n."

I saw on his face and heard in his voice that melancholy that so often
unhorsed him.

I went to Paris for the first time in this summer of 1870. It was during
the Franco-German war. I stood studying the exquisite sculpturing of the
gate of the Tuileries. Lost in admiration of the wonderful art of that
gate I knew not that I was exciting suspicion. Lowering my eyes to the
crowds of people I found myself being closely inspected by government
officials, who from my complexion judged me to be a German, and that for
some belligerent purpose I might be examining the gates of the palace.
My explanations in very poor French did not satisfy them, and they
followed me long distances until I reached my hotel, and were not
satisfied until from my landlord they found that I was only an
inoffensive American. Inoffensive Americans were quite as welcome in
Europe in 1870 as they are now. I was not curious of the signs I found
anywhere about me of aristocratic grandeur, of the deference paid to
lineage and ancient family name. I know in America some people look back
on the family line, and they are proud to see that they are descended
from the Puritans or the Huguenots, and they rejoice in that as though
their ancestors had accomplished a great thing to repudiate a Catholic
aristocracy.

I look back on my family line, and I see there such a mingling and
mixture of the blood of all nationalities that I feel akin to all the
world. I returned from my first visit to Europe more thankful than ever
for the mercy of having been born in America. The trip did me
immeasurable good. It strengthened my faith in the breadth and
simplicity of a broadminded religion. We must take care how we extend
our invitation to the Church, that it be understandable to everyone.
People don't want the scientific study of religion.

On Sunday morning, September 25, 1870, the new Tabernacle erected on
Schemerhorn Street was dedicated to the worship of Almighty God. It was
to my mind a common-sense church, as I had planned it to be. In many of
our churches we want more light, more room, more ventilation, more
comfort. Vast sums of money are expended on ecclesiastical structures,
and men sit down in them, and you ask a man how he likes the church: he
says, "I like it very well, but I can't hear." The voice of the preacher
dashes against the pillars. Men sit down under the shadows of the Gothic
arches and shiver, and feel they must be getting religion, or somet