CHESTER.
Who that travels would risk his reputation as a person of taste, and not go to Chester? A fare of $1.50 each brought us to this Mecca; for as the Jews of old must go to Mt. Zion, so must the England-visiting American go to Chester. First, a few words about the city itself; and here the brain acts sluggishly, and the pen rebels at the thought of describing what has been described so many times before. We arrived after an hour and forty minutes' ride from Liverpool.
Chester is the capital of Cheshire, and is situated on the River Dee, with a population of 35,701. It was a Roman station known as Deva Castra. It is nearly surrounded by the river, and the original portion of the city is encompassed with an ancient wall having low towers at special points. This wall is in perfect condition, and is the best specimen of its kind in all England. The foundations are Roman, and part of this work is visible, and is an item of much interest. The upper portions, resting on the Roman base, date from the time of Edward I., who was born at Westminster in 1239, and died 1307; and so the wall is nearly six hundred years old. It is about eight feet thick at the top, and varies in thickness at the bottom according to its height, which, of course, is determined by the irregular surface of the land. The space enclosed is a parallelogram, planned like all Roman camps, with a gate or entrance in the middle of each of the four sides, the main streets intersecting at the centre of the town.
There are at stated intervals stone stairs, leading up to the walk at the top of the wall, and this is a common promenade for the public, and more especially for strangers, as from this elevation, a large portion of the entire city is seen, and the view of the outside scenery is most enchanting.
There are streets, and a busy population of dwellers on both sides of the walls. Here, too, is a noble field called Grosvenor Park, many acres in extent, used as pleasure-grounds for the public, or as a parade for soldiers, whose barracks are near. As a background, bordering it, half a mile away, are the grounds of fine mansions, half embowered with trees. As we pass around to the left, we see the muddy banks and meadow-like borders of the River Dee. Opposite this, making the other shore, is a dirty fishing-town, with its principal street extending up from the river. This is called Sty Lane,—at least by some people. Here we saw from the walls, where we were walking, a Hogarthlike nest of dilapidated buildings and destitution. There were the sights and sounds of a veritable Saturday-night row, in which men, women, and children were promiscuously mingled. It was a good specimen of a bad original. After a sight like this, we were inclined to give Hogarth less credit as an inventor than we had before done; for he had sights worthy his pencil at hand, without an effort of his imagination.
Continuing our walk along to where the river runs sluggishly beside the walls, we extend our delightful tramp. Encircling the old town thus, occupies us nearly an hour. On our way, just inside the walls, are ruins of small lodges, antique and ivy-clad; and on the top of the wall itself is a little tower, on which is an inscription, cut in a stone tablet, telling that from its floor King Charles I. beheld the defeat of Rowton Moor, in 1645. These walls are built of a dark-reddish stone, well laid in white mortar, and have a very antiquated appearance. There is a breastwork, or parapet, three feet high on each side for protection, and capped with long, rough-cut stones. Having finished our circuit we, much against our inclination, go down one of the stairways, and into the street within the walls, where we continue our explorations, confessing that our early dislike of the task of writing up this city has about vanished. So marked was the early impression of peculiar interest and novelty, and so fully satisfying to our anticipations, that when we finally left the city we could not help feeling as did one of old when he said, with the change of but one word,—"If I ever forget thee O Chester, may my right hand forget her cunning." We were not the first Americans who have thought and felt thus; no one who has ever seen Chester will or can forget her. The cry once was, "Great is Diana of the Ephesians." We ejaculate "Great is Chester of the Britons."
The queer old streets are interesting in the extreme. Narrow and short, but clean, they are said to be at right-angles with each other; and perhaps they are. The buildings are quaint, antique, and of all designs, the second story often projecting beyond the first, and the third beyond the second, and the gable end out over that. Their general appearance so attracts attention that nothing in particular is noted, so far as relates to the arrangement of the city itself. The Rows, as they are called, that is, the covered sidewalks in the older and business streets, are built in under the second stories, and are paved. The different store-sections are out of level, each with its neighbor, though tolerably level through the length of the entire streets. Often the ceilings of these walks are low enough to touch with the hand; generally the floor, or pavement, is raised from two to four feet above the grade of the street. Of course the shops are back of these. The idea is not a bad one. In times of foul weather or of strong sun, the Rows are protections. The entire width between the buildings being given to teams, renders it much safer for pedestrians.
The majority of the buildings are built with their ends to the street, showing gables with the high roof or attic ends, with elaborate decorations, and these afford a fine opportunity for a display of quaint finish. Many of these buildings have a framework of oak, more or less carved, with brickwork fitted into the frame, and plastered and painted, generally with subdued tints. The people are to be commended for the good taste and judgment displayed in their rebuilding; for when a new edifice takes the place of one removed, the new design, while it may increase the height of the stories, and add other real improvements and conveniences, yet preserves the old style. Chester is a lively, bustling, and enterprising business place—a gem in its way.
Of course the cathedral comes in for early attention. So long as Charles Kingsley—Canon Kingsley, for here he was made canon in 1869—is remembered, so long will the cathedral be of interest. It is situated in the very centre of the city. Jammed in among other buildings, with no quiet grass and aged trees about it, the pavements lead up to its very doors. It is irregular in outline, dark-reddish-brown in color, aged in appearance, with a massive low tower, but no spire above it. The transept, choir, and nave windows are of monstrous size, not much higher than wide, filled with elegant perpendicular Gothic tracery, and divided into many compartments. The interior is in good repair,—restored, as it is termed. Here, as in all cathedrals, there is a stone floor, and hundreds of inscriptions that tell of those who are quietly resting beneath.
"Their labors done, securely laid
In this, their last retreat,
Unheeded o'er their silent dust
The storms of life shall beat."
The building was originally the abbey of St. Werburgh, built for the Benedictines,—begun in 1095 by Hugh Lupus, assisted by St. Anselm,—and retains its original design.
The next object of interest, and one truly remarkable, is the church of St. John, once the cathedral. It is situated about five minutes' walk away from the cathedral proper, and, unlike that, stands in a large green, or close, for centuries used as a burial-ground. The red tower is very high, yet without a spire, and partly in ruins. It stands almost alone in solitary beauty, with picturesque ivy-clad cloisters and arches, presenting a striking and wonderful group, which tells of the remote past. The old tower, colossal and grand, but in such decay as to make it dangerous to ring the bells (and fallen since we saw it), is connected with what was formerly the nave of the church; and this is now, with slight additions for a chancel, all that is used, a new end having years ago been put on at the line of transepts. St. John's is of early English architecture in some parts, and late Norman in others, having large, plain, round columns that carry the arches of the clerestory. These columns lean outward from the perpendicular, making the nave wider at the top, and the widening was thought to have been caused by a settling of the old stone groining. On making repairs a few years since, the height of the clerestory walls was foolishly reduced some four feet, and a lower wood ceiling put in to lessen the weight on the columns; but it was at length discovered that the original was built for effect,—whether for good or for ill, we will not decide. In picturesqueness never excelled, St. John's Church, with its grounds and accompanying ruins, not only divides the honors with the cathedral, but by many would be named first.
Chester is the seat of rare monuments of the past. The castle, built by Lupus, Earl of Chester, seven hundred and more years ago, while it has been largely re-constructed, is used as the shire hall, and contains many portraits of noted men who have been distinguished in the city's history. Near the castle is a fine old stone bridge crossing the Dee, with a single arch of two hundred feet. There is, in the suburbs, a curious manorhouse, once belonging to the abbey of St. Werburgh; Eaton Hall, the seat of the Marquis of Westminster; and a ground where famous races are held. Cheese fairs occur once a month, promiscuous fairs three times a year, and markets twice a week; and the city gives the title of Earl to the Prince of Wales.
At 10 a. m. we visited the military barracks, and in the parade-ground, with thousands of other spectators, witnessed the usual Sunday drill, and also the military evolutions, such as striking tents and stacking arms. Some five hundred soldiers were engaged in these operations on this Christian Sunday, made especially sacred by its associations with the Prince of Peace. At this hour, amid the sound of innumerable chimes of from three to five bells each, were the intermingling sound of trumpets and the clamor of war,—so confused yet each so prominent as to make one doubt which had the inside track, church or army, God or Satan.
In the afternoon we were at the cathedral, and, the service being intoned, the echoes made confusion worse confounded. We finally saw more clearly than ever before the force of the remark of one of old, when he said: "In the church I had rather speak five words with my understanding, that by my voice I might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue." We have thought, while enveloped in this confusion, that it would be well for the managers of cathedral services everywhere, to be thoughtful as St. Paul was, and say: "Whether pipe or harp, except they give a distinction in the sounds, how shall it be known what is piped or harped?"
There is one especial object of American interest. In the chapter-house there hang over the doors two flags that were carried by the Cheshire Regiment—the 22d—at the Battle of Bunker Hill in our American Revolution; and they were also carried by General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec in 1759, sixteen years before. It will thus be seen that soldiers from this county were at Charlestown, June 17, 1775.
There are some very ancient houses of particular note. They are of the old timbered and panel-plastered fashion, with very fine specimens of profuse and sometimes grotesque carving. Among them is God's Providence House. Its three stories and gable project over each other as before described. The historical fact is that, when the plague prevailed, there were deaths in every house on the street save this one, and after all was over, the owner put this inscription upon it, which remains to this day:
God's Providence is my Salvation.
Of bold and high decoration, by carving of the wooden parts, is Stanley House, with its three gables. This is one of the best specimens of ancient timber and plaster-work to be found in England.
On Bridge Street there is an ancient Roman bath that well repays a visit, for we are there permitted to look upon work a thousand years old. Do we realize or comprehend the fact? No; but the impression, with a photographic fidelity, has been made on the mind, and will never be effaced. Let what will happen, so long as memory acts and intelligence remains, the good influence of these impressions will endure. The mind is truly, as the poet has expressed it,—
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled,
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
In closing our description of grand old Chester, we will name the fact that in Trinity Church are the tombs of the poet Thomas Parnell, who was born at Dublin, 1679, and died at Chester in July, 1717; and of the eminent commentator, Matthew Henry, born at Broad Oak, Flintshire, 1662, and died at Nantwich, June 22, 1714. He became pastor of a church in Chester—perhaps Trinity—in 1687, and remained till 1702, a period of twenty-five years. The Commentary was the result of his lectures in exposition of the Bible, the whole of which is said to have been thus passed in critical review during his ministry at Chester. He continued the lectures at Hackney, to which place he removed in 1712. The first collected edition was published at London, in five volumes, in 1710, but to Chester really belongs the honor of being the place where this work, so well known the Protestant world over, had its birth.
It would be pleasant to linger in this venerable place. We had enjoyed so much antiquity at Chester that we could hardly endure the shock of being suddenly dropped into some modern spot; and so the place set down in our programme as next in order was the one, of all others, admirably in keeping with our purpose. This was the good old domestic town of