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Title: A Baptist Abroad - Travels and Adventures of Europe and all Bible Lands
Author: Whittle, Walter Andrew
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "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.


      “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,


  COPYRIGHT, 1890.


  All rights reserved.


                          WILL READ THIS BOOK


                       TWO PAIRS OF SPECTACLES.

                               ONE PAIR

                       WILL MAGNIFY ITS VIRTUES

                            WHILE THE OTHER

                      WILL DIMINISH ITS DEFECTS.

                             THEREFORE IT


                             DEDICATED TO



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.


“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

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.




  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



  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



  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



   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



  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



  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



  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



  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



  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



  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



  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



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



  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



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



  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



  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



  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



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



   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



  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



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



  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



  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



   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



  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



  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



  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



   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



  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



  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



  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



   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



  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



  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



  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



  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



   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



  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



  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



  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



  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



   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



  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



  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



  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



  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



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



   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


  COLORED PLATES.                              Page.

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


  Palestine—Time of Christ,                      250


  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



 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

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

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

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.”



 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



 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.

[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

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

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.



 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

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

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.



 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

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

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

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!



 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

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.



 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.



 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

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.



 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

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

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

  “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:


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

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.”



 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

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

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.


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.]



 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.

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

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_.”


“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

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

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.



 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.



 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.

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.




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

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.



 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

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

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

                           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

  “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

  “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

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

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

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.”



 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

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 made. It has now been six years since the last
exhibition took place. The next time for robbing the superstitious
people is close at hand.

The pulpit, presented by Henry II, of Germany, is a gem of beauty,
being richly adorned with gold, carved ivory, diamonds, and other
precious stones. I dare say, however, that this Romish pulpit, as
splendid as it is, has seldom been adorned with the precious truths of
God’s blessed Word.

In three hours after leaving Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne is in sight.
Coleridge sarcastically says:


  “Cologne has nine separate and distinct stinks;
  It is washed by the river Rhine,
  But what power divine
  Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?”

It is not at all inappropriate therefore that Cologne should lead
the world in the manufacture of perfumery. The city boasts 140,000
inhabitants, the most of whom are Roman Catholics. A bridge of boats
connects Cologne with a large city on the opposite side of the river.

To the visitor, the object of the greatest interest in the city is the
Cathedral, which is said to be the most magnificent Gothic edifice in
the world. It certainly takes the palm over anything I have seen. It is
wholly unnecessary for me to describe this wonderful building to those
who have seen it, and it is impossible to describe it to those who have
not seen it. I hardly know whether one is most filled with admiration,
or struck with awe, as he beholds this great temple whose foundation
stone was laid six hundred years ago. To go around it, one must walk
an eighth of a mile; and yet he forgets the distance as he looks upon
the massive walls rising one hundred and fifty feet above him; as he
views the arched roof more than two hundred feet high; as he eyes the
tapering spires which seem to pierce the bended sky. And yet there
is hardly a square foot, even of the exterior of this architectural
wonder, that is not carved and chiseled in the most exquisite manner
imaginable. The principal entrance to the Cathedral is a doorway,
thirty-one by ninety-three feet. On the inside, one sees a forest
of pillars, fifty-six in number, apparently thirty or forty feet in
circumference, and rising, some one hundred and others two hundred
feet high. The aisles are twenty, thirty, and sixty feet wide. Some of
the windows are twenty by fifty feet. These stained-glass windows and
marble pillars have been presented by the kings and queens and emperors
of different countries. The inside is profusely adorned and decorated
with statues, carvings, paintings and sculpture work of every kind and

The Cathedral bell is seventeen feet across, and weighs twenty-three
tons. To ring it requires fifteen men. As I stand upon the tower, five
hundred and thirty-seven feet above the earth, men in the streets look
like little children, and the business houses resemble play-things.
This elevation affords a fine view of the surrounding country. I can
trace the Rhine and its tributaries for more than twenty miles. Winding
around among the hills and grain fields, these streams, gleaming in the
sunlight, look like silver threads. I say to my friend: “Ah! behold the
‘silver threads among the gold.’” Although I have climbed this spire
to the enormous height of 537 feet, yet above me is a delicate golden
ladder; and, as it was placed here to enable the angels to ascend and
descend, I quietly descend.

The church of St. Ursula is one of the curiosities of the city. St.
Ursula was an English princess who, according to the tradition, when
on her return from a pilgrimage to Rome, in the second century after
Christ, was barbarously murdered at Cologne with eleven thousand other
Christians, most of whom were young women. They were all buried in the
same grave. Some time in the eleventh century the grave was opened, the
bones taken out, and, on the spot of the grave, the present church was
built to the memory of these martyred virgins. These bones form part
of the walls of the church; some of them, also, are preserved in glass
cases, and placed around in the audience-room. Johnson supposes this is
done to inspire in the worshipper a devotional spirit, or, perchance,
to remind him of Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones. Near the pulpit is a
beautiful monument to Princess Ursula. The statue is of alabaster, with
a laurel wreath about her brow and a white dove at her feet.

The Rhine is, indeed, a majestic river. Its broad bosom floats hundreds
of vessels, laden with the produce of its fertile valley, and thousands
of tourists from all parts of Europe and America. At Cologne, we
embark on the “Victoria,” and start up the “legendary stream.” As our
graceful bark glides off over the smooth waters, we turn our eyes back
toward Cologne for a last, long look. And what a pleasing picture it
is to behold the city with its “girdle of fortifications,” to see the
splendid cathedrals and numerous towers outlined against the sky!
Cologne has scarcely vanished from our sight when Bonn appears. Here we
disembark. A few hours suffice to go through the University, to inspect
the Cathedral, to see the bronze statue, and visit the birthplace of
the great musical genius, Beethoven, born in 1770 and died in 1827.

After leaving Bonn, the scenery is more picturesque and beautiful.
On either side of the swiftly-flowing stream, the overhanging cliffs
rise high, one above another, each being crowned with a ruined castle,
whose long, winding corridors and pictured walls once resounded with
mirth and music. High perched upon these basaltic rocks, and surrounded
by almost impregnable walls, feudal lords once held despotic sway.
It really seems that the once thirsty swords have been beaten into
plowshares, and the spears into pruning hooks, for the fruitful vine
now flourishes along the “bloody Rhine,” from its water’s edge to the
height of the castled crags. Even the crevices in the high cliffs are
planted with the vine. This scene inspired Lord Byron to sing the
following beautiful song:

  “The castled crag of Drachenfels
    Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine
  Whose breast of waters broadly smiles
    Between the banks which bear the vine;
  And hills all rich with blossom’d trees,
    And fields which produce corn and wine,
  And scatter’d cities crowning these,
    Whose far white walls along them shine,
  Have strew’d a scene which I should see
    With double joy wert thou with me.”

We land at Konigswinter (King’s Winter), and ascend the bluff, nine
hundred and eighty feet above the Rhine, to the Castle of Drachenfels,
or dragon’s rock. This Castle commands the most extensive view of any
on the Rhine. In descending, we visit the curious cave which, according
to a mythical story, was once the dwelling-place of a huge serpent who
jealously guarded the pass and allowed no one to ascend the cliff. A
brave knight slew the dragon, and after bathing himself in its blood,
became invulnerable and mighty in strength. He then built the Castle on
the uplifted rock, and made himself lord of the surrounding country.

[Illustration: A VIEW ON THE RHINE.]

Just as the sun sets, we approach the beautiful island of Nonenwerth
where, half hidden beneath the rich foliage, we see an old convent.
Just above this floating island, rises a huge rock whose summit was
once crowned with a splendid castle, of which only one crumbling arch
now remains. The legendary history connecting the castle and convent
is as beautiful as it is touching. Just after the time of Charlemagne,
a brave and gallant knight, by the name of Roland, paid court to the
beautiful and accomplished Princess Hildegude. The affection was
reciprocated, and the two soon became affianced lovers. At this time,
Roland was summoned by his king to the Crusade. Time sped on, and
anxiously did the devoted Hildegude look for his return. But, alas! she
received tidings of his death. Straightway for her all beauty faded
from every earthly object. She therefore gave her heart to God, and
her body to the convent on the adjacent island. The sad news, however,
proved untrue. Roland had been wounded but not fatally. All during his
absence the fires of love burned brightly upon the altars of devotion.
With joyous anticipation, he returned to receive the hand of her whose
radiant smile was the light of his life. But, alas! poor Roland! He
found that his lady-love was in that living tomb from which death
alone could set her free. Broken-hearted, he built the castle, one
moldering arch of which still stands, and there lived in solitude and
wretchedness, catching an occasional glimpse of his imprisoned love.
After her death, he spoke no more until he passed beyond the stars to
meet her who anxiously awaited his coming.

The last rays of the setting sun light the lamps of night, and it seems
as if each star tries to outshine every other one. The moon, with these
brightly-beaming stars as her attendants, comes forth as “Empress of
the Night.” Standing on deck and looking out over the scene, I find
that moon and stars are pouring a perfect flood of glory over tower,
and castle, and crag, and cliff, and wooded hill.

By this time we are so completely intoxicated with pleasure that we
think it best not to indulge any longer. So, as the clerk of the boat
calls out, “Coblentz,” we step ashore, and one hour later we are
dreaming about what we had seen during the day. Next morning, as the
sun first peeps over the eastern hills, he finds the pedestrians on
their way to Ems, a beautiful little city nestling among the wooded
hills of Germany. The walk proves a delightful exercise; and before
the dew is off the grass, we are seated in Ems on the bank of the
river which flows through the city. This was a favorite resort of the
late Emperor William during the summer. On the way to Ems, we have the
pleasure of witnessing a sham battle between several thousand German
soldiers. No one is killed. One officer is badly hurt by his horse
falling on him.

Before eleven o’clock, we are again gliding up the river. We seem now
to have entered an enchanted region. No description we have ever read
of the Rhine could equal the sight itself. Here

  “The noble river foams and flows,
    The charm of the enchanted ground,
  And all its thousand turns disclose
    Some fresh beauty varying round.”

The channel now becomes narrow, the stream swift and deep. As we pass
castle after castle and behold the wrecks and ruins, we feel that we
are “passing back down the stream of time.” Here on the left is the
Loreli, a great rock rising up more than four hundred feet. According
to the legend, a nymph had her dwelling in a cavern of this rock, and,
with the music which issued forth from her golden harp, she enticed
sailors and fishermen to their destruction in the terrific whirlpools
and rapids at the foot of the precipice.

Passing the national monument erected in honor of Germany’s victory
over France, in 1870, and Bingen, “fair Bingen on the Rhine,” we come
at length to Mayence, a frontier town of fifty thousand inhabitants,
strongly fortified with a garrison of thirty thousand soldiers. Mayence
was founded B. C. 14, by Drusus, the son-in-law of Julius Caesar. Here
the grandsons of Charlemagne met to divide his mighty empire into
Germany, France, and Italy. This is the birthplace of Gutenberg who,
in 1440, invented the art of printing. Mayence has shown her high
appreciation of that gifted son of genius by erecting the handsome
“Gutenberg Statue.”



 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.

FROM Mayence, I run up to pay my respects to Frankfort (ford of the
Franks)-on-the-Main; and right royal is the reception extended me.
The good people of this classic city seem really glad to see me,
_especially the hotel keepers_. Reader, you can scarcely imagine what
a pleasure it is to a way-worn pilgrim, as he enters a great city in a
foreign country, to be met by a committee consisting of a full score
of hotel clerks and porters, and half a hundred hack drivers! As the
traveler steps off the train, he is approached by the different members
of the committee, each of whom tries to be more kind and obliging than
any of the others. Indeed, the honored visitor is well-nigh overcome
with gratitude, as he sees these committeemen crowding round him on
all sides, each with an expectant look, a face wreathed with smiles,
and a palm itching to get hold of his purse strings. Such was the
welcome given me at Frankfort-on-the-Main, which city, though it dates
back from the time of Charlemagne, 775, is now as fresh and fair as a
sixteen year old maiden with blue eyes and golden hair.

Frankfort is about the size of Rochester, New York, is a place of great
commercial importance, and, according to population, is by far the
wealthiest city in Germany. It claims two hundred millionaires.

The museum and art galleries here are of the highest type. I can not
use the brush, palette, and easel myself, but some pictures throw a
spell over me that I can not shake off. Murillo’s “Madonna Enthroned,”
Overbeck’s “Triumph of Religion in the Arts,” Rembrandt’s “Parable
of the Laborers in the Vineyard,” are indelibly stamped on the
imperishable tablets of memory; their gilded frames I have entwined
with a garland of forget-me-nots, and with golden cord of appreciation
I have hung them up in the art gallery of the soul. And, if as Keats
says, and as I believe, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” then will
my visit to Frankfort-on-the-Main be a blessing to me until the silver
cord be loosed, and the golden bowl of life broken.

This is the birthplace of Goethe, the Shakespeare of Germany. His
splendid monument stands in the centre of one of the public squares of
the city. The pedestal on which the bronze statue rests is relieved
by raised figures, those on one side being taken from “Faust,” and
the other from “Hermann and Dorothea.” The first is one of the most
masterly productions that ever emanated from the human brain, and
the second one of the sweetest love stories ever embalmed in verse.
Carlyle says of Goethe: “There was none like him; he knew everything.”
If Germany ever produced Goethe’s equal, it was his bosom friend
Schiller, whose life-like statue adorns another of the public squares
of Frankfort. Seeing these two statues, I involuntarily look around for
that of Herder. I always think of Goethe, Schiller and Herder as the
inseparable trio.

The well-known millionaire, M. A. Rothschild who, I believe was at one
time the richest man on earth, was born in Frankfort. The family still
lives, and do a large business here. Through the influence of a friend,
I gain an entrance to Rothschild’s house and private museum, which one
may well imagine contains an elegant collection of curiosities from all
parts of the world. One gold vase alone, set with diamonds and other
precious stones, is said to have cost 800,000 marks or $200,000.

The next place the traveler hangs his hat on the wall is here in Worms.
Ah, what a history has this quaint old German town! How many thrilling
incidents have taken place on its narrow streets during the last
fifteen hundred years! But Worms is of more than a general interest
to the world, since it was the scene of Luther’s fiercest struggle
with Rome. In March, 1521, Luther was summoned to appear before the
Diet, or Supreme Court, of half the World, assembled at Worms, under
the presidency of Charles V. With Napoleonic courage, Luther answered
the call in person. As the bold reformer on his way to trial passed
through Eisenach, where he had sung carols on the street for bread,
his friends met him with the warning; “They will burn you as they did
John Huss;” to which he replied; “Though they should build a fire from
Worms to Wittenberg and reaching to the sky, I would pass through it
in the name of the Lord.” As he was approaching the city, Spalatin
sent a messenger with another warning. This time the monk responded:
“Go tell your master that if there were as many devils in Worms as
there are tiles upon the housetops, I would enter.” He did enter, and
the next day became a turning point in the world’s history. It was
then that this “Christian Hercules, this heroic cleanser of the Augean
stable of apostacy,” went forth in the arena of debate to shiver lances
with kings and popes and princes. Being severely in earnest, grandly
right, and divinely appointed to his office, he hurled his arguments
like withering blighting thunder-bolts. And, if the enemy now and then
put in hard licks, Luther, being possessed of a cool head, quick wit,
and boundless resources, revived like the vigor of vegetation after
the stunning blow had fallen. He stood until there was not a man to
meet him. The haughty hierarchy which he assailed had “bound kings in
chains, and nobles in fetters of iron; but before the fire of his
quenchless zeal those fetters fell, fused as by the lightning touch of

It is only in accordance with the “eternal fitness of things,”
therefore, that we find in Worms a monument memorializing this severe
conflict and brilliant victory of the intrepid reformer.

As we enter the town from the railway station, we pass through the
Luther-Platz (place or square), in the center of which stands the
Luther Monument, which was erected in 1868 at a cost of $85,000. The
monument is on this wise. There is a massive platform of granite,
forty-eight feet square and nine and one-half feet high, bearing in its
centre a large pedestal, also of granite. This pedestal is surmounted
by another in bronze, adorned with reliefs representing four scenes in
Luther’s life. In the first, we see him administering the communion as
a Catholic priest; second, he is nailing his theses on the church door
in Wittenberg; next, we see him defending himself at Worms; and, last,
he is translating the Bible into his native language.

Now, upon this pedestal, whose sides are thus adorned, stands the
bronze statue of Luther, eleven feet in height, a commanding figure.
In his left hand he holds a Bible, on which his right hand is placed
emphatically, while his face, on which faith is admirably portrayed, is
turned upwards. John Huss, Savonarola, John Wycliffe, and Peter Waldus
are sitting at the four corners of the large pedestal on which Luther

From the four corners of the large platform, rise four granite
pedestals, not so large as the central one. On these four pedestals
stand bronze statues of Luther’s fellow champions, Malanchthon,
Reuchlin, on one side, and Philip of Hesse and Frederick the Wise of
Saxony, his princely protectors, on the other. The four last-named
statues are each nine feet high. Taken all in all, this is one of the
finest and most impressive monuments I have seen. And why should it
not be so? These men have justly been called the thunderers, the cloud
compellers, the world uplifters, the hammers of the Lord, the pioneers
of progress, the liberators of mankind,

  “Whose names are ever on the world’s broad tongue,
  Like sound upon the falling of a force;
  Who play upon our hearts as upon a harp,
  And make our eyes bright as we speak of them.”




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

THE American traveler in Germany has to seek for the Baptist churches,
if he is to find them. His Baedeker has no star to point them out, and
their commanding spires will not arrest his eye as he strolls through
the streets. The church at Hamburg is the only one that is notable as
a piece of architecture; and its arches, though the delight of lovers
of the Gothic, are the despair of preachers. Many of the churches still
worship in halls, and some of these halls are none too prominent. The
writer of this sketch remembers looking for the Baptist church in a
large city of Southern Germany. He followed his clew into a narrow
street, then through an overhanging archway into a still narrower
court, up two flights of stairs to a door from which his knock drew no
voice nor sound of an answer. The Baptist church at Leipzig has its
place of worship in one of the suburbs, about three miles from the
centre of the city, and away from the bulk of the membership. How many
of those who have studied there know that there is a Baptist church in
Leipzig? Of course our Baptist Brethren do not choose obscurity and
inconvenience from any predilection for them, but from due deference to
the ever-present question of rent. Ground is high, and Baptist money

However, many of the churches have gradually worked their way to the
possession of chapels of their own. But even these present no very
churchly appearance. The ground has to be utilized carefully. Dwelling
apartments have to be built over, or under, or in front of, or back
of, the auditorium of the church, sufficient at least to house the
pastor, and often sufficient to bring an income that will carry the
interest on the debt. But the work is growing. Better accommodations
are being secured. Even now there are chapels seating over a thousand
people. Several churches in the large cities, for instance, at Berlin
and Königsberg, have two church buildings, without, however, on that
account dividing the church organization.

The “statistics” for 1889 reports 106 churches with 20,416 members in
Germany proper, and 123 churches with 23,976 members in the entire
“Bund,” which includes the churches in Austria, Switzerland, Holland,
Roumania and South Africa, all of which are organically connected with
the German Baptist Mission and off-shoots from it. Fortysix churches
in Russia with 12,448 members, and 21 churches in Denmark with 2,711
members, which formerly belonged to the German “Bund,” have recently
formed organizations of their own. It is wonderful to think that such
a growth has been attained within so short a time. It was only in 1834
that the first seven believers were baptised in the Elbe by Professor
Barnas Sears. Twenty-five years later, they had grown to a thousand
times seven.

The first twenty-five years were full of privations and persecutions.
The reader will understand that in Germany the maintenance and
regulation of religion is considered one of the duties of the State,
and a disturbance of religious order was punishable by law, just as
a disturbance of social order would be with us. It seemed outrageous
and detrimental to the interests of society that artisans and
laborers should assume to teach and preach, and even to administer
the ordinances. Existing laws were applied to them, or new laws were
framed to meet their case. As late as 1852, a law was enacted in the
principality of Bückeburg, a small state in northern Germany, providing
that any emissary of the Baptists found within the boundaries of
the principality should be imprisoned for four weeks, and that the
punishment should be doubled on a repetition of the offense. Any one
attending the meetings was to be imprisoned for four weeks; any one
conducting them, for eight weeks; any one baptising, or administering
the Lord’s Supper, for six months. One of the old veterans of those
days has counted up that he was imprisoned thirty-three times, and in
nineteen different jails. Nor were the jails very pleasant places to
be in. But sometimes they turned even the prisons into places of joy
and prayer. There is just a smack of holy malice in the story of one
brother who tells how six of them were imprisoned together for holding
a Baptist meeting. As soon as they were lodged in jail, they used the
government’s own house and the government’s chairs to hold a glorious
Baptist protracted meeting that lasted for four weeks.

Still these imprisonments are pleasanter to tell about than to go
through. They told on the health of the brethren. Their property was
seized to pay fines. Their wives and little ones were left unprotected.
Their earnings ceased during the imprisonment, and when they came
out of prison they often found their occupation gone. But the men
bred by those times were strong in the Lord, nothing daunted by the
adversary, conscious that they were the soldiers of God, called,
like Gideon, to do battle with a handful, but with the Lord on their
side. Three men stand out as a kind of trio of leaders during those
early years, Oncken, Lehmann, and Köbner. Mr. Oncken was thirty-four
years of age when he shared in that baptism by night in the Elbe. God
had taken him out of the rationalistic religion of his own country
when he was nineteen years old, and had sent him to England. He was
converted there, and returned a few years later as a missionary of the
British Continental Society. He labored most faithfully for some years
before he became a Baptist. He understood the Scriptural doctrine of
baptism several years before he had the opportunity to follow Christ
in baptism. After that time, he pushed the work with great executive
ability and intense earnestness. He was a leader of men. He did great
service to his brethren by his knowledge of English, which enabled
him to represent the cause in Great Britain and also in the United
States, and to gain for it the financial and moral support of England
and America which has been so helpful to the work. In 1879 he was
paralyzed, and spent the last years of his life in forced retirement
in Zürich. The active brain had become feeble. The only thing which
rekindled the old fire in the dying embers was prayer and the words
of the Bible. He entertained his visitors by reciting, with evident
spiritual enjoyment, a verse from some familiar hymn, and a few moments
afterward he would repeat it over again, forgetting what he had just
said. He died at the age of eighty-four, and was buried with all honors
at Hamburg, on the eighth of January, 1884. His name will remain the
great name in the early history of the Baptists of Germany.

Another of the men just mentioned was G. W. Lehmann, born in 1799, an
engraver and etcher by trade, and a missionary by divine vocation. He
was one of the first six baptised by Oncken, in Berlin, in 1837. He
believed in a special manner in the power of the union of believers.
He organized; he drew the churches together in associations; he
constituted himself a link between them by ceaseless itinerant
missionary labor. He died at Berlin in 1882. The writer met him there
shortly before his death. His powers, also, had been broken by age. But
his face was of rare sweetness, and his prayers, though broken and full
of repetitions, still had the unction of former days.

The third of this noble triumvirate was Julius Köbner, born in 1807 in
Denmark. He was a Jew by birth. His father was a Chief Rabbi, and saw
to it that his son was instructed in all the learning of the law. But
the young man heard the message of the crucified Messiah and believed.
He was baptised in 1830, and rendered valuable service to the cause,
both in Denmark and Germany. He was not a man of action so much as
of thought and feeling. There was a mystic glow of love and devotion
in all he said. His poetic talent was of a very high order. He has
greatly enriched Baptist hymnology. His chief work is a volume entitled
“Das Lied von Gott,” describing God’s creative and redemptive work.
It contains passages of great power, and has been highly commended by
such literary authorities as Karl Gerok. His last years were spent at
Elberfeld and Berlin. He had a little daughter born to him in old age.
It was very touching to see the old man with the sweet oriental face
looking down at the little maid by his side as they took their walks
together, each anxious to lead and care for the other. He, too, has
now passed away. So has Claus Peters, who was a kind of bishop in all
the region of Schleswig; so have Bues and Cramme. Others of the first
generation are now old. A new generation is growing up to solve new
problems. There are many strong men among them, so many that it might
be invidious to single out any for special mention. Those American
travelers who have sought out the German pastors in the places where
they stayed, have felt that they were amply rewarded by the contact
with these faithful men of God.

The men of the older generation were called directly from their trade
to the ministry of the Word. They were taught in the school of life,
and instructed by adversity. Attempts were made years ago to train the
preachers. They were gathered by Oncken, or Köbner, or Berneike, for
a few months of teaching. In 1880, a permanent school was established
with seven pupils, and the late Reverend Moritz Geissler as professor.
The school now has twenty-six students, two instructors in the secular
branches, and two professors, J. G. Lehmann, a son of the older
Lehmann, and J. G. Fetzer, of Rochester Seminary. The school has a four
years’ course, and an occasional partial course of one year for older
men. The students were for a long time housed in very insufficient
quarters near the Hamburg church; but, in 1888, a handsome building
was erected in Horn, a suburb of Hamburg, and the school is now well
equipped and sure to influence the future of the German Baptists.

The other great institution for the furtherance of the work is the
publishing house. The dissemination of Christian literature has, from
the first, been one of the chief aims of our brethren. At first, Mr.
Oncken obtained grants of Bibles and books from other societies; but
the need of having a publishing house under his own control soon became
apparent, and the first tract was published in 1834. Through its
connection with American and British tract and Bible societies, the
society has been able to do an extensive work. The number of Bibles and
Testaments sold during 1887 was 35,586 copies. Over three million pages
of tracts were issued during the same year. A number of periodicals
also issued from the press of the society. Sunday-school lesson papers
are published. There is a paper called “Wort und Werk” for the young
men, and another called “Tabea” for the young women. The most important
paper is the “Wahrheitszeuge,” the regular organ of the denomination,
which has recently become a weekly, and has a circulation of over five
thousand copies. Since 1878, the business has been managed by Reverend
Philip Bickel, D. D., formerly editor of the “Sendbote” at Cleveland,
Ohio. He has, by the most painstaking work, diminished the indebtedness
of the business, and steadily increased the scope of its work. The
colporteurs and volunteer workers of the German Baptist churches
constitute an agency for the dissemination of Christian literature
which, for cheapness and effectiveness, is scarcely equalled anywhere.

The work is bound to grow. It is opposed by the conservatism and
prejudice of the people, of the strength of which no one can have a
conception who has not put his shoulder against it and tried to budge
it. The government, at least in the larger states, has taken a far
more tolerant attitude; but complete religious liberty does not exist
in Germany, nor will it exist until the State Churches have been
disestablished, and the German nation has stripped from its limbs
the last shackles of political absolutism and caste prerogative. Our
churches are increasing in number in spite of the constant drain of
emigration which takes from them their most prosperous and wide-awake
members. But, aside from the actual gain of converts, our churches
are doing the work of leavening thought by their literature, by their
demonstration of the power of Christian fellowship as presented in
a church of believers, and by the very general and extensive system
of lay evangelization. In 1889, 190 churches reported 1409 stations
where the Word is preached at regular intervals. Our churches are the
conductors of the evangelical thought and church methods of England and
America. They have been pioneers of Sunday-school work in Germany, and
they are bound to influence its entire religious future.



 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

I BELIEVE it was Zeno who said, “We have only one mouth, but two ears;
whereby Nature teaches us that we should speak little, but hear much.”
So, having two eyes and only one pen, I must see much and write little.
I shall not therefore pause, as I should like, to speak of a few
charming days spent in walking through the “Black Forests” of Germany,
nor of a visit to Heidelberg, beautiful for situation and famous for
its university,

  “Half hidden in a gallery of pines,
  Nestling on the sunny slope.”

There is no more impressive sight in Germany than the ruins of the
Heidelberg Castle. The remains of its frowning battlements, ivy-covered
walls, and hanging gardens speak most eloquently of its former
greatness and grandeur. I can never forget the moonlight nights that
Johnson and I spent in Heidelberg, wandering up and down the banks of
the Neckar, listening to the music of her waters as they flow on to
join the legendary Rhine, a few hundred yards below.

Leaving Heidelberg at four o’clock in the morning, we travel all
day through a comparatively uninteresting country, reaching Basle,
Switzerland, in time to break bread with a friend (?) who kindly sent a
committee to the depot to meet us. The committee insisted on carrying
us up from the station in a carriage, but we told them that as we had
no exercise during the day, we preferred to walk and carry our own

The day after arriving in Basle, we see a hundred and twenty-five
German and Swiss emigrants starting for America. At the request of
the emigration agent, who was possessed of much intelligence and good
information, I make a speech to the emigrants the hour before their
departure. I tell them not to stop around New York and Boston, but
to go West. After speaking briefly of the advantages of the country,
I tell them that America is not an Eden, but a wilderness; not a
wilderness, either, where people are miraculously fed with manna, as
were the Israelites of old, but one where the horny-handed sons of
toil have to dig their bread out of the ground; yet it is a wilderness
which, when watered by the sweat of the brow, is transformed into a
waving harvest field. I tell them that we invite immigration, not
that we want foreigners to fill easy places and control political
affairs; that a few years ago there were some men in Chicago, who
went there with this false idea in their brains, and, in trying to run
the government, they made a mistake and ran their heads into a halter.
I insist that earnest, honest, persistent, and intelligent laborers
are the kind of men we want; that such men are protected by law, and
rewarded with a comfortable living. After expressing the wish that they
might be freed from sea-sickness while crossing the ocean, and from
home-sickness after landing on the other side, I bid them adieu.

A few days suffice to show us the parks, monuments, and public
buildings of the city. Among the latter, is the time-honored cathedral
in which rest the bones of Erasmus, the scholar of the Reformation.

It was two hours after leaving Basle, before we could realize that we
were in Switzerland. Now, however, a great mountain rose up before
us. It was too long to surround, and too high to surmount; hence, we
had either to stand still, retreat, go under, or else go through the
mountain. After boring our way through the solid rock for two miles, we
come into the light on the opposite side. We find that this tunnel is
only a gateway admitting us into the land of wonders, and to the heart
of the Alps, a description of which will occupy the next chapter.

We are now wild with delight, running first to one side of the car,
and then to the other, to catch a momentary glimpse of the mountains
as they dash by us. The snowy peaks now burst upon our vision, and,
just as Johnson is getting ready to stand on his head, the brakesman
shouts, “Lucerne! All out for Lucerne!” This announcement, of course,
interrupts the proceedings of my traveling companion; hence, leather
does not “go up,” as I expected.

We find Lucerne to be the general rendezvous of thousands of tourists
who, in the search of health or pleasure, have come hither from Russia,
Turkey, Greece, Hungary, and Asia Minor, from Germany, France, Italy,
England and America. Sometimes, at the evening hour the different
nationalities are represented in one room, and there follows a Babel of

How beautiful and varied is the scene before me at this hour! It is
a lovely moonlight night, and the lake shines bright and tranquil as
a polished mirror. The laughing stars lie buried in the blue depths
below. On the bosom of this fairy lake are scores of lover-laden row
boats, shooting, turning, gliding, in every possible direction. As the
oars strike the water, they gleam in the moonlight like paddles of
silver. There are two, four, or six persons in each boat. Several boats
have now grouped together, and all have joined in singing “Moonlight
on the Lake,” and the soft music floats over the still waters until
it dies away in the distance. There is a momentary pause. And now,
just in front of the long line of four-story hotels, which are set
back about one hundred feet from the lake, the Hungarian Band breaks
forth and its wild melodies are echoed from the surrounding hills.
Next the Neapolitan Quartette causes a perfect uproar of laughter as
it discourses the latest Italian comic songs with banjo accompaniment.
As the clock from the cathedral tower announces the hour of eleven, a
change comes over the scene. The street lamps are extinguished, and
the good-humored multitude pour forth their extravagant praises of the
brilliant display of fireworks which are now filling the air with noise
and showers of falling stars. Thus do tourists and visitors spend their
summer evenings in this little town of Lucerne, this “Swiss Lady of the

All through the month of August, thunder-storms of unusual grandeur
have been prevalent in Switzerland. Twenty-four hours ago, I witnessed
a thunder-storm that made a lasting impression. It was twelve o’clock
at night. The evening before all nature was in confusion. The angry
clouds were like seething volcanoes, shooting up their thunderheads as
if they would strike heaven in the face. Behind these cloud-battalions,
which were constantly forming and reforming in ranks of war, the sun
was skirmishing. Now and then his fiery darts would pierce the serrate
columns, but immediately they would close up the gap and shut out the
sun. As if given up in despair, he retired behind the western hills.
The world was then locked in the embrace of night, and given over to
the remorseless storm-god. The angry clouds began to gather from the
east and west and north and south, growing denser and darker as they
came. Muttering thunder could be heard in the distance. At last the
crisis came. One blinding flash of lightning followed another. The
lakes roared. The earth moved. The mountains reeled! Thunder answered
thunder! Deep called unto deep! The peaks, like mountain monarchs,
seemed to be quarreling with each other; each peak had a voice and
each glen an echo! One moment all was painfully dark, and the next a
mighty sheet of flame could be seen falling from the clouds upon the
mountain tops. There it lingered for a moment, and then, rolling itself
into billows, it came dashing down the rocky steeps like cataracts of
fire, turning night into day and revealing a hundred snow-capped peaks



 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.

I HAVE been in Switzerland only a few days before I take what the
people here call the Alpine fever. It affects my blood; it gets into
my very bones. I can feel it in every limb at every breath. I consult
no physician—I need none. I know full well that the only cure for my
disease is to get out among the mountains and there commune with Nature
and Nature’s God. I did not come to Switzerland to hear fine music, or
to be initiated into the mysteries of fashionable hotel life. I came
to enjoy the wild and rugged scenery of the Alps. It seems, too, that
it takes more to satisfy me than it does most people. They tell me
they came here for the same purpose that I did, and yet they are quite
content to remain in the cities and behold the mountains afar off. Not
so with me. The moment I behold the gleaming snow on the uplifted
mountains, I see that it is not a scarlet ensign indicative of wrath,
war, and bloodshed. No, the signal is white, the flag of truce, the
emblem of peace, of innocence and purity. Hence, I am not repelled but
wonderfully drawn by the mountains. I can but repeat the language that
Schiller put into the mouth of his Swiss hero, William Tell:

  “There is a charm about them, that is certain—
  Seest thou yon mountains with their snowy peaks
  Melting into and mingling with the sky?”

I think, too, of the wifely warning that Hedwige gave Tell:

  “Thou never leav’st me but my heart grows cold
  And shrinks, as though each farewell were the last—
  I see thee midst the frozen wilderness,
  Missing, perchance, thy leap o’er some dark gulf,
  Or whirl’d down headlong with the struggling chamois;

  “I see the avalanche close o’er thy head,
  The treacherous ice give way beneath thy feet—
  And thee—the victim of a living grave!
  Death, in a thousand varying shapes, waylays
  The Alpine traveler. ‘Tis a hazardous and fearful trade!”

The husband’s reply was:

  “He who trusts in God, and to those powers which God hath given him,
  May guard himself from almost every danger.
  These mountains have no terrors for their children.”

[Illustration: GIESSBACH FALLS.]

And I am for the time being a child of the Alps. I have a mountaineer’s
spirit in me, and I say: “I will go!” The next thing is to secure an
Alpine outfit, which consists of spiked shoes, an Alpenstock, an ice
ax and a rope. These things in our hands and neatly strapped on our
backs, Johnson and I leave the social haunts of men, and start out to
“do the Alps.” On the “Rainbow,” we sail over Lake Lucerne from end to
end. We then walk to Fluelen and Altdorf, where is laid the scene of
Schiller’s immortal play, “William Tell.” We see Tell’s statue, erected
on the spot where with crossbow he shot the apple off his son Walter’s
head. We visit the place where during a raging storm, Tell sprang
from the boat upon a projecting rock, thereby saving himself from the
dungeon, and rescuing Switzerland from the hands of tyranny. We climb
the Rigi, the mountain that gave Mark Twain so much trouble. Standing
upon its elevated summit, we look down upon eleven silvery lakes spread
out in the valleys 5,000 feet below. We now strike out over Brüning
Pass for Brienz and Interlaken. The most interesting object during
this delightful sail was the famous Griessbach Falls. As the steamer
approaches, all eyes are fixed upon the rushing torrent whose foaming
waters, eager to escape from their mountain prison, burst forth from
the mountain side, and leap from rock to rock until they mingle with
the placid lake 1,200 feet below!

Interlaken, as its name indicates, is between the lakes, Brienz and
Thun. This is not a city, but a small, characteristic Swiss village,
hemmed in by two lakes, and two mountains, whose precipitous sides
are feathered over with fir trees. Indeed, the surroundings are so
picturesque and beautiful that we make Hotel de Nord headquarters for
several days, during which time we make several delightful excursions
on and around the lakes. Our stay is made more pleasant because of the
company of L. Woodhull and J. A. Worthman, of Dayton, Ohio; but theirs
is a flying trip, hence we are soon separated.

We now penetrate the very heart of the Alps. We spend a month, and
walk more than five hundred miles, creeping through the windings of
the mountains; in following up streams to their sources; in crossing
narrow chasms whose yawning depths even now make me dizzy when I think
of them; in climbing rugged peaks where one false step would have
dashed us against the jagged rocks, two, three, and sometimes four,
thousand feet below; in letting ourselves down by ropes into deep
gorges on whose rocky floor ray of sun or moonbeam has never fallen; in
traversing seas of ice or glacier fields, two of which, the Rhone and
the Aletsch glaciers, are the most extensive in the Alps, being fifteen
miles long and from one to three miles wide.

Reader, stand with me for a moment upon the banks of this Swiss river,
and we shall find it worthy of the world of savage grandeur through
which it passes. The river is quite narrow. Its rocky bed is full
three hundred feet below the banks on which we stand. The water dashes
by us with such force and velocity that, as it strikes the rocks and
bowlders in the stream, the spray rises up for a hundred feet or more.
The light of the sun shining through the rising mist flings a radiant
rainbow on the opposite wall of rock.

Mountains rise up abruptly on either side of the river. On the opposite
side of the stream from where we stand, a mountain rises up steeply
for six, eight, nine, thousand feet. Away up there 9,000 feet above
the world, on the broad top of the mountain, there is an everlasting
lake filled from Heaven’s founts, baring its blue bosom to the blue
sky. Around this “lake of the gods,” and also from its centre, Alpine
peaks lift their grey and ghastly heads up against the sky, as if to
support the blue dome of Heaven, lest the moon and the stars extinguish
themselves in the crystal sea. And that is not all. The water, as if
tired of its home in the skies, breaks over its rocky prison walls;
and, in a perpetual stream eighteen inches deep and thirty feet
wide, it comes, churned into madness and foam—comes madly dashing
and splashing down the mountain side for 9,000 feet at an angle of
seventy-five degrees. Finally with the swiftness of an arrow the
maddened stream leaps into the river, and we stand on the banks and
look down on the “hoarse torrent’s foaming breath below.”

  “We gaze and turn away and know not where,
  Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart
  Reels with its fullness, there—forever there—
  Chain’d to the chariot of Nature’s triumphal Art
  We stand as captives, and would not depart.”

Baedeker truly says: “The glacier—the most striking feature of the
Alpine world—is a stupendous mass of purest azure ice.” No scene in
Switzerland is so strikingly and so strangely beautiful as when, in
some fertile and wooded valley, the glittering pinnacles of a glacier
are suddenly presented to our gaze, in the immediate proximity of
wheat fields, fruit trees, smiling meadows and human habitations.
These extensive glaciers are long arms of solid ice, resembling a
thousand frozen cataracts, occupying entire valleys, and attaining
a thickness estimated at 1,500 feet. The surface of these glaciers
is by no means smooth and regular. Here one frowning terrace rises
above another; there the glacier swells and rises into huge pinnacles
and towering pyramids of purest ice. Again the surface is torn into
every conceivable shape by great crevasses which sometimes sink to
an enormous depth. In crossing these glaciers, guides, spiked shoes,
Alpenstocks, strong ropes, and ice axes are indispensable.


The rope is tied around the waist of each one of us, guides and all,
leaving eight or ten feet of rope between each two persons, one guide
at each end of the rope. Thus we, “with cautious step and slow,” start
across a sea of ice, all following the foremost guide and stepping
in his tracks. Sometimes every foothold has to be cut with an ax.
Now we come to a deep crevasse into which we are let down by a rope.
Once safely down the guide cuts our way in the ice until we gain two
ladders, one above the other, that have been placed there for that
purpose. Notwithstanding one’s double suit of underclothing and heavy
wraps, he becomes so chilled and benumbed that he gradually loses
his native activity. Hence the greatest caution is necessary to get
back without broken limbs. As one sees these pinnacles and pyramids
of purest azure ice bathed in the golden splendor of the setting sun,
their shining steps look like a crystal stairway reaching from earth to
heaven. A glacier reflecting the sun’s evening glories could perhaps
not be better described than by saying, it looks like heaven hung out
to air.

  “There are things whose strong reality
  Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues
  More beautiful than our fantastic sky.”

We must now quit the glacier field, and go up on the Aeggischhorn.
Reader, you must know that the way is long and rough and steep and
hard. But what man has done, man can do. The object is worth the labor.
What were a month’s climbing, even though it be doubly difficult, when
it is to be rewarded with the prospect from yonder imperial height? We
cross chasm after chasm, struggle from cliff to cliff, go from height
to height, until we stand 14,000 feet above the world! Around us are a
thousand snow-capped peaks rising up until they “melt into and mingle
with the skies.”

  “The sun seems pausing above the mountain’s brow
  As if he left reluctantly a scene so lovely now.”

The rays of light like arrows pierce the ice-covered rocks, and set
the Alpine world on fire. The bended heavens not far above us blush
to behold the sight. Gods, isn’t it glorious! Slow wanes the day
from these sequestered valleys. As the tourists watch the sun gather
up his spent shafts and put them back into his golden quiver, they
involuntarily take off their hats and contemplate the “afterglow” in

I might as well rest my pen, for I might write until my hand would
become palsied from use, and you might read my writing until your
eyes would grow dim with age, and yet I could convey to you no just
conception of the Matterhorn whose brow really seems ambitious of the
skies! nor yet of the majestic Jungfrau whose head goes careering ten,
twelve, fourteen, sixteen, thousand feet towards heaven. It is noonday
when I first stand at the foot of the Jungfrau, the young wife. The
clouds have come down and settled upon and around the mountain until at
least half of it is obscured from view. But my eyes are something like
daggers piercing the clouds through, for I want to get a glimpse of the
mountain as near to heaven as possible. All at once the clouds begin
to rise. They lift themselves clear above the mountain’s brow. Ah,
me! I have to shut the door close on my fluttering, my rising, soul,
lest it pass outward and upward in astonishment. This is the Jungfrau,
vailed in her dazzling shroud of eternal snow, and I am sure Ruskin
was correct when he said: “The seen walls of lost Eden could not have
been more beautiful, or more awful round Heaven the gates of sacred
death.” Now, as if the mountain’s brow was too sacred to be bared long
at a time, the clouds, like a mighty sheet, begin to unfold and come
down. The mountain is soon wrapt again in thick clouds, but she lifts
her ambitious head aloft. Above and beyond the clouds her icy crown
glistens in the light of the sun.

The people here say this is the best place in Switzerland to see an
avalanche. I am determined to see one, if I have to remain here all
summer. I see none the first day. As night approaches, I cross a
frightfully deep and yawning chasm, and come over on the Wengernalp,
3,000 feet high, which leaves me still 13,000 feet below the top of the
Jungfrau. Next morning, about half-past seven o’clock, I hear a strange
noise, apparently in Heaven, as though the angels had revolted. The
noise is in the direction of the Jungfrau, whose head is still hidden
in the clouds. The noise is heard, but the cause is unseen. It seems
that a thousand cyclones and thunder-storms have combined into one.
It comes “nearer, clearer, deadlier” than before. All eyes are turned
in one direction, and now we see a world of white snow bursting forth
like a thunderbolt from the bosom of the clouds. It comes leaping down
the mountain side from crag to crag, from peak to peak, across crack
and glen and crevasse. Gathering momentum with each successive leap, it
sweeps down the mountain side with such deafening noise and terrific
force that nothing on earth could stay its onward progress. The earth
trembles and the mountains reel as it leaps into the yawning chasm

                        “These are the Alps,
      The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
      Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
      And throned Eternity in icy halls
      Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
      The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow!
      All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
      Gather around these summits, as to show
  How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.”

[Illustration: AMONG THE PEAKS.]

After ascending Mount Blanc, I can but say, I have scaled thy heights,
I have sniffed thy breeze, I have planted my feet upon thy glittering
crown, but who, oh who, can comprehend thy glory! Oh thou monarch
of mountains! I see thee in all thy majesty. Thy proportions are so
vast and gigantic, thy form so regal and grand, that the eye in vain
attempts to estimate them. Distance is annihilated by thy vastness,
for thou art towering above us as if thou wouldst bear thy burden of
virgin snow back to its native heaven. Yet above thy regal brow I see
an eagle. For a moment he pauses with outstretched wings, as if to
contemplate thy glory, and then screaming with delight and whirling
himself in the air, he continues his onward, upward flight, as if he
would clutch his talons in the fiery sun itself.

  “Wave, eagle, thy pinion
  Supreme in the air!”

But leave, ah leave, me alone on the mountain top amidst the frozen
wilderness. I love to roam among the mountains. I love their pure air,
their jagged heights, their snowy peaks, and their foaming cataracts
tumbling down. Yea,

  “For the lifting up of mountains,
  In brightness and in dread;
  For the peaks where snow and sunshine
  Alone have dared to tread;
  For the dark of silent gorges,
  Whence mighty cedars nod:
  For the majesty of mountains,
  I thank thee, O my God.”

This little country of Switzerland, locked in by the Alps, and
surrounded by Germany, France, Italy, and Austria, boasts the oldest
republic in the world, its present form of government having existed
half a thousand years. It is inhabited by 2,700,000 people, speaking
three different languages. One million and a half speak German, one
million French, and the remainder Italian. Unlike the people of other
European nations, four-fifths of these Switzers are land owners. They
love to sing

                          “Home, sweet home,
  Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home!”

And, verily, their homes are humble, especially in the wilder parts of
the country. Their rude, structures are, for the most part, built of
fir poles and rough stones, and are often perched on the steep mountain
side, thousands of feet above the valley. Sometimes nearly the whole
house is hidden away in a blasted rock, only the end facing the valley
being visible. These mountaineers live high—I can not say _well_. They
have elevated thoughts, that is if they have any thoughts at all; they
look down upon kings and ordinary mortals, and only look up to eagles
and to God. Despite the extraordinary precaution taken to have their
houses shielded by the rock, many of them are annually swept away by
avalanches. It is difficult to trace out the dim and winding paths by
which these people reach their mountain huts.

I said most Switzers are land-owners, and so they are, on a small
scale. It is only a little here and less there; an acre in one place, a
half acre in another, and so on. They have few or no horses, but nearly
every family has two or three cows and a half dozen goats. They milk
both goats and cows; both are as gentle as cats, and each one appears
to know its name. Switzerland is a great country for honey, cheese,
vegetables and fruit. Pears and grapes of the finest quality everywhere
abound. Wine is plentiful and almost as cheap as water, though I do not
take advantage of the “reduced rates.”

There is something about the plain, simple, and unpretentious ways
of these Alpine folk that challenges admiration. They are earnest,
honest, pious, truthful, and industrious. Indeed, they can not be
otherwise than industrious. Necessity is their stern master. He treads
upon their heels, and cracks his whip over their heads. They have no
machinery—they want none. They know nothing, and care less, about what
progress the world is making. To them, “the world” means Switzerland,
and that is about the same from age to age. “Contentment is the price
of happiness;” they have paid the price, and enjoy the prize. The
iron-belted and thunder-riven mountains have lent strength of character
and force of will to the men. They are hardy mountaineers. They love
their country next to their God.

  “True as yon Alp to its own native flowers
  True as the torrent to its rocky bed,
  Or clouds and winds to their appointed track;
  The Switzer cleaves to his accustom’d freedom,
  Holds fast the rights and laws his fathers left him,
  And spurns the tyrant’s innovating sway.”

The crystal streams, silvery lakes, and smiling valleys, have
reflected their beauty in many a maiden’s face. True, these daughters
of the forest wear no high-heeled boots nor Paris bonnets, but they are
beautiful, nevertheless. I think Johnson will not soon forget a girl
whom we met in a Swiss chalet where we stayed a few nights ago. And
who can blame him? She was eighteen years of age, of medium height,
and had a faultless figure. She had a Grecian face, smooth features,
fair complexion, large brown eyes, and flowing auburn hair. A radiant
smile wreathed her innocent face. She looked at Johnson. He looked at
her. Neither one spoke. Neither one could speak so the other could
understand. But what is the use of words

  “When each warm wish springs mutual from the heart,
  And thought meets thought ere from the lips it part,
  When love is liberty, and nature law?”

That night Johnson came to our room claiming that he was ill. When
I inquired as to the nature of his trouble, he said he did not know
what it was. He did not know whether he had the rash, whooping-cough,
measles, small-pox, or cholera; but he had something, and had it bad.
Whereupon I applied a flaxseed poultice to the back of his neck. Next
morning found him convalescent, though not entirely relieved. I see
from history that such occurrences were common in the middle ages.

We have now been in Switzerland forty days. It has been forty days of
hard work, and yet forty days of intense delight. We have walked nearly
six hundred miles, and the last mile was stepped off with as much
ease as the first mile. The last step had in it the same elasticity
and firmness as the first. My youth was renewed like the eagle’s. I
constantly felt like mounting on the wings of rejoicing, and gliding
over the country as a disembodied spirit.

In some places, the angles we made in ascending and descending were
not less than sixty to seventy-five degrees! One time, when nightfall
came, I was thoroughly tired—completely exhausted. Pain trembled in
every limb. My knees denied their office. Hearty supper, warm footbath,
bed, oblivion! Strange as it may appear, the next day was spent, not in
walking but in reading history.

In our Alpine experiences, we walked from Switzerland into France and
back again; over Napoleon’s famous Alpine pass from Switzerland into
Italy and back. One time, while crossing the Alps without a guide,
we lost our way. For several hours we wandered around—we knew not
whither. All at once the clouds dropped down upon us, and with the
clouds there came a blinding snow-storm. It seemed as if we would
freeze. I knew we could not survive the cold till morning. I thought,
“Is it possible that this white snow is to be my winding-sheet, and
some rocky chasm my lonely grave?” Just before dark, our hearts were
gladdened by the sight of six men not far away. We called to them.
Across the fields of snow, the cold wind brought their cheering reply.
The men, clad in fur and wrapped in black gowns, proved to be Augustine
monks, who keep the St. Bernard Hospice. They took us with them to the
Hospice which was only two miles away. On reaching there, Johnson and
I were almost frozen. We were soon seated by a glowing fire, and were
comfortably shielded from the cutting wind and falling snow during that
memorable night above the clouds.

[Illustration: HOSPICE IN THE ALPS.]

We spent some time with the monks of the Hospice. This noble
institution has been standing nearly a thousand years. It is in the
heart of the mountains—the highest winter habitation in the Alps.
Snow falls here nine months in the year. The Hospice is kept by
eighteen or twenty Augustine monks, whose sole business is to search
for, assist and rescue, Alpine travelers who have lost their way in the
snow. We saw here about a dozen of the famous St. Bernard dogs. They
are, by all odds, the largest and finest dogs I have seen. They are
thoroughly trained to assist the monks in their work. In the morning,
when they are let out of the house where they have been locked during
the night, the dogs seem wild with delight. They go bounding through
the snow in every direction. With fore feet on some huge bowlder,
and heads high in the air, they sniff the cold mountain breeze, and
off they go again. For miles around, they search the mountains for
travelers who, on account of cold and snow, have fallen by the wayside.
In this way these philanthropic monks and their noble dogs have saved
many lives.

It is impossible at the Hospice to dig graves in the rock and snow and
ice, so they have a “dead house” where the bodies which are found in
the snow are placed and kept. The atmosphere is so pure and intensely
cold that decomposition takes place very slowly. There are about fifty
bodies in the dead house now, the last two having been placed there
about eighteen months ago. I went into this house, and I really believe
that if I had ever known the two persons last placed there, I could
have recognized them then. Any traveler is kindly received by the
monks and entertained for the night without any charge. Each visitor
is expected, however, to “drop something in the box.” Napoleon once
stopped here, and hundreds of his soldiers, as they passed over the
mountains with the cannon, partook of the hospitality of the monks.
Afterwards, the great Frenchman sent one of his generals here to be
buried, that he might have the Alps as a monument.

I visited the prison of Chillon. It is a gloomy old castle with five
great towers, built upon a rock projecting some two hundred yards into
Lake Geneva. Byron says of it:

  “Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
  And thy sad floor an altar; for ’twas trod
  Until his very steps have left a trace,
  Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
  By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface,
  “For they appeal from tyranny to God.
  There are seven pillars of Gothic mould
  In Chillon’s dungeon deep and old,
  And in each pillar there is a ring,
  And in each ring there is a chain.”

The description is perfect. The whole thing is there as of old.

I must stay my weary hand. I have already perhaps, written too much
about Switzerland. But I have no apology to offer. I am in love with
the country, that’s all. Love Switzerland?

  “Who could help it that has a heart to love,
  And in that heart courage to make its love known?”

[Illustration: SWISS MOUNTAINS.]

To get up regularly at 5 A.M., and see the first grey streaks of
morning, to watch the grey turn to pearl, the pearl to copper, to
amber, to gold, and then to see the whole heaven flecked with blushes
and gattled with fire; to watch the rising sun slowly climb the eastern
hills and see the first gleam of light glistening on the snowy peaks
around you; to start on your day’s tramp while the air is fresh and
bracing, and while all Nature is smiling as though earth held no tomb;
to walk for hours and hours, climbing peaks and crossing glens; to sit
down at noon on the flower-fringed bank of a limpid stream, and listen
to the music of its rippling waters while you eat your cold lunch; and,
after dinner is over, to lie in the sun for an hour or two and read
the legends, poetry and history inseparably linked with the mountains,
lakes and valleys that you have been admiring all the morning; to walk
on until night, and then eat with an appetite that reminds you of your
schoolboy days of old, when you ate all that was cooked and then called
for more; to go out after supper and reflect on God’s handiwork, with
floods, snows, rocks, mountains, glens, forests round and heaven’s
bright stars above you,—to enjoy all this, and more, as I have done,
were enough to put the tongue of praise in the mouth of the dumb, to
wake well-springs of joy in the desert places of the heart, and send
never-failing streams of rejoicing through the garden of life.



IN the early part of this century two English Baptists began to preach
the Gospel in Switzerland and France. The burden of their preaching
was free salvation through faith in Jesus Christ, and to their joy
something of a religious revival began to manifest itself. It seems
however, that these brethren did not give Believer’s Baptism its proper
place, and hence many of their disciples, looking upon it as a matter
of no special importance, for the sake of peace kept it constantly
in the background. The result was, that though many were converted
and gathered into churches through the labors of these good Baptist
brethren and their disciples, in 1830 only two little churches in the
northern part of France were willing to be known as Baptists.

About this time Prof. Rostan of Marseilles, left his home for the
United States, where he became a Baptist. In 1832 he returned to France
under the auspices of the Missionary Union, intending to spend his life
in preaching the Gospel to his own people. He opened a hall in Paris,
and a goodly number of attentive and serious hearers gathered about
him, some of whom often accompanied him to his home to receive further
instruction. Mr. Rostan also sought interviews with prominent and
influential men, to explain to them the object of his mission. He was
generally well received, and was invited to give a series of lectures
on Christianity before the “Society for Promoting Civilization.” Being
pious, cultivated and zealous, there was every reason to hope that he
would accomplish a great work, but his lamented death in December 1833
put an end to his earthly labors.

The Missionary Union at once sent out an appeal to young ministers, and
Mr. Isaac Willmarth, then of the Newton Theological Seminary, who loved
France, and especially Paris, because there, while a medical student
he was led to Christ, presented himself, and was at once appointed to
carry on the work. He reached Paris in June 1834. The following year a
small church was organized and soon after two theological students were
received into the church, and placed themselves under Mr. Willmarth’s
instructions. Through a Colporteur whom he knew in Paris, Mr. Willmarth
was brought into relation with the few Baptists of Northern France, who
were much gratified at receiving a visit from the American Missionary,
and who were not a little surprised to hear from him of the large
number of Christians in America, who not only held to Believers’
Baptism, but, as a result of this, to restricted Communion also.

In the latter part of 1835 the mission was reinforced by two other
American Missionaries, Rev. E. Willard, and Rev. D. N. Sheldon, both
of Newton Theological Seminary. The chief object of this reinforcement
was the establishment of a mission school, with special reference to
the training of candidates for the ministry. Mr. Sheldon remained in
Paris and in June 1836, Mr. Willmarth and Mr. Willard, wishing to be
near the few Baptists of Northern France, removed to Douai, a town near
the borders of Belgium, having a population of twenty thousand, and
containing a small Baptist church. The following year Mr. Willmarth, on
account of failing health, found it necessary to return to the United
States, and two years later Mr. Sheldon returned also. Mr. Willard,
left alone in France, continued his labors, giving special attention
to training of young men for the ministry, in which work he was very

In 1840 the mission numbered seven churches, five out-stations, six
ordained ministers, five assistants and about two hundred members.

The period between 1840 and 1848 was one of trial and persecution, the
chief difficulties resulting from the opposition of the government,
which made it unlawful for more than twenty persons to meet together
for any purpose, without the written permission of the magistrates.
Brethren began holding private meetings in their own houses, but very
soon a law was enacted subjecting any person who opened his house for
public worship to a fine of from sixteen to three hundred francs. The
execution of these laws was committed to the mayors of the communes,
who were generally Roman Catholics, and thoroughly under the influence
of the priests, who, as ever, were not slow to avail themselves of
this opportunity to persecute these Baptist brethren, with the hope of
preventing further progress, and of destroying what had already been
accomplished. In several places chapels were closed, one remaining
unopened for thirteen years, and consequently brethren were forced to
meet together secretly in private houses, or in the quiet woods. But
it was not without danger that they thus assembled, for Preachers and
Colporteurs were often arrested and fined, and but for the liberality
of some good Baptists of New York, who willingly paid these fines in
order that these faithful and courageous disciples might go forth
from prison to preach the Gospel, their work would have been greatly

In 1847 a famous trial took place. The pastors of Chauny and La fere
(Aisne) together with a Colporteur, were sentenced each to pay a fine
of three hundred francs, having been found guilty of the crime of
preaching the Gospel. Many of their hearers were also subjected to
fines. The case was carried to a higher court, and the sentence was
somewhat modified. But feeling the injustice and illegality of the
sentence, even in its modified form, it being a direct violation of the
French Code, adopted in 1830, which contained a definite provision for
freedom of worship for all religious denominations, an appeal was made
to the highest court in the Empire. However, before the final trial,
the Revolution of February 1848, overthrew the throne, and religious
liberty was proclaimed throughout the whole of France.

One of the chief obstacles being removed, the work was prosecuted
with lively hope and fresh zeal, and the following year, 1849,
proved a season of special blessing, forty-five baptisms having been
reported. In 1850, the Baptist church in Paris was re-organized with
four members, the first pastor being Mr. Dez. For thirteen years the
church worshipped in a small inconvenient room, during which time the
number of members increased from four to eighty-four. A better room
was then obtained, where the brethren continued to meet till 1873,
when the present marble-front chapel was provided. Work was carried on
successfully in several of the large towns of northern France, and in
the villages and the country immediately adjoining them. The members of
the churches are generally poor, and often much scattered, but they are
most faithful and regular in their attendance on the Sunday services,
some of them walking even ten miles. From all accounts French Baptists
are noted for their piety and self-sacrificing efforts in spreading a
knowledge of the Truth.

Since 1857, when Mr. Willard returned to the United States, the work
has been under the direction of a committee of French ministers,
the means being largely furnished by the Missionary Union. The cause
has made constant and substantial progress, and gives good promise
for the future. A Theological School has been established in Paris.
Besides the chapel in Paris, several others have been provided. The
services are generally well attended, and the people seem to manifest
a growing tendency and desire to hear the Truth. In Chauny, where
persecution was once so rife, the chapel has been enlarged, in order to
accommodate the growing numbers who wish to hear the Gospel. Baptisms
are of frequent occurrence. The little periodical called “_L’Echo de
la Verite_” has met with unexpected favor and success, the number of
its subscribers being nearly twice that of the Baptists themselves. A
small but valuable Baptist literature has been provided. If we include
those not connected with the Missionary Union, the Baptist force of
France numbers at present about twenty pastors and evangelists, about
twenty organized churches, some forty or fifty sub-stations, and about
one thousand members. During these sixty years of effort and suffering
much precious fruit has been gathered for the heavenly garner, and a
good foundation has been laid. Religiously, France and Italy are very
much alike, and the difficulties of the one, are, in the main, the
difficulties of the other. In each case Romanism, with its attendant
and inevitable evils, is the chief obstacle. But the darkness of
Romanism is sure to recede before the light of God’s Word, and we may
confidently hope that the land so often crimsoned by the blood of
martyrs, the land of the Huguenots will yet throw off the shackles of
the “Man of Sin” and bow to the sway of Immanuel.



 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.

I AM now far out on the Black Sea. Night has settled down on the face
of the deep, and darkness broods over the wide, wide world. This is,
however, far from being a “still and pulseless world” at present. We
are not having a storm, but the wind is blowing a perfect gale. I have
just been pacing the deck and watching the heaving bosom of the ocean.
I love the ocean; I love its vastness; I love its doleful music; I love
its foam-crested waves and white-capped billows. But I had to leave
the deck to-night; it is too cold and rough and dark to remain out any
longer. Hence I came to the saloon; and, as there are a few thoughts
floating through my mind, I take up my pen. I am tired, and would wait
until morning; but memory is a treacherous creature, and the only way
I can secure these thoughts is to fasten them in words, and chain them
in writing. The thoughts I propose to manacle pertain to places I have
visited and objects I have seen since leaving Geneva, Switzerland.
During this time, I have traveled more than two thousand miles,
sometimes on foot, sometimes on trains, and sometimes on the Danube

[Illustration: THE BELVIDERE, VIENNA.]

Vienna, the proud capital of haughty Austria, has more than a million
inhabitants, is splendidly situated, and is one of the prettiest cities
in Europe. The city abounds in monuments and statues, in large parks,
lovely flower gardens, and playing fountains. But Vienna’s crowning
glory is her superb architecture. The Emperor’s Mansion, the Palace
of Justice, and the Houses of Parliament, are especially fine. They
are immense structures, and are elaborately sculptured not only from
the ground to the roof, but the roof itself is covered with sculptured
work. For instance, there are standing on the House of Parliament
alone, eighty life-size marble statues. In addition to these, there
are, on the same roof eight large gilded chariots, each drawn by four
flying horses, and driven by a winged goddess. As one approaches these
buildings, they present a most striking appearance.

I went through the Palace, and saw the Emperor and the crown jewels of
Austria; through the royal riding-school, where the imperial family are
daily instructed in the art of horsemanship; through the art galleries
and Museum, which contain too many fine pictures and objects of
interest to be mentioned here.

Since leaving Vienna, I have traveled through Hungary, Servia,
Slavonia, and Bulgaria, stopping at Buda-Pesth, Belgrade, Rustchuk, and
Varna. For two days and nights I was on the majestic Danube. Most of
the time the river was broad, and the country level and uninteresting.
But this was by no means uniform; occasionally the river would burst
through a rocky mountain ridge, and I remember I opened my umbrella and
stood on deck in the cold wind and rain for three hours, rather than go
down to the saloon, where I could only half see the rugged cliffs and
peaks overhanging the river. Do you say, “That was expensive pleasure?”
Well, be it so. But I love nature. Besides, it has been said, and
truly, I believe, that we enjoy everything in proportion to what it
costs us. I am going to make a strong statement, and yet one that is as
true as strong. I know that it will sound like blasphemy to some, but I
believe in the old proverb, “Honor to whom honor is due;” hence I now
declare that the scenery along some parts of the Danube is finer than
anything on the Rhine.

The principal productions of Servia, Slavonia, Roumelia, and Bulgaria,
seem to me to be ignorance, turnips, soldiers, poodle dogs, and an
annual crop of semi-royal, throne-seeking dudes. I would rather own a
thousand acres of black land in Texas, or be a well-to-do farmer in
Blue Grass, Kentucky, than to have ten such thrones as all these petty
kingdoms combined could offer. I settled the Bulgarian trouble, and
left the country. (I close for the night).

[Illustration: THE DANUBE.]

I fell asleep last night little dreaming what the morning held in
store for me. About 7 o’clock, A.M., though I was up long before that
time, we entered the Bosphorus. We were sailing directly towards the
rising sun. Along the eastern horizon great banks of purple clouds lay
piled one upon another like Pelion upon Ossa. The clouds rise higher
and higher, as now and then the sun climbs up to peep over, like an
imprisoned giant from behind the frowning battlements.

We were apparently between the two arms of a great horseshoe, and were
gliding slowly on into its curve, with the land on all sides sloping up
gently from the water’s edge. We were between two continents—Europe on
the right, and Asia on the left. Our narrow passage was lined on either
side with great torpedo boats, and ironclad men-of-war, trembling for
service. These, in turn, were flanked by two lines of impregnable
forts, planted with grim and frowning cannon. As we pass the batteries
and enter the bay, we behold the great city of Constantinople, crowning
the heights that sweep around the curve of the horseshoe. We see its
palaces, mosques, towers, and spires, all outlined against a dark
background of cloud. Just at this moment, the sun rifts the purple
clouds, and pours a flood of golden glory over the whole scene.

[Illustration: CASTLE ON THE DANUBE.]

By this time the “Urano” casts anchor, and we are soon surrounded by
two or three hundred row-boats that have come to take the passengers
ashore. Just as I am about to step on shore an armed soldier cries
out: “Halt, stand!” I do not know what the reader would have done, but
I—well, I obey the gruff voice. I am informed that no man is allowed
to set foot on Ottoman soil without legal papers from his native
country. Whereupon, I draw from my pocket a passport. The officer
admires the American eagle, but has some difficulty in reading the
document. When he comes to “_E pluribus Unum_” he stalls; and, turning
to me, he asks: “What does this mean?” I reply: “That simply indicates
my high rank and official position at home. It says I am _one among
many_.” The Turk now uncovers his head, shows his teeth, and bows.

I can say to-day, more truly than ever before, “I am a stranger in
a strange land.” I have just been out in the city. The streets are
crowded. I saw Turks, Greeks, Jews, Americans, Russians, Bulgarians,
and Slavonians, all speaking strange languages, all wearing different,
strange, and grotesque costumes, all looking and staring at me as
though I was some wild animal in Barnum’s show. Nothing can be
more strangely hideous than a tall, stoop-shouldered, long-haired,
black-eyed, copper-colored Ottoman in his native dress, if dress it may
be called. The women go with their faces veiled, their eyes being “too
pure” to look upon “Christian dogs,” as they call us.

[Illustration: CONSTANTINOPLE.]

It is Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath, so I went at noon to-day to the
“Imperial Mosque” to see the Sultan as he entered to say his prayers.
And I saw the Sultan, the man who is the husband of 500 wives, the
political ruler of the Turkish Empire, and the spiritual head of the
Mohammedan world. The ceremonies attending the Sultan’s parade to
the Mosque were conducted with an Oriental splendor that was simply
dazzling to human sight. Twenty thousand armed soldiers—horse and
foot—lined the way and surrounded the Mosque. The soldiers all wore
red caps, and they looked like a veritable sea of blood, on which
were floating thousands of gleaming bayonets and glistening sabres.
The Sultan’s approach was announced by blowing bugles, playing bands,
beating drums, and booming cannons. As the Sultan—I had almost said
as the Satan—passed, the heathen people shouted: “Kalif, Humkiar,”
“Zil-Ulla,” “Alem Penah,” which being interpreted means, “The successor
of the Prophet,” “Vicar of God, shadow of God,” “Refuge of the
world.” When I saw and heard these things, I said to myself: “I would
rather be an ass—crazy, crippled, blind, and dumb—doomed to serve
in a tread-mill for a thousand years, than to be a two-legged mass
of putrefaction, and yet adored as a god by an ignorant and corrupt
heathen people.”



 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.

THE clouds are low thick and heavy, and the rain is falling fast; but
the time of our departure has arrived, we must start. In one hour
after we set foot on deck, our gallant ship is gracefully gliding over
the smooth waters of the Sea of Marmora. Constantinople, the city of
Constantine the Great, soon fades from our view, and we are again
“rocked in the cradle of the deep.”

The night brings welcome rest. I am up with the morning. About sunrise
we pass Mount Olympus, in Asia Minor, at the foot of which is the city
of Brusa, the ancient capital of Turkey. We now enter the Hellespont,
and pass close to ancient Troy, the city of Priam. Here, too, are the
tombs of Ajax, Hector and Achilles. On our left, is the bay where
Agamemnon’s fleet once lay at anchor. There, also, is the island of
Tenedos, where the treacherous Greeks concealed themselves when they
pretended to abandon the siege of Troy. The ghost of Virgil’s wooden
horse now rises up before me, and I quote to a Greek naval officer,
standing by my side, this sentence from the Latin poet: “Timeo Danaos
et dona ferentes.”

[Illustration: MODERN ATHENS.]

It was here that a vision appeared unto Paul by night. “There stood a
man of Macedonia and prayed him, saying, ‘Come over into Macedonia and
help us.’ Therefore loosing from Troas (Troy), we came with a straight
course to Samothracia, and next day to Neapolis, and from there to
Philippi.” Then followed the imprisonment, earthquake, etc. (Acts XVI).
We are sailing close along the coast of Macedonia, but Philippi is not
visible. We have a delightful day on the Archipelago, and about eight
o’clock on the second morning we land at Piraeus. Here we take train,
and twenty minutes later we are in Athens. Here the newsboys crowd
around with Greek papers to sell. The bootblacks speak Greek, hotel
porters speak Greek, the streets are named in Greek—everything is
Greek. I am in a new world, and the trouble is that the Greek of to-day
is so very different from that used by the classic writers, that my
knowledge of the language helps me but little.

[Illustration: THE ACROPOLIS.]

Breakfast being over, I start out to “do the city.” Where do I go? I
care little for the present museums and art galleries, and still less
for King George, his Palace and the Royal Park. I came here not to see
modern Athens, but that city

                    “On the Aegean shore,
  Built nobly; pure the air and light the soil,
  Athens, the eye of Greece, the mother of arts
      And eloquence.”


Hence I go at once to the famous Acropolis. The Acropolis is a hill,
or a great rock three hundred feet high, jutting out of the valley
in which Athens is situated. This rock is oblong in shape, measuring
1,100 feet north and south, and about 500 feet east and west. Its sides
are everywhere steep, and on the north perpendicular. This Athenian
rock, the Acropolis, was once crowned by five marble temples, the most
splendid of which was the Parthenon.


The Parthenon has justly been called “the finest edifice on the finest
site in the world, hallowed by the noblest recollections that can
stimulate the human heart.” This wonderful temple was 100 by 250 feet,
built of the purest Pentelic marble, and surrounded by eighty huge
columns. The Parthenon, like most of the other Grecian temples, is now
partly in ruins. It has been standing twenty-five hundred years, and
yet, despite the combined onslaught and united ravages of the Persian,
the Turk, time, war, earthquake, flood and fire, these stately walls
and lofty columns still stand to attest the energy, taste, skill and
culture of the ancient Greeks. They were

  “First in the race that led to glory’s goal,
        The Parthenon, the Parthenon!
  Look on its broken Arch, its ruined wall,
  Its chambers desolate and portals foul.
  Yes; this was once ambition’s airy hall;
  The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.”

Standing on the Acropolis and looking toward the north, I see modern
Athens, with its seventy-five thousand inhabitants. To the east, are
the remains of the “Temple of Jupiter.” This immense structure was once
surrounded by one hundred and fifty Corinthian columns, seven feet
in diameter and sixty feet high. Sixteen of these columns, and one
triumphal arch, still stand in a perfect state of preservation. They
are wonderful to behold.

Looking in the same direction, but beyond the temple of Jupiter, I see
the Stadium, which consists of a natural amphitheatre, formed by three
hills, united and modified artificially. This is where the gymnastic
contests and Olympic games took place.

Southwest of the Acropolis, is the rock-hewn prison of Socrates where
the grand old philosopher drank the fatal hemlock. Directly west, is
the platform with a stone pulpit from which the destinies of Athens
were swayed by the matchless eloquence of Demosthenes. Between this
pulpit and the Acropolis is the Areopagus, or Mar’s Hill. When Paul was
in Athens, “they took him and brought him to the Areopagus, saying,
‘May we know what this new doctrine, whereof thou speakest, is?’ Then
Paul stood in the midst of Mar’s Hill and said, ‘Ye men of Athens, I
perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious. For, as I passed
by and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription:
‘To the Unknown God.’ Whom, therefore, ye ignorantly worship, Him
declare I unto you.’” (Acts xvii: 15-32.) I stood “in the midst of
Mar’s Hill,” and read Paul’s speech in Greek to some “men of Athens,”
who, in all probability, had never heard it before.

I have now been in this classic land many days, during which I have
lost no time. I have seen much of the people. On Tuesday and Saturday
afternoons of each week, the royal band discourses music from a grand
stand occupying the centre of one of the public squares. During these
concert hours, from five to ten thousand Greeks assemble in this open
square. Here they meet and mix and commingle and commune in the freest
and easiest manner imaginable. They sit, stand, promenade, or dance,
as they like, but all of them are all the time laughing and talking. I
never saw a better-natured crowd. I miss no opportunity like this to
study Greek life and character. One cannot be thrown among this crowd
for an hour without observing among the women the same traits of female
beauty that we have been studying all our lives in models of art and
sculpture. The men, I take it, have degenerated more than the women. A
modern Diogenes might walk the streets of Athens for a week, _without
finding a man_ like those of olden times. I am glad to add, however,
that the present king is doing much to elevate his subjects.

I have wandered through and around these majestic ruins all day, and
then gone back at night and viewed them by the pale moonlight. As I sit
in the quiet stillness of this midnight hour and think of the past,

  “Memory approaches,
    Holding up her magic glass,
  Pointing to familiar pictures,
    Which across the surface pass.”

In the stately procession which sweeps across the stage of my
imagination, I see Socrates, Zeno, Plato, and Xenophon; I see
Aristotle, Solon, Pericles, Sophocles, and Demosthenes. These are the
men that gave Greece her glory; these are the men who, with the fulcrum
of thought planted their feet upon the Acropolis and moved the world.
Borrowing the thought from Canon Farrar, though not using his exact
language, I may say, “Under Greek influence human freedom put forth its
most splendid power; human intellect displayed its utmost sublimity and
grace; art reached its most consummate perfection; poetry uttered alike
its sweetest and sublimest strains and philosophy attuned to the most
perfect music of human expression, its loftiest and deepest thought.
Had it been possible for the world, by its own wisdom, to know God;
had it been in the power of man to turn into bread the stones of the
wilderness; had perfect happiness lain within the grasp of sense, or
been among the rewards of culture; had it been granted to man’s unaided
power to win salvation by the gifts and graces of his own nature, and
make for himself a new Paradise in lieu of that lost Eden before whose
gates still wars the fiery sword of the Cherubim,—then such ends would
have been achieved by these old Athenians. Nor did their influence die
with their bodies; it is alive to-day, and it will be transmitted from
generation to generation, until the stars grow dim and moons shall wax
and wane no more.”



 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.

SMYRNA is the most important city in Asia Minor, and one of the
principal commercial points of the Ottoman Empire. I am told that
the annual exports and imports amount to more than $15,000,000. The
population of the city is estimated at 200,000, representing seven
different nationalities and speaking, therefore, seven separate and
distinct languages. From appearances, one would judge that the city was
built soon after the flood, and that it had seldom been repaired. The
houses are old and dilapidated, the streets are narrow, crooked and
filthy. The people generally are ignorant, superstitious and fanatical,
and wear various strange and grotesque costumes.

I have often heard that Smyrna was noted for her pretty women, but
I protest. I have seen nothing in this city that even approximates
female beauty; and, if I see a pretty woman at all, her face is so
completely covered and wrapped up in muslins and shawls that I can
hardly tell whether she is a Greek or an Ethiopian.

One of the seven Asiatic churches was located in this place. An
old, old rock church still stands, and is pointed out as the one in
which the Apostles used to preach. Near by the church is the tomb of
Polycarp, who was a pupil of the Apostle John, and who was martyred A.
D. 160, because he preached “the Gospel of Christ.” I have often read
the touching account of Polycarp’s martyrdom. When asked to recant, he
replied: “For eighty and six years have I served my God, and He has
never forsaken me; and I can not now forsake Him.” The green boughs of
a lone olive tree wave above his tomb, and I say to my friend: “Verily
that tree is emblematic; its leaves are green, so is the memory of
Polycarp still fresh in the mind of the Christian world. Above his tomb
waves the olive branch of peace; and his sainted spirit, I believe, has
gone on and up, and has long been in the full enjoyment of ‘that peace
which the world knows not of.’”

From Smyrna I go out into the interior of the country, which generally
is neglected and barren. I believe, however, that if the Turkish
government was struck by lightning, and some other power could come in,
that would encourage and protect honest labor, these fertile valleys
would again yield abundant harvests, and that peace and plenty would
reign where discord and pinching poverty now hold sway. In my opinion,
the Turkish government is a reproach to the civilization of the
nineteenth century; and I think the Lord lets it stand simply to show
the powers of earth how deep down into degradation and despair, into
vice and vagrancy, a nation can sink, when it wanders away from and
forgets God. “Sin is a reproach to any people.”

On the way to Ephesus we meet several caravans, or trains of camels.
These “ships of the desert” are all heavily laden, some with fruit,
dried figs, dates, pomegranates, others with hand-made silks, Turkish
rugs, Russian carpets, and other fancy goods. These caravans go back
and forth between Smyrna and the far interior of the country. Camels
are very obedient, and it is really amusing to see the humble creatures
kneel down to receive their burdens.

Ephesus is chiefly interesting because of its historical associations.
Next to Athens, it was once the most magnificent city in the world.
Ephesus is as old as the hills. It is the birthplace of mythology.
Apollo and Diana were born here. Bacchus and Hercules once struggled
with the Amazon in the streets of Ephesus. These hills were once
covered with twenty-five marble temples dedicated to heathen gods, that
of Diana being one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Ephesus
is one of the nine cities which claim to have given birth to Homer.

[Illustration: TURKISH LADY.]

Some of the greatest names in history are connected with Ephesus.
Alexander the Great visited here; so did Hannibal and Antiochus Scipio,
Scylla, Brutus, Cassius, Pompey, Cicero, and Augustus. Antony was
once judge of the court of Ephesus. It was from here that Antony and
Cleopatra sailed for Samos in gilded galleys with perfumed silken sails
and silver oars, drawn by beautiful girls whose gleaming paddles kept
time to soft strains of music.

Some time ago, a very strange and serious difficulty occurred in this
city of Ephesus. The trouble arose in this fashion: A stranger came
into the city. The new-comer was possessed of a strong character and a
superior education. He was by birth a Jew, by nature a gentleman, by
education a scholar, by faith a Christian, and by profession a Baptist
preacher. According to his custom, this strange Baptist preacher
entered into the synagogue and reasoned with the Jews. From what I can
find out, this man made a favorable impression in Ephesus, for the Jews
“desired him to tarry longer with them,” but “he consented not.” He
promised, however, to “return to them, if it be God’s will.” The Lord
kindly permitted this man to return to Ephesus; and when he got there
he found “certain disciples.” He asked them if they had received the
Holy Ghost. They replied: “We have not so much as heard whether there
be any Holy Spirit.” Strange to say, I have heard professing Christians
in America say the self-same thing. These Ephesians, be it said to
their credit, acted wisely and were re-baptised. The preacher then
went into the church and spoke boldly for the space of three months.
Now there arose a disturbance in the church, or synagogue, as it was
called, so that it became necessary for the preacher to change the
place of meeting to the school-house, or college chapel. Here, in this
school-room, he held one of the most wonderful protracted meetings I
have ever heard of; it lasted two years and three months, “so mightily
grew the word of God and prevailed.” The town was stirred to its very
depths. Among the converts were many infidels, diviners, soothsayers,
fortune-tellers, etc. These people who “used curious arts brought their
books together and burned them before all their fellow-townsmen; and
they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of
silver,” equal in American money to $15,000. This was the grandest day
in the long history of Ephesus.

At this juncture, the silversmiths, who made shrines for the Temple
of Diana, and the other heathen temples of Ephesus, came together
and decided that something had to be done to break up the protracted
meeting. They said that if Christ continued to be preached, and
Christianity to spread, men would cease to bow down to shrines, to
stocks and stones, and then their craft would be gone and the temple of
“Diana despised.” Then the excitement became intense, “The whole city
was filled with confusion.” Some, therefore, cried one thing, and some
another. For two hours all with one voice shouted: “Great is Diana of
the Ephesians.”

For the benefit of those who have so much business to attend to, or who
have so many newspapers to read, that they habitually neglect the the
Bible, I will add in conclusion that the Baptist preacher who conducted
this revival was Paul, the Apostle (Acts xviii and xix). According to
tradition, the same Apostle was imprisoned here, and the cell in which
he is said to have been confined is still pointed out.

The church at Ephesus is the first one mentioned in Revelation (ii:
1-8). John is believed to have retired to Ephesus after his release
from banishment to Patmos, and thither the Virgin Mary came to reside
with the beloved disciple. Here, says tradition, both of them died and
were buried. Their tombs are still shown to the traveler; so, also, is
the tomb of Timothy. Near by these graves is the celebrated Cave of the
Seven Sleepers.

This once fair and populous city is now nothing more than a lonely,
desolate, bleak, and barren heap of ruins. By the remaining aqueducts,
foundation stones, archways, broken pillars, and marble columns, the
tourist can recognize the location of some of the temples, theatres and
public buildings. These have recently been excavated by Captain Wood,
of England.

Returning to Smyrna, I immediately come aboard the good ship “Mars.”
She at once lifts her anchors, and spreads her sails to the breezes;
and soon Smyrna, like Ephesus, Constantinople, and Athens, is among the
places that “I have left behind.” The first landing is Chios (Acts xx:
15;) then passing by Samos we come next morning, about eight o’clock,
to the island of Patmos, known throughout Christendom as the exiled
home of the Beloved Disciple. The island is a solid and irregular mass
of rock, bleak and barren. It is ten miles long, and five miles in
breadth. The cave, or grotto, in which John is said to have written
the Apocalypse is used as a chapel. In this chapel, numerous lights
are kept burning, and on its walls are rudely depicted various scenes
taken from the Apocalypse. Patmos is now inhabited by 4,000 Greeks, who
have two sources of income. One is fishing, while their second main
occupation is stealing.

[Illustration: ISLAND OF PATMOS.]

On the island of Rhodes (Rev. xxi; 1), we visit the place where once
stood the celebrated “Colossus of Rhodes,” known as one of the wonders
of the ancient world. The Colossus was a bronze statue 105 feet high.
It stood across the narrow harbor, so that ships entering the port
would pass between its legs. The statue is said to have cost a half
million dollars.

We are now anchored at Larnaca, the principal town on the island of
Cyprus. Cyprus was the home of Barnabas, and the scene of some of
Paul’s missionary work. We have anticipated much pleasure in traveling
over this historic island. But alas, alas! thoughts of pleasure
have fled, and dread suspicions are now entertained. Some fearfully
contagious disease has broken out on our vessel. The doctor says it is
small-pox, but some of us fear it is cholera. Small-pox is prevalent in
Constantinople, and people have been dying from it in Smyrna, whence
we came, at the rate of one hundred and fifty per day. Malta, which is
only some few hours away, is suffering most fearfully from cholera.
We have been here now twenty-four hours. We are quarantined, and are
not allowed to land or even to discharge the sick. The passengers are
panic-stricken. The most intense excitement prevails. The flags of
disease and death are floating at our mast-head. It does not make one
feel at all pleasant to see these flags, especially when one remembers
that he is many thousand miles from home and loved ones. I should
not like to be buried in the sea, nor yet in a foreign land among
strangers. When I have finished life’s work, and the watchers shall
fold my pale hands upon my breast and softly whisper, “He is dead,”
I want to be carried back to my own native land, and there buried in
some quiet church-yard, where those whom I have known and loved in life
can occasionally come and plant evergreens and forget-me-nots over my
grave. The only consolation I have at present is that God, who doeth
all things well, knoweth best. I therefore cheerfully commit my body,
soul and spirit, to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, now
and forever.



 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.

WE have reached Beyrout at last. It is a gracious relief to escape from
that disease-stricken ship. I feel like kneeling down and kissing the
earth. I think every passenger lifts his heart in grateful praise to
God for deliverance. I can but say: “Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all
that is within me bless His holy name.” I praise Him because He has
brought me through many countries and over many seas; I praise Him for
deliverance from danger and death; I praise Him because in landing I am
permitted to step on sacred soil; I praise Him for the prospect I now
have of traveling through this Holy Land.

[Illustration: MAP OF PALESTINE]

I can not tell—I do not know—when the seed was planted, but some
ten years ago the plant of desire sprang up in my heart. I did not
pluck it up. Gradually its rootlets intertwined themselves with the
fibres of my very being, and finally they took deep root in my soul.
Five years later the buds of hope appeared. I was happy. The plant
was nurtured with patience and with care. The buds grew into flowers,
and now the fruit appears. First, the desire, then the hope, and now
the realization. Yes, for years I have thought of traveling through
Palestine. This trip became my thought by day and my dream by night. I
have often made nocturnal visits to Bethlehem and Calvary. While asleep
I have wandered through the streets of Jerusalem; in my dreams I have
seen Nazareth nestling on the hillside, and Damascus reposing in the
valley. That desire grew stronger and stronger. It became the ruling
passion of my life, and I said: “By God’s help I will go.” I set my
face like a flint towards the Holy Land, and hither I have come. I feel
profoundly thankful that that which was my youth’s fondest hope is now
my manhood’s first glory to realize.

I have already begun the journey “through Palestine in the saddle,” and
if the reader will exercise some of that “patience” which “beareth all
things,” I will tell him who my companions are, and what the mode of
traveling is in this country. Afterwards I may say something concerning
the appearance and condition of the country; also something about the
customs and habits of the people.

I have become quite a pedestrian, and I had hoped to go through
Palestine and Syria, as I went through several European countries—on
foot. But since arriving here I find that a “tramp trip” is quite
impracticable, if not altogether impossible. I never undertake
impossibilities, hence I give up my scheme of walking.

While Johnson and I were traveling in Bulgaria, we met Mr. Wm. Y.
Hamlin and two ladies from Detroit, Michigan. The two ladies were
sisters. One of them was unmarried; the other was Mr. Hamlin’s deceased
wife’s mother. We met them again in Constantinople and some time
afterward in Smyrna. We spent several days together around the islands
and on the waters of the Mediterranean. The two parties proved mutually
agreeable. So we have now resolved ourselves into one party for a trip
through Syria and Palestine. We employ the same Dragoman who furnishes
everything, and pays all expenses of the journey from one end to the
other. We are to ride on horses and camels, and sleep in tents. Four
days are required to make preparation, nor are four days any too many.
Camels, and horses, and donkeys, and mules, and bridles, and saddles,
and whips, and spurs, and tents, and beds, and provisions, and cooking
utensils, are to be made ready. Packing is to be done, letters are to
be written, and costumes purchased. The American Consul is to be seen
officially, Turkish passports are to be gotten, and a number of other
things to be looked after. What I have to do during these four days
reminds me of the man who was, at one and the same time, a lawyer, a
merchant, a druggist, a dentist, a physician, a shoemaker, a miller,
pastor of four churches and general missionary besides!

At two o’clock on Saturday every thing is pronounced ready, and from
that good hour we are to be known as the “Equestrian Pilgrims.” What
a formidable turnout is ours! A veritable caravan! To accommodate
and serve _five pilgrims_ we have seven tents—I have to sleep in
two tents—fifteen body-guards, or muleteers, and thirty head of
camels, mules and donkeys! Nor is this all. Chairs and tables, tents
and trunks, beds and blankets, and a hundred other things, are tied
together and strapped on the backs of the animals. Thus laden, each
little donkey, as he goes jogging along, looks like a veritable Jumbo;
and the camels, with these great packs on their backs, look almost like
walking mountains! These are all strung out one after another—one
after another, the front end of the rear camel being tied to the hind
end of the one before him, and that one to the next, and so on. I have
been reading about caravans all my life and now I have one of my own.
I am told to choose any one of the animals I want to ride, whereupon
I select a small donkey, mouse-colored, except for the numerous
stripes that wind around him—these give him something of a zebra-like
appearance. I want to show the natives how supple I am, and, going up
to the donkey and putting my arms on his back, I try to leap up. But,
unfortunately, I leap over, and come down on the other end of my neck.
Amid the loud acclamations of the natives, the stately procession moves
off. The stars and stripes flutter in the breezes, while the music of
the national hymn is borne away over the sea on the wings of the wind.

The narrow streets of Beyrout are soon quitted, and we at once begin
the ascent of Lebanon. The first thing that attracts our attention is a
wide world of mulberry trees—it looks about seventeen thousand acres
on either side of the road. The trees appear to be about eighteen feet
high. Half naked boys and girls, men and women have climbed up the
trees and are plucking off the leaves here and there. I don’t know what
to make of it. The first thought that suggests itself is that “fig-leaf
dresses” have come in fashion again. But Tolhammy my dragoman, says:
“This is a great country for silk culture, and mulberry trees are
cultivated, and the leaves gathered for the silk worms.” In Damascus he
says we shall see plenty of silk manufactured by hand.

We meet a great many Arabs going into the city that we have just left.
Several miles back I stopped one of these sons of the desert for a
conversation. I think we talked about an hour and thirteen minutes,
more or less, and would, no doubt, have talked longer, but neither one
of us understood a word the other said. Occasionally there was a lag
in the conversation. While I was gathering this valuable information
from the stranger, the other part of the caravan slacked never a pace.
And now, looking aloft, I see high on the mountain-side a white city—a
city of tents. This reminds me of Balaam who was traveling in this
same country not far from here, and, seeing a sight just like this, he
exclaimed: “How goodly are thy tabernacles, O Jacob and thy tents, O

The road, gleaming in the sunshine, looks at one time like a
clothes-line hanging on the mountain-side; again it resembles a winding
serpent crawling zigzag up the mountain as though it wants to swallow
the tents. Climbing the hill, we pass a number of dilapidated villages
on the right and left of the road. Just as the sun goes down to cool
his hot face in the Mediterranean, we reach the tents pitched on Mt.
Lebanon! At last the city is before us. Dismounting, and going into our
new apartments, we can hardly believe we are in tents. The walls and
ceiling look like white marble newly painted and beautifully frescoed.
The rock floor is spread with rich Persian carpets and mats. Here are
rocking-chairs, tables, bedsteads, washstands—every thing! “What
style!” I say to the party.

While we are rejoicing, in steps an Arab and says: “Solimat
neharicsiade emborak.” Joy departs at these words. With a look of
surprise and a feeling of regret I say, “Sir?” He responds, “Solimat
neharicsiade emborak.” Rising to my feet I say, “Repeat that remark,
please.” Gesticulating wildly, the Arab repeats with great emphasis,
“_Solimat neharicsiade emborak!_” I thought he said my horse was
loose. But after a while, however, the Arab, by means of signs, gives
me to understand that nothing serious has occurred; that he came in
only to let me know supper is ready. I feel relieved and delighted.
After a long ride over a rough country, we all have good appetites,
and the announcement of supper is therefore joyful news. The evening
meal being over, the pilgrims draw their chairs close together and
sit for an hour or more talking about friends at home, about the past
history and present condition of this country, and about Him whose
footsteps have hallowed its soil. The prospect of traveling through
this country thrills us all. Substituting the word Hill, for Grail, I
can appropriate the language of Tennyson:

  “Never yet has the sky appeared so blue, nor earth so green,
  For all my blood dances in me, and I know
  That I shall light upon the Holy Grail.”

Night brings sweet rest to our tired bodies. Early in the morning,
bright rays of cheerful sunshine steal into our tents and drive sleep
away. We awake to find a bright, beautiful Sabbath day; and while with
our bodies it is to be a day of rest, we pray that with our souls it
may be a Sabbath day’s journey towards the New Jerusalem. Stillness
pervades the air. The solemn silence is broken only by the mournful
music of yonder restless sea. All the pilgrims except Johnson spend the
day reading and meditating. He occupies the time in writing to his—to

Late in the afternoon our attention is attracted by an unheard of
medley of sound. The noise that falls upon our ears is not more strange
than the sight that greets our eyes is curious. The dragoman tells us
not to be alarmed, and says it is only a wedding procession. Johnson is
glad of that. I stand it for his sake. The procession consists of about
a hundred persons, ninety-eight on foot and two riding grey horses,
all singing and dancing as they come. Ten or twelve of the footmen are
in front of the horses, while the others are behind. The leader of the
van is an Arab of unusual length and gracefulness, clad in the most
fantastic robes imaginable. In his two hands he holds a stick about
six feet long, wrapped around with gay and fancy colors. The leader is
coming backward, facing the advancing throng and keeps about ten paces
in front of them. He is first on one side of the road and then on the
other. He leaps; he bobs up and down: he bows and bends. At one moment
his face is almost on the ground, and the next his head is tossed
high in the air. The stick is waved like a magician’s wand. The man is
active as a cat and every movement is graceful. As he leads, the others
follow his example. They all hop and skip and bow and bend and rise and
fall together. Some sing while others blow or knock discordant sounds
out of their rude instruments of music.

Never before did Johnson behold a sight like this, nor until now did
such a babbling confusion ever strike his ears. The procession draws
close. The two persons on horseback are riding side by side. One is the
bride, decked in colors gay and wreathed with flowers many. There are
two tall men walking, one on either side of the horse, with their arms
locked around the bride; I suppose to keep her from falling. Johnson
touches me in the side and says: “Whittle, if that were my bride, I
wouldn’t let those fellows do that.” The bride’s face, according to the
custom of the country, is covered by a long, flowing veil. The man by
her side is not the groom. A man in this country will not condescend
to go after a woman—not even after his bride! Woman is an inferior
creature—she must humble herself and go to the man. The groom sends
his friend or his servant for her, and I understand she is always
willing to come. Johnson says it is very different in America. He says
one refused to go with him when he went after her in person.

Brides are bought and sold here now as they were in olden times,
though there has been a great increase in price. Hebrews are good
traders and always have been. In Bible times they bought wives for
twenty-five dollars, but now brides in this country sell for from
seventy-five to one hundred dollars. I believe the men would buy them
even if the price should be still higher. Of course they would buy
them. Women are slaves. They are man’s burden-bearers and nothing more!
The Mohammedans have two, four or a half dozen wives. The Sultan has
five hundred, and the people follow his example as far as possible.

The wedding festivities, consisting of music, songs and dancing, last
for a week, and then the bride is converted into a slave for her
husband. In a few months she will probably be a slave for his next wife!

Monday morning bright and early, we fold our tents and renew our
pilgrimage. Lebanon continues steep, rocky, rough and bare. Not
a bush, not a blade of green grass, nothing but a long mountain
range covered with loose stones, is to be seen. The hills are very
productive—of rocks. Now and then we come to large camel pastures.
As these long-legged, high-headed, two-storied animals are fat and
flourishing, I conclude that they live on wind and stones. In the
road we meet hundreds and hundreds of big camels and little camels,
dun-colored, mouse-colored, white and black camels, laden with all
kinds of oriental merchandise. Late in the afternoon, we for the first
time catch a glimpse of snow-capped Hermon, some fifty miles away to
the southwest. We take off our hats to this mountain monarch, promising
him a visit later on. We now descend into the green valley, sixteen and
a half miles wide and some sixty miles long, lying between Lebanon and
anti-Lebanon. We want to see the Cedars of Lebanon; and in order to do
this we are compelled just here to quit the Damascus road, and travel
for three days up this beautiful valley, keeping close to the Lebanon

On the second day, traveling up this valley, we come to what tradition
says is Noah’s tomb. Strange to say this tomb is _eighty-five feet
long_. It is built of stone and is eight feet wide, seven feet high
and eighty-five feet long! Seeing this, I am at once reminded of an
incident that is said to have occurred with an American preacher.
At the close of the Saturday service, the clergyman announced that
he would preach again on Sunday, after reading a certain portion
of scripture. Before the hour for Sunday service, some mischievous
boys slipped into the church with a bottle of glue and pasted two
leaves of the Bible together, so that in reading the minister would
miss connection. Eleven o’clock came, and with it came also a large
concourse of people. Ascending the pulpit, the reverend gentleman
opened the sacred book and began to read. On the bottom of one page
he read: “And Noah, when he was an hundred and twenty years old,
took unto himself a wife who was”—and then turning over the leaf and
missing connection, he continued, “who was an hundred and eighty-six
cubits long, forty-seven cubits wide, built of gopher wood, stuck with
pitch inside and out.” With trembling knees and confused head, the
minister, with stammering tongue said: “Brethren, I have been preaching
twenty years and yet I confess that I have never seen this in the Bible
before. But it is here and I accept it. Yes, brethren, I accept it as
an undying evidence of the fact that we are fearfully and wonderfully
made.” So, since I find that Noah’s tomb is eighty-five feet long,
I am not much surprised to learn that Mrs. Noah was one hundred and
eighty-six cubits long.

Day has succeeded night again. This is the third day since we left the
Damascus road. We are now camped in the valley at the base of Lebanon,
which is at this point 10,000 feet high and almost as steep as the roof
of a house. Many loose rocks and bowlders of all shapes and sizes are
scattered promiscuously over the mountain side. There is no road to be
seen—nothing more than a cow trail or hog path. And yet in order to
see a single Cedar we are compelled to climb to yonder giddy heights.
Well, we all start—three gentlemen and two ladies. One woman soon
gives out, but the other is the kind of a woman who, when she says, “I
will,” means with a twist on it, “_I will!_” She says that she started
and she is going. She reminds me of the French woman who started to
the top of Mont Blanc. Twelve hundred feet before reaching the summit
she gave out, and, being dragged by guides, she kept crying: “If I die
carry me to the top.”

To climb Lebanon at this place is barely within the limits of
possibility. The way is steep, high and rough, and at times perilous.
To be sure, on foot one could climb it without danger, but not without
great physical exertion. On horseback, however, it is a hazardous
undertaking. No four-footed animal, save a mountain goat or an Arabian
steed, dare undertake the ascent. If I live to get down, I shall
christen my Arabian pony “Amnon, the reliable, the sure-footed.” The
mountain is scaled, the summit is reached, and no Cedars yet. I am
now standing on the heights of Lebanon, looking down upon the blue
Mediterranean 10,000 feet below me and only three miles away towards
the setting sun. The gray clouds, lying along the western horizon, look
like white-winged ships floating on the bosom of the sea. For aught I
know, they are ships freighted with whirlwinds and thunder-storms; or
perchance they may be—I hope they are—freighted with rain to refresh
this parched earth.

[Illustration: CEDARS OF LEBANON.]

Leaving the summit and coming down three thousand feet on the western
side, I find myself resting under the venerable Cedars of Lebanon,
seven thousand feet above the sea. It is a perfect day. The sky is
of a rich, deep, azure blue and seems only a few feet above me. The
atmosphere is pure and crisp. It is a glorious thing to be here. Look
where you will, you find something to admire. The air is delightful;
the earth, sea and sky are beautiful; but the waving Cedars are
the one central object of interest and admiration—their age, their
history, their beauty! Then come the sacred associations that cluster
about the Cedars of Lebanon. All my life I have been reading of these
trees. Before I could read, my mother used to sing me a sweet song
about the Cedars of Lebanon. All of mother’s songs were sweet, but
especially sweet, I thought, was this one about the Cedars. And now I
am here looking at them with my own eyes. Of all trees on earth those
are by far the most renowned. Of all the vegetable kingdom they are the
crowning glory.

From this mountain Solomon got the timber to build his temple on Mount
Moriah. In all probability some of these trees that I am now looking at
were here in Solomon’s day. I feel that I am in the presence of Age.
These venerable Cedars are not ringed round by years or decades, but by
centuries! And yet their wrinkles may be counted by the score. These
trees are mentioned more than twenty-five times in the pages of Sacred
Writ. They are called “goodly Cedars.”

As I see these historic trees bowing and bending in the cold and
cutting breeze, I am naturally reminded of a thought beautifully
expressed by the “sweet singer of Israel” where he says: “There shall
be an handful of corn in the earth on the tops of the mountain; the
fruit thereof shall shake like Lebanon, and they of that city shall
flourish like grass.” We are told also that “the righteous shall
flourish like the palm tree and grow like a Cedar of Lebanon.” I wonder
why and how it is that the righteous can grow like a Cedar in Lebanon.
Upon examination I find that these Cedars grow on a mountain top; that
they grow out of a rock; that they are rooted in barrenness. I find
that every crack and crevice in the rock is filled with their roots
and fibres. The roots of the trees shoot themselves deep down through
the rended rocks and take a firm hold upon the eternal hills. And when
earthquakes come and the mountains reel and totter on their bases; when
cyclones come with death and destruction locked up in their wings; when
the storms howl and the sea is lashed into rage and fury,—the Cedars
of Lebanon do then bow and bend gracefully in the breezes; but they are
uprooted never. They say,

  “Let the winds be shrill,
  Let the waves roll high,
  We fear not wind or wave.”

And when the earthquakes have ceased and the mountains no longer reel;
when the cyclones have passed; when the sea is lulled to sleep and the
winds are only a whisper, then the Cedars of Lebanon lift themselves
up in their pillared majesty, spread wide their broad arms and look
up smilingly in the face of God as if to say: “We thank thee, O Lord
God Almighty, for the firm footing that thou hast given us in the
eternal rocks—in the everlasting hills.” I thank thee, O God, that
the righteous grow like the Cedars of Lebanon. I bless thee that the
righteous grow on a mountain top—on mount Calvary; that they grow out
of a rock—Jesus Christ, the Rock of Ages.

Wherever the nails have torn His hands and His feet, where the cruel
spear has pierced His side, these are the cracks and crevices where the
roots and fibres of my heart can so fix and fasten themselves that when
earthquakes social and cyclones moral shall come, I will be uprooted
never. I may bow and bend with the breezes, but when the earthquakes
have passed and the storms are no more; when the waves of infidelity
have passed, as always passed they have and always pass they must, then
I will look up smilingly in the face of Jehovah and say: “I thank thee,
O God, that none of these things move me; that I can say with Paul of
old, ‘I am rooted and grounded in Christ;’ that I stand now and forever
unmoved and immovable, like the Cedars!”

Reader, I have just stated that Solomon secured timber from this
mountain to build the great temple in Jerusalem. It is quite possible
that some of the trees before me were here in Solomon’s day, and
that because of their knots and roughness they were rejected by his
workmen. We are told that God is building another temple in that
other Jerusalem, and that our characters are to furnish the sticks of
timber out of which it is to be built. We should see to it that our
characters will not be rejected, but that they will be smoothed and
polished ready to be wrought into that spiritual temple which shall
stand throughout the endless cycles of eternity!

The Cedars of Lebanon have almost become sacred, holy trees. I am
therefore grieved to find so few of them left. This long mountain range
that was once covered with them is now as bare as if it had never
known any vegetation. Seeing that only a few hundred of the old Cedars
remain, I am reminded of the language of Zechariah: “Open thy doors,
O Lebanon, that the fire may devour thy Cedars. Howl, fir-tree, for
the Cedar is fallen. Howl, O ye oaks of Bashan, for the forest of the
vintage has come down.” Most of the Cedars have indeed “come down,” but
some of the remaining ones are splendid enough to make up for those
that are gone. One of these patriarchs of the forest is forty-eight
feet in circumference. Some of them rise up in their pillared majesty
for eighty, one hundred or one hundred and twenty-five feet high, I
suppose. Some of the largest ones are probably one hundred and fifty
feet across, from bough to bough. The limbs usually grow out from the
trunk at right angles. Other limbs grow out from those at right angles
and so on, until even the smallest branches and twigs are horizontal
like arbor vitæ, except that arbor vitæ stands up and the Cedar lies
down flat like a shingle. One limb of the Cedar is very much like a
square of shingles on a flat-roofed house, and when limb is placed
above limb they form a roof that turns water very well, and shuts out
much of the sunlight. Another peculiarity of the Lebanon Cedar is that
it bears a cone something like our pine burrs, except that it never

Again, I say it is a grand, a glorious, a sweet privilege to sit
beneath the wide-spreading branches of these time-honored trees and
read what holy men of old wrote concerning them. But the day is far
spent. Amnon is saddled. I must mount and see if he proves worthy of
his new name.



 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.

LEAVING the Cedars, and descending to the base of the mountain where
the tents were left, we start across the beautiful valley lying between
the long mountain of Lebanon and anti-Lebanon. Before reaching the
valley proper we are compelled to cross some rough mountain spurs and
to go through some narrow mountain passes. It so happens that we meet
a train of heavily laden camels. The fanatical and blood-thirsty Arabs
managing the camels stop their caravan and obstinately refuse to give
any part of the pass. Our body-guards come up. A quarrel ensues. A war
of words leads to blows, and we have, enacted before our own eyes, a
second “Battle of the Giants.” It looks to Johnson like the first one.
The two parties, consisting of about forty Arabs, curse, threaten,
close on each other, clinch, fight like fiends, grapple like giants.
They fall to the earth in each other’s embrace, roll over, first one
on top and then the other. They bite, kick and scratch each other.
Together they fall and together they rise again—one bites the dust and
then another. Javelins are used. Stones fly, sabres flash—gods! how
they fight! Heads are mashed and limbs are broken. Hair flies and blood
flows. The horses scare, the women scream and Johnson looks as if he
wants to say:

                          “Lay on, MacDuff,
  And damned be he who first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

At last the enemy is repulsed and victory perches upon our banner. The
dust and din of battle are no more. We are relieved; for danger was
imminent and suspense correspondingly great. It is the greatest wonder,
and also the greatest blessing imaginable, that no one was killed.
If one of the natives had been killed, I am sure the whole community
would have been aroused, and would have poured out their indignation
and wrath upon our Christian heads—”Christian dogs,” they call us.
I see from the _London Times_ that only a few weeks ago twenty-four
Christians were killed in a fray with the Arabs, not far from this
place. We would not willingly harm a hair of their heads. All we wanted
was room to pass, and having secured that we continue our journey.

The mountain gap lets us once more into the valley which is, as before
stated, fifteen to eighteen miles wide and some sixty miles long. In
this valley, and not far from here, is Riblah, where Nebuchadnezzar
had his headquarters during the campaign against Jerusalem. When the
holy city fell, Zedekiah, King of Judea, fled to Jericho where he was
captured, thence he was brought to Riblah. Here, after witnessing the
murder of his sons, poor Zedekiah was subjected to the painful ordeal
of having his eyes put out. To this place, also, Pharaoh Necho, after
his brilliant victory over the Babylonians, summoned Jehoahaz from

The valley is now used as pastures and farming lands; wheat, oats
and grapes being the principal productions. The river Leontes flows
through the plain, and the fields are watered mostly by irrigation. Yet
these people are only playing with agriculture. The valley is rich and
fertile, and would abundantly reward honest labor. But honest labor is
unknown in Syria. These trifling people anger the soil with their rude
implements of agriculture, and the soil answers with a crop of thorns
and thistles. She thrusts out her claws and thus frights off the lean,
lazy, leisure-loving Bedouin. The people sow the seeds of idleness
and reap the legitimate fruits—hunger, want and starvation. I never
before knew what squalid poverty meant. But if it is to go half naked,
and almost the other half, too; if it is for human beings to live in
the same rock-pens with cows, goats and asses, and that, too, without
a fireplace, without chairs, tables or bedsteads; if it is to live on
half rations of “husks and hominy,”—if this is squalid poverty, I have
seen it and know what it means. Each family seems to be blest with a
dozen or fifteen heirs—heirs of filth and poverty! I am reminded of
the old adage, “poor people for children and negroes for dogs.” These
people and their ancestry have inhabited this country only 4,000 years,
and yet within that short time they have managed to accumulate a mass
of filth and ignorance that is truly astonishing.

We are now encamped in the citadel of Baalbek. This place has much
interest for the traveler and the historian, because of its once mighty
temples. The temples were three in number. They were all built on the
same stupendous substructions. The rock foundations go deep into the
ground, and are traversed by great subterranean passages which look
like railroad tunnels through mountains of granite. The Temple of the
Sun was three hundred feet long, one hundred and sixty feet wide, and
was surrounded by fifty-four columns, six of which are standing at
present. These six are enough for twelve months’ study. They are solid
marble, eight feet in diameter, and together with the entablature which
joins them at the top, ninety feet high! How shapely, how graceful, how
towering and sublime! The carving on the entablature is exquisite. It
looks like stucco work. The other columns are fallen and broken, but
these six look as if they were put up only yesterday.

The Great Temple is better preserved; its potent walls, and
twenty-three of its Corinthian columns, still stand. There is no wood
about the building. Even its vaulted roof, one hundred feet above
you, is marble. The under side of this marble roof is beautifully
chiseled. As one views it with the natural eye, it look like delicate
lace work; but by the aid of field glasses one can trace the designs
of the artist, and see that “there is method in his madness.” One can
see men, animals, leaves, flowers and fruits delicately carved in the
high lifted stone. One sees, or fancies he sees, oaks and acorns, moons
and mares, men, mice and monkeys, doves, dogs and donkeys, bulls, boars
and bears, pigs, ‘possums and puppies, boys and bonnets, ladies and
lizards, all beautifully carved and sweetly blended one with the other.
“‘Tis a vision, ‘tis an anthem sung in stone, a poem writ in marble.”

[Illustration: RUINS OF BAALBEK.]

But probably the thing that most impresses one about the ruins of
Baalbek is the enormous size of the stones used in its buildings. I
have never seen or read of such stones as were used in building these
temples. Many of them are as large as one of our ordinary freight cars.
Three of these stones, lying end to end in the walls of the temple,
measure two hundred and ten feet. I go to the quarry, half a mile away,
from which these colossal stones were taken. There I find a companion
stone to those in the buildings. It is fourteen feet high, seventeen
feet broad and seventy-one feet long. Who ever heard of such stones
being handled! Two six mule teams might be driven side by side on the
stone, and there would be room for a foot path on either side the
wagons. No pigmies they—those builders of Baalbek. A race of giants or
of gods must have handled these stones! No one knows when, how, or by
whom these temples were built. We know this, however, they were built,
not for an age, but for all time.



 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.

AT four o’clock, on the second day after leaving Baalbek, I spy
one of the prettiest objects that ever greeted human vision. It is
Damascus, the oldest city in the world—Damascus, laid out by Uz, the
great-grandson of Noah. For days I have been riding over a ruined and
desolate country, and now my eyes fall and feast on a broad, rich
valley, through which flow Abana and Pharpar, two rivers of pure water.
The whole valley is one great garden, or orchard, in which flourishes
almost every tropical plant. Here are the orange, olive and oleander,
the peach, pear, palm and pome-granate, the banana, the apple, apricot
and myrtle. Amid the rich green foliage of these trees, their golden
fruit is seen. Autumn, which is only summer meeting death with a
smile, has seared the leaves of some of the more delicate plants of
the valley. Red leaves are beautifully interwoven with the green, and
they gleam in the rays of the setting sun like sheets of purest gold.
Here and there tall and slender silver poplars rise high, and are
gracefully swaying to and fro in the evening breezes.

Damascus is situated in the midst of this luxuriant garden. Looking
down from the hilltop I see the taller houses, the mosques and
minarets, rising from amidst the luxuriant foliage of the trees. Ah,
what a picture! According to tradition, when Mohammed reached this
point and looked down upon Damascus for the first time, he said: “Man
can enter only one paradise, and I prefer to enter the one above.” So
he sat down here and feasted his eyes upon the earthly paradise of
Damascus and went away without entering its gates, that hereafter he
might be permitted to enter the portals of the paradise of God. A stone
tower marks the spot where the prophet stood. From that early period
Damascus has been regarded by all Arabs as an earthly reflection of
paradise, where a foretaste of all the joys of heaven are obtainable.
In accordance with the description given in the Koran, the Mohammedan
Bible, Arabs picture to themselves paradise as a limitless orchard,
traversed by streams of water, where the most delicious fruits are ever
ready to drop into the mouth.

[Illustration: DAMASCUS.]

When we remember that Damascus is situated on the edge of the great
Syrian desert, that it is surrounded on three sides by hills, high
and lifted up, and that the whole country for miles and scores of
miles around is bleak, parched and desolate, we can not for a moment
be surprised at the pleasing effect the sight of this smiling garden
produces in the heart of the Arab. Probably these swarthy sons of the
desert have been traveling for ten days or a fortnight, coming from
Palmyra or Bagdad, coming from central Arabia or Persia, coming across
the arid plain where naught but broad oceans of sand stretch out
before them, with not a blade of green grass to enliven the scene or to
“rest the dazzled sight.” Finally the fortnight has past; the journey
has ended; and the Arabs stand at last upon this hilltop and look down
upon yonder green garden of God. In contemplating such a scene, after
such a journey, these sons of Ishmael are moved by emotions strong and
deep. They have found trees in the wilderness, springs in the desert;
and they can but say: “Though old as history itself, thou art fresh as
the breath of spring, blooming as thine own rosebud, and fragrant as
thine own orange-blossom, O Damascus, pearl of the East.”

This is the scene that Paul was looking upon when suddenly a great
light shone round about him from heaven, and he fell to the earth as
dead. Only a few feet from where I stand, tradition points out the
place where he fell. Paul, you remember, was taken up and carried
into the city. Desiring to follow him, I leave the mountain top and
approach the valley. Damascus is surrounded now, as in Paul’s day,
by a stone wall twenty-five or thirty feet high. Entering the city
through the Jerusalem gate, I am at once attracted by a man prostrate
on the river bank. Placing his palms on the ground, and lifting himself
the length of his long arms, he looks down upon the glassy surface
of the river as though he were gazing at his image reflected in the
water. Then, bending his elbows, he once more lets his breast to the
earth. This is repeated over and over again. While going through this
strange performance, the man is constantly mumbling and muttering in
some unknown Eastern tongue. Rising to his feet, and lifting his face
to the sky, the Arab repeatedly smites himself upon the brow, breast
and mouth. Then waving his hand towards Heaven, he cries aloud: “Suah
baha, yalla Mohammed, Mohammed, Mohammed!” I ask, “Tolhammy, what means
this?” “Why, sir, that is a sacred river. The man was worshipping the
river, and then, rising, he called upon Mahomet, his god, to accept
his worship. He says ‘O Mahomet, accept my worship, and (placing his
hand on his brow) I will think of thee with this mind; (on his breast)
I will love thee with this heart; (with hand upon his mouth) and with
these lips I will speak thy praises abroad. Hear me, O Mohammed,
Mohammed, Mohammed!’” Who could see a sight like this without thinking
of Him who said: “Pray not upon the street corners, to be seen of men;
but pray secretly, and your Father who seeth in secret, will reward you

The valley was charming, even when viewed from the hilltop; but the
laughing water, the green foliage and the golden fruit have grown more
and more beautiful as we have approached nearer to them. “Abana and
Pharpar, rivers of Damascus,” are each divided into eight artificial
channels, so there are sixteen small rivers flowing through the city,
bringing fresh and sparkling water into almost every yard. The
luxuriant vegetation of this well-watered valley is never scorched by
summer’s fierce heat, nor chilled by winter’s frosty breath. It is a
perpetual growth. Flowers and fruits are always on the trees, fragrance
and music always in the air.

Damascus is the capital of Syria. It has one hundred and eighty
thousand inhabitants, and a large manufacturing interest. As a
commercial and distributing centre, it has no equal in the Orient.
Great camel caravans are constantly arriving from, and departing for,
Palmyra and Bagdad, and all the other more important cities of Persia
and central Arabia. Being an inland city, hence unaffected by European
thought and civilization, Damascus is exclusively Eastern; and is,
therefore, the best place on earth to get correct conceptions of
Oriental life and ideas.

Coming into the midst of the city, we find the houses are quaint and
characteristically Eastern. From their appearance, one would suppose
that they were built 1,500 or 2,000 years ago. Most of them are one
story high, and are built of stone, and large sun-dried brick made
half and half of straw and white clay. Sometimes a dozen or twenty
houses are covered by the same roof. On going into some of these
miserable-looking huts, we are reminded that “often in wooden houses
golden rooms we find.” Some of these wealthy Damascene merchants live
in style—not in American or European style, but in style after the
Eastern idea. Their houses, though small, and rough of exterior are
richly furnished. Frequently they are lined with marble. The walls and
ceilings are beautifully frescoed, while the floor is laid with rich
Persian carpets. And yet in these houses we find no chairs, tables or
bedsteads. The merchants, though dressed in silks, sit flat on the
carpet or on small mats. Their beds consist, usually, of pallets made
of soft and beautiful Persian rugs. “A strange way for wealthy people
to live,” you say. Well, yes, it is decidedly strange to you; but you
must remember that your way of living would be just as strange to these
Damascene folk.

The streets are exceedingly narrow, being not more than from nine to
twelve feet wide. The stores or shops on either side of the street
are little more than holes in the wall, usually about six feet wide
and eight feet deep. The floor of this stall is twelve to eighteen
inches above the ground. The end facing the street is open, while on
the two sides and the back end, shelf rises above shelf. Goods are
arranged on these, and also suspended from the ceiling. The customer,
should one chance to come along, stands in the street and bargains with
the merchant, who sits flat on the floor in the centre of the stall.
With a hook in his hand, he, without rising, reaches to one shelf or
another, and drags down such goods as may please the purchaser’s fancy.
These people eat no idle bread. As soon as the customer is gone, the
merchant continues to manufacture saddles, shoes, silks, or such goods
as he may deal in.

I was never before so impressed with industry. Damascus is a great
manufacturing centre. The people have no machinery—all work is done
by hand, and nothing is done within walls or behind curtains. Caps
and carpets, saddles and sabres, shoes and shawls, silks and safes,
beds and baskets, and a hundred other things, are manufactured on the
streets in the open air before our eyes. One entire street is given
up to a single industry. For instance the street here to my right is
called the shoe bazaar. It is probably a quarter of a mile long; and on
either side of the street, from one end to the other, are men, women
and children, seated on mats or flat down on the ground with their
limbs folded under them. All are as busy as bees, sewing and stitching
leather, making shoes. If one wants to buy a pair of shoes, he trades
with the man who makes them. The merchant does not stop work, but talks
without looking up.

Most of the manufacturers are eager to trade with Europeans and
Americans, but some of them are so fanatical that they will not receive
money from “Christian dogs.” Numerous poles are thrown across the
streets, twelve or fourteen feet from the ground, from which strings
are hanging. When the shoes are finished, they are tied to these
strings and left suspended. Looking down the street, one sees hundreds
and hundreds of shoes dangling in the air, about four feet from the

Silk bazaars are numerous. Looking down these several streets, one
sees many weavers seated on the ground, plying their shuttles. Above
their uncombed heads is silk of every grade and color, suspended in the
air and trembling in the wind. As with shoes and silks, so also with
carpets, saddles, and other departments of industry.

The leading industry of Damascus is cabinet-making. The furniture made
here is of the finest woods, and is inlaid with mother-of-pearl; hence
it is perfectly exquisite and quite costly. Skilled artisans are to be
found in these different departments of work. The best of them receive
only from sixty to eighty cents per day, while craftsmen of equal
skill, in our country, command four to five dollars per day.

Thursday of each week presents a busy scene at the donkey and camel
markets. Hundreds of half-dressed and hard-looking camel raisers from
the desert drive their patient beasts, old and young, into an open
square in the midst of the city. Sellers, buyers and traders, wearing
different costumes, representing different tribes and countries,
meet. Going in among the camels, they catch, ride and drive them. The
animals are priced, and trouble begins. The purchaser offers the seller
one-third, or one-fourth of his price. This is taken as an insult. They
quarrel, curse each other, and sometimes fight, the friends on either
side taking part. Finally the difficulty is settled by an agreement
to “split the difference;” so the camel is sold at half of the first
price—frequently for less. Late in the evening they adjourn in much
disorder. Turbaned Arabs now lead long trains of camels down different
streets to the several gates of the city. To-morrow morning, at an
early hour, these much abused “ships of the desert” will be loaded and
started out on a long voyage across an ocean of sand.

The donkey-markets create less confusion. Donkeys, however, have
no unimportant part to play in the daily life of Damascus. They
are indispensable. They take the place of our drays, carts and
market-wagons. One may look up the street at almost any moment, and
see a pair of ears coming. This is regarded as a sure sign that a
progenitor of the mule will be along after a while.

I repeat that all goods manufactured in Damascus are made by hand,
machinery being unknown. Probably three-fourths of the people here
never saw or heard of a daily newspaper. They know nothing of the
outside world. They never learn anything, never invent anything. They
repudiate and scorn anything that is new. They regard an invention
as an offspring of the devil. A Christian they hate as they do a
serpent. Ignorance is the most prevalent thing in Damascus. It walks
the streets; it sits in the shops; it drives camels; it stares the
traveler in the face, go where he will. Here, too, as elsewhere,
ignorance has borne her legitimate fruit—superstition and fanaticism.
The people are, I believe, as fanatical as the devil wants them to
be. Only a few years ago, their fanaticism arose to such a pitch that
they, without the slightest provocation, pounced upon, and killed, five
thousand Christians in the streets of Damascus! Men, women and children
were butchered indiscriminately like sheep. Their mangled bodies were
piled up in the streets, and scattered through the city, for days and
days. The Mohammedans would not defile their pure (?) hands by putting
them on “Christian dogs”—they had killed them—that was enough. From
Damascus the thirst for blood spread throughout all Syria, and no less
than 14,000 Christians perished.

One would naturally suppose that the government would protect life
better than that. But the Pasha, or governor, of Syria was the man who
gave the signal for the massacre to begin. And it continued until the
French government interfered. Napoleon III, whom the world is so fond
of condemning, dispatched a body of ten thousand well-armed troops
here to stop that human butchery. The Pasha and other officials were
arrested and beheaded in the city. The French soldiers, following the
custom of the old Romans, constructed a military road from Beyrout
to Damascus. This road, which is still in good repair, is the only
guarantee of safety Christians now have among these heathen people.

My guide in Damascus is named Abraham. I have not met Isaac and Jacob,
but have become somewhat intimate with Abraham. He tells me that his
father and mother were victims of that horrible massacre; that when
killed, their blood and brains spattered upon him; that his escape
was little less than miraculous; that he, with a number of other
Christians, was shut up in the citadel for three days; that for three
days and nights the Mohammedans stood there with their battering rams,
thundering against the walls and gates of the citadel, which were just
ready to totter and fall when the French army came up and put a stop to
the whole inhuman business.

Several persons who were eye-witnesses to the whole scene have given
me a full and detailed account of the massacre. Mohammedans from their
beginning may be tracked through history by a trail of blood. They
seem to have a thirst that nothing but human gore will satiate. This
massacre of Damascus is their last and crowning act. It is worthy of
their bloody history. They destroyed “even till destruction sickened.”
I have just read a history of this fearful slaughter which closes with
this sentence: “Unfortunately, since the massacre matters have improved
but little.” I dare not walk the streets of Damascus to-day with a
Bible in hand, and let the people know what book it is. I would be in
danger of being brained before reaching the post-office.

The guide-book warns us not to look at the women. This goes hard with
Johnson. I regret it on his account. There is a custom in this country,
which practically amounts to a law, that the women shall keep their
faces vailed. Yesterday, while walking up a narrow and gloomy-looking
alley, we saw a woman coming towards us. Touching me in the side with
his elbow, Johnson said: “Whittle, I am going to look at her a little,
anyhow.” When we met the woman, she piteously cried: “Howazhu, howazhu,
bachsheesh, bachsheesh,” which being interpreted means, “O, gentlemen,
gentlemen, money, money.” Johnson responded: “Lift your vail, then.”
When the ill-favored female drew her vail aside, Johnson gave her three
piasters (about nine cents) and immediately said: “Put down your vail
quickly, and I will give you three more.” I was sorry for my traveling
companion. He looked disappointed. He said that the reason the women
had to keep their faces covered was, that they were so ugly that to
expose them would subject men to sore eyes—if not to blindness.

The early religious history of Damascus is of peculiar interest to
all Christians. A great persecution arose against the Christians in
Jerusalem. Saul of Tarsus made havoc of the church; entering into every
house, and, haling men and women, committed them to prison, breathing
out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord. He
obtained letters from the Jewish authorities, authorizing him to arrest
and carry to Jerusalem all Christians whom he might find in Damascus.

As he journeyed, he came near Damascus, and suddenly there shined
round about him a light from Heaven, and he fell to the earth. When
Saul asked of the Lord, “What wilt thou have me to do?” the Lord said
unto him, “Arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what
thou must do.” Saul rose from the earth and they brought him into
Damascus, and he stopped with Judas, who lived on the street that is
called Straight. The Lord directed Ananias to go to Saul, and instruct
him what to do. The scales fell from Saul’s eyes, and he arose and was
baptized; and straightway he preached Christ, that he was the Son of
God. This created a great disturbance in Damascus, and the Jews held
a mass meeting and decided to kill Saul. For this purpose the Jews
watched the gates of the city day and night. In order to save his life,
the disciples took Saul by night and let him down by the wall in a


Damascus is now pretty much as it was eighteen hundred years ago. The
places mentioned in connection with Paul are still pointed out—with
what degree of certainty, I can not say. Of course I visited the places
where “he fell to the earth,” and where “he was let down over the wall
in a basket.” At this point the wall is some thirty feet high, and is
surmounted by a house which is occupied by a Christian family. The
reputed houses of Ananias and Judas are partly underground, and are
built of huge stones. These strongly built houses are certainly very
old; and it has been suggested that if Ananias and Judas did not live
in them at the time of Paul, some other people did.

If I should to-day begin to proclaim the gospel of Christ with the same
zeal and earnestness that characterized the ministry of Paul, I would
have to be let down over the walls in a basket, or else be butchered on
the street.



 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.

NAAMAN lived in Damascus. “Now Naaman, captain of the host of Syria,
was a great man” with his Master, and “honorable, because by him the
Lord had given deliverance unto Syria; he was also a mighty man of
valor, but he was a leper.” So Naaman left Damascus, and went down to
Samaria to see Elisha, that the prophet might heal him of the leprosy.
Elisha told Naaman to go and dip himself seven times in the Jordan. The
haughty Syrian became indignant at the idea, and it was natural that
he should. The people of Damascus are now, and have always been, proud
of their rivers. They sing about Abana and Pharpar, as also about the
shades, fruits and flowers of the valley.

Old Naaman was a true Damascene. So, when told to bathe in the Jordan,
he said: “Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, are they not better
than all the waters of Israel?” He wanted to go back to his own native
city, and there bathe in the fountain of the gods, whose pearly waters
had rolled themselves through his heart and cut their channels there.
Finally Naaman was persuaded to follow Elisha’s directions, and was
healed of his leprosy. But, strangely enough, his house in Damascus was
turned into a leper hospital, and remains one to this day.

Having heard so much of this loathsome disease, I am anxious to see it.
So I call out, “Abraham, Abraham.”


“Bring out the horses, and let’s go to the hospital.”

“Yes, sir.”

He brings out three horses—ears about fifteen inches long—and
Johnson, Abraham and I are off for the “lepers’ den.” On the way,
Johnson says: “Whittle, how long has the leprosy existed?” My reply is,
“History traces the disease back to twelve or fifteen hundred years
before the Christian era.”

Johnson. “Where did it originate?”

I explain that the origin of the leprosy is, to some extent, shrouded
in mystery; that I was reading the other day from Strabo, a Greek
author, who says that leprosy was generated in Egypt among the Jews,
while they were in bondage under the Pharaohs. He says the Jews were
banished to rock-quarries, where they had been getting stone to build
pyramids and walled cities; that, having double burdens to perform,
and half rations to live upon, they killed and ate diseased hogs which
gave rise to a disease among the people known as the leprosy. For this
reason the Jews passed a law that all Hebrews should ever after abstain
from eating flesh of swine. That law, we know, is still observed, but
Strabo’s account of the origin of the leprosy is probably a myth.

Johnson asks: “Does the Bible throw no light upon this subject?”

“None at all. The Good Book has much to say about the disease, and
the ceremonial law concerning the treatment of lepers is strict and
explicit. As to its origin, however, not a word is said.”

Leprosy is the most fearful disease that was ever visited upon the
human family. Never yet has a case of it been cured without the direct
intervention of God. Man’s skill is powerless to stay its ravages
on the human frame and system. If there were no leprosy on earth
to-day, probably there never would be any. It is not now, so far as
can be ascertained, generated anew and afresh. It is inherited from
one’s parents, and in this way it is handed down from generation to
generation. It is absolutely impossible for leprous parents to give
birth to a child who will not die of leprosy, unless, perchance, the
babe die before the disease breaks out. The child may possibly remain
sound and healthy until he is six or even sixteen years old; but the
fearful disease is in his bones and blood and system, and it is coming
to the surface—it is coming to stay, to eat up the body and “steal
away the life o’ the building.”

Leprosy warns its victim of its approach by a cold and chilly
sensation, which alternates with fever. Then a purple fleck or blotch,
with a hard lump under it, comes on the face. The blotches now come
thick and fast. Blotch meets blotch, until the bloated face is covered,
and the cheeks look like purple clusters of grapes. The blotches
finally swell, itch, fester, burst and pour forth an immense amount of
pus and corruption. Then they heal up for a while, only, however, to
itch, swell and burst again.

About a mile and a half from the centre of the city, we see a great
rock wall, enclosing twenty or more acres of land, rising up like the
walls of a penitentiary, twenty-five or thirty feet high. Pointing to
this wall, Abraham says: “There is the hospital.”

I respond, “Yes, there it is, but I want to go in it.”

“Want to go in it?” said he.

“Yes, Abraham, and I want you to go with me.”

With a strange look in his face, and a tremor in his voice, he answers,
“You don’t mean that, do you?”

“Most emphatically, I do. I want you to go in with me.”

“Well, sir,” he continues, “I can’t do it.”

“But,” said I, “look here, Abraham, I have paid you my money. You are
my guide. You have promised to show me through the city.”

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t promise to go into the tomb with you,” was his

Turning to Johnson, I request him to accompany me. I show him a
book which says that it is questionable whether leprosy is at all
contagious; that it is possible for one to shake hands with a leper
without any ill effects. Besides, I tell him that we will arm ourselves
so as to keep them away from us—that we will fill our pockets with
coins, and, if the lepers come close to us, will strew them like seed
corn on the ground, and while they stop to gather them up, we will get
a good look at them. I explain further to my companion that even if the
lepers were disposed to come up to us, we could fight them off with our
heavy canes.

After placing these arguments before him, I make a final appeal;
“Johnson, don’t desert me. Nerve yourself and go in with me.” Seeing
that he is wavering and hesitating, I say: “Johnson, screw your courage
to the sticking point, and let’s go in.”

He responds: “It won’t stick.”

“Try it again!”

He repeats, “_It won’t stick!_”

By this time we are at the heavy, iron gate which is locked, and
guarded by two strong and stalwart Arabs. I say to one of them: “Will
you let me in?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Will you let me out?”

After a long pause, he responds in a deep, husky voice, “Y-e-s.”

I repeat the question, and receive the same significant frown and
gutteral sound as an answer. I hardly know what is meant. I do not know
but that the idea is to get me in, and then lock the gate and exact so
much money before letting me out. I have not “so much money” to give.

Turning to my guide, I say, “Abraham, Abraham, I charge you by the
money I have paid you, by your sense of honor and manhood; I charge you
by him whose name you bear, let not this gate close until I come out.”

With an honest emphasis, he responds, “I will guard the gate.”

Laying my hand upon my companion’s shoulder, I address him thus:
“Johnson, I, to some extent, commit my life into your keeping. I charge
you by the sacred memory of mother, home and Heaven, by the golden ties
of friendship, I charge you, Johnson, let not this gate close until I
come out.”

With tears in his eyes, and his great heart welling without him, he
replies: “Whittle, if necessary, I will block this gate open with my
dead body until you come out.”

My mind is now made up. I am determined to enter. You naturally ask,
“Why go into such a place?” I can hardly tell you why, unless forsooth,
I am something like Mamie. Mamie wanted to go into the garden and see
the flowers. Her mother said, “Well, my child, you may go into the
garden to see the flowers, but you must not eat any of those berries on
the currant-bush.”

“No, ma’am, I won’t.”

Twenty minutes later Mamie emerges from the garden, licking out her
tongue and smacking her lips, while her face is stained with the

“Did you eat any of those berries, Mamie?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Come, my child, don’t tell me a story.”

Crying and trembling with fear, Mamie says, “Well, mamma, I did eat a
few of ‘em.”

“Why did you disobey mother?”

“Because I couldn’t help it,” was Mamie’s response.

“Why could you not help it?” said the mother.

“‘Cause the devil tempted me.”

Mother. “Why did you not say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan’?”

Mamie. “I did say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ and he got behind me
and pushed me right into the bush.”

So I am tempted, not like Mamie, by one, but by a half dozen devils.
I say: “Get thee behind me, satans.” At this, some get behind, while
others get before me. The spirit of adventure, or something else,
catches hold of the lapels of my coat. Now they push and pull and shove
and drag me in, until finally I wake up on the inside of a living tomb.

Going in some distance from the gate and around one or two houses, I
see a great number of lepers, lying on the ground, sunning themselves.
A few of the miserable creatures are sitting up. Seeing me, they make a
strange and hideous noise. This arouses the others.

They rise—three here, four there, a half dozen, yea, a dozen,
yonder—still they rise. It looks almost as if judgment had come;
as if the tombs are opening and the graves are giving up their dead
skeletons. They form a semi-circle about me. Ah, what a ghastly sight!
Men, women and children in all stages of the leprosy. Some of them look
more like fiends than human beings. Skin and flesh gone from their
hands and arms, from their brows and cheeks! The working of their
jaw-bones can be seen, as they vainly attempt to talk.

Here they are—gums swollen, teeth gone, palates fallen, one eye, or
one ear missing. One finger—two fingers—may be all the fingers gone
from one hand, or, perchance, the hand itself is off at the wrist,
or the arm at the elbow. What arms and limbs and fingers they have,
are frequently gnarled and twisted like grape-vines. They are close
enough. Rushing my right hand into my pocket, I strew the coin far and
wide like seed wheat. The poor diseased creatures, with pewter plates
in hand, hobble around here and there as best they can, pushing and
shoving each other right and left, each trying to get all the coins and
to keep his neighbor from getting any.

Stepping forward, I strew out more coin and then recede. On come
the victims of this loathsome disease. Oh, what a ghastly sight!
Flesh gone, bones exposed and all twisted out of shape, great knots
protruding from the face and body, joints decaying and dropping
away,—human beings coming unjointed and falling to pieces! On they
come, until I find myself half surrounded by hideous, dreamlike
spectres! horrible hobgoblins! living corpses! walking skeletons!
green-eyed monsters! fiery-eyed fiends! coming up, crowding up around
me, thrusting out their long arms and bony fingers, apparently eager
and anxious to hug me, like a phantom, to their loathsome and rotting

For the first time in life, I am rooted to the earth. My blood,
like Hamlet’s, is curdled in my veins. My knees, like the knees of
Belshazzar, smite one against the other. My hair, like the quills
of the fretted porcupine, stands on end. My mind wanders, my heart
sickens, my body reels, and I stand “like a ruin among ruins,
meditating on decay.” In gesture, as well as in words, I say: “Avaunt!
avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide you! Your bones are
marrowless; your blood is cold; and ye have no eyes in those sightless
sockets with which ye do glare at me!”

I feel that I would give all that I have, or hope to have, if I could,
once for all, blot this awful scene from my mind. But no; it is there.
It is indelibly stamped upon the landscape of memory. And often,
instead of sleeping soundly, I will dream about it. I will dream that I
am still in here; that the gate is locked and barred, and that I am a
doomed man; that these decaying folk have entirely surrounded me, and
are intertwining their arms and limbs with mine, almost like hissing
serpents in the hair!

O, my dying fellow mortal, do you know that leprosy is typical of sin?
How, oh! how, would a man feel, if, while sitting in his parlor, a half
dozen lepers should come in, reeling and staggering—falling to pieces?
He would shrink back and call upon the earth to swallow him, or the
mountains to fall upon and hide him from the face of nature.

How, then, I ask, would God and the angels feel, if one unconverted
soul should enter into Heaven, into the presence of that God who can
not look upon sin? One sinner, walking the golden streets, falling to
pieces with moral putrefaction, would cause the redeemed to shudder,
the angels to flee away; at his approach, darkness would surround the
throne and Heaven would be turned into hell.

But, O friend, my heart thrills with joy akin to that which the angels
feel in Heaven, when I say:

  “There is a fountain filled with blood
  Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins,
  And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
  Lose all their guilty stains.”

So, when the gospel is proclaimed in your hearing, go not to the
Jordan, as Naaman did; but go fling yourself into that stream opened
up in the house of David for the cleansing of the human family. After
Naaman had dipped in the river, his skin and flesh grew back as the
skin and flesh of a little child. So you, when you have bathed yourself
in the stream of God’s forgiving mercy, will be clad in the spotless
robes of Christ’s righteousness. You will be sinless as a little child.
And I am sure the angels will strike their golden harps, and the music
will go ringing and reverberating adown the aisles of eternity, as they
shout, “Halleluiah, halleluiah, one more sinner redeemed—washed in the
blood of the Lamb.”



 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

I HAD not been feeling well for some days and while at Damascus I was
taken ill with varioloid fever. This was just twelve days after I was
directly exposed to the small-pox and the cholera. The varioloid, with
which I was suffering, was so severe that my friends really feared
it would develop into small-pox proper. It was a dark hour for the
sufferer. The shadows of twilight—the twilight of life, as well as of
day, seemed to be gathering around me. Even then I could say: “I have
lived, and have not lived in vain: my mind may lose its force, my blood
its fire, and my frame perish even in conquering pain, but there is
that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I

One night when I was suffering most intensely, when my brow was all
scorched with fever and my body racked with pain, Mr. Hamlin, whom I
have already mentioned, and whose income is more than a dollar an hour,
came into my room and lay down on the side of the bed. With his hand
on my brow he said: “Whittle, we are fellow travelers for this journey
through the Holy Land; we are friends for the journey of life, and
now that you are ill, I want to say that you shall have my sympathy,
my presence and my purse. I am your friend and helper. You may have
cholera, small-pox, or what not, yet I will stand by you to the last. I
shall not leave your bedside until you are well, or as long as you need
a friend.” I said to myself: “Truly, night bringeth out the stars,” and
“every cloud has a silver lining.” I fell asleep; the fever cooled off,
and in a few days “Richard was himself again.” Now that it is over, I
am glad that I was ill. It revealed to me the character of the man with
whom I am traveling. It is not an unpleasant thing, when one is ten or
twelve thousand miles from home, to have a friend talk to him in that
way. Hamlin is a whole-souled fellow.

The second night after leaving Damascus the “Equestrian Pilgrims”
camped at the foot of Mount Hermon, whose regal brow was crowned
with purest snow. It was a glorious sight to see that lonely, lordly
mountain, bathed in the golden splendor of the setting sun. One almost
ceases to wonder that it has become an object of vigorous adoration.
The word Hermon itself means “the holy,” “the unapproachable.” The Arab
word for Hermon means “the old,” “the grey-bearded,” “the venerable.”
The inspired writers of old often refer to Hermon. It appears to have
formed the northern boundaries of the children of Israel. Solomon
speaks of Hermon as the haunt of wild beasts, and strangely enough
my guide-book says, and the natives here confirm the statement, that
bears, wolves and foxes still abound here. The Psalmist says brotherly
love is as pleasant as the “dew of Hermon;” as the “dew that falleth on
Mount Zion.” I have been much impressed with heavy dews since coming
into this Eastern country. I have seen the dew falling before the sun
goes down in the evening, and for an hour after the sun rises in the
morning. In this country it rains six months, and is dry six months.
During the dry season vegetation withers and all nature suffers for
moisture. Every night the falling dew is like a gentle shower of rain,
refreshing the parched grass and “reviving the vigor of vegetation.”
But for these heavy dews nothing would grow, and the people could
scarcely exist. How impressive it must have been to these people,
therefore, when David said: “Brotherly love is as pleasant as the dew
of Hermon, as the dew that falleth on Mount Zion.” God hasten the day
when “brotherly love shall abound:” when men shall say: “Behold how
good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Hermon is, in round numbers, ten thousand feet high and twenty-nine
miles long. Its base is rich, and, for this country, well cultivated.
Higher up it supports several large almond groves, the fruit of which
is most excellent. It is generally conceded by scholars that one of
the slopes of Hermon was the scene of the Transfiguration. By some
this honor was once claimed for Mount Tabor, but this idea has been
exploded. It is impossible that Christ should have been Transfigured
on Mount Tabor, for Josephus tells us that Tabor was at that time
crowned with a city, and we know that the Transfiguration occurred, not
in the midst of human habitations, but out in the solitude of nature.
The last time we see our blessed Lord before the Transfiguration was
at Caesarea Philippi, near the base of Hermon. “And after six days
Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John, his brother, and bringeth them up
into a high mountain apart and was there transfigured before them; His
face did shine as the sun and His garment was white as the light. And,
behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias, talking with Him.
Then answered Peter and said unto Jesus: ‘Lord, it is good for us to be
here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles—one for Thee,
one for Moses, and one for Elias.’”

We were high on the slopes of Hermon. It was to me a sacred place.
When the evening hour came, I stole away from my companions. I went
out all alone “where nought but the gleaming stars looked down upon me
in silence,” where I could commune with my own heart, with nature and
“nature’s God.” I gave myself up to meditation and prayer. I said:
“Can it be possible that I am now standing on, or near, the spot where
the divinity of my Lord revealed itself; where He wrapped Himself with
celestial glory as with a garment; where the veil was drawn aside, and
Peter, James and John caught a glimpse of that other world and the
splendor thereof?” and an unearthly feeling possessed me—I verily felt
that I was standing on the Mount of spiritual Transfiguration. For me
the scene was re-enacted before my eyes. To me the Master’s face did
shine as the sun, and His garment was white as light. I could almost
hear the Father’s voice as He said: “This is my beloved Son in whom
I am pleased; hear ye Him.” I felt like Peter that I could say, “It
is good to be here;” I felt like Paul that I was caught up into the
third heaven; I felt like Bunyan that I was standing on the top of the
Delectable Mountains, viewing the City of God and listening to the
music of angels. I felt like

  “Some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
  Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm,
  Around whose base, while rolling clouds are spread,
  Eternal sunshine settles on its head.”

We folded our tents in the morning, to pitch them at night twenty miles
away, by the side of a flowing fountain, in the midst of an olive grove
and amongst blooming oleanders. There was beauty, there was poetry,
in this place. It was so sweetly calm and serenely beautiful, that
we were strongly tempted to “lengthen the cords and strengthen the
stakes” of our tents and remain here a few days. But we were blessed
with perfect weather, and therefore thought best to press towards “that
summer land of the vine and fig tree.”

Next morning “Amnon,” the reliable, the sure-footed, was pronounced
“ready.” I vaulted into the saddle and rode away. Evening brought
us to Caesarea Philippi, now called Banias. Little—practically
nothing—remains of the stupendous temple that Herod the Great built
here. The guide-book says, and the pilgrims believe, that this was the
precise place where Christ said: “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I
will build my church.” But turning to Matt. 16:13, I read, “When Jesus
came unto the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, He asked His Disciples,” etc.

Again, Mark 8:27, “And Jesus went out, and His disciples, into the
towns of Caesarea Philippi, and by the way He asked His disciples
saying: ‘Whom do men say that I am?’” From this we see that Caesarea
Philippi was a district containing more towns than one. True, this was
the principal city of the district, but no man has the moral right to
select a certain town and say, “_This is the place_.” Nor do I care to
know the precise spot. It is enough for me to know that Peter said:
“Thou art the Christ.” Jesus replied: “Thou art Petra (a rock), and
upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall
not prevail against it.” There is no passage in all the Bible that is
so much discussed as this one, for this scripture is claimed as the
foundation of the Romish Church. True, the “gates of hell” have not
prevailed against “papal power,” but the _power of God_ will prevail
against it, and the world shall yet know that Christ, and not Peter, is
the chief “corner stone;” that Christ, and not Mary, is the sinner’s

One hour from Banias brings us to the fountain of the Jordan—the
birth place of the sacred river. The spring is large, the water deep
and beautifully clear. We could not resist the temptation; we had to
bathe in the “fountain of the gods.” We could count the pebbles in the
bottom of the swiftly flowing stream. With our eyes we could follow its
windings through the fertile valley, by noticing the flowers and green
bushes fringing its banks. Near this fountain we rode close upon a herd
of buffaloes before they saw us. There were twelve in the bunch and a
dozen of them got away—we killed the others.

We now cross into Galilee. High on the hill, and before us, as we face
the west, is the city of Dan. O Dan, what a history thou hast had! What
memories gather around thy ancient, thy venerable head! As thy name
indicates, thou wast once a judge. Thy sons were born to positions
of honor. But Ichabod!—“thy glory has departed!” Thou art no longer
a sightly city, but a ruined and disheveled village. Thou no longer
rulest, but art now thyself ruled with a rod of iron.

  “There is the moral of all human tales;
  ’Tis but the same rehearsed of the past,
  First Freedom, and then glory—when that fails,
  Wealth, vice, corruption—barbarism at last!”

In olden times Dan was an important place—the most important city in
north Galilee. We often see the expression, “from Dan to Beersheba,”
which means from the extreme north to the extreme south of Palestine, a
distance of one hundred and sixty-five miles. “From Dan to Beersheba”
meant to Jews of old just what “from Maine to Mexico” and “from New
York to San Francisco” means to Americans—the uttermost limits of the

I give in the following lines an account of a nocturnal visit that
Abraham, the father of the faithful, made to this city of Dan. “And
when Abram heard that his brother was taken captive, he armed his
trained servants, born in his own house, three hundred and eighteen,
and he pursued them unto Dan. And he divided himself against them, he
and his servants by night, and smote them, and pursued into Hobah,
which is on the left hand of Damascus. And he brought back all the
goods, and also his brother Lot and his goods, and the women also and
the people.”

Coming into Galilee, we find ourselves at once in a beautiful valley
lying between two mountain ridges running north and south. The valley
is apparently ten miles wide and fifteen to eighteen miles long. The
soil is as black as a crow and fertile as the alluvial deposits of the
Nile. It is so rich that it looks as if it would sprout a shadow—I
am afraid to stand still long in a place. Only small patches of this
fertile valley are cultivated and these in the most primitive and
imperfect manner. The land is scratched over with wooden plows, drawn,
as I have sometimes seen, by a donkey and a skeleton of a milk cow
yoked together, or by a camel and an ox harnessed side by side. Thus
they tickle the soil which in turn smiles with a sickly, sentimental
harvest, and the people live in filth, penury, and poverty; whereas,
if they had western vim and push and shove and energy, if they had
improved implements of agriculture and would send them deep into the
ground and turn up the soil, “the desert would blossom as the rose,”
and these trifling sons of want would soon have to “pull down their old
barns and build greater ones.” Peace and plenty would usurp the place
now held by pinching poverty, and Jerusalem once more would stand

  “Girt by her theatre of hills, and would reap
  Her corn, and wine, and oil; and plenty would leap
  To laughing life, with her redundant horn.”

Here and there, scattered over the plain, we see a Bedouin village.
Village did I say? Yes, a village; though there is not a log or a
plank, or a board, or a shingle, or a stone to be seen. One of these
villages consists of 300 to 500 Bedouins, living in 75 to 100 tents
huddled together without law or order. The Bedouins take the bark
of the papyrus plant and plait or weave it (by hand of course) into
a coarse, rough matting with which they make their houses. The same
material serves as roof, walls and floor. These sons of the desert hide
their nakedness with robes made of camel’s hair, and their children
dress as did Adam or Eve before fig-leaf dresses came into fashion.

In the southern part of the valley is Lake Huleh, or the waters of
Merom. Some years ago the plain surrounding this lake was a bloody
battle field. Six or eight kings “went out, they and all their hosts
with them, much people, even as the sand that is upon the sea shore in
multitude, with horses and chariots very many. And when all these kings
were met together, they came and pitched their tents at the waters of
Merom to fight against Israel. And the Lord said unto Joshua, be not
afraid because of them; for to-morrow I will deliver them up all slain
before Israel; thou shalt hough their horses and burn their chariots
with fire. So Joshua came, and all the people of war with him, against
them by the waters of Merom suddenly and they fell upon them. And the
Lord delivered them into the hand of Israel.” Lest some people should
suppose that I witnessed that battle, I will state that Joshua lived
some 1400 years before Christ.

[Illustration: SEA OF GALILEE.]

Long before night our tents were stretched on the shore of the Sea of
Galilee. This is the most hallowed spot to which we have yet come. No
place we have visited is so fraught with holy memories. Arriving here,
I dismounted, went into my tent, and there for the first time knelt
down and kissed the earth. I knew it was a sacred place. Around this
lake our Blessed Lord spent most of His public life. Every thing here
wears a holy aspect; every thing is suggestive of the Savior. When I
see the men in their row boats, toiling at their nets, I am naturally
reminded of the miraculous draught of fishes, of the worldly occupation
of those whom Jesus, walking on these very shores, called to follow
Him, saying: “I will make you fishers of men.” Probably the ancestors
of these half-clad people before me were among the “multitude whom
Jesus fed with a few loaves and fishes” on the opposite bank of the
lake, or among that other multitude who thronged the beach where I now
stand, and, pressing the water’s edge, listened with bated breath to
Christ as He spake from Simon’s boat, built, no doubt, like these on
the lake.

Before me are the sites of three ancient cities whose very names have
become a reproach; and who can wonder! They rest under the direct
curse of Him who said: “Woe unto thee, Chorazin! Woe unto thee,
Bethsaida! for I say unto you that in the day of judgment it shall
be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you, Chorazin and
Bethsaida!—and thou, Capernaum, which art exalted unto Heaven, shalt
be brought down to hell.” Yea, truly; Capernaum, the home of Christ,
has been cast down to hell. The city rejected Christ and ever since
that time the curse of God has rested upon it. A word to the wise is
sufficient. I will therefore only add; reader, be sure you do not
reject Him of whom Moses and the prophets did write.

Standing on the western edge of the lake, near the northern end, and
looking in a north-westerly direction, I see, about 300 yards away, a
man plowing with a wooden plow, drawn by a milk cow and a donkey. In
the same field, and close by the plowman, is another man with a basket
on his arm full of seed corn (wheat) which he is strewing broadcast
over the ground. This reminds me that once upon a time our Lord was
standing on these shores, near where I now am. A great multitude of
people had assembled to listen to His gracious words. The press was
so great that our Lord stepped into a little boat and pushed it out a
little way on the water. As the people stood on the shore Christ sat
in the boat and preached to them. He began His sermon, “The sower went
forth to sow. Some seed fell by the wayside, some among thorns and some
in the rocks.” This scene was being re-enacted before my own eyes. How
delightful are such experiences! How it carries one back to ancient
days! This lake furnished the subject for the parable of the net. And
on the left are the hills and fields whence was drawn the comparison
to the leaven, the hidden treasure, the pearl of great price. Around
this lake the lilies grew and the ravens fed, which the Lord bade us

Galilee is a beautiful lake. It is ten to twelve miles long and six to
eight miles wide. The rocky walls surrounding the lake rise, in some
places, several hundred feet above its surface. Most of the country
around is rough and barren. A few fig and other fruit and shade trees
grow near the water’s edge.

But if you would see the beauty—the poetry of Galilee, wait until
the glare of day has mellowed into twilight; wait until a holy calm
broods over the lake and its surface has been transformed into a silver
mirror. Then the great stars above you gleam like nuggets of gold in
the blue depths below. Now go “silently and alone” and walk on the
beach. You find that distance is annihilated. The lake may be six,
sixty, or six hundred miles wide—you can not tell—you do not care.
You are not thinking of time or distance, either. The beauty of the
scene rivets your attention. Sacred memories crowd upon the mind, and
you can but say: “Oh! Galilee! Galilee! For thousands of years have thy
pure waters been surging against these historic shores—these sacred
shores. Upon thy watery surface Jesus did walk, as though it had been
marble pavement. When the storm did come and thou wert lashed into rage
and fury, when thy waves were tossed like mountains to the sky; when
the frail bark was threatened, and human life endangered; the Son of
God whispered: ‘Peace, be still.’ The winds obeyed Him and thy waves,
O Galilee, crouched at His feet. For these reasons thou hast become a
holy—a sacred sea.

“And now I, even I, a humble disciple of that same Jesus, am permitted
to walk on thy shores and sail on thy waters.”

Being unable to break the chain of fascination which binds us to this
place, we have remained here several days. Swimming in Galilee is truly
delightful. We have had several messes of fish from the lake, but as
yet we have caught no fish with a “silver coin in his mouth.”

Tiberias, the only place of importance on the lake, we find to be a
walled city of some 5,000 souls, the most of whom are Jews. We find
much in the city to attract our attention, but nothing to excite
admiration. The Jews living here are a reproach to their race. They are
as sorry looking specimens of humanity as one can reasonably expect
to find this side of the grave. They are as filthy as monkeys, ugly
as gorillas and as poor as Job’s turkey. Extravagant expressions are
usually out of place, but I am honestly of the opinion that these
people are as poor as a church mouse or a Baptist preacher.

Most of our time here has been spent, not in Tiberias, but in visiting
the mouth of Jordan and some ruined cities around the lake, in
sailing, swimming and fishing, in reading the Bible and talking of
Christ, its central figure.



 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.

FROM Tiberias to Nazareth is a seven hours’ journey. Our way lies
across a rocky, hilly country. The sun is hot. The heat seems to have
positive weight. Icarus would not have had to soar very high beneath
this fierce sun, before his “waxen wings” would have “melted” and let
him down with a crash. The reflection from the rocks is almost like the
hot breath of a furnace.

Look! yonder to the right, and not far away, are eight or ten gazelles
dashing down the steep hillside. Their tongues are lolling out; they
have been up on the elevated table-lands, and now, dry, hot, and
thirsty, they are making their way to the Sea of Galilee. How swift
they go! And yet Asahel, we are told, was “as light of foot as a wild
gazelle.” The men of Gad, who swam the swollen river to join King
David, had the “faces of lions” and the “feet of gazelles.” Isaiah,
when speaking of the beauty of Babylon, could bestow no higher praise
than to say: “She is as the gazelle of kingdoms.” Solomon says: “My
beloved is as beautiful as a gazelle leaping up the mountains, skipping
upon the hills.” To see this swift-footed animal, going with parched
lips to the sea, reminds one of the Psalmist’s earnest words: “As the
hart (the gazelle) panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul
after thee, O God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God.”

The Arab word “gazelle” is not used in the Bible, yet it is generally
understood that the “roebuck” of Scripture is the same animal. They
are plentiful here, and may be found in all sparsely settled sections
of the country. South of Hebron they are sometimes seen in droves of
from fifty to a hundred. They are not so large, but are otherwise very
much like our American deer. Their flesh, like the antelope and venison
of America, is considered delicious, and the Nimrods of to-day are
constantly on their track. The gazelle, however, having a swift foot
and a keen eye, is seldom hung up before an Arab’s fire.

We are now upon what is thought to be the corn-field referred to in
Matthew 12:1. “And at that time Jesus went on the Sabbath day through
the corn, and His disciples, who were an hungered, began to pluck the
ears of corn and to eat.” The field is still worked and it will soon
be seed-time again. The corn referred to was of course wheat, as our
Indian corn was not then, and is not now, known to Eastern people.

[Illustration: PALMS IN BUSH FORM.]

After five hours and a half in this scorching sun, we are thoroughly
prepared to appreciate the grateful shade of the great olive and palm
trees under which we are now resting. We are in Cana, of Galilee, whose
history is sacred and whose name is familiar to all Bible readers.
Yes, here on this rough, rocky hillside, is Kefr Kenna—the village
of Cana—where Jesus made wine of water. Few passages of Scripture
impress me more than the account of this wedding feast. I read, “And
the third day there was a marriage in Cana, of Galilee, and the mother
of Jesus was there, and both Jesus and His disciples were called to the
marriage.” It was during this wedding feast that Christ turned water
into wine. “This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana, of Galilee,
and manifested forth His glory, and His disciples believed on Him.”
Christ’s first miracle, wrought at the beginning of His public career,
was, we see, turning water into _wine_. And the night before His
crucifixion, He took _wine_ and said: “This is my blood,” and “without
the shedding of blood there is no remission.” I see a significance,
therefore, in the fact that the first miracle was making wine. That
miracle was prophetic. It pointed to something yet to come. That
miracle was, in Christ’s thought, closely connected with the Cross and
Man’s Redemption.

Having finished the account of the wedding-feast, the evangelist
continues: “After this He went down to Capernaum (about five hours’
walk); He, and His mother and His brethren and His disciples.” Jesus
had already taken up His abode in Capernaum. Probably Mary had never
been there. It is quite probable, also, that Christ had not seen her
for some time. It may be that the hope of meeting her son was the main
thing that induced her to attend the wedding. Her hope was realized.
What a joyful meeting that must have been! Somehow I love my Savior
more, because He loved His Mother so well. How beautiful this is: after
the wedding is over Jesus goes back to Capernaum, _taking His Mother
with Him_. She wanted to see how her “preacher-boy” was situated in His
new home by the sea. No doubt when they reached Capernaum, at the north
end of the Sea of Galilee, Jesus took His Mother up on the flat-roofed
house and pointed out different places of interest.

At present, Cana is of little importance and is not at all inviting.
Large beds of tall, thorny cactus plants are everywhere to be seen.
The houses of the village are few in number, and rude of structure.
Here, as elsewhere in this country, the people are filthy, ignorant
and half naked. The two best houses in the place are convents; one
belonging to the Roman and the other to the Greek Catholics. We now
visit these convents in the order named. Clad in a black gown, with a
rosary fastened around his waist and hanging from his side, the Latin
Priest approaches us, invites us in, and kindly shows us through his
convent. He rehearses the history of Cana, and speaks of the wedding
that Jesus attended as though it had taken place only yesterday. We
come now to the sacred chamber; the Priest pauses; he is deeply moved
(?). With tears in his eyes and pathos in his words he says: “In this
room the marriage occurred. Just there, ‘pointing to the side of the
room opposite him,’ just there the wedding couple stood. Christ, Mary,
and John stood here on my right, while the other guests occupied the
portion of the room to my left. Just here, where I am, stood the
Catholic priest who pronounced the wedding ceremony. Here, gentlemen,”
the good priest continued, “here are some of the identical water pots
that our Lord used in making wine. Yes, sirs, these are the veritable
water-pots that Jesus used. Come up here and handle them and see
for yourselves.” We express no doubt and I suppose we really appear
somewhat credulous. The superstitious priest now becomes enthusiastic.
“There were,” he says, “originally six of these jars or pots; but one
was broken, one we sent to Jerusalem, one to Rome, and here are the
other three. Come, come, and handle them yourselves that you may tell
your friends when you get home.”


As soon as we get out of the door, Johnson, with his characteristic
sense of humor, touched me in the side and said: “Chestnuts!
Chestnuts!!” At this moment a short, heavy-built, broad-shouldered,
bushy-headed Greek monk, wearing a hat whose broad, board-like brim
was at the top of the crown instead of the bottom, comes up to us. He
introduces himself, and after a few words says: “Now, gentlemen, please
come with me. I have something of very great interest to show you.” He
leads us into, and conducts us through, the Greek convent, reciting
and explaining the history of the village as we go along. He shows
us into a large room whose walls are lined with pictures. The Greek
pauses, uncovers his head, strikes an attitude; sorrow seizes his soul,
a heavenly look settles on his troubled face. With noiseless step and
slow, he approaches us and whispers: “The wedding that we read about in
the Bible occurred in this very room. Yes, gentlemen, this is a sacred
place—this is where the marriage was solemnized. Christ, with His
Mother and disciples, stood on the left, the other guests on the right.
The wedding couple stood there in the centre, and the Greek priest who
married them stood here.” Johnson is dumb as an oyster. But I have to
speak—I can hold in no longer. I say: “Did Jesus attend two weddings
in this place?” “No, sir; only one, sir, only one!” “Well,” I continue,
“I was a few minutes ago in the Latin convent and the Romish priest
told me that the wedding took place there, and now you tell me that it
occurred here. How about that, sir; how can you explain this?” “The
explanation, the explanation, sir, is very easy. It is simply this: the
other priest lied! Yes, sir, he lied—only one wedding here, and that
one took place in this room. And here are the identical water-pots that
He used—these are the very jars that held the water which was turned
into wine.”

I speak of this at length to bring out an important fact. On almost
every sacred spot in Palestine, wherever Jesus lived or spent the
night, wherever He preached a sermon, or wrought a miracle, there we
find two convents—one Roman and one Greek. Each claims to stand upon
the exact spot where such and such a thing occurred. Occasionally
the two convents are some distance apart; again they stand hard by
each other. As one might naturally suppose, this engenders strife,
and provokes jealousy among the priests, and greatly perplexes most
travelers. But all this confusion among the priests does not trouble
me for a moment. What do I care whether the marriage occurred here or
there? I know full well that I am in Cana. I know it is a sacred place.
I know that Christ, with His presence, sanctioned in Cana what God, in
His wisdom, instituted in Eden—the marriage relation, which has come
along down the ages, elevating man, purifying society, strengthening
the State and honoring God. The wisdom of this law strongly argues
its divine origin. I have traveled in many countries, among many
nations, kindreds, tribes and peoples; and I have never yet traveled
in a country where the Bible was a sealed book, where God’s law of
marriage was unknown or disregarded, but that the women of that country
were in a low, vile, degraded and servile condition! In such places
woman is regarded as man’s inferior; she is neglected, imposed upon
and down-trodden; hers is a life of shame and drudgery; she is man’s
burden-bearer and nothing more! In Palestine, and some other countries
where I have traveled, it is considered a disgrace for a mother to
give birth to a female child! and for this cause men frequently
ill-treat and forsake their wives!

And on the other hand, I have never been in any land where the Bible
was known and read, where God was worshipped, and His law obeyed, but
that woman was loved and honored and elevated to her true position in
the family and in society. The Bible teaches that woman was taken, not
from man’s heel that he might trample upon her, not from his head that
she might rule him with a rod of iron, but from his side that she might
walk beside him—that she might be his companion; perchance from his
right side, that his strong right arm might lift her burdens and fight
her battles; or, forsooth, from his left side, near his heart, that he
might love and sympathize with her. Blessed Bible! thou hast shattered
woman’s shackles; thou hast brought the aureole of glory, and placed it
upon woman’s matronly brow!

One hour from Cana brings us to a scene of greater interest. The day is
far spent when my eyes fall for the first time upon Nazareth, nestling
on the sunny slope of a high hill which gracefully swings itself
around and forms something of a horseshoe. The city, situated near the
centre of this curvature, is built partly in the valley and partly on
the hillside. The lower part of the city is half hidden amid a rich
profusion of pomegranates, orange trees, olive groves and vineyards.
“Jack Frost” has brought no tidings of autumn; consequently the leaves
are still green and the luscious fruits are still hanging upon the
boughs of the trees.

Leaving the hilltop we come down into the valley, and pitch our tents
under some large orange trees on the edge of the city. Oh, what a
privilege it is to be here! Nazareth is a holy city. It was the
childhood home of the Savior. Here is where Luke says “He was brought
up.” Again, “And when they had performed all things according to
the law of the Lord, they returned unto Galilee, to their own city,
Nazareth. And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with
wisdom, and the grace of God was upon him. And He went down with them
and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them; but His mother kept
all these sayings in her heart. And Jesus increased in wisdom and
stature and in favor with God and man.” Dutiful child! Model son! A
mother would naturally keep such a boy, as well as his “sayings, in
her heart.” No doubt He, in childish glee often played with other
children, only He never lost His temper. He never got angry and called
His playmates hard and ugly names. He was always kind and gentle;
consequently all His acquaintances and fellow playmates liked Him, and
the more they saw of Him the more they loved Him; for we are told “He
_grew_ in favor with God and man.” We are only human; and yet, with
God’s help, it is possible for us so to conduct ourselves that we, like
Jesus, may grow in wisdom and in favor with God and man.


Yes, Nazareth was the home of Christ. Here He played, here He worked,
here He studied Nature in all its loveliness and manifold beauty. One
who visits Nazareth can well imagine that in spring-time Jesus would
pluck the rose-buds and orange blossoms, and weave them into bouquets
for His mother. We know He loved flowers. He was so fond of them that
the betrayer knew where to find Him at the evening hour. It was he who
said: “Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they
spin: and yet I say unto you that Solomon, in all his glory, was not
arrayed like one of these.”

Knowing as we do His fondness for solitude, nothing is more natural
than to suppose that the youthful Christ would often forsake the
busy scenes of street-life and climb to the top of the hill back
of the city. In the valley He had studied nature and human nature;
on the mountain He could study God and revelation. From here His
view of the country was something like the catechism definition of
infinitude—“without bounds or limits.” Here, seated on a rock, leaning
against an olive tree, with the old Hebrew Bible unrolled on His lap,
He could read and think and plan to His heart’s content. Here He could
read about almost any event, whatsoever, and at once lift His eyes from
the parchment and let them fall upon the spot where the scene took
place. Did He read of the fish swallowing Jonah, He could look out
upon the heaving bosom of the Mediterranean, flecked with white-winged
ships, some of them no doubt bound for Tarshish. Did He read about
Elijah praying for rain, there was Mt. Carmel projecting into the sea
and standing out in such bold relief that one could almost see a man
standing on its summit. Did He read from the parchment of Elijah’s
contest with the priests of Baal, He could look there at the base of
Carmel where the altars were built. Looking to the north, He could see
Mt. Hermon where a few years later He was to be transfigured, and was
to meet Moses and Elias from the other world. In the same direction
was the hill where He was to preach a sermon to a great multitude;
there, also, and not far away, was Cana where His first miracle was
to be wrought. Eastward, He could see around the Sea of Galilee,
where He was to make His future home, and where He was to do “most of
His mighty works.” With His face still to the east, He could see Mt.
Tabor, six miles distant, rising up like a sugar-loaf to the height of
two thousand two hundred feet. Seeing this, He would naturally read
of Deborah and Barak with an army of ten thousand men on Tabor while
Sisera, with an armed host including nine hundred chariots of war,
stood at the base of the mountain. Just south of Nazareth is the broad
and fertile plain of Esdraelon, which has been the “battle-ground of
the nations.” From the hilltop behind Nazareth, Christ could see,
flowing through the midst of this plain, the river Kishon, whose swift
and swollen current swept so many of Sisera’s men on to the “Great Sea”
and to death. Beyond this plain He could see Nain where He, in after
life, was to raise the widow’s son. Near Nain is Endor, where Saul
called up the witch by night. There, also, are the heights of Gilboa,
where the same King breathed his last. There, too, is Shunem, where
Elisha often spent the night; and Jezreel, where Jezebel, the wicked
Queen, was flung from the upper window of the palace, and dashed to
death upon the stone pavement below.

I am standing upon this same hilltop with an open Bible in my hand. As
I read of these different incidents, and then look from place to place
where the different scenes occurred, I am deeply moved. These several
passages seem to sink into my heart. I am not surprised that Jesus knew
the Scriptures so perfectly. This was the best place in all the world
for Him to have been brought up. Surely these valleys were spread out,
and these hills lifted up to form a fit play-ground and a suitable
school-room for the Royal Child.

It was from a high bluff, on this mountain also, that the heartless
populace, who rejected Christ’s teaching, tried to “cast Him down
headlong. But He, passing through the midst of them, went His way.”
To be thrown from this cliff, one would fall a hundred and twenty or
thirty feet before striking the jagged rocks below.

Tradition still points out the place where Joseph and Mary lived. It
is a plain, simple grotto, hewn in the side of the hill near the city.
Joseph’s carpenter-shop is also shown, and some work is still done in
that shop. Of course one is to use his own judgment as to how much or
how little of these traditions he will believe. The spring, the only
water supply of the town, is called “Mary’s Fountain,” “The Virgin’s
Fountain” and “The Fountain of the Queen.” During all hours of the
day, and far into the night, one sees scores and scores of women and
children, with their jugs and goat-skins, crowding around the spring
for water.

It is a great privilege to be here and see these things that were once
so familiar to the Savior; to mingle and talk with these people who
live and dress and think now, just as their ancestors did in the time
of Christ. Of course they crowded around this fountain then just as
they do to-day, and no doubt He often came with His mother to this same
spring for water. Being here and seeing these things is almost like
being introduced into the family circle, and becoming acquainted with
the home life of Jesus.

At present Nazareth has 10,000 or 12,000 inhabitants. The houses, with
a few exceptions, are small, ancient and forbidding in appearance.
The narrow streets are crooked, and filthy in the extreme. The people
have little or nothing to recommend them to the traveler. When one
views this aspect of the city, one is naturally reminded of Nathaniel’s
question: “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?”

The English and Presbyterian churches have missions here. The former is
in a flourishing condition, but the latter is at a stand-still because
of some trouble with the Turkish government. The English have an
Orphans’ Home here in which they feed, clothe, and educate one hundred
orphan girls—as some go out others come in. Some of these girls are
almost grown, and many of them are bright and beautiful. I have just
had the sweet privilege of preaching to them. Oh, how it stirs one’s
heart to stand here in Nazareth and preach! to stand here where _Jesus
was brought up_, and preach _His gospel_ to _His people_—the Jews!
After preaching I sang several songs for the people. In turn, the
orphan girls in a sweet tone of voice sang for me a beautiful song
which touched me deeply, and which I have translated, that the reader
may also enjoy it.

  “We are little Nazareth children,
    And our Father placed our home
  ’Mid the olive trees and vineyards
    Of His earthly childhood home.

  “For the Lord who loves the children,
    And was glad to hear their praise,
  Cares that Nazareth children know Him,
    Do His will and choose His ways.

  “Cares that they should keep in memory
    All that sacred life spent here;
   Try in heart to walk beside Him,
    Safe and happy in His fear.

  “And we know that He is coming—
    Every knee to Him shall bow—
   And the joyous shouts to meet Him
    Shall begin in Nazareth now.

  “Jesus, Savior, dwell within us,
    Make a temple of each heart,
   Pure and loving, true and holy,
    For thy service set apart.”



 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.”

NOTHING could present a scene more characteristic of Oriental life than
a half dozen shepherd tents, black and dingy, pitched, not like Jacob’s
tent on the mountain top, but like Isaac’s tent in the valley, in the
midst of an olive grove, by the side of a flowing fountain. Here by the
tents is a corral, or sheep-cote, enclosed by a rock wall, on top of
which is a rough hedge of dry, thorny bushes, placed there to keep the
robbers, as well as the jackals and wolves and other wild beasts, from
molesting the sheep.

Many flocks, both of sheep and goats, are brought to this one cote for
protection during the night, and the swarthy shepherds, each with a
loose garment of coarse camel’s hair carelessly thrown around him to
hide his nakedness, occupy the tents in common.

Just across the ravine, on the opposite hillside, is a rough stone
house eight or ten feet high with a low, flat roof. This is a “Kahn,”
or an inn—a kind of lodging house to accommodate caravans which are
always passing between Egypt, Jerusalem, Damascus, Palmyra and Bagdad.


From an hour before the sun goes down, until eight o’clock at night,
one can see caravan after caravan of camels—sometimes a string of
them a half mile long—coming across the hills, laden with wines,
carpets, dried fruits, hand-made silks, Persian carpets, and all manner
of Oriental merchandise. Slowly, but patiently, these “ships of the
desert” move on beneath their immense cargo of freight. One caravan
after another comes in, until from 100 to 200 camels may be seen around
one Kahn. The burdens are removed, the several merchants putting their
goods in separate piles. The ships are anchored. The tired brutes lie
down and are fed. The merchants and camel-drivers gather round the
fire, seating themselves on the ground, folding their limbs up under
them as though they had no bones in them.

Beans, peas, dates, olives, mutton or kid—and sometimes both—are put
into one pot and all boiled together. When it is done, as many of these
hard-featured, grim-visaged, wrinkled-browed, shaggy-haired Arabs as
can, huddle around one bowl. They have no knives or forks. Sometimes
you see a wooden spoon, but usually they thrust their horny hands into
the bowl, and then cram their fists into their countenances—they
are the most open-countenanced people I ever saw. They are the most
ravenous eaters I ever saw. My dragoman offered to bet ten dollars that
one Arab could drink a quart of coffee, eat a roast turkey, two loaves
of bread, and three pounds of rice at one meal! And I am quite sure
that one who is acquainted with an Arab’s capacity for stuffing will
never make a wager like that.

The meal being over, a certain weed, used as tobacco, is brought out
and smoking is indulged in. Now the shepherds across the branch, with
their reed pipes strike up a plaintive tune which floats over the
valley and echoes from the distant hills. It strikes also a responsive
chord in the hearts of the merchants and camel-drivers. They now
bring out their rude instruments of music, and play and sing, chant
and dance, for hours, much after the order of wild Indians. In their
ideas of dress and propriety, in their customs and habits of life
generally, these children of the desert are as primitive, as rude and
uncultivated, as were their fathers 4000 years ago.

When they wake in the morning there is great stir, bustle and
confusion. As the merchants curse the camel-drivers, they in turn curse
and fight each other, and beat the camels. From the noise made one
would think that two great armies had met in deadly combat. They slap
and beat and kick each other around like madmen—I had almost said
“like fiends!” They sometimes put as much on one camel as two or three
ought to carry. The poor, faithful brutes can not speak audibly, but as
these double burdens are placed upon them, they lie on the ground and
bellow in a most pathetic manner. The pitiable cries of the dumb brutes
are almost enough to move the surrounding stones to tears, and yet
the heartless Arab is untouched. The more the camels bellow, the more
their masters beat them with sticks, and prick them with sharp spears.
Finally the ships are loaded, and soon you see them strung out across
the hills, some going south to Egypt, others going north to Damascus
and Beyrout, or east to Palmyra and Bagdad.

[Illustration: DANCING GIRL.]

As often as one sees a night like this, and especially when one sees it
near Dothan (the city of two wells), he thinks of the time when Jacob’s
sons stripped Joseph of his coat of many colors, and cast him into the
dry pit. And while yet on the plain of Dothan “they lifted up their
eyes and beheld a company of Ishmaelites, with camels, going down to

[Illustration: THE SNAKE CHARMER.]

“Then there passed by Midianites, merchant-men, and they drew and
lifted Joseph out of the pit, and sold him to the Ishmaelites for
twenty pieces of silver, and they brought Joseph into Egypt.” Around me
now are many money-loving Mohammedans, many cunning and crafty Jews,
who, I think, would willingly sell their younger brothers for twenty
pieces of silver, or ten pieces either. Yea, I have seen men in this
country, and in my own country, too, who would gladly sell their souls
for money. As in Joseph’s day, so in ours, “the love of money is the
root of all evil.”

[Illustration: AN ANCIENT SHEEP FOLD.]

Let us now return to the camp where the merchant-men spent the night.
I spoke of the shepherds, of their tents and flocks. The herds, both
sheep and goats, of different shepherds have been housed during the
night in the same fold. At dawn of day the shepherds awake, and, unlike
the thief and robber who climb up over the wall, they enter in by the
door. Each shepherd putteth forth his own flock, counting them as
they pass slowly out under his rod through the one doorway. As they
pass out, the sheep and the goats are separated—the one being turned
to the right hand, the other to the left. “Each shepherd calleth his
sheep by name and leadeth them out. He goeth before them and his sheep
follow him, for they know his voice.” The sheep string one behind
another, and as the shepherd, with his sling and leathern pouch filled
with stones strapped about his shoulders, with a crook in one hand
and a reed pipe in the other, leads his trusting flock out into the
“green pastures and beside the still waters,” he makes the welkin
ring with his simple, artless melodies. Who could behold a scene like
this without thinking of that robust shepherd lad who killed Goliath
with his sling, and charmed Saul with his music? Yes, it was among
the sheep, here on these purple hills of Judea, that David, the sweet
singer of Israel, first learned those Hebrew melodies that have been
sung around the world!

I have several times, on beautiful moonlight nights, seen shepherds out
in the fields with their flocks under the star-lit sky. It must have
been at a time like this that with upturned face David said: “When I
consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon and the stars,
which thou hast ordained; what is man that thou art mindful of him? and
the son of man that thou visitest him?”

How forcibly does this remind one of the time when the angelic host
undulated above the plains of Bethlehem crying: “Glory to God in
the highest; on earth, peace and good will to men.” This has been a
different world ever since that song fell upon the drowsy ear of night.



 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.

I READ in my Bible that a certain man went down from Jerusalem to
Jericho, and fell among thieves. When this announcement was made, I
am sure that every ear was all attention, for the people naturally
expected some startling revelation to follow. And why? Because the way
was then, and is now, lined with thieves, insomuch that it would be
impossible, to-day for any Frank (Arabs call white men Franks) to go
unprotected from Jerusalem to Jericho without falling among thieves.
This danger is recognized to such an extent that the government (the
Turkish government of course) keeps a garrison of Turkish soldiers
in Jerusalem, whose sole business is to conduct tourists to Jericho,
to the Jordan, and over into Arabia. And the tourist is compelled to
employ these government guards. Oh well, you are not legally bound,
but if you go on this trip without these extra guards, and are killed
on the way, you are not allowed to sue the government. But if you
take the guards, and are killed, after you are buried you may sue the
government twice, if you like. I am not easily frightened, myself, but
I took the guards on Johnson’s account, for I saw plainly he did not
want to die here. I honestly believe that it would almost kill Johnson
to die anywhere! So with four government guards, all well-equipped with
broad-swords, bowie-knives, and javelins, and all splendidly mounted,
we start off for an Eastern trip.

As we cross the Mount of Olives, a sacred feeling comes over us, for we
know that every foot of this road was once familiar to our Divine Lord.
It was here He prayed in the garden. It was here He was betrayed with a
kiss. It was on this Mountain He cursed the fruitless fig-tree. It was
from here, also, that He beheld and wept over the sinful city. Passing
over the brow of Olivet, we come, on its eastern slope, to that sweet
little village where Jesus often spent the night. Here He wept with
the sisters who wept, and raised the brother who was dead. Ah! blessed
household was that where Mary and Martha and Lazarus lived. Blessed
household is that to-day, whose spiritual atmosphere is attractive
to the Son of God. Oh, what a joyous time there must have been with
those two sisters and their brother—“when the Lord to Bethany came!”
Darkness fled at His approach. The shadows lifted when He came. O
gentle reader, make your home a Bethany, and Jesus, who forsook the
city for a quiet, country village, will take up His abode with you! He
will weep with you when you weep. He will revive your hopes when they
are buried.

[Illustration: MOUNT OF OLIVES.]

Continuing our journey eastward, we soon find ourselves in a deep and
narrow ravine. The floor of this wady, or ravine, is twelve or fifteen
feet wide, while its rocky sides lift themselves up very steeply for
three or four hundred feet, getting wider and yet wider towards the
top. I now turn to my Bible, and find that once upon a time David ruled
and reigned in Jerusalem. But Absalom rebelled against his father and
drove the King from the city. Fleeing towards Jericho, David passed
through this ravine. Then Shimei, one of Absalom’s servants, who
was also one of the household of Saul, ran along on the edge of the
precipice and cursed David, and rolled great stones down the steep
bluff, trying to kill him, saying to him: “Come out, come out, thou
bloody man, and thou man of Belial!”

[Illustration: AN ARAB HORSEMAN.]

Passing on through this historic wady, we come now to where it opens
wide its broad arms and forms a splendid valley of a hundred acres or
more. “Halt! Halt!” cries one of the guards. “Halt!” Every horse is
motionless. Every man is seized with terror. We expect the robbers to
attack us at any moment. But we soon dismiss all hope on that line,
for we see we are to be deprived of that privilege. Our guards simply
want to exhibit to us their splendid feats of horsemanship. And ah
me! how graceful they are. Each rider seems a part of his Arab horse.
The guards rush at, and fight each other, to show us how skilled they
are in this method of warfare, and how impossible it would be for us
to resist, or escape from an attacking party of Bedouins. Each horse
feels his keeping. He moves like a bundle of steel springs. It seems
that he will leave the earth and fly through the air. These superb
horses remind us of the beautiful story we have all read in the Arabian
Nights, about those splendid Arabian mares that used to prance through
the streets of Damascus, until break of day, and “then fly away towards
Bagdad on enchanted carpets.”

Leaving here, the way is so rough that I can but say to my companions:
“Pull off your coats, boys, pull off your coats, and roll up your
sleeves, ‘for Jordan am a hard road to trabble.’” No saying was ever
more true: _Jordan am a hard road to travel_!

We are now stopped for luncheon at a Kahn, or inn, half way from
Jerusalem to Jericho, about eleven miles from either place. Once
more I read in my Bible that a certain man went down from Jerusalem
to Jericho and fell among thieves. The thieves beat the man, dragged
him out to one side of the road, and left him for dead. But the Good
Samaritan came along, took the poor Jew who had been beaten, put him
on his donkey and carried him to an inn, and paid the inn-keeper to
take care of him. Now, reader, what will you think when I tell you
that I suppose I am stopping at the same inn where the Good Samaritan
left the unfortunate Jew? Let me take you into my confidence and tell
you why I think so. The road from Jerusalem to Jericho is the same now
that it was 2,000 years ago. We know this from the remains of the old
Roman aqueduct along the roadside. There is only one fountain on this
road, and that one is close by this Kahn. I take it that every Kahn, or
hotel, must, of necessity, be built near some fountain. Now if the road
was the same in our Lord’s time as it is to-day, and if then, as now,
there was only one fountain on the way, and if the inn, or Kahn, spoken
of in the Bible was built by a fountain, then we are forced to the
conclusion that it was near the spring from which we have just drunk.

[Illustration: A BEDOUIN.]

Be this as it may, we can not tarry here; we must continue our eastward
journey. About an hour after leaving the inn of Good Samaritan fame, we
see several half-naked, ill-favored, hard-featured, cadaverous-looking
Bedouins on the hillsides near the road. They are Brigands, highwaymen,
and their very appearance is enough to make a civilized man shudder.
They are wearing sandals. Their legs are wrapped with straw and bark of
trees, which is tied on with rawhide strings. They have coarse, filthy
clothes loosely drawn around the lower part of their bodies. Their arms
and breasts and chins and cheeks are tattooed in figures of eagles and
serpents and wild beasts. They are tall, lean, swarthy, snuff-colored,
grim-visaged, wrinkled-browed, shaggy-haired, and fiery-eyed. Around
each one is a leathern girdle, looped here and there with gay colored
ribbons or rags. Each belt holds a bowie-knife and two horse-pistols,
and supports a broad-sword suspended from it. In one hand the Brigand
holds a javelin, while the other grasps a long, single-barreled,
flint-and-steel shot-gun. They live in the clefts of the rocks—in the
dens and caves of the earth, and the cave-scent clings to them still.

These are the robbers against whom we have to be protected. They are
numerous along this route, and I repeat that without the government
guards it would be impossible to escape them. And yet our guards are
a part and parcel of the same clan, who would have robbed us if we
had not employed them. We pay the guards so much, and it is a fact
that they divide spoils with the Brigands! It is a kind of division
of labor. The robbers infest the road, making the way dangerous,
so that travelers will be compelled to employ protectors, and then
the protectors and robbers share and share alike in the profits of
the business. It is strange, and yet as true as strange, that the
government itself is in league with highwaymen! A certain sheik, here,
pays the Turkish government so much money each year for the privilege
of robbing travelers! If Peter the Hermit could come forth from his
tomb, he would speak these words in Europe: “where hearing would hatch
them.” I am sure that his words against the Turkish government would
“murder as they fell.” This is enough to arouse another “Crusade for
Freedom in Freedom’s Holy Land.” “How long, O Cataline, wilt thou thus
continue to abuse our patience!”

The country has been dreary and the road rough from the beginning of
the journey, but it grows worse as we continue. We now see nothing but
a succession of deep gorges, stony ridges, and rocky peaks. Imagine
a thousand tea-cups turned bottom upwards, separated by a thousand
deep wadys and narrow ravines, the cups, some of them, rising to the
height of several hundred feet, and the yawning chasms sinking to an
enormous depth, and you have a picture of what now greets my eyes. I
suppose that this mountain side once supported a luxuriant forest, and
that afterwards it rewarded the yeoman’s toil with abundant harvests.
But ages ago the hillside ditches were neglected; hence gutters were
formed, the soil was washed off, fertility gave way to barrenness,
beauty to deformity. Of course the ravines have from age to age washed
deeper and deeper, until now nothing is left but deep, winding chasms,
bare and desolate hills. The road winds around here and there like a
serpent. Now it hangs high on the bluff upon a narrow shelf of rock,
which projects over the valley. Johnson and Hamlin dismount. They know
that one false step would dash them to death. With more of daring than
wisdom I shout to them:

  “I wish your horses swift and sure of foot.
  And so I do commend you to their backs.”


We now descend into the valley, only to rise again, and skirt along the
bluff where the narrow road is cut into the rock.

But, praise the Lord, perilous places are past, and the scene changes.
We pass out of the Wady Kelt, and lo, the broad valley, the sacred
river, and the Salt Sea burst upon our vision! These things within
themselves are not so attractive to the eye, but, compared with the
hill-country behind us, they are as beautiful as “apples of gold in
baskets of silver.” For ten miles above the Dead Sea the Jordan valley
is fourteen miles wide, and is divided by the river which flows through
its centre. This part of the valley west of the river is called the
Plain of Jericho, while that portion beyond the river is known as the
Plain of Moab. So the valley, practically level, stretches out for
seven miles on either side of the river. Then on either side of the
river, seven miles from it, and parallel with it, there rises up a
frowning wall of rock whose savage grandeur might well typify ruin and
desolation. For ages the winter torrents have been coursing down their
sides, until now they are seamed and furrowed, cut and scarred in every
possible manner, and the mountains seem to writhe in pain and agony!

But we have left the hills. We are now in the valley, and here before
us, seven miles from the river, at the edge of the plain and at the
base of the mountain, stands Jericho, old hoary-headed Jericho—“The
City of Palm Trees.” She is venerable, indeed! It was Jericho that
Moses looked down upon from the heights of Nebo. It was Jericho that
furnished shelter to the “young men” who came from Israel’s camp to
“spy out the country.” It was Jericho that Joshua first attacked “after
crossing over the Jordan.” Her fortifications then were strong, her
walls high. Her people thought “Our castle’s strength will laugh a
siege to scorn.” But the bold spirit of Joshua was undaunted. It was
God’s to command and his to obey. He surrounded the city. He sounded
the tocsin. The walls fell! Now, reader, let us realize that when
God commands you or me to do anything, we should move forward though
confronted by walls of adamant! What is opposition to us? We move in
obedience to the behest of Him who could besiege a city with “trumps of
Joshua,” and route a host with the “lamps of Gideon!”

After Joshua’s day, Herod the Great rebuilt the city on a grander scale
than ever. Stately castles were erected, marble palaces arose on every
hand. Great wealth was lavished upon the city. She was robed in rich
apparel and decked with “rubies rare.” Here Herod held high carnival.
Here he ruled and reveled, and

  “All went merry as a marriage Bell.”

But Time has dealt harshly with Jericho. Fickle Fortune has played
her false. She has passed through all the vicissitudes of fortune.
Iron-fingered Fate has torn off her royal robes, and she sits to-day
clad in sackcloth and ashes. “Gray lizards, those heirs of ruin, of
sepulchres, and desolation, glide in and out among the rocks, or lie
still and sun themselves. Where prosperity has reigned and fallen;
where glory has flamed and gone out; where beauty has dwelt and passed
away; where gladness was, and sorrow is; where the pomp of life has
been, and silence and death brood in high places,—there this reptile
makes his home and mocks at human vanity. His coat is the color of
ashes, and ashes are the symbol of hopes that have perished; of
aspirations that have come to naught; of loves that are buried. If
he could speak he would say, ‘Build temples: I will lord it in their
ruins; build palaces: I will inhabit them; erect empires: I will
inherit them; bury your beautiful: I will watch the worms at their
work; and you who stand here and moralize over me: I will crawl over
your corpse at last.’”

The locations of ancient and of modern Jericho are not exactly the
same, though not far apart. The present village is inhabited by about
600 Arabs who are huddled together in less than seventy-five houses.
Houses, did I say? They are unworthy of the name. They are wretched
huts, constructed, for the most part, of rough, unhewn, undressed
stone. As these stones are put together without the use of mortar, the
walls are broad at the bottom, and get narrower and a little narrower
towards the top, which is about six feet from the ground. In each of
the four corners of this rock pen, is driven a stake which is usually
about eight feet high, or some two feet higher than the top of the
wall. Long, straight poles reach from one stake to another, then other
poles are placed like lattice work all across the top of the pen. A
thick layer of grass and weeds and cane tops having been placed on
these cross poles, dirt, or earth, is then piled up to a depth of from
eighteen to twenty-four inches. Thus the roof is formed. The floor
is more simple in its construction, as it is composed of the native
earth or bare rock. Doors are simply gaps in the wall. Windows and
chimneys are unknown, and indeed unnecessary—air-holes are abundant,
and the smoke can escape anywhere. The rude houses are separated from
each other, and the whole village is surrounded, by a low, rough hedge
of dry, thorny bushes. This is a fair representation of the present
architecture of Jericho. And the inhabitants are as lazy and trifling,
as filthy and ignorant, as the huts they live in would naturally
suggest. The children dress in sunshine, while the parents hide their
nakedness with rags and loose wraps of cloth.

The Plain of Jericho, seven by ten miles in extent, was at one time,
according to Josephus, “a divine region, covered with beautiful
gardens, and groves of palms of all kinds, the whole splendidly
watered.” The water supply, no doubt, came then, as it comes now, from
the Sultan’s Spring, or, as it is sometimes called, the Spring of
Elisha. This bold and beautiful fountain bursts forth from the foot of
the Judean hills some two miles from Jericho, and, flowing across the
plain in a southwesterly direction, empties into the Jordan. From the
main channel, a large number of small streams flow out in different
directions into the valley, and thus fructify a considerable portion
of the plain. The half cultivated patches we find here now, though
only partially irrigated, are exceedingly rich and productive. The
climate in this valley is suitable to the growth of almost any tropical
or warm-natured plant. But the meagre crops are confined to wheat,
millet, tobacco, cucumbers, and beans. On this plain, near the Wady
Kelt, through which we entered the valley, is a large stone reservoir,
471 feet by 564 feet, called the Pool of Moses. Going across the plain
to this mammoth pool, is an old aqueduct which evidently supplied it,
at one time, with water. Then smaller aqueducts carried the water to
all parts of the valley. This pool, and these aqueducts, were probably
built by Mark Antony just before he gave this region of country to
Cleopatra, or by Herod the Great, whose base life was ended at Jericho
in a fit of agony. By this means of irrigation the valley became what
it might be made again—“the glory of 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.

THE Plain of Moab, east of the Jordan, is, in character of soil and
state of cultivation, very much like the Jericho plain described in
the last chapter. The Plain of Moab is bounded on the east, as before
stated, by a wall of rock which lifts itself up at some places almost
perpendicularly, several hundred feet above the valley. From the top of
this mountain ridge there stretches far away toward the east, a broad,
elevated table-land, sloping gently as it recedes. This table-land is
traversed here and there by deep wadys and narrow ravines, most of
which have a general westwardly, direction, and empty their waters into
the Jordan and Dead Sea. This goodly land of Moab is about fifty miles
long by twenty broad, and this rolling plateau, though 3,200 feet above
the sea level, is remarkably rich and well watered. The country only
needs a wise head and an energetic hand to make these plains once more
blossom as the rose.

In order to enter the promised land, it was necessary for the
Israelites to pass through this delightful region of country.
Accordingly Moses “sent messengers unto Sihon, King of the Amorites,
saying, Let me pass through thy land: we will not turn into the fields,
or into the vineyards; we will not drink of the waters of the well: but
we will go along by the king’s highway, until we be past thy borders.”
A reasonable request this; but instead of granting it, “Sihon gathered
all his people together” and went out to fight against Israel; went
out to meet Moses and—death! Having routed the foe and possessed the
land, Israel marched into Heshbon, the imperial city. Heshbon, now
called Hasban, is situated among the hills of Moab, a little to the
north, and about eight miles to the east, of the Dead Sea. The ancient
city, as the present ruins clearly show, was situated on two high hills
some distance apart, east and west from each other, and on the saddle
connecting the two.

The inhabitants of this fair land ought to be gentlemen living like
kings and princes. But instead of that they are separate, independent,
and lawless clans or tribes of Arabs who live now, as in ancient times,
not altogether, but chiefly, on plunder and the spoils of war. These
clans east of the Jordan are now, and have always been, a curse to
Palestine. Frequently at night they swoop down like eagles upon the
inhabitants west of the river, rob them of their grain, and drive away
their camels, their flocks and herds. This practice frequently becomes
so common that the government is forced to protect the people by
keeping an armed body of soldiers along the river.

Lest the reader should think me unduly prejudiced against these sons
of the desert, I here introduce a quotation from the “Desert of the
Exodus.” Be it remembered that this splendid work was written by Prof.
E. H. Palmer, a member of the faculty of Cambridge University, England.
Perhaps no man has lived during the present generation who knew more
than he about Arab life and character. The fact that Prof. Palmer was
afterwards brutally murdered by these people shows that his estimate of
their character was correct and just. He says: “Robbery is not regarded
by the Bedawin as in the least a disgraceful thing, but ‘a man taketh
his sword, and goeth his way to rob and steal’ (Esdras IV., 23), with
a profound feeling of conscious rectitude and respectability. Several
plans have been tried, from time to time, to make him a respectable
member of society, but have signally failed; missionaries have gone to
him, and, so long as they could supply him with tobacco and keep open
tent for all comers, have found him sufficiently tractable. But they
have made absolutely no impression upon him, after all. Indeed, the
state of desert society has but little changed since the messenger
came in to the tent of Job, and said: ‘The Chaldeans made out three
bands, and fell upon the camels, and have carried them away, yea, and
slain the servants with the edge of the sword’” (Job I., 17).

“Agriculture might be made a means of improving the condition of the
Arabs; indeed, the only other method of attaining this end would be
to civilize them off the face of the earth altogether. By Arab I mean
the Bedawi, the typical son of Ishmael, ‘whose hand is against every
man,’ and who is as much hated and feared in the towns and villages
of Central Arabia as in Palestine. Wherever he goes, he brings with
him ruin, violence, and neglect. To call him a ‘son of the desert’
is a misnomer; half the desert owes its existence to him, and many
a fertile plain from which he has driven its useful and industrious
inhabitants becomes in his hands, like the ‘South Country,’ a parched
and barren wilderness. He has a constitutional dislike to work, and
is entirely unscrupulous as to the means he employs to live without
it; these qualities (which also adorn and make the thief and burglar
of civilization) he mistakes for evidences of thorough breeding, and
prides himself accordingly upon being one of Nature’s gentlemen.” (pp.
240, 241, 243).

There are so many dens and caves and strongholds in the mountains of
Moab that it would be next to impossible for the government to rid
herself of these Arab clans. I am told that now, and for many years
past, the most powerful of all these lawless tribes is the one called
Beni Sukrh, whose head quarters are the famous city and fortress of
Kerak. This stronghold is situated on the banks and near the mouth of
the river Arnon, which empties into the Dead Sea on the west side,
and about fifteen miles from its north end. This clan some years ago
captured Canon Tristram and party, and exacted from them a large sum
of money as a ransom. In his “Land of Moab” Tristram has given a
peculiarly striking description of the fortress Kerak, in which he,
himself, was prisoner. It is built on an isolated rock which rises
high in the air, and whose level summit is surrounded on all sides but
the eastern by chasms from 800 to 1,000 feet deep, and 100 feet wide,
with perpendicular sides. A well-built wall surrounds the brow of the
precipice on all sides, and the only two places of entrance are through
arches tunneled in the solid rock from the side of the precipice to the
level within. These narrow and well-guarded entrances are approached
by rock-hewn paths, barely wide enough for men or asses to walk on in
single file. This is one of the most impregnable strongholds on earth.
Gibraltar is not to be compared with it. In this citadel one could
safely say:

  “I will not be afraid of death and bane
  Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.”

This is the Kir-Hareseth of Scripture, and here it was that Mesha,
King of Moab, took refuge after his army was destroyed by the combined
forces of Israel, Judah, and Edom. These three kings cut Mesha’s army
to pieces, but they knew it was folly to besiege his castle. Coming to
this, they gave up in despair and went home. After their departure,
Mesha, filled with gratitude for the safety that this fortress afforded
him, “took his eldest son, that should have reigned in his stead, and
offered him for a burnt offering upon the wall.”

Probably it would be well in this connection to mention a celebrated
stone that I saw in a museum in Paris. Do you ask, “Why introduce that
stone here?” Because this is the proper place to introduce it. It is
the famous Moabite Stone that was found among the ruins of Dhiban not
many miles from this place. Dhiban (the Dibon of Scripture), situated
on two hills, is now only a ruined village, although the numerous
traces of buildings existing in the community indicate that it was
once a flourishing town. In 1868 Rev. F. A. Klein, a missionary of the
English church, while digging amid the rubbish of Dhiban, made the
fortunate discovery. This basaltic rock, two by three feet in size,
with one side covered by a Moabite inscription, has a strange history
and tells a wonderful tale.

When the stone was discovered a great ado was made over it. The
Prussian government sought and obtained permission to remove it. The
Bedouin tribe in whose territory it was found was offered an enormous
sum of money to part with it. Indeed, the amount offered was so great
that the Arabs thought the stone must be of untold value. The news
spread. Another tribe near by, hearing of the new-found stone and
the great price offered for it, marched over and claimed it as their
own. As about the “Slave Stone,” a quarrel and a war ensued between
the tribes, during which many men were slaughtered on both sides. The
Stone was broken, but afterwards the pieces were put together, and the
inscription was translated.

“The inscription,” says Prof. Palmer, “commemorates the reign of a
certain Mesha, King of Moab, and records the triumphs obtained by
him over Israel in the course of a long and sanguinary struggle. It
begins by setting forth his name and titles, and briefly recounts
his successful effort to throw off the yoke of the King of Israel;
then follows a list of bloody battles fought, of towns wrested from
the enemy, and of spoil and captives fallen into his hands. For
these conquests he returns solemn thanks to Chemosh, his god—‘the
abomination of Moab’—and glories with a religious fervor, that sounds
strangely to our ears, in having despoiled the sanctuary of Jehovah.”

The inscription concludes by setting forth the names of towns rebuilt
or fortified by the Moabite king, of altars raised to Chemosh, of
wells and cisterns dug, and other peaceful work accomplished. This
portion of the record is a most valuable addition to our knowledge
of sacred geography; for the names, as given on the Moabite Stone,
engraved by one who knew them in his daily life, are, in nearly every
case, absolutely identical with those found in the Bible itself and
testify to the wonderful integrity with which the Scriptures have been
preserved. So far we have the history of King Mesha’s rebellion from
his own Moabite point of view, and so far we read of nothing but his
success; but, if we turn to 2 Kings III: 5-27, we may look upon the
other side of the picture. In that passage we have a concise but vivid
account of the rebellion and temporary successes against Israel of this
same monarch. There we learn how the allied kings of Israel, Judah
and Edom, went against the rebellious prince; how they marched by way
of Edom, that is, round by the southern end of the Dead Sea; how they
devastated the land of Moab, and drove their foeman to take refuge in
his fortress of Kir-Haraseth, in Wady Kerak. The passage referred to
above speaks of the author of the Dhiban inscription in the following

“And Mesha, King of Moab, was a sheep-master, and rendered unto the
King of Israel an hundred thousand lambs and an hundred thousand
rams with wool.” (2 Kings III: 4). Here, again, the Bible receives
fresh confirmation from geographical facts; Moab, with its extensive
grass-covered uplands, is even now an essentially sheepbreeding
country, although the “fenced cities and folds for sheep,” of which
mention is made in the Book of Numbers (XXXII: 36), are all in ruins.
But in its palmier days, when those rich pastures were covered with
flocks, no more appropriate title could have been given to the king of
such a country than that he “was a sheep-master.”

In this same mountainous region, about six miles north of Kerak, near
the head of a deep wady which empties into the Dead Sea, is situated
Machaerus, where the head-man’s ax ended the earthly life of John
the Baptist, the forerunner of Christ. Machaerus, like Kerak, is a
natural fortress—one of Nature’s strongholds. Josephus describes it
as follows: “The nature of the place was very capable of affording the
surest hopes of safety to those that possessed it, as well as delay and
fear to those that should attack it; for what was walled in was itself
a very rocky hill, elevated to a very great height, which circumstance
alone made it very hard to be subdued. It was also so contrived by
nature that it could not be easily ascended; for it is, as it were,
ditched about with such valleys on all sides, and to such a depth,
that the eye can not reach their bottoms, and such as are not easily
to be passed over, and even such as it is impossible to fill up with
earth. For that valley which cuts it on the west extends to three score
furlongs; on the same side it was also that Machaerus had the tallest
top of its hill elevated above the rest. But then for the valleys
that lay on the north and south sides, although they be not so large
as that already described, yet it is in like manner an impracticable
thing to think of getting over them; and for the valley that lies on
the east side, its depth is found to be no less than a hundred cubits.
It extends as far as a mountain that lies over against Machaerus, with
which it is bounded. Herod built a wall round on top of the hill, and
erected towers at the corners a hundred and sixty cubits high; in the
middle of which place he built a palace, after a magnificent manner,
wherein were large and beautiful edifices. He also made a great many
reservoirs for the reception of water, that there might be plenty of it
ready for all uses” (Wars VI: 1-2).

Inside of this impregnable fortress, the traveler of to-day finds two
prison chambers cut in the solid rock. These rock-hewn dungeons once
echoed the tread, and resounded with the songs and prayers, of that
strong-charactered and iron-willed man of God who came to prepare the
way of the Lord—to make His paths straight! It makes one shudder to
stand here amidst the solemn grandeur of these storm-beaten rocks,
and contemplate the tragic history of this great man. A great man?
Yes. It was John the Baptist who first had the courage to stand before
his fellow-countrymen, and, looking them squarely in the face, say:
“Repent ye; for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” With stentorian
voice he cried: “O, generation of vipers;” “the ax is laid at the root
of the tree;” “God is able of these stones to raise up children unto
Abraham.” “He that cometh after me shall baptize you with fire, He will
thoroughly purge His floor and will burn up the chaff with unquenchable
fire.” It was John the Baptist who buried Christ the Lord in yonder
rolling river. It was John the Baptist who pointed to Him and said:
“Behold, the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world.”

I thank God for the life and character of John the Baptist who,
after all the honors heaped upon him, could say, I am nobody—I am
simply the _voice_ of One crying in the wilderness. He that cometh
after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear. He
must _increase_ but I must _decrease_. Yes, John said that he was
nobody—that he was only a _voice_, and yet Jesus says: “Among those
born of women there hath not arisen a greater than John the Baptist.”
Oh, to be _nobody_! Oh, to be only the _voice of Jesus_, calling
men unto righteousness, and warning them to flee the wrath to come!
Oh, that the writer and the reader of this chapter may “rise upon
the stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things!” O, God,
graciously grant, I pray thee, that both writer and reader may realize
that the _magnitude of any life is to be determined by the distance of
self from the centre_!

In the same chasm with Machaerus, and not far away, there is a group of
ten hot springs bursting forth from the side of the wady one hundred
feet or more from its rocky bed. Although in close proximity to each
other these springs vary in temperature from 130 to 142 degrees.
According to Josephus, some of these fountains are bitter and others
sweet. The waters are said to possess great medicinal properties and
healing virtues. The maimed, the halt, and the blind resort hither in
search of health. While living at Jericho, just before his death, Herod
the Great, according to Josephus, came to these springs hoping to drown
his disease. But the wicked, adulterous, murderous Herod was not so
sick, I trow,

  “As he was troubled with thick-coming fancies
  That kept him from his rest.”

Herod was a murderer; and wash his guilt away he never could. He might
wash, and wash and wash, and cry: “Out, out damned spot!” But there was
the “smell of blood still.” He might have said as Macbeth afterwards

  “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
  Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
  The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
  Making the green one red.”

North of Machaerus, and not far from Heshbon, is Mt. Nebo from which
Moses viewed the land of promise, and upon which, also, he breathed
his last. This peak, as one would naturally suppose, commands a fine
view of the surrounding country. For twenty miles to the south and
southeast, one’s eyes sweep over an elevated table-land of unusual
richness and beauty. The range of vision toward the rising sun extends
to where the blue sky and the sandy desert meet. Looking westward one
sees the valley of the Jordan, and traces the wanderings of the river
from the Sea of Galilee to the Dead Sea. Beyond the Jordan is the land
of “milk and honey” that Moses was never allowed to enter. Moses came
up hither from the plain of Moab, and the Lord showed him the country
and said unto him, “This is the land which I sware unto Abraham, unto
Isaac, and unto Jacob saying, I will give it unto thy seed: I have
caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over
thither. So Moses the servant of the Lord died there in the land of
Moab, according to the word of the Lord. And he buried him in a valley
in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his
sepulchre unto this day. And Moses was an hundred and twenty years old
when he died: his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated.”

As the reader sits in his swinging hammock beneath the wide-spreading
branches of some great oak and pronounces these words to a listening
friend, they may sound light and trifling. But if he could stand here
where I am, and lift his eyes from the sacred page and let them fall
at once upon the surrounding hills and valleys, methinks these words
would then each _weigh a pound_. I have never studied the life of any
mortal man with the same degree of interest that I now study the life
and character of Moses. Probably it is all the more enjoyable because
I have been down in Egypt where Moses was born. I have been sailing up
and down the Nile where Moses once floated in the ark of bulrushes. As
I sat in a boat on the broad bosom of that majestic river, and looked
out upon its banks, I half-way imagined that I could see Moses’s mother
weaving the ark. Reader, would you know how that ark was made? Well,
it was on this wise. Moses’s mother took a bulrush, and a prayer, and
faith, and a tear, and plaited them together. Then more faith, and
tears, and bulrushes, and prayers, and plaited them together. When a
mother has thus woven an ark, she can trustingly launch her babe upon
any waters! And I am persuaded that if we, in our Christian work, would
use more faith and tears and prayers and less bulrushes, it would be
far better for our Redeemer’s Kingdom.

I repeat that I have been in Egypt where Moses was born; on the Nile
where he floated; to Pharaoh’s court where he was educated; I have been
out on the desert where Moses killed an Egyptian because he imposed
upon a Hebrew. I then climbed to the top of the regal pyramid, and
looked out over the land of Goshen where Israel served four hundred
years in bondage. I followed Moses down to the Red Sea where he led
Israel across. I looked up to the frowning brow of Sinai where Moses
met God face to face, and talked with him as man to man; where he
reached up and received from the hand of God the tables of stone on
which were written the Ten Commandments.

After following Moses around in the wilderness to some extent, I have
come now to where his eyes were closed in death. The inhabitants of
this country have no written history, but they know a great deal
traditionally about the life and character of Moses. Many weird stories
and beautiful legends concerning him have been handed down from
generation to generation, and are as fresh in the minds of the people
to-day as if he had died within the recollection of some now living.
Frequently in these stories Scripture history and legendary lore are
beautifully interwoven. For instance, the people here say that Moses
with three million Jews had camped on the plain of Moab. And God said
unto him, “Moses, get thee up into yonder mountain, and I will show
thee from thence the land of promise.” When God spake Moses obeyed—he
started at once. Standing high upon the mountain side he looked back
upon the tabernacle and the tents of Israel. The people followed
him with their prayers and blessings. He paused, looked back at his
brethren, and waved them a last adieu, as if to say,

  “Fare thee well, and if forever,
  Still forever fare thee well.”

Then with his face turned toward the mountain top, and his heart
lifted to heaven, he continued his onward, upward journey, climbing
higher and higher, until after a while there was nothing at all above
him save eagles, and stars, and God. Away up here above the earth
Moses saw two men—two angels in the form of men, and said unto them,
“Brethren, what are you doing?” “We are digging a grave, sir.” “For
whom are you digging the grave?” “We know not for whom it is. God told
us to dig it, and we are simply doing His bidding. And, Moses,” they
continue, “the man for whom we are digging this grave is the best
creature in all the earth—God loves him well. He is just about your
size, and, Moses, we do not know whether this grave is long enough and
deep enough. Will you please lie down here and measure it for us?”
Moses responded, “Yea, brethren, if you request it.” “We do request
it.” So Moses lay down to measure the grave for them, and they stooped
over and kissed him to sleep, and Moses was dead.

These people have other legends about Moses as pathetic and beautiful
as the one just given. But we have seen enough to know that

  “By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
    On this side Jordan’s wave,
  In a vale in the land of Moab,
    There lies a lonely grave.
  And no man dug that sepulchre,
    And no man saw it e’er;
  For the Angels of God upturned the sod,
    And laid the dead man there.

  “That was the grandest funeral
    That ever passed on earth;
  But no man heard the trampling,
    Or saw the train go forth.
  Noiselessly as the daylight
    Comes when the night is done,
  And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek
    Grows into the great sun—

  “Noiselessly as the spring-time
    Her crown of verdure weaves,
  And all the trees on all the hills
    Open their thousand leaves—
  So, without sound of music,
    Or voice of them that wept,
  Silently down from the mountain crown
    The great procession swept.

  “This was the bravest warrior
    That ever buckled sword;
  This the most gifted poet
    That ever breathed a word;
  And never earth’s philosopher
    Traced, with his golden pen,
  On the deathless page, truths half so sage,
    As he wrote down for men.

  “And had he not high honor?
    The hillside for his pall;
  To lie in state while angels wait
    With stars for tapers tall;
  And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,
    Over his bier to wave;
  And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,
    To lay him in the grave.

  “In that deep grave, without a name,
    Whence uncoffined clay
  Shall break again—most wondrous thought—
    Before the Judgment-day,
  And stand with glory wrapped around
    On the hills he never trod,
  And speak of the strife that won our life
    With the Incarnate Son of God.

  “Oh, lonely tomb in Moab’s land,
    Oh, dark Beth-peor’s hill,
  Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
    And teach them to be still.
  God hath his mysteries of grace—
    Ways we can not tell;
  He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
    Of him he loved so well.”

If we would learn a lesson from the life and character of this
great man, let it be this: In all things we are to obey God, both
in the spirit and the letter of the law, remembering that for _one
disobedience Moses was not allowed to enter the promised land_.



 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.

I AM now, as never before, impressed with this thought; that God’s
plans and purposes never depend upon any one man. When Moses was no
more, Joshua took up, and carried on to completion, his unfinished
work. We also have here a beautiful example of how the labors of God’s
servants are interlinked with each other. Moses liberated Israel from
Egyptian bondage, but it was left for Joshua to lead them into the
promised land. Forty years they had wandered in the wilderness, warring
with the different tribes through whose territory they had passed;
forty years they had been miraculously fed with manna; forty years
they were guided by a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by
night,—but at last the gladsome day came when they were to exchange
the stony wilderness for the land that flowed with milk and honey.
There was joy in the camp. With happy hearts and strong hands, three
million Hebrews folded their tents and marched side by side, shoulder
to shoulder, to the river’s brink. And I am sure that while there they
sang in spirit, if not in letter:

  “On Jordan’s stormy banks we stand,
    And cast a wishful eye
  To Canaan’s fair and happy land,
    Where our possessions lie.”


It is well to walk in the footsteps of great men; so having followed
Moses out of Egypt, let us now follow Joshua into Canaan. Leaving
Nebo’s summit, and coming down on the north side of the mountain,
we find at its base a bold spring which bears the name of the great
law-giver. Around this spring of Moses the hosts of Israel, it is
supposed, pitched their tents. Still following Joshua, we soon find
ourselves standing on the banks of the Jordan. Ah, sacred river! How
it thrills me to be here! “Thy banks, winding in a thousand graceful
mazes, are fringed with perpetual verdure; thy pathway is cheered with
the sight and song of birds, and by thy own clear voice of gushing
minstrelsy. There is a pleasure in the green-wooded banks, seen far
along the sloping valley; a tracery of life, amid the death and dust
that hem thee in, so like some trace of gentleness in a corrupt and
wicked heart.”

I have crossed many important streams. I have been on the Rio Grande; I
have sailed up and down the Mississippi and the Ohio, the Hudson and
the St. Lawrence; I have sailed on the Thames through London; on the
Seine through Paris; on the Tiber through Rome; on the Rhine through
Germany; on the Danube through all western Europe; and the Nile through
Egypt,—and yet I freely acknowledge that I was never so moved by any
stream as by the sight of this historic river. It was the Jordan that
divided and let the children of Israel pass over on dry ground. It was
the Jordan whose waters cleansed Naaman of his leprosy. It was the
Jordan whose stream floated an ax at the prophet’s command. It was
the Jordan, also, on whose banks another prophet stood and preached
repentance, and in whose waters he buried Christ in baptism. John the
Baptist was a man after my own heart. He came on the stage of action
filled and fired with a purpose. He was conscious of a commission from
God. He believed, therefore he spoke; and, as he spoke, the people left
their homes and hovels in Jerusalem, Judea, and all the region round
about Jordan, and flocked to hear him.

Reader, we are on historic ground. Stand here with me on the banks of
the stream, and let us behold a sacred scene together. The river here
makes a graceful curve towards the east, and is at this point about
fifty yards or one hundred and fifty feet wide. The western bank, on
which we stand, is low and level, not more than eighteen inches or two
feet above the surface of the river, and gently slopes down to the
water. The opposite bank is a wall of rock, rising up perpendicularly
for eighteen or twenty feet, then receding beautifully in a terrace,
another terrace, and another one still. Terraces rise above and beyond
each other like seats in an opera-house. These terraces gracefully
stretch themselves along the rocky bluff of this river for two hundred
yards or more, until at least a hundred and fifty or two hundred
thousand people could be so seated along the terraced bluff as to look
down upon its watery surface. Let us in our imagination re-people
all these terraces with the Jews of old, with their quaint, Eastern
costumes, with their hard faces and beaming eyes. There they sit,
rising tier above tier.

Now on this low bank, not far from us, stands the preacher in the midst
of a great concourse of people. Every ear is all attention, every eye
is on the preacher. See! his bosom heaves, his face glows, his eyes
sparkle, his words burn. His sentences strike, swift and glittering,
like lightning flashes midst the roll of judgment-day thunders. Terrors
of the day of wrath roll over his hearers as the foremost thought;
sounds of hope break in, like soft music, to keep the contrite from
despair. The moral world seems to shake. The people realize as never
before their sin, their guilt, their need of a Savior. In their hearts
they want, they yearn for, the promised Messiah.

Now, lifting his eyes above the motley multitude, John beholds a
strange personage coming towards him. Rough and rugged, bold and
heroic, John is not a man to shrink from his fellows. He is no reed
to be shaken by the wind. But, see! he trembles as the stranger
approaches. Spiritual greatness wears a kingly crown which compels
instant reverence. John, a moment ago as bold as a lion, is now as meek
as a lamb. Shrinking from the new-comer he says, “I have need to be
baptized of thee, and comest thou to me?” Jesus, answering, said unto
him, “Suffer it to be so now, for thus it becometh us to fulfill all

Then leading Jesus down into the river he baptizes Him; and immediately
the heavens are opened, the Spirit of God, like a dove, descends and
lights upon Him. There is the Son with the Spirit resting upon His
head, and, lo! a voice from heaven, saying, “This is my beloved Son in
whom I am well pleased.” The vast multitude who witness this strange
sight are deeply moved. They are profoundly impressed. What means
this strange baptism, this descent of the Spirit, this voice of God?
What means it all? Who is this new-comer? John answers by pointing to
Jesus and saying, “Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of
the world.” As if to say, “This is He of whom Moses and the prophets
did write—of whom I have told you, and before whom every earthly
monarch shall bow.” This day have the people witnessed one of the most
wonderful events in the history of the world—a direct manifestation of
the Triune God. There has this day begun an agitation and stir among
the people that shall end in a tragedy on Calvary.

These scenes have made the Jordan a sacred river. From the days of
Constantine, to bathe or to be baptized in this river has been regarded
a great privilege. We are told that “in the sixth century, marble steps
led down into the water on both sides, at the spot where it is believed
our Lord was baptized, while a wooden cross rose in the middle of the
stream.” Nor has reverence for this river diminished. On the contrary,
it seems to have increased. Each year, during the week preceding Easter
Sunday, thousands and thousands of people, from all parts of the world,
assemble in Jerusalem and pitch their tents on the surrounding hills.
They continue to come until the hills round about Jerusalem look like
one far-reaching city of many-colored tents.

Easter Sunday, with its strange ceremonies and joyous songs, is over.
Monday morning, bright and early, there is great bustle and confusion
in the camp. Every tent is folded. Camels, mules, and donkeys are
packed ready for travel. The people mount—sometimes whole families of
five or six on one camel. Some of the number stride the animal, while
others are suspended in baskets which are tied together and hang on
either side. Leaving Jerusalem, the pilgrims, in one great caravan,
under the protection of the Turkish government, start out for the
“Sacred River.” The Kedron valley and the side of the Mount of Olives
are filled with inhabitants of Jerusalem and the surrounding villages,
who have come out to see the annual procession pass. On they go, an
escort of Turkish soldiers with a white flag and sweet music leading
the way. Then come camels and asses laden with pilgrims of every age
and condition, of every clime and country, clad in costumes of every
variety of cut and color, while a second group of soldiers, with the
green standard of the prophet, closes the long procession.

As the shadows of evening begin to fall, the pilgrims pitch their tents
by Elisha’s Fountain in the plain of Jericho. At night the whole plain
is dotted with cheerful camp-fires. Gathering here, in groups of two or
three hundred, the people engage with great enthusiasm in a weird kind
of ceremony which is to prepare them for the next day. At a late hour
they fall asleep.

The scene that follows their waking is vividly described by Lieut.
Lynch of the U. S. Navy. He says: “At 3 A.M., we were aroused by the
intelligence that the pilgrims were coming. Rising in haste, we beheld
thousands of torchlights, with a dark mass beneath, moving rapidly over
the hills. Striking our tents with precipation, we hurriedly removed
them and all our effects a short distance to the left. We had scarce
finished, when they were upon us:—men, women, and children, mounted on
camels, horses, mules, and donkeys, rushed impetuously by toward the
bank. They presented the appearance of fugitives from a routed army.

“Our Bedawin friends here stood us in good stead;—sticking their
tufted spears before our tents, they mounted their steeds and formed a
military cordon around us. But for them we should have been run down,
and most of our effects trampled upon, scattered and lost. In all the
wild haste of a disorderly rout, Copts and Russians, Poles, Armenians,
Greeks and Syrians, from all parts of Asia, from Europe, from Africa,
and from far-distant America, on they came; men, women and children, of
every age and hue, and in every variety of costume; talking, screaming,
shouting, in almost every known language under the sun.

“Mounted as variously as those who had preceded them, many of the women
and children were suspended in baskets or confined in cages; and, with
their eyes strained toward the river, heedless of all intervening
obstacles, they hurried eagerly forward, and dismounting in haste
and disrobing with precipitation, rushed down the bank and threw
themselves into the stream. Each one plunged himself, or was dipped
by another, three times, below the surface, in honor of the Trinity;
and then filled a bottle, or some other utensil, from the river. The
bathing-dress of many of the pilgrims was a white gown with a black
cross upon it.

“In an hour they began to disappear; and in less time than three hours
the trodden surface of the lately crowded bank reflected no human
shadow. The pageant disappeared as rapidly as it had approached, and
left to us once more the silence and the solitude of the wilderness. It
was like a dream. An immense crowd of human beings, said to be 8,000,
but I thought not so many, had passed and re-passed before our tents,
and left not a vestige behind them.”

These pilgrims come in such haste and confusion that frequently
some of their number are drowned. And yet so great is the fanatical
enthusiasm of the crowd that little or no concern is awakened by the
ill-timed death of the unfortunates. The usual bathing-dress is a long,
loose-flowing, white gown. After bathing, the pilgrims carefully fold
up these robes, thus consecrated, and carry them home with them to
far-distant lands, in different parts of the world, and use them as

I have never seen a better place for bathing and swimming. From the
west side one wades down into the river, getting deeper and deeper the
farther he goes from the bank. When about half way across, the water
becomes too deep for wading, and close to the eastern bank it is so
deep that one can hardly dive to the bottom. One finds water any depth
from two to twelve feet. The bottom, being composed of sand and smooth
rock, is all that could be desired. We are so delighted to be here
that we hardly know how to leave. We remain, day after day, reading,
fishing, swimming. We catch several messes of sweet, fresh fish, and
fry and eat them on the banks of the stream.

Having spoken somewhat at length about that place in the Jordan where
it is supposed, with reasonable certainty, the Savior was baptized,
and which is also the bathing-place of the pilgrims, I now proceed to
describe the river from one end to the other. But, before speaking of
the river proper, I desire to say something concerning the Ghor, or
_valley_, of the Jordan.

Beginning at the upper end of the Dead Sea, the Jordan valley extends
one hundred and ten miles directly northward. It varies from three
to ten miles in width, and has an average width of six miles. Now
this valley, one hundred and ten miles long and six miles wide, is
shut in on the east and west by great walls of rock. The eastern
bluff is bolder than the one on the west—that is, it is more nearly
perpendicular. It is also more regular as to altitude, the height
ranging probably from 1,800 to 2,000 feet. The western wall, though
less regular than the other, is sometimes as precipitous, and has some
peaks that are as high, if not higher.

The entire valley is very deep, its northern end being 700 feet lower
than the Mediterranean, while its southern end is 600 feet lower still.
The whole valley is therefore one vast inclined plane, sloping from
north to south. Through this valley, somewhat nearer to the eastern
than to the western side, the Jordan winds its serpentine path.

The river has its source in three bold springs near the upper end of
the valley. One of these springs bursts forth from the side of Mt.
Hermon, 2,200 feet _above_ the Mediterranean. A second strong spring
gushes out from under a bold rock-cliff at Caesarea Philippi. These two
springs are on the eastern side of the valley, while the third, which
is of itself a small river, issues from the foot of the western hills,
near the city of Dan. All of these fountains are large and beautiful.
All of them send forth copious streams of fresh and sparkling water.
Any one of them could run a half dozen mills, or factories, or irrigate
the whole valley. These crystal waters, after flowing gently, and
sometimes rushing madly, along their separate courses, unite for the
first time in the little Lake of Huleh, or the waters of Merom, as it
is often called.

Huleh, about two by four miles square, is in the southern end of an
exceedingly rich and fertile plain. In this plain, and around these
waters, Joshua had some of his hardest-fought battles. Leaving this
lake, the waters flow rapidly through a narrow, rocky gorge for eleven
miles, and then empty into the Sea of Galilee, which is, in round
numbers, 700 feet _lower_ than the surface of the Mediterranean.
Remember, one spring came out from Hermon’s side 2,200 feet above the
Mediterranean. In the short distance of thirty-six miles, therefore,
the waters have fallen 2,900 feet!

[Illustration: A FORD OF THE JORDAN.]

The Jordan proper is the stream connecting the Sea of Galilee and the
Dead Sea. These seas are only sixty-five miles apart; but the river,
as if reluctant to enter that bitter Sea of Death, winds and twists
so like a serpent that the water, in going from one sea to the other,
flows two hundred miles, and empties at last into the Dead Sea, 1,300
feet below the Mediterranean!

The Jordan has three sets of banks, which are marked with more or
less distinctness according as the hills approach near to, or recede
from, the river. Ordinarily, of course, the stream is confined within
the lower banks. But during the annual rise the water over-flows
these lower banks, and spreads out over the valley between the second
terraces, or banks. No important tributaries are received from the
west; but the Hieromax and the Jabbok, each a small river, empty into
the Jordan from the east. The river is crossed by four well-known
fords; one just below the Sea of Galilee, another just above the mouth
of the Jabbok. The third and fourth are respectively above and below
the pilgrim’s bathing-place, which is about two and a half miles north
of the Dead Sea. No bridge spans the river at present, but the remains
of old Roman bridges may still be seen at some of the fords.

In some places, the channel of the river is shut in by rock banks,
steep and precipitous. At others, the banks are of sand, or rich
earth, and rise only a few feet above the surface of the water.
Sometimes one bank is a bold rock cliff, rising abruptly, while the
other slopes gently up from the river, and stretches out to join the
fertile plain.

Since the Jordan has its source in a fountain bursting out of a
mountain side 2,200 feet above the Mediterranean, and since it empties
into the Dead Sea 1,300 feet below the Mediterranean, a great many
people falsely conclude that the river must, of necessity, be very
swift. I grant that this seems a strong argument. Think of a river 136
miles long having a fall of 3,500 feet! The natural supposition is that
such a stream would be exceedingly swift. But not so. The facts will
not bear out the supposition. To be swift, a stream must have not only
a great fall, but it must have, also, a comparatively straight channel.
The Jordan is probably the most crooked river on earth. In a space of
sixty-five miles of latitude, and five or six miles of longitude, it
traverses at least two hundred miles. In some places, to be sure, the
current is swift, as there are thirty or more falls, or rapids, in the
Jordan. Some of these are quite marked, while others are less so. While
near these falls, the stream is swift. In other places the water is
deep, and moves sluggishly.

In speaking of the velocity of the water, it might be well to mention
that a few years ago Lieut. Lynch, under appointment of the United
States government, navigated the river from one end to the other. He
met with many difficulties and some dangers. Shooting the rapids was
perilous work. One of his boats was dashed against the rocks and went
to pieces. Lieut. Lynch’s official report to the United States Navy
department is the fullest, most accurate, and reliable description of
the Jordan that has ever been published in this country.

Again. Inasmuch as the Jordan rises in the mountains, and is constantly
fed by the melting snows of Hermon, some philosophical students have
argued that the water must necessarily be very cold at all times. But a
few facts are worth a cartload of theories. And, as a matter of fact,
the water of the Jordan is not cold, except during the winter season;
and even then the temperature is by no means low. I bathed in the
Jordan repeatedly; once as late as the Fifteenth of December, and the
water was even then of a delightful temperature for bathing.

The river valley is so deeply depressed that scarcely a breath of air
is felt during the hot season. On this point, Dr. Geikie says: “The
heat of the Jordan plains is very great in summer, and oppressive even
in spring; while in autumn it becomes very unhealthy for strangers. In
May, the thermometer ranges from about 86 degrees in the early forenoon
to over 100 degrees in the beginning of the afternoon, standing, even
in the shade, at over 90 degrees.” The annual mean temperature of the
lower Jordan valley is between 70 and 75 degrees Fahrenheit. From the
above facts, the reader will readily see that it is quite impossible
for a stream flowing through this valley ever to reach a very low


The stream is from seventy-five to three hundred feet wide, and
probably has an average depth of six and a half feet, or more, even
during the dry season. At some places, however, the depth is much
greater than this. Here and there, islands, robed in garments of living
green, and decked with flowers of every hue, float, fairy-like, upon
the bosom of the river.

The terraces along the river are frequently one mass of vegetation.
The weeping-willow grows on the banks, and dips her flowing tresses in
the sacred stream. As one follows the windings of the historic river,
his way is continually cheered by the gushing sound of some crystal
rivulet, by the beauty and fragrance of the flowers, by the sight and
song of birds. The tangled vine, the matted cane, the thick-growing
forest trees of considerable size, and a great variety of undergrowth,
form a general rendezvous for wild animals, and a perfect paradise for
birds. Hyenas, tigers, wild boars, and bears abound here, especially
on the eastern side of the river. Here hawks, herons, pigeons, ducks,
doves, and swallows build their nest and raise their young. Here also
the bulbul and the nightingale sing their songs of praise.



 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.

THE Dead Sea is, in many respects, the most wonderful body of water
known to history. It is the lowest body of water on earth. Its surface
is 1,300 feet lower than the surface of the Mediterranean, though the
two seas are only sixty-five miles apart. It receives 6,000,000 tons,
or 20,000,000 cubic feet, of water each day; and, while it has no
possible outlet, it never fills up. It is no fuller now than it was a
thousand years ago. This Sea of Death is wonderful for another reason.
While it is forty-six miles long, thirteen miles wide, and while the
water is 1,310 feet deep, I can walk across it and never get wet above
my waist! I walk out into the sea for a mile or more—I walk not on the
water, but in it. I fold my hands across my breast, stretch them out
over the water, or lock them over my head, as I choose. I try to sink
and can not. I never felt so much like a gourd in all my life. I sit
down upon the water like a feather-bed. When tired I lie down. Some
men lie when they stand up; but when I lie I am prostrated. I lie on
the water, roll over, kick my feet in the air,—but all my attempts
at sinking meet with an inglorious failure. Johnson says a man who
will not sink in clear water must be of little weight in the world.
Determined to make one more effort, I climb to a projecting rock from
which I plunge head foremost into the sea. A moment later I am tossed
into the air like a cork. Again I strike the water, and again rebound.
I am, seemingly, about as heavy on the stomach of the Dead Sea as Jonah
was on the stomach of a live whale. He was spewed up—so am I.

Coming up out of the water I find myself completely covered with a thin
crust of salt. I hardly know who I am. Johnson suggests that I may be
Lot’s wife. One thing is sure; I have a better complexion—at any rate
I am whiter now than ever before. Johnson asks why it is that one can
not sink in the Dead Sea. The specific gravity of the water is very
great. This, of course, makes the water very buoyant, and renders it
impossible for one to sink. The extra weight of the water is caused by
the great amount of salt in the sea. It is a much easier matter to swim
in the ocean than in a running stream, because the former is salt and,
therefore, buoyant. This is true, notwithstanding the fact that only
four per cent of ocean water is salt. Four per cent is enough to make
the ocean very salt and buoyant. But of the Dead Sea water twenty-six
to twenty-eight per cent is salt. It has, therefore, six or six and a
half times as much salt as the same amount of ocean water has. Then how
great its specific gravity! How buoyant its waters! How impossible to

[Illustration: THE DEAD SEA.]

This is sometimes called the “Salt Sea,” and, while the name is quite
brackish, it is not at all inappropriate; for, as has been said,
“the water is a nauseous compound of bitters and Salts.” When I
stiffen myself and stretch out on the waters, about half of my person
remains above the surface. The water produces something of a stinging
sensation; not severe enough, however, to be especially objectionable,
unless you should chance to get some of it in your eyes. The buoyancy
of the water makes its navigation both difficult and dangerous. Lieut.
Lynch, in the following lines, gives us a vivid description of his
experiences on this Sea of Death.

“A fresh northwest wind was blowing as we rounded the point. We
endeavored to steer a little to the north of west, to make a true west
course, and threw the patent log overboard to measure the distance; but
the wind rose so rapidly that the boats could not keep head to wind,
and we were obliged to haul the log in. The sea continued to rise with
the increasing wind, which gradually freshened to a gale, and presented
an agitated surface of foaming brine; the spray, evaporating as it
fell, left incrustations of salt upon our clothes, our hands and faces;
and while it conveyed a prickly sensation wherever it touched the skin,
was, above all, exceedingly painful to the eyes. The boats, heavily
laden, struggled sluggishly at first; but when the wind freshened in
its fierceness, from the density of the water, it seemed as if their
bows were encountering the sledgehammers of the Titans, instead of the
opposing waves of an angry sea. The wind blew so fiercely that the
boats could make no headway, and I began to fear that both boats would
founder. Finding that we were losing every moment, and that, with the
lapse of each succeeding one, the danger increased, kept away for the
northern shore, in the hope of being yet able to reach it; our arms,
our clothes and skins coated with a greasy salt; and our eyes, lips,
and nostrils, smarting excessively. How different was the scene before
the submerging of the plain, which was ‘even as the garden of the Lord!’

“But, although the sea had assumed a threatening aspect, and the
fretted mountains, sharp and incinerated, loomed terrific on either
side, and salt and ashes mingled with its sands, and foetid sulphurous
springs trickled down its ravines, we did not despair: awe-struck, but
not terrified; fearing the worst, yet hoping for the best, we prepared
to spend a dreary night upon the dreariest waste we had ever seen.”

The foreign substance in the water gives it a peculiar appearance at
night. Under the influence of a full moon, the sea has a strikingly
bright and beautiful phosphorescent glow. The breakers dashing against
the rocks, and beating against the shore, look like waves of consuming
fire. The whole scene resembles a restless, turbulent sea of flame
vainly trying to devour the very rocks that mark its limits! Going
around the sea next morning, the rock-bound coast, and the bleak
desolate hills around, look as though they might have been scorched
with fire the night before.

[Illustration: LOT’S WIFE.]

In seeking for a satisfactory explanation of why this water is so salt,
Johnson argues thus; “Sodom and Gomorrah once stood at the north end
of this sea. From here Lot fled with his family when the cities were
destroyed. On one of the surrounding hills Lot’s wife was standing,
when she disobediently looked back and was immediately turned into
a pillar of salt.” Johnson becomes more and more animated as he
contemplates the subject and expresses his views. His face is radiant
with gladness, and his soul is all aglow with emotion, as he closes
with this sentence: “Now, Whittle, since Mrs. Lot was turned to a
pillar of salt upon one of these hills, we may safely account for the
present salty condition of the water simply by supposing that she has
melted and run back into the sea.” This thought was born in Johnson’s
brain, and he nurses it with all the love and passionate fondness that
characterize the young mother as she tenderly caresses her new-born

It is therefore with sincere regret that I raise the golden hammer of
truth to break the young child’s head, but the false theory must die.
I say, “Johnson, come with me.” Going around on the east side, not far
from the north end, of the Dead Sea, we come to a broad shelf of rock,
probably 1,000 feet above the water. Arriving at the edge of this
stone table, and pointing to a colossal statue of salt-rock standing
on its centre, I say, “Johnson, your theory is not true. Mrs. Lot has
not melted; for, behold, she still stands!” This famous pillar is a
slender, isolated needle of salt-rock, thirty or thirty-five feet high.
This, we are told, is _actually Lot’s wife_. And I readily see how
a man with a diseased imagination could fancy this a woman; for, as
Professor Palmer remarks, “It does really bear a curious resemblance to
an Arab woman with a child upon her shoulders.” The rock lifts itself
up solitary and alone, something like a giantess, wearing tattered
garments and disheveled hair, while her furrowed face is slightly
turned over her left shoulder, as though she were still looking back on
the desolate plain where the ill-fated cities once stood.

The Arabs point to this pillar as Lot’s wife. M. de Saulcy has written
very ingeniously to prove that it really and truly is Lot’s wife. And,
to do the Frenchman justice, I should add that he really did prove
it—to his own satisfaction. I dare say, however, that he utterly
failed to convince any of his readers. There have been men in all the
ages who found in this pillar, or some other one like it, the veritable
Mrs. Lot. Josephus relates the Scriptural incident of Lot’s wife being
turned into salt, and then says of the pillar of salt: “I have seen it,
and it remains to this day.” Clement of Rome, Irenaeus, and Leland all
speak of Lot’s wife still standing as a pillar of salt. One says she
still “retains her members entire,” and another says that as fast as
any part of this pillar is washed away, it is supernaturally restored.
That Lot’s wife disobeyed God, and was forthwith turned into a pillar
of salt, I do not doubt. That this pillar of salt will ever be located
and identified, I have no hope.

Let us again recur to the question, “Why is this sea so salt?” Around
the east side and southern end of the sea, the whole country seems to
be composed largely of salt. “The salt hills run round for several
miles nearly east and west, at a height of from three hundred to four
hundred feet, level atop, and not very broad; the mass being a body
of rock-salt, capped with a bed of gypsum and chalk. Dislocated,
shattered, furrowed into deep clefts by the rains, or standing out in
narrow, ragged buttresses, they add to the weird associations of all
around. Here and there, harder portions of the salt, withstanding the
weather while all around them melts and wears off, rise up as isolated
pillars. In front of the ridge, the ground is strewn with lumps and
masses of salt, through which streamlets of brine run across the long
muddy flat towards the beach, which itself sparkles in the sun with a
crust of salt, shining as if the earth had been sown with diamonds.”

A sea whose bed and beach are salt would naturally be brackish, even
if it had an outlet. During the rainy season this sea has probably
a thousand tributaries, all of which bring in more or less salt. It
is always receiving salt. Bear in mind the fact that this Sea of
Death has no outlet. All of the water is taken up by evaporation.
In midsummer the heat around it is fearful to contemplate. The rays
from the noon-day’s sun are almost like streams of fire. The heat is
simply intense. The water vaporizes, is taken up into the air, and is
there condensed and poured out in showers of rain on the parched hills
around, to revive the vigor of vegetation. As Thompson would say, “The
clouds pour their garnered fullness down.” Of course the sun takes up
only the oxygen and hydrogen, leaving all salt and other impurities
behind. Hence the sea never fills up; hence also the water that is left
behind is becoming more and more salt as the years pass by.

Just a word about the origin of the Dead Sea. It is currently believed,
and I think with good reason, that at one time there was an unbroken
body of water, not very deep, extending from the southern end of the
Dead Sea, up through what is now known as the Ghor or valley of the
Jordan, to the base of Mount Hermon, a distance of some two hundred
miles. The volcanic fires, which were then raging, and the effects
of which are still to be seen, consumed the material underlying the
southern end of what was then the vast sea. All at once, during the
fierce rumblings of an earthquake, and the sudden outburst of a
volcano, there was a tremendous cleaving and lowering of the crust of
the earth. Thus was formed, it is supposed, the great rock-hewn basin,
or deep depression, which we now call the Dead Sea, and whose bottom is
4,000 feet lower than the surface of the Mediterranean.

This great natural cavity, forty-six miles long, and thirteen miles
wide, was so very deep, and had such an enormous capacity, that it
drank up or drained off most of the water that formerly extended to
the foot of Hermon. So instead of one vast sea, two hundred miles in
length, as it then was, we now have Lake Huleh, the Sea of Galilee
and the Dead Sea, lying in a straight line, directly north and
south, the three joined to each other by the river Jordan. There are
many evidences to show that the Jordan valley was once covered with
water—that it was once the bed of a great sea.

Yes, the Dead Sea was evidently caused by some fearful convulsion of
nature. It is, indeed, a bitter Sea of Death. It is a perpetual emblem
of God’s avenging wrath! No living thing inhabits these waters. Not a
tree, not a shrub, not even a blade of grass, grows on, or near, the
beach. Here and there crystal rivulets attempt to bring life down to
the water’s edge, but a few hundred yards from the sea Death meets
Vegetation and says: “Hitherto shalt thou come, and no farther.” The
thing that grows nearest to the water’s edge is what is known as the
Sodom apple, or Dead Sea apple. The bush is about as high as my head,
the apples grow in clusters. When ripe, they are red, and about the
size of an apricot or a peach. The apple has nothing in it but seed and
air. It pops when crushed. Hence the old saying that it turns to ashes
on the lips.

Again I say this sea is a fit emblem of Death. Its water is bitter, and
destitute of life. It is locked in by fire-scorched and storm-beaten
rocks. Above it are a fierce sun and a brazen sky. Silence reigns
supreme. As the traveler walks around the sea, his shadow is the only
moving thing he sees. If he chances to be attracted by the song of a
bird, or by a crow flying over the water, it is only that the contrast
may make death and silence all the more impressive. Here is a sea whose
hollow fruit is ashes, whose miasmatic breath is poison, whose moonlit
waves are fire, and whose significant name is Death!



 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.

NEAR the north end of the Dead Sea, there rises up, towards the west,
a mountain steep and high. The base of this mountain is hideously
rough. Chasms and pitfalls are numerous. Loose rocks and boulders are
scattered promiscuously around, while thorns, thistles, and cactus
plants everywhere abound. Higher up the mountain there are not so many
pitfalls; the rocks and boulders are fewer and smaller, and the thorns
and thistles are by no means so numerous. Here is a sprig of growing
grass, and yonder is a cluster of opening flowers. Straggling olive
trees are occasionally seen. In climbing the mountain, one finds that
the roughness gradually ceases, while the grass, flowers and trees
gradually increase respectively in freshness, fragrance and foliage.
Continuing the ascent, the atmosphere becomes purer, the prospect grows
broader, and the vision is increasingly beautiful.

Standing in the valley, I see two Russian pilgrims, husband and wife,
climbing this mountain. They are all bowed down beneath the weight of
three score years and ten; their heads are white with the accumulated
frosts of seventy winters. Their steps are slow and feeble, but on and
up they go. Now they are side by side; and now the husband goes in
front to remove, as best he can, the rocks and boulders, the thorns and
thistles, from his wife’s pathway. See, they both stop! What is the
matter? They have come to a boulder that they can not well surmount.
What is to be done? The wife puts her hand under the husband’s elbow,
and pushes him up on the rock. Then he reaches back, and, catching hold
of her hand, pulls her up. Again he removes the rocks and thorns from
the wife’s pathway. Again she helps him over some rough place, and he
draws her up after him. Now he goes out to the right and left of the
path, and plucks flowers for his companion. Yonder they stand, high on
the mountain side, leaning on a rock, and resting underneath an olive
tree. They enjoy the pure air and the wide expanse of vision. They talk
about the hardships they have undergone, and the difficulties they have
encountered. They look back whence they have come, and then turn their
faces and their footsteps on towards Jerusalem, whither they are going.

That is a picture of life. That’s the hill of life. Pilgrims of life
are we all. The base of life’s hill is rough. Rocks and boulders are
strewn broadcast. Thorns and thistles grow promiscuously around.
Numberless traps and pitfalls beset the way. Many a young man knows
all about these rough places in life. His feet have been pricked and
pierced by the thorns and thistles. Traps have been set for him. Chasms
have yawned before him, and pitfalls have gaped at his feet. The moral
atmosphere surrounding him is bad. But no weakling he. There is iron in
his blood, phosphorus in his brain, fire in his bones, and courage in
his heart. He is a man! He says:

  “The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
  Shall never sag with doubt or shake with fear.”

He asks the girl of his choice to wear his name, and share his joys
and sorrows. They have nothing but a firm faith in God, and a loyal
love for each other. He leads her to Hymen’s altar, and there the twain
are made one. Now they start up the hill of life, on the long, long
pilgrimage. They walk side by side—

  “Two souls with but a single thought,
  Two hearts that beat as one.”

The way becomes rough. The husband goes in front to ward off the
danger, to remove rocks and boulders, thorns and briers. He does all
he can to smooth his wife’s pathway. Now and then he comes to some
formidable obstacle that he can not surmount. Here the wife, with her
kindly counsels, with her sympathy, co-operation and prayers, pushes
her husband up on the rock. The poet says:

  “Unless above himself he can
  Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!”

The woman helps the man to “erect himself above himself.” Then the man,
if he be a man, draws the woman up to his level.

As they climb life’s hill together, the roughness decreases, the way
becomes smoother. Instead of the thorn, comes up the fir-tree; instead
of the brier, comes up the myrtle-tree. The moral atmosphere grows
purer, and the prospect more pleasing. He constantly plucks flowers
from the garden of the heart, and weaves them into bouquets for his
companion. And, as Byron beautifully says,

  “These flowers of love make glad the garden of life.”

Standing high on life’s hillside, they lean on the Rock of Ages, and
rest under the olive-branch of peace. Together they speak of their
rough places in life, about their sufferings and sorrows, their
troubles and triumphs. They look back at the valley whence they have
come, and then turn their faces on towards the New Jerusalem, city of
the soul, to which they are journeying. Their steps are growing slow
and feeble. They lean on each other, and both lean on Christ. They are
approaching the end of their pilgrimage. The shadows of evening are
falling long and deep around them. Their white locks are streaming in
the winds of winter. Their latest sun is sinking fast; but, sinking,
he lights up the Star of Hope, and flings it out like a glorious
chandelier to light the pilgrims home to glory and to God. Ask _me_,
“Is life worth living?” I say, there’s the answer. That’s the poetry of
life. That’s

  “The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream
  That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.”

Do you say this is an ideal picture? Well, yes; the latter part of it
is; but ‘tis a fancy resting on fact. Besides,

  “The beings of the mind are not of clay;
  Essentially immortal, they create
  And multiply in us a brighter ray
  And more beloved existence.”



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

FIVE miles south of Jerusalem, there are two deep ravines, about a
quarter of a mile apart, running east and west, and parallel to each
other. The flat-topped ridge between them, which is several hundred
feet in altitude, is terraced by nature on both sides. The terraces
are usually about ten feet high, and fourteen feet deep. Not content
to remain in the valley, the ambitious olive climbs from terrace to
terrace until its green foliage crowns the historic brow of the narrow
ridge. Yes, historic is the right word. On this ridge, Boaz lived;
and in yonder broad valley at its northern base, Ruth, the Moabitess,
“gleaned in the wheat fields.” Here Jesse lived and David played. At
the command of God, the prophet Samuel came hither and annointed the
youthful shepherd lad as future king of Israel. From here he went forth
to fight Fate and Fortune, Sin, Saul and Satan.

[Illustration: RUTH.]

But there is yet another reason why this place is historic, “for thus
it is written by the prophet: And thou, Bethlehem, in the land of
Judah, art not the least among the princes of Judah; for out of thee
shall come a governor that shall rule my people, Israel.” Caesar’s
decree brought Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem. While they were there,
God laid Jesus in Mary’s arms, and on the world’s heart. That was a
memorable night. The stars dropped a bright light, and the angels a
sweet song, from the skies. The valleys were flooded with light, and
the hills were vocal with praise. Shepherds left their flocks and went
in search of the new-born babe. The wise men of the East mounted their
white camels, and were guided across the trackless sea of sand by the
Star of Bethlehem. O, Bethlehem! thou art indeed the “house of bread;”
and to thee the people of earth look for spiritual food. As the nations
learn wisdom, they follow the example of the wise men of the East, and
seek thy child.

At present, Bethlehem has about 5,000 inhabitants, most of whom are
Catholics. The chief industry of the place is the carving of pearl,
wood, and bitumen. These cunningly wrought relics are sold to tourists
from every clime and country. All work is done by hand, and with the
simplest tools; and yet it is curious to see how nearly these craftsmen
have approximated perfection in their art. Carving is nothing less than
an art with them. The town, antique, dilapidated and filthy, though
superior to most places in Palestine, is built along on top of the
ridge from east to west. The most prominent object in the city is the
_Church of the Nativity_ which occupies the eastern terminus of the

[Illustration: CAVE OF THE NATIVITY.]

This immense structure, which was erected by Helena, the mother of
Constantine the Great, is built over a natural grotto in the rock in
which it is generally believed Jesus was born. The building is entered
through the west end. The door is small and very low; but no knee, I
trow, is too stiff to bend when entering a place so dear to memory,
and so closely related to human redemption. Once through the door, we
straighten ourselves and walk slowly across the building. Near the east
end, we come to a flight of steps which leads us down to a rock grotto,
called the _Cave of the Nativity_. This is forty by sixteen feet, and
ten feet high. The cave, no longer in its natural or rude state, is
now paved and lined throughout with marble, many-colored and costly.
Darkness is driven out, and the underground room is illuminated, by a
score and a half of gold and silver lamps that are kept perpetually
burning. There are niches, or recesses, in two of the walls of the
grotto. In one, there is a silver plate bearing this inscription in
Latin: “_Here was born of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ the Savior of
the World_.”

In the other niche, there is a golden star, which is said to mark the
place above which the Star of the East rested when the wise men sought
for the infant Christ. The feelings that a Christian experiences,
when standing or kneeling in this sacred place, can not be translated
into words. The great deep of his soul is stirred to its profoundest
depths; his eyes become safety valves, through which the overflow of
emotion escapes.

[Illustration: BETHLEHEM.]

That Jesus was born in this cave, there is very little room to doubt.
On this point, Dr. Geike expresses himself thus:

“As far back as the middle of the second century—that is to say,
within less than 120 years of our Lord’s death, and within thirty or
forty years after that of the last of the apostles, the beloved St.
John—Justin Martyr, himself a man of Nablus, speaks of the Savior’s
birth as having taken place ‘in a certain cave very close to the
village;’ and this particular cave, now honored as the scene of the
Savior’s birth, was already so venerated in the days of Hadrian that,
to desecrate it, he caused a grove sacred to Adonis to be planted over
it, so that the Syrian god might be worshipped on the very spot—a form
of idolatry peculiarly abhorrent to the pure morals of Christianity.
Origen, in the opening of the third century, speaks of this cave as
recognised even by the heathen as the birthplace of their Lord. And to
this spot came St. Jerome, making his home for thirty years in a cave
close by, that he might be near the birthplace of his Master; Hadrian’s
grove had been destroyed sixteen years before his birth, to make room
for the very church now standing. There is no reason therefore so far
as I can see, to doubt that in this cave, so hallowed by immemorial
veneration, the Great Event associated with it actually took place.

“Nor is there any ground for hesitation because it is a cave that is
regarded as the sacred spot. Nothing is more common in a Palestine
village, built on a hill, than to use as adjuncts of the houses, the
caves with which all the lime-stone rocks of the country abound;
making them the store-room, perhaps, or the work-shop, or the stable,
and building the dwellings before them so as to join the two. Canon
Tristram speaks of a farm-house he visited, north of Acre, which was a
granary and stable below and a dwelling-place above; and many stables
in the neighborhood of Bethlehem are still recesses cut in the rock,
or mere natural caves. In Egypt, I have often seen houses where goats,
sheep, cattle, or an ass, were in one part, and the human beings in the
other. Had the piety of the monks left the alleged site of the Nativity
in its original state, there would have been no presumption against it
from its being a cave.”

We go only two miles, after leaving Bethlehem for Hebron, before coming
to the justly celebrated _Pools of Solomon_. These are three immense
reservoirs, situated in a narrow ravine called _Wady Urtas_. This wady
passes Bethlehem, and finally empties its waters into the Sea of Death.
The first and smallest of the three pools is situated at the head of
the valley. It is 380 feet long, 235 feet wide, and 25 feet deep.

The second reservoir is about one hundred and fifty feet down the
valley from the first, and the third the same distance below the
second. Perpendicularly, the second is twenty feet lower than the
first, and the third twenty feet lower than the second. All three of
these pools are walled and paved with rock, and cemented. There are
broad stone steps leading down into each pool. The three pools combined
would equal a lake six and one half acres broad, and thirty-eight feet

[Illustration: POOLS OF SOLOMON.]

These pools are supplied with water from a perennial fountain that
bursts forth from the side of a hill about two hundred yards northwest
of the upper pool. From this copious fountain, the water is carried
to the pools by means of an aqueduct, the same aqueduct, by the way,
that carries water to Bethlehem and Jerusalem. The most successful and
scientific engineers of the nineteenth century could suggest but little
improvement in these _Pools_ and _Aqueducts of Solomon_, which were
constructed between three and four thousand years ago.

The road from Jerusalem to Hebron leads directly by these pools. Having
satisfied our thirst, and that of our beasts, let us press on toward
Hebron, which is eighteen miles south of us.

The soil and climate of southern Palestine seem peculiarly adapted
to the cultivation of grapes. Of course, the vine is everywhere to
be found in this country, but between Bethlehem and Beersheba it is
cultivated with more care, and yields more abundantly, than anywhere

[Illustration: MOSQUE AT HEBRON.]

Hebron, more than any other city in the Holy Land, is associated with
the name of Abraham. This was the home of the Father of the Faithful.
The Arabs call Hebron _El Khalil_—_the friend_—because Abraham lived
here, and was _the friend of God_. This was one of the chief cities of
Palestine during the Old Testament period; and, though we hear nothing
of it in the New Testament times, it has again come into prominence. If
called on to name five of the largest and most prosperous cities in the
Holy Land, one could not fail to mention Hebron. It has a population
of ten or twelve thousand souls, about half of whom are Hebrews. Some
signs of life are here. Traffic is not dead in Hebron, as in most
portions of the country. The villages south, east, and west of here
do their trading in Hebron. Camels and asses are constantly coming
in, laden with wine, raisins, dates, figs, wool, camels’ hair, and
goat skins. Out of these skins, leather bottles and buckets are made.
There is also a glass factory here which is devoted chiefly to the
manufacture of colored beads, necklaces, bracelets and other articles
of female attire.

Hebron, which is half a mile long, and a quarter of a mile wide, is
built on the base of a mountain which rises 2,000 feet above the upper
edge of the city. More interest attaches to the mosque than to any
other object in the place. But Jews and Christians are alike excluded
from this sacred edifice. Because of the regal diadem suspended above
his brow, the Prince of Wales, was as a mark of special honor, allowed
to enter this Mohammedan Holy of Holies. Dean Stanley who was with the
Prince of Wales, was also permitted to tread the sacred court; and from
his pen has come the most complete and accurate description we have of
this mosque, which, some writers suppose, was built by Solomon.

A mile and a half from the city is _Abraham’s Oak_. We are told that
this is the tree under which Abraham entertained the angels. This story
takes our credulity; but, while we can not believe that this tree was
here in Abraham’s day, we must acknowledge its age. It is venerable in
appearance. It is, indeed, a patriarch of the forest.



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

LYING between the Dead Sea and the river Jordan on the east, and the
Mediterranean on the west, and extending from Mount Hermon on the north
to the desert of Arabia on the south, is a country whose influence has
been more far-reaching than that of any other country on the globe.
The influence that this country has exerted upon the world is truly
remarkable when we consider the limited extent of its territory, and
the previous servile condition of the people who made it famous.
From the southern end of the Dead Sea to Gaza, on the Mediterranean,
the distance is only sixty-five miles, while it is not more than
twenty-three miles from the Sea of Galilee to Mt. Carmel. The average
breadth of the country does not exceed forty miles. Dan and Beersheba
stand respectively for the northern and southern limits of Palestine;
and these two cities are not more than one hundred and sixty-five miles

“The whole area of the land of Palestine,” says Dr. Robinson, “does not
vary greatly from 12,000 geographical square miles,—about equal to the
area of the two states of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Of this whole
area, more than one-half, or 7,000 square miles, being by far the most
important portion, lies on the west of the Jordan.”

This small land, inhabited by a feeble folk, who for four hundred years
had their necks galled by the yoke of Egyptian bondage, has given to
the world a Church, a Creed, and a Christ! The Church has carried the
Creed into every land under every sky. The Christ of Palestine has
become the Christ of the world; and wherever He is enthroned idols fall
and nations bow.

Small is the country, but important is the geographical position. It
has been called “the very out-post on the extreme western edge of the
East, pushed forward, as it were, by the huge continent of Asia.” Cut
off from Asia by the desert, and from Europe by the sea, Palestine
stands alone. And yet it was the door through which Asiatic and
European nations had to pass in order to visit, trade with, or fight
each other. There was a constant stream of commerce flowing through the
country. Hostile armies frequently met upon her hillsides, and watered
her fertile valleys with each other’s blood. It was therefore of the
very greatest importance as a strategical point. Thus, by their unique
geographical position, the inhabitants of Palestine could, by staying
at home, wield a most powerful influence upon the people of Europe,
Asia and Africa.

Again, close study reveals the fact that Palestine is as unique
_within itself_ as it is in relation to other countries. Within this
small area, the antipodes are brought together—the extremes of earth
meet. Palestine is a little world within itself. In the valley of the
Jordan there is perpetual summer; and, consequently, tropical fruits,
a profusion of flowers, and a great variety of birds and wild beasts
are found. Only a few miles away, Mount Hermon rises into the region
of perpetual snow. There the bear, and other animals natural to a cold
climate, take up their abode. Palestine has its highlands and lowlands;
its hill country and valleys; its fertile plains and barren deserts;
its oceans, rivers and lakes; its fresh water and salt; its flowing
rivers and Dead Sea. Within these narrow limits, therefore, is found
every variety of climate, soil and production, of habit and occupation,
of bird and beast.

We can see the wisdom, therefore, that God displayed in selecting this
as the home of His chosen people. Here they were to live and learn;
here they were to mould national character, and influence adjacent
peoples; here they were to commune with God, and write that Book
which was to be read on land and water, by fishermen and farmers,
by travelers on the desert and sailors on the sea. Whether chilled
by polar snows, or scorched by tropical suns, we can all read that
blessed Book with interest, pleasure and profit, and feel at home with
the writer.

This wonderful country is known by three names. The first is Palestine
from Palestina, the land of the Philistines, literally, “the land of
the strangers, or of wanderers.” Originally, this name was applied
only to that part of the country known as the marine plain, say from
Jaffa to Gaza, as that was pre-eminently the land of the Philistines.
Gradually, however, the word Palestine was accepted as the name of the
whole country.

Canaan, or the Land of Canaan, is a second name given to this
particular country. Canaan signifies “the low land,” or “the low
country,” as opposed to the “land of Gilead,” that is, the high
table-land the east of Jordan. It may at first seem strange that
a country so hilly and rough as this should be called “the low
land”; but it should be borne in mind that the hills are a kind of
a mountain-chain running through the country from north to south.
Approaching the country _from the west_, one is greatly impressed
with the low, broad, level marine plain which begins at Mt. Carmel
and extends far south of Gaza, getting broader and broader towards
the south. On entering Palestine _from the east_, one is even more
impressed with the low valley, or deep ghor, of the Jordan.

But no name seems so appropriate for this country as “the _Holy Land_.”
No explanation is necessary; every one understands the reason for, and
recognizes the appropriateness of, this appellation.

Enough has been said, even in this chapter, to give one some idea of
the topography of the Holy Land. Imagine a broad, level country one
hundred and sixty-five miles long, sixty miles wide at one end, and
twenty at the other. On one side this country is bounded by a sea, and
on the other by a river. Now imagine that you build a house through
the centre of this long, narrow country from one end to the other. Let
the roof come down to the ground on either side of the house, leaving
a broad plateau on either side, that is, a wide valley between where
the roof comes to the ground and the borders of the country. From the
top of the house, or mountain ridge, to the Mediterranean is 3,000
feet, while from its top to the Jordan or Dead Sea is 4,000 feet. This
gives an approximately correct idea of Palestine. But no one must for
a moment suppose the mountain ridge to be regular like the comb of
a house, or its sides smooth like a roof. From the central ridge, a
succession of peaks rise up to various heights. Beginning at the south,
the peaks are Hebron, 3,029 feet above the Mediterranean; Jerusalem,
2,610, and Mount of Olives, 2,724, Bethel, 2,400; Ebal and Gerizim,
2,700; “little Hermon” and Tabor (on the north side of the plain of
Esdraelon) 2,000; Safed, 2,775, and Jebel Jurmuk, 4,000. To find the
elevation of any of these peaks above the Dead Sea, just add 1,300
feet to the height already given. These several peaks mentioned are
just about the centre of the country from east to west. Sometimes the
central ridge is level on top, and we find a broad, elevated table-land.

During the rainy season, which usually begins with November and ends
with March, a great deal of water falls upon this mountain ridge. It
can not stay there, so, rolling itself up into torrents, it courses
down the steep sides with great swiftness. This has continued for
thousands of years, until now the ridge on both sides is seamed,
threaded, cut, worn and ditched by these torrents into almost every
conceivable shape. The wadys and ravines are not far apart, and are
frequently quite deep. So all through Palestine there are a succession
of ravines, running from east to west, with rocky ridges steep and high
between them.

One would naturally suppose that a country like this would be barren
and worthless; but not so with Palestine. These mountain ridges are
of a lime-stone formation. In the summer, the climate is exceedingly
oppressive; the rays of the sun are almost like streams of fire. The
thermometer rises in the day to 126 or 128 degrees. The nights, even
in midsummer, are cool and pleasant. At noon day the mercury registers
128 degrees, and at night it falls to forty and forty-five degrees.
In the day, when the lime-stone rocks become heated, they expand; and
at night, when cooled, they contract. They continue to expand and
contract until after awhile they fall to pieces—disintegration takes
place. This begets a great quantity of finely pulverized lime-stone
dust, which is extremely rich and fertilizing. Nature, with her ever
watchful care, has so arranged these hills as to enable them to catch,
retain, and appropriate most of this fertilizing dust. The hills are
naturally terraced. From base to summit we see one terrace rising above
another. They look like huge steps placed there to enable giants to
ascend. If the people would only build up the defective places in these
terraces, they would catch practically all of the dust caused by the
decaying rocks, and the country would become richer and richer as the
years pass by.

Palestine is still the “land of the vine and fig-tree.” Every hillside
is garnished over with olive trees, as also with figs, dates, palms,
and pomegranates. The decaying rocks feed the hungry trees they
bear. This suggests a very important question: What do the people of
Palestine live on? Now, as in Joshua’s time, “the tree of the field is
man’s life” (Deut. 20:19). The people live largely on fruits. Olives,
especially, are the salvation of that country. The people here eat
the olive as we eat peaches. They also pickle them; but the olive is
chiefly valuable for the excellent oil it yields. Olive oil is the only
seasoning these people have. Figs and dates are likewise plentiful at
all seasons of the year, in one form or another. The grapes of the
Holy Land are especially fine. They are abundant in quantity, large in
size, and deliciously flavored. There is a grape here that makes very
fine raisins, and another that yields a superior quality of wine. Wine
here is usually mild. It is also plentiful, and is used freely.

There are many valleys in this country that are as rich and fertile as
the alluvial deposits of the Nile. Such, for instance, is the plain
of Esdraelon and the valley around Lake Huleh. These garden spots are
annually sown in wheat. To be sure, the yield is not large. We can not
expect it to be large when we remember that these sons of idleness use
the same rude implements of agriculture that their fathers used three
thousand years ago. A camel, or a yoke of oxen, a forked stick, and a
half-naked Arab, make a first class plow team for Palestine.

The fact that these people are primitive in their mode and manner of
life, makes it all the more delightful to the equestrian pilgrims to be
here. The student of history, especially of sacred history, finds the
same pleasure in traveling through the Holy Land that a miner does in
traversing a rich gold field. The shining dust glittering in the light
of the sun stirs every faculty of his being; and now and then, when
he finds a nugget of the precious metal, his soul is all aglow with

Palestine is more than a gold mine, it is a diamond field, to the
student of Biblical history. New truths are constantly discovered,
and old ones are seen in a new light. Each additional ray gives more
beauty, and adds new lustre, to the already resplendent gem.

To those who like novelty, and love Nature, nothing can be more
interesting than “tent life in the East.” Here one is introduced into a
world of novelties. True, the country is old; but its very age becomes
a novelty. The mountains, though shorn of their pristine beauty, though
“rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun,” have an interest all their own.
If the valleys were lakes, and the hills clothed with verdure, Syria
would be only a repetition of the highlands of Scotland. If the purple
hills of Judea towered to the skies, if they were covered with snow,
and studded with waving forest trees, the Palestine world would be
another Switzerland. If these people were Christianized, civilized, and
cultivated, they would differ but little from Europeans and Americans.

But such is not the case. The lakes were never here, and the primeval
forests disappeared a thousand years ago. Here the snow scarcely ever
falls, and the mountains are only hills, Hermon and Tabor being the
only exceptions. As for the people, they are mostly Mohammedans and
Jews. Many of them never heard of Christ, nor do they want to hear of
Him. Nineteen-twentieths of them are so illiterate that, if they were
to see a daily newspaper printed in their own language, they could not
read it. Not one in fifty could write his name on paper if it would
save his neck from the halter.

Nor is this all. The following sentence is as applicable as if it had
been written with special reference to this special country: “A land
without ruins is a land without memories; a land without memories is
a land without history. But twine a few sad cypress leaves around the
brow of any land, and, be that land bleak, barren, and beautiless, it
becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow.” Palestine is
a land of ruins. It is strewn with ruins from one end to the other.
How could it be otherwise? Has it not been the battle-ground of the
nations. Did not Belshazzer come hither from Babylon and Cyrus from
Persia? Did not Alexander come from Greece and Hannibal from Carthage?
How often did the Ptolemies of Egypt, and the Caesars of Rome, march
their devastating legions through this fair land? Think, too, of those
brave knights of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, who fought as
never men fought before, trying to wrench this Holy Land from the iron
grasp of the Saracen and Moslem. That was the darkest and bloodiest
period of this world’s history. This was the scene of action. The very
dust is historic. Every tree has heard the tramp of armies, and felt
the shock of battle. Every stone has a tale to tell. In every community
there are stories many, and legends not a few. Yes, Palestine is a
“land of ruins.” It has not a “few,” but many “sad cypress leaves
twined around its brow.” And, truly, it has become “lovely in its
consecrated coronet of sorrow.”

And more. All history is interesting, yet “crosses and crucifixions
take the deepest hold on the hearts of men.” The word Palestine is
inseparably associated with that “name which is above every name.” Here
Christ was born; here he lived; among the ancestors of these people he
“went about doing good.” In these waters He was baptized; these hills
were the pulpits from which he preached His own everlasting gospel;
while the stones of the valley, the birds of the air, and the lilies of
the field, furnished Him with apt illustrations to explain and enforce
divine truth. So in this Holy Land there are “memories which make it
holier, and a cross which is even in itself an immortality!”

Hence I ask, “can any one who likes novelty, and loves nature, who
appreciates history, and worships the Lord Jesus Christ, who has a head
on him, and a heart in him, fail to enjoy tent life in the East,” or
“five hundred miles in the saddle through Palestine and Syria?” If any,
speak; for him have I offended. Not one; then none have I offended.
So let us be up and going, taking a different route, and moving more
rapidly this time than before.

There were five in the original party, but I gladly welcome the reader
into our midst, saying to him, “Come thou and go with us and be as
eyes unto us, and we will do thee good.” Yes, “be as eyes unto us.”
We need some one to point out the road, as much so as Moses did when
he addressed this language to his gray-headed father-in-law. Indeed
there are no roads in this part of Asia, only dim bridle paths such
as have been worn in the rock by constant use for ages. Very few of
these people ever saw a wheeled vehicle of any kind. Excepting four
towns, there is not a buggy, or a wagon, or even a wheel-barrow, in all
Palestine and Syria. There are no roads for them nor for us. Hence we
must travel on horseback. Now that the reader has joined us, we are six
in number. Making calculations for the new comer, we have eight tents,
eighteen servants and muleteers, and thirty-six head of horses, mules,
and donkeys. Of course, the mules and donkeys are laden with tents
and trunks, and beds and baggage, and other things, for our comfort
and convenience, and their own board besides. They look like young
elephants with all this luggage on their backs. Each of us has a riding
suit, a broad-brimmed hat, and a white umbrella.

[Illustration: GOVERNMENT GUARDS.]

While we eat breakfast in the morning, the muleteers fold the tents
and get things ready for the road. Now Tolhamy, our Syrian dragoman,
mounts his Arabian steed and cries out, “Yal-la, yal-la,” which means
come on, come on. We follow suit, and soon all are strung out across
the country like a band of wild Indians. The procession is half a mile
long. For a while the pilgrims ride up and down the line, singing and
talking with the natives; then, plying the whip, they leave the caravan
behind. At noon, Abdo, our Arab waiter, stretches the lunch tent, or
spreads the carpet under the grateful shade of an olive grove. Lunch
being over, we sit for an hour or two reading the Bible and profane
history, talking about the battles fought in this neighborhood, about
what Christ and His apostles did here, and about the confusion their
miracles and teaching must have caused among these people. And, whether
we lunched on Mt. Tabor, whose heights are crowned with the ruins of a
crusader’s church, and at whose base Barak and Deborah met Sisera in
battle (Ju. 4: 14 and 15); or at Endor where Saul called up the witch
(1 Sam. 28); or at Joseph’s pit, from which he was sold into Egypt
(Gen. 27: 24-28): or at the spring where Gideon’s brave band of three
hundred lapped before going against the Midianites (Ju. 7): or at Cana,
where our blessed Lord turned water into wine (John 2: 1-11); or at
Nain, where He raised the man who was the only son of a widowed mother
(Luke 7: 11-17); or at Jacob’s well, where He sat and told the woman
all things that ever she did (John 4: 6-26); whether we lunch at one of
these places, or the other, or wherever we stop, we have a Bible in one
hand, and a history in the other, and always find enough to interest
and instruct us.

While we are resting, reading and talking, the caravan passes by; so,
when we come to the camp in the evening, our tents are up ready to
receive us. We usually camp near a village, so as to get water and to
place ourselves under the protection of the Sheik of the village. As
soon as our tents are pitched, the village is deserted—its half-naked,
filthy, and ignorant population having gathered round our camp.

Supper being over, the muleteers, together with the villagers, give
some kind of an entertainment. One night they have a marriage ceremony,
then an assessment and collection of taxes, an Arabic tableau, or
musical concert, without the music. There is no music in an Arab’s
soul! By this we are on good terms with the natives; we go home with
them, go into their houses, talk with them, find out how they live,
what they think about, so on. It is very seldom that we find a family
of five to eight occupying more than one room, and often the goats,
dogs and donkeys live in the same room with the other part of the

The people have no tables, no chairs, no bedsteads. They sit on mats,
and sleep on pallets of straw. Whole families, sometimes ten to
twelve in number, eat out of the same bowl or pan. Knives and forks
are unknown. They live chiefly on bread and fruits. Olives, figs and
grapes are the salvation of this country. The yield of olive oil has
been greater this year than usual. I spoke a moment ago of an Asiatic
village; but I am persuaded that it deserves more than a mere mention.
I speak of the average village. It consists of a hive of rough, rock
huts one story, say six or seven feet, high, circular, oblong, or
triangular in shape. The same low, flat roof frequently extends over
half or three-fourths of the town. There are covered streets and lanes,
winding around and among the houses. A former traveler, whose book a
friend has just handed me, writes as follows:

“A Syrian village is the sorriest sight one can fancy. When you ride
through one of them at noonday, you first meet a melancholy dog that
looks up at you and silently begs that you will not run over him,
but he does not offer to get out of your way. Next you meet a young
boy without any clothes on; and he holds out his hand and says,
‘bachsheesh;’ but he really does not expect a cent, for he learned
to say that before he learned to say ‘mother,’ and he can not break
himself of it. Next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn over
her face, and her bust exposed. Finally, you meet several sore-eyed
children, and children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and,
sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a
poor human ruin whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape
vines. These are all the people you are likely to see. The balance of
the population are asleep indoors, or abroad, tending goats on the
plains and on the hillsides.”

If it is a little cold and damp, we gather around the camp fire at
night, and watch the glowing flames as they crackle and leap into the
air, and fling their wild and weird shadows right and left. Ah! what an
artist these flames are. With one bold stroke, they draw the outlines
of a perfect picture on the black canvas of night.

When it is clear and pleasant, as it usually is, we go out in front of
the tents, and talk and sing and “consider the heavens.” And often, “as
I sit and gaze into the silent sky at night, and see the myriad stars,
they seem like camp fires, kindled upon the plains of heaven, to light
some wanderer over the wastes and desolations of earth.”

It may be wrong, I suppose it is, but somehow I envy the astronomer
the pleasure he has in reading the thoughts of God, as written in the
language of the stars. I wonder if the stars are inhabited; if so, by
men or angels? What becomes of these creatures when a star “falls?” Dr.
Broadus would say that this is a good subject for a public debate, as
it can never be determined.

At ten o’clock, when the others retire to rest, I take up my pen to
record what has transpired during the day. Often the swift footed hours
pass by before I know it, and I find myself writing on “the other side
of midnight.” But I can not help it. In Palestine there is so much to
see and think about that one can not afford to sleep more than five
hours out of the twenty-four. When at last my eyes grow heavy, I drop
my leaden pen and fall asleep; and often I dream about the objects and
places I have seen during the day.

At six, often at five, o’clock, I am up to hear the morning warbler’s
first hymn of praise. I find that morning, rosy-fingered now as in the
days of Homer, “has yet a new and distant smile at every rising.” Payne
has well said that “no true lover ever yet trysted with Nature in her
own woods, and by her own fountains, without seeing some new beauty
never seen before.”

We have been in this country now for months. We have been many weeks
on horseback. We have made more than six hundred miles in the saddle
through Palestine and Syria, and yet it has not become monotonous.
Indeed, it grows on us; there is a fascination about it. Each day is
different from the day before. The roads are different, the people are
different, the scenery is not the same. New historical interests, new
biblical characters and sacred associations are hourly coming up for
conversation and thought. Josephus is no longer dry and prosy. You read
“Ben Hur,” and “The Prince of the House of David,” with more interest
than ever before; last, and greatest, the Bible—the Bible becomes a
new book to you. Its pages are brighter, its truths simpler, and its
Christ is more personal and real to you, than before you came here.
Palestine is a relief map of the Bible. In our western world, a man may
be honestly skeptical; but, if he comes to Palestine as an earnest
seeker after truth, he will soon dismiss all doubt, and, like Thomas of
old, cry out: “My Lord, and my God!”



 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.

TO-MORROW the equestrian pilgrims will pitch their tents on the holy
hill of Zion. It will be a time of rejoicing. I think that each one of
the party will put down in his diary. “This is the happiest day of my

The nearer we come to our journey’s end, the more intense becomes the
excitement. The night before reaching the city, our tents are pitched
in a valley. “Coming events” have already begun to “cast their shadows
before them.” Each one of the company is excited; each one filled
with life, hope, and anticipation. We all sing: “I’m a pilgrim; I’m a
stranger; this world is not my home,” “I seek a city whose builder and
maker is God,” and “Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, my happy, happy home.”
At length, “weariness spreads her ever welcome couch,” and we fall
asleep. Some of us dream that Jerusalem is a “golden city.”

The leaden-footed hours of the night pass by. About five o’clock in the

  “Light breaks in upon my brain.
  ’Tis the carol of a bird—
  The sweetest song ear ever heard.
  And mine are so thankful
  That my eyes run over with glad surprise.”

It is a nightingale, the queen of songsters. Perched on a swaying limb,
not far away, she flings her merry notes into the sleeper’s tent. The
little warbler sings as if the heart of melody has been broken on her
tuneful tongue. Methinks it is the sweetest song ever wafted to human
ears on the perfumed breezes of the night. It reminds one of the time
when the angel host sang to the shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem.
I can not sleep. The morning star has dropped such a bright light from
the sky that it looks like day.

The pilgrims are up early enough to see the stars, one by one, fade
away. The sun rises clear and bright above the eastern hills, and
flings his rays of light across a cloudless sky.

We are off earlier than usual. At ten o’clock we ascend the brow of a
hill, and “Zion, the city of God,” bursts full upon our vision! Every
horse is stopped. Every head is uncovered. Not a word is spoken. I can
never forget the flood of “sweetly solemn thoughts” that comes to me
during the calm of this holy hour. Oh! the thrill of joy that goes
through the soul of man when he finds his prayers answered; when he
realizes that the toil and sacrifice of years have not been in vain;
when he sees the bud of hope ripen into golden fruit! Only one person
on this earth knows what it cost me to come here. Would you calculate
the cost in money? As well undertake to fathom the ocean with a fishing
cord, or to count the stars of heaven on your fingers and toes! It
cost——!! But I forget all that, when I behold Jerusalem, “The city of
the great King, beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth.”

The Hebrew word, Jerusalem, probably means “vision of peace,” and I
have no doubt but that in olden times the beauty of the city and the
surrounding country fully justified the name. It was then “the joy of
the whole earth;” but the Lord hath covered the daughter of Zion with
a cloud, in his anger, and cast down, from heaven unto the earth, the
beauty of Israel. Jerusalem is withered, like its emblem, the blighted
fig-tree. It was once a monument of the goodness, now of the severity,
of God. The city has been twenty-seven times besieged, often taken,
pillaged, and burnt. Occasionally the very ground has been plowed up!
And yet “it is good to be here”—it is still a holy city. Mount Moriah
has not been removed, Calvary is still on its base, and the Mount
of Olives is now just as it was when from it our blessed Lord “was
received up into heaven.”

[Illustration: JERUSALEM.]

It has been said, and truthfully, too, that Jerusalem has occupied a
more prominent place in history than Athens, with all its arts, or
Rome, with all its arms; than Nineveh, with all its overgrown power, or
Babylon, with all its nameless abominations. Jerusalem has done more to
mould the opinions, to animate the hopes, to decide the creeds, and to
influence the destinies, of humanity than all other cities combined.
Here Solomon reigned. Here David sang, and Isaiah prophesied. Here
Christ the Lord lived, and taught us how to live. Here, too, he was
nailed to the tree, there to die, “the Just for the unjust.”

Mrs. Watson, an earnest, devout, Christian lady from Detroit, is a
member of our party. As we stand upon this hill and look upon Jerusalem
for the first time, she is completely overcome. Her heart has melted
within her, and is flowing freely through her eyes. She weeps like a
child, and her tears do credit to her heart.

We camp in a beautiful olive grove on the north side of the city.
Our mail is soon brought. After devouring letters, newspapers, and a
hearty lunch, I say to the party: “‘Walk about Zion; go round about
her; tell the towers thereof; mark ye well her bulwarks; consider her
palaces,—that ye may tell it to’ your friends in America.” With Bible
in hand, with prayer and praise in our heart, we are now ready to begin
our “walk about Zion.” It takes four eyes or more to see the beauty of
a picture, and four ears or more to extract the melody from music. I
shall therefore ask the reader to join us in this walk about the “city
of the great king.”


We find the city perched, like an eagles nest, among the hills of
Judea. “As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is
round about them that fear him.” It stands 2,650 feet above the level
of the Mediterranean, and 3,800 feet above the Dead Sea. Imagine two
ravines, deep and narrow, coming together so that the table-land
between them forms the letter V, the sharp point of the letter being to
the south, while the open part extends northward. Jerusalem is built
on such a V, though it does not run down into the sharp point of the
letter. The ravine, or brook, on the east is Kedron, that on the west
is Hinnom. We find the city surrounded on all sides by massive walls
of stone, rising forty to sixty feet above the ground. The east and
west walls run close along the edge of the chasms, so that, coming up
out of the valley to either one of them, one would find it steep and
difficult. The south wall cuts off the sharp part of the V. The north
wall is much stronger than any of the others, because that part of the
city is not protected by ravines, as are the other three sides.

We have now completed the circuit around the walls of Zion, and in so
doing we have walked two and a half miles, and compassed an area of
two hundred and nine acres of land. These walls, some portions of which
probably date from the time of our Lord, are pierced by four gates; the
Damascus gate, on the north; Stephen’s gate, on the east; on the south
is the Zion, and on the west, the Jaffa gate. Each one of these gates
is guarded day and night by Turkish soldiers.

Until recently there was another entrance to the city—the Golden gate.
This “gateway of glory” entered the sacred enclosure from the east. It
was through this, supposedly, that our blessed Lord made His triumphal
entry into the Holy City. This gate, a work of art, has been closed
up. And why? Because the Mohammedans fear Christ. The Jews say that He
is soon to come out of the East, across the Mount of Olives, through
the Golden gate, into the Mosque of Omar. Then He will overthrow
the Mohammedan government, proclaim himself king of the Jews, and,
subsequently, of the world. These Jewish prophecies have aroused dread
suspicions in the Mohammedan mind, and to keep Christ out of the city,
the devotees of the false prophet have actually barred up the gate with
great stones. These are fastened together with bolts and bars of iron,
steel, and brass. I am told that the Mohammedans, especially during
Jewish feasts, even station guards at the Golden gate to prevent the
Messiah from entering the city.

I am rejoiced to know that I worship a Christ who, when His time is
fulfilled, will come. But, blessed be His name, He will come no more
as the Babe of Bethlehem; no more as the lowly Nazarene; no more as
the despised and rejected of men. He will come as the glorified Son
of God, as Judge of all the earth. He will come crowned and sceptred;
robed in splendor; seated upon the clouds, as a chariot of fire drawn
by angels of light. It was He of whom it was said: “He openeth, and no
man shutteth; he shutteth, and no man openeth.” So, why need they try
to keep your Lord and mine out of His own city?

Before entering the gates, it will be well for us to cross the brook
Kedron, go over to the Mount of Olives, and from there get a bird’s eye
view of the holy city. On the left, just after crossing the Kedron,
we come to the so-called tomb of the Virgin Mary, over which has
been built a Catholic cathedral. In the cathedral, and around this
tomb, many candles and lamps are kept burning day and night. By the
flickering flame of these tapers, turbaned monks constantly count their
beads and swing their censers. A hundred yards down the valley, to the
right, are the tombs of Absalom, James, and Hezekiah.

From base to summit, the Mount of Olives is garnished over with
olive trees. Now, as through past ages, the olives are gathered and
poured into a rock-hewn vat in the mountain side. The vat before me
is well filled. In it are an old, gray-bearded man and a sprightly
young maiden, walking round and round, side by side, treading the
olives with their bare feet, pressing out the oil. This is rather a
homely sight, but it suggests a holy name. A name around which cluster
many tender and sacred associations. The word, Gethsemane, means
_oil-press_. Lifting my eyes from the vat, I behold, about half way up
the mountain side, and a hundred yards to the right of the road, the
garden of Gethsemane, or the garden of the oil-press.

This garden of prayer is at present surrounded by a substantial rock
wall ten or twelve feet high. The entrance is through the upper or
eastern wall. The door, or gate, is scarcely three feet high; but one
is willing to bow and humble himself on entering a garden so filled
with holy memories. Here Christ suffered and agonized and prayed
until “his sweat was, as it were, great drops of blood falling to the
ground.” Here Judas betrayed the Master with a kiss. This garden, which
is 150 by 160 feet, is laid out in six large flower beds, beautifully
designed and well kept. There are a dozen, or more of fir and olive
trees enclosed within these walls.

The superstitious monks, keeping the garden, assure us that these are
the identical trees under which the Lord knelt and prayed. But my
incredulous mind entertains serious doubts on this subject. In the
first place, we are not sure that the present garden is identical with
the one that our Lord frequented. We know, however, if the two are not
identical, they certainly are not far removed from each other. Ever
since the days of Constantine (330, A. D.), the present garden has been
recognized as the place of agony and betrayal.


I grant that our Lord was betrayed in this garden, or another,
probably not a stone’s throw from it. I grant, also, that the olive
trees are remarkably long-lived, and that these within this enclosure
stand like patriarchs of their race, like sentinels of the centuries
past and gone. But Josephus tells us that during the siege of Jerusalem
by Titus (A. D. 70), the Roman soldiers cut down all of the trees
around about Jerusalem. Josephus was present during this siege. He
wrote from personal knowledge. And we can not accept his statements
without discrediting those of the papal priests. But what care I? I
pin my faith to no rock, nor hang it upon the bough of any olive tree.
Somewhere on this mountain side, probably near where I stand, the
blessed Lord drank the bitter cup. That is enough for me.

Bear in mind the fact that we are on the eastern side of Jerusalem. We
find the summit of Olivet crowned with a large Russian convent. We go
up on the top of this convent. With our backs toward Jerusalem, and our
eyes toward the rising sun, we look down upon the Dead Sea, 4,000 feet
below us, and in a straight line, only eighteen miles away. The valley
of the Jordan is plainly seen, but its waters are not visible.

“About face.” We are now looking down on the “City of David.” I say
“down,” because the Mount of Olives is two hundred feet higher than
Jerusalem, and the convent gives us an additional elevation of fifty
feet. Jerusalem is now spread out before us like a map; and, although
it is three-fourths of a mile away, the atmosphere is so pure that we
can see it as plainly as if we were standing on a tower in the midst of
the city. It is built on two hills, Mt. Zion and Mt. Moriah, the former
being a little to the west of, and a few feet higher than, the latter.
The intervening valley, once very deep, is now so nearly filled up that
the two hills are practically one.

There is little variety about the architecture of Jerusalem. The
houses, generally, are built of white stone, and are usually ten or
twelve feet high, with flat, stone roofs. Frequently one roof extends
over many houses. So, when viewed from the Mount of Olives, Jerusalem
has the appearance of a broad sea of low, level, white roofs. The
monotony is relieved by five distinct objects that lift themselves up
above the surface and stand out in bold relief.

These five objects of prominence are, first, the Mosque of Omar on
Mt. Moriah; second, the Jewish Synagogue, beyond Moriah, on Mt. Zion;
third, Pilate’s Judgment Hall, or the Tower of Antonio; fourth, the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre; fifth, the Tower of David, near the
Jaffa gate. These five towers and buildings lift their haughty heads
high above the humble structures around them, and are clearly outlined
against the golden splendors of the evening sky.

The Mosque of Omar, standing on Mt. Moriah, in the southeastern corner
of the city, is by far the most conspicuous of all. This marks the
sight that was occupied by the old Jewish temple. The Mosque is truly
a gem of architecture, but the Christian heart revolts at the idea of
this Mohammedan ensign of bigamy and bloodshed standing where once
stood the splendid temple of Solomon. Alas! it is too true. But more of
the Mosque hereafter.

We came here to see the city; and when we behold the churches and
cathedrals, the mosques and synagogues, the towers and minarets, rising
up here and there above the white stone buildings around them, we
are half inclined to believe “Zion” is yet wreathed round with some
of her ancient glory. But candor compels me to say that here, as at
Constantinople, “distance lends enchantment to the view.” I love a
pretty picture, and am always loath to break the mirror of admiration
into fragments of analysis; but it now becomes us to descend the Mount
of Olives, recross the Kedron, and, entering by the Stephen’s gate, to
begin an inspection of the city.

[Illustration: STREET IN JERUSALEM.]

We find the streets, which are from six to twelve feet wide, paved
with round stones, varying all the way from a goose egg to a man’s
head. These stones are half buried in filth, the other half being left
exposed, and have been trodden over until they are almost as smooth as
glass. No wheeled vehicle can enter the city, for the reasons that the
streets are too narrow to allow a chariot or wagon to pass through; and
if they were wide enough, the stones are too sleek and slippery for
a camel to walk on, and, with safety, draw a vehicle. You can follow
one of these streets, or lanes, only a short distance without facing
every point of the compass. In many places you have to hold your nose,
and carefully pick your way through the dirt and filth. These narrow,
corkscrew streets (?) are lined on either side by a lot of stalls, from
five to ten feet wide, called shops, or bazaars. Traffic seems to be at
a stand-still. The people are mostly idle. They produce nothing, and
consume—very little! Filth, ignorance, and poverty, those emblems of
Mohammedan rule, more unmistakeable than the Star and Crescent itself,
everywhere abound!

The population of Jerusalem is variously estimated, the estimates
ranging anywhere from 25,000 to 45,000. I think the city probably
has 35,000 inhabitants, proportioned as follows: 18,000 Mohammedans,
12,000 Jews, and 5,000 Christians, each occupying separate and distinct
quarters of the city. All the Christians, except a hundred or more,
are Catholics. While there are a few wealthy Jew merchants and bankers
in Jerusalem, most of the Hebrews here are mainly supported by a
systematic benevolence, Jews in all parts of the world contributing to
this object.

There are many synagogues here, but only one worthy of special note.
The Jews have fifteen or twenty theological students who daily assemble
in the chief synagogue, and seat themselves on mats at the feet of
their instructor, who sits on a thick, deep-tufted cushion in the
centre of the circle. But there is no Gamaliel among the teachers, no
Paul among the pupils.


The Mosque of Omar is surrounded by a wall, some thirty feet high,
which cuts off thirty-five acres, or one-fifth of the city. One part
of this wall has been identified, with more or less certainty, as a
portion of Solomon’s Temple—the only remaining portion. It is believed
that this is the nearest approach to what was once the Holy of Holies.
Every Friday afternoon, at three o’clock, the devout Jews of the city,
old and young, of high and low degree, assemble around these sacred
stones for worship. Here they chant the Psalms of David, and read
aloud from their prayer books and Hebrew Bibles. They kiss, and press
themselves against, these stones for hours. They weep and lament and
pray and cry aloud, as if their hearts would break. Hundreds of these
unfortunate children of Abraham assemble at the “wailing-place.” When
each one has kissed the stones for probably a hundred times or more,
they all seat themselves flat down on the stones in the dirt and filth.

Here they are, all seated in rows on the ground, facing the wall, row
behind row, until the last row is forty or fifty feet from the wall. In
the crowd I see a mother and babe who remind me of Hannah and Samuel.
There, to the right, is a tall, stoop-shouldered, old man, with grey
hair and a wrinkled brow. His long, white beard hangs gracefully over
his breast, and falls in his lap, as he sits with uncovered head and
bowed. That, methinks, is a perfect picture of Abraham as he sat
weeping o’er Sarah’s grave. Here I can pick out a Paul, yonder a John,
an Andrew, and a Peter. Ah! these are the remnants of a race that have
left their imprint upon every page of human history. They sit and pray
and weep, and will not be comforted.

Close to the wall stand six Rabbis eight or ten feet apart. With
their palms upon the wall, they repeatedly bend their elbows and kiss
the stones. And then, in a voice as sad as sadness’s very self, they
in concert cry out: “O Lord God Almighty, thou has smitten us and
scattered us abroad among the heathen nations of earth; yet, O God,
will we praise and adore thee.”

The people, seated on the ground, sway to and fro and cry out:
“A-m-e-n, a-m-e-n.”

The Rabbis, still standing, kiss the wall and exclaim: “Oh! for the
Temple that is no more——”

Swaying to and fro, the people say: “We sit in solitude and mourn.”

Rabbis. “Oh! for the Palace that is torn down——”

People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”

Rabbis. “Oh! for the walls that are demolished——”

People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”

Rabbis. “Oh! for the great stones that are burned into dust——”

People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”

Rabbis. “Oh! for our kings and mighty men that have fallen——”

People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”

Rabbis. “Oh! for the glory that has departed; oh! for the delay of thy

People. “We sit in solitude and mourn.”

Rabbis. “Come, yea, come, O Messiah! come quickly. Enthrone thyself in
Jerusalem. Reign thou over us. Be thou our God. We will be thy people,
and thou shalt subdue the heathen nations of earth.”

These Jews now, as did those in olden times, cling with a death-like
tenacity to the idea of a temporal ruler. They forgot that Christ said,
“My kingdom is not of this world.” He once “came to His own, and His
own received Him not;” and now they “sit in solitude and mourn.”

I have visited this “wailing-place” several times. It is a pitiable
sight. I see men, old men, men patriarchal in appearance, barefooted,
dressed in sackcloth and covered with ashes. They put their mouths in
the dust, and cry aloud unto God in a most distressing manner.

It were enough to wring tears of blood from the heart of a stone, to
see a _nation_ “smitten” and “scattered” and “cursed” of God, as are
the Jews. Verily, they are cursed. They said, “Let His blood be upon
us and our children,” and so it _is_ upon them. They are homeless
wanderers. They have no common country, no flag they can call their
own. Wherever man has gone on land, or ships on sea, the face and
figure of the Jew are seen; and always and everywhere he rests under
the curse of God. The blood is still upon him. Truly, “it is a fearful
thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”

Strange as it may appear, all these visitations of wrath are in direct
fulfillment of prophecy. In his lamentations over the city, Jeremiah
says: “The Lord hath accomplished his fury; He hath poured out His
fierce anger, and hath kindled a fire in Zion, and it hath devoured
the foundations thereof. How doth the city sit solitary! How hath she
become a widow! The Lord hath afflicted her for the multitude of her
transgressions. She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her
cheeks. Jerusalem hath grievously sinned; therefore is she removed. Her
filthiness is in her skirts. Zion spreadeth forth her hands, and there
is none to comfort her. _All her people sigh and seek bread._”

Reader, notice carefully the above sentence, and then hold your breath
as I tell you that every morning, about nine o’clock, hundreds and
hundreds of Jews assemble at one place in the city, and each receives a
loaf of bread gratis; and that bread, with what fruit he can get, keeps
soul and body together until next day. “Yea, they sigh and seek bread.”

The prophet continues: “The Lord hath cast off His Altar; He hath
abhorred His sanctuary; He hath given up into the hand of the enemy
the walls of her palaces. The elders of the daughters of Zion sit on
the ground and keep silence. They have cast dust upon their heads. For
the sins of her prophets and the iniquities of her priests, that have
shed the blood of the Just One in the midst of her, they have polluted
themselves with blood, so that men could not touch their garments.”

We should remember that these prophecies of Jeremiah, and others just
as striking from Isaiah, were uttered hundreds of years before Christ
was born. And yet, as we read this Scripture to-day, it sounds like
history written yesterday. It is literally fulfilled. The Hebrews
_did_ “slay the Just One.” They _did_ “pollute themselves with blood.”
Because of this, God _has_ “poured out His wrath upon them,” their
city, and their country. Jerusalem _has_ been “removed,” and its
“foundations” _have_ been “consumed with fire.” Her “filthiness” _is_
“in her skirts.” God _has_ “cast off His altar, and abhorred His
sanctuary.” He _has_ “given into the hand of the enemy the walls of
the palaces,” and to-day the children of Solomon have to petition the
rulers of a heathen government for permission to approach the remaining
wall of their father’s Temple. To-day the people _actually_ “sit on the
ground” with “tears on their cheeks.” They _do actually_ “sigh and seek
for bread.”

Now I submit the question. Can any man, who has a mind to think and
a heart to feel, read this Scripture, in the light of the present
condition of Jerusalem and of the Jews, without seeing in it an
unanswerable argument in favor of the _inspiration_ of the Bible? If
the Old Testament writers were not inspired, if they wrote as men, and
only as men, how was it that they could write of future events, of
events thousands of years in the future, as though they were present
or past? There is only one rational conclusion to be reached, and
that is, that these men of old wrote as they were moved by the Holy
Spirit—that they climbed high upon the Mt. of Inspiration, and from
there they, with the field-glass of prophecy, scanned the whole horizon
of knowledge.



 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.

AS previously stated, an area of thirty-five acres in the southeastern
corner of Jerusalem is surrounded by an extra wall. The plot of
ground thus cut off from the rest of the city is, approximately, a
parallelogram, and is known as the Haram, or Sacred Inclosure. The
surface of the area is not exactly level, and was formerly less so than
at present. It was originally highest at the northern end; thence it
sloped southward. From a longitudinal line running through the centre
of the inclosure, the surface sloped also eastward and westward. This
northern elevation, which was of solid rock, has been cut down twenty
feet or more. The southern end, and also the east and west sides, of
the inclosure have been considerably filled up. So, evidently, the
appearance of the Haram is materially changed from what it once was.

The massive wall surrounding the Haram serves as the rear wall of many
of the dwelling-houses of the city. These houses join each other, and
are all built close back against the Haram wall, the top of the wall
forming part of the floor of the second story of the buildings. When
the houses are only one story high, the top of the Haram wall is on a
level with their flat roofs.

There are eight gateways leading into the Haram, five through the
western, and three through the northern, wall. The numerous entrances,
however, by no means argue that the Haram is easy of access. To enter
this sacred inclosure, a Christian must secure permission from the
Turkish authorities. Not knowing this, I, all alone, start to the Haram
through one of the gates in the north wall. Just as I am about to step
in upon the sacred area, up spring three Arabs with javelins in their
hands, and daggers in their eyes. As the Arabs draw their javelins, I
_with_draw my head.

Before making another attempt to enter, I obtain, through the American
Consul, the necessary permission. The Consul also kindly sends his
Cavass, that is, his official body-guard, with me. Going down David
Street, we enter the Haram through a gate about midway of the west
wall. Standing at this gate and looking directly eastward, we see,
about a hundred yards in front of us, a broad, level platform paved
with smooth, white, marble-like lime-stone. The platform is higher than
we are, and must be reached by ascending two long flights of marble
steps. The first flight brings us up on a broad, level terrace which,
to our right, supports several old olive and cypress trees. Ascending
the second stairway, we find ourselves standing on the edge of the
paved platform already mentioned. We are now face to face with the
famous Mosque of Omar, or, to speak more correctly, the Dome of the
Rock. Next to Mecca, this is the most sacred shrine in the Mohammedan
world. And, before leaving, we shall find that it is not without
interest to the Jew, and also to the Christian.

The building is octagonal, each of its eight sides being sixty-six
feet long, and forty-six feet high. Hence it is five hundred and
twenty-eight feet in circumference, and one hundred and seventy-six in
diameter. The walls, for the first sixteen feet above the foundation,
are made of, or incased in, different-colored marble, the colors so
blending as to form beautifully designed panels. The walls above the
marble casing are built of enamelled, or porcelain, tiles of various
colors. The blue, black, yellow, white, and green tiles are interwoven
with great artistic taste and skill. Above the marble casing, each of
the eight walls has five tall, arched windows of richly-stained glass.
The walls are adorned here and there with numerous quotations from the
Koran, beautifully inwrought in the tiles.

[Illustration: MOSQUE OF OMAR.]

The most striking feature of the external appearance of this Mosque is
the splendid dome that gracefully rises from the centre of its flat
roof. The base, or drum, of the dome is twenty-seven feet high, and
is pierced by sixteen mosaic windows. For oddity of design, delicacy
of workmanship, and beauty of effect, I have seldom seen anything to
equal these windows. McGarvey, with his usual grace and eloquence,
says: “This dome is 65 feet in diameter at its base, and 97 feet high
from the base to apex. The apex is 170 feet high from the ground. It
is covered with lead, almost black from exposure, and is surmounted
with a large gilt crescent. The peculiar grace of the curve with which
it springs from the drum on which it rests, and that with which it
reaches its crescent-crowned apex, distinguish it for beauty of outline
from all other domes, perhaps, in the world. From whatever point it
is viewed, whether from the Haram area, the city wall, the Mount of
Olives, or any other height about the city, it is the most prominent
and pleasing object in Jerusalem.”

The Mosque has four doors, before reaching any one of which, we must
pass through a vestibule. We enter from the east side. On reaching
the door, a tall Arab, patriarchal and reverential in appearance,
approaches and informs us that no Mohammedan, much less a Frank, is
allowed to enter this _Haram es Sheriff_, this “Noble Sanctuary,” with
his shoes on. The patriarchal Arab has a supply of slippers on hand
which can be had for a few piasters. Taking off our boots, we put on
the rented slippers, and continue to examine and admire the mighty

The building, being eight-sided, is practically round. Since coming on
the inside, this is even more noticeable than when we were without.
Within the building, and thirteen feet from the wall, there is a
large circle composed of eight huge square piers and sixteen round
columns—there being two columns between each two piers. The piers,
or pillars, are built of different-colored marble arranged in showy
panels. The columns are of the finest marble, and are so highly
polished that they reflect like mirrors. Each is crowned with a
Corinthian capital overlaid with gold. From column to column, and also
from column to pier, there springs a beautifully rounded arch built
of marble blocks, alternately black and white. These several arches
furnish a strong support to the roof above.

Nearer the centre of the building, and thirty feet from the pillars
just mentioned, there is an inner and smaller circle, formed by four
piers and twelve columns, there being three columns between each two
of the pillars. The centre of each column and pier in the outer circle
is thirteen feet from the wall. The columns of the inner circle are
likewise thirty feet from those in the outer one. As from the columns
and piers of the outer circle, so also from those of the smaller one,
marble arches spring. These latter arches support the mighty dome, the
exterior of which has already been described.

Look now at the vast structure around you, at the sunny dome above
you! Look at the paneled piers, at the mirror-like columns, at the
gilded capitals, at the marble arches adorned with rich mosaics and
bordered above with inscriptions from the Koran beautifully wrought
in interlaced letters of burnished gold. It is evening. The sun is
sinking. Banks of golden clouds are floating over the city. The airy
dome above us seems suspended in the air and belted with fire. The
stained windows in the dome receive, transmit, and reflect the glowing
light, until every part of the “Noble Sanctuary” is flooded with golden
fire. In the language of Dr. Geikie, “There could, I suppose, be no
building more perfectly lovely than the Mosque of Omar, more correctly
known as the Dome of the Rock.”

“Why is it called the Dome of the Rock?” the reader asks. I am now
ready to answer this question. Within the inner circle of columns,
and directly underneath the dome, a huge rock rises up through the
floor. It is seven feet high, and is fifty-three feet across! The whole
edifice about us was built in honor of this stone, and hence the name
of the structure—“The Dome of the Rock.”


“Why should this rock be so highly honored?” For many reasons. It
is honored alike by Jew, Christian, and Mohammedan. According to
tradition, this rock was the summit of Mt. Moriah, and on it Abraham
offered up Isaac. It was on this rock that Jacob saw the ladder
extending from earth to heaven on which angels were ascending and
descending. This rock was David’s threshing-floor that he bought from
the Jebusite. On it David built an altar and offered the sacrifice
that stayed the wrath of the angel, and thus saved the city. Over
this rock Solomon built his Temple. On this rock Christ stood, when
twelve years of age, and confounded the doctors with His questions and
answers. On this same rock He stood, in later life, and preached the
riches of His own everlasting gospel.

Since these traditions are wide-spread, and currently believed, it is
not at all strange that this rock has imbedded itself in all Jewish and
Christian hearts. “But” says the reader, “there is nothing in these
stories, be they mythical or historical, to enkindle in the Mohammedan
heart a reverence for this rock.” I admit your argument. “Why then,”
you ask, “did the Mohammedans build the ‘Dome,’ and why does the Koran
teach that one prayer offered here is worth a _thousand_ offered

Your questions are reasonable, and I will solve the mystery for you.
According to Moslem belief, Mohammed was an incarnation of deity. From
this rock he ascended to heaven. He being a divine personage, the rock
did not want to leave him. So, when Mohammed began the ascent, the rock
started up also. It would have gone on to heaven with him, but Gabriel
happened to be present, and when the rock was only seven feet high,
he laid his hand upon it and stopped its upward flight. Since that
time the rock has remained just where Gabriel left it. God performs a
perpetual miracle by keeping the sacred rock suspended in the air.

The superstitious followers of the false prophet really believe these
marvelous stories. They show us the imprint that Gabriel’s fingers
made on the rock when, with a touch of his hand, he stayed its upward
flight. They show us also deep impressions in the rock which, they
affirm, were made by Mohammed’s feet as he leaped from the rock into
the air! The fact that each impress is as large as a peck measure
causes Johnson to remark Mohammed must have had at least a half bushel
of feet.

The Moslems believe, as before stated, that this rock is suspended
in the air, and we shall see how the credulous creatures are taught
to believe such absurdities. Underneath the uplifted stone there is
an artificial chamber, twenty-four feet square, and eight feet from
floor to ceiling. The stone walls are whitewashed, but the floor and
ceiling are left bare. This cavern is reached by a flight of stairs
which leads down from the edge of the rock above. When devotees of the
Arab prophet come into the building, they are shown the famous rock and
told that it is suspended in the air. To convince them of the truth of
this statement, they are brought down into this underground cavern.
Now, waving the burning candle above his head, the attending dignitary
says to the stranger: “Behold! See for yourself! The rock above you
has no support. It rests on nothing. It is perpetually kept up by the
Almighty God in honor of Mohammed, His prophet.”

Stamping my foot upon the stone floor of this rock-hewn chamber, and
noticing the strange echo, I say to the Mohammedan guard: “What means
this hollow sound? There is evidently another cavern still below us.
For what is it used?” The astonished guide replies: “What is it used
for? Why, sir, the opening beneath us is the pit of departed spirits.
When a true believer dies, his soul goes into this pit, and there he
stays until Mohammed reaches down and draws him out by the hair of the

Let the author remark, in this connection, that an Arab regards it
as the worst calamity that could possibly befall him to marry some
Delilah, and have her clip his hair, or _pull it out_, and for him to
die before it grows out again. Should this happen, Mohammed could get
no hold upon his slick head, and he would be lost forever. Mark Twain
comments on this, and closes by saying: “The wicked scoundrels need not
be so particular, from the fact most of them are going to be damned,
matters not how they are barbered.”

It is not at all improbable that this secret chamber contains objects
of great interest to the Christian world. When Herod’s temple was
destroyed, Titus, we are told, carried the golden candle-stick to
Rome. But the Ark of the Covenant was not mentioned. The Ark was the
most highly prized thing on earth to the Hebrews. It is natural,
therefore, that they should have done everything possible to keep it
out of the hands of the Romans. To do this, it is supposed that the
pious Hebrews hid the Ark in some niche, or corner, of the honey-combed
rock underneath the Temple. The Christian world would be glad to
explore the secret caverns under the Mosque of Omar. But the Turkish
government stands here, like a fiery fiend waving a sword of vengeance,
saying: “Hands off. Stand back, or I will let this sword fall upon your
unprotected head.” And we do stand back. But I believe the day will
come when the golden key of science will unlock all of these closed
doors, and when the electric light of civilization will be turned on.
Then will these dark passages yield up their hoarded treasures to the
Christian Church, to the lovers of history, of truth, and of God.



 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.

IN giving a bird’s eye view of Jerusalem, I stated that the Church of
the Holy Sepulchre was one of the most prominent objects in the city.
This famous building is located about midway the city, from east to
west, but not more than one hundred and fifty or two hundred yards from
the northern wall. It is, therefore, near the Damascus gate. Although
thus centrally situated, although it covers an area of 200 by 230 feet,
and although it lifts its double dome high in the air, this church is
frequently passed by without attracting the slightest notice.

The reader naturally asks, “How is it possible that a building at once
so historic and prominent as this attracts little or no attention?” The
question is easily answered. Except a few feet on the south side, the
structure is entirely surrounded by other buildings that join close
on to it. These houses, which serve both for business purposes and
residences, are built one upon another, until they reach high in air.
The church is thus almost entirely shut out from the view of the street
walker. To be seen externally, this edifice must be viewed from the
city walls, from the Tower of David, from the Mosque of Omar, from the
hill on the west, or from the Mount of Olives, on the east. When viewed
from any one of these elevations, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is
indeed prominent. From an architectural standpoint, the building is
“without form and void.” But there it is, its two blue domes, like
ever-open eyes, of unequal size, continually staring you in the face.

The building is owned jointly by the Latins, the Greeks, the Armenians,
and the Copts, each sect having its separate chapels and apartments,
neither one being allowed to trespass upon the rights of any of the
others. The building proper is owned by so-called Christian sects,
as stated above, but the _door is the property of the Mohammedans_!
And jealously do they guard their property. The ponderous door works
on rough hinges, and is fastened with bolts of iron. But to open it,
the worshippers and even the priests who minister at the altars, are
compelled to use a golden key. When the gold glitters, the door opens.
To avoid this unparalleled imposition, many priests have actually taken
up their abode in the sanctuary, their meals being passed to them
through small apertures in the wall. The people are not so fortunate as
the priests. They can not live in seclusion. They must work for bread
and blanket, for Church and children. It is all they can do to keep
soul and body together, yet will they divide their scanty living with
the Mohammedans who own the door of the Sepulchre.

Does the reader ask, “Why do they not worship elsewhere, and save their
money?” The answer is twofold. The priests are in the church; and
with a catholic there is no prayer without penance, no pardon without
a priest. Besides, they are taught to believe that this church is a
peculiarly sacred place; that within this building is the geographical
centre of the earth. A stone pillar marks the central spot. Here God
got the dust to make Adam. Here, also, is Adam’s grave. Here was
caught the ram that Abraham sacrificed on the altar of burnt offering
instead of Isaac. Within this building is a stone prison where Christ
was confined, Calvary, where he was crucified, the Sepulchre, where
he was buried. They point out the graves of Nicodemus, and Joseph of
Arimathea. These places are all crowded together under one roof; and
yet they are pointed out by the Latin priests with an air of certainty
that seems to say: “I have told you the truth. To doubt is to be

The building is not _on_ Calvary, but _over_ it. As if one would turn
a tea-cup bottom upwards, and then turn a large glass globe over that.
The floor of the building accommodates itself to the rough surface
of the mount. So the mount is entirely covered up, and one no more
realizes that he is about Calvary than if he were in Tremont Temple,
in Boston. Entering the door from the south, one sees the Stone of
Anointing directly in front of him, and about fifteen feet away. This
marble slab is raised about twelve inches from the floor, and rests
on a wooden block. It is also covered by wooden planks, so only the
edge of the stone is visible. The stone had to be covered to keep the
superstitious Catholics from kissing it away.

Turning now to the left, we find that the building resembles a large
rotunda. Near the centre of the rotunda we see a small building,
twenty-six by sixteen feet, and fifteen feet high. This small
building is a thing of beauty. It is made of many-colored marble,
richly polished and elaborately carved. It looks like the model of
some magnificent cathedral. It is divided into two rooms, the first
being sixteen feet, and the second ten feet long. The larger room is
called the Chapel of the Angels, while the second is said to contain
the Sepulchre of our Lord. The two rooms are lighted day and night
by fifty-three gold and silver lamps. Numerous candles are also kept

[Illustration: HOLY SEPULCHRE.]

Christmas morning, thousands of Greek Christians crowd in and around
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The Greek Patriarch enters this small
structure, and extinguishes all the lamps and candles. Silence and awe
fall upon the multitude, each of whom has an unlighted candle in his
hand. Suddenly the Patriarch from within announces that he has received
fresh fire from Heaven. The Patriarch stands at a small opening in
the marble wall with the sacred fire in his hand. The frenzied crowd
vie with each other, each trying to light his taper first. One man
ignites his candle from the Patriarch’s fire, and a dozen others
light from him. Presently, a deafening shout goes up from the excited
multitude. Every man waves a burning taper above his head. The whole
scene resembles a restless sea of flame. Expert horsemen now leap upon
swift-footed coursers which have been held in waiting. The new-fallen
fire is conveyed to different parts of the country. Ships are at Jaffa
to bear the Heavenly gift to Greece and Russia. This sacred flame burns
continually in the Greek churches until next Christmas, at which time
this shameful imposition will again be practiced on the superstitious

Ascending a flight of stairs, we find ourselves on what is falsely
called Calvary. Removing a few planks in the floor, the priest shows
the bare top of Calvary, the round holes in the mountain where the
three crosses stood, and the rent in the rock, which was caused by the
convulsion of nature at the time of the Crucifixion. And many other
things they show us, whereof if I should write, this book would not
hold all I should say.

Now, if we had time, we might spend two or three days, pleasantly
and profitably, _down under_ the city. For, be it understood, that
these hills on which Jerusalem is built are honey-combed with
ancient stables, caves, caverns, quarries, catacombs, and other
subterranean passages. Captain Warren, chief agent of the Palestine
Exploration Fund, is my authority for saying that Jerusalem, so far as
catacombs and underground passages are concerned, is far richer than
Constantinople, Paris, or even Rome itself.

Just outside of the north wall, and a little to the east of the
Damascus gate, we enter through an iron-barred door into a great
cavern, known as Solomon’s Quarry or the quarry out of which Solomon
got the stones to build his Temple. With a strong body-guard, and a
dozen or more burning tapers, we wander for hours and hours in this
underground world, which in many respects rivals Mammoth Cave. It is
co-extensive with the city above. A forest of natural columns support
the ceiling, which in many places is exceedingly high. Here and there,
we find huge blocks of detached stone, which were long ago dressed, but
never removed from the quarry. They were probably dressed by Solomon’s
workmen, but were never honored with a place in his splendid Temple.
That this was at one time a quarry, is evident from the abundance of
stone chips and fragments that everywhere abound. In this cave, it is
claimed, the Masonic order was organized. It has no river of eyeless
fish, as has the Kentucky Cave, but it boasts a never-failing spring
of pure and sparkling water. Think of all this underneath the Holy
City! O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, there is none like thee in all the earth!

[Illustration: POOL OF SILOAM.]

On the white ceiling above me, I wrote with the smoke of my candle,
“God is love.” I sang, and the music went ringing and reverberating
adown the long, winding labyrinths of rock as I sang:

  “Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
  Let me hide myself in Thee.”

Leaving this cave, let us now go down south of the city. Just where
the two ravines meet, we come to the Pool of Siloam. Here our Blessed
Lord once spat upon the ground, made clay of the spittle, anointed a
blind man’s eyes, and told him to wash in this Pool of Siloam. The man
did wash his eyes, and at once received sight for blindness. The Pool
is preserved to this day. Its length is fifty feet. It is fourteen
feet wide at one end, and seventeen at the other, and has a depth of
eighteen feet. It is walled up with rock. A flight of stone steps leads
down into it from the southern end. Rev. Mr. El Kary, of Shechem, the
only Baptist preacher in Palestine and Syria, was baptised in this
Pool. It is now partially filled up with mud; still it contains a
considerable quantity of water, and I go down into it and bathe my face.

In the valley, below the Pool, is a large vegetable garden and olive
orchard. Vegetation luxuriates in this rich valley, which is constantly
supplied, by means of irrigation, with water from the Pool of Siloam.

The ravine east of Jerusalem, the one which separates the city from
the Mount of Olives, is known as _The Brook Kedron_. But the lower
end of this “brook,” near the Pool of Siloam, is called The Valley of
Jehoshaphat. This is the Jewish cemetery. The valley and the mountain
sides on either side of the brook is one vast graveyard, and it is
bristling thick with white stone slabs, which serve as head-boards to
the graves. Jews from all parts of the world are constantly coming
back here to be buried. According to their belief, the Final Judgment
will take place in this Valley of Jehoshaphat. They say the name is
significant—Jehoshaphat, “Jehovah judgeth.” They quote Joel III: 2
and 12—“I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into
the valley of Jehoshaphat.” “Let the heathen be awakened, and come up
to the valley of Jehoshaphat; for there will I sit to judge all the
heathen around about.”

Continuing up this valley, we soon come to the tombs of Zachariah,
Absalom, and St. James, which were mentioned in a previous chapter.
Passing these by, we follow the valley northward for a mile or more,
and finally come to the celebrated _Tombs of the Kings_. The peculiar
construction of these tombs, as well as the historical interest
attaching to them, entitles them to a more elaborate description than
my limited space will allow.


Reader, imagine that you are standing with me on a broad, level
shelf of rock. Approaching its centre, we see what might be called a
huge cistern, ninety feet square, hewn into the rock to a depth of
twenty feet. A long flight of broad, stone steps leads us down into
this excavation, whose rocky walls are perpendicular. A door, cut
in the south wall, conducts us into a series of rock-hewn chambers.
With lighted candles, we pass into the first room, thence through a
small door to the second, the third, and so on. All these chambers
are honey-combed with vaults, cut in the rock, for the reception
of the ancient dead. This underground mansion of the dead extends
seventy-five feet from north to south, and fifty feet from east to
west. It is a perfect network of rooms. The ceiling is elaborately
adorned with carved wreaths and roses, with vines, leaves, trees, and
fruits. Everywhere the chisel has left undeniable evidence of the
sculptor’s skill. The outside door is usually closed by a large flat,
circular stone, which looks much like a wheel, or a block sawn off of
the end of a log. Before entering, we have to “roll the stone away from
the door of the Sepulchre.”

Let us now return to the Pool of Siloam, and walk up the other ravine,
which is known as the _Valley of Hinnom_. Of this valley, Doctor
Geikie, who is always a safe man to quote from, says: “Israelites once
offered their children to Moloch, and these very rocks on each side
have echoed the screams of the innocent victims, and reverberated
with the chants and drums of the priests, raised to drown the cries
of agony. It is well called the Valley of Hinnom—‘the Valley of the
Groans of the Children:’ a name which perpetrates the horror once
excited by the scenes it witnessed; especially, it would seem, in
this lower part. Here, under Ahaz, Manasseh, and Amon, the hideous
ox-headed human figure of Moloch—the summer sun in his glowing and
withering might—was raised in brass and copper, with extended arms,
on which were laid, helplessly bound, the children given up by their
parents ‘to pass through the fire’ to him; a heated furnace behind the
idol sending its flames through the hollow limbs, till the innocents
writhed off into a burning fire beneath. Ahaz and Manasseh had set a
royal example in this horrible travesty of worship, by burning alive
some of their own children; and what kings did commoners would be
ready to copy. In later times the very words Ge-Hinnom—‘the Valley
of Hinnom’—slightly changed into Gehenna, became the common name
for hell. The destruction of Assyria is pictured by Isaiah as a huge
funeral pile, ‘deep and large,’ with ‘much wood,’ ‘prepared for the
king,’ and kindled by the breath of Jehovah, as if by ‘a stream of
brimstone.’ Jeremiah speaks of ‘high places’ in this valley, as if
children had been burned on different altars; and he can think of no
more vivid image of the curse impending over Jerusalem than that it
should become an abomination before God, like this accursed place.”

In this same valley are two pools, known as the Upper and Lower Pools
of Gihon. The lower and larger of the two is near the southwest corner
of the city. This immense reservoir is, approximately, 600 feet long,
160 feet broad, and 40 feet deep. It has a capacity for 19,000,000
gallons. The other pool is about three hundred yards farther up the
valley. It, also, is very large, but not so capacious as the lower one.
From this Upper Pool of Gihon, water is conveyed through an aqueduct to
the different pools in the city, of which there are quite a number.

[Illustration: BURIAL OF CHRIST.]

Standing on the city wall just above the Damascus gate, and looking
directly north, we see, about two hundred yards away, a mount rising up
somewhat higher than we are. It looks like the upturned face of a man.
We see first the chin, then the eyeless sockets, and then the forehead
beyond. It is Golgotha, the place of a skull. Here is where the world’s
greatest tragedy occurred. No mark is left to show where the cross
stood; yet Calvary has become the centre of the world’s thought.

Some two hundred and fifty yards west of Calvary, there are some tombs
cut in the solid rock. One of these has been pointed out by Captain
Conder as the probable one in which our blessed Lord lay for three days
and nights. When we remember that Captain Conder is a scientist of a
high order, that he has been in Palestine twenty years, sometimes with
twenty and sometimes with forty men with and under him, searching out
ancient names, places, and history, we must acknowledge that he is good
authority on these subjects. Of this tomb, he says: “It would be bold
to hazard the suggestion that the single Jewish sepulchre thus found,
which dates from about the time of Christ, is indeed the tomb in the
garden, nigh unto the place called Golgotha, which belonged to the
rich Joseph of Arimathaea. Yet its appearance, so near the old place
of execution, and so far from the other old cemeteries of the city, is
extremely remarkable.”

I believe God has wisely and purposely hidden these places from His
children. He knows our imperfections. He knows we would make too much
of crosses and tombs. He wants us to think more of Him who died on the
cross, and rose from the tomb, who ascended on high, sat down at the
right hand of the Father, and ever liveth to make intercession for us.



 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.

JAFFA, “the high,” or “the beautiful,” situated on the Mediterranean,
forty-two miles from Jerusalem, is the principal seaport in Palestine.
It has always been a favorite shipping point. From here, Jonah started
on that famous voyage that ended on the inside of a whale. Not until
the time of the Maccabees, second century before Christ, did Jaffa,
ancient Joppa, fall into the hands of the Jews. Soon, however, it was
wrenched from them by the Romans. Augustus returned it to them. “Since
then,” Doctor Geikie remarks, “its fortunes have been various; now
Roman, next Saracen, next under the Crusaders, then under the Mamelukes
of Egypt, and next under the Turks, to whom, to its misfortune, it
still belongs.”

It was here that Napoleon I. had several thousand Arab prisoners
of war shot. The great chieftain has been severely censured for
this “cold-blooded murder.” I am not sure, however, but that his
“cold-blooded” critics are as heartless in stabbing him with the pen,
as he was in ordering those Arabs executed. He was thousands of miles
from home. He had no provisions to feed, and no men to guard, the
prisoners. To turn them loose was to strengthen the enemy, who already
outnumbered him ten to one. In the name of Mars, I ask, what else could
Napoleon do?

While in Joppa, staying with one Simon a tanner, who lived by the
seaside, Peter went upon the housetop and, in a vision, saw a sheet
let down from Heaven, filled with all manner of four footed beasts.
There is to-day in Jaffa a tannery, by the seaside. The stone vats are
exceedingly old. The most pleasant place in Jaffa is on the housetops.
Standing upon the flat roof of the house in the tan-yard, I easily
throw pebbles into the Sea.

Jaffa is worthy of her name. Situated in the midst of an extensive
orange orchard, which slopes at first steeply, and then gently, up
from the water’s edge, she may well be called, “The Beautiful.” I have
eaten oranges in different countries, but nowhere have I found them
so delicately and deliciously flavored as here in Jaffa. The orchard
stretches itself along the seashore for two miles, or more, and extends
about the same distance back towards the hill-country. Not oranges
only, but figs, dates, pomegranates, pears, peaches, bananas, apricots
and other tropical fruits flourish about Jaffa. This is a great summer
resort for the people of Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Jerusalem. And why
should it not be? The sea breeze is refreshing, the foliage of the
orange trees is always green, and the blossoms always fragrant. The
ten thousand people who live in Jaffa walk through filthy streets, and
live in sorry houses, many of them in miserable huts. They are not,
however, so poverty-stricken as are their kinsmen in other portions of
the country, for the showers of golden fruit are constantly bringing
streams of golden coin into the Beautiful City.


With pockets full of oranges, and hearts full of gratitude that God
has graciously permitted us to traverse the Holy Land from Dan to
Beersheba, and from the river to the Great Sea, we take shipping at
Jaffa for the land of the Pharaohs. The voyage is rendered thoroughly
uncomfortable because of a cargo of sheep. The helpless creatures
are crowded together almost as if they were cut up and salted down
as mutton. During a rough sea, they are so shaken up and jostled
together that they, like Peter’s wife’s mother, lie sick of a fever.
The fumes arising from these fevered victims have a most distressing
effect upon the passengers. But for the sea breeze, we should all go
crazy, or should ourselves die of the fever. Night brings no sleep to
our pillows, no relief to our throbbing temples. I feel that I would
almost be glad to be thrown overboard, like Jonah, and trust to some
passing whale to carry me ashore. It is therefore with great pleasure
that we step off of this sheep-cursed ship on Egyptian soil, in Port
Said, at the mouth of the Suez Canal. Port Said, which now has five to
eight thousand inhabitants, has been built since the opening of the
Suez Canal which, as the reader knows, connects the Mediterranean and
Red seas. It is, perhaps, according to its length, the most important
stream or “connecting body” of water in the world.

Leaving Port Said on a steamer, I soon find myself gliding through this
Canal, whose construction is regarded as one of the grandest triumphs
of modern science. Great banks of sand rise on either side, and the
blue sky stretches above our merchant ship. We are constantly passing
large merchant ships going to south Africa and to India, and meeting
others coming from there. Every few hundred yards, we see a dredging
machine at work deepening and widening the Canal. The desert sands are
ever encroaching upon it. I believe it will finally have to be walled
up with rock. The Suez Canal was opened, more than twenty years ago, in
the presence of representatives of nearly every civilized government.
It is 110 miles long, 26 feet deep, 72 feet wide at the bottom, and 140
feet at the top, and was constructed at a cost of almost one hundred
million dollars. “The great advantage of the Canal,” says the _London
Times_, “is, of course, the decrease of the distance to be traveled
between Europe and India; for, while it is about 11,200 miles from
London or Hamburg, by the Cape of Good Hope, to Bombay, by the Suez
it is only 6,332. This reduces the voyage by twenty-four days. From
Marseilles or Genoa, a saving of thirty days is effected, and from
Trieste thirty-seven.” The rates at which steamers are allowed to pass
is from five to six miles per hour.

While the French furnished the brains and the money for the
construction of the Canal, it is at present chiefly owned by Great
Britain, Disraeli having bought up a great part of the stock, when
considerably below par, for 4,000,000 pounds. Since that time,
however, the value has increased to nearly 11,000,000 pounds. It
was, therefore, a paying investment. Out of every one hundred vessels
passing this way, seventy-five of them belong to England. The Canal is
jealously guarded by English forts and English men-of-war. The British
Lion has laid his paw upon Egypt, and ere long a change will come over
the spirit of somebody’s dreams.

Passing through the land of Goshen, where Israel dwelt, then through
a series of lakes, and finally by the town of Suez, we enter the Red
Sea. There is more life in or on this sea than around its waters.
Nevertheless, it is of surpassing interest to the students of sacred
and profane history. The place where Moses led the children of Israel
across the sea can not be determined with certainty. The authorities
are about equally divided between each of two places. Pharaoh and his
host were swallowed up by the sea, and no one has ever thought enough
of them even to fish for their chariot wheels. A thinking man, with
a devout heart in him, trembles as he stands upon the shore of this
sea, and reads the thirteenth and fourteenth chapters of Exodus, and
especially when in the vicinity of Mount Sinai he reads the nineteenth
and twentieth chapters.

Returning to Suez, we find a rude contrivance, by courtesy called a
train, which makes occasional trips to Cairo. It is by all odds the
most uncomfortable “clap-trap” I have ever been in. It is constructed
much after the order of our cattle-cars. During the trip, we encounter
a sand storm and are almost suffocated. I suppose, however, I should do
like other folk, and praise the bridge that brings me over safely.

At all events, I am now in Egypt, the oldest country in the world, the
cradle of civilization. It is here that the god of thought first waved
his enchanted wand, and separated intellectual light from the long
night of ignorance. I am in Cairo, the capital of Egypt, and, next to
Damascus, the most exclusively Oriental city in the Levant. It is still
the city of “Arabian Nights.” It is as Eastern and as odd now as when
“Raselas” roamed through its streets. I should like to describe Cairo,
with its mosques and minarets, with its flower gardens and palm groves,
with its narrow streets and curious bazaars, thronged and crowded with
a moving mass of turbaned men and veiled women.

I should like especially to speak of my trip up the Nile, of my visits
to the place where it is said Pharaoh’s daughter “came down to wash
herself in the river,” and found Moses in the ark of bulrushes (Ex.
XI: 1-10), to the Virgin’s tree, in the ward where it is claimed that
Joseph and Mary lived during their stay in Egypt, to the petrified
forests, and to other places of interest; but Time, that restless,
sleepless, ever-watchful tyrant, forbids. If I were Joshua, I would
command the sun to stand still while I finish this chapter. As that is
impossible, I will do the next best thing—turn my watch back half an
hour, and write on.

[Illustration: NUBIAN.]

Peculiar interest attaches to the museum of this place, because of its
mummies. The old Egyptians could not paint a beautiful picture, or
chisel a graceful statue, but they certainly knew how to embalm and
preserve the human body. Let us pass by the “common dead,” and go at
once into the Hall of Royal Mummies. Here we find the almost perfectly
preserved bodies of twelve or fifteen of Egypt’s kings. Among them is
the mummy of Rameses II., the Pharaoh who ruled at the time when Moses
was born. All these mummies are, of course, in air tight glass cases,
but are plainly visible. Rameses II. was a man of powerful physique, a
small head which is full in front, heavy features and hard. Albeit, his
face betokens strength of character and an iron will. There is a far
away, dreamy appearance playing over his countenance. He looks as if he
is thinking about the past. We will not disturb his peaceful slumbers.
We come next into the presence of His Royal Highness, King So Karimsap,
who is thus labelled: “This is the oldest known mummy and is probably
5,700 years old.” As the king has rather a pleasant and familiar
looking face, I presume to speak to him. I say:

“If your Royal Highness will have the goodness to excuse a stranger, I
should like to ask you a few questions.”

“Quite excusable, sir, proceed,” is the fancied reply.

Question. “While ruling Egypt of old, you were much honored and revered
by your subjects. Why, then, did you decide to change your mode of


  “The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow’r,
  And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave,
  Await, alike, th’ inevitable hour;
  The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.”

“Do you receive the same reverence and homage now as when you occupied
the throne of Egypt?”

“No; in the world of departed spirits, where I now dwell, there is no
difference between prince and peasant.”

“What! Did not your title and regal attire secure you a seat of honor?”

“Ah! no. Purple robes and jeweled crowns are no passport to honor here.
The robe of Christ’s righteousness is the only garment that admits one
into the presence of the pure.”

“But is the robe of righteousness you speak of a sure guarantee of
Divine favor?”

“Never yet has it failed. In your world, a man may live in poverty and
die in distress; yet, when he comes into this world with that spotless
garment on, all the fiends of hell shrink back in horror at his
approach, and all the angels of Heaven greet him with shouts of joy and
anthems of praise. The Master places a crown of gold on his brow, and
silver slippers on his feet.”

“But I see you have great riches in your coffin with you; could you not
bribe the doorkeeper, and buy your way in?”

“Your questions mock me. What were my paltry sum to Him who holds the
world in His hands. My advice to you is to seek first the kingdom of
God and His righteousness; to seek peace and pursue it; to buy the
truth and sell it not. These will be worth more to you than wealth and
titles of honor and power and dominion all combined. I would rather be
a true disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ than wear the brightest diadem
that ever graced a monarch’s brow, and know Him not.”

Thanking the king for his kindness, and his words of wisdom, I bow
myself out of his presence. The people here talk of “King So Karimsap”
as though he had lived yesterday, when the truth is his light of life
went out more than fifty centuries before we were born! It is said
that “the railroads in Egypt use mummies for fuel; and on wet days the
engineers are heard frequently to cry out?: ‘These plebeians won’t burn
worth a cent; hand me out a king!’ On express trains, it is claimed,
they use nothing but kings.”

Christmas morning I am up before the lamps of night are dimmed by the
rising god of day. There seems to be a rivalry among the stella host,
each trying to outshine its neighbor. Each star twinkles and smiles
and laughs and pours a flood of glory down. I never saw anything like
it—there is less of earth than of Heaven in the scene. I say “Surely,
these are creatures singing the praise of their Master—of Him whose
birthday they fain would celebrate.” While yet these balls of fire
gleam bright from the blue sky above, Johnson and I are in the saddle
on our way to the Pyramids. Yes, in the saddle. In Cairo, saddles are
street-cars. Egyptian boys, each with a fresh-barbered donkey, bridled
and saddled, throng the streets. The moment a traveler steps on the
sidewalk, he is doomed. These boys leading their donkeys, crowd around
him like hungry wolves around a helpless lamb. He can not get away. The
boys are irresistible. They take hold of you, and throw you into the
saddle, and instantly the donkey moves off. Then all the boys throw up
their caps and halloo, except the one whose donkey you are on. He, of
course, follows you, one hand grasping the donkey’s tail and the other
clutching a stick. The tail is used as a rudder to guide the animal,
and the stick as an argument to persuade him to quicken his already
flying steps. Every one rides as if he were carrying the mail. Indeed,
he can not help it. The donkey is running for life—he must move, or be
brained on the spot. All persons give way for the coming donkey as if
he were a steam engine.


Christmas Eve was our first experience. We had gotten here the night
before. I had heard of the donkey boys, but had forgotten all about
them. Well, as soon as we stepped on the streets, “they came, they saw,
they conquered!” They capture Johnson first. In five minutes, they had
him on a zebra-looking ass, and were rushing him down Palm Avenue at a
two-forty pace. I was bringing up the rear, but the zebra was all the
time gaining on me. I would, probably, soon have been left far behind,
if things had moved on smoothly. But Johnson’s “flying Dutchman”
fell—he spilt his rider on one side of the street, and he took the
other. When I rode up, the boy was trying to bring the donkey to by
twisting his tail. Johnson was on his knees—not at prayer—and his hat
was gone. In five minutes more, we were on our way again. We reached
the American Consul’s office in due time, and without any broken bones.
On our way back, “Yankee Doodle” stumbled, and I fell straddle of his
neck; but on he rushed, faster than before. In vain I struggled to
get back to the saddle. All other efforts having failed, I, in order
to regain my position, placed my feet on the embankments rising up on
either side of the rock-hewn path. With my feet upon these embankments,
I lifted myself up for a moment, expecting at the right time to sit
down in the saddle. But the donkey was too quick for me; when I sat
down on him he was not there. A moment later found my head in the
ditch, and my heels in the air. We called at the drug store, and got
some salve—Johnson is better now.


Well, as I was going on to say, we get an early start to the Pyramids.
We meet hundreds of camels coming off of the great desert, and donkeys
without number going into market, laden with hay and clover, fish,
fuel and vegetables. Where we cross the Nile, both banks are lined with
tall, majestic palm trees, the finest I have ever seen. The rising sun
throws the palm shadows on the river’s broad bosom. The shadows sink
into the blue depths below; we see two palm groves standing end to
end—one above, and one below the water.

Now, leaving the Nile, and turning directly west, we travel along a
road that was constructed a few years ago by the Khedive for the use of
the Prince of Wales and party. Unfortunately, I am not informed whether
the Prince made this trip on a donkey or not. I know this, however,
whether he walked, rode an ass, or was driven in a carriage of state,
he enjoyed the Pyramids not one whit more than I do. I can not help
enjoying them. They are already looming up before me, clearly outlined
against the sky. At first, they seem to swim in a sea of mirage that
rises up from the surrounding country—they are composed of such stuff
as dreams are made of. But, as I come nearer, that airy nothingness
assumes definite shape, and takes on colossal proportions. At last I
stand face to face with a Miracle in Stone, the only remaining one of
the seven wonders of the ancient world. It is at once the most massive
and mysterious, the most towering and majestic, the oldest, and yet the
most enduring, of all the works of man. It bursts upon me, at once, in
all the “flower of its highest perfection.” I go “back down the stream
of time,” and breathe the atmosphere of five thousand years ago. I
see, in my imagination, thousands and thousands of human slaves, deep
down in the bowels of some far off mountain, blasting these stones.
I see them piling the stones upon rough barges, and floating them a
thousand miles down yonder Nile. I see them out here on the desert,
clearing away a thirteen-acre base, on which to erect a hand-made
mountain. On this thirteen-acre foundation, I see the Pyramid rise,
block after block, course upon course, up, and still up, it goes. These
blocks of rock, one of which it takes on an average two hundred men
to raise the eighth of an inch from the ground, are lifted high up in
the air and swung into their destined places with an exactness that
varies not the fraction of an inch. Yes, here is the Pyramid, with its
broad base, sloping sides, and cloud-piercing summit; but who were its
builders? and where are they? Echo answers, “who? where?”

“Forty centuries look down upon us from the Pyramids,” and speak
to us in trumpet tones of the folly of human ambition. Think of
the straining, the suffering and the sorrowing, that those foolish
Pyramid-builders caused, in order to have their bodies preserved, and
their memories perpetuated. Their work still stands, but long ago their
very bones have been ground into powder, and even their names are
unknown to man.

The Great Pyramid is 730 feet square at the base, and is 460 feet high.
“The usual process in Egyptian Pyramid building seems to have been to
start with an upright column, or needle, of rock, and enclose it in a
series of steps formed of huge blocks of stone. Fresh series of steps
were added to the outside, till the requisite dimensions were obtained.
Then the steps were filled up with smooth polished stones, covered with
sculpture and inscriptions.” Deep down in the Pyramids were left open
chambers and passages, as the burial places of the illustrious builder
and his family. Of course, these interior chambers were closed and
hermetically sealed. From the Great Pyramid, or the Pyramid of Cheops,
the outer polished stones have been removed, so now there remains a
series of colossal steps, up which some visitors climb to the top.

To ascend the Pyramid, one must pay a fee to the Sheik, who furnishes
him with two strong Arabs—some travelers require four—to assist him
up. It would be both difficult and dangerous to attempt the ascent
alone. The steps are often five feet high. There is no chance to catch
a hand hold, and you have only twelve, and sometimes six, inches to
stand on while you struggle to get up. We had two assistants each, yet
Johnson came very near falling. I was amused, and excited, too, when I
heard him cry out to the Arabs, “Hold me! _hold me!_”

At the top of the Pyramid, there is a level platform, about thirty feet
square, from which one gets a fine view of the surrounding country.
Looking eastward, I can trace the majestic Nile, in its onward sweep
toward the ocean, and its fertile valley, once the granary of the
world. Turning toward the setting sun, I look out for miles and miles
over the arid desert. Not a living thing do I see, but a caravan of
camels, those ships of the desert, just starting out on their long
journey. After descending almost to the ground, we have then to slide
on our stomachs up an inclined plane, on the inside of the Pyramid in
order to reach the interior chamber, which was long ago robbed of its
mummied kings.

A few hundred yards from the Pyramid of Cheops stands the colossal
Sphynx, which, if possible, is a greater wonder than the Pyramid
itself. The Sphynx is a huge lion with a human head. It is therefore
an emblematic sovereign, combining the greatest earthly wisdom with
the greatest possible strength. I said the Sphynx is colossal. Look
at it and see for yourself. Its paws are fifty feet, and its body one
hundred and forty feet in length. Its massive head is of proportionate
size. This image is hewn out of solid stone, and stands out before us
in giant-like proportions. And yet it is so graceful and symmetrical,
withal, that we half-way forget its size. We are wondering why it does
not move and walk, why we can not see it breathe and roll its eyes. If
God would only touch the Sphynx, it would instantly become a living
creature! Its countenance has been described as wearing “an expression
of the softest beauty and most winning grace.” This, however, must
have been in the days of its youth. At present, it has a furrowed brow
and wrinkled. Its eyes are deep back in its head, and its jaws are
firmly set. It wears a pensive, thoughtful look.

I speak to the Sphynx, but, paying no attention, it stands “staring
right on, with calm eternal eyes.” As an old man in his dotage, forgets
all that took place during the days of his strength and manly glory,
and thinks only of those things which occurred in early life, so this
Sphynx stands, with memory stretching like rainbow from old age to
childhood. It is thinking about the confusion of tongues that took
place around the tower of Babel; about the morning when the city of
Damascus was laid out by Uz, the great-grandson of Noah; about the day
when God appeared to Abraham, and told him to leave the land of Ur and
go into the land of Canaan. It is thinking about the time when Joseph
ruled Egypt; when Moses was found in the ark of bulrushes, on the bosom
of yonder Nile; when Pharaoh was swallowed up by the Red Sea. In middle
life, this “eternal statue” saw Troy fall and Athens rise. In old age,
it saw Rome flourish, fade and fall.

Standing side by side, are the Sphynx and the Pyramids, both huge in
dimensions, both graceful in appearance, both impressive to behold,
both “ancient as the sun,” and both I believe, will be among the last
earthly objects to yield to the “wasting tooth of Time.”



 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

FOR some months past I have been breathing the atmosphere of Asia and
Africa. While there I was completely shut out from civilization. I
have not received a paper or the scratch of a pen from any one in many
weeks. I must have a letter soon, if I have to write it myself.

Since leaving Egypt I have been four days on the Mediterranean—I had
almost said “four days in Gehenna.” I flattered myself that I was
a moderately good sailor, but this time I lost my sea legs in half
an hour after going on board the steamer, nor did I discover their
whereabouts until twelve hours after landing. I thought of Paul’s
experience when making a similar voyage. In Acts 27:6 we are told that
Paul was put in a ship “sailing from Alexandria to Italy.” So was I.
Paul’s vessel was struck with a “tempestuous wind, called Euroclydon,”
and was “exceedingly tossed with a tempest.” So was mine. Paul sailed
close by the islands of Crete and Clauda. So did I. I was sea-sick—so
was Paul, I suppose. Indeed it was a voyage long to be remembered. I am
a splendid sailor—on land—but I can not navigate a “tempestuous sea.”

Europe again! I feel as one who has been keeping company with the dead,
and has now been raised from the grave and brought back to the land
of the living. Verily, the people of Asia and Africa are dead—dead
spiritually, dead in trespasses and sin, dead to literature and
learning, dead to the progress the world is making. Not only dead, but
buried—buried in conceit, in selfishness, in filth and ignorance.
Yes, these people are dead and buried in a sepulchre, and against the
door of that sepulchre Poverty has placed a stone which naught but the
angels of God can remove. Come, O winged angel, come quickly. Roll
away this stone, that these benighted people may be raised up to the
nineteenth century and to God!

I am now on Italian soil in Naples, under a soft Italian sky, and God’s
bright and cheerful sunshine, streaming through my window, is falling
in golden ringlets upon the floor. Naples boasts 1,000,000 inhabitants,
and possesses many charms for the traveler. In approaching the city
from the bay the scene is peculiarly striking. It was perhaps this
charming picture that gave rise to the saying: “See Naples and die.”


A fine day this to visit Pompeii, which is only fifteen miles away. It
is situated on a narrow table-land which on one side slopes gently down
to the bay, and on the other side rises up steeply to the crest of Mt.
Vesuvius. We go by train. In half an hour after leaving Naples, we hear
the conductor shouting: “Pompeii! Pompeii!!” Fifteen minutes later we
are standing before “Porta della Marina,” knocking for entrance.

While waiting for the keeper to open the gate, let me relate as briefly
as possible the history of this “City of the Dead,” as Sir Walter Scott
calls Pompeii. This city (pro. Pom-_pay_-ee) was in a flourishing
condition hundreds of years before the Christian era. It was founded
by the Oscans, but soon fell under Greek influence and civilization.
The Greeks, in turn, were subdued by the strong hand of the Caesars and
Pompeii became a Roman town.

In A. D. 63, there came an earthquake and a slight eruption of
Vesuvius, which together destroyed the greater part of the city. As
soon, however, as the earth ceased to tremble, and the mountain to
smoke, the work of re-construction began. As in Chicago, after the
great fire, the debris was removed, the city was enlarged, the streets
were laid out with greater care and more regularity than before.
Streams of gold now flowed in from every direction. The magician waved
his wand, and lo! from the wreck and ruin of the past, there rose a
city of palatial residences and marble temples. Art flourished. Every
wall was pictured, every niche held a statue, every column was wreathed
with a garland of sculptured roses. Fountains played, monuments arose
in honor of Augustus and Nero, triumphal arches were flung across the
principal entrances to the city, the marble forms of mythological gods
filled the public squares and stood at every street corner. On the
fifteenth page of “The Last Days of Pompeii” the author says: “Pompeii
was the miniature of the civilization of that age. Within the narrow
compass of its walks was contained, as it were, a specimen of every
gift which Luxury offered to Power. In its minute but glittering shops,
its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theater, its circus, in the
energy yet corruption, in the refinement yet the vice of its people,
you beheld a model of the whole empire. It was a toy, a play thing, a
show-box, in which the gods seemed pleased to keep the representation
of the great monarchy of Earth, and which they afterward hid from Time
to give to the wonder of Posterity!”

This “miniature city,” rising from the midst of a luxuriant vineyard,
stood on a beautiful table land and was girt around with a strong wall.
Back behind the city, and close at hand, rose the awful form of that
sleeping volcano. The ambitious vine had climbed up and spread its
fruitful branches over the crater itself. Purple clusters of luscious
fruit silently slept in the sunshine, high aloft on the mountain side.
Just below the city, in front and to the south, was the glassy Bay of
Naples covered with vessels of commerce, and gilded galleys of the
rich. All in all, Pompeii and its surroundings formed one of the most
pleasing pictures that ever greeted the human eye.

Pompeii had just reached its boasted perfection when, on the 24th of
August, A. D. 79, fifty years after the Crucifixion, it was destroyed
by Vesuvius. Pliny, whose mother was among those buried alive, wrote
two letters to his friend, the historian Tacitus, in which letters
he gives a graphic description of this fearful scene. He speaks of
“the premonitory earthquakes, day turned into night the extraordinary
agitation of the sea, the dense clouds overhanging the land and sea,
and riven by incessant flashes of lightning, the emission of fire
and ashes, the descent of streams of lava, and the universal terror
of men, who believed the end of the world had arrived.” At the time
of the eruption many of the houses were closed; hence they were not
filled, but simply surrounded by and covered with ashes. This of course
excluded all air. Thus many houses were hermetically sealed, as was
also the city itself. Of the 30,000 souls dwelling in Pompeii, 2,000 or
more perished with the city. Pompeii, being built entirely of stone,
marble and granite did not burn, but was simply buried beneath this
incumbent mass. For 1,700 years it was wrapped in ashes and hid from
the face of the earth. For centuries its very site was unknown, and
even its name forgotten. “But earth, with faithful watch, has hoarded
all,” and during the last few years much of the buried city has been
unearthed and brought to light.

What a rich field for excavation! It has proved an inexhaustible
store-house of wealth, and a perfect treasury of art. Great quantities
of gold and silver coins and jewelry, frescoes, pictures, statuary,
household furniture, and cooking utensils, have been found; also
several large loaves of bread in a perfect state of preservation, and
jars of pickled olives. How strange to have one’s appetite tempted by
articles of food that were prepared for those who lived 1,700 years ago!

Many dogs and horses, and not less than three to four hundred human
bodies, have been discovered. Eighteen bodies were in one room. You see
to-day the contortions their bodies were in, and the expression their
countenances wore, at the moment of death. Their tangled and disheveled
hair is clotted with ashes. In the excitement and confusion of that
awful hour, the terror-stricken inhabitants of the doomed city ran to
and fro through the streets, calling upon their gods for safety and
deliverance. They were over-powered by the falling shower of ashes and
cinders. They threw themselves upon the ground, their faces upon their
arms. At this moment, the sluggish stream of wet ashes which poured
forth from Vesuvius passed over them. Many no doubt welcomed death. For
seventeen centuries their quiet slumbers were undisturbed.

One man was found with ten pieces of gold in one hand, and a large key
in the other. Gold, however, was no bribe to the fiery fiend. But for
that gold, the owner might have escaped; but no, he must return to get
it. He would not leave it. Hence he did not leave at all. I know many
men who are acting as foolishly to-day, as this citizen of Pompeii
did ages ago. Many a man says: “I will make my fortune; I will get
my gold first, and then look to my soul’s welfare.” O reader, the day
of judgment is at hand! “Flee from the wrath to come;” “flee for thy
life.” “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,” and then
get your gold.

Some of these bodies are adorned now as on the day of death, with rings
and bracelets and necklaces.

The most poetical thing, perhaps, that Pompeii has yielded to modern
research is two bodies, male and female, who died in each other’s arms.
Let us imagine these persons in the spring-time of life, with the dew
of youth still fresh upon their brows; that the girl was beautiful and
accomplished, the man strong and true and brave; that their hearts had
been touched by Love’s magic wand, and made one; that when on that
August day darkness came, when the earth shook, and the volcano poured
forth molten streams of fire and consternation, he could have escaped,
but he would not go without her. He sought her and she sought him. But
when they found each other she was weak and exhausted and could go no
farther. She said: “Go, loved one; go save, save thyself!” He replied:
“Leave thee, never! Let the thunder roar and the lightnings flash; let
the earth reel and the mountains pour forth their fiery streams of
death; I die with you rather than live without you!” So saying, they
embraced each other and perished. That embrace is still unbroken.

As I gaze upon the bodies of these faithful lovers, I fancy, for the
time, that I am a poet with the harp of Apollo in my hand. Heavenly
breezes sweep across the strings of that golden lyre, and wake for me a
song which, for pathos and sweetness, rivals the minstrelsy of angels.

At present Pompeii is protected by the same wall that surrounded it
when Christ was born in Bethlehem. The city is laid bare. Every thing
is clean and neat. The streets are narrow, but straight and well paved
with broad flags of lava. These stone-like pavements are worn in some
places eight or ten inches deep by the chariot wheels that used to
thunder along these busy streets.

All houses of Pompeii are now roofless, though otherwise most of them
are perfectly preserved. They are usually one story high. The walls
were, and are still, covered with beautiful frescoes. Mythology was
a favorite subject for the painter—everywhere we see pictures of
Minerva, Apollo, Jupiter, Bacchus, and Hercules performing his twelve
labors. The floors, clean as any parlor, are inlaid with rich mosaics,
representing historical events, gladitorial contests, etc.

As one walks the streets of Pompeii on a moonlight night, the ghost of
the past rises up before him. He has read in history about the luxury,
pomp, and splendor of ancient Rome, but here he sees a Roman city as
it was in the golden days of Nero. One who has a vivid imagination,
can stand here at night and easily people these palaces, streets,
and theatres with the pleasure-loving Romans of 2,000 years ago. Ah,
how they thronged these streets! How eagerly they crowded into the
amphitheatre to see the gladiators measure swords with each other; to
see men pitted against ferocious lions and tigers, against wild bulls
and boars!

When their city was finished and the wall around it completed, the
Pompeiians decided that they needed a protector. Finally the honor was
accorded to Minerva. Accordingly a huge and magnificent marble statue
of this Goddess was prepared and erected near Porta della Marina—the
Marine Gate—the principal entrance to the city. This faultless statue
was itself about twelve feet high, and stood upon a pedestal of equal
altitude. In her left hand the Goddess held a shield, her right
grasped a spear, while her brow was graced with the victor’s wreath.
The appointed day came. The people assembled around the statue, while
the best orators of Rome and the world pronounced glowing eulogies
upon the new city and the wise Goddess. Thus Pompeii was dedicated and
formally turned over to Minerva for her protection. And protect it
she did as long as it needed no protection. But wait until that fatal
night. The protector was then insensible to the trembling earth, deaf
to the pealing thunder, blind to the flashing lightning that wreathed
her brow. She heard not the cries of her terror-stricken people. She
raised not her shield nor lifted her spear to stay the calamity. The
heavens darkened, the ocean heaved, the mountain reeled, cataracts of
fire came leaping down the steeps and rolling on towards the city. Yet
there stood Minerva blind, dumb, mute, and motionless, able to protect
neither herself nor the city!

If the Pompeiians had dedicated their city to the Great I Am, who
“guides His people with His eye,” and whose “ear is ever open to their
cries,” its history might have been different. Now reader, allow the
author to suggest that you dedicate your life, not to the blind goddess
of wealth or of fashion, but to that God who is “a very present help in
every time of need”—to that God who delivered Peter from prison, and
rescued Daniel from the lion’s den.



 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.

ITALY, as the reader will remember, is in the shape of a boot, and you
find Mt. Vesuvius on the instep of that boot.

Leaving Naples by train we skirt along the beautiful bay by the same
name and step off, as in the last chapter, at Pompeii, some fifteen
miles from the starting point. Mt. Vesuvius now lifts its majestic
form before us, and I am sure that if we should live to be as old
as Methuselah, we can never forget its awful, yet picturesque and
beautiful appearance.

Take if you please a deep soup plate and turn it bottom upwards on your
table. Next get a tea-cup and turn that bottom upwards on the center of
the plate. Now imagine the table to be a broad, fertile field covered
with vines. Imagine the plate to be fifteen miles in circumference, and
that it swells from the plain and lifts itself up until the cup, rising
sharp-pointed like a huge pyramid, reaches to the height of 4,200 feet.
This is Mt. Vesuvius, and you must know that it is as black as charcoal
and rough as a tree that has been a thousand times struck by lightning.
It is hollow like a cup and is open at the top as the inverted cup
would be if the bottom were out.

[Illustration: _THE GAST ART PRESS, N.Y._


As I stand gazing at Vesuvius, it is slowly emitting a huge volume of
white, sulphurous smoke or steam which rises straight like a mighty
shaft of marble for a thousand feet above the crater, then gracefully
curving, the column stretches itself across the glassy bay of Naples
for ten miles or more until finally it joins itself with the fleecy
clouds. What a picture it presents! There is the great city throbbing
with life; the silvery bay flecked with white-winged and smoke-plumed
vessels; there is the broad, fertile plain, covered with fruit-bearing
vineyards, and dotted here and there with small, rude and dilapidated
peasant villages; there are the black mountain and the white column
of steam, clearly outlined against the rich blue, Italian sky. Such
a scene, I am sure, could not fail to wake a song from the poet, or
inspire the artist to put forth his best endeavors.

There are about 650 volcanoes in existence, but Dr. Hartwig says, “For
the naturalist’s researches, for the traveler’s curiosity and the
poet’s song, Etna and Vesuvius surpass in renown all other volcanic
regions in the world.” Knowing that Vesuvius is so noted, I am anxious
to observe the phenomena closely, and to do this I must cross the plain
and ascend the mountain. We can not go alone and it is too far to walk.
Securing our horses and a guide, we set out on the journey.


Johnson’s horse is named Maccaroni; mine has no name; he had one
once, but has long ago worn it out. I am at a loss to know what to
name him. I can not conscientiously call him Baalbek, for he is not
a “magnificent” ruin. But I can with perfect propriety, and without
a sacrifice of principle, call him Pompeii, “an ancient ruin.” He
looks as if he might have been in the doomed city on that fatal day,
and as if he has not yet recovered from the ill effects of that day’s
experience. His teeth are out, his mane is gone, he has no tail.
His backbone is so much in the shape of a razor blade, that it has
split the saddle wide open, fore and aft. The two parts are roped
together, and carelessly thrown across the skeleton. This protects
me somewhat, and I would be moderately comfortable if the saddle did
not hang too far to the starboard side. Albeit I have great respect
for that horse—his age demands it. No horse can go higher than the
foot of the cone—the cup. Here dismounting, I am at once accosted by
a swarm of Italians who want to assist me up the cone. It takes four
of these swarthy athletes to carry one pilgrim up. They put him in
a “portantina,” a kind of chair made for the purpose. The four men,
taking this chair on their shoulders, begin the ascent, stopping quite
frequently to rest. Other assistants have straps or ropes, which they
put around the pilgrim just below the arms; then two men, each holding
one end of the rope, walk in front and thus draw their victim up. Many
Italians earn a livelihood in this way. I do not avail myself of their
proffered help—I can not bear to impose on good nature.

Yes, I go alone, but I frankly confess it is hard work. The ascent is
very steep. In my schoolboy days I climbed many trees, tall, smooth
bodied and limbless, after young squirrels, grapes and chestnuts. Since
then I have climbed many mountains. I have climbed the Rocky Mountains.
I have climbed mountains in Mexico, in Virginia, West Virginia, Maine,
New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. I have climbed mountains in England,
Ireland, Scotland and Wales; in Germany and France, in Switzerland and
Italy, in Austria and Hungary, in Servia and Roumania, in Bulgaria
and Slavonia, in Greece, Russia and Asia Minor, in Palestine, Syria
and Arabia. I have climbed the Pyramids of Egypt. But I have never
climbed anything that wearied me as does the ascent of Vesuvius. It is
like climbing a mountain of shot. I sink at each step half leg deep
in charcoal and ashes. I frequently stumble and fall. It is uphill
business. I am walking on snow and sniffing the mountain breeze, yet
the perspiration rolls off of me like rain—a light shower of course.

By this time we come to where the footing is more firm and solid,
but the way not less trying and difficult. There are many narrow and
yawning crevices to cross, many deep openings to shun on the right
and left—some of them large enough to swallow a good-sized house.
Perchance it was one of these dark caverns wherein dwelt that lazy
hag, with a fox and a slimy serpent as her sole companions—I mean
that weird witch who cursed Glaucus and Ione and helped Arbaces, the
Egyptian, to work out his diabolical purposes. This part of the cone
is composed of black and hardened lava, hideously rough and jagged,
porous as honeycomb. Here and there small jets of smoke and hot steam,
some of them no larger than my thumb, others as large as my arm, or
twice as large, can be seen spouting from the crevices and openings.
We frequently stop and warm our feet at these “flues,” but the flames
are so strongly impregnated with sulphur that we can not stand it long
at a time. We are now within two hundred yards of the top. It looks
dangerous to go farther, but our guide says we have only to follow him,
and follow him we do. After scaling with great difficulty and some
danger the steep and rocky sides, we reach the crater’s brink and look
down into Vulcan’s Forge, into that deep and awful abyss from which
clouds of sulphurous vapors are rising as from the gates of perdition.
A strong wind blowing from the north drives the smoke and steam in the
opposite direction. This enables us to see better and induces us to
venture too near the edge. All at once the wind changes and suddenly
we are enveloped in dense fumes of sulphur. To retreat in the dark is
perilous—to remain long in this sulphur is death. I swallow some of
the steam which is so strong with sulphur that it instantly scalds
my throat and lungs. What can be done! Johnson and I have hold of
each other’s hands. I fall to the ground pulling him with me. Thus by
keeping our mouths close to the ground, we manage to get fresh air
enough to keep from being suffocated. When the wind shifts and the
smoke lifts, we lose no time in changing to a less dangerous place.
Some time ago a German was unfortunate enough to fall into this fearful
chasm. What an awful death! How thankful I am for God’s preserving care!

By this time night has come, and as we stand in darkness, looking down
into this fearful abyss, we can see the lurid flames writhing and
leaping, casting up great quantities of glowing brimstone and red-hot
lava hundreds of feet into the air. The next moment the lava is falling
around us in showers of living fire. The pieces are of all shapes and
vary greatly in size. While some of them are no larger than a marble,
others are large as a saucer—perchance as large as a plate.

Deep down below us we hear the boiling caldrons of lava grinding,
gurgling, growling. Now we hear the report of big guns and little
guns, of musketry and of cannon, as if the damned are bombarding each
other with the artillery of hell! Report chases report through the
subterranean caverns like deep thunder galloping after thunder. The
angry flames continue to leap and crackle. Occasionally the whole
crater, which looks like the veritable mouth of hell, glows with
intense brilliancy and glitters and sparkles with ten thousand points
of dazzling light. The volume of steam, or “the mighty column of
wreaths and curling heaps of lighted vapor,” continue to pour forth
with frightful rapidity. Every moment witnesses a new upheaval of
red-hot lava and consequently a fresh shower of fire.

The guide now informs me (I did not know it before) that the night
is far spent, and yet there are other things to see. Going round on
the northeast side of the mountain and descending a few hundred yards
from the top, we come to a stream of red-hot lava—an actual river
of fire—bursting forth from the mountain side and flowing down into
the valley. It looks like a stream of melted iron slowly winding its
way adown the blackened mountain-side, bearing upon its heated bosom
great quantities of glowing brimstone and red-hot rocks. Ever and anon
the rocks in the stream dash against each other with such force as to
break themselves to pieces, then follow a slight explosion and blaze.
The angry flames like fiery fiends leap into the air and vanish. As
one stands enveloped in the blackness of the night, contemplating this
wonderful phenomenon—these flames, suddenly bursting and vanishing,
chasing each other in quick succession, look like the incessant flashes
of lurid lightning! Flame rises after flame, vanishing away in the
darkness like winged devils chasing each other! I am filled with
admiration, and at the same time struck with awe and chilled with fear.
I do not know at what moment the whole volcano may boil over and pour
forth a thousand cataracts of fire, as in 1872. I feel that I want to
go, that I must go, yet I can not leave. I go a few paces and stop,
looking first at the glowing column above me, then at the winding,
fiery stream below.

I have seen many mountains, some of them rising to heaven, covered
with snow, and at night crowned with stars; but never before have I
seen one smoke-plumed and wreathed with flame, one belching forth
fire and brimstone, one whose iron-belted sides poured forth a river
of fire—a moving flood of flame. But why continue? Why describe the
indescribable? For, reader, I assure you that unless I, like Vesuvius,
had a tongue of fire and a voice of thunder, unless words were gems
that would flame and flash with many-colored light upon the canvas and
throw thence a tremulous glimmer into the beholder’s eyes, it were vain
indeed to attempt a description of God’s imperial fireworks.



 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.

CAESER and Cicero, Horace and Hadrian Claudius and Cataline, have all
passed away, but “the mother of empires” is still enthroned upon her
seven hill. “Still enthroned?” Yes, but her regal brow is no longer
crowned with glory. From her right hand has fallen that golden scepter
which once ruled the world, and from her left, the palm branch of
victory which she once proudly waved on high. The luster has faded from
her eyes. She sits to-day upon her seven hills, not as a queen, but as
a mourner. She is as a widow in her weeds, as a mother broken-hearted
and sad. Like Rachel of old she weeps for her children, she weeps and
will not be comforted, for they are not.

No, “they are not.” In vain the traveler searches for Julius Caesar and
Augustus. He finds where the one fell at the base of Pompey’s statue,
and where the ashes of the other were laid to rest in that splendid
mausoleum. Nothing more. Only enough of that precious metal was
rescued from “Nero’s golden palace” to gild one page of history; that
is all.

Modern Rome, compared with the imperial city, is nothing but a confused
mass of “ruined greatness” thrown into the deep, dark chasm lying
between the past and the present. “If we consider the present city
as at all connected with the famous one of old,” says Hawthorne, “it
is only because it is built over its grave.” Imperial Rome was a
corpse that no survivor was mighty enough to bury. But Time—“Time the
tomb-builder”—did not despair. Age after age passed by, each shaking
the dust of his feet upon the ruined city, until now the “Rome of
ancient days” is thirty feet below surface. Time silently boasts of
his triumphs, but the day is coming when even Time himself will be
swallowed up by eternity!

Gibbon can tell you more about ancient Rome than I can. I shall
therefore deal with the past only in so far as “the very dust of Rome
is historic,” and that dust inevitably settles down upon my page and
mixes with my ink.

Until seventeen years ago Rome was an independent city; it belonged to
no government and formed a part of no country; it was “Papal Rome.” In
other words, it wholly belonged to, and was entirely controlled by, the
Pope of Rome—the spiritual head—I had almost said the “spiritless
head”—of the Catholic church. Thirty thousand French soldiers were
stationed in Rome to protect the Pope and defend the city. When, in
1870, the Franco-German war broke out Napoleon the Third was compelled
to recall his troops from Rome, that they might join the army against
Germany. As soon as the French withdrew, Victor Emmanuel, King of
Italy, marched an army against the Papal city, saying, “Again, I swear
the Eternal City shall be free!”

[Illustration: THE COLOSSEUM, ROME.]

Resistance was of short duration. The national flag was soon unfurled
from the dome of the Pantheon and from that day Rome has been the home
of the king, the capital of United Italy. The Rome of that period
(1870) was described as a city of “sunless alleys,” and “a thousand
evil smells mixed up with fragrance of rich incense, diffused from as
many censers; everywhere a cross, and nastiness at the foot of it.”
“The city is filled,” the writer continues, “with a gloom and languor
that depress it beyond any depth of melancholic sentiment that can
elsewhere be known.” One-seventh of the city was occupied by convents
and monasteries. Rome at that time had a population of 216,000 souls,
more than half of whom could neither read nor write! This, then, is
Catholicism—ignorance clothed in rags, living in poverty, walking in
filth, praying to saints and bowing to an ambitious Pope! If this be
religion, the less I have of it the more I congratulate myself. For
centuries the city belonged to the church, and it is natural to suppose
that Popery created for itself an atmosphere that was most congenial
to its own spirit. Ignorance is the handmaid of Popery. Indeed, a man
to be a good Catholic must be ignorant. He may, perchance, be legally
learned, he may be thoroughly versed in the laws of logic and language;
but to be a devout Romanist he must at least be ignorant of the Bible.
As civilization advances, as the light of God’s truth becomes more
widely diffused and the warmth of His Spirit more generally felt,
darkness will flee away, truth will be revealed in its purity, and
Christ, Christ the Lord, will be elevated to the position which the
Papal world of to-day assigns to Peter.

Great changes have been wrought in Rome within the last seventeen
years. A number of the streets have been broadened and straightened and
others are being worked on. Most of them now, though still narrow, are
well paved and clean. The population has increased to 350,000, sixty
schools have been established with 550 teachers and 25,000 pupils. Most
of the improvements and inventions of the age have been introduced into
the city, a healthy trade with the outside world has been established,
and last, and greatest, the gospel of Christ has again been brought to
these people. The populace welcome these changes.

Victor Emmanuel, who died ten years ago, is called the father of his
country; and his son, the present king, is the idol of Italy. The Pope
and the king are at enmity. Each is jealous of the other. The king is
fast gaining favor. Papacy must go.

Now, turning from the moral, I must tell you something about the
physical appearance of the city at present. Of course every one knows
that Rome is situated on seven hills, that it is divided into two parts
by the river Tiber and that it is surrounded by a massive wall thirty
feet high and sixteen miles long.

Let us now go into the midst of the city and take our stand on the
Capitoline Hill. From there we can easily “view the landscape o’er.”
Beneath us, as we stand on this elevation, the city spreads wide away
in all directions. We look out over a sea of red-tile roofs, above
which rise hundreds of imposing palaces, of tall and stately mansions.
Of church spires and cathedral towers there is no end. Yonder to the
south is the Mausoleum of Augustus, a huge circular building with a
low, flat dome of glass. After death the emperor was burnt. His ashes,
which were here laid to rest, have long since been scattered to the
four winds of heaven and the mausoleum is now used as a theatre. There,
too, in the same direction, but beyond the Tiber, is the tomb of
Hadrian, looking like an old castle perched high upon an uplifted rock.
The unscrupulous Italians of the present have no respect for the dead
of ancient days. Their desecrating hands have turned this tomb into a
military stronghold—a citadel. What is fame? Once upon a time Augustus
ruled the world. To-day the populace assemble in his mausoleum; there
they wildly clap their hands, and, stretching their mouths from ear to
ear, they shout aloud and grin like apes as they see the vile actor
dancing over Caesar’s ashes. Hadrian, once adored as a God, is no
longer respected. The half-paid soldiers of to-day have entered his
very tomb; there they fight, drink and curse and play cards. If they
could find it they would use his skull as a soup-dish or a billiard
ball, and his thigh bones they would use for drum-sticks or as mallets
to crack nuts! “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!”

Turning our eyes in a northwest direction, we see the Antonine column
rising majestically above the red roofs. In close proximity to this
column, we see the circular dome of that world-renowned Pantheon
“looking heavenward with its ever open eye.” We leave the Capitoline
Hill for a few minutes while we go to visit the Pantheon. It commands
our respect. It was built almost a half century before the angel host
visited the shepherds upon the plains of Bethlehem, and yet it is as
perfect to-day as though it had been finished yesterday. It looks as if
it might stand until Gabriel comes. It is the noblest structure that
the old Romans bequeathed to posterity. Its massive walls and solid,
which are twenty feet thick, rise to an immense height, and yet the
dome, broad as it is high, towers 140 feet above the walls.

The portico (110 feet wide and 45 feet deep) is borne by sixteen
Corinthian columns of granite, thirteen feet in circumference and forty
feet high.

The spacious interior, lighted by a single aperture in the centre of
the dome, produces in the beholder a most pleasing sensation. Indeed,
it is by some supposed that the beautiful effect produced upon the
interior by the light streaming in through this one opening, is what
first suggested the name of Pantheon—a resemblance to the blue vault
of heaven. But of course the current belief is that the purpose for
which the building was used determined its name—_Pantheon_ (Pan, all,
and Theos, god)—a temple dedicated to all gods. The smooth surface
of the walls is broken by seven niches, in which stood marble statues
of Roman divinities, among which may be mentioned Mars and Venus. And
after his assassination, Caesar himself was elevated to the dignity
of a god. His statue graced one of the niches, and was, no doubt,
worshiped by the same fickle multitude who rejoiced when the dagger
drank his blood.

This splendid edifice, built by the ancients, and dedicated two
thousand years ago to the worship of heathen gods, is now used as a
Christian Church. To the left of the door as we enter is the tomb of
Raphael, the greatest of all painters. In accordance with his will, a
marble statue of Madonna has been placed above his splendid tomb. The
following beautiful inscription shows the high esteem Italians have for
this divinely gifted artist:

  “Beneath this stone rest the ashes of Raphael,
          the greatest of all painters.
  Nature, becoming jealous of him
    lest he should surpass her,
  Slew him while he was yet young.”

Victor Emmanuel, and many other men of renown, are also buried within
these time-honored walls. Of the Pantheon Lord Byron says:

  “Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime—
  Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,
  From Jove to Jesus—spared and blest by time;
  Looking tranquillity while falls and nods
  Arch empire each thing round thee and man plods
  His way through thorns to ashes—glorious dome!
  Shalt thou not last? Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods
  Shiver upon thee—sanctuary and home
  Of art and piety—Pantheon!—pride of Rome!
  Relic of nobler days and noblest arts!
  Despoiled, yet perfect, with thy circle spreads
  A holiness appealing to all hearts—To
  art a model; and to him who treads
  Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds
  Her light through thy sole aperture; to those
  Who worship, here are altars for their beads;
  And they who feel for genius may repose
  Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around the close.”



 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.

“WHAT are the chief features of Rome?” was the second question asked
me by a friend whom I met yesterday. “Art and Architecture,” was the
unhesitating reply. Indeed hesitation was unnecessary; my mind was
already made up on that point, and there can be no question as to the
correctness of the answer.

Nature seems to have implanted a love for Art in the sons of Italy, and
whispered its secrets to them as to no other people. She teaches them
by object lessons. At night she embosoms the moon in her soft blue sky
like a silver crescent in a velvet cushion, and the stars with their
new polished lustre seem to bestud God’s diamond throne. In the morning
the same azure sky is “flecked with blushes and gattled with fire.”
As the Italian at the evening hour stands under the sunny vine, on
the green hillside, looking at the glowing, lighted west through the
molten bars of twilight; as he sees the purple clouds, lying along the
horizon, fade from rich purple to pale blue—from blue to lavender—to
pink—to scarlet—then to banks of molten gold; as he beholds the
imperial splendors of the setting sun “vast mirrored on the sea,”—he
gathers inspiration—his soul catches the fire—the whole scene is
photographed on the landscape of his memory. He there learns how best
to blend his colors, and next day as he stands before his canvas beauty
hangs upon his brush like sparks of livid light.

Angelo, Raphael, and Di Vinci were pupils of Nature. Once upon a time
Socrates, after listening to his pupils discourse on philosophy, arose
and, pointing to them, said: “What greater honor could a teacher ask
than to have such pupils as Plato and Xenophon?” And methinks after
seeing the Final Judgment of the first, The Transfiguration of the
second, and The Last Supper of the third, Nature herself would rise
and, pointing to them with pride, say: “What greater honor could I,
even I, ask than to have such pupils as Angelo, Raphael, and Di Vinci!”

After Dante had written “The Inferno,” the people of Florence as
they saw him walking through the streets, would shrink from him and
whisper, “_That is the man who was in hell_.” “It were impossible,”
they said, “for one to write about the infernal world as Dante did,
without having seen it.” The same thought impresses itself upon one
as he beholds The Final Judgment. One says, “that picture was surely
painted by an eye-witness.” Indeed you see no picture—you see the
final judgment itself. You see Christ as judge, coming on the clouds,
preceded by Gabriel and followed by a legion of angels. You see the
assembled multitude, people from every nation, kindred, tribe and
tongue, standing in the back ground breathless, awaiting the decision
of the Judge. You see the remorse, the anguish, the misery, the woe of
those who are led to the left and hurled headlong into the fiery pit
below! Their expression convinces you that they realize in their hearts
that no rainbow of hope will ever again brighten their skies, no note
of mercy will ever more peal in their ears. You see the pleasure, the
joy, the rapture, the ecstasy, that gladdens the hearts and illuminates
the faces, of those who hear the welcome plaudit—“Well done, good and
faithful servants—enter ye into the joy of your Lord.” After seeing
this picture one can but say: “Michael Angelo saw the final judgment,
and showed it me.”

Soon after this picture was begun, one of the Cardinals of Rome,
objecting to the artist’s design, interfered with the work. Angelo
refused to make any alterations in his plan. The Cardinal demanded a
change, whereupon Angelo gave up the engagement. The Cardinal then sent
for other celebrated artists and requested them to finish the picture.
Each and all of them declared that the work was beyond their scope and
power. They all agreed that Michael Angelo was the only living man
who could finish so perfect a piece of work. The Cardinal now sent
for Angelo but he refused to have any further communication with that

Finally the Pope himself interviewed the artist on the subject and
agreed that he might finish the picture according to the first design,
or according to any other design that he might choose. The Pope further
agreed that the artist should not be interfered with in his work, and
when once finished the picture should never be altered or changed. With
this understanding Angelo resumed, and in due time finished, his work.

When the day of exhibition came, thousands of people gathered to see
the picture. When the curtain was drawn aside the astonished multitude
recognized the Cardinal in hell. “In hell he lifted up his eyes.” When
the Cardinal saw himself among the damned his wrath was kindled more
than a little. He went to the Pope in a rage and asked to be rescued.
The Pope replied to the Cardinal, “If you were in purgatory I could get
you out, but you know that according to the Catholic faith, when a man
is once in hell he has to stay there. I can do nothing for you.” So the
poor Cardinal is in hell—according to the picture.

This wonderful picture sixty-four feet in breadth covers almost the
entire south end of the world-famed Sistine Chapel. This is a private
chapel in the Vatican, the Pope’s palace. “Sistine,” because built by
Sixtus, and famous because of the picture just mentioned, and the
frescoes on the ceiling by the same gifted artist.

These frescoes represent Bible scenes, large as life, impressive
as death, yet beautiful beyond description. The artist begins at a
time when everything is “without form and void.” The first picture
represents God, with motion of his arms, bringing law and order out of
chaos and confusion. In the second, God with outstretched hands creates
the sun and moon. We see the creation of Adam and the formation of
Eve, then the temptation in and expulsion from Eden. Finally we see
the ark floating on the waters with several small boats clinging to
and following after it. Some of the mountain-tops, not yet submerged,
are crowded with terror-stricken multitudes, who, in their excitement,
wildly but vainly stretch out their hands and silently implore Noah
to take them in. Each of these pictures is realistic and life-like.
And yet the entire series is so arranged as sweetly to blend into one
harmonious whole. And whether contemplating one of its parts, or the
scene as a whole, you involuntary exclaim—“It is a thing of beauty,”
and must therefore be “a joy forever.”

Raphael was to the painters of Italy what John was to the Disciples of
Christ, “The Beloved.” I think, too, that as John was the disciple,
so Raphael was the painter “whom Jesus loved.” Though strong and
determined as a man, he was mild and gentle as a woman. He had the
“Sunshine of life” in his heart, and the “look of eternal youth” in
his face. Methinks he was like David, “a man after God’s own heart.”
Such a man could not paint hell. He had not seen it and knew nothing
about it. His mission was to paint angels and innocence, Heaven and
holiness, God and glory; and his fitness for this high calling amounted
almost to divine inspiration. Never did the fires of genius burn more
brightly upon the altar of devotion, than in the breast of Raphael.
Never before, nor since, has divine glory been so perfectly pictured
on canvas as in The Transfiguration. You see Christ at that supreme
moment when “His face did shine as the sun, and His garments were white
as the light.” Moses and Elias, from the other world are there with
their happy hearts, bright faces and glorified bodies. Below them are
Peter, James, and John, reverently bowing to the earth, and shielding
their faces from the light. Above all, but half enveloped in clouds,
you see God the Father whose very expression says: “This is my beloved
Son in whom I am well pleased, hear ye Him.” Hawthorne makes one of his
characters in the _Marble Faun_ say: “It is the spectator’s mood that
transfigures The Transfiguration itself.” This may be—I suppose it
is—true, to some extent, but somehow I was in the mood. I admired this
picture, I sat down before it “until it sank into my heart.” I said:
“Lord, it is good to be here, it seems only one step from Heaven and

The beloved painter came to do what the beloved Disciple left undone.
John in his gospel failed to mention the Transfiguration, so Raphael
was sent to fill up the omission with a picture.

While it is true, as stated in the outset, that Art and Architecture
are the chief features of modern Rome, yet Art is of primary, and
Architecture of secondary consideration. Italians build fine houses,
not for the sake of the houses themselves, but that they may display
their “tasteful talents” in ornamenting and decorating them. I speak
especially of churches, from the very fact that the Italians have not,
nor do they want, fine Court-houses and costly Capitol buildings, as
we have. They exercise their taste, and lavish all their wealth and
art upon the churches or cathedrals. There are eighty odd cathedrals
in Rome dedicated to the Virgin Mary alone. Besides these there are
scores of others dedicated to men, and monks, seraphs, saints and
sinners—one, I believe, a small one, to Christ. Some of these, St.
Peter’s and St. Paul’s especially are reckoned among the finest
cathedrals in existence; and yet the external appearance of these
buildings is not so imposing as one might imagine. It is their interior
that has rendered them famous.

Without entering these palaces of worship, one can have no just
conception of their resplendent glory. They shine with burnished gold.
They glow with pictures. The mirror-like pavements are a mosaic of
rare workmanship. The walls, columns, and arches seem a vast quarry
of precious stones, so rich and costly are the many-colored marbles
with which they are inlaid. Their lofty cornices have flights of
sculptured angels, and white doves bearing green olive branches gemmed
with pearls and emeralds. And within the vaults of the ceiling, and the
swelling interior of the dome, there are frescoes of such brilliancy,
and wrought with such artful perspective, that the sky, peopled with
sainted forms, appears to be opened only a little way above the

Any one of the four churches mentioned has at least a dozen altars—St.
Peter’s has twenty-nine—and upon each altar princely fortunes have
been lavished. Each is a marvel of artistic beauty; each glows with
burnished gold, and sparkles with precious stones. The evening sun,
softened and mellowed by the many-colored glass through which it is
reflected, falls like golden fire upon these shrines. The statues
standing around and the angels hovering above the altars seem warmed
into life by this radiant glow; the marble men struggle to speak,
and the sculptured angels spread their wings and try to rise in the
glorified atmosphere. One would naturally think that, in these shrines,
the unspeakable splendor of the whole edifice would be intensified and
gathered to a focus, but not so. It would be true elsewhere, but here
they are of no separate account. They all “melt away into the vast,
sunny breath,” each contributing its little toward “the grandeur of
the whole.”

Imagine “a casket, all inlaid in the inside with precious stones of
various hues, so that there would not be a hair’s breadth of the small
interior unadorned with resplendent gems. Then conceive this minute
wonder of a mosaic box increased to the magnitude of a miniature sky,”
and you have the interior of the greatest structure ever built by the
hands of man, the Cathedral of St. Peter.




 Why Italy is a Mission-Field—Beginning of the
 Work—Difficulties—Increase of Forces—Growth of Work—Sanguine

THIS subject will awaken doubts in many minds, and give rise to
numerous questions. Why should Italy be a mission-field? Did not Paul
preach the gospel there? Did not Christianity flourish vigorously in
Italian soil during the early centuries? Has not Italy been prolific
of good men, men unsullied in character, invincible in the midst of
persecution, and unflinching in the presence of death? Is not Italy
the home and headquarters of a great ecclesiastical organization,
calling itself _par excellence_ the Christian Church of the world? Are
there not in Italy to-day thousands of magnificent churches, hosts of
religious teachers? Then why speak of Italy as a mission-field? Because
the great mass of the people are really without the Gospel. The pure
form of the truth once preached in Rome and other parts of this sunny
land has undergone such radical changes since the early centuries that
it is no longer the Gospel, but a threefold mixture of Christianity,
Judaism and Heathenism. Religion has degenerated into a mere form of
Godliness without the power thereof. All attempts at reform, however
promising in the beginning, have failed. The spark that began to glow
so brightly in the days of Luther, that seemed about to kindle into a
brilliant flame destined to bring light and peace to many a troubled
soul, was soon crushed and smothered, for those in authority loved
darkness rather than light, and desired neither reform nor reformers.
The long-continued and fatal supremacy of Romanism has made Italy a
needy and most difficult mission-field.

[Illustration: REV. JOHN H. EAGER, ROME, ITALY.]

As early as 1850, the Foreign Mission Board of the Southern Baptist
Convention began to turn its attention to Europe. In 1869, the Board,
in its annual report to the Convention, expressed the conviction that
a solemn obligation was resting upon Baptists to give a pure gospel
to Catholic Europe, and Italy was recommended as probably the best
place for a new mission, and as a field in special need of Baptist
principles. In the spring of 1870, Rev. W. M. Cote, of Paris, was
appointed to take charge of the Italian mission. This was a momentous
period in the history of Italy, and marvelous things were about to take
place. The great Ecumenical Council of the Catholic Church was then in
session in Rome, and on July 18th the dogma of Papal Infallibility was
proclaimed to the world. A few days later the Franco-Prussian war broke
out, and the French troops were withdrawn from Rome, where for years
they had been the strong defense of the Pope. Seizing the God-given
opportunity, Garibaldi, ever ready for an emergency, again sounded
the tocsin of war, and the Italian army marched forth and pitched its
tents before the walls of the Eternal City. The siege was brief, for
on September 20th the victorious army entered the city amid the cheers
and congratulations of the entire population; the Pope, by a popular
vote, lost his temporal power, and became the self-imposed prisoner
of the Vatican; Rome was proclaimed the permanent capital of Italy,
thus making the long-cherished dream of Italian patriots a blessed
reality. This victory opened Rome and the whole Italian Peninsula to
the preaching of the Gospel, and Christian workers from many quarters
hastened to the rescue. Dr. Cote entered the city at once and began his
novel work. Tracts were distributed, Bibles and Testaments were sold in
large numbers, and hundreds flocked to hear the Gospel. It seemed that
the people were about to renounce Romanism and its errors, to become
true Bible Christians, and the missionaries fondly hoped that they
were on the eve of a great revival. Would that their hopes had been

In 1872, Rev. Geo. B. Taylor D. D., of Virginia, was chosen by the
Foreign Mission Board as the man best suited to meet the crisis through
which the Italian mission was then passing. He brought to his arduous
task rare wisdom and patience, and, undaunted by almost insuperable
difficulties, conducted the affairs of the mission with much prudence
and great self-denial. After several years he succeeded in buying a
valuable mission property in Rome, not far from the Pantheon, which
gave American Baptists “a local habitation and a name.” The good work
was vigorously prosecuted in other parts of Italy, new stations were
opened, other Italian evangelists were appointed, new churches were
organized, a religious journal was established, and substantial
progress was made all along the line.

In November 1880, Rev. John H. Eager and wife, appointed as
missionaries to Italy, reached Rome, where they have since resided
and labored, realizing more and more that mission work in Papal Rome
presents peculiar difficulties and discouragements. Yet each year finds
them more resolved to make it their life work, assured that they preach
the same gospel which wrought such wonders in pagan Rome, and believing
the Scripture which saith, “Be not weary in well-doing, for in due
season ye shall reap, if ye faint not.”

While results have not corresponded with the sanguine expectations
of earlier years, still God’s people have not labored in vain. The
present working force of the American Baptist mission consists of two
missionaries, thirteen native preachers, and three colporteurs, who are
preaching the Gospel in more than thirty cities and towns, extending
from the snow-capped mountains of the North, to the vine-covered plains
of the South. Among the thirteen native preachers are men of more
than ordinary ability. One, educated in Geneva, is a fine linguist,
being acquainted with six or seven languages, and able to preach in
three of them. He is said to be one of the best Hebrew scholars in
Italy. Another was once a priest in high standing, the director and
father-confessor of a monastery, and a friend of the present Pope. One,
though uneducated, is deeply versed in the Scriptures, and can quote
almost any passage at will, giving book, chapter, and often verse.
This knowledge he uses most effectually in public and in private. Two
were educated at Spurgeon’s College. One is perhaps the only native
Sardinian who ever became an evangelical minister. These brethren
preach to thousands during the year, for people are coming and going
during every service. Some enter by accident, or through curiosity,
drawn in by the singing or speaking, then pass on to be heard from no
more. But who can tell what influence such a visit may have upon their
future life?

Churches have been organized at all the principal stations, and in
addition to the mission property in Rome two other chapels have been
secured, one in Torre Pellice, about thirty miles above Turin, and the
other in Carpi, not far from Bologna. At all other stations services
are held in rented halls. Two churches have been organized on the
Island of Sardinia, where the work is peculiarity interesting and
promising, but greatly in need of other laborers to sow the seed and
reap the harvest.

(Persons wishing further information about Sardinia or Italy, can write
to Rev. John H. Eager, via Arenula, Palazzo Gualdi, Rome, Italy.)


English Baptists have long had a mission in Italy. In 1866, Mr. Clark
established himself in Spezia, where he has succeeded in building up
an excellent school, a good church and an orphanage. He has associated
with him eight Italian evangelists, who occupy about twenty stations.
This mission is independent, being supported by private contributions.
The mission force of the Particular Baptists of England consists of
four missionaries, Rev. James Wall and Rev. J. C. Wall, of Rome, Rev.
W. K. Landels of Turin, and Rev. Robt. Walker of Naples, assisted by
nine native preachers. They have two medical dispensaries, a religious
journal, printing-press and other auxiliaries to mission work. The
General Baptists of England also have two mission stations in Rome,
under the superintendence of Rev. N. H. Shaw, who brings to bear upon
his work Anglo-Saxon energy, and the varied experience acquired in a
successful pastorate at home.

Besides these, several individual Baptists are consecrating their
private means to the evangelization of Italy. Among them may be
mentioned Count Papengouth, who expends large sums annually in Naples
and vicinity; and Miss Emery, an English lady of fortune, who devotes
the whole of her time and income to Christian work in Italy, especially
the publication and distribution of tracts.

In estimating the success of mission work in Italy, one should be
careful not to lose sight of the peculiar difficulties that confront
the missionary. Under the old regime, in the days of papal supremacy,
good schools were rare and great ignorance prevailed. Even as late
as 1881 nearly five per cent. of the entire population of Italy were
unable to read, which means that about twenty million Italians can be
reached with the Gospel only by means of the living voice, the tracts
and the Bible being to them a dead letter.

Prejudice is another serious hindrance. Some of the best and most
sincere among the people honestly believe that protestantism is rank
infidelity. A priest once said to a young man, in the writers hearing,
“Ah! beware of protestantism, beware of protestantism! Why, don’t you
know that protestantism was founded by Voltaire and Tom Paine?” The
abuses of Romanism have yielded a rich harvest of materialism and
infidelity. The salt has lost its savor and men have cast it out and
trodden it under foot. One of our greatest difficulties, especially
in Rome, lies in the stolid indifference of the great mass of the
people to all spiritual things. Thousands have been taught to depend on
forms and ceremonies, and to relegate all personal responsibility to
the Church and the priest, and to such our doctrines are by no means

In a land like Italy, where a great system of error has kept the people
in ignorance and spiritual darkness, and bound them with fetters of
iron, one must not expect too much. A few days ago, we were asked by a
Christian woman, “How are you succeeding in your work?” And on hearing
the response she replied: “I know Rome well, and I can assure you that
it is a great marvel that you can do anything at all.” But despite
difficulties and Satanic hatred and opposition much has been done.
Italy has become a united and free country and liberty of speech is
everywhere enjoyed; the Pope has lost his temporal power, and with it
the right to interfere with the missionary of the Cross; hundreds and
thousands of tracts and Bibles have been scattered among the people,
as silent but powerful witnesses for the Truth; prejudices have been
overcome, and public opinion has been greatly modified and enlightened
with reference to protestants and protestantism; more than three
hundred Christian workers have been raised upon the field, and not
less than 10,000 persons have professed faith in Christ. It should not
be forgotten that previous to 1848 not one publicly declared Italian
evangelical could be found in Italy, and that before 1870, to preach or
profess evangelical doctrine in Rome, meant certain imprisonment and
possible death. While praying and hoping and earnestly laboring for
much greater results, we can but exclaim, “The Lord hath done great
things for us, whereof we are glad.”



 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

WITH our face to the northward, we are now skirting along the western
coast of Italy. The air is crisp and cold, the sky soft and clear.
Yonder, scattered over the bare hillside to our right, are many rude
huts and humble peasant homes. The smoke slowly rising from the low
chimneys curls up and on, and still up, until it stands like so many
slender columns leaning against the sky for support.

The peasants are at work, one feeding the chickens, the second holding
the cow to grass, while the third is milking the goats. Everywhere the
country is cut up into one, two, and three-acre plots by narrow ditches
and low hedges which serve as fences to divide one peasant’s patch
from another. Each plot of ground is a vineyard, a wheat field and a
mulberry orchard, the three growing together.

The wheat is, of course, sown broadcast. The trees, twelve to eighteen
feet high, are planted in straight rows, fifteen feet apart. The
healthy vines clamber up the mulberries, and wreathe themselves into
huge and rich festoons from tree to tree. The ground rapidly glides
from under us, the orchards, the villages and peasant homes, one by one
dash by us. Now the sun is bending low in the evening sky, and, looking
out over the broad expanse of waters on our left, we see not far away
the island of Elba, the first exiled home of Napoleon Bonaparte. But
this beautiful island was too small for so great a spirit. After one
year’s confinement here, Napoleon, rising up in his madness and might,
broke the political fetters which the allied Powers had placed upon
him, returned to Paris, gathered an army and marched to Waterloo. There
his already waning star went down in blood to rise no more (1815).

As the dying day begins to wrap herself in the sombre folds of evening,
we find ourselves in Pisa, a quiet little town of 26,000 inhabitants,
beautifully situated on both banks of the Arno, six miles from the
sea. The night comes and goes. Next morning I am standing on the top
of Pisa’s “Leaning Tower,” in time to see the sun rise. This tower
is one of the wonders, not of the ancient, but modern world. It is
some thirty-three feet in diameter and one hundred and eighty feet in
height, and leans thirteen feet out of the perpendicular. This oblique
or leaning position gives it a very peculiar appearance. It looks as
if it were falling; you expect every moment to see it dashed to pieces
against the ground. But it has been in this position some 650 years,
and, if we may argue from the past, many moons will wax and wane before
it strikes the ground. No one knows whether the original design was to
build a leaning tower, or whether in the course of construction one
side of the foundation gave way, and thus left the tower in an oblique
position. It was by dropping balls from the summit of this tower that
Galileo verified his theories regarding the laws of gravitation. It was
the swaying of the bronze lamp which still hangs in the cathedral at
the foot of this tower that first suggested to Galileo the idea of a


The Campo Santo, or burial-ground, of Pisa is interesting because of
its history. After the Crusaders were driven out of the Holy Land, in
the year 1190, Archbishop Ubaldo had fifty-three ship-loads of earth
brought hither from Mount Calvary in order that the dead might repose
in “holy ground.” What men need to-day is not the earth of Calvary for
their dead bodies, but the Christ of Calvary for their living spirits.

Three hours after leaving Pisa, I am walking through the streets of
Florence, looking at her monuments, statues, palaces and cathedrals.
Among the monuments, if so it might be named, is a splendid water
fountain which marks the site of the stake at which Savonarola was
burned, in 1498, six years after the discovery of America. Like Elijah
of old, Savonarola went from earth to Heaven in a chariot of fire.
The flames that wafted his spirit to the glory world are still burning
brightly upon the pages of history. The martyr’s ashes were thrown into
the Arno, and were carried thence to the ocean. So the stream of Time
will bear his influence on to the ocean of eternity.

Of the many statues in the city, I will mention only Dante’s. This
excellent statue of white marble is nine feet high, on a pedestal
twenty-three feet high. It was unveiled with great solemnity, in 1865,
in commemoration of the 600th anniversary of the immortal poet. Dante’s
greatest work was the “Divine Comedy.” I also visited the house in
which he was born in 1265. The house in which Michael Angelo was born
in 1475 is now used as a picture gallery. He died in Rome in 1564. His
ashes were brought back to his native city, and now repose in a vault
in the church of Santa Croce.

The art galleries I found worthy of their fame, so beautiful in
architectural design, so vast in extent, so rich in the productions of
the best artists of every school. “Each street of Florence contains
a world of art. The walls of the city are the calyx containing the
fairest flowers of the human mind; and this is but the richest gem
in the diadem with which the Italian people have adorned the earth.”
Florence has been the home of many of the greatest artists that have
lived since the twelfth century. The main centres of art in Florence
are the Pitti and the Uffizi galleries; these, being on the opposite
sides of the Arno, are connected by a suspension gallery which spans
the river. Thus one passes from one gallery to the other by means of
this swinging corridor, which is itself flanked on both sides with
faultless statues and lined with pictures that no money could buy.

I wandered, one day after another, through the stately halls of
many-colored marble in Florence. Many of these pictures I should like
to show you, but I know full well that words can not copy them. To copy
Raphael’s “Madonna” would require the hand of genius, and paints as
beautiful, and as delicately mixed, as are the colors of the rainbow.

“Variety is the spice of life,” and truly it is refreshing to come to
this land of Art and Music after spending a few months in Asia and
Africa. Since leaving home, more of my time has been spent among the
mountains and around the lakes than in the cities; or, in other words,

  “I have been accustomed to entwine
  My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields
  Than art in galleries.”

“On to Venice” is the war cry. To reach there, we tunnel mountains,
dash through a blinding snow-storm, and encounter a heavy rainfall.
Presently we are surrounded by water. The train stops. Johnson is
excited; he thinks the bridge is washed away. Looking out of the
window, and pointing to the water, I ask a by-stander, “Is that the
ocean?” The reply is, “No; it is Venice.” “A flood!” exclaims Johnson;
“if it continues to rain in this way two hours longer, the whole city
will be washed away, and we, where will we be?” By this time, as there
is a gondola near, we, like Jonah, pay the fare thereof, and go down
into it. We are soon on the way to the hotel.

The storm is raging, the waves are dashing high. The gondola, which
is black, and really reminds one of a hearse, seems to be bearing us
away to a watery grave. The boat must be lightened, or we will all go
down. What to do, I know not. Hope wanes. “My latest sun is sinking
fast.” In the extremity of that hour, I say: “This I will do. I will
throw overboard all hatred, envy and strife, all contention, malice and
jealousy, all egotism, selfishness and pride.” When I have emptied my
heart of all these, a surprising change occurs. It is as if some divine
one has whispered, “Peace, be still.”

Reader, this experience points a moral, if it does not adorn a tale. We
are all voyagers on the Sea of Life. Tempests frequently come, and our
frail bark is often threatened; but if we will only throw overboard our
ignoble feelings and baser selves, a holy calm will settle on the face
of the deep, and in our hearts we will have that “peace which passeth
all understanding.”

Venice, you remember, is situated two miles from the mainland, in a
shallow part of the Adriatic. Its 15,000 houses and palaces are built
on 117 islands. Streets are unknown. There are 150 canals and 380
bridges in the city. The population is 130,000, one-fourth of whom are

Yes, here is Venice rising above the surface like a water nymph, and
floating like a sea fowl on the ocean wave. She was once the ruler of
the waters and their powers. Those days are past, but beauty is still
here. “States fall, arts fade, but nature doth not die.” There was
never a horse, carriage, or wheel-barrow in the city. I presume there
are half grown persons here who never saw any of these. The Venetians
go visiting in boats, they go to market, to church, to the theatre, to
the grave, in boats.

The houses rise up out of the water; the gondola, graceful in its
motion as a serpent, glides up to the door, the people step in, and
off they go. The gondola is a contrivance peculiar to Venice. It is
twenty-five or thirty feet long, and is deep and narrow like a canoe.
Its sharp bow and stern sweep upwards from the water like the horns of
a crescent, with the abruptness of the curve slightly modified. The
bow, which rises some six feet above the water, is ornamented with
a steel comb and a broad battle ax. In the centre of the boat is a
little house something like the body of a carriage. This is elegantly
fitted up with cushioned seats, silk curtains, and glass windows. The
gondolier, who is usually a picturesque rascal, stands erect in the
stern of the boat, and with one oar he manages to guide and propel his
boat with an accuracy and a speed that are truly surprising. Almost
every moment you expect your gondola to collide with some other; but
by some timely turn the two glide gracefully by each other without
touching. All the gondolas are painted black—the color of mourning.
Well may Venice mourn. Her glory has departed. She is great only in

The chief industry of Venice is glass manufacture. The first glass
mirror that was ever made was manufactured here about the year 1,300.
The Venetians are yet ahead in this kind of work. They now make men and
monkeys, horses and houses, doves and donkeys, of glass. I saw them
spinning glass; and without handling the thread one could not tell it
from silk. They fashion glass into buds and blossoms which need little
else than perfume to make them as perfect as those wrought by Nature’s
hand. Perhaps the most delicate glass work I saw going on was the
manufacture of human eyes. This, you may rest assured, requires skilled
workmen. It is a large and remunerative business. God and Venice
furnish eyes for the world. In bargaining with the glass dealers, one
soon finds that now, as in the days of Shakespeare, many Shylocks live
in Venice, and each one contends for his “pound of flesh.”

If I had time to write another chapter concerning this “Ocean Queen,”
I would tell you something about the Bridge of Sighs “with a palace
and a prison on each hand,” about St. Mark’s Cathedral, which “looks
more like the work of angels than of men,” about the granite columns,
one surmounted by “the winged lion and the other by St. Theodore, the
protector of the republic.” Of course it is a great pity (?) that you
can not read what I would write on these subjects if I had time, but,
as this is impossible, perhaps the next best thing you could read would
be “Childe Harold,” “Stones of Venice,” and “St. Mark’s Rest.”

                TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.

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