Читать книгу The Stranger's Handbook to Chester and Its Environs - Thomas Smart Hughes - Страница 6

Table of Contents

The Walls of Chester, their builders and their history.—The Cathedral.—The Phœnix Tower, and the Walls during the Siege.—Beeston Castle.—The North Gate.—Training College.—Morgan’s Mount and Pemberton’s Parlour.—The Water Tower.—Infirmary and Gaol.—Linen Hall.—The Watergate.

A walk round the Walls of Chester! Now, then, for a choice tête-à-tête with the past! Away with the commonplace nineteenth century! Away with the mammon-loving world of to-day! The path we are now treading, high above the busy haunts of men, has a traditionary halo and interest peculiarly its own.

With the rapidity of thought, our imagination wanders some eighteen hundred years backwards on the stream of time, to the days when Marius, King of the Britons, to defend his royal city from the incursions of his enemies, built up a fortified wall around Chester. The Britons, however, were no masons; and their rude defences availed them little when opposed to the resistless career of Rome. Surrendered to its new masters, the Romans, Chester speedily gave unmistakeable evidence of the change. The mud-walls, or earthworks of the conquered, vanished before the imperial masonry of the conquerors; and the Walls of Chester, built as only Roman hands could build them, rose majestically in their place, clasping the city in an embrace of stone, defiant alike of time and of the foe.

Chester Walls, which afford a continuous promenade, nearly two miles in circumference, are the only perfect specimen of that order of ancient fortification now remaining in Britain. The Walls of Shrewsbury, York, and other places that occur to us, though interesting enough in their way, yet “hide their diminished heads” beside the proud old ramparts of Chester. Where is the pen or the pencil that can depict the scenes of glory and renown, so inseparably bound up with the history of these Walls? For three or four centuries the Roman soldier kept watch and ward over them, and over the city; but no sooner had their legions withdrawn from Britain, than the whole island was shaken to its centre by the ruthless invasion of the Picts and Goths. Deserted by their old protectors, the Britons invoked the aid of the Saxons, under Hengist and Horsa; who, landing at the head of a powerful army, in concert with the Britons, soon drove the invaders from their quarters within the Walls of Chester.

The Saxons in turn, perceiving the weakness of the unfortunate Britons, determined on possessing themselves of the country; and, during the conflict that ensued, Chester was frequently taken and retaken by the respective belligerents, and many a fierce and bloody battle raged beneath its Walls. In 607, for instance, Ethelred, King of Northumberland, laid siege to the city; and, after a sanguinary struggle outside the Walls, during which he put one thousand two hundred British monks to the sword, wrested the city from its native defenders. Again, however, the Britons returned to the rescue; and, driving out the usurpers, retained possession of Chester for more than two hundred years.

The Danes were the next invaders of old Chester; but, about the year 908, Ethelred, Earl of Mercia, and Ethelfleda, his countess, restored the shattered Walls and Gates of the city; in which state they remained,

Bristling with spears, and bright with burnish’d shields,

through many a long and eventful epoch of England’s history, Chester’s faithful safeguard against every foe. In what good stead they availed the city during the trying period of the great Civil War, a former chapter has sufficiently declared; and, though we cannot but rejoice that those days of anarchy and confusion have passed away, yet are we sure, should the direful necessity again arise, the hearts of the men of Chester will still beat as loyally, and their stalwart arms emulate as nobly, the glorious deeds of their forefathers of yore! And now for our proposed Walk round these celebrated Walls.

The steps we have just ascended give us but poor “first impressions” of the Walls, the view being blocked up on either side by most unpicturesque buildings. But when we have proceeded northward a few steps, a prospect of venerable magnificence suddenly reveals itself. To our left, and so close that we can hear the organ pealing forth its joyous hallelujahs, we have a splendid view of the Cathedral of St. Werburgh, seen here, perhaps, to greater advantage than from any other accessible point. The first glance will show us that it is a cruciform structure, as most of our cathedrals are, the massive and weather-beaten tower standing just in the centre compartment of the cross. The left wing, though an integral portion of the building, is, nevertheless, a separate parish church, dedicated to St. Oswald. The choir itself occupies the entire range of the edifice between us and the tower, the Chapel of Our Ladye being in the immediate foreground. At our feet lie numberless memorials of the dead, which—

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,

Implore the passing tribute of a sigh.

This ground has served for a place of sepulture almost since the Conquest, and has only recently been closed by act of parliament.

Deferring our special notice of the Cathedral, until “a more convenient season,” we shortly find ourselves at the end of Abbey Street, and immediately over the Kaleyards Gate. This postern leads to the cabbage and kale gardens, which formerly belonged to the Abbot and Convent of St. Werburgh. The opening was permitted to be made for their convenience in the reign of Edward I. to prevent the necessity of bringing their vegetables by a circuitous route through the East Gate. The “good things” in vogue among these reverend fathers were not, it is evident, wholly spiritual. A defunct ropery, timberyard, and infant school now flourish on the spot where monkish cabbages and conventual kale in old time grew.

A few paces farther on was a quadrangular abutment, on which formerly stood a tower called The Sadlers’ Tower, from its having been the meeting-room of the Company of Sadlers. This tower was taken down in 1780; and the abutment, which marked the place where it stood, was demolished in 1828.

We are now at an interesting portion of the Walls. Do you see that mouldering old turret some fifty yards a-head of us? Three hundred years ago it was familiarly known as Newton’s Tower; but the men of the present day call it the Phœnix Tower, from the figure of the phœnix, which is the crest of one of the city companies, ornamenting the front of the structure. Look up, as we approach it, and read, over its elevated portal, the startling announcement, that

KING CHARLES

Stood on this Tower

September 24th, 1645, and saw

His Army defeated

On Rowton Moor.

Let us mount the rugged steps, and having reached the summit, gaze awhile on the beautiful scene before us.

To our left is the suburb of Newtown, a creation of the present century,—the modest little spire of Christ Church pointing to the thoughtful wayfarer another and a better world. Yonder, just visible above the intervening buildings, the noble façade of the Railway Station arrests the eye. Farther to the right, the Lead Works’ Shot Tower again presents itself; while beneath us, at a depth of about forty feet, the sleepy Canal flows languidly along, scarce a ripple distracting its glassy surface. The bridge that crosses it is Cowlane Bridge, whence we obtained the first glimpse of the Cathedral, en route from the station. Just over the canal is the new Cattle Market, the Cestrian Smithfield,—translated hither from Northgate Street in 1849. That heavy-looking building just over the Bridge is the Independent Chapel in Queen Street; while full south, the lofty steeple and church of St. John “lend enchantment to the view.” Beyond all these, some ten or a dozen miles away, the rocky heights of Beeston salute the eye, capped with the ruins of a Castle, built by Earl Randle Blundeville,—a fortress which was several times taken and retaken by the Royalists and Roundheads in the great Civil War. To the right again, the stately form of the fine old Cathedral, like a nursing mother, watches peacefully o’er the city. The Walls beneath us are full of interest to the archæologist, for through almost their entire length between this Tower and the Eastgate, the old Roman masonry may yet be distinguished, forming the lower courses nearest the foundations.

As we once more look up, and read yon quaint yet melancholy inscription, our minds will of necessity revert back to that sad September day, when Charles the First stood on this very spot and saw his gallant cavaliers borne down by the grim soldiers of Oliver Cromwell’s army. For three years he had maintained a doubtful contest with his Parliament; and though for a time the successes of his troops in the western counties had given a fitful gleam of prosperity to his sinking fortunes, the tide had now turned, and one disaster followed another in quick succession. On the fields of Naseby and Marston Moor he had been signally defeated. Bristol had fallen; Prince Rupert had been disgraced and sent beyond the seas; and the prospect daily grew darker. Chester remained firm; and hither Charles had come to encourage his loyal subjects, and give to the battle which seemed inevitable, the cheering influence of his kingly presence. The city had been besieged for some months, and the houses in the suburbs were mostly destroyed.

On the 23rd of September the King entered Chester; and the next day his troops gave battle to the Parliamentary forces. Charles, with Sir Francis Gamull the Mayor, here watched the progress of the contest; and when at last all hope was gone, and his soldiers fled before the fiery Puritans, he turned from the melancholy spectacle, descended the steps of this Tower, and the next day with great difficulty made his escape from the city. This defeat was but the precursor of worse misfortunes. Within three years from that day, a crowd was gathered in front of the Palace at Whitehall. A man in a mask severed at one blow, the King’s head from his body, and another, holding up the ghastly countenance to the view of the weeping spectators, cried aloud, “This is the head of a traitor!” England was not many years discovering who were the real traitors.

Charles had left Chester in worthy hands. “If you do not receive relief in eight days,” said he to Lord Byron, who was in command, “surrender the garrison.” The appointed time passed away, but no relief came. Day after day for four months, the citizens of Chester, with a courage and determination that claim our admiration, refused the oft-repeated summons to surrender. But there was an enemy within the walls, far more formidable than the troops without. Famine proved more powerful than the sword. When the provisions were exhausted, as a last resource the horses were slaughtered and given out in small rations. Dogs and cats were eaten as dainties; and many of the inhabitants perished from the dreadful hardships which were brought to their homes. The men were not alone in this gallant defence. “The women,” says an old chronicler, “like so many valiant Amazons, do out-face death and dare danger, though it lurk in every basket; seven are shot and three slain—yet they scorn to leave their matchless undertaking, and thus they continue for ten days’ space; possessing the beholders that they are immortal.” At last, reduced to the utmost extremity, and all hope of relief being gone, the city surrendered on condition that the public and private buildings should be unharmed by the Parliamentary troops. The churches still bear melancholy witness to the manner in which this solemn compact was regarded; and the organ and choir of the Cathedral were broken and defaced, with a Vandalism whose traces yet tell of the horrors of civil war.

So much then for the Phœnix Tower, and its historical associations. We must now move on to the westward, taking note on our way of Upton Church and spire, lying just upon the northern confines of the city.

Below us stretches away the Canal, which, here usurping the place of the ancient fosse, skirts the entire city, within the Walls, from east to west. Bidding a friendly adieu to the Dean’s Field, that beautiful mead on our left, we approach by a slight incline the North Gate of the city. Look now over the right-hand parapet upon the yawning gulf below, and reflect that, while yon arch was built by an architect of our own time, that course of stones beneath us—the dark ones between the ivy and the abutment—was laid by a Roman mason, when Rome herself was mistress of the world.

Ascending two or three steps, we find ourselves on the top of the North Gate, which here, with its neat elliptical arch, divides Upper from Lower North Gate Street. That new-looking red-brick building beneath us is the Blue-Coat Hospital, a charity school, under the same roof with the ancient Hospital of St. John,—of both which institutions more anon.

Pass we on now still to the westward, until we come to a curious watch-tower, called Morgan’s Mount, having a lower chamber on the level of the Walls, and an open platform above, accessible by a few winding steps. During the Siege of Chester, a battery was planted on the summit of this tower, and from its commanding position, surrounded by earthworks, successfully kept the besiegers at bay. Let us mount to the top, and survey the diversified prospect before us. See yonder Elizabethan building at the northwest extremity of the city, beautifully placed on a hill, and separated from us by those fine, dark, evergreen trees, through which you can see the bright sunshine, as it were, smiling approvingly upon it. It is the Diocesan Training College, a normal establishment, for preparing masters and teachers for the parochial schools of the diocese. Stretching away to our left is the Hundred of Wirrall, the foreground dotted here and there with a handsome mansion or substantial farm-house, among which those of Crabwall, Mollington, and Blacon, are most conspicuous. That house, so sweetly situate on the eminence to the left, embowered in trees, is Blacon Point, commanding extensive views of the city and North Wales. Still beneath us flows the Canal, which, however, empties itself, close at hand, by a series of descending locks, into the River Dee. That pile of buildings on the opposite bank of the Canal, is the central official establishment of the Shropshire Union Railway Company. The River Dee, the mountains of North Wales, and the ancient Walls, serve nobly to complete this glowing panorama of nature, and of art.

Once more, forward!—but only for a few steps; for here we are arrived at another Tower, originally twice its present height, and at one time denominated the Goblin’s Tower (doubtless for some ghostly reason), but of late better known as Pemberton’s Parlour. Though now semicircular, this was, in all probability, a round or octagonal tower when first erected, having a passage through for pedestrians. Be that as it may, in 1702, being in a ruinous state, a great part of it was taken down, and the remainder repaired. The side towards the Walls was refaced and ornamented with some fine heraldic sculpture; and an inscription, now almost obliterated, proclaimed that in a certain “year of the glorious reign of Queen Anne, divers wide breaches in these Walls were re-built, and other decays therein were repaired; 2000 yards of the pavement were new flagged or paved, and the whole repaired, regulated, and adorned, at the expense of £1000 and upwards. Thomas Hand, Esq., Mayor, 1701. The Right Honourable William, Earl of Derby, Mayor, 1702, who died in his Mayoralty.”

Passing on from ivy-capt Pemberton’s Parlour, we see on our left hand, through that refreshing grove of trees, a large and verdant mead, still retaining its ancient name of the Barrow Field, or Lady Barrow’s Hay. This is the place where the soldiers of old Rome went through their daily military exercises, and where, 1500 years afterwards, great numbers of the citizens who died of the plague were hurriedly interred. We are now upon a flat iron Bridge, and whew! with a rush like that of a tiger from his den, the giant of the nineteenth century—a steam-engine and train—emerge from the dark tunnel which passes under the city, and dash away beneath us, full forty miles an hour, en route to Ireland, by way of Holyhead. The Roman Walls, that resisted so successfully the Roundhead batteries, have in our own times succumbed to the engines of peace, and the railway trains, with their living freight, now career it merrily through two neighbouring apertures in these ancient fortifications.

A little farther ahead are some modern steps, leading down to the new Baths and Washhouses, in which is a capacious swimming-bath, where plebeians may indulge in a plunge for a penny, and where hot and cold shower and vapour baths are at the service of the public on equally reasonable terms. Previous to the erection of these Baths, the only means of egress from the city at this point was by an ancient postern underneath us, now blocked up.

Wheeling sharp round to the left, for the Walls here take a direction southward, we cross a second Railway Bridge, and then turn to regale ourselves with an immediate foreground of startling interest. We are looking upon a Tower erected in 1322, by one Helpstone, a mason, who contracted to build it for 100l., a high price in those days, when workmen for their day’s wage, “received but every man his penny.” It consists of a higher and lower tower, the former being distinguished by the break jaw name of Bonewaldesthorne’s Tower, and connected by a steep flight of steps and an embattled terrace with the lower or Water Tower. This tower was erected while the tidal waters of the Dee flowed up to Chester Walls; and within the memory of man the rings and bolts were to be seen about the old turret, to which, centuries ago, the ships that came up to the city were safely moored. The case is altered now, and, thanks to the duplicity of a public company, “Deva’s wizard stream” ebbs and flows almost in vain for “rare old Chester.” “Stone walls tell no tales,” says the proverb; but yon crumbling old ruin, so stern, so ragged, so venerable to look upon, tells us in plain though silent language its own unvarnished tale. Look at its broken and serrated surface, its disfigured battlements? Think you old Time alone has wrought all this? Turn to the annals of the city, and there read that the Roundhead battery on Bruera’s Hall hill yonder played its artillery fiercely against this tower during the great Civil War; and though its fair form was shattered, its buttresses shaken by the terrible cannonade, yet the proud old structure remained intact, and the hearts of its defenders unfaltering, through the whole of that fierce and lamentable struggle. The scenes then enacted have passed away, as we hope for ever, and this venerable stronghold has become subservient to another and more peaceful purpose, as a local and general antiquarian Museum. Of course we must go in and examine it for ourselves, and think, as we do so, with becoming honour of the gallant spirits who once kept watch and ward over its safety. It will cost us just sixpence each to pass in; but never mind that, were the charge a crown, it would not have been money injudiciously thrown away.

The room we have passed into is the ancient keep, formerly known as Bonewaldesthorne’s Tower; and after ruminating a moment on the rusty swords and rapiers that hang around, we will mount the winding staircase into the room above. Here, on a whitened table, the light of day being first excluded, we are introduced to the wondrous revelations of the Camera Obscura. On this little table we have pourtrayed, with minute but pleasing accuracy, every place and occurrence within gunshot of the Tower,—boats on the Canal, pedestrians on the Walls, ships on the Dee, green fields and trees, the flying train, and every passing incident, ridiculous or sublime. From this Tower we proceed by a steep descent of zig-zag steps, between rugged battlements of venerable sandstone, thickly coated with “that rare old plant, the ivy green,” to the centre of attraction, the Water Tower itself. How beautiful, how indescribably beautiful, are those thick masses of dark, glossy, green ivy, “creeping where no life is seen” round the blackened old ramparts we have just passed by!

The iron gate or portcullis opens at our approach, and we enter a spacious room, once bristling with hosts of armed men, but now filled with curiosities and natural productions from every quarter of the globe. A corkscrew staircase brings us to a similar room on the second story; while higher still, upon the leads of the Tower, where the stalwart warrior once paced his silent round, the observant visitor may feast his eyes on a varied scene of wood and dale, mountain and river, garden and field, of surpassing interest. To give anything like a detail of the curiosities and antiquities stored up in this Tower would fill an ordinary volume; let it suffice, then, to point out a few of the more prominent and striking. Here is a large and beautiful collection of shells, scientifically arranged, the gift of Captain T. L. Massie, R.N., and there a case of Australian birds, presented to the Museum by another worthy citizen. In yonder glass-case we have, at one view, specimens of almost every known variety of British birds, from the majestic bittern to the diminutive jenny wren. Here is the “old arm-chair” of Bishop Goodman, one of the worthiest prelates of our renowned Queen Bess. Here again are trophies of battle and victory from Inkermann and Alma; and there are glass cases of Greek, Roman, and British coins, from the penny bearing the “image and superscription of Cæsar,” to the chaste medallions of our own beloved Queen. There, too, is the skull of a soldier killed during the Civil War, in the neighbourhood of Beeston Castle, the deadly impress of two flattened bullets being still visible on the skull. Those blackened fragments you are now surveying are the hand and foot of an Egyptian mummy, the owner of which may possibly have been a contemporary of Pharaoh. Doubtless this mummy, when in life, was a confirmed old maid; for see, here is her favourite cat, embalmed like herself, and found by her side when she was exhumed. The cat was a sacred animal with the ancient Egyptians. We might linger here profitably a whole day, but having other fish to fry, we must bid farewell to the Water Tower and its obliging attendants, and remounting the lofty steps, find ourselves once more on the venerable Walls.

Resuming now our walk, we approach a large and handsome brick building, on the city side of the Walls. This is the Chester Infirmary, and a most useful and valuable institution it is, having been founded in 1755 by Dr. Stratford, of Chester, and supported entirely by the contributions of the charitable in Cheshire and North Wales. The present structure was erected in 1761, and has accommodation under its roof for one hundred patients, besides spacious hot, cold, and vapour baths, and all the usual adjuncts of a first class hospital. The upper story on the north side of the building is set apart for a fever ward; and in this, as in every other beneficial arrangement, the Chester Infirmary is second to none in the kingdom. The honorary medical staff consists of three physicians and three surgeons; and from these, and the worthy house surgeon and matron, the patients receive the utmost assistance that human kindness and skill can bestow. The halt and maimed, the sick and dying of the poorer classes are here watched with anxious care, and experience comforts to which at home or elsewhere they would necessarily be strangers.

The Infirmary was founded for the eradication of one species of evils; but here is a building for the suppression of evils of another description. The City Gaol, for such is the gloomy-looking structure before us, is an erection of the present century, having supplanted the old and ruinous prison which formerly stood upon the site of the present North Gate. Over the handsome Doric entrance is an iron railing, within which the last sentence of the law is occasionally executed on condemned criminals. Surely the day is not far distant when “death by the hangman” will be a punishment unknown to the criminal code of England! What adds to the evil, so far as Chester is concerned, is that the authorities of the City are compelled, by some antediluvian charter, to see execution done on every condemned criminal within the County, though for what reason this especial honour was first conferred on the citizens, is an enigma susceptible of no clear solution.

A short distance hence is Stanley Place, a double row of genteel residences; at the head of which, within that ponderous gateway, is the old Linen Hall, once the great mart for Irish linens, but of late, owing to the decay of that branch of trade, consecrated to the sale of the famed Cheshire cheese. What! have you never yet tasted a bit of “prime old Cheshire?” Let us recommend you then to do so, on your return to the Inn; and if your fancy does not gloat over it for a month or two to come, our belief in your good taste will be considerably modified.