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T. De Witt Talmage by T. De Witt Talmage

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On this last visit that I speak of, a young man connected with the
Phoenix Hotel, Lexington, where Senator Beck lived much of the time, and
where he entertained me, told me that on the morning of the day that
Senator Beck went with me to High Bridge he had been standing in that
hotel among a group of men who were assailing Christianity, and
expressing surprise that Senator Beck was going to High Bridge to hear a
sermon. When we got to the hotel that afternoon the same group of men
were standing together, and were waiting to hear the Senator's report of
the service, and hoping to get something to the disadvantage of
religion. My informant heard them say to him, "Well, how was it?" The
Senator replied, "Doctor Talmage proved the truth of the Bible as by a
mathematical demonstration. Now talk to me no more on that subject."

On Sunday morning I returned to High Bridge for another preaching
service. Governor Blackburn again took us in his especial car. The word
"immensity" may give adequate idea of the audience present. Then the
Governor insisted that I go with him to Frankfort and spend a few days.
They were memorable days to me. At breakfast, lunch and dinner the
prominent people of Kentucky were invited to meet me. Mrs. Blackburn
took me to preach to her Bible Class in the State Prison. I think there
were about 800 convicts in that class. Paul would have called her "The
elect lady," "Thoroughly furnished unto all good works." Heaven only can
tell the story of her usefulness. What days and nights they were at the
Governor's Mansion. No one will ever understand the heartiness and
generosity and warmth of Kentucky hospitality until he experiences it.

President Arthur was coming through Lexington on his way to open an
Exposition at Louisville. Governor Blackburn was to go to Lexington to
receive him and make a speech. The Governor read me the speech in the
State House before leaving Frankfort, and asked for my criticism. It was
an excellent speech about which I made only one criticism, and that
concerning a sentence in which he praised the beautiful women and the
fine horses of Kentucky. I suggested that he put the human and the
equine subjects of his admiration in different sentences, and this
suggestion he adopted.

We started for Lexington and arrived at the hotel. Soon the throngs in
the streets showed that the President of the United States was coming.
The President was escorted into the parlour to receive the address of
welcome, and seeing me in the throng, he exclaimed, "Dr. Talmage! Are
you here? It makes me feel at home to see you." The Governor put on his
spectacles and began to read his speech, but the light was poor, and he
halted once or twice for a word, when I was tempted to prompt him, for I
remembered his speech better than he did himself.

That day I bade good-bye to Governor Blackburn, and I saw him two or
three times after that, once in my church in Brooklyn and once in
Louisville lecture hall, where he stood at the door to welcome me as I
came in from New Orleans on a belated train at half-past nine o'clock at
night when I ought to have begun my lecture at 8 o'clock; and the last
time I saw him he was sick and in sad decadence and near the terminus of
an eventful life. One of my brightest anticipations of Heaven is that of
seeing my illustrious Kentucky friend.

That experience at Frankfort was one of the many courtesies I have
received from all the leading men of all the States. I have known many
of the Governors, and Legislatures, when I have looked in upon them,
have adjourned to give me reception, a speech has always been called
for, and then a general hand-shaking has followed. It was markedly so
with the Legislatures of Ohio and Missouri. At Jefferson City, the
capital of Missouri, both Houses of Legislature adjourned and met
together in the Assembly Room, which was the larger place, and then the
Governor introduced me for an address.

It is a satisfaction to be kindly treated by the prominent characters of
your own time. I confess to a feeling of pleasure when General Grant, at
the Memorial Services at Greenwood--I think the last public meeting he
ever attended, and where I delivered the Memorial Address on Decoration
Day--said that he had read with interest everything that appeared
connected with my name. President Arthur, at the White House one day,
told me the same thing.

Whenever by the mysterious laws of destiny I found myself in the cave of
the winds of displeasure, there always came to me encouraging echoes
from somewhere. I find among my papers at this time a telegram from the
Russian Ambassador in Washington, which illustrates this idea.

This message read as follows:--

"Washington, D.C., May 20, 1893.

"To Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, Bible House, New York.

"I would be very glad to see you on the 27th of May in Philadelphia
on board the Russian flagship 'Dimitry Donskoy' at eleven o'clock,
to tender to you in presence of our brilliant sailors and on Russian
soil, a souvenir His Majesty the Emperor ordered me to give in his
name to the American gentleman who visited Russia during the trying
year 1892.

"CANTACUZENE."

Gladly I obeyed this request, and was presented, amid imperial
ceremonies, with a magnificent solid gold tea service from the Emperor
Alexander III. These were the sort of appreciative incidents so often
happening in my life that infused my work with encouragements.

The months preceding the close of my ministry in Brooklyn developed a
remarkable interest shown among those to whom my name had become a
symbol of the Gospel message. There was a universal, world-wide
recognition of my work. Many regretted my decision to leave the Brooklyn
Tabernacle, some doubted that I actually intended to do so, others
foretold a more brilliant future for me in the open trail of Gospel
service they expected me to follow.

All this enthusiasm expressed by my friends of the world culminated in a
celebration festival given in honour of the twenty-fifth anniversary of
my pastorate in Brooklyn. The movement spread all over the country and
to Europe. It was decided to make the occasion a sort of International
reception, to be held in the Tabernacle on May 10 and 11, 1894.

I had made my plans for a wide glimpse of the earth and the people on it
who knew me, but whom I had never seen. I had made preparations to start
on May 14, and the dates set for this jubilee were arranged on the eve
of my farewell. I was about to make a complete circuit of the globe, and
whatever my friends expected me to do otherwise I approached this
occasion with a very definite conclusion that it would be my farewell to
Brooklyn.

I recall this event in my life with keen contrasts of feeling, for it is
mingled in my heart with swift impressions of extraordinary joy and
tragic import. All of it was God's will--the blessing and the
chastening.

The church had been decorated with the stars and stripes, with gold and
purple. In front of the great organ, under a huge picture of the pastor,
was the motto that briefly described my evangelical career:--

"Tabernacle his pulpit; the world his audience."

The reception began at eight o'clock in the evening with a selection on
the great organ, by Henry Eyre Brown, our organist, of an original
composition written by him and called, in compliment to the occasion,
"The Talmage Silver Anniversary March." On the speaker's platform with
me were Mayor Schieren, of Brooklyn, Mr. Barnard Peters, Rev. Father
Sylvester Malone, Rev. Dr. John F. Carson, ex-Mayor David A. Boody, Rev.
Dr. Gregg, Rabbi F. De Sol Mendes, Rev. Dr. Louis Albert Banks, Hon.
John Winslow, Rev. Spencer F. Roche, and Rev. A.C. Dixon--an
undenominational gathering of good men. There is, perhaps, no better way
to record my own impressions of this event than to quote the words with
which I replied to the complimentary speeches of this oration. They
recall, more closely and positively, the sensibilities, the emotions,
and the inspiration of that hour:

"Dear Mr. Mayor, and friends before me, and friends behind me, and
friends all around me, and friends hovering over me, and friends in
this room, and the adjoining rooms, and friends indoors and
outdoors--forever photographed upon my mind and heart is this scene
of May 10, 1894. The lights, the flags, the decorations, the
flowers, the music, the illumined faces will remain with me while
earthly life lasts, and be a cause of thanksgiving after I have
passed into the Great Beyond. Two feelings dominate me
to-night--gratitude and unworthiness; gratitude first to God, and
next, to all who have complimented me.

"My twenty-five years in Brooklyn have been happy years--hard work,
of course. This is the fourth church in which I have preached since
coming to Brooklyn, and how much of the difficult work of church
building that implies you can appreciate. This church had its mother
and its grandmother, and its great-grandmother. I could not tell the
story of disasters without telling the story of heroes and heroines,
and around me in all these years have stood men and women of whom
the world was not worthy. But for the most part the twenty-five
years have been to me a great happiness. With all good people here
present the wonder is, although they may not express it, 'What will
be the effect upon the pastor of this church; of all this scene?'
Only one effect, I assure you, and that an inspiration for better
work for God and humanity. And the question is already absorbing my
entire nature, 'What can I do to repay Brooklyn for this great
uprising?' Here is my hand and heart for a campaign of harder work
for God and righteousness than I have ever yet accomplished. I have
been told that sometimes in the Alps there are great avalanches
called down by a shepherd's voice. The pure white snows pile up
higher and higher like a great white throne, mountains of snow on
mountains of snow, and all this is so delicately and evenly poised
that the touch of a hand or the vibration of air caused by the human
voice will send down the avalanche into the valleys with
all-compassing and overwhelming power. Well, to-night I think that
the heavens above us are full of pure white blessings, mountains of
mercy on mountains of mercy, and it will not take much to bring down
the avalanche of benediction, and so I put up my right hand to reach
it and lift my voice, to start it. And now let the avalanche of
blessing come upon your bodies, your minds, your souls, your homes,
your churches, and your city. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel from
everlasting to everlasting, and let the whole earth be filled with
His glory! Amen and Amen!"

On the next day, May 11, the reception was continued. Among the speakers
was the Hon. William M. Evarts, ex-Secretary of State, who, though
advanced in years, honoured us with his presence and an address. Senator
Walsh, of Georgia, spoke for the South; ex-Congressman Joseph C. Hendrix
of Brooklyn, Rev. Charles L. Thompson, Murat Halstead, Rev. Dr. I.J.
Lansing, General Tracey, were among the other speakers of the evening.

From St. Petersburg came a cable, signed by Count Bobrinsky,
saying:--"Heartfelt congratulations from remembering friends."

Messages from Senator John Sherman, from Governor McKinley (before he
became President), from Mr. Gladstone, from Rev. Joseph Parker, and
among others from London, the following cable, which I shall always
prize among the greatest testimonials of the broad Gospel purpose in
England--

"Cordial congratulations; grateful acknowledgment of splendid
services in ministry during last twenty-five years. Warm wishes for
future prosperity.

"(Signed)
ARCHDEACON OF LONDON,
CANON WILBERFORCE.
THOMAS DAVIDSON.
PROFESSOR SIMPSON.
JOHN LOBB.
BISHOP OF LONDON."


Appreciation, good cheer, encouragement swept around and about me, as I
was to start on what Dr. Gregg described as "A walk among the people of
my congregation" around the world.

The following Sunday, May 13, 1894, just after the morning service, the
Tabernacle was burned to the ground.




THE SEVENTEENTH MILESTONE

1895-1898


Among the mysteries that are in every man's life, more or less
influencing his course, is the mystery of disaster that comes upon him
noiselessly, suddenly, horribly. The destruction of the New Tabernacle
by a fire which started in the organ loft was one of these mysteries
that will never be revealed this side of eternity. The destruction of
any church, no matter how large or how popular, does not destroy our
faith in God. Great as the disaster had been, much greater was the mercy
of Divine mystery that prevented a worse calamity in the loss of human
life. The fire was discovered just after the morning service, and
everyone had left the building but myself, Mrs. Talmage, the organist,
and one or two personal friends. We were standing in the centre aisle of
the church when a puff of smoke suddenly came out of the space behind
the organ. In less than fifteen minutes from that discovery the huge
pipe organ was a raging furnace, and I personally narrowly escaped the
falling debris by the rear door of my church study. The flags and
decoration which had been put up for the jubilee celebration had not
been moved, and they whetted the appetite of the flames. It was all
significant to me of one thing chiefly, that at some points of my life
I had been given no choice. At these places of surprise in my life there
was never any doubt about what I had to do. God's way is very clear and
visible when the Divine purpose is intended for you.

I had delivered that morning my farewell sermon before departing on a
long journey around the world. My prayer, in which the silent sympathy
of a vast congregation joined me, had invoked the Divine protection and
blessing upon us, upon all who were present at that time, upon all who
had participated in the great jubilee service of the preceding week. On
the tablets of memory I had recalled all the kindnesses that had been
shown our church by other churches and other pastors on that occasion.
The general feeling of my prayer had been an outpouring of heartfelt
gratitude for myself and my flock. As I have said before, God speaks
loudest in the thunder of our experiences. There were several narrow
escapes, for the fire spread with great rapidity, but, fortunately, all
escaped from the doomed building in time. Mr. Frederick W. Lawrence and
Mr. T.E. Matthews, both of them trustees of the church, were exposed to
serious danger and their escape was providential. Mr. Lawrence crept out
on his hands and knees to the open air, and Mr. Matthews was almost
suffocated when he reached the street.

The flames spread rapidly in the neighbourhood and destroyed the Hotel
Regent, adjoining the church. At my home that day there were many
messages of sympathy and condolence brought to me, and neighbouring
churches sent committees to tender the use of their pulpits. In the
afternoon the Tabernacle trustees met at my house and submitted the
following letter, which was adopted:--

"DEAR DR. TALMAGE.--With saddened hearts, but undismayed, and with
faith in God unshaken and undisturbed, the trustees of the Brooklyn
Tabernacle have unanimously resolved to rebuild the Tabernacle. We
find that after paying the present indebtedness there will be
nothing left to begin with.

"But if we can feel assured that our dear pastor will continue to
break the bread of life to us and to the great multitudes that are
accustomed to throng the Tabernacle, we are willing to undertake the
work, firmly believing that we can safely count upon the blessing of
God and the practical sympathy of all Christian people.

"Will you kindly give us the encouragement of your promise to serve
the Tabernacle as its pastor, if we will dedicate a new building
free from debt, to the honour, the glory, and the service of God?

"TRUSTEES OF THE TABERNACLE."


On reading this letter, or rather hearing it read to me, in the impulse
of gratitude I replied in like sympathy. I thanked them, and remembering
that I had buried their dead, baptised their children and married the
young, my heart was with them. I sincerely felt then, and perhaps I
always did feel, that I would rather serve them than any other people on
the face of the earth. It was my conclusion that if the trustees could
fulfil the conditions they had mentioned, of building a new Tabernacle,
free of debt, I would remain their pastor.

My date for beginning my journey around the world had been May 14, the
day following the disaster. Before leaving, however, I dictated the
following communication to my friends and the friends of my ministry
everywhere:--

"Our church has again been halted by a sword of flame. The
destruction of the first Brooklyn Tabernacle was a mystery. The
destruction of the second a greater--profound. The third calamity we
adjourn to the Judgment Day for explanation. The home of a vast
multitude of souls, it has become a heap of ashes. Whether it will
ever rise again is a prophecy we will not undertake. God rules and
reigns and makes no mistake. He has His way with churches as with
individuals. One thing is certain: the pastor of the Brooklyn
Tabernacle will continue to preach as long as life and health last.
We have no anxieties about a place to preach in. But woe is unto us
if we preach not the Gospel! We ask for the prayers of all good
people for the pastor and people of the Brooklyn Tabernacle.

"T. DEWITT TALMAGE."

At half past nine o'clock on the night of May 14, 1894, I descended the
front steps of my home in Brooklyn, N.Y. The sensation of leaving for a
journey around the world was not all bright anticipation. The miles to
be travelled were numerous, the seas to be crossed treacherous, the
solemnities outnumbered the expectations. My family accompanied me to
the railroad train, and my thought was should we ever meet again? The
climatic changes, the ships, the shoals, the hurricanes, the bridges,
the cars, the epidemics, the possibilities hinder any positiveness of
prophecy. I remembered the consoling remark at my reception a few
evenings ago, made by the Hon. William M. Evarts.

He said: "Dr. Talmage ought to realise that if he goes around the world
he will come out at the same place he started."

The timbers of our destroyed church were still smoking when I left
home. Three great churches had been consumed. Why this series of huge
calamities I knew not. Had I not made all the arrangements for
departure, and been assured by the trustees of my church that they would
take all further responsibilities upon themselves, I would have
postponed my intended tour or adjourned it for ever; but all whom I
consulted told me that now was the time to go, so I turned my face
towards the Golden Gate.

In a book called "The Earth Girdled," I have published all the facts of
this journey. It contains so completely the daily record of my trip that
there is no necessity to repeat any of its contents in these pages.

I returned to the United States in the autumn of 1894 and entered
actively into a campaign of preaching wherever a pulpit was available.
Of course there was much curiosity and interest to know how I was going
to pursue my Gospel work, having resigned my pastorate in Brooklyn. On
Sunday, January 6, 1895, I commenced a series of afternoon Gospel
meetings in the Academy of Music, New York, every Sunday. Because the
pastors of other churches had written me that an afternoon service was
the only one that would not interfere with their regular services, I
selected that time, otherwise I would much have preferred the morning or
the evening. I decided to go to New York because for many years friends
over there had been begging me to come. I regarded it as absurd and
improbable to expect the people of Brooklyn to build a fourth
Tabernacle, so I went in the direction that I felt would give me the
largest opportunity in the world.

I continued to reside in Brooklyn pending future plans. I liked Brooklyn
immensely--not only the people of my own former parish, but prominent
people of all churches and denominations there are my warm personal
friends. Any particular church in which I preached thereafter was only
the candlestick. In different parts of the world my sermons were
published in more than ten million copies every week. How many readers
saw them no one can say positively. Those sermons came back to me in
book form in almost every language of Europe.

My arrangements at the Academy of Music were not the final plans for my
Gospel work. I expected, however, to gather from these Gospel meetings
sufficient guidance to decide my field of work for the rest of my life.
I felt then that I was yet to do my best work free from all hindrances.
I looked forward to fully twenty years of good hard work before me.

Over nine churches in my own country, and several in England, had made
very enthusiastic offers to me to accept a permanent pastoral
obligation. For some reason or other I became more and more convinced,
however, that the divine intention in my life from this time on would be
different from any previous plan. The only reason that I declined to
accept these offers was because there was enough work for me to do
outside a permanent pulpit.

My literary work became extensive in its demand upon my time, and my
weekly sermons were like a sacred obligation that I could not forego. I
never found any difficulty in finding a pulpit from which to preach
every Sunday of my life. There were some ministers who preferred to
sandwich me in between regular hours of worship, if possible, so as to
maintain the even course of their way and avoid the crowds. I never
could avoid them and I never wanted to. I was never nervous, as many
people are, of a crowded place--of a panic.

The sudden excitement to which we give the name of "panic" is almost
always senseless and without foundation, whether this panic be a wild
rush in the money market or the stampede of an audience down the aisles
and out of the windows. My advice to my family when they are in a
congregation of people suddenly seized upon by a determination to get
out right away, and to get out regardless as to whether others are able
to get out, is to sit quiet on the supposition that nothing has
happened, or is going to happen.

I have been in a large number of panics, and in all the cases nothing
occurred except a demonstration of frenzy. One night in the Academy of
Music, Brooklyn, while my congregation were worshipping there, at the
time we were rebuilding one of our churches, there occurred a wild
panic. There was a sound that gave the impression that the galleries
were giving way under the immense throngs of people. I had been
preaching about ten minutes when at the alarming sound aforesaid, the
whole audience rose to their feet except those who fainted. Hundreds of
voices were in full shriek. Before me I saw strong men swoon. The
organist fled the platform. In an avalanche people went down the stairs.
A young man left his hat and overcoat and sweetheart, and took a leap
for life, and it is doubtful whether he ever found his hat or coat,
although, I suppose, he did recover his sweetheart. Terrorisation
reigned. I shouted at the top of my voice, "Sit down!" but it was a
cricket addressing a cyclone. Had it not been that the audience for the
most part were so completely packed in, there must have been a great
loss of life in the struggle. Hoping to calm the multitude I began to
sing the long meter doxology, but struck it at such a high pitch that by
the time I came to the second line I broke down. I then called to a
gentleman in the orchestra whom I knew could sing well: "Thompson, can't
you sing better than that?" whereupon he started the doxology again. By
the time we came to the second line scores of voices had joined, and by
the time we came to the third line hundreds of voices enlisted, and the
last line marshalled thousands. Before the last line was reached I cried
out, "As I was saying when you interrupted me," and then went on with my
sermon. The cause of the panic was the sliding of the snow from one part
of the roof of the Academy to another part. That was all. But no one who
was present that night will ever forget the horrors of the scene.

On the following Wednesday I was in the large upper room of the college
at Lewisburg, Pa.; I was about to address the students. No more people
could get into this room, which was on the second or third storey. The
President of the college was introducing me when some inflammable
Christmas greens, which had some six months before been wound around a
pillar in the centre of the room, took fire, and from floor to ceiling
there was a pillar of flame. Instantly the place was turned from a jolly
commencement scene, in which beauty and learning and congratulation
commingled, into a raving bedlam of fright and uproar. The panic of the
previous Sunday night in the Academy of Music, Brooklyn, had schooled me
for the occasion, and I saw at a glance that when the Christmas greens
were through burning all would be well.

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