Lives of Poor Boys Who Became Famous

But after seeing the admirable provision made for his workmen, we must enter the private office of Mr. Childs. He is most accessible to all, with no airs of superior position, welcoming persons from every clime daily, between the hours of eleven and one. He listens courteously to any requests, and then bids you make yourself at home in this elegant office, that certainly has no superior in the world, perhaps no rival.

The room itself in the Queen Anne style, with exquisite wood-carving, marble tiles, brass ornaments, and painted glass, is a gem. Here is his motto, a noble one, and thoroughly American, "Nihil sine labore," and well his life has illustrated it. All honor to every man or woman who helps to make labor honored in this country. The design of the ceiling was suggested by a room in Coombe Abbey, Warwickshire, the seat of the Earls Craven, fitted up by one of its lords for the reception of Queen Elizabeth. Over a dozen valuable clocks are seen, one made in Amsterdam over two hundred years ago, which, besides the time of day, gives the phases of the moon, the days of the week, and the month; another, a clock constructed by David Rittenhouse, the astronomer of the Revolution, in the old colonial days, which plays a great variety of music, has a little planetarium attached, and nearly six thousand teeth in wheels. It was made for Joseph Potts, who paid six hundred and forty dollars for it. The Spanish Minister in 1778 offered eight hundred for it, that he might present it to his sovereign. Mr. Childs has about fifty rare clocks in his various homes, one of these costing six thousand dollars.

Here is a marble statuette of Savonarola, the Florentine preacher of the fifteenth century; the little green harp which belonged to Tom Moore, and on which he used to play in the homes of the great; a colossal suit of antique French armor, one hundred and fifty years old; a miniature likeness of George Washington, handsomely encased in gold, bequeathed by him to a relative, a lock of his hair in the back of the picture; a miniature ship, made from the wood of the Alliance Frigate, the only one of our first navy, of the class of frigates, which escaped capture or destruction during the Revolutionary war. This boat, and a silver waiter, presented after the famous battle of New Orleans, were both the property of President Jackson, and were taken by him to the Hermitage. Here, also, is a photograph of "Old Ironsides" Stewart, in a frame made from the frigate Constitution, in which great victories were achieved, besides many portraits given by famous people, with their autographs.

After a delightful hour spent in looking at these choice things, Mr. Childs bids us take our choice of some rare china cups and saucers. We choose one dainty with red birds, and carry it away as a pleasant remembrance of a princely giver, in a princely apartment.

Mr. Childs has had a most interesting history. Born in Baltimore, he entered the United States navy at thirteen, where he remained for fifteen months. At fourteen he came to Philadelphia, poor, but with courage and a quick mind, and found a place to work in a bookstore. Here he remained for four years, doing his work faithfully, and to the best of his ability. At the end of these years he had saved a few hundred dollars, and opened a little store for himself in the Ledger Building, where the well-known newspaper, the "Public Ledger," was published.

He was ambitious, as who is not, that comes to prominence; and one day he made the resolution that he would sometime be the owner of this great paper and its building! Probably had this resolution been known, his acquaintances would have regarded the youth as little less than crazy. But the boy who willed this had a definite aim. Besides, he was never idle, he was economical, his habits were the best, and why should not such a boy succeed?

In three years, when he was twenty-one, he had become the head of a publishing house, – Childs & Peterson. He had a keen sense of what the public needed. He brought out Kane's "Arctic Expedition," from which the author, Dr. Kane, realized seventy thousand dollars. Two hundred thousand copies of Peterson's "Familiar Science" were sold. Allibone dedicated his great work, "Dictionary of English and American Authors," to the energetic and appreciative young publisher.

He had now acquired wealth, sooner almost than he could have hoped. Before him were bright prospects as a publisher; but the prize that he had set out to win was to own the "Public Ledger."

The opportunity came in December, 1864. But his paper was losing money. His friends advised against taking such a burden; he would surely fail. But Mr. Childs had faith in himself. He expected to win where others lost. He bought the property, doubled the subscription rates, lowered the advertising, excluded everything questionable from the columns of his paper, made his editorials brief, yet comprehensive, until under his judicious management the journal reached the large circulation of ninety thousand daily. For ten years he has given the "Ledger Almanac" to every subscriber, costing five thousand dollars annually. The yearly profits, it is stated, have been four hundred thousand dollars. All this has not been accomplished without thought and labor.

Fortune, of course, had come, and fame. He built homes, elegant ones, in Philadelphia and at Newport, but these are not simply places in which to spend money, but centres of hospitality and culture.

His library is one of the most charming places in this country. The wood-work is carved ebony with gold, the bookshelves six feet high on every side, and the ceiling built in sunken panels, blue and gold. In the centre is a table made from ebony, brought from Africa by Paul du Chaillu. One looks with interest upon the handsome volumes of the standard authors, but other things are of deeper interest.

Here is an original sermon of Rev. Cotton Mather; the poems of Leigh Hunt, which he presented to Charles Dickens; the original manuscript of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Consular Experiences"; the first edition of the "Scarlet Letter," with a note to Mr. Childs from the great novelist; Bryant's manuscript of the "First Book of the Iliad"; James Russell Lowell's "June Idyl," begun in 1850 and finished eighteen years afterward; the manuscript of James Fenimore Cooper's "Life of Captain Richard Somers"; and Edgar Allan Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue," seventeen pages of large paper written small and close.

Here is an autograph letter from Poe, in which he offers to his publishers thirty-three short stories, enough to fill two large volumes, "On the terms which you allowed me before; that is, you receive all profits and allow me twenty copies for distribution to friends." From this it seems that Poe had the usual struggles of literary people.

One of the most unique things of the library is the manuscript of "Our Mutual Friend," bound in fine brown morocco. The skeleton of the novel is written through several pages, showing how carefully Dickens thought out his plan and his characters; the paper is light blue, written over with dark blue ink, with many erasures and changes. Here are also fifty-six volumes of Dickens' works, with an autograph letter in each, from the author to Mr. Childs. Here is Lord Byron's desk on which he wrote "Don Juan." Now we look upon the smallest book ever printed, Dante's "Divina Commedia," bound in Turkey gilt, less than two and one-fourth inches long by one and one-half inches wide.

The collection of Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, now the property of Mr. Childs, letters and manuscripts from Lamb, Hawthorne, Mary Somerville, Harriet Martineau, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Browning, and hundreds of others, is of almost priceless value. In 1879 Mrs. Hall gave the Bible of Tom Moore to Mr. Childs, "an honored and much loved citizen of the United States, as the best and most valuable offering she could make to him, as a grateful tribute of respect, regard, and esteem."

Another valuable book is made up of the portraits of the presidents, with an autograph letter from each. Dom Pedro of Brazil sent, in 1876, a work on his empire, with his picture and his autograph. George Peabody sat for a full-length portrait for Mr. Childs. The album of Mrs. Childs contains the autographs of a great number of the leading men and women of the world.

One could linger here for days, but we must see the lovely country-seat called "Wootton," some distance out from the city. The house is in Queen Anne style, surrounded by velvety lawns, a wealth of evergreen and exquisite plants, brought over from South America and Africa. The farm adjoining is a delight to see. Here is the dairy built of white flintstone, while the milkroom has stained glass windows, as though it were a chapel. The beautiful grounds are open every Thursday to visitors.

Here have been entertained the Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, the Duke of Sutherland, Lord Rosse, Lord Dufferin, Sir Stafford Northcote, Herbert Spencer, John Waller, M.P., of the "London Times," Dean Stanley, Thomas Hughes, Dickens, Grant, Evarts; indeed, the famous of two hemispheres.

With all this elegance, befitting royalty, Mr. Childs has been a constant and generous giver. For his own city he was one of the foremost to secure Fairmount Park, and helped originate the Zoölogical Gardens, the Pennsylvania Museum, and the School of Industrial Arts. He gave ten thousand dollars for a Centennial Exposition. He has been one of General Grant's most generous helpers; yet while doing for the great, he does not forget the unknown. He gives free excursions to poor children, a dinner annually to the newsboys, and aids hundreds who are in need of an education.

He has placed a stained glass window in Westminster Abbey, in commemoration of George Herbert and William Cowper; given largely to a memorial window for Thomas Moore at Bronham, England; for a stone to mark Leigh Hunt's resting-place in Kensal Green; and toward a monument for Poe.

Mr. Childs has come to eminence by energy, integrity, and true faith in himself. He has had a noble ambition, and has worked towards it. He has proved to all other American boys that worth and honest dealing will win success, in a greater or less degree. That well-known scientist, Prof. Joseph Henry, of the Smithsonian Institute, said, "Mr. Childs is a wonderful man. His ability to apply the power of money in advancing the well-being of his fellow-men is unrivalled. He is naturally kind and sympathetic, and these generous feelings are exalted, not depressed, by his success in accumulating a fortune… Like man in the classification of animals, he forms a genus in himself. He stands alone; there is not another in the wide world like him."

Mr. Childs died at 3.01 A.M. February 3, 1894 from the effects of a stroke of paralysis sustained at the Ledger office on January 18. He was nearly sixty-five years of age. He was buried on February 6, in the Drexel Mausoleum in Woodland Cemetery beside his life long friend.

DWIGHT L. MOODY

"There's no chance to get in there. There's six thousand persons inside, and two thousand outside."

This was said to Dr. Magoun, President of Iowa College, and myself, after we had waited for nearly an hour, outside of Spurgeon's Tabernacle, in London, in the hope of hearing Mr. Moody preach. Finally, probably through courtesy to Americans, we obtained seats. The six thousand in this great church were sitting as though spellbound. The speaker was a man in middle life, rugged, strong, and plain in dress and manner. His words were so simple that a child could understand them. Now tears came into the eyes of most of the audience, as he told some touching incident, and now faces grew sober as the people examined their own hearts under the searching words. There was no consciousness about the preacher; no wild gesture nor loud tone. Only one expression seemed applicable, "a man dead in earnest."

And who was this man whom thousands came to hear? Not a learned man, not a rich man, but one of the greatest evangelists the world has ever seen. Circumstances were all against him, but he conquered circumstances.

Dwight Lyman Moody was born at Northfield, Mass., Feb. 5, 1837. His father, a stone-mason and farmer, died when the boy was four years old, broken down with reverses in business. His mother was left with seven sons and two daughters, the eldest a boy only fifteen. What happened to this lad was well told by Mr. Moody, a few years since. "Soon after my father's death the creditors came in and took everything. One calamity after another swept over the entire household. Twins were added to the family, and my mother was taken sick. To the eldest boy my mother looked as a stay in her calamity; but all at once that boy became a wanderer. He had been reading some of the trashy novels, and the belief had seized him that he had only to go away, to make a fortune. Away he went. I can remember how eagerly she used to look for tidings of that boy; how she used to send us to the post-office to see if there was a letter from him, and recollect how we used to come back with the sad news, 'No letter!' I remember how in the evenings we used to sit beside her in that New England home, and we would talk about our father; but the moment the name of that boy was mentioned she would hush us into silence. Some nights, when the wind was very high, and the house, which was upon a hill, would tremble at every gust, the voice of my mother was raised in prayer for that wanderer, who had treated her so unkindly. I used to think she loved him better than all of us put together, and I believe she did.

"On a Thanksgiving day she used to set a chair for him, thinking he would return home. Her family grew up, and her boys left home. When I got so that I could write, I sent letters all over the country, but could find no trace of him. One day, while in Boston, the news reached me that he had returned. While in that city, I remember how I used to look for him in every store – he had a mark on his face – but I never got any trace. One day, while my mother was sitting at the door, a stranger was seen coming toward the house, and when he came to the door he stopped. My mother didn't know her boy. He stood there with folded arms and great beard flowing down his breast, his tears trickling down his face. When my mother saw those tears, she cried, 'Oh, it's my lost son!' and entreated him to come in. But he stood still, 'No, mother,' he said, 'I will not come in until I hear that you have forgiven me.' She rushed to the threshold, threw her arms around him, and breathed forgiveness."

Dwight grew to be a strong, self-willed lad, working on the farm, fond of fun rather than of study, held in check only by his devotion to his mother. She was urged to put the children into different homes, on account of their extreme poverty, but by tilling their garden, and doing some work for their neighbors, she managed to keep her little flock together. A woman who could do this had remarkable energy and courage.

What little schooling Dwight received was not greatly enjoyed, because the teacher was a quick-tempered man, who used a rattan on the boys' backs. Years after, he told how a happy change was effected in that school. "After a while there was somebody who began to get up a movement in favor of controlling the school by love. I remember how we thought of the good time we should have that winter, when the rattan would be out of school. We thought we would then have all the fun we wanted. I remember who the teacher was – a lady – and she opened the school with prayer. We hadn't seen it done before, and we were impressed, especially when she prayed that she might have grace and strength to rule the school with love. The school went on several weeks, and we saw no rattan; but at last the rules were broken, and I think I was the first boy to break them. She told me to wait till after school, and then she would see me. I thought the rattan was coming out sure, and stretched myself up in warlike attitude. After school, however, she sat down by me and told me how she loved me, and how she had prayed to be able to rule that school by love, and concluded by saying, 'I want to ask you one favor, that is, if you love me, try and be a good boy;' and I never gave her trouble again."

He was very susceptible to kindness. When an old man, who had the habit of giving every new boy who came into the town a cent, put his hand on Dwight's head, and told him he had a Father in heaven, he never forgot the pressure of that old man's hand.

Farming among Northfield rocks was not exciting work enough for the energetic boy; so with his mother's consent, he started for Boston, when he was seventeen, to look for work. He had the same bitter experience that other homeless boys have. He says, "I went to the post-office two or three times a day to see if there was a letter for me. I knew there was not, as there was but one mail a day. I had not any employment and was very homesick, and so went constantly to the post-office, thinking perhaps when the mail did come in, my letter had been mislaid. At last, however, I got a letter. It was from my youngest sister, – the first letter she ever wrote me. I opened it with a light heart thinking there was some good news from home, but the burden of the whole letter was that she had heard there were pickpockets in Boston, and warned me to take care of them. I thought I had better get some money in hand first, and then I might take care of pickpockets."

The homesick boy finally applied to an uncle, a shoe-dealer, who hesitated much about taking the country lad into his employ. He agreed to do so on the conditions that the boy would heed his advice, and attend regularly the Mount Vernon Church and Sunday-school. The preaching of Dr. Kirk, the pastor, was scholarly and eloquent, but quite above the lad's comprehension. His Sunday-school teacher, Mr. Edward Kimball, was a devoted man, and withal had the tact to win a boy's confidence. One day he came into the store where young Moody worked, and going behind the counter, placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and talked about his becoming a Christian. Such interest touched Dwight's heart, and he soon took a stand on the right side. Years afterward, Moody was the means of the conversion of the son of Mr. Kimball, at seventeen, just his own age at this time.

His earnest nature made him eager to do Christian work; but so poor was his command of language, and his sentences were so awkward, that he was not accepted to the membership of the church for a year after he had made his application. They thought him very "unlikely ever to become a Christian of clear and decided views of gospel truth; still less to fill any extended sphere of public usefulness." Alas! how the best of us sometimes have our eyes shut to the treasures lying at our feet.

He longed for a wider field of usefulness, and in the fall of 1856, when he was nineteen, started for Chicago, taking with him testimonials which secured him a place as salesman in a shoe store. He joined Plymouth Church, and at once rented four pews for the young men whom he intended to bring in. Here, it is said, some of the more cultured assured him that his silence would be more effective for good than his speech! Certainly not encouraging to a young convert.

He offered his services to a mission school as a teacher. "He was welcome, if he would bring his own scholars," they said. The next Sunday, to their astonishment, young Moody walked in at the head of eighteen ragged urchins whom he had gathered from the streets. He distributed tracts among the seamen at the wharfs, and did not fear to go into saloons and talk with the inmates.

Finally he wanted a larger field still, and opened an old saloon, which had been vacated, as a Sunday-school room. It was in the neighborhood of two hundred saloons and gambling-dens! His heart was full of love for the poor and the outcasts, and they did not mind about his grammar. A friend came to see him in these dingy quarters, and found him holding a colored child, while he read, by the dim light of some tallow candles, the story of the Prodigal Son to his little congregation. "I have got only one talent," said the unassuming Moody. "I have no education, but I love the Lord Jesus Christ, and I want to do something for him. I want you to pray for me."

Thirteen years later, when all Great Britain was aflame with the sermons of this same man, he wrote his friend, "Pray for me every day; pray now that the Lord will keep me humble."

Soon the Sunday-school outgrew the shabby saloon, and was moved to a hall, where a thousand scholars gathered. Still attending to business as a travelling salesman, for six years he swept and made ready his Sunday-school room. He had great tact with his pupils, and won them by kindness. One day a boy came, who was very unruly, sticking pins into the backs of the other boys. Mr. Moody patted him kindly on the head, and asked him to come again. After a short time he became a Christian, and then was anxious about his mother, whom Mr. Moody had been unable to influence. One night the lad threw his arms about her neck, and weeping told her how he had stopped swearing, and how he wanted her to love the Saviour. When she passed his room, she heard him praying, "Oh, God, convert my dear mother." The next Sunday he led her into the Sabbath-school, and she became an earnest worker.

He also has great tact with his young converts. "Every man can do something," he says. "I had a Swede converted in Chicago. I don't know how. I don't suppose he was converted by my sermons, because he couldn't understand much. The Lord converted him into one of the happiest men you ever saw. His face shone all over. He came to me, and he had to speak through an interpreter. This interpreter said this Swede wanted to have me give him something to do. I said to myself, 'What in the world will I set this man to doing? He can't talk English!' So I gave him a bundle of little handbills, and put him out on the corner of the greatest thoroughfare of Chicago, and let him give them out, inviting people to come up and hear me preach. A man would come along and take it, and see 'Gospel meeting,' and would turn around and curse the fellow; but the Swede would laugh, because he didn't know but he was blessing him. He couldn't tell the difference. A great many men were impressed by that man's being so polite and kind. There he stood, and when winter came and the nights got so dark they could not read those little handbills, he went and got a little transparency and put it up on the corner, and there he took his stand, hot or cold, rain or shine. Many a man was won to Christ by his efforts."

In 1860, when Moody was twenty-three, he made up his mind to give all his time to Christian work. He was led to this by the following incident. He says, "In the Sunday-school I had a pale, delicate young man as one of the teachers. I knew his burning piety, and assigned him to the worst class in the school. They were all girls, and it was an awful class. They kept gadding around in the schoolroom, and were laughing and carrying on all the while. One Sunday he was absent, and I tried myself to teach the class, but couldn't do anything with them; they seemed farther off than ever from any concern about their souls. Well, the day after his absence, early Monday morning, the young man came into the store where I worked, and, tottering and bloodless, threw himself down on some boxes.

"'What's the matter?' I asked.

"'I have been bleeding at the lungs, and they have given me up to die,' he said.

"'But you are not afraid to die?' I questioned.

"'No,' said he, 'I am not afraid to die; but I have got to stand before God and give an account of my stewardship, and not one of my Sabbath-school scholars has been brought to Jesus. I have failed to bring one, and haven't any strength to do it now.'

"He was so weighed down that I got a carriage and took that dying man in it, and we called at the homes of every one of his scholars, and to each one he said, as best his faint voice would let him, 'I have come to just ask you to come to the Saviour,' and then he prayed as I never heard before. And for ten days he labored in that way, sometimes walking to the nearest houses. And at the end of that ten days, every one of that large class had yielded to the Saviour.

"Full well I remember the night before he went away (for the doctors said he must hurry to the South); how we held a true love-feast. It was the very gate of heaven, that meeting. He prayed, and they prayed; he didn't ask them, he didn't think they could pray; and then we sung, 'Blest be the tie that binds.' It was a beautiful night in June that he left on the Michigan Southern, and I was down to the train to help him off. And those girls every one gathered there again, all unknown to each other; and the depot seemed a second gate to heaven, in the joyful, yet tearful, communion and farewells between these newly-redeemed souls and him whose crown of rejoicing it will be that he led them to Jesus. At last the gong sounded, and, supported on the platform, the dying man shook hands with each one, and whispered, 'I will meet you yonder.'