privileged to enjoy. There must have been much praying for me and my
welfare, or no mortal could have got through with the work. In every
city I went to, messages were passed into my ears for families in
America. The collection taken for the benefit of the Y.M.C.A. at Leeds
was about $6,000. During this visit I preached in Scenery Chapel,
London, in the pulpit where such consecrated souls as Rowland Hill and
Newman Hall and James Sherman had preached. I visited the "Red Horse
Hotel," of Stratford-on-Avon, where the chair and table used by
Washington Irving were as interesting to me as anything in Shakespeare's
cottage. The church where the poet is buried is over seven hundred years
old.

The most interesting place around London to me is in Chelsea, where, on
a narrow street, I entered the house of Thomas Carlyle. This great
author was away from London at the time. Entering a narrow hall, on the
left is the literary workshop, where some of the strongest thunderbolts
of the world's literature have been forged. In the room, which has two
front windows shaded from the prying street by two little red calico
curtains, is a lounge that looks as though it had been made by an author
unaccustomed to saw or hammer. On the wall were a few woodcuts in plain
frames or pinned on the wall. Here was a photograph of Carlyle, taken
one day, as a member of his family told me, when he had a violent
toothache and could attend to nothing else, and yet posterity regards it
as a favourite picture. There are only three copies of this photograph
in existence. One was given to Carlyle, the other was kept by the
photographer, and the third belongs to me. In long rough shelves was the
library of the renowned thinker. The books were well worn with reading.
Many of them were books I never heard of. American literature was almost
ignored; they were chiefly books written by Germans. There was an
absence of theological books, excepting those of Thomas Chalmers, whose