ought to take a harp fully chorded, and with glad fingers sweep all the strings.  Instead of being grateful for here and there a blessing we happen to think of, we ought to rehearse all our blessings, and obey the injunction of my text to sing unto Him with an instrument of ten strings.”  “Have you ever thanked God for delightsome food?” he asks; and for sight for “the eye, the window of our immortal nature, the gate through which all colours march, the picture gallery of the soul?” He enumerates other blessings—­hearing, sleep, the gift of reason, the beauties of nature, friends.  “I now come,” he continues, “to the tenth and last.  I mention it last that it may be more memorable—­heavenly anticipation.  By the grace of God we are going to move into a place so much better than this, that on arriving we will wonder that we were for so many years so loath to make the transfer.  After we have seen Christ face to face, and rejoiced over our departed kindred, there are some mighty spirits we will want to meet soon after we pass through the gates.”  As his graphic pen depicts the scene—­the meeting with David and the great ones of Scripture, “the heroes and heroines who gave their lives for the truth, the Gospel proclaimers, the great Christian poets, all the departed Christian men and women of whatever age or nation”—­he seems to have already a foretaste of the wonderful vision so soon to open to his eyes.  “Now,” he concludes, “take down your harp of ten strings and sweep all the chords.  Let us make less complaint and offer more thanks; render less dirge and more cantata.  Take paper and pen and write in long columns your blessings....  Set your misfortunes to music, as David opened his dark sayings on a harp....  Blessing, and honour and glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne and unto the Lamb for ever.  Amen!”

I recall that when Dr. Talmage first read this sermon to me in his study, he said:  “That is the best I can do; I shall never write a better sermon.”  I have been told that when a man says he has reached the topmost effort of his abilities, it presages his end, and the march of events seemed to verify the axiom.

Dr. Talmage’s last journey came about through the invitation of the Mexican minister in Washington.  The latter met Dr. Talmage at dinner, and on hearing that he had never preached in Mexico he urged him to go there.  When the Doctor’s plans had all been made, some friends tried to dissuade him from going, secretly fearing, perhaps, the tax it would be on his strength.  Yet there was no evidence at this time to support their fears, and the Doctor himself would have been the last to listen to any warning.  He was very busy during the few days that preceded our departure from Washington in attending the meetings of the Committee of distinguished clergymen who were in session to revise the creed of the Presbyterian Church.

The day before we left for Mexico, the Doctor told me he desired to entertain these gentlemen, as had been his custom during all important gatherings of representative churchmen who visited Washington.  He was in great spirits.  His ideas of a social affair were definite and generous, as we discovered that day, much to our amusement.