Passing Trinity Street, we arrive at the Parish Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the first foundation of which is lost in remote obscurity. So early as the year 1188, we find Walter, rector of this Church, witnessing a deed relating to the Church of Rostherne, in this county. Very little, if any, of the original Church now exists; the west side is, perhaps, the most ancient portion of the structure, as it at present stands. Prior to 1811, the steeple was surmounted by a handsome spire, which, proving on examination to be in a dilapidated state, was pulled down, and the present square tower substituted. The reason for this change is not very obvious; perhaps there may have been bickerings and dissensions in the vestry as to the relative cost of the two, and the authorities thought it best to give up the point, in order to make matters square. The advowson of the Church is vested in the Earl of Derby, having previously belonged to the Norman barony of Montalt, one of the titles created by Hugh Lupus, Earl of Chester.
The interior is worthy the inspection of the curious. Near the south-west entrance is the baptismal font, by the side of which lies the defaced effigy of a mail-clad knight, Sir John Whitmore by name, representative in the reign of Edward III. of the Whitmores of Thurstaston, a Cheshire family of knightly lineage and renown. This monument was discovered in 1853, under a pew at the south-west end; the face, hands, and knees, having been barbarously cut away, to suit the flooring of the pew. In its perfect state, the monument must have been one of the purest symmetry and beauty, and was evidently the work of an eminent sculptor, the Westmacott or Gibson of his day. The legend runs thus:—
Hic jacet Ioannes de Whitmore, qui obiit 3 kal. Octob. A.D. 1374.
A brass plate on the south side of the altar commemorates the burial of Matthew Henry, June 22nd, 1714. He who had during life been a rigid nonconformist, at the “last sad scene of all” conformed to the faith of his forefathers, and lies interred in the chancel of that parish in which he had so long ministered as a dissenter.
The bones of another celebrity “lie mouldering here,”—Dr. Parnell, the poet, Archdeacon of Clogher, who was buried in this Church, October 23, 1718. Other monuments of interest ornament (or shall we rather say deface?) the pillars and chancel walls. In one of the western windows are some remnants of ancient stained glass, and an obituary memorial, of chaste design, has of late years been put up in one of the small east windows of St. Patrick’s aisle.
A good view of Trinity Church is obtained from the end of Nicholas Street, just opposite to that ancient hostelry, the Yacht Inn. The Yacht is, without exception, the most picturesque and curious of all our Chester inns. Time was when it was the first hotel of the city, and even now, “grown grey with long and faithful service,” lacks nothing that can render it a fit home for the wayfarer, whom chance or design has brought to the old city. Americans, who lust after the ancient and venerable, and who delight in the rare timber houses of old England, will do well to select snug apartments at the Yacht, for its host, Mr. White, is the very impersonation of a true British Boniface. But the Yacht, apart altogether from the qualities of “mine host,” and his well-filled cellar of “Huxley’s Fine,” has other claims upon our attention. It was at this house, then in the zenith of its glory, that the eccentric and witty Dean Swift (who has not read his “Gulliver’s Travels?”) stayed, on one of his journeys into Ireland. The Dean, being of a convivial turn, invited the dignitaries of the Cathedral to a supper at the Yacht, but to his great mortification not one of them appeared. Disgusted at this return to his hospitality, the Dean scratched with his diamond ring on one of the windows of this house the following distich, not over complimentary to the church or the city,—
Rotten without and mouldering within,
This place and its clergy are both near akin!
So much for the Yacht. The Custom House, immediately opposite, with its low stuccoed front, has nothing to arrest the special notice of visitors.
Nicholas Street, which branches off in a direct line towards the Castle, has on the right hand a terrace of well-built, first-class houses, extending as far as the corner of Grey Friars. From the circumstance of every alternate house in this terrace being occupied by a doctor, it has latterly acquired the appropriate cognomen of Pill-box Promenade!