T. De Witt Talmage Part 14

A letter from a young lady in Georgia, asking me to send her what I consider the most important word in my vocabulary, I answered immediately. The ever-watchful reporter observes that to do this "I pick up a pen and write on the margin of the girl's letter the word 'helpfulness.'" Then I sign it and stick it in an envelope. Then I "dash off the address." Obviously I am not at all original at home. I replied to a letter from the president of a theological seminary, asking me to speak to his young men. I like young men so I agree to do so if I can. I "startle" the reporter finally, by a sudden burst of unexpected hilarity over a letter from a man in Pennsylvania who wants me to send him a cheque by return mail for one hundred thousand dollars, on a sure thing investment. The reporter says:--

"I am startled by a shrill peal of laughter, and the great preacher leans back in his chair and shakes his sides."

The reporter looks over my shoulder and sees other letters.

"A young minister writes to say that his congregation is leaving him.

How shall he get his people back? An old sailor scrawls on a piece of yellow paper that he is bound for the China seas and he wants a copy of each of Dr. Talmage's sermons sent to his old wife in New Bedford, Ma.s.s., while he is gone. Here is a letter in a schoolgirl's hand. She has had a quarrel with her first lover and he has left her in a huff.

How can she get him back? Another letter is from the senior member of one of the biggest commercial houses in Brooklyn. It is brief, but it gives the good doctor pleasure. The writer tells him how thoroughly he enjoyed the sermon last Sunday. The next letter is from the driver of a horse car. He has been discharged. His children go to Dr. Talmage's Sunday School. Is that not enough to show that the father is reliable and steady, and will not the preacher go at once to the superintendent of the car line and have him reinstated. Here is a perfumed note from a young mother who wants her child baptised. There are invitations to go here and there, and to speak in various cities. Young men write for advice: One with the commercial instinct strongly developed, wants to know if the ministry pays? Still another letter is from a patent medicine house, asking if the preacher will not write an endors.e.m.e.nt of a new cure for rheumatism. Other writers take the preacher to task for some utterance in the pulpit that did not please them. Either he was too lenient or too severe. A young man wants to get married and writes to know what it will cost to tie the knot. A New York actress, who has been an attendant for several Sundays at the Tabernacle, writes to say that she is so well pleased with the sermons that she would be glad if she could come earlier on Sunday morning, but she is so tired when Sat.u.r.day night comes that she can't get up early. Would it be asking too much to have a seat reserved for her until she arrived!"

A maid in a "white cap" comes to the door and informs me that a "roomful of people" are waiting to see me downstairs. It is the usual routine of my morning's work, when I receive all who come to me for advice and consolation. The reporter regards it, however, as an event, and writes about it in this way:--

"Visitors to the Talmage mansion are ushered through a broad hall into the great preacher's back parlour. They begin to arrive frequently before breakfast, and the bell rings till long after the house is closed for the night. There are men and women of all races, some richly dressed, some fas.h.i.+onably, some very poorly. Many of them had never spoken a word to Dr. Talmage before. They think that Talmage has only to strike the rock to bring forth a stream of s.h.i.+ning coins. He steps into their midst pleasantly.

"'Well, young man,' he says to a youth of seventeen, who stands before him. He offers the boy his hand and shakes it heartily.

"'I don't suppose you know me,' says the lad, 'but I'm in your Sunday School. Mother thinks I should go to work and I have come to you for advice.'

"Then follows in whispers a brief conversation about the boy himself, his parents, his education and mode of life.

"'Now,' says the preacher, leading him by the hand to the door, 'get a letter from your mother, and also one from your Sunday School teacher, and one from your Day School teacher, and bring them to me. If they are satisfactory I will give you a letter to a warm friend of mine who is one of the largest dry goods merchants in New York. If you are able, bright, and honest he will employ you. If you are faithful you may some day be a member of the firm. All the world is before you, lad. Be honest, have courage. Roll up your sleeves and go to work and you will succeed. Goodbye!' and the door closes.

"The next caller is an old woman who wants the popular pastor to get her husband work in the Navy Yard. No sooner is she disposed of, with a word of comfort, than a spruce-looking young man steps forward. He is a book agent, and his glib tongue runs so fast that the preacher subscribes for his book without looking at it. As the agent retires a shy young girl comes forward and asks for the preacher's autograph. It is given cheerfully. Two old ladies of bustling activity have come to ask for advice about opening a soup kitchen for the poor. A middle-aged man pours out a sad story of woe. He is a hard-working carpenter. His only daughter is inclined to be wayward. Would Dr. Talmage come round and talk to her?

"Finally, all the callers have been heard except one young man who sits in a corner of the room toying with his hat. He has waited patiently so that he might have the preacher all alone. He rises as Dr. Talmage walks over to him.

"'I am in no hurry,' he says. 'I'll wait if you want to speak to--to--to that man over there,' pointing to me.

"'No,' is the reply. 'We are going out together soon. What can I do for you?'

"'Well I can call again if you are too busy to talk to me now?'

"'No, I am not too busy. Speak up. I can give you ten minutes.'

"'But I want a long talk,' persists the visitor.

"'I'd like to oblige you,' says the preacher, 'but I'm very busy to-day.'

"'I'll come to-morrow.'

"'No; I shall be busy to-morrow also.'

"'And to-night, too?'

"'Yes; my time is engaged for the entire week.'

"'Well, then,' says the young man, in a stammering way; 'I want your advice. I'm employed in a big house in New York and I am getting a fair salary. I have been offered a position in a rival house. Would it be right and honourable for me to leave? I am to get a little more salary.

I must give my answer by to-morrow. I must make some excuse for leaving.

I've thought it all over and don't know what to say. My present employers have treated me well. I want your advice.'

"The good preacher protests that it is a delicate question to put to a stranger, even if that stranger happens to be a minister.

"'Is the firm a good one? Are you treated well? Haven't you a fair chance? Aren't they honourable men?'

"The answer to all these questions was in the affirmative.

"'But you could tell me whether it would be right for me to do it, and--and--if I could get a letter of recommendation from you it would help me.'

"'Why don't you ask your mother or father for advice?'

"'They are dead.'

"'Was your mother a Christian?'

"'Yes.'

"'Then get down on your knees here and lift your face to heaven. Ask your angel mother if you would be doing right.'

"The young man's eyes fall to the floor. He toys nervously with his hat and backs out of the hall to the door. As he turns the k.n.o.b he holds out his right-hand to the preacher and whispers:

"'I thank you for your advice. I'll not leave my present employer.'

"Now the great preacher hastily puts on a thick overcoat and, taking a heavy walking-stick in hand, says: 'We'll go now.' He calls a cheery 'goodbye' to Mrs. Talmage and closes the big door behind him. The air is crispy and invigorating. Once in the street the preacher throws back his shoulders until his form is as straight as that of an Indian. His blue eyes look out from behind a pair of s.h.a.ggy eyebrows. They snap and sparkle like a schoolboy's. The face denotes health and strength. The preacher is fond of walking and strides along with giant steps. The colour quickly mounts to his cheeks and reveals a face free from lines and full of health and manly vigour. He has noted the direction that he is to take carefully. As he walks along the street he is noticed by everybody. His figure is a familiar one in the streets of Brooklyn.

Nearly everybody bows to him. He has a hearty 'How are you to-day?' for all.

"Our direction lies in a thickly-populated section, not many blocks from the water front. It is in the tenement district where dozens of families are huddled together in one house. We pause in front of a rickety building and stop an urchin in the hallway, who replies to the question that we are in the right house. Then the good Doctor pulls out of his pocket the letter he received some hours ago from the grief-stricken young mother whose baby was ill and who asked for aid.

"Up flight after flight of stairs we go; two storeys, three, four, five.

As we reach the landing, a tidy young woman appears. She is holding her face in her hands and sobbing to break her heart.

"'Oh, I knew you would come,' she says, as the tears roll down her cheeks; 'I used to go to your church, and I know how deeply your sermons touched me. Oh! That was long ago. It was before I knew John, and before our baby came.'

"Here the speaker broke down completely.

"'But it's all over now,' she began again.

"'John has ill-used me, and beaten me, and forced me to support him in drunkenness. I could stand all that for my baby's sake.'

"She had sunk to the floor on her knees. She was pouring out her soul in agony of grief.

"'Oh! my baby, my baby!' she cried piteously. 'Why were you taken? Oh, the blow is too much! I can't stand it. Merciful Father, have I not suffered enough?'

"She fell in a heap on the floor. The heavy breathing and sobbing continued. We looked into the little room. It was scrupulously clean, but barren of furniture and even the rudest comforts of a home. The window curtains are pulled down, but a ray of bright sunlight shoots in and lying on the apology for a bed is a babe. Its eyes are closed. Its face is as white as alabaster. The little thin hands are folded across its tiny breast. Its sufferings are over.

"The Angel of Death had touched its forehead with its icy finger and its spirit had flown to the clouds.

"The end had come before the preacher could offer aid.

"What a scene it was!