Get The Study Habit And You'll Be A More Than Mediocre Person

( Originally Published 1908 )

Foster of Scranton

ALL good Philistines who read their Collect closely will recall that Mr. Thomas J. Foster is one of the eight original members of the American Legion of Honor.

Several persons have recently written to me asking who Mr. Foster is; a few have written inquiring what Judge Lindsey has done, and one gentleman unmuzzled his ignorance and inquired concerning the achievements of Thomas A. Edison. I have a long article on Edison which

I expect to print soon, unless restrained by injunction. As for Lindsey, I may say something more about him, too, but just now the theme is Thomas J. Foster.

Along late in the eighties, Thomas J. Foster was editor of a daily newspaper at Shenandoah, Pa. He was a man in moderate circumstances, practically unknown, as he had not committed high crimes, and his field of usefulness had been confined to local circles. He had been a clerk, a storekeeper, a school-teacher, a printer and then an editor. This natural evolution had come through the Study Habit, the microbe of which he had acquired in his young manhood.

In passing it may not be out of place to say that every man (arid eke woman) is controlled by Habit. When Habits are young they are like lion cubs, easily managed, but later there comes a time when they manage you. Bad Habits may put you on the Avernus Jerkwater, No. 23, with a ticket one way to Nowhere.

Good Habits are mentors, guardian angels, and servants that regulate your sleep, your work, your thought. It is the Study Habit that distinguishes men. Once you get it, only death can take it from you—and perhaps even death can't. I really don't know !

Foster had acquired the Study Habit. He was nearly fifty, and if Oslerism is correct, was ripe for the ether cone. But wait: Foster had an Idea all of his life had been leading up to this.

The Idea crystallized through a tragedy, and sometimes tragedy is a blessing, even though it may be purchased at a terrific cost.

It seems that a near and dear friend of Foster, a banker and manager of one of the big coal companies, went into a coal-mine with several friends on a little tour of inspection.

Night came on and the party did not return. It was thought they had gone to a neighboring village, so messengers were sent out. The messengers returned with no tidings. The last seen of the men was when they were entering the mine.

Several coal-miners had been made deathly sick through working in this same mine, and a dread superstition was abroad that the place was haunted. The miners refused to enter. So the editor headed the rescue party, first starting the air-pumps, and was lowered from the darkness of the night down into the blackness of the bowels of the earth.

He groped his way forward and ere long the flaring torches revealed the lifeless body of his friend where he had fallen, and another man on his back whom evidently he was attempting to rescue, when Death canceled his efforts. All were dead.

What killed the men ? The miners who had worked all their lives in mines did not know it was a noiseless, tasteless, odorles, mysterious something—that was all they knew. Some spoke of it as "the hand of God."

But Foster, the editor, knew what it was. He knew that every result was preceded by a cause; and that as soon as things are understood they cease to be either mysterious or miraculous.

These tragedies had been happening for years, only the victims were obscure persons, and others waiting for their jobs filled the gaps, and the saddened and desolated homes were soon forgotten. It is a busy world, my masters.

But now through the heart of theteditor ran a spasm of shame to think that society should allow the men who serve it to go on risking their lives in ignorance and peril.

He wrote a scathing editorial calling upon the citizens of the state to see to it that mine foremen should be educated sufficiently in a scientific way so as to safeguard the lives of their men.

This editorial, with several others like it, led to the passing of a law requiring that mine foremen should pass an examination in technical knowledge that would render their work reasonably safe.

This law at first seemed to work a decided hardship on many good men, some of whom did not have a sufficient education to fulfil the requirements; and the editor found himself strongly denounced. But instead of fighting his would-be enemies, he invited them to come to his office, as he had a proposition to make them. They came, and there he laid before them a plan he would teach them. Yes, they could use his books, and he would explain the questions, the questions more dreaded than fire-damp. So the mine foremen met evenings at the editor's sanctum, and the miners with foreman ambitions came. Many of these strong men were appalled at long division and few could wrestle fractions, but the editor prepared easy lessons in leaflet form, and thru his patience and his love, terror fled. The lessons were really easy—everything is easy when you know how. The miners got their lessons and laughed to think they ever had a fear Some of the miners lived ten miles or more away, and these prepared their " sums " or " examples " and sent them in by mail for correction.

There was a " Miner's Column " in the editor's newspaper, and this spread the good work. In a year the Miners' Correspondence Course had spread all over Pennsylvania, and down into West Virginia and out to Ohio. It seemed to fill a need—men were being educated for their work, while at their work. Occasionally miners became foremen; foremen became superintendents.When government inspectors were wanted,

" Foster's men " were always given first choice.

The men who took up the Study Habit didn't have so much time to spend at the saloons.

With their spare money they bought books. By the light of the evening lamp they worked at their lessons, often rocking the cradle at the same time—the mother busy at her housework.

The editor's Idea was making head. The Idea itself was an old one—but its application was the work of the editor man. The Chautauqua was an inspiration to thousands, but it stopped with history and belles-lettres. To teach technology by mail seemed too much—we all supposed a teacher at our elbow was necessary, simply because we had always had a teacher at our elbow. We did not realize that the things we work out by ourselves benefit us most. The Correspondence School plan gives the necessary assistance and inspiration to Home Study, and helps you to help yourself.

The Mining Course was a success, why not other lines of study as well ? And Thomas J. Foster, the editor, surprised at the success of his Idea, transformed his newspaper business into a college and became the world's school-master—a teacher who teaches by mail. His business is known as the International Correspondence Schools, of Scranton, Pa.

In fifteen years he has enrolled a million students. He has over two hundred separate courses of study, covering almost the entire field of art, textile, manual and commercial endeavor. His pupils are men and women of various ages in every walk of life. He enrolls more students every month than enter Harvard, Yale, Princeton and Dartmouth in a year.

One hundred and fifty railroad companies employ his services in teaching their workmen so to better safeguard the lives and property of their patrons. Many colleges co-operate with him and use his lesson leaves and textbooks. The United States Government has officially endorsed the work, and given preference in naval, engineering and electrical work to his students. He has the largest and best printing plant in the world. He utilizes a capital of four million dollars. One adult out of every twenty-seven in America is a student in the International Correspondence Schools.

I attended the Fifteenth anniversary of the I. C. S. Two thousand people were present from all over the world—mostly men connected with the Correspondence School work. There were formal exercises in a theatre, with much good music, and some good speaking, for did I not say I was there ? Then we were conducted over ten acres of floor-space and were shown the inner workings of the Idea.

The teachers who handle the examinationpapers are specialists, of course; they represent the principal colleges of the world, and while some of the best have diplomas only from the University of Hard Knocks, all have taken one or more courses in the I. C. S. The usefulness of the Idea turns on organization—method.

And the institution is certainly a monument to its founder. Order, cleanliness, quiet, beauty, light, ventilation, sanitation everywhere prevail. It all works like a Howard watch.

In the evening there was a banquet where were seated a thousand men; and five hundred ladies, envious and admiring, fluttered in the galleries.

The use of a banquet is to break the social ice, so I am told.

Thirty-one men shone resplendent at the speakers table in full dress-suits; two were in citizens' clothes, one being your uncle and the other one John Mitchell.

John's pastorate is bigger than mine—four hundred thousand men place their destinies in his hands, and the happiness and welfare of about two million people are in his keeping. Half a million people read my stuff, but none follow my suggestions or accept my ideas as truth unless they wish.

John Mitchell's face shows care, and his sober, earnest ways tell of grave responsibilities. He is a distinguished man in appearance and manner. No man would ever approach him and ask,

" Sir, are you anybody in particular ?" John Mitchell made the best speech of the Meeting.

His voice is neither loud, high nor deep, but it is so finely modulated and so vibrant with feeling that it stills every buzzing whisper and carries conviction home. A very brave and manly man is John Mitchell. He has battles in front of him, for his barque is not yet in peaceful waters, but if he does as much in the next ten years as he has in the past, he'll anchor for four years in the White House, if some of you fellows do not look out! He has made mistakes, they say, but I do not remember just what they are; yet when one thinks of the mobs he has faced in their fury, not to mention that five-days' fusillade of Wayne MacVeagh, you are astounded that he has not made more. Yet he was born in Illinois!

But here he sits, smiling, alert, poised, and when he arises to speak he does not cough, sputter, rant, harangue, scold, grope, nor apologize, but proceeds with a fine and very gentle reserve to speak of " the people whom I have the honor to serve. " He chooses his words with care and marches them with precision, spacing each paragraph and packing each pause with feeling. He says just enough and sits down at a time when everybody wishes he would go on.

My seat happened to be between that of the Right Reverend Bishop Ethelbert Talbot of the Episcopal Church and the Right Reverend Bishop Holban of the Roman Catholic Church.

Whether this peculiar seating-arrangement was the result of malice prepense, invidious and sinister, planned and perpetrated by J. D. Jones, Master of Ceremonies, or the work of the infallible dice, I cannot say. The genial toastmaster spoke of the "three bishops we have with us," and then referred to me as "The Bishop of all Outsiders. " What the two sure-enough bishops might have done had I not been between them, no man can say, but as it was, amity and peace prevailed. Both bishops were charming—they had left their bishop's voices at home, and we conversed on the New Education and the Brotherhood of Man. Both read the Choice Stuff, and while I refrained from any reference to Torquemada, Savonarola, Pope Alexander, Borgia and Henry the Ate, they in turn had only words of kindness for Goliath, and neither asked where East Aurora really is, nor called it "The Philippine Magazine. " Outside of their official capacity bishops are absolutely unobjectionable.

Governor Pennypacker was present and made a telling speech, although the suggestion that he speak his speech, I prithee, into a phonograph and send the record by express, should have been followed. The Governor has a presence like an observant thumb, and when he begins to speak he simply clucks and gurgles like a graphophone gone wrong and pushes out a few falsetto notes in high C as an introduction. He is the homeliest man in America, excepting William Hawley Smith, and in point of pulchritude certainly pushes Hawley hard for first place. The caricatures of him are all quite complimentary. Yet when he gets a clutch on his think-apparatus, you are amazed and delighted to follow his wealth of allusion and the orderly procession of his thought. But above all, Pennypacker is an honest man, and God knows there are not many of us.

Another great disappointment to me was S. S. McClure, Limited, who strangely enough isn't, and who added to the joy of the occasion a few Irish bulls and some choice wit and eloquence.

Col. Lamed of West Point gave us a taste of his quality in a twenty-minute speech, wherein he cut the introduction, got the range, and talked right out of his heart, and therefore talked well.

Dr. Shaefer, State Superintendent of Public Instruction, made next to John Mitchell the best speech of the evening. His theme was "The Practical Education, " and ye who read THE PHILISTINE know the argument. It is not covered by copyright; I did not invent it, and of course I make no claim on Doctor Shaefer for royalties. Shaefer is one of the living educators of his day—a man with much good cheer, sympathy plus, receptive to new ideas, with a minimum amount of pedagogic frills and a maximum quantity of commonsense, a man who knows children because he loves them.

Now be it known this was a "dry banquet," and the first and only dry banquet where there were over a hundred guests that I ever attended, which speaks well for me—or not, all according to your point of view. There is an adage that a dry banquet is like platonic love, and platonic love is like playing poker with Confederate money. Let the ribald ones pass! Do they not also tell us that you cannot run a first-class hotel without a bar ?

Rodents! or words to that effect.

I have attended dozens of banquets, but at this one of the I. C. S. there was an atmosphere, and it was not an atmosphere of budge, booze and tales tinged with saffron and stories verging on gamboge.

The audience keys the speech of the speaker it is all a collaboration. A Clover Club Banquet is a frumenti effervescence, a maudlin embrace between Wit and the Widow Clicquot, and the Widow, of course, comes off victorious, as widows ever do.

But here there was a keen, high, rarified, intellectual atmosphere. Every man who stood on his feet had to say something. The breath of Minerva ruled the place, not the fumes of Bacchus. And at the last what finer joy, next to putting salt on the tail of an idea, than to experience the fine intoxication that comes from having the idea served up skillfully on the oratorical toast! The audience keys the atmosphere, and if you choose to say that the speaker keys the audience, I 'll not quarrel with you since every truth implies its contradiction.