1899-1900
In his study no wasted hours ever entered. With the exception of the
stenographer and his immediate family no one was admitted there. It was
his eventful laboratory where he conceived the greatest sermons of his
period. I merely quote the opinions of others, far more important than
my own, when I say this. It is a sort of haunted room to-day which I
enter not with any fear, but I can never stay in it very long. It has no
ghostly associations, it is too full of vital memories for that; but it
is a room that mystifies and silences me, not with mere regrets, for
that is sorrow, and there is nothing sad about the place to me. I can
scarcely convey the impression; it is as though I expected to see him
come in at the door at any moment and hear him call my name. The room is
empty, but it makes me feel that he has only just stepped out for a
little while. The study is at the top of the house, a long, wide,
high-ceilinged room with many windows, from which the tops of trees sway
gently in the breeze against the sky above and beyond. I spent a great
deal of time with him in it. Sometimes he would talk with me there about
the themes of his sermons which were always drawn from some need in
modern life.
With the Bible open before him he would seek for a text.
"After forty years of preaching about all the wonders of this great
Book," he would say, "I am often puzzled where to choose the text most
fitting to my sermon."
His habits were methodical in the extreme; his time punctually divided
by a fixed system of invaluable character. His inspirations were part of
his eternal spirit, but he lived face to face with time, obedient to the
law of its precision. I think of him always as of one whose genius was
unknown to himself.
We could always tell the time of day by the Doctor's habits. They were
as regular as a clock that never varies. At 7.30 to the second he was at
the breakfast table. It was exactly one o'clock when he sat down to
dinner. At 6.30 his supper was before him. Some of our household would
have preferred dining in the evening, but in that case the Doctor would
have dined alone, which was out of the question.
Every day of his life, excepting Friday, Saturday and Sunday, the Doctor
walked five miles. In bad weather he went out muffled and booted like a
sailor on a stormy sea. His favourite walk was always from our house to
the Capitol, around the Library of Congress and back. He never varied
this walk for he had no bump of locality, and he was afraid of losing
his way. If he strayed from the beaten path into any one of the
beautiful squares in Washington he was sure to have to ask a policeman
how to get home.
Fridays and Saturdays Dr. Talmage spent entirely in his study, dictating
his sermons. How many miles he walked these days he himself never knew,
but all day long he tramped back and forth the length of his study,
composing and expounding in a loud voice the sermon of the week. He
could be heard all over the house. We had a new servant once who came
rushing downstairs to my room one morning in great fear.
"Mrs. Talmage, ma'am, there is a crazy man in that room on the top
floor," she cried. She had not seen nor heard the Doctor, and did not
know that that room was his study. On these weekend days we always drove
after dark. An open carriage was at the door by 8 o'clock, and no matter
what the weather might be we had our drive. In the dead of winter,
wrapped in furs and rugs, we have driven in an open carriage just as if
it were summer. Usually we went up on Capitol Hill because the Doctor
was fond of the view from that height.
My share in the Doctor's labours were those of a watchful companion, who
appreciated his genius, but could give it no greater light than sympathy
and admiration. Occasionally he would ask me to select the hymns for the
services, and this I did as well as I could. Sunday was the great day of
the week to me. It has never been the same since the Doctor died. Our
friendships were always mutual, and we shared them with equal pleasure.
The Doctor's friendship with President McKinley was an intimate mutual
association that ended only with the great national disaster of the
President's assassination. Very often, we walked over in the morning to
the White House to call on the President for an informal chat. A little
school friend, who was visiting my daughter that winter, told my husband
how anxious she was to see a President.
"Come on with me, I will show you a real President," said Dr. Talmage
one morning, and over we went to the White House. While we were talking
with the President, Mrs. McKinley came in from a drive and sent word
that she wished to see us.
"I want to show you the President's library and bedroom," she said,
"that you may see how a President lives." Then she took us upstairs and
showed us their home.
While we did not keep open house, there was always someone dropping in
to take dinner or supper informally, and I was somewhat surprised when
Dr. Talmage told me one day that he thought we ought to give some sort
of entertainment in return for our social obligations. It was not quite
like him to remember or think of such things. On January 23, 1899, we
gave an evening reception, to which over 300 people came. It was the
first social affair of consequence the Doctor had ever given in his
house in Washington.
My husband's memory for names was so uncertain that when he introduced
me to people he tactfully mumbled. On this occasion Senator Gorman very
kindly stood near me to identify the people for me. I remember a very
dapper, very little man in evening clothes, who was passed on to me by
the Doctor, with the usual unintelligible introduction, and I had just
begun to make myself agreeable when, pointing to a medal on his coat,
the little man said:
"I am the only woman in the United States who has been honoured with one
of these medals."
I was very much mystified and looked up helplessly at Senator Gorman,
who relieved me at once by saying, "Mrs. Talmage, this is the celebrated
Dr. Mary Walker, of whom you have heard so often."
It was difficult for Dr. Talmage to assimilate the social obligations
of life with the broader demands of his life mission, which seemed to
constantly extend and increase in scope into the far distances of the
world. More and more evident it became that the candlestick of his
religious doctrine could no longer be maintained in one church, or in
one pulpit. The necessity of breaking engagements out of town so as to
be in Washington every Sunday became irksome to him. He felt that he
could do better in the purposes of his usefulness as a preacher if he
were to bear the candle of his Gospel in a candlestick he could carry
everywhere himself. I confess that I was not sorry when he reached this
decision and submitted his resignation to the First Presbyterian Church
in the spring of 1899, after our return from a short vacation in
Florida.
On our trip South I remember Admiral Schley was on the train with us
part of the way. The Admiral told the Doctor the whole story of the
Santiago victory, and commented upon the official investigation of the
affair. My husband was very fond of him, and his comment was summed up
in his reassuring answer to the Admiral--"But you were there."
It was during our stay in Florida that Dr. Talmage and Joseph Jefferson,
the actor, renewed their acquaintance. The Doctor never saw him act
because he had made it a rule after he entered the ministry in his youth
never to go to the theatre to see a play. In crossing the ocean he had
frequently appeared with stage celebrities, at the usual entertainments
given on board ship for the benefit of seamen, and in this way had made
some friends among actors. He was particularly fond of Madame Modjeska,
whom he had met on the steamer, and whose character and spirit he
greatly admired.
Jefferson was a great fisherman, and most of his day was spent on the
water or on the pier. There we used to meet him, and he and Dr. Talmage
would exchange reminiscences, serious and ludicrous. One of the Doctor's
favourite stories was an account of a terrific fight he saw in India,
between a mongoose and a cobra. Mr. Jefferson also had a story, a sort
of parody of this, which described a man in _delirium tremens_ watching
in imaginary terror a similar fight. Years before this, when the Doctor
had delivered his famous sermon in Brooklyn against the stage, Jefferson
was among the actors who went to hear him. Recalling this incident, Mr.
Jefferson said:--
"When I entered that church to hear your sermon, Doctor, I hated you.
When I left the church, I loved you." He talked very little of the
theatre, and seemed to regard his stage career with less importance than
he did his love of painting. He never grew tired of this subject.
When we were leaving Palm Beach, Mr. Jefferson said to me, "I know Dr.
Talmage won't come and see me act, but when I am in Washington I will
send you a box, and I hope the Doctor will let you come."
Dr. Talmage's resignation from his church in Washington took place in
March, 1899. I quote his address to the Presbytery because it was a
momentous event occurring in the gloaming of what seemed to us all,
then, the prime of his life:
"March 3, 1899.
"To the Session of the First Presbyterian Church of Washington.
"Dear Friends--
"The increasing demands made upon me by religious journalism, and
the continuous calls for more general work in the cities, have of
late years caused frequent interruption of my pastoral work. It is
not right that this condition of affairs should further continue.
Besides that, it is desirable that I have more opportunity to meet
face to face, in religious assemblies, those in this country and in
other countries to whom I have, through the kindness of the printing
press, been permitted to preach week by week, and without the
exception of a week, for about thirty years. Therefore, though very
reluctantly, I have concluded, after serving you nearly four years
in the pastoral relation, to send this letter of resignation....
"T. DEWITT TALMAGE."
I had rather expected that the Doctor's release from his church would
have had the desired effect of reducing his labours, but he never
accomplished less than the allotment of his utmost strength. Rest was a
problem he never solved, and he did not know what it meant. My life had
not been idle by any means, but it seemed to me that the Doctor's
working hours were without end. When I told him this, he would say:--
"Why, Eleanor, I am not working hard at all now. This is very tame
compared to what I have done in the years gone by."
His weekly sermon was always put in the mail on Saturday night, as also
his weekly editorials. Sunday the sermon was preached, and on Monday
morning the syndicate of newspapers in this country printed it. He made
always two copies of his sermon. One he sent to his editorial offices in
New York, the other was delivered to the _Washington Post_. I was told a
little while ago that a prominent preacher called on the editor of this
newspaper and asked him to publish one of his own sermons. This was
refused, even when the aforesaid preacher offered to pay for the
privilege.
"But you print Talmage's sermons!" said the preacher.
"We do," replied the editor, "because we find that our readers demand
them. We tried to do without them, but we could not."
Dr. Talmage's acquaintance with men of national reputation was very
wide, but he never seemed to consider their friendship greater than any
others. He was a great hero worshipper himself, always impressed by a
man who had done something in the world. There was a great deal of
praise being bestowed about this time on Mr. Carnegie's library gifts.
Dr. Talmage admired the Scottish-American immensely, having formed his
acquaintance while crossing the ocean. Five or six years later, during
the winter of 1899, the Doctor met him in one of the rooms of the White
House. He tells this anecdote in his own words, as follows:--
"I was glad I was present that day, when Mr. Andrew Carnegie decided
upon the gift of a library to the city of Washington. I was in one
of the rooms of the White House talking with Governor Lowndes, of
Maryland, and Mr. B.H. Warner, of Washington, who was especially
interested in city libraries. Mr. Carnegie entered at the opposite
end of the room. We greeted each other with heartiness, not having
met since we crossed the ocean together some time before. I asked
Mr. Carnegie to permit me to introduce him to some friends. After
each introduction the conversation immediately turned upon
libraries, as Mr. Carnegie was then constantly presenting them in
this and other lands. Before the conversation ended that day, Mr.
Carnegie offered $250,000 for a Washington library. I have always
felt very happy at having had anything to do with that interview,
which resulted so gloriously."
Dr. Talmage's opinions upon the aftermath of the Spanish war were widely
quoted at this time.
"The fact is this war ought never to have occurred," he said. "We
have had the greatest naval officer of this century, Admiral Schley,
assailed for disobeying orders, and General Shatter denounced for
being too fat and wanting to retreat, and General Wheeler attacked
because of something else. We are all tired of this investigating
business. I never knew a man in Church or State to move for an
investigating committee who was not himself somewhat of a hypocrite.
The question is what to do with the bad job we have on hand. I say,
educate and evangelise those islands."
As he wrote he usually talked, and these words are recollections of the
subjects he talked over with me in his quieter study hours. They were
virile talks, abreast of the century hurrying to its close, full of
cheerfulness, faith, and courage for the future.
He was particularly distressed and moved by the death of Chief Justice
Field, in April, 1899. It was his custom to read his sermons to me in
his study before preaching. He chose for his sermon on April 16, the
decease of the great jurist, and his text was Zachariah xi, 2: "Howl fir
tree, for the cedar has fallen." Many no doubt remember this sermon, but
no one can realise the depths of feeling with which the Doctor read it
to me in the secret corner of his workroom at home. But his heart was in
every sermon. He said when he resigned from his church:--
"The preaching of the Gospel has always been my chosen work, I believe
I was called to it, and I shall never abandon it."
During this season in Washington we gave a few formal dinners. My
husband wished it, and he was a cheerful, magnetic host, though he
accepted few invitations to dinner himself. No wine was served at these
dinners, and yet they were by no means dull or tiresome. Our guests were
men of ideas, men like Justice Brewer, Speaker Reed, Senator Burrows,
Justice Harlan, Vice-President Fairbanks, Governor Stone, and Senators
who have since become members of the old guard. It was said in
Washington at the time that Dr. Talmage's dinner parties were
delightful, because they were ostensible opportunities to hear men talk
who had something to say. The Doctor was liberal-minded about
everything, but his standards of conduct were the laws of his life that
no one could jeopardise or deny.
A very prominent society woman came to Dr. Talmage one day to ask the
favour that he preach a temperance sermon for the benefit of Sir Wilfrid
Laurier, whom she wanted to interest in temperance legislation. She
promised to bring him to the Doctor's church for that purpose.
"Madame, I shall be very glad to have Sir Wilfrid Laurier attend my
church," said the Doctor, "but I never preach at anybody. Your request
is something I cannot agree to." The lady was a personal friend, and she
persisted. Finally the Doctor said to her:
"Mrs. G----, my wife and I are invited to meet Sir Wilfrid Laurier at a
dinner in your house next week. Will you omit the wines at that dinner?"
The lady admitted that that would be impossible.
"Then you see, Madame, how difficult it would be for me to alter my
principles as a preacher." In May, 1899, Dr. Talmage and I left
Washington and went to East Hampton--alone. Contrary to his usual custom
of closing his summer home between seasons, the Doctor had allowed a
minister and his family to live there for three months. Diphtheria had
developed in the family during that time and the Doctor ordered
everything in the house to be burned, and the walls scraped. So the
whole house had to be refurnished, and the Doctor and I together
selected the furniture. It was a joyous time, it was like redecorating
our lives with a new charm and sentiment that was intimately beautiful
and refreshing. I remember the tenderness with which the Doctor showed
me a place on the door of the barn where his son DeWitt, who died, had
carved his initials. He would never allow that spot to be touched, it
was sacred to the memory of what was perhaps the most absorbing
affection of his life. He always called East Hampton his earthly
paradise, which to him meant a busy Utopia. He was very fond of the sea
bathing, and his chief recreation was running on the beach. He was 65
years old, yet he could run like a young man. These few weeks were a
memorable vacation.
In June, Dr. Talmage made an engagement to attend the 60th commencement
exercises of the Erskine Theological College in Due West, South
Carolina. This is the place where secession was first planned, as it is
also the oldest Presbyterian centre in the United States. We were the
guests of Dr. Grier, the president of the college. It was known that
Rev. David P. Pressly, Presbyterian patriarch and graduate of this
college, had been my father's pastor in Pittsburg, and this association
added some interest to my presence in Due West with the Doctor. The Rev.
E.P. Lindsay, my brother's pastor in Pittsburg, had also been born
there, and his mother, when I met her in 1899, was still a vigorous
Secessionist. Her greatest disappointment was the fact that her son had
abandoned the sentiments of Secession and had gone to preach in a
Northern church. She told us that she had once hidden Jefferson Davis in
her house for three days. Due West was a quiet little village inhabited
by some rich people who lived comfortably on their plantations. The
graduating class of the college were entertained at dinner by Dr. Grier
and the Doctor. There was a great deal of comment upon the physical
vigour and strength of Dr. Talmage's address, most of which reached me.
A gentleman who was present was reminded of the remarkable energy of the
Rev. Dr. Pressly, who preached for over fifty years, and was married
three times. When asked about his health, Dr. Pressly always throughout
his life made the same reply, "Never better; never better." After he had
won his third wife, however, he used to reply to this question with
greater enthusiasm than before, saying, "Better than ever; better than
ever." Another resident of Due West, who had heard both the Booths in
their prime, said, "Talmage has more dramatic power than I ever saw in
Booth." This visit to Due West will always remain in my memory as full
of sunshine and warmth as the days were themselves.
We returned to East Hampton for a few days, and on July 4, 1899, the
Doctor delivered an oration to an immense crowd in the auditorium at
Ocean Grove. This was the beginning of a summer tour of Chautauquas,
first in Michigan, then up the lakes near Mackinaw Island, and later to
Jamestown, New York.
In the Fall of 1899 we made a trip South, including Nashville, Memphis,
Chattanooga, Birmingham, and New Orleans. One remarkable feature of Dr.
Talmage's public life was the way in which he was sought as the man of
useful opinions upon subjects that were not related to the pulpit. He
was always being interviewed upon political and local issues, and his
views were scattered broadcast, as if he were himself an official of
national affairs. He never failed to be ahead of the hour. He regarded
the affairs of men as the basis of his evangelical purpose. The Spanish
war ended, and his views were sought about the future policy in the
East. The Boer war came, and his opinions of that issue were published.
Nothing moved in or out of the world of import, during these last
milestones of his life, that he was not asked about its coming and its
going. His readiness to penetrate the course of events, to wrap them in
the sacred veil of his own philosophy and spiritual fabric, combined to
make him one of the foremost living characters of his time.
Dr. Talmage was the most eager human being I ever knew, eager to see, to
feel the heart of all humanity. I remember we arrived in Birmingham,
Alabama, the day following the disaster that visited that city after the
great cyclone. The first thing the Doctor did on our arrival was to get
a carriage and drive through those sections of the city that had
suffered the most. It was a gruesome sight, with so many bodies lying
about the streets awaiting burial. But that was his grasp of life, his
indomitable energy, always alert to see and hear the laws of nature at
close range.
We were entertained a great deal through the South, where I believe my
husband had the warmest friends and a more cordial appreciation than in
any other part of the country. There was no lack of excitement in this
life that I was leading at the elbow of the great preacher, and
sometimes he would ask me if the big crowds did not tire me. To him they
were the habit of his daily life, a natural consequence of his industry.
However, I think he always found me equal to them, always happy to be
near him where I could see and hear all.
In October of this year we returned to Washington, when the
Pan-Presbyterian Council was in session, and we entertained them at a
reception in our house till late in the evening. The International Union
of Women's Foreign Missionary Societies of the Presbyterian and Reformed
Churches were also meeting in Washington at this time, and they came. At
one of the meetings of the Council Dr. Talmage invited them all to his
house from the platform in his characteristic way.
"Come all," he said, "and bring your wives with you. God gave Eve to
Adam so that when he lost Paradise he might be able to stand it. She was
taken out of man's side that she might be near the door of his heart,
and have easy access to his pockets. Therefore, come, bringing the
ladies with you. My wife and I shall not be entertaining angels
unawares, but knowing it all the while. To have so much piety and brain
under one roof at once, even for an hour or two, will be a benediction
to us all the rest of our lives. I believe in the communion of saints as
much as I believe in the life everlasting."
In November, 1899, Dr. Talmage installed the Rev. Donald McLeod as
succeeding pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Washington, and
delivered the installation address, the subject of which was,
"Invitation to Outsiders." There had been some effort to inspire the
people of Washington to build an independent Tabernacle for the Doctor
after his resignation, but he himself was not in sympathy with the
movement because of the additional labour and strain it would have put
upon him.
As the winter grew into long, gray days, we were already planning a trip
to Europe for the following year of 1900, and we were anticipating this
event with eager expectancy as the time grew near.