opic investigation
before the people in 1888. It was the first time in my life that any
notable attention had been taken of me in my own country, that was not a
personal notoriety over some conflict of the hour. Whenever the American
newspaper begins to describe your home life with an air of analysis that
is not libellous you are among the famous. It took me a little while to
understand this. A man's private life is of such indifferent character
to himself, unless he be an official representative of the people, that
I never quite appreciated the importance given to mine, at this time, in
Brooklyn. Chiefly because I had made money as a writer, my
fellow-citizens were curious to know how, in the clerical profession, it
could be made. Articles appeared constantly in the newspapers with
headlines like these--"Dr. Talmage at Home," "In a Clergyman's Study,"
"Dr. Talmage's Wealth," "Talmage Interviewed." Nearly all of them began
with the American view point uppermost, in this fashion:

"The American preacher lives in a luxurious home."

"His income, from all sources, exceeds that of the President of the
United States."

"The impression is everywhere that Dr. Talmage is very rich."

I regretted this because there is a notion that a minister of the Gospel
cannot accumulate money for himself, that he should not do so if he
could, that his duty consists in collecting money for his church, his
parish, his mission--for anything and everyone but his own temporal
prosperity. I had done this all my life. I can solemnly say that I never
sought the financial success which in some measure came to me. I
regarded the money which I received for my work as pastor of the
Tabernacle, or from other sources as an earning capacity that is due to
every working man. I was able to do more work than some, because the
motives of my whole life have insisted that I work hard. The impetus of
my strength was not abnormal, it was merely the daily requirement of my
health that I work as hard as I knew how as long as I could.
Restlessness was an element of life with me. I could not keep still any
length of time. My mind had acquired the habit of ideas, and my hands
were always full of unfinished labours.

I remember trying once to sit still at a concert of Gilmore's band, at
Manhattan Beach. After hearing one selection I found myself unable to
listen any farther--I could not sit quiet for longer. I rarely allowed
myself more than five minutes for shavin