Nothing interfered with the routine of the Doctor’s habits of industry during all this European trip.  He had taken over with him the proofs of about 20 volumes of his selected sermons for correction, and all his spare moments were spent in perfecting and revising these books for the printer.  His sermons were the only monument he wished to leave to posterity.  It has caused me the deepest regret that these books have not been perpetuated as he so earnestly wished.  In addition to this work he wrote his weekly sermon for the syndicate, employing stenographers wherever he might be in Europe two days every week for that purpose.  And yet he never lost interest in the opportunities of travel, eagerly planning trips to the old historic places near by.

Near Nottingham is the famous Byron country which Dr. Talmage had never found time to visit when he was in Europe before.  We were told, at the hotel in Nottingham, that no visitors were allowed inside Newstead Abbey, so that when we ordered a carriage to drive there the hotel people shrugged their shoulders at what they regarded as our American irreverence.  The rain was coming down in torrents when we started, the Doctor more than ever determined to overthrow British custom in his quiet, positive way.  Through slush and mud, under dripping trees, across country landscapes veiled in the tender mist of clouds, we finally arrived at the Abbey.  The huge outer gates were open, but the driver, with proper British respect for the law, stopped his horses.  The Doctor leaned his head out of the carriage window and told him to drive into the grounds.  Obediently he did so, and at last we reached the great heavy doors of the entrance.  Dr. Talmage jumped out and boldly rang the bell.  A sentry appeared to inform us that no one was allowed inside the Abbey.

“But we have come all the way from America to see this place,” the Doctor urged.  The sentry, with wooden militarism, was adamant.

“Is there no one inside in authority?” the Doctor finally asked.  Then the housekeeper was called.  She told us that the Abbey belonged to an Army officer and his wife, that her master was away at the war in South Africa where his wife had gone with him, and that her orders were imperative.

“Look here, just let us see the lower floor,” said Dr. Talmage; “we have come all the way from New York to see this place,” and he slipped two sovereigns into her hand.  Still she was unmoved.  My daughter, who was then about 14, was visibly disappointed.  England was to her hallowed ground, and she was keenly anxious to walk in the footsteps of all its romance, which she had eagerly absorbed in history.  Turning to the Doctor, she said, almost tearfully: 

“Why, Doctor Talmage, how can they refuse you?”

The housekeeper caught the name.

“Who did you say this was?” she asked.

“Doctor Talmage,” said my daughter.

“Dr. Talmage, I was just reading the sermon you preached on Sunday in the Nottingham newspaper, I am sure if my mistress were at home she would be glad to receive you.  Come in, come in!”