of his personality. Even
to-day, when memories begin to grow cold in the shadow of his tomb, I am
constantly reminded by those who remember him of the strange magical
eternity that was in him. He had been so active and busy through all the
years of his life, keeping pace with each one in its seemingly
increasing speed, that his heart remained ever young, living in the
glory of things that were present, searching with eager vigour the
horizon of the future.

Wherever I am, whether in this country or in Europe, but especially in
England, Dr. Talmage's name still brings me remembrance of his
distinguished career from the men of prominence who knew him. They come
to me and tell me about him with unabated affection for his memory. He
attracted people by a kind of magnetism, and held them afterwards with
ties of deep friendship and respect. The standards of his youth were the
standards of his whole life.

My appreciation of Dr. Talmage in these printed pages may not be wholly
in harmony with his ideas of the privacy of his home life; but it is
difficult to think of him at all in any mood less intimately reverent.

As I look over the scrapbook, my scrapbook (as he and I always called
it), I feel the reserve about it that he himself did. My share in the
Doctor's life, however, belongs to these last years of his distinguished
career, and I am a contributor by special privilege.

I met him first at East Hampton, Long Island, in the summer of 1896,
when I was visiting friends. The other day, while in reminiscent
struggle with my scrapbook, I was visited by an old friend of Dr.
Talmage, who recalled the following incident:

"It was Dr. Talmage's custom," he said, "to take long drives out into
the country round about Washington. Sometimes he sent for me to drive
with him. One afternoon I received a specially urgent call to be sure
and drive with him that day, because he had something of great
importance to discuss with me. On our way back, towards evening, I asked
him what it was. He said, 'I work hard, very hard. Sometimes I come back
to my home tired, very tired--lonely. I open my door and the house is
dark, silent. The young folks are out somewhere and there is no one to
talk to.' Then he became silent himself. I said to him: 'Have you any
one in mind whom you would like to talk to?' 'I have,' he said
positively. 'If so,' I said, 'go to her at once and tell her so.' 'I
will,' he replied briskly--and the next night he went to