The morning call., 1891-02-15
A Search for the Last Resting Place
ola Poet Known the W0TldOVer.
MOST EXTRAORDINARY IGNORANCE.
Found at Last in St. Mary Magdalel'S Church at
HlCkHall TOrkaTd-What There Is to
Tell Where Are the Remains Of The
Author Of Clilda Ha0ld'S Pilgrimage
Less Than Fifty a Year Visit The Place.
Special to THE SUNDAY CALL

1S9l.-ln railway carriage between Bal
reuth and Nuren. burg, l once heard little
Bavaran schoolgirl ask a travelled Phila-
delphian where the great and good Benjamin
Franklin was buried. Gracious and prompt
as we Americans always are in supplying
effete Europeans with information. he
promptly answered tina: Franklin's ashes
reposed in Westminster Abbey.
This American man was undoubtedly
born within half mile of Franklin's tomb
in his own city. and may have passed within
a few feet of the meanly kept unhOnOred
grave nearly every day of his own home
life. Englishmen may cherish the heritage
TO Britain of ByrOn's immortal genius; but
Byron's grave is no more a shrine to them
than was Franklin's to his townsman.
This may seem incredible to intelligent
Americans. The gradually acquired Iecog-
milton of its truth was astounding to me.
AS probably to millions Of others who. at
some period of life, have adoringy pored
over the pages Of Byron, it was forgiyabe
dream Of youth and early manhood to some
day come TO the scenes he knew, walk the
very ground he trOd in England, dream in
the same monk-wraithed cloisters of New
stead, and then, at his grave, through the
infinite spirt-reach of loving memory,
bTooding by consecrated soil, endeayOr to
fathom for my own consciousness, with just
measurement of his career and genius. the
wretched mystery of his sad and unhappy
life.
Indeed, for the past FIVE years, in fire.
quenty passing through, or during periods
OF travel in England, this wish and impulse
have been uppermOSt in my mind, and what
ever else engaged attention for the time be-
ing, my stereotyped inquiry of all classes of
Englishmen has been, Where is the grave
of ByrOn?
A SIMILAR vAGUENEss.
Though l had come to know, In a geo
graphical sense, ] found it was with similar
vaEueness any other body knew at all: and
20 few knew even this poor bit about where
Byron y that the repetition of the QueS-
ton and the replies came to possess mel
ancholv sort of fascination. Over 1000 an
swered "At Westminster; half that num-
Der "At Newstead Abbey" Many believed
his remains rest d in Greece. An astonish-
ingly large number were Sorely puzzled al
the query and confessed complete igno-
rance. OF course, any English guide-book
would answer the question. But guide
books are Tor strangers, no residents. bnd
to whatever stranger may have accidentally
seen the 'WO OF three line statement that the
tomb of Byron might be found at the little
church of Hucknall, in Hucknall Torkard,
NottnghaWshire, there came q sense of re-
pellaDt indefnitene,S; as though The guide
bOok-maker were not quite certain OF the
matter himself. Even If the statement were
accepted as q true one, where then might
one hunt for the unknown hamlet with so
myStifying a name as Hucknall Torkard?
While wandering in Robin Hoods Land
lunconsciously passed many times within
few miles OF the spot where rep0se the
ashes of Byron. But there is no one in the
region to cali the strangers attention to the
fact. He would hardly discover it at New
stead Abbey, three miles distant, once the
poets property and home. Nobody at
Arnold, four miles away, even among the
owners q the looms and spindles, can tell
you how to find Hurknall Torkard, or why
anybody should wish to find it. The COL
liery town itself is perhaps eight miles
north of Nottingham. But one might ask
1000 Of that city 100000 people without as
eertaning just where to find the place; and
inquire OF a good many more than that be-
fore discovering that the town possessed
anything but colliers and coal After l
had finally made sure HucknalI Tork-
ard was near Nottingham. and that
perhaps some man ." OF quality" was
buried there, as it was " famously I'M
healthy" ! was then twice sent over wrong
railway lines To tind it. Then I tramped. 4
two hours walk through the dreariest of
English half-manufacturing villages, over
the worst Eigaway in England, brought me
past dreary, moOr-like reaches and scraggy,
unlovely fields, to an utterly cherries col
lection Of half cottages and shops. These
were low, cramred, inadequate, unsightly.
The houses we're piHched sidewiSe, endwise
up ard down. The windows and doors
were pinched. Passage-ways, wynds, closes,
alleys and shOns all were pinched and mean
and small Everything exposed for sale
seemed sparse, little and shrivrled. The
faces Of the old women, slatternly wives,
and hosts Of dirty children rolling in door
ways and On pavements with piIched and
ragged haired ours were punched more
sadly than all else in the poor pinched
place.
WHERE COAL BARoNs HUBBLE.
It was one of those many places in
Europe, and, less credit to us, in our own
country, where coal barons huddle and herd
families at profit, after first prOtting to the
extent OF human endurance from the use of
vast aggregate dependent labor. 1t was
HucEnal ToTkard, where 5000 miners dig
1000 yards under grass" for ceal for q
shiilinEs week for half the weeks in the
year, aud starve. with their families, the
other half. Every structure was of brick.
Every object was besmeared with the faint
Of coal. Even the struggling outlying streets
and the fiat, clayey country around, utterly
hedgelesS and treeiess, seemed to have the
filth and CRIME Of the locality ground into it.
But one object within the horizon disk
gave relief to the hard miserable feature
of every visible thing in Hucknall Tork-
ard. Away down the long, colOrless
street, nearly mile away, rose huge Nor
man tower. II was dark and grim, and
frowned upon the town and the mean little
church beneath 1t as if sensitive of its sod
den and insensate surroundings. You will
see hundred towers like it, occlesiastic
brothers of hoary age, from Penzance to
Penrlth, all over England They defy time
Ike the Round Towers of Ireland, and their
origin in essential or decorative architecture
Is almost as inscrutable. Picturesque they
are against the horizon of an English land
seape as the suggestive spire in the glorious
cleaning OF Millets "Angelus"; but their
age aud strength are all else of merit they
possess; for, like this one of ST. Mary Mag
dalen's Church at HucRnall Torkard, they
are all Of more consequence In space than
the little broken backed, chapel like
churches they quite overshadow.
Ii 1t was In that little church with the big
tower where Byron lay buried nobody in
hucknal Torkard seemed able to disclose
II inquired here and there of those met
and was either laughed at or informed that
while they would not deny, it was very wide
OF their habit to assert what they did not
know.
COULD NOT TELL
"Ah % could ma tell ee, mon. Vicar Phil
lips maun tell eel' came from all VINO could
speak. At little shops as progressed along
the street, l WAS told to ask at the next
door: and groups gathered behind me to
tap their noses and shake their heads
gravely. To be badgered thus when search
d ing for the grave of one known to all the
world, yet unknown to the thousands within
rifles Of his own sculpture, was confus-
Ing In Indignation and regret. Half way up
the street l took refuge from curious and
suspicious eyes in diapers on pretense Of
some slight purchase, and engaged the pro-
prietor, man Of apparently good inteli-
genee, in conversation Explaining my
dilemma. l apologetically related how an
other upon time had come to Hucknall
Torkard, hunting Byron's grave, and was
net By one Of the inhabitants with the re-
{oinder, "ByronP All niver 'eerd on i'm.
Yer means Ben Caunt." Ben Caunt was
noted pugilist. Anybody In Nottingham.
shire can tell you where his grave is In st.
Nary's Church-yard A look of kindling
inteliigence and sympathy came into the
while he told me that very many came to
drop tear on poor old Ben's grave But
% the draper had only been In Hucknall
Torkard for the matter Of eighteen month.
he could not tell me about "tother unp'