The sexton of the Church of St. James and the parish clerk of Hucknall-Torkard was Mr. John Brown, and a man of sympathetic intelligence, kind heart, and interesting character I found him to be,—­large, dark, stalwart, but gentle alike in manner and feeling, and considerate of his visitor.  The pilgrim to the literary shrines of England does not always find the neighboring inhabitants either sympathetic with his reverence or conscious of especial sanctity or interest appertaining to the relics which they possess; but honest, manly John Brown of Hucknall-Torkard understood both the hallowing charm of the place and the sentiment, not to say the profound emotion, of the traveler who now beheld for the first time the tomb of Byron.  The church has been considerably altered since Byron was buried in it, 1824, yet it retains its fundamental structure and its ancient peculiarities.  The tower, a fine specimen of Norman architecture, dark, ragged, and grim, gives indication of great age.  It is of a kind often met with in ancient English towns; you can see its brothers at York, Shrewsbury, Canterbury, Worcester, Warwick, and in many places sprinkled over the northern heights of London; but amid its tame surroundings in this little colliery settlement it looms with a peculiar frowning majesty, a certain bleak loneliness, both unique and impressive.  The edifice is of the customary crucial form,—­a low stone structure, having a peaked roof, which is supported by four great pillars on each side of the center aisle.  The ceiling, which is made of heavy timbers, forms almost a true arch above the nave.  There are four large windows on each side of the nave, and two on each side of the chancel, which is beneath a roof somewhat lower than that of the main building.  Under the pavement of the chancel, and back of the altar rail,—­at which it was my privilege to kneel while gazing upon this sacred spot,—­is the grave of Byron....  Nothing is written on the stone that covers his sepulcher except the simple name of Byron with the dates of his birth and death, in brass letters, surrounded by a wreath of leaves in brass, the gift of the King of Greece; and never did a name seem more stately or a place more hallowed.  The dust of the poet reposes between that of his mother on his right hand, and that of his Ada,—­“sole daughter of my house and heart,”—­on his left.  The mother died on August 1, 1811; the daughter, who had by marriage become the Countess of Lovelace, in 1852.  “I buried her with my own hands,” said the sexton, John Brown, when, after a little time, he rejoined me at the altar-rail.  “I told them exactly where he was laid when they wanted to put that brass on the stone; I remembered it well, for I lowered the coffin of the Countess of Lovelace into this vault, and laid her by her father’s side.”  And when presently we went into the vestry, he produced the Register of Burials and displayed the record of that interment in the following words:  “1852.  Died at 69 Cumberland Pl.  London.  Buried December 3.  Aged thirty-six.—­Curtis Jackson.”  The Byrons were a short-lived race.  The poet himself had just turned thirty-six; his mother was only forty-six when she passed away.  This name of Curtis Jackson in the register was that of the rector or curate then incumbent but now departed....