but I have been silent long; that is, I have been two weeks in Europe and in the steamer, and have not written my mother a single word. But be it at least said in my defence that I have written to no one else, and if you have been neglected, it has not been that I might write to some bosom friend or other inferior object of affection.
Yes, Mother, think of it; I have sailed 3,000 miles across the Atlantic, and have seen and visited and trod the shores of the old world, but I am as far, probably farther, from the realization of the great fact as yourself. What is more, it seems an absolute impossibility for me to realize it at all. Therefore, dear Mother, realize it for me, do. I feel sorry that I am so far from the realization of the fact that I am in Europe on historic ground, that I have looked out upon the fields that have been drenched with the blood of heroes, and have stood over the graves of martyrs, because it detracts sadly from everything which is to be derived from such a trip as this, whether of pleasure or profit. It detracts from the pleasure of the trip, for when there is no realization, it throws the enjoyment derived from the sights seen back upon their original merit as sights, which, after all, is in some cases, by comparison inferior, so that it might just as well be America as Europe that one is seeing. Do you get my point? I mean that Loch Lomond in Scotland ought to give more pleasure than a fac-simile of it in Central New York, simply because it is Loch Lomond and not a lake in New York. But as long as I don’t realize that it is Loch Lomond, it might as well be only a lake in New York. And it detracts from the profit and instruction of the trip, because when one stands over the grave of Shakespeare, and has no realization of the fact that it is his, it does not lead him to thought any more than if it were the grave of some nameless Kanaka at the Islands; not that I mean to disparage the Kanaka. Both graves teach a common lesson, but Shakespeare’s teaches one in addition, which the other does not. If this were not so, visiting Shakespeare’s grave would be an idle curiosity. One might as well moralize over the last resting-place of the other gent at once. But I am boring you with this tirade. Suffice it to say that I lack this realization, and so my visit to Europe is correspondingly injured; not that I don’t enjoy myself. No indeed! I am wild with pleasure, or would be were it not that I feel that I should get something from this trip besides that. However, enough moralizing. We first saw land about 5 o’clock P.M., on Monday, July 7, 1879, about six days and one hour ago. But what a world has been crowded into six days! The events of one would keep a man in writing material for a year. By yesterday, when we saw Kenil-worth Castle, and that seems a month ago, one felt completely satiated. But now that we have done no sight-seeing to-day—Sunday—though of course one can’t help informally sight-seeing all the time in London, I am hungry to go again.
We had a very pleasant time sailing up the Firth of Clyde. The scenery was good though not impressive. Still there were some very fine pictures looking at the scenery as a series of pictures; and, I remember now, there were some that were very beautiful. So I will retract and say we had a very beautiful though not grand sail up the Firth. I speak of the entrance to the river, below Greenock. The steamer arrived there about 6.30 A.M. Greenock is, of course, world-renowned as the place where two of Oliver Optic’s heroes ran away (“Young America Abroad”). Naturally, then, I surveyed it with great interest, to see if I might find the pier where the aforementioned harum-scarums were landed. I saw a pier which was probably it. You can easily see how the place shone with a borrowed lustre from its connection with historic events of such marked importance. Here our great steamship stopped and, after a delay of five hours, we were transferred to a small river steamboat, which took us up the river to Glasgow. These are as different from our river steamboats on the Hudson and other streams, as night is from day. It was long and low and narrow, drew very little water, and was substantially built, being of iron. It impressed me as remarkably queer, at first. It is very sharp indeed, the prow being at about this angle >, I should think. Then it is built out very suddenly for the paddles, for you must know it is a side-wheel boat, and it travels very fast. All their boats travel faster than ours do. We had a most magnificent ride up the Clyde to Glasgow. The scenery was something like some parts of New York State, perhaps, but better. The color was magnificently rich, more so, I think, than any I saw in America. We saw the oldest steamboat built on the Clyde—a regular old tub. But I must hasten on, as I fear I must stop soon.
I went to hear Spurgeon this morning. Jim, C. and H. stayed at home, but I was bound to hear Spurgeon. On my way I crossed the Thames, getting my first sight of that celebrated river. I crossed on Blackfriars bridge. Spurgeon’s church is called the Tabernacle. It is a very large building, with two galleries, one above the other, like an opera house. I sat in the top gallery on a front seat. The house will seat about from 4,000 to 4,500 people. I think my calculation was very accurate. Mr. Spurgeon read and commented, as did Dr. Eggleston, whom I heard in Brooklyn. I thought he talked very well, too. When he preached, the text was from Hosea, 5, 15: “I will go and return to my place, till they acknowledge their offence, etc.” Mother, it was a magnificent sermon. I think I liked it rather better than any I have ever heard or read. I cannot tell about that, but it was fine. How I wish you could have heard it. I took about eight pages of notes in my little red book, but it was not a sermon to take notes on. He first talked about it as applied to England in her present troubles, and then in its personal application. I guess he preached an hour or more, but it seemed very short. It did me good, for the time at least. I would go again to-night, if he would preach the same sermon over again.
We went to Westminster this afternoon to hear Dean Stanley. It is a grand old place, but I do not like their service. I could not help contrasting it with the morning. That fellow reading now; he read along in an attempt, I imagine, at a chant, until out of breath, then took breath and steamed ahead again. I saw the graves of many illustrious men. I forgot to say, Mother, that you and I must revise our impressions of Spurgeon. I believe neither of us had a very favorable idea of him. Give French my blessing. Be sure you do.
Affectionately,
HENRY.
VENICE, Sunday, July 27, ’79.
DEAR MOTHER,
I take up my pen to write you, after a silence of more than two weeks, my last effort being dated at London, I believe. It does not seem long measuring by time, but by space, how much —London-Venice, England-Italy. These small dashes measure events, to which they bear the relation that a map does to the countries we have traversed. We received your letter last night, our first word from you, I believe. All this time we have waited with a feeling of sadness at your silence. Ah! be silent no more, my Mother, silent no more. You must go to New York, you know, Mother, though what is the use of telling you that? When this letter reaches you, you will have already gone, or else you will be proof against persuasions.
I have read the passage in Romans which you mentioned, once to-day and once in course, since I left home. I have been a very bad boy since I left Oberlin, have not read in The Book much and been thoughtful and decent, but have been cross and mean, and selfish and unsacrificing, like the rest of the world. It is push and grab and snatch in this world, Mother, and the weakest goes to the wall. All the religion that I have manifested has been in pulling a long face occasionally, and judging other people in self-righteousness. A conscience is a very awkward thing to have about one on a European tour, when you do not live right every day, but fail constantly, and with seventy people around you, whose motto is: “In Rome do as the Romans do,” and not “Be not conformed to the world.” However, I do not know but it is just as well, or rather far better, to take for one’s motto the first, “Do as the Romans do,” and live up to it, as to take the second and “Do as the Romans do,” as I do. However, mother, I think you need not be alarmed about me in one respect. If I go to the bad, the same things will take me there, in Paris as in Oberlin. It is not drinking wine and smoking and going to the opera Sunday night, etc., etc. (which temptations I will encounter in Paris), which will ruin me. For I have vices, which will operate in this case as virtues. They are prejudice and innate “contrariness,” stubbornness and mulishness. A little opposition will only make me more set than ever. So do not be scared about Paris, mother. I should like to stay and study in Paris, and then again I should not. So far as I have anything to say about it, I do not know which I should do.
The