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.