James Allen is a literary mystery man. His inspirational writings
have influenced millions for good. Yet today he remains almost unknown...... None of his nineteen books give a clue to his
life other than to mention his place of residence - Ilfracombe, England. His name cannot be found in a major reference work.
Not even the Library of Congress or the British Museum has much to say about him.
Who was this man who believed in the power of thought to bring
fame, fortune and happiness? Or did he, as Henry David Thoreau says, hear a different drummer?...... James Allen never gained
fame or fortune. That much is true. His was a quiet, unrewarded genius. He seldom made enough money from his writings to cover
expenses.
Allen was born in Leicester, Central England, November 28, 1864.
The family business failed within a few years, and in 1879 his father left for America in an effort to recoup his losses.
The elder Allen had hoped to settle in the United States, but was robbed and murdered before he could send for his family.
The financial crisis that resulted forced James to leave school
at fifteen. He eventually became a private secretary, a position that would be called administrative assistant today. He worked
in this capacity for several British manufacturers until 1902, when he decided to devote all his time to writing.
Unfortunately, Allen's literary career was short, lasting only
nine years, until his death in 1912. During that period he wrote nineteen books, a rich outpouring of ideas that have lived
on to inspire later generations.
Soon after finishing his first book, From Poverty To Power, Allen moved to Ilfracombe, on England's southwest coast. The little resort town with
its seafront Victorian hotels and its rolling hills and winding lanes offered him the quiet atmosphere he needed to pursue
his philosophical studies.
As A Man Thinketh was
Allen's second book. Despite its subsequent popularity he was dissatisfied with it. Even though it was his most concise and
eloquent work, the book that best embodied his thought, he somehow failed to recognize its value. His wife Lily had to persuade
him to publish it.
James Allen strove to live the ideal life described by Russiašs
great novelist and mystic Count Leo Tolstoy - the life of voluntary poverty, manual labor and ascetic self-discipline. Like
Tolstoy, Allen sought to improve himself, be happy, and master all of the virtues. His search for felicity for man on earth
was typically Tolstoyan.
His day in Ilfracombe began with a predawn walk up to the Cairn,
a stony spot on the hillside overlooking his home and the sea. He would remain there for an hour in meditation. Then he would
return to the house and spend the morning writing. The afternoons were devoted to gardening, a pastime he enjoyed. His evenings
were spent in conversation with those who were interested in his work.
A friend described Allen as a frail-looking little man, Christ-like,
with a mass of flowing black hair...... I think of him especially in the black velvet suit he always wore in the evenings,
the friend wrote. He would talk quietly to a small group of us then - English, French, Austrian and Indian - of meditation,
of philosophy, of Tolstoy or Buddha, and of killing nothing, not even a mouse in the garden.
He overawed us all a little because of his appearance, his gentle
conversation, and especially because he went out to commune with God on the hills before dawn.