The record-union., 1891-02-15

drop tear on poor old Ben's grave. But
as the draper had only been in HuclSnall
| Torkard for the matter of eighteen
months, he could not tell me about
| 'tother un!''
After this I made my way in silence to
the churchyard. A high iron fence sur
rounded 1t. The gate was locked, and
the graye-bordered walk leading to the
church entrance seemed suggestive OF
dlsuse OF the place either for the solace of
me ilvlng or care of the dead. Dreading
further Inquiries of the villagers, / walked
around the dark and drear old spot hop
ing to ind some way Of entrance alone.
rms was unavailing. Returning to the
gate, L saw across the open space below
the square crowd of bedraggled women
and children watching my movements
attentively. One with a babe at her breast
and three little ones pulling at her ragged
| skirts, held aloft some huge, jangling
| keys. Hhen the crowd laughed at the sip-
mailing and my shame-faced nod of acuui-
escence, and part of its hungry mem bers
advanced to the gate. They were scrawny.
/ savage creatures all, with bare feet
breasts, head and with troop of wolfish
young tagging after. l bought them all
of save the one with the keys on condi-
ton that the gate should be locked after
us; and by the time my guide and her
| brood had effected this, every one of her
former companions had disappeared with
|
| shops Of the square below.
| That one could make such pilgrimage
| IN England to the shrine of any one of
her mighty dead, and find it within such
pitiably mean and abject surroundings, is
degrading reproach on the whole Eng
.lish-speaking race. Only the ghouls
| who have ceaselessly besmirched Byron,s
cry out with pain and outraged grief at
| the endless taunt and shame of this in
credible belittlement.
| The sodden woman, dawdling her KEYS
| beside me and staring vacuously at the
meager light above the chancel, was fit
ting' type OF the insensate forgetfulness
| and oblivion to which these poor relics of
one possessing sublime genius have been
doomed. l asked her falteringly if a
great many visitors did not come to st.
Mary's. She "'ad not 'eered it," if it
| Were so. But were there not in, say, a
years time 1000 or 5000? She laughed
| outright, and informed me that not
enough came to provide any decent fam
| lily with "a pint day" This was a new
view OF it. Byron's grave not worth, for
income, pint of beer day! Well, were
there 1000? She shook her head con-
temptuously. Did 500 come each year?
Were there 250?
''Niver fluffy (fifty), mon, on'y Wen th'
restoration do be.'
This restoration occurred in 1883. 1t
is sounding, significant word. The lit
tie old church was then ruin with the
exception of the tower. Apparently not
81 600 was expended. The walls are up
again. The roof is whole. A common
place east window is standing above the
altar. A tiny chancel was added, and
little boxes of transeptS were put in. AT
the right of the chancel, above the choir,
is this memorial tablet:
In the vault beneath, where many
of his ancestors and his mother are buried
Lie the remains of
George Gordon Noel Byron,
Lord Byron of RockdaIe,
In the county of Lancaster,
The Author of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"
He was born in London on the
22d of January, 17SS.
He died at MisSolonghi, in Western Greece
on the 10th of April, 1924,
Engaged in the glorious attempt to restore that
country to her ancient freedom and renown.
His sister, the Honorable
Augusta Mary Leigh,
Placed this tablet to his memory.
There are also q small tablet in mem
ory of Byron's daughter, Augusta Ada,
who became the Countess OF Lovelace,
and died in 1852 at the age of Sc, Just her
fathers age at death; mural monuments
OF the second Lord Byron and his six
sons, and the Indictments of the poets
mother. These are the only adornments
of the bare walls of st. Mary's. But the
most intense and solemn interest of the
dreary place is where you will kneel,
just within the chancel-rail upon the
raised stone floor. Set in this chancel-
pave is a square block of rare Rosso
Antique marble, gift of the King of
Greece. 1t is about two feet square.
Upon this marble, within a wreath of
laurel wrought in brass, is the simple
inscriptions:
BYRON,
Born
Jan. %, 17ss,
Died
April 10, 1924.
Beneath this is the Byron vault, now
hermetically sealed. Besides the scat
tered bones of his wild and reckeless an
ceStors the vault contains the remains OF
the poet, preserved in lead coffin, which
rests directly underneath the tablet, and
the. bodies of his unhappy-tempered
mother to the right hand, and of his
daughter Ida = sole daughter of my
house and heart'-on the left.
All this can be learned from the parish
register, a quaint old parchment book,
dating from the time of Henry I'LL, DE
fender of the Faith" The fact and date
recall that on the dissolution, in 1910, a
certain Sir John Byron, Lieutenant of
Sherwood Forest, was given the priory of
Newstead and all its tithes and possess
sions. The old abbey being ruined by
the savage brutality of the RoundheadS,
this insignificant chapel of that time be-
came the place of worship, and, finally,
as the ownership of the seat of the Byrons
twice passed into the hands of strangers,
the burial place of the fated line. Go back
through all its history and there will be
nothing found but irascability, insanity,
homicide and regicide. The wonder is
not that the poet Byron was no more
calm and steadtast soul. The marvel is
that from the heart and brain of any one
OF the line could come so supreme a bat
tie against the accursed taint of heredity,
enabling the enmeshed blood, brain and
soul, in so brief a struggle, to add such
supassing luster to the pages Of genius.
That is the only just attitude in which
any one can approach the study of the
poetry, the literature, above all the char
acter of Byron, or in which the con-
science should permit any right-minded
person to kneel at this almost unknown
and wholly unhonored grave.
When you recall that the remains of
this great poet were refused admission to
the stately portals of st. PauFs and West
minister; when you learn, as you may
from the aplysia- Drained first families of
Nottinghamshire, that mo more is made
of Byron's grave, because he was never
quite approved of in Notts,'' and when
you leave the spot. standing in the desc
late churchyard of st. Mary's, you shud-
deringly contemplate the mental and ma
terial beaStlineSs and CRIME of this
shrine's environment, it will all remain
one of the saddest memories of your life.
And it is heart-aching thing that, in the
infinite compassion with which human
kind is wont to hold its dead, the ashes of
Byron could not at least have been
placed near the murmurous waters and
the gray walls of the wraith-peopled
Newstead he SO loved and mourned.
| Englishmen are not themselves if this
meager tribute to an Englishman of i'm
! mortal fame be not sometime bestowed.
EDGAR l.. WAKEMAN.
The Seamless Corsage.