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.