I have noticed, when he travels, that the face
of the newsboy brightens as he buys a paper from
him, that the porter is all happiness, that
conductor and brakeman are devotedly anxious to
be of aid. Everywhere the man wins love. He
loves humanity and humanity responds to the love.
He has always won the affection of those who
knew him, and Bayard Taylor was one of the
many; he and Bayard Taylor loved each other for
long acquaintance and fellow experiences as world-
wide travelers, back in the years when comparatively
few Americans visited the Nile and the
Orient, or even Europe.
When Taylor died there was a memorial service
in Boston at which Conwell was asked to preside,
and, as he wished for something more than
addresses, he went to Longfellow and asked him to
write and read a poem for the occasion. Longfellow
had not thought of writing anything, and
he was too ill to be present at the services, but,
there always being something contagiously
inspiring about Russell Conwell when he wishes
something to be done, the poet promised to do
what he could. And he wrote and sent the beautiful
lines beginning:
_Dead he lay among his books,
The peace of God was in his looks_.
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