“None of the morning papers we could get on the train mentioned either Conwell or his great speech.  Perhaps Conwell asked the reporters to suppress it.  I don’t know as to that.  But it was the first thing we looked for.  Not a word.  There is no clue to account for that.  Yet that is the peculiarity of this singular life:  one of the most public, one of the most successful men, but yet one of the least discussed or written about.  He was to us as visitors the great feature of that banquet as a speaker, and yet wholly ignored by the press of his own city.  The United States Senator Penrose seemed only to know in a general way that Conwell was a great benefactor and a powerful citizen and preacher.  Conwell is a study.  I cogitated on him all day.  I was told that he marched throughout the great parade in the rear rank of his G.A.R. post.  It is the strangest case of a private life I have ever heard mentioned.  The Quakers will wake up resurrection day and find out Conwell lived in Philadelphia.  It is startling to think how measureless the influence of such a man is in its effect on the world.  Through forty years educating men, healing the sick, caring for children, then preaching to a great church, then lecturing in the great cities nearly every night, then writing biographies; and also an accessible counselor to such masses of young people!”

The address referred to in the foregoing letter was taken down in shorthand, and was substantially as follows: 

“Comrades:  I feel at this moment as Alexander Stephens said he felt at the close of the war of 1865, and it can well be illustrated by the boasting athlete who declared he could throw out twenty men from a neighboring saloon in five minutes.  He requested his friend to stand outside and count as he went in and threw them out.  Soon a battered man was thrown out the door far into the street.  The friend began his count and shouted, ‘One!’ But the man in the street staggered to his feet and angrily screamed, ‘Stop counting!  It’s me!’ When this feast opened I was proudly expecting to make a speech, but the great men who have preceded me have done all and more than I intended to do.  The hour is spent—­they are sounding ‘taps’ at the door.  I could not hope to hold your attention.  It only remains for me to do my duty in behalf of Meade Post, and do it in the briefest possible space.

“Comrades of Boston and New York, you have heard the greetings when you entered the city—­you have seen the gorgeous and artistic decorations on halls and dwellings—­you have heard the shouts of the million and more who pressed into the streets, waved handkerchiefs from the stands, and looked over each other’s heads from all the windows and roofs throughout that weary march.  Here you see the lovely decorations, the most costly feast, and listen to the heart-thrilling, soul-subduing orchestra.  All of these have already spoken to you an unmistakable message of welcome.  Knowing this city as I do,