Thoughtfully curated historical journalism
We have here a nook—a far-off corner of Old England—picturesque in itself, and surrounded by poetical associations. The cottage of the Epicurean—the quiet abiding place of “the poet of all the loves and all the grapes,” the modern Anacreon and Irish melodist Tom Moore.
‘Tis sweet, as the dawn flashes over the lawn,
The old manor-house to see;
To hear the roused rooks, in their leafy nooks,
And the hum of the sportive bee:
‘Tis merry to mark, in the smooth-shaven park,‘Tis sweet, when the sun, his race being ran,
Kisses the mansion so old :
Warms the mossed wall, lights up the oak ball,
and bathes the trees in cold:
When the deer are at rest, and the rook seeks his nest,
And no sonnd in the calm air swells.
Save the peasant’s low song, as he winds along,
Or the distant village bells.—MICHELL.
“A Douglas in his hall.”—SCOTT.
This fine baronial mansion, one of the seats of his Grace the Duke of Hamilton, is situated about three miles south of Lancaster, and therefore occupies a site which is associated with many memorable transactions in British history-ranging from the time when our rude forefathers “did battle” for their hearths and homes against the invading Romans, through the stirring days of the celebrated John o’ Gaunt, the bloody wars of the “Roses,” the troubles of the Commonwealth, and the misguided rebellion of the “Young Pretender.”
“But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister pale
And love the high embossed roof,
With antic pillars massy proof:
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.”—MILTON.
“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.”
