But what is this massive and substantial structure, under which we are now passing,—so massive and strong as almost to have defied the ravages of time? Behold in it the principal Gateway of the Abbey, an imposing edifice even in this our day, but one which had seen the meridian of its splendour ere Harry the Eighth, hypocritical Harry! sacrilegiously sealed and decreed its doom. In those, its halcyon days, few gates indeed might “stand between the wind and its nobility;” for ‘regal pomp and lordly retinue’ sought ever and anon a welcome here. And not in vain: for as we have already shown, when once its ponderous doors moved back to give them ingress, the tables of the Refectory and the bonhommie of the monks never failed to sustain the hospitable character of the Abbey. Look up, through the gloom, at the solid masonry of this ancient pile, and at the admirable groining which supports the superstructure;—gingerbread architecture was all unknown in those mediæval times! On the west side of the archway, we can still see the rust-coated staples, on which, three or four centuries ago, swang the oaken gates of the Abbey. Times have changed; and the hoary old porter, with his shaven scalp, and keys of ‘trewyst steele,’ has flitted away from the scene, while the tide of life now flows freely, and without obstruction, ’neath this venerable Gate. Here, in 1554, it is traditionally said that George Marsh, a ‘champion for the glorious truth,’ was first imprisoned, preparatory to his trial and martyrdom at the stake. And why,—what evil had he done? What was “the height and might of his offending?” Simply this,—that “after the manner that man then called heresy, so worshipped he the God of his fathers.” The heretics of one age are not unfrequently the saints of another; and certain it is that the memory of Marsh and the faith he died for, gained rather than lost by those Marian fires! Not long afterwards, if not indeed before, this structure was turned into the Episcopal Registry; and here are deposited, in its well-kept archives, the ‘last wills and testaments’ of all who have died, and ‘left aught to leave,’ within the scattered limits of this widespread diocese. The beautiful condition and systematic arrangement of these important records put other and similar Offices terribly to the blush, and are in the highest degree creditable to the zeal and ability of the present Registrar, Henry Raikes, Esq. [96] Half a century or so ago, the then deputy registrar was one Mr. Speed, a Joseph Andrews in his way, though scarcely perhaps so free from guile as that immaculate hero. Now it so happened that a frail daughter of Eve had found her way into Master Speed’s domain, probably to administer to some will in his possession, or for divers other “urgent private affairs.” While thus engaged, a party from without required Mr. Deputy’s assistance; so locking the lady in the inner office, he turned to attend to his unseasonable visitor. Mademoiselle, finding herself immured, in so “wilful” a manner, in this dusky prison, and having the remembrance of Marsh and his martyrdom in her mind, became seriously alarmed. Having however, like most women, a “will of her own,” she threw open the window which looks into Abbey Square, and springing out of it like a zephyr, quietly allowed herself to descend, buoyed up by her flowing garments, to the ground below! Some waggish artist has perpetuated the event in a characteristic sketch, displaying the “flight of the descending angel;” to which another sarcastic genius, the late Mascie Taylor, Esq., added this couplet:—
Since women are so fond of men,
With Speed she will fly up again!
Let us now pass on.
Leaving behind us the Abbey Gate and its bygone associations, we are once more in Northgate Street, and may stay to cast “one withering glance” at those melancholy-looking buildings on either side, the Fowl, Butter, and Butchers’ Markets of the city. Hideous as specimens of architectural taste, destitute of convenience or comfort in use, furthermore heavy and cheerless to look upon, these Markets have, of themselves, nothing to rivet the attention of the sightseer. But the ground they stand on was in old time an open area; and here, from the time of the great Hugh Lupus to the glorious advent of the Reformation, did the monks of St. Werburgh hold their annual Fair at the great feast of that saint. It was during one of these fairs that Earl Randle was besieged in Rhuddlan Castle by the Welsh, when attempting the subjugation of those Cambrian mountaineers. The Earl, perceiving the nice pickle he was in, despatched a messenger to De Lacy, his constable at Chester, a “ryght valiaunt manne,” who, rushing into the Fair, presently collected to his standard a “noble army of fiddlers” and drunken musicians—the “tag, rag, and bobtail” there assembled—and with these he forthwith set out to the relief of his beleagured lord. The Welsh, who had previously felt sure of their prey, seeing the immense host approach, and hearing withal the terrible discords of “harp, flute, sackbut, psaltery, and other kinds of music,” reasonably enough concluded that Bedlam was let loose; and with that doubtful sort of valour sometimes nicknamed discretion, precipitately took to their heels, and so raised the siege. The Earl returned to Chester at the head of his victorious minstrels, and immediately chartered the holding of this Fair with numerous privileges and immunities, granting to the brave De Lacy, and to his heirs for ever, the licensing of and custody over the “Minstrels of Cheshire;” which prerogative was regularly exercised by his descendants, until the middle of the last century. So much for the Abbot’s Fair, and the bloodless “fight of the fiddlers;”—we may now “fair”-ly enough continue our course of inspection.
Proceeding direct north, we come to another postern, now ruinated, the mere arch itself alone remaining. This is the Little or Higher Abbey Gate; and from it, in days past, ran the wall of the Monastery in a direct line southward to the Great Abbey Gate; the wall itself has now given way to a row of shops and other valuable buildings.
Nearly opposite to the Little Abbey Gate, retiring somewhat from the street, stands a neat, modern-built house; in the courtyard of which we may see a handsome piece of statuary, purchased by a former proprietor at the close of the French War: it represents the British Lion,
With tail erect and aspect terrible,
trampling majestically on the Eagle of France,—typical of the overthrow of the first Napoleon. Little did the sculptor suppose, when he proudly chiselled ‘that angry mane, and tail of grim defiance,’ that the Lion and the Eagle would so soon be united in such friendly bonds, nay even fighting, side by side, the almost unaided battle of right against might, justice against oppression! If that classic group had to be sculptured anew—
Such are the strange mutations of the world,—
the prostrate Eagle might haply bear an additional head, emblematical of the ruthless despoiler of Finland, the Caucasus, and Poland!