CHAPTER III._The Stranger's Handbook to Chester and Its Environs Containing a short sketch of its history and antiquities, a descriptive walk round the walls, and a visit to the cathedral, castle, and Eaton Hall.

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over them, and over the city; but no sooner had their legions withdrawn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.

[Picture: Phœnix Tower, from the Canal]

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.”

[Picture: Pemberton’s Parlour and City Walls]

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 100_l._, 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.

[Picture: The Water Tower, Railway, and City Walls]

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