"The American preacher lives in a luxurious home."

"His income, from all sources, exceeds that of the President of the United States."

"The impression is everywhere that Dr. Talmage is very rich."

I regretted this because there is a notion that a minister of the Gospel cannot accumulate money for himself, that he should not do so if he could, that his duty consists in collecting money for his church, his parish, his mission—for anything and everyone but his own temporal prosperity. I had done this all my life. I can solemnly say that I never sought the financial success which in some measure came to me. I regarded the money which I received for my work as pastor of the Tabernacle, or from other sources as an earning capacity that is due to every working man. I was able to do more work than some, because the motives of my whole life have insisted that I work hard. The impetus of my strength was not abnormal, it was merely the daily requirement of my health that I work as hard as I knew how as long as I could. Restlessness was an element of life with me. I could not keep still any length of time. My mind had acquired the habit of ideas, and my hands were always full of unfinished labours.

I remember trying once to sit still at a concert of Gilmore's band, at Manhattan Beach. After hearing one selection I found myself unable to listen any farther—I could not sit quiet for longer. I rarely allowed myself more than five minutes for shaving, no matter whether the razor were sharp or blunt. They used to tell me that I wore a black bow tie till it was not fit to wear. On the trains I slept a great deal. Sleep is the great storage battery of life. Four days of the week I was on the train. I rose every morning at six. The first thing I did was to glance over the morning newspaper, to catch in this whispering gallery of the world the life of a new day. First the cable news, then the editorials, then the news about ourselves. I received the principal newspapers of almost every big city in the morning mail I enjoyed the caricatures of myself, they made me laugh. If a man poked fun at me with true wit I was his friend. They were clever fellows those newspaper humorists. I consider walking a very important exercise—not merely a stroll, but a good long walk. Often I used to go from the Grand Central Depot in New York to my home in Brooklyn. There and back was my usual promenade. Seven miles should be an average walk for a man past fifty every day. I have made fifteen and twenty miles without fatigue. I always dined in the middle of the day. Contrary to "Combes' Physiology," I always took a nap after dinner. In my boyhood days this was a book that opposed the habit. Combes said that he thought it very injurious to sleep after dinner, but I saw the cow lie down after eating, and the horse, and it seemed to me that Combes was wrong. A morning bath is absolutely indispensable. When I was in college there were no luxurious hot and cold bath rooms. I often had to break the ice in my pitcher to get at the water.

These were the habits of my life, formed in my youth, and as they grew upon me they were the sinews that kept me young in the heart and brain and muscle. My voice rarely, if ever, failed me entirely. In 1888, to my surprise and delight, my western trips had become ovations that no human being could fail to enjoy. In St. Paul, Duluth, Minneapolis, the crowds in and about the churches where I preached were estimated to be over twenty thousand. It was a joy to live realising the service one could be to others. This year of 1888 was to be a climax to so many aspirations of my life that I am forced to record it as one of the most important of all my working years. No event of any consequence in the country, social or political, or disastrous, happened, that my name was not available to the ethical phase of its development. Newspaper squibs of all sorts reflect this fact in some way. Here is one that illustrates my meaning:

"ONLY TALMAGE!

"The weary husband was lounging in the old armchair reading before the fire after the day's work. Suddenly he brought down his hand vigorously upon his knee, exclaiming, 'That's so! That's so!' A minute after, he cried again, 'Well, I should say.' Then later, 'Good for you; hit them right and left.' Soon he stretched himself out at full length in the chair, let his right hand, holding the paper, drop nearly to the floor, threw up his left and laughed aloud until the rafters rang. His anxious wife inquired, 'What is it so funny, John?'

"He made no reply, but lifted the paper again, straightened himself up, and went on reading. Very quiet he now grew by degrees. Then slyly he slipped his left hand around and drew out his handkerchief, wiped his brow and lips by way of excuse and gave his eyelids a passing dash. The very next moment he pressed the handkerchief to his eyes and let the paper drop to the floor, saying, 'Well, that's wonderful.' 'What is it, John?' his good wife inquired again. 'Oh! It's only Talmage!'"

My contemporaries in Brooklyn celebrity at this time were unusual men. Some of them were dear friends, some of them close friends, some of them advisers or champions, guardians of my peace—all of them friends.

About this time I visited Johnstown, shortly after the flood. My heart was weary with the scenes of desolation about me. It did not seem possible that the hospitable city of Johnstown I had known in other days could be so tumbled down by disaster. Where I had once seen the street, equal in style to Euclid Avenue in Cleveland, I found a long ridge of sand strewn with planks and driftwood. By a wave from twelve to twenty feet high, 800 houses were crushed, twenty-eight huge locomotives from the round house were destroyed, hundreds of people dead and dying in its anger. Two thousand dead were found, 2,000 missing, was the record the day I was there. The place became used to death. It was not a sensation to the survivors to see it about them. I saw a human body taken out of the ruins as if it had been a stick of wood. No crowd gathered about it. Some workmen a hundred feet away did not stop their work to see. The devastation was far worse than was ever told. The worst part of it could not even be seen. The heart-wreck was the unseen tragedy of this unfortunate American city. From Brooklyn I helped to send temporary relief. With a wooden box in my hand I, with others, collected from the bounty of that vast meeting in the Academy of Music. The exact amount paid over by our relief committee in all was $95,905. There was no end to the demand upon one's energy in all directions.

I was called upon in September, 1888, to lay the corner stone of the First Presbyterian Church at Far-Rockaway, and amid the imposing ceremonies I predicted the great future of Long Island. It seemed to me that Long Island would some day be the London of America, filled with the most prominent churches of the country.

While in the plans of others I was an impulse at least towards success, in my own plans, how often I have been scourged and beaten to earth. As it had been before, so it was in this zenith of my personal progress. To my amazement, chagrin and despair, on the morning of October 13, 1889, our beautiful church was again burned to the ground.



THE FOURTEENTH MILESTONE

1889-1891

For fifteen years, to a large part of the public, I had been an experiment in church affairs. In 1889 I had caught up with the world and the things I had been doing and thinking and hoping became suitable for the world. In the retrospect of those things I had left behind what gratitude I felt for their strife and struggle! A minister of the Gospel is not only a sentinel of divine orders, he must also have deep convictions of his authority to resist attack in his own way, by his own force, with his own strength and faith. When, on June 3, 1873, I laid the corner-stone of the new tabernacle, I dedicated the sacred building as a stronghold against rationalism and humanitarianism. I knew then that this statement was regarded as questionable orthodoxy, and I myself had become the curious symbol of a new religion. Still I pursued my course, an independent sentry on the outskirts of the old religious camping-ground, but inspired with the converting grace I had received in my boyhood, my duty was clearly not so much a duty of regulations as it was a conception, a sympathy, a command to the Christian needs of the human race.

When the first Tabernacle was consumed by fire my utterances were criticised and my enthusiasm to rebuild it was misconstrued. My convictions then were the same, they have always been the same. To me it seemed that God's most vehement utterances had been in flames of fire. The most tremendous lesson He ever gave to New York was in the conflagration of 1835; to Chicago in the conflagration of 1871; to Boston in the conflagration of 1872; to my own congregation in the fiery downfall of the Tabernacle. Some saw in the flames that roared through its organ pipes a requiem, nothing but unmitigated disaster, while others of us heard the voice of God, as from Heaven, sounding through the crackling thunder of that awful day, saying, "He shall baptise you with the Holy Ghost and with Fire!"

It was a very different state of public feeling which met the disaster that came to the Tabernacle on that early Sabbath morning of October 18, 1889. I had a congregation of millions all over the world to appeal to. I stood before them, accredited in the religious course I had pursued, approved as a minister of the Gospel, upheld as a man and a preacher. The hand of Providence is always a mysterious grasp of life that confuses and dismays, but it always rebuilds, restores, and prophesies.

The second Tabernacle was destroyed during a terrific thunderstorm. It was crumpled and torn by the winds and the flames of heaven. I watched the fire from the cupola of my house in silent abnegation. The history of the Brooklyn Tabernacle had been strange and peculiar all the way through. Things that seemed to be against us always turned out finally for us. Our brightest and best days always follow disaster. Our enlargements of the building had never met our needs. Our plans had pleased the people, but we needed improvements. In this spirit I accepted the situation, and the Board of Trustees sustained me. Our insurance on the church building was over $120,000. I made an appeal to the people of Brooklyn and to the thousands of readers my sermons had gained, for the sum of $100,000. It would be much easier to accomplish, I felt, than it had been before.

At my house in Brooklyn, on the evening of the day of the fire, the following resolutions were passed by the Board of Trustees:—

"Resolved—that we bow in humble submission to the Providence which this morning removed our beloved Church, and while we cannot fully understand the meaning of that Providence we have faith that there is kindness as well as severity in the stroke.

"Resolved:—That if God and the people help us we will proceed at once to rebuild, and that we rear a larger structure to meet the demands of our congregation, the locality and style of the building to be indicated by the amount of contributions made."

A committee was immediately formed to select a temporary place of worship, and the Academy of Music was selected, because of its size and location.

I was asked for a statement to the people through the press. From a scrap-book I copy this statement:—

"To the People—

"By sudden calamity we are without a church. The building associated with so much that is dear to us is in ashes. In behalf of my stricken congregation I make appeal for help. Our church has never confined its work to this locality. Our church has never been sufficient either in size or appointments for the people who came. We want to build something worthy of our city and worthy of the cause of God.

"We want $100,000, which, added to the insurance, will build what is needed. I make appeal to all our friends throughout Christendom, to all denominations, to all creeds and to those of no creed at all, to come to our rescue. I ask all readers of my sermons the world over to contribute as far as their means will allow. What we do as a Church depends upon the immediate response made to this call. I was on the eve of departure for a brief visit to the Holy Land that I might be better prepared for my work here, but that visit must be postponed. I cannot leave until something is done to decide our future.

"May the God who has our destiny as individuals and as churches in His hand appear for our deliverance!

"Responses to this appeal to the people may be sent to me in Brooklyn, and I will with my own hand acknowledge the receipt thereof.

"T. DEWITT TALMAGE."

I had planned to sail for the Holy Land on October 30, but the disaster that had come upon us seemed to make it impossible. I had almost given it up. There followed such an universal response to my appeal, such a remarkable current of sympathy, however, that completely overwhelmed me, so that by the grace of God I was able to sail. To the trustees of the Tabernacle much of this was due. They were the men who stood by me, my friends, my advisers. I record their names as the Christian guardians of my destiny through danger and through safety. They were Dr. Harrison A. Tucker, John Wood, Alexander McLean, E.H. Lawrence, and Charles Darling. In a note-book I find recorded also the names of some of the first subscribers to the new Tabernacle. They were the real builders. Wechsler and Abraham were among the first to contribute $100, "Texas Siftings" through J. Amory Knox sent $25, and "Judge" forwarded a cheque for the same amount, with the declaration that all other periodicals in the United States ought to go and do likewise. A.E. Coates sent $200, E.M. Knox $200, A.J. Nutting $100, Benjamin L. Fairchild $100, Joseph E. Carson $100, Haviland and Sons $25, Francis H. Stuart, M.D., $25, Giles F. Bushnell $25, and Pauline E. Martin $25.

Even the small children, the poor, the aged, sent in their dollars. About one thousand dollars was contributed the first day. Everything was done by the trustees and the people, to expedite the plans of the New Tabernacle so that in two weeks from the date of the fire I broke ground for what was to be the largest church in the world of a Protestant denomination, on the corner of Clinton and Greene Avenues. That afternoon of October 28, 1889, when I stood in the enclosure arranged for me, and consecrated the ground to the word of God, was another moment of supreme joy to me. It was said that those who witnessed the ceremony were impressed with the importance of it in the course of my own life and in the history of Christianity. To me it was akin to those pregnant hours of my life through which I had passed in great exaltation of spiritual fervour.

My words of consecration were brief, as follows:

"May the Lord God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and Joshua, and Paul, and John Knox, and John Wesley, and Hugh Latimer, and Bishop McIlvaine take possession of this ground and all that shall be built upon it."

Before me was a vision of that church, its Gothic arches, its splendour of stained-glass windows, its spires and gables, and, as I saw this our third Tabernacle rise up before me, I prayed that its windows might look out into the next world as well as this. I was glad that I had waited to turn that bit of God-like earth on the old Marshall homestead in Brooklyn, for it filled my heart with a spiritual promise and potency that was an invisible cord binding me during my pilgrimage to Jordan with my congregation which I had left behind.

With Mrs. Talmage and my daughter, May Talmage, I sailed on the "City of Paris," on October 30, 1889, to complete the plan I had dreamed of for years. I had been reverently anxious to actually see the places associated with our Lord's life and death. I wanted to see Bethlehem and Nazareth, and Jerusalem and Calvary, so intimately connected with the ministry of our Saviour. I had arranged to write a Life of Christ, and this trip was imperative. In that book is the complete record of this journey, therefore I feel that other things that have not been told deserve the space here that would otherwise belong to my recollections of the Holy Land. It was reported that while in Jerusalem I made an effort to purchase Calvary and the tomb of our Saviour, so as to present it to the Christian Church at large. I was so impressed with the fact that part of this sacred ground was being used as a Mohammedan cemetery that I was inspired to buy it in token of respect to all Christendom. Of course this led to much criticism, but that has never stopped my convictions. I was away for two months, returning in February, 1890.

During my absence our Sunday services were conducted by the most talented preachers we could secure. With the exception of a few days' influenza while I was in Paris, in January, just prior to my return, the trip was a glorious success. According to the editorial opinion of one newspaper I had "discovered a new Adam that was to prove a puissant ally in his future struggles with the old Adam." This was not meant to be friendly, but I prefer to believe that it was so after all. In England I was promised, if I would take up a month's preaching tour there, that the English people would subscribe five thousand pounds to the new Tabernacle. These and other invitations were tempting, but I could not alter my itinerary.

While in England I received an invitation from Mr. Gladstone to visit him at Hawarden. He wired me, "pray come to Hawarden to-morrow," and on January 24, 1890, I paid my visit. I was staying at the Grand Hotel in London when the telegram was handed to me. With the rest of the world, at that time, I regarded Mr. Gladstone as the most wonderful man of the century.

He came into the room at Hawarden where I was waiting for him, an alert, eager, kindly man. He was not the grand old man in spirit, whatever he may have been in age. He was lithe of body, his step was elastic. He held out both his hands in a cordial welcome. He spoke first of the wide publication of my sermons in England, and questioned me about them. In a few minutes he proposed a walk, and calling his dog we started out for what was in fact a run over his estate. Gladstone was the only man I ever met who walked fast enough for me. Over the hills, through his magnificent park, everywhere he pointed out the stumps of trees which he had cut down. Once a guest of his, an English lord, had died emulating Gladstone's strenuous custom. He showed me the place.

"No man who has heart disease ought to use the axe," he said; "that very stump is the place where my friend used it, and died."

He rallied the American tendency to exaggerate things in a story he told with great glee, about a fabulous tree in California, where two men cutting at it on opposite sides for many days were entirely oblivious of each other's presence. Each one believed himself to be a lone woodsman in the forest until, after a long time, they met with surprise at the heart of the tree. American stories seemed to tickle him immensely. He told another kindred one of a fish in American lakes, so large that when it was taken out of the water the lake was perceptibly lowered. He grew buoyant, breezy, fanciful in the brisk winter air. Like his dog, he was tingling with life. He liked to throw sticks for him, to see him jump and run.

"Look at that dog's eyes, isn't he a fine fellow?" he kept asking. His knowledge of the trees on his estate was historical. He knew their lineage and characteristics from the date of their sapling age, four or five hundred years before. The old and decrepit aristocrats of his forest were tenderly bandaged, their arms in splints.

"Look at that sycamore," he said; "did you find in the Holy Land any more thrifty than that? You know sometimes I am described as destroying my trees. I only destroy the bad to help the good. Since I have thrown my park open to visitors the privilege has never been abused."

We drifted upon all subjects, rational, political, religious, ethical.

"Divorce in your country, is it not a menace?" he asked.

"The great danger is re-marriage. It should be forbidden for divorced persons. I understand that in your State of South Carolina there is no divorce. I believe that is the right idea. If re-marriage were impossible then divorce would be impossible," he replied to his own question.

Gladstone's religious instinct was prophetic in its grasp. His intellectual approval of religious intention was the test of his faith. He applied to the exaltations of Christianity the reason of human fact. I was forcibly impressed with this when he told me of an incident in his boyhood.

"I read something in 'Augustine' when I was a boy," he said, "which struck me then with great force. I still feel it to-day. It was the passage which says, 'When the human race rebelled against God, the lower nature of man as a consequence rebelled against the higher nature.'"

I asked him then if the years had strengthened or weakened his Christian faith. We were racing up hill. He stopped suddenly on the hillside and regarded me with a searching earnestness, a solemnity that made me quake. Then he spoke slowly, more seriously:

"Dr. Talmage, my only hope for the world is in the bringing of the human mind into contact with divine revelation. Nearly all the men at the top in our country are believers in the Christian religion. The four leading physicians of England are devout Christian men. I, myself, have been in the Cabinet forty-seven years, and during all that time I have been associated with sixty of the chief intellects of the century. I can think of but five of those sixty who did not profess the Christian religion, but those five men respected it. We may talk about questions of the day here and there, but there is only one question, and that is how to apply the Gospel to all circumstances and conditions. It can and will correct all that is wrong. Have you, in America, any of the terrible agnosticism that we have in Europe? I am glad none of my children are afflicted with it."

I asked him if he did not believe that many people had no religion in their heads, but a good religion in their hearts.

"I have no doubt of it, and I can give you an illustration," he said.

"Yesterday, Lord Napier was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral. After the war in Africa Lord Napier was here for a few days, at the invitation of Mrs. Gladstone and myself, and we walked as we are walking now. He told me this story. I cannot remember his exact words. He said that just when the troops were about to leave Africa there was a soldier with a broken leg. He was too sick to take along, but to leave him behind seemed barbaric. Lord Napier ordered him to be carried, but he soon became too ill to go any further. Lord Napier went to a native woman well known in that country for her kindness, and asked her to take care of the soldier. To ensure his care she was offered a good sum of money. I remember her reply as Lord Napier repeated it to me. 'No, I will not take care of this wounded soldier for the money you offer me,' she said; 'I have no need of the money. My father and mother have a comfortable tent, and I have a good tent; why should I take the money? If you will leave him here I will take care of him for the sake of the love of God.'"

Gladstone was in the thick of political scrimmage over Home Rule, and he talked about it with me.

"It seems the dispensation of God that I should be in the battle," he said; "but it is not to my taste. I never had any option in the matter. I dislike contests, but I could not decline this controversy without disgrace. When Ireland showed herself ready to adopt a righteous constitution, and do her full duty, I hesitated not an hour."

Two nights before, at a speech in Chester, Mr. Gladstone had declared that the increase of the American navy would necessitate the increase of the British navy. I rallied him about this statement, and he said, "Oh! Americans like to hear the plain truth. The fact is, the tie between the two nations is growing closer every year."

It was a bitter cold day and yet Mr. Gladstone wore only a very light cape, reaching scarcely to his knees.

"I need nothing more on me," he said; "I must have my legs free."

After luncheon he took me into his library, a wonderful place, a treasure-house in itself, a bookman's palace. The books had been arranged and catalogued according to a system of his own invention. He showed many presents of American books and pictures sent to him.

"Outside of America there is no one who is bound to love it more than I do," he said, "you see, I am almost surrounded by the evidences of American kindnesses." He gave me some books and pamphlets about himself, and his own Greek translation of "Jesus, Lover of my Soul." Mrs. Gladstone had been obliged to leave before we returned from our walk. Mr. Gladstone took me into a room, however, and showed me a beautiful sculptured portrait of her, made when she was twenty-two.

"She is only two years younger than I am, but in complete health and vigour," he said proudly.

He came out upon the steps to bid me good-bye. Bareheaded, his white hair flowing in the wind, he stood in the cold and I begged him to go in. I expressed a wish that he might come to America.

"I am too old now," he said, wistfully, I thought.

"Is it the Atlantic you object to?" I asked.

"Oh! I am not afraid of the ocean," he said, as though there were perhaps some other reason.

"Tell your country I watch every turn of its history with a heart of innermost admiration," he called after me. I carried Gladstone's message at once, going straight from Hawarden to America, as I had intended when leaving London.

I was prepared for a reception in Brooklyn on my return, but I never dreamed it would be the ovation it was. It becomes difficult to write of these personal courtesies, as I find them increasing in the progress of my life from now on. I trust the casual reader will not construe anything in these pages into a boastful desire to spread myself in too large letters in print.

When I entered the Thirteenth Regiment Armoury on the evening of February 7, 1890, it was packed from top to floor. It was a large building with its three acres of drill floor and its half mile of galleries. There were over seven thousand people there, so the newspapers estimated. Against the east wall was the speaker's platform, and over it in big letters of fire burned the word "Welcome."

On the stage, when I arrived at eight o'clock, were Mayor Chapin, Colonel Austen, General Alfred C. Barnes, the Rev. J. Benson Hamilton, Judge Clement, Mr. Andrew McLean, the Rev. Leon Harrison, ex-Mayor Whitney, the Hon. David A. Boody, U.S. Marshal Stafford, Judge Courtney, Postmaster Hendrix, John Y. Culver, Mark D. Wilber, Commissioner George V. Brower, the Rev. E.P. Terhune, General Horatio C. King, William E. Robinson and several others.

The Trustees of the Tabernacle, like a guard of honour, came in with me, and as we made our way through the crowds to the stage, the long-continued cheering and applause were deafening. The band, assisted by the cornetist, Peter Ali, played "Home, Sweet Home." For a few minutes I was very busy shaking hands.

The most inspiring moment of these preliminaries was the approach of the most distinguished man in that vast assembly, General William T. Sherman. He marched to the platform under military escort, while the band played "Marching through Georgia." Everyone stood up in deference to the old warrior, handkerchiefs were waved, hats flew up in the air, everyone was so proud of him, so pleased to see him! Mayor Chapin introduced the General, and as he stood patiently waiting for the audience to regain its self-control, the band played "Auld Lang Syne." Then in the presence of that great crowd he gave me a soldier's welcome. I remember one sentence uttered by Sherman that night that revealed the character of the great fighter when he said, "The same God that appeared at Nazareth is here to-night."

But nothing on that auspicious evening was so great to me as when Sherman spoke what he described as the soldier's welcome:

"How are you, old fellow, glad to see you!" he said.

The building of the new Tabernacle, my third effort to establish an independent church in Brooklyn, went on rapidly. We were planning then to open it in September, 1891. The church building alone was to cost $150,000. Its architectural beauty was in accord with the elegance of its fashionable neighbourhood on "The Hill," as that residential part of Brooklyn was always described.

"The Hill" was unique. When people in Brooklyn became tired of the rush and bustle of life they returned to Clinton Avenue. It was an idyllic village in the heart of the city. The front yards were as large as farms. New Yorkers described this locality as "Sleepy Hollow." On this account, during my absence, there had developed in the neighbourhood some opposition to the building of the new Tabernacle there. Some of the residents were afraid it would disturb the quiet of the neighbourhood. They opposed it as they would a base ball park, or a circus. They were afraid the organ would annoy the sparrows. The opposition went so far that a subscription paper was passed around to induce us to go away. As much as $15,000 was raised to persuade us. These objections, however, were confined to a few people, the majority realising the adornment the new church would be to the neighbourhood. When I returned I found that this opposing sentiment had described us as "the Tabernacle Rabble." I was in splendid health and spirits however, and refused to be downcast.

During my absence our pews had been rented, realising $18,000. The largest portion of these pews were rented by letter, and the balance at a public meeting held in Temple Israel. The second gallery of the church was free. The highest price paid in the rental for one pew for a year was $75, the lowest was $20. In the interval, pending the completion of the church, pew holders were given tickets for reserved seats in the Academy of Music, where our Sunday services were held. There were 1,500 free seats in the second gallery of the new Tabernacle.

It was a great joy to find that the enterprise I had inaugurated before sailing for the Holy Land had made such good progress. But we were always fortunate.

I recall that my congregation was surprised one morning to learn that Emma Abbott, the beautiful American singer, had left a bequest of $5,000 to the Brooklyn Tabernacle. I was not surprised. I had received a private note from her once expressing her kindly feeling toward our Church and promising, in the event of her decease, to leave some remembrance to us. She always had a presentiment that her life was to be short, and this always had a very depressing effect upon her. Her grief for her husband's death hastened her own. She loved him with all her heart. She was a good woman. Mr. Beecher was a kind and loyal friend to her in her obscurer days. In those days Mr. Beecher brought her over from New York and put her in care of a Mrs. Bird in Brooklyn. Until she went abroad she was helped in her musical education by these friends. She attended Mr. Beecher's prayer meetings regularly. Everyone who met her felt that she was a noble-hearted woman of pure character and sweet soul.

On February 9, 1890, I preached my first sermon since my return from the Holy Land in the Academy of Music. It was expected that I would preach about the country of sacred memories that I had visited, but I was impressed with what I had found on my return in religious history of a more modern purpose. They had been fixing up the creeds while I was abroad, tracing the footsteps of divine law, and I felt the importance of this fact. So I chose the text in Joshua vi. 23, "And the young men that were spies went in and brought out Rahab, and her father and her mother, and her brethren, and all that she had."

I did not read the newspapers while I was away so I was not familiar with all the discussion. I understood, however, that they were revising the creed. You might as well try to patch up your grandfather's overcoat. It will be much better to get a new one. The recent sessions of the Presbytery had been divided into two parties. One was in favour of patching up the old overcoat, the other in favour of a new one. Dr. Briggs had pointed out the torn places—at least five of them. He had revealed it, shabby and somewhat threadbare. Presbyterians had practically discarded the garment. Why should they want to flaunt any of its shreds? So I agreed with Dr. Briggs, that we had better get a new one.

The laying of the corner stone of the new Tabernacle took place on the afternoon of February 11, 1890. It was a modest ceremony because it was considered wise to defer the festivities for the dedication services that were to occur in the church itself in the spring. The two tin boxes placed in the corner stone contained the records of the church organisation from 1854 to 1873, a copy of the Bible, coins of 1873, newspaper accounts of the dedication of the old Tabernacle, copies of the Brooklyn and New York newspapers, photographs of the trustees, a 25-cent gold piece from the Philadelphia mint with the Lord's Prayer engraved on one side, drawing and plans of the new Tabernacle, and some Colonial money dated 1759, 1771, 1773, 1774. During my trip in the Holy Land I had secured two stones, one from Mount Calvary and one from Mount Sinai, which were to be placed in the Tabernacle later.

The "Tabernacle Rabble," as the Philistines of Clinton Avenue called us, continued to meet in the Academy of Music with renewed vigour. My own duties became more exacting because of the additional work I had undertaken, of an editorial nature, on two periodicals.

Of course my critics were always with me. What man or thing on earth is without these stimulants of one's energy. They were fair and unfair. I did not care so much for my serious critics as my humorous ones. Solemnity when sustained by malice or bigotry is a bore. Some call it hypocrisy, but that is too clever for the tiresome critic. Frequently, in my scrap book, I kept the funny comments about myself.

Here is one from the "Chicago American," published in 1890:—

When Talmage the terrible shouts his "God-speed" To illit'rate (and worse) immigration, Who knows but his far-seeing mind feels a need Of recruits for his mix'd congregation? And when he, self-made gateman of Heaven, says he's glad To rake in, on his free invitation, The fit and the unfit, the good and the bad, Put it down to his tall-'mag-ination.—Pan.

My critics were particularly wrought up again on my return from Palestine over my finances. What a crime it was, they said, for a minister to be a millionaire! Had I really been one how much more I could have helped some of them along. Finally the subject became most wearisome, and I gave out some actual facts. From this data it was revealed that I was worth about $200,000, considerably short of one million. In actual cash it was finally declared that I was only worth $100,000. My house in Brooklyn, which I bought shortly after my pastorate began there, cost $35,000. I paid $5,000 cash, and obtained easy terms on a mortgage for the balance. It was worth $60,000 in 1890. My country residence at East Hampton was estimated to be worth $20,000. I owned a few lots on the old Coney Island road. My investments of any surplus funds I had were in 5 per cent. mortgages. I had as much as $80,000 invested in this way since I had begun these operations in 1882. Most of the mortgages were on private residences. I mention these facts that there may be no jealous feeling against me among other millionaires. Because of my reputation for wealth I was sometimes included among New York's fashionable clergymen. I deny that I was ever any such thing, and I almost believe such a thing never was, but I find, in my scrapbook, a contemporaneous list of them.

Dr. Morgan Dix, of Trinity Church, with a salary of $15,000, heads the list, Dr. Brown of St. Thomas' Church, received the same amount; so did Dr. Huntington of Grace Church, and Dr. Greer of St. Bartholomew's. The Bishop of the diocese received no more. Dr. Rainsford of St. George's Church received $10,000, and like Dr. Greer, possessing a private fortune, he turned his salary over to the church. The clergymen of the Methodist Episcopal churches were not so rich. The Bishop of New York received only $5,000. The pastor of St. Paul's, on Fourth Avenue, received the same amount, so did the pastor of the Madison Avenue Church.

The Presbyterian pulpits were filled with some of the ablest preachers in New York. Dr. John Hall of the Fifth Avenue Church received the salary of $30,000, Dr. Paxton $10,000, Dr. Parkhurst and Dr. C.C. Thompson $8,000 respectively. Dr. Robert Collyer of the Park Avenue Unitarian Church, received $10,000, and Dr. William M. Taylor of the Broadway Tabernacle the same amount.

I was included among these "men of fashion," much to my surprise. This fact, forced upon me by contemporary opinion, did not have anything to do with what happened in the spring of 1891, though it was applied in that way. My congregation were not told about it until it was too late to interfere. This I thought wise because there might have been some opposition to my course. I kept it a secret because it was not a matter I could discuss with any dignity. Then, too, I realised that it was going to affect the entire brotherhood of newspaper artists, especially the cartoonists. I shuddered when I thought of the embarrassment this act of mine would cause the country editor with only one Talmage woodcut of many years in his art department. So I did it quietly, without consultation.

In the spring of 1891 I shaved my whiskers.



THE FIFTEENTH MILESTONE

1891-1892

On April 26, 1891, the new Tabernacle was opened. There were three dedication services and thousands of people came. I was fifty-nine years of age. Up to this time everything had been extraordinary in its conflict, its warnings. I found myself, after over thirty years of service to the Gospel, pastor of the biggest Protestant church in the world. It seems to me there were more men of indomitable success during my career in America than at any other time. There were so many self-made men, so many who compelled the world to listen, and feel and do as they believed—men of remarkable energy, of prophetic genius.

Everywhere in England I had been asked about Cyrus W. Field. He was the hero of the nineteenth century. In his days of sickness and trouble the world remembered him. Of all the population of the earth he was the one man who believed that a wire could be strung across the Atlantic. It took him twelve years of incessant toil and fifty voyages across the Atlantic. I remember well, in 1857, when the cable broke, how everyone joined in the great chorus of "I told you so." There was a great jubilee in that choral society of wise know-nothings. Thirty times the grapnel searched the bottom of the sea and finally caught the broken cable, and the pluck and ingenuity of Cyrus W. Field was celebrated. Ocean cablegrams had ceased to be a curiosity, but some of us remember the day when they were. I kept a memorandum of the two first messages across the Atlantic that passed between Queen Victoria and President Buchanan in the summer of 1858.

From England, in the Queen's name, came this:

"To the President of the United States, Washington—

"The Queen desires to congratulate the President upon the successful completion of this great international work, in which the Queen has taken the deepest interest. The Queen is convinced that the President will join with her in fervently hoping that the electric cable which now connects Great Britain with the United States will prove an additional link between the nations whose friendship is founded upon their common interest and reciprocal esteem. The Queen has much pleasure in thus communicating with the President and renewing to him her wishes for the prosperity of the United States."

The President's answering cable was as follows:

"To Her Majesty Victoria, Queen of Great Britain—

"The President cordially reciprocates the congratulations of Her Majesty the Queen on the success of the great international enterprise accomplished by the science, skill, and indomitable energy of the two countries. It is a triumph more glorious than was ever won by any conquest on the field of battle. May the Atlantic telegraph, under the blessing of Heaven, prove to be a bond of perpetual peace and friendship between the kindred nations and an instrument designed by Divine Providence to diffuse religion, civilisation, liberty and law throughout the world. In this view will not all nations of Christendom spontaneously unite in the declaration that it shall be forever neutral, and that its communications shall be held sacred in passing to their destination, even in the midst of hostilities.

"JAMES BUCHANAN."

It is interesting to compare the elemental quality, the inner character of these national flashes of feeling, that came so comparatively soon after the days of the revolution in America. It was a sort of prose poetry of the new century. This recollection came back to me, on my return from Europe, upon the opening of the new Tabernacle, a symbol of the eternal human progress of the world. Materially and spiritually we were striving ahead, men of affairs, men of religion, philosophers, scientists, and poets.

I was present in 1891 at the celebration of Whittier's eighty-fourth birthday. He was on the bright side of eighty then. The schools celebrated the day, so should the churches have done, for he was a Christian poet.

John Greenleaf Whittier was a Quaker. That means that he was a genial, kind, good man—a simple man. I spent an afternoon with him once in a barn. We were summering in the mountains near by. We found ourselves in the barn, where we stretched out on the hay. The world had not spoiled the simplicity of his nature. It was an afternoon of pastoral peace, with one who had written himself into the heart of a nation. How much I learned from that man's childlikeness and simplicity!

If he had lived to be a hundred he would still have remained young. The long flight of years had not tired his spirit, for wherever the English language is spoken he will always live. He was born in Christmas week, a spirit in human shape, come to earth to keep it forever young. He was the bell-ringer of all youthful ages. And yet he remembered also those who for any reason could not join in the merriment of the holidays. To those I recommend Whittier's poem, in which he celebrates the rescue of two Quakers who had been fined L10 for attending church instead of going to a Quaker Meeting House, and not being able to pay the fine were first imprisoned and then sold as slaves, but no ship master consenting to carry them into slavery they were liberated. The closing stanza of this poem is worth remembering:—

"Now, let the humble ones arise, The poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again With robes of praise be clad; For He who cooled the furnace, And smoothed the stormy wave, And turned the Chaldean lions, Is mighty still to save."

The new Tabernacle more than met our expectations. From the day we opened it, it was a great blessing. It seated 6,000 persons, and when crowded held 7,000. There was still some debt on the building, for the entire enterprise had cost us about $400,000. There were regrets expressed that we did not follow the elaborate custom of some fashionable churches in these days and introduce into our services operatic music. I preferred the simple form of sacred music—a cornet and organ. Everybody should get his call from God, and do his work in his own way. I never had any sympathy with dogmatics. There is no church on earth in which there is more freedom of utterance than in the Presbyterian church.



We were in the midst of a religious conflict on many sacred questions in 1892. There came upon us a plague called Higher Criticism. My idea of it was that Higher Criticism meant lower religion. The Bible seemed to me entirely satisfactory. The chief hindrance to the Gospel was this everlasting picking at the Bible by people who pretended to be its friends, but who themselves had never been converted. The Higher Criticism was only a flurry. The world started as a garden and it will close as a garden. That there may be no false impression of the sublime destiny of the world as I see it, let me add that it is not a garden of idleness and pleasure, but a vineyard in which all must labour from early morning till the glory of sundown wraps us in its revival robes of golden splendour.

What a changing, hurrying world of desperate means it is. What a mirage of towering ambition is the whole of life! I have so often wondered why men, great men of heart and brain, should ever die out, though they pass on to live forever under brighter skies.

In January, 1892, Congressman William E. Robinson was buried from our church, and in February of the same month Spurgeon died in England. Though men may live at swords' points with each other they die in peace. This last forgetfulness is some of the beautiful moss that grows on the ruins of poor human nature.

Congressman Robinson was among the gifted men of his time. His friends were giants, his work was constructive, his pen an instrument of literary force. He landed in America with less than a sovereign in his pocket, and achieved prominence in national and State affairs. I knew him well and respected him.

There is an affinity of souls on earth and doubtless in heaven. We seek those who are our kindred souls when we reach there. In this respect I always feel a sense of gratitude, of cheerfulness for those who have passed on. My old friend, Charles H. Spurgeon, in February, 1892, made his last journey; and I am sure that the first whom he picked out in heaven were the souls of Jonathan Edwards and John Calvin—two men of tremendous evangelism. I first met Spurgeon in London in 1872.

"I read your sermons," I said to him first.

"Everybody reads yours," he replied.

Spurgeon made a long battle against disease; the last few months in agony. His name is on the honour roll of the world's history, but for many years he was caricatured and assailed. He kept a scrap-book of the printed blasphemy against him. The first picture I ever saw of him represented him as sliding down the railing of his pulpit in the presence of his congregation, to show how easy it was to go to hell, and then climbing up on the opposite railing to show how difficult it was to get to heaven. Most people at the time actually believed that he had done this.

In this same month Dr. Mackenzie, the famous physician, died, and my old friend, the Rev. Dr. Hanna of Belfast, the leading Protestant minister of Ireland. Out of the darkness into the light; out of the struggle into victory; out of earth into Heaven!

There was always mercy on earth, however, for those who remained. Mercy! The biggest word in the human language! I remember how it impressed me, when, at the invitation of Dr. Leslie Keeley, the inventor of the "Gold Cure" for drunkenness, I visited his institution at Dwight, Ill. It was a new thing then and a most merciful miracle of the age. It settled no question, perhaps, but intensified the blessings of reformed thought.

There were questions that could not be solved, however, questions of industrial moment that we almost despaired of. The tariff was one of them. I felt convinced that the tariff question would never be settled. The grandchildren of every generation will always be discussing it, and thresh out the same old straw which the Democrats and Republicans were discussing before them. When I was a boy only eight years old the tariff was discussed just as warmly as it will ever be. Like my friend Henry Watterson, of Kentucky, I was a Free Trader. Politics were so mixed up it was difficult to see ahead. Cleveland was after Hill and Hill was after Cleveland; that alone was clear to everybody.

For my own satisfaction, in the spring of 1892, I went to see what Washington was really doing, thinking, living. It had improved morally and politically, its streets were still the trail of the mighty. A great change had taken place there.

A higher type of men had taken possession of our national halls. Duelling, once common, was entirely abolished, and a Senator who would challenge a fellow-member to fight would make himself a laughing-stock. No more clubbing of Senators on account of opposite opinions! Mr. Covode of Pennsylvania, no longer brandished a weapon over the head of Mr. Barksdale of Mississippi. Grow and Keitt no more took each other by the throat. Griswold no more pounded Lyon, Lyon snatching the tongs and striking back until the two members in a scuffle rolled on the floor of the great American Congress. One of the Senators of twenty-five years ago died in Flatbush Hospital, idiotic from his dissipations. One member of Congress I saw years ago seated drunk on the curbstone in Philadelphia, his wife trying to coax him home. A Senator from New York many years ago on a cold day was picked out of the Potomac, into which he had dropped through his intoxication, the only time that he ever came so near losing his life by too much cold water. Talk not about the good old days, for the new days in Washington were far better. There was John Sherman of the Senate, a moral, high-minded, patriotic and talented man. I said to him as I looked up into his face: "How tall are you?" and his answer was, "Six feet one inch and a half;" and I thought to myself "You are a tall man every way, with mental stature over-towering like the physical." There was Senator Daniel of Virginia, magnetic to the last degree, and when he spoke all were thrilled while they listened. Fifteen years ago, at Lynchburg, Va., I said to him: "The next time I see you, I will see you in the United States Senate." "No, no," he replied, "I am not on the winning side. I am too positive in my opinions." I greeted him amid the marble walls of the Senate with the words "Didn't I tell you so?" "Yes," he said, "I remember your prophecy." There also were Senators Colquitt and Gordon of Georgia, at home whether in secular or religious assemblages, pronounced Christian gentlemen, and both of them tremendous in utterance. There was Senator Carey of Wyoming, who was a boy in my church debating society at Philadelphia, his speech at eighteen years demonstrating that nothing in the way of grand achievement would be impossible. There was Senator Manderson of Nebraska, his father and mother among my chief supporters in Philadelphia, the Senator walking about as though he cared nothing about the bullets which he had carried ever since the war, of which he was one of the heroes. Brooklyn was proud of her Congressmen. I heard our representative, Mr. Coombs, speak, and whether his hearers agreed or disagreed with his sentiments on the tariff question, all realised that he knew what he was talking about, and his easy delivery and point-blank manner of statement were impressive. So, also, at the White House, whether people liked the Administration or disliked it, all reasonable persons agreed that good morals presided over the nation, and that well-worn jest about the big hat of the grandfather, President William Henry Harrison, being too ample for the grandson, President Benjamin Harrison, was a witticism that would soon be folded up and put out of sight. Anybody who had carefully read the 120 addresses delivered by President Benjamin Harrison on his tour across the continent knew that he had three times the brain ever shown by his grandfather. Great men, I noticed at Washington, were great only a little while. The men I saw there in high places fifteen years ago had nearly all gone. One venerable man, seated in the Senate near the Vice-President's chair, had been there since he was introduced as a page at 10 years of age by Daniel Webster. But a few years change the most of the occupants of high positions. How rapidly the wheel turns. Call the roll of Jefferson's Cabinet? Dead! Call the roll of Madison's Cabinet? Dead! Call the roll of Monroe's Cabinet? Dead! Call the roll of Pierce's Cabinet? Dead! Call the roll of Abraham Lincoln's Cabinet? Dead! The Congressional burying ground in the city of Washington had then 170 cenotaphs raised in honour of members.

While I was in Chicago, in the spring of 1892, there came about an almost national discussion as to whether the World's Fair should be kept open on Sunday. Nearly all the ministers foresaw empty churches if the fair were kept open.

In spite of the personal malice against me of one of the great editors of New York, the people did not seem to lose their confidence in the Christian spirit. Both Dr. Parkhurst and myself were the targets of this brilliant man's sarcasm and satire at this time, but neither of us were demoralised or injured in the course of our separate ways of duty.

In the summer of 1892 the working plans of what the newspapers generously called my vacation took me to Europe on a tour of Great Britain and Ireland, including a visit to Russia, to await the arrival of a ship-load of food sent by the religious weekly of which I was editor. Some criticism was made of the way I worked instead of rested in vacation time.

Someone asked me if I believed in dreams. I said, no; I believed in sleep, but not in dreams. The Lord, in olden times, revealed Himself in dreams, but I do not think He does so often now. When I was at school we parsed from "Young's Night Thoughts," but I had no very pleasant memories of that book. I had noticed that dreamers are often the prey of consumption. It seems to have a fondness for exquisite natures—dreamy, spiritual, a foe of the finest part of the human family. There was Henry Kirke White, the author of that famous hymn, "When Marshalled on the Nightly Plains," who, dying of consumption, wrote it with two feet in the grave, and recited it with power when he could not move from his chair.

We sailed on the "New York," June 15, 1892, for Europe. This preaching tour in England was urged upon me by ties of friendship, made years before, by the increased audiences I had already gained through my public sermons, and of my own hearty desire to see them all face to face. My first sermon in London was given on June 25, 1892, in the City Temple, by invitation of that great English preacher, Dr. Joseph Parker. When my sermon was over, Dr. Parker said to his congregation:—

"I thank God for Dr. Talmage's life and ministry, and I despise the man who cannot appreciate his services to Christianity. May he preach in this pulpit again!"

On leaving his church I was obliged to address the crowd outside from my carriage. Nothing can be so gratifying to a preacher as the faith of the people he addresses in his faith. In England the religious spirit is deeply rooted. I could not help feeling, as I saw that surging mass of men and women outside the City Temple in London after the service, how earnest they all were in their exertions to hear the Gospel. In my own country I had been used to crowds that were more curious in their attitude, less reverent of the occasion. Dr. Parker's description of the sermon after it was over expressed the effect of my Gospel message upon that crowd in England.

He said: "That is the most sublime, pathetic and impressive appeal we ever listened to. It has kindled the fire of enthusiasm in our souls that will burn on for ever. It has unfolded possibilities of the pulpit never before reached. It has stirred all hearts with the holiest ambition."

So should every sermon, preached in every place in the world on every Sunday in the world, be a message from God and His angels!

The sustaining enthusiasm of my friend, Dr. Parker, and his people at the City Temple, preceded me everywhere in England, and established a series of experiences in my evangelical work that surprised and enthralled me.

In Nottingham I was told that Albert Hall, where I preached, could not hold over 3,000 people. That number of tickets for my sermon were distributed from the different pulpits in the city, but hundreds were disappointed and waited for me outside afterwards. This was no personal tribute to me, but to the English people, to whom my Gospel message was of serious import. The text I used most during this preaching tour was from Daniel xi. 2: "The people that do know their God shall be strong and do exploits." It applied to the people of Great Britain and they responded and understood.

In a more concrete fashion I was privileged to witness also the tremendous influence of religious feeling in England at the banquet tendered by the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House on July 3, 1892, to the Archbishops and Bishops of England. The Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, and the diocesan bishops were present. The Lord Mayor, in his address, said that the association between the Church and the Corporation of London had been close, long, and continuous. In that year, he said, the Church had spent on buildings and restorations thirty-five million pounds; on home missions, seven and a half millions; on foreign missions, ten millions; on elementary education, twenty-one millions; and in charity, six millions. What a stupendous evidence of the religious spirit in England! A toast was proposed to the "Ministers of other Denominations," which included the Rev. Dr. Newman Hall and myself of America, among other foreign guests. To this I responded.

Before leaving for Russia I met a part of the American colony in London at a reception given by Mr. Lincoln, our Minister to England. We gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July. Mrs. Mackey, Mrs. Paran Stevens, Mrs. Bradley Martin, and Mrs. Bonynge received among others. Phillips Brooks and myself were among the clerical contingent, with such Americans abroad as Colonel Tom Ochiltree, Buffalo Bill, General and Mrs. Williams, A.M. Palmer, Mrs. New, the Consul-General's wife, Mr. and Mrs. John Collins, Senators Farwell and McDonald.

While travelling in England I saw John Ruskin. This fact contains more happiness to me than I can easily make people understand. I wanted to see him more than any other man, crowned or uncrowned. When I was in England at other times Mr. Ruskin was always absent or sick, but this time I found him. I was visiting the Lake district of England, and one afternoon I took a drive that will be for ever memorable. I said, "Drive out to Mr. Ruskin's place," which was some eight miles away. The landlord from whom I got the conveyance said, "You will not be able to see Mr. Ruskin. No one sees him or has seen him for years." Well, I have a way of keeping on when I start. After an hour and a half of a delightful ride we entered the gates of Mr. Ruskin's home. The door of the vine-covered, picturesque house was open, and I stood in the hall-way. Handing my card to a servant I said, "I wish to see Mr. Ruskin." The reply was, "Mr. Ruskin is not in, and he never sees anyone." Disappointed, I turned back, took the carriage and went down the road. I said to the driver, "Do you know Mr. Ruskin when you see him?" "Yes," said he; "but I have not seen him for years." We rode on a few moments, then the driver cried out to me, "There he comes now." In a minute we had arrived at where Mr. Ruskin was walking toward us. I alighted, and he greeted me with a quiet manner and a genial smile. He looked like a great man worn out; beard full and tangled; soft hat drawn down over his forehead; signs of physical weakness with determination not to show it. His valet walked beside him ready to help or direct his steps. He deprecated any remarks appreciatory of his wonderful services. He had the appearance of one whose work is completely done, and is waiting for the time to start homeward. He was in appearance more like myself than any person I ever saw, and if I should live to be his age the likeness will be complete.

I did not think then that Mr. Ruskin would ever write another paragraph. He would continue to saunter along the English lane very slowly, his valet by his side, for a year or two, and then fold his hands for his last sleep. Then the whole world would speak words of gratitude and praise which it had denied him all through the years in which he was laboriously writing "Modern Painters," "The Seven Lamps of Architecture," "The Stones of Venice," and "Ethics of the Dust." We cannot imagine what the world's literature would have been if Thomas Carlyle and John Ruskin had never entered it. I shall never forget how in the early years of my ministry I picked up in Wynkoop's store, in Syracuse, for the first time, one of Ruskin's works. I read that book under the trees, because it was the best place to read it. Ruskin was the first great interpreter of the language of leaves, of clouds, of rivers, of lakes, of seas.

In July, 1892,1 went to Russia. It was summer in the land of snow and ice, so that we saw it in the glow of sunny days, in the long gold-tipped twilights of balmy air. In America we still regarded Russia as a land of cruel mystery and imperial oppression. There was as much ignorance about the Russians, their Government, their country, as there was about the Fiji Islands. Americans had been taught that Siberia was Russia, that Russia and Siberia were the same, one vast infinite waste of misery and cruelty. Granted that I went to Russia on an errand of mercy, and as a representative of the most powerful nation in the world, nevertheless I contend that the Russian people and their Government were hugely misrepresented. There was no need for the Emperor of Russia to give audience to so humble a representative as a minister of the Gospel unless he had been sincerely touched by the evidence of American generosity and mercy for his starving peasants in Central Russia. His courtesy and reception of me was a complete contradiction of his reported arrogance and hard-heartedness. There was no need for the Town Council of St. Petersburg to honour myself and my party with receptions and dinners, and there was no reason for the enthusiasm and cheers of the Russian people in the streets unless they were intensely kind and enthusiastic in nature. When the famine conditions occurred in the ten provinces of Russia a relief committee was formed in St. Petersburg, with the Grand Duke himself at the head of it, and such men as Count Tolstoi and Count Bobrinsky in active assistance. America answered the appeal for food, but their was sincere sympathy and compassion for their compatriots in the imperial circles of Russia.

In the famine districts, which were vast enough to hold several nations, a drought that had lasted for six consecutive years had devastated the country. According to the estimate of the Russian Famine Relief Committee we saved the lives of 125,000 Russians.

As at the hunger relief stations the bread was handed out—for it was made into loaves and distributed—many people would halt before taking it and religiously cross themselves and utter a prayer for the donors. Some of them would come staggering back and say:—

"Please tell us who sent this bread to us?" And when told it came from America, they would say: "What part of America? Please give us the names of those who sent it."

My visit to the Czar of Russia, Alexander III., was made at the Imperial Palace. I was ushered into a small, very plain apartment, in which I found the Emperor seated alone, quietly engaged with his official cares. He immediately arose, extended his hand with hearty cordiality, and said in the purest English, as he himself placed a chair for me beside his table, "Doctor Talmage, I am very happy to meet you."

This was the beginning of a long conversation during which the Emperor manifested both the liveliest interest and thorough familiarity with American politics, and, after a lengthy discussion of everything American, the Emperor said, "Dr. Talmage, you must see my eldest son, Nicholas," with which he touched a bell, calling his aide-de-camp, who promptly summoned the Grand Duke Nicholas, who appeared with the youngest daughter of the Emperor skipping along behind him—a plump, bright little girl of probably eight or nine years. She jumped upon the Emperor's lap and threw her arms about his neck. When she had been introduced to me she gave "The American gentleman" the keenest scrutiny of which her sparkling eyes were capable. The Grand Duke was a fine young man, of about twenty-five years of age, tall, of athletic build, graceful carriage, and noticeably amiable features. On being introduced to me the Grand Duke extended his hand and said, "Dr. Talmage, I am also glad to meet you, for we all feel that we have become acquainted with you through your sermons, in which we have found much interest and religious edification."

Noticing the magnificent physique of both father and son, I asked the Emperor, when the conversation turned incidentally upon matters of health, what he did to maintain such fine strength in the midst of all the cares of State. He replied, "Doctor, the secret of my strength is in my physical exercise. This I never fail to take regularly and freely every day before I enter upon any of the work of my official duties, and to it I attribute the excellent health which I enjoy."

The Emperor insisted that I should see the Empress and the rest of the Imperial Family, and we proceeded to another equally plain, unpretentious apartment where, with her daughters, we found the Empress. After a long conversation, and just as I was leaving, I asked the Emperor whether there was much discontent among the nobility as a result of the emancipation among the serfs, and he replied, "Yes, all the trouble with my empire arises from the turbulence and discontent of the nobility. The people are perfectly quiet and contented."

A reference was made to the possibility of war, and I remember the fear with which the Empress entered into the talk just then, saying "We all dread war. With our modern equipments it could be nothing short of massacre, and from that we hope we may be preserved."

My presentation at Peterhoff Palace to Alexander III. and the royal family of Russia was entirely an unexpected event in my itinerary. It was in the nature of a compliment to my mission, to the American people who have contributed so much to the distress in Russia, and to the Christian Church for which this "hardhearted, cruel Czar" had so much respect and so much interest. It was said that in common with all Americans I expected to find the Emperor attired in some bomb-proof regalia. Perhaps I was impressed with the Czar's indifference and fearlessness. Someone said to me that no doubt he was quite used to the thought of assassination. I discovered, in a long conversation that I had with him, that he was ready to die, and when a man is ready why should he be afraid?

The most significant and important outcome of this presentation to the Czar was his pledge to my countrymen that Russia would always remember the generosity of the American people in their future relations. Everywhere in St. Petersburg and Moscow, the Russian and American flags were displayed together on the public buildings, so that I look back upon this occasion with a pardonable impression of its international importance. There was a suggestion of this feeling in an address presented to us by the City Council of St. Petersburg, in which a graceful remembrance was made of that occasion in 1868, when a special embassy from the United States, with Mr. G.V. Fox, a Cabinet officer, at its head, visited St. Petersburg and expressed sympathy for Russia and its Sovereign.

Returning from Russia, I continued my preaching tour in England, preaching to immense crowds, estimated in the English newspapers to be from fifteen to twenty thousand people, in the large cities. In Birmingham the crowd followed me into the hotel, where it was necessary to lock the doors to keep them out. What incalculable kindness I received in England! I remember a farewell banquet given me at the Crystal Palace by twenty Nonconformists, at which I was presented with a gold watch from my English friends; and a scene in Swansea, when, after my sermon, they sang Welsh hymns to me in their native language.

Some people wonder how I have kept in such good humour with the world when I have been at times violently assailed or grossly misrepresented. It was because the kindnesses towards me have predominated. For the past thirty or forty years the mercies have carried the day. If I went to the depot there was a carriage to meet me. If I tarried at the hotel some one mysteriously paid the bill. If I were attacked in newspaper or church court there were always those willing to take up for me the cudgels. If I were falsified the lie somehow turned out to my advantage. My enemies have helped me quite as much as my friends. If I preached or lectured I always had a crowd. If I had a boil it was almost always in a comfortable place. If my church burned down I got a better one. I offered a manuscript to a magazine, hoping to get for it forty dollars, which I much needed at the time. The manuscript was courteously returned as not being available; but that article for which I could not get forty dollars has since, in other uses, brought me forty thousand dollars. The caricaturists have sent multitudes of people to hear me preach and lecture. I have had antagonists; but if any man of my day has had more warm personal friends I do not know his name.



THE SIXTEENTH MILESTONE

1892-1895

I had only one fault to find with the world in my sixty years of travel over it and that was it had treated me too well. In the ordinary course of events, and by the law of the Psalmist, I still had ten more years before me; but, according to my own calculations, life stretched brilliantly ahead of me as far as heart and mind could wish. There were many things to take into consideration. There was the purpose of the future, its obligations, its opportunities to adjust. My whole life had been a series of questions. My course had been the issue of problems, a choice of many ways.

Shortly after the dawn of 1893 the financial difficulties in which the New Tabernacle had been reared confronted us. It had arisen from the ashes of its predecessor by sheer force of energy and pluck. It had taken a vast amount of negotiation. A loan of $125,000, made to us by Russell Sage, payable in one year at 6 per cent., was one of the means employed. This loan was arranged by Mr. A.L. Soulard, the president of the German-American Title and Guarantee Company. Mr. Sage was a friend of mine, of my church, and that was some inducement. The loan was made upon the guarantee of the Title Company. It was reported to me that Mr. Sage had said at this time:—

"It all depends upon whether Dr. Talmage lives or not. If he should happen to die the Brooklyn Tabernacle wouldn't be worth much."

The German-American Title and Guarantee Company then secured an insurance on my life for $25,000 and insisted that the Board of Trustees of the church give their individual bonds for the fulfillment of the mortgage. The trustees were W.D. Mead, F.H. Branch, John Wood, C.S. Darling, F.M. Lawrence, and James B. Ferguson. In this way Mr. Sage satisfied both his religious sympathies and his business nature. For more reasons than one, therefore, I kept myself in perfect health. This was only one of the incidents involved in the building of the New Tabernacle. For two years I had donated my salary of $12,000 a year to the church, and had worked hard incessantly to infuse it with life and success. This information may serve to contradict some scattered impressions made by our friendly critics, that my personal aim in life was mercenary and selfish. My income from my lectures, and the earnings from my books and published sermons, were sufficient for all my needs.

During the year 1893 I did my best to stem the tide of debt and embarrassment in which the business elements of the church was involved. I find an entry in my accounts of a check dated March 27, 1893, in Brooklyn, for $10,000, which I donated to the Brooklyn Tabernacle Emergency Fund. There is a spiritual warning in almost every practical event of our lives, and it seemed that in that year, so discomforting to the New Tabernacle, there was a spiritual warning to me which grew into a certainty of feeling that my work called me elsewhere. I said nothing of this to anyone, but quietly thought the situation over without haste or undue prejudice. My Gospel field was a big one. The whole world accepted the Gospel as I preached it, and I concluded that it did not make much difference where the pulpit was in which I preached.

After a full year's consideration of the entire outlook, in January, 1894, I announced my resignation as pastor of the Tabernacle, to take effect in the spring of that year. I gave no other cause than that I felt that I had been in one place long enough. An attempt was made by the Press to interpret my action into a private difference of opinion with the trustees of the church—but this was not true. All sorts of plans were proposed for raising the required sum of our expensive church management, in which I concurred and laboured heartily. It was said that I resigned because the trustees were about to decide in favour of charging a nominal fee of ten cents to attend our services. I made no objection to this. My resignation was a surprise to the congregation because I had not indicated my plans or intimated to them my own private expectations of the remaining years of my life.

On Sunday, January 22, 1894, among the usual church announcements made from the pulpit, I read the following statement, which I had written on a slip of paper:—

"This coming spring I will have been pastor of this church twenty-five years—a quarter of a century—long enough for any minister to preach in one place. At that anniversary I will resign this pulpit, and it will be occupied by such person as you may select.

"Though the work has been arduous, because of the unparalleled necessity of building three great churches, two of them destroyed by fire, the field has been delightful and blessed by God. No other congregation has ever been called to build three churches, and I hope no other pastor will ever be called to such an undertaking.

"My plans after resignation have not been developed, but I shall preach both by voice and newspaper press, as long as my life and health are continued.

"From first to last we have been a united people, and my fervent thanks are to all the Boards of Trustees and Elders, whether of the present or past, and to all the congregation, and to New York and Brooklyn.

"I have no vocabulary intense enough to express my gratitude to the newspaper press of these cities for the generous manner in which they have treated me and augmented my work for this quarter of a century.

"After such a long pastorate it is a painful thing to break the ties of affection, but I hope our friendship will be renewed in Heaven."

There was a sorrowful silence when I stopped reading, which made me realise that I had tasted another bitter draft of life in the prospect of farewell between pastor and flock. I left the church alone and went quietly to my study where I closed the door to all inquirers.

If my decision had been made upon any other ground than those of spiritual obligation to the purpose of my whole life I should have said so. My decision had been made because I had been thinking of my share in the evangelism of the world, and how mercifully I had been spared and instructed and forwarded in my Gospel mission. I wanted a more neighbourly relation with the human race than the prescribed limitations of a single pulpit.

In February, 1893, I lost an evangelical neighbour of many years—Bishop Brooks. He was a giant, but he died. My mind goes back to the time when Bishop Brooks and myself were neighbours in Philadelphia. He had already achieved a great reputation as a pulpit orator in 1870. The first time I saw him was on a stormy night as he walked majestically up the aisle of the church to which I administered. He had come to hear his neighbour, as afterward I often went to hear him. What a great and genial soul he was! He was a man that people in the streets stopped to look at, and strangers would say as he passed, "I wonder who that man is?" Of unusual height and stature, with a face beaming in kindness, once seeing him he was always remembered, but the pulpit was his throne. With a velocity of utterance that was the despair of the swiftest stenographers, he poured forth his impassioned soul, making every theme he touched luminous and radiant.

Putting no emphasis on the mere technicalities of religion, he made his pulpit flame with its power. He was the special inspiration of young men, and the disheartened took courage under the touch of his words and rose up healed. It will take all time and all eternity to tell the results of his Christian utterances. There were some who thought that there was here and there an unsafe spot in his theology. As for ourselves we never found anything in the man or in his utterances that we did not like.

Although fully realising that I was approaching a crisis of some sort in my own career, it was with definite thankfulness for the mercies that had upheld me so long that I forged ahead. My state of mind at this time was peaceful and contented. I find in a note-book of this period of my life the following entry, which betrays the trend of my heart and mind during the last milestone of my ministry in Brooklyn:

"Here I am in Madison, Wisconsin, July 23, 1893. I have been attending Monona Lake Chautauqua, lecturing yesterday, preaching this morning. This Sabbath afternoon I have been thinking of the goodness of God to me. It began many years before I was born; for as far back as I can find anything concerning my ancestry, both on my father's and mother's sides, they were virtuous and Christian people. Who shall estimate the value of such a pedigree? The old cradle, as I remember it, was made out of plain boards, but it was a Christian cradle. God has been good in letting us be born in a fair climate, neither in the rigours of frigidity nor in the scorching air of tropical regions. Fortunate was I in being started in a home neither rich nor poor, so that I had the temptations of neither luxury nor poverty. Fortunate in good health—sixty years of it. I say sixty rather than sixty-one, for I believe the first year or two of my life compassed all styles of infantile ailments, from mumps to scarlet fever.

"A quarter of a century ago, looking at a pile of manuscript sermons, I said again and again to my wife: 'Those sermons were not made only for the people who have already heard them. They must have a wider field.' The prophecy came true, and every one of those sermons through the press has come to the attention of at least twenty-five million people. I have no reason to be morose or splenetic. 'Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life.' Here I am at 61 years of age without an ache, a pain, or a physical infirmity. Now closing a preaching and lecturing tour from Georgia to Minnesota and Wisconsin, I am to-morrow morning to start for my residence at the seaside where my family are awaiting me, and notwithstanding all the journeying and addressing of great audiences, and shaking hands with thousands of people, after a couple of days' rest will be no more weary than when I left home. 'Bless the Lord, O my soul!'"

My ordinary mode of passing vacations has been to go to East Hampton, Long Island, and thence to go out for two or three preaching and lecturing excursions to points all the way between New York and San Francisco, or from Texas to Maine. I find that I cannot rest more than two weeks at a time. More than that wearies me. Of all the places I have ever known East Hampton is the best place for quiet and recuperation.

I became acquainted with it through my brother-in-law, Rev. S.L. Mershon. The Presbyterian church here was his first pastoral settlement. When a boy in grammar school and college I visited him and his wife, my sister Mary. The place is gradually submitting to modern notions, but East Hampton, whether in its antiquated shape or epauletted and frilled and decorated by the hand of modern enterprise, has always been to me a semi-Paradise.

As I approach it my pulse is slackened and a delicious somnolence comes over me. I dream out the work for another year.

My most useful sermons have been born here. My most successful books were planned here. In this place, between the hours of somnolence, there come hours of illumination and ecstasy. It seems far off from the heated and busy world. East Hampton has been a great blessing to my family. It has been a mercy to have them here, free from all summer heats. When nearly grown, the place is not lively enough for them, but an occasional diversion to White Sulphur, or Alum Springs, or a summer in Europe, has given them abundant opportunity. All my children have been with us in Europe, except my departed son, DeWitt, who was at a most important period in school at the time of our going, or he would have been with us on one of our foreign tours.

I have crossed the ocean twelve times, that is six each way, and like it less and less. It is to me a stomachic horror. But the frequent visits have given educational opportunity to my children. Foreign travel, and lecturing and preaching excursions in our own country have been to me a stimulus, while East Hampton has been to me a sedative and anodyne. For this beautiful medicament I am profoundly thankful.

But I am writing this in the new house that we have builded in place of our old one. It is far more beautiful and convenient and valuable than the old one, but I doubt if it will be any more useful. And a railroad has been laid out, and before summer is passed the shriek of a locomotive will awaken all the Rip Van Winkles that have been slumbering here since before the first almanac was printed.

The task of remembering the best of one's life is a pleasant one. Under date of December 20, 1893, I find another recollection in my note-book that is worth amplifying.

"This morning, passing through Frankfort, Kentucky, on my way from Lexington, at the close of a preaching and lecturing tour of nearly three weeks, I am reminded of a most royal visit that I had here at Frankfort as the guest of Governor Blackburn, at the gubernatorial mansion about ten years ago.

"I had made an engagement to preach twice at High Bridge, Ky., a famous camp meeting. Governor Blackburn telegraphed me to Brooklyn asking when and where I would enter Kentucky, as he wished to meet me on the border of the State and conduct me to the High Bridge services. We met at Cincinnati. Crossing the Ohio River, we found the Governor's especial car with its luxurious appointments and group of servants to spread the table and wait on every want. The Governor, a most fascinating and splendid man, with a warmth of cordiality that glows in me every time I recall his memory, entertained me with the story of his life which had been a romance of mercy in the healing art, he having been elected to his high office in appreciation of his heroic services as physician in time of yellow fever.

"At Lexington a brusque man got on our car, and we entered with him into vigorous conversation. I did not hear his name on introduction, and I felt rather sorry that the Governor should have invited him into our charming seclusion. But the stranger became such an entertainer as a colloquialist, and demonstrated such extraordinary intellectuality, I began to wonder who he was, and I addressed him, saying, "Sir, I did not hear your name when you were introduced." He replied, 'My name is Beck—Senator Beck.' Then and there began one of the most entertaining friendships of my life. Great Scotch soul! Beck came a poor boy from Scotland to America, hired himself out for farm work in Kentucky, discovered to his employer a fondness for reading, was offered free access to his employer's large library, and marched right up into education and the legal profession and the Senate of the United States."

That day we got out of the train at High Bridge. My sermon was on "The Divinity of the Scriptures." Directly in front of me, and with most intense look, whether of disapprobation or approval I knew not, sat the Senator. On the train back to Lexington, where he took me in his carriage on a long ride amid the scenes of Clayiana, he told me the sermon had re-established his faith in Christianity, for he had been brought up to believe the Bible as most of the people in Scotland believe it. But I did not know all that transpired that day at High Bridge until after the Senator was dead, and I was in Lexington, and visited his grave at the cemetery where he sleeps amid the mighty Kentuckians who have adorned their State.