ASHBY-DE-LA-ZOUCH CASTLE.

ASHBY-DE-LA-ZOUCH CASTLE.

Ashby-de-la-Zouch is a small market town in Leicestershire, pleasantly situated in a fertile vale, on the skirts of the adjoining county of Derbyshire, on the banks of a small liver called the Gilwiskaw, over which is a handsome stone bridge. The original name of this town was simply Ashby, but it acquired the addition of De-la-Zouch, to distinguish it from other Ashbys, from the Zouches, who were formerly lords of this manor, which after the extinction of the male line of that family, in the first year of the reign of Henry IV. came to Sir Hugh Burnel, knight of the garter, by his marriage with Joice, the heiress of the Zouches. From him it devolved to James Butler, earl of Ormond and Wiltshire; who being attainted on account of his adherence to the party of Henry VI. it escheated to the crown, and was, in the first year of Edward IV. granted by that king to Sir William Hastings, in consideration of his great services; he was also created a baron, chamberlain of the household; captain of Calais, and knight of the garter, and had license to make a park and cranellate, or fortify several of his houses, amongst which was one at this place, which was of great extent, strength, and importance, and where he and his descendants resided for about two hundred years. It was situated on the south side of the town, on a rising ground, and was chiefly composed of brick and stone; the rooms were spacious and magnificent, attached to which was a costly private chapel. The building had two lofty towers of immense size, one of them containing a large hall, great chambers, bedchambers, kitchen, cellars, and all other offices. The other was called the kitchen tower. Parts of the wall of the hall, chapel, and kitchen, are still remaining, which display a grand and interesting mass of ruins; the mutilated walls being richly decorated with doorways, chimney-pieces, windows, coats of arms, and other devices. In this, castle, the unfortunate and persecuted Mary queen of Scots, who has given celebrity to so many castles and old mansions, by her melancholy imprisonment beneath their lofty turrets, was for some time confined, while in the custody of the earl of Huntingdon. In the year 1603, Anne, consort of James I. and her son, prince Henry, were entertained by the [pg 50] earl of Huntingdon at this castle, which was at that time the seat of much hospitality. It was afterwards honoured by a visit from that monarch, who remained here for several days, during which time dinner was always served up by thirty poor knights, with gold chains and velvet gowns. In the civil wars between king Charles and his parliament, this castle was deeply involved, being garrisoned for the king; it was besieged by the parliamentary forces, and although it was never actually conquered, (from whence the garrison obtained the name of Maiden,) it was evacuated and dismantled by capitulation in the year 1648.

For the spirited engraving of the ruins of this famous castle, we acknowledge ourselves indebted to our obliging friend S.I.B. who supplied us with an original drawing.

THE AUTHOR OF "LACON."

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

SIR,—The following additional particulars respecting the celebrated author of "Lacon," may not be unacceptable to your readers, as a sequel to the interesting account of that eccentric individual inserted at p. 431, in your recently completed volume.

It will be in the recollection of many, that about the period of the murder of Weare, by Thurtel, Mr. Colton suddenly disappeared from among his friends, and no trace of him, notwithstanding the most vigilant inquiry, could be discovered. As Weare's murder produced an unprecedented sensation in the public mind, it gave rise to a variety of reports against the perpetrators of that horrible crime, imputing to them other atrocities of a similar kind. It is needless now to say that most of these suspicions were wholly without foundation.

It was at length ascertained, that Mr. C., finding himself embarrassed with his creditors, had taken his departure for America, where he remained about two years, travelling over the greater part of the United States; and it is much to be desired that he would favour the public with the result of his observations during his residence in that country; as probably no person living is qualified to execute such a task with more shrewdness, judgment, or ability.

He is now residing at Paris, where he has been about two years and a half, and where I had frequently the pleasure of meeting him during the last winter, and of enjoying the raciness of his conversation, which abounds in wit, anecdote, and an universality of knowledge. It is too well known that he is not unaddicted to the allurements of the gaming table, and it is understood among his immediate friends, that he has been—what few are—successful adventurer, having repaired in the saloons of Paris, in a great degree, the loss he sustained by the forfeiture of his church livings. His singular coolness, calculation, and self-mastery, give him an advantage in this respect over, perhaps, every other votary of the gaming table.

Mr. Colton has an excellent taste for the fine arts, and has expended considerable sums in forming a picture gallery. Every nook of his apartment is literally covered with the treasures of art, including many of the chefs d'oeuvres of the great masters, and many valuable paintings are placed on the floor for want of room to suspend them against the wainscot. I may here observe, that his present domicile does not exactly correspond with that described as his former "castle" in London, inasmuch as it is part of a royal residence, it being on the second floor, on one side of the quadrangle of the Palais Royal, overlooking the large area of that building, and opposite to the jet d'eau in the centre. But his habits and mode of dress appear to be unchanged. He has only one room; he keeps no servant, (unless a boy to take care of his horse and cabriolet); he lights his own fire, and, I believe, performs all his other domestic offices himself. But, notwithstanding these whimsicalities, he is generous, hospitable and friendly. He still, when a friend "drops in," produces a bottle or two of the finest wines and a case of the best cigars, of which he is a determined smoker.

I will only add, that he continues to employ himself in literary composition. Among other pieces not published in England, he has written an ode on the death of Lord Byron, a copy of which he presented me, but which I unfortunately lent—and lost. A small edition was printed at Paris for private circulation. He has also written an unpublished poem in the form of a letter from Lord Castlereagh in the shades, to Mr. Canning on earth, the caustic severity of which, in the opinion of those who have heard it read, is equal to that of any satire in the English language. I remember only the two first lines—

"Dear George, from these Shades, where no wine's to be had.
But where rivers of flame run like rivers run mad."

And the following, in allusion to the instrument with which Lord C. severed the carotid artery, and which was the means of producing such a change in the destiny [pg 51] of the present prime minister, who was then on the eve of going out to India as governor-general,—

"Have you pensioned the Jew boy that sold me the knife?"

It is to be lamented that such a man should be an exile from his native country.—But I draw a veil over the rest, and sincerely hope that his absence from England will not be perpetual.

* * *

THE DEAD TRUMPETER.

TO ILLUSTRATE A CELEBRATED FRENCH PICTURE.

(For the Mirror.)

'Tis evening! the red rayless sun
  Glares fiercely on the battle plain;—
Morn saw the deadly fray begun,
  Morn heard thy bugle wake a strain,
Poor soldier! and its warning breath
Call'd thee, and myriads to death!

Thou wert thy mother's darling, thou,
  Light to thy father's failing eyes;
Thou wert thy sisters' dearest! now
  What art thou? something to despise
Yet tremble at; to hide, and be
Forgot, but by their misery!

Thou wert the beautiful! the brave!
  Thou wert all joy, and love, and light;
But oh! thy grace was for the grave,
  Thy dawning day, for mornless night!
And thou, so loving, so carest
Hast sunk—unpitied—unblest!

Yes, warrior! and the life-stream flows
  Yet from thee, in thy foe-man's land,
Welling before the gate of those
  Who should stretch forth a kindly hand
To save th' unhonour'd, friendless dead
From rushing legion's scouring tread.

Friendless poor soldier?—nay thy steed
  Stands gazing on thee, with an eye
Too piteous: he felt thee bleed,—
  He saw thee, dropping from him,—die!
And in thine helpless, lorn estate,
He cannot leave thee, desolate.

Nor thy poor dog, whose anxious gaze,
  On helm and bugle's lowly place,
Speaks his deep sorrow and amaze!
  He, watching yet, thine icy face
Licks thy pale forehead with a moan
To tell thee—Thou art not alone!

M. L. B.