A BAPTIST ABROAD

OR

TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES

IN

EUROPE AND ALL BIBLE LANDS

BY

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.

COPYRIGHT, 1890.

By J. A. HILL & COMPANY.

All rights reserved.

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.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.