BEESTON CASTLE.
The traveller who has ever journeyed in the “Wild Irishman” between
that hive of industry, Crewe, and the ancient city upon the Dee, will
have noticed upon his left, midway between the two places, a bold
outlier of rock that rises abruptly from the great Cheshire plain, with
the ivy-covered remains of an ancient castle perched upon its summit. A
better position for a fortress it is difficult to conceive. It looks as
if nature had intended it as a place of defence; and evidently Randle
Blundeville, the crusader Earl of Chester, thought so, when, in those
stormy days in which the Marches were the constant scene of struggle
and strife, and
Like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales!
he chose it as the site for one of his border strongholds.
Avoiding, for the nonce, the “Irishman,” we will avail ourselves of the
more convenient, if more common-place, “Parliamentary,” as it enables
us to alight at Beeston—for that is the place to which our steps are
directed, and almost within bowshot of the relic of ancient days, of
which we are in search. Beeston is not a town—it can hardly be called a
village even, the houses are so few, and neighbourhood there is none.
The little unpretentious railway station is innocent of hurry and
bustle, and seems almost ashamed of disturbing the rural tranquillity;
the Tollemache Arms, a comfortable hostelrie standing below the
railway, opens its doors invitingly; a peaceful farmstead or two,
surrounded by verdant pastures and fields of ripening corn, with here
and there a cleanly whitewashed cottage, half hidden among the trees
and hedges, are almost the only habitations we can see.
A few minutes’ walk along a sandy lane, that winds beneath the trees
and across the sun-bright meadows, where cattle are pasturing and
haymakers are tossing the fragrant grass, brings us to the foot of the
castle rock. The huge mass of sandstone lifting its unwieldy form above
the surrounding greenery seems to dominate the entire landscape. Few
landmarks are more striking, and, as you draw near, the hoary time-worn
ruin crowning the summit, and looking almost gay and cheerful in the
fresh morning sunlight, reminds you, only that the water is wanting, of
those picturesque strongholds that crest the rocky heights along the
lonely reaches of the Rhine—
High from its field of air looks down
The eyrie of a vanished race;
Home of the mighty, whose renown
Has passed and left no trace.
On the north-easterly side the hill rises slopingly, but towards the
south and west it shoots up abruptly from the plain, presenting a mass
of jagged perpendicular rock three hundred and sixty feet in height.
Seen from the distance, it looks as if it had been upheaved by some
convulsive effort of Nature, and then toppled over, the foundations
standing up endways. Keeping to the left, we ascend by a path steep
and rough, and stony withal. Brushwood and bracken, and the wild, old,
wandering bramble border the way; and now and then a timid sheep rushes
out from some shady nook and gazes wonderingly at us as we go by. The
turf in places is short and slippery, for the rabbits keep it closely
cropped; and were it not for a fragment of jutting rock, or the branch
of a tree that occasionally proffers its friendly aid, we should find
the ascent at times difficult and toilsome. Little more than half way
up we come to the outer line of the fortifications, where a small lodge
has been erected, through which we gain admission into the dismantled
interior.
The ruin is complete, and at the first glance presents only the
appearance of crumbling masses of shapeless masonry, that, having
outlived the necessities which called them into existence, time has
clothed with saddest beauty. The ivy spreads its roots and clings with
fond tenacity, the long grass waves, and the nettles grow in rank
profusion; yet the remains are so far perfect that the searching eye of
the archæologist can readily discern their purpose, determine the plan,
and reconstruct in every detail. The outer ballium, which is pierced by
a few embrasures, extends in the form of an irregular semicircle round
the sloping sides, and where the cliff is not perpendicular, about
five or six acres being comprehended within the area. The entrance is
so narrow that only one or two persons can pass through at a time—a
feature that indicates the rude and lawless period of its erection,
when strength and security were the chief objects aimed at. It has been
guarded by a square tower, and the remains of seven other towers or
bastions, mostly round, and similar in appearance to the Moorish towers
which became so general in England after the return of the barons
from the Crusades, occur at irregular intervals. The court itself is
a large, rough pasture, broken and uneven. A pair of kangaroos are
disporting themselves among the moss-grown fragments, and a few deer
are quietly browsing upon the green turf; but there is no picturesque
assemblage of ruins, or trace of any previously-existing building,
though it was once a busy hive of life and work. Nothing now remains
but a few weedy heaps of masonry, the shattered keep, and the small
inner bailey which occupies the highest and most inaccessible part of
the rock, covering an area an acre in extent.
The keep was formerly protected and is still separated from the outer
court by a broad, deep moat, hewn out of the solid rock, that extends
round two sides and terminates near its precipitous edge. It is now
dry and partly choked with weeds and rubbish, and a path has been
made across where formerly a drawbridge only gave access. The great
barbican, though roofless and forlorn, is imposing even in its decay,
and gives a distinct impression of its former strength and solidity.
It was proof against bows and arrows, battering rams, and similar
engines of primitive warfare, and, ere “villainous saltpetre had been
dug out of the bowels of the harmless earth,” must have been, barring
treachery from within, absolutely impregnable. The round towers that
flank the entrance are clothed with the greenest and darkest ivy, that
mingles with and seems to form part of the ruined mass to which it
clings so lovingly, making it more picturesque than it could ever have
been in the days of its proud and pristine splendour. The walls are of
immense thickness, and on the face of each, near the top, where the
ashlar-work has not been destroyed, a kind of arcade ornament may still
be discerned. An early English arch unites the two towers, and beneath
it we can see the grooves wherein the portcullis used to descend to bar
the ingress and egress of doubtful or suspected visitors. The entrance,
like that to the outer court, is very narrow; passing through, a few
steps cut out of the sandstone rock, and which have been worn by the
tread of many generations, lead to the inner court or bailey, environed
on two sides by lofty walls, from which project great bastions that
have for centuries braved the winter’s wrath and rejoiced in the
summer sunshine. The interior is now a vacant space, except for the
few fragments of masonry that serve to indicate what once was there.
This was the citadel, so to speak. In it was the home of the lordly
owner of the castle (and scant and rude enough it must have been),
the outer court being used as the quarters for the garrison. Here we
are shown the well-house and the famous well from which, in bygone
days, the occupants drew their supply of water, and which now forms
an object of attraction to wondering visitors. It is a remarkable
work, and says much for the perseverance and skill of those who made
it. The depth is said to be no less than 366 feet—nearly double that
of the well at Carisbrook—the water, it is believed, being level
with Beeston Brook, which flows near the foot of the castle rock. A
tradition was widely prevalent, and is still believed in many a rustic
home in the locality, that a great amount of treasure lies buried at
the bottom, having been cast in it during a time of peculiar exigence
by one of the earlier lords of Beeston; but the story may be dismissed
as resting upon no better foundation than the shaping power of the
imagination. There is no water in it, nor has there been for years,
owing to the drainage below, and for a long time it was choked with
rubbish; but some five-and-thirty or forty years ago it was cleared
out to the very bottom, when the only treasures discovered were an old
spade and a fox’s head. We peer into the darksome vault, but the gloom
is impervious; then the janitor produces a frame with a few lighted
candles upon it, which he lets down by a rope and pulley. As it slowly
descends the light gradually diminishes until it becomes a mere speck,
and we are enabled to form some idea of the amazing depth to which the
rock has been excavated. Having done this, he will, if it will add to
your pleasure and you are ready to listen, give you his version of
Beeston’s history—lead you where nobles and high-born dames have held
their banquets; show you the iron rings to which, in bygone days, the
troopers fastened their horses; and then relate with circumstantial
detail the legend of the lost treasure, and tell you how, long, long
ago, a trusty servitor was let down to the bottom of the well in the
hope of recovering it, and that when he was wound up again he was
speechless, and died before he could reveal the mysteries he had seen.
For the boldness and beauty of its situation Beeston may be fairly said
to be unrivalled, and from the wide extent of country it commands it
must, in the days of watch and ward, have been admirably adapted either
for the purposes of offence or defence. From the summit of the glorious
old relic we can sweep the whole arch of the horizon, from the pale
blue hills of Wales on the one hand, to the brown heathy wastes that
once formed part of the great forest of Macclesfield on the other. The
palatinate which boasts itself the Vale Royal of England is usually
reckoned a flat county, and this is in a great measure true, for league
upon league of broad, flat, fertile meadows spread before us, but
the eye as it ranges into the distance passes over a rich variety of
undulating country. Above the round-topped woods of Delamere we catch
sight of the eminence on which the Saxon city of Eddisbury once stood,
and the bold promontories of Frodsham and Halton guarding the shores
of the Mersey; eastwards are seen the umbraged heights of Alderley,
and further to the right the range of hills that form the barrier of
the county, and separate it from the Peak district of Derbyshire;
while more to the south, where a cloud of smoke hangs lazily upon the
landscape, is Crewe, the great central point of railway enterprise and
railway industry. Gleaming in the warm sunshine upon the left we note
the stately tower of Chester Cathedral rising proudly above the humbler
structures that, like vassals, gather round, and we recall the stormy
times when from its walls, on that sad September day, the ill-fated
Charles the First, after a fitful gleam of prosperity, saw his gallant
cavaliers borne down by the stern soldiers of Cromwell’s army on Rowton
Moor, a disaster that turned the fortunes of the King and sealed the
fate of Beeston. In rear one can look down the wide estuaries of the
Dee and the Mersey, and along the great western horn of Cheshire, as it
stretches away towards the Irish Sea. More to the left the mountains
of Wales loom darkly and mysteriously, as distant mountains always do,
and spread along the line of the horizon until their further summits,
softened by the mellowing haze of distance, can hardly be distinguished
from the azure dome above; the bold form of Moel Fammau may be seen
rising conspicuously, and when the day is clear those who are blessed
with a keen eyesight may, it is said, discern even the peak of Snowdon,
seeming to touch the far-off western sky.
Glorious is the prospect that spreads around. What a wealth of pastoral
loveliness lies before us, everywhere exhibiting the signs of fertility
and cultivation. All within the limits is a green and beautiful expanse
made up of copse and lea, of level meadow breadths and cattle-dappled
pastures, that rejoice in the warm sunshine, with little hamlets and
villages and shady lanes, old manor houses and churches—the monuments
of the past mingling with the habitations of contemporary life and
activity. Natural beauty is everywhere, and the eye is delighted with
its variety of extent. After leisurely contemplating the scene the
mind is enabled to occupy itself with the details. We can note the
exquisite contrasts of colour and the coming and going effects of the
cloud-shadows as, wafted by the softest of summer zephyrs, they slowly
chase each other over the woods and verdant glades. The slumber of a
summer day lies profoundly as a trance upon the scene. The lowing of
the kine in the neighbouring meadows, the harsh note of the corncrake,
and the soft dreamy call of the cuckoo are the only sounds that break
upon the ear. Bunbury twinkles through its screen of leaves far below
us, and we can discern the tower of the venerable church where lie the
bones of some of the lords of Beeston, and where still may be seen the
sumptuous monuments that perpetuate their names. In front, and almost
at our feet, is the Chester and Ellesmere Canal, glistening like a line
of liquid silver, and the railway, over which the iron horse glides
swiftly every day, running parallel with it, types of the past and
present modes of travel. The white road that crosses them both leads up
to Tarporley, where there is an ancient church (or rather was, for in
the last few years it has been almost entirely rebuilt), and several
monuments that well deserve inspection. Close by is Utkinton, for many
a generation the home of the proud family of the Dones, hereditary
chief foresters of Delamere, one of whom, John Done, the husband of
that proverbial exemplar of unsurpassable perfection, the fair Lady
Done,[25] in 1617 ordered so wisely the sports of James the First,
when that monarch took his pleasure and repast in the forest, that, as
the author of _The Vale Royal_ tells us, he “freely honoured him with
knighthood and graced his house at Utkinton with his presence;” but the
house which he graced by his presence was made the scene of revelry and
pillage by the soldiers of his son, the hall being plundered, and the
plate, jewels, and writings taken away by the Royalist forces shortly
after the breaking out of the civil war.
[Note 25: “As fair as Lady Done” is a well-known Cheshire proverb.
Pennant (“Tour from Chester to London, 4 ed., p. 8”), referring to this
lady, who was the daughter of Sir Thomas Wilbraham, of Woodhey, says
that “when a Cheshire man would express super-eminent excellency in one
of the fair sex he will say, ‘There is a Lady Done for you.’”]
On the western side the view is singularly impressive. The rock is
perpendicular, its ruggedness being softened only by the ferns and
mosses that have attached themselves to the clefts and crevices,
and the shrubs and trees that grow out from the gaping stones. You
look down from the giddy height on to the road immediately beneath,
where the little homesteads and cottages seem reduced to lilliputian
dimensions, and the laden waggon going by looks no bigger than a toy.
Carrying the eye round towards the south, the Broxton hills come in
view; nearer is the lofty height of Stanner Nab; and then, separated
only by a narrow valley, the most prominent feature in the whole
landscape, the richly-wooded eminence of Peckforton, surmounted by the
castle, with its great round keep and broken and picturesque line of
towers and turrets, that Lord Tollemache built some five-and-thirty
years ago as a reproduction of the fortified stronghold of the early
Edwardian period.
The historical associations of Beeston impart a deeper interest to the
beauty of its natural surroundings. Its annals run back to the time
of Randle Blundeville—Randle the Good, as he is sometimes called—the
most famous of the Cestrian Earls. This Randle succeeded to the earldom
on the death of his father, Hugh Cyveliock, in 1187, and shortly
afterwards married the Lady Constance, widow of Geoffry Plantagenet, a
younger son of Henry II., the mother of the young Prince Arthur whom
King John cruelly put to death—a lady from whom he was afterwards
divorced. They were turbulent times in which he lived, and he bore his
full share in the stirring events that were then occurring; but, though
one of the most powerful nobles of the land, his power was generally
exercised in the interests of his legitimate sovereign. When Richard
the Lion-hearted, returning from his encounters with the infidel in
Palestine, was detained a captive in Austria, and the treacherous
John, to whom he had committed the care of the kingdom, basely sought
to appropriate the crown, Earl Randle and his knights and retainers,
with Earl Ferrars and others, besieged his castle of Nottingham, and
valorously maintained the cause of the absent King. After Richard’s
death, when John had succeeded to the throne, he remained loyal to him
as he had done to his predecessor, though he had the courage to rebuke
him for violating the wives and daughters of the nobility. Afterwards
we find him taking part in that ever memorable council which assembled
on the greensward of Runnymede, “encircled by the coronet of Cooper’s
Hill,” which secured the rights of the people of England, and the Great
Charter that still remains the foundation of their liberties, when—
England’s ancient Barons, clad in arms,
And stern with conquest, from their tyrant King
(Then render’d tame), did challenge and secure
The charter of our freedom.
When that memorable June day had waned—when the Great Charter had
been won, and the thoughtful night which followed had passed—when men
began to think that the pledges so readily given would be as readily
violated, and that concessions extorted could only be maintained by
force of arms, Randle Blundeville remained faithful to his faithless
King, and defended his cause against the Barons and the Dauphin of
France, to whom they had traitorously offered the English crown.
The great Earl was then in the plenitude of his power, and when the
tyrant John had paid the penalty of over-indulgence in peaches and new
cider, he proved himself a firm and faithful champion of his son, the
young King Henry, and, with Earl Pembroke, was mainly instrumental in
securing him upon his father’s throne, and by that means releasing
England from the dominion of a stranger. When the kingdom had settled
into peace, having assumed the cross in fulfilment of a vow he had
previously made, the Earl betook himself to the Holy Land:—
To chace the Pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk’d those blessèd feet
Which, many hundred years before, were nail’d
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
He remained absent for about two years, during which time he assisted
in the taking of Damietta; and immediately on the return from his
crusading expedition he set about the erection of the Castle of
Beeston, for the greater security of his palatinate against the
incursions of the brave but troublesome Welsh, with whom he had
previously had many encounters, bringing to his aid that Saracenic
style of architecture he had found so well adapted for defence, and
which is so admirably represented in the ivy-coloured walls and
bastions of Beeston.
Randle Blundeville was a famous warrior, and withal a mighty castle
builder, for, in addition to re-edifying the castle of Deganwy, on
the Conway, which had been partially destroyed during the numerous
conflicts with Prince Llewelyn, he built the castles of Beeston in
Cheshire, and Chartley in Staffordshire. He also founded and endowed
the Abbey of Grey Friars, in Coventry, and a religious house on the
banks of the Churnet, near Leek, to which latter, at his wife’s
desire, he gave the name of Dieu-la-cresse—“May God increase it”—and
transferred to it the Cistercian brotherhood of the Abbey of Poulton,
near Chester, who had found their home there too circumscribed, and
probably uncomfortably near the Welsh Marches—an act of piety he had
been directed to perform, as the old monkish legends declare, by his
grandfather in a vision. He believed in dreams, and he appears to
have had equal faith in the piety of the monks, for it is recorded
of him that, being overtaken in a storm at sea when returning from
his crusading expedition, and the ship being in danger of sinking, he
refused to lend a helping hand in righting it until midnight, when,
as he affirmed, the monks of Dieu-la-cresse would be supplicating
Heaven on his behalf; and that, consequently, God would then give him
strength. The ship was saved, and, as their prayers had evidently
availed so much, it may be assumed that the brethren of Dieu-la-cresse
were a more than usually righteous fraternity.
The castles of Beeston and Chartley were both commenced in the same
year (1220), and to defray the cost of their erection the Earl “took
toll throughout all his lordships of all such persons as passed by the
same, with any cattel, chaffre, or merchandize.” The reason for the
erection of Beeston is not far to seek. The Welsh were troublesome
neighbours, for though the Red King and the English-born Henry—the
“Lion of Justice,” as he was called—had tried to unite their country
with England, they had been neither exterminated nor enslaved, and for
long years—
All along the border here
The word was snaffle, spur, and spear.
In these border struggles Earl Randle found himself on one occasion
shut up in the castle of Rhuddlan—then called Rothelent—to which he had
retreated, and hard pressed by his foes. At this time his constable
of Cheshire, that doughty warrior Roger Lacy, baron of Halton, whose
fierceness had earned for him the sobriquet of “Hell,” happening to be
at Chester, hastily mustered all the beggars, minstrels, debauched men,
harlots, and other disorderly characters who were then assembled at the
fair, and with this tumultuous company marched to his master’s rescue.
The Welsh, who were as much alarmed at the sight of such a multitude
as the French were at the sight of Talbot, raised the siege and fled;
and the Earl, returning in safety, in reward and in memory of such
welcome service, conferred upon his trusty follower the government and
licensing of all beggars, vagrants, strollers, and minstrels within the
limits of his earldom, a privilege which Lacy in turn bestowed upon
his steward, Hugh Dutton; and the Duttons of Dutton, his successors,
continued to exercise the right until the passing of the Vagrant Act,
a few years ago—the custom being for them or their deputies to ride
through the streets of Chester to St. John’s Church every year, with
the minstrels of Cheshire playing before them; after which their
licenses were renewed. After this adventure, peace was concluded (1222)
between the Earl and Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, which was happily
cemented by the marriage in the same year of Randle’s nephew and heir,
John Scot, Earl of Huntingdon, with Llewelyn’s daughter Helen.
Randle Blundeville, after having held the earldom for the long period
of fifty-two years, died at Wallingford on the 26th Oct. 1232, and
was buried at St. Werburg’s, Chester, his heart being deposited in
the Abbey of Dieu-la-cresse. Having no issue, his sister’s son, John
the Scot, succeeded; but he bore rule only five years, dying in 1237,
having, as was commonly believed, been poisoned by his wife, the Welsh
princess.
That amiable lady not having borne him any children, his vast
possessions should by right have devolved upon his sisters; but King
Henry, being unwilling, as he said, “that so great an inheritance
should be divided among distaffs,” considerately took the earldom into
his own hands, and gave them other lands instead. In this transaction
there is little doubt but that the King got the best end of the
bargain, though it might have been better for his grandson if the
“distaffs” had been left in undisturbed possession of their property;
for in that case it is more than probable England would not have had to
deplore the defeat at Bannockburn which made Scotland a nation.
Maidens of England, sore may ye mourn,
For your lemans ye have lost at Bannockburn.
Of the sisters of John Scot, Margaret, the eldest, was the grandmother
of John Baliol, who became a competitor for the crown of Scotland.
Isabella, the second sister, by her marriage with Robert le Brus, the
Lord of Annandale, had a grandson—the brave and heroic Robert Bruce—the
“Bruce of Bannockburn,” and the idol of the Scottish people.
After Henry the Third had assumed the Earldom of Chester the castle
of Beeston was left to the charge of castellans, and the people of
Cheshire had a sorry time of it; for David, the son of Prince Llewelyn,
endeavoured to cast off the English yoke, and long and bloody were
the struggles for freedom on the one hand, and for dominion on the
other—the county being overrun and ravaged alternately by friends and
enemies until nearly every rood of land was soaked with the blood
of the combatants. In the attack made by the King in 1245 the whole
borderland was laid waste, and the wyches or salt-pits were destroyed.
Eleven years later the county was plundered and desolated by the
Welsh; and in the year 1256 the young Prince Edward, to whom Henry had
two years previously assigned the Principality, made his first progress
into Cheshire, when his castle of Beeston was placed in the charge of
Fulco de Orreby. This year was an eventful one, for before its close
the Welsh again arose in insurrection, when Prince Edward was compelled
to retire; but the King marched an army to his support, wasting the
harvest as he advanced, and well-nigh depopulating the county, when, as
the ancient chronicler, Matthew Paris, records, “the whole border was
reduced into a desert, the inhabitants were cut off by the sword, the
castles and houses burnt, the woods felled, and the cattle destroyed by
famine.”
The day was not far distant when Beeston was to be wrested from its
royal possessor, and find itself garrisoned by the soldiers of a
rebellious subject The struggle between the Crown and the Barons had
commenced, and was continued under varying circumstances; but the
Sovereign was eventually borne down by the union of ambitious nobles.
The rival armies met at Lewes, and in that hollow which the railway now
traverses, on the 14th of May, 1264, the King saw his army defeated
by the valorous Simon De Montfort, Earl of Leicester, aided by the
forces of the Welsh Prince Llewelyn, and he himself, with his son
Prince Edward and the King of the Romans, made prisoners. The next day
a treaty, known as the _mise_ of Lewes, was entered into; but the King
and his son were detained as hostages until all matters in dispute
should be settled. In this forced peace Edward was compelled, by a deed
executed at Woodstock, December 24, 1264, to surrender his Earldom
of Chester, and with it his castle of Beeston, to the victorious De
Montfort, in whom the administration of the realm was then virtually
vested.
The victory was short-lived; but it had a result that will be ever
memorable, for immediately after, De Montfort summoned a great council
of the nation—the first in which we distinctly recognise the Parliament
of England; for he not only called together the barons, prelates,
and abbots, but also summoned two knights from each county, two
citizens from each city, and two burgesses from each borough. Thus was
the democratic element—the foundation of the House of Commons—first
introduced; and, as the Poet Laureate sings, England became
A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown,
Where freedom slowly broadens down,
From precedent to precedent.
De Montfort was now in the fulness of his power; but his elevation
was dangerous for himself. His natural and acquired superiority
provoked the jealousy of those around him, and brought about his own
destruction. As when the light is brightest, so the shadow is ever
darkest, and his success was the ultimate cause of his downfall. The
Parliament which sprang out of the turbulence of civil war assembled
on the 26th January, 1265; and in the month of May following Prince
Edward, thanks to the fleetness of his horse, having effected his
escape from Hereford, where he had been in “free custody,” placed
himself at the head of a numerous army, the loyal barons being speedily
in arms. Gloucester, Monmouth, and Worcester, were successively taken;
De Montfort’s son was defeated at Kenilworth; and then the victorious
Royalists advanced to Evesham, to give battle to the father, who was
posted there. The contest, which lasted until night, was marked with
unusual ferocity; no quarter was asked or given; the Avon was crimsoned
with the blood of the slain; and, to add to the horrors, while the
dreadful carnage was going on, the air was darkened, and a storm such
as England has rarely witnessed burst over the combatants. Drayton, in
his “Polyolbion,” describes the horrors of that dreadful day—
Shrill shouts, and deadly cries, each way the air do fill,
And not a word was heard from either side but “kill!”
The father ’gainst the son, the brother ’gainst the brother,
With gleaves, swords, bills, and pikes were murdering one another.
The full luxurious earth seems surfeited with blood,
Whilst in his uncle’s gore th’ unnatural nephew stood;
Whilst with their charged staves the desperate horsemen meet—
They hear their kinsmen groan under their horses’ feet,
Dead men and weapons broke do on the earth abound;
The drums bedash’d with brains do give a dismal sound!
On the fatal 4th of August, 1265, the narrow bridge at Evesham afforded
little chance of escape from the slaughter of Edward’s horsemen, and
when the storm was over, and the sun had gone down, the pale moon on
that warm summer night glittered on the corslet of the gallant Simon
de Montfort, whose mangled body was stiffening upon the gory sward, to
be sent off on the morrow to the wretched widow as a testimony of the
Royalist success; his eldest son, Henry de Montfort, lay stretched by
his side, and but for the determined bravery of a few devoted fellows,
who bore his wounded form away upon their shields, Guy, the youngest,
would have shared their fate. Such was the ghastly end of one of the
lords of Beeston—the champion of English liberties and the originator
of our representative Parliament.
When it became known that Prince Edward was in the field, his Cheshire
adherents at once took up arms; and on the Sunday following his
escape from Hereford James de Audley and Urian de St Pierre possessed
themselves of Beeston, and held it in the name of the King; and as
soon as the fight at Evesham was ended, the youthful conqueror, with
his victorious army, marched proudly through the undulating country
and along the great northern road to his Cheshire stronghold with the
wounded Guy de Montfort, Humphrey de Bohun, and Henry de Hastings, as
captives; and where, on his arrival, Lucas de Tanai, whom the elder
De Montfort had made Justiciary of Chester, and Simon, the Abbot of
St. Werburg’s, came to surrender the city of Chester, which had then
withstood a ten weeks’ siege, and to bespeak the royal clemency for
themselves. The whole of De Montfort’s possessions, including the
earldom of Chester, and with it the castle of Beeston, were forfeited
by his rebellion, and reverted back to the crown; and on the 27th
August, twenty-three days after the great battle, the Prince granted a
charter, confirming to the barons of Cheshire all the privileges which
Randle Blundeville had previously bestowed upon them.
Once more the royal ensign with the golden lions waved above the
battlements of Beeston; a garrison was left in charge, but, the country
having become tranquillised, the gallant Edward went to win fresh
laurels beneath the sunnier skies of Palestine. In 1269 he took the
cross at Northampton, and, accompanied by some of the more powerful
nobles, set out for the Holy Land, stormed the city of Nazareth, gained
several victories over the Moslems, and displayed a personal prowess
equal to that of the lion-hearted Richard, and a military skill that
was infinitely greater. At Acre he escaped the poisoned dagger of
the treacherous Saracen by the devotion of his queen, who sucked the
poison from the wound at the risk of her own life—so, at least, the old
chroniclers affirm, and we are not inclined to reject so touching a
story, even though it may have come to us from a Spanish source. While
on his journey homewards he received the tidings of his father’s death,
but, instead of returning immediately, he made a triumphal progress
through Italy, crossed the Alps, and proceeded to the Court of France,
where he narrowly escaped death through the treachery of the Count of
Chalons.
On arriving in England he was crowned at Westminster with Eleanor his
wife, August 19th, 1274. The hospitalities of his coronation were
scarcely over ere he set about the accomplishment of the great scheme
he had resolved upon—the union of the whole island of Britain in one
compact monarchy—Wales, his old battle-ground, then presenting a
tempting opportunity for commencing the work of conquest. Llewelyn, the
Welsh prince, though he promised fealty to the English crown, refused
to appear at the coronation, whereupon Edward repaired to Chester,
summoned his friends, and prepared to march against the Principality.
Beeston becomes once more the scene of bustle and excitement; mail-clad
warriors are hurrying to and fro; the pennons of the knights, gay
with their distinctive blazonings, flutter in the breeze; lance and
spear, and helm and burgonette, gleam brightly in the sunlight—and
the echoes of the stern old fortress are again aroused by the sounds
of martial preparation; for an army has been levied and all are eager
to advance. Llewelyn was summoned to meet the King at Chester, but
refused; he was again summoned to attend the Parliament at Westminster,
and again he declined to appear; his lands were then declared forfeit,
and Edward led his invading host into his territory. Conscious of their
inability to withstand their more powerful neighbours in the field,
the Welsh retired to the mountain fastnesses, which had many a time
and oft enabled their ancestors to hold their own against their Saxon
and Norman oppressors; but, Edward having successfully penetrated to
the very heart of the country, Llewelyn was compelled to submit to the
hard terms the victor thought fitting to impose, which, by the way,
left only to the vanquished prince the sovereignty of Anglesey and the
district of Snowdon.
Unhappily for Llewelyn, he put faith in the prophecy of Merlin,
the native bard and necromancer, which, it is alleged, foretold
that he should be the restorer of Brutus’s Empire in Britain. His
compatriots chafed under the usurped dominion, and maintained a dogged
resistance to the invaders. In hope of the fulfilment of the wizard’s
prognostications, Llewelyn availed himself of the fancied security of
England to break out into open insurrection. The castle of Hawarden
was surprised, and the governor, Roger de Clifford, carried off a
prisoner; the border castles of Rhuddlan and Flint were besieged; and
then, leading his forces down into the lowlands, the English intruders
were driven back across the Marches. Elated by his successes, he then
marched into Radnorshire, where, after passing the Wye, his army was
defeated by Edward Mortimer, and Llewelyn himself, while bravely
endeavouring to retrieve the misfortune, met the death he had so
ardently sought for; David, his brother, lord of Denbigh, was at the
same time made prisoner, and executed as a traitor. Such was the end of
Llewelyn, the great hero of Wales, and her last prince; and with his
end expired the government and distinction of the Welsh nation, after
long centuries of warfare maintained by its sons for the defence and
independence of their homes—
Such were the sons of Cambria’s ancient race—
A race that checked victorious Cæsar, aw’d
Imperial Rome, and forced mankind to own
Superior virtue, Britons only knew,
Or only practised; for they nobly dared
To face oppression; and, where Freedom finds
Her aid invok’d, there will the Briton die!
At this time (1283) Edward held his court at Rhuddlan, and to appease
the conquered people hit upon the politic, though dangerous, expedient
of promising them for their prince a native of the Principality, who
never spoke a word of English, and whose life and conversation no man
could impugn. By this bold manœuvre he succeeded in obtaining their
submission, and he fulfilled his promise to the very letter; for he
removed his Queen Eleanor to Carnarvon, which was then so far completed
as to allow of her reception, and there, on the 24th of April, 1284,
she gave birth to a son—Edward of Carnarvon, the victim of Berkeley
Castle, and the subject of Marlowe’s tragedy—who was created Prince of
Wales—a title the heirs to the crown have ever since retained.
The sanguinary extirpation of Cambrian independence, while ultimately
a blessing to the native race, was also a good thing for those who
dwelt within the borderland of Cheshire, inasmuch as it spared their
country from a continuance of the bloodshed and devastation it had been
subjected to during the centuries of struggle between the Saxon and
the Celt. The land had rest, and for a hundred years or more from that
time Beeston is found to occupy but a comparatively small space in the
chronicles of the kingdom.
The power wielded by the first Edward fell from the feeble grasp of
his son and successor. In the fifth year of that unfortunate monarch’s
reign we find the custody of the castle being transferred from John de
Serleby to John de Modburly, who appears to have been acting as the
deputy of Sir Robert de Holland, the head of the great feudal house of
that name in Lancashire, who, in the same year, by the king’s favour,
had been appointed his Chief Justice of Chester and custodian of his
castles of Chester, Rhuddlan, and Flint, and three years later Holland
was re-appointed to the same office. This Sir Robert, who had married
a great-granddaughter of that paragon of beauty, if not of chastity,
Rosamond Clifford—the “Fair Rosamond” of mediæval romance—founded the
Benedictine Priory at Up-Holland, in his own county; he was held in
great esteem by Thomas of Woodstock, Earl of Lancaster, the king’s
cousin, who made him his secretary, and he was in that earl’s retinue
on the occasion of the rising of the barons to remove the De Spencers
from the royal councils, for which act his estates were forfeited after
the defeat at Boroughbridge in 1222, when the Earl, himself, was made
prisoner and conveyed to Pontefract, where, to satisfy the vindictive
favourites of the king, he was beheaded.
During the protracted reign of Edward III. and the long French wars,
in which the Cheshire men, under the immediate eyes of the king and
his son, the Black Prince, won so much renown, several castellans were
appointed in succession, though it does not appear that the castle was
at any time the scene of active military operations. On the death of
Edward, his grandson, Richard, the eldest son of the Black Prince, who
was then only eleven years of age, succeeded to the throne, to find, as
many others have done, what it is to be—
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself, that heritage of woe.
A “heritage of woe” truly, for his reign, from the beginning to its
close, was one of continuous anarchy and disturbance. On the 23rd
November, 1385, we find him appointing John Cartileche janitor of his
castle of Beeston for life, in the room of Sir Alan Cheanie, who had
then only lately died. The appointment was made under the king’s seal,
and about the same time Richard himself paid a visit to the chief city
of his palatinate—the object, no doubt, being to ingratiate himself
with his Cheshire friends, and, that being so, it is probable Beeston
was on the same occasion graced with his presence. Loyalty to the crown
was a strong characteristic of the Cheshire men, a feeling that was
no doubt strengthened by the many marks of royal favour their county
had received from its earls, in whom they recognised their titular
sovereigns; hence the intimate relations which existed between the king
and the palatinate. When the Duke of Gloucester assembled a body of
men in order that he might retain control of the youthful sovereign,
Richard hastened to Chester and called out his loyal Cheshire guard;
and when, in 1397, by what in modern times would be called a _coup
d’état_, he determined on overthrowing the regency and recovering the
power which Gloucester and his cabal of nobles had deprived him of, and
in furtherance of that object had summoned a Parliament to meet him at
Westminster in September, he, to guard against any possible resistance
on the part of the disaffected nobles, surrounded the house with a
guard of two thousand of his Cheshire archers, each wearing as a badge
the white hart lodged, the cognisance of his mother, the “Fair Maid of
Kent,” which Richard had then adopted.
The power thus regained was wielded neither wisely nor well. On the
death of John o’ Gaunt, in 1399, Richard, to replenish his exhausted
exchequer, seized his possessions into his own hands, leaving to the
banished son of “time-honoured Lancaster,” the youthful Bolingbroke,
nothing but the empty title. This arbitrary abuse of power naturally
inflamed the resentment of Bolingbroke, who resolved upon accomplishing
the king’s dethronement, and it was not long before the opportunity
offered for putting his scheme into execution. While the unsuspecting
Richard was leading the Cheshire bowmen among the bogs and thickets of
Ireland, in order to quell the insurrection and punish the murderers of
Mortimer, Bolingbroke, taking advantage of his absence, embarked with a
small retinue and landed “upon the naked shore of Ravenspurg,” a place
on the Humber, where, at a later date, Edward IV. landed on a similar
errand, with an excuse plausible as that of the duke whose exploit he
imitated. He quickly mustered a force of 60,000 men; towns and castles
surrendered to him; and before Richard could return the invader had
virtually made himself master of the kingdom. When he did arrive, there
being no army to receive him, seven loyal Cheshire men, John Legh of
Booths, Thomas Cholmondely, Ralph Davenport, Adam Bostock, John Done
of Utkinton, Thomas Holford, and Thomas Beeston, each with seventy
retainers, became his body guard, wearing his cognisance of the white
hart upon their shoulders, and keeping watch over him day and night
with their battle-axes.
This would appear to have been the occasion when, according to Stow,
Beeston was chosen by the king, on account of its strength and
the usually loyal feelings of the county, for the custody of his
treasures, when jewels and other valuables said to be worth 200,000
marks (£133,333) were deposited in it for safety. The castle was
then garrisoned by a force of a hundred men; but it says little for
their valour that, without striking a blow, they surrendered it to
the victorious heir of Lancaster, who, anticipating Richard’s advance
towards his trusty friends in Cheshire, where his power was strongest,
and wishing to intercept his communications, had marched through
Gloucester, Hereford, and Ludlow to Shrewsbury, crying havoc and
destruction to Cheshire and Cheshire men as he went; and who was then
at Chester, where he had caused to be beheaded that loyal and loving
subject, Sir Piers Legh, the founder of the house of Legh of Lyme—a
Cheshire worthy who had been the companion in arms of the Black Prince,
and whose name is still perpetuated in the inscription which one of his
descendants placed in the Lyme Chapel, in Macclesfield Church—
Here lyethe the bodie of Perkyn a Legh,
That for King Richard the death did die,
Betrayed for righteovsnes;
And the bones of Sir Piers, his Sonne,
That with King Henrie the Fift did wonne
In Paris.
The hapless king, finding his power gone and his castles of Carnarvon,
Beaumaris, and Conway destitute of provisions, gave himself up to
Percy, Duke of Northumberland, who conveyed him to Flint, whither
Bolingbroke repaired from Chester to receive him. Thence the fallen
monarch was removed to Chester; but he could only have remained a day
or two, for on the 21st August he was at Nantwich, a prisoner on his
way to the Tower, having on the morning of that early autumn day passed
with his captors beneath the frowning walls of Beeston, so lately lost
to him. The close of that sad journey of triumph and humiliation has
been thus described by our greatest dramatist:—
Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke—
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
While all tongues cried—“God save thee, Bolingbroke!”
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag’ry, had said at once—
“Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!”
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed’s neck,
Bespake them thus—“I thank you, countrymen!”
And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along.
Alas, poor Richard! Where rides he the while?
As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious;
Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes
Did scowl on Richard. No man cried, “God save him;”
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience—
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents;
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.
Ere many moons had waxed and waned the humbled and wretched king, who
had resigned his crown to the usurper, fell beneath the murderous
battle-axe of Piers Exton, “within the guilty closure of the walls” of
Pontefract, that—
Bloody prison,
Fatal and ominous to noble peers;
and very near the spot where, less than sixty years before, Sir Robert
Holland’s patron, the “good Earl of Lancaster,” had yielded up his life.
In the fierce struggle between the Red and White Roses—that “convulsive
and bleeding agony of the feudal power” which destroyed the flower of
the English nobility, and well-nigh exhausted the nation—we hear little
of Beeston, though the victorious Bolingbroke’s son, the “nimble-footed
madcap Harry, Prince of Wales,” lived much of his time within the
palatinate, and the Cheshire men figured prominently in the stirring
events of those stirring times.
In 1460, when the compromise was made by which the “meek usurper” was
to retain the crown for the remainder of his life, and Richard of York
become heir at his death, we find an entry on the Patent Rolls granting
to him the Principality of Wales and the Earldom of Chester, in which
Beeston is included in the recital of the manors and castles considered
as appendages to the earldom. The honours and possessions thus acquired
were not, however, to be long enjoyed, for before the close of the year
Henry’s Queen—Margaret of Anjou—refusing to acquiesce in an arrangement
that set aside the claims of her son, took up arms on his behalf, and,
aided by some of the most devoted supporters of the Lancastrian cause,
marched northwards. The opposing forces met on Wakefield Green on the
31st December, 1460. The army of the White Rose was completely routed,
and Beeston’s lately designated lord, the Duke of York, and his son,
the Earl of Rutland, fell together—butchered, it is said, in cold blood
upon the field by the black-faced Clifford.
The grant of 1460 is the last occasion on which mention is made of
Beeston as an ordinary fortified stronghold. When Henry of Richmond
came out of the field of Bosworth, a victor, he planted the heel of
the sovereign upon the necks of the nobles, and destroyed their power
by putting down their retainers. He freed their lands from the burden
of supporting an army of the State; but, while doing so, he succeeded
in breaking up the feudal system. From that time the decay of Beeston
may be said to date, and the old fortress must have soon begun to
show signs of dilapidation, for Leland, in his _Genethliacon Eadverdi
Principis_ written in 1548, describes it as being then in a shattered
and ruinous condition. In the reign of Elizabeth the site was alienated
from the Earldom of Chester, and given by the Queen to her dancing
Chancellor, “the grave Lord Keeper,” Sir Christopher Hatton, who
subsequently conveyed it to the manorial lords of Beeston; and so it
again became attached to the manor from which it had originally been
severed. In this way it became part of the possessions of that famous
Cheshire hero, Sir George Beeston—a veteran soldier who had borne
himself bravely and well in the siege of Boulogne and the fight at
Musselburg, and whose warlike spirit was not even subdued by age, for
it is recorded that in the glorious victory over the Spaniards at the
time of the Armada, when he was nearly ninety years old, he displayed
such gallantry that Elizabeth knighted him for his achievements. The
brave old knight closed a life of honour in 1601, being then 102 years
of age, and was buried at Bunbury, where his recumbent effigy upon
an altar-tomb beneath a pointed arch may be seen, with a long Latin
inscription above it in which his services to his country are recorded.
The granddaughter of Sir George Beeston conveyed the manor and castle
in marriage to William Whitmore, of Leighton, Esquire, from whom it
descended through the Savages to Sir Thomas Mostyn, who died in 1831,
when the property passed by sale to the present Lord Tollemache.
For more than a generation Beeston remained uncared for, and ceased to
have any significance as a military station. Under the vigorous rule
of the Tudor sovereigns there had been no incursion or civil commotion
that rendered a display of strength and resistance necessary, and it
was not until the great outbreak of the seventeenth century, when
almost every considerable mansion in Cheshire was garrisoned for king
or Parliament, that it was again put into a state of defence and made
to undergo the ordeal of a protracted siege. At the beginning of 1643
Sir William Brereton, the Parliamentary commander, who had occupied
Nantwich with a force of 2,000 or 3,000 men, found himself menaced by
Sir Thomas Aston, who at the time was holding the fortified city of
Chester on behalf of the King, and had attacked and pillaged Middlewich
and other places. Under such circumstances, Beeston, offering as it
did so many natural advantages, was too important a station to be
neglected, and accordingly on the night of the 21st February (1642-3),
300 of the Parliamentary soldiers climbed the hill, and established
themselves in possession, not, however, without some opposition, for it
is recorded that on the same night they were met by the horse of the
array on Te’erton (Tiverton, the adjoining township) townfield, where
one of Colonel Mainwaring’s officers was slain on the Parliamentary
side, and a few others of the King’s, who were buried at Tarporley.
The first work of the Puritan garrison was to repair and strengthen
the fortifications, and put the castle in such a condition as would
secure its holders against attack. The contest between sovereign
and subject continued throughout the year, with varying results. In
November, General Brereton, at the head of the Cheshire and Lancashire
forces, marched into Wales, but hearing of the arrival (at Parkgate,
probably) of Royalist reinforcements from Ireland, hastily fell back
upon Nantwich. His retreat would seem to have disheartened the garrison
at Beeston, for within three weeks Captain Steel, the commandant,
surrendered the castle, without the semblance of a struggle, to Captain
Sandford, an Irish officer, who, with eight men, had a little before
daybreak on the morning of the 13th December (1643) crept up the hill,
and got possession of the upper ward. The story of the capture is told
with much circumstantiality in the “Diary” of Edward Burghall, the
Puritan schoolmaster of Bunbury, and subsequent vicar of Acton:—
December 13th.—A little before day, Captain Sandford (a zealous
Royalist), who first came out of Ireland with eight of his
firelocks, crept up the steep hill of Beeston Castle, and got into
the upper ward, and took possession there. It must be done by
treachery, for the place was most impregnable. Captain Steel, who
kept it for the Parliament, was accused, and suffered for it; but
it was verily thought he had not betrayed it wilfully; but some
of his men proving false he had not courage enough to withstand
Sandford to try it out with him. What made much against Steel was
he took Sandford down into his chamber, where they dined together,
and much beer was sent up to Sandford’s men, and the castle after
a short parley was delivered up, Steel and his men having leave
to march with their arms and colours to Nantwich, but as soon as
he was come into the town the soldiers were so enraged against
him that they would have pulled him to pieces had he not been
immediately clapped in prison. There was much wealth and goods in
the castle, belonging to gentlemen and neighbours, who had brought
it thither for safety, besides ammunition and provisions for half
a year at least, all which the enemy got.
Six weeks after, as we learn from the diarist, Steel was “shot to
death, in Tinker’s Croft, by two soldiers, according to judgment
against him. He was put into a coffin, and buried in the churchyard.
He confessed all his sins,” it is added, “and prayed a great while,
and, to the judgment of charity, died penitently.” The stern Puritans
could scarcely have given a milder judgment, for the dining together
and regaling of Sandford’s men with “much beer” must have told greatly
against the recreant Steel.
The surrender of Beeston was a great blow to the revolutionary
cause. The neighbouring country now lay at the mercy of Lord Byron
and the Royalist troops, who ravaged the entire district. Crewe Hall
capitulated; the halls of Dorfold and Doddington surrendered without
offering any resistance; Middlewich was captured, and on the 17th
January, 1644, an assault was made on Nantwich, when, after some busy
days of hard fighting, Captain Sandford met a soldier’s death, within
a day or two of that on which poor Steel was led out to execution.
The siege continued for more than a week, when Fairfax, fresh from
his victories in Yorkshire, with Colonel Monk, who afterwards played
so prominent a part in bringing about the Restoration, came to the
relief of the beleaguered town, and the Royalists gave way to superior
numbers. They were, however, left in undisturbed possession of Beeston
until the 20th October following, when “the council of war at Nantwich
hearing that the enemy at Beeston were in want of fuel and other
necessaries layed strong siege to it.” For nearly five months the siege
was continued, when Prince Rupert and Prince Maurice arrived with a
considerable force, relieved the invested garrison on the 17th March,
and two days later plundered Bunbury and burnt Beeston Hall. Scarcely
had they departed than, as we learn from the “Diary,” the Puritan
soldiers again appeared:—
1645, April.—The Parliament again placed forces round Beeston
Castle, where they began to raise a brave mount with a strong
ditch about it, and placed great buildings thereon, which were
scarce finished but news came that the king and both the princes
(Maurice and Rupert) with a strong army were coming towards
Chester. The Parliament army marched towards Nantwich, leaving the
country to the spoils of the forces in Chester and Beeston Castle.
The garrison thus relieved sallied out on the 4th June, and made an
unsuccessful attack on Ridley Hall. Ten days after came the disastrous
defeat at Naseby, which put the Parliamentarians in possession of
nearly all the chief cities of the kingdom. Three anxious months
passed, and then (September 24th, 1645), the unhappy monarch, standing
upon the leads of the Phœnix Tower on Chester walls, witnessed the
fluctuating progress of the last effort on Rowton Moor for the
maintenance of the Royal power, saw his gallant kinsman, the Earl
of Lichfield, with many gentlemen besides, fall dead at his feet,
and all that had hitherto survived of his broken remnant of a host
either taken prisoners or driven in headlong rout and ruin from the
fatal field. “Thenceforth the king’s sword was a useless bauble, less
significant than the ‘George’ upon his breast.”
[Illustration: THE PHŒNIX TOWER, CHESTER.]
With the loss at Chester vanished the last hope of Charles. Three weeks
after, the castle of Beeston was delivered up to Sir William Brereton,
the garrison, though at times subjected to the severest privations,
having bravely held it for the space of nearly a year. Burghall thus
tells the tale of the surrender:—
November 16th.—Beeston Castle, that had been besieged almost a
year, was delivered up by the Captain Valet, the governor, to Sir
William Brereton; there were in it 56 soldiers, who by agreement
had liberty to depart with their arms, colours flying, and drums
beating, with two cart loads of goods, and to be conveyed to
Denbigh; but 20 of the soldiers laid down their arms, and craved
liberty to go to their homes, which was granted. There was neither
meat nor drink found in the castle, but only a piece of a turkey
pie, and a live peacock and a peahen.
The heroic defence of the castle by the Royalist garrison, and their
long endurance, even after their cause had become hopeless and all
chance of succour had disappeared, presents a remarkable contrast to
the meek surrender of Captain Steel and his three hundred Puritan
soldiers to Sandford’s gallant little band of cavaliers. In the spring
of the following year the old fortress, which had withstood the
batterings of time and been so often exposed to the storms of war in
the troubled reigns of the Plantagenets, but which had never yielded to
assault, was dismantled, and since then it has gradually sunk into its
present state of extreme but picturesque decay.
Since the days of the Stuarts little historical interest has attached
to it. Its glories are of the past. Its palmy days are over—for it has
outlived the needs that called it into being, and survives only to show
us how men lived and acted in those stern times when they knew no other
law than that which Wordsworth speaks of—
The old good rule, the simple plan,
That they should get who have the power,
And they should keep who can,
and when even power could only feel secure when defended by iron
force. We love our country with love far brought from out the historic
past—the past on which the present is securely built—and we cherish the
relics of its ancient chivalry and romance, but the spirit of the age
is opposed to the revivication of feudal customs and feudal prejudices.
The time when it was only possible for men to hold their own by length
and strength of arm has gone by never again to return.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]