March 14.—­The day on which we arrived at Baltimore was the Sabbath.  In a public room in the National Hotel, at which we were stopping, was hung up a nicely-framed announcement of the order of services in one of the Presbyterian Churches.  We wished, however, to find a Congregational place of worship, and set off with that view.  It was a beautiful day, and Baltimore seemed to send forth its inhabitants by streets-full to the various churches.  In the Old World I never saw anything like it, nor elsewhere in the New, except perhaps at Boston.  All secular engagements seemed to be entirely suspended, and the whole city seemed to enjoy a Sabbath!  As we walked along, I asked a young man if he could direct me to a Congregational church.  He stared at me for a moment, and then said, “Do you mean a church with pews in it?” I asked another, “Can you tell me where I shall find a Congregational church in this city?”—­“What congregation do you mean, sir?” was the reply.  They evidently knew nothing at all about Congregationalism.  The fact was, as I afterwards understood, we had not yet come into its latitude; for in America Presbyterianism and Congregationalism have hitherto been matters of latitude and longitude rather than of earnest conviction and firm adherence.  We now inquired for a Presbyterian church, and were told that there was one not far from where we then stood, in which Mr. Plummer—­a very popular minister just come into the city—­preached.  Following the directions given, we came to a certain church, in front of which two or three grave men stood talking to each other.  In answer to the question, “What church is this?” one of these grave men said, with a good broad Scotch accent, “It’s a Presbyterian church.”  The accent gave a double confirmation to the answer.  “Is it Mr. Plummer’s church?” I continued.  With the same accent, and in a tone of gentle rebuke, I was told, “Yes, it is Doctor Plummer’s.”  We entered.  The congregation were assembling.  We were left either to stand in the aisle or to take a seat as we pleased.  We preferred the latter.  The building was new, but built in the old Gothic style.  The pews, the pulpit, the front of the gallery, the organ, and the framework of the roof, which was all exposed, were of oak, which had been made to resemble in colour wood that has stood the test of 400 or 500 years.  The windows also were darkened.  The whole affair was tremendously heavy, enough to mesmerize any one.  The congregation was large, respectable, and decorous.  After a few glances around, to see if there was a negro pew anywhere, I observed several coloured faces peeping from a recess in the gallery, on the left side of the organ,—­there was the “Negro Pew,” In due time Doctor Plummer ascended the pulpit.  He was a fine tall man, grey-haired, well dressed, with commanding aspect and a powerful voice.  I ceased to wonder at the emphasis with which the Scotchman called him Doctor Plummer.  He was quite