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: