He tells of how he went out on the roads selling books from house to house, and of how eagerly he devoured the contents of the sample books that he carried. "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. And as he told the story, speaking with quiet repression, but seeing it all and living it all just as vividly as if it had occurred but yesterday, "That sword has meant so much to me," he murmured; and then he began the tale: "A boy up there in the Berkshires, a neighbor's son, was John Ring; I call him a boy, for we all called him a boy, and we looked upon him as a boy, for he was under-sized and under-developed--so much so that he could not enlist. "But for some reason he was devoted to me, and he not only wanted to enlist, but he also wanted to be in the artillery company of which I captain; and I could only take him along as servant. I didn't want a servant, but it was the only way to take poor little Johnnie Ring. "Johnnie was deeply religious, and would read the Bible every evening before turning in. In those days I was an atheist, or at least thought I was, and I used to laugh at Ring and after a while he took to reading the Bible outside the tent on account of my laughing at him! But he did not stop reading it, and his faithfulness to me remained unchanged. "The scabbard of the sword was too glittering for the regulations"--the ghost of a smile hovered on Conwell's lips--"and I could not wear it, and would only wear a plain one for service and keep this hanging in my tent on the tent-pole. John Ring used to handle it adoringly and kept it polished to brilliancy.--It's dull enough these many years," he added, somberly. "To Ring it represented not only his captain, but the very glory and pomp of war.