``They were a foundation of learning
for me,'' he says, soberly. ``And they gave me a
broad idea of the world.''
He went to Yale in 1860, but the outbreak of
the war interfered with college, and he enlisted in
1861. But he was only eighteen, and his father
objected, and he went back to Yale. But next
year he again enlisted, and men of his Berkshire
neighborhood, likewise enlisting, insisted that he
be their captain; and Governor Andrews, appealed
to, consented to commission the nineteen-year-
old youth who was so evidently a natural leader;
and the men gave freely of their scant money to
get for him a sword, all gay and splendid with
gilt, and upon the sword was the declaration in
stately Latin that, ``True friendship is eternal.''
And with that sword is associated the most
vivid, the most momentous experience of Russell
Conwell's life.
That sword hangs at the head of Conwell's
bed in his home in Philadelphia. Man of peace
that he is, and minister of peace, that symbol of
war has for over half a century been of infinite
importance to him.
He told me the story as we stood together before
that sword.
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