of years and years to come. For a long while I had cherished the dream
that I might some day visit the Holy Land, to see with my own eyes the
sky, the fields, the rocks, and the sacred background of the Divine
Tragedy. The tangible plans were made, and I was preparing to sail in
October, 1889. I felt like a man on the eve of a new career. The
fruition of the years past was about to be a great harvest of successful
work. I speak of it without reserve, as we offer prayers of gratitude
for great mercies.

Everything before me seemed finer than anything I had ever known. Few
men at my age were so blessed with the vigour of health, with the elixir
of youth. To the world at large I was indebted for its appreciation, its
praise sometimes, its interest always. My study in Brooklyn was a room
that had become a picturesque starting point for the imagination of
kindly newspaper men. They were leading me into a new element of
celebrity.

One morning, in my house in Brooklyn, I was asked by a newspaper in New
York if it might send a reporter to spend the day with me there. I had
no objection. The reporter came after breakfast. Breakfast was an
awkward meal for the newspaper profession, otherwise we should have had
it together. I made no preparation, set no scene, gave the incident no
thought, but spent the day in the usual routine of a pastor's duty. It
is an incident that puts a side-light on my official duties as a
minister in his home, and for that reason I refer to it in detail. Some
of the descriptions made by the reporter were accurate, and illustrative
of my home life.

My mail was heavy, and my first duty was always to take it under my arm
to my workshop on the second floor of my home in South Oxford Street. In