PREPARATIONS for the trip were completed when the week ended. Sunday, with its sweet privileges and solemn services, came and went. Mother and I knelt and prayed together. Rising to our feet, she looked up through her tears and smilingly said, “Son, the Lord has given me strength to bear the separation. ‘Go, and ‘God be with you till we meet again.’”

Monday morning, as the hands on the dial plate point to seven, Johnson and I seat ourselves in a carriage which is drawn by a horse whose path is steel, whose heart is fire, and whose speed is lightning. This impatient steed stands champing his bit, and when the word is given he starts on his long journey. At one bound he leaps the majestic river, and on, on he rushes as if he fears eternity will come before he reaches his journey’s end. After traveling only a few hours, we run into a blinding snow-storm which reminds us that Winter still wields his icy sceptre, and rules with despotic sway. This storm continues for hours; in truth, it lasts until apparently the whole earth is wrapped in a mantle of white, and until the majestic mountains of Pennsylvania seem to rise up in their virgin purity to kiss the vaulted sky.

Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, as seen in their white robes, are more beautiful than ever. Winter’s frosty breath has not chilled their blood. They are filled with energy and throbbing with life. From Philadelphia to New York, there is almost one continuous string of cars on each track. Along here our fiery steed sometimes runs sixty miles an hour.

Long before we reach the metropolis, the shadows of the sombre evening have shut out the light of day. As we enter this great city, it looks as if a thousand times ten thousand lamps are all trimmed and burning. New York is a marvelous city.

As much time as I have spent here, I never cease to wonder at it. Who could walk these streets without wondering at the miles of granite buildings, all joining each other and towering up from seven to twelve and fourteen stories high; at the broad sidewalks crowded from six o’clock in the morning until ten at night with one ceaseless stream of humanity; at the people rushing along at a breakneck speed, as if they were going to great fires in different parts of the city.

Notwithstanding the double-tracked elevated railway and the double-tracked horse-cars, New York can not furnish transportation for the people. She will, I think, soon be compelled to arrange for an underground railway—this is a necessity. New York is the business heart of the New World. Every American loves it. It is his pride at home, his boast abroad.

At Temple Court I receive my mail, and meet my friend, Dr. H. L. Morehouse, corresponding secretary of the Baptist Home Missionary Society. As usual, his face is bright and his greeting cordial. He is planning great things for God, and expecting great things of God. Few men have done more to honor God and build up the Baptist cause in America than Henry L. Morehouse.

A pleasant hour is spent with Dr. Norvin Green, President of the Western Union Telegraph Company. His reminiscences of European travel are rehearsed. He says that in London one can buy more for a shilling and less for a pound than in any other place on earth. President Green gives me a letter to his European representative, and kindly extends other courtesies that are duly appreciated.

After attending to banking business and securing our ocean passage, we decide to run over to New Haven and spend a few days with some special friends. The double railroad track between New York and New Haven is constantly in use. When about half way between the two cities, our engineer spies a handsomely dressed gentleman walking on the other track, and going in the same direction that we are going. A train is coming facing the gentleman. Unconscious of the presence of more than one train, he steps from one track to the other, just in front of our engine. Seeing the danger, both engineers try to stop their trains, but do not succeed. Both blow their whistles at the same time, but the walker, thinking all the noise is made by one train, pays no attention. Crash! Our engine strikes the man, and throws him twenty feet from the track. The trains stop. The passengers gather around the unfortunate man. The blood is oozing from his ears and nostrils. I take his head on my shoulder and raise him up to get air. He struggles—gasps for breath—and all is over. A letter in his pocket indicates his name and residence.

A carriage is waiting for us at New Haven. On reaching there, we are driven at once to the happy home of Mr. W. G. Shepard, who forthwith presents me to Master Walter Whittle Shepard. This important character is only twelve months old, but is full of life and promise. If he combines the sweet spirit and graceful manners of his mother with the strong character and bright intellect of his father, I believe he will make a great and useful man notwithstanding the fact that he bears the author’s name.

New Haven, with her one hundred thousand souls and great manufacturing interests, with her parks and colleges, with her broad streets and lordly elms, is one of the prettiest cities on the American continent.

When we retired last night, the snow was falling thick and fast; but we awoke this morning to find that God had snatched a beautiful Sabbath day from the bosom of the storm.

Mark Twain is in New Haven. In the course of a lecture delivered here, he said: “A certain college student got the words theological and zoological confused—he did not know one from the other. In talking to a friend, this collegian said: ‘There are a great many donkeys in the Theological Garden.’”

My stay in New Haven has been as pleasant as a midsummer dream, and seemingly as short as a widower’s courtship. But we must now return to New York. In less than three hours we will leave by the State Line, on “The State of Indiana,” for Glasgow, Scotland. And now that the time of my departure has come, I find myself breathing a prayer to God, asking that He will direct my course; that He will guide my footsteps; that in all my wanderings He will keep me from danger and death; that He will finally bring me back in health and safety to the land of my birth, to the friends of my childhood, to those whom I love and who are dearer to me than life itself. And so may it be. More heartily than ever before, I can say:

“My native country! thee,
Land of the noble free,

Thy name I love:

I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above.”