My husband's memory for names was so uncertain that when he introduced me to people he tactfully mumbled. On this occasion Senator Gorman very kindly stood near me to identify the people for me. I remember a very dapper, very little man in evening clothes, who was passed on to me by the Doctor, with the usual unintelligible introduction, and I had just begun to make myself agreeable when, pointing to a medal on his coat, the little man said:

"I am the only woman in the United States who has been honoured with one of these medals."

I was very much mystified and looked up helplessly at Senator Gorman, who relieved me at once by saying, "Mrs. Talmage, this is the celebrated Dr. Mary Walker, of whom you have heard so often."

It was difficult for Dr. Talmage to assimilate the social obligations of life with the broader demands of his life mission, which seemed to constantly extend and increase in scope into the far distances of the world. More and more evident it became that the candlestick of his religious doctrine could no longer be maintained in one church, or in one pulpit. The necessity of breaking engagements out of town so as to be in Washington every Sunday became irksome to him. He felt that he could do better in the purposes of his usefulness as a preacher if he were to bear the candle of his Gospel in a candlestick he could carry everywhere himself. I confess that I was not sorry when he reached this decision and submitted his resignation to the First Presbyterian Church in the spring of 1899, after our return from a short vacation in Florida.

On our trip South I remember Admiral Schley was on the train with us part of the way. The Admiral told the Doctor the whole story of the Santiago victory, and commented upon the official investigation of the affair. My husband was very fond of him, and his comment was summed up in his reassuring answer to the Admiral—"But you were there."

It was during our stay in Florida that Dr. Talmage and Joseph Jefferson, the actor, renewed their acquaintance. The Doctor never saw him act because he had made it a rule after he entered the ministry in his youth never to go to the theatre to see a play. In crossing the ocean he had frequently appeared with stage celebrities, at the usual entertainments given on board ship for the benefit of seamen, and in this way had made some friends among actors. He was particularly fond of Madame Modjeska, whom he had met on the steamer, and whose character and spirit he greatly admired.

Jefferson was a great fisherman, and most of his day was spent on the water or on the pier. There we used to meet him, and he and Dr. Talmage would exchange reminiscences, serious and ludicrous. One of the Doctor's favourite stories was an account of a terrific fight he saw in India, between a mongoose and a cobra. Mr. Jefferson also had a story, a sort of parody of this, which described a man in delirium tremens watching in imaginary terror a similar fight. Years before this, when the Doctor had delivered his famous sermon in Brooklyn against the stage, Jefferson was among the actors who went to hear him. Recalling this incident, Mr. Jefferson said:—

"When I entered that church to hear your sermon, Doctor, I hated you. When I left the church, I loved you." He talked very little of the theatre, and seemed to regard his stage career with less importance than he did his love of painting. He never grew tired of this subject.

When we were leaving Palm Beach, Mr. Jefferson said to me, "I know Dr. Talmage won't come and see me act, but when I am in Washington I will send you a box, and I hope the Doctor will let you come."

Dr. Talmage's resignation from his church in Washington took place in March, 1899. I quote his address to the Presbytery because it was a momentous event occurring in the gloaming of what seemed to us all, then, the prime of his life:

"March 3, 1899.

"To the Session of the First Presbyterian Church of Washington.

"Dear Friends—

"The increasing demands made upon me by religious journalism, and the continuous calls for more general work in the cities, have of late years caused frequent interruption of my pastoral work. It is not right that this condition of affairs should further continue. Besides that, it is desirable that I have more opportunity to meet face to face, in religious assemblies, those in this country and in other countries to whom I have, through the kindness of the printing press, been permitted to preach week by week, and without the exception of a week, for about thirty years. Therefore, though very reluctantly, I have concluded, after serving you nearly four years in the pastoral relation, to send this letter of resignation....

"T. DEWITT TALMAGE."

I had rather expected that the Doctor's release from his church would have had the desired effect of reducing his labours, but he never accomplished less than the allotment of his utmost strength. Rest was a problem he never solved, and he did not know what it meant. My life had not been idle by any means, but it seemed to me that the Doctor's working hours were without end. When I told him this, he would say:—

"Why, Eleanor, I am not working hard at all now. This is very tame compared to what I have done in the years gone by."

His weekly sermon was always put in the mail on Saturday night, as also his weekly editorials. Sunday the sermon was preached, and on Monday morning the syndicate of newspapers in this country printed it. He made always two copies of his sermon. One he sent to his editorial offices in New York, the other was delivered to the Washington Post. I was told a little while ago that a prominent preacher called on the editor of this newspaper and asked him to publish one of his own sermons. This was refused, even when the aforesaid preacher offered to pay for the privilege.

"But you print Talmage's sermons!" said the preacher.

"We do," replied the editor, "because we find that our readers demand them. We tried to do without them, but we could not."

Dr. Talmage's acquaintance with men of national reputation was very wide, but he never seemed to consider their friendship greater than any others. He was a great hero worshipper himself, always impressed by a man who had done something in the world. There was a great deal of praise being bestowed about this time on Mr. Carnegie's library gifts. Dr. Talmage admired the Scottish-American immensely, having formed his acquaintance while crossing the ocean. Five or six years later, during the winter of 1899, the Doctor met him in one of the rooms of the White House. He tells this anecdote in his own words, as follows:—

"I was glad I was present that day, when Mr. Andrew Carnegie decided upon the gift of a library to the city of Washington. I was in one of the rooms of the White House talking with Governor Lowndes, of Maryland, and Mr. B.H. Warner, of Washington, who was especially interested in city libraries. Mr. Carnegie entered at the opposite end of the room. We greeted each other with heartiness, not having met since we crossed the ocean together some time before. I asked Mr. Carnegie to permit me to introduce him to some friends. After each introduction the conversation immediately turned upon libraries, as Mr. Carnegie was then constantly presenting them in this and other lands. Before the conversation ended that day, Mr. Carnegie offered $250,000 for a Washington library. I have always felt very happy at having had anything to do with that interview, which resulted so gloriously."

Dr. Talmage's opinions upon the aftermath of the Spanish war were widely quoted at this time.

"The fact is this war ought never to have occurred," he said. "We have had the greatest naval officer of this century, Admiral Schley, assailed for disobeying orders, and General Shatter denounced for being too fat and wanting to retreat, and General Wheeler attacked because of something else. We are all tired of this investigating business. I never knew a man in Church or State to move for an investigating committee who was not himself somewhat of a hypocrite. The question is what to do with the bad job we have on hand. I say, educate and evangelise those islands."

As he wrote he usually talked, and these words are recollections of the subjects he talked over with me in his quieter study hours. They were virile talks, abreast of the century hurrying to its close, full of cheerfulness, faith, and courage for the future.

He was particularly distressed and moved by the death of Chief Justice Field, in April, 1899. It was his custom to read his sermons to me in his study before preaching. He chose for his sermon on April 16, the decease of the great jurist, and his text was Zachariah xi, 2: "Howl fir tree, for the cedar has fallen." Many no doubt remember this sermon, but no one can realise the depths of feeling with which the Doctor read it to me in the secret corner of his workroom at home. But his heart was in every sermon. He said when he resigned from his church:—

"The preaching of the Gospel has always been my chosen work, I believe I was called to it, and I shall never abandon it."

During this season in Washington we gave a few formal dinners. My husband wished it, and he was a cheerful, magnetic host, though he accepted few invitations to dinner himself. No wine was served at these dinners, and yet they were by no means dull or tiresome. Our guests were men of ideas, men like Justice Brewer, Speaker Reed, Senator Burrows, Justice Harlan, Vice-President Fairbanks, Governor Stone, and Senators who have since become members of the old guard. It was said in Washington at the time that Dr. Talmage's dinner parties were delightful, because they were ostensible opportunities to hear men talk who had something to say. The Doctor was liberal-minded about everything, but his standards of conduct were the laws of his life that no one could jeopardise or deny.

A very prominent society woman came to Dr. Talmage one day to ask the favour that he preach a temperance sermon for the benefit of Sir Wilfrid Laurier, whom she wanted to interest in temperance legislation. She promised to bring him to the Doctor's church for that purpose.

"Madame, I shall be very glad to have Sir Wilfrid Laurier attend my church," said the Doctor, "but I never preach at anybody. Your request is something I cannot agree to." The lady was a personal friend, and she persisted. Finally the Doctor said to her:

"Mrs. G——, my wife and I are invited to meet Sir Wilfrid Laurier at a dinner in your house next week. Will you omit the wines at that dinner?" The lady admitted that that would be impossible.

"Then you see, Madame, how difficult it would be for me to alter my principles as a preacher." In May, 1899, Dr. Talmage and I left Washington and went to East Hampton—alone. Contrary to his usual custom of closing his summer home between seasons, the Doctor had allowed a minister and his family to live there for three months. Diphtheria had developed in the family during that time and the Doctor ordered everything in the house to be burned, and the walls scraped. So the whole house had to be refurnished, and the Doctor and I together selected the furniture. It was a joyous time, it was like redecorating our lives with a new charm and sentiment that was intimately beautiful and refreshing. I remember the tenderness with which the Doctor showed me a place on the door of the barn where his son DeWitt, who died, had carved his initials. He would never allow that spot to be touched, it was sacred to the memory of what was perhaps the most absorbing affection of his life. He always called East Hampton his earthly paradise, which to him meant a busy Utopia. He was very fond of the sea bathing, and his chief recreation was running on the beach. He was 65 years old, yet he could run like a young man. These few weeks were a memorable vacation.

In June, Dr. Talmage made an engagement to attend the 60th commencement exercises of the Erskine Theological College in Due West, South Carolina. This is the place where secession was first planned, as it is also the oldest Presbyterian centre in the United States. We were the guests of Dr. Grier, the president of the college. It was known that Rev. David P. Pressly, Presbyterian patriarch and graduate of this college, had been my father's pastor in Pittsburg, and this association added some interest to my presence in Due West with the Doctor. The Rev. E.P. Lindsay, my brother's pastor in Pittsburg, had also been born there, and his mother, when I met her in 1899, was still a vigorous Secessionist. Her greatest disappointment was the fact that her son had abandoned the sentiments of Secession and had gone to preach in a Northern church. She told us that she had once hidden Jefferson Davis in her house for three days. Due West was a quiet little village inhabited by some rich people who lived comfortably on their plantations. The graduating class of the college were entertained at dinner by Dr. Grier and the Doctor. There was a great deal of comment upon the physical vigour and strength of Dr. Talmage's address, most of which reached me. A gentleman who was present was reminded of the remarkable energy of the Rev. Dr. Pressly, who preached for over fifty years, and was married three times. When asked about his health, Dr. Pressly always throughout his life made the same reply, "Never better; never better." After he had won his third wife, however, he used to reply to this question with greater enthusiasm than before, saying, "Better than ever; better than ever." Another resident of Due West, who had heard both the Booths in their prime, said, "Talmage has more dramatic power than I ever saw in Booth." This visit to Due West will always remain in my memory as full of sunshine and warmth as the days were themselves.

We returned to East Hampton for a few days, and on July 4, 1899, the Doctor delivered an oration to an immense crowd in the auditorium at Ocean Grove. This was the beginning of a summer tour of Chautauquas, first in Michigan, then up the lakes near Mackinaw Island, and later to Jamestown, New York.

In the Fall of 1899 we made a trip South, including Nashville, Memphis, Chattanooga, Birmingham, and New Orleans. One remarkable feature of Dr. Talmage's public life was the way in which he was sought as the man of useful opinions upon subjects that were not related to the pulpit. He was always being interviewed upon political and local issues, and his views were scattered broadcast, as if he were himself an official of national affairs. He never failed to be ahead of the hour. He regarded the affairs of men as the basis of his evangelical purpose. The Spanish war ended, and his views were sought about the future policy in the East. The Boer war came, and his opinions of that issue were published. Nothing moved in or out of the world of import, during these last milestones of his life, that he was not asked about its coming and its going. His readiness to penetrate the course of events, to wrap them in the sacred veil of his own philosophy and spiritual fabric, combined to make him one of the foremost living characters of his time.

Dr. Talmage was the most eager human being I ever knew, eager to see, to feel the heart of all humanity. I remember we arrived in Birmingham, Alabama, the day following the disaster that visited that city after the great cyclone. The first thing the Doctor did on our arrival was to get a carriage and drive through those sections of the city that had suffered the most. It was a gruesome sight, with so many bodies lying about the streets awaiting burial. But that was his grasp of life, his indomitable energy, always alert to see and hear the laws of nature at close range.

We were entertained a great deal through the South, where I believe my husband had the warmest friends and a more cordial appreciation than in any other part of the country. There was no lack of excitement in this life that I was leading at the elbow of the great preacher, and sometimes he would ask me if the big crowds did not tire me. To him they were the habit of his daily life, a natural consequence of his industry. However, I think he always found me equal to them, always happy to be near him where I could see and hear all.

In October of this year we returned to Washington, when the Pan-Presbyterian Council was in session, and we entertained them at a reception in our house till late in the evening. The International Union of Women's Foreign Missionary Societies of the Presbyterian and Reformed Churches were also meeting in Washington at this time, and they came. At one of the meetings of the Council Dr. Talmage invited them all to his house from the platform in his characteristic way.

"Come all," he said, "and bring your wives with you. God gave Eve to Adam so that when he lost Paradise he might be able to stand it. She was taken out of man's side that she might be near the door of his heart, and have easy access to his pockets. Therefore, come, bringing the ladies with you. My wife and I shall not be entertaining angels unawares, but knowing it all the while. To have so much piety and brain under one roof at once, even for an hour or two, will be a benediction to us all the rest of our lives. I believe in the communion of saints as much as I believe in the life everlasting."

In November, 1899, Dr. Talmage installed the Rev. Donald McLeod as succeeding pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Washington, and delivered the installation address, the subject of which was, "Invitation to Outsiders." There had been some effort to inspire the people of Washington to build an independent Tabernacle for the Doctor after his resignation, but he himself was not in sympathy with the movement because of the additional labour and strain it would have put upon him.

As the winter grew into long, gray days, we were already planning a trip to Europe for the following year of 1900, and we were anticipating this event with eager expectancy as the time grew near.



THE THIRD MILESTONE

1900-1901

So much has been written about Dr. Talmage the world over, that I am tempted to tell those things about him that have not been written, but it is difficult to do. He stood always before the people a sort of radiant mystery to them. He was never really understood by those whom he most influenced. A writer in an English newspaper has given the best description of his appearance in 1900 I ever saw. It is so much better than any I could make that I quote it, regretting that I do not know the author's name:—

"A big man, erect and masterful in spite of advancing years, with an expressive and mobile mouth that seems ever smiling, and with great and speaking eyes which proclaim the fervent soul beneath."

This portrait is very true, with a suggestion of his nature that makes it a faithful transcript of his presence. It is a picture of him at 66 years of age. His strength overwhelmed people, and yet he was very simple, easily affected by the misfortunes of others, direct in all his impressions; but no one could take him by surprise, because his faith in the eternal redemption of all trials was beyond the ways of the world. His optimism was simple Christianity. He always said he believed there was as great a number out of the Church as there was in it that followed the teaching of Christianity. He was among the believers, with his utmost energy alert to save and comfort the unbelievers. He believed in everything and everyone. The ingenuousness of his nature was childlike in its unchallenged faith and its tender instincts. His unworldliness was almost legendary in its belief of human nature. I remember he was asked once whether he believed in Santa Claus, and in his own beautiful imagery he said:

"I believe in Santa Claus. Haven't I listened when I was a boy and almost heard those bells on the reindeer; haven't I seen the marks in the snow where the sleigh stopped at the door and old Santa jumped out? I believed in him then and I believe in him now—believe that children should be allowed to believe in the beautiful mythical tale. It never hurt anyone, and I think one of the saddest memories of my childhood is of a day when an older brother told me there was no Santa Claus. I didn't believe him at first, and afterwards when I saw those delightful mysterious bundles being sneaked into the house, way down deep in my heart I believed that Santa Claus as well as my father and mother had something to do with it."

In the last years of his life music became the greatest pleasure to Dr. Talmage. An accumulation of work made it necessary for me to engage a secretary. We were fortunate in securing a young lady who was an exquisite pianist. In the evening she would play Liszt's rhapsodies for the Doctor, who enjoyed the Hungarian composer most of all. He said to me once that he felt as if music in his study, when he was at work, would be a great inspiration. So my Christmas present to him that year was a musical box, which he kept in his study.

The three months preceding our trip to Europe were spent in the usual busy turmoil of social and public life. In truth we were very full of our plans for the European tour, which was to be devoted to preaching by Dr. Talmage, and to show me the places he had seen and people he had met on previous visits. There was something significant in the welcome and the ovations which my husband received over there. Neither the Doctor nor myself ever dreamed that it would be his farewell visit. And yet it seems to me now that he was received everywhere in Europe as if they expected it to be his last.

I must confess that we looked forward to our jaunt across the water so eagerly that the events of the preceding months did not seem very important. With Dr. Talmage I went on his usual lecture trip West, stopping in Chicago, where the Doctor preached in his son's church. Everywhere we were invited to be the guests of some prominent resident of the town we were in. It had been so with Dr. Talmage for years. He always refused, however, because he felt that his time was too imperative a taskmaster. For thirty years he had never visited anyone over night, until he went to my brother's house in Pittsburg. But we were constantly meeting old friends of his, friends of many years, in every stopping place of our journeys. I remember particularly one of these characteristic meetings which took place in New York, where the Doctor, had gone to preach one Sunday. We had just entered the Waldorf Hotel, where we were stopping, when a little man stepped up to the Doctor and began picking money off his coat. He seemed to find it all over him. Dr. Talmage laughed, and introduced me to Marshall P. Wilder.

"Dr. Talmage started me in life," said Mr. Wilder, and proceeded to tell me how the Doctor had filled him with optimism and success. He was always doing this, gripping young men by the shoulders and shaking them into healthful life. And then men of political or national prominence were always seeking him out, to gain a little dynamic energy and balance from the Doctor's storehouse of experience and philosophy. He was a giant of helpfulness and inspiration, to everyone who came into contact with him.

In January we dined with Governor Stone at the executive mansion in Harrisburg, where Dr. Talmage went to preach, and on our return from Europe Governor Stone insisted upon giving us a great reception and welcome. Of course, those years were stirring and enjoyable, and never to be forgotten. The reflected glory is a personal pleasure after all.

In April, 1900, we sailed on the "Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse" bound for London. The two points of interest the Doctor insisted upon making in Europe were the North Cape, to see the Midnight Sun, and the Passion Play at Ober-Ammergau. Hundreds of invitations had been sent to him to preach abroad, many of which he accepted, but he could not be persuaded to lecture.

There was never a jollier, more electric companion de voyage than Dr. Talmage during the whole of his trip. He was the life of the party, which included his daughter, Miss Maud Talmage, and my daughter, Miss Rebekah Collier.

On a very stormy Sunday, on board ship going over, Dr. Talmage preached, holding on to a pillar in the cabin. There were some who wondered how he escaped the tortures of mal-de-mer, from which he had always suffered. It was a family secret. Once, when crossing with Mrs. Vanderbilt, she had given Dr. Talmage an opium plaster, which was absolute proof against the disagreeable consequences of ocean travel. With the aid of this plaster the Doctor's poise was perfect. Disembarking at Southampton we did not reach London until 3 a.m., going to the hotel somewhat the worse for wear. Temporarily we stopped at the Langham, moving later to the Metropole. Before lunch the same day the Doctor drove to Westminster Abbey to see the grave of Gladstone. It was his first thought, his first duty. It had been his custom for many years to visit the graves of his friends whenever he could be near them. It was a characteristic impulse of Dr. Talmage's to follow to the edge of eternity those whom he had known and liked. When he was asked in England what he had come to do there, he said:

"I am visiting Europe with the hope of reviving old friendships and stimulating those who have helped me in the old gospel of kindness."

His range of vision was always from the Gospel point of view, not necessarily denominational. I remember he was asked, while in England, if there was an organisation in America akin to the Evangelical Council of Free Churches, and he said, while there was no such body, "there was a common platform in the United States upon almost every subject."

The principal topic in England then was the Boer War, which aroused so much hostility in our country. The Doctor's sympathies were with the Boers, but he tactfully evaded any public expression of them in England, although he was interviewed widely on the subject. He never believed in rumours that were current, that the United States would interfere in the Transvaal, and prophesied that the American Government would not do so—"remembering their common origin."

"The great need in America," he said, "is of accurate information about the Transvaal affairs. A great many Democratic politicians are trying to make Presidential capital out of the Boer disturbances, but it is doubtful how far these politicians will be permitted to dictate the policy of even their own party."

I remember the candidature for President of Admiral Dewey was discussed with Dr. Talmage, who had no very emphatic views about the matter, except to declare Admiral Dewey's tremendous popularity, and to acknowledge his support by the good Democrats of the country. The Doctor was convinced however that Mr. McKinley would be the next President at this time.

The first service in England which Dr. Talmage conducted was in Cavendish Chapel at Manchester. The next was at Albert Hall in Nottingham, under the auspices of the Y.M.C.A. He was described in the Nottingham newspapers as the "most alive man in the United States." A great crowd filled the hall at Nottingham, and as usual he was compelled to hold an open-air meeting afterwards. The first lecture he ever delivered in England was given in this place twenty-one years before.

Nothing interfered with the routine of the Doctor's habits of industry during all this European trip. He had taken over with him the proofs of about 20 volumes of his selected sermons for correction, and all his spare moments were spent in perfecting and revising these books for the printer. His sermons were the only monument he wished to leave to posterity. It has caused me the deepest regret that these books have not been perpetuated as he so earnestly wished. In addition to this work he wrote his weekly sermon for the syndicate, employing stenographers wherever he might be in Europe two days every week for that purpose. And yet he never lost interest in the opportunities of travel, eagerly planning trips to the old historic places near by.

Near Nottingham is the famous Byron country which Dr. Talmage had never found time to visit when he was in Europe before. We were told, at the hotel in Nottingham, that no visitors were allowed inside Newstead Abbey, so that when we ordered a carriage to drive there the hotel people shrugged their shoulders at what they regarded as our American irreverence. The rain was coming down in torrents when we started, the Doctor more than ever determined to overthrow British custom in his quiet, positive way. Through slush and mud, under dripping trees, across country landscapes veiled in the tender mist of clouds, we finally arrived at the Abbey. The huge outer gates were open, but the driver, with proper British respect for the law, stopped his horses. The Doctor leaned his head out of the carriage window and told him to drive into the grounds. Obediently he did so, and at last we reached the great heavy doors of the entrance. Dr. Talmage jumped out and boldly rang the bell. A sentry appeared to inform us that no one was allowed inside the Abbey.

"But we have come all the way from America to see this place," the Doctor urged. The sentry, with wooden militarism, was adamant.

"Is there no one inside in authority?" the Doctor finally asked. Then the housekeeper was called. She told us that the Abbey belonged to an Army officer and his wife, that her master was away at the war in South Africa where his wife had gone with him, and that her orders were imperative.

"Look here, just let us see the lower floor," said Dr. Talmage; "we have come all the way from New York to see this place," and he slipped two sovereigns into her hand. Still she was unmoved. My daughter, who was then about 14, was visibly disappointed. England was to her hallowed ground, and she was keenly anxious to walk in the footsteps of all its romance, which she had eagerly absorbed in history. Turning to the Doctor, she said, almost tearfully:

"Why, Doctor Talmage, how can they refuse you?"

The housekeeper caught the name.

"Who did you say this was?" she asked.

"Doctor Talmage," said my daughter.

"Dr. Talmage, I was just reading the sermon you preached on Sunday in the Nottingham newspaper, I am sure if my mistress were at home she would be glad to receive you. Come in, come in!"

So we saw Newstead Abbey. The housekeeper insisted that we should stay to tea, and made us enter our names in the visitors' book, and asked the Doctor to write his name on a card, saying, "I will send this to my mistress in South Africa."

In the effort to remember many of the details of our stay in England and Scotland, I find it necessary to take refuge for information in my daughter's diary. It amused Dr. Talmage very much as he read it page by page. I find this entry made in Manchester, where she was not well enough to attend church:—

"Sunday, A.M.—Doctor Talmage preached and I was disappointed that I could not go. The people went wild about the Doctor, and he had to make an address after church out-of-doors for those who could not get inside. Several policemen stood around the church door to keep away the crowd. I saw the High Sheriff driving home from church. He was inside a coach that looked as though it had been drawn out of a fairy tale—a huge coach painted red and gold, with crowns or something like them at each of the four corners. Two footmen dressed in George III. liveries were hanging behind by ribbons, and two on the box, all wearing powdered wigs. To be sure, I didn't see much of the Sheriff, but then the coach was the real show after all."

Many of the details of the side trips which we made through England and Scotland have escaped my memory. In looking over my daughter's diary I find them amplified in the manner of girlhood, now lightly touched with fancy, now solemn with historical responsibility, now charmed with the glamour of romance. Dr. Talmage thought so well of them that they will serve to show the trail of his footsteps through the gateways of ancestral England.

We went to Haddon Hall with Dr. Wrench, physician to the Duke of Devonshire. We drove from Bakewell. In this part of my daughter's diary I read:—

"It was a most beautiful drive. Derbyshire is called the Switzerland of England. The hills were quite high and beautifully wooded, and our drive lay along the river's edge—a brook we would call it in the States, but it is a river here—and winds in and out and through the fields and around the foot of the highest hill of all, called the Peak of Derbyshire. We passed picturesque little farmhouses, built of square blocks of rough, grey stone covered with ivy. We drove between hawthorn hedges, through beautiful green fields and orchards. From the midst of a little forest of grand old trees we caught sight of the highest tower of the castle, then we crossed over a little stone bridge and passed through the gates. Another short drive across the meadow and we stopped at the foot of a little hill, looking up at Haddon Hall.

"We walked up to the castle and stood before the great iron-studded oak door, which has been there since the days of Queen Elizabeth. It had not been opened for years, but a smaller one had been cut in it through which visitors passed. For over 200 years no one had lived in the castle. It was built by the Normans and given by William the Conqueror to one of his Norman Barons. Finally by marriage it became the property of Sir George Vernon, who had two daughters, famous for their beauty. Margaret Vernon married a Stanley, and on the night of the wedding Dorothy Vernon eloped with Mr. John Manners. The story is very romantic. The ballroom from which Dorothy stole away when the wedding party was at its height is still just as it was then, excepting for the furniture. From the windows you can see the little stone bridge where Manners waited for her with the horses. Haddon Hall became the property of Dorothy Manners and has remained in the hands of the Rutland family, being now owned by the Duke of Rutland.

"That is the romance of Haddon Hall, but one could make up a hundred to oneself when one walks through the different rooms. What a queer feeling it gives me to go through the old doorways, to stop and look through the queer little windows, and on the courtyard, wondering who used, long ago, to look out of the same windows. I wonder what they saw going on in the courtyard?

"We climbed to the top of the highest tower. The stairway wound upward with stone steps about three feet high cut out of the wall. At intervals we found little square rooms, very possibly where the men at arms slept. What a view at the top! The towers and roofs and courtyards of the castle lay before us. All around us the lovely English country, and as far as the eye could see, hills, woodland, and the winding river. It was glorious. Maud and I danced a two-step in the ballroom.

"If stones could only talk! Well, if they could I should want a long confab with each one in the old courtyard of Haddon Hall. Who can tell, William the Conqueror himself may have stepped on some of them."

We drove from Haddon Hall to the Peacock Inn for luncheon, going over to Chatsworth for the afternoon. Again I turn a few leaves of the diary:

"Chatsworth is one of the homes of the Duke of Devonshire. The park is fourteen miles across and I don't know how big it is, but Dr. Wrench told me the number of acres, and I think it was three or four thousand. We drove five miles through the park before reaching the gates of Chatsworth—shall I call it house or castle? I have pictures of it, and it is a good thing for I could not describe it. Dr. Wrench, being the Duke's physician, was able to take us through the private rooms. On entering the Hall, a broad marble staircase leads to the corridors above, from which others branch out through different parts of the house. We walked miles, it seems, until we got to the Duke's private library. When you are once in the room the doors are shut. You cannot tell how you got in or how you will get out. On every wall the bookcases are built in and there is not an opening of any kind; not a break in the rows and rows of books. The explanation is simply this: the doors themselves are made to look like book shelves, painted on.

"Chatsworth is so large that were I living there I should want a Cook's guide every time I moved. One picture gallery is full of sketches by Hogarth, and pictures of almost every old master you ever heard of, and some you never heard of. Opening out of this gallery are great glass doors leading into halls into which the different bedrooms open. In one bedroom the walls and ceiling were covered with oil paintings, not hanging but literally painted on them. The bed was a huge four-poster. The curtains were of heavy brocaded satin. The windows looked out on terraces, garden and fountains. I like this room best of all. We were taken through the state apartments where I saw on a throne a huge chair of state on a platform, with canopy over it, with the Duke's crest in gold woven upon it. In one of the drawing-rooms we saw a life-size portrait of Henry VIII., a real true one painted from life, and one of Philip II. of Spain, and of Charles V., and of Anne of Austria. The Duke had sent special word from London to have the fountains in the park play for us, and we watched them from the window. They are beautiful. Such nice shower baths for the marble statues on the terrace!

"The Prince of Wales has often visited Chatsworth, and a funny story was told about one of his visits. It was after dinner and the drawing-room was full of people. Whenever Royalty is present it is expected that the men will wear all their decorations. Well, the Earl of Something-or-other had forgotten one of his, and someone reported this fact to the Prince who sent for the culprit to be brought before him. At the time the Prince was seated on one of the huge lounges, on which only a giant could sit and keep his feet on the floor. The Prince was sitting far back and his feet stuck straight out in the air. When the guilty man was brought up to be reprimanded the attitude of the Prince was far from dignified. His Royal Highness was not really angry, but he told the poor Earl of Something-or-other that he must write out the oath of the Order that he had forgotten to wear. It was a long oath and the Earl's memory was not so long."

We went from Nottingham to Glasgow. The date, I find, is May 1, 1900. It was always Dr. Talmage's custom to visit the cemetery first, so we drove out to the grave of John Knox. In Glasgow the Doctor preached at the Cowcaddens Free Church to the usual crowded congregation, and he was compelled to address an overflow meeting from the steps of the church after the regular service. The best part of Dr. Talmage's holiday moods, which were as scarce as he could make them because of the amount of work he was always doing, were filled with the delight of watching the eager interest in sightseeing of the two girls, Miss Maud Talmage and my daughter. In Glasgow we encountered the usual wet weather of the proverbial Scottish quality, and it was Saturday of the week before we ventured out to see the Lakes. My daughter naively confesses the situation to her journal as follows:—

"This A.M.—Got up at the usual starting hour, 7 o'clock, and as it looked only dark we decided to go. At breakfast it started to rain again and Mamma and the Doctor began to back out, but Maud and I talked to some advantage. We argued that if we were going to sit around waiting for a fair day in this country we might just as well give up seeing anything more interesting than hotel parlours and dining-rooms.

"We started, and just as a 'send off' the old sky opened and let down a deluge of water. It rained all the time we were on Loch Lomond, but that didn't prevent us from being up on deck on the boat. From under umbrellas we saw the most beautiful scenery in Scotland. Part of this trip was made by coach, always in the pouring rain. We drove on and on through the hills, seeing nothing but sheep, sheep, sheep. Doctor Talmage asked the driver what kind of vegetables they raised in the mountains and the driver replied—'mutton.' We had luncheon at a very pretty little hotel on Loch Katrine, and here boarded a little steamer launch, 'Rob Roy,' for a beautiful sail. I never, no matter where I travel, expect to look upon a lake more beautiful. The mountains give wildness and romance to the calm and quiet of the lake, and the island. Maud read aloud to us parts of 'The Lady of the Lake' as we sat out on deck."

In Edinburgh Dr. Talmage preached his well-known sermon upon unrequited services, at the request of Lord Kintore, the son of the Earl of Kintore, who had suggested the theme to him some years before. In fact the Doctor wrote this sermon by special suggestion of the Earl of Kintore.

Incidents great and small were such a large part of the eventful trip to Europe that it is difficult to make those omissions which the disinterested reader might wish. The Doctor, like ourselves, saw with the same rose-coloured glasses that we did. We were very pleasantly entertained in Edinburgh by Lord Kintore and others, but the most interesting dinner party I think was when we were the guests of Sir Herbert Simpson, brother of the celebrated Sir James Y. Simpson, the man who discovered the uses of chloroform as an anaesthetic. We dined in the very room where the discovery was first tested. When Dr. Simpson had decided upon a final experiment of the effects of chloroform as an anaesthetic, he invited three or four of his colleagues and friends to share the test with him. They met in the very room where we dined with Sir Herbert Simpson and his family. The story goes that when everything had been prepared for the evening's work, Dr. Simpson informed "Sandy," an old servant, that he must not be disturbed under any circumstances, telling him not to venture inside the door himself until 5 a.m. Then, if no one had left the room, he was to enter. "Sandy" obeyed these instructions to the letter, and came into the room at 5 in the morning. He was very much shocked to find his master and the others under the table in a stupor. "I never thought my master would come to this," said Sandy. He was still in the employ of the family, being a very old man.

Dr. Talmage's engagements took him from Edinburgh to Liverpool, where he preached. It was while there that we made a visit to Hawarden to see Mrs. Gladstone. The Doctor had been to Hawarden before as the guest of Mr. Gladstone, and was disappointed to find that Mrs. Gladstone was too ill to be seen by anyone. We were entertained, however, by Mrs. Herbert Gladstone. I remember how much the Doctor was moved when he saw in the hall at Hawarden a bundle of walking sticks and three or four hats hanging on the hat-rack, as Mr. Gladstone had left them when he died.

From Liverpool we went to Sheffield, where Dr. Talmage preached to an immense congregation. It was in May, the time when all England is flower-laden, when the air is as sweet as perfume and the whole countryside is as fascinating as a garden. It was the coaching season, too, and the Doctor entered into the spirit of these beautiful days very happily. We took a ten days' trip from Leamington after leaving Sheffield, coaching through the exquisite scenery around about Warwick, Kenilworth, and the Shakespeare country in Stratford-on-Avon. Most of these reminiscences are full of incidents too intimate for public interest. Like a dream that lifts one from prosaic life into the places of precious remembrance I recall these long, happy days in the glorious sunset of his life.

We returned to London in time for the Doctor's first preaching engagement there on May 28, 1900. The London newspapers described him as "The American Spurgeon."

"And now before the services opened at St. James' Hall a congregation of 3,000 people waited to hear Dr. Talmage," says a London newspaper. Then it goes on to say further:—

"Dr. Talmage, who has preached from pulpits all over the world, may be described as an 'American Spurgeon.' None of our great English speakers is less of an orator. Dr. Talmage is a great speaker, but his power as an orator is not by any means that of a Gladstone or a Bright. It lies more in the matter than in the manner, in his wonderful imagery, the vividness with which he conjures up a picture before the congregation. He is a great artist in words. Dr. Talmage affects nothing; he is naturalness itself in the pulpit, and the manner of his speech suggests that he is angry with his subject. The sermon on this occasion lent itself well to a master of metaphor such as Dr. Talmage, it being a review of the last great battle of the world, when the forces of right and wrong should meet for the final mastery."

Dr. Talmage rarely preached this sermon because it was a great tax on his memory. It included a suggestion of all the great battles of the earth, a vivid description of the armies of the world marching forward in the eternal human struggle of right against wrong until they were masked for the last great battle of all, when "Satan would take the field in person, in whose make-up nothing bad was left out, nothing good was put in."

It is very remarkable to see the universal acknowledgments of the Doctor's genius in England, one of the London newspapers going so far as to describe him in its headlines as "America's Apostle." Nothing I could write about him could be more in eulogy, more in sympathy in comprehension of his brilliant sacred message to the world. England proclaimed him as he was, with deep sincerity and reverence.

His favourite sermon, and it was mine also, was upon the theme of unrequited services, the text being from I Samuel xxx. 24, "But as his part is that goeth down to the battle, so shall his part be that tarrieth by the stuff." It was in this sermon that Dr. Talmage made reference to Florence Nightingale, in the following words:—

"Women, your reward in the eternal world will be as great as that of Florence Nightingale, the Lady of the Lamp." While in London he preached this sermon, and the following day to our surprise the Doctor received the following note at his hotel:—

"June 3, 1900. "10, South Street, "Park Lane.

"Dear Sir— "I could gladly see you to-morrow (Monday) at 5.—Yours faithfully, "FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. "T. DeWitt Talmage, of America."

I have carefully kept the letter in my autograph album.

Dr. Talmage and I called at the appointed time. It was a beautiful summer day and we found the celebrated woman lying on a couch in a room at the top of the house, the windows of which looked out on Hyde Park. She was dressed all in white. Her face was exquisitely spiritual, calm, sweet with the youth of a soul that knew no age. She had never known that she had been called 'The Lady of the Lamp' by the soldiers of the Crimea till she read of it in the Doctor's sermon. She was curious to be told all about it. In conversation with the Doctor she made many inquiries about America and the Spanish war, making notes on a pad of what he said. The Doctor told her that she looked like a woman who had never known the ordinary conflicts of life, as though she had always been supremely happy and calm in her soul. I remember she replied that she had never known a day's real happiness till she began her work as a nurse on the battlefield.

"I was not always happy," she said; "I had my idle hours when I was a girl." I may not remember her exact words, but this is the sense of them. She was past 82 years of age at the time.

Enjoying the intervals of sight-seeing, such as the Tower, the Museum, Westminster Abbey, and the usual wonders of historical London, we remained in town several weeks. I remember a visit which Mr. Choate, the American Ambassador, made us with a view to extending any courtesy he could for the Doctor while we were in England. I told him that I was more anxious to see the British Parliament in session than anything else.

"I should think, as Dr. Talmage has with him a letter from the President of the United States, this request could be arranged," I said.

Mr. Choate gracefully replied that Dr. Talmage required no introduction anywhere, not even from the President, and arranged to have the Charge d'Affaires, Mr. White, who was later Ambassador to France, take us over to the Houses of Parliament, where we were permitted a glimpse of the Members at work from the cage enclosure reserved for lady visitors.

The Doctor's friends in England did their best to make us feel at home in London. We were dined and lunched, and driven about whenever Dr. Talmage could spare time from his work. Sir Alfred Newton, the Lord Mayor, and Lady Newton gave us a luncheon at the Mansion House on June 5, 1900. I remember the date because it was an epoch in the history of England. During the luncheon the news reached the Lord Mayor of the capture of Pretoria. He ordered a huge banner to be hung from the Mansion House on which were the words—

"THE BRITISH FLAG FLIES AT PRETORIA."

This was the first intimation of the event given to Londoners in that part of the city. Side by side with it another banner proclaimed the National prayer, "God Save the Queen," in big red letters on the white background. A scene of wild enthusiasm and excitement followed. Every Englishman in that part of London, I believe, began to shout and cheer at the top of his lungs. An immense crowd gathered in the adjoining streets around the Mansion House. The morning war news had only indicated a prolonged struggle, so that the capture of Pretoria was a great and joyous surprise to the British heart. Suddenly all hats were off, and the crowds in the streets sang the National Anthem. There were loud calls for the Lord Mayor to make a speech. We watched it all from the windows in the parlour of the Mansion House, at the corner of Queen Victoria Street. Dr. Talmage was as wildly enthusiastic as any Englishman, cheering and waving his arm from the open windows in hearty accord with the crowd below. There was no sleep for anyone in London that night. Around our hotel, the blowing of horns and cheering lasted till the small hours of the morning. It seemed very much like the excitement in America after the capture of the Spanish Fleet.

We left London finally with many regrets, having enjoyed the hospitality of what is to me the most attractive country in the world to visit. We went direct to Paris to attend the opening ceremonies of the Paris Exposition of 1900. It seems like a very old story to tell anything to-day of this event, and to Dr. Talmage it was chiefly a repetition of the many Fairs he had seen in his life, but he found time to write a description of it at the time, which recalls his impressions. He regarded it as "An Object Lesson of Peace and a Tableau of the Millennium."

His defence of General Peck, the American Commissioner-General, who was criticised by the American exhibitors, was made at length. He considered these criticisms unjust, and said so. During our stay in Paris Dr. Talmage preached at the American churches.

Fearing that it would be difficult to secure rooms in Paris during the Exposition, the Doctor had written from Washington during the winter and engaged them at the hotel which a few years before had been one of the best in Paris. Many changes had occurred since he had last been abroad, however, and we found that the hotel where we had engaged rooms was far from being suitable for us. The mistake caused some amusement among our American friends, who were surprised to find Dr. Talmage living in the midst of a Parisian gaiety entirely too promiscuous for his calling. We soon moved away from this zone of oriental music and splendour to a quieter and more remote hotel in the Rue Castiglione.

Dr. Talmage was restless, however, to reach the North Cape in the best season to see the Midnight Sun in its glory, and we only remained in Paris a few days, going from there to the Hague, Amsterdam, and thence to Copenhagen in Denmark. In all the cities abroad we were always the guests of the American Embassy one evening during our stay, and this frequently led to private dinner parties with some of the prominent residents, which the Doctor greatly enjoyed, because it gave him an opportunity to know the foreign people in their homes. I remember one of these invitations particularly because as we drove into the grounds of our host's home he ordered the American flag to be hoisted as we entered. The garden was beautiful with a profusion of yellow blossoms, a national flower in Denmark known as "Golden Rain." We admired them so much that our host wanted to present me with sprigs of the trees to plant in our home at East Hampton. Dr. Talmage said he was sure that they would not grow out there so near the sea. Remembering Judge Collier's grounds in Pittsburg, where every sort of flower grows, I suggested that they would thrive there. Our host took my father-in-law's address, and to-day this "Golden Rain" of Denmark is growing beautifully in his garden in Pittsburg.

We saw and explored Copenhagen thoroughly. The King of Denmark was absent from the capital, but we stood in front of his palace with the usual interest of visitors, little expecting to be entertained there, as afterwards we were. It all came as a surprise.

We were on our way to the station to leave Copenhagen, when Mr. Swenson, the American Minister, overtook us and informed us that the Crown Prince and Princess desired to receive Dr. Talmage and his family at the summer palace. Though it may be at the risk of lese majeste to say it, some persuasion was necessary to induce the Doctor to remain over. Our trunks were already at the station and Dr. Talmage was anxious to get up to the North Cape. However, the American Minister finally prevailed upon the Doctor to consider the importance of a request from royalty, and we went back to the hotel into the same rooms we had just left.

Our presentation took place the next day at the summer palace, which is five miles from Copenhagen. It was the most informally delightful meeting. The formalities of royalty that are sometimes made to appear so overwhelming to the ordinary individual, were so gracefully interwoven by the Crown Prince and the Princess with cordiality and courtesy, that we were as perfectly at ease, as if there had been crowns hovering over our own heads. The royal children were all present, too, and we talked and walked and laughed together like a family party. The Crown Princess said to me, "Come, let me show you my garden," and we strolled in the beautiful grounds. The Crown Prince said, "Come, let me show you my den," and there gave us the autographs of himself and the Princess. We left regretfully. As we drove away the royal party were gathered at the front windows of the palace waving their handkerchiefs to us in graceful adieus. I remember my little daughter was very much surprised with the simplicity of the whole affair, saying to me as we drove away, "Why, it was just like visiting Grandpa's home."

On our way to Troendhjem from Copenhagen we stayed over a few days at Christiania, where we were the guests of Nansen, the Arctic explorer. His home, which stood out near the water's edge, was like a bungalow made of pine logs. There were no carpets on the floors, which were covered with the skins of animals he had himself killed. Trophies of all sorts were in evidence. It was a very memorable afternoon with the simple, brave, scientific Nansen.

At Troendhjem we took the steamer "Koeng Harald" for the North Cape. A party of American friends had just returned from there with the most lugubrious story about the bad weather and their utter failure to see the sun. As it was pouring rain when we started, it would not have taken much persuasion to induce us to give it all up. But we had started with a purpose, and silently but firmly we went on with it. Dr. Talmage never turned back at any cross road in his whole life. In a few hours after leaving Troendhjem we were in the raw, cold Arctic temperature where a new order of existence begins.

We lose all sense of ordinary time, for our watches indicate midnight, and there is no darkness. The over-hanging clouds draw slowly apart, and the most brilliant, dazzling midnight sun covers the waters and sets the sky on fire. It neither rises from the horizon or sinks into it. It stays perfectly, immovably still. After a while it rises very slowly. The meals on board are as irregular as the time; they are served according to the adaptability of one's appetite to the strangeness of the new element of constant daytime. We scarcely want to sleep, or know when to do so. Fortunately our furs are handy, for there is snow and ice on the wild, barren rocks on either side of us.

On July 1, at 8 p.m., we sighted this northernmost land, the Cape, and were immediately induced to indulge in cod fishing from the decks of our steamer. It is the custom, and the cod seem to accept the situation with perverse indiscretion, for many of them are caught. Our lines and bait are provided by sailors. Dinner is again delayed to enable us to indulge in this sport, but we don't mind because we have lost all the habitual tendencies of our previous normal state.

At 10 p.m., in a bright daylight, the small boats full of passengers begin to leave the steamer for the shore. In about fifteen minutes we are landed at the base of that towering Cape. There are some who doubt the wisdom of Dr. Talmage's attempting to climb at his age. He has no doubts, however, and no one expresses them to him. He is among the first to take the staff, handed to him as to all of us, and starts up at his usual brisk, striding gait. It is a test of lungs and heart, of skill and nerve to climb the North Cape, and let no one attempt it who is unfitted for the task. Steep almost as the side of a house, rocky as an unused pathway, it is a feat to accomplish. We were the first party of the season to go up, and the paths had not been entirely cleared of snow, which was two and three feet deep in places, the path itself sometimes a narrow ledge over a precipice. A rope guard was the only barrier between us and a slippery catastrophe. Every ten or fifteen minutes we sat down to get our breath. It took us two hours to reach the top. It was a few minutes after midnight when the sun came out gloriously.

Coming down was much more perilous, but we got back in safety to the "Koeng Harald" at 2 a.m. On our way down to Troendhjem we celebrated the Fourth of July on board. The captain decorated the ship for the occasion and we all tried to sing "The Star Spangled Banner," but we could not remember the words, much to our mutual surprise and finally we compromised by singing "America," and, worst of all, "Yankee Doodle." Dr. Talmage made a very happy address, and we came into port finally, pledged to learn the words of "The Star Spangled Banner" before the year was up.

In our haste to reach the North Cape we had passed hurriedly through Sweden, so, on our return we went from Troendhjem to Stockholm, where we arrived on July 7, 1900.

When in London Dr. Talmage had accepted an invitation to preach in the largest church in Sweden, with some misgiving, because, as he himself said when asked to do this, "Shall I have an audience?" Of course the Doctor did not speak the Swedish language. Dr. Talmage had been told in England that his name was known through all Sweden, which was a fact fully sustained by a publisher in Stockholm who came to the hotel one afternoon and brought copies of ten of the Doctor's books translated into Swedish. This insured a cordial greeting for the Doctor, but how was he to make himself understood?

The Immanuel Church in Stockholm, one of the largest I ever saw, with two galleries and three aisles, was filled to its capacity. Dr. Talmage was to preach through an interpreter, himself a foremost preacher in his own country. The Doctor had preached through interpreters three times in his life; once when a theological student addressing a congregation of American Indians, once in a church in Hawaii, and once in Ceylon through an interpreter standing on each side of him, one to translate into Cingalese, and the other to translate into Hindustan. No one who was present at that morning Sabbath service on July 8, 1900, will forget the strange impressions that translated sermon preached by Dr. Talmage made upon everyone. Sentence by sentence the brilliant interpreter repeated the Doctor's words in the Swedish language, while the congregation in eager silence studied Dr. Talmage's face while listening to the translation of his ideas.

"Whether I did them any good or not they did me good," said the Doctor after the service.

While in Stockholm we dined with Mr. Wyndham, Secretary of the American Legation, and were shown through the private rooms of the royal palace, of which my daughter took snapshots with surreptitious skill. The Queen was a great invalid and scarcely ever saw anyone, but while driving to her summer palace we caught a glimpse of her being lifted from her little horse, on which she had been riding, seated in a sort of armchair saddle. With a groom to lead the horse Her Majesty took the air every day in this way. She was a very frail little woman.

From Stockholm we started by steamer for St. Petersburg, but the crowd was so great that we found our staterooms impossible, and we disembarked at Alba, the first capital in Finland. We were curious to see the new capital, Helsingfors, and stopped over a day or two there. From Helsingfors we went by rail to the Russian capital.

Dr. Talmage had been in Russia years before, on the occasion of his presentation of a shipload of flour from the American people to the famine sufferers. At that time he had been presented to Emperor Alexander III., as well as the Dowager Empress. It was his intention to pay his respects again to the new Emperor, whose father he had known, so that we looked forward to our stay in St. Petersburg as eventful. The Crown Prince of Denmark had urged the Doctor to see his brother-in-law, the Czar, while in St. Petersburg, and we learned later that he had written a letter to the Court concerning our coming to St. Petersburg.

On July 23, 1900, we received the following note from Dr. Pierce, the American Charge d'Affaires in St. Petersburg:—

"July 23, 1900. "Embassy of the United States, St. Petersburg.

"Dear Dr. Talmage—

"I take much pleasure in informing you that you and Mrs. Talmage and your daughters will be received by Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress on Wednesday next, at 21/2 p.m.

"Yours very sincerely, "HERBERT H.D. PIERCE.

"P.S.—I will let you know the details later."

Mr. Pierce called in full court dress and informed Dr. Talmage that it would be necessary for him to appear in like regalia. As the Doctor was not accustomed to wearing swords, or cocked hats, or brass buttons on his coat, he received these instructions with some distress of mind. Later, we received from the Grand Master of Ceremonies of the Russian Court a formal invitation to be presented at Peterhof, the summer palace.

On Wednesday, July 25, 1900, I find this irreverent entry in my American girl's diary:—

"I can't think of any words sufficiently high sounding with which to begin the report of this day, so shall simply write about breakfast first, and gradually lead up to the great event. In spite of the coming honour and the present excitement we all ate a hearty breakfast."

"As our train was to leave for Peterhof about noon we spent the morning dressing.

"After all," writes my irreverent daughter in her diary, "dressing for royalty is not more important than dressing for a dance or dinner. It can't last for much over an hour. When we had everything on we sat opposite each other as stiff as pokers—waiting."

My daughter took a snapshot picture of us while waiting. Mrs. Pierce had kindly given us some instructions about curtseying and backing away from royalty, a ceremony which neither the Czar nor the Czarina imposed upon us, however. The trip to Peterhof was made on one of the Imperial cars. The distance by rail from St. Petersburg was only half-an-hour. A gentleman from the American Embassy rode with us. We were met at the station by footmen in royal livery and conducted to a carriage with the Imperial coat-of-arms upon it. Sentinels in grey coats saluted us.

We were driven first to the Palace of Peterhof, where more footmen in gold lace, and two other officials in gorgeous uniform, conducted us inside, through a corridor, past a row of bowing servants, into a dining-room where the table was set for luncheon, with gold and silver plates, cut glass and rare china. A more exquisite table setting I never saw. Three dressing-rooms opened off this big room, and these we promptly appropriated.

The luncheon was perfect, though we would have enjoyed it better after the strain of our presentation had been over. The four different kinds of wine were not very liberally patronised by any of our party. After luncheon we were driven through the royal park which was literally filled with mounted Cossacks on guard everywhere, to the abode of the Emperor. Through another double line of liveried servants we were ushered into a small room where the Master of Ceremonies and a lady-in-waiting greeted us. We waited about five minutes when an officer came to the Doctor and took him to see the Emperor. A little later we were ushered into another room into the presence of the Empress of Russia. She came forward very graciously with outstretched hands to meet us. The Czarina is the most beautiful woman I ever saw, aristocratic, simple, extremely sensitive. She was dressed in a black silk gown with white polka dots. Slightly taller than the Czar, the Empress was most affable, girlish in her manner. As she talked the colour came and went on her pale, fair cheeks, and she gave me the impression of being a very sensitive, reserved, exquisitely rare nature. Her smile had a charming yet half melancholy radiance. We all sat down and talked. I remember the little shiver with which the Empress spoke of a race in the Orient whom she disliked.

"They would stab you in the back," she said, her voice fading almost to a whisper. She looked to be about twenty-eight years old. Once when we thought it was time to go, and had started to make our adieus, the Czarina kept on talking, urging us to stay. She talked of America chiefly, and told us how enthusiastic her cousin was who had just returned from there. When, finally, we did leave we were spared the dreaded ceremony of backing out of the room, for the Empress walked with us to the door, and shook hands in true democratic American fashion.

Dr. Talmage's interview with the Czar was quite as cordial. The Emperor expressed his faith in the results of the Peace movement at the Hague, for he was himself at peace with all the world. During the interview the Doctor was asked many questions by the Emperor about the heroes of the Spanish war, especially concerning Admiral Dewey. His Majesty laughed heartily at the Doctor's story of a battle in which the only loss of life was a mule.

"How many important things have happened since we met," the Czar said to the Doctor; "I was twenty-four when you were here before, now I am thirty-two. My father is gone. My mother has passed through three great sorrows since you were here—the loss of my father, of my brother, and during this last year of her own mother, the Queen of Denmark. She wishes to see you in her own palace."

The Czar is about five feet ten in height, is very fair, with blue eyes, and seemed full of kindness and good cheer.

As we were leaving, word came from the Dowager Empress that she would see us, and we drove a mile or two further through the royal park to her palace. She greeted Dr. Talmage with both hands outstretched, like an old friend. Though much smaller in stature than the Empress of Russia, the Dowager Empress was quite as impressive and stately. She was dressed in mourning. Her room was like a corner in Paradise set apart from the grim arrogance of Imperial Russia. It was filled with exquisite paintings, sweet with a profusion of flowers and plants. She seemed genuinely happy to see the Doctor, and her eyes filled with tears when he spoke of the late Emperor, her husband. At her neck she was wearing a miniature portrait of him set in diamonds. Very simply she took it off to show to us, saying, "This is the best picture ever taken of my husband. It is such a pleasure to see you, Dr. Talmage, I heard of your being in Europe from my brother in Denmark."

The Dowager Empress was full of remembrances of the Doctor's previous visit to Russia, eight years before.

"How did you like the tea service which my husband sent you?" she asked Dr. Talmage; "I selected it myself. It is exactly like a set we use ourselves."

The informal charm of the Empress's manner was most friendly and kind.

"Do you remember the handful of flowers I picked for you, and asked you to send them to your family?" she said.

"You stood here, my husband there, and I with my smaller children stood here. How well I remember that day; but, oh, what changes!"

The Dowager Empress invited us to come to her palace next day and meet the Queen of Greece, her niece by marriage, and her sister-in-law who was visiting Russia just then, but we were obliged to decline because of previous plans. Very graciously she wrote her autograph for us and promised to send me her photograph, which later on I received. We were driven back to the station in the Imperial carriage, where a representative of the American Embassy met us and rode back to St. Petersburg with us.

So ended a day of absorbing interest such as I shall never experience again. There is a touch of humour always to the most important events in life. I shall never forget Dr. Talmage's real distress when he found that the sword which he had borrowed from Mr. Pierce, the Charge d'Affaires of the American Embassy, had become slightly bent in the course of its royal adventure. I can see his look of anxiety as he tried to straighten it out, and was afraid he couldn't. He always abhorred borrowed things and hardly ever took them. Fortunately, the sword was not seriously damaged.

Our objective point after leaving Russia was Ober-Ammergau, where Dr. Talmage wanted to witness the Passion Play. We travelled in that direction by easy stages, going from St. Petersburg first to Moscow, where we paid a visit to Tolstoi's house. From Moscow we went to Warsaw, and thence to Berlin. The Doctor seemed to have abandoned himself completely to the lure of sightseeing by this time. Churches, picture galleries, museums were our daily diet. While in Berlin we returned from a drive one day to the hotel and found ourselves the objects of unusual solicitude and attention from the hotel proprietor and his servants. With many obsequious bows we were informed that the Russian Ambassador had called upon us in our absence, and had informed the hotel people that he had a special package from the Czar to deliver to me. He left word that he would be at the hotel at 2 p.m. the following day to carry out his Imperial Master's instructions. At the time appointed the next day the Russian Ambassador called and formally presented to me, in the name of the Emperor, a package that had been sent by special messenger. I immediately opened it and found a handsome Russian leather case. I opened that, and inside found the autographs of the Emperor and Empress of Russia, written on separate sheets of their royal note paper.

We had a very good time in Berlin. The presence of Sousa and his band there gave it an American flavour that was very delightful. The Doctor's interest was really centred in visiting the little town of Wuerttemberg, famous for its Luther history. Dr. Dickey, Pastor of the American Church in Berlin, became our guide on the day we visited the haunts of Luther. One day we went through the Kaiser's Palace at Potsdam, where my daughter managed to use her kodak with good effect.

From Berlin we went to Vienna, and thence to Munich, arriving at the little village of Ober-Ammergau on August 25, 1900.

Dr. Talmage's impressions of the Passion Play, which he wrote at Ober-Ammergau on this occasion, were never published in this country, and I herewith include them in these last milestones of his life.

THE PASSION PLAY AT OBER-AMMERGAU

By Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, D.D.

About fifteen years ago the good people of America were shocked at the proposition to put on the theatrical stage of New York the Passion Play, or a dramatic representation of the sufferings of Christ. It was to be an imitation of that which had been every ten years, since 1634, enacted in Ober-Ammergau, Germany. Every religious newspaper and most of the secular journals, and all the pulpits, denounced the proposition. It would be an outrage, a sacrilege, a blasphemy. I thought so then; I think so now. The attempt of ordinary play actors amid worldly surroundings, and before gay assemblages, to portray the sufferings of Christ and His assassination would have been a horrible indecency that would have defied the heavens and invoked a plague worse than that for the turning back of which the Passion Play at Ober-Ammergau was established. We might have suggested for such a scene a Judas, or a Caiaphas, or a Pilate, or a Herod. But who would have been the Christ?

The Continental protest which did not allow the curtain of that exhibition to be hoisted was right, and if a similar attempt should ever be made in America I hope it may be as vehemently defeated. But as certain individuals may have an especial mission which other individuals are not caused to exercise, so neighbourhoods and provinces and countries may have a call peculiar to themselves.

Whether the German village of Ober-Ammergau which I have just been visiting, may have such an especial ordination, I leave others to judge after they have taken into consideration all the circumstances. The Passion Play, as it was proposed for the theatrical stage in New York, would have been as different from the Passion Play as we saw it at Ober-Ammergau a few days ago as midnight is different from mid-noon.

Ober-Ammergau is a picture-frame of hills.

The mountains look down upon the village, and the village looks up to the mountains. The river Ammer, running through the village, has not recovered from its race down the steeps, and has not been able to moderate its pace. Like an arrow, it shoots past. Through exaltations and depressions of the rail train, and on ascending and descending grades, we arrived at the place of which we had heard and read so much. The morning was as glorious as any other morning that was let down out of the heavens. Though many thousands of people from many quarters of the earth had lodged that night in Ober-Ammergau, the place at dawn was as silent as a hunter's cabin in any of the mountains of Bavaria. The Ammergauers are a quiet people. They speak in low tones, and are themselves masters of the art of silence. Their step, as well as their voice, is quiet. Reverence and courtesy are among their characteristics. Though merry enough, and far from being dolorous, I think the most of them feel themselves called to a solemn duty, that in some later time they will be called to take part in absorbing solemnities, for about 700 performers appear in the wonderful performance; there are only about 1,400 inhabitants.

While the morning is still morning, soon after 7 o'clock, hundreds and thousands of people, nearly all on foot, are moving in one direction, so that you do not have to ask for the place of mighty convocation. Through fourteen large double doors the audience enter. Everything in the immense building is so plain that nothing could be plainer, and the seats are cushionless, a fact which becomes thoroughly pronounced after you have for eight hours, with only brief intermissions, been seated on them.

All is expectancy!

The signal gun outside the building sounds startlingly. We are not about to witness an experiment, but to look upon something which has been in preparation and gathering force for two hundred and sixty-six years. It was put upon the stage not for financial gain but as a prayer to God for the removal of a Destroying Angel which had with his wings swept to death other villages, and was then destroying Ober-Ammergau. It was a dying convulsion in which Widowhood and Orphanage and Childlessness vowed that if the Lord should drive back that Angel of Death, then every ten years they would in the most realistic and overwhelming manner show the world what Christ had done to save it.

They would reproduce His groan. They would show the blood-tipped spear. They would depict the demoniac grin of ecclesiastics who gladly heard perjurers testify against the best Friend the world ever had, but who declined to hear anything in His defence. They would reproduce the spectacle of silence amid wrong; a silence with not a word of protest, or vindication, or beseechment; a silence that was louder than the thunder that broke from the heavens that day when at 12 o'clock at noon was as dark as 12 o'clock at night.

Poets have been busy for many years putting the Passion Play into rhythm. The Bavarian Government had omitted from it everything frivolous. The chorus would be that of drilled choirs. Men and women who had never been out of the sight of the mountains which guarded their homes would do with religious themes what the David Garricks and the Macreadys and the Ristoris and the Charlotte Cushmans did with secular themes. On a stage as unpretentious as foot ever trod there would be an impersonation that would move the world. The greatest tragedy of all times would find fit tragedian. We were not there that August morning to see an extemporised performance. As long ago as last December the programme for this stupendous rendering was all made out. No man or woman who had the least thing objectionable in character or reputation might take part.

The Passion Council, made up of the pastor of the village church and six devout members, together with the Mayor and ten councillors selected for their moral worth, assembled. After special Divine service, in which heaven's direction was sought, the vote was taken, and the following persons were appointed to appear in the more important parts of the Passion Play: Rochus Lang, Herod; John Zwink, Judas; Andreas Braun, Joseph of Arimathea; Bertha Wolf, Magdalen; Sebastian Baur, Pilate; Peter Rendi, John; William Rutz, Nicodemus; Thomas Rendi, Peter; Anna Flunger, Mary; Anton Lang, Christ.

The music began its triumphant roll, and the curtains were divided and pulled back to the sides of the stage. Lest we repeat the only error in the sacred drama, that of prolixity, we will not give in minutiae what we saw and heard. The full text of the play is translated and published by my friend, the Reverend Doctor Dickey, pastor of the American Church of Berlin, and takes up 169 pages, mostly in fine print.

I only describe what most impressed me.

There is a throng of people of all classes in the streets of Jerusalem, by look and gesture indicating that something wonderful is advancing. Acclamations fill the air. The crowd parts enough to allow Christ to pass, seated on the side of a colt, which was led by the John whom Jesus especially loved. The Saviour's hands are spread above the throng in benediction, while He looks upon them with a kindness and sympathy that win the love of the excited multitude. Arriving at the door of the Temple, Jesus dismounts and, walking over the palm branches and garments which are strewn and unrolled in His way, He enters the Temple, and finds that parts of that sacred structure are turned into a marketplace, with cages of birds and small droves of lambs and heifers which the dealers would sell to those who wanted to make a "live offering" in the Temple. Indignation gathers on the countenance of Christ where gentleness had reigned. He denounces these merchants, who stood there over-reaching in their bargains and exorbitantly outrageous in their charges. The doors of the cages holding the pigeons are opened, and in their escape they fly over the stage and over the audience. The table on which the exchangers had been gathering unreasonable percentage was thrown down, and the coin rattled over the floor, and the place was cleared of the dishonest invaders, who go forth to plot the ruin and the death of Him who had so suddenly expelled them.

The most impressive character in all the sacred drama is Christ.

The impersonator, Anton Lang, seems by nature far better fitted for this part than was his predecessor, Josef Mayr, who took that part in 1870, 1880, and 1890. Mayr is very tall, brawny, athletic. His hair was black in those days, and his countenance now is severe. He must have done it well, but I can hardly imagine him impersonating gentleness and complete submission to abuse. But Anton Lang, with his blonde complexion, his light hair, blue eyes and delicate mouth, his exquisiteness of form and quietness of manner, is just like what Raphael and many of the old masters present. When we talked with Anton Lang in private he looked exactly as he looked in the Passion Play. This is his first year in the Christ character, and his success is beyond criticism. In his trade as a carver of wood he has so much to do in imitating the human countenance that he understands the full power of expression. The way he listens to the unjust charges in the court room, his bearing when the ruffians bind him, and his manner when, by a hand, thick-gloved so as not to get hurt, a crown of thorns was put upon his brow, and the officers with long bands of wood press it down upon the head of the sufferer, all show that he has a talent to depict infinite agony.

No more powerful acting was ever seen on the stage than that of John Zwink, the Judas. In repose there is no honester face in Ober-Ammergau than his. Twenty years ago he appeared in the Passion Play as St. John; one would suppose that he would do best in a representation of geniality and mildness. But in the character of Judas he represents, in every wrinkle of his face, and in every curl of his hair, and in every glare of his eye, and in every knuckle of his hand with which he clutches the money bag, hypocrisy and avarice and hate and low strategy and diabolism. The quickness with which he grabs the bribe for the betrayal of the Lord, the villainous leer at the Master while seated at the holy supper, show him to be capable of any wickedness. What a spectacle when the traitorous lips are pressed against the pure cheek of the Immaculate One, the disgusting smack desecrating the holy symbol of love.

But after Judas has done his deadly work then there comes upon him a remorse and terror such as you have never seen depicted unless you have witnessed the Passion Play at the foot of the Bavarian mountains. His start at imaginary sounds, his alarm at a creaking door, his fear at nothing, the grinding teeth and the clenched fist indicative of mental torture, the dishevelled hair, the beating of his breast with his hands, the foaming mouth, the implication, the shriek, the madness, the flying here and there in the one attempt to get rid of himself, the horror increased at his every appearance, whether in company or alone, regarded in contrast with the dagger scene of "Macbeth" makes the latter mere child's play. That day, John Zwink, in the character of Judas, preached fifty sermons on the ghastliness of betrayal. The fire-smart of ill-gotten gain, the iron-beaked vulture of an aroused conscience; all the bloodhounds of despair seemed tearing him. Then, when he can endure the anguish no longer, he loosens the long girdle from his waist and addresses that girdle as a snake, crying out:—

"Ha! Come, thou serpent, entwine my neck and strangle the betrayer," and hastily ties it about his neck and tightens it, then rushes up to the branch of a tree for suicide, and the curtain closes before the 4,000 breathless auditors.

Do I approve of the Passion Play at Ober-Ammergau?

My only answer is that I was never so impressed in all my life with the greatness of the price that was paid for the redemption of the human race. The suffering depicted was so awful that I cannot now understand how I could have endured looking upon its portrayal. It is amazing that thousands in the audience did not faint into a swoon as complete as that of the soldiers who fell on the stage at the Lord's reanimation from Joseph's mausoleum.

Imagine what it would be to see a soldier seemingly thrust a spear into the Saviour's side, and to see the crimson rush from the laceration.

Would I see it acted again? No. I would not risk my nerves again under the strain of such a horror. One dreams of it nights after.

When Christ carrying His cross falls under it, and you see Him on His hands and knees, His forehead ensanguined with the twisted brambles, and Veronica comes to Him offering a handkerchief to wipe away the tears, and sweat and blood, your own forehead becomes beaded with perspiration. As the tragedy moves on, solemnity is added to solemnity. Not so much as a smile in the eight hours, except the slight snicker of some fool, such as is sure to be found in all audiences, when the cock crew twice after Peter had denied him thrice.

What may seem strange to some, I was as much impressed with Christ's mental agony as with his physical pangs. Oh! what a scene when in Gethsemane He groaned over the sins of the world for which He was making expiation, until the angelic throngs of heaven were so stirred by His impassioned utterance that one of their white-winged number came out and down to comfort the Angel of the New Covenant!

Some of the tableaux or living pictures between the acts of this drama were graphic and thrilling, such as Adam and Eve expelled from arborescence into homelessness; Joseph, because of his picturesque attire sold into serfdom, from which he mounts to the Prime Minister's chair; the palace gates shut against Queen Vashti because she declines to be immodest; manna snowing down into the hands of the hungry Israelites; grapes of Eshcol so enormous that one cluster is carried by two men on a staff between them; Naboth stoned to death because Ahab wants his vineyard; blind Samson between the pillars of the Temple of Dagon, making very destructive sport for his enemies. These tableaux are chiefly intended as a breathing spell between the acts of the drama. The music rendered requires seven basses and seven tenors, ten sopranos and ten contraltos. Edward Lang has worked thirty years educating the musical talent of the village. The Passion Play itself is beyond criticism, though it would have been mightier if two hours less in its performance. The subtraction would be an addition.

The drama progresses from the entering into Jerusalem to the condemnation by the Sanhedrim, showing all the world that crime may be committed according to law as certainly as crime against the law.

Oh, the hard-visaged tribunal; countenances as hard as the spears, as hard as the spikes, as hard as the rocks under which the Master was buried! Who can hear the metallic voice of that Caiaphas without thinking of some church court that condemned a man better than themselves? Caiaphas is as hateful as Judas. Blessed is that denomination of religionists which has not more than one Caiaphas!

On goes the scene till we reach the goodby of Mary and Christ at Bethany. Who will ever forget that woman's cry, or the face from which suffering has dried the last tear? Who would have thought that Anna Flunger, the maiden of twenty-five years, could have transformed her fair and happy face into such concentration of gloom and grief and woe? Mary must have known that the goodbye at Bethany was final, and that the embrace of that Mother and Son was their last earthly embrace. It was the saddest parting since the earth was made, never to be equalled while the earth stands.

What groups of sympathetic women trying to comfort her, as only women can comfort!

On goes the sacred drama till we come to the foot-washing. A few days before, while we were in Vienna, we had explained to us the annual ceremony of foot washing by the Emperor of Austria. It always takes place at the close of Lent. Twelve very old people are selected from the poorest of the poor. They are brought to the palace. At the last foot-washing the youngest of the twelve was 86 years of age, and the oldest 92. The Imperial family and all those in high places gather for this ceremony. An officer precedes the Emperor with a basin of water. For many days the old people have been preparing for the scene. The Emperor goes down on one knee before each one of these venerable people, puts water on the arch of the foot and then wipes it with a towel. When this is done a rich provision of food and drink is put before each one of the old people, but immediately removed before anything is tasted. Then the food and the cups and the knives and the forks are put in twelve sacks and each one has his portion allotted him. The old people come to the foot-washing in the Emperor's carriage and return in the same way, and they never forget the honour and splendour of that occasion.

Oh, the contrast between that foot-washing amid pomp and brilliant ceremony and the imitated foot-washing of our Lord at Ober-Ammergau. Before each one of the twelve Apostles Christ comes down so slowly that a sigh of emotion passes through the great throng of spectators. Christ even washes the feet of Judas. Was there in all time or eternity past, or will there be in all time or eternity to come, such a scene of self-abnegation? The Lord of heaven and earth stooping to such a service which must have astounded the heavens more than its dramatisation overpowered us! What a stunning rebuke to the pride and arrogance and personal ambition of all ages!

The Hand of God on Human Foot in Ablution!

No wonder the quick-tempered Peter thought it incongruous, and forbade its taking place, crying out: "Thou shalt never wash my feet!" But the Lord broke him down until Peter vehemently asked that his head and his hands be washed as well as his feet.

During eight hours on that stage it seems as though we were watching a battle between the demons of the Pit and the seraphs of Light, and the demons triumph. Eight hours telling a sadness, with every moment worse than its predecessor. All the world against Him, and hardly any let up so that we feel like leaving our place and rushing for the stage and giving congratulations with both hands to Simon of Cyrene as he lightens the Cross from the shoulder of the sufferer, and to Nicodemus who voted an emphatic "No" at the condemnation, and to Joseph of Arimathea who asks the honour of being undertaker at the obsequies.

Scene after scene, act after act, until at the scourging every stroke fetches the blood; and the purple mantle is put upon Him in derision, and they slap His face and they push Him off the stool upon which He sits, laughing at His fall. On, until from behind the curtain you hear the thumping of the hammers on the spikes; on, until hanging between two bandits, He pledges Paradise within twenty-four hours to the one, and commits His own broken-hearted mother to John, asking him to take care of her in her old age; and His complaint of thirst brings a sponge moistened with sour wine on the end of a staff; and blasphemy has hurled at Him its last curse, and malice has uttered concerning Him its last lie, and contempt has spit upon Him its last foam, and the resources of perdition are exhausted, and from the shuddering form and white lips comes the exclamation, "It is finished!"