It was not a rosy prospect. Buchman had no regular income except a monthly payment of $50 from a family insurance, nor did he have a base from which to work. There were hundreds of people scattered around America, Britain and the Far East to whom he had brought a basic experience of Christ. He had shown, in miniature, that his idea of contagion through travelling teams worked. But the only cohesive groups which had developed were at Princeton and, in a very small way, at Oxford. His greatest needs, if his vision was to come true, were for the emphasis of his work to move to the team or groups in many countries, and for some to step out as his full-time companions. At present Sherwood Day was the only one. A man of singular charm, only a few years younger than Buchman, he in many ways complemented him: for example, where Buchman had creative thoughts, Day could often clothe them in compelling language. But clearly many more companions were now needed.

Some of those he had helped in America, hearing that he had resigned from Hartford, said they would raise $3,000 a year to support him, but the results were meagre: $1,000 collected in the first fifteen months. In the autumn of 1922, perhaps in an attempt to secure a broader base as well as to define his aims, Buchman and a few friends formed what they called 'A First Century Christian Fellowship'. 'It is', declared Buchman in a note to a supporter, 'a voice of protest against the organised, committeeised and lifeless Christian work' and 'an attempt to get back to the beliefs and methods of the Apostles'.1

The First Century Christian fellowship was never much more than a name, since it was composed mainly of supporters rather than people with a commitment equal to Buchman's. Within a few years it had faded away. The result was that, at this period, Buchman had to depend largely on gifts from a few wealthy New York women, of whom Mrs C. Richard Tjader, the widow of a Swedish-American business man, was the most generous.

Margaret Tjader had been a missionary in India as a girl, and she had decided to use a considerable inheritance to support Christian work in various parts of the world. In 1901 she had founded the International Union Mission, which by 1922 had its headquarters in a former Rockefeller home on West 53rd Street. Here she gave Buchman the use of a sizeable room which served both as office and, when he was in New York, as bedroom. Her interest in Buchman originated from help he had given to her son, and her gifts to Buchman began in January 1923. Others who assisted him financially at this time were Mrs Finlay Shepard, and Mrs William Woolverton, whose husband was one of the two men who installed the first telephone in New York City. Buchman had probably met her at Northfield, as she was in the habit of taking parties there. She and her husband knew of the events at Penn State, and had been struck in particular by the change in Bill Pickle.


Buchman was no less forthright with benefactors than with anyone else. 'We left our friend through a crack in the door,' he wrote to Shoemaker in 1923 about a visit to one of them. 'She asked me what I thought she needed most and I told her "conversion". She said, "You are right." It is a great sense to feel that you are not going after people's cheques, but that you can check them to live the maximum. People don't like this, but then if they don't receive you at one place, follow Paul's plan, and let the dust from your feet blind them.'2

The amounts of money given to Buchman by backers in those early days of independence cannot have been large. Whereas from their earliest trips Buchman and his family had travelled first-class on transatlantic crossings, in June 1923 he went second-class for the first time 'because of the venture of Faith which compelled me to enlarge the work' - he was taking seven students to Europe. This letter was to a banker friend who was paying the passage of two of the students, and of them he wrote, 'I would very decidedly, if I were you, let them come first-class . . . because these men are to be the future leaders in their own country, and you want them to meet and know the men and women who are leaders in American life.'3

Buchman's bank statements for 1923 show that he never had more than $550 (then about £110) in his account, which often sank to $50 and once to $7.23. His average balance was about $100, and the income shown on his tax return for the year was $2,010. All the same, Mrs Finlay Shepard's contributions provoked a protest from Shoemaker. He wrote Buchman, 'You have very little feeling for social justice. You say you think reform is wanted but you see it all in terms of personal sin. I do not believe the anomaly of your rich friends being rich ever strikes you much. Hungry Coxe thinks you are a fearful snob ... I am going to write him he has never seen you with Mary and Hannah and George ... But, Frank, there is danger in too much hob-nobbing with the well-favoured classes of society.'4


These criticisms were to recur throughout Buchman's life. Since his days with the 'unprivileged' in Overbrook, his view had become that any really effective social or economic change had to spring from a thorough-going transformation in people of every class: the old principle of personal evangelism, he told Shoemaker, 'takes care of the social aspect when thoroughly thought through and sincerely applied'.5 Without that transformation, he felt, any social or economic change was likely to be superficial. An event like the Russian Revolution, for example, might only substitute one form of oppression for another. Throughout his life, whatever the contemporary norm, he was more stringent in his challenges to the privileged than to the disadvantaged.*

(* At one of his first house-parties in Switzerland, where a well-to-do audience sang Luther's hymn 'A safe stronghold our God is still', his immediate comment was, 'I wonder how many of you really feel your safe stronghold is your bank account?')

It is clear that, feeling commissioned to try and change the world, Buchman regarded it as his duty to aim to change those people whose transformation would most quickly affect society at large. That, he believed, would create a more radical and lasting impact than any revolution of a purely political kind. 'Frank', said Eustace Wade,* who met him in 1921 as a Cambridge undergraduate, 'felt that leadership must come from the top. He saw a moribund establishment being reactivated by an inner spiritual power.' Dr Mahlon Hellerich, for many years Archivist of the Lehigh Valley Historical Society, regards it as most remarkable that a Pennsylvania Dutchman should undertake such a mission. They were brought up to be deferential to prominent people, but here was one actually trying to change them.

(* Later Chaplain of Downing College, Cambridge, and father of the Wimbledon tennis champion, Virginia Wade.)

This meant that Buchman took care to go where he would meet such people, and also that he used their change or support - if they themselves had publicly stated it - to interest others. So he mentioned names - but he did not break the confidences that people, of whatever eminence, entrusted to him, and if asked whether this or that person was associated with his work, would answer, 'Why don't you ask them?'

He had no wish to reach only the upper strata of society. 'I want to make it [the message] available to the masses who are hungry but unaware . . .,' he wrote Shoemaker in 1920. 'The hunger for God is in every human breast. This is for everyone.'6 'We are after the kings and the poor and needy as well,' he said to another friend later. 'I know some poor and needy kings.'

His friendships, from 1909 onwards, with so many branches of the intertwined royal families of Europe, had sprung from the meeting with Princess Sophie of Greece in 1908. Undoubtedly he was initially amazed, and not a little excited, by the way an uncalculated act of kindness to two elderly Americans had led him into such intimate relations with the Greek royal family and by title fact that they had passed him on to their relatives all over Europe. He felt that only God could have arranged such a sequence of events for a 'small-town boy', and so he took the responsibility seriously. Perhaps because he came from an age when a royal 'request' was a command, he was ready to change his plans to respond to the urgent calls from these quarters. Also, he was aware that any change of heart in such people, still then in power in their countries, could have particular importance for the world, and he never concealed that such change was his aim. However, the loss of power which befell so many in no way altered his care for or treatment of them.


Perhaps Buchman's clearest statement of his position on these matters was expressed in 1928 in a letter to Alexander Smith, then Executive Secretary of Princeton University and later US Senator for New Jersey, who had passed on a letter containing a criticism of his association with the eminent. 'The point is this: are we seeking titled people for any social position it can give us, or is our direction the changing of their lives?' he wrote. 'If it were the former I should say the criticism was justified.... I think there is a danger of a certain type of American who has such a false sense of democracy that he feels it is a form of snobbery to mention them. They are a part of the machinery of European life, and they have souls just the same as the middle and lower classes, and there are very few people who run the risk of the abuse that one naturally encounters in changing them.... The same is true in America. There are certain people whose names go down on committees. We have studiously avoided all such patronage. ... I am frankly out to change the leaders and to create the leadership that will change present conditions.'7

Buchman's correspondence also shows that throughout his life he kept in equally close touch with the 'unprivileged'. In the 1920s these were often confined to two groups - his many old Pennsylvanian friends, like Bill Pickle and Mary Hemphill, and the staff of hotels or houses in which he had stayed, entire lists of whom appear in his revised address books until the day of his death. Not until the remarkable expansion of his work in Britain and elsewhere in the 1930s did he make deep friendships with many industrial workers and unemployed people.

Back in Oxford in March 1922 he was given two rooms at Christ Church by the Senior Censor, R. H. Dundas. 'Here is a man who could stir Oxford. How, I am at a loss to explain,' went one contemporary account of his stay there. 'He sat for two weeks in a room and by the end of it the College was sharply divided into pro and anti-FBs. He addressed a meeting in College soon after arrival at which an influential section of the undergraduates came with a concerted scheme for a "rag". But somewhere they felt their witticisms out of place, and the attack fell flat.' The occasion was probably a debate of the 19 Club on 'This House considers that man is his own worst enemy'. In a scribbled note he wrote, 'I didn't question their beliefs. I told them of the power of the Holy Spirit.'


When Loudon Hamilton invited a few friends to his own rooms to hear why he spent so much less time at the Mitre Hotel bar, forty-four turned up and they had to adjourn to the Junior Common Room. A cheerful undergraduate came in late, sat at the piano and drummed heavily on the keys whenever he heard something he disliked. At five minutes to ten he and three friends announced they were going out to get drunk, and did so.

On a later visit Buchman was staying at University College. Going to bed there, late one night, Buchman had the thought that the piano-player and a friend were on their way to see him. He got up again just in time to greet them. They were intent on demonstrating to him, by readings from The Republic, that Plato was superior to the Bible. Next morning early, Buchman wrote down some notes for a letter to the piano-player: 'I have found my norm in the Bible not Plato. Whenever I depart from Christ or Paul, I go wrong. The furniture of a man's soul can change in an instant. Your problem is not reason. It is moral. Faith transcends reason yet it is not unreasonable. You will change conclusions once this has gripped you. We need discipline for leadership. The athlete gladly denies himself. Why not for life?'

Buchman recognised a quality of leadership in the piano-player, a brilliant but wayward man, and, although rejected as no Platonist, kept intermittent touch with him. He once saw him off to America with a note ending 'Yours for the winning of an heiress', and later dined with him in New York, again stressing his responsibility for leadership in Britain.

On another occasion in America the young man replied to a lunch invitation with an abusive letter. Buchman asked Hamilton what he thought of it. Hamilton said indignantly that the young man needed 'a good kick in the pants'.

'No, no,' replied Buchman, 'it's a cry for help.'

On the boat back to England the young man dressed up as a waiter to attract the attention of a particularly beautiful American girl. In London Buchman asked him to bring the young lady to lunch.

'I am sorry I couldn't bring the lady,' he replied. 'One, if she had been in London. Two, if a jealous old husband would have allowed me. Three, if she and I were on speaking terms, I would be delighted to do so.


'No, my dear Frank, no new forces are at work. I am never free from a very old force though not without regrets for lost hopes. I disapprove of you but hold you in deep regard.'

This seems to have been the last letter the man wrote to Buchman. The friendship had not been strong enough to survive the pressures which he mentioned. Buchman was sad to hear that, after a brief but brilliant career, he died while still a young man.

Buchman spent the summer of 1922 travelling in England and Europe. He went with Hamilton to Eton for the Fourth of June celebrations* - 'a very interesting function', he told his mother, 'where one wears top hat and morning coat and white spats, and the young Etonians take great pleasure in wearing very swagger clothes'.8 In July he led a house-party at the home of a banker at Putney Heath. Later the same month he was at the Keswick Convention meeting friends like Colonel David Forster of the Officers' Christian Union. It was here that Buchman met Eustace Wade again. After a couple of days Wade had had quite enough of the solemnity of the convention, and was on his way to the railway station when he ran into Buchman. Buchman said he had had clear guidance from God that they would meet. They talked over tea in the garden of the Keswick Hotel and Wade was interested enough to stay another two days. 'He expressed to my young spirit something I failed to see in humdrum church life,' recalled Wade in 1977. 'What he was doing seemed like real adventure, that's what drew me.'

(* The annual celebration by the school of the birthday of King George III.)

Others at Keswick, like Julian Thornton-Duesbery (later Master of St Peter's College, Oxford), would have nothing to do with Buchman at that stage. 'A friend of mine in Oxford had told me awful stories about him,' said Thornton-Duesbery, 'something about unhealthy confessions of sex problems, so I was very careful to avoid him.' Later he met Buchman, found these stories untrue, and worked with him for the rest of his life.

Meanwhile, opposition to Buchman at Princeton had been steadily gaining in strength and his visits to the campus were becoming a matter of controversy. In December 1921 Charles Haines, who was now an Assistant Secretary of the Philadelphian Society, wrote that the student 'Cabinet' of the Society* had been discussing whether they should invite him to Princeton. Some, said Haines, thought he should come and have personal talks with students, but that the visit should not be advertised too openly 'on account of the general feeling on the campus'.9 Others argued that this was too much like working under cover. Their conclusion was to invite him to address a large open meeting if he was willing to come.

(* The 'Cabinet' was a group of 18 elected by the undergraduate body of the Society.)


Far from being inclined to keep his head down and avoid controversy, Buchman consistently encouraged his supporters at Princeton neither to water down their message nor to take themselves too seriously. In reply to a gloomy letter from Haines in January 1922 he wrote, 'I have gotten your bit of constipated atheism this morning and I am just chuckling to myself. I am still laughing, Chas, and that's what you need to have someone do to you fairly often. Just chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.'

Buchman goes on to suggest the name of another speaker they might invite to Princeton, a man with 'fine humour and everything', just what the undergraduates needed. 'You certainly need a bomb under that crowd,' he declared. 'There needs to be a lot of dynamite loose if you are going to send them home convicted, converted and continued Christians.'10

By May of that same year, however, Shoemaker was writing to Buchman in Britain to say that he had been to see President Hibben and that Hibben 'feared too much sin emphasis, especially of the sort for which we are criticised'. He had also asked - 'in such a way as to make it impossible to decline' - that Shoemaker suggest to Buchman that he should not come to Princeton for a time, 'until some of the misunderstanding has been cleared up'.11Hibben, who had become President in 1912 with a mandate to restore peace to a campus which had been deeply divided by Woodrow Wilson's plan to reorganise it, had an administrator's natural dislike of controversy.

Neither Shoemaker nor Buchman seems to have regarded Hibben's prohibition as other than temporary. In November 1922 Buchman again spoke on the campus and had interviews with no less than forty students afterwards, none of which seems to have called forth any protest from the Princeton President. In April 1923 Shoemaker wrote to Buchman that the Hibbens were 'coming along splendidly';12 and, in October, Buchman paid another, highly successful, visit to the campus.

This visit stirred Buchman's opponents into vigorous action. What seems to have happened is that a number of undergraduates began going, often in pairs, to see Hibben at intervals of four or five days to complain about Buchman's methods. In particular, they charged him with asking students highly personal questions which nobody had any right to ask. This campaign was master-minded by a small group of undergraduates who had sworn to have Buchman and his work outlawed from the campus.13 Their leader, Neilson Abeel, told one of Buchman's supporters that, if he did nothing else in life, he would smash what Buchman was doing. Buchman's supporters believed that a number of their most active opponents were practising homosexuals who felt that Buchman's message posed a threat to their life-style.


Hibben became increasingly troubled by the situation. In December 1923, in an attempt to clear the air, he called a conference at his own home. To it he invited a number of his most trusted advisers, the campus doctor Donald Sinclair, some of the undergraduates who had criticised Buchman, Shoemaker, and Buchman himself. According to Shoemaker, Buchman was invited on the basis that his work was not going to be investigated, but that the university authorities would like to know more of the facts. Abeel turned up with a bottle of smelling salts which he periodically held to his nostrils, and he and his friends stated their case against Buchman.

Buchman then answered questions from some of the senior members of the university. 'The meeting', wrote Shoemaker to one of Buchman's critics later, 'brought out the complete lack of knowledge of the spiritual needs of the men in the university on the part of many of the faculty present; and to hear some of those dry old men correct Buchman, who knew and was doing more than they ever could concerning the realisation of religion in human lives, was infinitely pathetic. He quietly answered questions and the meeting broke up.'14

At some point in the evening Buchman seems to have spoken privately to Hibben about the needs of undergraduates as he saw them. Hibben evidently got the impression that Buchman asserted that 80 per cent of Princeton students were given to homosexual practices. This, Buchman declared, when he came to hear of it later, was entirely erroneous. What he had said was that 'from eighty to ninety per cent of all youths in the adolescent stage have sexual problems, and many of them are troubled by secret sins affecting their sex life. The term secret sins, which I used, does not connote homosexuality, but refers to the common variety of the problems of youth. They are in great need of sympathetic understanding and help from mature persons.'

'I believe we cannot help those youths to a victorious life with Christ in the centre unless we recognise this fact and enable them to face honestly and courageously these and other barriers that separate them from God and their fellow men,' Buchman added.15

In 1926 Hibben claimed that, on this occasion, he had forbidden Buchman to return to the campus. Neither Buchman nor any of his friends present were aware of this, and Sinclair denied it on several occasions.16 Certainly, the letters exchanged between Hibben and Buchman in the months immediately after the conference show no signs of such an injunction, or of any residual doubts or misunderstandings. Hibben wrote to Buchman in that same December that he hoped the visit had not been too much of a strain,17 and again in January expressed 'great confidence in Sam and the young men working with him' whom he knew to be products of Buchman's work, and trusted 'that the conference the other night will result in better understanding' all round.18


Any hopes which Hibben may have had that the conference would defuse the situation, however, were soon disappointed. In February 1924 Buchman's opponents prepared a pamphlet called 'The Cannonball'. Buchman's supporters alleged that Hibben was shown proofs of this, accompanied by the threat that it would be published unless the President made some more categorical statement condemning Buchman and his methods; and that Hibben extracted from Shoemaker a personal undertaking that Buchman would never again be invited to the campus.

Some major change in the situation - and in Hibben's attitude – does seem to have occurred, because in the spring of 1924 Buchman came to the conclusion quite suddenly that he should stay away from Princeton. 'Clear out of Princeton completely,' he noted during a time of meditation.

The gathering storm at Princeton had been provoked by the growth in Buchman's work there; and elsewhere, too, it was growing steadily. There were two house-parties at Yale early in 1922, and in March 1924 Buchman reported that Harvard was having its third house-party, while Williams and Vassar were each planning for their second.

A great many attended these not because of Buchman himself but because of the quality of the people around him. Garrett Stearly, who first met Buchman in 1924, was typical of these. The son of the Bishop of Newark, New Jersey, he had been to Yale but had very little idea what he wanted to do with his life apart from an inclination towards business. His father, however, packed him off to an episcopal training college in North Virginia. The young Stearly set off unenthusiastically and 'with a couple of quarts of whisky in my trunk'.

'While I was there', he recalled, I came across a dozen outstanding people who were studying theology because they had met Frank Buchman. They talked about him so much that I became curious and so, when they invited me over to Princeton for a weekend to meet him, I accepted.

'Well, it was the merriest time I'd had in years, not at all like a religious weekend as I understood it. Buchman's young friends all told stories of how they'd changed - so natural, so open, it was a new world to me. They didn't talk too much about God or Christ, but I knew it was there - and I went away envying their way of life and feeling a completely new respect for religion.

'As for Frank, he didn't behave the way I thought spiritual leaders were supposed to. He didn't end up the afternoon with a long talk and neither then, nor later, was there any prying or questioning. I just felt he was more interested in me than he was in himself.'


A different type of young man was James Newton, the son of a Philadelphia doctor. He had rejected a place at Dartmouth to go hoboing through America. In the course of his travels, mainly illicitly on freight trains, he had washed dishes, picked cotton, wrangled horses and punched cattle. Then at nineteen he became a salesman covering New England for a luggage company. One weekend he looked in for dinner at the Toytown Tavern in Winchengton, Mass., and, having observed three pretty girls in the dining room, strolled up to what he thought was a dance in an adjoining cottage afterwards. The girls were there all right, but it turned out to be a house-party of students from various New England universities. He stayed on, and talked with Sherwood Day. On Monday morning he set out to try to put moral standards into practice. He went back to his customers and was honest about the lies he had told them, and was astonished to find that they then trusted him more, not less. 'At the end of six weeks I found my whole life had begun to change,' he says.

By the time of Newton's weekend at the Toytown Tavern there were already a number who had given up their careers to work with Buchman full-time without salary. Loudon Hamilton, for example, decided against teaching at Eton, despite the fact that the headmaster, C. A. Alington, had asked him to undertake theological training and then take a permanent job at the school. Instead, he had gone to America with Buchman in the autumn of 1922. After eight months he had returned to Oxford - working his way back across the Atlantic as a stoker - to continue Buchman's work there with only a monthly allowance of $50 from Mrs Tjader to support him.

Although the number involved was still small, Buchman's work was slowly becoming more widely known. Back in Britain, Rudyard Kipling, after several meetings with Buchman, invited him to bring some of his undergraduate friends to his home, Batemans, in the village of Burwash. He took with him Harry P. Davison, later head of J. P. Morgan's Bank; Jim Douglas, later US Secretary for Air; and Hugh Auchincloss.*

(* C.E. Carrington in his Rudyard Kipling, His Life and Works (Macmillan, 1955, p. 525) provides an interesting example of distorted history. He mentions the visit of ‘Dr Frank Buchman with a team of young men', and continues, 'who gate-crashed and sang hymns on the lawn'. Kipling's letter of invitation still exists: 'It will give Mrs Kipling and myself great pleasure if you and your friends can come to Burwash on the l5th or 16th. I shall be at home and free in the afternoon of either day. I suggest a motor.' Hymn-singing on such occasions was even less in Buchman's line than gate-crashing.)


Harold Begbie, a British political journalist who wrote under the pseudonym 'Gentleman with a Duster', became interested through meeting a wounded Royal Flying Corps officer whom Buchman had helped. Begbie asked if he could write a book about Buchman and his friends, who at that time shunned publicity. Buchman agreed provided that the young men remained anonymous and he himself be referred to only by the initials F.B. 'The character of these men, some of them so brilliant in scholarship, others so splendid in athletics, and all of them, without one exception, so modest and so disturbingly honest, was responsible for my reawakened interest,' Begbie wrote. 'It was impossible in their company to doubt any longer that the man who had changed their lives, and had made them also changers of other men's lives, was a person of very considerable importance.'19

He described Buchman as 'a young-looking man of middle life, tall, upright, stoutish, clean-shaven, spectacled, with that mien of scrupulous, shampooed, and almost medical cleanness or freshness' so typical of Americans. 'His carriage and his gestures are distinguished by an invariable alertness. He never droops, he never slouches. You find him in the small hours of the morning with the same quickness of eye and the same athletic erectness of body which seem to bring a breeze into the breakfast-room. Few men so quiet and restrained exhale a spirit of such contagious well-being ... He strikes one on a first meeting as a warm-hearted and very happy man, who can never know what it is to be either physically tired or mentally bored. I am tempted to think that if Mr Pickwick had given birth to a son, and that son had emigrated in boyhood to America, he would have been not unlike this amiable and friendly surgeon of souls.'20

Begbie's book, Life Changers, appeared in 1923 and helped to increase interest in the doings of the mysterious F.B. His identity soon became known and later editions carried his name in full.

In January 1924 he took part in a drawing-room meeting at the home of Thomas Edison, the inventor of the electric lamp, in New Jersey. A nephew of Edison had encountered Buchman's work at Princeton, where he was studying, and the subsequent difference in him had caught Edison's attention. Edison had invited Buchman and Hamilton to visit him. It was a brilliant February night when they arrived at the front door through an avenue of snow. Edison answered their ring himself, stood looking up at the sky, and said to Buchman, 'Is Heaven lit up?'

'Sure,' said Buchman, 'that's been looked after long ago. You don't need to worry about that.'

Once inside, Edison, an agnostic, asked about his nephew's change, and then brought up the subject of divine guidance. 'It is through divine guidance that this miracle has happened to your nephew,' said Buchman.


'I know that I'm not supposed to believe in these things,' replied Edison. 'But I know that between my fingernail and knuckle there are ten thousand atmospheric forces. We inventors know that. Our only job is to invent an instrument delicate enough to tune in so that we can use those forces. That's your problem with guidance, Mr Buchman, isn't it?' Buchman agreed that it was. Lifelong friendships with both Edison and his wife began that evening.

In August Buchman was back in London, and had a long talk with the poet Siegfried Sassoon. 'My instinct tells me', wrote Sassoon afterwards, 'that your success in the work you are doing is made possible by simplicity. And I am learning, slowly, that simplification of life is more important than anything else.. . . Miracles can still be worked by it.'21

Buchman still felt that his most urgent need was to build a team of younger people who would be willing to carry the work with him. For almost a year he had pondered taking what he called 'an apostolic group' on a world tour which would include Europe, the Middle East, India, China and Australia. Maybe the situation at Princeton convinced him that 1924 was the right year to go. At any rate, it was at this time that he asked several young men to come on a prolonged expedition with him. Sherwood Day, Sam Shoemaker, Loudon Hamilton, Eustace Wade, Godfrey Webb-Peploe from Cambridge and Van Dusen Rickert from Princeton decided to join him, for some or all of the journey.


 1 Buchman to Mrs J. Finlay Shepard, 3 November 1922.

 2 Buchman to Shoemaker, October/November 1923.

 3 Buchman to Harry P. Davison Jr, 4 June 1923

 4 Shoemaker to Buchman, 16 March 1922.

 5 Buchman to Shoemaker, 26 January 1924.

 6 ibid., 26 April 1920.

 7 Buchman to Alexander Smith, 26 January 1928.

 8 Buchman to mother, 24 May 1922.

 9 Charles Haines to Buchman, 7 December 1921.

10 Buchman to Charles Haines, 25 January 1922.

11 Shoemaker to Buchman, 5 May I922.

12 ibid., 18 April 1923.

13 Account given by Revd A. C. Zabriski to Revd Percy G. Kammerer of Pittsburgh, 20 April 1926. Zabriski writes that these facts were given to him by Irving Harris, former editor of the Princeton Alumni Weekly.

14 Shoemaker to A. C. Zabriski, 23 April 1926.

15 Buchman to Arthur Johnson, 3 June 1932.

16 Dr Donald Sinclair to Buchman, 1 and 8 November 1926.

17 John Hibben to Buchman, 24 December 1923.

18 ibid., 2 January 1924; written in answer to letter from Buchman, 27 December 1923.

19 Harold Begbie: Life Changers (Mills and Boon, 1923), p. vii.

20 ibid., pp. 15-16.

21 Siegfried Sassoon to Buchman, 15 August 1924.