A SOJOURN IN ENGLAND AND ON TO WALES.
Arrested and Imprisoned—Released without a
Trial—Nottingham—Dwellers in Caves—Seven Hundred Years Old—Forests
of Ivanhoe and Robin Hood—Birthplace of Henry Kirk White—Home of the
Pilgrim Fathers—Home of Thomas Cranmer—A Guide’s Information—Home
of Lord Byron—Wild Beasts from the Dark Continent—A Sad
Epitaph—Byron’s Grave—A Wedding Scene—Marriage Customs—Wales
and Sea-Bathing—Among the Mountains—Welsh Baptists—A Tottering
Establishment.
AFTER attending the Baptist Centennial at Rochdale, I turn my face
toward the east, Nottingham being the objective point. Four hours bring
me to my journey’s end, and the reader can scarcely imagine my feelings
when, as I step off the train at Nottingham, I am arrested by a sturdy
Scotchman. I say to him: “Sir, what does this mean? If you seek for
some criminal, some culprit who has violated the laws of the land, you
have caught the wrong bird. I am a loyal citizen of the United States
of America. I have the necessary papers from government officials to
prove what I say. I was never accused of an ungentlemanly or illegal
act in America, and since coming to England I have behaved myself; I
have kept good company; I have respected your Queen and obeyed the laws
of your country.”
Although I am as composed as a judge, and notwithstanding the fact that
my words ring out like the notes of a silver bell, my speech falls
flat. The Scotchman declares that it is entirely unnecessary for me to
say another word; that I am his prisoner; that I shall be locked up,
but shall not be maltreated; that I shall be dealt with fairly, and, if
innocent, released in due time. Strange feelings come over me as I am
led captive through the crowded streets of this busy city to be locked
within the gloomy prison-walls of a foreign country. Fortunately,
however, the darkest hour is just before day. We have not gone far,
when the Scotchman throws off the mask and reveals himself as my bosom
friend, and fellow-countryman, George Robert Cairns, who is well-known
and much beloved from Ohio to California, and who has sung and preached
his way into the hearts of thousands of the Scotch and English people.
The prison to which he is conducting me proves to be one of the most
pleasant and elegant homes in the city. Hence, I feel that I can say
with David, “Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing; thou hast put
off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness.”
Nottingham is one of the oldest and most historic cities in all
England. It is splendidly situated on the banks of the river Trent in
the midst of one of the prettiest and most romantic regions of country
anywhere to be found in Her Majesty’s Kingdom. The word “Nottingham”
signifies “dwellers in caves,” a name given to the town on account of
its early inhabitants dwelling in caves and subterranean passages cut
in the yielding rock on which the present city is built. These caves
and caverns are still open, and it affords me curious pleasure, with
lantern in hand, to wander through their dark recesses.
In one of the noted forests by which the town is surrounded, stands a
large and venerable oak-tree, more than seven hundred years old, with
a wagon road cut through it. These are the lordly forests described in
Ivanhoe—the same, also, where Robin Hood held high carnival.
This is the birthplace of Henry Kirk White, whose poetical talents
brought him into prominence long before he reached man’s estate. The
bud was plucked before the flower was full-blown. Brief, bright and
glorious was his young career. An ardent admirer from the Western world
has placed a beautiful marble tablet to his memory in one of the halls
of Cambridge University. Many of the Pilgrim Fathers left for America
from this town and shire.
I was at the birthplace and home of Thomas Cranmer, who, in 1656,
perished at the stake for the cause of Christ. The enthusiastic guide
who is but temporarily of the Archbishop’s palace pointed to Cranmer’s
portrait and said: “This is a picture of Mr. Cranberry, a Scottish
king, who, in 1009, was condemned for heresy and shot by order of
Pharaoh.” The traveler who believes all that the guides tell him will
soon be thoroughly convinced that Moses was the grandson of Julius
Caesar.
I know not when I have enjoyed anything more than a day spent at
Newstead Abbey, the home of Lord Byron, whose faults we cannot forget,
but whose genius we must acknowledge, and whose poetry we cannot fail
to admire. The Abbey is now the property of Capt. F. W. Webb, who spent
many years with Livingstone and Stanley in their African explorations.
In turn, Livingstone and Stanley used to spend much time with Captain
Webb in his elegant home. Many of the spacious rooms and long winding
halls of the Abbey are filled with stuffed lions, tigers, bears,
wolves, panthers, serpents, and fowls brought by these men from the
Dark Continent. The Abbey itself is about eight hundred years old. It
stands in the midst of a great forest, nine miles north of Nottingham,
and is surrounded by lovely flower-gardens, sparkling fountains, and
artificial lakes. Here the poet wrote “Hours of Idleness.” I was sad
when I saw the splendid marble monument which the fond master had
erected to his faithful dog. The epitaph closes with these melancholy
words:
“Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend’s remains, these stones arise;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.”
[Illustration: NEWSTEAD ABBEY.]
From the Abbey I went to Hucknall, three miles away, to see the grave
of the poet, who lies buried in a church just in front of the pulpit.
The marble slab covering the grave forms a part of the floor, and on it
are these words:
“BENEATH THIS STONE RESTS THE REMAINS OF LORD BYRON.”
On either side of the pulpit, also, there is a marble slab imbedded in
the wall, filled with inscriptions pertaining to the life and character
of him who, while living, struck chords in the human heart which will
continue to vibrate until the sands of time shall have been removed
into the ocean of eternity. I must now quit the dead, and say something
about the living. I must leave the grave, and take my stand beside the
altar.
At eleven o’clock to-day, Mr. George Robert Cairns, of the United
States, and Miss Annie Mellors, of Nottingham, England, were united in
the holy bonds of matrimony. On three successive Sundays previous to
the wedding, according to the requirements of law, the engagement was
publicly announced at churches, and the question, “Does any one present
object to the proposed marriage?” was asked. It is the custom of the
country for engagements to be made public as soon as marriage contracts
have been entered into. The young people thus engaged are at once
recognized as members of each other’s family. Mr. Cairns’ evangelistic
labors have been greatly blest. Through his instumentality many, both
in Europe and America, have found Him of whom Moses and the prophets
did write. And now that the Lord has blest him with one of the most
lovely and accomplished Christian women in England, I feel sure his
usefulness will be greatly increased, if not doubled.
From Nottingham we came to Wales. We have been here several days,
bathing in the sea, walking along the white pebbled beach, strolling
through grassy meadows, gathering wild flowers, climbing wooded
hills, and scaling rugged mountains. When weariness overtakes the
pedestrians, they seat themselves on the shady side of some towering
crag or cliff, whose shadow falls long and deep across the hill. Here
they hold close communion with Nature and sweet converse with God. The
pilgrims discover God’s power in the lofty mountains, see His beauty
in the blushing rose, behold His glory and splendor in the setting sun
“vast mirrored on the sea.” These rocky coasts, mountain peaks, and
waterfalls have inspired many a poet’s muse. Here Tennyson loves to
linger. Here Mrs. Hemans sang her sweetest songs. Here Johnson and I
roam and read.
“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in everything.”
The Baptists are numerically strong and wield a powerful influence in
Wales. They are close communionists. They are loyal to their principles
and to their God; consequently, they are being wonderfully blest—they
are flourishing like the green bay-tree.
The Episcopal Church is fast losing ground in this country. The
people are crying out against the tithe system, and are calling for
dis-establishment. This once proud structure is tottering. Many predict
a speedy fall; and, if it falls at all, I believe the crash will be
heavy enough to jar and injure the foundation of the established church
throughout the empire. I say it kindly and in the right spirit: I hope
that the Episcopal Church will be disestablished. If it be of man, it
ought to fall. If it be of God, it needs no human government to support
it. If a church be of God, its devotees need to look to Him, and not
to the State, for strength. The lack of governmental support never yet
stopped the work of saving souls. Against Christ’s Church, neither the
powers of earth nor the gates of hell can prevail!
“Truth crushed to earth shall rise again:
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.”