Chapter IV: Part 4

One of Margate’s architectural features, as seen in the accompanying illustration, is its handsome clocktower, standing in a conspicuous position on the Marine drive. It was erected in honor of the Queen’s Jubilee in 1887, and has a musical chime of bells.

Like Brighton and some other seaside resorts, Margate is democratic in the height of summer, but select in the autumn. In olden times the season commenced in June and continued until October. Margate offers every inducement to a prolonged season. While London is miserable under November fogs and humid atmosphere, Margate is brilliant with glorious days and bright skies; fine weather from August until Christmas.

Americans, of course, must flock to the largest hotel. They like size, and many of them patronize the Cliftonville Hotel, which, to be sure, is a large establishment in the most fashionable, and certainly the most attractive part of the town, near the grand cliffs, and overlooking the sea--a splendid site and a beautiful house exteriorly, but not as well kept as an American host might care for it.

The White Hart Hotel, on the principal street, is a commercial house, and has a comfortable appearance from the outside, but the Nayland Rock Hotel, not far from the two railway stations, yet overlooking the sea, and from the windows of which you may toss a biscuit into the water (provided you have the biscuit), is to my knowledge a well-appointed hotel, with bedrooms as clean and comfortable and dining-room as cheerful as any hotel in the world. The cuisine is of the best. If great variety be absent, quality is present. The food is choice, and served in a neat, tempting and scrupulously clean manner.

European hotels, as a rule, are kept on the European plan; at the Nayland Rock you have your choice. If you choose the American plan, the terms are very low for the accommodation afforded. Two dollars and a half a day secures you pleasant room, three good meals, lights and service. There are no extras. The wines are of first quality.

But I almost forgot an important item. I went to Margate for health and rest; I found both there. After one week I returned to London “like a lion refreshed,” and I shall always say, as everybody in London says, “there’s a beautiful air at Margate.”

TWO BRIGHTON HOTELS.

The company that owns the Grand Hotel and the Métropole in London, opened in March, 1890, a magnificent house at Brighton, on the English southern sea coast. “Magnificent” is the word. It is built of stone; it faces the sea; it has an acre or two at the back laid out in gardens, tennis courts, and pretty walks, after the style of the United States Hotel at Saratoga; there is a separate building on the grounds for a ball-room, in this respect resembling the Grand Union Hotel at the same American spa; the elegant drawing-room on the ground floor looks on the King’s Road and the ocean; the library, which faces the garden, contains a large and choice selection of books by leading authors, and in the basement there are Turkish and Russian baths fitted up with a luxury and perfection of appointment not equalled in any other hotel. The proprietors have availed themselves of all the latest ideas in the construction and furnishing of hotels, and nothing that money can supply, or good taste can suggest, has been left undone to make the Métropole at Brighton what it is--one of the most beautiful and luxurious hotels in the world. It is said to accommodate six or seven hundred guests.

Besides this hotel, and the Grand and Métropole hotels in London, the same company owns another hotel in London, “The First Avenue,” in Holborn; also the Burlington at Eastbourne; the Royal Pier Hotel at Ryde, Isle of Wight; the Métropole at Monte Carlo; and the Métropole at Cannes--all of them luxurious establishments.

Brighton attracts visitors the year round; in fact it is a city of no mean size, having a permanent population numbering an eighth of a million. It enjoys two seasons--one for the _hoi polloi_, which begins in June and lasts three months, and another for the fashionable world, which begins in September and continues till near Christmas. During the second season the prices at Brighton are greatly increased.

I entered one of the leading hotels one day about lunch time, and as is my custom before engaging rooms or partaking of a meal at an English hotel, I asked: “What is the charge for a _table d’hôte_ lunch here?” “Two-and-six,” replied the porter. As for seeing the lessee or manager of an English hotel, you can almost as easily secure an audience with the czar of all the Russias.

But to return to my muttons--or to the lunch, which, truth to tell, was good in quality and nicely served. My daughter heard the following conversation between the head waiter and the said porter as we were passing in to the “coffee-room.” Quoth the former:--“How much did you tell these people for lunch?” “Two-and-six,” replied that blue-coated, gold-embroidered official. “That’s wrong,” remarked the head waiter, who almost lost his head as well as his temper. “Three shillings is the price to strangers,” and three shillings each we had to pay.

This reminds me of the old story of the Englishman who was heard to remark about a man passing, who had a foreign look: “’Ere’s a stranger, Bill, ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im.”

That they call these apartments in English hotels “Coffee Rooms,” when they never serve in them a cup of coffee after dinner without a separate and extra charge, is rather exasperating.

The porters and officials at some English hotels are not, though it appears as if they were, in league with the cabmen. If you ask them about rates just before taking a drive they will occasionally mislead you and name a higher rate than the usual or legal one. For instance, I asked the clerk at another hotel in Brighton, what was the fare by the hour for a drive in an open cab or victoria holding two persons. “Four shillings per hour,” quickly responded my misinformant. I knew better, for this was not my first visit to Brighton, but said nothing. To a cabman with a good-looking victoria who stood immediately opposite the hotel entrance I popped this question: “What will you charge us for an hour’s drive along the beach and about the town?” “Two-and-six,” briskly replied cabbie and we drove about the pretty place for a whole hour for the half crown.

A VISIT TO BLEAK HOUSE.

Bleak House, the scene of the novel of that name, is near the village of St. Albans, about twenty miles from London, and is described in the early part of the story as an “old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch.” That there was more than one Bleak House in the mind of Dickens “there can be no possible probable manner of doubt,” as Gilbert sings in “The Gondoliers,” because at the close of the story one of the characters in it is made to say, “Both houses are your home, my dear, but the older Bleak House claims priority.”

But the “Bleak House” which was for many years the home of Charles Dickens, and where he wrote many of his novels, was so named by the author after his famous story. It is located in the old-fashioned village of Broadstairs, on the North Sea, in the county of Kent, the garden of England, and is seventy-two miles from London, on the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. The population is given in the latest census as two thousand two hundred and sixty-three.

The house was formerly called Fort House, from its proximity to the British fortifications on the coast. It stands directly on the top of the chalk cliffs, seventy-five feet above the water, quite alone, and so near to the edge that from the portico a stone might be easily thrown into the surf--what little surf there is. It

commands a wide view of the ocean. In the southwest it looks toward Ramsgate, a seaside pleasure resort, distant five miles; in the northeast toward Kingsgate. The house is appropriately named, for it is indeed bleak from Christmas until April, when the cold, biting northeast winds, for which these parts are noted, blow with all their might.

It was natural for Dickens to select such a spot for a residence. If he was not actually fond of the sea, he certainly had a great liking for the sea-coast, with which were associated the earliest memories of his childhood. It will be remembered that he was born at Portsmouth, a fortified seaport town, and the principal naval station of Great Britain, about one hundred miles southwest of London. Dickens lived at Portsmouth until he arrived at his majority. At Portsmouth he studied law, but he found Blackstone and Coke rather dry reading, and so went to London where, as every body knows, he entered upon his literary career by reporting parliamentary debates for the _Morning Chronicle_.

Bleak House is a plain, substantial, compact, three-story structure of burnt brick. It has grounds of one and a quarter acres in extent, and the property is what is called in England “freehold;” value, two thousand seven hundred pounds sterling. A stone wall five feet high, encloses the house on two sides. One side of the house is a flat, blank wall, evidently planned so that an extension could be easily made, and the lower part of the front is protected by plain iron railings. The entrance is by a low flight of five steps leading up to a portico and doorway supported by Doric columns. Next the doorway, on the first story, a semi-circular bay window projects, and on the second story are two deep windows which open upon a pretty ornamental iron balcony, having a curved, sloping roof. A great deal of ivy softens the bareness of the architecture. It climbs up the walls and around the bay windows.

Dickens was very partial to the ivy plant, as his lyric, “The Ivy Green,” testifies. He wrote several lyrics, but “The Ivy Green” which appeared originally in “Pickwick Papers” is the only one that has become familiar. It was first published as a song in the United States, and when a London publisher wished to reproduce it in England, Dickens refused the privilege except on the condition that the publisher pay ten guineas to the composer, Henry Russell.

Dickens was more thoughtful concerning Henry Russell’s rights than this English composer is of the rights of others. I well remember that my predecessor on the _Home Journal_, the much beloved poet, George P. Morris, had a grudge against Russell, because Russell, in England, claimed to be the author of the words, “Woodman, Spare that Tree,” as well as the composer of the music; and it is my humble opinion that the music in merit is far below Morris’s poetry. The sentiment is beautiful, the words breathe a true, manly spirit and are full of deep feeling, while the music is plaintive, weak, childish--namby-pamby expresses it.

Russell did better with the English poet Mackay’s song, “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” making it go with life and spirit, and he set appropriate music to our own Epes Sargent’s song, “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” in which you may fancy you almost see the good old sailing ship bowling along before the wind. Henry Russell, who, by the way, is a father of Clark Russell, the novelist, is still living in London--February, 1892.

As to the melody, “The Ivy Green,” an astute critic says: “It seems to me the composer has failed to catch the poet’s meaning. Dickens’s words are as sombre and tender as the vine that deepens the shadows and softens the ruggedness of decaying grandeur; while Russell’s music is as free and sturdy as the hardiest oak.” The song opens with this stanza:

A dainty plant is the ivy green
That creepeth o’er ruins old,
Of rich choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold;
The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim,
And the mould’ring dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

The house is about fifty years old, and contains ten rooms. Dickens’s study was on the second floor, front. It has a southeastern outlook; he was fond of the rising sun. The furniture and appointments of the room, which the writer saw in the autumn of 1891, remain as when Dickens left them--table with telescope, bookcase, plain wooden armchair, etc.--a very simply furnished study. He did not die at Bleak House, however, but at a short distance from it, on June 9, 1870, at Gads’ Hill, “Higham by Rochester, Kent,” as he was in the habit of dating from.

Dickens, at Bleak House, was a tenant of a Mr. Fosbury, but the house was sold after Dickens’s death, and is at present owned in Broadstairs by “W. S. Blackburn, house and estate agent, undertaker, builder and decorator, and upholsterer and mover of furniture,” by which man-of-many-trades the house was leased for a very short term to a Mrs. Whitehead, sister of the vicar of St. Peter’s of Broadstairs, at an annual rent of six hundred dollars. Mr. Blackburn now offers the property for sale. It would make a cool and charming summer retreat for some American prince. Or let some large-hearted and large-pursed man like George W. Childs buy the precious property and present it to the village of Broadstairs.

TAKIN’ NOTES

IN EDINBORO’ TOWN.

Singular that more Americans do not “take in” Scotland when they are making the grand tour. Its historic interest and its scenic beauty are great. Glasgow is reached direct from New York by the fine fleet of Anchor boats, numbered among which are the “Furnessia,” the “Devonia” and the “City of Rome.” Excepting the last named the Scotch boats are slow in these days of “racers” and “greyhounds,” but they are very comfortable vessels, as I know, from experience, and I have crossed in seven days by the “Rome”--crossed, that is, from Queenstown to New York.

If you don’t care about bustling, busy Glasgow, with its smoke and its dirt, bonnie Edinburgh is distant only sixty-five minutes by express trains of the Caledonian railway, one of the best built and best equipped roads in Great Britain.

It hasn’t the commerce of Glasgow, not being a seaport, but it is the cleanest city I ever visited, and one of the most beautiful. Many travellers consider London the most interesting city in the world, but to a casual observer, the four most attractive cities in Europe are Rome, Paris, Brussels and Edinburgh.

The whole city is built of granite and freestone. You don’t see a brick excepting in a very few and very tall factory chimneys. To some eyes this is monotonous; to mine it is pleasing. It looks, and it is, substantial, solid and strong.

Don’t come at any time, not even in August, without winter clothing. The winds are keen and cutting. Umbrella and “waterproof” are indispensable; overshoes, also, if it is your habit to wear them, for “the rain it raineth every day”--so to speak. This is not the remark of a hasty tourist. I have been making trips to Scotland for the past twenty years and I have stayed there for weeks at a time.

It is cool here and rain is frequent, but everything in this life has its compensation. This is the twentieth day of August, 1891, and we have strawberries for breakfast every morning and fresh green peas are in season. Large, luscious strawberries and raspberries sixpence a quart. Edinburgh, remember, is four hundred miles north of London. The twilight is long and late, I was reading a badly-printed Scotch newspaper this evening by daylight at half-past eight.

Labor is cheap here, and yet boys do men’s work, such as driving carts and sweeping the streets.

The drives in and about Edinburgh are very attractive, and there are no better roads anywhere.

There are tram-cars in the city: fare, inside, two pence; “on top,” one penny. There are also two lines of cable cars.

In a “distillery agent’s” window, in Princes street, I saw flasks of wine marked “two shillings.” I stepped in and bought a flask. “One penny more,” remarked the salesman. “For what,” said I, inquiringly. “For the cork.” When I reached my hotel I applied a corkscrew; it wouldn’t budge. The penny “cork” was a glass stopper with a “worm,” to screw on and off.

It strikes a stranger as rather odd to see men and boys carry so much on their heads and to see them balance their loads with such nicety. Instead of using small, light push carts, or delivering goods in baskets hanging on the arm, as is done in New York, Edinburgh boys use a tray or flat board with an edge turned up, in which they carry vegetables, meat, poultry, fruit, etc. This tray is placed on the head and is scarcely ever touched by the hand except to load or unload. The head in Edinburgh is made to do good physical service.

The house still stands, and is likely to stand for centuries, in which Walter Scott lived for years, and in which he wrote several of his novels. It is of granite, with a rounded (swelled) front, three stories high and about thirty feet wide. You must look it up when you go to Edinburgh--No. 39 Castle street. It is now used for office purposes, and is tenanted by doctors, lawyers, civil engineers and the like. In the transom window, over the door, you will see a small marble bust of the novelist.

Princes street, the principal street, is not very long, only about one mile, but as far as it goes it is not easily surpassed in any city. On one side are the principal hotels and business blocks, all of granite or freestone; on the other side are the handsome Princes Gardens with monuments and the magnificent Art Institute in the foreground, and in the background such buildings as the Castle, several churches and the Bank of Scotland.

The gardens, with their terraces, gravel walks, fountains, rustic seats, lawns and flower-beds are uncommonly attractive. It would seem that nowhere are the flowers brought to a higher state of cultivation than in the Princes Gardens.

Blackwood has a large but very quiet-looking shop in George street, not so crowded a thoroughfare as Princes street, but in which a very select business is transacted.

Thomas Nelson & Sons have the largest book publishing establishment in Scotland--I was going to say in Great Britain. Their business buildings cover a vast space of ground, and Mr. Nelson’s residence, not far from Holyrood Palace and Arthur’s Seat, is one of the most attractive private citizens’ residences in this part of the country. It was only two or three years ago, so a coachman informed me, that Mr. Nelson gave ten thousand pounds to restore the front of the castle.

David Douglas, whose retail house is at No. 9 Castle street, makes a specialty of publishing and republishing works of American authors, and finds his profit in it. You may pick up on his counters almost anything of Longfellow, Holmes, Lowell, Howells, Winter and Aldrich. Winter’s “Shakespeare in England” and his latest work, “Gray Days and Gold,” were both published by Douglas, duplicate plates being sent over to Macmillan of New York.

Talk of books being expensive in England: these very books by Winter which Macmillan sells in New York at seventy-five cents each, Douglas publishes at two shillings; in paper covers for one shilling--twenty-five cents.

Douglas’s people tell me that Winter’s books find a ready sale in Great Britain. The critics and the reading public are delighted with his sketches of English and Scotch scenery, and especially with his scholarly and beautiful descriptions of Stratford-on-Avon and Shakespeare’s country. They think that no author has written with more reverence and feeling about Shakespeare. They find “his language poetical and his style artistic, with a Meissonier-like finish.”

FRUITS AND FLOWERS.--In Scotland herrings are always sold by pairs, haddocks by threes. In England and Scotland fruit is sold by the pound, so are vegetables: and this fair and excellent method proves satisfactory to buyer and seller. Flowers and fruit are sold in the same shop: the signs read, “fruiterer and florist.” Flowers are very high in price. They use growing flowers and living plants in pots very freely to decorate the dinner table, but this idea, which is pretty enough in its way, is carried too far in hotel dining-rooms. So many tall plants make the table look dark and heavy, and the broad leaves prevent you from seeing your neighbor or chatting with a friend on the other side of the table, for in some hotels they still persist in using the old-fashioned long tables which are neither home-like nor comfortable. Choice fruit, being either imported from the warmer climates or grown under glass, is very expensive in the British kingdom. You pay sixpence or a shilling for a peach or nectarine; two shillings each for choice varieties. The largest and handsomest peach ever grown, possibly, or certainly ever shown, was exhibited last summer in a shop window in Buchanan street, Glasgow. It weighed eighteen ounces, price three-and-sixpence.

The capital of Scotland is always spelled Edinburgh, but is always pronounced Edinboro’.

In the stamp department of the post-office in Edinburgh there is a shallow indentation about four inches square in the table, in which a piece of felt is kept constantly damp. Instead of putting the stamp on your tongue you pass it over the piece of felt before placing it on the envelope. Small matter, but very convenient, and shows thoughtfulness on the part of the authorities.

STREET RELIGION.--There’s a great deal of poverty and drunkenness in Edinburgh, but there is also a great deal of religion. All the churches are well attended on Sunday, and there are preaching, praying and singing in the public streets. Church choirs, men and women, stand and sing in the public highways. In the lower quarters of the city they attract people with a harmonium, which is wheeled about from place to place. Passers-by stop, join in the singing, and in fine weather uncover their heads. The singers are not paid for their services.

THE DOGS.--Here’s a hint for the society which Mr. Henry Bergh founded:--On the sidewalk in front of large shops and public buildings in Glasgow and Edinburgh they place small earthenware or iron vessels filled with water for passing dogs. The vessel is simply and legibly marked “DOG.” Probably the dogs cannot read, but they seem to know or to “nose out” the shops where such a humane practice is carried out. But a certain Scotch editor contends that Scotch dogs can read.

INDIA RUBBER PAVEMENT.--The attention of every stranger who walks in Princes street, Edinburgh, is immediately arrested as soon as he gets in front of a certain shop, nearly opposite the castle, where rubber goods are sold. His attention is arrested because he finds himself on a yielding pavement. It is a rubber “sidewalk” (as we say in New York), and was laid there by the enterprising shopkeeper. It is very pleasant and comfortable to walk on, and so durable that the authorities have talked about putting down rubber pavements on both sides of Princes street.

GLASGOW UNIVERSITY.--There is not much for the tourist to see in Glasgow except the university, the cathedral, founded in the fourteenth century, and the municipal buildings. But the first-named is worth walking many miles to visit, if one is interested in such things. I spent several hours in the university with pleasure and profit. This university, Glasgow people claim, is the finest in Scotland. It accommodates twenty-three hundred students, who pay on an average of forty pounds a year. It is generously endowed. The buildings are of granite and present a noble appearance, standing on very high ground in their own large park, which is beautifully laid out with terraces, flower beds and gravel walks. There are some grand old trees in the park, and a pretty winding lake, over which are thrown many picturesque bridges. Though it is a seat of learning, you will not expect the services of a college professor as a cicerone, but you might naturally expect to hear fair English spoken. The liveried servant who guides you will tell you, with strong aspirations, of the “helementary” classes and the “school of harts.” In describing the _modus operandi_ of taking the gold medal, the graduate sitting in a very high-backed chair, which is several hundred years old, you will be told “it’s a very ’igh honor.”

In the “Edinburgh Café,” a fairish kind of restaurant in Princes street, opposite the Scott monument, a penny is charged for the privilege of washing your hands, and a penny for the use of a napkin. The majority of this café’s customers, however, if the truth must be told, make a _mouchoir_ serve for a _serviette_.

SLIPPERS SUPPLIED FREE.--If you go to Philp’s Cockburn (pronounced Coburn) Hotel in Edinburgh, it matters not if you have forgotten to pack your slippers in your portmanteau, for the porter will provide you with a pair. One hundred pairs of red morocco slippers are kept at this hotel for the use of guests. A foot of any size can be accommodated, and there is no charge.

Smoking is not allowed in bedrooms of Scotch hotels, and a notice to that effect is posted in each room. “Smoking rooms” are provided, and only such apartment may be used for this purpose. They are both smoky and dingy.

AN EDINBURGH DOLLAR DINNER.--I have dined at the leading hotels in New York, at “The States,” in Saratoga, the Breslin, at Lake Hopatcong, and my experience includes the leading hotels in the principal European capitals, and the leading hotels in the Southern and far Western States, as far as California, yet I can say that the _table d’hôte_ dinner served at Philp’s Cockburn Hotel, Edinburgh (on Sunday, August 24, 1890), will rank with the fare at any of these houses, and it excels the table d’hôte at some high-priced hotels in London and Paris. And the price charged for this dinner was very moderate--only four shillings, about one dollar. The dinner included grouse, peaches, strawberries and nectarines, and from the hare soup down to the dessert, everything was well cooked and nicely served. The charge is remarkably moderate when it is understood that this is a “temperance house,” and when you know that the choice fruit is grown under glass at high cost. The dinner would have been perfect with _café noir_ at the close, but this is not served in British hotels without additional charge.

THE BURNS MONUMENT.

If Baltimore is the monumental city of the United States, Edinburgh may surely be called the monumental city of the United Kingdom. The majority of its public buildings, of freestone or granite, are noble structures standing on hills in the heart of the city, and for their situation alone would command admiration--the old Castle, Nelson monument, the city prison, the National Gallery, the Bank of Scotland, etc. No bank in the world occupies a more commandiug site than the one just named. Owing to the peculiar natural formation of the land upon which the city is built, an observer may stand in one spot in Edinburgh (say the Waverly Gardens) and see a greater number of splendid buildings at a glance than may be seen simultaneously from the level in any other city.

Not among the largest by any means but among the most interesting must be reckoned the Burns monument, which occupies a high position near its still higher neighbor, the Nelson monument, on Calton Hill. The Burns monument was built in 1830 for the purpose of containing a marble statue of the poet by Flaxman. The building, of freestone, is a circular temple on a quadrangular basement surrounded by a peristyle of twelve Corinthian columns which support an entablature and cornice. Over this is a cupola, a restoration of the monument of Lysicrates at Athens. The whole is surmounted by a tripod supported by winged griffins. The extreme height of the structure is fifty feet, the twelve outside columns are fourteen feet high and the twelve inside columns are ten feet high. The latter are of freestone painted to represent variegated marble. The cost of the monument and statue was three thousand three hundred pounds sterling (about sixteen thousand five hundred dollars)--not a large sum considering the result attained.

Besides the statue of the poet, the monument holds a number of relics--letters written by or to Burns, the worm-eaten three legged stool upon which the poet sat in 1786 and ’87 while correcting the proofs of his poems, and other things of interest. One of the most interesting letters is that subjoined. As is well known, the poet spelled his name Burness (his family name) until the publication of his poems in 1786. The letter is thus addressed:

To

Mr. James Burness,

Writer, Montrose.

_My Dear Cousin_:

When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should
want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher to whom I owe a
considerable bill, taking into his head that I am dying, has
commenced a process against me and will infallibly put my emaciated
body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that
by return of post, with ten pounds. O, James, did you know the
pride of my heart you would feel doubly for me. Alas, I am not used
to beg. The worse of it is my health was coming about finely, you
know, and my physician assures me that melancholy and low spirits
are half my disease. Guess then my horrors since this business
began. If I had it settled I would be, I think, quite well in a
manner. O, do not disappoint me.

Among other relics preserved in frames and hung on the walls is the printed newspaper report of Burns’s death. This occurred at Dumfries, July 21, 1796, and the report appeared in the London _Herald_ of July 27--nearly one week after. The London _Herald_ of that day was a very small sheet, about fifteen inches long and only four columns wide, price fourpence halfpenny a copy. The obituary notice is unique and is worth reproducing to-day:

DEATH OF MR. ROBERT BURNS,

THE CELEBRATED POET.

On the twenty-first instant died at Dumfries, after a lingering
illness, the celebrated Robert Burns. His poetical compositions,
distinguished equally by the force of native humor, by the warmth
and tenderness of passion, and by the glowing touches of a
descriptive pencil, will remain a lasting monument of the vigor and
versatility of a mind, guided only by the light of nature and the
inspirations of genius. The public, to whose amusement he so
largely contributed, will learn with regret that the last months of
his short life were spent in sickness and indigence, and his widow
and five infant children, and in the hourly expectation of a sixth,
is now left without any resource but what she may hope from the
regard due to the memory of her husband.

Apropos to the subject come these remarks in the New York _Sun_:

It is better to write a little book that is full of heart and
brains than a big book that lacks both. Probably there is no writer
but Robert Burns who has made such broad and enduring renown as his
through a book as small as his. This thought arose while taking a
glimpse of a new statue of the bard that is to be erected in a city
out West. There is a statue of Burns in our Central Park; there is
another up at Albany; there is at least one in Australia, and there
are several statues of him in the British Isles. All that he wrote
appears as a tiny volume in the latest edition of his works; much
of it is in a dialect that is hard to be understood by
English-speaking people, and he died in obscurity about one hundred
years ago. Yet there are probably as many public statues of him in
various parts of the globe as there are of Shakespeare, who wrote
voluminously.

Monuments, however, are not Edinburgh’s only attractions, but do not count on seeing the sights there on Sunday. The day is closely and strictly observed. London is surely quiet enough on a Sunday, but it is gayety itself when compared with the capital of Scotland. Not a shop is open; even the drug shops are open only during two hours. Everything is shut as tight as a drum in Edinburgh except the churches, and to these you must either walk or hire a carriage, for not the wheel of an omnibus or car turns on Sunday.

RIGHT REVEREND THE MODERATOR,

JAMES MACGREGOR, D. D.

In September, 1890, I had the privilege of listening to England’s foremost preacher, Rev. C. H. Spurgeon, in his Tabernacle at Newington Butts, in London; and one year later, on Sunday, September 16, 1891, happening to be in Edinburgh, I made it a point to hear the Rev. James Macgregor, the leading light of the Scotch Presbyterian Church.

Americans mostly flock to St. Giles’s in Canongate, on account of its age and historical associations. They attend divine service there early in the morning with the soldiers from the old castle. But I wanted to hear a great preacher, so I repaired to Synod Hall, which the members of St. Cuthbert’s parish were using as a temporary place of worship.

The extensive alterations, internally and externally, which were then making in St. Cuthbert’s Church, will render it, in some respects, worthy of the site, and of its long and honorable history. The present structure dates from the year 1775. Only the tower and spire of the old church will be retained, and the new edifice, which will not be finished until the autumn of 1892, will accommodate a much larger number of people than the former building did.

It is a notable fact that on the spot where the building stands--under the Castle Rock of Edinburgh--Christian worship has been continuously maintained for more than a thousand years. It is, indeed, one of the very oldest shrines in Scotland, hallowed by the prayers of the faithful, which have arisen from it for century upon century.

Originally a mere Culdee cell, dedicated to the memory of Cuthbert, the monk of Lindisfarne, it has passed through a variety of forms. Changing with the revolutions of Scottish history, it has been Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, and finally Presbyterian.

The whole aspect of the place where it rose has changed. The Nor’ Loch, which stretched away from it eastward under the Castle Rock, has disappeared; the sweep of undulating country has been transformed into wide streets; a great city has arisen around it; and it still remains what it has been for ages, a centre of Christian influence to a wide community.

It is interesting as a piece of religious history to note that within little more than a stone’s throw of the site of the present structure is the spot where the first General Assembly was held on the 20th of December, 1560. It consisted of forty-two members, of whom only six were ministers. The first name on the roll is that of “John Knox.” It was a fully equipped Ecclesiastical Convention, and at once proceeded to important business. There is no parallel instance of a court with such authority springing so suddenly into being. That authority was almost sovereign. It was based on the sanction and support of the popular will. With a power to which the Scottish Parliament never attained, it was the representative assembly of the Scottish people, embracing within it from the very beginning the pith of the nation’s manhood. The General Assembly was simply the Scotch people convened, through their natural representatives, to settle their own religious affairs. And they did it effectually. Never was a change so radical and so beneficial effected in as brief a space of time as that accomplished by the Scottish Reformation.

So much for the past. Synod Hall, which, as I have said, was temporarily occupied by the congregation of St. Cuthbert’s, is a large freestone building occupying a prominent site in Castle Terrace opposite the back of the Castle. It accommodates about twenty-five hundred people. A bold placard in the vestibule informed the hundreds of strangers in and about the vestibule that they would be admitted into the body of the church a few minutes before the services commenced. The “strangers” waited with all the patience they could command, and when the sign was made by one of the deacons, they flocked in, a large space at the back of the house being set apart for them. Soon every seat was occupied and people were requested to please sit closer together. Then, when there was not an inch of room to spare on the benches, chairs were placed in the aisles.

Dr. James Macgregor, the present minister, was appointed Moderator of the General Assembly for the current year in May, 1891. He has been connected with St. Cuthbert’s for fourteen years, having succeeded Dr. Barclay, now in Montreal. St. Cuthbert’s, or, as it is also called, the “West End Church,” is not given to making changes oftener than is necessary. Dr. Barclay is said to be the only man who ever left St. Cuthbert’s; his predecessors all died at their posts.

In Synod Hall there is no organ; the music was supplied by the congregation and a choir. St. Cuthbert’s usually rejoices in a large choir, but on the occasion of my visit many of its members were “away on their holidays,” as they call their vacation in Great Britain. The choir on that Sunday numbered fifteen--three men and twelve of the gentler sex.

Mr. Edie, a promising and rather brilliant man under thirty, who has a clear voice and a Scotch accent is assistant to Dr. Macgregor. The first selection of song which he gave out was the 129th Psalm:

Lord of the worlds above
How pleasant and how fair
The dwellings of Thy love,
The earthly temples are.

Then Mr. Edie read the 62d Chapter of Isaiah. The next selection for the congregation was the 102d Psalm, 6th Verse: “And God in His glory shall appear;” and then the 356th Hymn: “Te Deum Laudamus.”

Mr. Edie concluded his part of the services with a fervent and beautiful prayer in which, after the Queen, Prince of Wales, the princess, the judges and magistrates of great Britain were enumerated, special mention was made of the President and people of the United States; of “our wandering brethren, the children of Israel; of our Catholic brethren; bless all honorable business men; bless our friends and also those who have wronged us.”

Dr. Macgregor, who then rose from a chair, took his text from the 4th Chapter, 1st Verse, of “Hosea:” “Hear the word of the Lord, ye children of Israel.”

Then followed a brilliant discourse on the history of the Jewish race, in which, incidentally, much information was conveyed, the main ideas being: first, that the government of Great Britain should use its influence in behalf of the Russian refugees; second that the Christian people owe much to the Jews and should therefore be most charitable toward them.

The minister paid a high tribute to the chosen people and their characteristics. He said that the countries which abused them most, Spain and Portugal, had been least prosperous, and it would be strange, indeed, if Russia suffered not for its inhuman persecution of them; that, in fact, it was suffering.

Notwithstanding that they had been downtrodden for centuries, the Jews were vastly stronger in numbers to-day than ever before in the history of the world, numbering at the present time twelve millions.

The speaker showed that the decline of Jerusalem was owing to the comparatively small number of Jews there in later years, and he strongly advocated their return.

To quote the doctor almost verbatim: “I may be criticised for criticising Russia. Some may say: ‘Let each country look after its own affairs, and it will have enough to do. It is none of England’s business what Russia does,’ but I say it is the business of every civilized country, of every civilized man; it is your business and my business; it affects each and every one of us; it hurts you and me, and it is to be hoped that Great Britain will lift up its voice and use its influence in behalf of these much injured refugees.”

If this discourse had been especially prepared to deliver before a strictly and exclusively Jewish assemblage, it could not have been more complimentary to their people. One of its “points” was thus worded: “There must be something wrong with that man’s head--with that man’s heart who despises the Jews.”

Dr. Macgregor has the title of one of Her Majesty’s chaplains; he is a member of the Hon. Royal Scottish Academy, and a member of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, but a self-made man withal. He is not ashamed to acknowledge that his parents were poor and modest. He may have lacked early advantages, but he certainly has made the best of his later opportunities. He is a man of fine intellect; a ripe scholar, with broad and liberal views. His language is choice, and yet the fine phrases and well selected words seem to follow each other with great ease. His diction is neither stilted nor is it too simple but that of an intellectual man who is addressing intelligent people.

His voice, notwithstanding a certain and unmistakable nasal quality, is penetrating--and his elocutionary powers are great. I was on the last bench, with my back against the wall, and I heard almost every word. I could not follow the speaker quickly on account of his strong Scottish accent--“murdering” became “mu_rr_de_rr_ing,” with a most decided roll of the _r_, and “Turks” came to me in two syllables, something like “Turreks,” while “earth” was changed to “airth,” with the _r_ in the middle by no means slighted.

The speaker’s facial expressions were a study, and his gesticulations at times strikingly dramatic. He appealed in tender and pathetic tones to the hearts of his hearers, with hands uplifted as if in supplication, and then again he would raise his head and fold his arms across his chest in a Napoleonic, defiant attitude when combating the arguments of an imaginary adversary.

In fact, he does not seem to be addressing a large audience, but talking to and debating with but one person, and each person in the congregation might imagine that he was that one. He takes both sides in the debate, and makes both effective, but he carries the day for his own because he is on the side of right.

Dr. Macgregor closed the service with Hymn 117:

Arm of the Lord, awake, awake!
Put on Thy strength, the nations shake;
And let the world, adoring see
Triumphs of mercy wrought by Thee.

When the moderator is in the pulpit you do not notice that he is below the medium height; only when he steps down, and when you stand by his side, do you observe that he is small of stature--not much over five feet. His eye has a most kindly expression, his voice is pleasing in conversation, and his manner gracious and gentle. The accompanying portrait is reproduced from a photograph made by John Moffatt, 125 Princes street, Edinburgh.

On the day I had the good fortune to be present, there were in the congregation many prominent members of the Archæological Society of Scotland, who were on a temporary visit to Edinburgh, including the Bishop of Carlisle and the Earl of Percy, heir to the dukedom of Northumberland.

After the service I had the honor of being presented to Dr. Macgregor by a member of this society, in “The Moderator’s Room,” so inscribed on the door. Upon hearing that I was “from the States,” he immediately expressed his great admiration for the country and its form of government. He seemed to be well-informed regarding our people and the country, and said that one of his cherished hopes was to make us a visit.

CROSSING THE CHANNEL.

There are many ways of “crossing” between the Continent and the English coast, or _vice versa_. The best steamers between England and Holland are those which go from Rotterdam to Harwich. Harwich (Anglice, Harridge) is about a two hours’ run up to London. I have tried the different ways of crossing from the French coast to England--via Newhaven and Dieppe, Folkstone and Boulogne, and Calais and Dover. The last route is by far the best. It would be preferred over all others, if for only one reason, because it is the shortest, the English Channel being “disagreeable” at least one half the year. The Calais and Dover boats are advertised to make the trip between the two points “in seventy minutes,” and they do actually make it in one hour and a quarter. The other routes are much longer. No small craft that ply on the English waters are as beautiful in their appointments as our Hudson river boats, or those for instance of the Fall River line, but they are staunch and swift, and they are manned by as brave a set of seamen as ever trod a deck. The English boats are proof against wind and wave, the only danger being from fire or fog, but as they are officered by skillful and experienced navigators, and are very carefully handled, the danger is reduced to a minimum.

PARIS HOTELS.

Paris is not in the least behind other cities in the number of its hotels nor in the variety of accommodations offered. Your choice must depend first upon the length of your purse; second, upon the length of your stay; third, the purpose of your visit. The number in the party and their individual tastes and requirements must also be taken into account.

I have not passed near so much time in Paris as in London. The most I can do is to suggest a few of the choicest hotels and _pensions_ with which I am acquainted, giving their rates and distinctive features.

For information as to Where to Dine in Paris I must refer the reader to a chapter further on, entitled “The Restaurants of Paris,” by that facile magazinist and connoisseur in many arts, Mr. Theodore Child. It first appeared in a book entitled “Living Paris,” which was published in London three years ago by Ward & Downey, and is the most complete and comprehensive Guide to Paris I have ever seen.

THE GRAND HOTEL.

The Grand Hotel is one of the largest and most expensive. It is grand in size; grand in appointments. It is not a cheap house in any sense of that term, and possibly for that reason is largely patronized by Americans. The building occupies a square block facing that magnificent street, l’Avenue de l’Opéra, diagonally across from the Grand Opera House. It encloses a large courtyard with fountains and parterres. The _caves_ of the Grand are ranked as one of the sights of Paris; they are stocked with the choicest of wines. Rooms from six francs per day: table d’hôte dinner, seven francs.

HOTEL CONTINENTAL.

The Continental, on the corner of the rue de Rivoli and rue Castiglione, is opposite the gardens of the Tuileries. Near by are Hotel des Invalides, the Madeleine, the Eiffel Tower and other interesting buildings. It is large and elegant--grander than the Grand. The grounds, with the structure and furnishing are said to have cost a few millions of francs, and it may be readily believed. Some of the rooms are palatial in size, furniture and decorations.

The rates at the Continental are a little lower than at the Grand. They range all the way from five francs to thirty-five francs per day for room; lights and attendance extra. Breakfast of coffee, chocolate or tea with rolls, from one to two francs; breakfast proper, or _déjeuner à la fourchette_, five francs, wine and coffee included. Table d’hôte dinner, seven francs. At all Paris hotels wine is included in the charge for dinner, but at the Continental on Sundays, champagne as well as _vin ordinaire_ is served free, but not, as in the case of the latter, in unlimited quantity.

HOTEL MEURICE.

Smaller than these two hotels and for that reason thought by some to be more select is the Hotel Meurice, in rue de Rivoli. It is near rue Castiglione and opposite the Tuileries gardens, altogether a beautiful location. Issuing from the handsome courtyard and turning to the left, a few minutes walk brings you to the Palais Royal and the Louvre galleries; or turning to the right a few steps bring you past the hotel Continental, to Place de la Concorde and the Champs Élysées. It may seem strange to those who have not lived in continental hotels, to note that the hotel Meurice is scrupulously clean. You observe this in its beautiful courtyard, in its handsome dining-room and in the neatly kept bedrooms.

The hotel is patronized by leading New York families and by the best English society, and it ranks as does the Brunswick or the Victoria in New York. The _cuisine_ of the house is famous and its cellars contain rare wines. Hotel Meurice was established in 1815 and its present proprietor has kept it for more than thirty years. If your stay in Paris is to cover a week or more, you--and especially the ladies of your party--will find this hotel a thoroughly agreeable place of sojourn; Baedeker counsels avoiding the largest hotels if you are accompanied by ladies. Hotel Meurice has electric light, and new plumbing was put in a few years ago. It accommodates two hundred guests. Single rooms from five francs per day; apartments from fifteen to one hundred francs. Table d’hôte dinner, at six P.M., six francs. Proprietor, H. Schëurich; address, 228 rue de Rivoli.

HOTEL CHATHAM.

Hotel Chatham is justly famed as one of the most elegantly appointed of Paris hotels. I have known it for twenty years, and for twenty-five years it has been the temporary home of travellers of all nations,--those who demand the best hotel accommodations. Hotel Chatham occupies a central location, near the Opéra, rue de la Paix, the theatres, and the best shopping streets. Once inside the house, however, and an air of tranquility reigns that is in marked contrast to the busy life of the city, in the midst of which the hotel is situated. The first feature of the Hotel Chatham that attracts attention is the large, light, and spacious courtyard, fifty by one hundred feet. It makes an impression that gains in favor when you see the apartments. The grand salon, the reading-room and café look out upon this courtyard, which is embellished with plants and flowers.

The sleeping apartments are beautifully furnished, have plenty of light and good ventilation. There are elegant suites, also choice single and double rooms. The decorations are in good taste. In the best apartments the walls are not hung with paper, but are covered with stuffs--a mixture of worsted and soft silks. Hot and cold water on every floor. Two features especially commend themselves to those who are acquainted with foreign hotels; there are two Otis elevators, and the house is lighted throughout by electricity--shedding a light in the rooms, not of one _bougie_, but of twenty. The cuisine represents the perfection of the culinary art, and the wine-cellars are celebrated for their famous vintages.

The Hotel Chatham is the home of the best people and many Americans annually seek its hospitality. The Harpers, for instance, members of the great publishing house, are among its regular guests. The present proprietor is M. H. Holzschuch, son of the late owner, under whom the house acquired its wide fame. Hotel Chatham is at 17 and 19 rue Daunou, between rue de la Paix and Boulevard des Capucines.

HOTEL BINDA.

Everybody in Paris knows the Hotel Binda, and it is known by a great many people who have never been in Paris. With New Yorkers the house is a favorite because it is kept by Mr. Charles Binda who for years was manager of Delmonico’s, and this settles at once and satisfactorily the important question of _cuisine_. The house was opened in 1878. It is solidly built of stone, five stories high, and is an imposing structure. It stands in rue de l’Echelle, on a corner of the avenue de l’Opéra, the principal business street of Paris, and probably the handsomest shopping street in the world. It is most conveniently located for the principal places of interest--the Grand Opera, Palais Royal, the Louvre galleries, etc. One minute’s walk brings you to the rue de Rivoli, that wide open street, one side of which is flanked by the open and beautiful gardens of the Tuileries.