"Here, in one of the biggest cities in the world, an innocent child had died of hunger, and because its mother was too poor to pay for medical attendance.

"A word or two was whispered in the mother's ear and we pa.s.s down the creaking stairs to the street. The sun is shining brightly. A half-dozen romping children are on their way home to lunch. The business of the great city is moving briskly. It is Christmas week and the air is redolent with the suggestions of good things to come and visions of Kriss Kringle. Truck drivers are whipping their horses and swearing at others in their way. An organ-grinder is playing 'Sweet violets' on a neighbouring corner. Everyone in the streets is of smiling face and happy."

The picture is not mine, nor could I have drawn one of myself, but it is a sketch ill.u.s.trating the almost daily experiences of a "popular"

minister, as I was called. It was estimated that my weekly sermons, in all parts of the world, reached 180,000,000 people every Monday morning--the year 1888. This was gratifying to a man who, in his student days, had been told that he would never be fit to preach the Gospel in any American pulpit. I thanked G.o.d for the great opportunity of His blessings.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DR. TALMAGE AS CHAPLAIN OF THE THIRTEENTH REGIMENT.]

In the spring of 1888 I received the honour of being made chaplain of the "Old Thirteenth" Regiment of the National Guard, with a commission as captain, to succeed my old friend and fellow-worker, Henry Ward Beecher, who had died. Although I was a very busy man I accepted it, because I had always felt it my duty to be a part of any public-spirited enterprise. On March 7th, 1888, before a vast a.s.sembly, the oath was administered by Colonel Austen, and I received my commission. Memories of my actual, though brief, sight of war, at Sharpsburg and Hagerstown, where the hospitals were filled with wounded soldiers, mingled faintly with the actual scene of peace and plenty around me at that moment. We needed no epaulet then but the shoulder that is muscular, and we needed no commanding officer but the steadiness of our own nerves. The Thirteenth Regiment was at the height of its prosperity then; our band, under the leadership of Fred Inness, was the best in the city. I remembered it well because, in the parade on Decoration Day, I was on horseback riding a somewhat unmusical horse. It was comforting, if not strictly true, to read in the newspaper the following day that "Doctor Talmage rides his horse with dash and skill."

The a.s.sociation of ideas in American life is a wonderful mixture of the appropriate and the inappropriate. Because my church was crowded, because I lived in a comfortable house, because I could become, on occasions, a preacher on horseback, I was rated as a millionaire clergyman. It was amusing to read about, but difficult to live up to.

There were many calculations in the newspapers as to my income. Some of the more moderate figures were correct. My salary was $12,000 as pastor of the Tabernacle, I have made over $20,000 a year from my lectures.

From the publication of my sermons my income was equal to my salary. I received $5,000 a year as editor of a popular monthly; I sometimes wrote an article that paid me $150 or more, and a single marriage fee was often as high as $250. There were some royalties on my books.

We lived well, dressed comfortably; but there were many demands on me then, as on all public men, and I needed all I could earn. I carried a life insurance of $75,000. All this was a long way from being a Croesus of the clergy, however. I mention these figures and facts because they stimulate to me, as I hope they will to others, the possibilities of temporal welfare in a minister's life, provided he works hard and is faithful to the tremendous trusts of his calling.

A man's industry is the whole of that man, just as his laziness is the end of him. I always believed heartily, profoundly, in the equality of a man's salvation with a man's self-respect in temporal affairs. I am sure that whoever keeps the books in Heaven credits the account of a new arrival with the exact amount of salvation he or she has achieved, making a due allowance for the amounts earned and paid over to the causes of charity, kindliness, and mercy.

I always believed in the business and the religious method of the Salvation Army, because it was an effort to discipline salvation on a working basis. When the Salvation Army first began its meetings in Brooklyn its members were hooted and insulted in the streets to an extent that rendered their meetings almost impossible. I was requested to present a pet.i.tion to Mayor Whitney asking protection for them in the streets of the city. People residing near the Salvation headquarters were in constant danger of annoyance from the mobs that gathered about them. It was the fault of the Brooklyn ruffianism. I demanded that the Salvation Army be permitted to hold meetings and march in processions unmolested. No one was ever killed by a street hosannah, no one was ever hurt by hearing a hallelujah. The more inspiring the music the more virile the optimism we can show, the more good we can do each other in the climb to Paradise. A minister's duty in his own community, and in all other communities in which he may find himself, is to make the great men of his time understand him and like him.

A minister who could adapt himself to the lights and shadows of human character in men of prominence enjoyed many opportunities that were enlightening. One met them, these men of many talents, at their best at dinners and banquets. It was then they were in their splendour.

Those dinners at the Press Club in 1888, what treat they were! In the days of John A. c.o.c.kerill, the handsome, dashing "Colonel," as he was called, of Mayor Grant the suave, Chauncey M. Depew the wit, of Charles Emory Smith the conservative journalist, of Henry George the Socialist, Moses P. Handy the "Major," of Roswell P. Flower, of Judge Henry Hilton, of General Felix Agnus--and of Hermann, the original, the great, the magic wonder-maker of the times. They were the leading spirits of an army of bright men who pushed the world upside down, or rolled it over and over, or made it stand still, according to how they felt. Mingling with these arbiters of our fate were all sorts and conditions of men. At one of these dinners I remember seeing Inspector Byrnes, the Sherlock Holmes of American crime, Colonel Ochiltree, the red savage, Steven Fiske, Samuel Carpenter, Judge David McAdam, John W. Keller, Judge Gedney, "Pat" Gilmore, Rufus Hatch, General Horatio C. King, Frank B.

Thurber, J. Amory Knox, E.B. Harper, W.J. Arkell, Dr. Nagle, the poet Geogheghan, Doc White, and Joseph Howard, jun. They were the old guard of the land of Bohemia, where a minister's voice sounded good to them if it was a voice without cant or religious hypocrisy. I remember a letter sent by President Harrison to one of these dinners, in which, after acknowledging the receipt of an invitation to attend, he regretted being unable to be present at "so attractive an event."

Among the men whom I first met at this time, and who made an impression of lasting respect upon me, was Henry Cabot Lodge. He was the guest of General Stewart L. Woodford, at a breakfast given in his honour in the spring of 1888 at the Hamilton Club. General Woodford invited me, among others, to meet him. We all came--Mr. Benjamin A. Stillman, Mr. J.S.T.

Stranahan, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, Judge C.R. Pratt, ex-Mayor Schroeder, Mr. John Winslow, president of the New England Society, Mr. George M.

Olcott, Mr. William Copeland Wallace, Colonel Albert P. Lamb, Mr.

Charles A. Moore, Mr. William B. Williams, Mr. Ethan Allen Doty, Mr.

James S. Case, Mr. T.L. Woodruff. It was a social innovation then to arrange a gathering of this sort at 11 a.m. and call it a breakfast. It came from England. Mr. Lodge was only in town on a visit for a few days, chiefly, I think, to attend the annual dinner of the "Sunrise Sons," as the members of the New England society were called. As I read these names again, how big some of them look now, in the world's note-book of celebrities. Some of them were just beginning to learn the pleasant taste of ambitious careers. Most of them had discovered that ambition was the gift of hard work. There is more health in work than in any medicine I ever heard of.

Work is the only thing that keeps people alive. Whatever posterity may proclaim for me, I always had the reputation of being a worker. Perhaps for this reason I became the object of a microscopic investigation before the people in 1888. It was the first time in my life that any notable attention had been taken of me in my own country, that was not a personal notoriety over some conflict of the hour. Whenever the American newspaper begins to describe your home life with an air of a.n.a.lysis that is not libellous you are among the famous. It took me a little while to understand this. A man's private life is of such indifferent character to himself, unless he be an official representative of the people, that I never quite appreciated the importance given to mine, at this time, in Brooklyn. Chiefly because I had made money as a writer, my fellow-citizens were curious to know how, in the clerical profession, it could be made. Articles appeared constantly in the newspapers with headlines like these--"Dr. Talmage at Home," "In a Clergyman's Study,"

"Dr. Talmage's Wealth," "Talmage Interviewed." Nearly all of them began with the American view point uppermost, in this fashion:

"The American preacher lives in a luxurious home."

"His income, from all sources, exceeds that of the President of the United States."

"The impression is everywhere that Dr. Talmage is very rich."

I regretted this because there is a notion that a minister of the Gospel cannot acc.u.mulate money for himself, that he should not do so if he could, that his duty consists in collecting money for his church, his parish, his mission--for anything and everyone but his own temporal prosperity. I had done this all my life. I can solemnly say that I never sought the financial success which in some measure came to me. I regarded the money which I received for my work as pastor of the Tabernacle, or from other sources as an earning capacity that is due to every working man. I was able to do more work than some, because the motives of my whole life have insisted that I work hard. The impetus of my strength was not abnormal, it was merely the daily requirement of my health that I work as hard as I knew how as long as I could.

Restlessness was an element of life with me. I could not keep still any length of time. My mind had acquired the habit of ideas, and my hands were always full of unfinished labours.

I remember trying once to sit still at a concert of Gilmore's band, at Manhattan Beach. After hearing one selection I found myself unable to listen any farther--I could not sit quiet for longer. I rarely allowed myself more than five minutes for shaving, no matter whether the razor were sharp or blunt. They used to tell me that I wore a black bow tie till it was not fit to wear. On the trains I slept a great deal. Sleep is the great storage battery of life. Four days of the week I was on the train. I rose every morning at six. The first thing I did was to glance over the morning newspaper, to catch in this whispering gallery of the world the life of a new day. First the cable news, then the editorials, then the news about ourselves. I received the princ.i.p.al newspapers of almost every big city in the morning mail I enjoyed the caricatures of myself, they made me laugh. If a man poked fun at me with true wit I was his friend. They were clever fellows those newspaper humorists. I consider walking a very important exercise--not merely a stroll, but a good long walk. Often I used to go from the Grand Central Depot in New York to my home in Brooklyn. There and back was my usual promenade.

Seven miles should be an average walk for a man past fifty every day. I have made fifteen and twenty miles without fatigue. I always dined in the middle of the day. Contrary to "Combes' Physiology," I always took a nap after dinner. In my boyhood days this was a book that opposed the habit. Combes said that he thought it very injurious to sleep after dinner, but I saw the cow lie down after eating, and the horse, and it seemed to me that Combes was wrong. A morning bath is absolutely indispensable. When I was in college there were no luxurious hot and cold bath rooms. I often had to break the ice in my pitcher to get at the water.

These were the habits of my life, formed in my youth, and as they grew upon me they were the sinews that kept me young in the heart and brain and muscle. My voice rarely, if ever, failed me entirely. In 1888, to my surprise and delight, my western trips had become ovations that no human being could fail to enjoy. In St. Paul, Duluth, Minneapolis, the crowds in and about the churches where I preached were estimated to be over twenty thousand. It was a joy to live realising the service one could be to others. This year of 1888 was to be a climax to so many aspirations of my life that I am forced to record it as one of the most important of all my working years. No event of any consequence in the country, social or political, or disastrous, happened, that my name was not available to the ethical phase of its development. Newspaper squibs of all sorts reflect this fact in some way. Here is one that ill.u.s.trates my meaning:

"ONLY TALMAGE!

"The weary husband was lounging in the old armchair reading before the fire after the day's work. Suddenly he brought down his hand vigorously upon his knee, exclaiming, 'That's so! That's so!' A minute after, he cried again, 'Well, I should say.' Then later, 'Good for you; hit them right and left.' Soon he stretched himself out at full length in the chair, let his right hand, holding the paper, drop nearly to the floor, threw up his left and laughed aloud until the rafters rang. His anxious wife inquired, 'What is it so funny, John?'

"He made no reply, but lifted the paper again, straightened himself up, and went on reading. Very quiet he now grew by degrees. Then slyly he slipped his left hand around and drew out his handkerchief, wiped his brow and lips by way of excuse and gave his eyelids a pa.s.sing dash. The very next moment he pressed the handkerchief to his eyes and let the paper drop to the floor, saying, 'Well, that's wonderful.' 'What is it, John?' his good wife inquired again. 'Oh!

It's only Talmage!'"

My contemporaries in Brooklyn celebrity at this time were unusual men.

Some of them were dear friends, some of them close friends, some of them advisers or champions, guardians of my peace--all of them friends.

About this time I visited Johnstown, shortly after the flood. My heart was weary with the scenes of desolation about me. It did not seem possible that the hospitable city of Johnstown I had known in other days could be so tumbled down by disaster. Where I had once seen the street, equal in style to Euclid Avenue in Cleveland, I found a long ridge of sand strewn with planks and driftwood. By a wave from twelve to twenty feet high, 800 houses were crushed, twenty-eight huge locomotives from the round house were destroyed, hundreds of people dead and dying in its anger. Two thousand dead were found, 2,000 missing, was the record the day I was there. The place became used to death. It was not a sensation to the survivors to see it about them. I saw a human body taken out of the ruins as if it had been a stick of wood. No crowd gathered about it.

Some workmen a hundred feet away did not stop their work to see. The devastation was far worse than was ever told. The worst part of it could not even be seen. The heart-wreck was the unseen tragedy of this unfortunate American city. From Brooklyn I helped to send temporary relief. With a wooden box in my hand I, with others, collected from the bounty of that vast meeting in the Academy of Music. The exact amount paid over by our relief committee in all was $95,905. There was no end to the demand upon one's energy in all directions.

I was called upon in September, 1888, to lay the corner stone of the First Presbyterian Church at Far-Rockaway, and amid the imposing ceremonies I predicted the great future of Long Island. It seemed to me that Long Island would some day be the London of America, filled with the most prominent churches of the country.

While in the plans of others I was an impulse at least towards success, in my own plans, how often I have been scourged and beaten to earth. As it had been before, so it was in this zenith of my personal progress. To my amazement, chagrin and despair, on the morning of October 13, 1889, our beautiful church was again burned to the ground.

THE FOURTEENTH MILESTONE

1889-1891

For fifteen years, to a large part of the public, I had been an experiment in church affairs. In 1889 I had caught up with the world and the things I had been doing and thinking and hoping became suitable for the world. In the retrospect of those things I had left behind what grat.i.tude I felt for their strife and struggle! A minister of the Gospel is not only a sentinel of divine orders, he must also have deep convictions of his authority to resist attack in his own way, by his own force, with his own strength and faith. When, on June 3, 1873, I laid the corner-stone of the new tabernacle, I dedicated the sacred building as a stronghold against rationalism and humanitarianism. I knew then that this statement was regarded as questionable orthodoxy, and I myself had become the curious symbol of a new religion. Still I pursued my course, an independent sentry on the outskirts of the old religious camping-ground, but inspired with the converting grace I had received in my boyhood, my duty was clearly not so much a duty of regulations as it was a conception, a sympathy, a command to the Christian needs of the human race.

When the first Tabernacle was consumed by fire my utterances were criticised and my enthusiasm to rebuild it was misconstrued. My convictions then were the same, they have always been the same. To me it seemed that G.o.d's most vehement utterances had been in flames of fire.

The most tremendous lesson He ever gave to New York was in the conflagration of 1835; to Chicago in the conflagration of 1871; to Boston in the conflagration of 1872; to my own congregation in the fiery downfall of the Tabernacle. Some saw in the flames that roared through its organ pipes a requiem, nothing but unmitigated disaster, while others of us heard the voice of G.o.d, as from Heaven, sounding through the crackling thunder of that awful day, saying, "He shall baptise you with the Holy Ghost and with Fire!"

It was a very different state of public feeling which met the disaster that came to the Tabernacle on that early Sabbath morning of October 18, 1889. I had a congregation of millions all over the world to appeal to.

I stood before them, accredited in the religious course I had pursued, approved as a minister of the Gospel, upheld as a man and a preacher.

The hand of Providence is always a mysterious grasp of life that confuses and dismays, but it always rebuilds, restores, and prophesies.

The second Tabernacle was destroyed during a terrific thunderstorm. It was crumpled and torn by the winds and the flames of heaven. I watched the fire from the cupola of my house in silent abnegation. The history of the Brooklyn Tabernacle had been strange and peculiar all the way through. Things that seemed to be against us always turned out finally for us. Our brightest and best days always follow disaster. Our enlargements of the building had never met our needs. Our plans had pleased the people, but we needed improvements. In this spirit I accepted the situation, and the Board of Trustees sustained me. Our insurance on the church building was over $120,000. I made an appeal to the people of Brooklyn and to the thousands of readers my sermons had gained, for the sum of $100,000. It would be much easier to accomplish, I felt, than it had been before.

At my house in Brooklyn, on the evening of the day of the fire, the following resolutions were pa.s.sed by the Board of Trustees:--

"Resolved--that we bow in humble submission to the Providence which this morning removed our beloved Church, and while we cannot fully understand the meaning of that Providence we have faith that there is kindness as well as severity in the stroke.

"Resolved:--That if G.o.d and the people help us we will proceed at once to rebuild, and that we rear a larger structure to meet the demands of our congregation, the locality and style of the building to be indicated by the amount of contributions made."

A committee was immediately formed to select a temporary place of worship, and the Academy of Music was selected, because of its size and location.

I was asked for a statement to the people through the press. From a sc.r.a.p-book I copy this statement:--

"To the People--

"By sudden calamity we are without a church. The building a.s.sociated with so much that is dear to us is in ashes. In behalf of my stricken congregation I make appeal for help. Our church has never confined its work to this locality. Our church has never been sufficient either in size or appointments for the people who came.

We want to build something worthy of our city and worthy of the cause of G.o.d.