BEESTON CASTLE.
This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, doth approve
By his lov'd mansionry, that the heavens' breath
Smells wooingly here.
SHAKSPEARE.
When for our country pleasure an entire day can be commanded, Crewe,
ten or twelve miles from Chelford, and thirty-one from Manchester,
marks the way to Combermere Abbey and Beeston Castle--places alike of
singular interest, though of totally different character. To reach
Combermere, it is needful to continue a little distance along the line
which diverges from Crewe for Shrewsbury, booking to and alighting
at Wrenbury. Two or three different routes may be taken thence, in
any case by pleasant fields and lanes not difficult to discover. The
shortest way is to go first across Mr. Wilson's broad acres of model
farm-land, cereals right and left; then along a lane with a mill-pond
upon the left; then through a corridor of trees upon the right, the
floor, green as their boughs, bordered like a missal, shortly after
issuing from which we arrive at the beautiful water referred to in
the Abbey name. More than a mile in length, covering one hundred and
thirty-two acres, and much too irregular in outline to be seen at
once in its full extent, Combermere, with its adjacent woods, yields
as a picture only to Rostherne. The paths in every direction are full
of landscape. Though the country is flat, we do not perceive it to
be so, and what may be wanting in grandeur, is found in tranquillity
and repose. The mansion, of which there is an admirable view across
the mere, occupies the site of the ancient monastery--a Benedictine,
founded in 1133. Strictly modern, plain and substantial, there is
nothing about the exterior to preserve the memory of monastic times;
inside, however, old and new are let shake hands, the library being
an adaptation of the ancient refectory. The walls, the galleries, and
the principal apartments contain great store of Indian trophies and
curiosities, brought home by the renowned Sir Stapleton-Cotton, whose
bravery in the Peninsular War, and afterwards at the siege and capture
of Bhurtpore, gained for him the title first of Baron, and then of
Viscount, now held by the Lord Combermere, his son.
A similar short ride from Crewe, now by the line which continues to
Chester, conveys us to Beeston, the walk from which station to the
castle, occupying less than half an hour, is again by lanes and
fields. Lancaster Castle, excepting its incomparable gateway-tower, and
a small portion inside, has been so much altered in order to adapt it
for modern uses, that the past is lost in the present. Clitheroe Castle
is all gone, excepting the keep. Beeston, happily, though itself only
a relic, has suffered nothing at the hands of the modern architect.
Even time seems to look on it leniently. As a memorial of the feudal
ages, it is in our own part of England supreme and uncontested, and
in any case one of the most charming resorts within the distance for
all in Manchester who care for the majestic, the antique, and the
picturesque. This famous and far-seen ruin is seated upon the brow of
a mighty rock, which, rising out of the meadows on the eastern side by
a regular and at first easy, but afterwards somewhat steep incline,
terminates, on the western side, in an abrupt and absolutely vertical
precipice, the brink of which is three hundred and sixty-six feet
above the level of the base, or of almost precisely the elevation of
the High Tor at Matlock, and of the loftier parts of St. Vincent's.
Hence, in the distance, viewed sideways, as for example, from Alderley
Edge, the outline is exactly that of a cone-shaped mountain toppled
over and lying prostrate. The broad green slope, dry and velvety,
furnishes an unsurpassed natural lawn for rest and pic-nic. Mounting it
to the summit, the ruins, which now consist chiefly of ivied bastions,
tower above our heads with an inexpressible and mournful grandeur that
recalls the story of Caractacus in the streets of ancient Rome. The
mind runs back to the time when the walls were alive with armed men,
and shouts rose from the turrets, now discrowned. Not that the castle
was ever actually assaulted, for a glance at the entrance is enough
to convince any one that as a military post in the feudal times it
was impregnable. Of military incidents connected with Beeston, there
is indeed no record whatever. All that history has to tell is of one
or two changes in the holding, brought about by treachery or want of
vigilance. But from the time of the building, in 1220, by Randulph de
Blondeville, sixth Earl of Chester, on his return from Palestine, there
can be no doubt that for four centuries the old castle was the scene of
much that was imposing.
Everything has vanished now, and for ever. Up on that wonderful crag
to-day, where the scene is so still, and the "heavens' breath smells
wooingly," we feel far more profoundly than in streets and cities,
how grateful is the dominion of peace compared with the turbulence
of war. For, looking over the westward parapet, at our feet is Vale
Royal, a warm and smiling plain that stretches, literally, to the rim
of the landscape. Randulph looked upon those far away Welsh mountains,
the Frodsham hills, the estuaries of the Dee and the Mersey, all so
beautiful as ingredients in the magnificent prospect. To-day we have
that which he did _not_ see, and probably never imagined. Scattered
over this glorious map are villages, homesteads, orchards, gardens
innumerable; the vast breadth of bright emerald and sunny pasture
laced with hedgerows that in spring are blossom-dappled, and streams,
of which, although so distant, we get twinkling glimpses among the
leafage. If it be autumn, the scene is chequered with the hues of
harvest, every field plainly distinguishable, for one of the peculiar
charms of the view from Beeston Castle rock, granting a favourable day,
with lucid atmosphere, is that while the country is brimful, every
element is well-defined. Later still, we may watch October winding its
tinted way through the green summer of the reluctant trees;--this, no
doubt, it did just in the same sweet old amber-sandalled fashion five
centuries ago, but the trees did not then, as now, cast their shadows
upon liberty and civilisation. Two periods there are when Beeston calls
upon us to remember, with a sigh, that there are forms of beauty in
the world in which we may not hope to revel many times, perhaps, in
their perfection, not more than once or twice. One is mid-winter, when
in the great hush of the virgin snow the landscape becomes a world
carved in spotless marble; the other, when the corn is waiting the
sickle, and the vast plain is steeped in sunset such as August only
witnesses. Watched from this tall rock, the wind-sculptured clouds
that an hour before were glistening pearl slowly change to purple
mountains, while the molten gold boils up above their brows; these go,
and by and by there are left only bars of delicate rose, and veils
of fading asphodel, and at last we are with old Homer and the camp
before Troy, "when the stars are seen round the bright moon, and the
air is breathless, and all beacons, and lofty summits, and forests
appear, and the shepherd is delighted in his mind."[15] So that, adding
all together, the value of the grand old stronghold has in no wise
died out, but only taken another shape. Instead of inspiring awe and
terror, it supplies the heart with noble enjoyments, and with new and
animating incentives to seek the rewards that attend love of the pure
and beautiful.
When at Beeston, on descending from the castle, we visit, as a matter
of course, Peckforton, a mile beyond, the residence of Lord Tollemache.
This splendid edifice restores, in the finest possible manner, the
irregular Norman style of architecture prevalent in the reign of Edward
I. Occupying a space of not less than nine thousand square yards, and
not more remarkable for the superb proportions than for the perfect
finish of every part, in Cheshire it has no equal. Peckforton has
peculiar interest also in the circumstance of the walls being entirely
devoid of paint and paper, thus presenting a contrast to the dressed
surfaces favoured in modern times that for the moment is overwhelming.
The hill upon which it stands is covered with natural wood, and in
the remote parts gives way to heathery wilderness. To pursue this for
any considerable distance, when half the day has already been given
to Beeston, of course is not possible. Begun early enough, we find it
almost continuous with the heights reached by way of Broxton.
After the bastions and the gateway of Beeston Castle, the curiosity of
the place is the ancient well, sunk through the rock to Beeston Brook,
a depth of three hundred and seventy feet, but now quite dry. A trayful
of lighted candles is let down by a windlass for the entertainment of
visitors who care to see the light diminish to a speck. On the way to
Peckforton, it must not be overlooked, either, that in a pretty garden
upon the right will be found Horsley Bath, limpid water perpetually
running out of the rock, and in restorative powers, if the legends be
true, a genuine "fountain of rejuvenescence."
[Illustration]
Footnote
[15: _Iliad_, Book viii., at the end, thus gloriously
rendered by the most spirited and poetical, if somewhat rugged, of his
translators, Chapman, A.D. 1596:--
And spent all night in the open field, fires round about them shined,
As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind,
And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high prospects,
and the brows
Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust themselves up for shows,
And even the lowly valleys joy, to glitter in their sight,
When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light,
And all the signs in heaven are seen that glad the shepherd's heart.]
[Illustration]