Russell H. Conwell | Page 6

violet shadows,
of hazy blue mists, of far-away purple distances.
Such was the site Martin Conwell chose for a home, a site that told
something of his own character; that had marked influence on the
family that grew up in the little farmhouse.
A mixture of the practical, hard common sense of New England and the
sympathetic, poetic temperament of the South was in this young New
England farmer--the genial, beauty-loving nature of his Southern father,

the rigid honesty, the strong convictions, the shrewd sense of his
Northern mother. Quiet and reserved in general, he was to those who
knew him well, kind-hearted, broad-minded, fun-loving. He not only
took an active interest in the affairs of the little mountain community,
but his mind and heart went out to the big problems of the nation. He
grappled with them, sifted them thoroughly, and having decided what
to him was the right course to pursue, expressed his convictions in deed
as well as word. His was no passive nature. The square chin denoted
the man of will and aggression, and though the genial mouth and kindly
blue eyes bespoke the sympathetic heart, they showed no lack of
courage to come out in the open and take sides.
The young wife, Miranda Conwell, shared these broader interests of her
husband. She came from central New York State and did not have that
New England reserve and restraint that amounts almost to coldness.
Her mind was keen and vigorous and reached out with her husband's to
grasp and ponder the higher things of life. But the beauty of her
character lay in the loving, affectionate nature that shone from her dark
eyes, in the patient, self-sacrificing, self-denying disposition which
found its chief joy in ministering to her husband and children. Deeply
religious, she could no more help whispering a fervent little prayer, as
she tucked her boys in bed, that the Father above would watch over and
protect them, than she could help breathing, her trust in God was so
much a part of her nature. Such a silent, beautiful influence
unconsciously permeates a child's whole character, moulding it, setting
it. Unconscious of it at the time, some day a great event suddenly
crystalizes it like a wonderful chemical change, and the beauty of it
shines evermore from his life. Miranda Conwell built better than she
knew when in the every-day little things of her life, she let her faith
shine.
Not a usual couple, by any means, for the early 40's in rugged New
England. Yet their unusualness was of a kind within every one's reach.
They believed the making of a life of more importance than the making
of a living, and they grasped every opportunity of those meagre days to
broaden and uplift their mental and spiritual vision. Martin Conwell's
thoughts went beyond his plow furrow, Miranda's further than her

bread-board; and so the little home had an atmosphere of earnest
thought and purpose that clothed the uncarpeted floors and bare walls
with dignity and beauty.
CHAPTER II
EARLY ENVIRONMENT
The Family Circle. An Unusual Mother. What She Read Her Children.
A Preacher at Three Years of Age.
Such was the heritage and the home into which Russell H. Conwell was
born February 15, 1843. Think what a world his eyes opened
upon--"fair, searching eyes of youth"--steadfast hills holding mystery
and fascination in green depths and purple distances, streams rushing
with noisy joy over stony beds, sweet violet gloom of night with
brilliant stars moving silently across infinite space; tender moss,
delicate fern, creeping vine, covering the brown earth with living
beauty--a fascinating world of loveliness for boyish eyes to look upon
and wonder about.
The home inside was as unpretentious as its exterior suggested. The
tiny hall admitted on one side to a bedroom, on the other to a living
room, from which opened a room used as a store. Above was an attic.
The living room was the bright, cheery heart of the house. The morning
sun poured in through two windows which faced the east; a window
and door on the south claimed the same cheery rays as the sun
journeyed westward. The big open fireplace made a glowing spot of
brightness. The floor was uncarpeted, the walls unpapered, the
furnishing of the simplest, yet cheerfulness and homely comfort
pervaded the room as with an almost tangible spirit.
A brother three years older and a sister three years younger made a trio
of bright, childish faces about the hearth on winter evenings as the
years went by, while the mother read to them such tales as childish
minds could grasp. It was a loving little circle, one that riveted sure and
fast the ties of family affection and which helped one boy at her knee in
after life to enter