Warwick Castle.
THE great Castle of Warwick, now the seat of the Earl and Countess of
Warwick, who formed themselves into a Limited Liability Company some
fifteen years ago, under the title of the “Warwick Estates Co., Ltd.,”
has been the seat of the Grevilles since 1605.
The origin of Warwick Castle goes back to Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred
the Great and wife of the then Earl of Mercia, a strenuous and warlike
lady, to whom are attributed many ancient works. She is credited with
building the first fortress in A.D. 915, on that knoll still known as
“Ethelfleda’s Mount,” on which a Norman keep was subsequently erected,
perhaps by that famous personage Turchil. In the family of Turchil the
cognisance of the yet more famous Bear and Ragged Staff originated, which
in all succeeding generations has descended from house to house of the
distinguished families who have come into possession of Warwick Castle:
the Houses of Beauchamp, Neville, Dudley, Rich, and Greville: not as
their personal badge, but as that of the castellan for the time being of
Warwick. A fantastic theory has been set afoot that, as Siward, son of
Turchil, assumed the name “de Arden,” thus founding the numerous knightly
family of Ardens, Shakespeare, as the son of a Mary Arden, was probably
the rightful owner of Warwick Castle! We may safely say that this never
occurred to Shakespeare himself, and may add him to one of that numerous
class slyly alluded to by Ingoldsby; people “kept out of their property
by the rightful owners.”
The great Guy of Warwick, a giant in stature and doughty in deeds, is a
myth, but that does not prevent his armour being shown in the Great Hall
of the Castle. His period seems to be placed between that of Ethelfleda
and Turchil, for the date of his death is put at A.D. 929. Mythical
though he is, the later and very real flesh-and-blood Beauchamps, who
came into possession of Warwick in the thirteenth century, were often
named “Guy” in allusion to him. His armour, like his legendary self, is
a weird accretion of time, and is no longer displayed with the touching
belief of less exacting times. The Age of Belief is dead, they say. Of
belief in some things incredible, no doubt. He wore, according to the
articles seen here, not only armour of tremendous size and weight, but of
periods ranging from three hundred, to six hundred and ninety years after
his death. A bascinet of the time of Edward the Third covered his head,
his breastplate, weighing fifty pounds, is of the latter part of the
fifteenth century, and the backplate belongs to the Stuart period. His
shield weighs thirty pounds; his great ponderous sword, five feet six
inches long, is of the time of Henry the Eighth. “Guy’s breakfast cup,
or porridge-pot” is equally wonderful, for it has a capacity of a hundred
and twenty gallons. It is really an ancient iron cauldron, once used for
cooking the rations of the garrison.
The first historical Earl of Warwick was Henry de Newburgh, who died
1123; and by a succession of changes and failures of heirs the title and
estates came to William de Beauchamp, husband of the daughter of William
Mauduit.
In the time of Guy, Earl of Warwick, son of this William, the Castle
witnessed some stirring scenes. The discontented nobles, troubled at the
preference given by Edward the Second to his foreign favourite, Piers
Gaveston, and at the apparent impossibility of permanently ridding the
kingdom of him, seized that pestilent foreigner and confined him for a
short time in a dungeon here.
The favourite was by no means an acceptable person to the English barons,
who although all directly descended from William the Conqueror’s
Frenchmen, had already been assimilated by this wonderful country of
ours, and were as English as—well, let us say as English as any German
Jew Goldstein or Schlesinger of modern times who, coming to these happy
shores, suffers a sea-change into something rich and rare, and becomes a
new and strange “Gordon,” or “Sinclair.” They regarded this flippant
Gascon from the south of France as an undesirable of the worst type, and
could not and would not appreciate his jokes; a natural enough disability
when you come to consider them, for they were all at their expense. If
you study the monumental effigies of those mediæval barons and knights
which are so plentifully dispersed throughout our country churches, you
will readily perceive that although they were frequently very magnificent
personages, their countenances do not often show any trace of
intellectual qualities. Edward the Second was as flippant a person as
his favourite, and when these stupid and indignant barons saw them
laughing together, they knew very well, or keenly suspected, that they
themselves were being laughed at. Did not this Gaveston fellow call the
Earl of Lancaster “the play-actor,” or “the fiddler,” and the Earl of
Lincoln “burst belly.” Every one knew he called his father-in-law “_fils
à puteyne_,” or “whoreson.” Guy, Earl of Warwick, was “the black hound
of Arden.”
“Let him call me hound: one day the hound will bite him,” said the Earl.
Meanwhile, Gaveston went on finding nicknames for every one, and made
himself bitterly hated by those dull-minded barons who could not joke
back at him. The worst of it was, his lance was as keen, and went as
straight to the point, as his gibes. It was little use meeting him in
single combat, for he unhorsed and vanquished the best.
Hence this seizure of the hateful person. The story of it is told by
Adam Murimuth—
“The King wished Peter de Gavestone to be conveyed to him by Lord
Adamar de Valense, Earl of Pembroke, for safety; and, when they were
at Danyntone next Bannebury, the same Earl sent him away in the
night; and he went near to one place for this reason. And on the
morrow in the morning came Guy, Earl of Warwyk, with a low-born and
shouting band, and awakened Peter and brought him to his Castle of
Warwyk and, after deliberation with certain elders of the kingdom,
and chiefly with Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, finally released him from
prison to go where he would. And when he had set out from the town
of Warwyk even to the place called, somewhat prophetically,
Gaveressich, he came there with many men making a clamor against him
with their voices and horns, as against an enemy of the King and a
lawful outlaw of the Kingdom, or an exile; and finally beheaded him
as such xix day of the month of June.”
So the “Black Dog” did indeed bite him to some effect. This tragic spot
is a place called Blacklow Hill, one mile north of the town. A monument
to this misguided humorist, following his natural propensities in a land
where humour is not appreciated, was erected on the spot by a Mr.
Greathead, of Guy’s Cliff House, in 1821. The inscription itself has a
complete lack of humour—
“In the hollow of this rock was beheaded, on the first day of July,
1312, by barons as lawless as himself, Piers Gaveston, Earl of
Cornwall, the minion of a hateful king, in life and death a memorable
instance of misrule.”
With this fierce “Black Dog of Arden,” whose teeth were so sharp, the
architectural history of the Castle becomes clear. He repaired and
strengthened it, after the rough handling it had received in the Barons’
War, in the reign of Henry the Third; but to Thomas de Beauchamp, his
grandson, is due Cæsar’s Tower, about 1360, and it was his son Thomas,
who built Guy’s Tower, named after the mythical giant, about 1394.
It costs two shillings to see Warwick Castle. I believe if you happen to
be a resident of Warwick or Leamington, there is a reduction of fifty per
cent. The entrance is not so old as it looks, and was cut through the
rock in 1800. It leads to the gloomy Barbican, whose overhanging walls
give a truly mediæval approach and form the completest contrast with the
scene that opens beyond.
The visitor enters a huge courtyard, now one vast lawn, nearly two acres
in area; with the residential portion of the Castle and its state-rooms
on the left. Ahead is Ethelfleda’s Mount, and on the right, guarding the
curtain-wall at intervals, are Guy’s Tower; the incomplete Bear Tower,
with its mysterious tunnel, the work of Richard the Third; and the
companion Clarence Tower, built by George, Duke of Clarence, his
ill-fated brother, murdered in the Tower of London. Beside Ethelfleda’s
Mount is the Hill Tower.
Immediately to the left of the entrance are the brew-house, laundry and
then Cæsar’s Tower, with its gloomy dungeon, a most undesirable place of
residence with vaulted stone roof and mouldy smells, meet for repentance
and vain regrets. Here the “Black Dog” imprisoned the flippant Gaveston,
and many later generations of prisoners passed weary times, scratching
their not very legible records upon the walls for lack of employment.
Among them is the record of one “Master John Smyth, gunner to the King,”
who appears to have been a prisoner here for the worse part of four
years, in the hands of the Cromwellian partisan, Lord Brooke. We learn
nothing further of the unfortunate gunner, nor why he was meted such hard
measure.
M_a_fTER : I_oh_N : SM_y_TH : GVNER : TO HIS :
MAIEST_y_E . HIg_h_NES : WAS : A PRISNER IN THIS
PlACE : AND lA_y_ HERE . _f_rOM 1642 TELL _th_
WILLIAM SI_d_IATE ROT T_his_ SAME
AN_d_ _if_ M_y_ PEN HA_d_ B_in_ BETER f_o_R
HIS SAKE I Wovl_d_ HAVE MEN_d_E_d_
EVERRi leTTER.
Ma_f_ter 1642 345
Io_h_n : SM_y_TH GVNER _to_ H .
MAIE_f_T_ys _: Hi_gh_NES WAS
A PRI_f_NER IN T_his_ PlACE
IN : T_h_E . _y_EARE _of_ OVR L
_ord_ 1642 : 345
_miserere_
_ihs mary_
_ihs mio_
Mr. William Sidiate (or possibly it is “Lidiate”) who thus, in the
quaintest of lettering inscribed the sorrows of his friend the imprisoned
gunner, appears to have been fully conscious of the eccentricity of his
handiwork, but the inferiority of his “pen”—which was probably a rusty
nail—can have had nothing to do with his weird admixture of “large caps,”
“upper case,” “lower case” and italic type which I confidently expect
will make the compositor of this page smile and sigh by turns.
The Great Hall, with its armour and pictures and relics of Guy, is of
course the chief feature of the long round of sight-seeing that makes
Warwick Castle second to none as a show-place. It was greatly injured in
the fire of December 1871, when many priceless relics were destroyed.
Facsimile replicas of some have been made, and of the ancient armour
which survived it has been said that there is no finer in the Kingdom,
except that in the Tower of London. It is remarkable that although the
Castle has passed from family to family, and sometimes to families not
related to their predecessors, the continuity of things has been
maintained. Here is the mace of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, “the
Kingmaker,” who was slain in 1471 at the Battle of Barnet; here are
portions of the armour which belonged to Prince Edward, murdered at
Tewkesbury, after the battle; together with relics of the Dudleys, such
as the miniature suit of armour made for the “noble Impe”; together with
a helmet of the great Oliver Cromwell, and the suit worn by Lord Brooke,
shot at the siege of Lichfield. His buff leathern jerkin was burnt in
1871, and that we now see is a facsimile of it. Here, too, are those
preposterous relics of Guy, already mentioned, together with a rib of
that Dun Cow of terrific story which he slew upon Dunsmore. The visitor
will see that rib with surprise, and note that the cows of a thousand
years ago were larger than ever he suspected. It is the rib of a whale.
He would be a courtly, and perhaps also a tedious, writer who should
essay to fully describe Warwick Castle, with its many suites of
state-rooms, its gothic stone-vaulted servants’-hall, and its terraces,
ponds, and gardens, together with the conservatories and that famous
Roman antiquity, the so-called “Warwick Vase,” found at Hadrian’s Villa,
near Rome in 1770, and purchased by the dilettante George, second Earl,
from Sir William Hamilton. Great improvements have been made here in the
last few years at the cost of “a little damming and blasting,” as was
remarked at the time.
Past the melancholy flymen who linger in the broad roadway opposite the
entrance to the Castle, and wear jaundiced looks as though it were years
ago since they had had a fare and expect it to be years yet before they
will get another, you turn to the right into Mill Lane, narrow street of
ancient houses, leading down to the river and to the site of that ancient
mill where the feudal lords had their corn ground.
The magnificence of state-rooms, the lengthy parade of family portraits,
the beauty of the gardens, and the trimness of well-kept lawns do not
serve the really cultivated visitor’s turn in Warwick Castle. He pays
his two shillings and is herded through with many others, a little
browbeaten by the stale declamation of the gorgeous lackeys and by a very
indigestion of sightseeing. It is not a medieval fortress he has seen,
but a private residence. In Mill Lane, however, you come into nearer
touch with realities. Here, in this by far the most picturesque and
unspoiled part of Warwick, where the bowed and time-worn brick or
timber-framed houses are living out their life naturally, something of
the ancient contrast between subservient town and feudal fortress may be
gathered, softened down, it is true, by the hand of time. Cæsar’s Tower
is viewed at its best from the lower end of the lane, and looks from this
point of view the noblest and the sternest tower the forceful military
architects of the Middle Ages have given us, and well worthy of the great
name of Cæsar long ago conferred upon it by some unknown admirer of its
dignity and massive beauty. It was somewhere about 1360 when Cæsar’s
Tower first arose upon the rocky bluff in which its foundations go deeply
down. It was then called the Poictiers Tower. The purpose of this
extremely strong and cunningly-planned work just here is lost to the
modern casual observer, but if a keen glance is directed to the Avon
flowing so closely by, it will be observed that although Mill Lane is now
a lane butting up against the river bank and leading nowhere, the ruins
of a very substantial stone bridge that once crossed the broad stream at
this point are seen. This formerly carried the high road from Warwick to
Banbury, and when still in use brought the possibility of attack upon the
Castle at this angle very near, and therefore to be provided against by
the strongest possible defence. Hence those boldest of machicolations
overhead, those arrow-slits in the skilfully-planned battlements above
them, and that extraordinary double base with the bold slopes, seen in
the accompanying illustration; a base whose purpose was to fling off with
a tremendous rebound into the midst of an enemy the stones, the molten
lead and pitch, and the more nasty, but not so lethal missiles with which
a besieged garrison defended themselves. This base is quite solid rock,
faced with masonry. In the upper part of it is seen the small barred
window that admits a feeble light into the dungeon already described.
To-day the elms have grown up to great heights beside Cæsar’s Tower and
assuage the grimness of it, and the only sounds are the cawings and
gobbling noises of the rooks in their branches, or the unlovely cries of
the Castle peacocks which strut across the lane in all their glory of
colour.
The tower rises 106 feet above its rocky basement. Those old military
architects who designed and built it had not the least idea they were
installing a picturesque feature. They had no knowledge at all of the
picturesque; but they assured themselves, as well as they could, that the
safety of the Castle should be provided for. And they did it so well
that history will be studied in vain for a successful siege.
[Picture: Cæsar’s Tower, Warwick Castle]
This must have been a noble and imposing entrance to Warwick town in days
of old. Then the road from London to Banbury crossed the ancient bridge
and came up under this frowning tower and through the south gate of the
town, along Mill Lane.
The bridge, originally a narrow packhorse bridge of thirteen arches and
of great antiquity, was widened in 1375 and the number of arches reduced
to seven; and, thus remodelled, carried the traffic until 1790. This way
came of necessity every traveller from London to Warwick, and in this
manner Queen Elizabeth entered the town and Castle in 1572.
Warwick Castle was in those times less secluded from the streets than it
now is. The feudal owners of it were not at all concerned to hide
themselves away, but when the age of sight-seeing dawned and amateurs of
the picturesque began to tour the country, they began to consider how
they could ensure a complete privacy. It was effected by diverting the
public highway. This was done at the instigation of George, second of
the Greville Earls of Warwick, in or about 1790, when the new road and
bridge were made, crossing the Avon considerably to the eastward. From
that modern bridge, which cost £4000, only in part contributed by the
Earl, who benefited most by the diversion, is obtained that view of the
Castle so extravagantly praised by Sir Walter Scott. It is the only
possible view, and not a good one: one by no means to be compared with
that formerly obtained from the old bridge. Sir Walter Scott therefore
either did not know what he was talking about, or was too much of a
courtier to reveal his own convictions.
At this same time when the road was made to take its new course, the
meadows on the other side of the Avon were enclosed and thrown into the
park. To complete and fully round off this story of obliterating ancient
landmarks, the old bridge was wrecked in the same year by a flood. Three
only of its arches remain.
The Grevilles, the present Earls of Warwick, have a motto to their coat
of arms which is a complete change from the usual swashbuckling braggart
sentiments. He was surely a singularly modest man who first adopted it.
I wish I could identify him. He must have read well the history of
Warwick Castle and have pondered on the successive families of cuckoos
who have nested in the old home of the original owners. He selected a
quotation from the _Metamorphoses_ of that amorous dove, P. Ovidius
Naso—O! quite a proper one, I assure you—_Vix ea nostra voco_, “I can
scarce call these things our own.” Whether he meant the heirlooms, the
mace that belonged to the great Richard Neville “the Kingmaker,” the
Plantagenet and the Dudley relics, or if he were a contemplative
philosopher ruminating on the Law of Entail, by which he was not owner,
to do with as he would, but only tenant-for-life, who shall say?