Chirk—The Middleton Family—Castell y Waen—The Park—The Court Yard—The
Young Housekeeper—The Portraits—Melin y Castell—Humble Meal—Fine Chests
for the Dead—Hales and Hercules.
The weather having become fine, myself and family determined to go and
see Chirk Castle, a mansion ancient and beautiful, and abounding with all
kinds of agreeable and romantic associations. It was founded about the
beginning of the fifteenth century by a St. John, Lord of Bletsa, from a
descendant of whom it was purchased in the year 1615 by Sir Thomas
Middleton, the scion of an ancient Welsh family who, following commerce,
acquired a vast fortune, and was Lord Mayor of London. In the time of
the great civil war it hoisted the banner of the king, and under Sir
Thomas, the son of the Lord Mayor, made a brave defence against Lambert,
the Parliamentary General, though eventually compelled to surrender. It
was held successively by four Sir Thomas Middletons, and if it acquired a
warlike celebrity under the second, it obtained a peculiarly hospitable
one under the fourth, whose daughter, the fruit of a second marriage,
became Countess of Warwick, and eventually the wife of the poet and
moralist, Addison. In his time the hospitality of Chirk became the theme
of many a bard, particularly of Huw Morris, who, in one of his songs, has
gone so far as to say that were the hill of Cefn Uchaf turned into beef
and bread, and the rill Ceiriog into beer or wine, they would be consumed
in half a year by the hospitality of Chirk. Though no longer in the
hands of one of the name of Middleton, Chirk Castle is still possessed by
one of the blood, the mother of the present proprietor being the eldest
of three sisters, lineal descendants of the Lord Mayor, between whom, in
default of an heir male, the wide possessions of the Middleton family
were divided. This gentleman, who bears the name of Biddulph, is Lord
Lieutenant of the county of Denbigh, and notwithstanding his
war-breathing name, which is Gothic, and signifies Wolf of Battle, is a
person of highly amiable disposition, and one who takes great interest in
the propagation of the Gospel of peace and love.
To view this place which, though in English called Chirk Castle, is
styled in Welsh Castell y Waen, or the Castle of the Meadow, we started
on foot about ten o’clock of a fine bright morning, attended by John
Jones. There are two roads from Llangollen to Chirk, one the low or post
road, and the other leading over the Berwyn. We chose the latter. We
passed by the Yew cottage, which I have described on a former occasion,
and began to ascend the mountain, making towards its north-eastern
corner. The road at first was easy enough, but higher up became very
steep, and somewhat appalling, being cut out of the side of the hill
which shelves precipitously down towards the valley of the Dee. Near the
top of the mountain were three lofty beech trees, growing on the very
verge of the precipice. Here the road for about twenty yards is fenced
on its dangerous side by a wall, parts of which are built between the
stems of the trees. Just beyond the wall a truly noble prospect
presented itself to our eyes. To the north were bold hills, their sides
and skirts adorned with numerous woods and white farmhouses; a thousand
feet below us was the Dee, and its wondrous Pont y Cysultau. John Jones
said that if certain mists did not intervene we might descry “the sea of
Liverpool;” and perhaps the only thing wanting to make the prospect
complete was that sea of Liverpool. We were, however, quite satisfied
with what we saw, and turning round the corner of the hill, reached its
top, where for a considerable distance there is level ground, and where,
though at a great altitude, we found ourselves in a fair and fertile
region, and amidst a scene of busy rural life. We saw fields and
inclosures, and here and there corn-stacks, some made, and others not yet
completed, about which people were employed, and waggons and horses
moving. Passing over the top of the hill, we began to descend the
southern side, which was far less steep than the one we had lately
surmounted. After a little way the road descended through a wood, which
John Jones told us was the beginning of the “Park of Biddulph.”
“There is plenty of game in this wood,” said he; “pheasant cocks and
pheasant hens, to say nothing of hares and coneys; and in the midst of it
there is a space sown with a particular kind of corn for the support of
the pheasant hens and pheasant cocks, which in the shooting-season afford
pleasant sport for Biddulph and his friends.”
Near the foot of the descent, just where the road made a turn to the
east, we passed by a building which stood amidst trees, with a pond and
barns near it.
“This,” said John Jones, “is the house where the bailiff lives, who farms
and buys and sells for Biddulph, and fattens the beeves and swine, and
the geese, ducks, and other poultry which Biddulph consumes at his
table.”
The scenery was now very lovely, consisting of a mixture of hill and
dale, open space and forest, in fact the best kind of park scenery. We
caught a glimpse of a lake, in which John Jones said there were generally
plenty of swans, and presently saw the castle, which stands on a green
grassy slope, from which it derives its Welsh name of Castell y Waen;
gwaen in the Cumrian language signifying a meadow or unenclosed place.
It fronts the west, the direction from which we were coming; on each side
it shows five towers, of which the middlemost, which protrudes beyond the
rest, and at the bottom of which is the grand gate, is by far the
bulkiest. A noble edifice it looked, and to my eye bore no slight
resemblance to Windsor Castle.
Seeing a kind of ranger, we inquired of him what it was necessary for us
to do, and by his direction proceeded to the southern side of the castle,
and rung the bell at a small gate. The southern side had a far more
antique appearance than the western; huge towers, with small windows, and
partly covered with ivy, frowned down upon us. A servant making his
appearance, I inquired whether we could see the house; he said we could,
and that the housekeeper would show it to us in a little time, but that
at present she was engaged. We entered a large quadrangular court; on
the left hand side was a door and staircase leading into the interior of
the building, and farther on was a gateway, which was no doubt the
principal entrance from the park. On the eastern side of the spacious
court was a kennel, chained to which was an enormous dog, partly of the
bloodhound, partly of the mastiff species, who occasionally uttered a
deep magnificent bay. As the sun was hot we took refuge from it under
the gateway, the gate of which, at the farther end, towards the park, was
closed. Here my wife and daughter sat down on a small brass cannon,
seemingly a six-pounder, which stood on a very dilapidated carriage; from
the appearance of the gun, which was of an ancient form and very much
battered, and that of the carriage, I had little doubt that both had been
in the castle at the time of the siege. As my two loved ones sat I
walked up and down, recalling to my mind all I had heard and read in
connection with this castle. I thought of its gallant defence against
the men of Oliver; I thought of its roaring hospitality in the time of
the fourth Sir Thomas; and I thought of the many beauties who had been
born in its chambers, had danced in its halls, had tripped across its
court, and had subsequently given heirs to illustrious families.
At last we were told that the housekeeper was waiting for us. The
housekeeper, who was a genteel, good-looking young woman, welcomed us at
the door which led into the interior of the house. After we had written
our names, she showed us into a large room or hall on the right-hand side
on the ground floor, where were some helmets and ancient halberts, and
also some pictures of great personages. The floor was of oak, and so
polished and slippery that walking upon it was attended with some danger.
Wishing that John Jones, our faithful attendant, who remained timidly at
the doorway, should participate with us in the wonderful sights we were
about to see, I inquired of the housekeeper whether he might come with
us. She replied with a smile that it was not the custom to admit guides
into the apartments, but that he might come provided he chose to take off
his shoes; adding, that the reason she wished him to take off his shoes
was, an apprehension that if he kept them on he would injure the floors
with their rough nails. She then went to John Jones and told him in
English that he might attend us provided he took off his shoes; poor
John, however, only smiled, and said, “Dim Saesneg!”
“You must speak to him in your native language,” said I, “provided you
wish him to understand you—he has no English.”
“I am speaking to him in my native language,” said the young housekeeper,
with another smile; “and if he has no English, I have no Welsh.”
“Then you are English?” said I.
“Yes,” she replied, “a native of London.”
“Dear me,” said I. “Well, it’s no bad thing to be English after all; and
as for not speaking Welsh, there are many in Wales who would be glad to
have much less Welsh than they have.” I then told John Jones the
condition on which he might attend us, whereupon he took off his shoes
with great glee and attended us, holding them in his hand.
We presently went upstairs to what the housekeeper told us was the
principal drawing-room, and a noble room it was, hung round with the
portraits of kings and queens and the mighty of the earth. Here, on
canvas, was noble Mary the wife of William of Orange, and her consort by
her side, whose part like a true wife she always took. Here was wretched
Mary of Scotland, the murderess of her own lord. Here were the two
Charleses, and both the Dukes of Ormond—the great Duke who fought stoutly
in Ireland against Papist and Roundhead; and the Pretender’s Duke who
tried to stab his native land, and died a foreign colonel. And here,
amongst other daughters of the house, was the very proud daughter of the
house, the Warwick Dowager who married the Spectator, and led him the
life of a dog. She looked haughty and cold, and not particularly
handsome; but I could not help gazing with a certain degree of interest
and respect on the countenance of the vixen, who served out the gentility
worshipper in such prime style. Many were the rooms which we entered, of
which I shall say nothing, save that they were noble in size, and rich in
objects of interest. At last we came to what was called the picture
gallery. It was a long panelled room, extending nearly the whole length
of the northern side. The first thing which struck us on entering was
the huge skin of a lion stretched out upon the floor; the head, however,
which was towards the door, was stuffed, and with its monstrous teeth
looked so formidable and lifelike that we were almost afraid to touch it.
Against every panel was a portrait; amongst others was that of Sir Thomas
Middleton, the stout governor of the castle during the time of the siege.
Near to it was the portrait of his rib, Dame Middleton. Farther down on
the same side were two portraits of Nell Gwynn; the one painted when she
was a girl, the other when she had attained a more mature age. They were
both by Lely, the Apelles of the Court of wanton Charles. On the other
side was one of the Duke of Gloucester, the son of Queen Anne, who, had
he lived, would have kept the Georges from the throne. In this gallery,
on the southern side, was a cabinet of ebony and silver, presented by
Charles the Second to the brave warrior Sir Thomas, and which, according
to tradition, cost seven thousand pounds. This room, which was perhaps
the most magnificent in the castle, was the last we visited. The candle
of God whilst we wandered through these magnificent halls was flaming in
the firmament, and its rays penetrating through the long, narrow windows,
showed them off, and all the gorgeous things which they contained, to
great advantage. When we left the castle we all said, not excepting John
Jones, that we had never seen in our lives anything more princely and
delightful than the interior.
After a little time my wife and daughter, complaining of being rather
faint, I asked John Jones whether there was an inn in the neighbourhood
where some refreshment could be procured. He said there was, and that he
would conduct us to it. We directed our course towards the east, rousing
successively, and setting a-scampering, three large herds of deer—the
common ones were yellow and of no particular size—but at the head of each
herd we observed a big old black fellow with immense antlers; one of
these was particularly large, indeed as huge as a bull. We soon came to
the verge of a steep descent, down which we went, not without some risk
of falling. At last we came to a gate; it was locked; however, on John
Jones shouting, an elderly man, with his right hand bandaged, came and
opened it. I asked him what was the matter with his hand, and he told me
that he had lately lost three fingers, whilst working at a saw-mill up at
the castle. On my inquiring about the inn, he said he was the master of
it, and led the way to a long, neat, low house nearly opposite to a
little bridge over a brook, which ran down the valley towards the north.
I ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being
got ready, John Jones and I went to the bridge.
“This bridge, sir,” said John, “is called Pont y Velin Castell, the
bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle,
and is still called Melin y Castell. As soon as you are over the bridge
you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire. A little
way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa, or Offa’s dyke, built of old by the
Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds.”
As we stood on the bridge, I inquired of Jones the name of the brook
which was running merrily beneath it.
“The Ceiriog, sir,” said John; “the same river that we saw at Pont y
Meibion.”
“The river,” said I, “which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he
has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza
in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and
which runs thus:
‘Pe byddai ’r Cefn Ucha,
Yn gig ac yn fara,
A Cheiriog fawr yma’n fir aml bob tro,
Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn’
Barhâu hanner blwyddyn,
I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio.’”
“A good penill that, sir,” said John Jones. “Pity that the halls of
great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of
bread and beef for all comers.”
“No pity at all,” said I; “things are better as they are. Those
mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged
vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one’s dinner proudly
and independently at one’s inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great
man’s table.”
We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill, which was
beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where
I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry. We sat
down, John Jones with us, and proceeded to despatch our bread-and-butter
and ale. The bread-and-butter were good enough, but the ale poorish. O,
for an Act of Parliament to force people to brew good ale! After
finishing our humble meal we got up, and having paid our reckoning, went
back into the park, the gate of which the landlord again unlocked for us.
We strolled towards the north along the base of the hill. The
imagination of man can scarcely conceive a scene more beautiful than the
one which we were now enjoying. Huge oaks studded the lower side of the
hill, towards the top was a belt of forest, above which rose the eastern
walls of the castle; the whole forest, castle, and the green bosom of the
hill glorified by the lustre of the sun. As we proceeded we again roused
the deer, and again saw the three old black fellows, evidently the
patriarchs of the herds, with their white, enormous horns; with these
ancient gentlefolks I very much wished to make acquaintance, and tried to
get near them, but no! they would suffer no such thing; off they glided,
their white antlers, like the barked top boughs of old pollards, glancing
in the sunshine, the smaller dappled creatures following them bounding
and frisking. We had again got very near the castle, when John Jones
told me that if we would follow him, he would show us something very
remarkable: I asked him what it was.
“Llun Cawr,” he replied. “The figure of a giant.”
“What giant?” said I.
But on this point he could give me no information. I told my wife and
daughter what he had said, and finding that they wished to see the
figure, I bade John Jones lead us to it. He led us down an avenue just
below the eastern side of the castle; noble oaks and other trees composed
it, some of them probably near a hundred feet high; John Jones observing
me looking at them with admiration, said:
“They would make fine chests for the dead, sir.”
What an observation! how calculated, amidst the most bounding joy and
bliss, to remind man of his doom! A moment before I had felt quite
happy, but now I felt sad and mournful. I looked at my wife and
daughter, who were gazing admiringly on the beauteous scenes around them,
and remembered that, in a few short years at most, we should all three be
laid in the cold, narrow house formed of four elm or oaken boards, our
only garment the flannel shroud, the cold, damp earth above us instead of
the bright, glorious sky. O, how sad and mournful I became! I soon
comforted myself, however, by reflecting that such is the will of Heaven,
and that Heaven is good.
After we had descended the avenue some way, John Jones began to look
about him, and getting on the bank on the left side, disappeared. We
went on, and in a little time saw him again beckoning to us some way
farther down, but still on the bank. When we drew nigh to him, he bade
us get on the bank; we did so, and followed him some way amidst furze and
lyng. All of a sudden he exclaimed, “There it is!” We looked, and saw a
large figure standing on a pedestal. On going up to it we found it to be
a Hercules leaning on his club,—indeed a copy of the Farnese Hercules, as
we gathered from an inscription in Latin partly defaced. We felt rather
disappointed, as we expected that it would have turned out to be the
figure of some huge Welsh champion of old. We, however, said nothing to
our guide. John Jones, in order that we might properly appreciate the
size of the statue by contrasting it with his own body, got upon the
pedestal and stood up beside the figure, to the elbow of which his head
little more than reached.
I told him that in my country, the eastern part of Lloegr, I had seen a
man quite as tall as the statue.
“Indeed, sir,” said he; “who is it?”
“Hales, the Norfolk giant,” I replied, “who has a sister seven inches
shorter than himself, who is yet seven inches taller than any man in the
county when her brother is out of it.”
When John Jones got down he asked me who the man was whom the statue was
intended to represent.
“Erchwl,” I replied, “a mighty man of old, who with his club cleared the
country of thieves, serpents, and monsters.”
I now proposed that we should return to Llangollen, whereupon we retraced
our steps, and had nearly reached the farm-house of the castle, when John
Jones said that we had better return by the low road, by doing which we
should see the castle-lodge, and also its gate, which was considered one
of the wonders of Wales. We followed his advice, and passing by the
front of the castle northwards, soon came to the lodge. The lodge had
nothing remarkable in its appearance, but the gate, which was of iron,
was truly magnificent.
On the top were two figures of wolves, which John Jones supposed to be
those of foxes. The wolf of Chirk is not intended to be expressive of
the northern name of its proprietor, but is the armorial bearing of his
family by the maternal side, and originated in one Ryred, surnamed
Blaidd, or Wolf, from his ferocity in war; from whom the family, which
only assumed the name of Middleton in the beginning of the thirteenth
century, on the occasion of its representative marrying a rich Shropshire
heiress of that name, traces descent.
The wolf of Chirk is a Cambrian, not a Gothic wolf, and though “a wolf of
battle,” is the wolf not of Biddulph, but of Ryred.