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.
On this last visit that I speak of, a young man connected with the
Phoenix Hotel, Lexington, where Senator Beck lived much of the time, and
where he entertained me, told me that on the morning of the day that
Senator Beck went with me to High Bridge he had been standing in that
hotel among a group of men who were assailing Christianity, and
expressing surprise that Senator Beck was going to High Bridge to hear a
sermon. When we got to the hotel that afternoon the same group of men
were standing together, and were waiting to hear the Senator's report of
the service, and hoping to get something to the disadvantage of
religion. My informant heard them say to him, "Well, how was it?" The
Senator replied, "Doctor Talmage proved the truth of the Bible as by a
mathematical demonstration. Now talk to me no more on that subject."
On Sunday morning I returned to High Bridge for another preaching
service. Governor Blackburn again took us in his especial car. The word
"immensity" may give adequate idea of the audience present. Then the
Governor insisted that I go with him to Frankfort and spend a few days.
They were memorable days to me. At breakfast, lunch and dinner the
prominent people of Kentucky were invited to meet me. Mrs. Blackburn
took me to preach to her Bible Class in the State Prison. I think there
were about 800 convicts in that class. Paul would have called her "The
elect lady," "Thoroughly furnished unto all good works." Heaven only can
tell the story of her usefulness. What days and nights they were at the
Governor's Mansion. No one will ever understand the heartiness and
generosity and warmth of Kentucky hospitality until he experiences it.
President Arthur was coming through Lexington on his way to open an
Exposition at Louisville. Governor Blackburn was to go to Lexington to
receive him and make a speech. The Governor read me the speech in the
State House before leaving Frankfort, and asked for my criticism. It was
an excellent speech about which I made only one criticism, and that
concerning a sentence in which he praised the beautiful women and the
fine horses of Kentucky. I suggested that he put the human and the
equine subjects of his admiration in different sentences, and this
suggestion he adopted.
We started for Lexington and arrived at the hotel. Soon the throngs in
the streets showed that the President of the United States was coming.
The President was escorted into the parlour to receive the address of
welcome, and seeing me in the throng, he exclaimed, "Dr. Talmage! Are
you here? It makes me feel at home to see you." The Governor put on his
spectacles and began to read his speech, but the light was poor, and he
halted once or twice for a word, when I was tempted to prompt him, for I
remembered his speech better than he did himself.
That day I bade good-bye to Governor Blackburn, and I saw him two or
three times after that, once in my church in Brooklyn and once in
Louisville lecture hall, where he stood at the door to welcome me as I
came in from New Orleans on a belated train at half-past nine o'clock at
night when I ought to have begun my lecture at 8 o'clock; and the last
time I saw him he was sick and in sad decadence and near the terminus of
an eventful life. One of my brightest anticipations of Heaven is that of
seeing my illustrious Kentucky friend.
That experience at Frankfort was one of the many courtesies I have
received from all the leading men of all the States. I have known many
of the Governors, and Legislatures, when I have looked in upon them,
have adjourned to give me reception, a speech has always been called
for, and then a general hand-shaking has followed. It was markedly so
with the Legislatures of Ohio and Missouri. At Jefferson City, the
capital of Missouri, both Houses of Legislature adjourned and met
together in the Assembly Room, which was the larger place, and then the
Governor introduced me for an address.
It is a satisfaction to be kindly treated by the prominent characters of
your own time. I confess to a feeling of pleasure when General Grant, at
the Memorial Services at Greenwood--I think the last public meeting he
ever attended, and where I delivered the Memorial Address on Decoration
Day--said that he had read with interest everything that appeared
connected with my name. President Arthur, at the White House one day,
told me the same thing.
Whenever by the mysterious laws of destiny I found myself in the cave of
the winds of displeasure, there always came to me encouraging echoes
from somewhere. I find among my papers at this time a telegram from the
Russian Ambassador in Washington, which illustrates this idea.