Thoughtfully curated historical journalism
“Imposing must have been the sight,
Ere desolation found thee.”—Bernard Barton.
There are scattered, throughout the country, the remains of several edifices, to whose history such peculiar interest attaches, that they would seem to have been left by Time, on his vast pilgrimage to Eternity, as memorials to revive the recollection of eventful periods in the annals of nations, and “this is of them.” For who can look upon the ancient gateway of Battle Abbey (which we here present to our readers) without realizing to his “mind’s eye ” the memorable battle of Hastings; and pondering on the consequences of that important conflict, which, on October 14, 1066, transferred the sceptre of England from the unfortunate Harold to the ambitious invader, William Duke of Normandy? Battle, a small market town in the rape of Hastings, in the county of Sussex, was anciently called Epiton, and was the scene of the celebrated encounter to which we have just referred. In commemoration of his momentous victory, the Conqueror erected a spacious and magnificent monastery, dedicated to St. Martin, and called De Bello or Battel, on the very spot where Harold, pierced with many arrows, breathed his last; the high altar, according to the most authentic reports, being reared on the place where the body of the vanquished monarch was discovered, its founder thus seeming to realize the notion, which an able dramatist puts into the mouth of one of his heroines—
The unpretending structure of which we this week present a view of to our friends, is rendered sacred by being the depository of the remains of that transcendant genius and poet—Byron. From Moore’s “Life of Byron,” we find that, “It was on Friday, the 16th of July, 1824, that in the small village church of Hucknall, the last duties were paid to the remains of Byron, by depositing them close to those of his mother in the family vault. Exactly on the same day of the same month in the preceding year, Byron said despondingly, to Count Gamba, ‘Where shall we be in another year?’ The gentleman to whom this foreboding speech was addressed, paid a visit some months after the interment to Hucknall, and was struck on approaching the village, by the strong likeness it seemed to bear to his lost friend’s melancholy death place, Missolonghi.”
It seems but the other day this old suburban church was pleasantly surrounded by green fields and quiet hedgerows; but now the mammoth magnitude of this great city—the modern Babylon—has stretched itself in this direction, as in all others; and St. Pancras’ fields, with their rows of goodly elms, and pleasant meandering footpaths leading to the then village church, exist only as a pleasant memory. Surrounded by houses, the old church seems out of place, and might be passed as little worthy attention. Still are there facts worth noting in its history, and that of the locality in which it stands—and associations which may serve to prompt more than a passing thought. The whole of this neighbourhood is linked by tradition with a deadly fight between the Britons and their invaders, when seventy thousand men were said to have been slain at “Battle-bridge.” Modern fashion has attempted to get rid of the old Saxon name which serves to keep this struggle in remembrance, by christening the locality in courtly guise, King’s Cross—erecting, too, in the centre of the road an architectural hybrid, the use of which could never be discovered, unless built there for omnibuses to run against. All round Battle-bridge traces of entrenchments have been found, running up close to the old church; some of them, called the Brill, occupied the pen of the learned and ingenious Stukely. During the civil wars, also, this spot again became the seat of armed entrenchments, and the Royalists and Parliamentarians occupied the ground which more than a thousand years earlier had been trodden by the armed legions of Rome, and the comparatively defenceless Britons.
Wilford is a delightfully picturesque and secluded village on the banks of the river Trent, about a mile from the town of Nottingham; and though so short a distance from a populous manufacturing district, it yet retains all those rural characteristics which poets, and topographers delighted to describe centuries ago. Sir Juckes Clifton, Baronet, of Clifton Hall, is the lord of the manor; his ancestors have been seated at Clifton, two miles’ distant from Wilford, ever since the reign of Henry the Third; but they held lands in this district long before that period. Sir Gervase Clifton was created a baronet in the ninth year of James the First. Wilford was anciently a Roman station, and some years since many Roman coins were discovered there, most of which were of the latter emperors. It was an eminent manor in the time of Edward the Confessor; and “did belong,” says Thoreton, “to the famous Godes the Countess” When the great survey under William the Conqueror was made, his natural son, William Peveril, governor of Nottingham Castle, had possessions there; and the village in those days had a “priest and a church.” The population is now about 600. The present rector (the Rev. Thomas Thorp) was instituted in 1819 ; and the annual value of the living, according to the report of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, is £574. The church, which is dedicated to St. Wilfrid, presents, to the north-east, an interesting and handsome appearance; but the southern side is disfigured by an unsightly porch, and several pieces of patchwork, which the hand of “modern improvement” has introduced. It has a low tower and clerestory, a rather spacious nave and aisle, and a good chancel, which, as the village chronicle says, was “beautified by the Rev. Mr. Carter, rector of this parish who also founded and endowed a charity school, and upon a flat stone in the north aisle, no further record on it being discernible. The churchyard is sheltered by a range of noble elm trees; and the silvery Trent flows close past this hallowed enclosure with a rushing stream.
Crossing London-bridge to Southwark, the church of St. Mary Overy, or St. Saviour’s, on the right hand, divides attention with the first glimpse of the noble Hospitals which attest so proudly the charitable munificence of our country. Southwark, as early as any accounts exist of London, was a place of some importance; and on the marching of the Conqueror to the metropolis it had the misfortune to be selected for burning, by way of example to the inhabitants on the London side, who were somewhat disinclined to favour the pretensions of William. The site of the present church was, at an early period, that of the Priory of St. Mary Overy; of this considerable remains still exist, and, indeed, portions of the present building formed a part of it. The priory was twice destroyed by fire, and the present church was most probably (there are no positive records) built in the reign of Henry IV. At the dissolution of monasteries it was surrendered to Henry, purchased from him by the good folks of Southwark, and converted into a parish church. An act of Parliament afterwards united it with that of St. Margaret-at-Hill, and changed its old Saxon name of St. Mary Overy into that of St. Saviour’s, Southwark.
On a rising ground to the left of the road from Oxford to London, through Wycombe, and at the distance of four miles from Oxford, stands the little church of Forrest Hill; its gabled bell turret, containing two bells in open arches, rising above the surrounding foliage, forming a conspicuous and highly picturesque object. Forrest Hill is a long, straggling village, built on a ridge of land beyond the church, which occupies alone the brow of the hill. The churchyard is small, and surrounded and overhung with trees: the hollies, the yews, and weeping willows, all in the utmost luxuriance, forming a beautiful contrast with each other, and giving to the graveyard that spirit of quiet and holiness which always ought to be the characteristic of the church, which was dedicated to St. Nicholas the Confessor, on the 6th July, 1273, is small and compact, being composed of one aisle, divided into nave and chancel. At the west end is a fine early English bell-gable, and two singularly large buttresses standing out in bold projection.
Announcement of the date of one of the three Hopi Snake Dances, to be held this year north of Winslow, was brought here this week by Joe Secakuku (Chief Yellowfeet). The dance, in which Chief Yellowfeet will take part, is to be held at Shipaulavi, 75 miles north of Winslow by way of the Painted Desert and Oraibi, and will take place on August 25th. As 1926 ends in an even number there will be three dances held this year. On years ending in odd numbers only two dances are held. The other two dances of 1926 will be held during August at Toreva and Hotevilla villages, and dates will be announced later.
The early histories of the greater number of old buildings in London, both ecclesiastical and otherwise, are connected with so many and such strange events, placing vividly before us a state of society entirely different from what we are accustomed to, that they have the air rather of romantic fictions than of literal records; but serve nevertheless to show the changes which have taken place, and to impress strongly upon us, amongst other lessons, the advantages which have attended the spread of education. This must have been apparent in many of our former accounts, but in none is it more so than in that of the church we are about to illustrate, St. Mary-le-Bow, which, if not originally a Roman temple, as was generally believed, was one of the earliest churches built by our Norman conquerors; has been destroyed by storm and fire; was at one time garrisoned and besieged; and was afterwards the scene of an assassination. To go, however, a little more into detail :—