CHAPTER VI.ANNESLEY HALL AND HUCKNALL.

[11]Lyson’s Magna Britannia.

Mrs. Jameson expresses strongly the effect of the huge escutcheons, the carved arms thrust out from the wall, intended to hold lights, and the great antlers, as she first entered this hall by night; but what would have been the effect of seeing Mary Stuart herself standing full opposite, as if to receive her to this place of her former captivity.[12]To her, and to every imaginative person, the effect must have been powerful, and solemnly impressive. Gray the poet, instead of thinking that the Queen of Scots had but just walked down into the park for half an hour, would have seen her visibly here. I have seen the portraits of Queen Mary, both here and in Holyrood, but none of them give me a thousandth part of the idea of what she must have been, compared with this statue.

[12]I do not mean literally that this house was the place of her captivity, it was the old one.

With these two exceptions, both of which tend to strengthen the legitimate influence of the place, all besides is exactly as it was. You ascend the broad, easy oak stairs; you see the chapel by their side, with all its brocaded seats and cushions; you advance along vast passages, where stand huge chests filled with coals, and having ample crypts in the walls for chips and firewood. Here are none of the modern contrivances to conceal these things; but they stand there before you, with an air of rude abundance, according well with the ancient mixture of baronial state and simplicity. You go on and on, through rooms all hung with rich old tapestry, glowing with pictorial scenes from scriptural or mythological history; all furnished with antique cabinets, massy tables, high chairs covered with crimson velvet or ornamental satin. You behold the very furniture used by Queen Mary; the very bed she worked with her own fingers. But perhaps that spacious gallery, extending along the whole front of the house, gives the imagination a more feudal feeling than all. Its length, nearly two hundred feet; its great height; its stupendous windows, composing nearly the whole front, rattling and wailing as the wind sweeps along them. What a magnificent sough, and even thunder of sound, must fill that wild old place in stormy weather. There you see arranged, high and low, portraits of most of the characters belonging to the family or history of the place, of all degrees of execution. It is not my intention to give any details, either of those or of the furniture; that havingbeen done by Mrs. Jameson with the accuracy and feeling that particularly distinguish her. I aim only at imparting the general effect. It is enough therefore to say that there are “many beautiful women and brave men:” portraits of bluff Harry VIII.; those of the rival queens, Mary and Elizabeth; her keeper, the Earl of Shrewsbury, and his masculine wife, Elizabeth of Hardwick; and the philosophers, Boyle and Hobbs. One interesting particular of Mrs. Jameson’s statement, however, we could not verify:—the tradition of the nocturnal meeting of the rival queens in the gallery. We never heard of it before; nor could we now find, by the most particular inquiries, even among the domestics, any knowledge of such a tradition. It was as new to them as to us; and we therefore set it down as a pleasant poetical tradition of the fair author’s own planting.

The Duke was come hither from Chatsworth, to spend a week, and he seemed to have come in the spirit befitting the place; for there was scarcely more than its usual establishment; scarcely less than its usual quietness perceptible. The Duke himself we had met on the road, and in his absence were shewn through the apartments which he uses on these occasions; and it had a curious effect amid all this staid and sombre antiquity, to find, on a plain oak table in the library, the newspapers of the day; the Athenæum, Court Journal, the Spectator, and Edinburgh Review; the works of Dr. Channing; and Hood’s Tylney Hall, just then published. What an antithesis! what a mighty contrast between the spirit of the past and the present!—the life and stir of the politics and the passing literature of the day, in a place belonging in history, character, and all its appointments, to an age so different, and so long gone by, with all its people and concerns.

Nothing, perhaps, could mark more vividly the vast changes in the manners and circumstances of different ages in England; the wonderful advance in luxury and refinement of the modern ones, than by passing from Hardwick to the old Hall of Haddon, built in 1427, when the feudal system was in its strength; when the manor-house was but one remove from the castle; to visit this with its rude halls, its massive tables, its floors made from the planks of one mighty oak, its ancient arras and quaint stucco-work; and then pass over to Chatsworth, only a few miles distant, where to thepast all the splendour of the present has been added; modern architecture, and all its contrivances for domestic convenience, comfort, and elegance; pictures, statuary, books, magnificent furniture, glowing carpets; every thing that the art, wealth, and ingenuity of this great nation can bring together into one princely mansion. But as my limits will not admit of this, I shall content myself with a survey of a more domestic kind, yet connected with the poetical history of our own day—Annesley and Newstead.

Early in the spring of 1834, I walked over with Charles Pemberton from Nottingham, to see Annesley Hall, the birth-place and patrimony of Mary Chaworth; a place made of immortal interest by the early attachment of Lord Byron to this lady, and by the graphic strength and deep passion with which he has recorded in his poems this most influential circumstance of his youth.

Annesley lies about nine miles north of Nottingham, itself—the scene of his first and most lasting attachment—Newstead, his patrimonial abode—and Hucknall, his burial-place; forming the three points of a triangle, each of whose sides may be about two miles in length. Yet, although Newstead and Hucknall have been visited by shoals of admirers, this place, perhaps altogether the most interesting of the three, has been wholly neglected. Few, or none of them, have thought it worth while to go so little out of their way to see it; perhaps not one in a hundred has known that it was so near; probably to those who inquired about it, it might be replied, “you see that wooded ridge—there lies Annesley. You see all that is worth seeing; it is a poor tumble-down place:” and so they have been satisfied, and have returned in their wisdom to their own place, at a hundred, or a thousand, miles distance. But what is still more remarkable, while Mr. Murray has sent down an artist into this neighbourhood to make drawings of Hucknall church and Newstead for his Life and Poems of Lord Byron; and while othershave encompassed sea and land to give us thrice reiterated landscapes illustrative of his biography and writings, and have even presented us with fictitious portraits of the most interesting characters connected with his fortunes,—they have totally passed over Annesley as altogether unworthy of their notice, though it is a spot, at once, full of a melancholy charm; of a sad, yet old English beauty; a spot, where every sod, and stone, and tree, and hearth, is rife with the most strange and touching memories in human existence; and where the genuine likeness of Mary Chaworth, in the most lovely and happy moments of her life, is to be found.

Need I pause a moment to account for this? Does not the discerning public always tread in one track? As sheep follow one leader, and traverse the heath in a long extended line, so does the public follow the first trumpeter of the praises of one place. It has been fashionable to visit Newstead, and ithasbeen visited;—but as Annesley was not at first thought of, it has not been visited at all. Well! we have visited it; and if there be any power in the most melancholy of mortal fortunes—in the retracing the day-dreams of an illustrious spirit—in the gathering of all English feelings round the strongest combination of the glories of nature, with the aspect of decay in the fortunes and habitation of an ancient race, we shall visit it again and again.[13]

[13]Since this was published in the Athenæum in the autumn of 1834, Washington Irving has published his interesting visit to Newstead andAnnesley.

That wooded ridge was our landmark from the first step of our journey, and we soon reached Hucknall. The approach to Hucknall is pleasant; the place itself is a long and unpicturesque village. Count Gamba is said to have been struck with its resemblance to Missolonghi. Sixteen years have now passed since the funeral of Lord Byron took place here, and yet it seems to me but as yesterday. His admirers, in after ages, will naturally picture to themselves the church, on that occasion, overflowing with the intelligent and poetical part of the population of the neighbourhood. A poet who had spent a good deal of his boyhood and youth in it—whose patrimonial estate lay here—who had gone hence, and won so splendid a renown—whose life had been a series of circumstances and events as striking and romantic as his poetry—who had finally been cut down in his prime, in so brilliant anattempt to restore the freedom and ancient glory of Greece—would naturally be supposed to come back to the tomb of his ancestors, amidst the confluence of a thousand strongly-excited hearts. But it was not so. There was a considerable number of persons present, but the church was by no means crowded, and the spectators were, with very few exceptions, of that class which is collected, by idle curiosity on the approach of any not very wonderful procession; who would have collected to gaze as much at the funeral of his lordship’s grandfather, or his own, though he had not written a line of poetry, or lifted the sword of freedom;—probably, with threefold eagerness at that of a wealthy cit, because there would have been more of bustle and assuming blazonry about it. With the exception of the undertaker’s hired company; of Sir John Cam Hobhouse, and his lordship’s attorney, Mr. Hanson; his Greek servant Tita, and his old follower Fletcher, the rest of the attendants were the villagers, and a certain number of people from Nottingham, of a similar class, and led by similar motives. There was not a score of those who are called “the respectable” from Nottingham; scarcely one of the gentry of the county. This strange fact can only be accounted for by the circumstance that Nottingham and its vicinity are famous for the manufacture of lace and stockings, but, like many other manufacturing districts, possess no such decided attachment to literature. Many readers there are, undoubtedly, in both town and country, but readers chiefly for pastime—for the filling up of a certain space between and after business—and a laudable way too of so filling it; but not readers from any unconquerable passion for, or attachment to, literature for its own sake. A few literary persons have lived in or about the neighbourhood, but these are the exception; the character of the district is manufacturing and political, but by no means literary, nor ever was; therefore, the strongest feeling with which Lord Byron was regarded there, was a political one. Though an aristocrat in birth and bearing, he was a very thorough radical in principle. Hence, he had only the sympathy of the radicals with him, those consisting chiefly of the working classes. The whigs of the town and the gentry of the county, chiefly tories, regarded him only in a political light, and paid him not the respect of their presence.

The religious world had a high prejudice against him for his manifold sins of speech, opinion, and life; they of course were not there. No party had so much more admiration of genius—conception of the lofty, intellectual achievements of the noble poet, discernment of the abundant qualifying, and, in fact, overbalancing grace and beauty, and even religious sentiment, which breathed through many of his writings—for no man had more ennobling and truly religious feelings rooted in his soul by the contemplation of the magnificence of God’s handiworks in creation; or felt occasionally, more deeply the spiritualizing influence that pervades nature;—no party had so much more of this tone of mind, than of their political or sectarian bias, as to forget all those minor things in his wonderful talent—his early death—his redeeming qualities, and last deeds—and the honour he had conferred, as an everlasting heritage, on this country.

In the evening, after the people who had attended the funeral were dispersed, I went down to the church and entered the vault. There was a reporter from one of the London newspapers copying the inscriptions on the coffins by the light of a lamp; and a great hobble-de-hoy of a farmer’s lad was kneeling on the case that contained the poet’s heart, and lolling on the coffin with his elbows, as he watched the reporter, in a manner that indicated the most perfect absence of all thought of the place where he was, or the person on whose remains he was perched.

In the churchyard, a group of the villagers were eagerly discussing the particulars of the funeral, and the character of the deceased. One man attempted to account for the apparently indifferent manner in which the clergyman performed the burial service, by his having understood that he felt himself disgraced by having to bury an atheist. “An atheist!” exclaimed an old woman, “tell me that he was an atheist! D’ ye think an atheist would be beloved by his servants as this man was? Why, they fret themselves almost to death about him. And d’ ye think they would have made so much of him in foreign parts? Why, they almost worshipped him as a god in Grecia!” giving the finalaa sound almost as long as one’s finger. This was conclusive—the wondering auditors had nothing to reply—they quietly withdrew their several ways, and I mine.

The church was broken into soon after the funeral, and the black cloth with which the pulpit was hung on this occasion, carried away: and this is not the only forcible entry that has been made through Lord Byron’s being buried there; for the clerk told me, that when Moore came to see it with Colonel Wildman, being impatient of the clerk’s arrival, who lives at some distance, the poet had contrived to climb up to a window, open it, and get in, where the worthy bearer of the keys found him, to his great astonishment.

The indifference shewn by the people of Nottingham towards the great poet, would not seem to have abated, if we are to judge by the entries in an album kept by the clerk, and which was presented for that purpose about twelve years ago by Dr. Bowring. The signatures of visiters in 1834 amounted to upwards of eight hundred, amongst which appear the names of people from North and South America, Russia, the Indies, and various other distant places and countries, but few from Nottingham or its shire, who might be supposed to be amongst the best read and best informed portion of its population. This, however, must be allowed, that the names entered in the clerk’s book afford no just criterion of the number or quality of the visiters to the poet’s tomb, as many of the most poetical and refined minds might naturally feel reluctant to place their signatures in such a medley of mawkish sentiment as is always found in such albums. A few clergymen, we, however, were pleased to see, had there placed their names; and some dissenting ministers had ventured so far as to do likewise, and to preach some pretty little sermons over him in the book, which opens thus:

TO THEImmortal and Illustrious FameOFLORD BYRON,THE FIRST POET OF THE AGE IN WHICH HE LIVED,THESE TRIBUTES,WEAK AND UNWORTHY OF HIM,BUT IN THEMSELVES SINCERE,Are Inscribed,WITH THE DEEPEST REVERENCE.

July, 1825.

At this period no monument—not even so simple a slab as records the death of the humblest villager in the neighbourhood—had been erected to mark the spot in which all that is mortal of the greatest man of our day reposes; and he has been buried more than twelve months.—July, 1825.

So should it be: let o’er this graveNo monumental banners wave;Let no word speak—no trophy tellAught that may break the charming spell,By which, as on this sacred groundHe kneels, the pilgrim’s heart is bound.A still, resistless influence,Unseen, but felt, binds up the sense;While every whisper seems to breatheOf the mighty dead who sleeps beneath.—And though the master-hand is cold,And though the lyre it once controlledRests mute in death; yet from the gloomWhich dwells about this holy tomb,Silence breathes out more eloquent,Than epitaph or monument.One laurel wreath—the poet’s crown—Is here by hand unworthy thrown;One tear that so much worth should die,Fills, as I kneel, my sorrowing eye;This is the simple offering,Poor, but earnest, which I bring.The tear has dried; the wreath shall fade,The hand that twined it soon be laidIn cold obstruction—but the fameOf him who tears and wreath shall claimFrom most remote posterity,While Britain lives, can never die!—J. B.

The following list contains almost all the names that are known to the public, or are distinguished by rank or peculiarity ofcircumstance:—

Although we did not, at this time, enter even the churchyard, thoughts and feelings which had presented themselves in this very spot, on the day of Lord Byron’s funeral, again returned.

His birth, his death, dark fortunes, and brief life,Wondrous and wild as his impetuous lay,Passed through my mind; his wanderings, loves, and strife;I saw him marching on from day to day:The kilted boy, roaming mid mountains grey;The noble youth, whose life-blood was a flame,In the bright land of demi-gods astray;The monarch of the lyre, whose haughty nameSpread on from shore to shore, the watchword of all fame;And then, a lifeless form! The spell was broke;The wizard’s wild enchantment was destroyed;He who at will did dreadful forms invoke,And called up beautiful spirits from the void,Back to the scenes in which he early joyed,He came but knew it not. In vain earth’s bloom—In vain the sky’s clear beauty, which oft buoyedHis spirit to delight; an early doomBrought him in glory’s arms to the awaiting tomb.He lies—how quietly that heart which yetNever could slumber, slumbers now for aye!He lies—where first, love, fame, his young soul setWith passionate power on flame; where gleam the greyTurrets of Newstead, through the solemn swayOf verdurous woods; and where that hoary crownOf lofty trees, “in circular array,”Shroud Mary’s Hall, who thither may look down,And think how he loved her, ay, more than his renown.

And then, a lifeless form! The spell was broke;The wizard’s wild enchantment was destroyed;He who at will did dreadful forms invoke,And called up beautiful spirits from the void,Back to the scenes in which he early joyed,He came but knew it not. In vain earth’s bloom—In vain the sky’s clear beauty, which oft buoyedHis spirit to delight; an early doomBrought him in glory’s arms to the awaiting tomb.

He lies—how quietly that heart which yetNever could slumber, slumbers now for aye!He lies—where first, love, fame, his young soul setWith passionate power on flame; where gleam the greyTurrets of Newstead, through the solemn swayOf verdurous woods; and where that hoary crownOf lofty trees, “in circular array,”Shroud Mary’s Hall, who thither may look down,And think how he loved her, ay, more than his renown.

From Hucknall we ascended chiefly through open, wild lands:—to our right the wooded valley of Newstead, every moment spreading itself out more broadly; and before us the forest heights of Annesley, growing more bold and attractive. A wild gusty breeze, and dark flying clouds, added sensibly to the deep solitude and picturesque character of the scene. We soon passed a cottage, having beside it an old brick pillar surmounted with a stone ball, and before it an avenue of lime trees, which appeared some time to have formed the boundary or place of entrance to the park; then a new lodge, and found ourselves at the foot of the steep hill, styled in Byron’sDream—

A gentle hill,Green, and of mild declivity.

The greenness and mildness of declivity, however, we afterwards found were on the side by which Byron and Mary Chaworth had ascended it from her house; on this side it is a remarkably barren and extremely steep hill. However, up we went, and on the summit discovered the strict accuracy of his delineation of it.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth,Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,Green, and of mild declivity; the last,As ’t were the cape of a long ridge of such,Save that there was no sea to lave its base,But a most living landscape, and the waveOf woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of menScattered at intervals, and wreathing smokeArising from such rustic roofs:—the hillWas crowned with a peculiar diademOf trees in circular array, so fixed,Not by the sport of Nature, but of man.

A most living landscape it is indeed, including all the objects so vividly here given; amongst them, the most conspicuous, the house of his living ancestors, and the house where he has joined them in death; and extending from the woody skirts of Sherwood Forest to the mill-crowned heights of Nottingham. By the way, a strange mistake of Moore’s here presented itself. Immediately after the passage just quoted, Byron proceeds to speak further of this young pair, andsays:—

Evennowshe loved another,And on the summit of that hill she stood,Looking afar, if yet her lover’s steedKept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

Moore, commenting on this, tells us that the image of the lover’s steed was suggested by the Nottingham race-ground,—a race-ground actually nine miles off, and moreover lying in a hollow and totally hidden from view; had the lady’s eyes, indeed, been so marvellously good as to discern a horse nine miles off! Mary Chaworth, in fact, was looking for her lover’s steed along the road as it winds up the common from Hucknall.

But a stranger discovery soon made us forget thisIrish bull. We had no sooner reached the summit of the hill, than to our inexpressible astonishment we found the very trees so strikingly pointed out in this most interesting poem, “the trees in circular array”—cut down! These trees, and none else, cut down! There were the trees crowning the whole length of the “long ridge” standing in their greyness; and there were the stumps of “the trees in circular array” in the earth at our feet! An immediate and irresistible conviction forced itself on our minds; but we write it not; we merely state the fact, that that memorable landmark of love, made interesting to every age by the poetry of passion, had been removed. Our indignation may be imagined when we found that not only had the trees been cut down, but there was an actual attempt to cut down the hill itself, by making a gravel-pit there;—of all places in the world, to think of making a gravel-pit on the top of that steep hill, when it might be got from the bottom of any hill in the neighbourhood. We have since been told that it was the intention of its present proprietor, the husband of Mary Chaworth, to have cut down all the trees upon that hill; but thathis design was prevented by the interference of his eldest son, to whom the estate descends by entail; and that he was compelled by the spirited conduct of the son, to plant the hill afresh; but he has complied with the letter, overlooking the spirit of the agreement, in the most perfect style, having planted the sides of the hill all over with fir-trees, so that it will in a short time shroud the place, and smother it completely from the view.[14]

[14]Mentioning the felling of these trees to a mechanic soon afterwards,—“Trees,” I added, “that might be seen so far.” “Seen, sir!” he exclaimed, “those trees were seen all over the world!” He meant through the medium of Byron’s poetry. It was an expression, and accompanied by an energy of feeling, that would have done honour to any man.

The indignation we felt on this occasion, perhaps, made us more sensibly alive to the character of the place. Byron, in some juvenile verses,exclaims—

Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren,Where my thoughtless childhood strayed,How the northern tempests warring,How! above thy tufted shade.

So strongly did the wind drive over this ridge, that we could scarcely make head against it; and remembering to have heard of a temple which formerly crowned this hill, but had been blown down either by tempest or war, we looked amongst the broken ground, and perceived considerable remains of masonry, probably the foundations of the temple: nor can a finer situation for such an erection be imagined.

The trees which crowned “the ridge,” and which, at a distance, appeared large, we soon saw, were of stunted growth, with tops curled, and sturdy, as if accustomed to wrestle with the tempests. An avenue of them stretched away into distant woods. Large decayed branches lay here and there beneath, indicating a solitude and neglect of the place pleasing to the imagination. Before us, across a descending slope—the hill of mild and green declivity—extended, right and left, noble woods; and in the midst of them, in the midst of a smaller crescent of wood, we descried the tall grey chimneys and ivy-covered walls and gables of the old Hall, and the top of the church-tower. We hastened down,—observing on our left, in an old forest-slope, a large herd of deer, which had a goodeffect,—and struck into a footpath that led directly up towards the house. As we drew nearer, the old building, hung with luxuriant ivy and shrouded among tall trees, far overtopping its tall chimneys; amid shrubberies of wondrous growth of evergreens, among which are conspicuous, three remarkable ilexes, with black-green foliage crowning their short thick black trunks, and with grassy openings sloping down to the warm south; struck us forcibly with its picturesque and silent beauty. We found ourselves now, apparently at the back of a high garden-wall, by the side of which ran a row of lime trees, which seemed at one time to have been pollarded and trained espalier-wise, but had now sent up heads of a luxuriant and fantastic growth. On our other hand, lay a wood, from which the thickets being cleared away, left us ample view of its ivy-mantled trees, and the ground beneath them one green expanse of dog’s-mercury and fresh leaves of the blue-bell. Tufts of primroses were scattered all about, and the wood-anemonies trembled in the wind. But over all, such a mantle of deep silence seemed cast, that it reminded us of some enchanted place in the fairy and forest-stories of Tieck.

At the top of this road, turning suddenly to the left, we found ourselves before

The massy gate of that old hall,

from which Byron declares that,

Mounting his steed he went his way,And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more.

But all was silent and lifeless. No person was to be discerned in the court to which it opened; there were no signs of life except in the cooing of some pigeons and the cawing of certain jackdaws. We went round the outbuildings into the churchyard, which is level with the top of the court-wall, and looks directly into it. We leaned over a massy parapet, and looked down into this court; the spell of an invincible silence seemed to cover the whole place. In the gravel walks which ran round the court, there were traces of carriage wheels; but you felt as if no carriage with the bustle and vivacity of active life could ever more enter there. In the centre of the grass-plot, a basin surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle, and which had doubtless once possessed the life and beautyof a fountain, now shewed only water, black, stagnant, and covered with masses of yellow moss. We were close to the house; its curtained windows gave it an air of habitation; but no sound nor visible indication of the presence of man was about it. We walked along the green and picturesque churchyard: the back of the buildings on this side of the court bounded part of it; they were in the last state of decay; wide gaps in the roof gave us a view into dark and dreary stables. We came to the farm-yard, also joining the churchyard: it had the same aspect of desertion. There was neither cattle nor ricks in it, but the brandreth, or frame on which a rick once stood, littered with decaying straw, and its air of desolation made more striking by a piece of old wooden balustrade cast upon it. There were barn-doors standing wide open; and the litter of the yard even appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human foot could have disturbed it for years. We descended from the churchyard, and went round the farm-buildings once more towards the old “massy gate.” At the back of these buildings were nailed the trophies of the gamekeeper by hundreds, we might, we think, say thousands; wild cats, dried to blackness, stretched their downward heads and legs from the wall; hawks, magpies, and jays, hung in tattered remnants; but all grey and even green with age; and the heads of birds in plenteous rows, nailed beak upward, were dried and shrivelled by the sun, and winds, and frosts, of many summers and winters, till their distinctive characters were lost. They all seemed to speak the same silent language:—to say, Ay, this was once the abode of a prosperous old family; here were abundance of friends, and dependents going to and fro; horses and hounds going forth in vociferous joy; abroad was the chase and the sound of the gun,—within were spits turning, and good fellowship; but all this is long since over—a blight and a sorrow have fallen here.

We now approached the “massy gateway” by a wide entrance, which a pair of great doors had once closed—one of these had fallen from its hinges, and the other swung in the wind, banging against its post with a hollow sound, whose echoes told of vacancy. Above the gateway, the vane on the cupola turned to and fro in the gusty air, with a dreary queek-quake, queek-quake: all besideswas still. We stood and looked at each other with an expression that said,—Did you ever see any thing like this? At this moment an old grey dog came softly out of the court—the first living thing we had seen except the jackdaws and the pigeons; quietly he came, as if he too felt the nature of his abode. It was with no vivacity of action, or noisy bark: he stood and silently wagged his tail; and as we drew near him, as silently retreated into the court. We entered this silent place, and looked around. The house formed its western end; stables and coach-houses formed its north and eastern sides; the south was open to the shrubbery. The ivy hung in huge masses from all the walls. In the eastern end was the “massy gateway” mentioned by Byron, arched over, and surmounted by a clock and cupola. So profoundly lifeless and deserted seemed the place, that though the clock-finger pointed to the true time of the day—exactly half-past twelve o’clock—our imaginations refused for some time to believe that the clock could actually be going: we felt positive astonishment when it proved to us that it really did.

We now resolved to ascertain at the house itself, if it had any living inhabitants; and on approaching the hall-door, we heard a sound in a stable; we went in, and descried, in a dismal room adjoining it, a man sitting by a fire in a corner, and a dog lying on the hearth. The man and the place were alike forlorn. They were dirty, squalid, desolate. We had said, who could have supposed so abandoned a spot so near Nottingham? but who could have imagined so wild and banditti-like a being as that man, within so short a distance of a large town? His dress and person had every character of reckless neglect; his black hair hung about his pale face; he had no handkerchief about his neck; he sate and devoured his dinner, which he appeared to have cooked with his own hands, looking up at us with ruffian stupidity, as he answered our questions with a surly bluntness, without ceasing to help himself, with a large pocket-knife, and no fork, to his meal. He told us we could not see the house—master never let it be seen. When asked, why? he could not tell—but it was so; but we might ask the old woman in the house. Away we went, and a jewel of an old woman we found.

She was the verybeau idealof an old servant; all simplicity andfidelity, full of the history of the family; wrapped up in its fortunes and its honours—a part and parcel of the race and place, for she had been in the family above sixty years,—being taken, as she said, when she was ten years old, by Mary Chaworth’s grandfather, and put to school, and taught to read and write, to mark and to flower; for she would, he said, be a nice sharp girl to wait on him. “Oh! he was a pretty man—a very pretty, well-behaved gentleman,” said she with a sigh. Old Nanny Marsland, for such was her name, seemed a pure and unsophisticated creature; the regular influx of visiters had not spoiled her; the curious and the pert, and the idle, the insolent and the foolish, had not troubled the clear sincere current of her thoughts; had not made her heart and spirit turn inward, in self-defence, and converted her into the subtle and parrot shew-woman.

She never dreamt of any thing being blameable that had been done by any ofthe family. She delighted to talk of the Hall and its people; and feeling her solitude,—for she was the sole regular occupant,—some one to talk to was a luxury. Could we have hoped for a creature more to our hearts’ desire? Under her guidance we progressed through this most interesting old place; thoughts and feelings, never to be forgotten, springing up at every step.

The house is not large; and desertion had stamped within, the same characters as on all without. Damp had disfigured the walls; a fire of cheerful pine-logs blazed in the hall and in the kitchen; but everywhere else was the chill and gloom of the old neglected mansion. All the more modern furniture, and most of the paintings, had been removed, and thereby the keeping of the abode was but the better preserved. We know not how to describe the feelings with which we traversed these rooms. It was as if the hall of one of our old English families had been hidden beneath a magic cloud for ages, and suddenly revealed to our eyes, now, at a time when every thing belonging to this country is so much changed;—houses, men, manners, and opinions. When we entered the old-fashioned family hall, standing as it stood ages ago, furnished as it was ages ago, with its antique stove, its antique sofas, if so they can be called, made of wood carved, and curiously painted, and cushioned with scarlet, standing on each side of the fire; theantique French timepiece on its bracket; its various old cabinets and tables standing by walls; and its floor of large and small squares of alternating black marble and white stone—the domestic sanctuary of a race whom we regard as our progenitors, but widely different to ourselves, seemed suddenly revealed to us, and we could almost have expected to see the rough, boisterous squire, or the stately baron, issue from one of the side-doors; or to hear the rustling of the silken robe of some long-waisted dame, who could occasionally leap a five-barred gate as readily as she could dance at the Christmas festival; or one of high and solemn beauty, in whom devotion, deep, uninquiring and undoubting, was the great principle and passion of life; to whom the domestic chapel was a holy place; the chaplain her daily counsellor; and the distribution of alms her daily occupation. We saw before us the hearthstone of a race that lived in the full enjoyment of aristocratic ascendancy, when rank was old and undisputed; when neither mercantile wealth had pressed on their nobility on the one hand, nor popular knowledge and rights on the other; when the gentry lived only to be reverenced and obeyed, every one in the midst of his own forests and domains as a king, and led forth his tenants and serfs to the wars of his country, or to the chase of his own wide wilds; when field sports and jovial feastings, and love-making, were the life-employment of men and women, who took rank and power as an unquestioned heritage, and never troubled their brain with gathering knowledge: and all below them were supposed to be happy, because they were ignorant and submissive.

This hall, which occupies the centre of the building, is nearly sixty feet long by thirty wide, supported by two elliptic arches and Ionic pillars. The middle of the room is now occupied by a billiard-table, which formerly stood in an upper room, called the terrace-room, of which we shall speak presently. The great door, entering from the porch, was secured by a massy bar of wood which had been rudely let into the walls at each end, at the time of the riots of the Reform Bill, when Nottingham Castle was burnt, and when the mob were expected here, who owed the proprietor a piece of retribution, and actually attempted to burn his house at Colwick; whence his wife, Mary Chaworth, only escaped by being carried from her bed, where illness had long confined her, and hidden for somehours in the shrubbery during excessive rain, and afterwards conveyed across the Trent in a boat. At the lower end of this hall an easy flight of steps leads to the upper apartments. Near the fire, at the upper end, a few steps lead into a beautiful little breakfast-room, which looks out into the garden, and forms one of the projections of the building, the staircase at the lower end forming the other: the three large, old-fashioned windows which light the hall, lying on this side, and looking out into a little parterre, fenced off with a trellis-fence, even with the two projections we have spoken of—such a parterre as one often meets with, belonging to old houses—a little favoured sanctuary of garden-ground, where choice flowers were trained, and which was the especial care of page and gardener, before ladies took to gardening themselves. This, which is now a perfect wilderness, almost overrun with shrubs and the tall tree-like laurels which encumber wall and window, and almost exclude daylight from the hall, to the great annoyance of our good old woman, was once, as was fitting, the favourite flower-garden of Mary Chaworth.

The little breakfast-room we mentioned, looks out not only by a side window into the parterre, but also by two large low windows into the garden; a fine old garden, with a fine stately old terrace, one of the noblest it was ever our good fortune to see, and such a one as Danby or Turner would be proud to enrich their fine pictures with. In this room were a few family portraits. One a small full-length figure, which the old woman very significantly told us was Byron’s Chaworth; that is, the Chaworth killed by the poet’s grandfather in a duel. Another portrait she informed us was the last Lord Chaworth; for this estate, which had been in the family of the Annesleys from the time of the Conquest, came into that of Lord Viscount Chaworth of Armagh, in Ireland, by the marriage of one of his ancestors with the sole heiress, Alice de Annesley, in the reign of Henry VI. “And this,” she said, pointing to a female portrait, “was his lawful wife.” “What then,” we said, “there was an unlawful wife, was there?” “Yes,” she added, “she is here.” We glanced at the picture placed in the shady corner by the window, next, however, to Lord Chaworth, and exclaimed, “and a good judge was his Lordship too!” A creature of most perfect and wondrous beauty it was that webeheld. What a fine, rich, oval countenance and noble forehead slightly shaded by auburn locks! what large dark eyes of inexpressible expression! what a soft, delicate, yet beautiful and sunny complexion! what a beautiful rounding of the cheek, chin, and throat! what exquisite features! what a perfect mixture of nobility of mind, with elegance and simplicity of taste. Never did we behold a more enchanting vision of youth and beauty; and all this hidden for generations in a dark nook of this old hall, unmentioned, and unknown. It were worth a journey from London but to gaze upon. Beautiful as this portrait is, it represents a mole upon either cheek; but this, instead of detracting from the loveliness of the face, as might be imagined, only appears to give it character and individuality, and vouches for the fidelity of the likeness. The painting, too, is extremely well done; far superior to any thing else in the house, except it be the satin petticoat of a Miss Burdett in the terrace-room. “And who,” we inquired, “was this charming creature?” “She was a girl of the village, sir,” was the reply. “What! could the village produce a creature like her?” “Yes: his Lordship took her into the house as a servant; but she did not like him and went away; however, he got her afterwards, and built a house for her on the estate, and she had one child. But she died, poor thing! all was not right somehow; and all her money she put in a cupboard for her son,—they would shew you the cupboard in the house to this day; and on the very night she died, her own relations came and took away the money;—things weren’t as they should have been! and she came again.” “What, was this the lady that we have heard an old man say, came up out of a well, and sat in a tree by moonlight, combing her hair?” “No, Lord bless you! that was another; but the parsonlaid her, and the well is covered in; but for all that she walks yet!” We smiled at the good woman’s very orthodox belief in ghosts; but we know not whether we should not be apt to catch the contagion of superstitious feeling, if we were to dwell all alone in this old house as she does, and hear the winds howling and sighing about it at night; the long ivy rustling about the windows, and dashing against the panes; and the owls hooting about in many a wild, piercing, and melancholy tone; and feel oneself in the unparticipated solitude of those ancient rooms, with all their trains of sad memories.

Besides this portrait of the beautiful and unhappy Mrs. Milner, we bestowed a look of great interest on one of much attraction, the daughter of Viscount Chaworth—not beautiful, but full of the fascination of cultivated mind, and of a heart so living and loving, that it caused the eyelids to droop over their beamy orbs, with an expression that made you tremble for the peace of its possessor. One other picture attracted our attention from its singularity. It represents a landscape, apparently, “the hill of green and mild declivity,” the line of trees, and the trees in circular array, from among which rises the temple we spoke of before, and which our cicerone assured us had been considered “the finest in all England, but had been blown down in Oliver Cromwell’s days.” In the foreground stands, as if painted in enamel, a gentleman in a strange sort of dress-jerkin, of white satin, with a short petticoat of purple velvet bordered with gold lace. On his right hand his amazonian lady, half the head taller than himself, clad in a riding-dress of green, bordered likewise with gold-lace; and on either side of them a son, in the full dress of William and Mary’s reign; with powdered wigs, long lapped scarlet coats, waistcoats, and breeches, with white silk stockings on their neat little legs, and lace ruffles at their hands, each with his little head turned on one side;—the one caressing a fawn, the other a greyhound; and the family group completed by the groom standing a little behind, holding the lady’s palfrey ready saddled for her use. These, and a portrait of the son of Lord Chaworth, are all the family pictures which the house contains.

Leaving then this room, we re-crossed the hall, and ascending the staircase at the lower end, entered the drawing-room, which is over the hall—a handsome room, and the best furnished in the house. The most interesting piece of furniture it contains, or perhaps, which the house itself contains, is a screen covered over with a great number of cuttings in black paper, done by a Mrs. Goodchild, and representing a great variety of family incidents and character—those little passing incidents in life, which, though rarely chronicled, are most influential on its fortunes—on which often its very destiny hangs. The receipt of a letter—the first meeting—the last parting—how much do these things involve! Here we were introduced to Mary Chaworth, the lovely andgraceful maiden, full of hope, and life, and gaiety; with her friends and dependents about her; at the very time when Lord Byron became attached to her. Of the accuracy of this likeness we have no doubt, from the wonderful fidelity of some of the others, with whose persons we are acquainted.

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