to become one of the foremost evangelists of his time, also led me to think that the institution named for him might be just what I needed.
Moody’s example appealed to me particularly, for while he did not have a formal, theological training, he devoted himself to reading the Bible and had known remarkable success in his Sunday School classes. When a critic once called attention to his mistakes in English, Moody frankly admitted his lack of education, but said: “With such English as I can use, I am trying to do my best to serve God.” He then asked, “What are you doing with your English?”
My train trip to Chicago to attend the Institute for the spring term of 1906 was quite uneventful. It was mostly a night ride, during which I slept in my seat as much as I could. Although I was eager for the new experience, as I got nearly a thousand miles from home I began to wonder if I would ever get back. I had never been more than fifty miles from home before.
When I arrived at the Bible Institute, I looked forward to a hearty welcome, such as the spirit of Moody would lead one to expect, but the mere routine enrollment and assignment to a room and classes was somewhat disappointing. However, the practical training in the Pacific Garden Mission, where Billy Sunday had been converted, and the street meetings were interesting and helpful. We went into the slums and saloon districts, where songs were sung and short sermons or messages were delivered. The members of a gospel team would then engage the listeners in personal conversation, inviting and urging them to become Christians. Questions were answered, and free booklets and tracts distributed. Stress was always laid on the teachings of the Bible. We all believed that “The word is the sword of the Spirit,” and this conviction brought repentance to many.
In missions like the pacific Garden, sermons and testimonials were delivered by carefully chosen speakers, after which the procedure was very much like that of the street meetings. I recall talking to a young man who evidently had never had much religious training or opportunity to know the Bible. When I read him the words from Saint John: “But as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name,” he eagerly took the little book in his hands so that he could read the verse for himself.
I shall never forget an evening when I was assigned to keep the boys quiet outside a mission for children. I had just told a bear story when the leader of the meeting asked me to come inside and “say a few words.” To our surprise, the boisterous boys all followed me into the building, and sat perfectly still while I spoke to them. The only disturbance occurred when a woman who had been standing on the sidewalk suddenly came into the room, fell on her knees, and confessed her sins. As proof of her conversion, she left with us a bottle which she had evidently intended to take to a saloon for a refill.
During my sojourn in Chicago I paid a visit to Zion City, which had been made famous by the preaching and praying of Alexander Dowie. I remember that there was a sign on the outskirts of the town forbidding smoking. I was especially interested in seeing the large tabernacle where the crowds came to seek healing. Behind the platform I saw crutches, braces, and body supports, once worn by cripples but now discarded, bearing testimony to the miracles claimed to have been performed. I also saw a box of Smith Brothers’ Cough Crops solidly nailed to the wall.
Since I was interested in learning how to preach good sermons, I attended various churches, and on one Sunday it was my privilege to worship at a church where Dr.Frank W. Gunsaulus, a distinguished pulpit orator and writer was preaching. He took for his theme the verse in St. John: “Now in the place where He was crucified there was a garden.” We were reminded of the lessons from seeds and growing things, a timely thought for it was then the Easter season. It was suggested that everyone should have a garden, even if only six inches square. Mr. Gunsaulus advised us to consider the lilies and trees more carefully, but he rebuked people w ho drove rapidly through the country and thought that they were “communing with nature.” He asked, referring to the high speed of travel, “What would you think of a young man who claimed to be courting a lady at the rate of thirty miles an hour?”
As I see it now, it was not the plan of Providence for me to remain at the Moody Bible Institute. I was a country-bred boy, and did not like the congestion and smoke of Chicago. My happiest moments were when I could leave the turbulent city and go to Lincoln Park, where I could study in the open air and occasionally watch the antics of sea lions and polar bears. Possibly I was merely homesick, but eventually a foolish fear caused me to decide to leave Chicago. It was the practice of Dr. Towner, the teacher of music, to pick students at random and send them up on the platform to lead the class in singing. If a student protested that he was not musical, Dr. Towner would maintain that this made the exercise all the more fun. I was well aware of my musical disability, and the very idea of this form of merriment was too great a misery for me. My first thought was to avoid the danger of wrecking all tuneful harmony, and my own nervous system as well. So although I had enrolled at the school for the spring term, I cancelled my registration and left before it was half-finished. Some of the spirit of the school remained with me, however, and for that I am grateful.
On my last day in Chicago I visited Montgomery and Ward’s big store and bought a small revolver which I thought might be of use in killing bears. I went to the top of the observation tower to feel the strong wind and to get a last look at the city of which I really knew so little. The following day I took my departure.
After a boat ride through Lake Erie and a stopover at Niagara Falls, I went by train to Albany and north to Glens Falls. It was a great joy to see Mother again, and the good brothers and sisters who had found steady employment in this beautiful city on the Hudson. But after a few days knowing that Father would be expecting me at Brant Lake, I fastened a few necessities to my bicycle and pedaled over the dusty road toward the scenes of my boyhood.