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 girls and Jim have gone to St Mark’s to hear high mass. This afternoon, Mr. Gray expects to take the party sightseeing, to see the Doges Palace and a picture gallery. I shall not go, of course. Neither, I guess, will Jim and the girls. Venice is a lovely place. Our hotel fronts on the Grand Canal, and we do our travelling by water. Morantic or romantic, is it not? Last night we had a beautiful sail around the city, under the Bridge of Sighs and out in the harbor. We went out two or three miles to the Island of Ledo, from which there was a fine view of the blue waves of the Adriatic. The sail both out and back was fine. The after glow lingered a long while, and the reflection of the city lights in the water was very fine, reminding me of a walk Jim and I took on a bridge over the Rhine at Cologne, about 10 o’clock at night. Just think, mother, we came from the depot to our hotel propelled by a gondolier. Didn’t go to church to-day, stayed and read some in my Testament. Lovely lady rooms next me, and I am going to desert you and this letter and go and look, with her, over some Bible texts or cards, or something she has with her. I know you will be pleased that that is the worst reason I have for ending this letter here. We are all in usual health, I believe. Be sure to write often.
Lovingly,
HENRY.
ROME, Sunday, August 3, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
It is Sunday morning, as possibly you perceive from the heading of this letter, and some of the people have gone sightseeing as usual, and some have gone to church, some, I presume, to St Peter’s and other Catholic establishments, and a few to Protestant dittoes, and some are asleep. It is very quiet and seeming more like Sunday than it has for a long time. There is that peculiar subduedness and stillness about everything that marks so plainly the day. Quite unlike the Sundays one is accustomed to enjoy in the second section. But then this, perhaps, is to be accounted for by the absence of most of the aforementioned section. None of our party went to church. Helen and Carrie are asleep upstairs, Jim and Miss White writing at a table down here, and I at another table. The room is the “reception room” of our hotel, the Costanzi, said to be one of the finest hotels in Europe. I presume it is, as it is one of the best we have been in. Everything shows we are in Rome. The ceilings are painted in classic style. Even the butter tells us that this is the “Eternal City.” It is stamped with the Capitoline wolf and Romulus and Remus. The water is perfectly good. In fact, the water has been good all along, and the talk about the water in Europe is all “poppycock” any way, to use an inelegant phrase. Italy is a fraud. It is hot, flat, dry, dusty. The Italian sky is another fraud. It is a cloudless, red hot, burning one, and the air is hot and dry. The vegetation is seared and brown. There is no pleasant coloring to rest the eyes. However, in the shape of tropical vegetation we have met with some old friends. Figs abound. The cactus and prickly pear and century plant lift up their heads and bid us welcome. That terribly sharp thing in sister Ellie’s yard, we have met somewhere in our travels.
Rome is a very interesting city. I like it better than any we have yet visited. We arrived here Thursday night, about five o’clock, from Florence, after a hot and dusty ride of eight hours. We went nowhere that night, except to bed. The party in Rome is resigned by Mr. Gray to Mr. Forbes, a gentleman many years resident in Rome, and an antiquarian and student. I believe he knows Rome well, and I suppose we could have been placed in no better hands. The plan of sightseeing has been changed here, much for the better, all think. Heretofore we have left the hotel at half-past eight or nine for a long siege through the hottest part of the day, returning utterly fagged out, dirty and starved, at about three o’clock, when we were served up to a dinner, calculated to refresh our weary souls. But now we go out at nine, returning at twelve to a simple lunch and rest till three. Then go again till six, coming back to a consoling dinner. This is not half as tiring as the other method. The first morning we drove in the carriages on to the
