I regretted this because there is a notion that a minister of the Gospel cannot accumulate money for himself, that he should not do so if he could, that his duty consists in collecting money for his church, his parish, his mission—­for anything and everyone but his own temporal prosperity.  I had done this all my life.  I can solemnly say that I never sought the financial success which in some measure came to me.  I regarded the money which I received for my work as pastor of the Tabernacle, or from other sources as an earning capacity that is due to every working man.  I was able to do more work than some, because the motives of my whole life have insisted that I work hard.  The impetus of my strength was not abnormal, it was merely the daily requirement of my health that I work as hard as I knew how as long as I could.  Restlessness was an element of life with me.  I could not keep still any length of time.  My mind had acquired the habit of ideas, and my hands were always full of unfinished labours.

I remember trying once to sit still at a concert of Gilmore’s band, at Manhattan Beach.  After hearing one selection I found myself unable to listen any farther—­I could not sit quiet for longer.  I rarely allowed myself more than five minutes for shaving, no matter whether the razor were sharp or blunt.  They used to tell me that I wore a black bow tie till it was not fit to wear.  On the trains I slept a great deal.  Sleep is the great storage battery of life.  Four days of the week I was on the train.  I rose every morning at six.  The first thing I did was to glance over the morning newspaper, to catch in this whispering gallery of the world the life of a new day.  First the cable news, then the editorials, then the news about ourselves.  I received the principal newspapers of almost every big city in the morning mail I enjoyed the caricatures of myself, they made me laugh.  If a man poked fun at me with true wit I was his friend.  They were clever fellows those newspaper humorists.  I consider walking a very important exercise—­not merely a stroll, but a good long walk.  Often I used to go from the Grand Central Depot in New York to my home in Brooklyn.  There and back was my usual promenade.  Seven miles should be an average walk for a man past fifty every day.  I have made fifteen and twenty miles without fatigue.  I always dined in the middle of the day.  Contrary to “Combes’ Physiology,” I always took a nap after dinner.  In my boyhood days this was a book that opposed the habit.  Combes said that he thought it very injurious to sleep after dinner, but I saw the cow lie down after eating, and the horse, and it seemed to me that Combes was wrong.  A morning bath is absolutely indispensable.  When I was in college there were no luxurious hot and cold bath rooms.  I often had to break the ice in my pitcher to get at the water.