The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 279, October 20, 1827

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 279, October 20, 1827
Various

Various

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction / Volume 10, No. 279, October 20, 1827

BRAMBLETYE HOUSE

On the borders of Ashdown Forest, in the county of Sussex, stands the above picturesque ruin of Brambletye House, whose lettered fame may be dated from the publication of Mr. Smith's novel of that name, in January, 1826. The ruin has since attracted scores of tourists, as we were, on our recent visit, informed by the occupier of the adjoining farm-house; which circumstance coupled with the high literary success of Mr. Smith's novel, has induced us to select Brambletye House for the illustration of our present number.

Brambletye, or, as it is termed in Doomsday Book, Brambertie House, after the conquest, became the property of the Earl of Mortain and Cornwall, forming part of the barony then conferred upon him, and subsequently denominated the honour of the eagle. Passing into possession of the Andehams, Saint Clares, and several others, it came into the occupation of the Comptons, towards the beginning of the seventeenth century; and from the arms of that family impaling those of Spencer, still remaining over the principal entrance, with the date 1631 in a lozenge, it is conjectured that the old moated edifice (represented in the annexed vignette) which had hitherto been the residence of the proprietors, was abandoned in the reign of James I., by Sir Henry Compton, who built the extensive and solid baronial mansion, commonly known by the name of Brambletye House.

"From their undaunted courage and inflexible loyalty to the Stuarts," says the novelist, "the Comptons had been heavy sufferers, both in purse and person, during the eventful progress of the civil wars. The Earl of Northampton, the head of the family, and nephew to Sir Henry, the presumed builder of Brambletye, had four sons, officers under him, whereof three charged in the field at the battle of Hopton Heath, and the eldest, Lord Compton, was wounded. The Earl himself, refusing to take quarter from the rascally Roundheads, as he indignantly termed them, even when their swords were at his throat, was put to death in the same battle; and the successor to his title, with one of his brothers, finally accompanied the royal family in their exile. Sir John Compton, a branch of this family, having preserved much of his property from the committee of sequestration, displayed rather more splendour than fell to the lot of most of the cavaliers who took an equally conspicuous part against the parliament armies. Although never capable of any regular defence, yet the place being hastily fortified, refused the summons of the parliamentarian colonel, Okey, by whom it Was invested; but it was speedily taken, when sad havoc was committed by the soldiery, all the armorial bearings, and every symbol of rank and gentility, being wantonly mutilated or destroyed."

In the time of the commonwealth, Brambletye was the focus of many a cavalier conspiracy. "From its not being a place of any strength or notice, it was imagined that Brambletye might better escape the keen and jealous watchfulness, which kept the protector's eye ever fixed upon the strong holds and defensible mansions of the nobility and gentry; while its proximity to the metropolis, combined with the seclusion of its situation, adapted it to any enterprize which required at the same time secrecy, and an easy communication with the metropolis."

In the novel just quoted, which is altogether a pleasant assemblage of historical facts, aided by the imaginative garniture of the author, the denouement is brought about by the explosion of a gunpowder vault which destroyed part of the mansion; and on the marriage of his hero and heroine Brambletye House was abandoned to its fate; "and the time that has intervened since its desertion," says our author, "combining with the casualty and violence by which it was originally shattered and dismantled, has reduced it to its present condition of a desolate and forlorn ruin."

A visit to Brambletye was the immediate object of our journey, and though a distance of thirty-three miles, we considered ourselves amply requited by the pensive interest of the scene and its crowded associations. In our childhood we had been accustomed to clamber its ruins and tottering staircases with delight, not to say triumph; heedless as we then were of the historical interest attached to them. After a lapse of a score and – years, the whole scene had become doubly attractive. A new road had been formed from East Grinstead to Forest Row, from which a pleasant lane wound off to Brambletye. We are at a loss to describe our emotions as we approached the ruin. It was altogether a little struggle of human suffering. Within two hundred years the mansion had been erected, and by turns became the seat of baronial splendour and of civil feuds,—of the best and basest feelings of mankind;—the loyalty and hospitality of cavaliers; the fanatic outrages of Roundheads; and ultimately of wanton desolation! The gate through which Colonel Lilburne and his men entered, was blocked up with a hurdle; and the yard where his forces were marshalled was covered with high flourishing grass; the towers had almost become mere shells, but the vaulted passages, once stored with luxuries and weapons, still retained much of their original freshness. What a contrast did these few wrecks of turbulent times present with the peaceful scene by which they were surrounded, viz. a farm and two water-mills—on one side displaying the stormy conflict of man's passion and petty desolation—and on the other, the humble attributes of cheerful industry. We strove to repress our feelings as we entered the principal porch, where by an assemblage of names of visiters scribbled on the walls, and not unknown to us, we learnt that, we were not the first to sympathize with the fate of Brambletye!

Within these few years, through a sort of barbarous disregard for their associations, the lodge and the greater part of the wall represented in our engraving, has been pulled down! and the moated house has lately shared the same fate—for the sake of their materials—cupidity in which we rejoiced to hear the destroyers were disappointed—their intrinsic worth not being equal to the labour of removing them: the work of destruction would, however, have extended to the whole of the ruins had not some guardian hand interfered. It will be seen that the moated house was furnished with a ponderous drawbridge and other fortifying resources; from the licentious character of its founders it was consequently haunted many years before its removal.

In East Grinstead we learned that the Comptons were a noble family, and traditions of their hospitality are current amongst the oldest inhabitants of that town.[1 - For the loan of the drawing (made in 1780), whence the first engraving is copied, we are indebted to the kindness of a gentleman of East Grinstead; and for the sketch of the latter to an affectionate relative.]

BATTLE HYMN

Imitated from the German of Theodore Korner.[2 - See "Select Biography," page 199, present Volume of the MIRROR.]

(For the Mirror.)

Father, in mercy hear
A youthful warrior's prayer.
Thundering cannons are roaring around me:
Carnage and death, and destruction surround me;
God of eternal power.
Guide me in this dread hour!
Guide me in this dread hour
God of eternal power!
Lead me, base Tyranny manfully braving,
Onwards to where Freedom's banner is waving—
To death—or victory;
I bow to thy decree!
I bow to thy decree,
In death or victory!
'Mid the loud din of the battle's commotion,
When Nature smiles, or when storms rend the ocean,
Lord of the brave and just
In thee I'll put my trust!
In thee I'll put my trust,
Lord of the brave and just!
On thee, the fountain of goodness relying,
Whatever ills may come—living and dying
I will thy praise proclaim,
Blest be thy holy name.
Blest be thy holy name,
I will thy praise proclaim,
'Tis not for worldly ends we're contending,
Liberty's sacred cause we're defending,
And by thy might on high,
We'll conquer—or we'll die!
We'll conquer—or we'll die
By the great God on High.
When life's red stream from my bosom is swelling,
And the last sigh on my faint lip is dwelling,
Then Lord in mercy hear
A youthful warrior's prayer!

    J.E.S.

ENGLAND IN 827, 1827, 2827

(For the Mirror.)

One thousand years have now elapsed since Egbert laid the foundation of England's glory, by uniting the kingdoms of the heptarchy. What was England then? what is it now? what will it be in 2827?

In 827, how confined her empire, how narrow her limits, how few her resources; the lord and his vassals the only classes of society. In 1827, she may exclaim with the Spanish Philip, "The sun never sets upon my dominions." How difficult to mention the bounds of her empire, or to calculate the vastness of her resources! and still more difficult task to enumerate the gradations of society which modern refinement has produced. Where will this extended sway, this power, these resources, and these refinements be in 2827?

"Oh! for the glance of prophet's eye,
To scan thy depths, futurity."

Judging by the fate of nations, they will have passed away like a morning cloud. Look at the fame of Nineveh levelled in the dust. Search for the site of Babylon, with its walls and gates, its hanging gardens and terraces! Contemplate the ghost of the enlightened Athens, stalking through the ruins of her Parthenon, her Athenaeum, or Acropolis. Examine the shadow of power which now remains to the mighty Rome, the empress of the world. Even so will it be with England; ere ten centuries have rolled away, her sun-like splendour will illume a western world. Our stately palaces and venerable cathedrals, our public edifices and manufactories, our paintings and sculpture, will be fruitful subjects of conjecture and controversy to the then learned. And a fragment of a pillar from St. Paul's, or a mutilated statue from Westminster, will be as valuable to them as a column from the Temple of Belus, or a broken cornice from the Temple of Theseus, is now to us!

    D.A.H.

THE ROBIN

(For the Mirror.)

Hark to the robin—whistling clear—
The requiem of the dying year—
Amidst the garden bower.
He quits his native forest shade,
Ere ruin stern hath there display'd
Its desolating power.

He sings—but not the song of love—
No,—that is for the quick'ning grove—
The brightly budding tree.
And tho' we listen and rejoice;