KING CHARLES
Stood on this Tower
September 24th, 1645, and saw
His Army defeated
On Rowton Moor.
Let us mount the rugged steps, and having reached the summit, gaze awhile on the beautiful scene before us.
To our left is the suburb of Newtown, a creation of the present century,—the modest little spire of Christ Church pointing to the thoughtful wayfarer another and a better world. Yonder, just visible above the intervening buildings, the noble façade of the Railway Station arrests the eye. Farther to the right, the Lead Works’ Shot Tower again presents itself; while beneath us, at a depth of about forty feet, the sleepy Canal flows languidly along, scarce a ripple distracting its glassy surface. The bridge that crosses it is Cowlane Bridge, whence we obtained the first glimpse of the Cathedral, en route from the station. Just over the canal is the new Cattle Market, the Cestrian Smithfield,—translated hither from Northgate Street in 1849. That heavy-looking building just over the Bridge is the Independent Chapel in Queen Street; while full south, the lofty steeple and church of St. John “lend enchantment to the view.” Beyond all these, some ten or a dozen miles away, the rocky heights of Beeston salute the eye, capped with the ruins of a Castle, built by Earl Randle Blundeville,—a fortress which was several times taken and retaken by the Royalists and Roundheads in the great Civil War. To the right again, the stately form of the fine old Cathedral, like a nursing mother, watches peacefully o’er the city. The Walls beneath us are full of interest to the archæologist, for through almost their entire length between this Tower and the Eastgate, the old Roman masonry may yet be distinguished, forming the lower courses nearest the foundations.
As we once more look up, and read yon quaint yet melancholy inscription, our minds will of necessity revert back to that sad September day, when Charles the First stood on this very spot and saw his gallant cavaliers borne down by the grim soldiers of Oliver Cromwell’s army. For three years he had maintained a doubtful contest with his Parliament; and though for a time the successes of his troops in the western counties had given a fitful gleam of prosperity to his sinking fortunes, the tide had now turned, and one disaster followed another in quick succession. On the fields of Naseby and Marston Moor he had been signally defeated. Bristol had fallen; Prince Rupert had been disgraced and sent beyond the seas; and the prospect daily grew darker. Chester remained firm; and hither Charles had come to encourage his loyal subjects, and give to the battle which seemed inevitable, the cheering influence of his kingly presence. The city had been besieged for some months, and the houses in the suburbs were mostly destroyed.
On the 23rd of September the King entered Chester; and the next day his troops gave battle to the Parliamentary forces. Charles, with Sir Francis Gamull the Mayor, here watched the progress of the contest; and when at last all hope was gone, and his soldiers fled before the fiery Puritans, he turned from the melancholy spectacle, descended the steps of this Tower, and the next day with great difficulty made his escape from the city. This defeat was but the precursor of worse misfortunes. Within three years from that day, a crowd was gathered in front of the Palace at Whitehall. A man in a mask severed at one blow, the King’s head from his body, and another, holding up the ghastly countenance to the view of the weeping spectators, cried aloud, “This is the head of a traitor!” England was not many years discovering who were the real traitors.
Charles had left Chester in worthy hands. “If you do not receive relief in eight days,” said he to Lord Byron, who was in command, “surrender the garrison.” The appointed time passed away, but no relief came. Day after day for four months, the citizens of Chester, with a courage and determination that claim our admiration, refused the oft-repeated summons to surrender. But there was an enemy within the walls, far more formidable than the troops without. Famine proved more powerful than the sword. When the provisions were exhausted, as a last resource the horses were slaughtered and given out in small rations. Dogs and cats were eaten as dainties; and many of the inhabitants perished from the dreadful hardships which were brought to their homes. The men were not alone in this gallant defence. “The women,” says an old chronicler, “like so many valiant Amazons, do out-face death and dare danger, though it lurk in every basket; seven are shot and three slain—yet they scorn to leave their matchless undertaking, and thus they continue for ten days’ space; possessing the beholders that they are immortal.” At last, reduced to the utmost extremity, and all hope of relief being gone, the city surrendered on condition that the public and private buildings should be unharmed by the Parliamentary troops. The churches still bear melancholy witness to the manner in which this solemn compact was regarded; and the organ and choir of the Cathedral were broken and defaced, with a Vandalism whose traces yet tell of the horrors of civil war.
So much then for the Phœnix Tower, and its historical associations. We must now move on to the westward, taking note on our way of Upton Church and spire, lying just upon the northern confines of the city.
Below us stretches away the Canal, which, here usurping the place of the ancient fosse, skirts the entire city, within the Walls, from east to west. Bidding a friendly adieu to the Dean’s Field, that beautiful mead on our left, we approach by a slight incline the North Gate of the city. Look now over the right-hand parapet upon the yawning gulf below, and reflect that, while yon arch was built by an architect of our own time, that course of stones beneath us—the dark ones between the ivy and the abutment—was laid by a Roman mason, when Rome herself was mistress of the world.
Ascending two or three steps, we find ourselves on the top of the North Gate, which here, with its neat elliptical arch, divides Upper from Lower North Gate Street. That new-looking red-brick building beneath us is the Blue-Coat Hospital, a charity school, under the same roof with the ancient Hospital of St. John,—of both which institutions more anon.