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.
One of the professors said to me, “You seem to be the only composed person present.” I replied, “Yes, I got prepared for this by something which I saw last Sunday in Brooklyn.”
So I give my advice: On occasions of panic, sit still; in 999 cases out of a thousand there is nothing the matter.
I was not released from my pastorate of the Brooklyn Tabernacle by the Brooklyn Presbytery until December, 1894, after my return from abroad. Some explanation was demanded of me by members of the Presbytery for my decision to relinquish my pastorate, and I read the following statement which I had carefully prepared. It concerns these pages because it is explanatory of the causes which carried me over many crossroads, encountered everywhere in my life:
“To the Brooklyn Presbytery—
“Dear Brethren,—After much prayer and solemn consideration I apply for the dissolution of the pastoral relation existing between the Brooklyn Tabernacle and myself. I have only one reason for asking this. As you all know, we have, during my pastorate, built three large churches and they have been destroyed. If I remain pastor we must undertake the superhuman work of building a fourth church. I do not feel it my duty to lead in such an undertaking. The plain providential indications are that my work in the Brooklyn Tabernacle is concluded. Let me say, however, to the Presbytery, that I do not intend to go into idleness, but into other service quite as arduous as that in which I have been engaged. Expecting that my request will be granted I take this opportunity of expressing my love for all the brethren in the Presbytery with whom I have been so long and so pleasantly associated, and to pray for them and the churches they represent the best blessings that God can bestow.—Yours in the Gospel,
“T. DeWitt Talmage.”
The following resolution was then offered by the Presbytery as follows:
“Resolved—That the Presbytery, while yielding to Dr. Talmage’s earnest petition for the dissolution of the relationship existing between the Brooklyn Tabernacle and himself, expresses its deep regret at the necessity for such action, and wishes Dr. Talmage abundant success in any field in which in the providence of God he may be called to labour. Presbytery also expresses its profound sympathy with the members of the Tabernacle Church in the loss of their honoured and loving pastor, and cordially commends them to go forward in all the work of the church.”
In October, 1895, I accepted the call of the First Presbyterian Church in Washington. My work was to be an association with the Rev. Dr. Byron W. Sunderland, the President’s pastor. It was Dr. Sunderland’s desire that I should do this, and although there had been some intention in Dr. Sunderland’s mind to resign his pastorate on account of ill-health I advocated a joint pastorate. There were invitations from all parts of the world for me to preach at this time. I had calls from churches in Melbourne, Australia; Toronto, Canada; San Francisco, California; Louisville, Kentucky; Chicago, Illinois; New York City; Brooklyn, N.Y. London had pledged me a larger edifice than Spurgeon’s Tabernacle. All these cities, in fact, promised to build big churches for me if I would go there to preach.
The call which came to me from Washington was as follows:
“Rev. Dr. T. DeWitt Talmage—
“The congregation of the First Presbyterian Church, of Washington, D.C., being on sufficient grounds well satisfied of the ministerial qualifications of you, the Rev. Dr. T. DeWitt Talmage, and having good hopes from our knowledge of your past eminent labours that your ministrations in the Gospel will be profitable to our spiritual interests, do earnestly, unanimously, harmoniously and heartily, not one voice dissenting, call and desire you to undertake the office of co-pastor in said congregation, promising you in the discharge of your duty all proper support, encouragement and obedience in the Lord. And that you may be free from worldly cares and avocations, considering your well and wide-known ability and generosity, we do not assume to specify any definite sum of money for your recompense, but we do hereby promise, pledge and oblige ourselves, to pay to you such sums of money and at such times as shall be mutually satisfactory during the time of your being and remaining in the relation to said church to which we do hereby call you.”
On September 23, 1895, accompanying this call, I received the following dispatch from Dr. Sunderland:
“T.D.W. Talmage, 1, South Oxford Street.
“Meeting unanimous and enthusiastic. Call extended, rising vote, all on their feet in a flash. Call mailed special delivery.
“B. Sunderland.”
On September 26, 1895, I accepted the call in the following letter:
“The call signed by the elders, deacons, trustees, and members of the congregation of the First Presbyterian Church of Washington is before me. The statement contained in that call that you ‘do earnestly, unanimously, harmoniously and heartily, not one voice dissenting,’ desire me to become co-pastor in your great and historical church has distinctly impressed me. With the same heartiness I now declare my acceptance of the call. All of my energies of body, mind, and soul shall be enlisted in your Christian service. I will preach my first sermon Sabbath evening, October 27.”
Washington was always a beautiful city to me, the climate in winter is delightful. President Cleveland was a personal friend, as were many of the public men, and I regarded my call to Washington as a national opportunity. It had been my custom in the past, when I was very tired from overwork, to visit Washington for two or three days, stopping at one of the hotels, to get a thorough rest. For a long time I was really undecided what to do, I had so many invitations to take up my home and life work in different cities. While preaching was to be the main work for the rest of my life, my arrangements were so understood by my church in Washington that I could continue my lecture engagements.
I delivered a farewell sermon before leaving for Washington, at the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church, in Brooklyn, before an audience of five thousand people. My text was 2 Samuel xii. 23: “I shall go to Him.”
I still recall the occasion as one of deep feeling—a difficult hour of self-control. I could not stop the flow of tears that came with the closing paragraph. The words are merely the outward sign of my inner feelings:
“Farewell, dear friends. I could wish that in this last interview I might find you all the sons and daughters of the Mighty. Why not cross the line this hour, out of the world into the kingdom of God? I have lived in peace with all of you. There is not among all the hundreds of thousands of people of this city one person with whom I could not shake hands heartily and wish him all the happiness for this world and the next. If I have wronged anyone let him appear at the close of this service, and I will ask his forgiveness before I go. Will it not be glorious to meet again in our Father’s house, where the word goodbye shall never be spoken? How much we shall then have to talk over of earthly vicissitudes! Farewell! A hearty, loving, hopeful, Christian farewell!”
I was installed in the First Presbyterian Church in Washington on October 23, 1895. My first sermon in the new pulpit in Washington was preached to a crowded church, with an overflow of over three thousand persons in the street outside. The text of my sermon was, “All Heaven is looking on.”
In a few days, by exchange of my Brooklyn property, I had obtained the house 1402 Massachusetts Avenue, in Washington, for my home. It had at one time been the Spanish Legation, and was in a delightful part of the city. Shortly after my arrival in Washington I received my first introduction at the White House, with my daughters, to Mrs. Cleveland. Our reception was cordial and gracious in the extreme. I had engaged a suite of rooms at the Arlington Hotel for a year. We remained there till our lease was up before entering our new home. There was a desire among members of the congregation of the First Presbyterian Church to have me preach at the morning as well as the evening services. With three ministers attached to one church there was some difficulty in the arrangement of the sermons. Eventually it was decided that I should preach morning and evening.
In 1896 I made an extensive lecturing tour, in which I discussed my impressions of the world trip I had recently made.
The world was getting better in spite of contrasting opinions from men who had thought about it. God never launched a failure.
In 1897 I made an appeal for aid for the famine in India. I always believed it was possible to evangelise India.
My life in Washington was not different from its former course. I had known many prominent people of this country, and some of the great men of other lands.
I had known all the Presidents of the United States since Buchanan. I had known Mr. Gladstone, all the more prominent men in the bishoprics, and in high commercial, financial and religious position. I had been presented to royalty in more than one country.
Legislatures in the North and South have adjourned to give me reception. The Earl of Kintore, a Scottish peer, entertained us at his house in London in 1879. I found his family delightful Christian people, and the Countess and their daughters are very lovely. The Earl presided at two of my meetings. He took me to see some of his midnight charities—one of them called the “House of Lords” and the other the “House of Commons,” both of them asylums for old and helpless men. We parted about two o’clock in the morning in the streets of London. As we bade each other good-bye he said, “Send me a stick of American wood and I will send you a stick.” His arrived in America, and is now in my possession, a shepherd’s crook; but before the cane I purchased for him reached Scotland the good Earl had departed this life. I was not surprised to hear of his decease. I said to my wife in London, “We will never see the Earl again in this world. He is ripe for Heaven, and will soon be taken.” He attended the House of Lords during the week, and almost every Sabbath preached in some chapel or church.
I shall not forget the exciting night I met him. I was getting out of a carriage at the door of a church in London where I was to lecture when a ruffian struck at me, crying, “He that believeth not shall be damned.” The scoundrel’s blow would have demolished me but for the fact that a bystander put out his arm and arrested the blow. From that scene I was ushered into the ante-room of the church where the Earl of Kintore was awaiting my arrival. From that hour we formed a friendship. He had been a continuous reader of my sermons, and that fact made an introduction easy. I have from him five or six letters.
Lord and Lady Aberdeen had us at their house in London in the summer of 1892. Most gracious and delightful people they are. I was to speak at Haddo House, their estate in Scotland, at a great philanthropic meeting, but I was detained in St. Petersburg, Russia, by an invitation of the Emperor, and could not get to Scotland in time. Glad am I that the Earl is coming to Canada to be Governor-General. He and the Countess will do Canada a mighty good. They are on the side of God, and righteousness, and the Church. Since his appointment—for he intimated at Aberdeen, Scotland, when he called upon me, that he was to have an important appointment—I have had opportunity to say plauditory things of them in vast assemblages in Ottawa, Montreal, Toronto, London and Grimsby Park.
In a scrap book in which I put down, hurriedly, perhaps, but accurately, my impressions of various visits to the White House during my four years pastorate in Washington, I find some notes that may be interesting. I transmit them to the printed page exactly as I find them written on paper:
“May 1, 1896. Had a long talk this afternoon with Mrs. Cleveland at Woodley. I always knew she was very attractive, but never knew how wide her information was on all subjects. She had her three children brought in, and the two elder ones sang Easter songs for me. Mrs. Cleveland impresses me as a consecrated Christian mother. She passes much of her time with her children, and seems more interested in her family than in anything else. The first lady of the land, she is universally admired. I took tea with her and we talked over many subjects. She told me that she had joined the church at fourteen years of age. Only two joined the church that day, a man of eighty years old and herself. She was baptised then, not having been baptised in infancy. She said she was glad she had not been baptised before because she preferred to remember her baptism.
“She said she did not like the great crowds attending the church then, because she did not like to be stared at as the President’s wife. But I told her she would get used to that after a while. She said she did not mind being stared at on secular occasions, but objected to it at religious service. She said she had long ago ceased taking the Holy Communion at our church because of the fact that spectators on that day seemed peculiarly anxious to see how she looked at the Communion.
“My first meeting with Mrs. Cleveland was just after her marriage. She was at the depot, in her carriage, to see Miss Rose Cleveland, the President’s sister, off on the train. Dr. Sunderland introduced me at that time, when I was just visiting Washington. Mrs. Cleveland invited me to take a seat in her carriage. I accepted the invitation, and we sat there some time talking about various things. I saw, as everyone sees who converses with her, that she is a very attractive person, though brilliantly attired, unaffected in her manner as any mountain lass.
“March 3, 1897. Made my last call this afternoon on Mrs. Cleveland. Found her amid a group of distinguished ladies, and unhappy at the thought of leaving the White House, which had been her home off and on for nearly eight years. Her children have already gone to Princeton, which is to be her new home. She is the same beautiful, unaffected, and intelligent woman that she has always been since I formed her acquaintance. She is an inspiration to anyone who preaches, because she is such an intense listener. Her going from our church here will be a great loss. It is wonderful that a woman so much applauded and admired should not have been somewhat spoiled. More complimentary things have been said of her than of any living woman. She invited me to her home in Princeton, but I do not expect ever to get there. Our pleasant acquaintance seems to have come to an end. Washington society will miss this queen of amiability and loveliness.
“February 4, 1897. Had one of my talks with President Cleveland.
“As I congratulated him on his coming relief from the duties of his absorbing office, he said:
“‘Yes! I am glad of it; but there are so many things I wanted to accomplish which have not been accomplished.’
“Then he went into extended remarks about the failure of the Senate to ratify the Arbitration plan. He said that there had been much work and anxiety in that movement that had never come to the surface; how they had waited for cablegrams, and how at the same time, although he had not expressed it, he had a presentiment that through the inaction of the Senate the splendid plan for the pacification of the world’s controversies would be a failure.
“He dwelt much upon the Cuban embroglio, and said that he had told the Committee on Foreign Relations that if they waited until spring they had better declare war, but that he would never be responsible for such a calamity.
“He said that he had chosen Princeton for his residence because he would find there less social obligation and less demand upon his financial resources than in a larger place. He said that in all matters of national as well as individual importance it was a consolation to him to know that there was an overwhelming Providence. When I congratulated him upon his continuous good health, notwithstanding the strain upon him for the eight years of his past and present administration, he said:
“‘Yes! I am a wonder to myself. The gout that used to distract me is almost cured, and I am in better health than when I entered office.’
“He accounted for his good health by the fact that he had occasionally taken an outing of a few days on hunting expeditions.
“I said to him, ‘Yes! You cannot think of matters of State while out shooting ducks.’
“He answered:
“‘No, I cannot, except when the hunting is poor and the ducks do not appear.’
“May 21, 1896. This morning when I entered President Cleveland’s room at the White House, he said: ‘Good morning, I have been thinking of you this morning.’
“The fact is he had under consideration the recall of a minister plenipotentiary from a European Government. I had an opportunity of saying something about a gentleman who was proposed as a substitute for the foreign embassy, and the President said my conversation with him had given him a new idea about the whole affair, and I think it kept the President from making a mistake that might have involved our Government in some entanglement with another nation.
“The President read me a long letter that he had received on the subject. I felt that my call had been providential, although I went to see him merely to say good-bye before he went away on his usual summer trip to Gray Gables, Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts.
“The President is in excellent health although he says he much needs an outing. He is very fond of his children, and seemed delighted to hear of the good time I had with them at Woodley. When I told how Ruth and Esther sang for me he said he could not stand hearing them sing, as it was so touching it made him cry. I told him how the baby, Marian, looked at me very soberly and scrutinisingly as long as I held her in my arms, but when I handed her to her mother, the baby, feeling herself very safe, put out her hands to me and wanted to play. But what a season of work and anxiety it had been to the President, important question after question to be settled.
“March 1, 1897. I have this afternoon made my last call on President Cleveland. With Dr. Sunderland and the officers of our church I went to the White House to bid our retiring President goodbye. Notwithstanding appointments he had made, Thurber, his private secretary, informed us that the President could not see us because of a sudden attack of rheumatism. But after Thurber had gone into the President’s room, he returned saying that the President would see Dr. Sunderland and myself. Indeed, afterwards, he saw all our church officers. But he could not move from his chair. His doctor had told him that if he put his foot to the floor he would not be able to attend the inauguration of Major McKinley on the following Thursday.
“After Dr. Sunderland and the officers of the church had shaken hands for departure, the President said to me:
“‘Doctor, remain, I want to see you.’
“The door closed, he asked me if I had followed the Chinese Immigration Bill that was then under consideration. We discussed it fully. The President read to me the veto which he was writing. He stated to me his objection to the bill. Our conversation was intimate, but somewhat saddened by the thought that perhaps we might not meet again. With an invitation to come and see him at Princeton, we parted.
“During a conversation of an earlier period at the White House, I congratulated the President upon his improved appearance since returning from one of his hunting expeditions.
“‘Oh! Yes!’ he said, ‘I cannot get daily exercise in Washington. It is impossible, so I am compelled to take these occasional outings. I approach the city on my return with a feeling that work must be pulled down over me, like a nightcap,’ and as he said this he made the motion as of someone putting on a cap over his head.
“I congratulated him on the effect of his proclamation on the Monroe Doctrine as it would set a precedent, and really meant peace. He agreed with me, saying:
“‘Yes, but they blame me very much for the excitement I have caused in business circles, and the failures consequent. But no one failed who was doing a legitimate business, only those collapsed who were engaged in unwarranted speculations. I wish more of those people would fail.’
“‘Mr. President,’ I said, ‘I do not want to pry into State secrets, but I would like to know how many ducks you did shoot?’ He laughed, and said, ‘Eleven. The papers said thirteen. Indeed, the country papers before I began to shoot said I had shot a hundred and twenty.’ I spoke of the brightness and beauty of his children again. I remarked that the youngest one, then four months old, had the intelligence of a child a year old, and the President said:
“‘Yes, she is a great pleasure to us, and seems to know everything.’
“March 3, 1896. Started from Washington for the great Home Missionary meeting to be held in Carnegie Hall, New York, President Cleveland to preside. We left on the eleven o’clock train, by Pennsylvania railroad. I did not go to the President’s private car until we had been some distance on our way, although he told me when I went in that he had looked for me at the depot, that I might as well have been in his car all the way. No one was with him except Mrs. Cleveland and his private secretary, Mr. Thurber, who is also one of my church. We had an uninterrupted conversation. The servants and guards were at the front end of the car, and we were at the rear.
“I asked the President if he found it possible to throw off the cares of office for a while. He laughed, and said:
“‘They call a trip of this kind a vacation;’ then with a countenance of sudden gravity he added: ‘We no sooner get through one great question than another comes.’ It made me think of the tension on the President’s mind at that time. There was the Venezuelan question. There were suggestions of war with England, and then there was the Cuban matter with suggestions of war with Spain, and all the time the overshadowing financial questions.
“During our conversation the President referred to the conditions ever and anon inflicted upon him by newspaper misrepresentations, particularly those of inebriety, of domestic quarrels, of turning Mrs. Cleveland out of doors at night so that she had to flee for refuge to the house of Dr. Sunderland, my pastoral associate, passing the night there; and then the reports that his children were deaf and dumb, or imbecile, when he knew I had seen them and considered them the brightest and healthiest children I had known.
“All these attacks and falsehoods concerning the President and his family I saw hurt him as deeply as they would any of us, but he is in a position which does not allow him to make reply. I assured him that he was only in the line of misrepresentation that had assailed all the Presidents, George Washington more violently than himself, and that the words cynicism, jealousy, political hatred, and diabolism in general would account for all. I do think, however, that the factories of scandal had been particularly busy with our beloved President. They were running on extra time.
“If I were asked who among the mighty men at Washington has most impressed me with elements of power I would say Grover Cleveland.
“June 25, 1896. It seems now that Major McKinley, of Canton, Ohio, will be elected President of the United States. I was in Canton about three weeks ago and called at Major McKinley’s house. He was just starting from his home to call on me. He presided at the first lecture I delivered at Canton in 1871. On my recent visit he recalled all the circumstances of that lecture, remembering that he went to my room afterwards in the hotel, and had a long talk with me, which he said made a deep impression upon him.
“My visit at Canton three weeks ago was to lecture. Major McKinley attended and came upon the platform afterwards to congratulate me. He is a Christian man and as genial and lovable a man as I ever met.”
“September 21, 1897. Had a most delightful interview with President McKinley in the White House.
“I congratulated him on the peaceful opening of his administration. He said:
“‘Yes! I hope it is not the calm before a storm.’
“He said that during the last six weeks at least a half million of people had passed before him, and they all gave signs of their encouragement. Especially, he said, the women and children looked and acted as though they expected better times.
“The President looked uncommonly well. I told him that during the past summer I had travelled in many of the states, and that from the people everywhere I gathered hopeful feelings. I told him that they were expecting great prosperity would come to the country through his administration.”
Of course these are merely scraps torn from old note-books, but I cannot help commending the value of first impressions, of the first-hand reports, which are made in this way. There is in the unadorned picture of any incident in the past a sort of hallowed character that no ornate frame can improve.
So the pages of these recollections are but a string of impressions torn from old note-books and diaries.
From scrap books and other sources, some other person may set up the last milestones of my journey through life, and think other things of enough importance to add to the furlongs I have already travelled; and I give permission to add that biography to this autobiography.