Degrees of Grief

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Mar 14, 1911

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 38, No. 11.

DR. TALMAGE, the celebrated Brooklyn clergyman, was riding once in a railroad coach, soon after the decease of a favorite son. His grief was constant and acute, and he could not feel that any one had ever suffered as he was suffering.

In a seat near him sat a gentleman who, he thought, possessed one of the most cheerful faces he had ever seen. "How happy that man is compared with me!" he thought. "I will get into conversation with him. Perhaps he may console me, or cheer me up a

little."

The dialog ran upon general subjects for a little while, and then turned upon Dr. Talmage's great loss. "I can not help envying you," said the preacher. "You seem, from your appearance, as if you had not a trouble in the world."

The other gentleman looked grave, and a spasm of grief went over his countenance. "I never saw a sadder face, for the moment," said Talmage, in relating this incident to the writer.

"My dear sir," he inquired, "will you tell me where you are going?"

"Why," replied Talmage, "home, to Brooklyn, New York. I get there this evening, if all goes well."

"I suppose to a wife — perhaps a mother — a live son — a daughter or two."

"O, yes! I have all those awaiting me."

"Now I will tell you where I am going. All my family are dead but one, and that is my wife; and I am making my regular weekly visit to her, at an asylum. She is hopelessly insane. But God has left me my life, my honor, and my faculties; and I am trying to keep patient and cheerful, with the hope of meeting them all again in a better world, by and by."

Talmage rose, and took the stranger by both hands. "I surrender!" he exclaimed. "My sorrow is as nothing, compared with yours. I have learned a lesson, and hope God will help me to profit by it."—Everywhere.