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From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field · English · Gutenberg #38869 · 676,263 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

Author: Henry M. Field


        
Release date: February 13, 2012 [eBook #38869]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY TO THE GOLDEN HORN ***




Produced by Melissa McDaniel, Lynne Payne and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved.  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




     FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY
     TO
     THE GOLDEN HORN.

     BY HENRY M. FIELD, D.D.

     FOURTEENTH EDITION.

     NEW YORK:
     CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS,
     1884.




     COPYRIGHT, 1876, BY
     SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO.


     TROW'S
     PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
     _201-213 East 12th Street_,
     NEW YORK.




When a man's house is "left unto him desolate" by the loss of one who
filled it with sunshine--when there is no light in the window and no
fire on the hearth--it is a natural impulse to leave his darkened
home, and become a wanderer on the face of the earth. Such was the
beginning of the journey recorded here. Thus driven from his home, the
writer crossed the seas, and passed from land to land, going on and
on, till he had compassed the round globe. The story of all this is
much too long to be comprised in one volume. The present, therefore,
does not pass beyond Europe, but stops on the shores of the Bosphorus,
in sight of Asia. Another will take us to the Nile and the Ganges, to
Egypt and India, to Burmah and Java, to China and Japan.

       *       *       *       *       *

It should be added, to explain an occasional personal allusion, that
the writer was accompanied by his niece (who had lived so long in his
family as to be like his own child), whose gentle presence cheered his
lonely hours, and cast a soft and quiet light amid the shadows.




CONTENTS.


       CHAPTER I.                                               PAGE
     The Melancholy Sea                                            7

       CHAPTER II.
     Ireland--its Beauty and its Sadness                          17

       CHAPTER III.
     Scotland and the Scotch                                      24

       CHAPTER IV.
     Moody and Sankey in London                                   32

       CHAPTER V.
     Two Sides of London.--Is Modern Civilization a Failure?      42

       CHAPTER VI.
     The Resurrection of France                                   60

       CHAPTER VII.
     The French National Assembly                                 66

       CHAPTER VIII
     The Lights and Shadows of Paris                              77

       CHAPTER IX.
     Going on a Pilgrimage                                        86

       CHAPTER X.
     Under the Shadow of Mont Blanc                               96

       CHAPTER XI.
     Switzerland                                                 108

       CHAPTER XII.
     On the Rhine                                                119

       CHAPTER XIII.
     Belgium and Holland                                         130

       CHAPTER XIV.
     The New Germany and its Capital                             140

       CHAPTER XV.
     Austria--Old and New                                        150

       CHAPTER XVI.
     A Midsummer Night's Dream.--Outdoor Life of the German
     People                                                      164

       CHAPTER XVII.
     The Passion Play and the School of the Cross                179

       CHAPTER XVIII.
     The Tyrol and Lake Como                                     194

       CHAPTER XIX.
     The City in the Sea                                         207

       CHAPTER XX.
     Milan and Genoa.--A Ride over the Corniche Road             222

       CHAPTER XXI.
     In the Vale of the Arno                                     234

       CHAPTER XXII.
     Old Rome and New Rome.--Ruins and Resurrection              243

       CHAPTER XXIII.
     The Prisoner of the Vatican                                 253

       CHAPTER XXIV.
     Pictures and Palaces                                        261

       CHAPTER XXV.
     Naples--Pompeii and Paestum                                  272

       CHAPTER XXVI.
     The Ascent of Vesuvius                                      282

       CHAPTER XXVII.
     Greece and its Young King                                   291

       CHAPTER XXVIII.
     Constantinople                                              305

       CHAPTER XXIX.
     The Sultan Abdul Aziz                                       321

       CHAPTER XXX.
     The Eastern Question.--The Exodus of the Turks              330

       CHAPTER XXXI.
     The Sultan is Deposed, and Commits Suicide.--The War in
     Servia.--Massacres in Bulgaria.--How will it all End?       342




FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY TO THE GOLDEN HORN.




CHAPTER I.

THE MELANCHOLY SEA.


     QUEENSTOWN, IRELAND, Monday, May 24, 1875.

We landed this morning at two o'clock, by the light of the moon, which
was just past the full, and which showed distinctly the beautiful
harbor, surrounded by hills and forts, and filled with ships at
anchor, through which the tender that brought us off from the steamer
glided silently to the town, which lay in death-like stillness before
us. Eight days and six hours took us from shore to shore! Eight days
we were out of sight of land. Water, water everywhere! Ocean to the
right of us, ocean to the left of us, ocean in front of us, and ocean
behind us, with two or three miles of ocean under us. But our good
ship, the City of Berlin (which seemed proud of bearing the name of
the capital of the new German Empire), bore us over the sea like a
conqueror. She is said to be the largest ship in the world, next to
the Great Eastern, being 520 feet long, and carrying 5,500 tons. This
was her first voyage, and much interest was felt as to how she
"behaved." She carried herself proudly from the start. On Saturday,
the 15th, seven steamships, bound for Europe, left New York at about
the same time. Those of the National and the Anchor lines moved off
quietly; then the Celtic, of the White Star line, so famous for its
speed, shot down the Bay; and the French steamer, the Amerique, swept
by, firing her guns, as if boasting of what she would do. But the
Berlin answered not a word. Since a fatal accident, by which a poor
fellow was blown to pieces by a premature explosion, the Inman line
has dropped the foolish custom of firing a salute every time a ship
leaves or touches the dock. So her guns were silent; she made no reply
to her noisy French neighbor. But at length her huge bulk swung slowly
into the stream, and her engines began to move. She had not gone
half-way down the bay before she left all her rivals behind, the
Frenchman still firing his guns; even the Celtic, though pressing
steam, was soon "nowhere." We did not see the German ship, which
sailed at a different hour; nor the Cunarder, the Algeria (in which
were our friends, Prof. R. D. Hitchcock and his family), as she left
an hour before us; but as she has not yet been signalled at
Queenstown, she must be some distance behind;[1] so that the Berlin
may fairly claim the honors of this ocean race.

But in crossing the sea speed is secondary to safety and to comfort;
and in these things I can say truly that I never was on board a more
magnificent ship (excepting always the Great Eastern, in which I
crossed in 1867). She was never going at full speed, but took it
easily, as it was her first voyage, and the Captain was anxious to get
his new machinery into smooth working order. The great size of the
ship conduces much to comfort. She is more steady, she does not pitch
and roll, like the lighter boats that we saw tossing around us, while
she was moving majestically through the waves. The saloon, instead of
being at the stern, according to the old method of construction, is
placed more amidships (after the excellent model first introduced by
the White Star line), and covers the whole width of the steamer, which
gives light on both sides. There are four bath-rooms, with marble
baths, supplied with salt water, so that one may have the luxury of
sea-bathing without going to Rockaway or Coney Island. In crossing the
Gulf Stream the water is warm enough; but if elsewhere it is too
chill, the turn of a cock lets the steam into the bath, which quickly
raises it to any degree of temperature. The ventilation is excellent,
so that even when the port-holes are shut on account of the high sea,
the air never becomes impure. The state-rooms are furnished with
electric bells, one touch on which brings a steward in an instant.
Thus provided for, one may escape, as far as possible, the discomforts
of the sea, and enjoy in some degree the comforts and even the
luxuries of civilization.

Captain Kennedy, who is the Commodore of the fleet, and so always
commands the newest and best ship of the line, is an admirable seaman,
with a quick eye for everything, always on deck at critical moments,
watching with unsleeping vigilance over the safety of all on board.
The order and discipline of the ship is perfect. There is no noise or
confusion. All moves on quietly. Not a sound is heard, save the
occasional cry of the men stretching the sails, and the steady throb,
day and night, of the engine, which keeps this huge mass moving on her
ocean track.

But what a vast machine is such a ship, and how complicated the
construction which makes possible such a triumph over the sea. Come up
on the upper deck, and look down through this iron grating. You can
see to a depth of fifty or sixty feet. It is like looking down into a
miner's shaft. And what makes it the more fearful, is that the bottom
of the ship is a mass of fire. Thirty-six furnaces are in full blast
to heat the steam, and at night, as the red-hot coals that are raked
out of the furnaces like melted lava, flash in the faces of the brawny
and sweltering men, one might fancy himself looking into some Vulcan's
cave, or subterranean region, glowing with an infernal heat. Thus one
of these great ocean steamships is literally a sea monster, that
feeds on fire; and descending into its bowels is (to use the energetic
language of Scripture in speaking of Jonah in the whale) like going
down into the "belly of hell."

All this suggests danger from fire as well as from the sea, and yet,
so perfect are the precautions taken, that these glowing furnaces
really guard against danger, as they shorten the time of exposure by
insuring quadruple speed in crossing the deep.

And yet I can never banish the sense of a danger that is always near
from the two destroying elements of fire and water, flood and flame.
The very precautions against danger show that it is ever present to
the mind of the prudent navigator. Those ten life-boats hung above the
deck, with pulleys ready to swing them over the ship's side at a
moment's notice, and the axe ready to cut away the ropes, and even
casks of water filled to quench the burning thirst of a shipwrecked
crew that may be cast helpless on the waves, suggest unpleasant
possibilities, in view of recent disasters; and one night I went to my
berth feeling not quite so easy as in my bed at home, as we were near
the banks of Newfoundland, and a dense fog hung over the sea, through
which the ship went, making fourteen miles an hour, its fog-whistles
screaming all night long. This was very well as a warning to other
ships to keep out of the way, but would not receive much attention
from the icebergs that were floating about, which are very abundant in
the Atlantic this summer. We saw one the next day, a huge fellow that
might have proved an ugly acquaintance, as one crash on his frozen
head would have sent us all to the bottom.

But at such times unusual precautions are taken. There are signs in
the sudden chilliness of the air of the near approach of an iceberg,
which would lead the ship to back out at once from the hug of such a
polar bear.

In a few hours the fog was all gone; and the next night, as we sat on
deck, the full moon rose out of the waves. Instantly the hum of voices
ceased; conversation was hushed; and all grew silent before the awful
beauty of the scene. Such an hour suggests not merely poetical but
spiritual thoughts--thoughts of the dead as well as thoughts of God.
It recalled a passage in David Copperfield, where little David, after
the death of his mother, sits at a window and looks out upon the sea,
and sees a shining path over the waters, and thinks he sees his mother
coming to him upon it from heaven. May it not be that on such a
radiant pathway from the skies we sometimes see the angels of God
ascending and descending?

But with all these moonlight nights, and sun-risings and sun-settings,
the sea had little attraction for me, and its general impression was
one of profound melancholy. Perhaps my own mood of mind had something
to do with it; but as I sat upon deck and looked out upon the "gray
and melancholy waste," or lay in my berth and heard the waves rushing
past, I had a feeling more dreary than in the most desolate
wilderness. That sound haunted me; it was the last I heard at night,
and the first in the morning; it mingled with my dreams. I tried to
analyze the feeling. Was it my own mental depression that hung like a
cloud over the waters; or was it something in the aspect of nature
itself? Perhaps both. I was indeed floating amid shadows. But I found
no sympathy in the sea. On the land Nature soothed and comforted me;
she spoke in gentle tones, as if she had a heart of tenderness, a
motherly sympathy with the sorrow of her children. There was something
in the deep silence of the woods that seemed to say, Peace, be still!
The brooks murmured softly as they flowed between their mossy banks,
as if they would not disturb our musings, but "glide into them, and
steal away their sharpness ere we were aware." The robins sang in
notes not too gay, but that spoke of returning spring after a long
dark winter; and the soft airs that touched the feverish brow seemed
to lift gently the grief that rested there, and carry it away on the
evening wind. But in the ocean, there was no touch of human feeling,
no sympathy with human woe. All was cold and pitiless. Even on the sea
beach "the cruel, crawling foam" comes creeping up to the feet of the
child skipping along the sands, as if to snatch him away, while out on
the deep the rolling waves

                         "Mock the cry
     Of some strong swimmer in his agony."

Bishop Butler finds in many of the forces of Nature proofs of God's
moral government over the world, and even suggestions of mercy. But
none of these does he find in the sea. That speaks only of wrath and
terror. Its power is to destroy. It is a treacherous element. Smooth
and smiling it may be, even when it lures us to destruction. We are
sailing over it in perfect security, but let there be a fire or a
collision, and it would swallow us up in an instant, as it has
swallowed a thousand wrecks before. Knowing no mercy, cruel as the
grave, it sacrifices without pity youth and age, gray hairs and
childish innocence and tender womanhood--all alike are engulfed in the
devouring sea. There is not a single tear in the thousand leagues of
ocean, nor a sigh in the winds that sweep over it, for all the hearts
it breaks or the lives it destroys. The sea, therefore, is not a
symbol of divine mercy. It is the very emblem of tremendous and
remorseless power. Indeed, if Nature had no other face but this, we
could hardly believe in God, or at least, with gentle attributes; we
could only stand on the shore of existence, and shake with terror at
the presence of a being of infinite power, but cold and pitiless as
the waves that roll from the Arctic pole. Our Saviour walked on the
waves, but left thereon no impress of his blessed feet; nor can we
find there a trace of the love of God as it shines in the face of
Jesus Christ.

But we must not yield to musings that grow darker with the gathering
night. Let us go down into the ship, where the lamps are lighted, and
there is a sound of voices, to make us forget our loneliness in the
midst of the sea.

The cabin always presented an animated scene. We had nearly two
hundred passengers, who were seated about on the sofas, reading, or
playing games, or engaged in conversation. The company was a very
pleasant one. At the Captain's table, where we sat, was Mr. Mathew,
the late English Minister to Brazil, a very intelligent and agreeable
gentleman, who had been for seven years at the Court of Dom Pedro,
whom he described as one of the most enlightened monarchs of his time,
"half a century in advance of his people," doing everything that was
possible to introduce a better industry and all improvements in the
arts from Europe and America. The great matter of political interest
now in Brazil is the controversy with the Bishops, where, as in
Germany, it is a stubborn fight between the State and the
ecclesiastical power. Two of the Bishops are now in prison for having
excommunicated by wholesale all the Freemasons of the country, without
asking the consent of the government to the issue of such a sweeping
decree. They are confined in two fortresses on the opposite side of
the harbor of Rio Janeiro, where they take their martyrdom very
comfortably, their sentence to "hard labor" amounting to having a
French cook, and all the luxuries of life, so that they can have a
good time, while they fulminate their censures, "nursing their wrath
to keep it warm."

At the same table were several young Englishmen, who were not at all
like the imaginary Briton abroad, cold and distant and reserved, but
very agreeable, and doing everything to make our voyage pleasant. We
remember them with a feeling of real friendship. Near us also sat a
young New York publisher, Mr. Mead, with his wife, to whom we were
drawn by a sort of elective affinity, and shall be glad to meet them
again on the other side of the ocean.

Among our passengers was Grace Greenwood, who added much to the
general enjoyment by entertaining us in the evening with her dramatic
recitations from Bret Harte's California Sketches, while her young
daughter, who has a very sweet voice, sang charmingly.

Like all ships' companies, ours were bent on amusing themselves,
although it was sometimes a pursuit of pleasure under difficulties; as
one evening, when a young gentleman and lady sang "What are the wild
waves saying?" each clinging to a post for support, while the
performer at the piano had to fall on his knees to keep from being
drifted away from his instrument!

But Grace Greenwood is not a mere entertainer of audiences with her
voice, or of the public with her pen. She is not only a very clever
writer, but has as much wisdom as wit in her woman's brain. In our
conversations she did not discover any extreme opinions, such as are
held by some brilliant female writers, but seemed to have a mind well
balanced, with a great deal of good common sense as well as womanly
feeling, and a brave heart to help her struggling sisters in America,
and all over the world.

One meets some familiar faces on these steamer decks, and here almost
the first man that I ran against was a clergyman whom I knew
twenty-five years ago in Connecticut, Rev. James T. Hyde. He is now a
Professor in the Congregational Theological Seminary at Chicago, and
is going abroad for the first time. What a world of good it does these
studious men, these preachers and scholars, to be thus "transported!"

But here is a scholar and a professor who is not a stranger in Europe,
but to the manner born, our own beloved Dr. Schaff, whose passage I
had taken with mine (knowing that he had to go abroad this summer),
and thus beguiled him into our company. We shared the same
state-room, and never do I desire a more delightful travelling
companion on land or sea. Those who know him do not need to be told
that he is not only one of our first scholars, but one of the most
genial of men. While full of learning, he never oppresses you with
oracular wisdom; but is just as ready for a pleasant story as for a
grave literary or theological discussion. I think we hardly realize
yet what a service he has rendered to our country in establishing a
sort of literary and intellectual free trade between the educated and
religious mind of America and of Great Britain and Germany. To him
more than to any other man is due the great success of the Evangelical
Alliance. He is now going abroad on a mission of not less
importance--the revision of our present version of the English Bible:
a work which has enlisted for some years the combined labors of a
great number of the most eminent scholars in England and America.

Finally, as a practical homily and piece of advice to all who are
going abroad, let me say, if you would have the fullest enjoyment,
_take a young person with you_--if possible, one who is untravelled,
so that you can see the world again with fresh eyes. I came away in
the deepest depression. Nothing has comforted me so much as a light
figure always at my side. Poor child! The watching, and care, and
sorrow that she has had for these many months, had driven the roses
from her cheeks; but now they are coming back again. She has never
been abroad before. To her literally "all things are new." The sun
rises daily on a new world. She enters into everything with the utmost
zest. She was a very good sailor, and enjoyed the voyage, and made
friends with everybody. Really it brought a thrill of pleasure for the
first time into my poor heart to see her delight. She will be the best
of companions in all my wanderings.

In such good company, we have passed over the great and wide sea, and
now set foot upon the land, thanking Him who has led us safely
through the mighty waters. Yesterday morning, after the English
service had been read in the saloon, Dr. Schaff gave out the hymn,

     Nearer, my God, to Thee,

and my heart responded fervently to the prayer, that all the
experiences of this mortal state, on the sea and on the land--the
storms of the ocean and the storms of life--may serve this one supreme
object of existence, to bring us NEARER TO GOD.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] She came in fifteen hours after us, and the Celtic twenty. The
German ship reached Southampton two days later.




CHAPTER II.

IRELAND--ITS BEAUTY AND ITS SADNESS.


     THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY, May 26th.

There is never but one _first_ impression; all else is _second_ in
time and in degree. It is twenty-eight years since I first saw the
shores of England and of Ireland, and then they were to me like some
celestial country. It was then, as now, in the blessed spring-time--in
the merry month of May:

     The corn was springing fresh and green,
     The lark sang loud and high;

and the banks of the Mersey, as I sailed up to Liverpool, were like
the golden shores of Paradise.

Now I am somewhat of a traveller, and should take these things more
quietly, were it not for a pair of young eyes beside me, through which
I see things anew, and taste again the sweetness of that earlier time.
If we had landed in the moon, my companion could not have been at
first more bewildered and delighted with what she saw; everything was
so queer and quaint, so old and strange--in a word, so unlike all she
had ever seen before. The streets were different, being very narrow,
and winding up hill and down dale; the houses were different, standing
close up to the street, without the relief of grass, or lawn, or even
of stately ascending steps in front; the thatched cottages and the
flowering hedge-rows--all were new.

To heighten the impression of what was so fresh to the eye, the
country was in its most beautiful season. We left New York still
looking cold and cheerless from the backward spring; here the spring
had burst into its full glory. The ivy mantled every old tower and
ruin with the richest green, the hawthorn was in blossom, making the
hedge-rows, as we whirled along the roads, a mass of white and green,
filling the eye with its beauty and the air with its fragrance. Thus
there was an intoxication of the senses, as well as of the
imagination; and if the girls (for two others, under the charge of
Prof. Hyde, had joined our party) had leaped from the carriage, and
commenced a romp or a dance on the greensward, we could hardly have
been surprised, as an expression of their childish joy, and their
first greeting as they touched the soil, not of merry England, but of
the Emerald Isle.

But if this set them off into such ecstasies, what shall be said of
their first sight of a ruin? Of course it was Blarney Castle, which is
near Cork, and famous for its Blarney Stone. A lordly castle, indeed,
it must have been in the days of its pride, as it still towers up a
hundred feet and more, and its walls are eight or ten feet thick: so
that it would have lasted for ages, if Cromwell had not knocked some
ugly holes through it a little more than two hundred years ago. But
still the tower is beautiful, being covered to the very top with
masses of ivy, which in England is the great beautifier of whatever is
old, clinging to the mouldering wall, covering up the huge rents and
gaps made by cannon balls, and making the most unsightly ruins lovely
in their decay. We all climbed to the top, where hangs in air,
fastened by iron clamps in its place, the famous Blarney Stone, which
is said to impart to whoever kisses it the gift of eloquence, which
will make one successful in love and in life. As it was, only one
pressed forward to snatch this prize which it held out to our embrace.
Dr. Schaff even "poked" the stone disdainfully with his staff, perhaps
thinking it would become like Aaron's rod that budded. The lack of
enthusiasm, however, may have been owing to the fact that the stone
hangs at a dizzy height, and is therefore somewhat difficult of
approach; for on descending within the castle, where is another
Blarney Stone lying on the ground, and within easy reach, I can
testify that several of the party gave it a hearty smack, not to catch
any mysterious virtue from the stone, but the flavor of thousands of
fair lips that had kissed it before.

Before leaving this old castle, as we shall have many more to see
hereafter, let me say a word about castles in general. They are well
enough _as ruins_, and certainly, as they are scattered about Ireland
and England, they add much to the picturesqueness of the landscapes,
and will always possess a romantic interest. But viewed in the sober
light of history, they are monuments of an age of barbarism, when the
country was divided among a hundred chiefs, each of whom had his
stronghold, out of which he could sally to attack his less powerful
neighbor. Everything in the construction--the huge walls, with narrow
slits for windows through which the archers could pour arrows, or in
later times the musketeers could shower balls, on their enemies; the
deep moat surrounding it; the drawbridge and portcullis--all speak of
a time of universal insecurity, when danger was abroad, and every man
had to be armed against his fellow.

As a place of habitation, such a fortress was not much better than a
prison. The chieftain shut himself in behind massive walls, under huge
arches, where the sun could never penetrate, where all was dark and
gloomy as a sepulchre. I know a cottage in New England, on the crest
of one of the Berkshire Hills, open on every side to light and air,
kissed by the rising and the setting sun, in which there is a hundred
times more of real _comfort_ than could have been in one of these old
castles, where a haughty baron passed his existence in gloomy
grandeur, buried in sepulchral gloom.

And to what darker purposes were these castles sometimes applied! Let
one go down into the passages underneath, and see the dungeons
underground, dark, damp, and cold as the grave, in which prisoners and
captives were buried alive. One cannot grope his way into these foul
subterranean dungeons without feeling that these old castles are the
monuments of savage tyrants; that if these walls could speak, they
would tell many a tale, not of knightly chivalry, but of barbarous
cruelty, that would curdle the blood with horror. These things take
away somewhat of the charm which Walter Scott has thrown about these
old "gallant knights," who were often no better than robber chiefs;
and I am glad that Cromwell with his cannon battered their strongholds
about their ears. Let these relics remain covered with ivy, and
picturesque as ruins, but let it never be forgotten that they are the
fallen monuments of an age of barbarism, of terror, and of cruelty.

There is one other feature of this country that cannot be omitted from
a survey of Ireland--it is _the beggars_, who are sure to give an
American a warm welcome. They greet him with whines and grimaces and
pitiful beseechings, to which he cannot harden his heart. My first
salutation at Queenstown on Monday morning, on coming out in front of
the hotel to take a view of the beautiful bay, was from an old woman
in rags, who certainly looked what she described herself to be, "a
poor crathur, that had nobody to care for her," and who besought me,
"for the love of God, to give her at least the price of a cup of tea!"
Of course I did, when she gave me an Irish blessing: "May the gates o
Paradise open to ye, and to all them that loves ye!" This vision of
Paradise seems to be a favorite one with the Irish beggar, and is
sometimes coupled with extraordinary images, as when one blesses her
benefactor in this overflowing style: "May every hair on your head be
a candle to light you to Paradise!"

This quick wit of the Irish serves them better than their poverty in
appealing for charity; and I must confess that I have violated all the
rules laid down by charitable societies, "not to give to beggars," for
I have filled my pockets with pennies, and given to hordes of
ragamuffins, as well as to old women, to hear their answers, which,
though largely infused with Irish blarney, have a flavor of native
wit. Who could resist such a blessing as this: "May ye ride in a fine
carriage, and the mud of your wheels splash the face of your inimies,"
then with a quick turn, "though I know ye haven't any!"

Yesterday we made an excursion through the Gap of Dunloe, a famous
gorge in the mountains around Killarney, and were set upon by the
whole fraternity--ragtag and bobtail. At the foot of the pass we left
our jaunting car to walk over the mountain, C---- alone being mounted
on a pony. I walked by her side, while our two theological professors
strode ahead. The women were after them in full cry, each with a bowl
of goat's milk and a bottle of "mountain dew" (Irish whiskey), to work
upon their generous feelings. But they produced no impression; the
professors were absorbed in theology or something else, and setting
their faces with all the sternness of Calvinism against this vile
beggary, they kept moving up the mountain path. At length the beggars
gave them up in despair, and returned to try their mild solicitations
upon me. An old siren, coming up in a tender and confiding way,
whispered to me, "You're the best looking of the lot; and it is a nice
lady ye have; and a fine couple ye make." That was enough; she got her
money. I felt a little elated with the distinguished and superior air
which even beggars had discovered in my aspect and bearing, till on
returning to the hotel, one of our professors coolly informed me that
the same old witch had previously told him that "he was the darling of
the party!" After that, who will ever believe a beggar's compliment
again?

But we must not let the beggars on the way either amuse or provoke us,
so as to divert our attention from the natural grandeur and beauty
around us. The region of the Lakes of Killarney is at once the most
wild and the most beautiful portion of Ireland. These Lakes are set as
in a bowl, in the hollow of rugged mountains, which are not like the
Green Mountains, or the Catskills, wooded to the top, but bald and
black, their heads being swept by perpetual storms from the Atlantic,
that keep them always bleak and bare. Yet in the heart of these barren
mountains, in the very centre of all this savage desolation, lie these
lovely sheets of water. No wonder that they are sought by tourists
from America, and from all parts of the world.

Nor are their shores without verdure and beauty. Though the mountain
sides are bare rock, like the peaks of volcanoes, yet the lower hills
and meadows bordering on the Lakes are in a high state of cultivation.
But these oases of fertility are not for the people; they all belong
to great estates--chiefly to the Earl of Kenmare and a Mr. Herbert,
who is a Member of Parliament. These estates are enclosed with high
walls, as if to keep them not only from the intrusion of the people,
but even from being seen by them. The great rule of English
exclusiveness here obtains, as in the construction of the old feudal
castles, the object in both cases being the same, to keep the owners
in, and to shut everybody else out. Hence the contrast between what is
within and what is without these enclosures. Within all is greenness
and fertility; without all is want and misery. It will not do to
impute the latter entirely to the natural shiftlessness of the Irish
people, as if they would rather beg than work. They have very little
motive to work. They cannot own a foot of the soil. The Earl of
Kenmare may have thousands of acres for his game, but not a foot will
he sell to an Irish laborer, however worthy or industrious. Hence the
inevitable tendency of things is to impoverish more and more the
wretched peasantry. How long would even the farmers of New England
retain their sturdy independence, if all the land of a county were in
a single estate, and they could not by any possibility get an acre of
ground? They would soon lose their self-respect, as they sank from the
condition of owners to tenants. The more I see of different
countries, the more I am convinced that the first condition of a
robust and manly race is that they should have within their reach some
means, either by culture of the soil or by some other kind of
industry, of securing for themselves an honest and decent support. It
is impossible to keep up self-respect when there is no means of
livelihood. Hence the feeling of sadness that mingles with all this
beauty around me; that it is a country where all is for the few, and
nothing for the many; where the poor starve, while a few nobles and
rich landlords can spend their substance in riotous living. Kingsley,
in one of his novels, puts into the mouth of an English sailor these
lines, which always seemed to me to have a singular pathos:

     "Oh! England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high;
     But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I."

That is the woe of Ireland--a woe inwrought with its very
institutions, and which it would seem only some social convulsion
could remove. Sooner or later it must come; we hope by peaceful
methods and gentle influences. We shall not live to see the time, but
we trust another generation may, when the visitor to Killarney shall
not have his delight in the works of God spoiled by sight of the
wretchedness of man; when instead of troops of urchins in rags, with
bare feet, running for miles to catch the pennies thrown from jaunting
cars, we shall see happy, rosy-cheeked children issuing from
school-houses, and see the white spires of pretty churches gleaming in
the valleys and on the hills. That will be the "sunburst" indeed for
poor old Ireland, when the glory of the Lord is thus seen upon her
waters and her mountains.




CHAPTER III.

SCOTLAND AND THE SCOTCH.


     EDINBURGH, June 3d.

In making the tour of Great Britain, there is an advantage in taking
Ireland first, Scotland next, and England last,--since in this way one
is always going from the less to the more interesting. To the young
American traveller "fresh and green," with enthusiasm unexpended, it
seems on landing in Ireland as if there never was such a bit of green
earth, and indeed it is a very interesting country. But many as are
its attractions, Scotland has far more, in that it is the home of a
much greater people, and is invested with far richer historical and
poetical associations; it has been the scene of great historical
events; it is the land of Wallace and Bruce, of Reformers and Martyrs,
of John Knox and the Covenanters, and of great preachers down to the
days of Chalmers and Guthrie; and it has been immortalized by the
genius of poets and novelists, who have given a fresh interest to the
simple manners of the people, as well as to their lakes and mountains.

And after all, it is this _human_ interest which is the great interest
of any country--not its hills and valleys, its lakes and rivers
_alone_, but these features of natural beauty and sublimity, illumined
and glorified by the presence of man, by the record of what he has
suffered and what he has achieved, of his love and courage, his daring
and devotion; and nowhere are these more identified with the country
itself than here, nowhere do they more speak from the very rocks and
hills and glens.

Scotland, though a great country, is not a very large one, and such
are now the facilities of travel that one can go very quickly to
almost any point. A few hours will take you into the heart of the
Highlands. We made in one day the excursion to Stirling, and to Loch
Lomond and Loch Katrine, and felt at every step how much the beauties
of nature are heightened by associations with romance or history. From
Stirling Castle one looks down upon a dozen battle-fields. He is in
sight of Bannockburn, where Bruce drove back the English invader, and
of other fields associated with Wallace, the hero of Scotland, as
William Tell is of Switzerland. Once among the lakes he surrenders
himself to his imagination, excited by romance. The poetry of Scott
gives to the wild glens and moors a greater charm than the bloom of
the heather. The lovely lake catches, more beautiful than the rays of
sunset,

     "A light that never was on sea or shore,
     The inspiration and the poet's dream."

Loch Katrine is a very pretty sheet of water, lying as it does at the
foot of rugged mountains, yet it is not more beautiful than hundreds
of small lakes among our Northern hills, but it derives a poetic charm
from being the scene of "The Lady of the Lake." A little rocky islet
is pointed out as Ellen's Isle. An open field by the roadside, which
would attract no attention, immediately becomes an object of romantic
interest when the coachman tells us it was the scene of the combat
between Fitz James and Roderick Dhu. The rough country over which we
are riding just now is no wilder than many of the roads among the
White Mountains--but it is the country of Rob Roy! I have climbed
through many a rocky mountain gorge as wild as the Trossachs, but they
had not Walter Scott to people them with his marvellous creations.

A student of the religious part of Scottish history will find another
interest here, as he remembers how, in the days of persecution, the
old Covenanters sought refuge in these glens, and here found shelter
from those pursuing rough-riders, Claverhouse's dragoons. Thus it is
the history of Scotland, and the genius of her writers, that give such
interest to her country and her people; and as I stood at the grave of
John Wilson (Christopher North), I blessed the hand that had depicted
so tenderly the "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," presenting such
varied scenes in the cottage and the manse, in the glen and on the
moor, but everywhere illustrating the patient trust and courage of
this wonderful people. It is a fit winding-up to the tour of Scotland,
that commonly the traveller's last visit, as he comes down to England,
is to Abbotsford, the home of Walter Scott; to Melrose Abbey, which a
few lines of his poetry have invested with an interest greater than
that of other similar ruins; and to Dryburgh Abbey, where he sleeps.

Edinburgh is the most picturesque city in Europe, as it is cleft in
twain by a deep gorge or ravine, on either side of which the two
divisions of the city, the Old Town and the New Town, stand facing
each other. From the Royal Hotel, where we are, in Princes Street,
just opposite the beautiful monument to Walter Scott, we look across
this gorge to long ranges of buildings in the Old Town, some of which
are ten stories high; and to the Castle, lifted in air four hundred
feet by a cliff that rears its rocky front from the valley below, its
top girt round with walls, and frowning with batteries. What
associations cluster about those heights! For hundreds of years, even
before the date of authentic history, that has been a military
stronghold. It has been besieged again and again. Cromwell tried to
take it, but its battlements of rock proved inaccessible even to his
Ironsides. There, in a little room hardly bigger than a closet, Mary
Queen of Scots gave birth to a prince, who when but eight days old was
let down in a basket from the cliff, that the life so precious to two
kingdoms as that of the sovereign in whom Scotland and England were
to be united, might not perish by murderous hands. And there is St.
Giles' Cathedral, where John Knox thundered, and where James VI. (the
infant that was born in the castle) when chosen to be James I. of
England, took leave of his Scottish subjects.

At the other end of Edinburgh is Holyrood Castle, whose chief interest
is from its association with the mother of James, the beautiful but
ill-fated Mary. How all that history, stranger and sadder than any
romance, comes back again, as we stand on the very spot where she
stood when she was married; and pass through the rooms in which she
lived, and see the very bed on which she slept, unconscious of the
doom that was before her, and trace all the surroundings of her most
romantic and yet most tragic history. Such are some of the
associations which gather around Edinburgh!

I find here my friend Mr. William Nelson (of the famous publishing
house of Nelson and Sons), whose hospitality I enjoyed for a week in
the summer of 1867; and he, with his usual courtesy, gave up a whole
day to show us Edinburgh, taking us to all the beautiful points of
view and places of historical interest--to the Castle and Holyrood,
and the Queen's Drive, around Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags. Mr.
Nelson's house is a little out of the city, under the shadow of
Arthur's Seat, near a modest manse, which has been visited by hundreds
of American ministers, as it was the home of the late Dr. Guthrie. His
brother, Mr. Thomas Nelson, has lately erected one of the most
beautiful private houses I have seen in Scotland, or anywhere else. I
doubt if there is a finer one in Edinburgh; and what gives it a
special interest to an American, is that it was built wholly out of
the rise of American securities. During our civil war, when most
people in England thought the Great Republic was gone, he had faith,
and invested thousands of pounds in our government bonds, the rise in
which has paid entirely for this quite baronial mansion, so that he
has some reason to call it his American house. So many in Great
Britain have _lost_ by American securities, that it was pleasant to
know of one who had reaped the reward of his faith in the strength of
our government and the integrity of our people.

When we reached Edinburgh both General Assemblies were just closing
their annual meetings. I had met in Glasgow, on Sunday, at the Barony
church (where he is successor to Dr. Norman Macleod), John Marshall
Lang, D.D., who visited America as a delegate to our General Assembly,
and left a most favorable impression in our country; who told me that
their Assembly--that of the National Church--would close the next day,
and advised me to hasten to Edinburgh before its separation. So we
came on with him on Monday, and looked in twice at the proceedings,
but had not courage to stay to witness the end, which was not reached
till four o'clock the next morning! But by the courtesy of Dr. Lang, I
received an invitation from the excellent moderator, Dr. Sellars, (who
had been in America, and had the most friendly feeling for our
countrymen,) to a kind of state dinner, which it is an honored custom
of this old Church to give at the close of the Assembly. The moderator
is allowed two hundred pounds _to entertain_. He gives a public
breakfast every morning during the session, and winds up with this
grand feast. If the morning repasts were on such a generous scale as
that which we saw, the L200 could go but a little way. There were
about eighty guests, including the most eminent of the clergy,
principals and professors of colleges, dignitaries of the city of
Edinburgh, judges and law officers of the crown, etc. I sat next to
Dr. Lang, who pointed out to me the more notable guests, and gave me
much information between the courses; and Dr. Schaff sat next to
Professor Milligan. As became an Established Church, there were toasts
to the Queen, the Prince of Wales, and her Majesty's Ministers.
Altogether it was a very distinguished gathering, which I greatly
enjoyed. I am glad that we in America are beginning to cultivate
relations with the National Church of Scotland. As to the question of
Church and State, of course our sympathies are more with the Free
Church, but that should not prevent a friendly intercourse with so
large a body, to which we are drawn by the ties of a common faith and
order. Delegates from the National Church of Scotland will always be
welcome in our Assemblies, especially when they are such men as Dr.
Lang and Professor Milligan; and our representatives are sure of a
hearty reception here. Dr. Adams and Dr. Shaw, two or three years
since, electrified their Assembly, and they do not cease to speak of
it. Certainly we cannot but be greatly benefited by cultivating the
most cordial relations with a body which contains so large an array of
men distinguished for learning, eloquence, and piety.

In the Free Church things are done with less of form and state than in
the National Church, but there is intense life and rigor. I looked in
upon their Assembly, but found it occupied, like the other, chiefly
with those routine matters which are hastened through at the close of
a session. But I heard from members that the year has been one of
great prosperity. The labors of the American revivalists, Moody and
Sankey, have been well received, and the impression of all with whom I
conversed was that they had done great good. In financial matters I
was told that there had been such an outpouring of liberality as had
never been known in Scotland before. The success of the Sustentation
Fund is something marvellous, and must delight the heart of that noble
son of Scotland, Dr. McCosh.

I am disappointed to find that the cause of UNION has not made more
progress. There is indeed a prospect of the "Reformed" Church being
absorbed into the Free Church, thus putting an end to an old
secession. But it is a small body of only some eighty churches, while
the negotiations with the far larger body of United Presbyterians,
after being carried on for many years, are finally suspended, and may
not be resumed. As to the National Church, it clings to its
connection with the State as fondly as ever, and the Free Church,
having grown strong without its aid, now disdains its alliance. On
both sides the attitude is one of respectful but pretty decided
aversion. So far from drawing nearer to each other, they appear to
recede farther apart. It was thought that some advance had been made
on the part of the Old Kirk, in the act of Parliament abolishing
patronage, but the Free Church seemed to regard this as a temptation
of the adversary to allure them from the stand which they had taken
more than thirty years ago, and which they had maintained in a long
and severe, but glorious, struggle. They will not listen to the voice
of the charmer, no, not for an hour.

This attitude of the Free Church toward the National Church, coupled
with the fact that its negotiations with the United Presbyterians have
fallen through, does not give us much hope of a general union among
the Presbyterians of Scotland, at least in our day. In fact there is
something in the Scotch nature which seems to forbid such coalescence.
_It does not fuse well._ It is too hard and "gritty" to melt in every
crucible. For this reason they cannot well unite with any body. Their
very nature is centrifugal rather than centripetal. They love to
argue, and the more they argue the more positive they become. The
conviction that they are right, is absolute on both sides. Whatever
other Christian grace they lack, they have at least attained to a full
assurance of faith. No one can help admiring their rugged honesty and
their strong convictions, upheld with unflinching courage. They become
heroes in the day of battle, and martyrs in the day of persecution;
but as for mutual concession, and mutual forgiveness, that, I fear, is
not in them.

It is painful to see this alienation between two bodies, for both of
which we cannot but feel the greatest respect. It does not become us
Americans to offer any counsel to those who are older and wiser than
we; yet if we might send a single message across the sea, it should
be to say that we have learned by all our conflicts and struggles to
cherish two things--which are our watchwords in Church and
State--_liberty_ and _union_. We prize our liberty. With a great price
we have obtained this freedom, and no man shall take it from us. But
yet we have also learned how precious a thing is brotherly love and
concord. Sweet is the communion of saints. This is the last blessing
which we desire for Scotland, that has so many virtues that we cannot
but wish that she might abound in this grace also. Even with this
imperfection, we love her country and her people. Whoever has had
access to Scottish homes, must have been struck with their beautiful
domestic character, with the attachment in families, with the
tenderness of parents, and the affectionate obedience of children. A
country in which the scenes of "The Cotter's Saturday Night" are
repeated in thousands of homes, we cannot help loving as well as
admiring. Wherefore do I say from my heart, A thousand blessings on
dear old Scotland! Peace be within her walls, and prosperity within
her palaces!




CHAPTER IV.

MOODY AND SANKEY IN LONDON.


     LONDON, June 10th.

To an American, visiting London just now, the object of most interest
is the meetings of his countrymen, Moody and Sankey. He has heard so
much of them, that he is curious to see with his own eyes just what
they are. One thing is undeniable--that they have created a prodigious
sensation. London is a very big place to make a stir in. A pebble
makes a ripple in a placid lake, while a rock falling from the side of
a mountain disappears in an instant in the ocean. London is an ocean.
Yet here these meetings have been thronged as much as in other cities
of Great Britain, and that not by the common people alone (although
they have heard gladly), but by representatives of all classes. For
several weeks they were held in the Haymarket Theatre, right in the
centre of fashionable London, and in the very place devoted to its
amusements; yet it was crowded to suffocation, and not only by
Dissenters, but by members of the Established Church, among whom were
such men as Dean Stanley, and Mr. Gladstone, and Lord-Chancellor
Cairns. The Duchess of Sutherland was a frequent attendant. All this
indicates, if only a sensation, at least a sensation of quite
extraordinary character. No doubt the multitude was drawn together in
part by curiosity. The novelty was an attraction; and, like the old
Athenians, they ran together into the market-place to hear some new
thing. This alone would have drawn them once or twice, but the
excitement did not subside. If some fell off, others rushed in, so
that the place was crowded to the last. Those meetings closed just
before we reached London, to be opened in another quarter of the great
city.

Last Sunday we went to hear Mr. Spurgeon, and he announced that on
Thursday (to-day) Messrs. Moody and Sankey would commence a new series
of meetings for the especial benefit of the South of London. A large
structure had been erected for the purpose. He warmly endorsed the
movement, and spoke in high praise of the men, especially for the
modesty and tact and the practical judgment they showed along with
their zeal; and urged all, instead of standing aloof and criticizing,
to join heartily in the effort which he believed would result in great
good. In a conversation afterward in his study, Mr. Spurgeon said to
me that Moody was the most simple-minded of men; that he told him on
coming here, "I am the most over-estimated and over-praised man in the
world." This low esteem of himself, and readiness to take any place,
so that he may do his Master's work, ought to disarm the disposition
to judge him according to the rules of rigid literary, or rhetorical,
or even theological, criticism.

This new tabernacle which has been built for Mr. Moody is set up at
Camberwell Green, on the south side of the Thames, not very far from
Mr. Spurgeon's church. It is a huge structure, standing in a large
enclosure, which is entered by gates. The service was to begin at
three o'clock. It was necessary to have tickets for admission, which I
obtained from the Hon. Arthur Kinnaird, a Member of Parliament, who is
about as well known in London as Lord Shaftesbury for his activity in
all good works. He advised me to go early to anticipate the crowd. We
started from Piccadilly at half-past one, and drove quietly over
Westminster Bridge, thinking we should be in ample time. But as we
approached Camberwell Green it was evident that there was a tide
setting toward the place of meeting, which swelled till the crowd
became a rush. There were half a dozen entrances. We asked for the
one to the platform, and were directed some distance around. Arrived
at the gates we found them shut and barred, and guarded by policemen,
who said they had received orders to admit no more, as the place was
already more than full, although the pressure outside was increasing
every instant. We might have been turned back from the very doors of
the sanctuary, if Mr. Kinnaird had not given me, besides the tickets,
a letter to Mr. Hodder, who was the chief man in charge, directing him
to take us in and give us seats on the platform. This I passed through
the gates to the policeman, who sent it on to some of the managers
within, and word came back that the bearers of the letter should be
admitted. But this was easier said than done. How to admit us two
without admitting others was a difficult matter; indeed, it was an
impossibility. The policemen tried to open the gates a little way, so
as to permit us to pass in; but as soon as the gates were ajar, the
guardians themselves were swept away. In vain they tried to stem the
torrent. The crowd rushed past them, (and would have rushed over them,
if they had stood in the way,) and surged up to the building. Here
again the crush was terrific. Had we foreseen it, we should not have
attempted the passage; but once in the stream, it was easier to go
forward than to go back. There was no help for it but to wait till the
tide floated us in; and so, after some minutes we were landed at last
in one of the galleries, from which we could take in a view of the
scene.

It was indeed a wonderful spectacle. The building is somewhat like
Barnum's Hippodrome, though not so large, and of better shape for
speaking and hearing, being not so oblong, but more square, with deep
galleries, and will hold, I should say, at a rough estimate, six or
eight thousand people. The front of the galleries was covered with
texts in large letters, such as "God is Love"; "Jesus only"; "Looking
unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith"; "Come unto Me, all
ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." At each
corner was a room marked "For inquirers."

As we had entered by mistake the wrong door, instead of finding
ourselves on the platform beside Mr. Moody, we had been borne by the
crowd to the gallery at the other end of the building; but this had
one advantage, that of enabling us to test the power of the voices of
the speakers to reach such large audiences. While the immense
assemblage were getting settled in their places, several hymns were
sung, which quietly and gently prepared them for the services that
were to follow.

At length Mr. Moody appeared. The moment he rose, there was a movement
of applause, which he instantly checked with a wave of his hand, and
at once proceeded to business, turning the minds of the audience to
something besides himself, by asking them to rise and sing the
stirring hymn,

     "Ring the bells of heaven! there is joy to-day!"

The whole assembly rose, and caught up the words with such energy that
the rafters rang with the mighty volume of sound. A venerable
minister, with white locks, then rose, and clinging to the railing for
support, and raising his voice, offered a brief but fervent prayer.

Mr. Moody's part in this opening service, it had been announced
beforehand, would be merely to _preside_, while others spoke; and he
did little more than to introduce them. He read, however, a few verses
from the parable of the talents, and urged on every one the duty to
use whatever gift he had, be it great or small, and not bury his
talent in a napkin. His voice was clear and strong, and where I sat I
heard distinctly. What he said was good, though in no wise remarkable.
Mr. Sankey touched us much more as he followed with an appropriate
hymn:

     "Nothing but leaves!"

As soon as I caught his first notes, I felt that there was _one_
cause of the success of these meetings. His voice is very powerful,
and every word was given with such distinctness that it reached every
ear in the building. All listened with breathless interest as he sang:

     "Nothing but leaves! the Spirit grieves
       Over a wasted life;
     O'er sins indulged while conscience slept,
     O'er vows and promises unkept,
       And reaps from years of strife--
     Nothing but leaves! nothing but leaves!"

Rev. Mr. Aitken, of Liverpool, then made an address of perhaps half an
hour, following up the thought of Mr. Moody on the duty of all to join
in the effort they were about to undertake. His address, without being
eloquent, was earnest and practical, to which Mr. Sankey gave a
thrilling application in another of his hymns, in which the closing
line of every verse was,

     "Here am I; send me, send me!"

Mr. Spurgeon was reserved for the closing address, and spoke, as he
always does, very forcibly. I noticed, as I had before, one great
element of his power, viz., his illustrations, which are most apt. For
example, he was urging ministers and Christians of all denominations
to join in this movement, and wished to show the folly of a
contentious spirit among them. To expose its absurdity, he said:

"A few years ago I was in Rome, and there I saw in the Vatican a
statue of two wrestlers, in the attitude of men trying to throw each
other. I went back two years after, and they were in the same
struggle, and I suppose are at it still!" Everybody saw the
application. Such a constrained posture might do in a marble statue,
but could anything be more ridiculous than for living men thus to
stand always facing each other in an attitude of hostility and
defiance? "And there too," he proceeded, "was another statue of a boy
pulling a thorn out of his foot. I went to Rome again, and there he
was still, with the same bended form, and the same look of pain,
struggling to be free. I suppose he is there still, and will be to all
eternity!" What an apt image of the self-inflicted torture of some
who, writhing under real or imagined injury, hug their grievance and
their pain, instead of at once tearing it away, and standing erect as
men in the full liberty wherewith Christ makes his people free.

Again, he was illustrating the folly of some ministers in giving so
much time and thought to refuting infidel objections, by which they
often made their people's minds familiar with what they would never
have heard of, and filled them with doubt and perplexity. He said the
process reminded him of what was done at a grotto near Naples, which
is filled with carbonic acid gas so strong that life cannot exist in
it, to illustrate which the vile people of the cave seize a wretched
dog, and throw him in, and in a few minutes the poor animal is nearly
dead. Then they deluge him with cold water to bring him round. Just
about as wise are those ministers who, having to preach the Gospel of
Christ, think they must first drop their hearers into a pit filled
with the asphyxiating gas of a false philosophy, to show how they can
apply their hydropathy in recovering them afterwards. Better let them
keep above ground, and breathe all the time the pure, blessed air of
heaven.

Illustrations like these told upon the audience, because they were so
apt, and so informed with common sense. Mr. Spurgeon has an utter
contempt for scientific charlatans and literary dilettanti, and all
that class of men who have no higher business in life than to carp and
criticise. He would judge everything by its practical results. If
sneering infidels ask, What good religion does? he points to those it
has saved, to the men it has reformed, whom it has lifted up from
degradation and death; and exclaims with his tremendous voice, "There
they are! standing on the shore, saved from shipwreck and ruin!" That
result is the sufficient answer to all cavil and objection.

"And now," continued Mr. Spurgeon, applying what he had said, "here
are these two brethren who have come to us from over the sea, whom God
has blessed wherever they have labored in Scotland, in Ireland, and in
England. It may be said they are no wiser or better than our own
preachers or laymen. Perhaps not. But somehow, whether by some novelty
of method, or some special tact, they have caught the popular ear, and
that of itself is a great point gained--they have got a hold on the
public mind." Again he resorted to illustration to make his point.

"Some years ago," he said, "I was crossing the Maritime Alps. We were
going up a pretty heavy grade, and the engine, though a powerful one,
labored hard to drag us up the steep ascent, till at length it came to
a dead stop. I got out to see what was the matter, for I didn't like
the look of things, and there we were stuck fast in a snow-drift! The
engine was working as hard as ever, and the wheels continued to
revolve; but the rails were icy, and the wheels could not take
hold--they could not get any _grip_--and so the train was unable to
move. So it is with some men, and some ministers. They are splendid
engines, and they have steam enough. The wheels revolve all right,
only they don't get any _grip_ on the rails, and so the train doesn't
move. Now our American friends have somehow got this grip on the
public mind; when they speak or sing, the people hear. Without
debating _why_ this is, or _how_ it is, let us thank God for it, and
try to help them in the use of the power which God has given them."

After this stirring address of Mr. Spurgeon, Mr. Moody announced the
arrangements for the meetings, which would be continued in that place
for thirty days; and with another rousing hymn the meeting closed.
This, it is given out, is to be the last month of Moody and Sankey in
England, and of course they hope it will be the crown of all their
labors.

After the service was ended, and the audience had partly dispersed, we
made our way around to the other end of the building, and had a good
shake of the hand with Mr. Moody, with whom I had spent several days
at Mr. Henry Bewley's, in Dublin, in 1867, and then travelled with him
to London, little dreaming that he would ever excite such a commotion
in this great Babylon, or have such a thronging multitude to hear him
as I have seen to-day.

And now, what of it all? It would be presumption to give an opinion on
a single service, and that where the principal actor in these scenes
was almost silent. Certainly there are some drawbacks. For my part, I
had rather worship in less of a crowd. If there is anything which I
shrink from, it is getting into a crush from which there is no escape,
and being obliged to struggle for life. Sometimes, indeed, it may be a
duty, but it is not an agreeable one. Paul fought with beasts at
Ephesus, but I don't think he liked it; and it seems to me a pretty
near approach to being thrown to the lions, to be caught in a rushing,
roaring London crowd.

And still I must not do it injustice. It was not a mob, but only a
very eager and excited concourse of people; who, when once settled in
the building, were attentive and devout. Perhaps the assembly to-day
was more so than usual, as the invitation for this opening service had
been "to Christians," and probably the bulk of those present were
members of neighboring churches. They were, for the most part, very
plain people, but none the worse for that, and they joined in the
service with evident interest, singing heartily the hymns, and turning
over their Bibles to follow the references to passages of Scripture.
Their simple sincerity and earnestness were very touching.

As to Mr. Moody, in the few remarks he made I saw no sign of
eloquence, not a single brilliant flash, such as would have lighted
up a five minutes' talk of our friend Talmage; but there was the
impressiveness of a man who was too much in earnest to care for
flowers of rhetoric; whose heart was in his work, and who, intent on
that alone, spoke with the utmost simplicity and plainness. I hear it
frequently said that his power is not in any extraordinary gift of
speech, but _in organizing Christian work_. One would suppose that
this long-continued labor would break him down, but on the contrary,
he seems to thrive upon it, and has grown stout and burly as any
Englishman, and seems ready for many more campaigns.

As to the result of his labors, instead of volunteering an opinion on
such slight observation, it is much more to the purpose to give the
judgment of others who have had full opportunity to see his methods,
and to observe the fruits. I have conversed with men of standing and
influence in Dublin, Belfast, Glasgow, and Edinburgh--men not at all
likely to be carried away by any sudden fanaticism. All speak well of
him, and believe that he has done good in their respective cities.
This certainly is very high testimony, and for the present is the best
we can have. They say that he shows great _tact_ in keeping clear of
difficulties, not allying himself with sects or parties, and awakening
no prejudices, so that Baptists, like Mr. Spurgeon, and Methodists and
Independents and Presbyterians, all work together. In Scotland, men of
the Free Church and of the National Church joined in the meetings, and
one cannot but hope that the tendency of this general religious
movement will be to incline the hearts of those noble, but now divided
brethren, more and more towards each other.

What will be the effect in London, it is too soon to say. It seems
almost impossible to make any impression on a city which is a world in
itself. London has nearly four millions of inhabitants--more than the
six States of New England put together! It is the monstrous growth of
our modern civilization. With its enormous size, it contains more
wealth than any city in the world, _and more poverty_--more luxury on
the one hand, and more misery on the other. To those who have explored
the low life of London, the revelations are terrific. The
wretchedness, the filth, the squalor, the physical pollution and moral
degradation in which vast numbers live, is absolutely appalling.

And can such a seething mass of humanity be reached by any Christian
influences? That is the problem to be solved. It is a gigantic
undertaking. Whatever can make any impression upon it, deserves the
support of all good men. I hope fervently that the present movement
may leave a moral result that shall remain after the actors in it have
passed away.




CHAPTER V.

TWO SIDES OF LONDON.--IS MODERN CIVILIZATION A FAILURE?


     June 15th.

It is now "the height of the season" in London. Parliament is in
session, and "everybody" is in town. Except the Queen, who is in the
Highlands, almost all the Royal family are here; and (except
occasional absences on the Continent, or as Ministers at foreign
courts, or as Governors of India, of Canada, of Australia, and other
British colonies) probably almost the whole nobility of the United
Kingdom are at this moment in London. Of course foreigners flock here
in great numbers. So crowded is every hotel, that it is difficult to
find lodgings. We have found very central quarters in Dover street,
near Piccadilly, close by the clubs and the parks, and the great West
End, the fashionable quarter of London.

Of course the display from the assemblage of so much rank and wealth,
and the concourse of such a multitude from all parts of the United
Kingdom, and indeed from all parts of the earth, is magnificent. We go
often to Hyde Park Corner, to see the turnout in the afternoon. In
Rotten Row (strange name for the most fashionable riding ground in
Europe) is the array of those on horseback; while the drive adjoining
is appropriated to carriages. The mounted cavalcade makes a gallant
sight. What splendid horses, and how well these English ladies ride!
Here come the equipages of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of
Edinburgh, with their fair brides from northern capitals, followed by
an endless roll of carriages of dukes and marquises and earls, and
lords and ladies of high degree. It seems as if all the glory of the
world were here. In strange contrast with this pomp and show, whom
should we meet, as we were riding in the Park on Saturday, but Moody
(whom John Wanamaker, of Philadelphia, was taking out for an airing to
prepare him for the fatigues of the morrow), who doubtless looked upon
all this as a Vanity Fair, much greater than that which Bunyan has
described!

But not to regard it in a severe spirit of censure, it is a sight such
as brings before us, in one moving panorama, the rank and beauty, the
wealth and power, of the British Empire, represented in these lords of
the realm. Such a sight cannot be seen anywhere else in Europe, not in
the Champs Elysees or the Bois de Boulogne of Paris, nor the Prater at
Vienna.

Take another scene. Let us start after ten o'clock and ride down into
"the city,"--a title which, as used here, belongs only to the old part
of London, beyond Temple Bar, which is now given up wholly to
business, and where "nobody that is anybody" lives. Here are the Bank
of England, the Royal Exchange, and the great commercial houses, that
have their connections in all parts of the earth. The concentration of
wealth is enormous, represented by hundreds and thousands of millions
sterling. One might almost say that half the national debts of the
world are owned here. There is not a power on the globe that is
seeking a loan, that does not come to London. France, Germany, Russia,
Turkey, all have recourse to its bankers to provide the material of
war, or means for the construction of the great works and monuments of
peace. Our American railways have been built largely with English
money. Alas, that so many have proved unfortunate investments!

It is probably quite within bounds to say that the accumulation of
wealth at this centre is greater than ever was piled up before on the
globe, even in the days of the Persian or Babylonian Empires; or when
the kings of Egypt built the Pyramids; or when Rome sat on the seven
hills, and subject provinces sent tribute from all parts of the earth;
or in that Mogul Empire, whose monuments at Delhi and Agra are still
the wonder of India.

Can it be that a city so vast, so populous, so rich, has a canker at
its root? Do not judge hastily, but see for yourself. Leave Hyde Park
Corner, and its procession of nobles and princes; leave "the city,"
with its banks and counting-houses, and plunge into another quarter of
London. One need not go far away, for the hiding-places of poverty and
wretchedness are often under the very shadow of the palaces of the
rich. Come, then, and grope through these narrow streets. You turn
aside to avoid the ragged, wretched creatures that crouch along your
path. But come on, and if you fear to go farther, take a policeman
with you. Wind your way into narrow passages, into dark, foul alleys,
up-stairs, story after story, each worse than the last. Summon up
courage to enter the rooms. You are staggered by the foul smell that
issues as you open the doors. But do not go back; wait till your eye
is a little accustomed to the darkness, and you can see more clearly.
Here is a room hardly big enough for a single bed, yet containing six,
eight, ten, or a dozen persons, all living in a common herd, cooking
and eating such wretched food as they have, and sleeping on the floor
together.

What can be expected of human beings, crowded in such miserable
habitations, living in filth and squalor, and often pinched with
hunger? Not only is refinement impossible, but comfort, or even
decency. What manly courage would not give way, sapped by the deadly
poison of such an air? Who wonders that so many rush to the gin-shop
to snatch a moment of excitement or forgetfulness? What feminine
delicacy could stand the foul and loathsome contact of such brutal
degradation? Yet this is the way in which tens, and perhaps hundreds
of thousands of the population of London live.

But it is at night that these low quarters are most fearful. Then the
population turns into the streets, which are brilliantly lighted up by
the flaring gas-jets. Then the gin-shops are in their glory, crowded
by the lowest and most wretched specimens of humanity--men and women
in rags--old, gray-headed men and haggard women, and young girls,--and
even children, learning to be imps of wickedness almost as soon as
they are born. After a few hours of this excitement they reel home to
their miserable dens. And then each wretched room becomes more hideous
than before,--for drinking begets quarrelling; and, cursing and
swearing and fighting, the wretched creatures at last sink exhausted
on the floor, to forget their misery in a few hours of troubled sleep.

Such is a true, but most inadequate, picture of one side of London.
Who that sees it, or even reads of it, can wonder that so many of
these "victims of civilization," finding human hearts harder than the
stones of the street, seek refuge in suicide? I never cross London
Bridge without recalling Hood's "Bridge of Sighs," and stopping to
lean over the parapet, thinking of the tragedies which those "dark
arches" have witnessed, as poor, miserable creatures, mad with
suffering, have rushed here and thrown themselves over into "the
black-flowing river"[2] beneath, eager to escape

     "Anywhere, anywhere,
       Out of the world!"

Such is the dreadful cancer which is eating at the heart of
London--poverty and misery, ending in vice and crime, in despair and
death. It is a fearful spectacle. But is there any help for it? Can
anything be done to relieve this gigantic human misery? Or is the case
desperate, beyond all hope or remedy?

Of course there are many schemes of reformation and cure. Some think
it must come by political instrumentality, by changes in the laws;
others have no hope but in a social regeneration, or reconstruction of
society, others still rely only on moral and religious influences.

There has arisen in Europe, within the last generation, a multitude of
philosophers who have dreamed that it was possible so to reorganize or
reconstruct society, to adjust the relations of labor and capital, as
to extinguish poverty; so that there shall be no more poor, no more
want. Sickness there may be, disease, accident, and pain, but the
amount of suffering will be reduced to a minimum; so that at least
there shall be no unnecessary pain, none which it is possible for
human skill or science to relieve. Elaborate works have been written,
in which the machinery is carefully adjusted, and the wheels so oiled
that there is no jar or friction. These schemes are very beautiful;
alas! that they should be mere creations of the fancy. The apparatus
is too complicated and too delicate, and generally breaks to pieces in
the very setting up. The fault of all these social philosophies is
that they ignore the natural selfishness of man, his pride, avarice,
and ambition. Every man wants the first place in the scale of
eminence. If men were morally right--if they had Christian humility or
self-abnegation, and each were willing to take the lowest place--then
indeed might these things be. But until then, we fear that all such
schemes will be splendid failures.

In France, where they have been most carefully elaborated, and in some
instances tried, they have always resulted disastrously, sometimes
ending in horrible scenes of blood, as in the Reign of Terror in the
first Revolution, and recently in the massacres of the Commune. No
government on earth can reconstruct society, so as to prevent all
poverty and suffering. Still the State can do much by removing
obstacles out of the way. It need not be itself the agent of
oppression, and of inflicting needless suffering. This has been the
vice of many governments--that they have kept down the poor by laying
on them burdens too heavy to bear, and so crushing the life out of
their exhausted frames. In England the State can remove disabilities
from the working man; it can take away the exclusive privileges of
rank and title, and place all classes on the same level before the
law. Thus it can clear the field before every man, and give him a
chance to rise, _if he has it in him_--if he has talent, energy, and
perseverance.

Then the government can in many ways _encourage_ the poorer classes,
and so gradually lift them up. In great cities the drainage of
unhealthy streets, of foul quarters, may remove the seeds of
pestilence. Something in this way has been done already, and the death
rates show a corresponding diminution of mortality. So by stringent
laws in regard to proper ventilation, forbidding the crowding together
in unhealthy tenements, and promoting the erection of model
lodging-houses, it may encourage that cleanliness and decency which is
the first step towards civilization.

Then by a system of Common Schools, that shall be universal and
_compulsory_, and be rigidly enforced, as it is in Germany, the State
may educate in some degree, at least in the rudiments of knowledge,
the children of the nation, and thus do something towards lifting up,
slowly but steadily, that vast substratum of population which lies at
the base of every European society.

But the question of moral influence remains. Is it possible to reach
this vast and degraded population with any Christian influences, or
are they in a state of hopeless degradation?

Here we meet at the first step in England A CHURCH, of grand
proportions, established for ages, inheriting vast endowments, wealth,
privilege, and titles, with all the means of exerting the utmost
influence on the national mind. For this what has it to show? It has
great cathedrals, with bishops, and deans, and canons; a whole retinue
of beneficed clergy, men who read or "intone" the prayers; with such
hosts of men and boys to chant the services, as, if mustered together,
would make a small army. The machinery is ample, but the result, we
fear, not at all corresponding.

But lest I be misunderstood, let me say here that I have no prejudice
against the Church of England. I cannot join with the English
Dissenters in their cry against it, nor with some of my American
brethren, who look upon it as almost an apostate Church, an obstacle
to the progress of Christianity, rather than a wall set around it to
be its bulwark and defence. With a very different feeling do I regard
that ancient Church, that has so long had its throne in the British
Islands. I am not an Englishman, nor an Episcopalian, yet no loyal son
of the Church of England could look up to it with more tender
reverence than I. I honor it for all that it has been in the past, for
all that it is at this hour. The oldest of the Protestant Churches of
England, it has the dignity of history to make it venerable. And not
only is it one of the oldest Churches in the world, but one of the
purest, which could not be struck from existence without a shock to
all Christendom. Its faith is the faith of the Reformation, the faith
of the early ages of Christianity. Whatever "corruptions" may have
gathered upon it, like moss upon the old cathedral walls, yet in the
Apostles' Creed, and other symbols of faith, it has held the primitive
belief with beautiful simplicity, divested of all "philosophy," and
held it not only with singular purity, but with steadfastness from
generation to generation.

What a power is in a creed and a service which thus links us with the
past! As we listen to the Te Deum or the Litany, we are carried back
not only to the Middle Ages, but to the days of persecution, when "the
noble army of martyrs" was not a name; when the Church worshipped in
crypts and catacombs. Perhaps we of other communions do not consider
enough the influence of a Church which has a long history, and whose
very service seems to unite the living and the dead--the worship on
earth with the worship in heaven. For my part, I am very sensitive to
these influences, and never do I hear a choir "chanting the liturgies
of remote generations" that it does not bring me nearer to the first
worshippers, and to Him whom they worshipped.

Nor can I overlook, among the influences of the Church of England,
that even of its architecture, in which its history, as well as its
worship, is enshrined. Its cathedrals are filled with monuments and
tombs, which recall great names and sacred memories. Is it mere
imagination, that when I enter one of these old piles and sit in some
quiet alcove, the place is filled to my ear with airy tongues, voices
of the dead, that come from the tablets around and from the tombs
beneath; that whisper along the aisles, and rise and float away in the
arches above, bearing the soul to heaven--spirits with which my own
poor heart, as I sit and pray, seems in peaceful and blessed
communion? Is it an idle fancy that soaring above us there is a
multitude of the heavenly host singing now, as once over the plains of
Bethlehem, "Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good will
towards men!" Here is the soul bowed down in the presence of its
Maker. It feels "lowly as a worm." What thoughts of death arise amid
so many memorials of the dead! What sober views of the true end of a
life so swiftly passing away! How many better thoughts are inspired by
the meditations of this holy place! How many prayers, uttered in
silence, are wafted to the Hearer of Prayer! How many offences are
forgiven here in the presence of "The Great Forgiver of the world"!
How many go forth from this ancient portal, resolved, with God's help,
to live better lives! It is idle to deny that the place itself is
favorable to meditation and to prayer. It makes a solemn stillness in
the midst of a great city, as if we were in the solitude of a mountain
or a desert. The pillared arches are like the arches of a sacred
grove. Let those who will cast away such aids to devotion, and say
they can worship God anywhere--in any place. I am not so insensible to
these surroundings, but find in them much to lift up my heart and to
help my poor prayers.

With these internal elements of power, and with its age and history,
and the influence of custom and tradition, the Church of England has
held the nation for hundreds of years to an outward respect for
Christianity, even if not always to a living faith. While Germany has
fallen away to Rationalism and indifference, and France to mocking and
scornful infidelity, in England Christianity is a national
institution, as fast anchored as the island itself. The Church of
England is the strongest bulwark against the infidelity of the
continent. It is associated in the national mind with all that is
sacred and venerable in the past. In its creed and its worship it
presents the Christian religion in a way to command the respect of the
educated classes; it is seated in the Universities, and is thus
associated with science and learning. As it is the National Church, it
has the support of all the rank of the kingdom, and arrays on its side
the strongest social influences. Thus it sets even fashion on the side
of religion. This may not be the most dignified influence to control
the faith of a country, but it is one that has great power, and it is
certainly better to have it on the side of religion than against it.
We must take the world as it is, and men as they are. They are led by
example, and especially by the examples of the great; of those whose
rank makes them foremost in the public eye, and gives them a natural
influence over their countrymen.

As for those who think that the Gospel is preached nowhere in England
but in the chapels of Dissenters, and that there is little
"spirituality" except among English Independents or Scotch
Presbyterians, we can but pity their ignorance. It is not necessary to
point to the saintly examples of men like Jeremy Taylor and Archbishop
Leighton; but in the English homes of to-day are thousands of men and
women who furnish illustrations, as beautiful as any that can be found
on earth, of a religion without cant or affectation, yet simple and
sincere, and showing itself at once in private devotion, in domestic
piety, and in a life full of all goodness and charity.

It must be confessed that its ministers are not always worthy of the
Church itself. I am repelled and disgusted at the arrogance of some
who think that it is the _only_ true Church, and that they alone are
the Lord's anointed. If so, the grace is indeed in earthen vessels,
and those of wretched clay. The affectation and pretension of some of
the more youthful clergy are such as to provoke a smile. But such
paltry creatures are too insignificant to be worth a moment's serious
thought. The same spiritual conceit exists in every Church. We should
not like to be held responsible for all the narrowness of
Presbyterians, whom we are sometimes obliged to regard, as Cromwell
did, as "the Lord's foolish people." These small English curates and
rectors we should regard no more than the spiders that weave their web
in some dimly-lighted arch, or the traditional "church mice" that
nibble their crumbs in the cathedral tower, or the crickets or lizards
that creep over the old tombs in the neighboring churchyard.

But if there is much narrowness in the Church of England, there is
much nobleness also; much true Christian liberality and hearty
sympathy with all good men and good movements, not only in England but
throughout the world. Dean Stanley (whom I love and honor as the
manliest man in the Church of England) is but the representative and
leader of hundreds who, if they have not his genius, have at least
much of his generous and intrepid spirit, that despises sacerdotal
cant, and claims kindred with the good of all countries and ages, with
the noble spirits, the brave and true, of all mankind. Such men are
sufficient to redeem the great Church to which they belong from the
reproach of narrowness.

Such is the position of the Church of England, whose history is a part
of that of the realm; and which stands to-day buttressed by rank, and
learning, and social position, and a thousand associations which have
clustered around it in the course of centuries, to make it sacred and
venerable and dear to the nation's heart. If all this were levelled
with the ground, in vain would all the efforts of Dissenters, however
earnest and eloquent--if they could muster a hundred Spurgeons--avail
to restore the national respect for religion.

Looking at all these possibilities, I am by no means so certain as
some appear to be, that the overthrow of the Establishment would be a
gain to the cause of Christianity in England. Some in their zeal for a
pure democracy both in Church and State--for Independency and
Voluntaryism in the former, and Republicanism in the latter--regard
every Establishment as an enemy alike to a pure Gospel and to
religious liberty. The Dissenters, naturally incensed at the
inequality and injustice of their position before the law (and perhaps
with a touch of envy of those more favored than they are) have their
grievance against the Church of England, simply because it is
_established_, to the exclusion of themselves. But from all such
rivalries and contentions we, as Americans, are far removed, and can
judge impartially. We look upon the Established Church as one of the
historical institutions of England, which no thoughtful person could
wish to see destroyed, any more than to see an overthrow of the
monarchy, until he were quite sure that something better would come in
its place. It is not a little thing that it has gathered around it
such a wealth of associations, and with them such a power over the
nation in which it stands; and it would be a rash hand that should
apply the torch, or fire the mine, that should bring it down.

But the influence of the Church of England is mainly in the higher
ranks of society. Below these there are large social strata--deep,
broad, thick, and black as seams of coal in a mountain--that are not
even touched by all these influences. We like to stray into the old
cathedrals at evening, and hear the choir chanting vespers; or to
wander about them at night, and see the moonlight falling on the
ancient towers. But nations are not saved by moonlight and music. The
moonbeams that rest on the dome of St. Paul's, or on the bosom of the
Thames, as it flows under the arches of London Bridge, covering it
with silver, do not cleanse the black waters, or restore to life the
corpses of the wretched suicides that go floating downward to the sea.
_So far as they are concerned_, the Church of England, and indeed we
may say the Christianity of England, is a wretched failure. Some other
and more powerful illustration is needed to turn the heart of England;
something which shall not only cause the sign of the cross to be held
up in St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, but which shall carry the
Gospel of human brotherhood to all the villages and hamlets of
England; to the poorest cottage in the Highlands; that shall descend
with the miner into the pit underground; that shall abide with every
laborer in the land, and go forth with the sailor on the sea.

How inadequately the Church of England answers to this need of a
popular educator and reformer, may be illustrated by one or two of her
most notable churches and preachers.

On Sunday last we attended two of the most famous places of worship
in London--the Temple Church and Westminster Abbey. The former belongs
to an ancient guild of lawyers, attached to what are known as the
Middle and the Inner Temple, a corporation dating back hundreds of
years, which has large grounds running down to the Thames, and great
piles of buildings divided off into courts, and full of lawyers'
offices. Standing among these is a church celebrated for its beauty,
which once belonged to the Knights Templars, some of whose bronze
figures in armor, lying on their tombs, show by their crossed limbs
how they went to Palestine to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. As it is a
church which belongs to a private corporation, no one can obtain
admission to the pews without an order from "a bencher," which was
sent to us as a personal courtesy. The church has the air of being
very aristocratic and exclusive; and those whose enjoyment of a
religious service depends on "worshipping God in good company," may
feel at ease while sitting in these high-backed pews, from which the
public are excluded.

The church is noted for its music, which amateurs pronounce exquisite.
As I am not educated in these things, I do not know the precise beauty
and force of all the quips and quavers of this most artistic
performance. The service was given at full length, in which the Lord's
Prayer was repeated _five times_. With all the singing and "intoning,"
and down-sitting and uprising, and the bowing of necks and bending of
knees, the service occupied an hour and a half before the rector, Rev.
Dr. Vaughan, ascended the pulpit. He is a brother-in-law of Dean
Stanley, and a man much respected in the Church. His text was, "He
took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses," from which he preached
a sermon appropriate to the day, which was "Hospital Sunday," a day
observed throughout London by collections in aid of the hospitals. It
was simple and practical, and gave one the impression of a truly good
man, such as there are thousands in the Church of England.

But what effect had such a service--or a hundred such--on the poor
population of London? About as much as the exquisite music itself has
on the rise and fall of the tide in the Thames, which flows by; or as
the moonlight has on vegetation. I know not what mission agencies
these old churches may employ elsewhere to labor among the poor, but
so far as any immediate influence is concerned, outside of a very
small circle, it is infinitesimal.

In the evening we went to Westminster Abbey to hear the choral
service, which is rendered by a very large choir of men and boys, with
wonderful effect. Simply for the music one could not have a more
exquisite sensation of enjoyment. How the voices rang amid the arches
of the old cathedral. At this evening service it had been announced
that "The Lord Archbishop of York" was to preach, and we were curious
to see what wisdom and eloquence could come out of the mouth of a man
who held the second place in the Established Church of England. "His
grace" is a large, portly man, of good presence and sonorous voice.
His text was "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." He began with an
allusion to Holman Hunt's famous picture of Christ standing at the
door, which he described in some detail; the door itself overgrown
with vines, and its hinges rusted, so long had it been unopened; and
then the patient Man of Sorrows, with bended head and heavy heart,
knocking and waiting to come in. From this he went into a discussion
of modern civilization, considering whether men are really better
(though they may be better _off_) now than in the days of our fathers;
the conclusion from all which was, that external improvements, however
much they add to the physical comfort and well-being of man, do not
change his character, and that for his inward peace, the only way is
to open the door to let the blessed Master in. It seemed to me rather
a roundabout way to come at his point; but still as the aim was
practical, and the spirit earnest and devout, one could not but feel
that the impression was good. As to ability, I failed to see in it
anything so marked as should entitle the preacher to the exalted
dignity he holds; but I do not wish to criticize, but only to consider
whether a Church thus organized and appointed can have the influence
over the people of England we might expect from a great National
Establishment. Perhaps it has, but I fail to see it. It seems to skim,
and that very lightly, over the top, the thin surface of society, and
not to _touch_ the masses beneath.

The influence of the Establishment is supplemented by the Dissenting
Churches, which are numerous and active, and in their spheres doing
great good. Then, too, there are innumerable separate agencies,
working in ways manifold and diverse. I have been much interested in
the details, as given me by Mrs. Ranyard, of her Bible women, who have
grown, in the course of twenty years, from half a dozen to over two
hundred, and who, working noiselessly, in quiet, womanly ways, do much
to penetrate the darkest lanes of London, and to lead their poor
sisters into ways of industry, contentment, and peace.

But after all is said and done, the great mass of poverty and
wretchedness remains. We lift the cover, and look down into
unfathomable abysses beneath, into a world where all seems evil--a
hell of furious passions and vices and crimes. Such is the picture
which is presented to me as I walk the streets of London, and which
will not down, even when I go to the Bank of England, and see the
treasures piled up there, or to Hyde Park, and see the dashing
equipages, the splendid horses and their riders, and all the display
of the rank and beauty of England.

What will the end be? Will things go on from bad to worse, to end at
last in some grand social or political convulsion--some cataclysm like
the French Revolution?

This is the question which now occupies thousands of minds in Great
Britain. Of course similar questions engage attention in other
countries. In all great cities there is a poor population, which is
the standing trouble and perplexity of social and political reformers.
We have a great deal of poverty in New York, although it is chiefly
imported from abroad. But in London the evil is immensely greater,
because the city is four times larger; and the crowding together of
four millions of people, brings wealth and poverty into such close
contact that the contrasts are more marked. Other evils and dangers
England has which are peculiar to an old country; they are the growth
of centuries, and cannot be shaken off, or cast out, without great
tearing and rending of the body politic. All this awakens anxious
thought, and sometimes dark foreboding. Many, no doubt, of the upper
classes are quite content to have their full share of the good things
of this life, and enjoy while they may, saying, "After us the deluge!"
But they are not all given over to selfishness. Tens of thousands of
the best men on this earth, having the clearest heads and noblest
hearts, are in England, and they are just as thoughtful and anxious to
do what is best for the masses around them, as any men can be. The
only question is, What _can_ be done? And here we confess our
philosophy is wholly at fault. It is easy to judge harshly of others,
but not so easy to stand in their places and do better.

For my part, I am most anxious that the experiment of Christian
civilization in England should not fail; for on it, I believe, the
welfare of the whole world greatly depends. But is it strange that
good men should be appalled and stand aghast at what they see here in
London, and that they should sometimes be in despair of modern
civilization and modern Christianity? What can I think, as a
foreigner, when a man like George Macdonald, a true-hearted Scotchman,
who has lived many years in London, tells me that things may come
right (so he hopes) _in a thousand years_--that is, in some future too
remote for the vision of man to explore. Hearing such sad confessions,
I no longer wonder that so many in England, who are sensitive to all
this misery, and yet believers in a Higher Power, have turned to the
doctrine of the Personal Reign of Christ on earth as the only refuge
against despair, believing that the world will be restored to its
allegiance to God, and men to universal brotherhood, only with the
coming of the Prince of Peace.

FOOTNOTE:

[2]  "The bleak wind of March
       Made her tremble and shiver,
     But not the dark arch,
       Nor the black flowing river.

     Mad from life's history,
     Glad to death's mystery
       Swift to be hurled
     Anywhere, anywhere,
         Out of the world"




CHAPTER VI.

THE RESURRECTION OF FRANCE.


     PARIS, June 30th.

Coming from London to Paris, one is struck with the contrast--London
is so vast and interminable, _and dark_,--a "boundless contiguity of
shade,"--while Paris is all brightness and sunshine. The difference in
the appearance of the two capitals is due partly to the climate, and
partly to the materials of which they are built--London showing miles
on miles of dingy brick, with an atmosphere so charged with smoke and
vapors that it blackens even the whitest marble; while Paris is built
of a light, cream-colored stone, that is found here in abundance,
which is soft and easily worked, but hardens by exposure to the air,
and that preserves its whiteness under this clearer sky and warmer
sun. Then the taste of the French makes every shop window bright with
color; and there is something in the natural gayety of the people
which is infectious, and which quickly communicates itself to a
stranger. Many a foreigner, on first landing in England, has walked
the streets of London with gloomy thoughts of suicide, who once in
Paris feels as if transported to Paradise. Perhaps if he had stayed a
little longer in England he would have thought better of the country
and people. But it is impossible for a stranger at first to feel _at
home_ in London, any more than if he were sent adrift all alone in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The English are reserved and cautious in
their social relations, which may be very proper in regard to those of
whom they know nothing. But once well introduced, the stranger is
taken into their intimacy, and finds no spot on earth more warm than
the interior of an English home. But in Paris everybody seems to greet
him at once without an introduction; he speaks to a Frenchman on the
street (if it be only to inquire his way), and instead of a gruff
answer, meets with a polite reply. "It amounts to nothing," some may
say. It costs indeed but a moment of time, but even that, many in
England, and I am sorry to say in America also, are too impatient and
too self-absorbed to give. In the shops everybody is so polite that
one spends his money with pleasure, since he gets not only the matter
of his purchase, but what he values still more, a smile and a pleasant
word. It may be said that these are little things, but in their
influence upon one's temper and spirits they are _not_ trifles, any
more than sunshine is a trifle, or pure air; and in these minor
moralities of life the French are an example to us and to all the
world.

But it is not only for their easy manners and social virtues that I am
attracted to the French. They have many noble qualities, such as
courage and self-devotion, instances of which are conspicuous in their
national history; and are not less capable of Christian devotion,
innumerable examples of which may be found in both the Catholic and
the Protestant Churches. Many of our American clergymen, who have
travelled abroad, will agree with me, that more beautiful examples of
piety they have never seen than among the Protestants of France. I
should be ungrateful indeed if I did not love the French, since to one
of that nation I owe the chief happiness of my earthly existence.

Of course the great marvel of Paris, and of France, is its
_resurrection_--the manner in which it has recovered from the war. In
riding about these streets, so full of life and gayety, and seeing on
every side the signs of prosperity, I cannot realize that it is a city
which, since I was here in 1867--nay, within less time, has endured
all the horrors of war; which has been _twice_ besieged, has been
encompassed with a mighty army, and heard the sound of cannon day and
night, its people hiding in cellars from the bombs bursting in the
streets. Yet it is not five years since Louis Napoleon was still
Emperor, reigning undisturbed in the palace of the Tuileries, across
the street from the Hotel du Louvre, where I now write. It was on the
15th of July, 1870, that war was declared against Prussia in the midst
of the greatest enthusiasm. The army was wild with excitement,
expecting to march almost unopposed to Berlin. Sad dream of victory,
soon to be rudely dispelled! A few weeks saw the most astounding
series of defeats, and on the 4th of September the Emperor himself
surrendered at Sedan, at the head of a hundred thousand men, and the
Empire, which he had been constructing with such infinite labor and
care for twenty years, fell to the ground.

But even then the trials of France were not ended. She was to have
sorrow upon sorrow. Next came the surrender of Metz, with another
great army, and then the crowning disaster of the long siege of Paris,
lasting over four months, and ending also in the same inglorious way.
Jena was avenged, when the Prussian cavalry rode through the Arch of
Triumph down the Champs Elysees. It was a bitter humiliation for
France, but she had to drink the cup to the very dregs, when forced to
sign a treaty of peace, ceding two of her most beautiful provinces,
Alsace and Lorraine, and paying an indemnity of one thousand millions
of dollars for the expenses of the war! Nor was this all. As if the
seven vials of wrath were to be poured out on her devoted head,
scarcely was the foreign war ended, before civil war began, and for
months the Commune held Paris under its feet. Then the city had to
undergo a second siege, and to be bombarded once more, not by Germans,
but by Frenchmen, until its proud historical monuments were destroyed
by its own people. The Column of the Place Vendome, erected to
commemorate the victories of Napoleon, out of cannon taken in his
great battles, was levelled to the ground; and the Palace of the
Tuileries and the Hotel de Ville were burnt by these desperate
revolutionists, who at last, to complete the catalogue of their
crimes, butchered the hostages in cold blood! This was the end of the
war, and such the state of Paris in May, 1871, scarcely four years
ago.

In the eyes of other nations, this was not only disaster, but absolute
ruin. It seemed as if the country could not recover in one generation,
and that for the next thirty years, so far as any political power or
influence was concerned, France might be considered as blotted from
the map of Europe.

But four years have passed, and what do we see? The last foreign
soldier has disappeared from the soil of France, the enormous
indemnity is PAID, and the country is apparently as rich and
prosperous, and Paris as bright and gay, as ever.

This seems a miracle, but the age of miracles is past, and such great
results do not come without cause. The French are a very rich
people--not by the accumulation of a few colossal fortunes, but by the
almost infinite number of small ones. They are at once the most
industrious and the most economical people in the world. They will
live on almost nothing. Even the Chinese hardly keep soul and body
together on less than these French _ouvriers_ whom we see going about
in their blouses, and who form the laboring population of Paris. So
all the petty farmers in the provinces save something, and have a
little against a rainy day; and when the time comes that the
Government wants a loan, out from old stockings, and from chimney
corners, come the hoarded napoleons, which, flowing together like
thousands of little rivulets, make the mighty stream of national
wealth.

But for a nation to pay its debts, especially when they have grown to
be so great, it is necessary not only to have money, but to know how
to use it. And here the interests of France have been managed with
consummate ability. In spite of the constant drain caused by the heavy
payment of the war indemnity to Germany, the finances of the country
have not been much disturbed, and to-day the bills of the Bank of
France are at par. I feel ashamed for my country when the cable
reports to us from America, that our national currency is so
depreciated that to purchase gold in New York one must pay a premium
of seventeen per cent.! I wish some of our political financiers would
come to Paris for a few months, to take lessons from the far more
successful financiers of France.

What delights me especially in this great achievement is that it has
all been done under the Republic! It has not required a monarchy to
maintain public order, and to give that security which is necessary to
restore the full confidence of the commercial world. It is only by a
succession of events so singular as to seem indeed providential, that
France has been saved from being given over once more into the hands
of the old dynasty. From this it has been preserved by the rivalship
of different parties; so that the Republic has been saved by the
blunders of its enemies. The Lord has confounded them, and the very
devices intended for its destruction--such as putting Marshal MacMahon
in power for seven years--have had the effect to prevent a
restoration. Thus the Republic has had a longer life, and has
established its title to the confidence of the nation. No doubt if the
Legitimists and the Orleanists and Imperialists could all _unite_,
they might have a sovereign to-morrow; but each party prefers a
Republic to any sovereign _except its own_, and is willing that it
should stand for a few years, in the hope that some turn of events
will then give the succession to them. So, amid all this division of
parties, the Republic "still lives," and gains strength from year to
year. The country is prosperous under it; order is perfectly
maintained; and order _with liberty_: why should it not remain the
permanent government of France?

If only the country could be _contented_, and willing to let well
enough alone, it might enjoy many long years of prosperity. But
unfortunately there is a cloud in the sky. The last war has left the
seeds of another war. Its disastrous issue was so unexpected and so
galling to the most proud and sensitive people in Europe, that they
will never rest satisfied till its terrible humiliation is redressed.
The resentment might not be so bitter but for the taking of its two
provinces. The defeats in the field of battle might be borne as the
fate of war (for the French have an ingenious way, whenever they lose
a battle, of making out that they were not _defeated_, but
_betrayed_); even the payment of the enormous indemnity they might
turn into an occasion of boasting, as they now do, as a proof of the
vast resources of the country; but the loss of Alsace and Lorraine is
a standing monument of their disgrace. They cannot wipe it off from
the map of Europe. There it is, with the hated German flag flying from
the fortress of Metz and the Cathedral of Strasburg. This is a
humiliation to which they will never submit contentedly, and herein
lies the probability--nay almost the certainty--of coming war. I have
not met a Frenchman of any position, or any political views,
Republican or Monarchical, Bonapartist or Legitimist, Catholic or
Protestant, whose blood did not boil at the mention of Alsace and
Lorraine, and who did not look forward to a fresh conflict with
Germany as inevitable. When I hear a Protestant pastor say, "I will
give all my sons to fight for Alsace and Lorraine," I cannot but think
the prospects of the Peace Society not very encouraging in Europe.

In the exhibition of the Dore gallery, in London, there is a very
striking picture by that great artist (who is himself an Alsatian, and
yet an intense Frenchman), intended to represent Alsace. It is a
figure of a young woman, tall and beautiful, with eyes downcast, yet
with pride and dignity in her sadness, as the French flag, which she
holds, droops to her feet. Beside her is a mother sitting in a chair
nursing a child. The two figures tell the story in an instant. That
mother is nursing her child to avenge the wrongs of his country. It is
sad indeed to see a child thus born to a destiny of war and blood; to
see the shadow of carnage and destruction hovering over his very
cradle. Yet such is the prospect now, which fills every Christian
heart with sadness. Thus will the next generation pay in blood and
tears, for the follies and the crimes of this.




CHAPTER VII.

THE FRENCH NATIONAL ASSEMBLY.


We have been to Versailles. Of course our first visit was to the great
palace built by Louis XIV., which is over a quarter of a mile long,
and which stands, like some of the remains of antiquity, as a monument
of royal pride and ambition. It was built, as the kings of Egypt built
the Pyramids, to tell to after ages of the greatness of his kingdom
and the splendor of his reign. A gallant sight it must have been when
this vast pile, with its endless suites of apartments, was filled with
the most brilliant court in Europe; when statesmen and courtiers and
warriors, "fair women and brave men," crowded the immense saloons, and
these terraces and gardens. It was a display of royal magnificence
such as the world has seldom seen. The cost is estimated at not less
than two hundred millions of dollars--a sum which considering the
greater value of money two centuries ago, was equal to five times that
amount at the present day, or a thousand millions, as much as the
whole indemnity paid to Germany. It was a costly legacy to his
successors--costly in treasure and costly in blood. The building of
Versailles, with the ruinous and inglorious wars of Louis XIV.,
drained the resources of France for a generation, and by the burdens
they imposed on the people, prepared the way for the Revolution. I
could not but recall this with a bitter feeling as I stood in the
gilded chamber where the great king slept, and saw the very bed on
which he died. That was the end of all his glory, but not the end of
the evil that he wrought:

     "The evil that men do lives after them;
     The good is oft interred with their bones."

The extravagance of this monarch was paid for by the blood of his
descendants. If he had not lifted his head so high, the head of Louis
XVI. might not have fallen on the scaffold. It is good for France that
she has no longer any use for such gigantic follies; and that the day
is past when a whole nation can be sacrificed to the vanity and
selfishness of one man. In this case the very magnitude of the
structure defeated its object, for it was so great that no government
since the Revolution has known what to do with it. It required such an
enormous expenditure to keep it up, that the prudent old King Louis
Philippe _could not afford to live in it_, and at last turned it into
a kind of museum or historical gallery, filled with pictures of French
battles, and dedicated in pompous phrase, TO ALL THE GLORIES OF
FRANCE.

But it was not to see the palace of Louis XIV. that I had most
interest in revisiting Versailles, but to see the National Assembly
sitting in it, which is at present the ruling power in France. If
Louis XIV. ever revisits the scene of his former magnificence, he must
shake his kingly head at the strange events which it has witnessed.
How he must have shuddered to see his royal house invaded by a mob, as
it was in the time of the first Revolution; to see the faithful Swiss
guards butchered in his very palace, and the Queen, Marie Antoinette,
escaping with her life; to see the grounds sacred to Majesty trampled
by the "fierce democracie" of France; and then by the iron heel of the
Corsican usurper; and by the feet of the allied armies under
Wellington. His soul may have had peace for a time when, under Louis
Philippe and Louis Napoleon, Versailles was comparatively silent and
deserted. But what would he have said at seeing, only four winters
ago, the Emperor of Germany and his army encamped here and
beleaguering the capital? Yet perhaps even that would not so have
offended his royal dignity as to see a National Assembly sitting in a
part of this very palace in the name of a French Republic!

Strange overturning indeed; but if strange, still true. They have a
proverb in France that "it is always the improbable which happens,"
and so indeed it seems to be in French history; it is full of
surprises, but few greater than that which now appears. France has
drifted into a Republic, when both statesmen and people meant not so.
It was not the first choice of the nation. Whatever may have been true
of the populace of Paris, the immense majority of the French people
were sincerely attached to monarchy in some form, whether under a king
or an emperor; and yet the country has neither, so that, as has been
wittily said, France has been "a Republic without Republicans." But
for all that the Republic is _here_, and here it is likely to remain.

When the present Assembly first met, a little more than four years
since, it was at Bordeaux--for to that corner of France was the
government driven; and when the treaty was signed, and it came north,
it met at Versailles rather than at Paris, as a matter of necessity.
Paris was in a state of insurrection. It was in the hands of the
Commune, and could only be taken after a second siege, and many bloody
combats around the walls and in the streets. This, and the experience
so frequent in French history of a government being overthrown by the
mob of Paris invading the legislative halls, decided the National
Assembly to remain at Versailles, even after the rebellion was
subdued; and so there it is to this day, even though the greater part
of the deputies go out from Paris twelve miles every morning, and
return every night; and in the programme which has been drawn up for
the definite establishment of the Republic, it is made an article of
the Constitution that the National Assembly shall always meet at
Versailles.

The place of meeting is the former theatre of the palace, which
answers the purpose very well--the space below, in what was _the pit_,
sufficing for the deputies, while the galleries are reserved for
spectators. We found the approaches crowded with persons seeking
admission, which can only be by ticket. But we had no difficulty.
Among the deputies is the well-known Protestant pastor of Paris,
Edouard de Pressense, who was chosen to the Assembly in the stormy
scenes of 1871, and who has shown himself as eloquent in the tribune
as in the pulpit. I sent him my card, and he came out immediately with
two tickets in his hand, and directed one of the attendants to show us
into the best seats in the house, who, thus instructed, conducted us
to the diplomatic box (which, from its position in the centre of the
first balcony, must have been once the royal box), from which we
looked down upon the heads of the National Assembly of France.

And what a spectacle it was! The Assembly consists of over seven
hundred men, who may be considered as fair representatives of what is
most eminent in France. Of course, as in all such bodies, there are
many elected from the provinces on account of some local influence, as
landed proprietors, or as sons of noble families, who count only by
their votes. But with these are many who have "come to the front" in
this great national crisis, by the natural ascendancy which great
ability always gives, and who by their talents have justly acquired a
commanding influence in the country.

The President of the Assembly is the Duke d'Audiffret Pasquier, whose
elevated seat is at the other end of the hall. In front of him is "the
tribune," from which the speakers address the Assembly: it not being
the custom here, as in our Congress or in the English Parliament, for
a member to speak from his place in the house. This French custom has
been criticized in England, as betraying this talkative people into
more words, for a Frenchman does not wish to "mount the tribune" for
nothing, and once there the temptation is very strong to make "a
speech." But we did not find that the speeches were much longer than
in the House of Commons, though they were certainly more violent.

Looking down upon the Assembly, we see how it is divided between the
two great parties--the Royalists and the Republicans. Those sitting on
the benches to the right of the President comprise the former of every
shade--Legitimists, Orleanists, and Imperialists, while those on the
left are the Republicans. Besides these two grand divisions of the
Right and the Left there are minor divisions, such as the Right Centre
and the Left Centre, the former wishing a Constitutional Monarchy, and
the latter a Conservative Republic.

Looking over this sea of heads, one sees some that bear great names.
One indeed, and that the greatest, is not here, and is the more
conspicuous by his absence. M. Thiers, to whom France owes more than
to any other living man, since he retired from the Presidency, driven
thereto by the factious opposition of some of the deputies, and
perhaps now still more since the death of his life-long friend, De
Remusat, has withdrawn pretty much from public life, and devotes
himself to literary pursuits. But other notable men are here. That
giant with a shaggy mane, walking up the aisle, is Jules Favre--a man
who has been distinguished in Paris for a generation, both for his
eloquence at the bar, and for his inflexible Republicanism, which was
never shaken, even in the corrupting times of the Empire, and who in
the dark days of 1870, when the Empire fell, was called by acclamation
to become a member of the Provisional Government. He is the man who,
when Bismarck first talked of peace on the terms of a cession of
territory, proudly answered to what he thought the insulting proposal,
"Not a foot of our soil, not a stone of our fortresses!" but who, some
months after, had to sign with his own hand, but with a bitter heart,
a treaty ceding Alsace and Lorraine, and agreeing to pay an indemnity
of one thousand millions of dollars! Ah well! he made mistakes, as
everybody does, but we can still admire his lion heart, even though we
admit that his oratorical fervor was greater than his political
sagacity. And yonder, on the left, is another shaggy head, which has
appeared in the history of France, and may appear again. That is Leon
Gambetta! who, shut up in Paris by the siege, and impatient for
activity, escaped in a balloon, and sailing high over the camps of the
German army, alighted near Amiens, and was made Minister of War, and
began with his fiery eloquence, like another Peter the Hermit, to
arouse the population of the provinces to a holy crusade for the
extermination of the invader. This desperate energy seemed at first as
if it might turn the fortunes of the war. Thousands of volunteers
rushed forward to fill the ranks of the independent corps known as the
_Franc-tireurs_. But though he rallied such numbers, he could not
improvise an army; these recruits, though personally brave enough--for
Frenchmen are never wanting in courage--had not the discipline which
inspires confidence and wins victory. As soon as these raw levies were
hurled against the German veterans, they were dashed to pieces like
waves against a rock. The attempt was so daring and patriotic that it
deserved success; but it was too late. Gambetta's work, however, is
not ended in France. Since the war he has surprised both his friends
and his enemies by taking a very conciliatory course. He does not
flaunt the red flag in the eyes of the nation. So cautious and prudent
is he that some of the extreme radicals, like Louis Blanc, oppose him
earnestly, as seeking to found a government which is republican only
in name. But he judges more wisely that the only Republic which
France, with its monarchical traditions, will accept, is a
conservative one, which shall not frighten capital by its wild
theories of a division of property, but which, while it secures
liberty, secures order also. In urging this policy, he has exercised a
restraining influence over the more violent members of his own party,
and thus done much toward conciliating opposition and rendering
possible a French Republic.

On the same side of the house, yet nearer the middle, thus occupying a
position in the Left Centre, is another man, of whom much is hoped at
this time, M. Laboulaye, a scholar and author, who by his prudence
and moderation has won the confidence of the Assembly and the country.
He is one of the wise and safe men, to whom France looks in this
crisis of her political history.

But let us suspend our observation of members to listen to the
discussions. As we entered, the Assembly appeared to be in confusion.
The talking in all parts of the house was incessant, and could not be
repressed. The officers shouted "Silence!" which had the effect to
produce quiet _for about one minute_, when the buzz of voices rose as
loud as ever. The French are irrepressible. And this general talking
was not the result of indifference: on the contrary, the more the
Assembly became interested, the more tumultuous it grew. Yet there was
no question of importance before it, but simply one about the tariff
on railways! But a Frenchman will get excited on anything, and in a
few minutes the Assembly became as much agitated as if it were
discussing some vital question of peace or war, of a Monarchy or a
Republic. Speaker after speaker rushed to the tribune, and with loud
voices and excited looks demanded to be heard. The whole Assembly took
part in the debate--those who agreed with each speaker cheering him
on, while those who opposed answered with loud cries of dissent. No
college chapel, filled with a thousand students, was ever a scene of
more wild uproar. The President tried to control them, but in vain. In
vain he struck his gavel, and rang his bell, and at length in despair
arose and stood with folded arms, waiting for the storm to subside.
But he might as well have appealed to a hurricane. The storm had to
blow itself out. After awhile the Assembly itself grew impatient of
further debate, and shouted "_Aux voix! aux voix!_" and the question
was taken; but how anybody could deliberate or vote in such a roaring
tempest, I could not conceive.

This disposed of, a deputy presented some personal matter involving
the right of a member to his seat, for whom he demanded _justice_,
accusing some committee or other of having suppressed evidence in his
favor. Then the tumult rose again. His charge provoked instant and
bitter replies. Members left their seats, and crowded around the
tribune as if they would have assailed the obnoxious speaker with
violence. From one quarter came cries, "_C'est vrai; C'est vrai!_" (It
is true; it is true), while in another quarter a deputy sprang to his
feet and rushed forward with angry gesture, shouting, "You are not an
honest man!" So the tumult "loud and louder grew." It seemed a perfect
Bedlam. I confess the impression was not pleasant, and I could not but
ask myself, _Is this the way in which a great nation is to be
governed, or free institutions are to be constituted?_ It was such a
contrast to the dignified demeanor of the Parliament of England, or
the Congress of the United States. We have sometimes exciting scenes
in our House of Representatives, when members forget themselves; but
anything like this I think could not be witnessed in any other great
National Assembly, unless it were in the Spanish Cortes. I did not
wonder that sober and thoughtful men in France doubt the possibility
of popular institutions, when they see a deliberative body, managing
grave affairs of State, so little capable of self-control.

And yet we must not make out things worse than they are, or attach too
much importance to these lively demonstrations. Some who look on
philosophically, would say that this mere talk amounts to nothing;
that every question of real importance is deliberated upon and really
decided in private, in the councils of the different parties, before
it is brought into the arena of public debate; and that this
discussion is merely a safety-valve for the irrepressible Frenchman, a
way of letting off steam, a process which involves no danger, although
accompanied with a frightful hissing and roaring. This is a kindly as
well as a philosophical way of putting the matter, and perhaps is a
just one.

Some, too, will add that there is another special cause for
excitement, viz., that this legislative body is at this moment _in the
article of death_, and that these scenes are but the throes and pangs
of dissolution. This National Assembly has been in existence now more
than four years, and it is time for it to die. Indeed it has had no
right to live so long. It was elected for a specific purpose at the
close of the war--to make peace with the Germans, and that duty
discharged, its functions were ended, and it had no legal right to
live another day, or to perform another act of sovereignty. But
necessity knows no law. At that moment France was without a head. The
Emperor was gone, the old Senate was gone, the Legislative Body was
gone, and the country was actually without a government, and so, as a
matter of self-preservation, the National Assembly held on. It elected
M. Thiers President of the State, and he performed his duties with
such consummate ability that France had never been so well governed
before. Then in an evil hour, finding that he was an obstacle to the
plans of the Legitimists to restore the Monarchy, they combined to
force him to resign, and put Marshal MacMahon in his place, a man who
may be a good soldier (although he never did anything very great, and
blundered fearfully in the German war, having his whole army captured
at Sedan), but who never pretended to be a statesman. He was selected
as a convenient tool in the hands of the intriguers. But even in him
they find they have more than they bargained for; for in a moment of
confidence they voted him the executive power for seven years, and now
he will not give up, even to make way for a Legitimate sovereign, for
the Comte de Chambord, or for the son of his late Emperor, Napoleon
III. All this time the Assembly has been acting without any legal
authority; but as power is sweet, it held on, and is holding on still.
But now, as order is fully restored, all excuse is taken away for
surviving longer. The only thing it has to do is to die gracefully,
that is, to dissolve, and leave it to the country to elect a new
Assembly which, being fresh from the people, shall more truly
represent the will of the nation. And yet these men are very reluctant
to go, knowing as many of them do, that they will not return. Hence
the great question now is that of _dissolution_--"to be or not to be";
and it is not strange that many postpone as long as they can "the
inevitable hour." It is for this reason, it is said, because of its
relation to the question of its own existence, that the Assembly
wrangles over unimportant matters, hoping by such discussions to cause
delay, and so to throw over the elections till another year.

But as time and tide wait for no man, so death comes on with stealthy
step, and this National Assembly must soon go the way of all the
earth. What will come after it? Another Assembly--so it seems
now--more Republican still. That is the fear of the Monarchists. But
the cause of the Republic has gained greatly in these four years, as
it is seen to be not incompatible with order. It is no longer the Red
Republic, which inspired such terror; it is not communism, nor
socialism, nor war against property. _It is combined order and
liberty._ As this conviction penetrates the mass of the people, they
are converted to the new political faith, and so the Republic begins
to settle itself on sure foundations. It is all the more likely to be
permanent, because it was not adopted in a burst of popular
enthusiasm, but _very slowly_, and from necessity. It is accepted
because no other government is possible in France, at least for any
length of time. If the Comte de Chambord were proclaimed king
to-morrow, he might reign for a few years--_till the next revolution_.
It is this conviction which has brought many conservative men to the
side of the Republic. M. Thiers, the most sagacious of French
statesmen, has always been in favor of monarchy. He was the Minister
of Louis Philippe, and one of his sayings used to be quoted: "A
constitutional monarchy is the best of republics." Perhaps he would
still prefer a government like that of England. But he sees that to
be impossible in France, and, like a wise man that he is, he takes the
next best thing--which is A CONSERVATIVE REPUBLIC, based on a written
constitution, like that of the United States, and girt round by every
check on the exercise of power--a government in which there is the
greatest possible degree of personal freedom consistent with public
order. To this, as the final result of all her revolutions, France
seems to be steadily gravitating now, as her settled form of
government. That this last experiment of political regeneration may be
successful, must be the hope of all friends of liberty, not only in
America, but all over the world.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF PARIS.


I have written of the startling contrasts of London; what shall I say
of those of Paris? It is the gayest city in the world, yet the one in
which there are more suicides than in any other. It is the city of
pleasure, yet where pleasure often turns to pain, and the dance of
dissipation, whirling faster and faster, becomes the dance of death.
It is a city which seems devoted to amusement, to which the rich and
the idle flock from all countries to spend life in an endless round of
enjoyment; with which some of our countrymen have become so infatuated
that their real feeling is pretty well expressed in the familiar
saying--half witty and half wicked--that "all good Americans go to
Paris _when they die_." Certainly many of them do not dream of any
higher Paradise.

And yet it is a city in which there are many sad and mournful scenes,
and in which he who observes closely, who looks a little under the
surface, will often walk the streets in profound melancholy. In short,
it is a city of such infinite variety, so many-colored, that the
laughing and the weeping philosopher may find abundant material for
his peculiar vein. Eugene Sue, in his "Mysteries of Paris," has made
us familiar with certain tragic aspects of Parisian life hidden from
the common eye. With all its gayety, there is a great deal of
concealed misery which keeps certain quarters in a chronic state of
discontent, which often breaks out in bloody insurrections; so that
the city which boasts that it is "the centre of civilization," is at
the same time the focus of revolution, of most of the plots and
conspiracies which trouble the peace of Europe. As the capital of a
great nation, the centre of its intellectual, its literary, and its
artistic life, it has a peculiar fascination for those who delight in
the most elevated social intercourse. Its salons are the most
brilliant in the world, so that we can understand the feeling of
Madame de Stael, the woman of society, who considered her banishment
from Paris by the first Napoleon as the greatest punishment, and who
"would rather see the stones of the Rue du Bac than all the mountains
of Switzerland"; and yet this very brilliancy sometimes wearies to
satiety, so that we can understand equally the feeling of poor, morbid
Jean Jacques Rousseau, who more than a hundred years ago turned his
back upon it with disgust, saying, "Farewell, Paris! city of noise,
and dust, and strife! He who values peace of mind can never be far
enough from thee!"

If we are quite just, we shall not go to either of these extremes. We
shall see the good and the evil, and frankly acknowledge both. Paris
is generally supposed to be a sinner above all other cities; to have a
kind of bad eminence for its immorality. It is thought to be a centre
of vice and demoralization, and some innocent young preachers who have
never crossed the sea, would no doubt feel justified in denouncing it
as the wickedest city in the world. As to the extent to which
immorality of any kind prevails, I have no means of judging, except
such as every stranger has; but certainly as to intemperance, there is
nothing here to compare with that in London, or Glasgow, or Edinburgh;
and as to the other form of vice we can only judge by its public
display, and there is nothing half so gross, which so outrages all
decency, as that which shocks and disgusts every foreigner in the
streets of London. No doubt here, as in every great capital which
draws to itself the life of a whole nation, there is a concentration
of the bad as well as the good elements of society, and we must expect
to find much that is depraved and vicious; but that in these respects
Paris is worse than London, or Berlin, or Vienna, or even New York, I
see no reason to believe.

Without taking, therefore, a lofty attitude of denunciation on the one
hand, or going into sudden raptures on the other, there are certain
aspects of Paris which lie on the surface, and which any one may
observe without claiming to be either wiser or better than his
neighbors.

I have tried to see the city both in its brighter lights and its
darker shadows. I have lived in Paris, first and last, a good deal. I
was here six months in 1847-8, and saw the Revolution which overthrew
Louis Philippe, and have been here often since. I confess I am fond of
it, and always return with pleasure. That which strikes the stranger
at once is its bright, sunny aspect; there is something inspiring in
the very look of the people; one feels a change in the very air. Since
we came here now, we have been riding about from morning to night. Our
favorite drive is along the Boulevards just at evening, when the lamps
are lighted, and all Paris seems to be sitting out of doors. The work
of the day is over, and the people have nothing to do but to enjoy
themselves. By hundreds and thousands they are sitting on the wide
pavements, sipping their coffee, and talking with indescribable
animation. Then we extend our ride to the Champs Elysees, where the
broad avenue is one blaze of light, and places of amusement are open
on every side, from which comes the sound of music. It is all a fairy
scene, such as one reads of in the Arabian Nights. Thousands are
sitting under the trees, enjoying the cool evening air, or coming in
from a ride to the Bois de Boulogne.

But it may be thought that these are the pleasures of the rich. On the
contrary, they are the pleasures of all classes; and that is the
charming thing about it. That which pleases me most in Paris is the
_general_ cheerfulness. I do not observe such wide extremes of
condition as in London, such painful contrasts between the rich and
the poor. Indeed, I do not find here such abject poverty, nor see
such dark, sullen, scowling faces, which indicate such brutal
degradation, as I saw in the low quarters of London. Here everybody
seems to be, at least in a small way, comfortable and contented. I
have spoken once before of the industry of the people (no city in the
world is such a hive of busy bees) and of their economy, which shows
itself even in their pleasures, of which they are fond, but which they
get _very cheap_. No people will get so much out of so little. What an
English workman would spend in a single drunken debauch, a Frenchman
will spread over a week, and get a little enjoyment out of it every
day. It delights me to see how they take their pleasures. Everybody
seems to be happy in his own way, and not to be envious of his
neighbor. If a man cannot ride with two horses, he will go with one,
and even if that one be a sorry hack, with ribs sticking out of his
sides, and that seems just ready for the crows, no matter, he will
pile his wife and children into the little, low carriage, and off they
go, not at great speed, to be sure, but as gay and merry as if they
were the Emperor and his court, with outriders going before, and a
body of cavalry clattering at their heels. When I have seen a whole
family at Versailles or St. Cloud dining on five francs (oh no, that
is too magnificent; they carry their dinner with them, and it probably
does not cost them two francs), I admire the simple tastes which are
so easily satisfied, and the miracle-working art which extracts honey
from every daisy by the roadside.

Such simple and universal enjoyment would not be possible, but for one
trait which is peculiar to the French--an entire absence of _mauvaise
honte_, or false shame; the foolish pride, which is so common in
England and America, of wishing to be thought as rich or as great as
others. In London no one would dare, even if he were allowed, to show
himself in Hyde Park in such unpretentious turnouts as those in which
half Paris will go to the Bois de Boulogne. But here everybody jogs
along at his own gait, not troubling himself about his neighbor. "Live
and let live" seems to be, if not the law of the country, at least the
universal habit of the people. Whatever other faults the French have,
I believe they are freer than most nations from "envy, malice, and all
uncharitableness."

With this there is a feeling of self-respect, even among the common
people, that is very pleasing. If you speak to a French servant, or to
a workman in a blouse, he does not sink into the earth as if he were
an inferior being, or take a tone of servility, but answers politely,
yet self-respectingly, as one conscious that he too is a man. The most
painful thing that I found in England was the way in which the
distinctions of rank, which seem to be as rigid as the castes of
India, have eaten into the manhood and self-respect of our great
Anglo-Saxon race. But here "a man's a man," and especially if he is a
Frenchman, he is as good as anybody.

From this absence of false pride and false shame comes the readiness
of the people to talk about their private affairs. How quickly they
take you into their confidence, and tell you all their little personal
histories! The other day we went to the Salpetriere, the great
hospital for aged women, which Mrs. Field describes in her "Home
Sketches in France," where are five thousand poor creatures cared for
by the charity of Paris. Hundreds of these were seated under the
trees, or walking about the grounds. As I went to find one of the
officials, I left C---- standing under an arch. Seeing her there, one
of the old women, with that politeness which is instinctive with the
French, invited her into her little room. When I came back, I found
they had struck up a friendship. The good mother--poor, dear, old
soul!--had told all her little story: who she was, and how she came
there, and how she lived. She made her own soup, she said, and had put
up some pretty muslin curtains, and had a tiny bit of a stove, and so
got along very nicely. This communicativeness is not confined to the
inmates of hospitals. It is a national trait, which makes us love a
people that give us their confidence so freely.

I might add many other amiable traits, which give a great charm to the
social life of the French, and fill their homes with brightness and
sunshine.

But of course there is another side to the picture. There is lightning
in the beautiful cloud, and sometimes the thunder breaks fearfully
over this devoted city. I do not refer to great public calamities,
such as war and siege, bringing "battle, and murder, and sudden
death," but to those daily tragedies, which are enacted in a great
city, which the world never hears of, where men and women drop out of
existence, as one

     "Sinks into the waves with bubbling groan,"

and disappear from view, and the ocean rolls over them, burying the
story of their unhappy lives and their wretched end. Something of this
darker shading to bright and gay Paris, one may discover who is
curious in such matters. There is a kind of fascination which
sometimes lures me to search out that which is sombre and tragic in
human life and in history. So I have been to the Prison de la
Roquette, over which is an inscription which might be written over the
gates of hell: DEPOT DES CONDAMNES. Here the condemned are placed
before they are led to death, and in the open space in front take
place all the executions in Paris. Look you at those five stones deep
set in the pavement, on which are planted the posts of the Guillotine!
Over that in the centre hangs the fatal knife, which descends on the
neck of the victim, whose head rolls into the basket below.

But prisons are not peculiar to Paris, and probably quite as many
executions have been witnessed in front of Newgate, in London. But
that which gives a peculiar and sadder interest to this spot, is that
here took place one of the most terrible tragedies even in French
history--the massacre of the hostages in the days of the Commune. In
that prison yard the venerable Archbishop of Paris was shot, with
others who bore honored names. No greater atrocity was enacted even in
the Reign of Terror. There fiends in human shape, with hearts as hard
as the stones of the street, butchered old age. In another quarter of
Paris, on the heights of Montmartre, the enraged populace shot down
two brave generals--Lecompte and Clement-Thomas. I put my hand into
the very holes made in the wall of a house by the murderous balls.
Such cowardly assassinations, occurring more than once in French
history, reveal a trait of character not quite so amiable as some that
I have noticed. They show that the polite and polished Frenchman may
be so aroused as to be turned into a wild beast, and give a color of
reason to the savage remark of Voltaire--himself one of the race--that
"a Frenchman was half monkey and half tiger."

I will present but one other dark picture. I went one day, to the
horror of my companion, to visit THE MORGUE, the receptacle of all the
suicides in Paris, where their bodies are exposed that they may be
recognized by friends. Of course some are brought here who die
suddenly in the streets, and whose names are unknown. But the number
of suicides is fearfully great. Bodies are constantly fished out of
the Seine, of those who throw themselves from the numerous bridges.
Others climb to the top of the Column in the Place Vendome, or of that
on the Place of the Bastille, or to the towers of Notre Dame, and
throw themselves over the parapet, and their mangled bodies are picked
up on the pavement below. Others find the fumes of charcoal an easier
way to fall into "an eternal sleep." But thus, by one means or other,
by pistol or by poison, by the tower or the river, almost every day
has its victim. I think the exact statistics show more than one
suicide a day throughout the year. When I was at the Morgue there were
two bodies stretched out stark and cold--a man and a woman, _both
young_. I looked at them with very sad reflections. If those poor lips
could but speak, what tragedies they might tell! Who knows what hard
battle of life they had to fight--what struggles wrung that manly
breast, or what sorrow broke that woman's heart? Who was she?

     "Had she a father? had she a mother?
     Had she a sister? had she a brother?
     Or one dearer still than all other?"

Perhaps she had led a life of shame, but all trace of passion was gone
now:

     "Death had left on her
     Only the beautiful."

And as I marked the rich tresses which hung down over her shoulders, I
thought Jesus would not have disdained her if she had come to him as a
penitent Magdalen, and with that flowing hair had wiped His sacred
feet.

I do not draw these sad pictures to point a moral against the French,
as if they were sinners above all others, but I think this great
number of suicides may be ascribed, in part at least, to the mercurial
and excitable character of the people. They are easily elated and
easily depressed; now rising to the height of joyous excitement, and
now sinking to the depths of despair. And when these darker moods come
on, what so natural as that those who have not a strong religious
feeling to restrain them, or to give them patience to bear their
trials, should seek a quick relief in that calm rest which no rude
waking shall ever disturb? If they had that faith in God, and a life
to come, which is the only true consolation in all time of our
trouble, in all time of our adversity, they would not so often rush to
the grave, thinking to bury their sorrows in the silence of the tomb.

Thus musing on the lights and shadows of Paris, I turn away half in
admiration and half in pity, but all in love. With all its shadows, it
is a wonderful city, by far the greatest, except London, in the modern
world, and the French are a wonderful people; and while I am not blind
to their weaknesses, their vanity, their childish passion for military
glory, yet "with all their faults I love them still." And I have
written thus, not only from a feeling of love for Paris from personal
associations, but from a sense of _justice_, believing that the harsh
judgment often pronounced upon it is hasty and mistaken. All such
sweeping declarations are sure to be wrong. No doubt the elements of
good and evil are mingled here in large proportions, and act with
great intensity, and sometimes with terrific results. But Frenchmen
are not worse than other men, nor Paris worse than other cities. If it
has some dark spots, it has many bright ones, in its ancient seats of
learning and its noble institutions of charity. Taking them all
together, they form a basis for a very kindly judgment. And I believe
that He who from His throne in Heaven looks down upon all the dwellers
upon earth, seeing that in the judgment of truth and of history this
city is not utterly condemned, would say "Neither do I condemn thee:
go and sin no more."




CHAPTER IX.

GOING ON A PILGRIMAGE.


     GENEVA, July 12th.

We have been on a pilgrimage. In coming to France, I had a great
desire to visit one of those shrines which have become of late objects
of such enthusiastic devotion, and attracted pilgrims from all parts
of Europe, and even from America. In a former chapter I spoke of the
Resurrection of France, referring to its material prosperity as
restored since the war. There has been also a revival of religious
fervor--call it superstition or fanaticism--which is quite remarkable.
Those who have kept watch of events in the religious as well as in the
political world, have observed a sudden access of zeal throughout
Catholic Christendom. Whatever the cause, whether the "persecution,"
real or imaginary, of the Holy Father, or the heavy blows which the
Church has received from the iron hand of Germany in its wars with
Austria and France--the fact is evident that there has been a great
increase of activity among the more devout Catholics--which shows
itself in a spirit of propagandism, in "missions," which are a kind of
revivals, and in pilgrimages to places which are regarded as having a
peculiar sanctity.

These pilgrimages are so utterly foreign to our American ideas, they
appear so childish and ridiculous, that it seems impossible to speak
of them with gravity. And yet there has been at least one of these
pious expeditions from the United States (of which there was a long
account in the New York papers), in which the pilgrims walked in
procession down Broadway, and embarked with the blessing of our new
American Cardinal. From England they have been quite frequent. Large
numbers, among whom we recognize the names of several well known
Catholic noblemen, assemble in London, and receive the blessing of
Cardinal Manning, and then leave to make devout pilgrimages to the
"holy places" (which are no longer only in Palestine, but for greater
convenience have been brought nearer, and are now to be found in
France), generally ending with a pilgrimage to Rome, to cast
themselves at the feet of the Holy Father, who gives them his
blessing, while he bewails the condition of Europe, and anathematizes
those who "oppress" the Church--thus blessing and cursing at the same
time.

If my object in writing were to cast ridicule on the whole affair,
there is something very tempting in the easy and luxurious way in
which these modern pilgrimages are performed. Of old, when a pilgrim
set out for the Holy Land, it was with nothing but a staff in his
hand, and sandals on his feet, and thus he travelled hundreds of
leagues, over mountain and moor, through strange countries, begging
his way from door to door, reaching his object at last perhaps only to
die. Even the pilgrimage to Mecca has something imposing to the
imagination, as a long procession of camels files out of the streets
of Cairo, and takes the way of the desert. But these more fashionable
pilgrims travel by steam, in first-class railway carriages, with
Cook's excursion tickets, and are duly lodged and cared for, from the
moment they set out till they are safely returned to England. One of
Cook's agents in Paris told me he had thus conveyed a party of two
thousand. It must be confessed, this is devotion made easy, in
accordance with the spirit of the modern time, which is not exactly a
spirit of self-sacrifice, but "likes all things comfortable"--even
religion.

But my object was not to ridicule, but to observe. If I did not go as
a pilgrim, on the one hand, neither was it merely as a travelling
correspondent, aiming only at a sensational description. If I did not
go in a spirit of faith, it was at least in a spirit of candor, to
observe and report things exactly as I saw them.

But how was I to reach one of these holy shrines? They are a long way
off. The grotto of Lourdes, where the Holy Virgin is said to have
appeared to a girl of the country, is in the Pyrenees; while
Paray-le-Monial is nearly three hundred miles southeast from Paris.
However, it is not very far aside from the route to Switzerland, and
so we took it on our way to Geneva, resting over a day at Macon for
the purpose.

It was a bright summer morning when we started from Macon, and wound
our way among the vine-clad hills of the ancient province of Burgundy.
It is a picturesque country. Old chateaux hang upon the sides, or
crown the summits of the hills, while quaint little villages nestle at
their foot. In yonder village was born the poet and statesman,
Lamartine. We can see in passing the chateau where he lived, and here,
"after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." All these sunny slopes
are covered with vineyards, which are now smiling in their summer
dress. I do not wonder that pilgrims, as they enter this
"hill-country," are often reminded of Palestine. Three hours brought
us to Paray-le-Monial, a little town of three or four thousand
inhabitants--just like hundreds of others in France, with nothing to
attract attention, except the marvellous tradition which has given it
a sudden and universal celebrity, and which causes devout Catholics to
approach it with a feeling of reverence.

The story of the place is this: In the little town is a convent, which
has been standing for generations. Here, _two hundred years ago_,
lived a nun, whose name was Marguerite Marie Alacoque, who was eminent
for her piety, who spent a great part of her life in prayer, and whose
devotion was at length rewarded by the personal appearance of our
Lord, who opened to her his bosom, and showed her his heart burning
with love for men, and bade her devote herself to the worship of that
"sacred heart"! These visitations were very frequent. Some of them
were in the chapel, and some in the garden attached to the convent.
The latter is not open to visitors, the Pope having issued an order
that the privacy of the _religieuses_ should be respected. But a
church near by overlooks it, and whoever will take the fatigue to
climb to the top, may look down into the forbidden place. As we were
determined to see everything, we mounted all the winding stone steps
in the tower, from which the keeper pointed out to us the very spot
where our Saviour appeared to the Bienheureuse, as he called her. In a
clump of small trees are two statues, one of the Lord himself, and the
other of the nun on her knees, as she instantly sank to the ground
when she recognized before her the Majesty of her blessed Lord. There
is another place in the garden where also she beheld the same heavenly
vision. Sometimes the "Seigneur" appeared to her unattended; at others
he was accompanied by angels and seraphim.

It is a little remarkable that this wonderful fact of the personal
appearance of Christ, though it occurred, according to the tradition,
_two hundred years ago_, did not attract more attention; that it was
neglected even by Catholic historians, until twelve years since--in
1863--when (as a part of a general movement "all along the line" to
revive the decaying faith of France) the marvellous story of this long
neglected saint was revived, and brought to the notice and adoration
of the religious world.

But let not cold criticism come in to mar the full enjoyment of what
we have come so far to see. The principal visitations were not in the
garden but in the chapel of the convent, which on that account bears
the name of the Chapel of the Visitation. Here is the tomb which
contains the body of the sainted nun, an image of whom in wax lies
above it under a glass case, dressed in the robe of her order, with a
crown on her head, to bring before the imagination of the faithful the
presence of her at whose shrine they worship. The chapel is separated
from the convent by a large grating, behind which the nuns can be
hidden and yet hear the service, and chant their offices. There it
was, so it is said, behind that grate, while in an ecstasy of prayer,
that our Saviour first appeared to the gaze of the enraptured nun. The
grate is now literally covered with golden hearts, the offerings of
the faithful. Similar gifts hang over the altar, while gilded banners
and other votive offerings cover the walls.

As we entered the chapel, it was evident that we were in what was to
many a holy place. At the moment there was no service going on, but
some were engaged in silent meditation and prayer. We seemed to be the
only persons present from curiosity. All around us were absorbed in
devotion. We sat a long time in silence, musing on the strange scene,
unwilling to disturb even by a whisper the stillness of the place, or
the thoughts of those who had come to worship. At three o'clock the
nuns began to sing their offices. But they did not show themselves.
There are other Sisters, who have the care of the chapel, and who come
in to trim the candles before the shrine, but the nuns proper live a
life of entire seclusion, never being seen by any one. Only their
voices are heard. Nothing could be more plaintive than their low
chanting, as it issued from behind the bars of their prison house, and
seemed to come from a distance. There, hidden from the eyes of all,
sat that invisible choir, and sang strains as soft as those which
floated over the shepherds of Bethlehem. As an accompaniment to the
scene in the chapel, nothing could be more effective; it was well
fitted to touch the imagination, as also when the priest intoned the
service in the dim light of this little church, with its censers
swinging with incense, and its ever-burning lamps.

The walls of the chapel are covered with banners, some from other
countries, but most from France, and here it is easy to see how the
patriotic feeling mingles with the religious. Here and there may be
seen the image of the sacred heart with a purely religious
inscription, such as _Voici le coeur qui a tant aime les hommes_
(here is the heart which has so loved men); but much more often it is,
COEUR DE JESUS, SAUVEZ LA FRANCE! This idea in some form constantly
reappears, and one cannot help thinking that this sudden outburst of
religious zeal has been greatly intensified by the disasters of the
German war; that for the first time French armies beaten in the field,
have resorted to prayer; that they fly to the Holy Virgin, and to the
Sacred Heart of Jesus to implore the protection which their own arms
could not give. Hung in conspicuous places on columns beside the
chancel are banners of Alsace and Lorraine, _covered with crape_, the
former with a cross in the centre, encircled with the words first
written in the sky before the adoring eyes of Constantine: IN HOC
SIGNO VINCES; while for Lorraine stands only the single name of METZ,
invested with such sad associations, with the inscription, SACRE
COEUR DE JESUS, SAUVEZ LA FRANCE!

There is no doubt that these pilgrimages have been encouraged by
French politicians, as a means of reviving and inflaming the
enthusiasm of the people, not only for the old Catholic faith, but for
the old Catholic monarchy. Of the tens of thousands who flock to these
shrines, there are few who are not strong Legitimists. On the walls of
the chapel the most glittering banner is that of HENRI DE BOURBON,
which is the name by which the Comte de Chambord chooses to be known
as the representative of the old royal race. Not to be outdone in
pious zeal, Marshal MacMahon, who is a devout Catholic--and his wife
still more so--has also sent a banner to Paray-le-Monial, but it is
not displayed with the same ostentation. The Legitimists have no wish
to keep his name too much before the French people. He is well enough
as a temporary head of the State till the rightful sovereign comes,
but when Henri de Bourbon appears, they want no "Marshal-President" to
stand in his way as he ascends the throne of his ancestors.

Thus excited by a strange mixture of religious zeal and political
enthusiasm, France pours its multitudes annually to these shrines of
Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial. We were too late for the rush this
year--the season was just over; for there is a season for going on
pilgrimages as for going to watering-places, and June is the month in
which they come in the greatest numbers. There have been as many as
twenty thousand in one day. On the 16th of June--which was a special
occasion--the crowd was so great that Mass was begun at two o'clock in
the morning, and repeated without ceasing till noon, the worshippers
retiring at the end of every half hour, that a new throng might take
their places. Thus successive pilgrims press forward to the holy
shrine, and go away with an elated, almost ecstatic feeling, that they
have left their sins and their sorrows at the tomb of the now sainted
and glorified nun.

What shall we say to this? That it is all nonsense--folly, born of
fanaticism and superstition? Medical men will have an easy way of
disposing of this nun and her visions, by saying that she was simply a
crazy woman; that nothing is more common than these fancies of a
distempered imagination; that such cases may be found in every lunatic
asylum; that hysterical women often think that they have seen the
Saviour, &c. Such is a very natural explanation of this singular
phenomenon. There is no reason to suppose that this nun was a
designing woman, that she intended to deceive. People who have visions
are the sincerest of human beings. They have unbounded faith in
themselves, and think it strange that an unbelieving world does not
give the same credit to their revelations.

From all that I have read of this Marie Alacoque, I am quite ready to
believe that she was indeed a very devout woman, who, buried in that
living tomb, a convent, praying and fasting, worked herself into such
a fever of excitement, that she thought the Saviour came down into the
garden, and into the chapel; that she saw his form and heard his
voice. To her it was all a living reality. But that her simple
statement, supported by no other evidence, should be gravely accepted
in this nineteenth century by men who are supposed to be still in the
possession of sober reason, is one of the strange things which it
would be impossible to believe, were it not that I have seen it with
my own eyes, and which is one more proof that wonders will never
cease.

But sincerity of faith always commands a certain respect, even when
coupled with ignorance and superstition. If this shows an extreme of
credulity absolutely pitiful, yet we must consider it not as _we_ look
at it, but as these devout pilgrims regard it. To them this spot is
one of the holy places of the world, for here they believe the
Incarnate Divinity descended to the earth; they believe that this
garden has been touched by His blessed feet; and that this little
chapel, so honored in the past, is still filled with the presence of
Him who once was here, but is now ascended up far above all heavens.
And hence this Paray-le-Monial in their minds is invested with the
same sacred associations with which we regard Nazareth and Bethlehem.

But with every disposition to look upon these manifestations in the
most indulgent light, it is impossible not to feel that there is
something very French in this way of attempting to revive the faith of
a great nation. Among this people everything seems to have a touch of
the theatrical--even in their religion there is frequency more of show
than of conviction. Thus this new worship is not addressed to the name
of our Saviour, but to His "sacred heart"! There is something in that
image which seems to take captive the French imagination. The very
words have a rich and mellow sound. And so the attempt which was
begun in an obscure village of Burgundy, is now proclaimed in Paris
and throughout the kingdom, to dedicate France to the sacred heart of
Jesus.

This peculiar form of worship is the new religious fashion. A few
weeks since an imposing service attracted the attention of Paris. A
procession of bishops and priests, followed by great numbers of the
faithful, wound through the streets, up to the heights of Montmartre,
there to lay, with solemn ceremonies, the corner-stone of a new church
dedicated to the sacred heart. We drove to the spot, which is the
highest in the whole circle of Paris, and which overlooks it almost as
Edinburgh Castle overlooks that city. There one looks down on the
habitations of two millions of people. A church erected on that
height, with its golden cross lifted into mid-heaven, would seem like
a banner in the sky, to hold up before this unbelieving people an
everlasting sign of the faith.

But though the Romish Church should consecrate ever so many shrines;
though it build churches and cathedrals, and rear its flaming crosses
on every hill and mountain from the Alps to the Pyrenees; it is not
thus that religion is to be enthroned in the hearts of a nation. The
fact is not to be disguised that France has fallen away from the
faith. It looks on at all these attempts with indifference, or with an
amused curiosity. If popular writers notice them at all, it is to make
them an object of ridicule. At one of the Paris theatres an actor
appears dressed as a Brahmin, and offers to swear "by the sacred heart
of _a cow_" (that being a sacred animal in India). The hit is caught
at once by the audience, who answer it with applause. It is thus that
the populace of Paris sneer at the new superstition.

Would to God that France might be speedily recovered to a true
Christian faith; but it is not to be by any such fantastic tricks or
theatrical devices, by shows or processions, by gilded crosses or
waving banners, or by going on pilgrimages as in the days of the
Crusades. Even the Catholic Church has more efficient instruments at
command. The Sisters of Charity in hospitals are far more effective
missionaries than nuns behind the bars of a convent, singing hymns to
the Virgin, or lamps burning before the shrine of a saint dead
hundreds of years ago. If France is ever to be brought back to the
faith, it must be by arguments addressed to the understanding, which
shall meet the objections of modern science and philosophy; and, above
all, by living examples of its power. If Religion is to conquer the
modern world; if it is even to keep its present hold among the
nations, it must be brought into contact with the minds and hearts of
the people as never before; it must grapple with the problems of
modern society, with poverty and misery in all its forms. Especially
in the great capitals of Europe it has its hardest field, and there it
must go into all the narrow lanes and miserable dwellings, it must
minister to the sick, and clothe the naked and feed the hungry. France
will never be converted merely by dramatic exhibitions, that touch the
imagination. It must be by something that can touch the conscience and
the heart. Thus only can the heart of France ever be won to "the
sacred heart of Jesus."




CHAPTER X.

UNDER THE SHADOW OF MONT BLANC.


     THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI, July 15th.

I did not mean to write anything about Switzerland, because it is such
trodden ground. Almost everybody that has been in Europe has been
here, and even to those who have not, repeated descriptions have made
it familiar. And yet when once among these mountains, the impression
comes back fresh and strong as ever, and while the spell is on the
traveller, he cannot but wish to impart a little of his enjoyment to
friends at home.

We are in the Vale of Chamouni, under the shadow of Mont Blanc. In
this valley, shut in by the encircling mountains, one cannot escape
from that "awful form" any more than from the presence of God. It is
everywhere day and night. We throw open our windows, and it is
standing right before us. Even at night the moonlight is glistening on
its eternal snows. Thus it forces itself upon us, and must receive
respectful homage.

We left Geneva on one of the most beautiful mornings of the year.
There has been great lamentation throughout Switzerland this summer,
on account of the frequent rains, which have enveloped the mountains
in a continual mist. But we have been favored in this respect, both at
Geneva and at Chamouni. To set out on a mountain excursion on such a
morning, and ride on the top of a diligence, is enough to stir the
blood of the most languid tourist. A French diligence is a monstrous
affair--a kind of Noah's Ark on wheels--that carries a multitude of
living creatures. We had twenty-four persons (three times as many as
Noah had in the Ark) mounted on this huge vehicle, to which were
harnessed six horses, three abreast. We had the front seat on the top.
In such grandeur we rolled out of Geneva, feeling at every step the
exhilaration of the mountain air, and the bright summer morning. The
postilion was in his glory. How he cracked his whip as we rattled
through the little Swiss villages, making the people run to get out of
his way, and stare in wonder at the tremendous momentum of his
imperial equipage. To us, who sat sublime "above the noise and dust of
this dim spot called earth," there was something at once exciting and
ludicrous in the commotion we made. But there were other occasions for
satisfaction. The day was divine. The country around Geneva rises from
the lake, and spreads out in wide, rolling distances, bordered on
every side by the great mountains. The air was full of the smell of
new-mown hay, while over all hung the bending sky, full of sunshine.
Thus with every sense keen with delight, we sat on high and took in
the full glory of the scene, as we swept on towards the Alps.

As we advance the mountains close in around us, till we cannot see
where we are to find a passage through them. For the last half of the
way the construction of the road has been a difficult task of
engineering; for miles it has to be built up against the mountain; at
other places a passage is cut in the side of the cliff, or a tunnel
made through the rock. Yet difficult as it was, the work has been
thoroughly done. It was completed by Napoleon III., after Savoy was
annexed to France, and is worthy to compare with the road which the
first Napoleon built over the Simplon. Over such a highway we rolled
on steadily to the end of our journey.

And now we are in the Vale of Chamouni, in the very heart of the Alps,
under the shadow of the greatest of them all:

     "Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains
       They crowned him long ago
     On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
       With a diadem of snow."

Once in the valley, we can hardly turn aside our eyes from that
overpowering object. We keep looking up at that mighty dome, which
seems to touch the sky. Fortunately for us, there was no cloud about
the throne. Like other monarchs, he is somewhat fitful and capricious,
often hiding his royal head from the sight of his worshippers. Many
persons come to Chamouni, and do not see Mont Blanc at all. Sometimes
they wait for days for an audience of his majesty, without success.
But he favored us at once with the sight of his imperial countenance.
Glorious was it to behold him as he shone in the last rays of the
setting sun. And when evening drew on, the moon hung above that lofty
summit, as if unwilling to leave. As she declined towards the west,
she did not disappear at once; but as the mountains themselves sank
away from the height of Mont Blanc, the moon seemed to glide slowly
down the descending slope, setting and reappearing, and touching the
whole with her silver radiance.

But sunset and moonlight were both less impressive than sunrise.
Remembering Coleridge's "Hymn to Mont Blanc," which is supposed to be
written "before sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni," we were up in the
morning to catch the earliest dawn. It was long in coming. At first a
few faint streaks of light shot up the eastern sky; then a rosy tinge
flushed the head of Mont Blanc; then other snowy summits caught the
golden glow; till a hundred splintered peaks, that formed a part of
the mighty range, reflected the light of coming day, and at last the
full orb himself rose above the tops of the mountains, and shone down
into the valley.

Of course all visitors to Chamouni have to climb some of the lower
mountains to see the glaciers, and get a general view of the chain of
Mont Blanc. My companion was ambitious to do something more than
this. She is a very good walker and climber, and had taken many long
tramps among our Berkshire Hills, and to her Mont Blanc did not seem
much more than Monument Mountain. In truth, the eye is deceived in
judging of these tremendous heights, and cannot take in at first the
real elevation. But when they are accurately measured, Mont Blanc is
found to be about twenty times as high as the cliff which overlooks
our Housatonic Valley! But a young enthusiast feels equal to anything,
and she seemed really quite disappointed that she could not at least
go as far as the Grands Mulets (where, with a telescope, we can just
see a little cabin on the rocks), which is the limit of the first
day's journey for adventurous tourists, most of whom do not get any
further. A party that went up yesterday, intending to reach the top of
Mont Blanc, had to turn back. A recent fall of snow had buried the
mountain, so that they sank deep at every step; and finding it
dangerous to proceed, they prudently abandoned the attempt.

The ascent of Mont Blanc, at all times difficult, is often a dangerous
undertaking. Many adventurous travellers have lost their lives in the
attempt. An avalanche may bury a whole party in a moment; or if lashed
to the guides by a rope, one slipping may drag the whole down into one
of the enormous crevasses, where now many bodies lie unburied, yet
preserved from decay in the eternal ice. Only five years ago, in
September, 1870, a party of eleven--three tourists (of whom two were
Americans), with eight guides and porters--were all lost. They had
succeeded in reaching the summit of the mountain, when a snow-storm
came on, and it was impossible for them to descend. The body of one of
them, Dr. Bean, of Baltimore, was recovered, and is buried in the
little graveyard here. With such warnings, a sober old uncle might be
excused for restraining a young lady's impetuosity. If we could be
here a month, and "go into training," by long walks and climbs every
day, I do believe we should gradually work our courage up to the
sticking-point, and at last climb to the top, and plant a very modest
American flag on the hoary head of Mont Blanc.

But for the present we must be content with a less ambitious
performance, and make only the customary ascent of the Montanvert, and
cross the Mer de Glace. We left at eight o'clock yesterday morning.
Our friends in New York would hardly have recognized me in my
travelling dress of Scotch gray, with a slouched straw hat on my head,
and an alpenstock in my hand. The hat was very useful, if not
ornamental. I bought it for one franc, and it answered as well as if
it had cost a guinea. To be sure, as it had a broad brim, it had a
slight tendency to take wings and fly away, and light in some mountain
torrent, from which it was speared out with the alpenstock, and
restored to its place of honor; but it did excellent service in
protecting my eyes from the blinding reflection of the snow. C---- was
mounted on a mule, which she had at first refused, preferring her own
agile feet; but I insisted on it, as a very useful beast to fall back
upon in case the fatigue was too great. Thus accoutred, our little
cavalcade, with our guide leading the way, filed out of Chamouni. If
any of my readers laugh at our droll appearance, they are quite
welcome--for we laughed at ourselves. Comfort is worth more than
dignity in such a case; and if anybody is abashed at the ludicrous
figure he cuts, he may console himself by reflecting that he is in
good company. I saw in Paris the famous picture by David of Napoleon
crossing the Alps, which represents him mounted on a gallant charger,
his military cloak flying in the air, while he points his soldiers
upward to the heights they are to scale. This is very fine to look at;
but the historical fact is said to be that Napoleon rode over the Alps
on a mule, and if he encountered rains and storms, he was no doubt as
bedraggled as any Alpine tourist. But that did not prevent his gaining
the battle of Marengo.

But all thoughts of our appearance vanish when once we begin to climb
the mountain side. For two hours we kept winding in a zigzag path
through the perpetual pine forest. At every turn in the road, or
opening in the trees, we stopped to look at the valley below, where
the objects grew smaller, as we receded further from them. Is it not
so in life? As some one has said, "Everything will look small enough
if we only get high enough." All rude noises died away in the
distance, till there rose into the upper air only the sound of the
streams that were rushing through the valley below.

At a chalet half way up the mountain a living chamois was kept for
show. It was very young, and was suckled by a goat. It was touching to
see how the little creature pined for freedom, and leaped against the
sides of his pen. Child of the mountain, he seemed entitled to
liberty, and I longed to break open his cage and set the little
prisoner free, and see him bound away upon the mountain side.

Climbing, still climbing, another hour brings us to the top of the
Montanvert, where we look down upon the Mer de Glace. Here all the
party quit their mules, which are sent to another point, to meet us as
we come down from the mountain--and taking our alpenstocks in hand
(which are long staffs, with a spike at the end to stick in the ice,
to keep ourselves from slipping), we descend to the Mer de Glace, an
enormous glacier formed by the masses of snow and ice which collect
during the long winters, filling up the whole space between two
mountains. It was in studying the glaciers of Switzerland for a course
of years, that Agassiz formed his glacial theory; and in seeing here
how the steady pressure of such enormous masses of ice, weighing
millions of tons, have carried down huge boulders of granite, which
lie strewn all along its track, one can judge how the same causes,
operating at a remote period, and on a vast scale, may have changed
the whole surface of the globe.

But we must not stop to philosophize, for we are now just at the edge
of the glacier, and need our wits about us, and eyes too, to keep a
sharp lookout for dangerous places, and steady feet, and hands keeping
a tight hold of our trusty alpenstocks. The Mer de Glace is just what
its name implies--a Sea of Ice--and looks as if, when some wild
torrent came tumbling through the awful pass, it had been suddenly
stopped by the hand of the Almighty, and frozen as it stood. And so it
stands, its waves dashed up on high, and its chasms yawning below. It
is said to reach up into the mountains for miles. We can see how it
goes up to the top of the gorge and disappears on the other side; but
those who wish to explore its whole extent, may walk over it or beside
it all day. Though dangerous in some places, yet where tourists cross,
they can pick their way with a little care. The more timid ones cling
closely to the guide, holding him fast by the hand. One lady of our
party, who had four bearers to carry her in a Sedan chair, found her
head swim as she crossed. But C----, who had been gathering flowers
all the way up the mountain, made them into a bouquet, which she
fastened to one end of her alpenstock, and striking the other firmly
in the ice, moved on with as free a step as if she were walking along
some breezy path among our Berkshire Hills.

But the most difficult part of the course is not in crossing the Mer
de Glace, but in coming down on the other side. It is not always
_facilis descensus_; it is sometimes _difficilis descensus_. There is
one part of the course called the _Mauvais Pas_, which winds along the
edge of the cliff, and would hardly be passable but for an iron rod
fastened in the side of the rock, to which one clings for support, and
looking away from the precipice on the other side, makes the passage
in safety.

And now we come to the Chapeau, a little chalet perched on a shelf of
rock, from which one can look down thousands of feet into the Vale of
Chamouni. As we pass along by the side of the glacier, we see nearer
the end some frightful crevasses, which the boldest guide would not
dare to cross. The ice is constantly wearing away; indeed so great is
the discharge of water from the melting of the ice and the snow, that
a rapid river is all the time rushing out of it. The Arveiron takes
its rise in the Mer de Glace, while the Arve rises in another glacier
higher up the valley. As Coleridge says, in his Hymn to Mont Blanc,

     The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
       Rave ceaselessly;

the sound of the streams, mingling with the waterfalls on the sides of
the mountains, filling the air with a perpetual sound like the roaring
of the sea.

Coleridge speaks also of Mont Blanc as rising from a "silent sea of
pines." Nothing can be more accurate than this picture of the
universal forest, which overflows all the valleys, and reaches up the
mountains, to the edge of eternal snows. At such heights the pines are
the only trees that live, and there they stand through all the storms
of winter. Looking around on this landscape, made up of forest and
snow, alternately dark and bright, it seems as if Mont Blanc were the
Great White Throne of the Almighty, and as if these mighty forests
that stand quivering on the mountain side, were the myriads of mankind
gathered into this Valley of Judgment, and here standing rank on rank,
waiting to hear their doom.

But yet the impression is not one wholly of terror, or even of unmixed
awe. There is beauty as well as wildness in the scene. Nothing can
exceed the quiet and seclusion of these mountain paths, and there is
something very sweet to the ear in

     "The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"

which fill "the forest primeval" with their gentle sound. And when at
evening one hears the tinkling cow-bells, as the herds return from the
mountain pastures, there is a pastoral simplicity in the scene which
is very touching, and we could understand how the Swiss air of the
_Ranz des Vaches_ (or the returning of the cows) should awaken such a
feeling of homesickness in the soldier far from his native mountains,
that bands have been prohibited from playing it in Swiss regiments
enlisted in foreign armies.

When we came down from the Mer de Glace, it was not yet three o'clock,
and before us on the opposite side of the valley rose another
mountain, which we might ascend before night if we had strength left.
We felt a little remorse at giving the guide another half-day's work;
but he, foreseeing extra pay, said cheerfully that _he_ could stand
it; the mule said nothing, but pricked up his long ears as if he was
thinking very hard, and if the miracle of Balaam could have been
repeated, I think the poor dumb beast would have had a pretty decided
opinion. But it being left to us, we declared for a fresh ascent, and
once more set our faces skyward, and went climbing upward for two
hours more.

We were well paid for the fatigue. The Flegere, facing Mont Blanc,
commands a full view of the whole range, and as the clouds drifted
off, we saw distinctly every peak.

Thus elated and jubilant we set out to return. Until now, we had kept
along with the mule, alternating a ride and walk, as boys are
accustomed to "ride and tie"; but now our eagerness could not be
restrained, and we gave the reins to the guide to lead the patient
creature down into the valley, while we, with unfettered limbs, strode
joyous down the mountain side. It was seven o'clock when we reached
our hotel. We had been steadily in motion--except a short rest for
lunch at the Chapeau on the mountain--for eleven hours.

Here ends the journey of the day, but not the moral of it. I hope it
is not merely a professional habit that leads me to wind up
everything with an application; but I cannot look upon a grand scene
of nature without gliding insensibly into religious reflections.
Nature leads me directly to Nature's God. The late Prof. Albert
Hopkins, of Williams College, of blessed memory, a man of science and
yet of most devout spirit, who was as fond of the hills as a born
mountaineer, and who loved nothing so much as to lead his Alpine Club
over the mountains around Williamstown--was accustomed, when he had
conducted them to some high, commanding prospect, to ask whether the
sight of such great scenes _made them feel great or small_? I can
answer for myself that the impression is a mixed one; that it both
lifts me up and casts me down. Certainly the sight of such sublimity
elevates the soul with a sense of the power and majesty of the
Creator. While climbing to-day, I have often repeated to myself that
old, majestic hymn:

     I sing the mighty power of God,
       That made the mountains rise;

and another:

     'Tis by thy strength the mountains stand,
       God of eternal power,
     The sea grows calm at thy command,
       And tempests cease to roar.

But in another view the sight of these great objects of nature is
depressing. It makes one feel his own littleness and insignificance. I
look up at Mont Blanc with a telescope, and can just see a party
climbing near the Grands Mulets. How like creeping insects they look;
and how like insects they _are_ in the duration of their existence,
compared with the everlasting forms of nature. The flying clouds that
cast their shadows on the head of Mont Blanc are not more fleeting.
They pass like a bird and are gone, while the mountains stand fast
forever, and with their eternity seem to mock the fugitive existence
of man upon the earth.

I confess the impression is very depressing. These terrible mountains
crush me with their awful weight. They make me feel that I am but an
atom in the universe; a moth whose ceasing to exist would be no more
than the blowing out of a candle. And I am not surprised that men who
live among the mountains, are sometimes so overwhelmed with the
greatness of nature, that they are ready to acquiesce in their own
annihilation, or absorption in the universal being.

Talking with Father Hyacinthe the other evening (as we sat on the
terrace of the Hotel Beau Rivage at Geneva, overlooking the lake), he
spoke of the alarming spread of unbelief in Europe, and quoted a
distinguished professor of Zurich, of whom he spoke with great
respect, as a man of learning and of excellent character, who had
frankly confessed to him that he did not believe in the immortality of
the soul; and when Father Hyacinthe replied in amazement, "If I
believed thus I would go and throw myself into the Lake of Zurich,"
the professor answered with the utmost seriousness, "That is not a
just religious feeling; if you believe in God as an infinite Creator
you ought to be _willing_ to cease to exist, feeling that God is the
only Being who is worthy to live eternally."

Marvellous as this may seem, yet something of this feeling comes to
thoughtful and serious minds from the long and steadfast contemplation
of nature. One is so little in the presence of the works of God, that
he feels that he is absolutely _nothing_; and it seems of small moment
whether he should exist hereafter or not; and he could _almost_ be
willing that his life should expire, like a lamp that has burned
itself out; that he should indeed cease to exist, with all things that
live; that God might be God alone. If shut up in these mountains, as
in a prison from which I could not escape, I could easily sink into
this gloom and despondency.

Pascal has tried to break the force of this overwhelming impression of
the awfulness of nature in one of his most striking thoughts, when,
speaking of the greatness and the littleness of man, he says: "It is
not necessary for the whole universe to arm itself to destroy him: a
drop of water, a breath of air, is sufficient to kill him. And yet
even in death man is greater than the universe, for _he knows that he
is dying_, while the universe knows not anything." This is finely
expressed, but it does not lighten the depth of our despair. For that
we must turn to one greater than Pascal, who has said, "Not a sparrow
falleth to the ground without your Father; be of good cheer therefore,
ye are of more value than many sparrows." Nature is great, but God is
greater.

In riding through the Alps--especially through deep passes, where
walls of rock on either hand almost touch the sky--it seems as if the
whole world were a realm of Death, and this the universal tomb. But
even here I see erected on almost every hilltop a cross (for the
Savoyards are a very religious people), and this sign of our
salvation, standing on every high place, amid the lightning and storm,
and amid the winter snows, seems to be a protest against that law of
death which reigns on every side. Great indeed is the realm of Death,
but greater still is the realm of Life; and though God only hath
immortality, and is indeed "the only Being worthy to live forever,"
yet joined to Him, we shall have a part in His own eternity, and shall
live when even the everlasting mountains, and the great globe itself,
shall have passed away.




CHAPTER XI.

SWITZERLAND.


     LUCERNE, July 22d.

To know Switzerland well, one should spend weeks and months among its
lakes and mountains. He should not merely pay a formal visit to
Nature, but take up his abode with her. One can never "exhaust" such a
country. Professor Tyndall has been for years in the habit of spending
his summer vacation here, and always finds new mountains to climb, and
new passes to explore. But this would hardly suit Americans, who are
in the habit of "rushing things," and who wish in a first visit to
Europe, to get at least a general impression of the Continent. But
even a few days in Switzerland are not lost. In that time one may see
sights that will be fixed in his brain while life lasts, and receive
impressions that will never depart from him.

We left the Vale of Chamouni with the feeling of sadness with which
one always comes down from the mount, where he has had an immortal
vision. Slowly we rode up the valley, often turning to take a last
lingering look at the white head of Mont Blanc, and then, like
Pilgrim, we "went on our way and saw him no more."

But we did not come out of Chamouni as we went into it, on the top of
a diligence, with six horses, "rolling forward with impetuous speed"
over a magnificent highway. We had now nothing before us but a common
mountain-road, and our chariot was only a rude wagon, made with low
wheels to go up and down steep ascents. It was only for us two, which
suited us the better, as we had Nature all to ourselves, and could
indulge our pleasure and our admiration, without restraint. Thus
mounted, we went creeping up the pass of the Tete Noire. Nature is a
wise economist, and, after showing the traveller Mont Blanc, lets him
down gradually. If we had not come from those more awful heights and
abysses, we should consider this day's ride unsurpassed in savage
grandeur. Great mountains tower up on either hand, their lower sides
dark with pines, and their crests capped with snow. Here by the
roadside a cross marks the spot where an avalanche, falling from
yonder peak, buried two travellers. At some seasons of the year the
road is almost impassable. All along are heaps of stones to mark its
track where the winter drifts are piled so high in these gorges that
all trace of a path is lost. Even now in mid-summer the pass is wild
enough to satisfy the most romantic tastes. The day was in harmony
with the scene. Our fine weather was all gone. Clouds darkened the
sky, and angry gusts of wind and rain swept in our faces. But what
could check one's spirits let loose in such a scene? Often we got out
and walked, to work off our excitement, stopping at every turn in the
road that opened some new view, or sheltering ourselves under a rock
from the rain, and listening with delight to hear the pines murmur and
the torrents roar.

The ride over the Tete Noire takes a whole day. The road zigzags in
every direction, winding here and there to get a foothold--now hugging
the side of the mountain, creeping along the edge of a precipice,
where it makes one dizzy to look down; now rounding a point which
seems to hang over some awful depth, or seeking a safer path by a
tunnel through the rocks. Up and down, hither and thither we go, but
still everywhere encompassed with mountains, till at last one long
climb--a hard pull for the horses--brings us to a height from which we
descry in the distance the roofs and spires of a town, and begin to
descend. But we are still more than an hour winding our way through
the gentle slopes and among the Swiss chalets, till we rattle through
the stony streets of Martigny, a place of some importance, from being
at the foot of the Alps, and the point from which to make the ascent
of the Great Saint Bernard. It was by this route that Napoleon in 1800
led his daring soldiers over the Alps; the long lines of infantry and
artillery passed up this valley, and climbed yonder mountain side, a
hundred men being harnessed to a single cannon, and dragging it upward
by sheer strength of muscle. Of all the host that made that stupendous
march, perhaps not one survives; but the mountains are still here, as
the proof and the monument of their great achievement. And the same
Hospice, where the monks gave bread and wine to the passing soldiers,
is on the summit still, and the good monks with their faithful dogs,
watch to rescue lost travellers. Attached to it is a monastery here in
Martigny, to which the old monks, when worn out with years of exposure
and hardship in living above the clouds, can retire to die in peace.

At Martigny we take our leave of mountain roads and mountain
transport, as we here touch a railroad, and are once more within the
limits of civilization. We step from our little wagon (which we do not
despise, since it has carried us safely over an Alpine pass) into a
luxurious railway carriage, and reclining at our ease, are whirled
swiftly down the Valley of the Rhone to the Lake of Geneva.

Of course all romantic tourists stop at Villeneuve, to visit the
Castle of Chillon, which Byron has made so famous. I had been under
its arches and in its vaulted chambers years ago, and was surprised at
the fresh interest which I had in revisiting the spot. It is at once
"a palace and a prison." We went down into the dungeon in which
Bonnivard was confined, and saw the pillar to which he was chained for
so many years that his feet wore holes in the stone floor. The pillar
is now covered with names of pilgrims that have visited his prison as
"a holy place." We were shown, also, the Chamber of Question,
(adjoining what was called, as if in mockery, the Hall of Justice!)
where prisoners were put to the torture, with the post still standing
to which they were bound, with the marks upon it of the hot irons
which were applied to their writhing limbs. Under this is the dungeon
where the condemned passed their last night before execution, chained
to a sloping rock, above which, dimly seen in the gloom, is the
cross-beam to which they were hung, and near the floor is an opening
in the wall, through which their bodies were cast into the lake. In
another part of the castle is shown the _oubliette_--a pit or well,
into which the victim was thrown, and fell into some unknown depth,
and was seen no more. Such are some of the remains of an age of
"chivalry." One cannot look at these instruments of torture without a
shudder at "man's inhumanity to man," and rejoicing that such things
are past, since in no country of Europe--not even in Spain, the land
of the Inquisition--could such barbarities be permitted now. Surely
civilization has made some progress since those ages of cruelty and
blood.

Leaving these gloomy dungeons, we come up into air and sunshine, and
skim along the Lake of Geneva by the railway, which, lying "between
sea and shore," presents a succession of charming views. On one side
all the slopes are covered with vines, which are placed on this
southern exposure to ripen in the sun; on the other is the lake, with
the mountains beyond.

At Lausanne I had hoped to meet an old friend, Prof. J. F. Astie, once
pastor of the French church in New York, and now Professor in the
Theological Seminary here, but he was taking his vacation in the
country. We drove, however, to his house, which is on high ground, in
the rear of the town, and commands a lovely view of the lake, with the
mountains in the distance as a background for the picture.

When I was in Switzerland twenty seven years ago, such a thing as a
railroad was unknown. Now they are everywhere, and though it may seem
very prosaic to travel among the mountains by steam, still it is a
great convenience, in getting from one point to another. Of course,
when it comes to climbing the Alps, one must take to mules or to his
feet.

The railroad from Lausanne to Berne, after reaching the heights around
the former city, lingers long, as if reluctant to quit the enchanting
scenery around the lake, but at length plunging through a tunnel, it
leaves all that glory behind, to turn to other landscapes in the heart
of Switzerland. For a few leagues, the country, though not
mountainous, is undulating, and richly cultivated. At 

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