1900-1901
So much has been written about Dr. Talmage the world over, that I am
tempted to tell those things about him that have not been written, but
it is difficult to do. He stood always before the people a sort of
radiant mystery to them. He was never really understood by those whom he
most influenced. A writer in an English newspaper has given the best
description of his appearance in 1900 I ever saw. It is so much better
than any I could make that I quote it, regretting that I do not know the
author's name:--
"A big man, erect and masterful in spite of advancing years, with an
expressive and mobile mouth that seems ever smiling, and with great and
speaking eyes which proclaim the fervent soul beneath."
This portrait is very true, with a suggestion of his nature that makes
it a faithful transcript of his presence. It is a picture of him at 66
years of age. His strength overwhelmed people, and yet he was very
simple, easily affected by the misfortunes of others, direct in all his
impressions; but no one could take him by surprise, because his faith in
the eternal redemption of all trials was beyond the ways of the world.
His optimism was simple Christianity. He always said he believed there
was as great a number out of the Church as there was in it that followed
the teaching of Christianity. He was among the believers, with his
utmost energy alert to save and comfort the unbelievers. He believed in
everything and everyone. The ingenuousness of his nature was childlike
in its unchallenged faith and its tender instincts. His unworldliness
was almost legendary in its belief of human nature. I remember he was
asked once whether he believed in Santa Claus, and in his own beautiful
imagery he said:
"I believe in Santa Claus. Haven't I listened when I was a boy and
almost heard those bells on the reindeer; haven't I seen the marks in
the snow where the sleigh stopped at the door and old Santa jumped out?
I believed in him then and I believe in him now--believe that children
should be allowed to believe in the beautiful mythical tale. It never
hurt anyone, and I think one of the saddest memories of my childhood is
of a day when an older brother told me there was no Santa Claus. I
didn't believe him at first, and afterwards when I saw those delightful
mysterious bundles being sneaked into the house, way down deep in my
heart I believed that Santa Claus as well as my father and mother had
something to do with it."
In the last years of his life music became the greatest pleasure to Dr.
Talmage. An accumulation of work made it necessary for me to engage a
secretary. We were fortunate in securing a young lady who was an
exquisite pianist. In the evening she would play Liszt's rhapsodies for
the Doctor, who enjoyed the Hungarian composer most of all. He said to
me once that he felt as if music in his study, when he was at work,
would be a great inspiration. So my Christmas present to him that year
was a musical box, which he kept in his study.
The three months preceding our trip to Europe were spent in the usual
busy turmoil of social and public life. In truth we were very full of
our plans for the European tour, which was to be devoted to preaching by
Dr. Talmage, and to show me the places he had seen and people he had met
on previous visits. There was something significant in the welcome and
the ovations which my husband received over there. Neither the Doctor
nor myself ever dreamed that it would be his farewell visit. And yet it
seems to me now that he was received everywhere in Europe as if they
expected it to be his last.
I must confess that we looked forward to our jaunt across the water so
eagerly that the events of the preceding months did not seem very
important. With Dr. Talmage I went on his usual lecture trip West,
stopping in Chicago, where the Doctor preached in his son's church.
Everywhere we were invited to be the guests of some prominent resident
of the town we were in. It had been so with Dr. Talmage for years. He
always refused, however, because he felt that his time was too
imperative a taskmaster. For thirty years he had never visited anyone
over night, until he went to my brother's house in Pittsburg. But we
were constantly meeting old friends of his, friends of many years, in
every stopping place of our journeys. I remember particularly one of
these characteristic meetings which took place in New York, where the
Doctor, had gone to preach one Sunday. We had just entered the Waldorf
Hotel, where we were stopping, when a little man stepped up to the
Doctor and began picking money off his coat. He seemed to find it all
over him. Dr. Talmage laughed, and introduced me to Marshall P. Wilder.
"Dr. Talmage started me in life," said Mr. Wilder, and proceeded to tell
me how the Doctor had filled him with optimism and success. He was
always doing this, gripping young men by the shoulders and shaking them
into healthful life. And then men of political or national prominence
were always seeking him out, to gain a little dynamic energy and balance
from the Doctor's storehouse of experience and philosophy. He was a
giant of helpfulness and inspiration, to everyone who came into contact
with him.
In January we dined with Governor Stone at the executive mansion in
Harrisburg, where Dr. Talmage went to preach, and on our return from
Europe Governor Stone insisted upon giving us a great reception and
welcome. Of course, those years were stirring and enjoyable, and never
to be forgotten. The reflected glory is a personal pleasure after all.
In April, 1900, we sailed on the "Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse" bound for
London. The two points of interest the Doctor insisted upon making in
Europe were the North Cape, to see the Midnight Sun, and the Passion
Play at Ober-Ammergau. Hundreds of invitations had been sent to him to
preach abroad, many of which he accepted, but he could not be persuaded
to lecture.
There was never a jollier, more electric companion _de voyage_ than Dr.
Talmage during the whole of his trip. He was the life of the party,
which included his daughter, Miss Maud Talmage, and my daughter, Miss
Rebekah Collier.
On a very stormy Sunday, on board ship going over, Dr. Talmage preached,
holding on to a pillar in the cabin. There were some who wondered how
he escaped the tortures of _mal-de-mer_, from which he had always
suffered. It was a family secret. Once, when crossing with Mrs.
Vanderbilt, she had given Dr. Talmage an opium plaster, which was
absolute proof against the disagreeable consequences of ocean travel.
With the aid of this plaster the Doctor's poise was perfect.
Disembarking at Southampton we did not reach London until 3 a.m., going
to the hotel somewhat the worse for wear. Temporarily we stopped at the
Langham, moving later to the Metropole. Before lunch the same day the
Doctor drove to Westminster Abbey to see the grave of Gladstone. It was
his first thought, his first duty. It had been his custom for many years
to visit the graves of his friends whenever he could be near them. It
was a characteristic impulse of Dr. Talmage's to follow to the edge of
eternity those whom he had known and liked. When he was asked in England
what he had come to do there, he said:
"I am visiting Europe with the hope of reviving old friendships and
stimulating those who have helped me in the old gospel of kindness."
His range of vision was always from the Gospel point of view, not
necessarily denominational. I remember he was asked, while in England,
if there was an organisation in America akin to the Evangelical Council
of Free Churches, and he said, while there was no such body, "there was
a common platform in the United States upon almost every subject."
The principal topic in England then was the Boer War, which aroused so
much hostility in our country. The Doctor's sympathies were with the
Boers, but he tactfully evaded any public expression of them in England,
although he was interviewed widely on the subject. He never believed in
rumours that were current, that the United States would interfere in
the Transvaal, and prophesied that the American Government would not do
so--"remembering their common origin."
"The great need in America," he said, "is of accurate information about
the Transvaal affairs. A great many Democratic politicians are trying to
make Presidential capital out of the Boer disturbances, but it is
doubtful how far these politicians will be permitted to dictate the
policy of even their own party."
I remember the candidature for President of Admiral Dewey was discussed
with Dr. Talmage, who had no very emphatic views about the matter,
except to declare Admiral Dewey's tremendous popularity, and to
acknowledge his support by the good Democrats of the country. The Doctor
was convinced however that Mr. McKinley would be the next President at
this time.
The first service in England which Dr. Talmage conducted was in
Cavendish Chapel at Manchester. The next was at Albert Hall in
Nottingham, under the auspices of the Y.M.C.A. He was described in the
Nottingham newspapers as the "most alive man in the United States." A
great crowd filled the hall at Nottingham, and as usual he was compelled
to hold an open-air meeting afterwards. The first lecture he ever
delivered in England was given in this place twenty-one years before.
Nothing interfered with the routine of the Doctor's habits of industry
during all this European trip. He had taken over with him the proofs of
about 20 volumes of his selected sermons for correction, and all his
spare moments were spent in perfecting and revising these books for the
printer. His sermons were the only monument he wished to leave to
posterity. It has caused me the deepest regret that these books have not
been perpetuated as he so earnestly wished. In addition to this work he
wrote his weekly sermon for the syndicate, employing stenographers
wherever he might be in Europe two days every week for that purpose. And
yet he never lost interest in the opportunities of travel, eagerly
planning trips to the old historic places near by.
Near Nottingham is the famous Byron country which Dr. Talmage had never
found time to visit when he was in Europe before. We were told, at the
hotel in Nottingham, that no visitors were allowed inside Newstead
Abbey, so that when we ordered a carriage to drive there the hotel
people shrugged their shoulders at what they regarded as our American
irreverence. The rain was coming down in torrents when we started, the
Doctor more than ever determined to overthrow British custom in his
quiet, positive way. Through slush and mud, under dripping trees, across
country landscapes veiled in the tender mist of clouds, we finally
arrived at the Abbey. The huge outer gates were open, but the driver,
with proper British respect for the law, stopped his horses. The Doctor
leaned his head out of the carriage window and told him to drive into
the grounds. Obediently he did so, and at last we reached the great
heavy doors of the entrance. Dr. Talmage jumped out and boldly rang the
bell. A sentry appeared to inform us that no one was allowed inside the
Abbey.
"But we have come all the way from America to see this place," the
Doctor urged. The sentry, with wooden militarism, was adamant.
"Is there no one inside in authority?" the Doctor finally asked. Then
the housekeeper was called. She told us that the Abbey belonged to an
Army officer and his wife, that her master was away at the war in South
Africa where his wife had gone with him, and that her orders were
imperative.
"Look here, just let us see the lower floor," said Dr. Talmage; "we have
come all the way from New York to see this place," and he slipped two
sovereigns into her hand. Still she was unmoved. My daughter, who was
then about 14, was visibly disappointed. England was to her hallowed
ground, and she was keenly anxious to walk in the footsteps of all its
romance, which she had eagerly absorbed in history. Turning to the
Doctor, she said, almost tearfully:
"Why, Doctor Talmage, how can they refuse you?"
The housekeeper caught the name.
"Who did you say this was?" she asked.
"Doctor Talmage," said my daughter.
"Dr. Talmage, I was just reading the sermon you preached on Sunday in
the Nottingham newspaper, I am sure if my mistress were at home she
would be glad to receive you. Come in, come in!"
So we saw Newstead Abbey. The housekeeper insisted that we should stay
to tea, and made us enter our names in the visitors' book, and asked the
Doctor to write his name on a card, saying, "I will send this to my
mistress in South Africa."
In the effort to remember many of the details of our stay in England and
Scotland, I find it necessary to take refuge for information in my
daughter's diary. It amused Dr. Talmage very much as he read it page by
page. I find this entry made in Manchester, where she was not well
enough to attend church:--
"Sunday, A.M.--Doctor Talmage preached and I was disappointed that I
could not go. The people went wild about the Doctor, and he had to make
an address after church out-of-doors for those who could not get inside.
Several policemen stood around the church door to keep away the crowd.
I saw the High Sheriff driving home from church. He was inside a coach
that looked as though it had been drawn out of a fairy tale--a huge
coach painted red and gold, with crowns or something like them at each
of the four corners. Two footmen dressed in George III. liveries were
hanging behind by ribbons, and two on the box, all wearing powdered
wigs. To be sure, I didn't see much of the Sheriff, but then the coach
was the real show after all."
Many of the details of the side trips which we made through England and
Scotland have escaped my memory. In looking over my daughter's diary I
find them amplified in the manner of girlhood, now lightly touched with
fancy, now solemn with historical responsibility, now charmed with the
glamour of romance. Dr. Talmage thought so well of them that they will
serve to show the trail of his footsteps through the gateways of
ancestral England.
We went to Haddon Hall with Dr. Wrench, physician to the Duke of
Devonshire. We drove from Bakewell. In this part of my daughter's diary
I read:--
"It was a most beautiful drive. Derbyshire is called the Switzerland of
England. The hills were quite high and beautifully wooded, and our drive
lay along the river's edge--a brook we would call it in the States, but
it is a river here--and winds in and out and through the fields and
around the foot of the highest hill of all, called the Peak of
Derbyshire. We passed picturesque little farmhouses, built of square
blocks of rough, grey stone covered with ivy. We drove between hawthorn
hedges, through beautiful green fields and orchards. From the midst of a
little forest of grand old trees we caught sight of the highest tower of
the castle, then we crossed over a little stone bridge and passed
through the gates. Another short drive across the meadow and we stopped
at the foot of a little hill, looking up at Haddon Hall.
"We walked up to the castle and stood before the great iron-studded oak
door, which has been there since the days of Queen Elizabeth. It had not
been opened for years, but a smaller one had been cut in it through
which visitors passed. For over 200 years no one had lived in the
castle. It was built by the Normans and given by William the Conqueror
to one of his Norman Barons. Finally by marriage it became the property
of Sir George Vernon, who had two daughters, famous for their beauty.
Margaret Vernon married a Stanley, and on the night of the wedding
Dorothy Vernon eloped with Mr. John Manners. The story is very romantic.
The ballroom from which Dorothy stole away when the wedding party was at
its height is still just as it was then, excepting for the furniture.
From the windows you can see the little stone bridge where Manners
waited for her with the horses. Haddon Hall became the property of
Dorothy Manners and has remained in the hands of the Rutland family,
being now owned by the Duke of Rutland.
"That is the romance of Haddon Hall, but one could make up a hundred to
oneself when one walks through the different rooms. What a queer feeling
it gives me to go through the old doorways, to stop and look through the
queer little windows, and on the courtyard, wondering who used, long
ago, to look out of the same windows. I wonder what they saw going on in
the courtyard?
"We climbed to the top of the highest tower. The stairway wound upward
with stone steps about three feet high cut out of the wall. At intervals
we found little square rooms, very possibly where the men at arms
slept. What a view at the top! The towers and roofs and courtyards of
the castle lay before us. All around us the lovely English country, and
as far as the eye could see, hills, woodland, and the winding river. It
was glorious. Maud and I danced a two-step in the ballroom.
"If stones could only talk! Well, if they could I should want a long
confab with each one in the old courtyard of Haddon Hall. Who can tell,
William the Conqueror himself may have stepped on some of them."
We drove from Haddon Hall to the Peacock Inn for luncheon, going over to
Chatsworth for the afternoon. Again I turn a few leaves of the diary:
"Chatsworth is one of the homes of the Duke of Devonshire. The park is
fourteen miles across and I don't know how big it is, but Dr. Wrench
told me the number of acres, and I think it was three or four thousand.
We drove five miles through the park before reaching the gates of
Chatsworth--shall I call it house or castle? I have pictures of it, and
it is a good thing for I could not describe it. Dr. Wrench, being the
Duke's physician, was able to take us through the private rooms. On
entering the Hall, a broad marble staircase leads to the corridors
above, from which others branch out through different parts of the
house. We walked miles, it seems, until we got to the Duke's private
library. When you are once in the room the doors are shut. You cannot
tell how you got in or how you will get out. On every wall the bookcases
are built in and there is not an opening of any kind; not a break in the
rows and rows of books. The explanation is simply this: the doors
themselves are made to look like book shelves, painted on.
"Chatsworth is so large that were I living there I should want a Cook's
guide every time I moved. One picture gallery is full of sketches by
Hogarth, and pictures of almost every old master you ever heard of, and
some you never heard of. Opening out of this gallery are great glass
doors leading into halls into which the different bedrooms open. In one
bedroom the walls and ceiling were covered with oil paintings, not
hanging but literally painted on them. The bed was a huge four-poster.
The curtains were of heavy brocaded satin. The windows looked out on
terraces, garden and fountains. I like this room best of all. We were
taken through the state apartments where I saw on a throne a huge chair
of state on a platform, with canopy over it, with the Duke's crest in
gold woven upon it. In one of the drawing-rooms we saw a life-size
portrait of Henry VIII., a real true one painted from life, and one of
Philip II. of Spain, and of Charles V., and of Anne of Austria. The Duke
had sent special word from London to have the fountains in the park play
for us, and we watched them from the window. They are beautiful. Such
nice shower baths for the marble statues on the terrace!
"The Prince of Wales has often visited Chatsworth, and a funny story was
told about one of his visits. It was after dinner and the drawing-room
was full of people. Whenever Royalty is present it is expected that the
men will wear all their decorations. Well, the Earl of Something-or-other
had forgotten one of his, and someone reported this fact to the Prince
who sent for the culprit to be brought before him. At the time the
Prince was seated on one of the huge lounges, on which only a giant
could sit and keep his feet on the floor. The Prince was sitting far
back and his feet stuck straight out in the air. When the guilty man was
brought up to be reprimanded the attitude of the Prince was far from
dignified. His Royal Highness was not really angry, but he told the poor
Earl of Something-or-other that he must write out the oath of the Order
that he had forgotten to wear. It was a long oath and the Earl's memory
was not so long."
We went from Nottingham to Glasgow. The date, I find, is May 1, 1900. It
was always Dr. Talmage's custom to visit the cemetery first, so we drove
out to the grave of John Knox. In Glasgow the Doctor preached at the
Cowcaddens Free Church to the usual crowded congregation, and he was
compelled to address an overflow meeting from the steps of the church
after the regular service. The best part of Dr. Talmage's holiday moods,
which were as scarce as he could make them because of the amount of work
he was always doing, were filled with the delight of watching the eager
interest in sightseeing of the two girls, Miss Maud Talmage and my
daughter. In Glasgow we encountered the usual wet weather of the
proverbial Scottish quality, and it was Saturday of the week before we
ventured out to see the Lakes. My daughter naively confesses the
situation to her journal as follows:--
"This A.M.--Got up at the usual starting hour, 7 o'clock, and as it
looked only dark we decided to go. At breakfast it started to rain again
and Mamma and the Doctor began to back out, but Maud and I talked to
some advantage. We argued that if we were going to sit around waiting
for a fair day in this country we might just as well give up seeing
anything more interesting than hotel parlours and dining-rooms.
"We started, and just as a 'send off' the old sky opened and let down a
deluge of water. It rained all the time we were on Loch Lomond, but that
didn't prevent us from being up on deck on the boat. From under
umbrellas we saw the most beautiful scenery in Scotland. Part of this
trip was made by coach, always in the pouring rain. We drove on and on
through the hills, seeing nothing but sheep, sheep, sheep. Doctor
Talmage asked the driver what kind of vegetables they raised in the
mountains and the driver replied--'mutton.' We had luncheon at a very
pretty little hotel on Loch Katrine, and here boarded a little steamer
launch, 'Rob Roy,' for a beautiful sail. I never, no matter where I
travel, expect to look upon a lake more beautiful. The mountains give
wildness and romance to the calm and quiet of the lake, and the island.
Maud read aloud to us parts of 'The Lady of the Lake' as we sat out on
deck."
In Edinburgh Dr. Talmage preached his well-known sermon upon unrequited
services, at the request of Lord Kintore, the son of the Earl of
Kintore, who had suggested the theme to him some years before. In fact
the Doctor wrote this sermon by special suggestion of the Earl of
Kintore.
Incidents great and small were such a large part of the eventful trip to
Europe that it is difficult to make those omissions which the
disinterested reader might wish. The Doctor, like ourselves, saw with
the same rose-coloured glasses that we did. We were very pleasantly
entertained in Edinburgh by Lord Kintore and others, but the most
interesting dinner party I think was when we were the guests of Sir
Herbert Simpson, brother of the celebrated Sir James Y. Simpson, the man
who discovered the uses of chloroform as an anæsthetic. We dined in the
very room where the discovery was first tested. When Dr. Simpson had
decided upon a final experiment of the effects of chloroform as an
anæsthetic, he invited three or four of his colleagues and friends to
share the test with him. They met in the very room where we dined with
Sir Herbert Simpson and his family. The story goes that when everything
had been prepared for the evening's work, Dr. Simpson informed "Sandy,"
an old servant, that he must not be disturbed under any circumstances,
telling him not to venture inside the door himself until 5 a.m. Then, if
no one had left the room, he was to enter. "Sandy" obeyed these
instructions to the letter, and came into the room at 5 in the morning.
He was very much shocked to find his master and the others under the
table in a stupor. "I never thought my master would come to this," said
Sandy. He was still in the employ of the family, being a very old man.
Dr. Talmage's engagements took him from Edinburgh to Liverpool, where he
preached. It was while there that we made a visit to Hawarden to see
Mrs. Gladstone. The Doctor had been to Hawarden before as the guest of
Mr. Gladstone, and was disappointed to find that Mrs. Gladstone was too
ill to be seen by anyone. We were entertained, however, by Mrs. Herbert
Gladstone. I remember how much the Doctor was moved when he saw in the
hall at Hawarden a bundle of walking sticks and three or four hats
hanging on the hat-rack, as Mr. Gladstone had left them when he died.
From Liverpool we went to Sheffield, where Dr. Talmage preached to an
immense congregation. It was in May, the time when all England is
flower-laden, when the air is as sweet as perfume and the whole
countryside is as fascinating as a garden. It was the coaching season,
too, and the Doctor entered into the spirit of these beautiful days very
happily. We took a ten days' trip from Leamington after leaving
Sheffield, coaching through the exquisite scenery around about Warwick,
Kenilworth, and the Shakespeare country in Stratford-on-Avon. Most of
these reminiscences are full of incidents too intimate for public
interest. Like a dream that lifts one from prosaic life into the places
of precious remembrance I recall these long, happy days in the glorious
sunset of his life.
We returned to London in time for the Doctor's first preaching
engagement there on May 28, 1900. The London newspapers described him as
"The American Spurgeon."
"And now before the services opened at St. James' Hall a congregation of
3,000 people waited to hear Dr. Talmage," says a London newspaper. Then
it goes on to say further:--
"Dr. Talmage, who has preached from pulpits all over the world, may be
described as an 'American Spurgeon.' None of our great English speakers
is less of an orator. Dr. Talmage is a great speaker, but his power as
an orator is not by any means that of a Gladstone or a Bright. It lies
more in the matter than in the manner, in his wonderful imagery, the
vividness with which he conjures up a picture before the congregation.
He is a great artist in words. Dr. Talmage affects nothing; he is
naturalness itself in the pulpit, and the manner of his speech suggests
that he is angry with his subject. The sermon on this occasion lent
itself well to a master of metaphor such as Dr. Talmage, it being a
review of the last great battle of the world, when the forces of right
and wrong should meet for the final mastery."
Dr. Talmage rarely preached this sermon because it was a great tax on
his memory. It included a suggestion of all the great battles of the
earth, a vivid description of the armies of the world marching forward
in the eternal human struggle of right against wrong until they were
masked for the last great battle of all, when "Satan would take the
field in person, in whose make-up nothing bad was left out, nothing good
was put in."
It is very remarkable to see the universal acknowledgments of the
Doctor's genius in England, one of the London newspapers going so far as
to describe him in its headlines as "America's Apostle." Nothing I could
write about him could be more in eulogy, more in sympathy in
comprehension of his brilliant sacred message to the world. England
proclaimed him as he was, with deep sincerity and reverence.
His favourite sermon, and it was mine also, was upon the theme of
unrequited services, the text being from I Samuel xxx. 24, "But as his
part is that goeth down to the battle, so shall his part be that
tarrieth by the stuff." It was in this sermon that Dr. Talmage made
reference to Florence Nightingale, in the following words:--
"Women, your reward in the eternal world will be as great as that of
Florence Nightingale, the Lady of the Lamp." While in London he preached
this sermon, and the following day to our surprise the Doctor received
the following note at his hotel:--
"June 3, 1900.
"10, South Street,
"Park Lane.
"Dear Sir--
"I could gladly see you to-morrow (Monday) at 5.--Yours faithfully,
"FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.
"T. DeWitt Talmage, of America."