Pass we on now still to the westward, until we come to a curious watch-tower, called Morgan’s Mount, having a lower chamber on the level of the Walls, and an open platform above, accessible by a few winding steps. During the Siege of Chester, a battery was planted on the summit of this tower, and from its commanding position, surrounded by earthworks, successfully kept the besiegers at bay. Let us mount to the top, and survey the diversified prospect before us. See yonder Elizabethan building at the northwest extremity of the city, beautifully placed on a hill, and separated from us by those fine, dark, evergreen trees, through which you can see the bright sunshine, as it were, smiling approvingly upon it. It is the Diocesan Training College, a normal establishment, for preparing masters and teachers for the parochial schools of the diocese. Stretching away to our left is the Hundred of Wirrall, the foreground dotted here and there with a handsome mansion or substantial farm-house, among which those of Crabwall, Mollington, and Blacon, are most conspicuous. That house, so sweetly situate on the eminence to the left, embowered in trees, is Blacon Point, commanding extensive views of the city and North Wales. Still beneath us flows the Canal, which, however, empties itself, close at hand, by a series of descending locks, into the River Dee. That pile of buildings on the opposite bank of the Canal, is the central official establishment of the Shropshire Union Railway Company. The River Dee, the mountains of North Wales, and the ancient Walls, serve nobly to complete this glowing panorama of nature, and of art.
Once more, forward!—but only for a few steps; for here we are arrived at another Tower, originally twice its present height, and at one time denominated the Goblin’s Tower (doubtless for some ghostly reason), but of late better known as Pemberton’s Parlour. Though now semicircular, this was, in all probability, a round or octagonal tower when first erected, having a passage through for pedestrians. Be that as it may, in 1702, being in a ruinous state, a great part of it was taken down, and the remainder repaired. The side towards the Walls was refaced and ornamented with some fine heraldic sculpture; and an inscription, now almost obliterated, proclaimed that in a certain “year of the glorious reign of Queen Anne, divers wide breaches in these Walls were re-built, and other decays therein were repaired; 2000 yards of the pavement were new flagged or paved, and the whole repaired, regulated, and adorned, at the expense of £1000 and upwards. Thomas Hand, Esq., Mayor, 1701. The Right Honourable William, Earl of Derby, Mayor, 1702, who died in his Mayoralty.”
Passing on from ivy-capt Pemberton’s Parlour, we see on our left hand, through that refreshing grove of trees, a large and verdant mead, still retaining its ancient name of the Barrow Field, or Lady Barrow’s Hay. This is the place where the soldiers of old Rome went through their daily military exercises, and where, 1500 years afterwards, great numbers of the citizens who died of the plague were hurriedly interred. We are now upon a flat iron Bridge, and whew! with a rush like that of a tiger from his den, the giant of the nineteenth century—a steam-engine and train—emerge from the dark tunnel which passes under the city, and dash away beneath us, full forty miles an hour, en route to Ireland, by way of Holyhead. The Roman Walls, that resisted so successfully the Roundhead batteries, have in our own times succumbed to the engines of peace, and the railway trains, with their living freight, now career it merrily through two neighbouring apertures in these ancient fortifications.
A little farther ahead are some modern steps, leading down to the new Baths and Washhouses, in which is a capacious swimming-bath, where plebeians may indulge in a plunge for a penny, and where hot and cold shower and vapour baths are at the service of the public on equally reasonable terms. Previous to the erection of these Baths, the only means of egress from the city at this point was by an ancient postern underneath us, now blocked up.
Wheeling sharp round to the left, for the Walls here take a direction southward, we cross a second Railway Bridge, and then turn to regale ourselves with an immediate foreground of startling interest. We are looking upon a Tower erected in 1322, by one Helpstone, a mason, who contracted to build it for 100l., a high price in those days, when workmen for their day’s wage, “received but every man his penny.” It consists of a higher and lower tower, the former being distinguished by the break jaw name of Bonewaldesthorne’s Tower, and connected by a steep flight of steps and an embattled terrace with the lower or Water Tower. This tower was erected while the tidal waters of the Dee flowed up to Chester Walls; and within the memory of man the rings and bolts were to be seen about the old turret, to which, centuries ago, the ships that came up to the city were safely moored. The case is altered now, and, thanks to the duplicity of a public company, “Deva’s wizard stream” ebbs and flows almost in vain for “rare old Chester.” “Stone walls tell no tales,” says the proverb; but yon crumbling old ruin, so stern, so ragged, so venerable to look upon, tells us in plain though silent language its own unvarnished tale. Look at its broken and serrated surface, its disfigured battlements? Think you old Time alone has wrought all this? Turn to the annals of the city, and there read that the Roundhead battery on Bruera’s Hall hill yonder played its artillery fiercely against this tower during the great Civil War; and though its fair form was shattered, its buttresses shaken by the terrible cannonade, yet the proud old structure remained intact, and the hearts of its defenders unfaltering, through the whole of that fierce and lamentable struggle. The scenes then enacted have passed away, as we hope for ever, and this venerable stronghold has become subservient to another and more peaceful purpose, as a local and general antiquarian Museum. Of course we must go in and examine it for ourselves, and think, as we do so, with becoming honour of the gallant spirits who once kept watch and ward over its safety. It will cost us just sixpence each to pass in; but never mind that, were the charge a crown, it would not have been money injudiciously thrown away.
The room we have passed into is the ancient keep, formerly known as Bonewaldesthorne’s Tower; and after ruminating a moment on the rusty swords and rapiers that hang around, we will mount the winding staircase into the room above. Here, on a whitened table, the light of day being first excluded, we are introduced to the wondrous revelations of the Camera Obscura. On this little table we have pourtrayed, with minute but pleasing accuracy, every place and occurrence within gunshot of the Tower,—boats on the Canal, pedestrians on the Walls, ships on the Dee, green fields and trees, the flying train, and every passing incident, ridiculous or sublime. From this Tower we proceed by a steep descent of zig-zag steps, between rugged battlements of venerable sandstone, thickly coated with “that rare old plant, the ivy green,” to the centre of attraction, the Water Tower itself. How beautiful, how indescribably beautiful, are those thick masses of dark, glossy, green ivy, “creeping where no life is seen” round the blackened old ramparts we have just passed by!
The iron gate or portcullis opens at our approach, and we enter a spacious room, once bristling with hosts of armed men, but now filled with curiosities and natural productions from every quarter of the globe. A corkscrew staircase brings us to a similar room on the second story; while higher still, upon the leads of the Tower, where the stalwart warrior once paced his silent round, the observant visitor may feast his eyes on a varied scene of wood and dale, mountain and river, garden and field, of surpassing interest. To give anything like a detail of the curiosities and antiquities stored up in this Tower would fill an ordinary volume; let it suffice, then, to point out a few of the more prominent and striking. Here is a large and beautiful collection of shells, scientifically arranged, the gift of Captain T. L. Massie, R.N., and there a case of Australian birds, presented to the Museum by another worthy citizen. In yonder glass-case we have, at one view, specimens of almost every known variety of British birds, from the majestic bittern to the diminutive jenny wren. Here is the “old arm-chair” of Bishop Goodman, one of the worthiest prelates of our renowned Queen Bess. Here again are trophies of battle and victory from Inkermann and Alma; and there are glass cases of Greek, Roman, and British coins, from the penny bearing the “image and superscription of Cæsar,” to the chaste medallions of our own beloved Queen. There, too, is the skull of a soldier killed during the Civil War, in the neighbourhood of Beeston Castle, the deadly impress of two flattened bullets being still visible on the skull. Those blackened fragments you are now surveying are the hand and foot of an Egyptian mummy, the owner of which may possibly have been a contemporary of Pharaoh. Doubtless this mummy, when in life, was a confirmed old maid; for see, here is her favourite cat, embalmed like herself, and found by her side when she was exhumed. The cat was a sacred animal with the ancient Egyptians. We might linger here profitably a whole day, but having other fish to fry, we must bid farewell to the Water Tower and its obliging attendants, and remounting the lofty steps, find ourselves once more on the venerable Walls.
Resuming now our walk, we approach a large and handsome brick building, on the city side of the Walls. This is the Chester Infirmary, and a most useful and valuable institution it is, having been founded in 1755 by Dr. Stratford, of Chester, and supported entirely by the contributions of the charitable in Cheshire and North Wales. The present structure was erected in 1761, and has accommodation under its roof for one hundred patients, besides spacious hot, cold, and vapour baths, and all the usual adjuncts of a first class hospital. The upper story on the north side of the building is set apart for a fever ward; and in this, as in every other beneficial arrangement, the Chester Infirmary is second to none in the kingdom. The honorary medical staff consists of three physicians and three surgeons; and from these, and the worthy house surgeon and matron, the patients receive the utmost assistance that human kindness and skill can bestow. The halt and maimed, the sick and dying of the poorer classes are here watched with anxious care, and experience comforts to which at home or elsewhere they would necessarily be strangers.