A walk of two miles farther on, brought us to Wanstead, my birth-place. Here everything seemed natural, though great changes had passed over the people since I lived there, a thoughtless child. My common school teacher and my Sunday school teacher had gone to their spiritual destiny. My aunt was yet alive. My brother asked her if she knew me. Peering through her spectacles, and summoning up the imagery of the past, she at length called to mind her former protégé, and clasped me to her arms, with evident gratification. It occasions melancholy feeling to see the ravages of time on the persons and places one has not visited for years!
After a hasty visit to that noble home for the worn-out sailor at Greenwich, and a glance at the arsenal at Woolwich, I returned to London.
We next visited the City Road Chapel, built by the exertions of the great Wesley himself. The sexton told us that when that wonderful man held the collection plate, one Sabbath, it was thrice filled with gold by the enthusiastic generosity of the congregation: a striking example of his personal influence over his hearers. After examining the chapel, I walked over the parsonage adjoining, and while standing in the room where, with his dying lips, the immortal founder of Methodism exclaimed, “The best of all is, God is with us,” I felt inspired with his great spirit, and mentally resolved, like him to laboriously live, that like him I might triumphantly die. From this sacred chamber I visited the tombs of Wesley, Clarke, Benson, Watson, Cooper, and other illustrious men of the departed army of faithful warriors in the cause of Christ; and, as I stood over their ashes, my heart said with Peter on the mount of transfiguration, “Master, it is good for me to be here!”
Crossing the road into Bunhill fields, I stood before the tombstones of the celebrated Dr. Isaac Watts, and the less learned but equally renowned John Bunyan. Here the wicket gate, the wanderings of the pilgrim, the land of Beulah, and the river of death passed vividly before my mind’s eye, until, overcome with a rush of powerful feeling, I wept and walked away, a better man than when I entered those solemn resting-places of the glorious dead.
The time allotted for my visit having nearly expired, my mind began to look towards the country of my adoption, filled with a strong desire once more to tread its free soil. Strong as is the love of home, it was not strong enough to induce a preference in my mind for England. America had become the dearer of the two. Indeed, I saw so many unpleasant things amidst the grandeur and pageantry of the rich, that I often felt disgusted. Such hosts of street beggars, such troops of poverty-stricken children, such a mass of degraded laborers, such enormous taxation, made me shrink from bearing any part of so great a burden, and desire to link my future destiny with the rising fortunes of America. How the laborer of England lives, with such low wages, and such high prices for the staple commodities of life, is above my comprehension. Meat was from twelve to twenty-four cents per pound; tea from one to two dollars; coffee from twenty-five to forty cents, and other things in proportion. To this add the intemperate habits of the poor, and how they live becomes a problem I know not how to solve. Yet, with all this poverty and woe, taxation is laid upon the public with merciless severity, to furnish means to maintain the splendor and fatten the minions of royalty. First, they have to pay the annual interest of eight hundred million pounds, then come the enormous salaries of the monarch and the satellites of the throne. The queen, for her private purse, has £150,000; the queen dowager, £100,000; Prince Albert, £30,000; the Lord High Chancellor, £20,000; the Bishops, an average of £20,000 each. Besides these, follow sinecures and pensions innumerable, until the resources of the nation are preyed on by the throne, with the unsatisfied appetite of the grave—taking all, and still crying, “give, give!” I felt happy, when beholding these things, that Providence had, after many trials in early life, cast my lot in America.
On the 25th of August, we all sailed from London, in the cabin of a fine ship, commanded by Captain Eldridge, bound for Boston. The particulars of our stormy and tedious voyage would neither gratify nor amuse the reader, and they are therefore omitted. Suffice it to say, that the Atlantic passage could scarcely be more unpleasant than it was to us; but, by the care of divine Providence, after being seventy-five days at sea, exposed to every variety of wind and weather, deprived of religious advantages, and surrounded only by the ungodly, we safely landed, and found comfortable quarters at the United States Hotel, in Boston. From thence we proceeded to Worcester, and then to Wilbraham, where we were hailed with joyful congratulations by our neighbors, who had begun to mourn us as among the lost at sea. Most gratefully did we all unite with the minister, the following Sabbath, in a thank-offering to Almighty God, for his goodness in preserving us from the dangers of the stormy sea.
Thus, courteous reader, I have conducted thee through the mazes of my changeful life. Should the facts detailed in these pages lead thee to feel more interest hereafter in the elevation of the sailor, my labors will not have been in vain; and should the recital of my Christian experience induce thee to embrace the same Saviour, who has become my redemption and sacrifice, I shall joyfully hail thee, when we meet together in the port of eternity.
To my brothers of the sea, let me add one word. Yours is a life of danger, of toil, of suffering. Few men care for your souls; but Jesus regards you. He watches you in all your wanderings; he woos you to be his! Will you not be persuaded, by a fellow-sailor, to heed his voice. O sailor, “Turn, turn, for why will ye die!” Go! rest in His bosom, who says to you, “Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Near this bridge is a spring, called Rosamond’s Well, where Henry II. is said to have contrived a labyrinth, by which his guilty fair one communicated with the castle.