"I told you all would be right," said Alice, and I kissed her, and both our cheeks were wet.
A few days later in the afternoon, Alice sitting quite alone in the saloon saw smoke coming from a place where smoke had no business. She instantly found an officer, and he ran for the captain. For a few hours there was an unusual commotion, but the subject was not named, and I understood from the captain's reticence, that danger was over, and that silence was wise, and even imperative. For our long detention at sea, had made both water and provisions very scarce, and there was actual mutiny among the emigrant passengers, whose number was unusually large. It happened, however, that there was a big consignment of nuts on board, and they were given to the angry crowd, who were thus pacified. Two days afterwards we reached our pier in New York harbor, so grateful and happy, that we hardly felt the blustering wind, and snow and cold. We had been threatened with fire, and shipwreck, and mutiny, but all had failed to really injure. Nothing of us had suffered; for He had given His angels charge concerning us.
My readers, I hope, remember what I wrote about charms. They were not my words, but I endorsed them from my experience. Well I confess that this wonderful verse, 1st Samuel, 17:37, has assumed something of the character of a sacred amulet. When I first read it, I wrote the words of the covenant God had given me on a piece of paper, folded the paper with a prayer, and put it into a little pocket of my purse. It remained there for many, many years. Other documents placed beside it became invalid, useless, or outworn, and were destroyed. But the golden promise of God's constant care remained. On certain occasions, I took it out and reminded God, that it read He would _be_ with me.
Finally the writing became so nearly illegible, and the paper so frail I solemnly renewed both, putting this renewal in the same purse pocket, where it remains unto this moment. It will go to the grave with me, for I will never give up that promise. God made it. God will keep it. Whether I deserve it, or not, He will keep it. Yea, if I did not deserve one letter of it, all the more I would plead,
"Because I seek Thee not, Oh, seek Thou me, Because my lips are dumb, oh, hear the cry I do not utter as Thou passest by!
Because content I perish far from Thee, Oh, seize and snatch me from my fate; draw nigh, And let me blinded, Thy Salvation see.
"If I were pouring at thy feet my tears, If I were clamoring to see Thy face, I should not need Thee, Lord, as _now_ I need, Because my dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears, Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place, Because I seek not, pray not, _give Thou heed_!"
For, alas! there have been times in the years gone by when I was even in such case, when I went wandering after strange Gods, and New Thought, and my dear, closed Bible reproached me. But of this interlude I will write in its proper place. I name it here, only that I may have the opportunity of thanking God as frequently as I possibly can, for the blessed, eternal possibility of repentance. For well I know, that God is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy, and that
"... our place is kept, and it will wait Ready for us to fill, soon or late; No star is ever lost we once have seen, We always may be, what we might have been."
In March and April of 1883 I wrote one of the most interesting of all my Scotch novels. I began it on March twenty-fifth, and finished it on the thirtieth of April. I worked on it nine hours every day excepting four days when I only wrote eight hours. During this same time I wrote the following for Robert Bonner and _Harper's_:
_Mar. 25th._ Finished my long paper on famous Irish women and began my novel, "Cluny MacPherson."
_Mar. 26th._ At home all day writing on "Cluny MacPherson."
_Mar. 27th._ Ditto.
_Mar. 28th._ Writing on "Cluny" all morning. Went down to several offices in afternoon. Did nothing in the evening. Had a bad headache.
_Mar. 29th._ Very sick headache, but wrote "Cato's Song."
_Mar. 30th._ At the last hour wrote "Two Workers" for Bonner, and he praised it very much, a great thing for him to do.
_Mar. 31st._ Very sick. Went to the dentist's but could not have anything done.
_April 1st._ Wrote an "April Wedding" and worked on "Cluny."
_April 2nd._ Still sick but on "Cluny," and wrote "The Reconciliation."
_April 3rd._ All day on "Cluny;" in the evening wrote "Lending a Hand."
_April 4th._ All day on "Cluny."
_April 5th._ All day on "Cluny."
_April 6th._ All day on "Cluny," but am feeling tired.
_April 7th._ On "Cluny," very tired. A wet day and Peter Cooper's funeral.
_April 8th._ On "Cluny," and wrote a poem called "O Mollie, How I Love You!"
_April 9th._ On my novel nine hours.
_April 10th._ On my novel eight hours.
_April 11th._ On my novel eight hours.
_April 12th._ On my novel eight hours, and wrote "Two Ships."
_April 13th._ On my novel nine hours.
_April 14th._ On my novel eight hours.
_April 15th, 16th, 17th._ Nine hours each.
_April 18th._ Very sick.
_April 19th._ Wrote "My Pretty Canary" and "The Little Evangel."
_April 20th._ Wrote nine hours on "Cluny."
_April 21st to 28th._ I wrote all day long on "Cluny," but managed to write for _Harper's_ a poem called, "A Tap at the Door."
_April 29th._ On "Cluny," and wrote for Bonner a poem called, "Take Care."
_April 30th._ Wrote "A Birthday," finished "Cluny" and took it to Mr.
Rand, of the Tract House.
Eleven days afterwards I saw Mr. Rand, and he told me they were reading proof, and much pleased with the book, and on February seventeenth, A.D. 1884, I received a letter from _the_ Cluny MacPherson, chief of the clan MacPherson, thanking me for such a good picture of the clan life. The letter was dated from Castle Cluny, but the chief himself filled some important office in the Queen's Household.
Just about the time that I finished "Cluny MacPherson," Lilly returned home at my urgent request, and we went to housekeeping in some furnished rooms at 128 East Tenth Street. Then I made a short visit to England, leaving Alice at home with her sisters, as she was very averse to taking another ocean voyage.
My visit to Glasgow this year contained one scene, which made a great impression on me, and the recent death of General Booth brings it back so vividly, that I think my readers will be interested in the picture of this early salvation service.
At that time I had thought little of the movement. What I had seen of its noisy, moblike parades, with their deafening clang of cymbals and drums, and their shouting, jumping excitement, was not calculated to enlist the sympathy of intelligent persons. But then it was not such persons Mr. Booth wished to reach. "I have been sent into the world, to do the Lord's gutter work," was his own definition of his mission; and certainly at that day, his methods could only appeal to those on the lowest plane of humanity.
Well, one Saturday night in June, I had been dining with an old friend living beyond Rutherglen Bridge on the east side of the city, and in returning to my hotel, I had to pass through that portion of the old town, where Hamilton Street, High Street, the Saltmarket, and the Trongate pour their night crowd into the open place around the old Cross. The rain was falling in a black, steady downpour. The ragged crowd was swaying to and fro to the sounds of drums and cornets, and above all, I heard the shrill continuous scream of a woman's voice.
I put down the window of the carriage, and saw the woman. She was marching, with an open Bible in her hands, at the head of a noisy crowd, and reading, or rather reciting, verses from the Gospels. Her face showed deathly white from under her black hood, her voice cut the yellow dismal fog in sharp screaming octaves, her whole appearance was that of one inspired or insane, and the rain poured down on the barefooted women, with ragged kilted petticoats, and wretched little babies hanging over their shoulders, who followed her. I shut the window, and shut my eyes in a kind of horror. I had a feeling, that somewhere, centuries ago, I had seen such a nightmare of black houses, and black rain, and such a heaving and tossing flood of miserable humanity, and somehow it comforted me to hope, that through the tumult, the fierce sorrowful laughter, and drunken jibes, some poor breaking heart must have heard, and understood, that woman's shrill intensity as she called out, "_Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest_."
I had another experience of the Salvation Army, so perfectly Scotch and so characteristic, that I think my friends will be pleased to hear it. I was coming down the old Shorehead of Arbroath, and I met a band of men and women carrying flags and singing hymns. In Glasgow I had become familiar with these parades, and had been astonished at the toleration with which they were regarded. But the men and women of Arbroath, were of a different spirit and the tumult, and abusive storm of language became so great, that I stepped inside a little shop for shelter. The proprietor, a very dry rusk of a Scotchman, in a green duffle apron, and a red Kilmarnock night cap, was standing at the open door.
"The Salvation Army?" I said inquiringly.
"Ye arena far wrang."
"What do you think of them?"
"I'm thinking it is better for men to meddle wi' the things o' God, which they canna change, than wi' those o' the government wi' which they can wark a' kinds o' mischief and mischance. Thae Irish kirns now!" Then his face flushed, angrily, and fixing his eyes on a lad who was in the procession he cried,
"If there isna my Jock wi' thae loons! Certie, the words arena to seek, that I'll gie him, when he wins home again!"
"Then you don't approve of the movement?" I asked.