1900-1902
There was no warning of the divine purpose; there was no pause of
weakness or illness in his life to foreshadow his approaching end. Until
the last sunset hours of his useful days he always seemed to me a man of
iron. He had stood in the midst of crowds a towering figure; but away
from them his life had been a studied annihilation, an existence of
hidden sacrifice to his great work. He used to say to me: "Eleanor, I
have lived among crowds, and yet I have been much of the time quite
alone." But alone or in company his mind was ever active, his great
heart ever intent on his apostolate of sunshine and help towards his
fellow-men. And the good things he said were not alone the utterances of
his public career; they came bubbling forth as from a spring during the
course of his daily life, in his home and among his friends, even with
little children. Books have been written styled, "Conversations of
Eminent Men"; and I have often thought had his ordinary conversations
been reported, or, better, could the colossal crowds who admired him
have been, as we, his privileged listeners, they would have been no less
charmed with his brilliant talk than with the public displays of
eloquence with which they were so captivated.
Immediately after his return from Europe in the autumn of 1900, Dr.
Talmage took up his work with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. He stepped
back into his study as if a new career of preaching awaited him. Never,
indeed, had a Sunday passed, since our union, on which he had not given
his divine message from the pulpit; never had he missed a full, arduous,
wearisome day's work in his Master's vineyard. But I think Dr. Talmage
now wrote and preached more industriously and vigorously than I had ever
seen him before. His work had become so important an element in the
character of American life, and in the estimate of the American
people--I might add, in that of many foreign peoples, too--that his
consciousness of it seemed to double and treble his powers; he was
carried along on a great wave of enthusiasm; and in the joy of it all,
we, with the thousands who bowed before his influence, looked naturally
for a great many years of a life of such wide-spread usefulness. Over
him had come a new magic of autumnal youth and strength that touched the
inspirations of his mind and increased the optimism of his heart. No one
could have suspected that the golden bowl was so soon to be broken; that
the pitcher, still so full of the refreshing draughts of wisdom, was
about to be crushed at the fountain. But so it was to be.
Invigorated by his delightful foreign trip, Dr. Talmage now resumed his
labours with happy heart and effervescing zeal. He used to say: "I don't
care how old a man gets to be, he never ought to be over eighteen years
of age." And he seemed now to be a living realisation of his words. He
had given up his regular pastorate at the First Presbyterian Church in
Washington, that he might devote himself to broader responsibilities,
which seemed to have fallen upon him because of his world-wide
reputation. I cannot forbear quoting here--as it reveals so much the
character of the man--a portion of his farewell letter, the mode he took
of giving his parting salutation:
"The world is full of farewells, and one of the hardest words to
utter is goodby. What glorious Sabbaths we have had together! What
holy communions! What thronged assemblages! Forever and forever we
will remember them.... And now in parting I thank you for your
kindness to me and mine. I have been permitted, Sabbath by Sabbath,
to confront, with the tremendous truths of the Gospel, as genial and
lovely, and cultivated and noble people as I ever knew, and it is a
sadness to part with them.... May the richest blessing of God abide
with you! May your sons and daughters be the sons and daughters of
the Lord Almighty! And may we all meet in the heavenly realms to
recount the divine mercies which have accompanied us all the way,
and to celebrate, world without end, the grace that enabled us to
conquer! And now I give you a tender, a hearty, a loving, a
Christian goodby.
"T. DEWITT TALMAGE."
Apart from his active literary and editorial work, he was now to devote
himself to sermons and lectures which should have for audience the whole
country. As a consequence, on re-entering his study after his long
absence, he found accumulated on his desk an immense number of
invitations to preach, applications from all parts of the land. He
smiled, and expressed more than once his conviction that God's
Providence had marked out his way for him, and here was direct proof of
His divine call and His fatherly love.
At a monster meeting in New York this year Dr. Talmage revived national
interest in his presence and his Gospel. Ten thousand people crowded to
the Academy of Music to hear his words of encouragement and hope. It was
the twentieth anniversary of the Bowery Mission, of which Dr. Talmage
was one of the founders. "This century," he said in part, "is to witness
a great revival of religion. Cities are to be redeemed. Official
authority can do much, but nothing can take the place of the Gospel of
God.... No man goes deliberately into sin; he gets aboard the great
accommodation train of Temptation, assured that it will stop at the
depot of Prudence, or anywhere else he desires, to let him off. The
conductor cries: 'All aboard' and off he goes. The train goes faster and
faster, and presently he wants to get off. 'Stop'! he calls to the
conductor; but that official cries back: 'This is the fast express and
does not stop until it reaches the Grand Central Station of
Smashupton.'" The sinner can be raised up, he insists. "The Bible says
God will forgive 490 times. At your first cry He will bend down from his
throne to the depths of your degradation. Put your face to the sunrise."
Faith in God was his armour; his shield was hope; his amulet was
charity. He harnessed the events of the world to his chariot of
inspiration, and sped on his way as in earlier years. He had become a
foremost preacher of the Gospel because he preached under the spell of
evangelical impulse, under the control of that remarkable faith which
comes with the transformation of all converted men or women. The
stillness of the vast crowds that stood about the church doors when he
addressed them briefly in the open air after services was a tribute to
the spell he cast over them by the miracle of that converting grace. He
was quite unconscious of the attention he attracted outside the pulpit,
on the street, in the trains. His celebrity was not the consequence of
his endeavours to obtain it, nor was it won, as some declared, by
studied dramatic effects; it was the result of his moments of
inspiration, combined with continual and almost superhuman mental
labour--labour that was a fountain of perennial delight to him, but none
the less labour.
If "Genius is infinite patience," as a French writer said, Dr. Talmage
possessed it in an eminent degree. Every sermon he ever wrote was an
output of his full energies, his whole heart and mind; and while
dictating his sermons in his study, he preached them before an imaginary
audience, so earnest was his desire to reach the hearts of his hearers
and produce upon them a lasting influence. His sermons were born not of
the crowd, but for the crowd, in deep religious fervour and conviction.
His lectures, incisive and far-reaching as they were in their
conceptions and in their moral and social effects, were not so
impressive as his sermons, with their undertone of divine inspiration.
In accord with an invitation sent to us in Paris, from the Governor of
Pennsylvania, we went to Harrisburg as the guests at the Executive
Mansion, where a dinner and reception were given Dr. Talmage in honour
of his return from abroad. During this dinner, the Rev. Dr. John Wesley
Hill, then pastor of the church in Harrisburg in which Dr. Talmage
preached, told us of a rare autograph letter of Lincoln, which he owned.
It was his wish that Dr. Talmage should have it in his house, where he
thought more people would see it. The next day, Dr. Hill sent this
letter to us:--
"GENTLEMEN,--In response to your address, allow me to attest the
accuracy of its historical statements; indorse the sentiments it
expresses; and thank you, in the nation's name, for the sure promise
it gives.
"Nobly sustained as the government has been by all the churches, I
would utter nothing which might, in the least, appear invidious
against any. Yet, without this, it may fairly be said that the
Methodist Episcopal Church, not less devoted than the best, is, by
its greater numbers, the most important of all. It, is no fault in
others that the Methodist Church sends more soldiers to the field,
more nurses to the hospitals, and more prayers to Heaven than any.
God bless the Methodist Church--bless all the churches--and blessed
be God, Who, in this our great trial, giveth us the churches.
"A. LINCOLN.
"May 18th, 1864."
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S LETTER.]
A great welcome was given Dr. Talmage in Brooklyn, in November, 1900,
when he preached in the Central Presbyterian Church there. It was the
Doctor's second appearance in a Brooklyn church after the burning of the
Tabernacle in 1894.
It was urged in the newspapers that he might return to his old home. The
invitation was tempting, judging by the thousands who crowded that
Sunday to hear him. In my scrapbook I read of this occasion:
"Women fainted, children were half-crushed, gowns were torn and strong
men grew red in the face as they buffeted the crowds that had gathered
to greet the Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage at the Central Presbyterian Church
in Brooklyn."
In the autumn of 1900, an anniversary of East Hampton, N.Y., was held,
and the Doctor entered energetically and happily into the celebration,
preaching in the little village church which had echoed to his voice in
the early days of his ministry. It was a far call backward over nearly
five decades of his teeming life. And he, whose magic style, whether of
word or pen, had enchanted millions over the broad world--how well he
remembered the fears and misgivings that had accompanied those first
efforts, with the warning of his late professors ringing in his ears:
"You must change your style, otherwise no pulpit will ever be open to
you."
Now he could look back over more than a quarter of a century during
which his sermons had been published weekly; through syndicates they had
been given to the world in 3,600 different papers, and reached, it was
estimated, 30,000,000 people in the United States and other countries.
They were translated into most European and even into Asiatic languages.
His collected discourses were already printed in twenty volumes, while
material remained for almost as many more. His style, too, in spite of
his "original eccentricities," had attracted hundreds of thousands of
readers to his books on miscellaneous subjects--all written with a moral
purpose. Among a score of them I might mention: From Manger to Throne;
The Pathway of Life; Crumbs Swept Up; Every-day Religion; The Marriage
Ring; Woman: her Powers and Privileges.
Dr. Talmage edited several papers beginning with _The Christian at
Work_; afterwards he took charge, successively, of the _Advance, Frank
Leslie's Sunday Magazine_, and finally _The Christian Herald_, of which
he continued to be chief editor till the end of his life. He spoke and
wrote earnestly of the civilising and educational power of the press,
and felt that in availing himself of it and thereby furnishing lessons
of righteousness and good cheer to millions, he was multiplying beyond
measure his short span of life and putting years into hours. He said:
"My lecture tours seem but hand-shaking with the vast throngs whom I
have been enabled to preach to through the press."
His editorials were often wrought out in the highest style of literary
art. I am pleased to give the following estimate from an author who knew
him well: "As an editorial writer, Dr. Talmage was versatile and
prolific, and his weekly contributions on an immense variety of topics
would fill many volumes. His writing was as entertaining and pungent as
his preaching, and full of brilliant eccentricities--'Talmagisms,' as
they were called. He coined new words and invented new phrases. If the
topic was to his liking, the pen raced to keep time with the thought....
Still, with all this haste, nothing could exceed the scrupulous care he
took with his finished manuscript. He once wired from Cincinnati to his
publisher in New York instructions to change a comma in his current
sermon to a semicolon. He had detected the error while reading proof on
the train."
Dr. Talmage's personal mail was thought to be the largest of any man in
the country, outside of some of the public officers. Thousands, men and
women, appealed to him for advice in spiritual things, revealing to him
intimate family affairs, laying their hearts bare before him as before a
trusted physician of the soul. I have seen him moved to the depths of
his nature by some of these white missives bearing news of conversion to
faith in Christ wrought by his sermons; of families rent asunder united
through his words of love and broadmindedness; of mothers whose broken
hearts he had healed by leading back the prodigal son; of prisoners
whose hope in life and trust in a loving Father had been awakened by a
casual reading of some of his comforting paragraphs.
The life of Dr. Talmage was by no means the luxurious one of the man of
wealth and ease it was sometimes represented to be. He could not endure
that men should have this aspect of him. He was a plain man in his
tastes and his habits; the impression that he was ambitious for wealth,
I know, was a false one. I do not believe he ever knew the value of
money. The possession of it gave him little gratification except for its
use in helping to carry on the great work he had in hand; and, indeed,
he never knew how little or how much he had. He never would own horses
lest he should give people reason to accuse him of being arrogantly
rich. We drove a great deal, but he always insisted on hiring his
carriages. If he accepted remuneration for his brain and heart labour,
Scripture tells us, "The labourer is worthy of his hire." He was
foremost in helping in any time of public calamity, not only in our own
country but more than once in foreign lands. And when volumes of his
sermons were pirated over the country, and he was urged to take legal
steps to stop the injustice, he said: "Let them alone; the sermons will
go farther and do more good."
Dr. Talmage's opinions were sought eagerly, and upon all subjects of
social, political, or international interest. He was a student of men,
and kept ever in close touch with the progress of events. A voluminous
and rapid reader, he was quick to grasp the aim and significance of what
he read and apply it to his purpose. His library in Washington
contained a large and valuable collection of classics, ancient and
modern; and his East Hampton library was almost a duplicate of this. He
never travelled very far without a trunkful of books. I remember, in the
first year of our marriage, his interest in some books I had brought
from my home that were new to him. Many of them he had not had time to
read, so, in the evenings, I used to read them aloud to him. Tolstoi's
works were his first choice; together we read a life of the great
Russian, which the Doctor enjoyed immensely.
The Bible was ever held by Dr. Talmage in extreme reverence, which grew
with his continual study and meditation of the sacred pages. He
repudiated the "higher criticism" with a vehemence that caused him to be
sharply assailed by modern critics--pronounced infidels or of infidel
proclivities--who called him a "bibliolater." He asserted and reasserted
his belief in its divine inspiration: "The Bible is right in its
authenticity, right in its style, right in its doctrine, and right in
its effects. There is less evidence that Shakespeare wrote 'Hamlet,'
that Milton wrote 'Paradise Lost,' or that Tennyson wrote 'The Charge of
the Light Brigade,' than that the Bible is God's Word, written under
inspiration by evangelists and prophets. It has stood the bombardment of
ages, but with the result of more and more proof of its being a book
divinely written and protected." "Science and Revelation are the bass
and soprano of the same tune," he said. He defied the attempts of the
loud-mouthed orators to destroy belief in the Bible. "I compare such men
as Ingersoll, in their attacks on the Bible, to a grasshopper upon a
railway-line with the express coming thundering along."
His living portraits of Jesus, the Saviour of men, his studies of that
divine life, of the words, the actions of the Son of God, especially of
His sufferings and death, merging into the glory of His resurrection and
ascension, are all well known to those who were of his wide audience.
The sweetness, gentleness, and sympathy of the Saviour were favourite
themes with him. In a sermon on tears, he says: "Jesus had enough trials
to make him sympathetic with all sorrowful souls. The shortest verse in
the Bible tells the story: 'Jesus wept.' The scar on the back of either
hand, the scar in the arch of either foot, the row of scars along the
line of the hair, _will keep all Heaven thinking_. Oh, that Great Weeper
is the One to silence all earthly trouble, to wipe all the stains of
earthly grief. Gentle! Why, His step is softer than the step of the dew.
It will not be a tyrant bidding you hush your crying. It will be a
Father who will take you on His left arm, His face beaming into yours,
while with the soft tips of the fingers of the right hand He shall wipe
away all tears from your eyes." And here is a word of appeal to those
gone astray: "The great heart of Christ _aches_ to have you come in; and
Jesus this moment looks into your eyes and says: 'Other sheep I have
that are not of this fold.'"
Dr. Talmage was at times acutely sensitive to the thrusts of sharp
criticism dealt to him through envy or misunderstanding of his motives.
A great writer has said somewhere: "Accusations make wounds and leave
scars"; but even the scars were soon worn off his outraged feelings by
the remembrance of his divine Master's gentleness and forgiveness. How
often have I seen the mandate, "Love your enemies; do good to them that
hate you," verified in Dr. Talmage. He could not bear detraction or
uncharitableness. His heart was so broad and loving that he seemed to
have room in it for the whole world; and his greeting of strangers on an
Australian platform, amid the heathers of Scotland, or in the Golden
Gate of California, was so free and cordial that each one might have
thought himself a dear friend of the Doctor, and he would have been
right in thinking so. Again, his sense of humour was so great that he
could laugh and "poke fun" at his critics with such ease and good humour
that their arrows passed harmlessly over his head. "Men have a right to
their opinions," he would genially say. "There are twenty tall pippin
trees in the orchard to one crab apple tree. There are a million clover
blooms to one thistle in the meadow."
His will power was extraordinary; it was endowed with a persistence that
overcame every obstacle of his life; there was an air of supreme
confidence, of overwhelming vitality, about his every act. Nothing
seemed to me more wonderful in him than this; and it entered into all
his actions, from those that were important and far-reaching in their
consequences to the workings of his daily life in the home. Though his
way through these last milestones, during which I travelled with him,
was chiefly through the triumphal archways he had raised for himself
upon the foundations of his work, there were indications that their
cornerstone was the will power of his nature.
Many incidents of the years before I knew him justify this opinion. One
in particular illustrates the extraordinary perseverance of Dr.
Talmage's character. When his son DeWitt was a boy, in a sudden mood of
adventure one day, he enlisted in the United States Navy. Shortly
afterwards he regretted having done so. Some one went to his father and
told him that the boy was on board a warship at Hampton Roads, homesick
and miserable. Dr. Talmage went directly to Washington, straight into
the office of Mr. Thompson, the Secretary of the Navy. "I am Dr.
Talmage," he said promptly; "my son has enlisted in the Navy and is on a
ship near Norfolk. I want to go to him and bring him home. He is
homesick. Will you write me an order for his release?" The Secretary
replied that it had become an impression among rich men's sons that they
could take an oath of service to the U.S. Government, and break it as
soon as their fathers were ready, through the influence of wealth, to
secure their release. He was opposed to such an idea, he said; and,
therefore, though he was very sorry, he could not grant Dr. Talmage's
request. The Doctor immediately took a chair in the office, and said
firmly: "I shall not leave this office, Mr. Secretary, until you write
out an order releasing my son."
The hour for luncheon came. The Secretary invited the Doctor to lunch
with him. "I shall not leave this office, Mr. Secretary, until I get
that order," was the Doctor's reply. The Secretary of the Navy left the
office; after an absence of an hour and a half, he returned and found
Dr. Talmage still sitting in the same place. The afternoon passed.
Dinner time came round. "Dr. Talmage, will you not honour me by coming
up to my house to dine, and staying with us over night?" asked the
Secretary. "I shall not leave this office until you write out that order
releasing my son, Mr. Secretary," was the calm, persistent reply. The
Secretary departed. The building was empty, save for a watchman, to whom
the Secretary said in passing, "There is a gentleman in my room. When he
wishes to leave let him out of the building."
About nine o'clock at night the Secretary became anxious. Telephones
were not common then, so he went down to the office to investigate; and
sitting there in the place where he had been all day was Dr. Talmage.
The order was written that night. This incident was told me by a friend
of the Doctor's. There can be no doubt that Dr. Talmage was justified in
this demand of paternal love and sympathy, since numbers of such
concessions had been made by the Secretary and his predecessors. His
daring and his pertinacity were overwhelming forces of his genius.
In the winter months of this year I enjoyed another lecturing tour with
him through Canada and the West. The lecture bureau that arranged his
tours must have counted on his herculean strength, for frequently he had
to travel twenty-four hours at a stretch to keep his engagements.
Occasionally he was paid in cash at the end of the lecture an amount
fixed by the lecture bureau. I have seen him with perhaps $2,000 in
bills and gold stuffed away carelessly in his pocket, as if money were
merely some curious specimen of no special value. Sometimes he would
receive his fee in a cheque, and, as happened once in a small Western
town, he would have very little money with him. I remember an occasion
of this kind, because it was amusing. The cheque had been given the
Doctor as usual at the end of his lecture. It was about eleven at night,
and we were compelled to take a midnight train out to reach his next
place of engagement. At the hotel where we stayed they did not have
money enough to cash the cheque. We walked up the street to the other
hotel, but found there an equal lack of the circulating medium. It was a
bitter cold night.
"Here we are out in the world without a roof over our heads, Eleanor,"
said the Doctor, merrily. "What a cold world it is to the unfortunate."
Finally Dr. Talmage went to the ticket office of the railroad and
explained the situation to the young man in charge. "I can't give you
tickets, but I will buy them for you, and you can send me the money,"
the clerk said promptly. As we had an all-day ride before us and a
drawing room to secure, the amount was not inconsiderable. I think it
was on this trip that William Jennings Bryan got on the train and
enlivened the journey for us. The stories he and the Doctor hammered out
of the long hours of travel were entertaining. We exchanged invitations
to the dining car so as not to stop the flow of conversation between Mr.
Bryan and the Doctor. We would invite him to lunch, and Mr. Bryan would
ask us to dinner, or _vice versâ_, so that the social amenities were
delightfully extended to keep us in mutual enjoyment of the trip. Dr.
Talmage and myself agreed that Mr. Bryan's success on the platform was
much enhanced by his wonderful voice. The Doctor said he had never heard
so exquisite a speaking voice in a man as Mr. Bryan's. He always spoke
in eloquent support of the masses, denouncing the trusts with vehemence.
Travelling was always a kind of luxury to me, when we were not obliged
to stop over at some wretched hotel. The Pullman cars were palatial in
comfort compared to the hotels we had to enter. But Dr. Talmage was
always satisfied; no hotel, however poor, could alter the cheerfulness
of his temperament.
In January, 1901, Queen Victoria died, and Dr. Talmage's eulogy went far
and wide. I quote again from my scrap-book a part of his comment on this
world event:
"While Queen Victoria has been the friend of all art, all literature,
all science, all invention, all reform, her reign will be most
remembered for all time, all eternity, as the reign of Christianity.
Beginning with that scene at 5 o'clock in the morning in Kensington
Palace, where she asked the Archbishop of Canterbury to pray for her,
and they knelt down imploring Divine guidance until her last hour, not
only in the sublime liturgy of her established Church, but on all
occasions, she has directly or indirectly declared: 'I believe in God,
the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ, His
only begotten Son.'
"The Queen's book, so much criticised at the time of its appearance,
some saying that it was skilfully done, and some saying that the private
affairs of a household ought not to have been exposed, was nevertheless
a book of rare usefulness, from the fact that it showed that God was
acknowledged in all her life, and that 'Rock of Ages' was not an unusual
song at Windsor Castle.
"I believe that no throne since the throne of David and the throne of
Hezekiah and the throne of Esther, has been in such constant touch with
the throne of heaven as the throne of Victoria. Sixty-three years of
womanhood enthroned!"
In March of 1901 Dr. Talmage inaugurated a series of Twentieth Century
Revival Meetings in the Academy of Music, in New York. It was a great
Gospel campaign in which thousands were powerfully impressed for life.
The Doctor seemed to have made a new start in a defined evangelical plan
of saving the world. Indeed, _to save_ was his great watchword, to save
sinners, but most of all to save men from becoming sinners. One of his
famous themes--and thousands remember his burning words--was "The Three
Greatest Things to Do--Save a Man, Save a Woman, Save a Child." There
was a certain anxiety in my mind about Dr. Talmage in this sixty-eighth
year of his life, and I used to tell him that he had reached the top of
all religious obligations as he himself felt them, that there was
nothing greater for him to do, and that he might now move with softer
measure to the inspired impulses of his life. But he never delayed, he
never tarried, he never waited. He marched eagerly ahead, as if the
milestones of his life stretched many years beyond.
Our social life in Washington was subservient to Dr. Talmage's reign of
preaching. We never accepted invitations without the privilege of
qualifying our acceptance, making them subject to the Doctor's religious
duties. The privilege was gracefully acknowledged by all our friends. We
were away from Washington, too, a great deal. In the spring of this
year, 1901, the Doctor made a lecturing tour through the South, that was
full of oratorical triumphs for him, but no less marked by delightful
social incidents. There was a series of dinners and receptions in his
honour that I shall never forget, in those beautiful homes of
Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee. Because of his Gospel pilgrimage of
many years in these places, Dr. Talmage had grown to be a household god
among them.
When winter had shed his garland of snow over nature, or when we were
knee deep in summer's verdure and flowers, East Hampton was the Doctor's
headquarters. From there we made our summer trips. It was after a short
season at East Hampton in the summer of 1901, that the Doctor went to
Ocean Grove, where he delivered a Fourth of July oration, the enormous
auditorium being crowded to its utmost capacity. A few days later we
went to Buffalo, where, in a large tent standing in the Exposition
ground, Dr. Talmage lectured, his powerful voice triumphing over the
fireworks that, from a place near by, went booming up through the
heavens. After a series of Chautauqua lectures through Michigan and
Wisconsin, the Doctor finished his course at Lake Port, Maryland, near
picturesque Deer Park. These are merely casual recollections, too brief
to serve otherwise than as evidence of Dr. Talmage's tremendous industry
and energy.
In September, 1901, came the assassination of President McKinley. Dr.
Talmage had an engagement to preach at Ocean Grove the day following the
disaster. On our arrival at the West End Hotel, Long Branch, the Doctor
went in to register while we remained in the carriage at the door.
Suddenly he came out, and I could see that he was very much agitated. He
had just received the news of the tragedy.
"I cannot preach to-morrow," he said. "This is too horrible. McKinley
has been shot. What shall I do?" And he stood there utterly stunned;
unable to think. "Well, we will stop at the hotel to-night, at any
rate," I said, "let us go in."
Later the Doctor tried to explain to those in charge at Ocean Grove that
he could not preach, but they prevailed upon him to deliver the sermon
he had with him, which he did, prefacing it with appropriate remarks
about the national disaster of the hour.
The following telegram was immediately sent to the Chief of the Nation,
cut off so ruthlessly in his career of honour and usefulness:--
"Long Branch, September 6th.
"President McKinley, Buffalo, N.Y.
"The Nation is in prayer for your recovery. You will be nearer and
dearer to the people than ever before after you have passed this
crisis. Mrs. Talmage joins me in sympathy.
"T. DEWITT TALMAGE."
After the death of the President the Doctor preached his sermon "Our
Dead President" for the first time in the little church at East Hampton,
where it had been written in his study. In October the Doctor was called
upon to preach at the obsequies of the Rev. Dr. Sunderland, for many
years pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Washington. What a long
season of obsequies Dr. Talmage solemnised! And yet, with what supreme
optimism he defied the unseen arrow in his own life that came to pierce
him with such suddenness in April, 1902.
The Doctor had been a good traveller, and he was fond of travelling;
but, toward the end of his life, there were moments when he felt its
fatiguing influences. He never complained or appeared apprehensive, but
I remember the first time he showed any weariness of spirit. I almost
recall his words: "I have written so much about everything, that now it
becomes difficult for me to write. I am tired." It frightened me to hear
him say this, he was so wonderful in endurance and strength; and I could
not shake off the effect that this first sign of his declining years
made upon me. He was then sixty-nine years old, and the last of the
twelve children, save his sister.
The last sermon he ever wrote was preached in February, 1902. The text
of this was from Psalms xxxiii. 2: "Sing unto Him with the Psaltery, and
an instrument of ten strings." This was David's harp of gratitude and
praise. After some introductory paragraphs on the harp, its age, the
varieties of this "most consecrated of all instruments," its
"tenderness," its place in "the richest symbolism of the Holy
Scriptures," he writes: "David's harp had ten strings, and, when his
great soul was afire with the theme, his sympathetic voice, accompanied
by exquisite vibrations of the chords, must have been overpowering....
The simple fact is that the most of us, if we praise the Lord at all,
play upon one string or two strings, or three strings, when we ought to
take a harp fully chorded, and with glad fingers sweep all the strings.
Instead of being grateful for here and there a blessing we happen to
think of, we ought to rehearse all our blessings, and obey the
injunction of my text to sing unto Him with an instrument of ten
strings." "Have you ever thanked God for delightsome food?" he asks; and
for sight for "the eye, the window of our immortal nature, the gate
through which all colours march, the picture gallery of the soul?" He
enumerates other blessings--hearing, sleep, the gift of reason, the
beauties of nature, friends. "I now come," he continues, "to the tenth
and last. I mention it last that it may be more memorable--heavenly
anticipation. By the grace of God we are going to move into a place so
much better than this, that on arriving we will wonder that we were for
so many years so loath to make the transfer. After we have seen Christ
face to face, and rejoiced over our departed kindred, there are some
mighty spirits we will want to meet soon after we pass through the
gates." As his graphic pen depicts the scene--the meeting with David and
the great ones of Scripture, "the heroes and heroines who gave their
lives for the truth, the Gospel proclaimers, the great Christian poets,
all the departed Christian men and women of whatever age or nation"--he
seems to have already a foretaste of the wonderful vision so soon to
open to his eyes. "Now," he concludes, "take down your harp of ten
strings and sweep all the chords. Let us make less complaint and offer
more thanks; render less dirge and more cantata. Take paper and pen and
write in long columns your blessings.... Set your misfortunes to music,
as David opened his dark sayings on a harp.... Blessing, and honour and
glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne and unto the
Lamb for ever. Amen!"
I recall that when Dr. Talmage first read this sermon to me in his
study, he said: "That is the best I can do; I shall never write a better
sermon." I have been told that when a man says he has reached the
topmost effort of his abilities, it presages his end, and the march of
events seemed to verify the axiom.
Dr. Talmage's last journey came about through the invitation of the
Mexican minister in Washington. The latter met Dr. Talmage at dinner,
and on hearing that he had never preached in Mexico he urged him to go
there. When the Doctor's plans had all been made, some friends tried to
dissuade him from going, secretly fearing, perhaps, the tax it would be
on his strength. Yet there was no evidence at this time to support their
fears, and the Doctor himself would have been the last to listen to any
warning. He was very busy during the few days that preceded our
departure from Washington in attending the meetings of the Committee of
distinguished clergymen who were in session to revise the creed of the
Presbyterian Church.
The day before we left for Mexico, the Doctor told me he desired to
entertain these gentlemen, as had been his custom during all important
gatherings of representative churchmen who visited Washington. He was in
great spirits. His ideas of a social affair were definite and generous,
as we discovered that day, much to our amusement.
"Eleanor," he said, "I feel as though I would like to have these
gentlemen to luncheon at my house to-morrow. Can you arrange it? I could
not possibly leave Washington without showing them some special
courtesy. Now, I want a real meal, something to sit down to. None of
your floating oysters, or little daubs of meat in pastry, but real food,
whole turkeys, four or five of them--a substantial meal." The Doctor's
respect for chicken patties, creamed oysters, and the usual buffet
reception luncheon, was clearly not very great.
The luncheon was given at 1.30 on the day appointed; the distinguished
guests all came, two by two, into our house. A few weeks later, they
came again in a body, two by two, into the house of mourning.
Besides the visiting clergy, Dr. Talmage had also invited for this
luncheon other representative men of Washington. It was the last social
gathering which the Doctor ever attended in his own home, and perhaps
for that reason becomes a significant event in my memory. After the rest
had departed, Dr. Henry Van Dyke remained for an hour or two to talk
with my husband in his study. Dr. Talmage so often referred to the great
pleasure this long interview had given him, that I am sure it was one of
the supreme enjoyments of his last spiritual milestone.
The night before we left Washington an incident occurred that directly
concerns these pages. We had gone down into the basement of the house to
look for some papers the Doctor kept there in the safe, and in taking
them out he picked up the manuscript of his autobiography. As we went
upstairs I said to the Doctor, "What a pity that you have not completed
it entirely."
The Doctor replied, "All the obscure part of my life is written here,
and a great part of the rest of it. When I return from Mexico I will
finish it. If anything should happen, however, it can be completed from
scrapbooks and other data."
We went into his study and the Doctor had just begun to read it to me
when we were interrupted by a call from Senator Hanna. Dr. Talmage
particularly admired Senator Hanna, and, as they were great friends, the
autobiography was forgotten for the rest of the evening. Knowing that
the Doctor was about to leave Washington the Senator had come to wish
him goodby, and to urge him to visit his brother at Thomasville,
Georgia, where we were to stop on our way to Mexico. I remember Senator
Hanna said to the Doctor, "You will find the place very pretty; we own a
good deal of property there, so much so that it could easily be called
Hannaville." The next morning we started for the City of Mexico, going
direct to Charleston, where the Doctor preached. He was entertained a
good deal there, and we witnessed the opening of the Charleston
Exposition.
From Charleston we went to Thomasville, Georgia, where we spent a week,
during which time the Doctor preached and lectured twice at nearby
places. It was here that we met the first accident of our journey. Just
as we were steaming into Thomasville we ran into a train ahead, and
there was some loss of life and great damage. Fortunately we were in the
last Pullman car of the train. I have always believed that the shock of
this accident was the beginning of the end for Dr. Talmage. He showed no
fear, and he gave every assistance possible to others; but, in the
tension of the moment, in his own self-restraint for the sake of
others, I think that he overtaxed his strength more than he realised. I
never wanted to see a train again, and begged the Doctor to let us
remain in Thomasville the rest of our lives. The next morning, however,
Dr. Talmage started out on a preaching engagement in the neighbourhood
by train, but we remained behind. Our stay in Thomasville was made very
enjoyable by the relatives of Senator Hanna, whose beautiful estates
were a series of landscape pictures I shall always remember. Although
the Doctor was obliged to be away on lecturing engagements three times
during the week he enjoyed the drives about Thomasville with us while he
was there. Our destination after leaving Thomasville was New Orleans,
where Dr. Talmage was received as if he had been a national character.
He was welcomed by a distinguished deputation with the utmost
cordiality. _The Christian Herald_ said of this occasion: "When he went
on the following Sunday to the First Presbyterian Church he found a
great multitude assembled, the large building densely packed within and
a much vaster gathering out of doors unable to obtain admittance.
Thousands went away disappointed. He spoke with even more than usual
force and conviction." Never were we more royally entertained or fêted
than we were here. From New Orleans we went to San Antonio, where we
stopped off for two or three days' sight-seeing. The Doctor was urged to
preach and lecture while he was there; but he excused himself on the
ground of a previous engagement, promising, however, to lecture in San
Antonio on his return trip to Washington.
On our way from San Antonio to the City of Mexico our train ran into one
of the sand-storms, for which the Mexican country is famous at certain
times of the year; and we were at a standstill on a side track at a
small station for twenty-four hours. The food was execrable, the wind
and sand were choking, and the whole experience trying in the extreme.
We were warned against thieves of the neighbourhood, and, during the
night we were locked in the cars to ensure the safety of our belongings.
In spite of these precautions a shawl which the Doctor valued, because
it had been presented to him by the citizens of Melbourne, Australia,
was stolen during the night through an open window. They were not
bashful those thieves of the sandstorm. From a private car attached to
the rear of our train they stole a refrigerator bodily off the platform.
The Doctor had long been suffering from his throat, and all these
annoyances had the effect of increasing the painful symptoms to such a
degree that when we finally got into the city of Mexico on Saturday,
March 1st, it was necessary to call a physician. Dr. Talmage had brought
with him a number of letters of introduction from Washington to people
in the City of Mexico, but the Mexican minister had written ahead of us,
and on the day we arrived people left their cards and extended
invitations that promised to keep us socially busy every day of our
week's visit.
The Doctor was ailing a little, I thought, but not seriously. He had a
slight cold. Although he had planned to preach only in the Presbyterian
Church a week from our arrival, the people of the other Protestant
denominations urged him with such importunity that he agreed to preach
for them on the first Sunday, the day after our arrival. This was an
unexpected strain on Dr. Talmage after a very trying journey; but he
never could refuse to preach, no matter how great his fatigue. On the
following Tuesday a luncheon was given Dr. Talmage by General Porfirio
Diaz, the President of the Mexican Republic, at his palace in
Chapultepec. The Doctor enjoyed a long audience with the aged statesman,
during which the mutual interests and prospects of the two countries
were freely discussed, President Diaz manifesting himself, as always, a
friend and admirer of our government and people. During the afternoon a
cold wind had come up, and the drive home increased the Doctor's
indisposition, so that he was obliged to confine himself to his room.
Still he was up and about, and we felt no alarm whatever. On Thursday
night, he complained of a pain at the base of his brain, and at about
four in the morning I was awakened by him:--
"Eleanor," he said, "I seem to be very ill; I believe I am dying." The
shock was very great, it was such a rare thing for him to be ill. We
sent for the best American physician in the city of Mexico, Dr. Shields,
who diagnosed the Doctor's case as _grippe_. He at once allayed my
fears, assuring me that it would not be serious.
Dr. Talmage had promised to lecture on Friday, March 7th, and we had
some trouble to prevent him from keeping this engagement. Dr. Shields
insisted that Dr. Talmage should not leave his room, declaring that the
exertion would be too much for him. Not until Dr. Shields had assured
Dr. Talmage that the people could be notified by special handbills and
the newspapers would he consent to break the engagement.
On Friday night Dr. Talmage grew worse; and finally he asked to be taken
home, personally making arrangements with Dr. Shields to travel with us
as far as the Mexican border, as my knowledge of Spanish was very
limited. Eventually it became necessary for Dr. Shields to go all the
way with us. In the great sorrow that the people of Mexico felt over the
sudden illness of Dr. Talmage, their regret at his cancelled engagements
was swallowed up, and there was one great wave of sympathy which touched
us not a little.
The journey to Washington was a painful one. Dr. Talmage kept growing
worse. All day long he lay on the couch before me in our drawing-room on
the train, saying nothing--under the constant care of the physician.
Telegrams and letters followed the patient all the way from Mexico to
the Capital city. At every station silent, awe-stricken crowds were
gathered to question of the state of the beloved sufferer. In New
Orleans we had to stay over a day, so as to secure accommodation on the
train to Washington. While there many messages of condolence were left
at the hotel, a party of ladies calling especially to thank me for the
"great care I was taking of their Dr. Talmage."
On our route to the national city, I remember the Doctor drew me down
beside him to speak to me. He was then extremely weak and his voice was
very low: "Eleanor, I believe this is death," he said.
The long journey, in which years seemed compressed into days, at last
came to a close. The train pulled up in Washington, and our own
physician, Dr. Magruder, met us at the station. Dr. Talmage was borne
into his home in a chair, and upstairs into his bedroom, where already
the angel of death had entered to welcome and guard him, though, alas!
we knew it not, and still hoped against hope. Occasional rallies took
place; but evidences of cerebral inflammation appeared, and the patient
sank into a state of unconsciousness, which was only a prelude to death.
Bulletins were given to the public daily by the attending physicians;
and if aught could have assuaged the anguish of such moments it would
have been the universal interest and sympathy shown from all parts of
the world.
Readers will pardon me if I reproduce from _The Christian Herald_ a
record of the last scene. It is hard "to take down the folded shadows of
our bereavement" and hold it even to the gaze of friends.
"After a painful illness, lasting several weeks, America's best-beloved
preacher, the Reverend Thomas DeWitt Talmage, passed from earth to the
life above, on April 12th, 1902. Ever since his return from Mexico,
where he was prostrated by a sudden attack which rapidly assumed the
form of cerebral congestion, he had lain in the sick chamber of his
Washington home, surrounded by his family and cared for by the most
skilful physicians. Each day brought its alternate hopes and fears. Much
of the time was passed in unconsciousness; but there were intervals
when, even amid his sufferings, he could speak to and recognise those
around him. No murmur or complaint came from his lips; he bore his
suffering bravely, sustained by a Higher Power. The message had come
which sooner or later comes to all, and the aged servant of God was
ready to go; he had been ready all his life.
"Occasional rallies took place, raising hopes which were quickly
abandoned. From April 5th to April 12th these rallies occurred at
frequent intervals, always followed by a condition of increased
depression, more or less augmented fever and partial unconsciousness. On
Saturday, April 12th, a great change became apparent. For many hours the
patient had been unconscious. As the day wore on, it became evident that
he could not live through another night. All of Dr. Talmage's
family--his wife, his son, the Rev. Frank DeWitt Talmage, of Chicago;
Mrs. Warren G. Smith and Mrs. Daniel Mangam, of Brooklyn; Mrs. Allen E.
Donnan, of Richmond; and Mrs. Clarence Wycoff and Miss Talmage, were
gathered in the chamber of death. Dr. G.L. Magruder, the principal
physician, was also in attendance at the last. At 9.25 o'clock p.m., the
soul took flight from the inanimate clay, and the spirit of the world's
greatest preacher was released."
The Rev. T. Chalmers Easton, an old and valued friend of Dr. Talmage,
was in frequent attendance upon him, and never ceased his ministrations
until the eyes of the beloved one were closed in death. A brief excerpt
from his address at the Memorial Service of the Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage
held at the Eastern Presbyterian Church, Washington, may not be
unacceptable to the reader:
"A truly great man or eloquent orator does not die--
'And is he dead whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high?
To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.'
"What shall we say of the prince in Israel who has left us? Can we
compress the ocean into a dewdrop? No more is it possible to condense
into one brief hour what is due to the memory of our beloved and
illustrious friend. His moral courage was only equalled by his giant
frame and physical strength. He was made of the very stuff that martyrs
are made of: one of the most remarkable individualities of our time. A
man of no negative qualities, aggressive and positive.
"His whole soul was full of convictions of right and duty. A firm
friend, a man of ready recognition, a human magnet in his focalising
power. He was true in every deed, and never needed a veil to be
drawn.... If, as his personal friend for more than twenty years, I
should attempt to open up the treasures of his real greatness, where
shall we find more of those sterling virtues that poets have sung,
artists portrayed, and historians commended? He was truly a great man--a
man of God!
"The last years of his life were full of happiness in the living
companionship of her who so sadly mourns his departure. He frequently
spoke to me of the great inspiration brought into these years by her
ceaseless devotion to all his plans and work, making what was burdensome
in his accumulating literary duties a pleasure.... The last fond look of
recognition was given to his beloved wife, and the last word that fell
from his lips, when far down in the valley, was the sweetest music to
his ears--'Eleanor.'
"It was said once by an eminent writer that when Abraham Lincoln, the
forest-born liberator, entered Heaven, he threw down at God's throne
three million yokes as the trophies of his great act of emancipation; as
great as that was, I think it was small, indeed, compared with the tens
of thousands of souls Talmage redeemed from the yokes of sin and shame
by the glorious Gospel preached with such fervour and power of the Holy
Ghost. What a mighty army stood ready to greet him at the gates of the
heavenly city as the warrior passed in to be crowned by his Sovereign
and King!"
The funeral services were held at the Church of the Covenant,
Washington, on April 15th. The ceremony began at 5 p.m., with the "Dead
March from Saul," and lasted considerably over an hour. The coffin
rested immediately in front of the pulpit, and over it was a massive bed
of violets. On a silver plate was the inscription:
THOMAS DEWITT TALMAGE,
JANUARY 7TH, 1832-APRIL 12TH, 1902
The floral offerings were numerous, including a wreath of white roses
and lilies of the valley sent by President and Mrs. Roosevelt. The
officiating clergymen were the Rev. Dr. T.S. Hamlin, pastor of the
Church; the Rev. Dr. T. Chalmers Easton, of Washington; and the Rev.
Drs. S.J. Nicols, and James Demarest, of Brooklyn. A male quartette
sang: "Lead, Kindly Light," a favourite hymn of Dr. Talmage; "Beyond the
Smiling and the Weeping"; and "It is well with my Soul." The addresses
of the Reverend Doctors were eulogistic of the dead preacher, of whom
they had been intimate friends for more than a quarter of a century. The
body lay in state four hours, during which thousands passed in review
around it.
At midnight the remains of Dr. Talmage were conveyed by private train to
Brooklyn, where the burial took place in Greenwood Cemetery. The funeral
_cortége_ arrived about ten o'clock in the morning; hundreds were
already in the cemetery, waiting to behold the last rites paid to one
they revered and loved. The Episcopal burial service was read by the
Rev. Dr. Howard Suydam, an old friend and classmate of Dr. Talmage, who
made a brief address, and concluded the simple ceremonies by the recital
of the Lord's Prayer.
Tributes were paid to the illustrious dead all over the civilised world,
and in many languages; while thousands of letters of condolence and
telegrams assured the family in those days of affliction that human
hearts were throbbing with ours and fain would comfort us. One wrote
feelingly:
"When Dr. Talmage described the Heavenly Jerusalem, he seemed to feel
all the ecstatic fervour of a Bernard of Cluny, writing:
'For thee, O dear, dear Country!
Mine eyes their vigils keep;
For very love beholding
Thy holy name, they weep.'"
And it seems to me that I cannot better close this altogether unworthy
sketch of Dr. Talmage than by offering the reader as a parting
remembrance, in its simple beauty, his "Celestial Dream":
"One night, lying on my lounge when very tired, my children all around
me in full romp and hilarity and laughter, half awake and half asleep, I
dreamed this dream: I was in a far country. It was not in Persia,
although more than oriental luxuries crowned the cities. It was not the
tropics, although more than tropical fruitfulness filled the gardens. It
was not Italy, although more than Italian softness filled the air. And I
wandered around looking for thorns and nettles, but I found that none of
them grew there; and I saw the sun rise and watched to see it set, but
it set not. And I saw people in holiday attire, and I said, 'When will
they put off all this, and put on workman's garb, and again delve in the
mine or swelter at the forge?' But they never put off the holiday
attire.
"And I wandered in the suburbs of the city to find the place where the
dead sleep, and I looked all along the line of the beautiful hills, the
place where the dead might most blissfully sleep, and I saw towers and
castles, but not a mausoleum or a monument or a white slab was to be
seen. And I went into the chapel of the great town, and I said: 'Where
do the poor worship, and where are the benches on which they sit?' And
the answer was made me, 'We have no poor in this country.'
"And then I wandered out to find the hovels of the destitute, and I
found mansions of amber and ivory and gold; but not a tear could I see,
not a sigh could I hear; and I was bewildered, and I sat down under the
branches of a great tree, and I said, 'Where am I, and whence comes all
this scene?' And then out from among the leaves and up the flowery paths
and across the bright streams, there came a beautiful group thronging
all about me, and as I saw them come I thought I knew their step, and as
they shouted I thought I knew their voices, but they were so gloriously
arrayed in apparel such as I had never before witnessed, that I bowed as
stranger to stranger. But when again they clapped their hands and
shouted 'Welcome! Welcome!' the mystery all vanished, and I found that
time had gone and eternity had come, and we were all together again in
our new home in Heaven.
"And I looked around, and I said, 'Are we all here?' And the voices of
many generations responded, 'All here!' And while tears of gladness were
raining down our cheeks, and the branches of the Lebanon cedars were
clapping their hands, and the towers of the great city were chiming
their welcome, we all together began to leap and shout and sing, 'Home,
home, home, home!'"