NOTEBOOK

London, July 20, 1879

Arrived here at 8 A.M. Rainy and cold. Have had a
rousing fire, blazing in the grate all day. A remarkable
summer, truly!

Galleries of pictures where there is much splendid con-
flagration of color, have a curious effect upon the spec-
tator. Turner soon makes one ill—it is partly intense ad-
miration, partly the color.

One must have a play-book at an English play—the
English accent is so different one cannot understand or
follow the actors. The same in ordinary conversation which
one tries to hear.

Sunday, August 17, 1879. Raw and cold and a drench-
ing rain. Went over to the Tabernacle and heard Mr.
Spurgeon. House three-quarters full—say 3000 people.
First hour, lacking one minute, taken up with two prayers,
two ugly hymns and Scripture reading. Sermon three-
quarters of an hour long. A fluent talk. Good sonorous
voice. Topic treated in the unpleasant old-fashioned way.
Man a mighty bad child, God working at him in forty
ways and having a world of trouble about him.

A wooden-faced congregation—just the sort to see no
incongruity in the Majesty of Heaven, stooping to beg
and plead and sentimentalize over such and to see in
their salvation an important matter.

Spurgeon was not at his best today, I judge. He was
probably even at his worst.

It was so cold I was freezing—the pouring rain made
everything gloomy—the wooden congregation was not an
inspiration—the music was depressing, so the man
couldn't preach well.

Tuesday, August 19. Went up Windemere Lake in the
steamer. Talked with the great Darwin.

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