On our way from San Antonio to the City of Mexico our train ran into one of the sand-storms, for which the Mexican country is famous at certain times of the year; and we were at a standstill on a side track at a small station for twenty-four hours. The food was execrable, the wind and sand were choking, and the whole experience trying in the extreme. We were warned against thieves of the neighbourhood, and, during the night we were locked in the cars to ensure the safety of our belongings. In spite of these precautions a shawl which the Doctor valued, because it had been presented to him by the citizens of Melbourne, Australia, was stolen during the night through an open window. They were not bashful those thieves of the sandstorm. From a private car attached to the rear of our train they stole a refrigerator bodily off the platform.

The Doctor had long been suffering from his throat, and all these annoyances had the effect of increasing the painful symptoms to such a degree that when we finally got into the city of Mexico on Saturday, March 1st, it was necessary to call a physician. Dr. Talmage had brought with him a number of letters of introduction from Washington to people in the City of Mexico, but the Mexican minister had written ahead of us, and on the day we arrived people left their cards and extended invitations that promised to keep us socially busy every day of our week's visit.

The Doctor was ailing a little, I thought, but not seriously. He had a slight cold. Although he had planned to preach only in the Presbyterian Church a week from our arrival, the people of the other Protestant denominations urged him with such importunity that he agreed to preach for them on the first Sunday, the day after our arrival. This was an unexpected strain on Dr. Talmage after a very trying journey; but he never could refuse to preach, no matter how great his fatigue. On the following Tuesday a luncheon was given Dr. Talmage by General Porfirio Diaz, the President of the Mexican Republic, at his palace in Chapultepec. The Doctor enjoyed a long audience with the aged statesman, during which the mutual interests and prospects of the two countries were freely discussed, President Diaz manifesting himself, as always, a friend and admirer of our government and people. During the afternoon a cold wind had come up, and the drive home increased the Doctor's indisposition, so that he was obliged to confine himself to his room. Still he was up and about, and we felt no alarm whatever. On Thursday night, he complained of a pain at the base of his brain, and at about four in the morning I was awakened by him:—

"Eleanor," he said, "I seem to be very ill; I believe I am dying." The shock was very great, it was such a rare thing for him to be ill. We sent for the best American physician in the city of Mexico, Dr. Shields, who diagnosed the Doctor's case as grippe. He at once allayed my fears, assuring me that it would not be serious.

Dr. Talmage had promised to lecture on Friday, March 7th, and we had some trouble to prevent him from keeping this engagement. Dr. Shields insisted that Dr. Talmage should not leave his room, declaring that the exertion would be too much for him. Not until Dr. Shields had assured Dr. Talmage that the people could be notified by special handbills and the newspapers would he consent to break the engagement.

On Friday night Dr. Talmage grew worse; and finally he asked to be taken home, personally making arrangements with Dr. Shields to travel with us as far as the Mexican border, as my knowledge of Spanish was very limited. Eventually it became necessary for Dr. Shields to go all the way with us. In the great sorrow that the people of Mexico felt over the sudden illness of Dr. Talmage, their regret at his cancelled engagements was swallowed up, and there was one great wave of sympathy which touched us not a little.

The journey to Washington was a painful one. Dr. Talmage kept growing worse. All day long he lay on the couch before me in our drawing-room on the train, saying nothing—under the constant care of the physician. Telegrams and letters followed the patient all the way from Mexico to the Capital city. At every station silent, awe-stricken crowds were gathered to question of the state of the beloved sufferer. In New Orleans we had to stay over a day, so as to secure accommodation on the train to Washington. While there many messages of condolence were left at the hotel, a party of ladies calling especially to thank me for the "great care I was taking of their Dr. Talmage."

On our route to the national city, I remember the Doctor drew me down beside him to speak to me. He was then extremely weak and his voice was very low: "Eleanor, I believe this is death," he said.

The long journey, in which years seemed compressed into days, at last came to a close. The train pulled up in Washington, and our own physician, Dr. Magruder, met us at the station. Dr. Talmage was borne into his home in a chair, and upstairs into his bedroom, where already the angel of death had entered to welcome and guard him, though, alas! we knew it not, and still hoped against hope. Occasional rallies took place; but evidences of cerebral inflammation appeared, and the patient sank into a state of unconsciousness, which was only a prelude to death. Bulletins were given to the public daily by the attending physicians; and if aught could have assuaged the anguish of such moments it would have been the universal interest and sympathy shown from all parts of the world.

Readers will pardon me if I reproduce from The Christian Herald a record of the last scene. It is hard "to take down the folded shadows of our bereavement" and hold it even to the gaze of friends.

"After a painful illness, lasting several weeks, America's best-beloved preacher, the Reverend Thomas DeWitt Talmage, passed from earth to the life above, on April 12th, 1902. Ever since his return from Mexico, where he was prostrated by a sudden attack which rapidly assumed the form of cerebral congestion, he had lain in the sick chamber of his Washington home, surrounded by his family and cared for by the most skilful physicians. Each day brought its alternate hopes and fears. Much of the time was passed in unconsciousness; but there were intervals when, even amid his sufferings, he could speak to and recognise those around him. No murmur or complaint came from his lips; he bore his suffering bravely, sustained by a Higher Power. The message had come which sooner or later comes to all, and the aged servant of God was ready to go; he had been ready all his life.

"Occasional rallies took place, raising hopes which were quickly abandoned. From April 5th to April 12th these rallies occurred at frequent intervals, always followed by a condition of increased depression, more or less augmented fever and partial unconsciousness. On Saturday, April 12th, a great change became apparent. For many hours the patient had been unconscious. As the day wore on, it became evident that he could not live through another night. All of Dr. Talmage's family—his wife, his son, the Rev. Frank DeWitt Talmage, of Chicago; Mrs. Warren G. Smith and Mrs. Daniel Mangam, of Brooklyn; Mrs. Allen E. Donnan, of Richmond; and Mrs. Clarence Wycoff and Miss Talmage, were gathered in the chamber of death. Dr. G.L. Magruder, the principal physician, was also in attendance at the last. At 9.25 o'clock p.m., the soul took flight from the inanimate clay, and the spirit of the world's greatest preacher was released."

The Rev. T. Chalmers Easton, an old and valued friend of Dr. Talmage, was in frequent attendance upon him, and never ceased his ministrations until the eyes of the beloved one were closed in death. A brief excerpt from his address at the Memorial Service of the Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage held at the Eastern Presbyterian Church, Washington, may not be unacceptable to the reader:

"A truly great man or eloquent orator does not die—

'And is he dead whose glorious mind
 Lifts thine on high?
 To live in hearts we leave behind
 Is not to die.'

"What shall we say of the prince in Israel who has left us? Can we compress the ocean into a dewdrop? No more is it possible to condense into one brief hour what is due to the memory of our beloved and illustrious friend. His moral courage was only equalled by his giant frame and physical strength. He was made of the very stuff that martyrs are made of: one of the most remarkable individualities of our time. A man of no negative qualities, aggressive and positive.

"His whole soul was full of convictions of right and duty. A firm friend, a man of ready recognition, a human magnet in his focalising power. He was true in every deed, and never needed a veil to be drawn.... If, as his personal friend for more than twenty years, I should attempt to open up the treasures of his real greatness, where shall we find more of those sterling virtues that poets have sung, artists portrayed, and historians commended? He was truly a great man—a man of God!

"The last years of his life were full of happiness in the living companionship of her who so sadly mourns his departure. He frequently spoke to me of the great inspiration brought into these years by her ceaseless devotion to all his plans and work, making what was burdensome in his accumulating literary duties a pleasure.... The last fond look of recognition was given to his beloved wife, and the last word that fell from his lips, when far down in the valley, was the sweetest music to his ears—'Eleanor.'

"It was said once by an eminent writer that when Abraham Lincoln, the forest-born liberator, entered Heaven, he threw down at God's throne three million yokes as the trophies of his great act of emancipation; as great as that was, I think it was small, indeed, compared with the tens of thousands of souls Talmage redeemed from the yokes of sin and shame by the glorious Gospel preached with such fervour and power of the Holy Ghost. What a mighty army stood ready to greet him at the gates of the heavenly city as the warrior passed in to be crowned by his Sovereign and King!"

The funeral services were held at the Church of the Covenant, Washington, on April 15th. The ceremony began at 5 p.m., with the "Dead March from Saul," and lasted considerably over an hour. The coffin rested immediately in front of the pulpit, and over it was a massive bed of violets. On a silver plate was the inscription:

THOMAS DEWITT TALMAGE,

JANUARY 7TH, 1832-APRIL 12TH, 1902


The floral offerings were numerous, including a wreath of white roses and lilies of the valley sent by President and Mrs. Roosevelt. The officiating clergymen were the Rev. Dr. T.S. Hamlin, pastor of the Church; the Rev. Dr. T. Chalmers Easton, of Washington; and the Rev. Drs. S.J. Nicols, and James Demarest, of Brooklyn. A male quartette sang: "Lead, Kindly Light," a favourite hymn of Dr. Talmage; "Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping"; and "It is well with my Soul." The addresses of the Reverend Doctors were eulogistic of the dead preacher, of whom they had been intimate friends for more than a quarter of a century. The body lay in state four hours, during which thousands passed in review around it.

At midnight the remains of Dr. Talmage were conveyed by private train to Brooklyn, where the burial took place in Greenwood Cemetery. The funeral cortége arrived about ten o'clock in the morning; hundreds were already in the cemetery, waiting to behold the last rites paid to one they revered and loved. The Episcopal burial service was read by the Rev. Dr. Howard Suydam, an old friend and classmate of Dr. Talmage, who made a brief address, and concluded the simple ceremonies by the recital of the Lord's Prayer.

Tributes were paid to the illustrious dead all over the civilised world, and in many languages; while thousands of letters of condolence and telegrams assured the family in those days of affliction that human hearts were throbbing with ours and fain would comfort us. One wrote feelingly:

"When Dr. Talmage described the Heavenly Jerusalem, he seemed to feel all the ecstatic fervour of a Bernard of Cluny, writing:

'For thee, O dear, dear Country!
 Mine eyes their vigils keep;
 For very love beholding
 Thy holy name, they weep.'"

And it seems to me that I cannot better close this altogether unworthy sketch of Dr. Talmage than by offering the reader as a parting remembrance, in its simple beauty, his "Celestial Dream":

"One night, lying on my lounge when very tired, my children all around me in full romp and hilarity and laughter, half awake and half asleep, I dreamed this dream: I was in a far country. It was not in Persia, although more than oriental luxuries crowned the cities. It was not the tropics, although more than tropical fruitfulness filled the gardens. It was not Italy, although more than Italian softness filled the air. And I wandered around looking for thorns and nettles, but I found that none of them grew there; and I saw the sun rise and watched to see it set, but it set not. And I saw people in holiday attire, and I said, 'When will they put off all this, and put on workman's garb, and again delve in the mine or swelter at the forge?' But they never put off the holiday attire.

"And I wandered in the suburbs of the city to find the place where the dead sleep, and I looked all along the line of the beautiful hills, the place where the dead might most blissfully sleep, and I saw towers and castles, but not a mausoleum or a monument or a white slab was to be seen. And I went into the chapel of the great town, and I said: 'Where do the poor worship, and where are the benches on which they sit?' And the answer was made me, 'We have no poor in this country.'

"And then I wandered out to find the hovels of the destitute, and I found mansions of amber and ivory and gold; but not a tear could I see, not a sigh could I hear; and I was bewildered, and I sat down under the branches of a great tree, and I said, 'Where am I, and whence comes all this scene?' And then out from among the leaves and up the flowery paths and across the bright streams, there came a beautiful group thronging all about me, and as I saw them come I thought I knew their step, and as they shouted I thought I knew their voices, but they were so gloriously arrayed in apparel such as I had never before witnessed, that I bowed as stranger to stranger. But when again they clapped their hands and shouted 'Welcome! Welcome!' the mystery all vanished, and I found that time had gone and eternity had come, and we were all together again in our new home in Heaven.

"And I looked around, and I said, 'Are we all here?' And the voices of many generations responded, 'All here!' And while tears of gladness were raining down our cheeks, and the branches of the Lebanon cedars were clapping their hands, and the towers of the great city were chiming their welcome, we all together began to leap and shout and sing, 'Home, home, home, home!'"





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