Читать книгу The Pedestrian's Guide through North Wales - G. J. Bennett - Страница 11

The rehearsal in the morning gave additional confidence, the manager having pronounced it a very promising specimen of his ability.

Night came—and he was at his post three hours before his presence would be required upon the stage. His hair, of which he had a great profusion, was twisted into innumerable curls by a one-eyed frizzeur who received a payment of twelve pence per night from the manager for decorating the heads of his talented performers; his limbs were cased in the warlike habiliments of the 15th century, which (with the trifling inconvenience, occasioned by their being made for a person of nearly double his dimensions some twenty years before, and the few dilapidations they had received from the numberless falls, thwacks, rents, etc. during their long and faithful servitude) gave him the appearance of a warrior of some personal endowments. The helmet was peculiarly formed, resembling that worn in the 14th century; for this appendage to the son of Mars had been neglected until the very last moment, when it was supposed to be impossible to procure one; but Triptolemus, ever fertile in resources, seized upon a shining tin saucepan, in which the Duke of Buckingham had brought some barley water to the theatre for the purpose of clearing his voice, emptied its contents, and having divested it of its handle, made of it an admirable completion to his costume. At the end of the first act, he walked, with all the self possession of a veteran stager, into an apartment called the green-room, but which exhibited a clear face of white-wash, emblematic of those who frequented its chaste precincts. It was furnished with chairs, stools, and a huge family sofa, evidently the work of the “olden time.” This seemed a seat suited to Triptolemus, puffed out as he was with the pride of his appearance; but unfortunately the light comedian, when playing the part of Doricourt, fell so heavily upon it, in the mad scene, that he made a fatal breach in the bottom, which as yet had not undergone a repair. King Henry the sixth (a short, stout, pompous man, who never moved but one arm in acting, and that with the exact motion of a pump handle) was seated on one side of the fire place, in an altitude of deep thought. Triptolemus remembered his dream, and was astonished at the close resemblance between the red cabbage head of the shadow and the rubicund visage of the portly personage in the chimney corner. His surprise was the greater for that he had not met this gentleman at the rehearsal, he having sent an apology for his absence, being hotly engaged (as he termed it) in making his benefit, i.e. paying his respects to the different taverns in the town, where his merry associates congregated to drink porter, smoke tobacco, and distribute as many tickets as an insinuating address and consummate assurance would enable them to dispose of amongst their boon companions.

The fourth act is over; and Triptolemus experiences a strange sensation rising from the bottom of his abdomen and gradually spreading itself over his whole body!—he feels less valiant than when first he donned the shining helmet (alias saucepan) and fastened the glittering falchion to his mailed side. Ting a ring ting! goes the prompter’s bell! Triptolemus was trembling at his post. The music ceases—the curtain rises—the martial music is played loudly behind the scenes, and the audience with breathless anxiety await the entrance of the dauntless hero, the brave Earl of Richmond.

The trumpeters have almost split their cheeks,—the troops march on, two and two—the Earl of Oxford then advances, next Sir James Blunt, and then Sir Walter Herbert. Triptolemus who had been advised to appear last, and with a rush to “take the natives by surprise,” as it is termed in theatrical phraseology, now darted forward to the footlights, “swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow.” The applause was deafening, and made him fancy that the gods were at war above him; nor was he much out in his conceit, for a chimney sweeper who had edged himself into the centre of the gallery at that moment, caused such a commotion amongst the goddesses, that they assisted, with their screams, the general uproar, and shouts and cat calls “shook the pond’rous roof.” This state of commotion was too violent to last, and at length silence was obtained, and the hero commenced—

“Thus far into the bowels of the land—”

Here the figure of the uncivil gardener met his eyes, seated in the front row of the pit, and grinning like a Scotch terrier with a hair-lip. He made a full stop at this apparition! “Have we marched on,” came the word from the prompter—“Have we marched on,”—echoed Oxford. But all was mist before Richmond’s eyes, indignation was in his heart and silence upon his tongue. Unable to utter a word more, with a flourish of his truncheon he made a furious exit. “Have we marched off,” said the gallant Blunt—and stalked off with the whole army (six in number) after his heroic leader. The scene changed for Richard’s entrance.—Shame and fury battledoor’d our hero about with unmerciful rapidity behind the scenes! He split his wooden truncheon upon the scull of an unlucky lamplighter who stood in his way, and then the call boy’s awful voice was heard bidding him prepare for his second scene. This he managed to get through tolerably well, taking especial care to avoid another glance at the gardener’s fatal countenance.

All went on smoothly enough, until the scene where Richard rushes on the stage in the midst of alarums, crying out. “What ho! young Richmond ho!” Here, as ill luck would have it, Richmond could not find his fighting sword, and his confusion was so great, when Richard again roared out, “’Tis Richard calls!” Richmond rebellowed from behind the scenes, “Call and be d—d,” thinking the actor was taking an unwarrantable liberty in calling for him before so many people in such an authoritative style.

Richard. “I say come forth, and singly face me.”

Richmond, (behind) “What the devil’s the use of my coming, when I can’t find my sword?”

At length, the combatants met, Richmond having picked up a powerful weapon, instead of the short, blunt and harmless sword intended for the encounter. It was keen, long, and pointed, like a lancet—a terrible weapon in unpractised hands.

Richard. “Do you remember the cuts?” (in an undertone, with doubting fear).

Richmond. “Oh, d—n the cuts!” at the same time dealing a blow that laid open the shin of the crook backed tyrant, who, thinking it better to die at once in jest, than to be killed outright in earnest, fell down exclaiming, “Perdition catch thy arm! you’ve cut my leg open!”

Richmond. “Upon my soul, I could’nt help it!”

Richard. “But oh—! the vast renown thou hast acquired—”

This was too much for the audience to bear—“their visible muscles unmasterly grew,” and the champions were mutually discomposed.

Richmond. “What the devil are they laughing at?”

Richard. “At you to be sure, ‘in conquering Richard.’”

Here another burst of merriment broke from the spectators, and Triptolemus, turning his head, to check, with a high tragedy look, their ill timed mirth, beheld, to his horror and dismay, the inveterate gardener standing upon the front bench of the pit, waving his arms like the sails of a windmill, and who no sooner caught a full view of his countenance than he roared out, “I’m blest if it bea’nt he that I turned up wi’ my pitch fork out of the muck heap!”

“All’s over!” exclaimed Richard, and gave up the ghost, with his back turned to the audience, which created a fresh peal of laughter, groans and hisses. Richmond, shocked at the un-Cesarian position of the monarch, strove to obtain silence, while he spoke the tag, by turning him over with his face to the footlights—which he did with his foot, placing Richard’s nose within half an inch of the burning oil, who grinned his disapprobation of such usage, till the audience shrieked with mirth.

“Ring down the curtain, for God’s sake!” shrieked the manager.

“Stop till I’ve spoken the tag!” cried Richmond.

“Ring down for the sake of my nose,” bawled the corpse. Ting a ring ting! went the prompter’s bell, and down fell the curtain, leaving one half of Richard’s body in view of the laughter-weeping spectators, which was at last dragged by the heels from their sight by the indignant Richmond, vowing, he never would again act with so diabolical a Richard.

This story, which amused me exceedingly, was during the recital often interrupted by my hearty bursts of laughter, and beguiled the time admirably, until we arrived at a miserable place called New Inn, where we refreshed ourselves with a glass of ale, and proceeded on our journey.

Branching off from the Oswestry road, to the right, we pursued our way to Wittington, beguiling the time with anecdote and song, light hearts and heels carrying us along the road like things of air. Nothing worthy of notice took place until we reached the village of Wittington, and there the first objects that attracted our mutual attention, were two brick houses, perfectly plain in their exterior, upon the front of the first of which was written, in prodigious characters, Search the Scriptures, and upon the second, Remember thou keep holy the Sabbath day, with underneath, Morrison’s pills sold here.

The village is beautifully intersected with trees, and the houses are examples of neatness and simplicity. The people look cheerful and contented; and every shrub or flower which here profusely expands, seems proudly to rejoice and flourish in this charming retreat.

A walk through this village will make the tourist thoroughly acquainted, in his own belief, with the persons who inhabit it, although he never heard the history of one of them, from the rector to the tinker. The first portrait that rises in his imagination is the venerable curate, with contentment beaming in his mild eyes, his silver locks flowing over his well-brushed thread-bare coat, with snow-white neck-cloth, mended small clothes, black hose and polished shoes, visiting the cottage of some invalid—a lovely girl, scarce sixteen, the rose of the village, who had long been stretched upon a bed of sickness, but now blessed with returning health, seated at the door, the fresh evening air playing with her fair locks, the woodbine clustering over her head, a slight tinge of vermilion spreading on her cheeks, her eyes upraised in pious gratitude to heaven, and to him who prayed beside her, and for her, morning and evening, and who now with grateful heart holds up his hands to the Creator, in thankfulness for her convalescence.

The next object is the village surgeon; a busy, merry, bustling, prying, talkative, little gentleman, who amuses one patient with all the scandal he has been able to pick up about another; but, notwithstanding, a most important person, and people feign illness for the gratification his visits communicate; constant in his morning calls from house to house, he continues to pick up all the flying rumours of the day; and at night is, of course, the object looked up to, in all parties, as the oracle, in whom all the secrets of the village are deposited, while he is cautious not to commit himself, by imprudent exposures.

Then comes the lawyer, with snuff-coloured riding coat with brass buttons, top-booted, and spurred, who does very well for himself, by doing his neighbours in a professional way.

Then come the ladies, who are of course all nature, no art, sweetness, simplicity, and all that; but as I am not going to write a volume upon rural life, I will just give a short description of

WITTINGTON CASTLE.

“In ancient days, of high renown,

Not always did yon castle frown

With ivy crested brow;

Nor were its walls with moss embrowned,

Nor hung the lanky weeds around

That fringe its ruins now.”

Fitz-Gwarine.

In the year 843, when Roderick the Great was King of Wales, a British noble, named Ynyr ap Cadfarch, built the Castle of Wittington. He was succeeded by his son Tudor Trevor, whose descendants possessed it for many generations; and many families at this day trace their origin to him.

At the Conquest, Wittington became the property of Pain Peveril, who dying without issue, it was seized by Roger, Earl of Shrewsbury, and passed into the hands of Hugh, his son, who was succeeded by his brother Robert; but he being defeated by Henry I, the castle was restored to the Peverils, in the person of Sir William Peveril, who was a great warrior, and is said to have miraculously recovered from a (supposed) mortal wound by eating the shield of a wild boar. He had a daughter named Mellet, whose exceeding beauty attracted many suitors; but, being of Amazonian mind, she declared she would marry none but the knight who proved himself best and bravest in the field. Her father published this declaration, and promised the Castle of Wittington as her dower. The trial took place at the Peak in Derbyshire, and Guarine de Metz, who had a shield of silver, and a peacock crest, overcame all his rivals, and obtained the beautiful Mellet. His posterity, for nine generations, assumed the name of Fulk, a race of heroes who performed extraordinary feats of arms, and for a full account of which the reader is referred to the history of Wittington, a little book of forty-one pages, by William Davies, L.M.W.S., Head Master of Caernarven School.

The ninth, and last Fulk Fitz Gwarine, died here in his minority, in the reign of Henry IV, and his sister Elizabeth, the heiress to the estates, married Richard Hankfdd, who left his possessions to his only daughter Thomasine, who married Sir William Bourchire, brother to Henry, the first Earl of Essex; and the title of Lord Fitz Warine was given to Sir William, in consequence of his marriage.

John, the third in descent from him, exchanged Wittington with Henry VIII for other landed property. This John was the first Earl of Bath, and his family retained the name of Fitz-Warren until the race became extinct, which took place at the death of Henry, the fifth Earl of Bath. This place was presented by Elizabeth, to Henry Grey Duke of Suffolk, who fortified it in consequence of several crimes imputed to him by the bigot Mary, who granted it to Fitz-Alan, the last Earl of Arundel, who mortgaged it to a number of London citizens, and William Albany, the chief amongst them was appointed sole possessor of it, and by the marriage of whose grand daughter it fell into the hands of Thomas Lloyd Aston Esq. in whose family it now remains.

The castle underwent fortification soon after its original establishment; and must have been alternately in the hands of the Welsh and Saxons in these wars. It is well supplied with spring water, and the moats, and entrenchments surrounding the castle are still discernible. The keep was fortified with five round towers, each 40 feet in diameter and 100 in height, the walls being 12 feet in thickness.—All are now in ruins.

In 1809, a well was discovered in the Keep, at the bottom of which was found a pair of iron fetters for the legs, and a jug, stags’ heads, swords, a head curiously carved, and a number of richly gilt glass bottles. In the trenches there are growing some very fine tall wych trees. The castle is situated in the midst of fertile meadows; and a rapid stream, which a mile above takes a subterranean course, here breaks into light again, amidst fringing poplars, and entering the moat, encompasses the walls, which are richly festooned with ivy, and adorned with wild flowers and woodbines. It there enters the Perry, in the meadows below, which were formerly an extensive lake, and the ancient fosses and entrenchments may be traced to where the lake terminated, at a surprising distance westward, beyond the castle.

The church is a rectory, and was originally designed as a chapel to the castle. It is dedicated to St. John the Baptist. The body of the church was rebuilt in 1806, and in the register are the following curious epitaphs:

March 13, 1766, died

Thomas Evans,

Parish Clerke, Aged 72.

Old Stanhold’s lines or Vicar of Bray.

Which he tuned best, ’twas hard to say.

Samuel Peate,

Of Wittington Castle, died

Aged 84.

Here lies Governor Peate,

Whom no man did hate.

At the age of fourscore,

And four years more.

He pretended to wrestle

With Death for his castle,

But was soon out of breath,

And surrendered to Death,

Who away did him take

At the eve of our wake,

One morn about seven,

To keep wake in Heaven.

Andrew Williams

was

Born A.D 1692, and died April 18, 1776.

Aged 84.

Of which time he lived under

The Aston family, as decoy man, 60 years.

Here lies the decoy man, who lived like an otter,

Dividing his time betwixt land and water.

His hide he oft soaked in the waters of Perry,

Whilst Aston old beer his spirits kept cherry.

Amphibious his trim, death was puzzled they say

How to dust to reduce such well moistened clay,

So death turned decoy man, and decoyed him to land,

Where he fixed his abode till quite dried to the hand.

He then found him fitting for crumbling to dust,

So here he lies mouldering, as you and I must.

In this lovely village, we put up at a small inn, the Crown, to take luncheon, which was served with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad, and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the very best of Shropshire ale. The name of the host I have forgotten, but it is the first inn on the left on entering the village from Shrewsbury. It has a delightful garden attached to it, with grottos and arbours; roses and woodbines distribute their fragrance in prodigal gratuity, and the tout ensemble gives an admirable idea of fairy land.