The last Lord's day of the voyage the ship reached Moville, Ireland, where a small vessel came out and took off the passengers for Londonderry. The tilled land, visible from the ship, reminded me of a large garden. Some time that night we anchored in the harbor at Greenock, near the mouth of the River Clyde. About one o'clock the second steward came in, calling out: "Janes!" I answered from my berth and heard him call out: "Don Carlos Janes!" Again I answered and learned that he had some mail for me. I told him to hand it in, not remembering that the door was locked, but that made no difference, for he handed it in anyhow, but the locking arrangement on that door needed repairing after he went away. I arose and examined the two pieces of mail, which were from friends, giving me directions as to where I should go when the ship got up to Glasgow, twenty-two miles from the sea. There was but one case of sea sickness reported on the whole voyage. There was one death, but the corpse was carried into port instead of being buried at sea.
The home of Brother and Sister Henry Nelmes, which was my home while I staid in Glasgow, is nicely located. Brother Nelmes and his wife are excellent people, and treated me with much kindness. Glasgow is a large and important city, with many interesting places in it. The Municipal Building with its marble stairs, alabaster balustrade, onyx columns, and other ornamentation, is attractive on the inside, but the exterior impressed me more with the idea of stability than of beauty. The old Cathedral, which I visited twice, is in an excellent state of preservation, although founded in the eleventh century. There is an extensive burial ground adjoining the Cathedral, and one of the prominent monuments is at the grave of John Knox, the reformer. These impressive words, written from memory, were spoken by the Regent at the burial of Knox, and have been carved upon his monument: "Here lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with dag and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor." Carlyle spoke of him as a man "fearing God, without any other fear."
One day I visited the birth-place of Robert Burns, at Ayr, a point not far from Glasgow. I not only saw the "lowly thatched cottage," but a monument to the poet, "Auld Kirk Alloway," the "brig o' Doon," and many interesting articles in the museum. When the street car came to a standstill, I had the old church and cemetery on my right hand, and the monument on my left hand, while a man was standing in the road, ahead of us, blowing a cornet,—and just beyond was the new bridge over the Doon, a short distance below the old one, which is well preserved and profusely decorated with the initials of many visitors. Along the bank of "bonny Doon" lies a little garden, on the corner of which is situated a house where liquor is sold, if I mistake not. It was before this house that I saw the musician already mentioned. As I came up from the old "brig o' Doon," I saw and heard a man playing a violin near the monument. When I went down the road toward the new bridge and looked over into the garden, I saw a couple of persons executing a cake-walk, and an old man with one leg off was in the cemetery that surrounds the ruined church, reciting selections from Burns. Such is the picture I beheld when I visited this Ayrshire monument, raised in memory of the sympathetic but unfortunate Scottish poet, whose "spark o' nature's fire" has touched so many hearts that his birth-place has more visitors per annum than Shakespeare's has.
On the following day I had a pleasant boat-ride up Loch (Lake) Long, followed by a merry coach-ride across to the "bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond," which is celebrated in song and story. It is twenty-two miles in length and from three-quarters of a mile to five miles wide, and is called the "Queen of Scottish lakes." Ben Lomond, a mountain rising to a height of more than three thousand feet, stands on the shore, and it is said that Robert Bruce, the hero of Bannockburn, once hid himself in a cave in this mountain. A pleasant boat-ride down the lake brought me back to Glasgow in time to attend a meeting of the brethren in Coplaw Street that night.
Leaving my true friends who had so kindly entertained me in Glasgow, I proceeded to Edinburgh, the city where Robert Burns came into prominence. In the large Waverley Station a stranger, who knew of my coming through word from Brother Ivie Campbell, of Kirkcaldy, stopped me and asked: "Is your name Don Carlos Janes?" It was another good friend, Brother J.W. Murray. He said he told some one he was looking for me, and was told, in return, that he would not be able to find me. His answer to this was that he had picked out a man before, and he might pick out another one; and so he did, without any difficulty. After a little time spent in Waverley gardens, I ascended the Walter Scott Monument, which is two hundred feet high. The winding stairway is rather narrow, especially at the top, and it is not well lighted. As I was coming down the stairs, I met a lady and gentleman. The little woman was not at all enthusiastic over the experience she was having, and, without knowing of my presence, she was wondering what they would do if they were to meet any one. "Come on up and see," I said, and we passed without any special difficulty, but she said she didn't believe "two stout ones could" pass. As she went on up the winding way, she was heard expressing herself in these words: "Oh, it is a place, isn't it? I don't like it." The tourist finds many "places", and they are not all desirable. Princess Street, on which the monument is located, is the prettiest street that I have ever seen. One side is occupied by business houses and hotels, the other is a beautiful garden, where one may walk or sit down, surrounded by green grass and beautiful flowers.
Edinburgh Castle is an old fortification on the summit of a lofty hill overlooking the city. It is now used as barracks for soldiers, and is capable of accommodating twelve hundred men. Queen Mary's room is a small chamber, where her son, James the First of Scotland and the Sixth of England, was born. I was in the old castle in Glasgow where she spent the night before the Battle of Langside, and later stood by her tomb in Westminster Abbey. Her history, a brief sketch of which is given here, is interesting and pathetic. "Mary Queen of Scots was born in Linlithgow Palace, 1542; fatherless at seven days old; became Queen December 8th, 1542, and was crowned at Stirling, September 9th, 1543; carried to France, 1548; married to the Dauphin, 1558; became Queen of France, 1559; a widow, 1560; returned to Scotland, 1561; married Lord Darnley, 1565; her son (and successor), James VI., born at Edinburgh Castle, 1566; Lord Darnley murdered, February, 1567; Mary married to the Earl of Bothwell, May, 1567, and was compelled to abdicate in favor of her infant son. She escaped from Lochleven Castle, lost the Battle of Langside, and fled to England, 1568. She was beheaded February 8th, 1587, at Fotheringay Castle, in the forty-fifth year of her age, almost nineteen years of which she passed in captivity.
"Puir Mary was born and was cradled in tears,
Grief cam' wi' her birth, and grief grew wi' her years."
In the crown-room are to be seen the regalia of Scotland, consisting of the crown, scepter, sword of state, a silver rod of office, and other jewels, all enclosed in a glass case surrounded by iron work. St. Margaret's Chapel, seventeen feet long and eleven feet wide, stands within the castle enclosure and is the oldest building in the city. A very old cannon, called Mons Meg, was brought back to the castle through the efforts of Walter Scott, and is now on exhibition. I visited the Hall of Statuary in the National Gallery, the Royal Blind Asylum, passed St. Giles Cathedral, where John Knox preached, dined with Brother Murray, and boarded the train for Kirkcaldy, where I as easily found Brother Campbell at the station as Brother Murray had found me in Edinburgh.
I had been in correspondence with Brother Campbell for some years, and our meeting was a pleasure, and my stay at Kirkcaldy was very enjoyable. We went up to St. Andrews, and visited the ruins of the old Cathedral, the University, a monument to certain martyrs, and the home of a sister in Christ. But little of the Cathedral remains to be seen. It was founded in 1159, and was the most magnificent of Scottish churches. St. Rule's Tower, one hundred and ten feet high, still stands, and we had a fine view from the top. The time to leave Kirkcaldy came too soon, but I moved on toward Wigan, England, to attend the annual meeting of churches of Christ. Brother Campbell accompanied me as far as Edinburgh, and I then proceeded to Melrose, where I stopped off and visited Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott. It is situated on the River Tweed, a short distance from Melrose, and was founded in 1811. By the expenditure of a considerable sum of money it was made to present such an appearance as to be called "a romance in stone and lime." Part of this large house is occupied as a dwelling, but some of the rooms are kept open for the numerous visitors who call from time to time. The young lady who was guide the day I was at Abbotsford, first showed us Sir Walter's study. It is a small room, with book shelves from the floor to the ceiling, the desk on which Scott wrote his novels sitting in the middle of the floor. A writing-box, made of wood taken from one of the ships of the Spanish Armada, sits on the desk, and the clothes worn by the great novelist a short time before his death are kept under glass in a case by the window, while a cast of his face is to be seen in a small room adjoining the study. We next passed into the library, which, with the books in the study, contains about twenty thousand volumes. In the armory are numerous guns, pistols, swords, and other relics. There is some fine furniture in one of the rooms, and the walls are covered with paper printed by hand in China nearly ninety years ago. Perhaps some who read these lines will recall the sad story of Genivra, who hid herself in an oaken chest in an attic, and perished there, being imprisoned by the spring lock. This oaken chest was received at Abbotsford a short time before Scott's death, and is now on exhibition. Sir Walter, as the guide repeatedly called him, spent the last years of his life under the burden of a heavy debt, but instead of making use of the bankrupt law, he set to work heroically with his pen to clear up the indebtedness. He wrote rapidly, and his books sold well, but he was one day compelled to lay down his pen before the task was done. The King of England gave him a trip to the Mediterranean, for the benefit of his health, but it was of no avail. Sir Walter returned to his home on the bank of the Tweed, and died September twenty-first, 1832. In his last illness, this great author, who had produced so many volumes that were being read then and are still being read, asked his son-in-law to read to him. The son-in-law asked what book he should read, to which Sir Walter replied: "Book? There is but one Book! Read me the Bible." In Melrose I visited the ruins of the Abbey, and then went on to Wigan.
After the annual meeting, I went to Birmingham and stayed a short while. From here I made a little journey to the birth-place of Shakespeare, at Stratford-on-Avon, a small, quiet town, where, to the best of my recollection, I saw neither street cars nor omnibuses. After being in several large cities, it was an agreeable change to spend a day in this quiet place, where the greatest writer in the English tongue spent his boyhood and the last days of his life on earth. The house where he was born was first visited. A fee of sixpence (about twelve cents) secures admission, but another sixpence is required if the library and museum are visited. The house stands as it was in the poet's early days, with a few exceptions. Since that time, however, part of it has been used as a meat market and part as an inn. In 1847, the property was announced for sale, and it fell into the hands of persons who restored it as nearly as possible to its original condition.