“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.”
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.