A Baptist Abroad: Travels and Adventures of Europe and all Bible Lands

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Title: A Baptist Abroad: Travels and Adventures of Europe and all Bible Lands

Author: Walter Andrew Whittle

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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BAPTIST ABROAD: TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES OF EUROPE AND ALL BIBLE LANDS ***

[Illustration: W. A. Whittle]

A BAPTIST ABROAD

TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES

EUROPE AND ALL BIBLE LANDS

REV. WALTER ANDREW WHITTLE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

HON. J. L. M. CURRY, LL.D.

WITH MAPS AND NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.

“Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam;
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam,
Were unto him companionship; they spake
A mutual language, clearer than the tome
Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake
For Nature’s page glassed by sunbeams on the lake.”

CHILDE HAROLD

NEW YORK:

J. A. HILL & CO.,

UNION SQUARE,

1890.

BY J. A. HILL & COMPANY.

MOTHER

WILL READ THIS BOOK

THROUGH

TWO PAIRS OF SPECTACLES.

ONE PAIR

WILL MAGNIFY ITS VIRTUES

WHILE THE OTHER

WILL DIMINISH ITS DEFECTS.

THEREFORE IT

IS AFFECTIONATELY AND LOVINGLY

DEDICATED TO

MOTHER.

INTRODUCTION.

Next to seeing a foreign land with one’s own eyes is seeing it through
the eyes of an intelligent, appreciative countryman. The word is
purposely chosen, because one wishes to know what is observed and
thought by a person who has tastes, sympathies and views in common
with himself. A thousand things in a strange country are interesting
and in different degrees. One studies historically, another socially,
another politically, another ecclesiastically, while unfortunately not
a few rush pell-mell bringing back the most superficial and indistinct
impressions. Some find most satisfaction in architecture, while others
have their chiefest enjoyment in sculpture, in painting, in natural
scenery, in costumes and customs. No two have precisely the same
fancies, and yet an observant, cultivated countryman is more likely
to please us by what he likes and describes than is a foreigner whose
point of view and whose mental habitudes are so different from our
own. What is most pleasing in a book of travels is wide and varied
observation, is an account of several countries inhabited by different
races and distinguished by marked peculiarities.

This volume embraces a wide extent of travel, and includes an account
of visits to Great Britain, Switzerland, Italy, Turkey, Greece,
Palestine, Egypt, etc. The full table of contents is a little
misleading, for the chapters pertaining to Europe are short, and
Palestine takes up a considerable portion of the work. The author,
avoiding what is dry or didactic, manages to compress into his
pages much valuable and trustworthy information. His own religious
denomination, naturally and properly, is not overlooked, and from
eminent men he has succeeded in obtaining monographs which give
interesting facts, drawn from most authentic sources. The portraitures
of men, of whom everybody wishes to know more, constitute an
interesting feature of the book.

The journey was not a mere vacation tour, a hasty gallop to points
visited by circular tourists, but it comprised many months of patient
toil, nor were the countries seen from the windows of the car of an
express train. Lubboch, in his essay on the Pleasures of Travel, says
that some think that every one should travel on foot “like Thales,
Plato and Pythagoras.” Mr. Whittle is a pedestrian by choice, full
of enterprise, activity, courage and enthusiasm, and on foot he
deviated often from the beaten paths, and had opportunities for
careful examination of objects of interest and for much pleasant and
instructive intercourse with the “common people.” With an eye quick to
discern what was peculiar, with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge,
he combined a cheerful disposition, a ready appreciation of the
humorous, and has succeeded in giving the public a volume, every page
of which is interesting.

Travel, as a means of improvement, of education, of broadening horizon,
of getting us out of narrow ruts, can hardly be overestimated. A
visit to Europe, Africa and Asia makes objective what was subjective,
and gives realism to what was before vaguely in our memories. Some
acquaintance with geography, with history, literature, art, enhances
the interest and the profit. A young student who had visited Jerusalem
was much flattered by a request from Humboldt to call and see him.
The _savant_ soon showed that from reading and inquiry he had more
knowledge of the city than the youth had acquired by his visit. With
some mortification and a little petulance the young man said: “I
understood, sir, that you had never visited the Holy City.” “True,”
replied Humboldt, “I never have; but I once got ready to go.” Mr.
Whittle, with wise forethought, had made preparation for his visit.
He knew what he wanted to see, traveled with a purpose, and has so
imparted to his readers what he learned and observed that one catches
in part the enthusiasm of the traveler.

J. L. M. CURRY.

PREFACE.

“Around the World in Eighty Days” has had an extensive circulation,
especially in America. The title is striking. Our people like to do
things quickly. Many of them would be glad to girdle the globe in forty
days. They forget that “what is worth doing at all is worth doing
well.” Under the patronage of Tourist Agencies it has become quite
fashionable of late to _do Europe in three months_. These flying trips
do perhaps result in some good to the tourist, but they are valuable
chiefly to the agencies under which they are made.

Traveling is no child’s play. Sight seeing when properly done is
hard work, but hard work is the kind of work that pays best in the
long run. To see any country aright and understand it correctly one
must not merely visit its fashionable watering places, large cities,
splendid abbeys and cathedrals, noted art galleries, museums, etc. He
must see these things to be sure, but in addition to these he must,
in order to get a correct conception, go out into the mountains, into
the rural districts, and there study the soil, climate and products of
the country. He must commune with the yeomanry the common people, and
closely scrutinize their daily life and habits. He must see, as best
he can, how climate, political surroundings, education, occupation,
and religion affect their character. He must project himself as far as
possible into the thoughts and feelings of the people among whom he is
traveling. This prepares him to sympathize with them, and to look at
things from their standpoint. The traveler is then prepared to reason
from cause to effect. He has gotten hold of that golden thread of
truth which leads to right conclusions. He is in condition to explain
upon correct and philosophical principles the Socialism of France, the
Skepticism of Germany, the Nihilism of Russia, and the Pauperism of
Turkey.

Having under the providence of God been permitted to make an extensive
and prolonged trip through the East, I determined from the outset to
get out of the _beaten tracks of travel_. In applying the above-named
principles, I walked a thousand miles through different European
countries, and rode six hundred miles and more in the saddle through
Bible lands. This necessarily gave me a varied experience, and brought
me into close contact with every phase of nature and human nature. At
times every faculty of mind and heart was stirred to its profoundest
depths. I was forced to think. And, lest these thrilling thoughts
should slip away from me, I determined “to fasten them in words and
chain them in writing.” I agree with Gray that “a few words fixed upon
or near the spot are worth a cartload of _recollection_.”

This accounts to some extent for the use of the present tense in the
book, and also for the colloquial style in which it is written—it was
composed _on or near the spot_. True, since then it has been carefully
revised, re-written and enlarged; but originally it was written
“on the spot.” I made these pages my trusted confidant. To them I
expressed my “every thought and floating fancy,” and my words formed
a true thermometer to my soul. But now I release these pages from all
obligations of secrecy. They may tell it in Gath, and withhold it not
in Askelon. I propose to take the public into my confidence. “In short,
never did ten shillings purchase so much friendship since confidence
went first to market, or honesty was set up to sale.”

I have carefully excluded all _opiates_ from these pages. Brevity is
the only claim I make to wit. I have not attempted to exhaust the
subjects treated. My words are intended simply to strike the reader’s
thoughts which may interpret further. “If you would be prudent, be
brief,” says Southey, “for ‘tis with words as with sunbeams, the more
they are condensed the deeper they burn.”

“Clarence P. Johnson” was my man “Friday,” and from some of the
jokes gotten off at his expense the reader may conclude that he is a
“man-eater,” as was that other Friday of Robinson Crusoe fame. But
not so. This was his maiden trip out of his native city. Such things
happened to him while traveling as would naturally occur with any other
youth under the same circumstances. He is a young man of fine spirit
and extraordinary business capacity. He will some day be known and felt
in the commercial world.

It gives me peculiar pleasure to acknowledge my indebtedness to
Professor John R. Sampey, D. D., for valuable assistance rendered while
preparing this book for the press.

I have made free use of a wide range of literature, but trust that
in each case due credit has been given to the author. Many of the
measurements given were made by myself, others have been taken from
reliable sources.

While abroad, I made it a special point to study the history and
outlook of the Baptists in each of the several countries through
which I traveled, and I have not failed to record the result of
my observations. But, in order to have Baptist history correctly,
authentically, and impartially given, I have secured chapters from
eminent men on the Baptists of their several countries.

W. A. W.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

OFF FOR NEW YORK.

Preparations—A Prayer and a Benediction—An Impatient Horse and
a Run for Eternity—Strange Sceptre and Despotic Sway—Beauty in
White Robes—Approaching the Metropolis—Business Heart of the
New World—A Bright Face and a Cordial Greeting—An Hour with the
President—More for a Shilling and Less for a Pound—A Stranger
Dies in the Author’s Arms—Namesake—Prospects of Becoming a Great
Man—A Confused College Student—The Hour of Departure—Native
Land. Page, 23

CHAPTER II.

ON THE HIGH SEAS.

A Difficulty with the Officers of the Ship—A Parting
Scene—Danger on the Atlantic—A Parallel Drawn—Liberty
Enlightening the World—Life on the Ocean Wave—Friends for the
Journey—The Ship a Little World—A Clown and his Partner—Birds
of a Feather—Whales—Brain Food—Storm at Sea—A Frightened
Preacher—Storm Rages—A Sea of Glory—Richard Himself Again—Land
in Sight—Scene Described—Historic Castle—Voyage Ended—Two
Irishmen. Page, 29

CHAPTER III.

THE LAND OF BURNS.

English Railway Coaches—Millionaires, Crowned Heads, and Fools—A
Conductor Caught on a Cow-catcher—Last Rose of Summer—Off on
Foot to the Land of Burns—Appearance of Country and Condition of
People—Destination Reached—Doctor Whitsitt and Oliver Twist—The
Ploughman Poet—His Cottage—His Relics—His Work and Worth—His
Grave and Monument—A Broad View of Life. Page, 38

CHAPTER IV.

EDINBURGH.

A Jolly Party of Americans—Dim-Eyed Pilgrim—Young Goslings—An
American Goose Ranch—Birthplace of Robert Pollok and Mary
Queen of Scots—The Boston of Europe—Home of Illustrious Men—A
Monument to the Author—Monument to Sir Walter Scott—Edinburgh
Castle—Murdered and Head Placed on the Wall—Cromwell’s
Siege—Stones of Power—A Dazzling Diadem—A Golden Collar—Baptized
in Blood—Meeting American Friends. Page, 47

CHAPTER V.

A TRAMP-TRIP THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS.

His Royal Highness and a Demand for Fresh Air—A Boy in
his Father’s Clothes—Among the Common People—Nature’s
Stronghold—Treason Found in Trust—Body Quartered and Exposed
on Iron Spikes—Receiving a Royal Salute—Following no Road but
a Winding River—Sleeveless Dresses and Dyed Hands—Obelisk to a
Novelist and Poet—On the Scotch Lakes—Eyes to See but See Not—A
Night of Rest and a Morning of Surprise—A Terrestrial Heaven—A
Poetic Inspiration—A Deceptive Mountain—A Glittering Crown—Hard
to Climb—An Adventure and a Narrow Escape—Johnson Gives Out—Put
to Bed on the Mountain Side—On and Up—A Summit at Last—Niagara
Petrified—Overtaken by the Night—Johnson Lost in the Mountains—A
Fruitless Search—Bewildered—Exhausted—Sick. Page, 57

CHAPTER VI.

A GENERAL VIEW OF SCOTLAND.

Highlands and Lowlands—Locked up for Fifteen Days—The Need of
a Good Sole—A Soft Side of a Rock—The Charm of Reading on the
Spot—A Fearful Experience—Bit and Bridle—Thunder-Riven—Volcanic
Eruption—Dangerous Pits—An Hundred-Eyed Devil—Gloomy
Dens—Meeting an Enemy—Eyes Like Balls of Fire—Voice Like Rolling
Thunder—A Speedy Departure—Leaping from Rock to Rock—Silver
Thread among the Mountains—Imperishable Tablets—The Cave of
Rob Roy and the land of the MacGregors—Lady of the Lake and
Ellen’s Isle—Lodging with Peasants and with Gentlemen—Rising
in Mutiny—Strange Fuel—Character of Scotch People—Scotch
Baptists—Sunrise at Two O’Clock in the Morning. Page, 67

CHAPTER VII.

FROM DUNDEE TO MANCHESTER.

Scotch Presbyterians in Convention—Their Character and
Bearing—On the Footpath to Abbotsford—The Home of Scott—Five
Miles through the Fields—Melrose Abbey and the Heart of
Bruce—Hospitality of a Baptist Preacher—Adieu to Scotland—Merry
England—Manchester—Exposition and Prince of Wales—Manchester
and Cotton Manufacturers—A $25,000,000 Scheme—Dr. Alexander
Maclaren—His Appearance—The Force of his Thought—The Witchery of
his Eloquence—His Hospitality Enjoyed—A Promise Made. Page, 75

CHAPTER VIII.

BAPTIST CENTENNIAL.

Three Baptist Associations—Centennial Year and Jubilee
Year—Baptists Seen at their Best—Doctor Alexander
Maclaren—Matchless Eloquence—Hon. John Bright Delivers an
Address—Boundless Enthusiasm—English Hospitality—A Home with the
Mayor. Page, 84

CHAPTER IX.

A SOJOURN IN ENGLAND AND ON TO WALES.

Arrested and Imprisoned—Released without a
Trial—Nottingham—Dwellers in Caves—Seven Hundred Years
Old—Forests of Ivanhoe and Robin Hood—Birthplace of Henry Kirk
White—Home of the Pilgrim Fathers—Home of Thomas Cranmer—A
Guide’s Information—Home of Lord Byron—Wild Beasts from the Dark
Continent—A Sad Epitaph—Byron’s Grave—A Wedding Scene—Marriage
Customs—Wales and Sea-Bathing—Among the Mountains—Welsh
Baptists—A Tottering Establishment. Page, 90

CHAPTER X.

LONDON.

Entering London—The Great City Crowded—Six Million Five Hundred
Thousand People Together—Lost in London—A Human Niagara—A
Policeman and a Lockup—The Jubilee and the Golden Wedding—“God
Save the Queen.” and God Save the People—Amid England’s Shouts
and Ireland’s Groans Heard. Page, 98

CHAPTER XI.

SIGHTS OF LONDON.

Traveling in London—London a Studio—The Hum of Folly and the
Sleep of Traffic—Five Million Heads in Nightcaps—Too Many People
Together—Survival of the Fittest—Place and Pride—Poverty and
Penury—Beneficence in London—East End—Assembly Hall—A Converted
Brewer—His Great Work—Meeting an Old Schoolmate. Page, 107

CHAPTER XII.

A TRIO OF ILLUSTRIOUS MEN.

Joseph Parker—Canon Farrar—Charles H. Spurgeon. Page, 118

CHAPTER XIII.

NOTTINGHAM, CAMBRIDGE, AND BEDFORD.

Preaching to 2,500 People—Entertained after the Manner of
Royalty—Excursion to Cambridge—What Happened on the Way—Received
an Entertainment by the Mayor—Cambridge University—King’s
Chapel—Fitzwilliam Museum—Trinity College—Cambridge Bibles—Adieu
to Friends—Bedford—The Church where John Bunyan Preached—Bedford
Jail, where Bunyan wrote _Pilgrim’s Progress_—Bunyan’s
Statue—Elstow, Bunyan’s Birthplace—His Cottage—His Chapel—An Old
Elm Tree. Page, 123

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BAPTISTS OF ENGLAND.

Their Number and Divisions—The Regular Baptists—Their
Movements and Progress. Page, 130

CHAPTER XV.

LAST OF ENGLAND AND FIRST OF THE CONTINENT.

Windsor Castle, the Home of England’s Queen—Queen Victoria—The
Home of Shakespeare—Across the Channel—First Impressions—Old
Time Ways—Brussels on a Parade—Waterloo Re-enacted—A Visit to
the Field of Waterloo—A Lion with Eyes Fixed on France—Interview
with a Man who Saw Napoleon—Wertz Museum—“Napoleon in
Hell”—“Hell in Revolt against Heaven”—“Triumph of Christ”—Age
Offering the Things of the Present to the Man of the Future.
Page, 143

CHAPTER XVI.

FROM BELGIUM TO COLOGNE AND UP THE RHINE.

Brussels—Its Laces and Carpets—Belgium a
Small Country—Cultivated like a Garden—Into
Germany—Aix-La-Chapelle—Birthplace of Charlemagne—Capital of
Holy Roman Empire—Cathedral Built by Charlemagne—A Strange
Legend—Shrine of the Four Relics—A Pulpit Adorned with Ivory and
Studded with Diamonds—Cologne—Its Inhabitants—Its Perfumery—Its
Cathedral—A Ponderous Bell—A Church Built of Human Bones—Sailing
up the Rhine—A River of Song—Bonn—Its University—Birthplace
of Beethoven—Feudal Lords—The Bloody Rhine—Dragon’s Rock—A
Combat with a Serpent—A Convent with a Love Story—Empress
of the Night—Intoxicated—Coblentz—A Tramp-Trip through
Germany—Sixteen Thousand Soldiers Engaged in Battle—Enchanted
Region—Loreli—Son-in-Law of Augustus Caesar—Birthplace of
Gutenberg, the Inventor of Printing. Page, 155

CHAPTER XVII.

FROM FRANKFORT TO WORMS.

Frankfort-on-the-Main—Met at Depot by a Committee—Frankfort, the
Home of Culture and Art—Birthplace of Goethe—“He Preaches like a
God”—The Home of Rothschild—A Visit to his House—Worms and its
History—Luther and a Bad Diet—Luther Monument—Theses Nailed on
the Door—Fame of Luther and his Followers more Imperishable than
their Bronze Statues. Page, 168

CHAPTER XVIII.

GERMAN BAPTISTS.

A Weak Beginning—Persecutions—Firm Faith—Rapid Growth—A Trio of
Leaders—Theological Schools—Publishing House—Hopeful Outlook.
Page, 174

CHAPTER XIX.

OUT OF GERMANY INTO SWITZERLAND.

A Lesson from Nature—Tramp-Trip through the Black
Forests—Heidelberg Castle—Basle, Switzerland—Met by a
Friend—Emigrants off for America—Delivering an Address to
the Emigrants—The Grave of Erasmus—Gateway to the Heart of
the Alps—Snowy Peaks—Rendezvous of the Nations—Beautiful
Scene—Moonlight on the Lake—Sweet Music—Pretty Girls—Mountains
Shaken with Thunder and Wrapped with Fire. Page, 184

CHAPTER XX.

SWITZERLAND AS SEEN ON FOOT.

Alpine Fever—Flags of Truce—Schiller and the Swiss Hero—Tell’s
Statue and Chapel—Ascent of the Rigi—Beautiful Scenery—Famous
Falls—Rambles in the Mountains—Glaciers—The Matterhorn—Yung
Frau—Ascent of Mount Blanc—An Eagle in the Clouds—Switzerland
and her People—The Oldest Republic in the World—“Home,
Sweet Home”—High Living—Land Owners—Alpine Folk—Night Spent
in a Swiss Chalet—Johnson in Trouble—Walk of Six Hundred
Miles—Famous Alpine Pass—A Night above the Clouds—Saint Bernard
Hospice—Overtaken in a Snow-Storm—Hunting Dead Men—The Alps as
a Monument—Geneva—Prison of Chilon—How Time was Spent—Tongue of
Praise. Page, 190

CHAPTER XXI.

BAPTIST MISSION WORK IN FRANCE.

Incipiency of the Work—Obstacles to Overcome—Progress —Hopeful
Outlook. Page, 213

CHAPTER XXII.

FROM VIENNA DOWN THE DANUBE TO CONSTANTINOPLE.

A Black Night on the Black Sea—A Doleful Dirge—Two Thousand
Miles—Vienna—Its Architecture—Its Palace—Its Art Galleries and
Museums—Through Hungary, Servia, Slavonia, and Bulgaria—Cities
and Scenery along the Danube—Products of the Countries—Entering
the Bosphorus amid a War of the Elements—Between Two
Continents—Constantinople—Difficulty with a Turkish Official—A
Babel of Tongues—The Sultan at Prayer—Twenty Thousand Soldiers
on Guard—Multiplicity of Wives—Man-Slayer. Page, 220

CHAPTER XXIII.

FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO ATHENS.

A Stormy Day on Marmora—Sunrise on Mount Olympus—Brusa,
the Ancient Capital of Turkey—Ancient Troy—Homeric
Heroes—Agamemnon’s Fleet—The Wooden Horse—Paul’s Vision
at Troas—Athens—A Lesson in Greek—The Acropolis—The
Parthenon—Modern Athens—Temple of Jupiter—The Prison of
Socrates—The Platform of Demosthenes—Mars Hill and Paul’s
Sermon—Influence of the Ancients. Page, 230

CHAPTER XXIV.

ASIA MINOR AND THE ISLAND OF PATMOS.

Smyrna—Its Commerce—Its Population—Famed Women—Home of the
Apostle John—One of the Seven Asiatic Churches—Martyrdom and
Tomb of Polycarp—Emblematic Olive Tree—Out into the Interior
of Asia Minor—Struck by Lightning—Visit to Ephesus—Birthplace
of Mythology—Temple of Diana—Relics of the Past—Homer’s
Birthplace—A Baptist Preacher and a Protracted Meeting—John the
Baptist and the Virgin Mary—Timothy’s Grave—Cave of the Seven
Sleepers—Return to Smyrna—Sail to Patmos—Patmos, the Exiled Home
of the Apostle John—The Island of Rhodes and the Colossus—Death
and Disease on the Ship—Quarantined—A Watery Grave—Hope Anchored
within the Vail. Page, 240

CHAPTER XXV.

FROM BEYROUT TO THE CEDARS OF LEBANON.

Landing at Beyrout—Escape from Death—Thankful Hearts—Seed
Planted—Desire Springs up—Bud of Hope—Golden Fruit—“By
God’s Help”—Preparations—New Traveling Companions—Employing
a Dragoman—A Many-Sided Man Required to Make a Successful
Traveler—“Equestrian Pilgrims”—A Great Caravan—Ships of the
Desert—Preparations for War—A Dangerous Mishap—National
Hymn—Journey Begun—Mulberry Trees—Fig-Leaf Dresses—An Inspiring
Conversation—The Language of Balaam—City of Tents—General
Rejoicing—Tidings of Sadness—Welcome News—First Night in
Tents—Sabbath Day’s Rest—Johnson and his Grandmother—A Wedding
Procession—Johnson Delighted—Brides Bought and Sold—Increase
in Price—Inferiority of Woman—Multiplicity of Wives—Folding of
Tents—Camel Pasture—Leave Damascus Road—Noah’s Tomb, Eighty-Five
Feet Long—Perilous Ascent—Brave Woman—“If I Die, Carry Me on to
the Top”—The Cedars at Last—Emotions Stirred—“The Righteous Grow
like the Cedars of Lebanon”—Amnon. Page, 250

CHAPTER XXVI.

FROM THE CEDARS OF LEBANON TO BAALBEK.

Returning to Tents—Mountain Spurs and Passes—A Modern
Thermopylae—Two Caravans Meet—A Fight to the Death—How Johnson
Looks—Victory at Last—Into the Valley where the King Lost his
Eyes—Playing at Agriculture—Squalid Poverty—Baalbek—Its Mighty
Temples—Men, Mice and Monkeys—A Poem Writ in Marble. Page, 269

CHAPTER XXVII.

DAMASCUS.

A Beautiful Valley—Flowing Rivers—Mohammed at
Damascus—Garden of God—Paul at Damascus—Mohammedan
at Prayer—Valley More Beautiful—Damascus Exclusively
Oriental—Quaint Architecture—“Often in Wooden Houses
Golden Rooms we Find”—Narrow Streets—Industrious
People—Shoe Bazaars—Manufacturing Silk by hand—Fanatical
Merchants—“Christian Dogs”—Cabinet-Making—Furniture Inlaid
with Pearl—Camel Markets—A Progenitor of the Mule—Machinery
Unknown—Ignorance Stalks Abroad—Fanatical Arabs—A Massacre—The
Governor Gives the Signal—Christians Killed—French Army—Abraham
Our Guide—Brained before Reaching the Post-Office—Warned not
to Look at the Women—Johnson’s Regret—Vailed Women—Johnson’s
Explanation. Page, 276

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE NAAMAN HOSPITAL FOR THE LEPROSY.

Naaman, the Leper—His Visit to Elisha—The Prophet’s
Command—Naaman Cured—House Turned into a Leper Hospital—Off to
the Lepers’ Den—Origin, History and Nature of Leprosy—Arrival at
the Gloomy Prison—Abraham, “I Didn’t Promise to Go into the Tomb
with You”—“Screw your Courage to the Sticking Point”—Johnson’s
Reply—Suspicious of the Arab Gate-Keepers—A Charge to
Abraham—Life in Johnson’s Hands—Mamie and the Currant-Bush—Among
the Lepers—Judgment Come—Graves Open—Living Corpses—Walking
Skeletons—Strewing out Coins—An Indescribable Scene—An Indelible
Picture—Horrible Dreams. Page, 292

CHAPTER XXIX.

FROM DAMASCUS TO THE SEA OF GALILEE.

Sick, nigh unto Death—“Night Bringeth out the Stars”—Mount
Hermon and the Transfiguration—Beautiful Camp-Ground—Amnon,
the Reliable—“Thou Art Peter”—Fountain of the Jordan—Slaughter
of the Buffaloes—Crossing into Galilee—Dan—Abraham’s Visit—A
Fertile Valley—Wooden Plows—A Bedouin Village—Costumes of Eden—A
Gory Field—Sea of Galilee—Sacred Memories—The Evening Hour—A
Soliloquy—Bathing—Sailing—Fishing. Page, 303

CHAPTER XXX.

FROM THE SEA OF GALILEE TO NAZARETH.

A Seven Hour’s Journey—A Rough Road and a Hot
Sun—Gazelles—Nimrods of To-day—Historic Corn-Field—Cana
of Galilee—First Miracle—Cana at Present—Greek and
Roman Convents—Conflicting Stories of Greek and Latin
Priests—Explanation—An Important Fact—Marriage Divinely
Instituted—Woman Degraded—Woman Honored—Description
of Nazareth—Childhood Home of Jesus—Jesus and the
Flower-Garden—Studying Nature—He Goes to the Mountain
Top—Without Bounds or Limits—A Fit Play-Ground and Suitable
School-Room for the Royal Child—Rock Bluff where the People
Tried to “Cast him down Headlong”—The Carpenter Shop—The
Virgin’s Fountain—Nazareth at Present—Protestant Missions—A
Short Sermon and a Sweet Song. Page, 319

CHAPTER XXXI.

A CHARACTERISTIC SCENE IN THE ORIENT.

Shepherd Tents—Many Flocks in One Sheep-Cote for the Night—Many
Merchants from Different Countries—Ships Anchored—Arabs at
Meal—Arabs Smoking—Shepherds with their Reed-Pipes—Merchants’
Response—Music and Dancing at Night—Bustle and Confusion in
the Morning—Fight Like Madmen—Over-Burdened Camels—Camp Broken
up—Dothan and Joseph’s Pit—Money-Loving Mohammedans—Crafty
Jews—Return to Tents—The Shepherds Awaken—Crook, Sling and
Reed-Pipe—David and Goliath—Shepherds under the Star-Lit
Sky—”Glory to God in the Highest.” Page, 337

CHAPTER XXXII.

FROM JERUSALEM TO JERICHO.

A Man “Fell among Thieves”—The Way still Lined with
Thieves—Guards Necessary—Across the Mount of Olives—Bethany
and its Memories—David’s Flight from Jerusalem—”Halt!
Halt!”—Seized with Terror—Splendid Horsemanship—”A Hard Road to
Trabble”—Inn where the Good Samaritan Left the Jew—Brigands on
the Way-side—Robbers and Guards in Collusion—Topography of the
Country—Dangers and Difficulties—Perilous Places Passed—Plain
of Jericho—Writhing in Agony—The City of Palms—Trumps of
Joshua—Jericho in the Time of Herod—Iron-Fingered Fate—Jericho
at Present—A Divine Region—Pool of Moses—Antony and Cleopatra.
Page, 346

CHAPTER XXXIII.

BEYOND THE JORDAN.

Plain of Moab—Children of Israel—Moses’s Request—Moab a Rich
Country—Lawless Clans—A Traveler Brutally Murdered—A Typical
Son of Ishmael—Dens and Strongholds—Captured by a Clan of
Arabs—Shut up in Mountain Caves—Heavy Ransom Exacted—The
Moabite Stone—Confirmation of Scripture—Machaerus—John the
Baptist—Prison Chambers—Character of John—How to Gauge a
Life—Hot-Springs—Herod’s Visit—”Smell of Blood still”—Mount
Nebo—Fine View—Life of Moses—From Egypt to Nebo—An Arab
Legend—Death of Moses. Page, 362

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE JORDAN.

Two Thoughts—From Nebo to the River—Thrilling Emotions—Historic
Ground—A Sacred Scene—An Earnest Preacher—Christ
Baptized—Awe-Stricken People—A Sacred River—Bathing of
Pilgrims—Robes Become Shrouds—The Ghor of the Jordan—The Valley
an Inclined Plane—The Three Sources of the River—The Jordan
Proper—Banks—Tributaries—Bridges—River Channel—Velocity of the
Water—Its Temperature—Its Width and Depth—Vegetation along the
Stream—Wild Beasts—Birds. Page, 380

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DEAD SEA.

A Wonderful Body of Water—Receives 20,000,000 Cubic Feet of
Water per Day—Has no Outlet—Never Fills Up—In the Sea—Johnson’s
Suggestion as to my Identity—Why One Cannot Sink—”Salt
Sea”—Caught in a Storm—Danger of Death—Dreary Waste—Sea of
Fire—Johnson’s Argument—New-Born Babe—Child Dies—Lot’s Wife—Her
Past History and Present Condition—The Frenchman’s Book—Why the
Sea is so Salt—Why it Never Fills Up—Sown with Diamonds—Origin
of the Dead Sea—God’s Wrath—The Sodom Apple—The Sea an Emblem of
Death. Page, 397

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TWO RUSSIAN PILGRIMS, OR A PICTURE OF LIFE.

A Steep Mountain—Rough Base—Beautiful Summit—Russian
Pilgrims—Journey up Mountain—Life’s Hill—Courage in
Heart—Marriage Altar—Long Pilgrimage—Star of Hope. Page, 409

CHAPTER XXXVII.

FROM JERUSALEM, VIA BETHLEHEM AND POOLS OF SOLOMON, TO HEBRON.

Rachel’s Tomb—Bethlehem—Ruth and Boas—David the Shepherd
Lad—Cave of the Nativity—Pools of Solomon—Royal Gardens—The Home
of Abraham—Abraham’s Oak—Abraham’s Mummy. Page, 414

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

FROM DAN TO BEERSHEBA.

Palestine—Its Situation—Its Dimensions—Its Names—Its
Topography—Its Climate—Its Seasons—Its Agriculture—Its
People—The Pleasure of Traveling through Palestine. Page, 426

CHAPTER XXXIX.

JERUSALEM.

Approaching Jerusalem—Coming Events—Dreams—Light Breaks
In—Serenade—Zion, the City of God—Prayers Answered—Gratitude—A
Vision of Peace—Blighted Fig-Tree—Still a Holy City—Prominence
of Jerusalem—Its Influence among the Nations—A Melted
Heart—Tents Pitched—Walk About Zion—Situation of the City—Its
Walls—Its Gates—Afraid of Christ—Crossing the Kedron—Tomb of
Virgin Mary—Gethsemane—What it Means, What it Is, and How it
Looks—Superstitious Monks—Jerusalem Viewed from the Mount of
Olives—Architecture of the City—Prominent Objects—Entering the
City—Its Streets—Its Population—Jewish Theologues—Remaining
Portion of Solomon’s Temple—”Wailing Place” of the Jews—Kissing
the Wall—Weeping Aloud—Fulfillment of Prophecy—Only One
Conclusion. Page, 445

CHAPTER XL.

JERUSALEM CONTINUED—MOSQUE OF OMAR.

Haram Area—Its Past and Present—Wall—Gates—Stopped at the Point
of Daggers—Legal Papers and Special Escort—Mosque of Omar—Its
Exterior and Interior—A Great Rock Within—History and Legends
Connected with the Rock—Mohammed’s Ascent to Heaven—Place of
Departed Spirits—Their Rescue—Ark of the Covenant—Golden Key.
Page, 467

CHAPTER XLI.

IN AND AROUND JERUSALEM.

Church of the Holy Sepulchre—Peculiar Architecture—Strange
Partnership—The Centre of the Earth—The Grave of
Adam—Unaccountable Superstitions—An Underground World—Pool of
Siloam—Kedron Valley—The Final Judgment—Tomb of the Kings—Valley
of Hinnom—Lower Pool of Gihon—Moloch—Gehenna—Upper Pool of
Gihon—Calvary—The Savior’s Tomb. Page, 479

CHAPTER XLII.

EGYPT.

Jaffa—Its History and its Orange Orchard—On the
Mediterranean—Port Said—Suez Canal—The Red Sea—Pharaoh and his
Host Swallowed Up—From Suez to Cairo—Arabian Nights—Egyptian
Museum—Royal Mummies—A Look at Pharaoh—A Mummy 5,700 Years
Old—A Talk with the King—Christmas-Day and a Generous
Rivalry—Donkey-Boys of Cairo—Wolves around a Helpless
Lamb—Johnson on his Knees—Yankee Doodle—The Nile—The Prince of
Wales—Pyramid in the Distance—Face to Face with the Pyramid
of Cheops—Ascending the Pyramid—Going in it—Johnson Cries for
Help—The Sphinx, and what it is Thinking about. Page, 495

CHAPTER XLIII.

A BURIED CITY—POMPEII.

Long Shut Out of Civilization—Four Days in Gehenna—Paul’s
Experience Co-Incides with Ours—Dead—Buried—A Stone Against
the Door—Raised from the Grave—Under an Italian Sky—”See
Naples and Die”—Off for the City of the Dead—Knocking for
Entrance—Earthquake—Re-Built—Location of the City—Boasted
Perfection—City Destroyed by a Volcano—Vivid Description
by an Eye-Witness—Rich Field for Excavation—What Has been
Found—Returns to Get Gold—Poetical Inspiration—Pompeii at
Present—Mistaken Dedication. Page, 515

CHAPTER XLIV.

VESUVIUS IN ACTION.

As it Looks by Day and by Night—Leaving Naples—First Sight
of Vesuvius—Description—The Number of Volcanoes—Off to See
the Burning Mountain—A Nameless Horse—Respect for Age—Refuse
Portantina—Mountain of Shot—A Dweller in a Cave—A Slimy
Serpent for a Companion—Jets of Steam—Vulcan’s Forge—Exposed
to a Horrible Death—Upheavals of Lava—Showers of Fire—Fiery
Fiends—Winged Devils—Tongue of Fire—A Voice of Thunder. Page, 526

CHAPTER XLV.

ROME—ANCIENT AND MODERN.

The Mother of Empires—Weeps and Will not be Comforted—Nero’s
Golden Palace—Ruined Greatness—Time, the Tomb-Builder—Papal
Rome—The Last Siege—Self-Congratulations—Better Out-Look—The
Seven-Hilled City—Vanity of Vanities—The Pantheon—Nature Slew
Him—The Shrine of All Saints. Page, 535

CHAPTER XLVI.

ROME—ITS ART AND ARCHITECTURE.

A Question Asked—Answer Given—Nature as Teacher—Italians
as Pupils—Great Artists—The Inferno—The Cardinal in
Hell—The Pope’s Reply—A Thing of Beauty—The Beloved—The
Transfiguration—Architecture—Marble Men Struggle to
Speak—Resplendent Gems. Page, 544

CHAPTER XLVII.

BAPTIST MISSION WORK IN ITALY.

Why Italy is a Mission-Field—Beginning of the
Work—Difficulties—Increase of Forces—Growth of Work—Sanguine
Expectations. Page, 553

CHAPTER XLVIII.

FROM ROME, VIA FLORENCE TO VENICE.

Peasants—A Three-Fold Crop—Elba, the Exiled Home of
Napoleon—Pisa—Leaning Tower—An Odd Burial-Ground—Florence—The
Home of Savonarola, Dante, and Michael Angelo—Art Galleries—On
to Venice—A Flood—Johnson Excited—Storm Raging—Lightening the
Ship—Venice, a Water-Lily—No Streets but Water—No Carriages but
Gondolas—Shylocks. Page, 563

ILLUSTRATIONS.

COLORED PLATES. Page.

The River Jordan, where it is supposed Christ
was baptised, 380
Vesuvius in Action, 526

MAP.

Palestine—Time of Christ, 250

WOOD ENGRAVINGS, PHOTO-ENGRAVINGS, ETC.

Steel Plate of the Author—Frontispiece,
Clarence P. Johnson, 40
Burns’ Cottage, 42
Burns’ Monument, 45
Edinburgh, 48
Scott’s Monument, 51
Edinburgh Castle, 53
Abbotsford, 76
Melrose Abbey, 78
Newstead Abbey, 94
Chapel of Henry VII, Westminster Abbey, 104
Nelson’s Monument, 106
The House of Parliament, 109
The Tower of London, 112
St. Paul’s Cathedral, 115
Chas. H. Spurgeon, 120
Bunyan’s Cottage, 129
Edward Parker, 132
Queen Victoria, 144
Windsor Castle, 146
The Home of Shakespeare, etc., (six pictures,) 148
Strasburg Cathedral, 158
View on the Rhine, 164
Giessbach Falls, 192
A Glacier in Switzerland, 197
Among the Peaks, 202
Hospice in the Alps, 208
Swiss Mountains, 211
The Belvidere, Vienna, 221
The Danube, 224
Castle on the Danube, 226
Constantinople, 228
Modern Athens, 231
The Acropolis, 233
The Parthenon of the Acropolis, 234
The Acropolis of Athens as it was, 235
Turkish Lady, 243
Island of Patmos, 247
Cedars of Lebanon, 263
Ruins of Baalbek, 274
Damascus, 278
Tombs of the Caliphs, 290
Sea of Galilee, 313
Palms in Bush Form, 321
Priest of the Greek Church, 325
Vale and City of Nazareth, 330
Interior of a Caravansary, 338
Dancing Girl, 341
Snake Charmer, 343
Ancient Sheep Fold, 344
Mt. of Olives, 348
An Arab Horseman, 350
A Bedouin, 352
View on the Road from Jerusalem to Jericho, 356
Ford of the Jordan, 391
View in the Valley of the Jordan, 395
The Dead Sea, 399
Lot’s Wife, 402
Ruth, 415
Cave of the Nativity, 418
Bethlehem, 420
Pools of Solomon, 423
Mosque of Hebron, 424
Government Guards, 438
Jerusalem, 448
Hills and Walls of Jerusalem, 450
Old Olive Trees in Gethsemane, 455
Street in Jerusalem, 459
Wailing Place of the Jews, 461
Mosque of Omar, 470
Solomon’s Temple as it was, 474
Holy Sepulchre, 483
Pool of Siloam, 486
Tombs of the Kings of Judah, 489
Burial of Christ, 492
The Castle of David and Jaffa Gate, 497
An Egyptian, 502
Donkey Boys of Cairo, 507
Pyramid and Sphinx, 509
Pompeii, Street of Cornelius Rufus, 517
Climbing Mt. Vesuvius, 528
Colosseum of Rome, 537
John H. Eager, 555
Baptist Chapel at Pellice, Italy, 559
Leaning Tower of Pisa, 565

CHAPTER I.

OFF FOR NEW YORK.

Preparations—A Prayer and a Benediction—An Impatient Horse and a
Run for Eternity—Strange Sceptre and Despotic Sway—Beauty in White
Robes—Approaching the Metropolis—Business Heart of the New World—A
Bright Face and a Cordial Greeting—An Hour with the President—More
for a Shilling and Less for a Pound—A Stranger Dies in the Author’s
Arms—Namesake—Prospects of Becoming a Great Man—A Confused College
Student—The Hour of Departure—Native Land.

PREPARATIONS for the trip were completed when the week ended. Sunday,
with its sweet privileges and solemn services, came and went. Mother
and I knelt and prayed together. Rising to our feet, she looked up
through her tears and smilingly said, “Son, the Lord has given me
strength to bear the separation. ‘Go, and ‘God be with you till we meet
again.’”

Monday morning, as the hands on the dial plate point to seven, Johnson
and I seat ourselves in a carriage which is drawn by a horse whose
path is steel, whose heart is fire, and whose speed is lightning. This
impatient steed stands champing his bit, and when the word is given
he starts on his long journey. At one bound he leaps the majestic
river, and on, on he rushes as if he fears eternity will come before
he reaches his journey’s end. After traveling only a few hours, we run
into a blinding snow-storm which reminds us that Winter still wields
his icy sceptre, and rules with despotic sway. This storm continues for
hours; in truth, it lasts until apparently the whole earth is wrapped
in a mantle of white, and until the majestic mountains of Pennsylvania
seem to rise up in their virgin purity to kiss the vaulted sky.

Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, as seen in their white robes,
are more beautiful than ever. Winter’s frosty breath has not chilled
their blood. They are filled with energy and throbbing with life. From
Philadelphia to New York, there is almost one continuous string of cars
on each track. Along here our fiery steed sometimes runs sixty miles an
hour.

Long before we reach the metropolis, the shadows of the sombre evening
have shut out the light of day. As we enter this great city, it looks
as if a thousand times ten thousand lamps are all trimmed and burning.
New York is a marvelous city.

As much time as I have spent here, I never cease to wonder at it. Who
could walk these streets without wondering at the miles of granite
buildings, all joining each other and towering up from seven to twelve
and fourteen stories high; at the broad sidewalks crowded from six
o’clock in the morning until ten at night with one ceaseless stream of
humanity; at the people rushing along at a breakneck speed, as if they
were going to great fires in different parts of the city.

Notwithstanding the double-tracked elevated railway and the
double-tracked horse-cars, New York can not furnish transportation
for the people. She will, I think, soon be compelled to arrange for
an underground railway—this is a necessity. New York is the business
heart of the New World. Every American loves it. It is his pride at
home, his boast abroad.

At Temple Court I receive my mail, and meet my friend, Dr. H. L.
Morehouse, corresponding secretary of the Baptist Home Missionary
Society. As usual, his face is bright and his greeting cordial. He
is planning great things for God, and expecting great things of God.
Few men have done more to honor God and build up the Baptist cause in
America than Henry L. Morehouse.

A pleasant hour is spent with Dr. Norvin Green, President of the
Western Union Telegraph Company. His reminiscences of European travel
are rehearsed. He says that in London one can buy more for a shilling
and less for a pound than in any other place on earth. President Green
gives me a letter to his European representative, and kindly extends
other courtesies that are duly appreciated.

After attending to banking business and securing our ocean passage, we
decide to run over to New Haven and spend a few days with some special
friends. The double railroad track between New York and New Haven is
constantly in use. When about half way between the two cities, our
engineer spies a handsomely dressed gentleman walking on the other
track, and going in the same direction that we are going. A train is
coming facing the gentleman. Unconscious of the presence of more than
one train, he steps from one track to the other, just in front of our
engine. Seeing the danger, both engineers try to stop their trains,
but do not succeed. Both blow their whistles at the same time, but the
walker, thinking all the noise is made by one train, pays no attention.
Crash! Our engine strikes the man, and throws him twenty feet from the
track. The trains stop. The passengers gather around the unfortunate
man. The blood is oozing from his ears and nostrils. I take his head
on my shoulder and raise him up to get air. He struggles—gasps for
breath—and all is over. A letter in his pocket indicates his name and
residence.

A carriage is waiting for us at New Haven. On reaching there, we are
driven at once to the happy home of Mr. W. G. Shepard, who forthwith
presents me to Master Walter Whittle Shepard. This important character
is only twelve months old, but is full of life and promise. If he
combines the sweet spirit and graceful manners of his mother with the
strong character and bright intellect of his father, I believe he will
make a great and useful man notwithstanding the fact that he bears the
author’s name.

New Haven, with her one hundred thousand souls and great manufacturing
interests, with her parks and colleges, with her broad streets and
lordly elms, is one of the prettiest cities on the American continent.

When we retired last night, the snow was falling thick and fast; but we
awoke this morning to find that God had snatched a beautiful Sabbath
day from the bosom of the storm.

Mark Twain is in New Haven. In the course of a lecture delivered here,
he said: “A certain college student got the words theological and
zoological confused—he did not know one from the other. In talking to
a friend, this collegian said: ‘There are a great many donkeys in the
Theological Garden.’”

My stay in New Haven has been as pleasant as a midsummer dream, and
seemingly as short as a widower’s courtship. But we must now return to
New York. In less than three hours we will leave by the State Line, on
“The State of Indiana,” for Glasgow, Scotland. And now that the time of
my departure has come, I find myself breathing a prayer to God, asking
that He will direct my course; that He will guide my footsteps; that in
all my wanderings He will keep me from danger and death; that He will
finally bring me back in health and safety to the land of my birth, to
the friends of my childhood, to those whom I love and who are dearer to
me than life itself. And so may it be. More heartily than ever before,
I can say:

“My native country! thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love:
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.”

CHAPTER II.

ON THE HIGH SEAS.

A Difficulty with the Officers of the Ship—A Parting Scene—Danger on
the Atlantic—A Parallel Drawn—Liberty Enlightening the World—Life
on the Ocean Wave—Friends for the Journey—The Ship a Little World—A
Clown and his Partner—Birds of a Feather—Whales—Brain Food—Storm
at Sea—A Frightened Preacher—Storm Rages—A Sea of Glory—Richard
Himself Again—Land in Sight—Scene Described—Historic Castle—Voyage
Ended—Two Irishmen.

STEPPING on board the steamship State of Indiana, I say to the purser:
“Sir, I am from the West; I want elbow-room. Can’t you take away
these partitions and turn several of these compartments into one?” He
replies: “You are _now_ from the West, but you will soon be _from_ this
ship, unless you keep quiet.” From this remark I see at once that the
fellow is a crank, and I will either let him have his own way or give
him a whipping. I choose the former; so we shake hands over the bloody
chasm—or, I should say, over the briny deep.

I can never forget the scene that takes place at the wharf. The hour
for departure has arrived. Hundreds of people have gathered around the
vessel. As the last bell rings, there is hurrying to and fro. Friend
leaving friend; husband kissing wife; fathers and daughters, mothers
and sons, mingling their tears together, as parents and children take
their last fond embrace of each other. Ah! There are streaming eyes and
heavy hearts. As the vessel moves off, one sees the throwing of kisses,
the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. But we are gone. Tear-bedimmed
eyes can no longer behold the forms of loved ones. I dare say that many
of these partings will be renewed no more on this earth.

One hazards very little in committing himself to the winds and
waves of the Atlantic when he is on a goodly vessel, wisely planned
and skillfully put together; when the sea-captain is faithful and
experienced, and understands the workings of the mariner’s compass and
the position of the polar star. But my very soul is stirred within me
when I think of the thousands and tens of thousands who are sailing on
life’s dark and tempestuous ocean without a chart or compass; without
a rudder to steer or a hand to direct them; without the light from the
Star of Bethlehem to guide them over the trackless waters to the Haven
of Rest. They came from nowhere! They see nothing ahead of them save
the rock-bound coast of eternity, beset with false lights which are
luring them on to the breakers of death and the whirlpool of despair.
From the bottom of my heart do I thank God for the “Old Ship of Zion,”
planned by Divine Wisdom, freighted with immortal souls, guided by the
Star of Hope, commanded by Jesus Christ, bound for the Port of Glory!

As we leave New York, the Bartholdi Statue on Bedloe’s Island is one
of the last things we behold. This statue has been justly called “the
wonder of the century,” and one feels a national pride in the thought
that this statue, rising three hundred feet in the air, her right hand
lifting her torch on high—that this statue, the wonder of the age,
is a fit emblem of the country to which it belongs—_it is Liberty
enlightening the world_!

I can not pause here to speak of the deep, strange and strong impulses
that stir one’s soul as he sees his native land fade from view. I must,
instead, proceed to tell the reader something about

“A Life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters rave
And the winds their revels keep.”

The first few days, if the sea is calm and quiet, and so it is with us,
are spent in forming new acquaintances. No one wants an introduction
to any one. Everybody is supposed to know everybody else. A hearty
hand-shake, a friendly look of the eye, and you are friends for the
journey. And I dare say that many who here meet will be firm friends
for the journey of life. The company on board the ship is a little
world within itself, representing almost every phase of human life,
from the lowest to the highest. Here a statesman, there a philosopher;
here a musician, there an artist. We have one wonderful fellow on
board, who is here, there, and everywhere. He is anything, everything
and nothing. He evidently has more life in his heels than brains in
his head, and more folly on his tongue than reverence in his heart—a
pretended musician, who has decidedly a better voice for eating soup
than for singing songs. And it comes to pass that a certain small boy
follows the example of this clown, and the two together make things
lively and thoroughly uncomfortable for the rest of the party.

Naturally enough, after these acquaintances are formed, birds of a
feather flock together. The Rev. Dr. Malcom MacVicar, Chancellor
of the MacMaster University of Toronto, and his highly cultivated
lady, are among our fellow-passengers. I first met the Doctor some
years ago, when in Canada. He is an author of considerable note. For
twenty-five years previous to his going to Canada, he was probably the
most conspicuous figure in the educational circles of New York State.
The University over which he is now called to preside is a Baptist
institution with a million dollars endowment. Although raised to high
position and crowned with honors, Doctor MacVicar is as humble and
unassuming as though he were in the lowliest walks of life. Prof.
Honey, of Yale University, places his wife under my care. Mrs. Honey is
a lady of lovely character and superior attainments. Those whom I have
mentioned, together with two physicians from Indiana, and Rev. Mr.
Smith from Canada, form a little party somewhat to ourselves, though we
try not to appear clannish.

The passengers are occasionally attracted by whales, and are much
interested in watching them. Frequently two or three may be seen
following the vessel for miles and miles at a time, to get such food as
may be thrown overboard. Then they strike out ahead of us, or to one
side, chasing each other through the water. These monsters of the deep
remind me of a former class-mate, who was noted more for genial nature
than for strong intellect. One day, while the class in chemistry were
reciting, he said:

“Professor, I understand that fish is good brain-food. Is it true?”

The teacher replied: “Yes, I am disposed to think there is some truth
in the statement.”

“I am glad to know that, Professor, I am going to try it. How much do
you think I ought to eat?”

“Well, Sir,” responded the sarcastic professor, “I should recommend at
least half a dozen whales.”

I am sure, however, that when I last saw the student in question he had
not begun the eating of fish.

The fourth day is stormy and the sea rough. The women and children
are sick, very sick. The men are thoroughly prepared to sympathize
with them. They all lose their sea-legs. The vessel is turned into a
hospital. It is really amusing to hear the different expressions from
these afflicted sons of Adam.

One fellow, amid his heaving and straining, says: “I am not ‘zac’-ly
sea-sick, but my stomach hurts me mightily.”

Another, in like condition, says: “If they would stop the ship only
five minutes I would be all right.”

In the midst of the severest agony, an old gentleman ejaculates
something like this: “I left my children and loved ones at home, and I
expect to return in four months; but I would stay in Europe four years,
if I knew there would be a railroad built across in that time.”

I did not hear this myself, but it is said of one clergyman on board
that amid the fierceness of the storm he became exceedingly uneasy.
Wringing his hands, and approaching the chief officer, he exclaimed:
“O Captain, Captain, is there any danger of d-e-a-t-h?” The captain
replied: “Would that I could give you some encouragement; but, my
Reverend Sir, in five minutes we shall all be in Heaven.” At this, the
distressed preacher clasped his hands and cried aloud, “God forbid!” A
United States Minister on board said that any one who would cross the
ocean for pleasure, would go to hell for amusement.

For five days the sea rages, and the vessel rolls and labors and
groans. Looking out over the waters, I see ten thousand hills and
mountains, each crowned with white surf, which in the distance looks
like melting snow. Between these mountains there are deep gorges and
broad valleys. A moment later the mountains and valleys exchange
places. Now on the crest of a wave, the vessel is borne high in the
air, and now she drops into a yawning gulf below, coming down first on
one side then on the other. Now and then she pitches head-foremost,
reeling and staggering like a drunken man.

But, as usual, calm and quiet follow the storm. The sea is now as
placid as a lake. The sun is going down, apparently to bathe himself in
a sea of glory. In a few minutes the gleaming stars will look down to
see their bright faces reflected in the water. The sick are restored to
health, the staggering walk is gone, and “Richard is himself again.”

We were in sight of land almost the whole of yesterday. About twilight
last evening, we viewed the western coast of “bonnie Scotland.” I arose
at an early hour this morning, to find our stately craft smoothly
gliding on the placid waters of the river Clyde. It is a picture worthy
of the artist’s brush—a scene well calculated to inspire every emotion
of the poet’s soul.

On the north side of the majestic river, there is a sodded plain,
broad and unbroken, gradually rising from the water’s edge. As we view
this wooded landscape o’er, we see, here and there, farmhouses, which
are as picturesque and beautiful as they are quaint and old, with
the smoke from their ivy-covered chimneys coiling up and ascending on
high like incense from the altar of burnt offering. Turning our eyes
southward, we behold, hard by the stream, a long chain of towering
mountains, whose gently sloping sides are carpeted with green grass,
and girt around with budding trees. The heavy rain-drops on the grass
and leaves are sparkling in the light of the new-risen sun. The
mountains are echoing the merry tune which comes from the whistling
plowman on the opposite shore. Now, between these two prospects, on
the broad and unruffled bosom of this flowing river, our heavily-laden
vessel, as though she were weary because of her long journey, moves
slowly, gracefully, noiselessly, with the stars and the stripes proudly
streaming from her mast-head. Indeed so motionless and queenly is our
goodly vessel in her onward course, that she is apparently standing
still while the mountains and plains are passing in review before her.

A little farther up the stream, we see Dumbarton Castle standing in the
river. This historic rock measures a mile in circumference, and rises
three hundred feet above the water. This castle was at one time the
prison of Sir William Wallace, and afterwards the stronghold of Robert
Bruce. From here on to Glasgow the Clyde is lined on both sides with
iron-foundries and ship-building yards.

The voyage ends at Glasgow. The passengers are glad once more to
press _terra firma_ under their feet. I would write something about
Glasgow, but I am like the more hopeful one of two Irishmen who went to
America. Landing in New York, they started up town. They had gone only
a few paces, when one of them saw a ten dollar gold piece lying on the
sidewalk, and stooped to pick it up. The other said: “Oh, don’t bother
to get that little coin; we will foind plenty of pieces larger than
that.”

CHAPTER III.

THE LAND OF BURNS.

I AROSE this morning at an early hour, and, after partaking of a hearty
breakfast, I at once repair to the Grand Central Depot in Glasgow
where, a few minutes later, I seat myself in an English railway car.
These cars are, of course, made on the same general plan as ours, yet
they are in some respects quite different. The coaches are of about
the same length as those used in America, but not so wide by eighteen
inches or two feet. Each coach is divided into five compartments, each
being five and one-half or six feet long. Each of these compartments
has two doors, one on either side of the car, also two seats. Persons
occupying these different seats must face each other, so one party or
the other must ride backwards. They have no water or other conveniences
on the train, as we Americans are accustomed to; no bell-rope to
pull, in case of accident; no baggage-checks—each passenger must
look after his own baggage. As for myself, I have no baggage, save
what I can carry in the car with me. They have first, second, and
third-class compartments, the fare per mile being four, three, and two
cents respectively. I have examined closely, and can not detect one
particle of difference between the first and second-class compartments,
either one being fully as good as our first-class car. The English
first and second-class compartments are slightly superior to the
third-class. It is a saying among the Europeans that only millionaires,
soreheads (crowned heads), and fools ride first-class. Being neither a
millionaire nor a crowned head, and, as I am unwilling to be classed as
a fool, I always take third-class passage.

I believe in talking, asking questions, and exchanging ideas with every
man I meet, be he high or low, rich or poor. So, while standing at
the depot this morning, amid a great crowd of people, looking at the
engines, I remark to a pleasant-looking conductor standing near me,
that there is quite a difference in the engines used in this country
and those used in America. He wants to know what that difference is.
I tell him that our engines have cow-catchers before them and his
has none. “A cow-catcher,” says he, “and what is that?” I explain to
him that a cow-catcher is an arrangement fastened on in front of the
engines to remove obstructions from the road, to knock cows from the
track, etc. “Ah, indeed! We never need those in this country, and can
you tell me,” he continues, “why we do not need them?” “Well, sir,” I
reply, “I can see only one reason.” “And what is that, pray?” I answer,
“It must be, sir, that you do not run fast enough to overtake a cow.”
This creates quite a laugh at the conductors expense, though none seems
to enjoy it more heartily than he. Just at this moment, the train
starts, and I am off for Ayr, some forty miles away.

[Illustration: CLARENCE P. JOHNSON.]

As I step from the train in Ayr, the hack-drivers gather around me like
bees around the “Last Rose of Summer.” “Carriage, carriage, sir?” they
cry. “I’ll be glad to show you through the city, and take you to Burns’
Monument—carriage, carriage?” Tipping my hat, I reply, “No, gentlemen,
I will take a carriage some other time, when I have more leisure. I
prefer walking to-day, as I am in a great hurry.” So, each with a
cane in his hand and a portmanteau strapped on his back, Johnson, my
pleasant traveling companion, and I set out on foot for “The Land of
Burns.”

Luckily, we meet with some intelligent farmers who cheerfully give us
much valuable information about the country. They, in turn, ask many
questions concerning far-off America. Land in this part of Scotland
is worth from two hundred to three hundred dollars per acre, and the
annual rent is twenty to twenty-five dollars per acre. Most of the land
in this country is owned by a few “lords” and “nobles,” and the “common
people” are in bondage to them. They are in poverty and rags, as might
naturally be expected from the exorbitant rents which they have to pay.

“Man’s inhumanity to man,
Makes countless millions mourn.”

The principal crops raised by the farmers of this country are wheat,
oats, rye, barley and Irish potatoes. They grow no Indian corn. They do
not know what corn-bread is—many of them have never heard of it.

[Illustration: BURNS’ COTTAGE.]

After a walk of an hour and a half through a most charming country,
we reach our destination. I am now sitting in the room where was
born Robert Burns who, Dr. Whitsitt says, was the most important
personage that the British Isles have produced since the time of Oliver
Twist—oh, excuse me, I should have said, since the time of Oliver
Cromwell. I would have had it right at first, if that “twist” had
not gotten into my mind. This important personage was born 128 years
ago. How long this cottage was standing before that time, we do not
know; but, as you may imagine, it is now a rude and antique structure.
It is built of stone, and the walls are about six feet high. It has
an old-fashioned straw or thatched roof and a stone floor. A hundred
years ago, this room had only one window. That is only eighteen inches
square, and is on the back side of the house. In the time of Burns, the
cottage had only two rooms, though some additions have since been made.
The entire place is now owned by the “Ayr Burns’ Monument Association,”
and the original rooms are used only as a museum, wherein are collected
the furniture, books, manuscripts and other relics of the illustrious
bard.

I have, for a long time, been somewhat familiar with the history and
writings of the “Peasant Poet,” whose birthplace I now visit, and I
have often read Carlyle’s caustic essay on Burns. I have just finished
reading his life, written by James Currie. I have read, to-day, “The
Holy Fair,” “Tam O’Shanter,” “Man Was Made to Mourn,” and “To Mary,
in Heaven,” and now, as I sit in the room where this High Priest of
Nature first saw light, as I sit at the table whereon he used to write,
and view the relics which once belonged to him, I am carried back for
a hundred years and made to breathe the atmosphere of the eighteenth
century. As I sit within these silent walls, a strange feeling comes
over me. I hear, or seem to hear, the lingering vibrations of that
golden lyre, whose master indeed is dead, but whose music still finds a
responsive echo in every human heart. Robert Burns, the man, was born
of a woman but Robert Burns, the poet, was born of Nature! He stole the
thoughts of Nature and told them to man. It was believed long ago that
Burns was the High Priest, the interpreter, of Nature, and

“Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.”

The multitudes who hither come, prove by their coming that

“Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to code nor creed confined—
The Delphic vales, the Palestines—
The Meccas of the mind.”

Some three hundred yards beyond the cottage, we come to the “Burns’
Monument,” beautifully situated on “The braes and banks o’bonnie Doon,
Tugar’s winding stream.” A more appropriate location could not have
been selected for this monument, as near by are the “Alloway Kirk,” the
“Wallace Tower,” the “Auld Mill,” and the “Auld Hermit Ayr,” and other
localities rendered famous by the muse of the ploughman poet. I stand
on the “Brig o’ Doon” before reaching the keystone of which Meg, Tam
O’Shanter’s mare, “left behind her ain grey tail.”

[Illustration: BURNS’ MONUMENT.]

From the top of this towering monument, which stands in the midst of
a beautiful flower-garden, I for once take a “broad view of life.”
With one sweep of the eye, I see the Doon, the Ayr, the Clyde, the
ocean! The scene is made more grand and inspiring, more picturesque and
beautiful, by the lakes, plains, hills and mountains which lie between,
overhang, and tower above, these laughing rivers. Ah! me, how my spirit
is stirred! Like Father Ryan, I have thoughts too lofty for language
to reach. In describing what I now see and feel, silence is the most
impressive language that can be used. Thought is deeper than speech.
Feeling is deeper than thought.

CHAPTER IV.

EDINBURGH.

A Jolly Party of Americans—Dim-Eyed Pilgrim—Young Goslings—An
American Goose Ranch—Birthplace of Robert Pollok and Mary Queen of
Scots—The Boston of Europe—Home of Illustrious Men—A Monument to
the Author—Monument to Sir Walter Scott—Edinburgh Castle—Murdered
and Head Placed on the Wall—Cromwell’s Siege—Stones of Power—A
Dazzling Diadem—A Golden Collar—Baptized in Blood—Meeting American
Friends.

WE ARE now in Edinburgh; we have been here some days. On our way from
Ayr, we fell in with a jolly party of American gentlemen. The eyes of
one grey-haired brother in the crowd are somewhat dimmed with age,
though he is unwilling to acknowledge it.

As the train made a graceful curve around a mountain, we came into a
large, green pasture where many sheep were grazing. Now, the people of
this country feed their sheep on turnips—large, yellow turnips, with
the tops cut off. While in this pasture, we saw, some seventy-five
or a hundred yards from the road, a great quantity of these turnips
scattered over the grass for sheep food. The dim-eyed pilgrim spied the
yellow objects and, pointing to them, he enthusiastically exclaimed:
“Oh, what a fine lot of young goslings!” Then he added, “There are the
goslings, but where are the geese?” I explained that those objects he
saw were not “goslings” but turnips, and suggested that the goose was
on our train. Before we separated, the two parties became fast friends.
We all agreed to throw in and buy our friend a farm, to be known, not
as a turnip patch, but as “The American Goose Ranch,” and on this ranch
we are to meet the first day of May of each year, to discuss vital
questions and living issues pertaining to the life and character of
“young goslings.”

[Illustration: EDINBURGH.]

Leaving the pasture, we passed the Moorhouse farm, where Robert Pollok,
author of “The Course of Time,” was born, in 1798, two years after the
death of Robert Burns. We came by Linlithgow, the birthplace of Queen
Mary. The majestic ruins of its once proud palace are still standing on
a green hillside near the town, as if to impress the passer-by with the
mutability of all human greatness and all human grandeur.

In one hour more we had reached the end of our journey. Edinburgh has
two hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, just half the number of
Glasgow, and is a magnificent city. It is the pride of every Scotchman.
It is called “The Classic City,” “The Bonnie City,” “The Capital City,”
“The Monumental City,” and “The Athens of Britain.” I expected to hear
it called “The Boston of Europe,” but the people did not seem to think
of it. This was the birthplace of Sir Walter Scott, the novelist and
poet; the home of Hume, the scholar and historian; of John Knox, the
reformer, who never feared the face of man, nor doubted the Word of
God; of Thomas Chalmers, the Astronomical preacher from whose pulpit
the stars poured forth a flood of light and glory; and it was for a
thousand years the home of the Scottish Kings and state officials. It
is now the political home of Gladstone, who is perhaps the greatest
living statesman, and the home of Drummond, author of “Natural law in
the Spiritual World.”

The city is filled with many objects of peculiar interest, only a
few of which I will mention. About a hundred years ago, though the
people here speak of it as “recently,” the city was greatly enlarged,
and I suppose the object of the enlargement was to make room for
the monuments and statues. One sees a monument on almost every
street-corner, and there is a perfect forest of statuary. These Scotch
people are very fond of honoring great men. I am going to leave here
to-morrow, for fear they put up a monument to me. They have not said
anything about the monument yet, but I notice the police have been
following me about for two or three days, as though they thought of
something of that sort.

[Illustration: SCOTT’S MONUMENT.]

On Princess street, in the prettiest and most romantic part of the
city, stands a colossal monument to Sir Walter Scott which was
fashioned by one of the world’s greatest artists, and which is said to
be one of the most superb structures of the kind ever built. I am quite
prepared to believe the statement. In this monument architectural
grandeur and artistic beauty are blended in the sweetest and most
perfect manner imaginable. Like a sunset at sea, it never becomes
monotonous, but is always pleasing. A fit emblem this of Scott himself,
in whom a strong character was so gracefully blended with smooth
and polished manners. This monument may be painted, but it beggars
description.

To me, however, the most interesting object in Edinburgh is the Castle,
located just in the centre of the city. The Castle is built on a high
rock whose base covers an area of eleven acres. This rock rises to a
height of four hundred feet, its summit being accessible only in one
place, the other portions of the rock being very precipitous, and, in
some places, absolutely perpendicular. The top of the rock presents
a level surface, has an area of five acres, and is surmounted by a
massive stone wall built close around on the edge of the cliff. On this
storm-beaten rock, and within these moss-covered walls, stands the
historical Castle, built ten centuries ago. In appearance the Castle
is “grand, gloomy, and peculiar.” In his charming poem, Marmion, Scott
refers to it thus:

“Such dusky grandeur clothed the night,
Where the huge castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down;
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massive, close and high,
Mine own romantic town!”

According to the history of Scotland, which to me is as charming as
a story of romance, this Castle has a strange and bloody tale to
tell. Here James II was confined, likewise James III. Here “The Black
Dinner” was given, and the Douglasses were murdered. Here the Duke of
Argyle and the good Montrose were beheaded. Montrose, you remember,
is a conspicuous figure in Scottish history. He was loyal to his king
and country. He was courageous as a lion, and as true and noble as he
was brave. Yet he was tried before a false court, whose verdict was
that on the next day he should be put to death, and his head placed on
the prison wall. When permitted to reply, Montrose, in his calm and
dignified manner, stepped forward and, with his usual boldness, said to
the Parliament: “Sirs, you heap more honor upon me in having my head
placed upon the walls of this Castle, for the cause in which I die,
than if you had this day decreed to me a golden statue, or had ordered
my picture placed in the King’s bed-chamber.”

[Illustration: EDINBURGH CASTLE.]

In 1650, Cromwell besieged the Castle, for more than two months,
without success. This was the home of the beautiful Queen Mary at the
time she gave birth to James VI, since whose reign the whole of Great
Britain has been ruled by one sceptre.

In what is called “The Crown Room” of the Castle, are “The Stones of
Power,” or the “Emblems of Scottish Royalty.” These regalia consist
of three articles, the Crown, the Sceptre, and the Sword of State. By
a fortunate circumstance, I obtain free access to these royal relics.
They are entirely new to me, hence I examine them closely. Thinking
perhaps the reader would like to know something of an earthly crown
before going home to wear an Heavenly one, I give the following
description of this one: The lower part is composed of two circles, the
undermost much broader than that which rises above it. Both are made of
purest gold. The under and broader circle is adorned with twenty-two
precious stones, such as diamonds, rubies, topazes, amethysts,
emeralds and sapphires. There is an Oriental pearl interposed between
each of these stones. The smaller circle, which surmounts the larger
one, is studded with small diamonds and sapphires alternately. From
this upper circle two imperial arches rise, crossing each other at
right angles, and closing at the top in a pinnacle of burnished gold.

The Sceptre is a slender and an elegant rod of silver, three feet long,
gilded with gold and set with diamonds. The Sword of State is five feet
long. The scabbard is made of crimson velvet and is ornamented with
beautiful needlework and silver.

In the same glass case with the above-named insignia, is a golden
collar of the “Order of the Garter,” which collar is said to be that
presented by Queen Elizabeth to King James VI when he was created
Knight of that Order. In the same case, is also a ruby ring labeled as
the coronation ring of Charles I. But enough about

“The steep and belted rock,
Where trusted lie the monarchy’s last gems—
The Sceptre, Sword, and Crown that graced the brows,
Since Father Fungus, of an hundred kings.”

I am having a perfect feast in re-reading the “Heart of Midlothian,”
the plot of which is laid in this city. I never had such a thirst for
knowledge, nor did I ever enjoy reading so much as now. I make daily
visits to the Haymarket, to the old Tolbooth, to Holyrood Palace, to
Arthur’s Seat, to the cottage where the Dean family lived, and to many
places which have been baptized in blood, and about which Scott’s muse
loved to sing.

While in the Waverly Hotel, a few days ago, I chanced to meet Reverends
J. K. Pace and W. T. Hundly, Baptist preachers from South Carolina.
What a happy meeting! We were together only two days. Theirs was a
flying trip, and they had to rush on to London and the Continent
without seeing much of “Bonnie Scotland.” We agree to meet in six weeks
in London or Paris.

CHAPTER V.

A TRAMP-TRIP THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS.

His Royal Highness and a Demand for Fresh Air—A Boy in his Father’s
Clothes—Among the Common People—Nature’s Stronghold—Treason Found
in Trust—Body Quartered and Exposed on Iron Spikes—Receiving a
Royal Salute—Following no Road but a Winding River—Sleeveless
Dresses and Dyed Hands—Obelisk to a Novelist and Poet—On the
Scotch Lakes—Eyes to See but See Not—A Night of Rest and a
Morning of Surprise—A Terrestrial Heaven—A Poetic Inspiration—A
Deceptive Mountain—A Glittering Crown—Hard to Climb—An Adventure
and a Narrow Escape—Johnson Gives Out—Put to Bed on the Mountain
Side—On and Up—A Summit at Last—Niagara Petrified—Overtaken
by the Night—Johnson Lost in the Mountains—A Fruitless
Search—Bewildered—Exhausted—Sick.

AFTER a sojourn of ten days, I left Edinburgh, the site of Scottish
nobility. While there I heard so much of Dukes and Earls, of Lords and
Nobles, of Her Majesty and His Royal Highness, etc., that it became
necessary for me to seek some mountain peak where I could get a full
supply of fresh air. If there is such a thing, I have a pious contempt
for high-sounding titles of honor and nobility, and especially when,
as is too often the case, the appellations themselves are of more
consequence than the men who wear them. A man may indeed have a _great
name_ “thrust upon him,” but _greatness itself_ is not thus attained. I
like to see a son inherit his father’s good qualities, and the more of
them the better, but as for honors and titles, let him win those for
himself. I saw a “Duke” the other day who reminded me of a half-grown
boy on the streets wearing his father’s worn-out pants and coat and hat.

Well, as I started out to say, I became so nauseated with these
inherited, worn-out, loose-fitting titles of nobility that I determined
to leave the rendezvous of “honor,” and get out into the country
among the common people. Accordingly I left Edinburgh, a week ago
to-day, for an extended tramp-trip through the Highlands. I came first
by rail, via Glasgow, to Dunbarton, a ship-building town of 13,000
inhabitants, on the river Clyde. Thence, a pleasant walk of three
miles brought me to Dunbarton Castle, which I saw from the steamer
as we were coming from America, and which was barely mentioned in a
previous chapter. “This Castle,” says the Scottish historian, “is one
of the strongest in Europe, if not in the world.” It is, as before
stated, a great moss-covered rock, standing in the river, measuring a
mile in circumference, and rising nearly three hundred feet high. In
the first century of the Christian era, the Romans gained possession
of, and fortified themselves in, this Castle. By the treachery of John
Monmouth, Sir William Wallace, while on this rock, was betrayed, in
1305, into the hands of the British, who took him to London and struck
off his head, after which his body was quartered and exposed upon
spikes of iron on London Bridge. A long two-handed sword, once used by
Wallace, and other ancient relics of warfare, are shown to the visitor.

From the top of the Castle, one gets a commanding view of the
surrounding country. While there, looking northward, I saw Ben Lomond,
more than twenty miles away. I could not refrain from taking off my
hat to this “Mountain Monarch.” And, as if to return my salute, the
clouds just then were lifted, leaving the snow-covered head of the
mountain bare for a moment. For this act of civility, I determined
to pay His Royal Highness a visit. Hence, with felt hats pulled down
over our eyes, with canes in hand, and small leather satchels strapped
across our backs, my traveling companion and I set out on foot for the
Highlands.

We followed no road, being guided by the river only, which flows from
Loch Lomond into the Clyde. The general scenery along this route is
nothing unusual; but the river itself is surpassingly beautiful, its
water being transparent, and flowing deep, smooth and swift, but
silent, between its level green banks.

Just before entering a small town, on the river, called Renton, we
met hundreds of girls and young women homeward bound, all wearing
sleeveless dresses, and carrying tin buckets. Their dyed hands and
arms bespoke their occupation. They were factory girls, employed in
the paint works the largest in Scotland. In this town, is a splendid
obelisk to Tobias Smollet, the novelist and poet, who was born here in
1721.

By eight o’clock we reached a wayside inn, where a few shillings
secured us comfortable accommodations. Next morning was dark and
cloudy. A few hours’ walk found us at the head of Loch Lomond, where
we took shipping on the neat little steamer, “Prince Consort.” We had
several tourists, artists, poets, musicians, and other persons of taste
and culture, on board, all of whom, like ourselves, had come to see and
enjoy “Bonnie Scotland.” But the clouds were so dark and low, the mist
so dense and heavy, that we could see little or nothing of the beauty
and grandeur by which we were surrounded. Before nightfall, though the
whole day seemed almost like night, “The Prince” touched at a landing
called Tarbet, where we disembarked and secured lodging. The day was
damp, cold and dark; everything around us wore a gloomy aspect. We were
tired. We could see nothing to interest the mind or delight the eye. So
Morpheus soon claimed us as his captives for the night. But, ere those
nocturnal hours passed away, God’s own hand removed the clouds and
curtains which, the day before, hid the works of Nature from our view.

Next morning, the sound of the clock striking eight disturbed the
“spirit of my dreams.” The reader can better imagine, than I can
describe, my feelings when I arose and looked around me. I found that
it was a warm, bright, beautiful spring morning, and that I was in the
loveliest spot on earth. I was in the midst of a large flower-garden,
laid out with great care and excellent taste, containing a fine variety
of shrubbery and a rich profusion of delicate and fragrant flowers.
Behind me was a range of mountains, high and lifted up, extending also
to the right hand and to the left, leaving the flower-garden just in a
graceful curve of the mountain chain. Before me, and toward the east,
was Loch Lomond, the Queen of the Highland Lakes. Her waters were clear
as crystal, and her bosom was unruffled by a single wave, there being
just motion enough upon the mirror-like surface to cause the sunbeams
falling upon the water to glisten like a sea of sparkling diamonds.

Across the Loch, and just one mile away, was Ben Lomond, the lordliest
mountain in all Scotland—the same that returned my salute from
Dunbarton Castle. While the foot of this majestic mountain was washed
by the waters of the lake, its brow was wrapped in the snow of winter
and bathed in the clouds of heaven. Thus the beautiful lake is
surrounded by

“Mountains that like giants stand
To sentinel the enchanted land.”

And each towering crag and cliff and mountain peak was seen reflected
in the silver mirror lying at their feet.

In addition to all these attractions, that morning when I awoke it
seemed as if all the birds of the country, with their merry voices
and bright plumage, had assembled to hold their spring carnival. One
of their number was unlike any of the feathered tribe I had seen
before. It had a dove-colored breast; night and morning were delicately
interwoven in its wings, and it sang “as if every tiny bone in its body
were a golden flute.” A good old lady living there told me that when
Dr. Thomas Chalmers stood where I was standing that morning, and saw
and heard what then greeted my eyes and ears, he exclaimed: “I wonder
if there will be such scenery and music as this in heaven!”

Ah! this is Scotland, “Bonnie Scotland,” whose picturesque scenery has
waked the harp of so many bards, and has often set the artist’s eye
“in fine frenzy rolling.” I am not surprised that the mantle of poesy
fell upon Burns while following the plow; my only wonder is that all
Scotchmen are not poets. In fact, when I awoke that morning and found
myself in that terrestrial heaven, I did not know what was the matter
with me. There was a fluttering underneath my ribs. It was a deep and
strong, yet a pleasing and delightful sensation. I thought it was a
poet’s soul in me! Rushing to the desk with hair uncombed, I arranged
my stationery, and sat with pen in hand waiting for the light to break
in upon me—but—but—the spell passed off before I could get hold of
the first rhyme. What a pity!

After being here a short time, Johnson and I decide to take a trip
through the mountains and visit Loch Long, a few miles west. We are not
at all disappointed when we arrive at the Loch. The scenery is wild,
savage, grand! Beyond the lake, or loch, we see the Cobbler, a towering
mountain, covered with snow. The mountain is apparently not far off,
seemingly about two hours’ walk. Now this, the Cobbler, is not the
highest mountain in Scotland, but is said to be the hardest one in the
whole country to climb.

Not knowing the difficulty of our undertaking, we determine to plant
our feet in the snow glittering upon the Cobbler’s crown. We are almost
exhausted when we reach the base, but, after resting a few minutes,
I say: “Johnson, renew your strength, and let us go.” For awhile the
ascent is comparatively easy; but we soon come to great walls of black
rock, rough and steep, some places being almost perpendicular. We try
to go around the worst places, determining, however, that when we
come to a rock which we can not go around, we will go over it. This
we manage to do by the assistance of the grass and twigs growing in
the crevices of the rock, but the climbing is exceedingly difficult
and tiresome, and often dangerous. One time in particular my escape is
narrow. I am standing on a narrow shelf of rock. Below me is a yawning
chasm, some sixty feet deep. Above is a wall almost straight up and
down, eighteen feet high. With dire apprehensions I start up. When
about two-thirds of the way up, a bush, whose fastenings in the crevice
of the rock are not as strong as I thought, gives way with me. Down I
come on the narrow rock-shelf, and almost into the chasm below. For
some minutes I am unable to move, though I am worse frightened than
injured. Johnson excitedly calls out: “Whittle, Whittle, are you hurt?”
I reply, “No, I am like a cat—always catch on foot. Besides, ‘A man’s
greatness consists not in his never falling, but in always rising after
a fall.’”

The day before this memorable tramp, a heavy rain had fallen and the
grass, with which many parts of the mountain are covered, is very wet,
hence our feet are soon as wet as water can make them. Under these
difficulties, we have not gotten more than two-thirds of the way up
the mountain, before my companion, who, like a mountain goat, loves to
climb, gives out completely. He has neither the strength to go to the
top, nor the spirit to start down. Rest is the only hope. So, with two
overcoats for a pallet, a round stone for a pillow, and the blue sky
for a covering, I put Johnson to bed, and he is to sleep while I am to
continue my journey to the top of the mountain, and hasten back with
some snow for dinner.

The summit is more distant, and the way more difficult and perilous,
than we had supposed. However, I have started to the top, and I am
determined to go there, “if it takes all the summer.” And I do. But
in order to accomplish my purpose I must go around and approach the
long-sought brow from the opposite side. I reach the very top! And,
although my trembling limbs are so weak and weary that I can scarcely
stand, yet I feel fully repaid for all my toil. The snow under my feet
is five feet deep. About a half mile beyond me is another mountain
towering up apparently a thousand feet above me, and covered with
snow from head to foot. It looks frightful; and almost unwittingly
I exclaim: “Niagara petrified! A mountain of snow falling from the
clouds!” The sight is grand, but I can not prolong my stay, for obvious
reasons. I am wet with perspiration, and, having left my overcoat with
Johnson, I am now suffering—the cold and cutting wind pierces to the
bone; and besides night is coming on.

Now a new trouble begins. I can not find Johnson. I do not know on
which side of the mountain I left him. I have no idea as to where he
is! But the worst of all is that Johnson, after sleeping three hours,
wakens, and, as I have not returned, becomes uneasy about me. He
supposes that I have either gotten into the snow and can not get out,
or have fallen over some precipice and hurt or killed myself. So he,
out of the goodness of his heart, sets out in search of me. Each hunts
for the other until night without success. Fortunately, however, we
agreed in the morning on a place to spend the night. On reaching the
place agreed upon, I find that he is not there—nor has he been seen!
While I am making preparations to go back, with assistance, to hunt for
him the door flies open and in steps Johnson, completely exhausted, and
sick besides. Thus ends our first day among the mountains!

CHAPTER VI.

A GENERAL VIEW OF SCOTLAND.

Highlands and Lowlands—Locked up for Fifteen Days—The Need of
a Good Sole—A Soft Side of a Rock—The Charm of Reading on the
Spot—A Fearful Experience—Bit and Bridle—Thunder-Riven—Volcanic
Eruption—Dangerous Pits—An Hundred-Eyed Devil—Gloomy Dens—Meeting
an Enemy—Eyes Like Balls of Fire—Voice Like Rolling Thunder—A
Speedy Departure—Leaping from Rock to Rock—Silver Thread among the
Mountains—Imperishable Tablets—The Cave of Rob Roy and the Land
of the McGregors—Lady of the Lake and Ellen’s Isle—Lodging with
Peasants and with Gentlemen—Rising in Mutiny—Strange Fuel—Character
of Scotch People—Scotch Baptists—Sunrise at Two O’Clock in the
Morning.

SCOTLAND, as the reader knows, is a small country. Its length from
north to south is two hundred miles, but east and west the country
is very narrow, no part of it being more than forty miles from the
sea-coast. This small area is divided into what are known as the
“Highlands” and “Lowlands,” the two sections being as unlike in the
nature of the soil, the character of the scenery, the habits and
industries of the people, as though they were a thousand miles apart.
To the historian and tourist the Highlands, occupying the northern,
or rather the northwestern, portion of Scotland, is by far the most
interesting section. The term, Highlands, however, does not, as many
people think, designate a broad, level, elevated table-land. On the
contrary, the Highlands of Scotland are a wild, savage world by
themselves, composed entirely of hills, morasses, mountains, glens,
moors, lakes and rivers.

For the last fifteen days, I have been in the heart of this enchanted
land, locked, as it were, in this rock-ribbed region. I have spent the
time in walking through the country; rowing on the lochs, or lakes;
climbing mountains; threading glens; exploring caves; talking to the
people of high and low degree, thus gaining information of every kind
and character, both as to the past and present condition of this wild
country and its poverty-stricken people. Hard work this. A man walking
through the mountains needs a good sole (soul)—spell it as you please.
To me, however, the work (I can not call it by any other name half so
appropriate) has been as pleasant as it has been difficult, and as
profitable as both combined. When I become very tired, and that is no
infrequent occurrence, I spread myself out on the soft side of some
projecting rock, high on the mountain side, and there, while resting, I
alternately feast my eager eyes on the outstretching landscape, or read
from books which I have along for that purpose. I read the “History of
Scotland,” “Heart of Midlothian,” “Rob Roy,” “The Lady of the Lake,”
“The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” and “Marmion.” In this way I have read
much of the history, poetry, and fiction of Scotland while on the spot,
or in the immediate neighborhood about which it was written. It lends a
new charm and gives an additional zest to what one reads, when he can
lift his eyes from the book and behold the places and objects mentioned
in its glowing pages.

I can never forget my experience of a week ago to-day. I was up at an
early hour. The sky was cloudless and the morn calm and quiet. Across
the lake stood Ben Lomond in its giant-like proportions. Its brow, grey
with eternal snow, looked so inviting that I determined to ascend and
sniff the mountain breeze. A friend, where I spent the night, and who
knew the difficulties in the way, tried to dissuade me from my purpose;
but when I take the bit between my teeth there is no bridle that can
stop me. Johnson, who by this time had thoroughly recovered from his
maiden effort at climbing mountains, and who is as fleet as a hart and
spirited as a gazelle, agreed to accompany me. So, ere the warbler
had finished his morning song, and while the dew was yet sparkling
bright on the heath, we set out for that towering peak, “where snow and
sunshine alone have dared to tread.”

For sixpence, a farmer’s lad rowed us across the loch, landing us at
the foot of the mountain whose rocky cliffs and thunder-riven sides we
were to climb. Seven hours’ toil brought us to the objective point,
and rewarded us with one of the finest, wildest, and most romantic
views to be had anywhere this side that deep and yawning gulf which
separates time from eternity. I found myself surrounded by a thousand
peaks, crags and cliffs, whose heads were white with the accumulated
snows of fifty winters, they being of different heights, and of every
conceivable shape, size and angle—all having been caused, apparently,
by the upheaval of some mighty volcanic eruption of the under world.
These iron-belted mountain sides are honey-combed with deep and dark
dens, dangerous pits and caves, which once furnished shelter and
security to those savage and lawless clans whose sole occupation was
arms, and who, under cover of night, often swooped down upon the barns,
flocks and herds of the Lowlanders like eagles upon their prey. When
once hidden away in those dark recesses, it would take an hundred-eyed
devil to discover their whereabouts; and, if discovered, it would
require an iron-handed Hercules to rout and discomfit them.

Many of these peaks and cliffs are separated only by narrow and
gloomy glens hundreds of feet deep. The glen may be ten, fifteen, or
twenty-five feet wide at the bottom, but the rough and irregular sides
tower up so high, and come so near closing at the top, that the rocky
chasm is dark and gloomy. I have, I think, very little superstition
about me; yet I confess that while walking through these silent halls,
where the sun has never shone, I felt half inclined to look around
me for hissing serpents, for hobgoblins and rats. While in one of
these unseemingly—I had almost said unearthly—places, a dreamy,
far-away spell came over me. I fell into an absent-minded mood.
Just as I reached a dark, horrible-looking place, I paused. I stood
still, my eyes resting upon the stone floor; I was thinking about—I
do not know what. All at once I heard a furious noise; and, turning
suddenly around, I beheld a huge wildcat rushing down the glen, with
eyes glaring like balls of fire. By this time he was within five feet
of me, and gave the most unearthly yell that I have ever heard. It
seemed as if it would rend the very rocks. Every hair on my head was
a goose-quill, and they were all on ends. For a moment I was still as
death, and pulseless as a statue, while the noise that startled me was
rolling, ringing, and reverberating down the glen like the mutterings
of distant thunder. As John Bunyan would say, “I departed, and was
seen, there no more.”

Having gotten out of the glen, I went back upon Ben Lomond and enjoyed
the picture. I said it was a grand sight, and so it was. Turn my eyes
as I would, I could see mountain streams fed by melting snow, the water
being churned into madness as it leaped from rock to rock, until it was
lost in the abyss below. Looking beneath me, I could see several of the
Scottish lakes, which were as beautiful as the mountains were grand. I
saw Loch Lomond, on whose calm bosom many islands float, winding around
like a silver thread among the mountains for twenty miles.

All this made a picture that I can never forget. It is indelibly
stamped on the imperishable tablets of memory; and there it will
remain, an object of interest and admiration, until the flood-gates of
life are shut in eternal rest.

We visited Rob Roy’s cave, the land of the Macgregors, the house in
which Helen Macgregor was born, Loch Katrine where Scott wrote “The
Lady of the Lake,” and many other places known to history and to song.

Johnson and I found no difficulty in walking twelve to twenty miles a
day. We sometimes obtained lodgings with peasants, and at others with
“gentlemen,” or landlords. The peasants call themselves “servants,”
and always speak of the landlord as “master.” This nomenclature is
suggestive of the real relationship existing between the two classes.
It is none other than that of master and slave. These peasants are
still plodding along in the same old grooves whose rough edges wore
their fathers out. Many of them, like the dumb ass in the tread-mill,
expect only their bread, and verily they are not disappointed. I almost
wonder that the very stones in the streets do not rise in mutiny, and
clamor for justice until their cry is heard by the dull ears of power.

While walking from Loch Lomond to Loch Katrine, I saw several peasants
spading up the ground. They had dug several holes, each large enough to
swallow a good-sized house. The dirt was taken out in square blocks,
much the size of three bricks put side by side, or about the shape of
a Mexican adobe. In appearance, these blocks resembled soft, sticky,
black prairie mud. Seeing them spread out to dry, I thought they were
to be used as building material. Upon making inquiry, I found that it
(the dirt) was preparing for fuel. The peasants call it moss. They dry
it and stack it, as we stack fodder or oats. They say it burns well.

The Scotch people, as a whole, have impressed me very favorably. They
have a straightforward way of doing business. Almost every face wears
on it the stamp of genuine honesty. The better classes of people are
social, kind and accommodating in their nature, though somewhat stiff
and dignified in their bearing.

Religiously, most Scotchmen are Presbyterians in belief and devout
in spirit. They are no people for innovations or change, even though
the new be superior to the old. I would as soon undertake to turn the
Amazon from its wonted channel as to swerve these Scotch people from
their fixed modes of thought and habits of life. As the boy said of his
father’s horse that would go no farther, they are “established.”

Just twenty years ago, the main body of our Baptist people of this
country formed what is known as the “Baptist Union of Scotland.” They
now have eighty-five churches and ten thousand members. Though few in
number, they expect, like Gideon’s band of old, to come off conquerors
at last. All the Baptist ministers whom I have chanced to meet have
received me into their confidence, into their homes and families. They
have extended to me every act of kindness and of courtesy that I could
ask or wish.

In a month from now, the people of Scotland will have very little
night. In the latter part of June they have twilight until eleven
o’clock, and the sun rises about two o’clock in the morning. It is now
almost ten o’clock at night, and I can see to write without artificial
light, and the moon is not shining.

CHAPTER VII.

FROM DUNDEE TO MANCHESTER.

Scotch Presbyterians in Convention—Their Character and Bearing—On
the Footpath to Abbotsford—The Home of Scott—Five Miles through the
Fields—Melrose Abbey and the Heart of Bruce—Hospitality of a Baptist
Preacher—Adieu to Scotland—Merry England—Manchester—Exposition and
Prince of Wales—Manchester and Cotton Manufacturers—A $25,000,000
Scheme—Dr. Alexander Maclaren—His Appearance—The Force of his
Thought—The Witchery of his Eloquence—His Hospitality Enjoyed—A
Promise Made.

LEAVING Dundee I run down to Edinburgh to attend the annual meeting of
the established church of Scotland. I am anxious to see this venerable
body of men, whose deep-toned piety has pervaded the nation, and who
wield such a powerful influence over the political and religious
thought of the century. Whether around the family fireside, or on the
public platform, most of these men are dignified, stiff and formal in
their bearing. I can but think that if they were put under the water,
the starch would be taken out of them, and they would be more useful to
the world. I say to a friend that if I had only a little Baptist water
and Methodist fire, I could get up enough steam in half an hour to set
the whole convention in motion.

We set out on Friday for the home of Sir Walter Scott, some thirty
miles distant. One hour brings us to Gallashields. Here we leave our
baggage and take the foot-path leading along the banks of the river
Tweed and terminating at Abbotsford. The day is fine. The scenery is
not grand, but varied and beautiful. The pedestrians are so engaged in
contemplating the beauties of nature, that the walk of five miles seems
rather to rest than to tire them.

[Illustration: ABBOTSFORD.]

Abbotsford is situated upon a hillside about two hundred yards from the
river. Between the house and the stream there are two high terraces,
making two distinct flower-gardens, one being some twenty feet higher
than the other. The house is large and quaint and old. It is always
open to visitors, and daily many enter its portals. One feels as if he
would like to remain here a week, examining the clothes, furniture,
books, manuscripts and curiosities once belonging to the lord of
letters and of language. Here one sees locks of hair from the heads of
the Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson. Here one sees the bones of many
Christian martyrs; also guns, pistols, swords, shot, shells, canteens,
and other relics of interest, gathered from the field of Waterloo by
Scott himself.

But we must not linger here. I want the reader to go with me to
Melrose. It is only five or six miles, and I am sure we shall enjoy the
walk, as our winding path leads through fields, sheep-pastures, and
grassy meadows. It will be sport for us to jump the fences, jump the
ditches and babbling brooks. We will take dinner as we sit beside the
second stream, whose limpid water will fill our glasses.

Now that we have reached Melrose, let us go at once to the old Abbey,
and view that ruined pile in which repose the body of Douglass and
the heart of Bruce, and around which the bard of Abbotsford loved to
linger. This old church, or abbey, which for hundreds and hundreds
of years resounded with the songs and prayers of monks and Catholic
priests, was demolished by the Protestants in the time of the
Reformation, and now serves only as the dwelling-place of blind bats
and hooting owls. After spending three hours in and around the Abbey,
and regretting that we cannot linger three days, we leave, feeling that
we can fully appreciate, and heartily adopt the sentiment expressed in
the second canto of “The Lay of the Last Minstrel:”

“If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright.
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never seen so sad and fair.”

[Illustration: MELROSE ABBEY.]

We now retrace our steps toward Gallashields; and, on reaching there,
are met by the Rev. Mr. Thompson, a Baptist preacher, who takes us to
his house, and treats us so kindly that I really regret my inability to
accept his kind invitation to remain until Sunday and preach for him.

I sincerely regret that my stay in Scotland has ended. I am loath to
leave. I have walked two hundred and fifty or three hundred miles
through the Highlands. I have viewed the whole country through a veil
of poesy which the hands of Scott and Burns have thrown over it. To me,
it is indeed “Bonnie Scotland;” and in leaving it I can but say:

“Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest,
Like the shroud of the dead on the mountains’ cold breast;
To the cataracts’ roar, where the eagles reply,
And the lakes their broad bosoms expand to the sky.”

The night passes; morning comes. The day is bright and beautiful.
I now bid adieu to bonnie Scotland, and set my face, for the first
time, toward merry England. It is Saturday. Hence, I go direct to
Manchester, so as to be there on Sunday. Manchester has almost a
million inhabitants. It is the greatest cotton-manufacturing city in
the world. The great English Exposition was opened in Manchester by the
Prince and Princess of Wales, a few days ago, and will not close for
some weeks yet. I have attended exhibitions in New Orleans, Atlanta,
Louisville, Washington City, Philadelphia and Boston, and the main
difference between an American exposition and an English one is that
in America we make a specialty of fruits, seeds, agricultural products
and implements, fine wood, valuable timbers, gold and silver ore, etc.,
while in England the specialties are emblems of royalty, relics of
antiquity, and products of the loom and spindle.

The manufacturers of Manchester know much more about cotton than do
Southern planters in the United States. They know each spring how
much cotton is planted. They study carefully the crop prospects. They
have approximately correct ideas as to what the yield will be. They
then estimate the demand, and calculate the price. Most of these men
manufacture goods to order. When one buys a thousand bales of cotton,
he knows exactly how much money it will cost to work it up, how much
goods it will turn out, how much waste there will be, and how much
profit he is to reap. The people here say that the speculators of New
York frequently buy up great quantities of cotton and hold it for
better prices. To counteract this, a paper is addressed to the cotton
manufacturers of England, and circulated through the country. Those
signing this petition agree thereby to run their factories only half
the time until the next cotton crop is put on the market.

The enterprising people of Manchester have inaugurated a scheme by
which they will be enabled to greatly reduce the price of their goods,
and at the same time realize greater profits for themselves. It now
costs them as much to send their goods by rail to Liverpool, a distance
of thirty-six miles, as it does to get them from Liverpool to New
York. The new scheme is to cut a canal from Liverpool to Manchester,
through which the great sea-going vessels can come up to Manchester and
be loaded from the factories. For this purpose, $25,000,000 have been
raised. Work on the canal was begun some time ago, and will be pushed
most vigorously. It will be the broadest and deepest canal in the world.

To me, however, the object of greatest interest in the city is Dr.
Alexander Maclaren, who is regarded by many competent judges as the
greatest living preacher. Six volumes of his sermons grace the shelves
of my library. My knowledge of his personal history, and my familiarity
with his style of thought, make me all the more anxious to see and hear
the man whose eloquence sways the multitude as the wind turns the grass
of the field.

Little before eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, I enter the elegant
Union Chapel, wherein are seated some 2,500 to 3,000 persons. The
preacher soon enters the pulpit. He is somewhat under medium size,
measuring perhaps five feet and seven inches in height, and weighing,
I imagine, about one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. His iron-grey
hair is somewhat long, is combed straight back, and parted in the
middle. His forehead is high and broad, and projects far over the large
blue eyes which are set deep back in his head. His mouth is small; his
features are hard and dry. He reminds me much of the late Jefferson
Davis and Dr. Henson.

His prayer is but the overflowing of a large heart filled with
love. The text is Matthew 3:16. For fifty minutes the multitude is
spellbound. Dr. Maclaren’s speaking corresponds with Dr. Henson’s
definition of eloquence—it is _logic set on fire_. The most striking
peculiarity of his style is the force with which he projects his words.
As was said of Henry Clay, each word has positive weight. As I hear the
man speaking, and feel the force of his utterances, I am impelled to
say: “This is naught else than the artillery of heaven besieging the
citadel of the soul!” The thoughts are projected with such dynamitic
force that resistance is impossible—every barrier is soon broken down,
then every projectile burns its way into the soul. His words have in
them scorpion-stings—they arouse an accusing conscience. Then a change
comes over the spell of his preaching. He says: “You now see how poor a
thing is man; how corrupt his heart; how wicked his thoughts; how vile
his deeds! So turn away from self, and look to that Christ upon whom
the Spirit descended, and of whom God said, ‘This is my Son.’”

I accept the Doctor’s invitation to call on him in the afternoon. He
is desirous that the Baptists on the two sides of the Atlantic should
know each other better—that there should be a closer bond of union and
sympathy between them. He is as pleasant at home as he is forcible in
the pulpit. I promise to go with him to a Baptist Association, about
which we shall speak in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VIII.

BAPTIST CENTENNIAL.

Three Baptist Associations—Centennial Year and Jubilee Year—Baptists
Seen at their Best—Doctor Alexander Maclaren—Matchless
Eloquence—Hon. John Bright Delivers an Address—Boundless
Enthusiasm—English Hospitality—A Home with the Mayor.

THE Yorkshire, Lancashire and Cheshire Baptist Associations are now
holding a joint meeting in this city of Rochdale. The Yorkshire
Association was organized in 1787, and covered at that time all the
territory that is now embraced within the three Associations above
named, the division having occurred by common consent in 1837.
This is therefore the centennial year for the Yorkshire, and the
semi-centennial year for the Lancashire and Cheshire Associations.

This is also the English Jubilee year, being the fiftieth year of the
reign of Queen Victoria. Hence this meeting is called “The Baptist
Centennial and Jubilee Celebration.” It is said to be the grandest
Baptist meeting ever held in England. It represents the brains and
culture of our denomination in this country.

They are more formal in their methods of conducting the business of the
body than is customary among American Baptists. The program is made
out and printed beforehand. The speeches are all “cut and dried.” The
moderator asks a particular man to make a certain motion, and then
specifies another one and asks him to second the motion. The present
meeting is mainly taken up with historical and biographical discussions.

As a rule, the delegates are men of fine natural powers and scholarly
attainments. Most of them are fluent speakers, though very few of their
number can be called eloquent or even forcible. It is natural that on
this occasion the speakers should indulge freely in self gratulations.
They are proud of their history, and especially of their ancestors who
made their history. And well they may be. Their ancestors were men of
backbone, of nerve and stamina! Unlike many men of the present day,
they _believe something_! Their convictions were deep, strong, pungent!
Their convictions were strong enough to lead them to the stake. And
then they had the courage of their convictions. They were not ashamed
to let the world know what they believed.

In some respects, I regard the present Baptists of England as unworthy
sons of their distinguished ancestors. They boast of their progress,
of their broad sympathies, and liberal views; that they have gotten
away from the bones of theology to the gospel of Christ; that they no
longer preach of God’s avenging wrath, but rather of His forgiving
mercy. These English Baptists are good men, and they preach the gospel
as far as they go; but they do not go far enough. Jehovah is a God of
justice as well as of mercy. A body of theology without bones is as
useless as a human body without bones. They seem to be sadly lacking in
that deep, heart-felt conviction, and in that sturdy, lion-like courage
which immortalized their forefathers. They have well-nigh ceased to
preach our distinctive doctrines as Baptists, and God, I believe, as
a consequence, is withholding His blessings from them. Within the
bounds of these three Associations, live more than one-fourth of the
population of England, and yet the Associations report only 34,000
members. A church may believe and practice whatever she pleases as to
communion (and other things too, I suppose), and still secure or retain
membership in any of these Associations.

The leading features of the meeting are as follows: An address on
“Reminiscences of Associational Teachers in 1837,” by Rev. John Aldis;
the Centennial Sermon, by Dr. Alexander Maclaren, and an address on
“Sunday Schools,” by the Right Hon. John Bright, Member of Parliament.

Mr. Aldis is a remarkable man. He has been in the ministry sixty
years, and still retains much of the strength and enthusiasm of youth.
Possessing such splendid gifts, and having been so long connected with
the Associations, there is no man living better able to perform the
task assigned to him than the venerable John Aldis. The address is a
model of condensation. The speaker was almost as laconic as the tramp
who called, late one evening, at a country residence, and said to the
lady of the house: “Madam, will you please give me a drink of water?
I am so hungry I don’t know where I am going to sleep to-night.” I
wonder that one can say so much in so short a time. There is scarcely
a superfluous word from beginning to end. It is marked, too, by great
literary excellence, and contains some delightful bits of character
sketches.

Doctor Maclaren is at his best. I doubt whether he ever preached a
better sermon than the one he delivers at this meeting. He warns his
brethren that there is danger ahead, that false theories are creeping
into their creeds, that it will never do to cut loose from the “old
moorings.” He says in substance: “Brethren, the cold winds from the
icy caves of Socinianism are chilling our blood and benumbing our
limbs. We boast of becoming liberal-minded and broad. We should not
forget, however, that broad streams are shallow, and that narrow ones
are deep. Their currents are apt to be swift enough to cut up the mud
and wash out the riff-raff from the channel, leaving a smooth, solid
rock bed. God’s Word may lead us into deep water, but it will never
leave us without a solid foundation. There is such a thing as being
broader than wise, and wiser than good.” For more than an hour his
audience of three thousand persons is under his magic power. At times
they are breathless. The Doctor plays upon the fibres of men’s hearts
like a skillful musician upon the strings of his harp. He strikes
any chord—every chord—he pleases. The audience can neither resist
laughter nor suppress tears. Every heart is pierced by the orator’s
fiery glance, and thrilled by his matchless eloquence. As Goethe said
of Herder, “He preaches like a God.”

The enthusiasm of the meeting reaches its zenith Wednesday
afternoon, when the Right Hon. John Bright delivers an address on
“Sunday-schools.” The excitement is simply intense. One round of
applause follows another until the very walls of the building are made
to ring with glad huzzas. Then those who can not gain entrance to the
immense hall take up the cry, and send it ringing through the streets
of the city. The excitement really becomes painful. Mr. Bright is quite
old and feeble—his head is white as cotton, still he is a perfect
master of assemblies. As an orator, he is much after the style of the
late Brooklyn divine.

One touching incident must be related. Mr. Bright stands before the
audience motionless, until silence is restored. He then calls Mr.
Aldis to him. As the two venerable men stand side by side facing the
audience, with their hands on each other’s shoulders, Mr. Bright
relates the following incident: “I first met Mr. Aldis fifty-four years
ago. We were then just entering upon the duties of life. On the day of
our meeting, each of us delivered an address to a large assembly. Mr.
Aldis was my senior. He spoke first, and I second. After the speaking
was over, he took me to one side. He said that he saw in me powers that
should be developed. He told me how to develop those powers. In a word,
he lectured me on public speaking. This, ladies and gentlemen, was my
first and last lesson in elocution.” Then, turning to his old teacher,
he continued: “Mr. Aldis, if I have accomplished anything in life, and
especially as a public speaker, it is due, at least in part, to your
kindly counsels. We met first fifty-four years ago; this is our second
meeting; our third will be in Heaven.”

The meeting has just closed. It was an unequivocal success. The
arrangements were simply perfect. No weak plank was put in the
platform. Every speaker was true and tried, and everything passed
off with an eclat that is pleasing to contemplate. A daily paper, in
speaking of the meeting, says: “The Baptists were seen at their best,
and they are justly proud that it was a very good best.”

These English Baptists have been exceedingly kind and courteous to me.
I was entertained by Hon. John S. Hudson, Mayor of the city. It seemed
that Mr. Hudson and family could not do enough for their American
guest. Their kindness will never be forgotten.

CHAPTER IX.

A SOJOURN IN ENGLAND AND ON TO WALES.

Arrested and Imprisoned—Released without a
Trial—Nottingham—Dwellers in Caves—Seven Hundred Years Old—Forests
of Ivanhoe and Robin Hood—Birthplace of Henry Kirk White—Home of the
Pilgrim Fathers—Home of Thomas Cranmer—A Guide’s Information—Home
of Lord Byron—Wild Beasts from the Dark Continent—A Sad
Epitaph—Byron’s Grave—A Wedding Scene—Marriage Customs—Wales
and Sea-Bathing—Among the Mountains—Welsh Baptists—A Tottering
Establishment.

AFTER attending the Baptist Centennial at Rochdale, I turn my face
toward the east, Nottingham being the objective point. Four hours bring
me to my journey’s end, and the reader can scarcely imagine my feelings
when, as I step off the train at Nottingham, I am arrested by a sturdy
Scotchman. I say to him: “Sir, what does this mean? If you seek for
some criminal, some culprit who has violated the laws of the land, you
have caught the wrong bird. I am a loyal citizen of the United States
of America. I have the necessary papers from government officials to
prove what I say. I was never accused of an ungentlemanly or illegal
act in America, and since coming to England I have behaved myself; I
have kept good company; I have respected your Queen and obeyed the laws
of your country.”

Although I am as composed as a judge, and notwithstanding the fact that
my words ring out like the notes of a silver bell, my speech falls
flat. The Scotchman declares that it is entirely unnecessary for me to
say another word; that I am his prisoner; that I shall be locked up,
but shall not be maltreated; that I shall be dealt with fairly, and, if
innocent, released in due time. Strange feelings come over me as I am
led captive through the crowded streets of this busy city to be locked
within the gloomy prison-walls of a foreign country. Fortunately,
however, the darkest hour is just before day. We have not gone far,
when the Scotchman throws off the mask and reveals himself as my bosom
friend, and fellow-countryman, George Robert Cairns, who is well-known
and much beloved from Ohio to California, and who has sung and preached
his way into the hearts of thousands of the Scotch and English people.
The prison to which he is conducting me proves to be one of the most
pleasant and elegant homes in the city. Hence, I feel that I can say
with David, “Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing; thou hast put
off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness.”

Nottingham is one of the oldest and most historic cities in all
England. It is splendidly situated on the banks of the river Trent in
the midst of one of the prettiest and most romantic regions of country
anywhere to be found in Her Majesty’s Kingdom. The word “Nottingham”
signifies “dwellers in caves,” a name given to the town on account of
its early inhabitants dwelling in caves and subterranean passages cut
in the yielding rock on which the present city is built. These caves
and caverns are still open, and it affords me curious pleasure, with
lantern in hand, to wander through their dark recesses.

In one of the noted forests by which the town is surrounded, stands a
large and venerable oak-tree, more than seven hundred years old, with
a wagon road cut through it. These are the lordly forests described in
Ivanhoe—the same, also, where Robin Hood held high carnival.

This is the birthplace of Henry Kirk White, whose poetical talents
brought him into prominence long before he reached man’s estate. The
bud was plucked before the flower was full-blown. Brief, bright and
glorious was his young career. An ardent admirer from the Western world
has placed a beautiful marble tablet to his memory in one of the halls
of Cambridge University. Many of the Pilgrim Fathers left for America
from this town and shire.

I was at the birthplace and home of Thomas Cranmer, who, in 1656,
perished at the stake for the cause of Christ. The enthusiastic guide
who is but temporarily of the Archbishop’s palace pointed to Cranmer’s
portrait and said: “This is a picture of Mr. Cranberry, a Scottish
king, who, in 1009, was condemned for heresy and shot by order of
Pharaoh.” The traveler who believes all that the guides tell him will
soon be thoroughly convinced that Moses was the grandson of Julius
Caesar.

I know not when I have enjoyed anything more than a day spent at
Newstead Abbey, the home of Lord Byron, whose faults we cannot forget,
but whose genius we must acknowledge, and whose poetry we cannot fail
to admire. The Abbey is now the property of Capt. F. W. Webb, who spent
many years with Livingstone and Stanley in their African explorations.
In turn, Livingstone and Stanley used to spend much time with Captain
Webb in his elegant home. Many of the spacious rooms and long winding
halls of the Abbey are filled with stuffed lions, tigers, bears,
wolves, panthers, serpents, and fowls brought by these men from the
Dark Continent. The Abbey itself is about eight hundred years old. It
stands in the midst of a great forest, nine miles north of Nottingham,
and is surrounded by lovely flower-gardens, sparkling fountains, and
artificial lakes. Here the poet wrote “Hours of Idleness.” I was sad
when I saw the splendid marble monument which the fond master had
erected to his faithful dog. The epitaph closes with these melancholy
words:

“Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend’s remains, these stones arise;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.”

[Illustration: NEWSTEAD ABBEY.]

From the Abbey I went to Hucknall, three miles away, to see the grave
of the poet, who lies buried in a church just in front of the pulpit.
The marble slab covering the grave forms a part of the floor, and on it
are these words:

“BENEATH THIS STONE RESTS THE REMAINS OF LORD BYRON.”

On either side of the pulpit, also, there is a marble slab imbedded in
the wall, filled with inscriptions pertaining to the life and character
of him who, while living, struck chords in the human heart which will
continue to vibrate until the sands of time shall have been removed
into the ocean of eternity. I must now quit the dead, and say something
about the living. I must leave the grave, and take my stand beside the
altar.

At eleven o’clock to-day, Mr. George Robert Cairns, of the United
States, and Miss Annie Mellors, of Nottingham, England, were united in
the holy bonds of matrimony. On three successive Sundays previous to
the wedding, according to the requirements of law, the engagement was
publicly announced at churches, and the question, “Does any one present
object to the proposed marriage?” was asked. It is the custom of the
country for engagements to be made public as soon as marriage contracts
have been entered into. The young people thus engaged are at once
recognized as members of each other’s family. Mr. Cairns’ evangelistic
labors have been greatly blest. Through his instumentality many, both
in Europe and America, have found Him of whom Moses and the prophets
did write. And now that the Lord has blest him with one of the most
lovely and accomplished Christian women in England, I feel sure his
usefulness will be greatly increased, if not doubled.

From Nottingham we came to Wales. We have been here several days,
bathing in the sea, walking along the white pebbled beach, strolling
through grassy meadows, gathering wild flowers, climbing wooded
hills, and scaling rugged mountains. When weariness overtakes the
pedestrians, they seat themselves on the shady side of some towering
crag or cliff, whose shadow falls long and deep across the hill. Here
they hold close communion with Nature and sweet converse with God. The
pilgrims discover God’s power in the lofty mountains, see His beauty
in the blushing rose, behold His glory and splendor in the setting sun
“vast mirrored on the sea.” These rocky coasts, mountain peaks, and
waterfalls have inspired many a poet’s muse. Here Tennyson loves to
linger. Here Mrs. Hemans sang her sweetest songs. Here Johnson and I
roam and read.

“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in everything.”

The Baptists are numerically strong and wield a powerful influence in
Wales. They are close communionists. They are loyal to their principles
and to their God; consequently, they are being wonderfully blest—they
are flourishing like the green bay-tree.

The Episcopal Church is fast losing ground in this country. The
people are crying out against the tithe system, and are calling for
dis-establishment. This once proud structure is tottering. Many predict
a speedy fall; and, if it falls at all, I believe the crash will be
heavy enough to jar and injure the foundation of the established church
throughout the empire. I say it kindly and in the right spirit: I hope
that the Episcopal Church will be disestablished. If it be of man, it
ought to fall. If it be of God, it needs no human government to support
it. If a church be of God, its devotees need to look to Him, and not
to the State, for strength. The lack of governmental support never yet
stopped the work of saving souls. Against Christ’s Church, neither the
powers of earth nor the gates of hell can prevail!

“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again:
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.”

CHAPTER X.

LONDON.

Entering London—The Great City Crowded—Six Million Five Hundred
Thousand People Together—Lost in London—A Human Niagara—A Policeman
and a Lockup—The Jubilee and the Golden Wedding—”God Save the
Queen.” and God Save the People—Amid England’s Shouts and Ireland’s
Groans Heard.

I ENTER London for the first time on Saturday at 8 P.M. It is with
the greatest difficulty that I obtain lodging. I am turned away from
several hotels, boarding-houses, and private homes. I can not get even
a cot, or blankets, to make a pallet on the floor. I continue to press
my suit, however, and finally secure good accommodations with a private
family.

Why all this difficulty? It arises from the fact that this is the week
set apart for London and the surrounding country to celebrate the
Queen’s Jubilee, this being the fiftieth year of her reign. For some
days the streets have been absolutely crowded with visitors. It is said
that there are more people here now than ever before. It is a difficult
matter, I am sure, for one who has never been here to realize what this
means.

London occupies a good part of four counties, covering an area of one
hundred and twenty-five square miles. This area is traversed by 7,400
streets which, if laid end to end, would form a great thoroughfare,
eighty feet wide, reaching from London to New York. And yet these
streets are far too few, too narrow, and too short, to accommodate the
six and a half millions of people who are now crowded into the city
to attend the Jubilee. There are, in London, more Scotchmen than in
Edinburgh; more Irish than in Dublin; more Jews than in Palestine;
more Catholics than in Rome. There are more people in London to-day
than live in New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston, Cincinnati,
Louisville, New Orleans, St. Louis, Kansas City and San Francisco all
combined. There are more than half as many people here as live in
Mexico, and more than one-tenth as many as inhabit the whole of the
United States of America.

Monday morning, at ten o’clock, I started out, like Bayard Taylor,
with the determination to lose myself in this great city, and I hope
that it will not be considered egotistic in me to say that I was
eminently successful. Indeed, I have never been more successful in
any of my undertakings than in the effort to lose myself in London. I
wandered through the streets for hours and hours, going up and down,
to the right and left, across, zigzag, and every other way, paying no
attention whatever to the direction in which I was going, or to the
distance that I had traveled. Johnson and I were soon separated from
each other. I was alone, all alone! Who can describe that lonely and
woe-begone feeling which comes over one as he, for the first time,
winds his way through the great crowd that constantly throngs the
streets of the world’s metropolis! A lonely, desolate, miserable, and
depressing feeling takes hold of your spirit. You cannot shake it off.
After walking until your weary limbs can scarcely support you, you
sit down upon some curb-stone, or door-step, to rest, to meditate, to
dream. Your head turns dizzy as you sit there and watch that human
Niagara dashing by you! In vain, you scan the care-worn faces of the
passers-by for a familiar countenance. You can only comfort yourself
with this consoling thought: “I know as many of them as they do of me.”
Ah! who knows—who can know—that mixed multitude? Who can tell whether
courage or cowardice, whether hope or fear, whether virtue or vice,
whether joy or sorrow, whether peace or strife, most rules the heart?
One man in the crowd continually thinks of the low, the mean, the vile,
and is himself corrupt and vicious. Another has pure thoughts and lofty
aspirations; he has an eye for the beautiful; he loves the true, and
longs to be good.

Here is a demon of darkness, whose heart is black with the crimes
of last night—yea, with the accumulated crimes of a life-time. His
conscience is dead. He would now like to stifle the courage, to
throttle the hope, and stab the virtue of others. There is a good
Samaritan whose acts are acts of kindness, and whose deeds are deeds of
charity. He is in the world, but not of the world. He is a stranger.
He is a pilgrim. His citizenship is in Heaven!

For several hours I watched the passing throng, and read their
thoughts as best I could. At length I came to myself. I felt as if I
had been dreaming. I found that it was seven o’clock in the evening.
I discovered that I was lost! I did not know where I was. I scarcely
knew who I was, or whence I came. I had forgotten the name and place
of my room. I walked on, going I knew not where. The sun set in the
east. Water ran up stream. I found that I had not been wise, but
otherwise. My pockets had been searched. My money-purse was gone;
fortunately, however, it was almost empty. I had very little small
change, and nothing to make it out of. Eight o’clock came, then eight
thirty—things were getting desperate! I sought a policeman, and asked
him to help me find myself. Without any reluctance whatever, he took
charge of me. He told me to follow him. I did so; and, just as the
clock struck ten, the key turned, I heard the bolt slam, and found
myself locked for the night within—my own room. This ended my first
day on the streets of London.

Tuesday is the Jubilee Day, the day of the Golden Wedding, the day when
Queen Victoria and her people are to be married a second time, after
having lived together for fifty years as sovereign and subjects. God
favors us with what the people here call “Queen’s weather,” a perfect
day. The morning is bright, the sky cloudless; the air is pure, and the
breeze refreshing. Johnson and I leave home early, and reach Trafalgar
square before seven o’clock in order to secure a good position from
which to see what promises to be one of the greatest royal processions
ever witnessed. Although we are on the scene early, thousands and tens
of thousands of people have preceded us. Some came at two o’clock in
the morning that they might secure favorable positions. Many paid from
ten to one hundred dollars for seats. Fortune smiles on Johnson and me.
We obtain good vantage-ground, the only charge being “long standing.”

By nine o’clock, the route along which the procession is to pass is
the most thickly populated part of the globe that I have yet seen.
The broad sidewalks and streets are a solid mass of humanity. The
large parks, sometimes covering acres, are filled with men, women and
children, packed to suffocation. The streets, steps, verandas, windows,
and housetops are all filled. At 9:30, all are driven out of the
streets proper, crowded back on the sidewalks, into the lanes, by-ways,
open squares, and public parks along the route. Persons on the opposite
sidewalks face each other. Just in front of the crowd, close back to
the curb-stone on either side, stands a line of large, able-bodied
policemen, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, the two lines facing
each other.

In front of the police force, is a line of armed infantry, standing at
“attention,” with fixed bayonets. Still in front of these, is stationed
a line of cavalrymen, all splendidly dressed and well mounted. Each has
a gun and a pistol buckled to his saddle, and a glittering sabre in his
hand. Thus the whole route, extending for miles and miles, is flanked
on either side by three columns of armed men. Buntings of every color,
and the flags of all nations, are fluttering in the breeze. The richest
floral designs that art can fashion, or that money can purchase, adorn
the way. The route is lined from end to end with wealth, beauty, and
chivalry of the English Isles. See! Far in the distance the royal
trumpeters are coming, on black chargers, flourishing their golden
trumpets, and shouting to the expectant multitude, “The Queen is
coming!” The shout is taken up and repeated by a thousand times a
thousand voices: “The Queen is coming! The Queen is coming!” The
enthusiastic cries come rolling down the avenue like waves on the
ocean. It strikes the fibres of every heart. The electric current
flashes along the whole line—every man feels the shock. The welkin
rings with deafening cheers.

[Illustration: CHAPEL OF HENRY VII, WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

The procession itself defies description. It consists of some fifty or
sixty regal carriages all filled with royal personages—kings, queens,
and crown princes. Each carriage is drawn by four—some of them by
eight—large horses wearing silver-mounted harness. Each carriage is
attended by thirty life-guards, well mounted, and armed to the teeth.
The Queen’s escort consists of thirty royal princes. The procession
passes on to Westminster Abbey, and there, in the presence of the
congregated royalty of earth, Victoria is crowned Queen of England and
of India, after having been fifty years a sovereign.

Every civilized nation under heaven has contributed to the pageantry
of this occasion. For the last half century, Victoria has been weaving
for herself a crown which the nations of the earth do this day rejoice
to place upon her brow. She has magnified her office. Is she jealous?
it is of her honor. Is she ambitious? it is for the glory of her
country. Is she proud? it is of what her people have accomplished. Is
she mighty? it is to succor the oppressed. She is exalted, yet humble;
dignified, yet courteous; a sovereign, yet a willing subject of the
lowly Nazarene. Elizabeth is called England’s greatest queen; but
Victoria is, unquestionably, her best. And,

“Howe’er it be, it seems to me
’Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.”

The Victorian era will be known to posterity as “the golden period
of English history.” Victoria has been a mother to her children and
a benefactor to her people. She has developed her country, advanced
the arts and sciences, and founded hospitals and asylums. May the good
Queen live long to rule righteously, to glorify motherhood, and adorn
her palace with Christian virtues. And may the angel of peace long
guard her realms!

[Illustration: NELSON’S MONUMENT.]

CHAPTER XI

SIGHTS OF LONDON.

THE man who comes to London and is driven around in a hansom, or a
carriage, as most tourists are, and sees only the museums and art
galleries, the botanical and zoological gardens, the monuments and
statues, the costly cathedrals and splendid temples, the lordly
mansions and the superb palaces, of the city, leaves with a false,
imperfect, distorted, and one-sided idea of the place. I would advise
no man to come here, and leave, without visiting Westminister Abbey
and the Houses of Parliament, without going to St. Paul’s Cathedral,
to the Tower, and a dozen other places of general interest, “where
travelers do most congregate.” These things one should see, as a matter
of course, but other things should not be left unseen.

I love to study architecture, art and literature; I love to study
poetry and science; but, above all, I love to study _man_.

Some years ago, I saw a gentleman in Queen’s College, Toronto, Canada,
who received a good salary from the government to study cat-fish. Men
spend many years and much money in studying birds. And is not one fish
sold for a penny, and two sparrows for a farthing? Man is of more value
than many fishes and sparrows. Then, why not study man? Nor is it
enough to study men individually; but we must study them collectively
as well. And, for this collective study of mankind, there is no better
place to be found anywhere beneath the shining stars than the city of
London.

As I sit alone in my room to-night, my conscience hurting me for
disobeying the counsels of a devoted mother in keeping this late hour,
and look down upon the “life circulation” of the city, I realize that
it is true sublimity to dwell here. “I am listening to the stifled hum
of midnight, when traffic has lain down to rest. I hear the chariot
wheels of vanity rolling here and there, bearing her on to distant
streets, to halls roofed in, and lighted to the true pitch for folly.
Vice and misery are roaming, prowling, mourning in the streets, like
night-birds turned loose in the forest.

“The high and the low are here, the joyful and the sorrowful are here;
men are dying here; men are being born; men are praying—on the other
side of the brick partition, men are cursing; around them is all the
vast void of night. The proud grandee still lingers in his perfumed
saloons or reposes within damask curtains. Wretchedness cowers into
truckle-beds, or shivers, hungerstricken, into its lair of straw. In
obscure cellars, squalid poverty languidly emits its voice of destiny
to haggard, hungry villains, while landlords sit as counsellors of
state, plotting and playing their high chess game, whereof the pawns
are _men_.”

[Illustration: THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.]

“The blushing maiden, listening to whisperings of love, is urged to
trust him who, in all probability, seeks to rob her of that crown of
glory without which woman is indeed a ‘poor thing.’ A thousand gin
palaces are open, and are at this moment crowded with drinking and
drunken men and women—perhaps far less of males than of females. Gay
mansions with supper rooms and dancing halls are full of light and
music and high-swelling hearts. But, in yonder condemned cells, the
pulse of life beats tremulous and faint. The sleepless and blood-shot
eyes look through the darkness that is around and within for the last
stern morning. Full three millions of two-legged animals lie around us
in horizontal positions, their heads in night-caps and their hearts
full of foolish dreams. Riot cries aloud and staggers and swaggers in
his rank dens of shame.”

“The mother, with streaming hair and bleeding heart, kneels over her
pallid, dying infant, whose beastly father is drunk and cursing; all
these heaped and huddled together with nothing but a little carpentry
and masonry between them; all crammed in like salted fish in their
barrel, or weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed
vipers, each struggling to get his head above the others.” This is as
true now as it was in Carlyle’s day. Such work goes on every night of
the year. Having seen these things myself, I speak what I do know. I am
truly glad that London is in England, and not in our beloved country.
I hope we may never have a city as large as this, for I am thoroughly
convinced that it is not good for so many men and women to dwell
together.

If it were possible for five millions of men to come together to live
and do business in the same city, each having the same amount of money
in the struggle of the survival of the fittest which would follow,
a few men would soon have great wealth, and others would be reduced
to poverty and want. The successful ones would then become proud and
haughty, overbearing and dictatorial. Some of the others would, like
the ass in the tread-mill and ox under the yoke, be doomed to a life
of toil and servitude. Another class of the unfortunate ones would
become despondent, wretched, reckless, indolent and selfish. The
hard-hearted would set dead-falls and snares to catch their weak-minded
and strong-passioned brother. This would go on and on until thousands
would lose their manhood and womanhood. They would abandon all hope and
courage and virtue. They would resort to treachery, lying, stealing,
gambling, and murdering. They would thus degenerate into the lowest,
vilest, meanest specimens of humanity.

[Illustration: THE TOWER OF LONDON.]

This is London. I have seen more wealth, more of the trappings of place
and pride, more worldly pomp and regal splendor, than I have ever seen
anywhere else. I have also seen more poverty, suffering, vice, and
ignorance than I ever expected to find in a country so highly favored
as is England.

Having spoken somewhat at length of the lower strata of London life,
let us now look at the praiseworthy efforts that are being made to
elevate, humanize, moralize, and Christianize these hope-abandoned
wretches. What is known as the “East End” is the worst part of the
city. It is inhabited by a million and a half of people, most of them
being the off-scouring of creation—not “the bravest of the brave,”
but the vilest of the vile. Just in the midst of this den of shame and
corruption stands the “Great Assembly Hall” which, for the last eleven
years, has been open day and night for gospel work.

Mr. Fred. M. Charrington, the Superintendent of this Mission, has a
strange and interesting history. His father was a strange man of great
wealth, and one of the largest brewers in London. He had only two sons,
who were the sole heirs of his immense fortune and lucrative business.
The sons had all the advantages of a thorough education and extensive
travel. Fred served twelve months as brewer to the Queen. But, some
sixteen years ago, as Fred. Charrington (then twenty-one years old)
was returning from a continental tour, he chanced to fall in with a
gospel minister. When the preacher spoke of man’s duty to serve God,
Charrington protested. He said they had had a pleasant time together,
and he did not care to have their peace disturbed, or friendship
broken, by the introduction of such subjects as man’s sin, Christ’s
righteousness, death, hell, and the judgment. This conversation led
to Charrington’s conversion. After that, he worked in the brewery all
day, taught the Bible to classes at night, and preached the gospel
on the streets every Sunday. He soon saw, however, that he could not
successfully teach the Bible, and preach the gospel on Sunday, to
people who were drunk on the beer and whiskey that he had sold them
during the week. This so troubled his conscience that he gave up a
business that was bringing him an annual income of more than $25,000.
He then established this Mission in East London, which has grown to
be the largest and most successful work of the kind in the world.
The Assembly Hall, with the property belonging to it, is valued at
$250,000, Charrington having given about one-third of the money out
of his own pocket. He has more than 2,500 members in his church. He
is strictly an immersionist. Before one can possibly become a member
of Charrington’s church, he must sign a pledge neither to drink, nor
buy, nor sell whiskey, beer, or any other strong drink. His Sunday
audiences range from 4,000 to 5,000.

[Illustration: ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL.]

In connection with the Mission, there are a coffee saloon, a bookstore,
Young Men’s Christian Association, Young Women’s Christian Association,
a news-boy and boot-black mission, a penny savings-bank, an emigration
bureau, a house of correction for bad boys, and a reformatory for
young women. All departments of this wonderful Mission move on with
the regularity of clock-work. I have preached and lectured for Mr.
Charrington a few times, and have half-way promised to spend a month
with him next year. I love to be with him. He is full of hope. The
spirit of God is upon him. Verily old things have passed away, and all
things have become new to him. The things he once loved he now hates,
and the things he once hated he now loves. A new song has been put into
his mouth—even the song of Zion. Oh, the power, the wonderful power,
of the gospel!

The Christian people of London have expended, and are still expending,
vast sums of money in establishing and maintaining large and successful
Missions in different parts of the city especially in the East End,
for the elevation of degraded humanity. And nothing but the power of
God can make these people fit to live on earth, much less to dwell
in Heaven. Millions and millions of dollars have, also, been, and
are still being, expended in establishing and maintaining hospitals
and asylums, workhouses, reformatories, and schools. Most of these
institutions are comparatively new, but they are now splendidly fitted
up and well cared for. They will, under God, be powerful agencies for
good.

I was quite delighted, a few days ago, to meet my old friend and fellow
student, S. A. Smith, of Kansas. After graduating from two of our best
American institutions of learning, Mr. Smith came to Europe to continue
his studies. He has spent three years in Germany, France, and England,
studying the ancient languages, especially the Semitic languages. I
have never known a man with a greater capacity for work than S. A.
Smith. He is the author of two very valuable books, one of which is
just out, and is dedicated to Professor J. R. Sampey. Such an honor was
never more worthily bestowed.

CHAPTER XII.

A TRIO OF ILLUSTRIOUS MEN.

Joseph Parker—Canon Farrar—Charles H. Spurgeon.

THERE seem to be a few men in every age and country in whom there is
centred all that is purest, noblest, and best in the moral, religious,
and intellectual life of their people. And, if it be true, as Pope
says, that “The proper study of mankind is man,” then it is a desirable
thing to be thrown with these men who are religiously pure, morally
good, and intellectually great. “As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man
sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” What can be more inspiring
than to come in contact with men “on whom God has set his seal,” and of
each of whom it may be said, as of Brutus,

“His life is gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world: ‘_This is a man_.’”

I shall not now speak of England’s law-makers and political magnates,
neither of her authors and literary lights; of these I shall have
something to say hereafter. But in this chapter I shall confine myself
to three religious leaders, who are well worthy of our careful study.

Joseph Parker, Canon Farrar, and Charles Spurgeon are three preachers
in whom, I think, are centred all the “gifts and graces” of the English
pulpit. I listen to these men with great interest, and, I hope, not
without some profit. I study them closely. I try, as best I can, to
discover the secret of their power and marvellous success. No one can
reasonably question their power, or deny their success. For eighteen or
twenty years, Doctor Parker has been preaching three times a week in
the great City Temple of London. The house holds 2,500 or 3,000 people.
It is always crowded on Sunday, at morning and night. On Thursday at
noon he has 1,200 to 1,800 persons to listen to him. Hundreds of the
best business men in the city leave their places of employment, and go
to hear him one hour each week.

Frederick W. Farrar is Canon of Westminster Abbey, and Chaplain to
the Queen. The Abbey is one of the most splendid temples on earth. As
the preacher stands in the pulpit, he is surrounded by the busts and
statues, by the tombs and monuments, of historians and statesmen, of
poets and artists. His audience is composed chiefly of the aristocracy
of England. Here is where the dukes and earls and lords, the kings and
queens and princes, of the nation most do congregate. To minister in
holy things, from year to year, to an audience like this, one must, of
necessity, be possessed of splendid powers.

[Illustration: REV. CHARLES H. SPURGEON.]

Of Mr. Spurgeon, what shall I say? When we remember that there is an
utter absence of what is known as sensationalism about Mr. Spurgeon,
and yet that his audience has for the last thirty years averaged more
than five thousand people; when we remember that his Tabernacle holds
about 6,500 hearers, and yet that hundreds and hundreds are frequently
turned away from the doors; when we remember that his name has become a
household word throughout Europe and America, and many of the remotest
Isles of the seas; when we remember that he is one and the same
to-day, yesterday, and thirty years ago, a living embodiment of faith
in God and His blessed Word, a perfect personification of buoyant hope
and simple, childlike trust,—I say, when we remember all these things,
we are lost in wonder and astonishment. In writing of such a man, words
lose their power.

I try as nearly as possible to view Parker, Farrar, and Spurgeon
through the same glasses. I endeavor to listen to them without fear
or favor, without preference or prejudice. All of them say striking
things, and I give here a characteristic expression of each of the
three preachers.

Parker: “Do children grow up as they should grow, without the proper
care and nurture? Thistles do, flowers do not; goats do, horses do
not—and there is more of man in a horse than horse in a man.”

Farrar, in speaking to the young men before him: “I earnestly conjure
you now, at the beginning of your life’s career, to hang about your
necks the jeweled amulet of self-respect.”

Spurgeon: “The Lord loves all of His people, but somehow methinks the
meek are His Josephs; upon them He puts His coat of many colors—of joy
and peace, of long-suffering and patience.”

These gems of thought are, I think, illustrative of the real difference
between Joseph Parker, Canon Farrar, and Charles Spurgeon. The first
impresses me as a moral philosopher, the second as a Christian
rhetorician, the third as a gospel minister. The first studies
philosophy, the second aesthetics, the third the Bible. The first is
a lecturer, the second a writer, and the third a preacher. The first
shows himself, the second his culture, the third his Lord. All three
of them are great men, and it is possible that I would change my mind
as to their respective merits, if I could hear them oftener; but I am
honestly of the opinion that, as a _gospel preacher_, Mr. Spurgeon
possesses the virtues of the other two, without the faults of either.
Like Saul, he towers head and shoulders above his brethren. Like the
stars, the other two shine when the sun is behind the hills, but when
he arises their glory is eclipsed.

CHAPTER XIII.

NOTTINGHAM, CAMBRIDGE, AND BEDFORD.

I AM now in Bedford; but before writing about this historic place,
I must go back a little and tell you something about my wayward
wanderings for the last ten days. While in Nottingham, some weeks ago,
I preached one Sunday night in the Albert Hall to twenty-five hundred
or three thousand people. The good Lord graciously blessed the meeting.
Several persons were converted—they found that peace which passeth all
understanding. The people insisted that I remain and preach again, but
I could not do so.

After visiting Wales, and spending a week or two in London, the
minister accepted an invitation to go back to Nottingham and preach.
He remained over two Sundays, preaching both days to the Albert
Hall people. The happiest moments of a minister’s life are when he
is preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ to a large and sympathetic
audience, It is then that his delight reaches the highest point on the
thermometer of the soul.

During my stay in Nottingham, I was the guest of a model Christian
family who treated me after the manner of royalty. Nottingham is a
railroad centre, and each day I was taken in a carriage or by rail to
see a beautiful river, placid lake, or a towering mountain; or to see
some noted forest ancient hall, or historic castle. The members of the
family who accompanied me on these delightful excursions were familiar
with the legends, literature, and history of the country.

Yesterday I went on an excursion with this family, and sixty other
Nottingham people, to Cambridge. We were up in time to hear the lark’s
morning song. The sky was clear; scarcely a cloud floated above us. And
ere yet the bright sun had kissed the dewdrop from off the grass, we
had turned our faces toward those classic halls where learning lives.
We dashed through many meadows where the wild flowers were beautifully
interwoven with the green grass. We leaped many laughing rivers,
winding streams, and babbling brooks. We wound around among many hills,
and tunneled many mountains. These tunnels were numerous, long and
dark. Now, in our party there happened to be a newly-married couple
in the same compartment with myself, and these tunnels were to them
always a source of joy and rejoicing. They loved darkness rather than
light—why, it is not necessary for me to state. Johnson says it was
always thus.

At the depot, we were met by the aldermen and deputy mayor of the city
of Cambridge, who, in a most graceful manner, informed us that we were
their guests, that they had plenty of carriages present to accommodate
the party, and would first show us the sights of the city, and then
return to the hotel where a public dinner would be served. We proceeded
at once to the University which comprises seventeen different colleges,
all having different names, having been founded at different times by
different persons. Each college owns its own grounds, buildings, and
endowment fund, and has its separate faculty. Some of the buildings
are six or seven hundred years old. They are, however, quite well
preserved, and are splendid specimens of the style of architecture
of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. King’s Chapel, the Chapel of
King’s College, was built in the twelfth century, and it is nothing
less than an architectural wonder. It is said to be one of the most
remarkable structures in christendom. The Chapel is quite narrow, but
is well-nigh four hundred feet long, and one hundred and twenty-five
feet high. Reader, I shall not attempt to describe this building, for,
unless the massive structure could rise before you in its colossal
proportions; unless you could go on the inside, and actually stand
upon thrilling history as it is written in the Mosaic marble floor;
unless you could lift your eyes from the historic floor, and see Bible
stories standing out in life-like reality as they are pictured before
you in the stained-glass windows; unless you could look up and behold
for yourself the exquisite carving on the vaulted Gothic roof a hundred
feet above you; unless that holy calm, which these scenes inspire and
which forever inhabits these sacred walls, could settle down upon your
own spirit,—I say, that unless you could see, realize, and experience
all these things in, and of, and for, yourself, then it were impossible
for you to appreciate the beauty, the grandeur, the sublimity of this
splendid structure.

The Fitzwilliam Museum is the most handsome modern building in
Cambridge, if not in Great Britain. It looks as if it should be placed
in a glass case and kept for the angels to inhabit.

In Trinity College Library, I saw the original manuscript of Milton’s
“Paradise Lost,” the manuscript of Lord Macaulay’s “History of
England,” also the first letter that Lord Byron ever penned; he wrote,
in his mother’s name, thanking a neighbor lady for some potatoes which
she had been kind enough to send Lady Byron. I saw the telescope used
by Newton in studying the heavenly bodies, and by the assistance of
which he discovered new planets.

I was much interested in going through the University printing
establishment, and in seeing the Cambridge Bibles manufactured. When
I got back to Nottingham, I felt that I could truly say: “I have
been through Cambridge University, and still I may write, ‘Plus
ultra’—there is more beyond, more to learn.”

I bade adieu to my Nottingham friends this morning while the
dewdrops and the rays of the sun were yet playing hide-and-seek and
seek-and-hide. Two hours later found me in Bedford. I go at once to
the church where John Bunyan was pastor two hundred years ago. The
church I find surrounded by a huge iron fence. After hunting for half
an hour, I succeed in finding the sexton who kindly shows me through.
The front door of the church cost six thousand dollars. It is molded of
heavy bronze. The door is divided into twelve large panels, each panel
representing a scene taken from _Pilgrim’s Progress_. The first panel
on the bottom of the lefthand side represents Christian with the burden
of sin on his back, parting with his wife and children, leaving the
city of Destruction and starting out for that city whose builder and
maker is God. In the other panels we see Christian as he passes through
the wicket gate; as he approaches the cross and loses his burden; as
he falls into the hands of Giant Despair and is thrust into Doubting
Castle; as he passes the lions in his way; as he sleeps and loses
his scroll; as he enters Vanity Fair; as he stands on the Delectable
Mountains from which he views the city of the blessed and hears the
music of the redeemed; and finally we see him as he crosses the River
of Death, and is welcomed by the angels as he reaches the golden shore.

In the back end of the church, is a small room containing some relics
of Bunyan. Among other things, is the chair which Bunyan occupied
while in Bedford jail, and in which he sat while writing _Pilgrim’s
Progress_. The iron-barred door of this little room is the same door
that locked Bunyan in his prison cell. My blood runs cold in my veins
as I look upon the iron bolts and bars behind which Bunyan stood and
preached the gospel to the listening multitudes as they gathered around
the jail.

Near by the church is the place where the old prison stood. The prison
was torn down in 1801, the old site now being used as a market-place
during the week, and as a place for street-preaching on Sunday.

At the head of High Street, near where the old jail stood, there is
a splendid bronze statue of the immortal dreamer. The statue is more
than life size. It stands upon a tall granite pedestal, on which is the
following inscription;

“He had his eyes lifted to heaven;
The best of books in his hand,
The law of truth was written upon his lips;
He stood as if he pleaded with men.”

One hour’s walk from Bedford brings me to Elstow. This is the
birthplace of the man who wrote the greatest book this world ever saw,
excepting only the Bible. The old dormer-windowed cottage where Bunyan
first saw light still survives the wrecks of time. On the village
green, near by the cottage, is an old church where in early life he was
sexton. Close by this church stands Bunyan’s chapel, where he first
began to publish the glad tidings of salvation.

[Illustration: BUNYAN’S COTTAGE.]

At the forks of the road, about two hundred yards from the cottage, is
a lordly elm-tree, beneath whose sheltering branches Bunyan used to
stand and preach the gospel to listening thousands. I climb this tree,
and cut several branches of which to make pen-stocks.

Well, reader, I am tempted to go on and give you the thoughts that are
passing through my mind; but I must not. Like Bunyan’s _Pilgrim_, I am
tired. I feel weak and faint. I must have quiet and rest, so let us
close this chapter.

CHAPTER XIV.

BRITISH BAPTISTS—THEIR DIVERSITIES—THE REGULAR BAPTISTS OF ENGLAND.

BY EDWARD PARKER, D. D., MANCHESTER, ENGLAND.

Their Number and Divisions—The Regular Baptists—Their Movements and
Progress.

BRITISH Baptists are not one body in the sense, or to the same extent,
that American Baptists are. If a man in America says he is a Baptist,
it is known exactly what he means. But if a man in England says he
is a Baptist, you need further to know what sort of a Baptist he is
before you can form a definite opinion of his belief or practice.
All British Baptists are alike in three things. They are, of course,
all Immersionists; they believe that the immersion of believers on a
profession of their faith is the only baptism of Scripture. They are
all Congregationalists; they believe that every separate congregation
of believers is a church in itself, apart from any other congregation,
and competent to manage its own affairs. They are all Voluntaries;
that is, they are opposed to all connection between Church and State,
and all endowments for the support of the clergy secured or allotted
to them by the law of the land. They neither accept the patronage,
nor allow of the interference, of the civil magistrate in matters of
religion and conscience. But, while agreed on these things, there are
others on which they differ.

The first principal difference between them is indicated by the terms
Particular and General Baptists. These terms express a difference, not
of practice in regard to communion, but of creed. Particular Baptists
are professedly Calvinistic in their creed; General Baptists are
professedly Arminian. Particular Baptists have existed in England for
a much longer period than General Baptists. The first General Baptist
church in England was founded in about the year 1612, and had its
location in Newgate, London. After a time, an Association of General
Baptist churches was formed; and still later, in 1770, the Association
was re-organized under the title of the General Baptist Association
of the New Connection. The occasion for this new departure was the
doctrinal degeneracy of the churches of the old association. “From
general redemption,” says Dr. Ryland, “they had gone to no redemption;
from Arminianism to Arianism and Socinianism.” This re-organized
Association still exists, and it still bears the same name. The
churches belonging to it are all Arminian in doctrine. On the question
of Communion, they are divided. Some of them practice Close Communion,
and some Open. Formerly, the churches were nearly all Close, but Open
Communionism has made considerable advances amongst them during recent
years. They have a College at Nottingham for the education of young men
for the ministry. They have, also, their own Missionary Societies.

[Illustration: EDWARD PARKER, D. D.]

The Particular, or Calvinistic, Baptists of England differ in some
respects from each other. Professedly, they are all alike, Calvinists,
but they are not all Calvinists alike. Some of them are hyper, and some
of them moderate, Calvinists. At the beginning of this century, nearly
all the Particular Baptists in the country were Hyper-Calvinists. This
resulted from the teaching of such men as John Brine and Doctor John
Gill. The teaching of and influence of Andrew Fuller inaugurated a
change: and the change thus inaugurated has continued and developed
ever since, so that to-day the vast majority of Particular Baptists in
Great Britain are moderate Calvinists. The Hyper-Calvinists, however,
are by no means extinct. In some parts of England they are rather
numerous, while in almost all parts a few of them may be found. There
are amongst them some very excellent people. They adhere firmly to
their principles. They maintain a separateness from the world that
other Christians might profitably emulate. But, speaking generally,
they are not very aggressive in their spirit; at any rate in the
direction of efforts to spread the truth. There is not much of the
missionary spirit amongst them. They have, however, one Missionary
Society called, with an emphasis, the _Strict_ Baptist Mission. This
Mission has two centres of evangelical work—in India and Ceylon. In
India, there are sixteen stations, and twenty-eight workers; in Ceylon,
there are six stations and seven workers. The income last year was
nearly £700, and the expenditure about £590.

The Particular Baptists of Britain that are in doctrine Moderate
Calvinists are divided into Close and Open Communionists. All the
Hyper-Calvinistic Baptists are Close Communionists. The object of
their Missionary Society, to which reference has just been made,
is stated to be “the diffusion of the Gospel in heathen lands,
and the formation of churches in accordance with the principles
of Strict Communion Baptists.” And the churches at home are, in
respect to communion, of the same type as those which they aim to
form abroad. Vast numbers of the Moderate Calvinistic Baptists are
Open Communionists. But this is not universally the case. There are
British Baptists that are neither extreme in doctrine, nor loose in
practice. In regard alike to doctrine and practice, they may justly be
designated, as their American brethren are designated Regular Baptists.

The question may naturally be asked: “What is the relative numerical
strength of these different descriptions of British Baptists?” That
question it is difficult, if not impossible, to answer exactly to its
full extent. It is not difficult to determine the relative numerical
strength of the General and the Particular Baptists. Baptists of all
sorts in Britain, according to the Baptist Hand Book of 1890, number,
churches 2,786; members 329,126. Of these, the “General Baptist
Association” contains, churches 206; members 26,782. These figures
indicate pretty accurately the numerical strength of the General and
Particular Baptists, respectively. But, when we come to the different
sections of the Particular Baptists, accurate information is not
so easily obtainable. There are no means of ascertaining how many
Hyper-Calvinists there are amongst the Particular Baptists. They have
an Association in London with fifty-six churches, and another in
Suffolk and Norfolk with twenty-seven churches; but outside the limits
of these Associations the churches are, for the most part, isolated
from each other, and from their brethren generally. Then again, of the
Moderate Calvinists it is not easy to determine how many are Close,
and how many are Open, Communionists. For, while maintaining their
distinctive principles, the two often co-exist in the same Association,
and to a large extent cooperate in general denominational work. It
must be admitted that the majority, and a considerable majority, of
the Baptists in Britain who are Moderate Calvinists are also Open
Communionists. And this considerable majority includes most of the
largest, and nearly all of the wealthiest, churches, together with a
large proportion of the ablest and best known ministers. Still there
are Regular Baptists in existence; nor are they, though sometimes
ignored and often reproached, insignificant in respect to either
numbers or influence. If the whole of the United Kingdom be taken into
account, the Regular Baptists compose a somewhat large army. They
include in their ranks most of the Baptists in Scotland. The Scotch
Baptists are strong Calvinists but not Hyper-Calvinists, and they are
Close Communionists. They include all the Welsh Baptists. There are in
Wales 625 churches, with a total of 77,126 members; not one of these
is Hyper and they are all Close Communion. There are a few English
Baptists in Wales that are Open Communion, but all the Welsh Baptists
are Close, whether in Wales or out of it. There are some districts
in England where Regular Baptists are decidedly strong. In not a few
districts, to meet with a Regular Baptist church is an exception; while
in other districts it is an exception to meet with anything else. The
Rossendale district, in the County of Lancaster, is about ten miles in
length, and five or six in breadth. It contains sixteen Regular Baptist
churches. In the Huddersfield district, Yorkshire, which covers an area
of only a few miles, there are thirteen Baptist churches, and eleven of
them are Regular Baptist.

The Regular Baptists of England proper, though not obtrusive in their
character, are sturdy and robust. They know what they believe, and why
they believe it; and they are prepared in all circumstances, and at
all hazards, to stand by their faith. They are not a people that the
bewitchings of flattery can delude, or the terrors of opposition daunt.
Though often condemned because of their narrowness, they are respected
by those who condemn them, because of their firmness and consistency.
They are men that can be relied upon. In important crises, both
religious and political, they have proved themselves the very backbone
of the Baptist denomination. To those around them, their ability has
been strength and their courage inspiration.

The denominational work of the Regular Baptists is done, to a very
large extent, through the existing denominational Societies. Their work
in foreign missions is done through the Baptist Foreign Missionary
Society. The first secretary of that Society was a sturdy Regular
Baptist—Andrew Fuller. And Regular Baptists still love the Society,
and are generous and hearty in their support of it. Their Home
Missionary work is done partly through the Baptist Union, but to a
greater extent through the county Associations. In most of the counties
of England, there is an Association of Baptist churches, distinct from
the Baptist Union, though often affiliated with it; and in connection
with these Associations there is generally a Home Missionary Society;
and, through these different Home Missionary Societies, Regular
Baptists work with others to plant Baptist churches and spread Baptist
principles through the land. Years ago, the Regular Baptists sustained
a separate Missionary Society for the Continent of Europe; but the
growth and development of the missionary work in Germany, under the
late Mr. Oncken, led them to transfer their operations to the German
Baptist Mission, which mission they continue to support. A prominent
Regular Baptist layman, Martin H. Wilkin, Esq., of London, is the
English treasurer of it.

In addition to the work they do through the agencies that have been
named, the Regular Baptists of England have two Societies that are
distinctively their own—”The Baptist Tract and Book Society,” and
“The Manchester Baptist College.” _The Baptist Tract and Book Society_
came into existence nearly fifty years ago. Previously to that time,
there had existed in England no Society, or agency, for the printing
and disseminating of Baptist literature. This was much regretted by
some good men, who met together and formed a Society whose object
should be “to make known” the glorious gospel of the blessed God,
“by the publication of small treatises and tracts; and especially
to disseminate the views of Baptists relative to the doctrines and
ordinances of the New Testament.” The Society in its very beginning,
was condemned and opposed by some, by some Baptists even; and, strange
to say, because it was Baptist. With the Religious Tract Society in
existence, they contended, a denominational organization was, to say
the least, uncalled for. There are some amongst Baptists still who, if
they do not oppose the Society, look askance at it, and stand aloof
from it, not ostensibly because it is Baptist, but because as Baptist,
it is not sufficiently “broad.” Nevertheless, the Society has held on
its way. Originated by Regular Baptists, and formed on Regular Baptist
principles, it is still under the control of Regular Baptists, and
worked on Regular Baptist lines. It is the same Society to-day that
it was at first, except that it is larger and stronger, and fills a
more extended sphere of usefulness. Its tracts have been circulated,
not only in Britain, but also in almost every part of the world. And
the committee report that “encouraging communications are constantly
being received, containing testimonials to the value of the Society’s
publications, and the signal blessings attending their circulation.”

_The Manchester Baptist College_ grew out of an old society, first
called the Strict Baptist Society, and afterwards the Baptist
Evangelical Society. This Society was formed in the year 1844. One
of its principal objects was the education of young men for the
ministry. All the denominational colleges in England at that time were
practically Open Communion. Professedly, they were neutral on the
Communion question; but, as a matter of fact, all their neutrality
was on one side. All the professors and tutors were Open Communion,
and so, with few exceptions, were the ministers sent out from them.
If the young were Close Communion when they entered college, they,
in most cases, became Open before they left. The Regular Baptists
were therefore made to feel it incumbent upon them to establish an
educational institution of their own: first, that they might protect
their young men who devoted themselves to the work of the ministry from
influences unfriendly to their stability in the faith in which they had
been taught; and, secondly, that their churches might be relieved from
the necessity of choosing either an uneducated man for their pastor, or
a man whose views were not in harmony with their own. Hence the action
they took in the formation of the Society just referred to. The plan
adopted by this Society was that of placing students who had given
satisfactory evidence that they possessed grace and gifts suitable
for the ministry of the gospel, and for pastoral work, separately,
or in twos or threes, for a period of two or three years, under the
tuitional care and guidance of some able and experienced pastor. Joseph
Harbottle, of Accrington, uncle of Dr. Joseph Angus, of Regent’s Park
College, London; John Shearer, of Glasgow; Dr. John Stock, of Salendine
Nook, Huddersfield; and, pre-eminently, Thomas Dawson, of Liverpool,
were amongst the pastors chosen for this purpose. By their personal
influence, and by their devoted labors, all these good men laid the
students of the Baptist Evangelical Society, and the Society itself,
and the Regular Baptist cause in England generally, under deep and
lasting obligation.

But, excellently as this plan worked for a while, a new departure was
eventually found to be necessary, and steps were taken to establish a
college. After much thought and prayer, Chamber Hall, Bury, Lancashire
(the birthplace of the _great_ Sir Robert Peel) was secured as the
home of the college, and it was opened in October, 1866, with the Rev.
Henry Dawson, who had been for more than thirty years the devoted and
successful pastor of the Regular Baptist church, Westgate, Bradford,
Yorkshire, as its president and theological tutor. Soon afterwards, the
Rev. Dr. Evans was engaged as lecturer in Ecclesiastical History, and
the Rev. James Webb as classical tutor. In Chamber Hall, the college
was conducted successfully, though with some disadvantages, for more
than seven years, when it was removed to handsome premises, which had
in the meantime been erected in Brighton Grove, Rusholme, Manchester.
The building in Brighton Grove, where the college has had its home
for the last seventeen years, is the property of the college. It cost
more than 11,000 pounds. Previously to the removal of the college from
Bury, Dr. Evans died; and, about four years after the removal, in the
year 1877, Mr. Dawson and Mr. Webb both resigned their respective
posts, owing to the infirmities of age. Dr. Edward Parker was appointed
president and theological tutor in place of Mr. Dawson, and the Rev.
John Turner Marshall, M. A. (London) was appointed classical tutor in
succession to Mr. Webb, positions which they both still hold.

This college is the only one in England on Close Communion lines.
It has had to struggle for its existence. Regular Baptists are
comparatively poor, and Open Communionist friends have not looked
kindly upon it. They have hindered it in more instances than they have
helped it. Still all its needs have been supplied. It has gained for
itself a respectable position among other colleges for the thoroughness
of its educational training and the scholarship of its students.
In the competitive examinations, last May, of the Non-conformist
colleges of England and Wales a student of Manchester Baptist College
came off first with honors, and another student stood fifth in the
first division. What is more important, the College has fulfilled
the expectations of its founders in conserving and advancing Regular
Baptist principles. It has arrested the progress of Open Communionism
in Regular Baptist churches. It has filled the pulpits of more than
seventy churches, a large proportion of which were formerly filled
by ministers of Open Communion sentiments. The College is, in a very
eminent sense, the hope of the Regular Baptist cause in England. It has
done a great work for that cause already. If it is still encouraged, as
there is every reason to believe that it will be, by the same devoted
generosity that its friends have extended to it hitherto, it will yet
do still greater things.

CHAPTER XV.

LAST OF ENGLAND AND FIRST OF THE CONTINENT.

Windsor Castle, the Home of England’s Queen—Queen Victoria—The
Home of Shakespeare—Across the Channel—First Impressions—Old Time
Ways—Brussels on a Parade—Waterloo Re-enacted—A Visit to the Field
of Waterloo—A Lion with Eyes Fixed on France—Interview with a Man
who Saw Napoleon—Wertz Museum—”Napoleon in Hell”—”Hell in Revolt
against Heaven”—”Triumph of Christ”—Age Offering the Things of the
Present to the Man of the Future.

WINDSOR Castle, the winter residence of England’s Queen, is situated
on the Thames about twenty miles from London, and possesses many
interesting features. The property of the Castle comprises a number of
towers, gates, mansions, barracks, chapels, and other structures. The
principal portion occupies two courts of spacious dimensions, an upper
and a lower, there being a large round tower (or keep) between, in
which the Governor resides. This tower rises 220 feet above the Thames,
and it is said that on a clear day twelve counties can be seen from its
summit.

St. George’s Chapel is an elegant Gothic edifice where the royal family
occasionally attend divine services. The Albert Memorial Chapel is
another place of worship, which was fitted up by Queen Victoria in
memory of her late husband. Here is his tomb, although his bones are
buried three or four miles away in the royal park. The Chapel is inlaid
with costly marbles of various kinds, and it is said that the Queen
spent an enormous sum in beautifying the place.

[Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA.]

The greatest interest of the Castle centres itself in what is called
the State Apartments. These are a series of large rooms richly
decorated, some of them with gildings, paintings and tapestry, others
with a collection of warlike armor and weapons of former centuries.
It must be borne in mind that these premises have been occupied by
the royal family for many centuries. These walls have several times
surrendered their royal inmates to the executioner, who came in the
name of law to avenge political wrongs.

The large park adjoining the Palace grounds is almost a fairy garden.
It contains many artificial lakes and flowing fountains, a great
variety of shrubbery, and a rich profusion of flowers. Statuary
abounds. Deer, elks, antelopes, and other wild animals, are numerous.

Standing in front of the Palace, one looks down the “royal avenue”
stretching out in a straight line for five miles before him. This
splendid boulevard is flanked on either side by lordly elms whose
swaying boughs are so interwoven as to form a graceful and almost
unbroken arch above the drive from one end to the other. On a hot
summer day, the thick green foliage of the trees, flings a grateful
shade upon the drive.

[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE.]

This is a gala day at Windsor. The Castle is decorated, and filled with
royal guests. Twenty thousand people are assembled in the park. At two
o’clock the Queen and her visitors form a procession at the Palace, and
pass slowly down the avenue between the two rows of elm-trees. Reaching
the far end of the boulevard, they turn to the left and, after driving
one mile more, they arrive at the place that is to be the scene of
action.

The two thousand persons who preceded the royal procession have formed
a circle about a hundred feet in diameter. The size of the circle is
determined by a rope stretched around. The open space is spread with
a rich carpet. The Queen, attended by her family and royal friends,
enters the charmed circle and proceeds to its centre. After a speech,
which it takes her fifteen minutes to deliver, she proceeds to lay
the cornerstone of an equestrian monument to the late Prince Albert
Consort. This impressive ceremony being over, the Queen approaches the
crowd, shakes hands with and speaks kindly to those persons standing
next to the rope on the outside.

I could shake hands with Her Majesty, and would do so, but my American
spirit is too proud to bend the suppliant knee to any earthly monarch.
I honor Victoria for her useful life and deep piety, for her wifely
devotion and maternal instincts; and I would take off my hat to her as
I would have her son take off his hat to my mother. But as for bowing
the knee to her, I never can. My knees are too stiff for that kind of
exercise.

[Illustration:
Anne Hathaway’s Cottage.
Charlecote Church. Charlecote Park Palings.
Shakespeare’s House Interior. Shakespeare’s House Exterior.
Stratford Church.
Entrance to Stratford Church. Porch Charlecote.
]

Two hours after leaving Windsor, I find myself in Stratford-on-Avon,
the home of our own “priceless Shakespeare.” I spend the night here.
“A sweet English village is this Stratford, seated on the edge of a
silvery river green with turfy banks and woody slopes, picturesque
with cottage houses and cottage gardens; crowned with a village
church, ivy-clad, surrounded by moss-grown graves, approached by a
lime-tree avenue, and its slender spire tapering towards Heaven.” Here
Shakespeare first saw light. Here his boyhood was spent, his education
received, his youth passed, his marriage consummated. Here his children
were born and brought up. Here, too, he yielded to that “bribeless
harvester”—Death. So this humble village has given to the world “the
greatest name in our literature, in all literature.” Hence, Henry Bell
said:

“His birthplace came to be famous,
And the grave where his bones were laid;
And to Stratford, the ancient borough,
Nations their pilgrimage made.”

Strange thoughts pass through my mind, and deep emotions stir my
heart, as I wander through the house wherein was born the man who
wrote not for an age, but for all time; as I stand in the church of
the Holy Trinity, and look upon the grave, the tomb, and bust of him
who analyzed character as chemists analyze material substances. He
probed to the heart, and by the light of his own genius read unuttered
thoughts and discovered the secret motives of men. Human faces were to
him so many books wherein he could “read strange matters.” About a mile
from Stratford is the cottage of Anne Hathaway, who first initiated
Shakespeare into that sweetest and most delightful of all human
mysteries—love.

“That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he can not win a woman.”

Yes, he won her, and afterwards he could say:

“She is mine own,
And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.”

It is a matter of congratulation that our people appreciate Shakespeare
as much or more than Englishmen. The register at the poet’s house shows
that at least one-half of the number who visit his grave are Americans.
Nor are our people slow to give material proof of their love for the
myriad-minded bard. Mr. G. W. Childs, of Philadelphia, whom to mention
is but to praise, has, within the last twelve months, erected in
Stratford a costly and beautifully designed fountain to the memory of
Shakespeare.

We might write many other things about our mother country, but we
must away to the Continent. So, adieu, adieu; but I hope not a final
farewell to merry England. The English Channel is only twenty-five
miles wide, but it is usually rough and boisterous, and is an object of
terror to travelers. As we start across, Johnson says:

“Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea
For an acre of barren ground.”

But the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. The Channel for once
is all that could be desired. The weather is pleasant, the sea placid
as a lake.

As I land on the Continent at Ostend, the thing that most impresses
me is the fact that I can not impress any one. The custom-house
officers surround me. I tell them who I am, where I am from, and what
my business is; yet this does not satisfy them. I repeat my statement
once, twice, three times, and still they do not seem to comprehend. I
say: “Gentlemen, I have told my story as plainly as I can speak. Do you
now understand?” And when I come to find out, they do not understand
what “understand” means.

Buildings on this side of the Channel wear a century-old, time-touched
appearance. The people have strange, odd, and old-time ways of doing
things. For instance, they work one horse to a two-horse wagon—not in
shafts, but on one side of the tongue. Frequently they work one ox and
one horse together. This is what Johnson calls being unequally yoked.

From Ostend I go direct to Brussels, the capital of Belgium. I happen
to arrive in the city on the day of a national celebration. Everything
is decorated for the occasion. At night the city is beautifully
illuminated, and great crowds of enthusiastic people throng the
streets. The fireworks display is especially fine, representing, among
other things, the eruption of Vesuvius, the Falls of Niagara, and the
Battle of Waterloo. As the standing army of Belgium is present, the
officers giving commands, and the soldiers going through the manual
of arms; as the royal bands are filling the air with martial music;
and, as in the midst of the brilliant scene, are the bronze statues
of Wellington and others who fought by his side on the field of
Waterloo,—it really seems as if the memorable battle of 1815 is being
re-enacted before my eyes! I can but think of Byron’s thrilling lines
descriptive of the original battle.

Next morning I am up early, and am soon on my way to the scene of
action, nine miles from Brussels, where the powers of earth came
together to wrestle for the thrones of Europe. Napoleon was at a very
great disadvantage, as Wellington had by far the best position. On the
hill where Wellington’s army was stationed, there is now an artificial
mountain, about six hundred yards in circumference and two hundred and
fifty feet high. This mountain is crowned with a granite pedestal,
about twenty-five feet high, on which stands a huge bronze lion, his
right foot resting on a great iron ball representing the earth. This
king of beasts has his eyes turned toward France and has a proud,
triumphant look on his face. There are several small monuments on the
field, marking the places where different officers and heroes fell. The
large one of which I speak was built seven years after the battle, or
one year after the death of Napoleon on St. Helena. There are several
trees, also one small brick house surrounded by a wall of the same
material standing on the field, just as they were on the day of the
battle. Of course, they are much riddled and shattered by shot and
shell.

I am much interested in a conversation with an old man who lives
where he was born, about four miles from the battle field. He is now
ninety-one years old, hence he was nineteen years of age when the
memorable battle was fought. He saw Napoleon on the day of the fight,
and the day afterwards was on the field and helped to bury the dead. He
saw Wellington several times, and remembers distinctly how he looked
after his greatest victory. The old man is approaching the end of his
journey, and I am truly glad to have met him before he crosses the
river.

Let us now return to Brussels and enter the Wertz Museum. We find here
a picture which is truly illustrative of Belgium hatred of Napoleon.
It is a most wonderful picture. It represents Napoleon in hell. He is
in the bottomless pit, clad in his uniform. A great number of worn
and haggard widows and childless mothers, of ragged, weeping orphans,
of old men crippled, maimed and halt, are crowding around Napoleon,
scoffing, jeering, and grinning at him, holding up before his eyes and
under his nose shattered hands and arms and feet and legs, and broken
heads and bleeding hearts. The sulphurous flames are coiling up around
the unfortunate victim, while on his face there is a double expression
of agony and remorse. When asked if I believe this picture really
represents Napoleon’s present condition, I reply: “Judge not, that ye
be not judged.”

One could write a volume about this splendid collection of pictures,
but I will mention only two or three more. I am especially impressed
with two companion pictures, twenty by thirty feet each. The first
represents hell in revolt against Heaven. All the fiends of hell and
all the powers of darkness are arrayed against Christ and His holy
angels. Christ dismisses His angels; they fly away, leaving Him all
alone. This emboldens the enemy, who rush on to the conflict. The
second picture is “The Triumph of Christ.” He has hurled the fiends
back headlong to their native hell. And yet in this moment of victory
stands pitying His enemy rather than glorying in His own achievements.
I can but think: “Surely, His ways are not our ways; neither are His
thoughts our thoughts.”

Another picture that impresses me very much is “Age Offering the Things
of the Present to the Man of the Future.” An old man is holding out to
a young lad flags and sceptres representing Power and Dominion; also
glittering diamonds, a golden harp, a name and a book, emblematic,
respectively, of wealth, pleasure, fame and knowledge. He can take
any one, but only one. I am so afraid that the inexperienced youth
will make a wrong choice, that I want to whisper in his ear: “Take
wisdom; take understanding; forget it not. Forsake her not, and she
shall preserve thee; love her, and she shall keep thee. Wisdom is the
principal thing, therefore get wisdom. Exalt her, and she will promote
thee, she will bring thee to honor.”

CHAPTER XVI.

FROM BELGIUM TO COLOGNE AND UP THE RHINE.

Brussels—Its Laces and Carpets—Belgium a Small Country—Cultivated
like a Garden—Into Germany—Aix-La-Chapelle—Birthplace of
Charlemagne—Capital of Holy Roman Empire—Cathedral Built by
Charlemagne—A Strange Legend—Shrine of the Four Relics—A
Pulpit Adorned with Ivory and Studded with Diamonds—Cologne—Its
Inhabitants—Its Perfumery—Its Cathedral—A Ponderous Bell—A
Church Built of Human Bones—Sailing up the Rhine—A River of
Song—Bonn—Its University—Birthplace of Beethoven—Feudal Lords—The
Bloody Rhine—Dragon’s Rock—A Combat with a Serpent—A Convent
with a Love Story—Empress of the Night—Intoxicated—Coblentz—A
Tramp-Trip through Germany—Sixteen Thousand Soldiers Engaged
in Battle—Enchanted Region—Loreli—Son-in-Law of Augustus
Caesar—Birthplace of Gutenberg, the Inventor of Printing.

BRUSSELS is noted the world over for its fine laces and superior
carpets. The Kingdom of Belgium is very little larger than the state of
Connecticut, and yet it maintains a standing army of 50,000 men, while
the whole of the United States has a standing army of only 36,000. The
large army, together with the maintenance of the royal family, impose
upon the people a very burdensome taxation. The people here know very
little about improved implements of any kind, their work being done
mostly by main strength and native awkwardness. Belgium is cultivated
like a garden, and is as pretty as a picture.

We now leave Belgium. As the train dashes across an imaginary line, “a
change comes o’er the scene.” The soldiers wear a different uniform,
the people speak a different language, pay homage to a different king,
and handle a different money. Money, however, is a scarce article in
this portion of the moral vineyard.

I have always associated the name of Charlemagne with Aix-la-Chapelle.
It is, therefore, with no little interest that I visit this ancient and
historical city. I find this place of 80,000 inhabitants beautifully
situated in the midst of a fertile valley surrounded by gently sloping
hills. This was the birthplace and favorite residence of Charlemagne,
the Julius Caesar of the eighth century. This venerable place was the
second city of importance in the holy Roman Empire, its being the
capital of Charlemagne’s dominions north of the Alps. Here thirty-seven
emperors were crowned; here ecclesiastical convocations assembled, and
from here imperial edicts went forth.

The Cathedral, or Muenster, built (796-804) by Charlemagne still
stands, and is one of the most interesting objects in the city. On the
right of the principal entrance to the Cathedral is a brazen wolf.
According to the legend connected with this quadruped, the funds for
the erection of the church having run short, the devil offered to
supply the deficiency on condition that the first living being that
entered the house should be sacrificed to himself. The magistrate
entered into the compact, but defrauded the devil of his expected
reward by admitting a wolf into the sacred edifice immediately on its
completion.

I seat myself in the Imperial Throne of Charlemagne, in which also his
remains reposed for more than 350 years, having been found by Otho III,
who opened the tomb in the eleventh century. In the Cathedral Treasury
is the famous “Shrine of the Four Relics.” It is composed of the purest
gold, and is studded with fifteen hundred precious stones. This shrine
is said to contain the robes of the Virgin Mary, the swaddling clothes
of the infant Christ, the bloody cloth in which the body of John the
Baptist was wrapped, and the linen cloth with which the Savior was
girded on the Cross. The relics are shown only once in seven years, on
which occasion thousands of people flock to see them notwithstanding
the exorbitant charges m

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