1888-1889
The longer I live the more I think of mercy. Fifty-six years of age and
I had not the slightest suspicion that I was getting old. It was like a
crisp, exquisitely still autumn day. I felt the strength and buoyancy of
all the days I had lived merging themselves into a joyous anticipation
of years and years to come. For a long while I had cherished the dream
that I might some day visit the Holy Land, to see with my own eyes the
sky, the fields, the rocks, and the sacred background of the Divine
Tragedy. The tangible plans were made, and I was preparing to sail in
October, 1889. I felt like a man on the eve of a new career. The
fruition of the years past was about to be a great harvest of successful
work. I speak of it without reserve, as we offer prayers of gratitude
for great mercies.
Everything before me seemed finer than anything I had ever known. Few
men at my age were so blessed with the vigour of health, with the elixir
of youth. To the world at large I was indebted for its appreciation, its
praise sometimes, its interest always. My study in Brooklyn was a room
that had become a picturesque starting point for the imagination of
kindly newspaper men. They were leading me into a new element of
celebrity.
One morning, in my house in Brooklyn, I was asked by a newspaper in New
York if it might send a reporter to spend the day with me there. I had
no objection. The reporter came after breakfast. Breakfast was an
awkward meal for the newspaper profession, otherwise we should have had
it together. I made no preparation, set no scene, gave the incident no
thought, but spent the day in the usual routine of a pastor's duty. It
is an incident that puts a side-light on my official duties as a
minister in his home, and for that reason I refer to it in detail. Some
of the descriptions made by the reporter were accurate, and illustrative
of my home life.
My mail was heavy, and my first duty was always to take it under my arm
to my workshop on the second floor of my home in South Oxford Street. In
doing this I was closely followed by the reporter. My study was a place
of many windows, and on this morning in the first week of 1888 it was
flooded with sunshine, or as the reporter, with technical skill,
described it, "A mellow light." The sun is always "mellow" in a room
whenever I have read about it in a newspaper. The reporter found my
study "an unattractive room," because it lacked the signs of "luxury" or
even "comfort." As I was erroneously regarded as a clerical Croesus at
this time the reporter's disappointment was excusable. The Gobelin
tapestries, the Raphael paintings, the Turkish divans, and the gold and
silver trappings of a throne room were missing in my study. The reporter
found the floor distressingly "hard, but polished wood." The walls were
painfully plain--"all white." My table, which the reporter kindly
signified as a "big one," was drawn up to a large window. Of course,
like all tables of the kind, it was "littered." I never read of a
library table in a newspaper that was not "littered." The reporter
spied everything upon it at once, "letters, newspapers, books, pens, ink
bottles, pencils, and writing-paper." All of which, of course, indicated
intellectual supremacy to the reporter. The chair at my table was "stiff
backed," and, amazing fact, it was "without a cushion." In front of the
chair, but on the table, the reporter discovered an "open book," which
he concluded "showed that the great preacher had been hurriedly called
away." In every respect it was a "typical literary man's den." Glancing
shrewdly around, the reporter discovered "bookshelves around the walls,
books piled in corners, and even in the middle of the room." Also a
newspaper file was noticed, and--careless creature that I am--"there
were even bundles of old letters tied with strings thrown carelessly
about." The reporter then said:--
"He told me this was his workshop, and looked me in the face with a
merry twinkle in his eye to see whether I was surprised or pleased."
Then I asked the reporter to "sit down," which he promptly did. I was
closely watched to see how I opened my mail. Nothing startling happened.
I just opened "letter after letter." Some I laid aside for my secretary,
others I actually attended to myself.
A letter from a young lady in Georgia, asking me to send her what I
consider the most important word in my vocabulary, I answered
immediately. The ever-watchful reporter observes that to do this "I pick
up a pen and write on the margin of the girl's letter the word
'helpfulness.'" Then I sign it and stick it in an envelope. Then I "dash
off the address." Obviously I am not at all original at home. I replied
to a letter from the president of a theological seminary, asking me to
speak to his young men. I like young men so I agree to do so if I can. I
"startle" the reporter finally, by a sudden burst of unexpected hilarity
over a letter from a man in Pennsylvania who wants me to send him a
cheque by return mail for one hundred thousand dollars, on a sure thing
investment. The reporter says:--
"I am startled by a shrill peal of laughter, and the great preacher
leans back in his chair and shakes his sides."
The reporter looks over my shoulder and sees other letters.
"A young minister writes to say that his congregation is leaving him.
How shall he get his people back? An old sailor scrawls on a piece of
yellow paper that he is bound for the China seas and he wants a copy of
each of Dr. Talmage's sermons sent to his old wife in New Bedford,
Mass., while he is gone. Here is a letter in a schoolgirl's hand. She
has had a quarrel with her first lover and he has left her in a huff.
How can she get him back? Another letter is from the senior member of
one of the biggest commercial houses in Brooklyn. It is brief, but it
gives the good doctor pleasure. The writer tells him how thoroughly he
enjoyed the sermon last Sunday. The next letter is from the driver of a
horse car. He has been discharged. His children go to Dr. Talmage's
Sunday School. Is that not enough to show that the father is reliable
and steady, and will not the preacher go at once to the superintendent
of the car line and have him reinstated. Here is a perfumed note from a
young mother who wants her child baptised. There are invitations to go
here and there, and to speak in various cities. Young men write for
advice: One with the commercial instinct strongly developed, wants to
know if the ministry pays? Still another letter is from a patent
medicine house, asking if the preacher will not write an endorsement of
a new cure for rheumatism. Other writers take the preacher to task for
some utterance in the pulpit that did not please them. Either he was too
lenient or too severe. A young man wants to get married and writes to
know what it will cost to tie the knot. A New York actress, who has been
an attendant for several Sundays at the Tabernacle, writes to say that
she is so well pleased with the sermons that she would be glad if she
could come earlier on Sunday morning, but she is so tired when Saturday
night comes that she can't get up early. Would it be asking too much to
have a seat reserved for her until she arrived!"
A maid in a "white cap" comes to the door and informs me that a "roomful
of people" are waiting to see me downstairs. It is the usual routine of
my morning's work, when I receive all who come to me for advice and
consolation. The reporter regards it, however, as an event, and writes
about it in this way:--
"Visitors to the Talmage mansion are ushered through a broad hall into
the great preacher's back parlour. They begin to arrive frequently
before breakfast, and the bell rings till long after the house is closed
for the night. There are men and women of all races, some richly
dressed, some fashionably, some very poorly. Many of them had never
spoken a word to Dr. Talmage before. They think that Talmage has only to
strike the rock to bring forth a stream of shining coins. He steps into
their midst pleasantly.
"'Well, young man,' he says to a youth of seventeen, who stands before
him. He offers the boy his hand and shakes it heartily.
"'I don't suppose you know me,' says the lad, 'but I'm in your Sunday
School. Mother thinks I should go to work and I have come to you for
advice.'
"Then follows in whispers a brief conversation about the boy himself,
his parents, his education and mode of life.
"'Now,' says the preacher, leading him by the hand to the door, 'get a
letter from your mother, and also one from your Sunday School teacher,
and one from your Day School teacher, and bring them to me. If they are
satisfactory I will give you a letter to a warm friend of mine who is
one of the largest dry goods merchants in New York. If you are able,
bright, and honest he will employ you. If you are faithful you may some
day be a member of the firm. All the world is before you, lad. Be
honest, have courage. Roll up your sleeves and go to work and you will
succeed. Goodbye!' and the door closes.
"The next caller is an old woman who wants the popular pastor to get her
husband work in the Navy Yard. No sooner is she disposed of, with a word
of comfort, than a spruce-looking young man steps forward. He is a book
agent, and his glib tongue runs so fast that the preacher subscribes for
his book without looking at it. As the agent retires a shy young girl
comes forward and asks for the preacher's autograph. It is given
cheerfully. Two old ladies of bustling activity have come to ask for
advice about opening a soup kitchen for the poor. A middle-aged man
pours out a sad story of woe. He is a hard-working carpenter. His only
daughter is inclined to be wayward. Would Dr. Talmage come round and
talk to her?
"Finally, all the callers have been heard except one young man who sits
in a corner of the room toying with his hat. He has waited patiently so
that he might have the preacher all alone. He rises as Dr. Talmage walks
over to him.
"'I am in no hurry,' he says. 'I'll wait if you want to speak to--to--to
that man over there,' pointing to me.
"'No,' is the reply. 'We are going out together soon. What can I do for
you?'
"'Well I can call again if you are too busy to talk to me now?'
"'No, I am not too busy. Speak up. I can give you ten minutes.'
"'But I want a long talk,' persists the visitor.
"'I'd like to oblige you,' says the preacher, 'but I'm very busy
to-day.'
"'I'll come to-morrow.'
"'No; I shall be busy to-morrow also.'
"'And to-night, too?'
"'Yes; my time is engaged for the entire week.'
"'Well, then,' says the young man, in a stammering way; 'I want your
advice. I'm employed in a big house in New York and I am getting a fair
salary. I have been offered a position in a rival house. Would it be
right and honourable for me to leave? I am to get a little more salary.
I must give my answer by to-morrow. I must make some excuse for leaving.
I've thought it all over and don't know what to say. My present
employers have treated me well. I want your advice.'
"The good preacher protests that it is a delicate question to put to a
stranger, even if that stranger happens to be a minister.
"'Is the firm a good one? Are you treated well? Haven't you a fair
chance? Aren't they honourable men?'
"The answer to all these questions was in the affirmative.
"'But you could tell me whether it would be right for me to do it,
and--and--if I could get a letter of recommendation from you it would
help me.'
"'Why don't you ask your mother or father for advice?'
"'They are dead.'
"'Was your mother a Christian?'
"'Yes.'
"'Then get down on your knees here and lift your face to heaven. Ask
your angel mother if you would be doing right.'
"The young man's eyes fall to the floor. He toys nervously with his hat
and backs out of the hall to the door. As he turns the knob he holds out
his right-hand to the preacher and whispers:
"'I thank you for your advice. I'll not leave my present employer.'
"Now the great preacher hastily puts on a thick overcoat and, taking a
heavy walking-stick in hand, says: 'We'll go now.' He calls a cheery
'goodbye' to Mrs. Talmage and closes the big door behind him. The air is
crispy and invigorating. Once in the street the preacher throws back his
shoulders until his form is as straight as that of an Indian. His blue
eyes look out from behind a pair of shaggy eyebrows. They snap and
sparkle like a schoolboy's. The face denotes health and strength. The
preacher is fond of walking and strides along with giant steps. The
colour quickly mounts to his cheeks and reveals a face free from lines
and full of health and manly vigour. He has noted the direction that he
is to take carefully. As he walks along the street he is noticed by
everybody. His figure is a familiar one in the streets of Brooklyn.
Nearly everybody bows to him. He has a hearty 'How are you to-day?' for
all.
"Our direction lies in a thickly-populated section, not many blocks
from the water front. It is in the tenement district where dozens of
families are huddled together in one house. We pause in front of a
rickety building and stop an urchin in the hallway, who replies to the
question that we are in the right house. Then the good Doctor pulls out
of his pocket the letter he received some hours ago from the
grief-stricken young mother whose baby was ill and who asked for aid.
"Up flight after flight of stairs we go; two storeys, three, four, five.
As we reach the landing, a tidy young woman appears. She is holding her
face in her hands and sobbing to break her heart.
"'Oh, I knew you would come,' she says, as the tears roll down her
cheeks; 'I used to go to your church, and I know how deeply your sermons
touched me. Oh! That was long ago. It was before I knew John, and before
our baby came.'
"Here the speaker broke down completely.
"'But it's all over now,' she began again.
"'John has ill-used me, and beaten me, and forced me to support him in
drunkenness. I could stand all that for my baby's sake.'
"She had sunk to the floor on her knees. She was pouring out her soul in
agony of grief.
"'Oh! my baby, my baby!' she cried piteously. 'Why were you taken? Oh,
the blow is too much! I can't stand it. Merciful Father, have I not
suffered enough?'
"She fell in a heap on the floor. The heavy breathing and sobbing
continued. We looked into the little room. It was scrupulously clean,
but barren of furniture and even the rudest comforts of a home. The
window curtains are pulled down, but a ray of bright sunlight shoots in
and lying on the apology for a bed is a babe. Its eyes are closed. Its
face is as white as alabaster. The little thin hands are folded across
its tiny breast. Its sufferings are over.
"The Angel of Death had touched its forehead with its icy finger and its
spirit had flown to the clouds.
"The end had come before the preacher could offer aid.
"What a scene it was!
"Here, in one of the biggest cities in the world, an innocent child had
died of hunger, and because its mother was too poor to pay for medical
attendance.
"A word or two was whispered in the mother's ear and we pass down the
creaking stairs to the street. The sun is shining brightly. A half-dozen
romping children are on their way home to lunch. The business of the
great city is moving briskly. It is Christmas week and the air is
redolent with the suggestions of good things to come and visions of
Kriss Kringle. Truck drivers are whipping their horses and swearing at
others in their way. An organ-grinder is playing 'Sweet violets' on a
neighbouring corner. Everyone in the streets is of smiling face and
happy."
The picture is not mine, nor could I have drawn one of myself, but it is
a sketch illustrating the almost daily experiences of a "popular"
minister, as I was called. It was estimated that my weekly sermons, in
all parts of the world, reached 180,000,000 people every Monday
morning--the year 1888. This was gratifying to a man who, in his student
days, had been told that he would never be fit to preach the Gospel in
any American pulpit. I thanked God for the great opportunity of His
blessings.
[Illustration: DR. TALMAGE AS CHAPLAIN OF THE THIRTEENTH REGIMENT.]
In the spring of 1888 I received the honour of being made chaplain of
the "Old Thirteenth" Regiment of the National Guard, with a commission
as captain, to succeed my old friend and fellow-worker, Henry Ward
Beecher, who had died. Although I was a very busy man I accepted it,
because I had always felt it my duty to be a part of any public-spirited
enterprise. On March 7th, 1888, before a vast assembly, the oath was
administered by Colonel Austen, and I received my commission. Memories
of my actual, though brief, sight of war, at Sharpsburg and Hagerstown,
where the hospitals were filled with wounded soldiers, mingled faintly
with the actual scene of peace and plenty around me at that moment. We
needed no epaulet then but the shoulder that is muscular, and we needed
no commanding officer but the steadiness of our own nerves. The
Thirteenth Regiment was at the height of its prosperity then; our band,
under the leadership of Fred Inness, was the best in the city. I
remembered it well because, in the parade on Decoration Day, I was on
horseback riding a somewhat unmusical horse. It was comforting, if not
strictly true, to read in the newspaper the following day that "Doctor
Talmage rides his horse with dash and skill."
The association of ideas in American life is a wonderful mixture of the
appropriate and the inappropriate. Because my church was crowded,
because I lived in a comfortable house, because I could become, on
occasions, a preacher on horseback, I was rated as a millionaire
clergyman. It was amusing to read about, but difficult to live up to.
There were many calculations in the newspapers as to my income. Some of
the more moderate figures were correct. My salary was $12,000 as pastor
of the Tabernacle, I have made over $20,000 a year from my lectures.
From the publication of my sermons my income was equal to my salary. I
received $5,000 a year as editor of a popular monthly; I sometimes wrote
an article that paid me $150 or more, and a single marriage fee was
often as high as $250. There were some royalties on my books.
We lived well, dressed comfortably; but there were many demands on me
then, as on all public men, and I needed all I could earn. I carried a
life insurance of $75,000. All this was a long way from being a Croesus
of the clergy, however. I mention these figures and facts because they
stimulate to me, as I hope they will to others, the possibilities of
temporal welfare in a minister's life, provided he works hard and is
faithful to the tremendous trusts of his calling.
A man's industry is the whole of that man, just as his laziness is the
end of him. I always believed heartily, profoundly, in the equality of a
man's salvation with a man's self-respect in temporal affairs. I am sure
that whoever keeps the books in Heaven credits the account of a new
arrival with the exact amount of salvation he or she has achieved,
making a due allowance for the amounts earned and paid over to the
causes of charity, kindliness, and mercy.
I always believed in the business and the religious method of the
Salvation Army, because it was an effort to discipline salvation on a
working basis. When the Salvation Army first began its meetings in
Brooklyn its members were hooted and insulted in the streets to an
extent that rendered their meetings almost impossible. I was requested
to present a petition to Mayor Whitney asking protection for them in the
streets of the city. People residing near the Salvation headquarters
were in constant danger of annoyance from the mobs that gathered about
them. It was the fault of the Brooklyn ruffianism. I demanded that the
Salvation Army be permitted to hold meetings and march in processions
unmolested. No one was ever killed by a street hosannah, no one was ever
hurt by hearing a hallelujah. The more inspiring the music the more
virile the optimism we can show, the more good we can do each other in
the climb to Paradise. A minister's duty in his own community, and in
all other communities in which he may find himself, is to make the great
men of his time understand him and like him.
A minister who could adapt himself to the lights and shadows of human
character in men of prominence enjoyed many opportunities that were
enlightening. One met them, these men of many talents, at their best at
dinners and banquets. It was then they were in their splendour.
Those dinners at the Press Club in 1888, what treat they were! In the
days of John A. Cockerill, the handsome, dashing "Colonel," as he was
called, of Mayor Grant the suave, Chauncey M. Depew the wit, of Charles
Emory Smith the conservative journalist, of Henry George the Socialist,
Moses P. Handy the "Major," of Roswell P. Flower, of Judge Henry Hilton,
of General Felix Agnus--and of Hermann, the original, the great, the
magic wonder-maker of the times. They were the leading spirits of an
army of bright men who pushed the world upside down, or rolled it over
and over, or made it stand still, according to how they felt. Mingling
with these arbiters of our fate were all sorts and conditions of men. At
one of these dinners I remember seeing Inspector Byrnes, the Sherlock
Holmes of American crime, Colonel Ochiltree, the red savage, Steven
Fiske, Samuel Carpenter, Judge David McAdam, John W. Keller, Judge
Gedney, "Pat" Gilmore, Rufus Hatch, General Horatio C. King, Frank B.
Thurber, J. Amory Knox, E.B. Harper, W.J. Arkell, Dr. Nagle, the poet
Geogheghan, Doc White, and Joseph Howard, jun. They were the old guard
of the land of Bohemia, where a minister's voice sounded good to them if
it was a voice without cant or religious hypocrisy. I remember a letter
sent by President Harrison to one of these dinners, in which, after
acknowledging the receipt of an invitation to attend, he regretted being
unable to be present at "so attractive an event."
Among the men whom I first met at this time, and who made an impression
of lasting respect upon me, was Henry Cabot Lodge. He was the guest of
General Stewart L. Woodford, at a breakfast given in his honour in the
spring of 1888 at the Hamilton Club. General Woodford invited me, among
others, to meet him. We all came--Mr. Benjamin A. Stillman, Mr. J.S.T.
Stranahan, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, Judge C.R. Pratt, ex-Mayor Schroeder,
Mr. John Winslow, president of the New England Society, Mr. George M.
Olcott, Mr. William Copeland Wallace, Colonel Albert P. Lamb, Mr.
Charles A. Moore, Mr. William B. Williams, Mr. Ethan Allen Doty, Mr.
James S. Case, Mr. T.L. Woodruff. It was a social innovation then to
arrange a gathering of this sort at 11 a.m. and call it a breakfast. It
came from England. Mr. Lodge was only in town on a visit for a few days,
chiefly, I think, to attend the annual dinner of the "Sunrise Sons," as
the members of the New England society were called. As I read these
names again, how big some of them look now, in the world's note-book of
celebrities. Some of them were just beginning to learn the pleasant
taste of ambitious careers. Most of them had discovered that ambition
was the gift of hard work. There is more health in work than in any
medicine I ever heard of.
Work is the only thing that keeps people alive. Whatever posterity may
proclaim for me, I always had the reputation of being a worker. Perhaps
for this reason I became the object of a microscopic investigation
before the people in 1888. It was the first time in my life that any
notable attention had been taken of me in my own country, that was not a
personal notoriety over some conflict of the hour. Whenever the American
newspaper begins to describe your home life with an air of analysis that
is not libellous you are among the famous. It took me a little while to
understand this. A man's private life is of such indifferent character
to himself, unless he be an official representative of the people, that
I never quite appreciated the importance given to mine, at this time, in
Brooklyn. Chiefly because I had made money as a writer, my
fellow-citizens were curious to know how, in the clerical profession, it
could be made. Articles appeared constantly in the newspapers with
headlines like these--"Dr. Talmage at Home," "In a Clergyman's Study,"
"Dr. Talmage's Wealth," "Talmage Interviewed." Nearly all of them began
with the American view point uppermost, in this fashion:
"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.