rsey, of which
my brother, Rev. James R. Talmage, was then and still is pastor. Was
living in his family at the time, and studying with him preparatory to
entering college. I am unable to decide when I met with a change of heart.
My reason for believing that I have experienced such a change are the
evidences within me that I love my Saviour, love His cause, and love the
souls of men.

"My reason for desiring the missionary work is a desire for the salvation
of the heathen. My mind has been directed to the subject for a long time,
yet I have not felt at liberty to decide the question where duty called me
to labor until the last month. In accordance with this decision I now
offer my services to the Board to labor in my Master's service among the
heathen. As a field of labor I prefer China."

Owing to deficiency in funds the Board could not send him that year. He
accepted an invitation to assist Dr. Brodhead, then pastor of the Central
Reformed Church of Brooklyn. Dr. Brodhead was one of the great preachers
of his day. In Philadelphia, an earlier pastorate, "he preached to great
congregations of eager listeners, and with a success unparalleled in the
history of that city and rare in modern times." John Van Nest Talmage
might have been his successor. But no sooner was the Board ready to send
him than he was prepared to go. The day for leaving home came. Father
Talmage and the older brothers accompanied John. They left the house in
three carriages. A younger sister (Mrs. Cone) recently said: "When we saw
the three carriages driving down the lane it seemed more like a funeral
than anything else." Silent were those who drove away. Silent, silent as
they could constrain themselves to be, were mother and sisters as they
stood by the windows and got their last look of the procession as it wound
down the road. To go to a foreign land in those days signified to those
who went, lifelong exile,--to those who tarried, lifelong separation. The
only highways to the far East were by way of the Cape of Good Hope or Cape
Horn. The voyages were always long and often perilous.

When on board the ship Roman, bound for Canton, David Abeel wrote: "To the
missionary perhaps exclusively, is the separation from friends like the
farewell of death. Though ignorant of the future he expects no further
intercourse on earth. To him the next meeting is generally beyond the
grave."

The hour of departure was not only saddened by parting from parents an