The enterprising people of Manchester have inaugurated a scheme by which they will be enabled to greatly reduce the price of their goods, and at the same time realize greater profits for themselves. It now costs them as much to send their goods by rail to Liverpool, a distance of thirty-six miles, as it does to get them from Liverpool to New York. The new scheme is to cut a canal from Liverpool to Manchester, through which the great sea-going vessels can come up to Manchester and be loaded from the factories. For this purpose, $25,000,000 have been raised. Work on the canal was begun some time ago, and will be pushed most vigorously. It will be the broadest and deepest canal in the world.
To me, however, the object of greatest interest in the city is Dr. Alexander Maclaren, who is regarded by many competent judges as the greatest living preacher. Six volumes of his sermons grace the shelves of my library. My knowledge of his personal history, and my familiarity with his style of thought, make me all the more anxious to see and hear the man whose eloquence sways the multitude as the wind turns the grass of the field.
Little before eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, I enter the elegant Union Chapel, wherein are seated some 2,500 to 3,000 persons. The preacher soon enters the pulpit. He is somewhat under medium size, measuring perhaps five feet and seven inches in height, and weighing, I imagine, about one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. His iron-grey hair is somewhat long, is combed straight back, and parted in the middle. His forehead is high and broad, and projects far over the large blue eyes which are set deep back in his head. His mouth is small; his features are hard and dry. He reminds me much of the late Jefferson Davis and Dr. Henson.
His prayer is but the overflowing of a large heart filled with love. The text is Matthew 3:16. For fifty minutes the multitude is spellbound. Dr. Maclaren’s speaking corresponds with Dr. Henson’s definition of eloquence—it is logic set on fire. The most striking peculiarity of his style is the force with which he projects his words. As was said of Henry Clay, each word has positive weight. As I hear the man speaking, and feel the force of his utterances, I am impelled to say: “This is naught else than the artillery of heaven besieging the citadel of the soul!” The thoughts are projected with such dynamitic force that resistance is impossible—every barrier is soon broken down, then every projectile burns its way into the soul. His words have in them scorpion-stings—they arouse an accusing conscience. Then a change comes over the spell of his preaching. He says: “You now see how poor a thing is man; how corrupt his heart; how wicked his thoughts; how vile his deeds! So turn away from self, and look to that Christ upon whom the Spirit descended, and of whom God said, ‘This is my Son.’”
I accept the Doctor’s invitation to call on him in the afternoon. He is desirous that the Baptists on the two sides of the Atlantic should know each other better—that there should be a closer bond of union and sympathy between them. He is as pleasant at home as he is forcible in the pulpit. I promise to go with him to a Baptist Association, about which we shall speak in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VIII.
BAPTIST CENTENNIAL.