An Invigorating Avocation

A FEW months ago, as I was about to enter upon a campaign for a million dollars, President Eliot said to me, ‘Do you expect to raise that amount?’

’I hope so,’ was my answer.

‘It is very hard work,’ he replied.

‘Yes,’I said, ‘it is hard work and a heavy strain; one must be fit and on edge every moment. I hate the job at a distance, but when I once get started, trout-fishing is not in it for excitement. You strike what is called a deep pool; no fish rises, and you go back to camp depressed. You cast into a shallow and almost hopeless pool, and come away with big game. You have all the fun of the gambler and do not gamble.’

' You mean that it is a great enterprise,’ answered Dr. Eliot. ‘ You have my best wishes and I believe that you will succeed.’

Dr. Eliot was right. It is a great enterprise that the leader of a campaign for a beneficent cause or institution undertakes; for by his work, supported by others, great sums of money are transferred, by the consent and often glad approval of the owners, from their pockets to a treasury which will work for good through untold generations.

Who suggested to the young minister of Charlestown, John Harvard, the idea of leaving his modest fortune to found a ‘College at Newtown’? What spiritual forces that unknown benefactor set a-going!

Now that I have just completed a campaign wherein the cash and pledges for over a million dollars poured in easily and happily in the course of three months, I am by request jotting down a few suggestions and principles gathered from my experiences in a number of financial campaigns, large and small, for educational or religious causes.

I dislike the word ‘campaign’ in this connection almost as much as I abhor ‘appeal.’ ‘Campaign’ suggests force or pressure, methods whereby people are dragooned to give. ‘Appeal’ suggests a call upon the sympathies and emotions of people, melting them to give. Both methods are weak and liable to bring reaction; but as no other words have been invented to meet our ideas, we must use them.

1. My first point, therefore, is this. The American people are reasonable and, on the whole, generous. They want to do the right thing; but they must have facts and be reasonably convinced that the cause put before them is worth their while. If you dominate or dragoon a man by your personality, you may get his money once, but not the next time. If, finding that the facts do not move him, you appeal to his emotions of sympathy and pity, and thereby get the money, you will find him cross the next time you call. You have taken undue advantage of him. My rule is never to allow a person to sign a pledge in my presence. If my facts do not convince him, — if the cause apart from the influence of my presence will not bring his contribution, — I do not want it. And if I should get it by undue personal pressure, I shall never succeed with that man a second time.

2. Hence my second suggestion is that, before you can get support, you must be sure that you have a good cause, one that stands on its own feet. You may fool some people with a poor cause once, but not twice.

There are a thousand good causes, but only a few of them may bring big money. Many causes are not worth big money; and the people find it out. Moreover, if you expect a broad and popular support, even the best cause, be it an institution or a programme, must be linked up with some big cause or problem touching the whole people. For instance, the creation of a pension system for the clergy of the Protestant Episcopal Church was a comparatively small cause. When we started to put it before the people, over ten years ago, we had on paper the best pension system invented to that date; we had the best actuarial work and the soundest business methods. It was the first time in history that an attempt had been made to meet the accrued liabilities by voluntary gifts; and five million and sixty thousand dollars was the amount that had to be raised — not a dollar less. Our pension system was a rather intricate proposition to explain, and it affected a comparatively small body of people. We soon discovered that we should have to arouse the interest of a very broad sweep of people, a mass of the public, in order to gain such publicity as would make our own people sit up and take notice.

Just then the chief editor and administrator of the New York Times asked me to lunch with the staff. As we sat down, Mr. Ochs said, ‘Well, Bishop, what have you got?’

I answered, ‘Mr. Ochs, I have got something to increase the circulation of the New York Times.'

‘What is it?' he replied.

‘What are you going to do with the old people, Mr. Ochs? What are you going to do with the old policemen, the old firemen, the old teachers, the old clerks, the old work-people?’

‘Why,’ he said, ‘that’s just the question that has been bothering us here in this building. What are we going to do with the old men who have served the Times faithfully for years?'

‘That’s all,’I answered; ‘everybody is asking the same question. Just talk about it in your columns, and occasionally put in “the old minister ” and tell your readers what a solid job the Episcopal Church is trying to do for its old ministers — the Church Pension Fund.'

As we rose from the table, Mr. Ochs said, ‘Anything that you want of the Times you can have, Bishop.’ And Mr. Ochs kept his word.

We soon saturated the atmosphere of New York with the Church Pension Fund. Within two weeks a friend told me that he had heard people behind him at the theatre talking about the Church Pension Fund. As I was taking dinner in a dining-car on my way to Boston, a man passing quickly by pushed a five-dollar bill into my hand, — that was holding a fork, too, — and said quickly, ‘Here’s something for your fund, Bishop’; and he shot out the door. The public had caught on, and the Church people would feel the atmosphere and begin to think.

My last campaign for a million dollars had a much narrower constituency. ‘The Episcopal Theological School at Cambridge’ is about as dull a title as anyone could hope to raise even one thousand dollars for. But the people throughout the country are yearning for spiritual leadership. Even the cynics and worldly minded are sorry to feel, as they do, that the ministry is not what it used to be, and they would like to see the old days back. ‘Spiritual leadership in these days of confusion we must have’ — so says everyone.

With ‘Spiritual Leadership’ as a slogan, you can almost raise the dead, provided you have one essential — a school or institution which will send out ‘spiritual leaders.’ In theological schools with slack standards and slack work the American people take no interest. The most earnest and intelligent people, those who will contribute, want the best. One fact about the Episcopal Theological School at Cambridge struck this note. ‘Of every thirty living graduates of the School, one is a bishop, a leader; and other graduates hold positions of wide influence.’ Reading this statement, the business man asks the question, ‘How do you do it?' When told of the high standards, the methods of work and all, he asks, ‘How much do you need to put this thing along for another generation?’ And the million dollars came practically in ninety days, with ease.

Indeed, I want nothing to do with a campaign where the money comes so hard and with such personal pressure that the people who have given are a hit irritated that they gave so much, or gave at all. No campaign is a success that does not leave every giver in the mood that he is glad he gave and wishes that he could have given more.

In saying that it is my rule not to allow anyone to sign a pledge in my presence, I should perhaps mention three exceptions which occurred during the Church Pension Fund Campaign.

There appeared one morning in my office on the twenty-third floor of the Bankers Trust Company building (since then I have gone up higher, and, though I dread heights, am on the thirty-first floor) an alert man. ‘Bishop,’he said, ‘ I am from the Middle West. They want me to be chairman of your campaign in my diocese, and I have come to New York to see what you have for a system and what you want of me. My father was the Bishop of the diocese thirty years ago: he died leaving mother and us five children without a dollar. The diocese started to raise fifty thousand dollars for mother: they got twenty and then stopped, and everybody thought that mother had the fifty. I was a boy then. The poverty I could stand, but oh, the feeling of dependence, the asking of favors for mother and the rest of us! And I made up my mind that if I could ever do anything to head off that experience from other boys I would do it. So here I am.’

After fifteen minutes of talk about the system and plans of campaign, he said, ‘Where are your pledges?’

I told him that we would send a bundle to him with the literature.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘ I want to sign up.’

‘But we do not have pledges signed in this office: go slow: think out how much you can give, and sign when you get home.’

‘No,’ was his answer, ‘ I cannot begin work until I have signed. My wife and I have talked this thing over and have decided already.’ So he sat down, wrote in ‘twenty-five thousand dollars,’ and signed. ‘Now,’ he added, ‘I can go home and get to work. This young man, my secretary, will stay and study the system more thoroughly and follow me home.’

But the young man spoke up. ‘I want a pledge too.’

‘You cannot have one,’was my answer; ‘we do not have pledges signed in this office.’

‘But I will,’ he stubbornly replied. ‘I am in debt for my college education, but am working that off. I intended to sign up for a hundred dollars, but I am going to make it two hundred, and you cannot stop me.’ So he signed.

And my third illustration of the breaking of my rule was this. To one of the most generous men in New York, the late Commodore Bourne, a friend of mine wrote asking if he would see me, adding that my cause was a good and big one. A telephone call from the Commodore brought me to his office. Armed as usual with the little ‘Plan’ of the system, a confidential list of the larger givers, and a pledge, I met with a cordial reception. In ten minutes I had given him the principles of the system, and answered a few questions. As I left, he said, ‘I will give this my consideration.’ Two days later, instead of asking me to call again, he came up to my office and, holding out the pledge still unsigned, said, ‘Bishop, what do you want me to do with this?’

‘Whatever you please, Commodore.'

‘But I have the money in the bank; I can send a check.’

‘This is liberty hall, Commodore. You will do and give just what you please and as you please.’

‘Well, I might as well sign,’ he said, as he sat down at my desk.

As he rose and handed me the signed pledge, I noted the figure, — -$100,000. ‘Commodore,’ said I, ‘this is very generous; but it is not the amount of the gift which touches me: it is the gracious way in which you have made it.’

‘Why, Bishop,’ he replied, with tears in his eyes, ‘ I have the money and I am glad when I can give to a cause so worthy.’ He went out, and within two hours the check was at the office. I never saw the Commodore again, but those two brief interviews were worth weeks of hard labor.

3. The leaders in the campaign must be the leading alumni of the institution, men of force in the community, if the people are to have a respect for it. They too can do no half job: they have got to turn in for all they are worth. The people judge a cause by the kind of men who support it, and the kind of support they give. Leading men whose names stand on the campaign committees are of little use unless they themselves go and see people. You cannot raise money by circulars, or even letters. The only way to get money is to go out and get it.

The leaders must begin too by — to use Major Henry Higginson’s expression— ‘cutting into their own hides’ deeper than they expect any person whom they approach to cut into his. To me it is very strange that trustees and campaign-leaders of their own colleges will plan and work and call on people for support before they have themselves contributed, and at real cost. The very fact that you have put a part of your own self, your income or capital, into the enterprise, gives you a sense of confidence that you have a right to ask others. You can say to yourself, ‘No one to whom I turn will make a gift that costs him more than mine cost me. I am playing no game of bluff.’ Soon the understanding gets about that you are in it at your own heavy cost of money as well as strength and time. And that affects those people whose only test of sacrifice is in money.

4. Again, the raising before the campaign opens of a sum large enough to defray all the expenses of the campaign is a great asset. Suppose, for instance, a campaign for one million dollars is going to cost four cents out of every whole dollar. ‘What!’ exclaims someone, ‘that involves the gathering first and before the campaign starts of forty thousand dollars in order to get a million. It is impossible.’

It certainly is not impossible, I know by experience. If you cannot get that first fund, and thus anticipate the total expense, it is a question in my mind whether you have the backing to raise the million. One is a test of the other.

Moreover, many people have a suspicion that campaigns are carried on wastefuly sometimes, that professionals get a ‘rake-off ‘ of ten, twenty, and even fifty per cent; and they are a bit shy at having the expenses deducted from their gift. But if others have anticipated the expenses, and their dollar counts for one hundred cents every time, they will contribute readily.

5. I have never been responsible for a campaign in which the names of the contributors and the amount of their gifts have been made public. Some newspaper men kindly offered to print lists of names in my last campaign, and I answered, ‘Not a name.’

‘But givers like to see their names, and it always stimulates others to give.’

‘Some do,’ I answered, ‘but in the long run those who give do not care about the public knowing it. If they give largely, their mail will be heavy with appeals: if in small figures, they would rather not be published.’

At the same time I believe that people who are going to make a somewhat large investment in a cause or institution have a right to know, not only what sort of enterprise it is, but who their fellow stockholders are. Hence a confidential list of larger givers may rightfully be shown to those who may consider giving largely. They can thus have an idea as to what their share is, and most men are ready to do the fair thing.

6.When the officers of an institution are deciding upon the amount to be raised in a campaign, they should have in mind two considerations, (a) How much does the institution really need? Most institutions would like to have double or triple the amount that people will give; but no honest board of officers will ask for more than their institution really needs. Even that figure may be far higher than it is wise to ask for. (b) A wise board and its campaign-leader will also ask themselves, after a careful study of the field and their plans, what amount, given all the conditions, the people are likely to give. For it is dishonorable consciously to ask for a big figure, in order to get a half or three quarters of it. Large givers, in trying to do the fair thing, give what they think is their fair share of the total asked; and if only half the total is raised, they have a right to feel that they have not been fairly treated. Such methods kill the generosity of generous people. Moreover, a campaign, an institution, or a church is discredited if the final amount falls far short of the figure set. Our war loans and other war campaigns were thus carefully worked out. The country needed far more than was asked, but the campaign, its plans and work, brought one hundred per cent and over every time. These victories were an element in discouraging the Germans and elating our own people. It is a pity that some church and educational campaigns since the war have not profited by those experiences.

7. In the raising of a large sum of money, quite a large amount should be first quietly pledged by those most interested, or who can be interested, so that, when the campaign comes out into the open, it will have a thrust and momentum. The large body of possible small givers then realize that it is a worth-while proposition, that the men and women behind it mean business, and then they join in.

8. As to publicity, organization, and methods, the subject is too big for anything more than two or three suggestions. An organization, be it small or elaborate, runs so easily into mechanism that I shrink from it; but of course it is a necessity, and demands high qualities and abilities. The great purpose, however, which is sometimes lost in the whirring of the wheels, is to touch sympathetically multitudes of people; and the best organization is that which, having power and system at its heart, keeps its outmost workers as sensitive as the nerves beneath the finger-tips. The humblest solicitor must have the imagination to see his cause from the other man’s point of view, and so to present the cause as to commend it from his point of view. Unless the two get together sympathetically, there is no helpful result. The solicitor may get some money, but he has failed unless he has also got the good-will.

Every person who gives at my suggestion interests me. If it be by personal letter and I have never seen him, I should like to see him and know him; and if he responds in a sympathetic way, even if he declines, I want to shake hands with him. Some of the best letters that I receive are those declining. I acknowledge personally every gift of good size (I should like to acknowledge all) and write just as appreciative a letter to those who refuse.

I have never received a rough or discourteous word. People instinctively treat you as you unconsciously think of them. If I call on a man notoriously close or mean (and such a call is always interesting), I determine before I meet him that he really wants to do the fair thing, if he can only be shown what the fair thing is. And if, after my best effort, he refuses, I make up my mind that the fault is not with him but with myself. I must put the case better next time. It is not for me to complain that he does not give, and that he ought to. He owns his property, not I; and I am wise to respect his property rights. As a matter of fact, I very rarely have a refusal from a person on whom I call. Letters are different. Publicity demands quality, not quantity. Tons of paper and printer’s ink are wasted every day. It is worth a week’s study to set forth the purposes of the campaign and the definite needs in the most compact and interesting form possible; publicity should be so simple and clear that he who runneth may read.

9.With this persistent spirit of optimism must go transparent honesty. I have no use for those campaigners who hold back totals and then throw them on the public at strategic times. The public has come to distrust totals, to the great loss of confidence in campaigns. Those who have given and those who are to be approached have a right to be treated honestly, and will respond to honest treatment.

In the Church Pension Fund campaign we had to have five million and sixty thousand dollars on March 1, 1917. As the day approached, it became clear that we should overrun: money was pouring in fast. Telegrams came from the West and South, saying that they had hardly got started, that an announcement of five million dollars would spoil their whole campaign, disappoint people, and work disaster to the future system. We at the centre were responsible; and a heavy responsibility it was, to head off perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars by publishing an announcement which we had never promised to make. To some of us, however, it was a simple question of keeping faith with the people. And on March first I announced in Grace Church, New York, and through the Associated Press, the receipt of six million dollars. Nevertheless, by August first there had poured in two and one half millions more. The organization had continued working where it was behindhand, and people gave, not to make up a definite sum, but to support a good cause; and no figure was too big to pension the parson or his widow. People when they have the facts are often finer than we think.

I close as I began, with a reference to the uncertainty of trout-fishing. May I give an illustration — one of many similar experiences.

When on the Pension Fund campaign in New York, I wrote to the late Mr. William K. Vanderbilt, whom I had never met, asking if I could call and tell him of the Pension Fund. He courteously answered that it was impossible, as he was then engaged in adding to the endowment of Vanderbilt University. To this I replied, and with sincerity, that, knowing Vanderbilt University well, and its fine influence through the South, I hoped that he would forget me for the time and concentrate there. A year later I dropped him a line to learn if he cared to see me, and a telephone message came asking me to come to his office at eleven o’clock. Just then another telephone call came from another wealthy man of whom I had high hopes of a large gift, asking me to call at half-past eleven, some fifty blocks farther uptown. It was close work, but a man who is in a campaign must meet the hour fixed by his constituents, and be on the minute.

Entering Mr. Vanderbilt’s office, I thanked him for seeing me, spoke of my last visit to Vanderbilt University, and after a few words from him said, ‘Mr. Vanderbilt, you are at the head of great industrial organizations; they are all studying the problem of pensions; this system is recognized by experts as the best up to date: it is a leader. I am sure, too, that you want to give where under a businesslike system your gift will go to the support and comfort of thousands on thousands of public servants who have given their lives to help others. Here is a very brief statement of the system, here a confidential list of the larger givers, and here is a blank pledge. Good-morning.’

I may have been in his office five minutes; he may have talked one of them. His face was alert, his look direct, his eye piercing; but no sign of a favorable response.

Jumping into the taxi, I was at the next man’s house on time. He too was a stranger to me. He was most gracious, asked all sorts of questions about the system, admired its plan, showed me his works of art, and held me in interesting talk for over an hour.

The next morning, on opening my mail, I found a delightful letter from the second man, closing with the remark that he was unable to give anything. And from Mr. Vanderbilt two lines and the pledge signed and filled in for one hundred thousand dollars.