As we are unable to furnish particulars of anything done in the Christian world, or in our own little domain at the Tabernacle, and are altogether over the edge of public life, we can only fill up our space with notes of our journey in search of health and, rest. Some of our friends take such a personal interest in the Pastor himself that they have asked for this, and we do not profess to have modesty enough to refuse their loving request.
MONDAY, JAN. 22 — We left Charing Cross at 10-45 in company with our beloved deacon, Mr. Joseph Passmore, and two gentlemen whom we have long regarded as our country deacons, Mr. Teller, of Waterbeach, and Mr.
Abraham, of Minster, near Oxford. The day was cold, the sea smooth, and the journey from Boulogne to Paris about as dull as other traversers of that monotonous piece of country usually find it: but the yoke was removed
sped away. The next day was bitterly cold, and there was a piercing wind, but we saw some of the old sights over again, rode into the Bois de Boulogne, and tried to forget those burdens which have of late seemed so heavy to our soul. We lingered long in the Sainte Chapelle, that glorious vision of azure and crystal. We almost dreamed, there of the unclouded skies where the weary are eternally at rest. We should like to gaze upon that gem of purest ray serene every morning in the year; one would surely never tire of such sweetness of light. Verily God maketh man a creature exceeding wise; what must his own wisdom be? By God’s blessing the change of scene made our nights more refreshing than they have long been.
O sleep, what a boon thou art!
WEDNESDAY, JAN 24 — We had eleven hours of cold ride to Lyons. The ground was all white with frost, but the country very pleasant to look upon, our track following the course of rivers, and running through many towns with historical associations. We are not going to inflict extracts from Murray upon our readers, or we could spin out a long description. The land is well tilled, and abounds in vineyards and corn lands. It was odd to see a woman driving a plough with two horses, but she seemed well at home at the work, and probably would not thank us for our pity.
Mountains in the distance covered with snow made us glad that our iron way was unobstructed, and we sang, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.”
Lyons was, as we have generally found it, sweltering in fog, and we were glad before eleven at night to be housed at the Hotel de l’Uniivers, close to the station, though not much aided in our slumbers by the roaring of lions and the trumpeting of elephants confined in a traveling menagerie in the square. We tried to see something in Lyons on Thursday, for there really is a good deal to be seen, but as the fog was too thick for us to do more than dimly discern the opposite banks of the rivers we made but small discoveries, and waited patiently till we felt strong enough for another day’s journey. Lyons was no improvement upon London as far as damp and cold were concerned. We had come far and fared no better, but then we knew it would be better on before. We cheerfully traverse weary ways when we have a sunny clime before us. Life itself is such a journey to the land
“Where everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers.”
FRIDAY, JAN. 26. — We were off soon after seven for nearly nine hours more of rail. We had a coupe, and so could see all that was to be seen, and could there be more? From the land of vines we glided into the region of mulberries, and on to that of olives, with here and there an orange to mark the neighborhood of a still sunnier clime. The Rhone was almost constantly in view, rushing between two walls of rock, backed by giant mountain masses, and the views were sublime. We were in the country of the Camisards and other heroic strugglers for our holy faith against the outrageous tyranny and sevenfold persecutions of Popish monarchs, — there was Valence still the headquarters of the Reformed Church in the South, and Orange, aforetime a city of refuge for the persecuted Huguenot.
The blood of saints has bedewed all that fruitful region, and watered the neighboring desert with its priceless drops. There, too, stands the monstrous dungeon-like pile of Avignon, the perpetual refutation of Rome’s lying claim to apostolical succession, and perpetual unity and catholicity. Within these gloomy walls reigned successive Antipopes, making the Papal church a two headed giant, each head cursing the other with equal vehemence and infallibility. We dined beneath the shadow of the palace walls, and found no terrors in the cave from which Giant Pope has gone to bite his nails, and grin at pilgrims whom he is no longer able to devour. On we went till the blue waters of the Mediterranean informed us that the day’s journey was nearly over, and we were near the city of Marseilles. The wind was blowing terribly, and in walking through the streets we were scarcely able, to keep upon our feet. So far we had gained in warmth but to no very great degree: damp, however, was gone, and so one factor of rheumatism had disappeared.
SATURDAY, JAN. 27, — we were on our way to Hyeres, and found on the road that great coats were an encumbrance, for we were in the heat of an average June day. At Hyeres beneath a cloudless sky, with a blazing sun, we thought we had found the golden isles at last, and could count on a summer holiday in mid-winter. There were avenues of palms, hedges of blooming roses, oranges, and pepper trees, and gardens all in full bearing, and withal a little town as quiet as a country village, just the spot for a Sabbath’s halt. In the evening the temperature fell so much as to make the blazing pine logs on the hearth a real luxury, and in cheerful chambers we spent the evening, and at night our sleep was exceeding sweet to us.
The Sabbath was luxurious, no sky could be clearer, no created sun could bear more healing beneath its wings. We thought of beloved ones far away,
Lord, we had fellowship with the saints at home, yea, and with the whole family in heaven and on earth, and best of all with the ever glorious Head of the One Church “above, beneath.” In an olive garden we also whiled away a couple of hours, lying in the blessed sunshine, almost too warm to bear, and speaking together of the goodness of the Lord which we had each experienced.
This is a very cheap spot to sojourn in, the charges being little over five shillings per diem for lodging and three good meals a day, for those who take up permanent residence and do not demand the very best rooms. We cannot imagine a more delightful dwelling place if it were not for one exception, which is not a little one. The sun went down on Sunday night amid great splendor, and the full moon made the scene wondrously clear and lustrous, and all was after Herbert’s mind, “so calm so bright”; but the next morning saw a notable change. The sun was equally bright, but the nistral was abroad, a terrible wind, which is similar to our east wind with its worst qualities made yet more vicious. How it howled and raved, and raged, and tossed the palms about and bowed the trees and worried everybody! This one could bear; but the dust! Well, it seemed to cut the eyes, fill the hair, and make the teeth grind grit, besides demanding one’s hat and lifting the body as if the feet must no longer touch the ground. We gave up the unequal contest and remained indoors on Monday, resolved to remove our tent to Cannes and see whether the boisterous wind was equally abroad on the other side the Estrelles. Thus readily can the Lord stir up our nest, and make us say of the most dainty abode, “Depart ye, depart ye, this is not our rest.”
JAN. 30. — The railway journey to Cannes was delightful; every inch of the road is a picture. Among the olive gardens which look so quiet and solemn and old-world-like, the locomotive seems out of place. The contrast took another form when we paused within a stone’s throw of an ancient Roman amphitheater, and saw the remains of fortifications, city gates, and arches of aqueducts. From the age of pagan civilization to the present, very imperfect though it be, what a stride! Could the victims of the arena have foreseen a period like this, they would have called it the age of gold as compared with their own.
Cannes, stretching out its wide arms to embrace a beautiful bay, is quite a different place from Hyeres, not only because it has the seaside element,
but because the many villas of the wealthy give it an aristocratic character.
It is none the better for that, but it is all the handsomer. The bay is lovely indeed, and the isle of St. Marguerite helps to shut it in and make it the more picturesque. Alas, we had not yet escaped the mistral. In a somewhat quieter mood it had followed us from Hyers and cast dust upon us as before. Resolved, however, to gain health and strength by exercise, we pushed along the shore to the garden of the Hesperides, where a vast number of orange trees, still loaded with fruit, well justified by their golden apples the name of the garden. What a sight a well-kept garden presents when in full bearing! Here is the reward for abundant labor and expense.
Our Lord’s garden, for which all has been done that can be done, should be of all others the most fruitful: and truly a church when it yields plenteously its works of faith and labors of 1ove is a sight comparable to Paradise of old, and her ministry becomes as apples of gold in baskets of silver.
We were weary with the day’s riding and walking, but found our sleep sweet to us, and our mind like a bird let loose. Blessed be the Lord, who resteth our soul
JAN. 31 — The wind blew still, and the day was by no means pleasant till a little before noon, when there came a sudden lull and then the gale ceased, and the soft balmy atmosphere comforted us. We took carriage to Grasse, a town above Cannes, more among the mountains, a place where essences, liqueurs, perfumes, and candied fruits are manufactured. The road
ascended through fields of roses and forests of olive trees, and all along presented pleasant views; but the climax of the journey was the elevated esplanade of Grasse itself from which the far reaching scene is
extraordinary, even for a land of beauty. We saw a sea of olives, dotted with villages like islands, and then, beyond all, the Mediterranean. We gazed in delight and wished that we could have lingered the livelong day, Our sojourn, however, was necessarily short, for the day was advanced, and it was needful to reach our hotel before the cold of evening could seize upon us. We observed rose-leaves and violets preserved as sweetmeats after the cunning manner of the confectioner, and for the first time we tasted violets and found them as sweet to the mouth as to the nose. Our friends need not be alarmed, we can assure them that our speech will not become flowery, we did not consume sufficient for that. Crack went the whip, and with the skid well on, we descended towards Cannes, dogs rushing out perpetually to bark at the hastening wheels. Cannes and canis must have a mysterious connection, for assuredly no town can boast such a
remember to have seen before. We never thought so badly of the canine race before, and are inclined to believe that the hard oriental feeling
towards dogs so frequently shown in the Bible must have arisen from there being so many of them in eastern cities, and those of the worst breed.
In wandering through the markets and streets we were pleased to meet the col-porteur with his Bibles, and to notice a little square watch-box, by courtesy called a kiosque, upon which some good body had pasted
pictures, scriptural cards, and pieces of religious literature. As an indication that a true heart was doing what it could we welcomed this laudable
attempt to publish the gospel, but if its author wishes to attract attention the little business should be done a little more artistically, and with somewhat of the common sense which a tradesman would show when displaying his goods. That which is done for Jesus deserves to be done in the best possible style. It is well, however, when we see work done at all, for a voice for Jesus has power in it even if it be not accurate in melody.
We basked in the sun, and watched the waves hour after hour, having no wish for exciting scenes, or picture galleries, or museums: rest, sweet rest, was all we sought, and, finding it, we were content. Cannes abundantly justifies the partiality of Lord Brougham, who here spent his later years; it is a choice spot, even in a land which is the favorite of the sun.
FEB. 2 — was a day which we shall not seen forget, for we had a sail past the island of St. Marguerite, in whose gloomy prison once dwelt the man in the iron mask, and, what is more to our purpose, where many Protestant pastors pined away in that terrible period which succeeded the revocation of the edict of Nantes. In later days Marshal Bazaine made his escape from the is1and in 1874. One would imagine that some back door must have been left open, and that sentinels winked very hard, or the bird would not have flown. Our voyage took us to the island of St. Honorat, which in early times was to this region what Iona was to Scotland, all island of saints. Honorat, in the opening years of the fifth century, retired to this little isle, and attracted around him a number of students, many of whom became such famous missionaries that the Romish church has enrolled them among her saints. The best known to our readers will be Patrick, the evangelizer of Ireland. Christianity was then almost as pure as at the first, and we can well imagine the holy quietude in which hundreds of good men spent the years of their preparation for future ministry among the rocks of
this sea-girt isle. It must have been a Patmos to them, with constant meditation and prayer, and when they, left its holy shores, they went forth, full of zeal, to cry like John the divine, “the Spirit and the bride say come, and whosoever will let him take the water of life freely.” In all ages it has seemed good unto the Lord to gather men around some favored instructor, and enable them, under his guidance, to sharpen their swords for the battle of life. Thus did Honorat and Columba in the olden time, and so did Wycliffe and Luther and Calvin in the Reformation times, train the armies of the Lord for their mission. Schools of the prophets are a prime necessary if the power of religion is to be kept alive and propagated in the land. As we sat under the umbrageous pines by the calm sea, and gazed upon the almost more than earthly scene around, our heart swelled with great
desires, and our prayer went up to heaven that we also might do something to convert the nations ere we go hence and be no more. If God wills it we may yet commence new missionary operations, and we mean on our return to call our men together to pray about it. Perhaps there are warm hearts at home which may be moved to pray with us, and something may yet come out of our meditations among the pines of St. Honorat.
FEB. 3 — saw us safely landed at Mentone, our delicious haven of rest.
VALE.
Mr. Morison Cummlng has accepted a call from the church at New Barnet, N. The chapel is one built by the London Baptist Association during the Rev. F. Tucker’s presidency.
Another brother, Mr. A.E. Spicer, has also just settled in Cornwall, having accepted an invitation to the church at Hayle.